Now I want photos of you eating her out...

You have to love it when you stumble upon the "key" to a conversation:

"I want to make love to you"

"Why?"

"Because I think I've fallen in love with you"

"Oh come here and kiss me!"

etc.

I love that stuff.

Apple is too cool for school

Apple Store, Fifth Avenue 24/7 baby.

NOTE: Security guards doing their jobs after midnight. Pretty prettay prettaay cool.

12th May 2006

You created a fiction, had been creating a fiction all birthday-night, which tangled comfortably with the baggage you trundle around with you. But in my darkened bedroom I couldn't weigh this history. I stood apart from you watching while you cried "That isn't it", but I couldn't discern the lock and key you used to justify your feelings. It was all just madness to me. You begged me to join your tug o' war game of half-truth-tests, but been there done that baby. Not this time. I frown to write a remembrance of you leaving my house, trailing "Fuck you", "fuck you", "fuck you", down my stairs as I busily packed the dishwasher. And then you calling me from outside telling me you couldn't find a cab. "Ok". Did I care? "I'll come out and help you find one". "I'm doing this because I'm a gentleman", but one more cock-up and you can freeze. It wasn't even surprising to see you huddled in the corner. You were thoroughly alone and hurt, your back to me, testing, waiting for an embrace. You reminded me of our conversations about my childhood strictures. But it was you against the wall, and me walking past, and I hadn't grabbed the other end of your rope. I could see you still pulling fiercely and falling backwards with nothing to balance your swirl of child-woman confusion. So I walked towards Bourke St, "Let's get you a taxi", and you finally fell on your arse. Rope burns be damned as you screamed at me again. "Get me a fucking taxi". So sad to hear you scream and effuse your anger like it was my duty to take responsibility for your childishness. You so clearly showed your fiction intact. "Get me a fucking taxi or I'll call the fucking police". Finally a truth, a jagged contrast to your effete mask of operatic horderves and cocktails at “The Mint”. Did you expect me to do anything but turn around slowly and pass you by on my way back home? I don't play "Jump - how high?" woman. And again, it wasn't a triumph to hear you calling 5 minutes later. You still didn't understand a thing I said to you then. I will never talk to you again. That will justify your self-righteous anger. You will never talk to me again.

I must stop. Write. Legibly.

Greyed tar man, barely discernible from a backdrop of city smudge. He carries an umbrella, a peeling roll of wallpaper, its colours muted by his homeless grey shading of everything. His delinquent brother strides like a failed prophet in his jay-walk, rebellious shoulders punched back, his dark beaded eyes hopping lifeless trails in long exposure. Black-bird carrion eyes. A complement to hooked nose really. And all of this contrasting with the girl in the red sweater. She texts and indian-sits at her bust-STOP, radiant in her womanly hips and exotic winter blushed face. I must stop. Write. Legibly.

We climb word trees

or walk them in two-dimensions. This clusters words and groups of meaning. This encodes structure and sponsors interpretation.

(a pink) (mercuric drop) (an engraved repetition) (and synthesised banality,) (like a triangle) (of infant school) (of oily smarm) (harbour) (euphoria) (a brash interruption) (regurgitated)

(and synthesised banality,) (an engraved repetition) (mercuric drop) (of infant school) (like a triangle) (a pink) (of oily smarm) (harbour) (euphoria) (a brash interruption) (regurgitated)

(and synthesised banality,) (an engraved repetition) (of infant school) (like a triangle) (mercuric drop) (regurgitated) (a brash interruption) (euphoria) (harbour) (of oily smarm) (a pink)

(a pink mercuric drop of oily smarm engraved like a triangle harbour. a repetition of infant school euphoria and synthesised banality, a brash interruption regurgitated.)

Goths are cool...

Especially fashionista families of ((deep breath) trendite green-coles-save-the-environment-recyclable-bag toting goths living in converted butcher shops in "Slurry Hills" with shopfront windows decorated with gothly artifacts celebrating their gothly lifestyle).



Yay (Death)!