A racist reads religion.

So, I've been reading the Qu'ran this week. I've been reading it like any descent, Andrew Bolt fearing racist should –– out of context.

Fun fact: if one replaces the words Allah for Jesus, and Christian for Muslim, it's transfigured into the most holy of communions.

Because when I read how I can kill the people who don't believe what I do (AKA the truth), how I get to out inherit my sister, and how all loving, all merciful, Jesus is, I couldn't stop spoofing.

I spoofed a white winter that never ends. I spoofed through my wardrobe of spare clothes, and half-way through the dress-up box.

I fucking love the Qu'ran, because I fucking hate fags.

Zed is dead.

A brick wall of a facebook thread about the beginning of the universe had left Zed bitter.

“Fuck dumb people. I’m going to take this knife and carve “ignorance is bliss” into the flesh of all those fuckers. See how happy it is to be dumb then.”

His friend of 18 years replied casually, assuming exaggeration: “That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

His friend’s lips chuckled while returning to a beer. Then, they froze.

“You’re right”, and even Zed could see the insanity reflecting back at him from that butchers knife, “I guess I’d better start with me.”

The important things in life.

“mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Oh yes, about a month ago I was thinking about this same thing!

That inability to love Mum as I once had. As is so natural.

Isn’t it amazing what brains do in the background? I forgot that thought, now it’s all grown up.

Yes, they do grow up fast.

Mum isn’t for talking about the universe, about ideas. Even if she were, I shouldn't be bitter because of how anyone chooses to love me. Except testicle squishing and melting eyes with welding torches, those are painful.

Mum is for knowing I have somewhere to rest when dreams collapse. When they fall and the earth tremors –– my powdered life ambition asphyxiating the very reality on the ground that brought it down.

Mum is for these times. She’s where I can ball up balling. She’s for saying dear oh dear what do we have here my son? while brewing us both a milo.

Thank Evolution for the mind, who works on these realisations silently. Stubbornly, I reject its proposals. I say no, this just can't work for me. But the mind is smarter than I am. It stays back, researching after hours. It spirals around in the background until the obvious can no longer resist exposure. It spirals into control, punishing me with tears and the demolition of dreams.

It tumbles on and on like this.

Tumbling, spiraling, snowballing. The mind, just like the rest of the universe that spawned it.

Bang. Then galaxies, planets, one of them earth, life, man, me, and learning to love mum properly.

On and on and on the snowball grows. And it collects more than pure, virgin white snow. Rubbish is sandwhiched between the layers: genocide, rape, actual rubbish, not hugging mum when I leave for four day psytrance festivals interstate.

A rolling juggernaut punishing its path of least resistance. An engulfing stampede which deafens onlookers with the continual flap flap flap flap of rubbish. Until it rolls so fast that the rubbish hums. A screeching, industrial mosquito.

The eye of a monster dilating.

What's driving this progress? What's driving thought, life, the universe, the swirling?
Why don’t I just sit motionless, speechless, lifeless? Why, even, the compulsion to breathe?

Why not just cut away at my flesh? Why not excavate muscle and bone? Where the bloody hell am I?

Life sometimes saddens, but it always spirals, tumbles, snowballs. The monster’s eye always dilates...

Love! love love love! Oh, that’s why. I love my parents. I love my brothers.

Why not the compulsion to just love them fully forever, if that’s what we’re here to do?

It would be a funny situation. But why not just sit with my family, looking at them all, loving them? Our laughter would acknowledge the sharing of a raw, nervous curiosity. Then, overwhelmed by love, we'd cry together. Sadly, nobody knows what this is supposed to feel like.

No one ever does this most natural thing.

I should atleast love Mum.

Mmmmmm, yes.

Spiralling, tumbling, growing, slapping the innocent with haphazard waste collection, the universe is the snowballing dilation of a monster’s eyeball.

”

Then, he snapped out of it. No time for silly, trivial thoughts. He had important things to do, like que up at the photocopier.

Suspense: the film ends before my dick stops spinning

I had a wet dream inside a wet dream sometime some months ago.

I dreamt she fucked me while I was asleep. Then, I woke up again to the usual virginity.

It had been tongue pumping penis erect with spasms under foreskin.
Better than real sex.
Better than my real dick.

Christopher Nolan conceived inception, but he has nothing on my conception.

Because this morning I was shocked by truth. I was given a private porn tape in which I was a lead role.

The girl of my dreams had taken advantage of me while I was asleep.

"So sorry" she said, as she flashed me further proof. The abortion receipt.

I've been thinking

The reason I'd be sad to find out no one told me they thought, or even better, if they knew, that I'm autistic, or socially retarded, is because I honestly feel I've the
capacity to fix any problem once pointed out.

Unfortunately knowing this translates in no way to an alleviation of my self-diognosis-osis. Especially not after I've strapped someone down, arm hair to deck chair with severely sticky duct tape, told them this (what I persistently label "my problem"), and they look back at me like I've accidentally ruined Ludwig Van for them Clockwork Orange style. They just cliché straightjacket scream at me. They just scream "sorry", and they just scream "stop it".

All I need is to be told.

Until whether or not that ever happens, I'll just meander around with these patterns of clothing iron skin meltings on Malcolm McDowell.

Full Monty Python rip offs

"And it is so obvious, he was forced to remind himself, that everyone has the right to a unique perspective,

But still, there was that flicker of a moment when Sam knew that anyone incapable of appreciating his quirky sentence required compulsory euthanising.

Which was why, after remembering that it was merely a cheap paradox about stumbling over 20 20 vision, he worried about the solitary confinement his life has the potential of being sentenced to. For life."

So you couldn't muster up an appreciation for that little, deliberately trippy, character development?

No, of course you couldn't dear.

Well I'm terribly sorry but it actually doesn't matter how reasonable your distaste for the text's inherent arrogance was, because it says right here on this dotted line that your neck must be chopped immediately.

As useful as a generic facebook status, just longer

On Marion Road with my bedroom window open,
I wake to petrols seeping through leaves.

Sounds of cars have swelled gradually through the night.
Like a tide, effected by the moon

Then, when the traffic lights at the end of our block turn red,
The wave has crashed.
It spreads thin over "beach sand"
Over broken pavement, hardened chewing gum,
Over an evenly spread grey grime too mature to be washed away

I am woken by the silence,
but by then lights are green again.

Getting no where

“No. No no no.

Stop feeling this way.

You, you me, we, I...

ah,

Stop beating yourself up for who you are. There isn’t anything wrong with talking the way you were. If people have a problem with you, then people have a problem. There are no wrong answers in social etiquette.

Yes there are wrong answers! One can’t simply go around chopping peoples second toes off! What if “being me” is stopping others from being themselves?

Oh, yes. Yes I see your dilemma. It's hard not to miss. Hard to get only the second toe. But I mean, I wouldn’t feel bad if they had failed to warn you of their discomfort in that area.

Ooooooh, no no no. Anguish, anguish, anguish. I truly must be one of those horrid people so unaware of their annoyance. Unaware of their self absorbent qualities. I mean look at me. Just look at me.

      
”

He thought, as he drooled and repeatedly banged blood from his forehead and knuckles against a rough, rendered wall.

The Nosy Neighbours Dream

This is an Australian sun with health in balance.
Skin cancer signing fair trade agreements with Vitamin D.

This is a sun that has white washed all worries.
All minds in the present,
Never mind where that be.

And everyone's conversations walk by everyone's conversations.

"The thing about America is..."

"If it's a camel it has to be consensual..."

A mess of aimless sound bites towed along by the Doppler effect.

Yes, the street is the overflowing wet dream of a failing arts student.
Sitting, sipping chai.
Bi, watching boys and girls go by.

But in public, so he can only masturbate with his vocabulary.

When I grow up I want to get married and have two kids and a steady income and shoot myself in the head with a sawed-off

Becoming an adult is...

testing childhood values by doing their opposite.
Drugs, debauchery, materialism.
It's learning that I was right,
so living the rest of life a hypocrite.

Adulthood isn't emancipation.
It isn't "finding your true self"
It's awareness that self awareness brings a dark, scary place
Its comfort lies only in lies.

Becoming Einstein.

“oh...”

“OH! Because the speed of light is a universal constant!”

Against the tattered walls of his turn of the century (2000) slum, the junky sat. He was flopped against a period of generic, safety regulated, architecture. At least the mould from the leaking ceiling gave character.

His character was hidden beneath 3mm of grit. With a mind that vivid, he’d forget to shower. With a mind that vivid, he couldn’t be subjugated to employment.

He was just another junky tripping on consciousnesses downloaded from Pirate Bay.
Illegal, but his brain used a proxy server.
Illegal, but how could the police, even with their unconstitutional authority, keep up with a man who’s fused Einstein? 
Who’s fused Sir Arthur Conan Doyle? 
Who’s tripped on the self righteous Julian Assange? 
He’d fused Orwell.

Of course, he’d convinced himself, his habit wasn’t too bad.

Not as bad, at least, as some of his friends. He hadn’t tripped on Cobain.

As fun as this biology-binary bestiality is, he thought.

As fun as it is to switch subjectivities from Van Goh to Warhol. From a Hawkins/Dawkins double drop, to a Tutu/Gandhi.

As fun as it is to know quantum mechanics, the best was always himself.

While his mind was constantly demolished and rebuilt,

made mathematical then adolescent.

While it grows constantly with the residue of each simulation.

While he’d changed beyond a memory of his sober self.

He had always watched it happen.

The I.

The part of his mind that sat passive and observed.

The part of his mind that was he. He could never escape.

And so, addiction.

I know there's no proof, but it's fun to think about.

I was going to write that in the future thinking, like horses and vinyl records, will stop being a necessity and continue only as a hobby for quirky enthusiasts.

That when we arrive at a realisation that our thinking isn't good enough –– that it only ever arrives at dead ends because there is always a better thought and always a better thought than that one –– we will stop.

That after we finish outsourcing thinking to our academics and scientists, they will outsource to computers.

That the only people who will continue to think are those who thrive on an appreciation of language's aesthetics and/or the primal instinct of competition.

That these people, these people who continue to use their minds, will be the oddballs and not the cultural elite. 

I was going to write that it is happening already. That it is definitely starting.

I was going to until I realised that I couldn't possibly know. I was going to until I realised that such thinking is pointless. That thinking is pointless.

121 Mazda metro

Her socialisation and her genetics, they’d spun around perpetually as they do; they’d done things to her knee joint. Because all leg below her knees was pushed out slightly to the sides, as though her feet were two, same poles of a magnet. They were shy, they lacked confidence. They flopped.

That’s what she was.

She was shy, no confidence.

It took a real sicko like me to sexualise her blushed face as it turned down, embarrassed. Her meek waddle, her smirks when she could easily have braved a hello. Her whole being hid her libido. Everything left to the imagination.

I almost felt guilty the way she sunk down my chest. Her kisses keeping on kissing, till my dick felt her breath. She tickled her tongue under forskin. Spiraling the glans so my hips jumped as her mouth sunk.

Down, up. Down, up.

I looked down at juxtaposition, then up from the top of my eyes and through the bottom of the fogged window we were ducked down under. My four cylinder was parked on a street in the city.

Did she know the voices we heard had eyes that could see?

Where had all her shyness gone?

Growing up is morally expensive.

Confidence –– 
arrogance.



Humility –– 
push over.



Laughing at oneself –– 
self hate.



Speaking up for justice –– 
shut up attention seeker.



Transcending primal urge –– 
enjoy the world silly idiot!



Tied down with rules of religion –– 
lost forever in freedom.



Innovative thinking on what has never been thought before –– subscribing to lies just  because they’re new.



Loving the weakest of the weak –– 
promoting suffering by supplying its need with loose change.



Getting educated –– 
getting indoctrinated.



Left behind because change is resisted –– 
making unstable what has been fine for centuries.



Being honest with feelings –– letting emotions dictate action and thought.

Pulled in by peer pressure –– 
dismissing the natural, interdependent love of community.

Being atheist –– 
in arrogance becoming that very god that doesn’t exist.



Loving Jesus –– 
loving him so much that one stops loving others.



Loving the dalai-Lama –– forgetting he is in the Pope’s boat on abortion, contraceptives and homosexuality.



Turning up one's nose, proud, so above pretentiousness.

Fundamentally opposed to fundamentalism.

Just loving: the perfect balance of all variables –– 
arrogance: better than everyone else for getting there.

Satan

So I went to hell. It was pretty fucking fun there. I saw satan. He was pretty fucking stoned. He loves drugs.

Lighting up with the eternal flame, inhaling into his forever cancerous lungs, he dreamed of heaven.

He dreamed of golden streets. Of light from all directions. A light that is, like on earth, part particle and part wave, but a light that is also part love. Satan marinates himself in love-light.

It's so real for him that he even forgets about hell's continual cycle. About how forever his body will burn, just to be replaced with another. His current model was, in fact, almost due for an upgrade.

Heaven is so good in his high little mind that he starts tripping out on repentance.

He ponders the benefits of getting down on his knee. Just a quick little sorry. A cheeky little 'Yeah, about that whole try-and-take-over thing god... Jokes, totes'.

Then, Satan just laughs. It's a cheeky marijuana laugh; a hurting chest as he squeezes out wheezes.

Satan couldn't leave hell, even if repentance did work. Heaven has no drugs.

Asperger

“I’m just sitting here minding my own bloody business.

I mean I’m 22. Can’t I battle my Yugioh cards in peace?”

Tom thinks, while his Blue Eyes White dragon card is slid back into its cellophane sleeve. Tom takes pride in his hobbies. His worlds: Pokemon, Digimon, Magic Cards, Xbox, every gameboy since the black-and-white gameboy pocket up to today’s, which isn’t even called gameboy, and his full cupboard of scaled down army tanks; every tank ever run in any war, faithfully collected with subscription to an overpriced magazine. Tom’s room –– musty because sunlight or an open window aren’t needed, or wanted, by video games –– is where these worlds overlap. Three dimensions within the fourth, and four within the fifth, because Tom’s mind never got to age past 9.

A stranger could read most of this sun deprivation from his skin: bleached white. This white is in an ever loudening scream-off with the black of his hair. How they manage to sit so close is only, in cliché, a mystery. Perhaps their dialogue, the diplomacy between the superlative black and white, is the token black sunglasses Tom wears, is the token white dandruff that falls from his head. So plentiful that it’s seemingly sprinkled on him artificially each morning.

Is it the grease from his hair that helps fog the lenses of his glasses? The world, through those cheap-as-chips spectacles, is captured like bad photography. Is developed in a black-room with a door left open to midday sun. There is no detail, just a detection of movement. A vision of light that never managed to synthesise into recognisable shapes. He only takes them off in his room.

Tom likes to see the world like he wishes the world couldn’t see him.

Except, probably, sadly, to the world Tom is much more blurry.

The talking is louder now, is heated: ‘He can’t understand what we’re talking about!’

In his cave, which smells of moisture, of wet-dog, Tom pulls up his blanket –– which, being where the dog sleeps, is the main offender –– and soldiers on through Fable. Not only has he a girlfriend on the Xbox, his character has outdone King Henry VIII. Tom smirks as he beheads the next.

‘I’ve had enough of this fucking shit. This, this bullying.’

The sounds of screaming ricochet around corners and meet back up, however out of time, in the hallway Tom’s room is at the end of.

And although he lives his life in the infinite parallel universes of his own creation rather than the one he was actually born in, he does understand what they are talking about.

Wiping a tear, he sloshes his character through the poo of the Albion sewer system and finds the final golden Key by a metal grate.                                         

Describing

No aspect of the universe can be completely contained by words.
But language can become, itself, something that also can't.

Words escape themselves.

Sweedish

"I retracted from the up and go so rapidly that it became a human rights activist for itself.
Up and Go, you are made of milk.
That will sound weird, but I am merely describing how a cylindrical, mushroom-cloud explosion of space-time just rippled around a small Sanitarium product."


"Or," spoke a close but seemingly distant, and therefore surprisingly audible, voice of reason: "maybe you just bumped the table."


Fucking Ikea.

Almost

Maybe it's because with rain the entire artificial landscape of the city is covered with a veneer inescapably natural.

I don't know the reason.

But when a light drizzle hasn't had a break for twenty minutes and the golden going down of the sun has the whole world shining as our bodies prepare for the end of daylight warmth, I'm content.

I become a person with no need to force his words upon those whose own minds — I finally realise — are producing things just as tell-able.

A mind in the present without greed for anywhere else.

At peace with no need to speak.

Not a thing.

Except for telling people about it.

Life's hard without mum

You spent one hundred to see that band.

It was too hot.

Sunny.

There were drunk people being loud and blocking the view.

You left to the shade of the parklands and lent against a tree.

You listened to the album in its bland perfection on mp3.

I like you.

Because we don’t give a fuck.

Get married because single girls find that sexy.

Making sense definitely isn’t.

The novelty’s worn off,

Let’s get drunk.

You stared at the drinks in the convenience store.

Then you stared at the prices.

Glass or plastic?

Class or volume?

You saved sixty cents.

Then spent similar caution finding that remembered dollar in your back-pack.

Just to give to a pushy alcoholic.

I like you.

Because we don’t give a fuck.

Get married because single girls find that sexy.

Reality definitely isn’t.

The novelty’s worn off,

Let’s get drunk.