The Writing of Cultivores

The Writing of Cultivores

It started as a dream. I was out on wasteland – surrounded by the cinders of capitalism. The world had gone to shit, though strangely, it was a better place. The sky was orange, always orange, when the “dark” fell it just went shitty blood orange – I liked it. I felt safe there, safe in the knowledge that the very worst of humankind – that great malignant dynasty known as Capitalism, had all but been wiped . . . or swiped, swiped through some cosmic EFTPOS machine by an angry red-headed bitch going by the pseudonym Mamma N. All of this had probably come out of all this talk of global warming and climate change and goddamn carbon taxes, personally, I am all for a climatology atrocity – bring it on, and that all-consuming notion was the basis for the rise of the CULTIVORE.

I’d never imagined a post-anything world where humanity became extinct, humanity will never become extinct, not unless the pet rock it’s living on implodes or explodes, but by then I figure, they’ll have colonised some other junk yard. So, they survive – a handful of technocrats and autocrats and bureaucrats, all bunkered down while above – the planet burns. But not all of it . . . some remains unscathed left basically intact, the lines stay open and the satellites keep on humming. In the years leading up to the “atrocity” the ruling dynasty known as the “Capitalists” have tried everything to survive: non-breeding treaties, eradication, extermination, cannibalism – when science and technology (the twin evils) are proven redundant (as well as useless), diseases are let loose. By the time the fire arrives, for those still standing, it’s a blessing – celebrated and heralded. People are strange . . . indeed.

So what to do after you’ve had your storm or atrocity – there is the rub. What would these survivors do? To my mind they’d incorporate, they’d set up an articles of association and they would cling to the past because they who control the past control the future. They have two “I’s”, idolatry and infrastructure – idolatry of the capitalists and their plastic culture and the infrastructure with which to propaganda it. All they need is people – which is kind of strange as people, or rather the amount of them, had ultimately been the Capitalists downfall. Humans however are creatures of habit – thus, it is no good simply surviving, one must survive and prosper, and to rule, a ruler requires subjects. So they did, but they bred workers, workers with no names, a genetically manufactured proletariat straight out of Orwell’s 1984 – I had that prophetic book, Burrough’s Naked lunch and The Wizard of Oz in my head . . . a trip not so much along a yellow brick road, but rather a blue brick one. Blue is their colour – I mean, they have no god as such because theology (the theologicals) had been destroyed (outlawed by the Capitalists as a bad investment near the end of their reign), those who’d unearthed the sacraments and testaments (the Nomads) had handed them over to the Corporation – which is what the new rulers had Christened themselves and their char-grilled citadel of Capital Investment.

Blue – because there is no blue sky – no sun, no god, just work and investment – and, a strange historical text that speaks in pop culture idioms – the idolatry of Capitalist 20th and 21st Century culture. This is what they’ve brought to the round table of the Next Generation – I got this idea from the death knell the dawning of the 21st Century has dealt innovation in art (not technology), I mean, I don’t know if anyone else is aware of it or not but since the turn of the century all that Hollywood has done is re-hash 1970s culture? It bothers me, so I used it as the Corporation’s mandate – “Nothing New Under The Sun”. But there isn’t a sun, right? So why not build one? Give the people something to aim for – the glorious day when the blue re-emerges and the sun can be seen again. So, they build a wall, paint it blue, stick a yellow ball on and the saying becomes “Nothing New Under The Wall Of The Sun.”

Blue is more precious than gold . . . and blue dominates the world of the Cultivores, blue as in blue eyes never lie, blue tooths and blueprints. Blue is the colour . . . why, I have no real idea, but as the book forged on, blue began to pre-dominate everything. All Corporation hierarchy have blue eyes, they have blue teeth (blue tooths), and they use blue prints – they are, in point of fact – True Blue Bluebloods. Then of course, as readers will discover, there came, the Chic Creatures.
Every new society needs its own object of adoration – something for the ordinary man in the street to aim for. And who wouldn’t want to be a Chic Creature? They are the beautiful ones, the ones above manual labour, any labour in point of fact, their job is to stroll, stroll around under parasols looking beautiful showing off their glorious tattoos – ruled by Chico Ink, the Chic Creatures rule Capital Investment in tandem with the Corporation and the mysterious Murray Brothers who do the “mining”.

Next, we need a fable – some kind of Sleepy Hollow ode to cudgel the masses with, beware! Fear factory – something faceless bureaucrats can pump out through their “Bulletin”. Thus, the fable – the rise of the theological spores, the ones that inseminate their believers with bogus ideologies and bankrupt faith – I worked on the notion that no matter how forward or backward looking any re-vamped human society is, it would still include the love/hate dogma called organised religion – and even while the Corporation cranks out organised apathy, they, like the rest of Cultivation, know that the faiths still exist somewhere. And they do, in a place called Mayflower – some other place beyond the Northern Line Limit – the very edge of Cultivation. The fable states that a “Straynger” will arrive in Cultivation (or as some call it a Duch), carrying the faiths – she will be aided and abetted by traitors in attempting to re-instil the faiths. A no-named man will become her guide through the lands of Cultivation . . . and this man will accompany the Duch out to the Gates of Philanthropy and pass her unharmed through such – back to her own kind. In doing so, this no-named one shall thus earn his title. So far so good . . . but of course nothing is every quite as straightforward as it seems – on paper (not that there is paper because that’s old technology).

Any “hero” would be suspect – and in The No-Named Man we find a vessel with integrity, after time in the service of the Corporation toiling on a loco in the pursuit of earning a title, our hero finds himself with a thirst for knowledge, and knowledge can only be acquired by those in the know. Spotting what he thinks is the mythical Duch in Last Exit, a shabby clubbing borough, the No Name starts off on a flight of fancy through Cultivation – lands full of odd characters hung up and strung out on the Math, Time Banditry and Pop Culturisms – lands where nothing is ideologically sound – lands where the strong rule by brute force and the weak succumb to mythology. The Duch, it turns out, is searching for the Drifter, a fugitive hunted by the Corporation for crimes against the state of affairs. Led more by his sense of intrigue than the fable, the No Name’s odyssey is a surreal journey through sub pop culture and biblical visions – one that will ultimately take him right to Gates of Philanthropy and the much-vaunted Wall of Sound where all human history is played to those in search of the truth.
Writing the journey – plotting the characters of Cultivation and their warped idealisms, took a lot of work – in the end I opted for an episodic story, one where the No Name meets (by chapter) a character who may or may not appear again the book as a whole – or who, may or may not even exist. The journey starts when the No Name hops into the Driver’s cab to hunt the Duch – and then finds himself naked in the Abbey National, the ministry of untrue truths run by the mysterious old crone known as The Sackcloth Whore. This ancient bearer of wisdoms and history tells the No Name that it’s become his sworn duty to accompany the Duch – she was has the Blue Tooth and the Protocols, and as she rightly tells him – “Time is a line they spins you boy, to keep you on the clock.” With his notion vindicated and seconded by a person of historical value, the No Name, with the assistance of the Weatherman (an insane climatological genius) crosses the Moon River and in the process null and voids his tenure with the Corporation (having allowed the Sackcloth Whore to remove his identifying number) and falls in with the Drifter, and, a Machine Girl.

Out on the Wastelands it’s Venture Capitalism at its finest. Quite how Machined Girls found their way into my speculative fiction curry I’ve no idea. I had this notion that RGs (Real Girls) had become a liability to a freshly-reformed patriarchal society, and subsequently that same society had invested heavily in Machine Girl technology with the Factory while vehemently denying they condoned it in any way whatsoever. But whatever, not only do they exist, but amazingly they’re both flourishing and rapidly adapting – picking up human emotions and organising themselves into gangs aligned to the Renegades, those who hold up the locos and seize Corporation assets. Naturally the Machine Girls would have sexually overt names – Machine Girl Fellatio (the original and best Machine Girl) as example.
The No Name, knowledge-hungry as he is, takes all of these perplexing developments in his stride – even the robust and very “hands-on” Bull Breaker with his flickering holograph twin and the vampish crude baroness the Plutonian Blonde who runs the gas franchise and designs Chemical Girls on the side . . . runs illegal cage matches and diddles the Corporation with oily hands and swishy gowns.

Then of course there’s the Toolman. He’s quite a guy – well, not so much a guy as a half metal guru with heavy hardware capabilities. Every decent civilisation needs a killing machine – and if that killing machine was a human serial killer who’d somehow walked right through the Climatology Atrocity unscathed, merrily slaying as he passed from one state to another, then mores the better. Captured by the Corporation, upgraded and turned loose as the ultimate state assassin, the Toolman’s exploits feature heavily in both the Corporation’s “word” and Bulletin. Used as a warning to any who might consider going off the clock, the Toolman’s reputation both precedes and follows him as he clunks one step at a time across the lands in search of victims. Armed with nail guns, power tools and the ability to use them, once the No Name realises the Toolman is on their scent things start to get a bit hairier than he’d envisioned . . . regardless of the fact the Machine Girl tells him that if it bleeds it can be killed . . . his main concern is what if it doesn’t bleed? Bleeding isn’t an issue as it turns out – not when the Machine Girl upjacks a compactor (a vehicle operated by a Moleskin that crushes all the crap laying everywhere – the remains of Capitalism) – and crushes the Toolman into a cube which then becomes a valuable asset – to the art collectors. Being off the meter is one thing, crushing a Corporation assassin is quite another.

CULTIVORES INTERESTING FACT: Many of the characters are caricatures of people I regularly hang out with!

Separated from the Drifter and the original Machine Girl by virtue of having to return to Capital Investment to find medicine on account of injuries sustained while fighting off the Toolman’s overly amorous advances, the No Name finds himself alone in the company of the Duch in the Cross, a day traders borough – where, they are picked up by the Scissor Sister, a crimper with a bizarre vernacular and an “imaginary” twin sister. This quaffing dolly with dangerous shears tells the No Name she’s on a mission from the Sackcloth Whore to protect all their vested interests. Sucked into a seedy tenement and then held hostage while the Scissor Sister merrily lops off the Duch’s ears, the No Name is forced, for the first time, to think for himself – and ends up dealing with the elusive and unlicensed Dr Zarkov in a bid to free himself and his “package” from the Sister’s clutches. Finally killing her with her own shears, he and the Duch (in drag) travel to the Ferry Terminal to see the Queen of the Stone Age – another withered crone with biblical intentions.
The Queen, curing the No Name’s wounds and absolving his sins, convinces the No Name that the faiths exist and to exist himself, he must conjoin with the Duch . . . and commune he does, more because he’d been raised to have good manners . . . but, a screw is a screw is a screw. No big deal . . . until you find out you’re the new messiah’s father. And then there’s the disturbing notion that the Queen and the Whore are . . .

The No Name will never see the Drifter and the original Machine Girl again – their paths and stories bifurcate at this stage . . . and the No Name, finding himself on a loco travelling across the salt flats to visit the Paperboy (a criminally insane bibliophile who dribbles shit), finds himself in the middle of a Renegade attack – the most audacious to date, the upjack of a whole loco and its passengers undertaken by the red-eyed and death-defying Leadbelly. Finding himself in the middle of the ensuing fire fight – killing two Brigade Guards in the process and thereby depriving Leadbelly of bargaining chips, the No Name is finally released on “bail”- minus his package. Wandering the flats confused he is picked up by a rogue Machine Girl going by the name of Pussy Galore (enter the true love interest). She air-bikes him through a surreal world of renegades, floodlit baseball, narcotics and fully lubricated and dilating metal vaginas until bewildered and astounded, he is finally dropped off on Porridge Island – home of the Paperboy. Wherein he watches (high) as the Paperboy assassinates his own secretary and then himself – the suicide setting off a fire – a fire that’s both illegal, and, showers the surrounding environment with burning manuscripts.

Striking out again with his mechanical pussy and the now pregnant carrier of the faiths, and having also acquired a hybrid “Dog Thing” the ill-equipped quartet are left with only one place to go to – the same place everyone goes when they’re fleeing Capital Investment – Urban Jungle – the vine-encrusted super city of the Capitalists. Urban Jungle however offers its own unique set of problems, not least of which are the battling-for-ultimate control overlords The Recluse, and the enigmatic Xellent the Pimp. The Recluse it is said was once high in the Corporation’s controlling echelons, until he turned traitor and struck out to discover the Jungle. The Pimp on the other hand is an egotistical maniac who runs the Ranch Houses, whore markets full of Plastic Reginas, Dandy Eunuchs and re-configured good girls gone bad.

The Drifter, having lost the original Machine Girl after her clock was wound back permanently by Captain Sensible – head of the time-making Venturists, also heads for the Jungle in the hope of again seeing Evangalista, the exiled ruler-in-waiting. No one gets lucky in a lawless asylum like the Jungle however – not when the Recluse is near death and close to settling all of his debts with the Mass rather than the Math – and not when the Libertine and his “Cut Ups” are also making a power play. After a shoot-out at the Pimp’s infamous House of Many Colours – the No Name, Pussy Galore and the Duch break on through to the other side . . . out toward the Gates.

There is a dogged resilience in the No Name’s character, no matter how much depravity, ludicrousness or sheer insanity he witnesses, he clings to the kernel of doing one job right no matter the cost, not that he even understands quite what the job or cost is. He does know though that he needs to be shot of his package, and that the only way he can ever be rid of her, is to return her to sender. What he finds at the Gates however – is the ultimate truth, the truth that everything is a lie and is preordained, that there is no future, only a glittering past . . . that culture rules, that all men are not created equal, that god is, quite literally, in the TV.

The No Name, the one so named in the fable, has ultimately, become the fable himself, because everything can be re-written continually and history is bunk. The Math never lies and time is a line they spin to keep you on the clock – but the worst thing, as he stands watching the American Terrorist scream across the sky high above en route to Capital Investment’s destiny . . . is that he might just have done what they wanted him to.


Cultivores Interesting Fact: The Corporation ID “cards” which introduce each episodic character carry a Corporation ID number – each number has a meaning to a popular culture fact or identity the character represents. Example: The Driver’s ID Number is taken from the number plate of the car James Dean crashed in. (=driving).

The world of the Cultivores is probably a far better one that that of their predecessors. Despite the fact they are all obviously insane . . . their idolatry and their attitude to life and death is one small step for mankind – the only question being, in which direction?

THE OTHER STATE

THE “OTHER” STATE

Werewolves have taken control of a biker’s gang in the dreary western suburbs of Melbourne known as the Dog Collar Demons. In the process making themselves the most feared pack not just in Victoria, but nationwide. The Demons, led by the charismatic Buick, are not simply above the law, they are the law.

Over in South Australia the vampires whose forefathers invented the Internet are concealed deep within the IT industry as programmers. When Lizzie Madelena, a bored twenty-something from Melbourne with an eating disorder turns up at the Demon’s annual pool party looking for excitement, she gets way more than she ever bargained for, especially after Cobol, head of the SA vampires, spends one night in her company – rendering the accord of non-interference between the preternatural species obsolete.

Enter Stacey Wiley, stray from home middle-class wife to husband (ex-hacker Rob), and Arkan Lews, infamous fantasy novelist from Texas, who, as adulterous lovers hunt the “emergence”, the time when the preternatural break cover to clash over human involvement.

With a double murder in Adelaide and a zany news team in Melbourne, counterpart DCI’s Jon Bowles and Ray Fuges are drawn ever deeper into cases that can never be solved. Add forensic scientist cum anthropologist Alan J. Kay and a mysterious envoy known as Lucian, and the dark and desperate existence of the immortal begins to unravel.

With lust comes death, with emergence comes retaliation, with inter-state rivalry comes parochialism, and as Buick gets ready to mate and the vampire’s leader falls to a surprise coup, the only option left is the greatest show on earth. No vampire has ever defeated a werewolf in one-on-one combat, but to free Lizzie from Buick’s clutches, desk-jockey vampire Cobol will be left with no alternative other than to attempt the impossible . . . in the other state the world is a cage from which no victor ever emerges.

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.

in cultivation

tightly wound in a masquerade
coersion is an ethical principle
the equations bounce back
from inadequate math
& irreducible sums
the biosphere is full of effluent
in the rearview mirror you can see asthetics
chic creatures drying ink
only the beautiful rust
canines retrieve messages
machine girls run numbers
in a world of burnt orange
scars bleed into defamity
clocks get rewound
a pimp vomits gibberish
an old man buys gasoline
to fuel the final attack on apathy
the corporation stands resolute
by articles of association
designed to tie the new to the old
at the wall of sound
the truth is played in high def
to one lone vagabond.