Fake Emotion.

Night Of Broken Glass.

Watching a 40-something year old man chew on glass to make music.
I wonder what he does in his real life.
Does he have a job?
A family?
I imagine his wife.
Cleaning up the glass he smashes.
And spits out.
Maybe his kids tell their friends about him.
But they don't believe it.

He smashes a sheet of glass over his head.
Everybody claps.
The people around me all look the same.
I look the same.
I wonder why they didn't stamp hands when we paid.
How can they tell us apart?

There's a guy wearing the same clothes as me.
Once I showed up at a friends place to go to a gig.
And we were wearing the exact same clothes.
A red-checkered shirt.
Tight-ish black jeans.
Black volleys.
(This seems to be the sum of my outfits now.
[insert colour]-checkered shirt, those jeans and shoes.)
We both had a good laugh.
And then played Mario Golf.
But he got changed before we left.
To my protests.

I think I would be considered a hipster.
If I had friends.
Who were hipsters.
Or even.
If I just had friends.
I realised that I stopped drinking cider.
Because it became popular.

We're sitting on the floor.
It's concrete.
And my coccyx hurts.
We walked for an hour and a half to get here.
And we'll have to walk for an hour and a half.
To get back.
I'm too worried about leaving my bike outside.
In areas like this.

It was BYO.
But I wasn't informed of this.
Someone is smoking inside.

Talking Heads.

What do people talk about?
If I see you on the street.
What do I say?
Do I ask how you are?
Because at some stage.
That has become a mere greeting.
Not warranting a response.
I say "how's it going?"
And at the same time.
You say "how's it going?"
And we both walk on.
Neither one acknowledging the question.
If it even is a question.
Anymore.

What do people talk about?
If we met at a bar.
Or a gig.
I've only ever had conversations.
When I'm drunk.
So I don't remember.
What it is.
That I talk about.
But apparently.
I can do this quite well.
So I wonder.
Why it is.
That I can't talk to people.
When I'm sober.

Left Blank.

There's beef jerky in my bed.
I smell it when I wake up.

I get high and walk home.
Past the foodies where.
I wish I could go in.
And get some chips.
But I feel too self-conscious.
And when I'm self-conscious.
I tend to exaggerate whatever it is.
That I'm self-conscious about.
So I keep walking.

I'm drunk.
And there's a post on reddit.
About a bukkake.
In Melbourne.
The hotel room number is posted.
And I wonder what sort of people.
Might show up.
I wasn't even aware.
That they go on.
Outside of porn.
Or Japan.

I put on The Simpsons.
To fall asleep to.
Even though I know.
That I will just pass out anyway.

Acid In The Style Of David Tudor.

When I drive, I sometimes wonder why there are so many other cars on the road. I feel as though I have a valid excuse for being there, but no one else does. Then I relise that these people are all living a different life to mine, that they all experience the world independently. They each have something different that they are driving towards, something completely unrelated to me.

I took acid for the first time on Grand Final day last year - the draw. The last ten minutes of that game was possibly the most emotional period I've ever experienced. By the end of the game, I had bunched myself up on a chair, holding my knees infront of me. I was shaking, biting my fists and sweating uncontrollably. I noticed afterwards that my hands were bleeding and that I had been crying the whole time, and that at some stage I had put my hood and sunglasses on.

We went for a walk down to the shops to get some dinner - this was the first time venturing outside and something was definitely different to RL. Given the result of the footy, I expected there to be riots in the streets, drunken idiots roaming around 'fuckin shit up'. It was eerily quiet. There were a few people walking around, going about their night, but other than that there was nothing much of anything happening. We proceeded to the supermarket.

Inside, the supermarket looked too bright, daunting; so I decided to wait outside. Standing there, watching people walk past doing their own thing, I found myself experiencing not life, but a scene from a play. All of these people were walking onto a set, which entailed my whole field of view, and were acting out their own part in this play. I felt as though they were doing this all for me. Cars drove past, people walked in groups talking about other people, someone kicked a bin, two guys started pushing each other around until a girl broke them up, people walked in and out of the supermarket. I was watching people act out life around me. All that life was was these fragments of moments. Nothing mattered what came before, and nothing would matter about what was going to happen afterwards. These were just people on a set. These were just actors. All that mattered was what was happening at that very moment, what I could see. I was an observer to life, my life.

What a wank.

March.

It's been a year now, so I decided to cut-up something I wrote a while back to make a new narrative out of it.
I don't particularly like doing this depressive stuff, it's just basic emotional drivel; but it seems an adequate enough time.

This was the worst night of my life.


It’s going to rain, she said,
so I went into the bathroom to cry.

I feel as though I can hide away inside,
but instead I walked back with her.

When I got home,
and we sat at the table eating, not talking.

I put my hand on her lap,
there was none.

I thought about just getting up and leaving,
in my underwear, in the rain.

She just sat there, cold,
so I brought my big black coat.

I always felt safe in that coat,
but she moved it away.


She had a shower,
I drank tea and cried.

I sat there for hours,
but I never told anyone what was wrong.

She hardly talked to me,
I said ok.

I made her toast,
I had a mental breakdown.

A shadowy figure,
trying to elicit some sympathy.

I spent the next few hours thinking of,
but I didn’t want her to think that anything was wrong.


In bed,
she didn’t talk to me.

It was raining,
lying next to her.

She fell asleep,
and I didn’t join her.

I researched depression and anxiety disorders,
and I was left awake.

I went out into the back yard,
I didn’t have the strength to try anything.

Hood over my head, hands in the pockets,
I turned away and moved myself right to the edge of the bed.


When she woke up,
I didn’t leave my room for three days.

I booked myself into therapy,
and she didn’t even see me to the door.

I said goodbye,
I should have gone home.

I barely kept it together on the train,
and cried.

I asked her what was wrong,
I could only think in extremes.

In the end,
she told me that she had switched off her feelings for me.


No one can see me.

Best Foot Forward.

Peeling off skin from between my toes.
I think I have tinea.
The skin is white.
Dead.

Maybe if I peel off enough.
My foot will disappear.

Seward II

This is an experiment with cut-ups.

On the walls it looks as though something is empty.
The white blocks make it apparent that I don’t want anyone.
The seat next to me is trying to push through.
The wall is beside me, will devour me.

The theatre checks her Facebook.
They talk about things that secretly I do.

I wonder when it fills up, and no one sits down.
I sit there, but, illuminate the room, around me.
The girl in front of me, around me, and I am alone.
I have to sit with all of these people pushing closer and closer.

There are four hundred people I can never be a part of.