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: formed 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 diving 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) I’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.

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 rang 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...

Outside the cinema ***** parked, and one of his hubcaps may have fallen off. Perhaps it was someone else’s; his car a hatchback, old and rusted. Just in case I pointed it out to him, and he thanked me: I was stalking him, but he was only talking in the traffic.
****, *****, ***** and I continued into the cinema; he disappeared amongst the footpath pedestrians; ***** spoke to one of the people working inside about the tickets. She had bought them from eBay; she already had them she said; they had arrived. I sat down. I was holding *****. He barked, and the cinema’s dog trainer came over to us with some Lucky Dog biscuits; he wore Steve Irwin cargos and a propeller head hat. He kept patting *****. **** told him to stop. I pushed his hand away; so over eager was he that I had to stop him physically. His hands were covered in biscuit crumbs and dog saliva: a filthy child. He was slow to leave us; he left us eventually, but...
We went into the Angry Boy’s screening without tickets, though we were there for Batman’s Beginnings. It was not much of a screening; a very small room for educational purposes, and instead of projected, it was played on an overly-large television screen, but the quality was no worse for it; it was only a television show after all. The audience was composed mainly of teenagers; we sat at the very back, but it was hard to see over the heads of the teenagers in front of us, though there weren’t many there; the show dragged on for ages, bleh.