In a holding pattern – music to come soon

It’s been a while since I posted anything – there is a reason for this, other than apathy. I have been working on a couple of music projects which have been taking a lot of my time, one of which shall from here on in be known as Acoustic Fiasco.

I shall soon be upgrading this website to post sound and then I can assault your eardrums with my sounds.

Hopefully later this week.



Random paragraph from a story I’m working on

The Department of Sustainability loomed over Paul Crowley as he tried to muster enough enthusiasm to go through its revolving doors. This was a brand new building, and award winning building, it was a state-of-the-art example of modern construction. And it could cast gloom in any direction even on the brightest of days. Soon it would swallow him up for yet another day during which it would try to digest him, make him dissolve into ooze that is the bureaucracy. And then it would shit him out at the end of the day so that he could have the privilege of experiencing the torture all over again for each subsequent day of the coming week – and then the following week. And then…his life stretched out before him. It didn’t look good.

‘Fuck it!’

Crowley took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and then ambled slowly into the building.


I Stare at Walls

You know,

I stare at walls – a lot

It’s the olivines, pyroxenes,

garnets and feldspar trapped

within the polished slice of history,

pre-history most likely,

buried for billions of years, stifled,

suffocated until the quarry saw

sliced its way through the quartz,

the crystals, the frozen veins,

freeing it, letting it breathe,

letting it see the sunshine.


Now it’s spruced up, sparkling,

polished to a gleam,

a wall of colour looking down

on dull concrete and glass – bitumen,

fibreglass and plastic;

glistening mica, pink and white

feldspar, ruby garnets, green

olivines – and big crystals,

the size of a fridge,

cooled for years, the heaved upwards

or eroded close to the surface.

Perhaps they were in a magma chamber waiting to fly,

but now…

Perhaps life didn’t exist when it died, frozen deep

beneath the surface, but now…


just a harmless adornment on St Georges’ Terrace,

it’s false smooth surface a window into the planet.

A rant…

The alarm kicked me out of bed at 6am,

the dead synapses of my brain reborn,

revived for a brand new day,

take the crash cart away,

it’s not that bad,

just another work day,

another Monday, for fuck’s sake.

Just another waste of time,

some sort of unrecorded crime

that involves me being cooped up

in a room where robots sit

and pretend they give a shit

about the thing they do,

whatever it is they do,

I don’t care,

why should I care,

it’s their own personal nightmare.

I have my own dreams,

no matter how distant they seem

so I’ll join the commuters anyway,

ready for the coming day,

thinking about the play

between want and need,

the balance between greed

and a satisfying life.


And here I am on a Monday morning,

another Monday morning,

turning on the early news

only for some guy to sit there

on the screen just talking at me,

he makes no sense,

talks about celebrities and other disasters,

he just drones on and on,

just sits there wearing a smart suit

together with his plastic smile;

it’s all just superficial style.

So what’s next on the agenda,

oh yes, that’s right,

a sugar-filled excuse for breakfast,

masquerading as something healthy,

just making some corporate junkie wealthy

off the increasing waistline of society.

Eat more shit,

it’s good for you,

it’s tasty, nice,

there’s no price

you have to pay,

at least not immediately,

just put more of it away

and you’ll be fine,

except for that waistline,

that shortness of breath,

the fact that your bringing yourself

closer to an early death.

But what the hell,

everybody else is doing it as well,

except for those fitness and health obsessives,

who strut past on the footpath,

with their tight bodies

flaunting my inadequacies

– bastards.

In The City

Its non-stop, the eternal sound,

like termites scurrying inside my head

gnawing at my brain, consuming memories,

replacing pictures with black voids,

memories with blind static.

One long drone of sameness, banality,



Under clear blue skies, in pleasant sunshine,

with a soothing breeze, the hum remains;

sitting on the balcony on another balmy,

lazy evening, the hum remains.

At sunrise, at sunset, when soft light cushions

the ends of the day – the hum remains


worming its way into calm clear thoughts,

smoothing out creative edges, random ideas,

nullifying them,de-energising them,

destroying them, with the 24/7 cycle.


There is no day, there is no night,

there is no light;


there is just the city.

@Malcolm Turnbull becomes PM – More Gravy Please!

Just a couple of months ago I sent Malcolm Turnbull, then Communications Minister, a copy of More Gravy Please!, the politician’s handbook – a book guaranteed (probably) to enable politicians get to get where they want to be. I thought nothing of this, however just this week, Malcolm Turnbull became Prime Minister of Australia.

Is this coincidence?

Well, probably…but maybe not…

More Gravy Please! – the only book a politician needs.

More Gravy Please !

More Gravy Please



There is only dark nothing

out here in the void;

just me, my cargo – emptiness.


The silence sometimes gets so loud

that I go deaf, before cryo kicks in,

oblivion becoming the new black.


The years have passed without me,

wincing at my arrival,

sighing at my departure.


Today I saw a supernova,

a blaze of glory unsurpassed

that I shared with – nobody.


I’ve seen the universe from edge to edge,

I know what time will bring;

there is only dark nothing.


I originally posted this a couple of years ago…but I still like it


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 982 other followers

%d bloggers like this: