Archive for November, 2015

Russian royalty, nice bloke, dies as a pauper in Outback Northern Territory, Australia. He’d long since left Europe and all the shit of the past. People who knew him described him as totally down to earth, he was always reading and he walked seven kilometres each day. Inherently noble then…

He died alone with his dog, his best friend, beer balanced on head. No one claimed his body, no one cared, he lay unwanted in a morgue for weeks.

Then a rumor circulated, dots started to be connected. Long story short, his past was uncovered, he was found to be a direct descendant of the Tsar. … NO SHIT! … Suddenly all manner of arseholes wanted to be involved, to “pay tribute”. And the richest prick in the NT offered a place in his private family burial ground out of respect (he’d be honored, no doubt…). And everyone wanted a rub of the cloth, so righteous, so proper, so full of reverence.

But what of the royal dog, Nick’s only true friend? And where were these people during said guy’s living life? He was a man, a person, an individual, one of *us* – that should be enough.

Obviously not, alas.

The Man.

Posted: 2015-11-30 in Thoughts For The Day

Uncovered archives and recordings prove that JFK didn’t care about space, race or disgrace. But he did care about the space race and beating the Soviets, and in so doing he proved that he cared about you. So, rest easy, perhaps. The Man has got your back.

Posted: 2015-11-28 in Thoughts For The Day

Interrobang. Interrogation.

Such is life.

Interesting and stimulating, if you’re lucky.


Surprising, hopefully in a good way.

If you’re very lucky.


Terrifying and disenchanting for many, alas.

Banal and full of drudgery for most.

Pain and hurt.


Generally confusing.

Generally lame.

When the exclamation mark disappears.

When the questioning ceases.


How impossible to communicate.

The interrobang is a privilege for an elite few:

may they seek to enlighten the rest of us,

and not just pleasure themselves with its delightful curves and appendages.

I’m sorry, but your Thanksgiving Special was really disappointing. I’d go so far to say it was a wank (for you), a sad self-indulgence, an advertisement, with a pathetic manifestation.

You shouldn’t have bothered.

You’ve gone down in my estimation.

Maybe that’s the point: I’m to thank the Lord that my eyes have been opened and I’m seeing the truth.

Happy Black Friday.

The building, what’s left of it, looms large and sinister. It is gray and decayed. Frankly, it scares me. In its current state it serves no “real” purpose, just a memory of the past, a haunting which lingers. Indeed, I can sense ghosts.

Like a latter day Tower Of Babel, the building represents the arrogance of mankind, thinking he can be a god, with the power of life and death, determination. Now, as then, the arrogance is empty and crumbling. Still, it scares me.

It’s not so much the building itself that scares me, perhaps, more what it represents: death, the quintessence of fear, and life not worth living. I want to turn and run but I know it won’t make any difference, the implications are *in* me, I can’t escape. Oh, Jesus, Lord and Savior, help me: we humans are so evil.

We have turkey and all, but there is no thanksgiving. The tradition, the pomp, the desire to give thanks, all is gone.

Family, friends, thanks, all is gone.

Giving, receiving, loving and living, gone.

Thanks reasons, gone. A cold, sodden winter awaits.

Okay, so the Third World War hasn’t started, yet.


Maybe the “slow-motion”, Claytons World War is speeding up some.

Becoming “real”?

But then, on reflection, hasn’t this world been at war for as long as humans have imposed their (selfish) will on it? Certainly, since the agricultural revolutions and industrialization. War. Our planet is being murdered.

Walking through the streets, car exhaust fumes burn my lungs, I wear a mask, the earth coughs.

The loud drone of the traffic makes it impossible for me to hear the radio news through my earphones.

I walk to the mechanic’s to see if my car is fixed, so I can rejoin the throng.

As if…

I don’t want to turn the TV on,

expose myself to conjecture, exaggerations

and manic disregard for human life.

I feel enough pain and panic

from reading a headline and one news story

as events develop, details released.

I’ll wait until tomorrow morning’s radio news

and listen to the (hopefully) more considered,

brewed, percolated coverage (yes, one can hope).


Probably it won’t make any difference.

The above will still apply.


And I will still be haunted by my fears.

And I will still feel the pain of the lost airmen

like they are my brothers.

And I will wince at the disregard for their lives,

the hollow words spoken by respected analysts,

politicians, journalists, idiots.

And I will still sting from the imagined images,

still running through my mind,

of two men parachuting out of a stricken plane

being gunned down, torn apart by bullets,

as they drifted down,

into hell on Earth,

where they were branded as pigs,

their bodies no doubt quickly desecrated,

by scum.


War crime.


It’s so wrong!


And what next?


Is this the tinder that will spark the next dimension?


In times to come, historians will disagree to agree.

(Historians? Hmm, will we still be able to indulge such a wank?)


I fear for the past, present and future.


Posted: 2015-11-23 in Thoughts For The Day

No, I don’t think you understand how screwed over and utterly hopeless I feel. How hard it is for me to start anything which doesn’t have a strong expectation of success. I’ve had my fill of disappointments and despair, yet as far as I can see, beyond the mundane, I see no prospects of anything good.

No, you don’t understand, you still have hope, you look at me when you talk, eye contact, you talk of a better future, even though you’re hurting now (notice how I don’t talk of any future, how I prefer silence?).

If Only…

Posted: 2015-11-22 in If Only

If only your dad had blown his load into a dirty old sock, blue …

If only my friend’s pain had been neck ache, not cancer.

If only people cared about their impact upon others.

If only you could feel some of my angst too.

If only we could go back and start again, when your dad blew his load into a dirty old sock, blue.