Hearty Vampire

There was no space for me to feel. The alcohol-fueled house was always so full of people, my uncle, his girlfriend, her son, my cousin the roommate, my mother and I. She had been crying for days. The man she left my father for, the man who was to provide refuge, a home and fancy dinners to boot, was holidaying in Israel. It was Valentines Day and I was in the kitchen, coloring and cutting out a series of what I think might have been fifty love hearts. I was going to fix everything. She would wake up in a room full of love. And she did. When she woke the walls of the room were covered in hearts. Only all she could do was cry. I could change nothing.

I don’t remember the feeling that left me that morning, in the room we shared together, but I know it was there, in the kitchen, in those arse-hole cunt fucker shit hearts. All that’s left today is like Nosferatus impression of a girl he once loved, the memory of a face that faded from form to faint outline over decades, over centuries.


Fucktitled 2

I Have a Scanner!

Yay! I have a scanner. More sketches coming at you!

I’d like to say they would be coming at you as fast as a tiger on crack…but…never mind.





Just woke up this morning to George, my elderly next-door neighbor ringing the doorbell at my front door. He tells me his wife is dead on the living room floor (she has been dead for years). He asks me who the little girl is standing behind me (no girl standing behind me)? Obviously he needs help, but I have no idea what he needs.

In panic I call triple 0. Then I tell them not to worry because….I do not know what the fuck is going on. Plus, I realize his daughter Margaret lives somewhere on this street. So…I get him back to his house, race up the street in my pajamas to house 12 (that’s the house George told me his daughter lives on). House number 12 ignores me at their door. Obviously that’s not Margaret’s house.

I approach the hippy neighbor across the road and he says they are home. I say they mustn’t be answering cause I look like a freak in my pajamas. The guy acts like I am a total freak, and half acts like my story is full of shit. Eventually he meanders across the road to house 12. When a woman answers the door, I explain the situation. She tells me her next-door neighbor Pat, has Margaret’s number.

So the hippy and I go to Pats house. At Pats door, she is inside getting the number and I say now I have the number I can just call Margaret directly in future emergencies. The fuckface hippy responds by telling me I’ll have to check that with Margaret as he thinks maybe she wont want me to have her number. What the fuck? Does this fuck think I want this situation? Or that Margaret wouldn’t want me to call her about her father in case of emergency? So I ask him. I say, who the fuck are you, the courtesy king?

In good time Pat comes to the door with the number. I call Margaret. I wait with George till she comes back down. Turns out he is on some weird medication at the moment and will be okay in a few days, that she had been with him the last three nights and thought he might be well enough for her to leave. Obviously that was not the case.

Oh and then the police show up at my house RE the triple 0 call and then I have to tell them what happened. Also, I go back up the street to the neighbors who have just been bitching about me to let them know the situation is all sorted now. This is the longest fucking ramble, I know, but I am so goddamned annoyed with how difficult it was to get any help out of my neighbors on the street I grew up on. Really fucking annoyed.



Seated, still,

waiting on the arrival of a friend who bought me the Saki cups from Japan.

Outside, shining Sun,

hipsters, I’m wearing ugly jeans.

Tainted nails, the bottle that broke,

my pencil case beside me,

games with words, people hide.

A strong cup of coffee, gentle breeze.

I wonder if they are who they say they are, happy excited.

Some people prefer to dominate conversations with idle chatter,

traffic passes, people say I’m gonna.

She doesn’t belong here,

the lady who passed,

her eyes darted, she came from the commission flats down the road.

Her expression said more than she needed.

I hunch, I cant help it, like her

that’s the scar, the price I pay

for being too far in and too far out.

If I was right handed my little finger wouldn’t hurt so much

when I put words down on paper.

No one cares about poetry

and everyone cares about wearing trendy thongs on a summers day.

We pretend it doesn’t hurt the inside of our feet,

between our toes.

People talk shit, they could help it,

but they don’t care for silence.

Just sounds, pet sounds.

I thought I saw a mouse pass out of the corner of my eye

but when I looked it was gone.

It wasn’t there.

Without a trace, again, without a trace.

Light passing, that’s all fashion is.

We all live, eat, shit and die.

All these artists and nothing or very little to justify their cause.

Just words, I’m still waiting.

Those are the three words that I find myself repeating

every time I put pen down to paper.

The chance to put pen down to paper without a cause.

I’ll read this to you later, you wont like it.

Perhaps you’ve already asked me how much longer it goes.

And I’ll tell you to go fuck yourself and then

I’ll read on. I’ll make you hear me.

You will hear me.

I’ll scream, I’ll shout or I’ll make you laugh.

Give you what you want so I can give you what I want.

More thongs, flip flippety flop.

Shutup bitch with your “crazy” story.

Do you even know what the words means?

People use words without effect,

They don’t really know the meaning of the words they use.

Exaggerations, stupidity, ignorance,

no respect for words.

Utter, utter, utter.

“Everyone is soooo free!” Ha!

At the next table the faux hippy who lives on daddy’s credit card

is telling the quiet man that he is free to make decisions.

What about the lady from the commission flats?

The one who didn’t belong here?

Is she too free to make decisions or are her decisions limited?

I cant hold the thoughts, I have so much more to say

but I cant cut out, tune out, hide from the constant pet sounds,

There is no way out, there is no exit.

Just some place where people like me

with hunched backs, with anger, with hurt

with overactive minds and under active integration belong.

Now is it too dramatic to put an end to the word outside?


Weird scientists play the violin.

I remember the only girl in my primary school who was smarter than me,

she played the violin and said things like vice versa.

Weird scientists like electronic violins.

I don’t know what that means.

Something about the frontier….