. she was 19, i was 21, and i guess i was the first boy who treated her decently, allowed her to slap me in the face and stood like a copper statue before her... she wouldn't have made it at university among all the English yuppies, being pregnant... turns out, she might have opted for the Juno (the movie) route... all i know is that she graduated with a masters in anthropology... she was up in Edinburgh, i was back in London, roofing with my father doing the Scottish Widows HQ and then some other project, trying to weave myself into a managerial position in some roofing company... but then? the psychosis spiral... oddly enough - no hammers, no hearing voices wielding a hammer running down the street naked... contained... walked into a church near King's Cross st., lay on beside a the side altar, pulled the cloth from the altar, and wrapped myself in it... then heard singing, had my iPod with me... turned it off... turned it on again, turned it off... the singing still echoed the church... got up, put the cloth back onto the altar and started running around the church aisles... then a great wind dispersed the singing... what kept my sanity? well... given that i was smoking marijuana and fasting? one word... sátān... the whole 40 days in the desert? cut short... in a concrete desert... i phoned my then ex-girlfriend to meet me at this spot outside the church - right across from a royal mail HQ - and i remember the words: can you bring me bread, and water? nothing... on my own then... no... that sort of experience is no cause for jubilation, there is no ******* euphoria: you're talking about ******* it - in my case? thankfully that's only metaphorical... and i'm not buying the psychiatric *******, the easy way out answer: ooh... but youz ver in a church... what?! what the **** are these people talking about? sober people are allowed to have these experiences? well, really?! so why so many of them are negating or doubting intellectuals?! negation is the new doubt... somehow i managed to fend off the atypical munchies routine while smoking marijuana while walking in public... never bothered me... i was a reggae ***** at the time... notably Israel Vibration, Stephen Marley, Damian & Culture... & ***** and the Maytals... cliche, i know... but **** and rap?! seriously? gangster whatever the hell that means... i've just read an article about cultural appropriation... so what has the Jamaican Rastafarian culture have to do with Old Testament prophets?! JAH... they're always singing about JAH... it's a ******* yak! yah! a german YA! cultural appropriation my ***! it's Jamie Oliver's **** sauce! ****'s sake! yeah, right, Bambi on Jamaica smoking a silly one doing the reinvention of king David's psalms... no cultural appropriation there... nope... none... nothing... nothing wrong with Alpha Blondy singing about Yerushalem... nope... no cultural appropriation.... nope... none... nothing! i mentioned these bands to my Jamaican **** seller... big on the Illuminati conspiracy theories, i liked to listen to him ramble... hardly a Charlie Temple paranoid... loved his ox tail broth, his grandma made it for him... and a pretty daughter, but no mother... eh? his Thai ****? i'd prefer the shorter span of a tobacco high... where? near my old high school, Canon Palmer R.C. - now a ******* academy! whoop! whoop! sound the klaxon! you don't experience what i've experienced and start a cult with *** ****** in mind... like **** if you think you do... you... lay low... you puncture the existentialist exodus from Cartesian doubt - namely outright negation - and you wait for the revitalization of doubt, namely the pop culture variant of belief... doubt is, oddly enough, a variant of belief... and belief? be a leaf... just remember you were once attached to a branch of a tree.

yeah...

        a catholic school isn't
exactly a Jesuit school...

but being asked questions
about abortion
and euthanasia

   aged 15 or 16?

in real life?
  you short-circuit, glitch,
become ronin -

    the personal life, details?
too messy...
   she tells you she's taking
contraceptives,
   she's ends up self-harming...
she says she was abducted
and held for ransom,
she's a russian citizen,
her ex-boyfriend is still
hanging around,
  a son of some Russian oligarch...
you've only dated for a
bunch of months that do not
even make it half a year...
you don't mind condoms,
because... hell...
you'd love to see her wearing
latex...

     you know, the usual bits & bobs...

voodoo...
    for some strange reason i woke
up, and the ring finger blister
on my left hand, made by burning
out a cigarette on it
started bleeding:
  close to the bone -
and look! you get a slot motion
of your body recovering!
  no disclaimer concerning
the pros to what sharp objects
women do, by cutting...

but you know...
      asking a 15 / 16 year old
about his opinion
  about either abortion
or euthanasia?
  bad ******* move...
           at this point i'm thinking:
thank ****...

what does it even mean,
when a woman says it,
she's not exactly point-break
on Cartesian logic...

'matt, i think i'm pregnant'
'well, you know what you should
do, get an abortion.'

mind you... i am a citizen of a country
where abortion is legal...
hell, it might have worked,
*** was good, she could
reciprocate that sentiment...

oh, but if there is a kid at the end
of the tunnel?
i **** sure hope he doesn't
contact me, like a kid from
a ***** donor clinic...
      there's something malicious
waiting for him for me
to add about his mamma -

   aligned?
oh you know... *****, Henny,
  Diana and the Egyptian...
   go Charlie go!

                  please please keep
your name... we need a Charles trinity!

so yeah... Roman Catholic school...
****! oh right, outer east end of London...
Paddy central...
               i wonder...
                  but i'll never know...
the Polish Catholics are leaving...
               good on 'em...
          (yadda yadda, yeah yeah, for them)...

i'll never know...
   am i angry?
               i listen to Byzantine and Templar
chants and drink to a well earned
excess...
               sometimes the odd Bulgarian
******* to hug...
    
oh right... that one last time?
i didn't forget my genitals...
   i did an uncourteous lax of etiquette...
****!
           now it makes sense!
i forgot to trim my ***** hair!
(mumbling out) ******* eureka.

Paleo-Yuppies at Work and Play

Fading slowly from the existential struggle,
Waving their MePhones about in protest,
They swarm to Starbuck’s for adjective coffees,
Uniformed in knee-pants and bulbous sneaks
And Chinese soccer tops with little checkmarks,
Their graduate degrees at parade rest,
And in confusion, suddenly-stalled careers
Raging against the thirty-something machine.
Not trusting anyone under forty,
They rustle their foam cups and resumes’
Instead of suspicious Democrats,
And demand promotions and Perrier.
They mourn pinstripes and leather briefcases,
And the old floppy disc of yesteryear,
And fumble their PowerPoint Presentations
Tho’ once they illuminated the world
With colored markers on glossy whiteboard.
They no longer play games on a Commodore
Or rock to neo-Carib fusion jazz;
Their Rush is Right baseball caps are now filed
In trays of antique curiosities
Beside the moldering hippie stuff shelved
In an adjunct of the Smithsonian
Where curricula vitae go to be eaten
By a computer virus named Vlad.
Now, as the sun sets on Ferris Bueller’s day
They count and verify their MeBook friends -
They did not change the world, not at all, but
The world changed anyway, and without them,
And in the end they love neither Jesus
Nor The Force; like Eve, they bow to an Apple.

I don't brush my hair or eat my vegetables.

Really, that's who I am. The tall girl
with the little cousins splashing careless
in the tissue paper leaves of fall
who climbs trees and scratches her bug bites until
they bleed and comes home giggling
with grass-stained knees and dirt in her pockets.
Mom would smile at dinner and say I smell like
Outside.

The compliment of compliments, untouchable with
innocence revered.

Somehow, with a little west coast living and
men under my belt, I've changed. With pressure to
be domestic and beautiful, ****** and *****,
flourish professional and more successful
than my mother's mother who mothered 6,  
I have forgotten this. I fall short.

I fall
in love with men who quell Outside joys and bike rides
with money and ******* and touch me in the dark,
cooing and cawing and convincing me
I'm happier to throw a pretty penny
around, and here, take this pill, smoke this dope,
to not remember the smells and scabs and stories from
when you gave a **** that made you who you are.

I'm getting my hair done today at some high end place.
I'm waiting for blonde dye to set, reading about
world hunger in my National Geographic. Wait,
that's probably not acceptable.

Okay, I'm reading
about J.Lo's *** in US Weekly, talking numbly to the stylist
about I-can't-believe-they-wore-that, while some yuppie
next to me with her face stretched too tight
is reading something ****** in Vanity Fair and
won't shut up about the Kardashian divorce.
"I mean, not like I know her or anything, but it seems
SO like her to..."

I'm surrounded by flourescent lights and floor length
mirrors and ******* with their caked on makeup
whispering of affairs and debt the way
you inexplicably can to your hairdresser alone.

I look at my face in the mirror,
framed in foil, pop music pounding overhead.
I mean, I'm not as bad off as the rest of them, right?
I couldn't be. I
remember the bug bites, piles of old leaves,
pink-cheeked simple childhood, and I can't
breathe all the sudden.

I
click my designer heels to the counter
throw my credit card at the $144 bill and
leave, speeding, to get away, don't know where
to go, I just end up at a ritzy bar where I stumble in
and, out of habit, order a martini, clean, straight up with
a twist.

Then I look down and burst into tears because
really, I'm no different from them and
truly, growing up in this town is
such a cruel, long hurricane of loss
that you can try to flee, past tangled hair and untouched
vegetables, all across the great Outside but you
just can't outlast in hide and go seek.

Punk Rock John introduced himself to me at my first show. He said, “kid.. protect your teeth, do NOT lick the walls, and don’t ******* the crusty’s. If you get cut, let it bleed– you’ll be fine.”
I was 15 years old, thinking about unzipping my veins. And while most 15 year olds would have done drugs or written a ******* poem, I went to ****** bars and basements and gave my best friends black eyes.

For the first time in my life, I knew that when I fell, someone was gonna pick me up. That first mosh pit was not a quiet conversation about suicide, it was Punk Rock John telling me, “Hey *******! Don’t **** yourself! Don’t waste your unscarred knuckles.” My rage bloomed. Why hate myself when I can hate parents, high school, the radio, record stores, magazines, corporations, yuppies, my parents, cops, rain, sunshine, beach days, phone books, and tiny ******* cupcakes? *******, if that first day of punk didn’t sound like Buddy Holly played back, double time, distorted, compressed into four chords.

The first time I saw Punk Rock John, he was halfway through a frontflip stage dive, and he landed directly on me. He picked me up, dusted me off, and threw me back in the pit. Punk Rock John was 6’4, had hands the size a kick drum, and he smelled like a 20-year rain. He was Noah. He was our shepherd. One time, I was getting ready to dropkick some metal kid when John got me in a headlock and said, “quit ******* around, Neil! You don’t know who this kid’s friends are, and I ain’t putting you out if they set you on fire.”

John told us, “the church of punk rock was always open. If you wanna pray, just crank up the stereo until your ears bleed. If you wanna pray, just grab your brothers and sing! Sing out of tune, sing the wrong words- just sing! Loud!”

But then some out-of-town skin dropped a guillotine knifeblade into John’s skull. The blood was pouring from his ears. He was dead before he hit the ground. John brought me into a world where I felt loved, and that world took him away. I buried my leather jacket, patched the holes in my jeans, and tried to pluck the chords like stitches from my chest.. but John still speaks to me. When the world is larger than I am, when my chest is a vice.. I put that needle on the record, I turn it up until I can’t hear ****, and I tell myself: as long as I have hands, I can break something. As long as we can breathe, we can sing. As long as I can remember, I will hear him– he says, “kid, you’ll be fine.”

It was just another ordinary day at the Pub.
I  as always at the helm tending bar hitting on hamsters and making crude jokes that usually walked the line and got me banned from a site that I was a living legend on.
Remember kids there is no Hello without Gonzo.

Hey Gonz you really need to do something bout the restroom some nameless bland writer that I probably liked cause I thought she looked hot said to me as she walked towards the bar.
What is somebody jerking off in there again ****** !
I swear creative ******* sure are a frustrated ***** bunch.

Just then a old man walked from the restroom .
Granddad  what did I tell you bout using the restroom?
Huh the old man replied with that look of who the hell am I am what the **** is this ***** behind the bar saying .
Yeah I get that look a lot .

Granddad !
Huh?
What's that ?
He replied again as he staggered to the bar smelling of whiskey and **** yeah almost like Lindsey Lohans new perfume ode to a ***** well minus the ******* and bitter smell of a burned out former child actress.

What's that your saying?
The restrooms father time what did I tell you ,there strictly for paying costumers go use the alley where  I keep your house slash cardboard box .

Oh yeah and by the way you still owe me rent duh just cause your old and related to me doesn't mean you can just sponge off me who do you think you are some washed up drunken writer who haunts a nearly dead website like some strange perverted ghost ?

Hey did you hit the blood bank you old ****?
But son they told me I can't go twice in a week or I could die!
Look old man if you cant do that then you better hit the street start jerking off truckers I swear it was good enough for grandma you lazy **** .

I swear you give a semi senile old **** a spacious alley and wonderful box to live in as you take his social security and this is thanks you get.
Oh well least when he passed I can still collect his checks I'll just keep him in the walk in box nobody will know the difference .

Hey ******* don't talk to that  nice old man like that.
A voice Interrupted  me as I was about to remind father time he needed to sign his check duh how else do you think I fund the bar?

You really are a ***** Gonz you should be ashamed off talking and treating that nice old man so terrible.
I couldn't believe the gull of this women and although I was slightly distracted by her ******* I had to keep  focused cause this story had to end some ******* time .

Miss first off may I say welcome to the Pub and you have a great rack.
***** you perve ! , She said in her angry yet I could tell she secretly wanted me cause I'm a totally delusional egotistical ******* writer who is really long winded and enjoys cheap laughs and even cheaper hookers but only in moderation like Jesus kind of sense .

What to much?
Well you haven't read **** yet kids .

Miss I realize you may view me as a totally kickass writer and dude that you secretly want to have a goodtime in the backroom with .
Drop dead **** ! the woman replied .
Yeah I could tell I was wearing her down.

What gives you the right to treat this old man so cruel?
Duh cause he's my family silly woman and it's not like I'm cruel to him
in fact I treat him great don't I grandpa?

I haven't eaten in four days .
The old man replied .

You poor old sweetheart the woman said as she put her arms around the old man as he began to cry what a total ***** .
It's okay I'll get you some help .
Oh thank you so much your such a nice lady .

What the hell !
I herd the woman say in a semi state of shock as she realized in her effort to comfort grandpa he had grabbed a handful of some tight **** .

Get your hands off me .
The woman shouted but grandpa was stuck to that women like a tight pair of jeans .
Come on sweetheart give pop pop  some love.

The old demented ******* said.
***** this the woman said as she drove her knee about five miles into the old ****'s junk.

The old man fell to the floor as all five of the regulars laughed and the dudes had to cringe .

You people are all insane ***** this place she said as she walked out the door .

The old man climbed the barstool in the woes of agony a frustrated climber trying to hit the peak of that really tall mountain that I cant recall it's ******* name oh yeah Adele .

Give me a *******  whiskey and a ice pack you little *******.
I swear pops that act never gets old you alright?
I said as I poured the old ***** a strong one and handed him a steak.

What the hells the steak for ?
Duh the swelling ******* besides we got to thaw it out anyways
somebody ordered one from down the street and would it **** you to shave I'm just saying the owner of the site really already dislikes me enough already.

Yeah you kids are ****** up with your cellphones and computers and your shaved ***** give me the old days where men were men and weren't afraid to be men and smell like men not French ******
speaking of ****** dam I miss your grandma .

Yes the Gonzo clan it's so great to come from such a long line of misspelling drunken ***** loving perverts .

You know pops maybe we need to pick a new scam to run on the yuppies I don't think you can take to many shots like that anymore.

Hey are you saying I'm old ?
Well when the first boat trip you ever took was on the  Mayflower I'd say so gramps .

Well did that order for the steak include any seafood?
No why?
I replied as I poured me and the old man another.

Well cause it looks like there getting some ***** with there steak.

                                          Fin

Stay crazy hamsters

Gonzo

Paleo-Yuppies at Work and Play

Fading slowly from the existential struggle,
Waving their MePhones about in protest,
They swarm to Starbuck’s for adjective coffees,
Uniformed in knee-pants and bulbous sneaks
And Chinese soccer tops with little checkmarks,
Their graduate degrees at parade rest,
And in confusion, suddenly-stalled careers
Raging against the thirty-something machine.
Not trusting anyone under forty,
They rustle their foam cups and resumes’
Instead of suspicious Democrats,
And demand promotions and Perrier.
They mourn pinstripes and leather briefcases,
And the old floppy disc of yesteryear,
And fumble their PowerPoint Presentations
Tho’ once they illuminated the world
With colored markers on glossy whiteboard.
They no longer play games on a Commodore
Or rock to neo-Carib fusion jazz;
Their Rush is Right baseball caps are now filed
In trays of antique curiosities
Beside the moldering hippie stuff shelved
In an adjunct of the Smithsonian
Where curricula vitae go to be eaten
By a computer virus named Vlad.
Now, as the sun sets on Ferris Bueller’s day
They count and verify their MeBook friends -
They did not change the world, not at all, but
The world changed anyway, and without them,
And in the end they love neither Jesus
Nor The Force; like Eve, they bow to an Apple.

Do people ever truly lose there mind or were they always ******* bat **** to begin with?
I believe half this earth is run by insane people most of which have way to much power and far to little sense .

The ******* radio is a great example ever listen modern music ?
You know that **** that doesn't require any talent to preform just a record player and some half wit to rap along with so you can have a remix yes country music is vile enough let alone throw in a nerd that would **** if he got his thirty thousand dollar sneakers ***** once are made in some sweatshop for ten cents a pop yeah how ******* fashionable .

And remember when you had to play a ******* instrument to have a record out?
Yeah I'm so old fashioned I mean sure kids wear all the  shirts to half the bands I grew up with and have no ******* clue who the bands are but yes the world is stupid and you wonder why I drink.

Just like people who believe the world really gives a **** there having a bad day # who gives a **** Twitter is for stupid ***** and celebrities who have as  much depth as a public toilet but are far less clean.

People always read me and believe I am this nice easy going goofy drunken ******* who only lives to make them laugh and talk about ******* well who doesn't like ******* there awesome.

Hey Gonz do you like kids ?
No I don't !
Why ?
Cause they always annoy the **** out of me when I'm trying to sleep off a good ****** in the park really whatever happened to letting the TV raise them hey I look at me I didn't turn out so.
Umm well okay so I'm a little ****** up .

Hey do you ever get tired of being funny or find it hard to come up with new things to pick on?
Well just watch the evening news for a second and head down to the local bar or that gate of hell Wal-Mart and look at all those ******'s who believe they have to buy **** just cause its on sale yeah sure why not buy two hundred rolls of toilet paper  cause you never know when the world may end and the zombie apocalypse will begin .

Newsflash when the world does cease to exist you probably will to and when your starving to death or being burned alive I really doubt that wiping your *** is going to be your top priority .

And we already live amongst zombies   there called yuppies and those I phone twitter loving instagram ******* are ******* everywhere and driving while doing all this **** so pick your head up and watch out!!!

I recently was on a little road trip and while in Evansville Indiana as me and my head cheerleader were riding around the city late at night we were ran into by a young and brainless little **** who admitted she was texting and driving and as I sat there waiting for officer fat **** to arrive to give this cyber **** a ticket .

Yes Indiana it's slogan should be hey are you ******* lost?
Yeah I know I'm a real people person .

Anyways as I sat there viewing what looked like babe Ruth in a bullet proof vest hand out a ticket as he sweat out gravy I had to question with  fifty lares of flesh for padding was there really a need for the vest?

They say when you go insane it's hard to truly rejoin society .
But honestly after looking at half the strung out loony toon's that are considered normal why the **** would you ever care to be part of there brain dead **** storm ?

And since when did the news care what was popular on ******* You tube?

Todays top stories the worlds on the verge of self destruction, A man kidnapped a child ***** her for several years has five kids with her but later on that right now let's check out this cute cat video.
yes the worlds obsessed with ***** .
And you thought it was just me.

And why do teachers now all **** there students and where were these horney ******* when I was going to school.
Yeah having to settle for a ******* from the janitor just wasn't the same.
Although he did have a fantastic grip I'm kidding.

And why  do people even own TV's duh cause books are to much like work but hey remember to buy mine cause it has  plenty of pictures  yeah what isn't poetic about ****?

Yes I can imagine what the great writers from the past would think of the new bestsellers.

Who doesn't like books about gay *** wizards and **** vampires that glimmer in the light yeah I didn't read it duh I saw the movie *******
yeah you may laugh but whatever got my sixteen year old girlfriend in the mood was alright by me I'm  kidding again she was twenty one at the time least that's what her fake Id said.

Yeah least I'm not as bad as Micheal Jackson  cause I'm actually alive that is duh.
Yeah he didn't have issues he just a ******* amusement park in his back yard .
Me I'd prefer a ******* or maybe a mall yeah don't ask.

Common sense nowadays it makes people laugh and the key to humor is always truth people are all ****** up hell just look at me I'm truly insane I own my own bar I get paid to write I do stand up for free drinks but honestly would you really want me doing anything else?

Attention this is your captain speaking umm look I really  don't know how to put this but I forgot to gas up before we left so looks like were all going to die as we crash into the earth and burn to death.
Yeah my bad .

But hey I want to thank you all for flying delta and please remember the do not smoking light is on yeah sure your probably going to be busted into a million pieces but heaven forbid the ***** next to you catches a whiff of smoke before he dies.

Loosen the **** up cause your not going to live forever  .
People are so uptight afraid to say **** or disagree with each other cause we all need to think alike like a bunch of ******* lemmings.

I grew up around backwoods rednecks I lived in the city slept in the ******* street okay there's no difference in people except real ******* people aren't scared to **** others off they are who they are and if you like them great and if you don't then ******* life's to dam short to sweat the ******* and this high school mentality needs to truly get ****** the worlds messed up so embrace it .

Like me, Hate me at least you never have to guess what I really think .

Stay crazy kids cause the normal ***** of this life are usually  total closet freaks who **** hookers on the side and make bombs in grandmas kitchen .

It's a shame cause a good ****** is a terrible a terrible thing to waste.

Well hamsters until next time this has been your bartender for life with your friendly perverted public service announcement we now return you to your regular scheduled program right smack in the middle so you wont know what the **** happened cause we can nah nah.

And if I somehow offended you please fell free to write to.

Gonzo's complaint department in care  of .
105 It's called a ******* joke way .

Cheers Gonzo

West reality made so
that people forced to consume
whatever material or unmaterial goods
here any protest is legalised
in form of demo
which is necessary surround by police
northeless there are people exist who are illegal
beside of refugees from east lands
there also socalled  insane people
who are locked in closed loony bin
or hunted like amok
untill they really get insane
if you take separately each after other
their fate and observe it precise
you will find there all the evil of
patriarchal repression
what is the consequence of capitalism
patriarchal repression
which is so masterfully comuflaged in west
but since the victims, the renegades live on rand of society
no one ever take their lifes and deaths under lenses
just example:
feminists dont fight for the rights of the debased woman
 in their neigbourhood
but just speculate about arbitrageness in Iran
not ever able to change something in afar lands
they simply ignore evil which happens beside them
every day, every night
there is pseudo-publicity in capitalism
since those who rebel against
become mostly so oppressed
that they never ever get any chance to
speak out loud
and revenge!
While those anarchists and punks
who squats in city and towns
will never give political asylum
to the one who's life circumtances
penetrate to be betrayed by friends
living on the streets and parks
and hunted by psychiatry
during anarchists and punks are not
real activists of underground
but just kind of subculture
which live quite comfortably in capitalism
it just funky to be anarchist or punk
and nobody knows how they will act
in critical situation
I lost my believe on socalled leftists
in fact they are same equal part of society
like bankers or yuppies
with a difference that they
pretend  they still had some ideals!
known to many
believed by the few as
the truth
Accordingly my individual struggle their claim
is nothing as fallacy
whom believe? Whom with resist in action?
Where hides real iconoclasts?

i tore down the blanket you had stapled to the wall
when i got too cold in the middle of the night.
you had put it there to block the light from the window,
but when morning sent sunshine streaming in,
you didn't seem to mind.

i was glad to wake up to the sun
because when she kissed my eyelids
and lifted me from sleep,
i realized that,
for the first time in a long time,
i was glad to wake up.

Paleo-Yuppies at Work and Place

Fading slowly from the existential struggle,
Waving their MePhones about in protest,
They swarm to Starbuck’s for adjective coffees,
Uniformed in knee-pants and bulbous sneaks
And Chinese soccer tops with little checkmarks,
Their graduate degrees at parade rest,
And in confusion, suddenly-stalled careers
Raging against the thirty-something machine.
Not trusting anyone under forty,
They rustle their foam cups and resumes’
Instead of suspicious Democrats,
And demand promotions and Perrier.
They mourn pinstripes and leather briefcases,
And the old floppy disc of yesteryear,
And fumble their PowerPoint Presentations
Tho’ once they illuminated the world
With colored markers on glossy whiteboard.
They no longer play games on a Commodore
Or rock to neo-Carib fusion jazz;
Their Rush is Right baseball caps are now filed
In trays of antique curiosities
Beside the moldering hippie stuff shelved
In an adjunct of the Smithsonian
Where curricula vitae go to be eaten
By a computer virus named Vlad.
Now, as the sun sets on Ferris Bueller’s day,
They count and verify their MeBook friends –

They did not change the world, not at all, but
The world changed anyway, and without them,
And in the end they love neither Jesus
Nor The Force; like Eve, they bow to an Apple.

I like to drink in taverns
Where you get beers and a shot
Where the glasses all are *****
And the women all are hot
Where there's blood stains on the dance floor
From a brawl the night before
And you know there'll be some more there
Before they close the doors at four

Line Dancin' Badonkadonks
or Boot Scootin' Prima Donnas
Are never on our floor
There's none of them among us
The good ol' Texas two step
Is all you'll  find round here
With both dancers smokin' smokes
and both holding a beer

We're not a bar for yuppies
We're a bar your dad would go
We're a bar with old time music
We're a bar you all should know
We're a bar with old time values
We're a bar with out a name
We're your bar son, your bar
We're your bar son, your bar


Umbrella drinks and blue lagoons
They can keep them in the city
For any guy who drinks that stuff
Well...to me...he's too **** pretty
A shot of Beam, a glass of draft
Waylon on the old juke box
Another shot, a few more beer
And this place really rocks

We don't serve drinks you can't pronounce
Or that take too long to pour
We like our music really loud
Hell...that's what country's for
You don't come here to sit and talk
You come to have a party
So, barkeep...one more time around
And lets start drinking hearty

We're not a bar for yuppies
We're a bar your dad would go
We're a bar with old time music
We're a bar you all should know
We're a bar with old time values
We're a bar with out a name
We're your bar son, your bar
We're your bar son, your bar

‘ola ‘ippies!
howsh the shlombo ‘aggis?
neve’ tried it? ah... tut tut;
i'm telling you,
they're from birmingham!
no river, no flow!
please direct your concerns
to the L postcode and leave
your address;
we'll be with you shortly -
please do not panic if one of
our employees is wearing a balaclava:
it might be police officer.

tired, tired of being alive. tired of breathing disgusting air and the lies the world spews forth from its idiotic bowels. tired of picking up trash and squeezing through the crowds of happy-go lucky yuppies and their screaming chocolate covered children. tired of seeing you every ******* Sunday. tired of shedding tears for constantly thinking about someone who doesn't think of me anymore. tired of the realization that having thoughts means nothing and they are but silent deceivers of what could happen only in my deepest heart wrenching dreams.

just plain tired.

i guess it's time to do as the doctor ordered and pop another klonopin.

Scholar gypsies are wandering as nomads
Like the yuppies of 1960s with guitars....
Singing as romantic heroes and heroines!

Men and women are living in singles......
With children too fostering like the birds
Learning about life seeing various cultures!

Gypsy life is a free life they feel in world
Having education but loving freedom more
To live independent life ever till the end...!

What a life this scholar gypsy life to live
Sans a family as even the animals like
Elephants and lions too like to live in forest!

Independence is needed to stand alone in life;
But can one live a complete life sans culture?

The devils in the bottle .
Well if that's so I've been searching forty years it feels and I haven't found that some of a ***** yet.

Probably herd bout my reputation.
Smoke pills coke and I don't mean cola .

I see the yuppies in the bar who admire crazy they buy me a.drink thinking we are friends.
The ***** hits you all the same so.guess its better on anothers  tab.

Real bars are dying being replaced by companies pretending to be bars instead of companies void of any soul.


If your favorite dive is some.yuppie infested family friendly overpriced resteraunt go **** yourself and have a nice day.

Give me  smokey dark local dives with.names like the Brown Derby ,The Thirsty Camel,The Shipwreck Inn,The Purple Onion and Monks .


Those places have character they have bloodshed there ***** dangerous on a good night and perfect.

Corperate America ***** .
Wallmarts on every corner killing the landscape putting the little man in the poor house everything's perfect least.that's what they have you believe

Never swallow ******* that the media feeds .
There's more truth told between old vets down at the legion between beer and smokes .

Its out there still.
Away from the polwish the yuppies so desire .
Where men still get there hands ***** get drunk sleep and repeat .

This is my world the rich stand upon the backs of the poor with there two faced logic ever so quick to preach.

I bleed the past and I love the small places and backroad gems that they would so quickly destroy and replace .

But what do i.know Im just a drunk .

Nothing worth a **** is safe .
Art,Drugs and *** .
All take passion not a timeshare or membership or mini van .

Computers are a drug that's blinded us to human contact breeding hate sitting on your *** talking **** behind a screen name.

Get into a real fight then tell me how great your Twitter war was.
The fools are many so don't add to there a mass of idiots and clubs are for lemmings .

Take a ride let the music and the wind embrace the void.
Breathe life into yourself before you approach that page .

If your real then take up a seat beside me.and I will buy you a drink.

Get off your *** and experience life before some.idiot in a suit destroys that flawed landscape that makes us unique flawed and beautiful in every sense.

See you at the bar .

The yuppies are by the
  Cotto Café, asking those
not to call them hipsters.
  An auburn feminist drinks
Mexican blend, black, while
  reading Margaret Atwood.

I gave up smoking, I say,
  about a month ago.
No one really listens, which
  I sometimes find comforting.

After I walk my isolation off,
  I stumble into a Taco Bell;
one of those hybrids: this time
  KFC. The cashier is curly in the
way that broken legs are curly.
  Her eyes are green but I dare
not objectify her, I hope I don't
  say out loud, because I fear
nothing more than being
  patronizing.

Construction loudly stutters
  and cars squeak and shush.
On this griddle of a sidewalk,
  I feel alone. Vehicles vroom
while I stand silent, a monument
  to my generation.

I know your wishing to do the things you once were itching.
Some words of wisdom would help you body stop the itching.
This chair of lies declines, your track of life.
Overflows the light, and withstanding might.
Stepping stones they broke into small sheets of ice.
Drenched and cold the frost bite will take your life.
Magic making the fancy wound is the tool for taking.
Your head is flaking mistakes that you had started making.
(You cry)
Princess princess please don't take away my wound.
You stupid full ill drowned you in a 6 foot pound.
And I'll count the bubbles as they begin to surface.
With my endurance Insurgence they won't need insurance.
So take a minute to sit down and grab some courage.
Your gonna need it the fenex is coming out of storage. 
To burn to ash the cowards and all the Allen Howard's 
Copenhagen I ran again in a grizzly pouch.
It was plenty so many who was the one keeping count.
Distinguished persons your yuppies just using daddy's checks 
Your dicusting just buying things with no intent. 
Plant water a Yankee Candle is a perfect date
Perfect smile pretty eyes is a perfect trait.. Wait

..
Mouth full of semi-raw fried potatoes and
dehydrated orange wheels, doesn't Mr. Appleseed come out of
nowhere
and plant a speck of a seed right smack dab in the centre of my
reptilian cortex, but I
pay no mind because Buddy has adored me for a whole five minutes until he rebounds
              harder
                        than an
                                    addict discharged
                                                    fr­om
                                                        forest-y­ methadone clinics
                                                        i­n downtown cores
                                                        pop­pin' Hilfiger blue collars
                                                        y­ackin' it on the phones to guys named D, or
                                                        D yackin' it to guys named Friendo, Jai, or
                                                        Little­ Tim,
                                                        buri­ed from ******* back too much hillbilly
                                                       ­ ******, while
                                                        col­lege girls sleep in their Sahara beds,
                                                        sav­ing up to buy bouncy trampolines with
                                                        boun­cy cheques,
                                                        ­listening to lullaby coos of pimps and ******
                                                        on­ the downstairs couch,
                                                        ga­zing fawn-eyed at cavediums next to
                                                        nobody cares muffins and syrup-y coffee
                                                        canyoudropmeoff?
                                             ­           outside of the seventh-story window of
                                                        million dollar saloons,
                                                        ­wearing blings and rings,
                                                        purchase­d by wealthy husbands and
                                                        travelin­g yuppies for their wives' veneer,
                                                        eating breakfast cereals that go
                                                        Snap! Crackle! Pop!
                                                        for three square meals,
                                                        re­furbishing plastic containers
                                                        on foot-stained broadloom,
                                                        with cage and cagey roommates,
                                                        throwing life rafts to bloated bodies in
                                                        Great Lakes
                                                        for the price of a debt,
                                                        recalling waffling road trips,
                                                        visiting one-man tents behind billowing
                                                        smokestacks;
                                                        I blew my brains out in an air duct,
                                                        lost my life lifting up heavy floor mattresses,
                                                        climbing out of basement windows,
                                                        while hitch hiking mothers sing karaoke
                                                        nursery rhymes by Janis Joplin,
                                                        20 notes off-key,
                                                        harboring skeletons in stairwells and rusted
                                                        out Grand Ams,
                                                        making friends in Tim Hortons after last call,
                                                        dressed in leprechaun fatigue,
                                                        driving like England at midnight,
                                                        I spoke to a faceless man,
                                                        whom I'll never get a chance to send a
                                                                ­               thank you
                                                       card...
                                                       as for me? I never touched the stuff

but I was too spent to care and was already floating on cheap Chardonnay and authentic vitamin D with my bindle stuffed to the brim so I thought I'd just American Beauty plastic bag my way through this one, cropped in floral, patio sunglasses, swirling and twirling on Ballet Boulevard until
An e.ch-o-y sound in my
left  ear
I turned my head,
slo-mo tracers flashed in warp speed,
        the testa bursts open.
..

I attract artsy people! 78%
Those free spirited artists with great imaginations find you interesting. They are usually interesting themselves, so its not a bad thing, but they CAN be a bit wifty and choose odd goals. If you like life to always be a bit 'different' from the norm, but not too extreme in any one direction, these are the people for you. If you seek logical decision making skills and good money management, you may want to change something in the way you appear. Artsy people are fun for adventure and exploring, so, have fun! (smoking **** helps too)

58% You attract geeks!   (<My comment: Some are cute tbh)

54% You attract Yuppies!    (<My comment: ''Young urban professional" or "young upwardly-mobile professional.'' Not bad)

54% You attract models!   (<My comment: They're fine)

46% You attract unstable people!   (<My comment: To true. It never fails)

14% You attract rednecks!     (<My comment: I'm black! Aren't rednecks racist?)

So I’m sitting in this dark room, smoking cigarette after cigarette after cigarette. Staring at the pile of mail on the table. Left behind junkmail, junk that I have to answer, his junk. But then again I am wearing his clothes, his shoes, Christ, This might even be his bathrobe. Moved in on another mans turf, or am I just keeping the seat warm? So he can go sow his oats, sleep with some secretary or ******, do fat lines of whatever, never having to check in while checking out . I remember I think , what that used to be like, to be free of things, things like commitment, things like meeting your obnoxious co workers at the bar, And not the cool downtown bar with its dim light, backbooths and jukebox full of blues, The uptown one with the yuppies and their bluetooths and never ending vain chatter. Things like love, things like forgetting that your favorite color is yellow, not mustard yellow but bright ******* canary yellow. The yellow that reminds me of bathroom stalls and jailhouse walls, and all those, late late night trips to the E.R.. Things like time , Remember that time when You said “lets take it slow “ Then the next morning you wrote I love you on the mirror in Red lipstick. Should have been a stop sign, a flag ,******* warning, right there. Things like Freedom, The freedom to fly away, To escape, to set sail. To be free like that B.M.W. on the autobahn, in the commercial, aimed at the friends, with the Bluetooth surrounded by yellow walls that sing those blues, To be free But then who would be wearing our clothes ,our shoes ,Christ, even our bathrobe, Hell who would even answer the mail.

The late hours fluorescent light flicker
From the moon to the neon red lights
The scars of our fathers written on our thighs
Scared to be seen in the imminent daylight
Freelance extortionists and racketeering blacklist
Black market, black cats, capitalizing on rats
The rat race is being run by yuppies in ties
With lies and cries of spies in in the skies

Confusing their faces with ones that I like
Indecisive for lack of a vice at the peak
I scrape together letters from the people I fight
Where notes are written about the upcoming week
The world's on fire and I hold it trembling
My fingers are burning and my shoulders broken
I buckle but seconds before I go down
The world breaks open upon the cold ground

Flippant polymaths exude the frippery of travail for lapsed inordinate surgical gains in temporal but temporary acclaim that owes its provenance to the gullarge accentuated by the guttural tempests of silent windfalls that wrestle with sharks and snarky cagamosis with pilfered fame without rulers for rules that own the profligacy of a cineaste game

We cannot surpass our talents with ease when the treecheese of inevitable distance between equipoise and insanity is a tantamount inanity of prolixity for the sake of freedom rather than servitude to the slow meandered steps of trudged verbigeration that needs to be exorcised from the seat of authority for the plodding inconvenience of time earned that shakes the listless yearning people who lie and spurn

Demagogues are trifles because they are anoegenetic and care not for the abligurition that consumes the energy of a dismal life lived on fringes rather than reaped with grimaces for binges that continue to absorb the painful pangs of twinges that hedonists are of interest

We cannot exorcise the demons that give stygian weight to exchequers beyond the gamut of money but rather the currency of velocity of thought that owes its weight to weightlessness of spaces between the spacious and the limited tract of isolative territory that many mendicants looking for sustenance travail in insolence and in perjury of their solemn duties for self-serious honesty they lack a vista to see their crimes as more than just a pettifoggery of disputatious wranglers that wrench and then contemn the objects of their moral scruples to contend with nothing but the vacant expanse of a limitless injury for a momentary slip of cultivation and countenance

Frippery is hard to cobble with lapidary wit because succinct grievances are fallow ground for the permanence of atrocity and the temperance of felicity to conform to the desiccated pathways of limpid but livid excoriations of willful ingenuity met with aleatory rambles that sprawl incalescence with words as a dying occupation that is resurrected from the abeyance of its pragmatic utility to distinguish class from crust.

The triadic fatuousness of snarky sharks recruiting the gullarge of paranoiacs to deputized alacrity lead many strident vocations astray as they pilfer the nullibiety of spectral ignorance and defy the gravitas of the primiparas of a swollen technocracy, an outrage that scarecrows with prevenance have adumbrated against with strident accelerations of sublime velocity

So we swim in perilous straits against the demiurge of inclemency in fated rittles for the turpitude of wraiths and engineer every aborning day a new foofaraw of unalloyed atrocity
Now more than never should be deployed to ensure that the castigation of scoundrels and guttersnipes that exert a rip tide to those stranded on the shores of littoral desiccation might find the pristine beachgoing public an amenable treat proffered by exorcised sheepishness in reiterative bleats that quarkswarm only the antinomy of sentient masteries by shoveled civilizations proctor to horological insistence in design

So we designated an abeyance of heydays to create a rippled nostalgia that creeps in the winter storms that singe even glabrous ignorance with the twinges in absentia of the regal crows that circle the sun as the sustenance of the alighted moon as we reach for the heaved Richter teeming with ablution for venial commination of prolix croons that exert a Palo Alto rhyme

Phenomenological fields distal to the cephalocaudal origination of limber and the ironic counterpoint to that strife in excess rather than dearth of the henchmen behind the exchequer showcase that fluid thoughts surpass the limits of the dentistry of cosmetic cosmology simultaneously a scientific boon but a coarse albatross

We are criminals in a world stranded by ****** apostasy because of the sincerity of minstrels meets plodding human ignorance as exemplars rather than the apotheosis of divine excoriation of wastrels and flattybouches who webdoodle their way into the extinction line in some computer file swiped from eccedentesiasts who often in uncouth barbarity forgetfully abide without the temperance of floss

So what are we to make of magisterial wits of wiseacres who pilot tenable objectives like Indiana Jones flexing his comical whip when the gunfire of cacophony inundates our ears with a lisp of cockalorum imposture rich in chewing tobacco and its ungainly gripes and tenacious grip

Should we seek salvation from the treecheese of arboreous terrain amenable to the newfangled windfall of agricultural whims that dare now with caprice but not quixotic disdain to reconfigure the parsimonious levered engagement of melliferous fungible transaction between sabbaticals and chief financiers dubbing the vociferous limn of the primeval fulgurant incandescent ethereal quips?

We strive for palaces issued with dimes, dozens and scores of retinues that retain the patina of sophistry as the gullarge makes the vangermytes cozy in their defensively mechanized citadel buffered against the unheralded malversations of mammon intersecting with primordial chemistry that give the philanderer a guise of philanthropy despite professed gainsay that perjures because hucksters are winsome with fiduciary risk

So we calumniate with lapsed puns and Potter’s Spells as we dredge the indemnity of bustling heydays that extend beyond the bailiwick stated because of the prolonged trace of nostalgia that frazzles our voluntary expeditions with misanthropy as each libertine instinct becomes subject to stop and frisk

How to balk at such a garrulous repartee as proffered by swanky intransigence that shakes it off in a quaky town that hates the Swift refrain that endangers the fatalism of recuperated foresight borrowed from the armamentarium of corrupted killjoys who swim in a dalliance with the itchy myths that drift from powerlessness to voguish debauchery of insouciant internecine fringes frayed by the tomes that decry Stygian drift

Shiftless and rooted in rintinole absolved by plackiques that enchant the voyeurism of repined squalor of industrious frippery deracinated from the aureate complicity of largesse calibrated to mobilize the skittish mercurial yuppies to a dance with divestiture, taxes and an earthen death, we sprint the evergreen mile toward the scrupulous invention of enthusiastic euphemisms arbitrated by the procrustean silt of the leaky faucet of enigmatic timelessness etched by chiselers to beat “Us and Them” and warn the vanguard of the front rank about the thespian rift

Exhaustive rescue squads prepared for the dearth of monetary heft in times of perilous drought denigrate the authors of famine to the indulgent parents of inordinate sabotage of narrative for riskless arbitrage that is the outrage of sciamachies between platonic indifference and the tantrums of the feckless in the dangerous hearth of the cavernous wilderness of limitless imaginations that stagger so far beyond orbit they become satellites to vagrancy and whittled paragons too distant to dissolve in the ethereal chemistry of incalescent uproar sadly flanged by the Dopplers of ephemeral fate

Squandered by the desuetude of a snarky intervention I issue invective at the proctors of deafferented limbs for barbarous swine meeting expediency in demise, bemoaning the placid distaste of rectified cries that issue candles for each acrimony beyond the permutation of the staid inflexible limit of 88’

Bashfully we careen through argosies of curiosity to fossick the stalactites of timeworn intuition and reckon with their converse ironies that drip faucets of mildew that remain hidden unless poked by plucky flashlights to inspect the paragon of erosive filigrees of a bewildering paradox of polarized design that one meets the ceiling at inception and the cousin strives to clamber empty space to know with faint certainty the bulldozed irony of superordinate coexistence

Now we return to the majesty of a spurned wiseacre that evades the snappy parlance of a wrenched friction between the physical and the metaphysical elements that constitute a commensurate reality so supernal that its ostentation creates lifetimes of reiterative growth that spawns crimson red and bloviated blues to find a fulcrum of balance between the malversation on one hand of criminal sinister machinations and on the other hand the execrable self-righteous ignorance of a hidden vehicles of dexterity that are subsumed by a subtlety of legislative graft that owes its forbearance to the sanctimony of perseveration without the laurels of persistence

Now we wed the concepts between the ambidexterity of a monolithic titan who wanes rather than waxes himself because his glabrous head already exposed requires nothing new because the empire that struck back is denuded by the thorny imbroglio of a sunken Rose

Timmynoggies are perfect for haberdasheries of saccharine and glib excellence as measured by the ****** cacophony of unmerited applause that strains the resourcefulness of the silent mastery of magistrates in mellifluous alcoves surrounded by the soundproofed rigors of an execrable dereliction wilt into the imaginations of the few that watch movies with errantry rather than pleasantries of gaudy nonsense enchanted by a striptease of the wanton zeitgeist that some balk at but everyone knows

Time earns the spangled banners of sloganeering because of the fastidious creations of pole folders that maneuver between quips borrowed from antique movies and swindled affectations of yearning of many of all fears inevitable with the malevolent passage of the technocracy from cheers to vehement inveighed jeers

We should fear the watershed because it necessitates the evaporation of winsome ambition and implores the subservience of a guiltless fascination with abominable regress concomitant to the acceleration of money preceding a whipsawed downfall ensured by the funereal spates of requiems to oneironauts who plunged to their deaths on headlong flickering whims past the craggy landscape of lunar concordance and through the abeyance of qualms to flabbergasted self-importance in the eradication of provident fears

Memorials exist encoded in the temporal twinges of agony that straddle the cardiovascular throbs of impermanence that sweat with each simple beat to blather about the repetitious nature of a livid nature scrambled in exodus of the emigration of senseless blather to the subroutines of regimented sleepless paragons of travail in every pedestrian feat accelerated with each passing foot traversed by vigilant and eager feet

Tempests crowd the cluttered hamartithia of dredged incompetence leading to the foreclosure that precedes the simple derelictions that amount to grievous uncertainties that squawk in the plumage of the frippery decay of an autumnal fall from gracile riches landlocked without room to sprawl rigged against every track that is a surefire gleeful keepsake to meet, greet and serenade the claques adorned with the monikers of the Greeks

Trembling beneath the weight of mellifluous sauntering dingy designs that exude the anguish of our provident but incidental remonstration against the plodding indifference of the artistic clerisy we sputter against intransigent annulments of the emotive human engine calibrated with creaky pistons that rumble with furor of abrasive protest in timely haphazard elemental designs for vanguard ears

Tridents shed the fossicked leaves that are divisible by two but not inevitably glue that solders the identities of people congregated around a situation of gleeful sprees rather than wistful regress into a temerity without regret that gets dangled in the purview of the spiteful wings of armies that drawl when they sing vapid songs for vaped bongs but not the soberly cheers because of the deafening din of conformity oblivious of the honorific crescendos that still peak after so many restless years

Confederates line the avenues of bustling caverns of cumulative human disdain so willfully flouted by the wrenched corrosive frictions of vibrant deformation of the cultural narrative that encapsulates the collective bubbles chewed and jettisoned like bandied candy and then defamed without justice because  hurricanes churn up the reclusive emergence of protective vanity chased down as a sunken cost for a siphoned glory of tribal pride despite the strictures of logic

Creeping with insistence is a subaudition of governing gravel that entombs many steadfast lies that embodied people living delusory lives under a paradigm that has been subverted by the feats of science into a morass of irrelevance and the chances are many of those so deluded still breathe the air now more polluted but balk at the memories of the fallen passengers on the convalescent train that accelerates sunblind but respectfully toward a systematic engrossment of swollen intellects whimpering about the tautologic

We finance our prescient rodomontade with rodeos equipped with zany clowns who spurn the tridents of Poseidon because of the iridescent gloss of sheepish and flippant zealots who churn against the wrestling match of televised irony with accentuated eccedentesiastic disdain amended by a tolerable diversion of ennobled gallantry zip-zagging among the many valid quodlibets and missing the mark entirely on purpose to vacate the possible raillery of those who balk at time’s chosen serpentine tracks because of limited pedagogical tracts

So lets solder a forceful brunt against the senseless regalia of modern omphalos and return to the plenipotentiary fields of resourceful human inquiry into the chagrins outmoded by convenience but amplified in vociferation by the prosthetic extension of a grangull humanity outfoxing itself into a zugzwang inevitable in the future with collateral losses because of senseless invidiousness orchestrated by the immiscible dermatology of divisive facts often about race and ineluctable tax

We conclude with the optimism that refineries become gentrified by the superlunary squadrons who bask in beatific beams of anonymity and that the pollution preceding our evolution is just adventitious rather than central to the amelioration of wavy screens ennobling so many upstarts to teach themselves the majesty of lucid dreams and to capitalize on ludic ideals divorced from the urchins of radical idealisms that ironically poach rarefied air with smug pollution of narrative scares

Without trepidation we can muster the largesse of civility to create a progeny that has a recursive progeny of heirs that defiantly imagine a world bereft of specters of the soporific imagination enforced by the lapidation of insight from termagants who stride with ursine acrimony naked bare and envision a global meliorism that is careful, picaresque, pragmatic and filled with meritocratic care

With those ornaments of an aureate measure in mind


We leap beyond the enumerated infinity in time's proper design

If anyone can make a feral animal print cool it’s Arabella Ramsay. The designer, who skipped the city in favour of the coast a few years ago, has launched a new lifestyle brand in collaboration with her dad Dougal Ramsay, an accomplished artist who has designed ranges affectionately named after all things Aussie; Hello Cocky, G’day Love, Veg Out.

Burnt out from more than a decade in the fashion industry rat race where she had amassed a cult following among adoring 20-somethings and private school girls for her unique apparel, Arabella shut her Melbourne shop five years ago and moved to Jan Juc where her husband has a yoga studio, her daughters play with bunnies and organic eggs are collected from the backyard coop.

Yet the fashion industry has come calling again, albeit in a different guise born of her slower lifestyle and rearing two children. A born and bred farm girl from Kyneton, she has forgone on-trend collections and retail overheads for family-friendly leisurewear and an online boutique.

The print-heavy collection features irreverent Australiana imagery created by her dad: “Bonza” bunnies, cheeky runaway gnomes, larrikin cockatoos, and come summer, a “******” croc print. The coloured sketches run across all-over yardage on leggings, hoodies and T-shirts for men, women and kids.

Dougal says his brief comes from his daughter who then “weaves her magic so the next time I see those drawings they are transformed into cute frocks and tops”.

She has a great eye for pattern and scale. “I enjoy seeing the finished product where a small crab on a skinny leg can grow into a giant monster crab on a rounder leg.”

A successful illustrator and author, Dougal has been fascinated with Australian culture for years, his nostalgic pencil sketching idiosyncratic scenes of country town lifestyles and coastal culture; seedy caravan parks, fishing hamlets and an architectural vernacular that “sadly has pretty well gone now”, he laments.

It was these scenes and Arabella’s own wholesome rural childhood that inspired the father-daughter label. In the spirit of Linda Jackson and Jenny Kee, Arabella wants to “show people the exciting things our country has to offer”, she says of her desire to “celebrate what’s in our back yards and in doing so, tap into the tourist market with a bit of style”.

Manufacturing is done in Australia where possible; a favoured maker is Cheryl, a woman Arabella’s nan found years ago while shopping at Spotlight in Ballarat. “She works from her small shed and has been making my clothes for years. It’s nice having quality control so we don’t overproduce.”

Lighthearted and a little bit kooky, the Dougal range is cultural cringe re-imagined as contemporary cool. Its Instagram (@wearedougal) is a feed of everything from Aussie idioms (Stoked! Strewth!) to summer vacations in Menorca, photography honouring Rennie Ellis, Dougal in the home studio, surf reports and Arabella’s idyllic beach house that has graced the pages of international magazines. Her own sartorial style is an inimitable mix of “70s vintage, preppy, **** and even a bit dorky” that’s equally at ease with the yuppies and the grommets.

“You can basically wear your pyjamas to school pick-ups and your wetsuit to the supermarket,” she says of the local surf town look. “But I still love high fashion and just bought a pink lace Gucci suit for my best friend’s wedding.”

An online purchase, it arrived via the dirt track leading to her secluded beach house. Fair dinkum.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-sydney | www.marieaustralia.com/blue-formal-dresses

(Circuit Breaker)

You read somewhere that the rich get richer and richer
and sit on the yachts with staff in the kitchen
you apply for the staff and surprised by your inbox
you made the cut as a waiter to clean for the richest.

Buy the gear, take a ride, kick back on the boat
where you’re treated like a spy with a knife at their throat
the world keeps spinning as sparks fly down wires
but you're sick of this prison, where you lie ’til you’re tired.

Bottle up and float out to ocean, the back of your mind
is still hopelessly broken, one day you snap the wrong way
while this tax dodging sociopath sits laughing and lolling
the sun hides before him, you take the tethering rope;

snapped, ill, broken and bitten you rise to the bait
and run down to the kitchen, the chef chops away
you slip in behind him, chop chop away he doesn’t
bat a lid to you routing through the draws throwing

most to the walls, you find what you need and run
to the top deck, a suit tells you to step back
but you give them the slip, knee to the stomach
they flop on the deck, groaning and hunched

they step back up, a crack of the wrist, an almighty punch
over the railings they curse, yell, and cry for the boat
but the captain is networking about his lunch
you pull out the cheese wire and stroll to the pool.

The toff is surrounded, near empty yuppies
photographing themselves perpetuating the fourth
section of sinning ‘though shall not fool yourself
that mankind is winning' with the wealth squandered

here we could afford houses for the women and children
of the war your involved in, to fund the oil sales of the one
in a billion, so they can provide you with a classier
place to abstain from the real life and ****** up system.

Run over and clear the robots of richness, tell them all
'go ahead, keep taking your pictures’ while you strap the wire
around the neck of the fattest cat in business,
they all cry in horror as your grip tightens the purple

-faced smart-mouth shouts out for help but calls his helpers
a 'bunch of ill mannered sirens’ as they step back afraid
a single one daren’t come to his aid as that glint
in your eye shows the will to die to **** the tyrant

who’s gasoline fights killed your mum and your dad
and threaten your kids, you thank god that it’s over
though the system's corrupt, this wars been reinstated
reissued so that those above, know the people

aren’t fooled by their false promised lobbying.
Your death row grin comes back at dinner
as a copycat killing claims the next victim
you were the gush that unclogged the piping.

I'm tired of relentlessly digging up my own guts.
Insides wrenching until I feel something close to empty.
Empty.
Sometimes empty seems so loud.
To escape the confines of my hollow silence,
I plead with my whirlwinds to redirect my madness.
Madness strung hand in hand with the outlawed 40,
and over rowdy yuppies that are too old to illegally sketch their rebellious spirits on ads that taunt them with their own insufficiency.
The sounds of smashing glass invite me to **** up my blackness into the midnight hours.
The smell of defacement summons me to heave my loneliness onto someone else's tangible reality.
But even in the electrifying twilight, I can't help but feel tired of digging up my own guts.

**** its a slow night !
Mike said from across the table nursing his coffee inbtween passing the flask between us under the table.

Jack you pick up many fares tonight?
Bout the usual drunks bud but no its not been the best night .

Honestly I was happy bout the down time I was nursing hangover and truly didnt feel like dealing with peoples **** .

Listening to Mikey was bad enough he loved to ramble on about old stories and hookers he had nailed in his cab .

I swear I think sometimes he lived in that *******.
He certanly dressed like he did .Wearing the same clothes from last week .

You guys ever actually eat or do you just exist off ***** stories cigarettes and coffee.

Hey Susan you know I only come here to be in your presence .
Yeah right Jack hey you got anything in that flask you passing back and forth?

Sure do sweetheart I said as she leaned over the table she took a hit from the flask **** near emptying it.

Id care but I was to busy looking at her cleavage.
Hey leave something for us ***** Mike piped up.

Yeah well thats the cost of your buddy here looking down my shirt .
And what wonderful view it is sugar I said as she refilled my coffee totally ignoring Mike as usual .

What the hell man you wanna piece of *** I can tell you.where to look but dont let that ***** take all are ***** Jack.

Funny thing is its never are ***** when I buy it Mickey.
******* man you know I would share if I had a bottle .
Yeah I really cant say bud never seen you ever have one you *****.

Yeah ******* man.

Mike never could handle being picked on.
Alot of loud mouths couldn't .
Mike was one of many but he was a good laugh on a ocassion and kinda grew on you after awhile course so does a tumor so he wasnt exactly my favorite person in the world.

Course I never did like people .
I saw all there worst sides driving them the drunks least were semi honest .

The yuppies never paid you any mind you were there ride nothing more.

**** Jack I ever tell you bout that couple a few weeks ago I picked up?
I knew mikes silence wouldnt last long.

No you didnt .

Hell man so I do a pick up at the Raven you know that dive off Atlantic?

Yep been there many a time .

Well anyways I pick up this couple let me tell you from they were making out on the sidewalk I knew I was in for a show .

The chicks got this hot as **** little black cocktail dress on .
******* guy barely can tell me the address cause the chicks all over him.

So I head to the address well no sooner Im heading down the road I look back in the review and this ***** is going down on him I mean she's putting a Linda Lovelace to shame back there.
No **** well I know your demented *** was happy beats a drunk passing out in the backseat ******* himself .

No **** sherlock mike replied .
Anyways Im like ******* enjoying the **** out of this fare .
So much so a figure why the hell not *******.

Are you ******* nuts?
How the hell you going to drive and ******* truly you are one sick **** Mikey.

**** hell man I'm a professional brother unlike you .
Really you got to loosen up and live or this job will drive you nuts .

Yeah like your sane I thought to myself .

Anyways she's back there going to town like she working a ***** scene .
Everything's feeling good but I just kind of lost myself for a moment
Swerved hit the **** curb .

And I hear this guy ******* almost scream.
See when I hit the curb she bout bit his **** off.

******* funny **** the guys yelling get me to the ******* hospital she's keeps telling him she's sorry.

But thats not all of it he's going off cause he cant figure out what he's going to tell his wife .

Aint that some **** and to top it off the ******* didnt even tip me.
I cant imagine after almost giving him *** change why he wouldnt want to tip you Mickey.

Oh like I'm some ******* for getting worked up watching this chick go to town on this guy.
Okay hotshot being your so more noble than me what would you had done so differently .


I sat looked at this fellow cabbie trying not to laugh.
Honestly mike .

I would have pulled over and left the meter running till she finished .

I never was much at multi tasking like yourself .

Fuack you Jack I heard Mike say as I left a tip on the table and was on my way out.

Be careful out there Jack I herd Susan say.
Dont worry sugar I always am .


Stay crazy .

Gonz

tonight
the wailing wind
is my bane
as i look through the pane
of the hard crust of my pain
and wonder how i got to be this way
a homeless drifter on an elite highway
exhaling cigarrette smoke like a chimney
in the numbness of a freezing winter spell
selling a dozen crabby tales for a quarter
to bored yuppies aching for kicks
along the stiff terrain they must negotiate
to reach the peaks i scaled before i fell from grace
the whispering breeze tonight
is my lullaby as i struggle to sleep on my feet
and capture these rare moments of life in heat
on a day when a girl's smile is everything
and a stale slice of bread makes me a gourmet
dining on the rancid cast-aways of a third rate cafe
the twinkling stars tonight
are my peers as we help each other through the night
and a call-of-the wild song keeps playing in my heart;
it says classics are melodies woven in moments of adversity
and that i must continue to hog the fringes of society
and *****-nilly help salve the consciences of those who need someone
to throw the rich crumbs of their excesses at

there are certain days on the EL
Saturday or Sunday
and the sky is orange and different clouds
and airplane streaks glowing
and all above the city

Everyone is calm
And I look blank
and I feel weeping

For the fat black woman waiting by the doors
never took a seat
her eyes are skittish
like a doe
alert for insults
she shrinks her shoulders
when people enter
or when they leave

For the older white woman across from me
pills **** alchohol something
heavy mascara eyes resigned
seeing yuppies entering at Girard
feeling the contrast
thinking what could have been
croaky voiced and thin

For children laying on seats
staring at ceilings
or plastic windows
white hair beads clacking
eyes like rocks
parent clicking at phone
yelling at phone

all pushed in an EL car
and I love them all

and together we ride

As I lie past midnight
I watch fireflies signal urgently
green-white in the night
"I am here
have *** with me."

And think
of human courtship cries.
On Craigslist,
tentative men want to cuddle
and yuppies want to dine
(and much else besides).
At the milonga,
passion turns to counting steps
for some
(vice versa for others).
In parties, humor reigns.
Not always well.
Coquetry is a competition
and need is a sin...
except when it isn't.
(Someone somewhere's writing a poem
to keep hidden, yet irrationally
hoping to convince.)

I don't have a point.
Only that in our most simple instinct
we are so complicated.
And that despite our disenchantment, still,
it never ends.

i'm telling you now, leave.
i'll give you this one warning
before
i pull out my remington and shoot my lucky bullet straight into your heart.

too late

my boy, you're a soon to be dead man.
and me
i'm your death sentence.

make your last wish with pursed lips now.

i will do whatever i need too, to get you out of this head of mine.
i own this brain as tortured and mushy as it is
and you're merely trespassing.


you're the kid they use to shove into lockers, gone rouge.
the kid who's now well, not really a kid at all.

you hangout with the jocks these days,
go to a school full of yuppies
yeah. we all know your type and what you've turned into.

your transparent
might as well be glass.

generic.
simple.
gross.

but that lifestyle changed you into something new
and you morphed into something without a name

you were weak and
this world broke you.

that boy i fell in love with all those moons ago is dead now.

oh, well
time to go


so
here's the door.
and
there's  your shoes..

don't cut yourself too deep on the barbed wire
when you try to fit your pores through that fence


actually do

maybe then you won't come back and  will have finally learned
not to fight
fire
with
fire
and fist with fist


maybe then you won't haunt the halls in my head or the walk back home  

maybe then,
maybe.
maybe some day.

**** the day! with it's brightness and everlasting sight. i hate the sun! how it gets in your eyes and burns you even when its cold. seattle can go **** it! with all it's insufferable yuppies and endless rain. just gimme a dark place and blanket with no one else around.

for that's my idea of heaven.

when i was young, all i wanted
was to work in record shop,
i involved the nick hornby high
fidelity bug / virus and i was all set,
but them the music game changed,
it wasn't tagged as -sony, -******,
or some other record company...
but entitled self-,
see the hyphen is historical residue
awareness... but there are a few music
outlets open, the h.m.v. on oxford street,
or the one at romford,
the ****** mega-store where classical
music was caged behind soundproof glass
doors is gone... i guess the owner of the h.m.v.
is a benevolent billionaire philanthropist...
we all know richie branson sent all the artists
to hell and actors to the stratosphere
with income from tubular bells by mike oldfield...
i get that... but what you miss with instant access
is the randomness of waling into a vinyl / sly mercury
(c.d. it has to be more than compact disk,
it has to have a status of a vinyl, it can't remain
an acronym... vinyl.... and... mercury, cosine it's
silver, the end, 80's rule, or rulebook,
brick sized mobile phones, it's part of history,
you ******* tartan yuppies),
well, as divergent as a tangent can be,
all i ever wanted was to imitate the high fidelity
case presented in fictional medium by nick hornby,
never got the chance, did work experience at
Burtons (a clothes outlet), even though
i wanted to sell music... the hamster napster beat me
on the treadmill... never got the fairytale godmother
to wish-blink wish-blink magic pogo stick makeover;
but h.m.v. is still open, and went in and played
the lottery genie, i got https://goo.gl/KdB7oY:
why do you why do you why do you voodoo?