brumby riding

An effigy on the train,
a 2-D Mr Brumby.
Flashing his favourite smile,
a cardboard cut out face,
taped to a shop mannequin.
Torso in a blue jacket,
maroon tie no legs.

The Brumby
riding the rails.
Sitting straight backed
with an aging hippy.
He quiet,
she greeting
every inquisitive look
with an angry tirade
on her friend’s transgressions.

Brumby remains sturdy.
She snaps photos,
zooming in and out,
grinning at strangers,
flicking her rave red hair.

They get off at Windsor.
I wish I had a picture.

a lift packed with women in blue suits

for the most part frumpy, dour mistresses. Queens of suburban satellite monstrosities
bleached hair with a little regrowth in the ones who've let themselves go.
faces coated in excessive foundation, topped off with sour rubicund lips
Almost all ejaculating opinions from the am's herald or the pm's mx - guidance rich.

some of the young ones are pretty. Their voices ignorant but gilded with the exuberance of youth, promising.
unfortunately, the shadows they cast under the elevator's high watt, energy efficient lighting are indistinguishable from the shadows of their older sisters beside them. The promise withers.

They exit and I am left, holding my coffee, adrift in remnant clouds of fragrance;
beauty, chanel, flore, intuition, paris hilton, and obsession.
my coffee is bitter in comparison.

modern hieroglyphic nightmare

wednesday, 8.09am

This train contains us
the unwashed and various masses
all ages              heading in the same direction
       death?
Eventually I guess
though today only a few will heed that call
              for the most part
we hasten to our respective placements
like happy sows hustling
through the maze of
glistening slaughterhouse fencing
             Our reward?
a carrot huge          dangling
an illusion          store bought
happiness          paid with credit
for a limited time only

monday 08.04

We survive barely the rabid results of a weekend littered with beer and drugs.

Sunday we drank stupid, and listened to bulbous nosed men ranting of eHarmony and lingerie football while pouring golden poison down throats parched with cigarette smoke.

Saturday was all hung over fury and chasing dope with little effect. Our journey up and through Williamstown, awash in sunny boring death.

Friday we forgot work and ran manic through acid and pints for hours, playing Pooyan and shooting 1 million degrees of shit.

Friday, the whole weekend ahead, full of endless possibilities to get majestic and fucked up.

the primary

the primary reason for this post is nothing. Nothing is the reason. Nothing the driving force, the motivating factor. Nothing conceived on high and bearing down at a million miles an hour from a clear blue sky, talons blazing in the morning sun, beak sharp razor like, filling small rodents with unknown fear.
Nothing