Saturday, May 12, 2012


.........O harder and harder still. A new tack is required isn't it. So tack it up, boyo, as thee Welsh so often say. Strangulated and whipper-snapped, less of a caring attitude maybe a requirement, especially in the midst of such bitterly cold Melbourne weather. Take the freaking power back Simon. Simple Simon they called me, slamming trams, tired of wading through the ADHD scratch'n'sniffery of centre-city grafi-nefertitti, I'm poor and dumb, not rich and dumb. Every tear spilled is a dollar lost(and an earth hour 'off' my 'life')
I'd tear up on trams, and before you knew it, every other 'grown man' was bawling, with the exception of the stoic faced southern euro octogenarians, indifferent yet essentially offended amongst such unmanly displays by such silly small-faced Anglo-French farmers from the South Island of New Zealand.

So blistered i burst, and candles lit, we try, we try and we keep trying. But trying what exactly? Well, thats my piece of free fun innit. As a writer, i get the cranial advantage - the fact that i know something you quite possibly dont, and wont, and never will, even if you do actually know it. That is the quantum of sealant i puke-forth for you tonight, Naomi. 
Quantize this severance pack Pippa, I said, folding the heavily doodled paper into impossibly small yet thick and unmanageable eighth weights, wallet sized secrets and solicitous non-filial tankard gases, a thousand australian phone numbers scrawled over it all like the mens toilet at...oh...that famous punk venue, what's it again,,,oh yeah its been sold to a new and ostensibly square owner and the area's been gentrified to all-hell, ain't Fitzroy its..oh...whats that..oh yeah...CBGB's.

You know what, listening back to a years worth of Middleton-tripe'n'dripping is a lil' dopamino-ego booster i guess. But at the end of the day, we all just go to sleep and dream dreams and wake up in the new world the next day. 

...That new old world we all knew and know and will know and keep knowing over and over and over again day in day out 'till ego-death. Oh happy day! 
I want to reach out to someone: a special comrade. I am screaming bloody murder to be heard and to be understood by him/her/droid. Digital communication is the order of the day. My email adress is
Just email and say 'roger that'. Who needs verbal anyway? Who really needed it? Words just get in the way.
I request discourse comrade, discourse so as to act in a correct and righteous fashion in the future. And it could be wonderous, oh brother-in-arms. Take it and leave it. Fear not -  a less popular blog was never known of, as ambiguous as i am, i could write about a recent trip to the freaking toilet, describe it in all its yellowed glory and then say it was actually the gig i went to the other week. And know one actually gives a fuck!

Oh and harder still is the roland juno 60 synthesizer and its many knobs. But what beautiful music they make! 
Take for instance these pieces generated purely by roland juno 60. 

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