Smile, the ancient teacher said, with awesome hearing students read, the words that slipped, dripped and bled, infecting minds like asinine cyanide trips mixed with lead: forced to feed, feelers spread, forced to feed, seedlings bred, a need for Weeds: dealer dread, for newly born newlyweds, force fed wine, communal bread, drunken diners dash, unruly dead come back to life to fuel the head, aim for the brain, you cannot maim what’s already dead; salted bullets for possessed Brocas, imbibe both lobes with Barocca performance: placebo offers; you cannot stop, the deed’s been sown, signed and the line’s dotted; already the mind’s forgotten:

The electrical signal that signals the two voices to whittle away at the lost memories, lets us see the instruments through divine goggles filled with Hennessey; the water in the dorm room is algae-mystified by degenerates, the noise is generated by The Residents as we pick the best bits to play plagiarist with, we don’t play with the other kids, though they play with us through words masquerading as spit; Worlds forged by Warcraft, it’s better to be up shit creek without a paddle, than floating on lava in a raft, your ears still ringing from judgement’s pounding gavel.

Grovel at the feet of those surrounding the hovel, a portal, my mother ought to wait 4-4-2, but she parked the bus not far from the park, so we wade through puss floods, marked by Gus hearts and mud, poisoned waters; a late July autumn jaunt for power walkers, by the river where the haughty snorters mix with low class heroines of abortion theory lauders, Iraq goats laud students who ride them hitherto war torn escape routes for detainees of computer room Doom session commutes that pick mushrooms to accompany the plastic tunes; John and (July’ll) leave ‘em behind, followed by two Thompsons through ‘70s exploitation mansions fuelled by bourgeoisies masturbation as they watch the news in the nude, skinny dip across the Yarra, saving old Yeller from drowning, share a cigarette in the suburbs, John chewing Nicorette, our saviours Mother Hubbards, their bosses Other Mothers.

Here lies Tom Thumb, King Gillard’s night
Who died by his own cruel bite
He was well known in parliament’s question time
Where he played parlay to others’ despot minds
He watched with eyes that sparkled death
And behind the screen a-hunting went
Alive, he’d fill the hard drive’s evidence
Folder full of fruitful fancy, let ‘em spread
From town to town, and coast to toast
And cry ‘alas, Tom Thumb, we’re toast.’

Sitting atop the throne, not yet known and hardly grown, they stop to moan, gold kisses for toes, they’ve got to go, their mission in throes.

The living room so called, so cold; her father so old, the bread’s mould grown in the cupboards by the fridge, wedged in between two cardboard lips, the kitchen door ajar, the buzz of the motor floating in; a mechanical, electronic ghost, our toast wolfed down to the joy of our hosts, freedom tonic ran out as the front door broke.

I knew him from the computer room, the super gloom tuned just to the right note, so that the wrong quote could set off a barrage of Faust hope; he sat at the keys, at play with teens, for days and weeks he wouldn’t speak, his actions told his story: gory, thoroughbred and warring with teachers; yeast fed sugar in red cordial pitchers, he’d gather up a small collection of disorderly bitches and eat them up; Lucky Dogs, some called them sluts, a plucky song for pureed priests, preachers and devil prongs; but he’d speak with me, and I’d just watch, counting each and every moment we lost; he’d recount each and every memory he forgot, and asked me for advice; he asked me twice: he asked me for advice, and both times I gave him nun; he gave in and told me: “run!” but I stood my ground; we shared the spoils of the lost and found, until she told him with her wrinkled skin that his winkidink would produce milk, not kids...

We sipped Ice-T together, watching as he was arrested, his mink coat wet with our tears, and his blood; their saliva—she told me he was ‘a bed wetter, but a survivor’ and I tipped my cap, the poison melting my teeth; though her eyes were moist, she did not weep, and as they hoisted our bodies high up in the trees, our souls from a distance laughed at the thought of our own plea bargains...


The living room so called, so cold; her father so old, the bread’s mould grown in the cupboards by the fridge, weighed in between two cardboard lips, the kitchen door ajar, the buzz of the motor floating in; a mechanical, electronic ghost, our toast wolfed down to the joy of our hosts, freedom tonic rang out as the front door broke. Freedom tonic ran out...