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The Lost Writing of Babaloo

In the rancid recesses of The Den of Iniquity, concealed behind a large pile of mutant tweed socks, sprayed with bourbon and stained with the nicotine of half-baked beards, the lost writing of Babaloo waited...Only by chance, did a passing Buddha, tired of being rotund and thusly seeking the solace of dada, tongue the ragged pages revealing the moist innards of their psyche and uncovering for all, the next bit of juvenalia...




april 4th
i sort of meandered down the stairs
a thing of hair
stench &
piss-hole eyes.
(not quite zarathustra).
rounding the banister
i came upon a voice
not unlike the sound of running water,
but perhaps a tad more violent.
"whoa man, you look baaaad."
i stopped at the bottom of the stairs
scratched my arse
rubbed my right eye
and continued shuffling down the hall
towards the solace of the kitchen
having forgotten the voice
(depleted short term memory)
4 steps later
it came again,
a dribbling sound,
"hey man, listen, i need some help."
my eyes pushed hard
against crusted lids,
widening the sphere of vision,
my pupils screaming in contraction
at the onslaught of the light
sucking my corneas
into an ocular singularity
somewhere at the root of my brain .
"what?" i replied, blinking away my screaming orbs.
"come here" came the voice.
"wha...where are you?" i asked.
"over here, by the door dude."
i glanced over to the door
but saw nothing, no one.
"here, right here." came the voice again.
My eyes
at last
realising where my ears were focused
closed in on the perpetrator -
an umbrella
leaning up against the wall
by the side of the front door.
i approached
and as i got closer
i began to make out a tiny face
in the wooden handle;
eyes, nose, mouth.
i crouched down
and began to study
the tiny features.
"rough night dude?" it asked.
its minute mouth
twitched as it spoke
not really forming the words
yet still issuing their sound
and its stark white eyes
rolled uncontrollably,
i yawned and made a feeble attempt
at picking my nose, got nothing decent.
"do you think it's going to rain today?" i asked.
there was no reply.
i laughed,
picked some sleep dirt
from the corner of my eye,
walked into the kitchen
and vomited
in the sink.
another day had begun.

paranoid at 35,000 ft
deep voids
in the corners
up the walls.
a worm
away from the evil
a paranoid
through cowering senses
squeezed to a univision
a claustrophobic tunnel of fear
where a distorted rationality
mocks its passive master
laughing at its reviled host.
this room is a tomb
edged by
black canyons.
there's no escape
for the
insect brain
until the ebb occurs.

i escaped
jumped over puddles
that reflected the town.
landing in the last one
i annihilated the city,
projected it like puke
against the walls.
no pity for the filth.

i wandered outside
the sting of bad booze
what a vision though.
steaming night streets
damp with corporate perspiration
crawl towards the vanishing point
so eager to flee this nonsense.
lonely night creatures drift by
escaping the sterility
their cries
leaning into distance
muffled by the thick air.
the moon gazes up in pale indifference
from a puddle near the drain
where the day-filth
is washed away.
sweet wrappers skip past
on deranged breezes,
a circus of waste
in the waxing half-light.
the pavement sighs
through a grate beneath my feet
and with dreams of tomorrow
the moon
softly kisses the street goodbye
and wanders off for a while.
the sun creeps up
blushing with embarrassment for what it left behind.

glancing up from mossy cracks
that edge the old cobbles
i squint into the mist.
my brogues echoing in the morning
singing my steps through the haze.
behind me
the last few dregs emerge from
the den of my nightly drinking
a home amidst the cold damp streets
where i wake to loneliness.
across the way
a drunk screams rainbows at the wall
and the image hints at the future.
i blink
but the mist remains
invading my head
blighting what is left of me inside.
beyond the crumbling wall
that edges the littered path
a brown river stretches towards escape.
tide swollen
edging slowly
like a filthy glacier
a dark lick slicing through the city.
it calls to my misery
so i follow
losing my depression in its depths.

(words to be spoken aloud into an empty coffee mug)
hey mr
hey mr man
the man the you
the real and non
and on and on
and far you go
the drift to depths below
the life and lies
the saddened eyes
all closed and dead
within your head
is dark and black
and sad with lack
you ghost the most
beyond now real
and bad of truth
no life no feel
no feeling.

through a clean smear
in the filth on my mirror
i see you

limp brown islands of fallen leaves
crowd the gutter.
trembling masses
poised in the rain-flow.
gently fragmenting
they glide away
wending towards
the storm drain's
of demise.
a sudden pulse
a gutter bore
races through
and the leaven worlds
in a watery apocalypse
spinning away amidst the deluge
chased by the remnants of humanity
the cast offs
our disposable irrelevancies.
cigarette butts
of yellow stained
death foam
in the flow.
drinking straws that wear their sex
in pink smears
of lipstick stains.
of nameless plastic nonsense
float by.
across the street
near the derelict bank
a tall man
with deformed legs
struggles his way
across the wet grass
on crutches.
his stature sinking
as the sodden turf sucks at his metal appendages
confusing his artificial stride.
he curses the rain
as if blaming it for his ridiculous limbs.
so many people
scurry from the downpour
worrying about their hair.
even the severely balding bloke with the mercedes
covers his thinning scalp
with a tabloid.
the glassy islands on the window
reveal their idea of what i see.
a warped world in miniature
a fish-eyed microcosm of reflected reality
sometimes crawling
down the slick glass
to pool in speckled puddles on the window ledge.

violently sunburnt
gazing up through dry corneas
at a single dark bird
circling in a timeless wander
against a backdrop
of cirrus
barely concealing an early moon.
another wanderer joins
and the pair drift away
leaving the clouds to crawl
through their cobalt wilderness.

march 8th
a dead leaf fell
to the ground
as we ourselves
from life
at the moment
of our
i didn't see
collect the fallen leaves
some poorly paid
drunk dude with an
ill fitting cleaners uniform
swept them
into the bin.

took my last piece of pizza
chomped it down
in 2 bites
fewer seconds
chuckled at my misery
i broke the motherfucker's nose
and felt no better.

so many faces
discussing what is imperative.
it's like they're speaking in tongues.
pretence is all over this place
the pretence of friendship
the pretence of interest
the pretence of intellect
from transparent persons
who exist as vapour
who dissipate
like a wisp of smoke from my bad cigar.
persons important enough
to waste
i shall remain
the imbecile.
response noted.

emerging senses
draw my heavy lids apart
uneasy movements
whisky breath
whisky mind
whisky gut
linoleum bed
close by mop gunge
bloody faeces
piled old
rat food
rat raisins
frowns fill the room.
where the fuck am i.

it took monte carlo
its decadence
and the juxtaposed words of a vagrant
to contextualise my non-life
bourgeois nonsense.
to jump from this height
watched only by the silent resplendent yachts
that crowd the harbour with their vanity
may be the only road to art,
for i now understand
the power of posthumousness.
but would i naturally
land on my feet
like a cat
to writhe in broken agony
towards a pain filled death?
head first
sounds so much more appealing.

i woke this morning
as always
at a distance
from the majority.
the lingering effects
of my indulgencies
still crawling through my head,
an intoxicated leech
sucking on my vision.
here on the train
the same.
i'm outside the majority,
their mute idle chatter
and ape-like gestures
that hint
at darwin's reality.
2 million years
and no significant change.

i sit here amidst such
ancient splendour,
at a loss,
and pissed off too.
the day held so much word spouting promise
as i woke.
the adrenaline of potential lyrical creativity
greater than any sulphate effect.
am i a fool to presume that
rome should be an inspiration?
from its undeniable history
the madness
decadence and progress
to the potency of conquest
exuding from the ageless marble
that rains a dominant gaze
upon its subordinates.
my inspiration is lost.
the overwhelming density
of the modern populous,
blind and oblivious to its past and potential
and the speed
at which the city itself exists
will not allow my mind
or space
to dwell upon the wonders that
might be.

wandering through athens
i feel i've found rome's twin here;
could this place be remus?
lost and motherless,
without the comfort of a wolf's nipple,
a mother's love and guidance,
her milk of wisdom.
the archaic knowledge
that once careened
through the veins of this city
like a voluptuous broth
is now as smooth and forgotten
as the tourist worn marble.
so where are the gods now?
ancient greek wisdom
has become nothing more
than an eroded effigy,
a trembling pillar of sand,
exhibit #41
in the humid darkness
of an under funded museum.
oh yeah;
zeus packed his bags
aeons ago
and without a backwards glance
strolled into the ocean.
philosophy has died here,
by ignorance
and other

you carry around the demon
of your dead father
as if it's the shroud of christ.
his corpse is your skin.
his face is your eyes.
his voice,
the yearly ache
that knots your bowels.
his blood,
the milk of sustenance
that feeds your philosophy.
his physical absence
is the sick yardstick
with which you measure humanity,
the sadistic whip
with which you mete out
your dogmatic punishment.
the morning mirror
is nothing but his image.
growing pallid as the years progress.
you fear his final departure;
gripping his memory
with talons of denial,
tearing his flesh
into crimson ribbons of anger
that burn your memories
and bring forth tears
that scold your eyes
as you lie in the darkness of your lonely bed.
and you'll blame us all
when these tears no longer fall.

dog piss flows through the streets,
the juice of an abscess,
a fetid syrup
painting a puddled patchwork of canine anarchy
on the pavements;
the art
of a public toilet.
i've entered this land
as precarious as christ
and become lost within a throng of
eyeless mannequins
who pace the treadmill of days
in the service of their ridiculous religions.
i squint towards the sun for guidance
and see nothing but an angry catalyst
evaporating the poison pools of territory
the yellow gobs of foul scent
decomposing with fetid vapour
into crusted stains
the crystal remnants of a dog's realm
that crawl around the feet
of the oblivious.
i'm alien here,
i have but 21 francs remaining
and as i walk these strange streets
i hear the snickering of the dogs
hiding in the shadows,
stalking me,
waiting for my poverty.
i fear they will soon
be dining on my flesh.

human being?
humans aren't being anymore,
they are all too busy trying to be.

my years burst and dissipate
like piss foam in a toilet bowl.

"jesus! dude, lighten up..."

anarchy does not exist
as thought,
or some skinny bloke
who smells like my grandfather's carpet slippers
screaming at shoppers whose philosophy
begins at CarPhone Warehouse
and ends in a pair of Marks and Spencer's underwear.
anarchy is as trivial as a tv quiz show
until it becomes an action.
anarchy is not the clothes you wear,
hair on your face,
a lack of hygiene,
a pit bull terrier at your feet,
a symbol,
a voice.
so quit shouting into the void.
become the action,
break some fucking windows,
and stop wasting my disappearing time
with mere pretence.

3:04 am
crimson specks of
dripping life
ebbing mortality
as the glistening
claret pool
grows on the table.
my sustenance finally receding.
my soul following.
the neck of my hands
weeping away
my liquid of life
through screaming, gaping mouths.

midway through a plate of tapas
at the ocean's edge
i look up
and become
kids congregate along the wooden pier
their uneasy interactions feigning enjoyment,
i see the boredom behind their eyes.
at times, as individuals, they seem to stare
upon the absolute solitude of the ocean
as if its emptiness
holds something more tangible than the land.
they are the perfect contrast
to the twisted paraplegic kid behind me,
sitting there, twitching,
drooling in a mockery of our ideal.
behind his darting eyes
is a scream of frustration,
an opinion unable to be expressed.
a squall of young seagulls,
birthed in early spring
enter noisily from the west
still wearing
the bushy grey/browns of childhood.
cavorting above the pier,
free upon their vast aerial plain,
they mock the kids below
nothing but a lost decade
to these pier kids
who are already suffering
at the hands of a system
we continue to embellish.

coffee break
2.23 am
let the study commence.
nice start
the coffee machine fell apart.
the whole thing's
coming apart.
oh man
this is nuts,
a bit like all those relationships,
the moment they commence
is the moment they begin falling apart.
(sounds of manic repair ensue)
there we go,
back together.
machines know little,
if any,
of romance
of love
or maybe they just dare not?
(hmm..that's a bit crap)
let's get on to the coffee.
you know, it's an unfortunate thing
by reading these words
physical smell
of this freshly ground coffee
can't be experienced
i think love
might actually abide within the smell of coffee.
it just smells so good.
so real
so confident.
cafe haaaaaaag,
gusto piano
definitely the word of the moment.
and so, with a simple
of a switch
the brewing shall commence.
oh no!
i didn't plug it in.
life's toying with me again.
there we go.
just as i plugged it in,
the room lights dimmed.
i think
xmas tree lights
make a perfect combination.
oh yeah!
now the real essence of love invades the air,
what truth in its smell.
(minutes pass
the fumes
of flavour
teasing moments
it's done,
ready to be consumed;
that philosophical coffee.
you know;
everything is music,
it all is,
even coffee.
vibrations of strings
that construct
the universe,
it's all music
i had no idea
the anticipation of coffee
could be so stimulating.
even this pen has its moment,
this coffee stirring
a pen that has stirred
many a good cup
on many a
like this.

the sun dims its gaze
but the fire of day remains
with the tiny yellow finches
tripping through the leafy canopy
like circus people
above my wasted mind.
the beer is flowing,
the blood of dionysus;
and conversation is born at last.
introversion pins us to silence
like dead butterflies
mounted on dark velvet;
growing dust and lice.
intoxication is the re-animator,
giving life to our interactions.
life sags grey for many
without a dose of drug.
an hour later...
and life seems beyond reach
as we spin like fools,
ignorant to the finch faeces
that spatter our heads.

music is so much more
than the air it infuriates.

the western sun
chases a transparent icarus
beneath the earth
leaving the distant hills
to perform their morbid shadow play.
they absorb the horizon
into their dark body
with the slickness of a malevolent amoeba
as if they fear the emptiness
the horizon's circle describes.
yet it is the night
that dominates them all.
incessant in its hunger,
it devours their form,
giving me the chance
to gaze upon absolute darkness.

bugs land
amidst the wilderness
of my forearms.
excited by the sweat
they stamp
stroking their eyes,
cleaning before the feast.
they suck at my flooded pores,
the oily pools of salt,
until bloated
and content.
unable to fly
they tumble to the sand
only to be devoured
by the insane ants.

the secret?
don't sleep for months on end
until an od
is the only way to rest.
drink beyond hope
and vomit large amounts of blood
on strangers.
talk to the keyboard
as if it has consciousness.
eat far too much cheese.
accept the void that death will bring.
and if you can't fuck-
be christ
have no answers.

"You're such a fuckin' freak" she said.
well baby
it happens this way
you lie
within a thick black night
(not quite depression,
more a mental slumbering crawl
through nothing but nothing)
when an unexpected moment of light appears
and makes a stealthy entrance into your life;
and you believe she's the cure.

we stand
above the real
in our own little world
our own
can of nightmares.
we gaze down
upon lovers
aged women
crippled men
with distorted bones
broken cars
broken lives
broken futures
filled with faces,
the grimy moons
of children
gazing up at us
with envious wishes.
we stand up here
gazing down
that we could be them.

through an orange filter
the eye
perceives other than what we see.
the world
gains mystery
and its trees
lean upon the years of wind
shedding their snake vision
towards the crawling beacons
that slide from our memory
at the speed
of a spinning planet.

"talk about pain"
"why pain?" i asked, thinking
why does her hair seem so strange?
"you know. pain" she said.
"yeah. i know pain. but why pain?"
"because it's dark" she said.
"is it bollocks" i said,
"pain is colour.
no darkness.
just colour.
red pain
green pain
orange pain
each pain its own colour
its own intensity.
a canvas of pain, is art;
art more beautiful
than life itself."
she spoke no more.
she'd won.
(fuck me. what bullshit!)

van gogh
spoke to me today.
he was sitting inside
a small
seed pod
that dropped from my cracker.
"look at me" he said
"insignificant as a man
genius as a lunatic".
i just shrugged my shoulders
"sorry man, i have no answers"
and finished my cracker.

the viscous alarm
brings forth the morning
with insane laughter.
still asleep
my instinct
ceases its mockery,
i don't enjoy time.
another day is here
and as i pull my body to sitting
the most ridiculous headache announces my lifestyle.
a voice calls.
ah yes, mistress nicotine
ever alive
ever there
eager for breakfast.
death fills my lungs
and a calm
holds me
for a moment.
i run fingers through my hair
the knots clinging
a few lost pieces writhe around my fingers
announcing my lifestyle.
i regard them for a moment
and cast them to the floor.
one more deep sickening inhalation
and i rise to my feet
the mirror's reflection a strange cartoon
announcing my lifestyle.
then the madness begins
as i realise that i have
things to do.

mutant squalls of melancholy
swim through the smooth arena
of my perception
wearing demons of sadness
on their faces.
men with ill-fitting hair
envious women with worn vaginas
apathetic youth
aching for a virtual reality.
the sum of their imagined ills.
none the sum of their joy.
where's mine?
(oh we go again....)

i arrived at the party
already worse for wear
a gut full of jack
a pocket full of manerix®
and a mind
i knew the evening was gonna be awkward
'cos the funk of beautiful people
overpowered the cigarette smoke
the intoxicant selection
was nonsense
australian shit
patronising piss
i slipped a manerix®
between my lips
swallowed it down
to soften the beast
then slid into the nearest circle of strangers
absorbing their conversation
they spoke in meaningless tongues
traffic congestion
beauty products
credit limits
bourgeois politics
TV chefs
i ran away
before they had chance to convert me
and found a little space by the drinks table.
an hour passed
as i amused myself sampling the various
australian dribblings
and making fart noises
then the music began
unable to contain myself
i leaped up on to the drinks table
and danced a swirling tribal montage
uncontrollably urinating in my trousers
at the spastic climax of my contortions
some dude with plastic trousers
and a modem haircut
came over
and took me aside
"hey man" he said
"there are people here trying to have fun
and you're making it very difficult for them to do so"
i bowed to his courage
then ejected my stomach
down his shiny trousers
wiping the bile from my lips
i said
"find me someone to fuck."
a friend of plastic trousers came over
he was a big dude with a large swollen head
and tiny mole-like eyes
he grabbed me by the collar
and pushed me back against the wall
"you should leave" he said
and then unfortunately
released his grip
i swung

[please select the ending of your choice]

A) his jaw snapped far too easily

B) i caught the motherfucker square
yet the bastard
stood there
"oh crap!"
the dude hit me so hard
i shat myself

through streets of rebellious children
pissing on the cankers of the elderly
life flees
over oily lakes
choked with dead birds
and aborted fetuses
life flees
over carpets of mildewed envy
crushed snails that throb in death
gobs of spat phlegm
life flees
in the midst of the bloodied
shallow pessimism
life flees,

last night
i dreamt
of reality
and woke


retrospect is bullshit.

and so...the stoic emerges........


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