notes from the underground

my advice is not to walk down hoddle street with a scythe. i'll recommend you not believe the homeless man when he says the coffee scrolls in the bin are fresh. to smile politely when he grabs your arm and asks if the blood on you is real. to know that track 5, (4:39secs in) is the best moment on the new jt album. i'll warn you to look out for the masked bandits on bikes - or the goths that hang out in the foyer of a bar that wont sell you take-away coopers. i'll tell you not to go to bed late - when you have to work for 11 hours the following day and let you know - that warehouses are cool - until the police come.




also (just quietly) this guy is the shit.

scribbles...

Bang. The door shuts. Someone drunk is driving home.
Bang. The white ball hits the blue 2 and goes into the pocket.
Bang. An empty beer glass is slammed on the table.
Bang. Money goes down. Horse 5, race 11. For a win.
And suddenly it all comes back to me.

I’m twenty three.
I’m sitting on the lounge room floor, surrounded by smashed glass and time.
He is screaming something.
Words that make no sense. I press my hand into my forehead.
I’m not sure whose blood is on the carpet.
I’ll tell the landlord it’s wine.
‘Well… what do you have to say?’
Finally something comprehendible.
‘I love you.’ Learned.
‘Yeah, yeah…’
I raise my eyes as high as I can . I feel dizzy, so I look at the blood again. It is drying into the carpet.
‘Well I don’t love you. In fact, you know what?’
I hear him fall and suddenly we are eye to eye, ‘I fuckin’ hate you.’
He doesn’t mean it. He never means it.
That’s what he says. The next day, that’s always what he says.
‘Did you hear me, fuckin’ look at me, did you hear me…’
He slaps my hand from my forehead and I stare back.
I stare back so angrily that it hurts. My forehead throbbing.
I’m empty.
And all I can do is weep.
‘Fuckin useless,’ he mutters as he pushes himself up.
I hear him open the front door and feeling the silent breeze I wonder if he will come back.
I know that he always does.
But every time, I still wonder.
Time is a voided silence.
My palm rests upon broken glass.

Bang. He throws the ashtray across the room.
Bang. He kicks the coffee table over as he walks towards me.
Bang. His fist connects with my left cheek.
Bang.
Bang. His body falls to the floor.
Bang. Mark puts a beer down in front of me.
And suddenly it all comes back to me.

I’m twenty six.
I’m sitting in the Blackburn pub.
Mark knocks his beer as he reaches out for my hand.
‘Fuckin useless,’ I mutter. The stain in my memory - dried into the carpet.
‘I love you,’ he whispers.
And I want time to stop.