Oh, go on then,say what thou will.



Let’s just keep in mind,shall we, that it is you knows who I am,that it is you reading me,you twisting my name and life into a spiteful pretzel on forums…..

Just remember,I have the inside line.I am the inside line.

You,on the other hand I imagine, have cystic acne,no life,live at your mothers and have Wi-Fi and for all I know ,no genitalia.I know for a fact that you have no balls…… Ho-hum.I am strangely flattered.I can’t believe that you took precious time out of your hectic World of War-craft schedule and epic online porn dalliances to google and comment on little old me! Shucks!

End game my fast melting little fuckicles.And while your at it? I am begging you,please come to my show.Then I get your money and I get to laugh in your face.Everyone’s a winner. You think that I am going to fall apart in light of much  publicised recent events? You think that is how I roll huh?

You are as stupid as you are ugly.

Meanwhile back in the jungle.

Mo left his phone in the back of a cab in true rock-god style and here was me,paranoid as ever,thinking that I was being ignored.But we are back in touch and he is playing with me at the show.Phew.We have a jam locked in on Thursday night after I get back from the Doctor’s.He is a fucking saint to do this with me.I sent a wild set list though to him and he responded with the grace and calm of a displaced monarch.Thank you baby Jesus!

In other news, all my friends are opting out of rock and roll and having kids and I wish them nothing but the best.Congratulations Meatball! It’s raining and I have scurvy.I want the magic pixies to come and clean up my room.That about covers it really.I have taken all the suggestions in about what covers to play at the show.I have picked out one or two….I think that I will leave the sub par Lady Gaga covers up to the wanna -be -hipster-loser-stuck-in-the-90’s-almost -ran’s-of -Newtown.


It’s too cold and wet out there to go and make tea.The White Tiger has crashed early so I guess I will stay up write and clean.Homesick for the west coast and the distant summer,I pummel my kidneys with endless cans of Dr Pepper,knowing that I am doing harm but unwilling and unable to stop.I drift on inconsistent tides and the feisty full moon of a few days ago did me no favors.The hardest lesson learnt? The rose colored glasses smashed?

Love is not enough.Loud is good.Blood is better and fucking was the father the son and the holy ghost.

I moved train carriages 3 times a few nights ago like the unstable wack job that I am.The numbers were not in my favor you see?. I grinned at the Whitetigers flyer for the show resplendent with a picture of Kate Bush.77 and 22.The digits all fortuitous.Can I get an amen? Distilled down to a nine.The God’s shall rally and rumble that night.Beneath velvet and by candles, loud and bossy on Persian rugs.Huge bouquets of funeral lilies and cunning incense smoke clouding all proceedings.We shall call on Goethe’s great forces and I shall sing till I break into a million mirrored pieces.

Not to get precious about it or anything.

You are back in our lifetime of places shared and I revisit them in dreams, my physicality too tired to move anymore. We the road burnt gypsies.Twin troubadours.In my minds cataract covered eye I can see the bars we frequented and the icy streets that we slid along hand in gloved hand.Me and you in the cold land of my grandmothers origin.I wailed like Merry Clayton over one of your songs and I saw the pride flit over the blue in your eyes.I knew all along that we were us.I trusted in why. You didn’t or maybe couldn’t.

Saint Cecilia appraises graciously from the heavens  the wax forest of tapers I reverently light and the excessive and obscene pouting red roses that  turn my dim lit room into a mafia funeral.I beseech the  malicious gods of misadventure to take mercy on your beaten soul,to leave you be.For you to get out of your own way.I know that obsession and history will always bring us back to one another and that it is our blessing and our curse.

A windfall would mobilize my much desired disappearance.The sea is churning mad on the far South coast and its anger and solitude calls to me as strongly as it did when I was a child.Me and the elements ,soft lit nights alone in my whitewashed cell like shack on the edge of the world.A bigger discipline that the one I afford myself in a city that I no longer love nor loves me in return.But it is here that I hone my meagre skills and wait out some kind of sad purgatory.

And I write.

My big brother informed me recently that Jimi Hendrix slept with his guitar and then sheepishly admitted to the same folly.The clang of my poor guitar falling off the end of my book and paper covered bed usually wakes me with a start but as for sleeping with it? I shall pass.I think the heat from my overtaxed electric blanket would warp her fickle tuning even further.This weather is so miserable.The meteorological version of murder.I should get up but due to the fact that my roof has caved in,panels hanging from the beams like skin from a lepers bones it is a most unappealing prospect.

And I think of the tenets of desire and where one ends up while in the service of Venus.I felt like a kid as I pushed and dragged you up the River road in a squeaking  green grocery kart.You drunk and me sober as ever and laughing my ass off,wanting the feeling to never end.I thought,I fervently believed ,that my love was communicable,that you would catch it and love yourself the way that I did.

The way that I loved you.