DO THE MATH

CULTIVORES

After the diseases, the eradication policies and the storm, descendants of the survivors inhabit a world overrun with true blue idolatry of the Old People’s pop-culture. In Capital Investment, the slogan-mad Corporation rule in alliance with the immortality-chasing Chic Creatures, while the majority of New People toil on locos trying to replace a number with a title.

Meeting what he thinks is the fabled carrier of the faiths, one untitled man becomes the emissary’s guide through the lands of Cultivation; where circular time is bought and sold, blue is more precious than gold and the math predominates. Accompanied by The Drifter, a former Corporation assassin, and machine girls, prototypes of the (ideal) women of the future, together they journey to the mythological Urban Jungle - the vine-encrusted super city standing resolutely testament to the Old People’s ambition and ego.

For one it is a mission to reinstate the faiths, for another a quest for knowledge, and for the Drifter, a chance to redeem himself in the eyes of Evangelista, the ruler-in-exile. What awaits them in the remains of the past though is betrayal and irony; a choice between unstable order or another pointless war – the choice which is no choice at all. Cultivation is a world divided by frighteningly familiar parallels. A world where having a name means everything, and where those who control the present - control the past.

“Cultivores is a savagely ironic take on human existence post-climatology atrocity, a Wizard of Oz-esque trek through Naked Lunch’s sci-fi pantheon, where pop-cult ideologies reign and Orwell’s prophetic 1984 is fast-forwarded to a bizarre conclusion.”

Cruising With Buick & Dodge

‘We eating tonight?’ Dodge asked. Dodge was always hungry - being a fast growing dog. Right now morphing sapped too much of his energy and he couldn’t stay in the other state for long. But one day he’d be able to and when he could, Buick knew that Dodge would be his challenger for leadership of the Dog Collar Demons. When that day finally arrived, or that full moon rose, the lifelong friendship they’d enjoyed would end in a fury of incisors and claws. One of them would end up dead, or so mutilated that euthanasia would be an act of love. Tonight however, that bone of contention is in the future; tonight they’re in sync, like they’d been since they’d first left the territory together and struck out for Melbourne – ultimate predators on the prowl. Since Buick had assumed alpha dog status Dodge had been faithfully at his heel. Together they’d proven invincible – above the laws of man and nature; two preternatural joyriders with time to kill.
‘We’ll eat later.’ Buick rebuked his sidekick, ‘right now let’s just cruise.’
‘Cruise where?’
‘Where we always do, this is our hood.’
‘Dog, any fucking where we choose is our hood and it gets boring doing the same old circuit.’
‘What’d you expect in Essendon, the fucking Riviera?’
‘I’m just saying that’s all . . . it gets too easy.’
‘It’s easy because we make it look easy. You think humans could do this several times a month? Kidnap chumps off the street, rip ‘em apart or make ‘em vanish from the face and have no law involvement at all?’
‘Yeah but it’s no challenge dog, that’s all I’m sayin’.’
‘You say too fucking much dog, maybe you wanna go interstate and take on a vamp huh?’
‘Fuck yes, that’d be the shit baby.’
‘Yeah, it’d be the shit if you re-morphed too early and a gang of those cutthroat pretty boys bled you dry.’

None of them had fought a vamp since whenever, Buick’s old man had seen to that when he’d made that peace accord and for now Buick was okay living by it. But he’d checked it out and he knew full well he could take the vamps nerdy leader Cobol with relative ease. Buick was big, at least a foot and a half bigger than the tallest human male they’d ever seen – an advantage tripled when he morphed. So why waste energy fighting some geeky vampire just for pride’s sake? Nah, right now he was happy cruising, happy looking for some fun and fodder. Only this time the fun came with blue and red lights attached. ‘What the shit?’ Dodge said, glancing in the rear view.
‘Well, what a turn up huh,’ Buick offered from the passenger seat, ‘two pussies with balls.’
‘Two pussies with shit for brains more like.’ Dodge answered, ‘Whatcha wanna do with ‘em?’
‘Let’s play pin the tail on the kitty cat huh?’
Dodge didn’t need an explanation - he kept a steady speed despite the first burst of the siren from the patrol car tailing them. The cop car cut the distance between them – gave a longer siren burst. ‘Not yet,’ Buick instructed his protégé, ‘make ‘em good ‘n’ angry.’
Dodge smiled . . . it was a bastard of a smile. The cops got pissed off, came right up on Dodge’s bumper and used the pansy hailer to warn them to pull it over. ‘Go a ways yet.’ Buick said casually. Dodge obliged, this was turning out to be fun after all. Finally Dodge rolled the old Holden to a slewed stop in a grubby back street with shitty lighting.
‘Don’t you fuckin’ have him till I’m ready okay?’ Buick ordered; ‘I don’t fancy getting’ shot by some trigger-happy bluebottle with shaky hands.’
‘You can trust me dog . . .’ Dodge joked as the cop came up alongside his window and rapped angrily on it in acting out his pseudo authority. Dodge rolled the pane down casually. ‘Are you fucking stupid?’ The cop demanded shining a torch into Dodge’s face. And then the cop stepped back slightly from the stench of Dodge’s breath. No man, are you?’ Dodge replied. Then turning to Buick; ‘Look dog, fresh pig still on the trotter!’
‘Get the fuck out of the car boy.’ The cop demanded, his hand on his gun holster menacingly as Buick watched the other toy soldier step outta the patrol car behind. ‘Why don’t you climb on in hog?’ Dodge countered.
‘What the fuck?’ The cop at Dodge’s window said in dismay as his colleague reached Buick’s side of the idling car. ‘Yeah, what the fuck huh, come on pussy, climb in, we’ll take you and your girlfriend there for a spin, buy you a milk shake.’ Dodge barked happily.
‘One last chance shit face.’ The cop said. ‘Out, now.’
What happened then happened so fast that neither cop had any chance of doing anything – even realising they were about to die. Dodge’s arm flew towards the cop – his massive hand wrapping around the cop’s neck, crushing the windpipe as he yanked the cop’s head into the car – just the head; the cop’s body still stood there momentarily shining a little light. Buick’s reactions were even faster - he’d taken the window glass with him as he’d lashed out – his curled fist smashing into the other cop’s chest - sending the guy flying into the brick wall behind. Buick stepped out, looked down at the winded guy fumbling for his weapon – stood on the cop’s trigger hand then ripped the guy’s heart from its cavity in one savage orgasm of efficient brutality.
‘Swap you a head for a heart?’ Dodge laughed, holding up his trophy by its hair and licking its distorted face.
‘You know I can’t stomach cop brains, go get the remains man.’ Buick ordered.

Dodge drove back to the pound with the two torsos in the car’s boot – Buick having already consumed cop two’s heart.
‘Hey, where’s mine?’ Dodge whined.
‘You never share your meals dog.’ Buick re-iterated, wiping blood from his mouth.
Nah, ya don’t Dodge thought, it was a lesson he’d learned and one he’d need to implement when the day he took on Buick for pack leadership finally rolled around. Right now, he just wanted to eat - even if it was cold cop brains.
‘You know what we oughtta do?’ Buick belched.
‘Rob a liquor store?’ Dodge replied happily, the severed cop’s head bouncing between his legs as he drove.
‘We oughtta learn to fly dog.’
‘What like in planes, what we need to fly for?’
‘No not like in planes, like in flying.’
‘Dog that cop’s heart has gone straight to your head, we’re fuckin’ werewolves and werewolves don’t fly baby!’
‘I know that, but I’m just thinking, I mean, say we had to fight those caped crusaders one day, the only advantage they have over us is flight.’
‘That’s some crazy shit dude, none one of us would be crazy enough to try a stunt like that?’
Buick smiled at his offsider. ‘No way dog.’ Dodge replied immediately.
‘Not you baby, what about Hummer? That dog is rabid crazy I swear.’
‘Hummer flying? Man that’s some shit I’d have to see!’
‘We could get that hangar out at the old airport?’
‘Yeah,’ Dodge replied as he pulled the car up to the Dog Collar Demon’s pound cum clubhouse, outside were the usual gaggle of suburban females, the ones looking for some real excitement and the thrill of being a biker’s chick. Dodge hit the car’s horn twice and the gates slid open, he saw Cadillac standing there smiling. ‘I want me that red-headed one dog.’ He said to Buick. Buick shrugged, red-headed, blonde-headed, no-headed, it was all the same to him, weren’t one of ‘em suitable to carry his heir, that lucky chick hadn’t turned up yet, but when she did he’d know immediately. Dodge leaned out the car window to Cadillac, told the younger dog to let the redhead in. He heard her remonstrating with Caddy about her friend getting in too, heard Caddy telling the bitch to get the fuck inside or fuck the hell off. Caddy had a way with words . . . he’d make a good right hand hound when the time came.
Buick woke up late, looked around somewhat bemused. Checked his mouth – no dried blood. Thank fuck, it'd just been another of those weird dreams, like as if him and Dodge would kill cops just for kicks, what were they, animals? But he knew that all dreams had some basis – a basis in deep-rooted fears maybe. Dodge was getting bigger every day it seemed, and one day . . . yeah well, that was one day. There was still the matter of Cobol, not that Cobol really mattered. He yawned, stretched, listened to the sounds of another human day . . . he just had too much on his mind right now that was all what with organising the annual pool party. Even werewolves had to be seen to be contributing to their community somehow. The thought made him smile, he got up and strode out into the pound, stood there a while looking up at the clear blue as if he'd never seen it before, scratched his neck once or twice. Then he saw Cadillac escorting some red-headed female toward the pound's gate . . . what the? He thought.

PUNKTUATION THE WHOLE TRUTH

Reaching out across the bleached white veldt to infect the flickering screen with a moment of insanity, Teri Louise Kelly’s short story/poetry anthology ‘Punktuation’ is a literary oil slick drifting slowly toward the burning shore. Having already deconstructed her “art form” with a veritable glossary of bastardisations, incestuous syntax and gob-spitting grammar, the maniacal Ms Kelly continually has her execution stayed. There is no way of telling fact from fiction, poetry from toilet door graffiti, she claims, and in ‘Punktuation’ she drifts (seemingly aimlessly) from subject matter to subject matter as casually as a rent boy wandering Piccadilly Circus looking for a buyer. There are many reasons why generations to come will admire and appreciate her decadent candour, today however she still has rent to pay, demons to slay and dependency issues to address. She is, much like her hero Brendan Behan, a drinker with writing problems. Those problems become obvious to even the most deranged reader the moment he, she or it, decides they feel lucky and steps into ‘Punktuation’ class with Fraulein Kelly. Which is all well and good in context . . . if there was one, or even a sub one. Punk is dead, it ended at Winterland, the ethos survives, although wholly diluted and incorporated, punk is not beat, never was, thus endeth the lesson. All of which brings us nicely around to the e-revolution, the one that won't be televised as the president gets his dick sucked. It's revolution and evolution, publishing anarchy and blogging blasphemy, every man, woman, child, android and canine will soon be a published writer, many will be published writers and publishers, the wolf is not merely amongst the sheep but is already tearing the flock to pieces - the shepherd having long since fled to Alcatraz. The son of Simian has returned to the planet of sound with a vengeance. Ms Kelly of course, erstwhile as she undoubtedly is, really doesn't give a flying fuck about any of it - another dreary re-make of planet of the apes or not . . . she of the juice being wired for both sound and vision, as distorted and blurred as they are. Deep in the fray she regularly hunts down avenues of opportunism, some say that there's nothing she wouldn't sell in pursuit of infamy, and most usually those saying such place the emphasis squarely on the word nothing. She has as well, the distinguished honour have having chatted to the great gonzo himself via e-mail before he took himself off to Papa-land with a double bang. Then there's the poetry . . . "Punktuation isn't a book, it's a back-alley street brawl, with breaks for poetry." she can't be god she's fingered other girls quite openly in public urinals writes her name on scarred arms bills herself as the quick fix to dr fix never prays consumes hunts and gathers trinkets made from pubic hair you won't find it in revelations they edited that bit out the good fathers & their bad seeds generation AD1329 And so? So what? Does any of it matter? Will she take the same creek road to redemption? Probably not, this isn't even a blog, it's an advertisment, flagrant and fragrant, another tack in the carpet along the hall of miss adventure, the kind of ride reserved for the severely destabilised and fully dependent. There's no gravity here my friend, no need to grab a chair, just let go. On a long enough timeline everyone's chance of survival drops to zero - good advice, think about the big fat nought at the end of everything, when there is no other permutation that can be run . . . once you've gone you can never return. Unless you're a space ape or Howard Hughes. The game's afoot, and make no mistake, she's playing for keeps. They blew up the chicken man in philly last nite, blew up his house too . . . feathers every damned where, all along the boardwalk, looked just like the morning after mardi gras, she said, as she punktuated. PUNKTUATION AVAILABLE @ ALL GOOD (& SOME NOT SO GOOD) E-OUTLETS NOW

NIGHTMARES IN THE FOREST OF DREAMS

I was weaned on the teat of England’s brutal history, dragged kicking and screaming on the coattails of Cromwell and his thuggish ilk. Hammersmith tube station or Battersea Park, let alone Brighton pier, are places you get used to being vulnerable in or on, with your eight sets of eyes. All of those places are a long way from Hurtle Square on a cold night in early July though. Distant memories of unprovoked violence simply to warm up or erase the boredom of English life float unwillingly to the surface. When you’re almost home after a night of poetry, a few drinks with fellow artists and your partner by your side, you could be excused for forgetting from whence you came and how you were reared. You might even forget, I suppose, that you were brought up as a boy and as such on a council estate your first rule was always that you fought – no matter what or why, reasoning was for continentals. The instinct is buried within you, as much a part of you as appreciation of rising damp and late night Indian takeaways. Still a long way from The Forest of Dreams though . . . Isn’t that what it’s called? I forget - my head is kind of fuzzy, a little time-warped; I’m still on rewind . . . back to my own dim future. Where was I? Oh yes, Hurtle Square early July year of our Lord two thousand and eleven. I’m walking, and for whatever reason I’m carrying a megaphone – God provides, my Aunt Kathleen always espoused between black and tans. Maybe I was planning a trunk call . . . maybe he just saw what was around my corner, or as it turned out, in the shadows of my immediacy. Next thing I’m aware of, I’m prostrate, looking at God’s very own celestial penthouse. I hear my partner shouting, my top gets ripped, God is getting very hands on these days – definitely over-stepping his creative brief.
Instinct kicks in - instinct is the first wave of adrenalin, the blitzkrieg as it were. Getting up from my earthly resting place isn’t as easy as instinct thinks however because instinct hasn’t allowed for the fact I’m wearing five-inch platforms, but instant recall has because instant recall remembers nineteen seventy-five. Why is there someone manhandling my partner in Hurtle Square? No time for logistics . . . I’m hit, in the back, the shockwaves send my kidney’s into rehab. Am I missing something here? I can hear tearing again . . . more shouting, my still-reeling brain at least realises I’m still clutching the megaphone. And I use it – my weapon at hand, but not to call God on . . . this is what you call instant messaging. Maybe our two assaulters hadn’t banked on the fact one of their victims would be in possession of a lethal instrument of destruction, or that the other doesn’t take assault lying down. Suddenly I’m back in the playground fighting . . . the old muscle memory jerks back to life with an oestrogen-fuelled reluctance; atrophy offers no inducement for reluctant combatants in Adelaide’s urban jungle fight nights. Dazed and confused I’m thinking that my aunt Kathleen is back from the tomb striking out right alongside me like she was still at my uncle Paddy’s wake, because all I can see right now is a red-headed thresher. When I fall over again I’m given a boot print signature on my arm, just for my troubles like, God bless you child.
There’s no time to run the numbers on hate crimes, attempted rapes or muggings, because the motive for this appears to be supercilious to all of those neatly-compiled statistics, it really does seem like a simple need for speed. All of which begs the question why would two red-blooded primates think it cool to attack two women . . . if they just wanted to fight? Has the Australian male slid that far from his back porch sofa? Strange times in the murder capital of the world, no sense to be made of random number sequences. The sum is irreducible - no need to call Sherlock Holmes or Graeme Greene, the time is right for fighting in the streets, the gender divide has been conquered. Multi-coloured bruising, Nurofen, Voltaren and support bandages later, we go looking for the batteries from the megaphone. Who knows why, post-traumatic shock is a strange beast, but somehow, befuddled as we were, we simply needed to feel the touch of alkaline again. Something to re-connect us to planet earth and God’s answering machine . . . maybe even my aunt Kathleen. The adage is wrong by the way, pain offers very little in the way of gain.