Saturday, May 26, 2012

grey sunday

....They told me it would get cold. I didn't actually believe them, how could a place this warm get so cold? But yes, it's cold cold cold. And its a different vairety of cold too. Its not like Dunedin cold, itsd a different beast. It's, its....urban cold. Concrete cold. Trams scrape still, no road ice as yet, just a heap of wet droplets of a substance the humans call water bucketing from grey masses in the sky the humans call 'clouds'. We like the cold though. We do , we do. Space is cold. And dark. The void of space is something else ladies and gentlemen. Of course I'm sure you are all just dying to knoqw what i got up to last night. All one of you. Oi, you...what are you i hope you get something out of this reading experience, chappy. Or chicky. How do i monetize your time. Wherein lies the value in a Matty Middleton blog? Is it the way you feel as the words intermingle and coalesce? The thrill of neuronal plasticity and the resulting creation of new pathways as combinations of english words form new and greater depths of meaning? Am i holding a mirror to your world or my world? Well, yes, this is my world. My blog. My 2 cents. My soap box. My content. My time. My ego. No Australian should want to be here. I take that back. Some Australians should be here, to laugh at the psycho-social-logisitcal fumblings of this wide-eyed not-so-bushy-tailed kiwi-boy, stinking up trams with his solipsisms and his romances and his delusions and his miseries. Life is good here, Greg. Its good. They have it good, very, very good. With my gaudy wedding ring as my deflector shield I 
rage onwards into melbourne's central localities, harping on like a loon, tramming to and fro and to and fro from go to woe.
 Went to a great electronic music show last night and actually found myself having fun. The music was leaning towards the goth, the 'ebm', the 'coldwave', but man that infusion of the nineteen-eightees flavour was heart-warming. Industrial punk man. A bit of Sisters of Mercy, Skinny puppy?, Liaisons Dangereuses even - that made my night i have been eating them up on the trams from months ...especially this number: 

........Buddha boy sat stately. They had been playing cards and drinking whiskey in the stale locker room for hours, both BB and Stevie were drunk and surly, nasty, nasty men. Sammy, the gang presidents eldest daughter, who didn't drink, let her tea steep, deathly silent with autistic, sullen equipoise. Buddha boy had been spouting stories about truffles, ostrich farming and disjointed recollections of debauched eastern european nightclubs.. "So, you silly little cunt, what are you doing tonight, Steveo....boy-o?" he glared at him, as if to press Stevie for the decadent truth 'bout his sexuality or similar. There was a vile, pregnant pause. Sammy rolled her eyes,shrugged her shoulders, frowned and turned away from the two men.
".....nothing...?" ....and in all his faux bravado and with a kind of disgusting assuredness Stevie mentions something about "doing over an ATM machine...something 'creative'" ..still trying to get Sammys attention, still not aware that she wasn't listening, Stevie's atrophied ego still deluding itself with grandiosity, arrogantly he thinks Sammy is interested in him. Stevie rambles further about 'fantasy and reality intersecting', Buddha-boy fishes for the atm's location. Stevie, in a wining, smug,bragging tone proclaims its whereabouts, maybe in the belief Sammy has nothing better to do than join him on the heist  Then, to add insult to injury, Stevie asks Sammy if she is 'okay'.  She had been concentrating on the composition of a txt message. Of course Stevie, with the typical solipsism of a gangster, had thought it all about him. At that very moment Stevies phone beeps, and in all his dirty, psilocybin-soaked foolishness he believes she had actually texted him - 'oh how coy' he mumbles to himself. After a few pensive moments  he checks his mobile phone and lo! it's naught but his mother, moaning about the shitty weather.  It is at this juncture that our Stevie realizes he is dealing with a magical power beyond his ken with the bosses daughter, who is also a high calibre occultist, and finally gives up years of lame and stilted seduction attempts.  Luck of the draw. Buddha boy jumps up from his seat and motions towards Stevie to come nearer. Stevie winces back him, and clumsily produces a stanley knife from his leather satchel. 'you wanna piece of me?' ..'have you met stanley?'...Buddha boy , furious, howls like a wolf and boosts towards Stevie, mould stained plastic chairs flying in all directions, the table knocked over, whiskey and yelowed playing cards spilling hither and thither, the adrenaline producing a faint whiff, the sweat and blood palpable. Buddha-boy throws a chair at Stevie, who avoids it with a deft oriental reflex. Sammy quickly leaves the room and dials 999 for an ambulance. "Here we go again" she retorts. Buddha boy and Stevie had been all 'fight club' for months. She put it down to repressed homosexuality. BB kills Stevie this time. A thousand doves are set loose at his funeral, to the tune of 'bohemian rhapsody' by Queen. 

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