VISITING YOUR PARENTS

I didn’t go out tonight and I’m not missing being trampled by people on the crowded dance floor and having some guy’s gin-soaked breath in my face at all

Lying on your old bed in your old bedroom at your parents’ house. You had an early shower and are now dressed in a plaid sleep shirt and daggy socks. Your hair is freshly washed and somehow you feel like a virgin again. That’s how sweet smelling you feel. The walls are still pink. He messaged you a couple of hours ago. You are on Facebook. You chat to one of your art-school friends about the photography book you want to create with her. It’ll have to feature your ‘pretty-redhead-we-are-unsure-if she-is-on-coke-and-we-don’t-think-it-is-appropriate-to-ask-her’ friend and lots of ‘indie-girl-in-underwear’ photos. You think about msg-ing back whilst you lay there, holding your pee. You start listening to Liz Phair, you think about smoking but don’t. You would hate for your parents to see you, cigarette in hand. You drink some milk. You eat some cookies. You wonder what everyone is doing tonight. You realise you don’t particularly care. Then you think about msg-ing him back. And suddenly you realise you are waiting for him to get slightly drunk, because you know he went out to the pub with his mates tonight. And that he is your ex. It’s probably best to just ignore him. But why is it that everyone is more interesting while they are intoxicated, including you?

CHINESE WHISPERS

“It was nice to finally see you after so long.”
Translation: I thought about you when I was alone in my bed, for months.
“I really hope you’ve been keeping busy.”
Translation: I really hope you aren’t contemplating suicide again.
“What’ve you been doing all this time?”
Translation: I’ve wanted to see you for so long but life got in the way. And I thought you were busy with your women and your issues.
“I really must go soon, I said I would go to dinner with my sister.”
Translation: I think if we go back to yours I won’t be able to fight the urge to tear of all my clothes.
“Oh but you have to see this new bookshelf I bought, my comics are all lovely and organised.”
Translation: I know it’s inappropriate but I need you in my room and I can tell you’ve been wanting me to say this.
“I can stay a little while, you’ll have to walk me to the bus stop...”
Translation: Take me home now and when I step in the doorway I will already be wet.

PARTY PHOTOGRAPHERS

I just really don’t want to sell out

I sit here eating pickles from the jar, in that wooden chair that sits in the corner and doesn’t go with the rest of the furniture. Corn-coloured sunlight filtering in through the small kitchen window. The dining table is covered with balled-up bits of paper and keys and pens and unopened mail and a fruit bowl that has been severely cracked and just sits there as if on life support, all broken and crumbly. You look over at me and say that its one of the nicest scenes you’ve ever seen. And it’s not corny because I know you really believe it. Me sitting there, feet on the seat in your holey socks and that big soft jumper that was once cream but has now turned grey. Like our cigarette ash. You are wearing that horrible mustard-hued cardigan and plain cotton boxers. Scratching your oily hair, nervously contemplating THE letter, laying unopened amongst the bills. We both say that we want you to get this party photographer gig but we both know that, while impressive it could be counterproductive to ‘us’. You will start travelling a lot, you will have liquored-up girls stumbling around showing you their tits and you will be encouraged to encourage them. Someone will offer you coke and then you will end up doing something that you regret. And you will blurt it out at a time like this, wrecking the serenity of the moment because you cannot lie to save your life. You cannot lie just as I cannot hold a grudge and that is a very dangerous mix.

LIFE IS SALTY

Life Is Salty is one of my most recent zines and it is proving quite popular. It contains 7 short peices inspired by my life experiences that have occured in dank, dark, and possibly alcohol-scented places. It is printed on colourful paper and features the beautiful Allison Mosshart as the covermodel....however her eyes are blacked out with texta like she is some sort of criminal or a minor.

I implore you to purchase one they will change your life....not really. But you will continually say "oh that happens to me all the time" as you read it.

Only $3!!!!!!!!!!!!

Contact me through email if you want to buy one and help out my beer fund, its quite low.

BRICOLAGE.

The 2nd of December was the opening night of bricolage.; the group show loren and reane and i created for little fish gallery in newtown. Thanks to everyone who turned up and supported us. We appreciate it muchly. Turned out to be a rad night of art, conversation and beer. And I sold 14.05 dollars worth of zines!

PUNK COUPLES

A love like Sid and Nancy’s

I dreamt my wedding last night. A small art-deco themed affair. That was all for fun and really just a kick in the teeth to the sanctity of marriage. A party of tattoos and coke and tits out for the party photographer. And I dreamt I was marrying you, what a laugh. And a dream. I think I would have to drag you kicking and screaming up the aisle. I really hate you but I could love you. Isn’t that the same? I’d be your mistress and your mother. I’d be your therapist and your lover. I’d be all wrapped up in layers even when we lay, never truly naked but vulnerable all the same. You always say what you really mean and your words you spit them. And then forget them. I’m left only with tear stains and nothing but curses and praise. And I spit them at your face, just as violently as you ever did.

MARRIAGE?

Mr. & Mrs.

We are not together. But my foot rubs against yours. We are in the same bed like a married couple. The rain pelts outside like come once did on the lap of my pink lace dress. I want to yes I want to. Baby just give in. I will pretend you’re Johnny and think of me as Sylvia. And you will for a minute be my lover of the magic and the wonder. The spearer of the spearers. Next morning I feel like we are married. As I put my earrings on from the dresser. Yes dear? Alas now I will think of you as Johnny. But don’t think of me as Sylvia.