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Blueline Medic - A Typical Observation Fansite

Below are lyrics to both Blueline Medic and Caustic Soda songs. Plans for a tab section are as yet to be confirmed. but for now, enjoy.


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Six thirty comes, like a call to arms.  Five alarms have sounded.  The covers are confused.  Heaped, the sheets are all at one end.  Wake up sleepyhead.  Wake up, wake up.  It’s a lucky land in which you live.  The complexes are expansive.  The low rises of high marketing inventive.  Are you building debt?  Are you feeling bled?  Wake up, sleepyhead.  A mean road they’re laying out there.  The research is extensive.  We can prove it’s all genetic.  Now don’t be scared.  We’ve got just the thing for your few and phlegmatic.  The young and free are fast and automatic.  And they always have been.  Four o’clock arrives.  The exasperated sigh.  Still in line.  Still confounded.  The newspapers keep amused while the avenues have all become dead ends.  Are you being led to where the commerce is intensive and the councils are all cold and retentive?  Wake up sleepyhead.  Wake up, wake up.


Cotton Oriental Pants

It was awful but mostly for the animals.  Subjected to such energy.  The cumulative force of a thousand minds all opening up at the same time.  Over the mud and mainstream.  She swore she was over trace.  Still on storey high high-heels.  Caped in cotton oriental pants.  There were reasons why I wouldn’t try everything.  Her father had kept her psychiatric for six months.  Six months and all out of love.  She fled up north.  And a year to the last New Year’s Day.  She’d barely made it home.  And I hated those dragons that climbed up over her legs.  And sided with the fatal skirt that cut off both their heads.  She was sorry.  This almost naturopath.  Yes, she was sorry she didn’t have any stories.  There were reasons why I wouldn’t try everything.  An almost naturopath working hard healing others and not herself.



You’re taking water.  You’re losing shape.  You’re wide asleep.  Wide asleep and fast awake.  You read.  You don’t understand what you’re reading.  You pray.  You can’t believe what you’re hearing.  You’ve got to smile.  You’ve got to smile with it out of shape.  You can forgive yourself the time.  All the time in the world, but not the space.  You’re underestimated and you’re overboard.  In the very moments you should be.  You don’t get angry anymore.  Just tired of saying something.  And tired from doing nothing.  You keep taking water and passing faith.  Looking like a heap while you’re standing straight.  Tired from doing nothing.  You play for someone’s daughter sincere and deep after waiting out the past five hours.  And they’re cruel enough make you appear polite and not take it personally.  When you’re tired.  Tired of saying something.


They’ll Let You Know

We’re saving in sickness.  We’re saving in health.  We can pull any nails by the head it we catch them sleeping in the shelves.  They’ll let you know.  We’d pay to not have them see our face.  It only ever brought us trouble.  No, it’s better to run the show or be left holding the floor.  We don’t have to hire.  We don’t fire anymore.  They’ll let you know if you’re needed.  Don’t plan tomorrow.  We know you’re desperate.  We know you’re desperate.  We’re saving in sickness.  We’re saving in health.  We can knock any nails on the head if we think.  If we suspect.  That they’re thinking for themselves.  They’ll let you know.  And they’ll peddle faster if you slow.  So if you’re needed.  Don’t plan tomorrow.  We know you’re desperate.  We know you’re desperate.


Text Bomb

Those little characters.  On that little screen.  Those little atom bombs she loves to leave.  At the accident.  Hey, who’s playing stretcher-bearer?  I saw you down there on scene.  Bet she scared you.  How could anyone keep having such a bad run?  It’s to her credit that these embarrassments come off smooth and clean.  After all, she can cut together anything.  ‘Cause she’s honed to razors.  She’s got a splice on every frame.  The trauma’s significant and best when on a magnificent stage.  Now I don’t want to cause a fight.  We’re all at some disposal when she’s at some device.  How could anyone keep up with her idea of having fun?  Yeah it’s just as you read these embarrassments.  These letters.  On that little screen.  Those little messages she has to leave.  The little characters.  I think she’s playing with you.  ‘Cause when a star collapses she knows the rest of the world will rush down to the scene.  So roll the credits.  We can cut together anything.  Watch your edits.  Make sure you don’t miss anything.



What is this space in my chest?  What wants attention at a desk?  When the seconds jam.  When you manage.  It’s a loss and yet I haven’t lost anything.  If anything, I’ve gained.  But what about this hole here?  Here, just underneath.  It’s a space as space can only exist.  I’m missing what I didn’t know had place.  It’s like a love that’s slight or a fear that’s just less.  Am I mistaken?  It’s a just a loss I think.  And not losing anything.


Scotch In The Clown

They say the staples.  They can’t hold a kid together.  They say the staples they can’t hold a kid together.  There’s quiet on his clothes.  With scotch in the clown now and hypochondria caught in the rudders.  There’s no action and it shows.  It’s just resistance.  It’s a funny kind of fall.  It’s just resistance.  The roll-backward slide down a glass wall.  If only they were all such walls.  He wishes he could see a little clearer.  There’s scotch in the clown now and silence from the rudders.  It’s just resistance.  A funny kind of fall and still with interest.  Let’s the roll-back slide down a glass wall.  If only they were such walls.  It’s a funny kind of fall.


Perfect Son

As in the final hours.  The priest came walking in.  With beans about his hand and wine about his breath.  He took the frail wrist and pulled the stool up to the bed.  Have you anything to confess?  Have you anything to confess?  Nothing Father.  I die with no regrets.  You die with no regrets?  I died with no regrets.  But none of us are perfect son.  Be not in pieces in your rest.  Have you anything to confess?  If I have wronged another.  Blameless or with intent.  You can bet that I did my best.


The Moment Hasn’t Come

Please pick up.  I’ve been cut.  No, I haven’t heard anything.  Pick up, pick up.  I haven’t heard anything.  If I loved it.  Didn’t that make me good?  If I loved it.  Wouldn’t that be enough to make me?  Please pick up.  I’m cut off.  No, I haven’t heard anything.  The moment hasn’t come.  The moment hasn’t come.  And I’m sick and I’m fast running out.  Isn’t that enough?  Enough to make you wrong and makes me good.  I’m cut off.  No, I haven’t heard anything.  The moment hasn’t come.  And I’m sick and I’m fast running out.  In a six and somewhere on the earth.  Isn’t that enough?  Isn’t that enough to make you wrong and makes me good.  It makes you wrong and makes me good.  Pick up, pick up.  I haven’t heard anything.


From The Loft

Look at me here.  I must be dying.  It’s as though both kinds of consumption have slowed me.  Still, it almost could be blissful here in this heat.  Here in this heat.  That child, of a morning.  For no good reason screams.  And just when the trains had ceased to bother me.  Just let me lie oh god a few more moments.  Look at them here.  They’re not even trying.  Does every kind of cretin have to pretend that I’m breathing?  Oh, the introductions.  The making light of a heavy silence.  And without any sharp cutlery.  Onward pen.  You ruinous.  You wretched thing.  I keep doing these drafts over and over again.  Who would love me for my dying?  Who would listen?  At least I don’t lie.  Not for you, I wouldn’t.


Exit Strategy

They cross me.  These streaks of agate.  They’re red and warning.  But I’m already out of bed.  They cross me.  These streets, like a death.  Bright and sunny.  This is fast becoming.  Not my design.  This isn’t what I had in mind.  It struck me.  Last night, what you said.  It’s almost funny.  How quickly you forget.  This is fast becoming not my design.  I think it’s up and running from what I had in mind.  This isn’t what I had in mind.

*The Apology Wars* LP

Seventy-two now and as mad as they come, but even so, now on occasion there's a few come and help. Put a crucifix, a portico just like there is at the white house but the stain still needs more glass. I think more of red than I could see anything else. It's one of the arguments in the caf for small talk of a town. I'm no engineer they say, I'm no architect they say, as if they dont already argue enough for it's such a lonely order that I've taken on my own; that in a house you helped to build. I suppose you're guaranteed a room, how should it matter being better held together? The rains have proved as only they can more for faith than mortar. I want it left to the diocese but that idiot that a bishop be so ungrateful, like it was some dislocated eyesore; so near and not to see it finished. The holy college seeks only to adjust it and put out of place my columns but no, they wouldn't be found dead helping me dig out the crypt. I didn't need elevations then. I'm not looking for them now, not for all the small talk in a town. Neither sane nor fool enough is the good word going round. I built the cathedral almost on my own. It stands in a house you helped to build. You're guaranteed of a place to be.

Over the lawn
She's standing at the door and getting one thing clear. I throw the book down and march right into their eyes. I'm reduced to almost nothing now, still, I've apologised. Look out! The sky is knitting . . . filling . . . creeping in. I dont think it's going to just pass by. She stands at the door and gets her one thing clear; "I'm not my mother nor my aunt, so it's exactly what I mean when you little fool if I say I can't." She's shouting down, over the lawn and like an army under the door. Slow advancing. How will she sleep tonight with all that commotion going on? Something's beginning to fall. It's quiet now, there are bigger disasters and they they're gone into the ground and gutters and out to sea. Swept along with the dirt and leaves . . . and back up . . . back up into thin air.

Making the noveau riche
You say I have to get a real life, but I'm not sure how that in making someone or other rich is any more real than making a riche for yourself. I'm without a zack, a truth, a coin, a kopeck or an elusive brass razoo. But my dear rationalist, don't dream I couldn't care. I too grow quickly bored of the clothes I wear. So maybe I should go an get a real life, real like cutting a fine figure or scraping a deposit together for it, heaven forbid. Just suppose I cannot live on taxes and goodwill forever. But how is it that the problem just doesn't seem to press while my fingers are themselves pressing hard against the neck? I was sure that I suffered and worked as hard as anyone I knew . . . well it seems I haven't. I better damn well fix and make it look every inch as though I do but still have to go and get a real life and I've no doubt that it will happen. Maybe I've put it off for too long now, gonna see if I can't get something better than a . . . . Maybe I'm amidst of a real life . . . .

At least we had a war
What I was looking at when I was looking up? Remind me, what was I looking at? Remind me, you had an answer for everything. Dropping from our height we broke and aligned, so many deaths . . . was it almost an answer for everything? All lines down, 'What do you want me to say?' Comes too hard and from you too easily, don't remind me. It's almost your answer for everything. Now you're sunk in your seat. The figure of platonic economy, were we always paying for that? And like it was a matter of fact? Tell me, what were we aiming at anyway? You're drifting slowly long with the void raging all around, you're over ground . . . silent . . .still . . . in coming. You always did have an answer for everything, if you still have an answer for everything then answer me.

Not interested
I'm being held at the end of a tether, at the edge of out yard . . . stretching away. The work keeps going on but I've had enough but I am getting over these intercoms. She said, "I dont call them back and never seem afterward to look as good as I did. I guess they're not interested. Is it a wonder I'm reluctant? Is it some mere intrigue that brings them forward?" It's not as if they have to stay, they're not doing me any favours. I've had enough, they're not doing me any favours. I've had enough" She said "I don't call them back, they never seem afterward to look as good as they did. They're not interesting. It's suffocating and almost shaming the way they carry on you would think we were the one's maintaining the old world's fading. Mum and dad can't seem to get past that I'm leaving. I don't want to upset them but I'm leaving.

Shuffle and scrape
I'll spend this day in reverie, I won't focus on anything, I don't have to, I don't feel the need. Look at the others with contempt or is it envy? I'll stand in your room and all I can make out are the corners. It's enough to let me know where I stand its the barest minimum to function but I'll be good, I promise to do better. Some things are forgotten, other things matter. Something else is always proving far too strong. I guess I've been a window gazer all along . . . . See the sparrows fly in low . . . There was a place you said you would take us, Can we go please? . . . Spent the day in societys refinery, unable to focus on anything. There's too much here, too many people, only way out lies through a major arterial. You remember when we talked about our beloved escape, a place without all the shuffle and scrape and lack of philanthropy. To where theres more trees than cars and leaves have been dried out by the sun . . . I'll spend this day in a reverie, I wont focus on anything, I don't have to, I dont feel the need. This is the closest that I'll come to relief. But I'll be good I promise to do better. Some things are forgotten, other things matter. Something else is always proving far too strong . . . I guess I'll remain a window gazer from now on.

Back and forth. West to east. Across the sprawl. On the balls of her feet in her arm on her score cars, it is bruising the company that you try to keep losing. Back and forth. The friend to meet at the mall. On her phone, off peak. In her arm on her score card another try . . . its a winning point.

Up against the fault
No call this morning, no sleep at all. Not getting any answers searching through telephones. Oh absence, take form. Half cold in a king size dawn. Breaking still despite the holding on. Someone tell me, What am I doing wrong? Clothes I can throw away, hair I can cut, strip or stain. Moods I promise to turn like corners and get out of my own way but on what chance can this stand? With that, half a heart in some desperate plan I dont know who it is Im up against. Someone tell me, What am I doing wrong? Youre keeping me close and against and I think to a fault. Ill have to do something each blazing morning, burns a little slow. Is there something needs telling? Some good that Im not doing? Provide some helpful point upon which I could fall or dont suggest anything. Its probably nothing, its nothing if no one can see that theres anything wrong.

Write us
Lathered up and weepy, the informant told me, and none too sympathetic that our run would turn. And standing sent to burn in decisions, hard print and whatever. Here they come to register, you might have to get in line and take a number. Yeah, we aim to please! Missing the mark, fall over ourselves to bother. Put out and steely, annoyed and chaining daises, another quick sentence in passing another judge and jury. Its been our misfortune investing, Hasnt return been steady, Complaints have been far and few between. The idiotic, close and many. Please hold the line or try another number. Yeah, we may seem cold but its just because weve been a little snowed under. You cant be serious! Oh lord, and if are please dont ask the same of us.

The cheat
Its almost a shock, this lint I keep dusting off, am I here? Am I being covered up? And after being ripped out from what little wall space I had found. Small charm I was for her? I suppose I had to wear off, see our errands slide through traffic crawl. There hers more than mine if they were ever mine at all but theres nothing I wouldnt do. No trouble ever too much. Im as happy as a slave, as I can be in a bed apart. Thats why I am here, understand? Hold me, disenchanted as I am. What loyalty wont give me Im going to take whatever there is in hell I can. Moralise, by all means philosophis but if in turning out to be a lengthy term with her. Why say anything at all to her? A small indiscretion? Is it a break in concentration? I guess theres no nice way to need to say that it ever happened. I can be in this bed apart, was never here understand? Hold me, bastard that I am. What loyalty had got me; Im going to get whatever there was in heaven she stopped giving me. Look where loyalty has got me. Why should any pretence of a kind be worth keeping?

Welcome paradox
Cursing crimson walls, a thousand or so souls on the floor shouldering away through strobe and intoxicated, having berated himself in the hall and not for the last time. Theres never a last time. Hes waiting again for the inevitable flash of recognition. Yelling in casual tones, I'll just go and say hello. Strange things these obligations. Strange things these invitations. Its never the last time, is it? From what can you take your leave if the sense have been smashed to smithereens? Hell have to cop this sweet, although there is nothing sweet about it . . . Nothing at all.

*A Working Title In Green* EP

Plight 217
She made it / stumbling in over her baggage / taking it all on board / she couldn't take much more / but it's under control / where she can keep an eye and hold / you don't ever want to lose it in transit / find your seat / fish out your walkman, kate / find your breath again / you've had to run all the way to the gate to barely make it / what is it that you can't settle back there / that you settle so far back in your chair? / buckled up / buckling under / under sunglasses / they're to prevent this sight / not for protection / for now and not for brisbane / a tissue balled in a fist / headphones hissing away in your ears / a crackling ascent, loud and over the engines / the inertia isn't nursing / braced to arms not at all embracing / could this momentum over rob you of your weight? / at least you've got kinesis' blessing / and the heavens to thank you're further away / what is it that you can't settle down there / that you can't settle down while you're up here? / might this ending hard not calm down easier in just an hour'n a half?

Shopping with a cartesian
She closes her book / and before getting up / checks her lipstick in the reflection / and getting off / steps aside / a feint, her gait in a shopfront pane / ah, the pain of choice / well, it wouldn't be for any lack of time or money / it's really ntohing for her to pay / because by her watch darling / it's already half passed a lifestyle made / a different eye dilates / and having taken a look / notes the part in a play of prediction / it's making her laugh / she tries to stop / she might do something silly / ah, the pain of choice / uncertain and not for a lack of a mind that's doubting / but to a world well, what would you say? / that finding anyhting only ever seems half a reason to stay? / oh for gods' sake / I'll buy her a watch / darling, shes already half passed a lifetime saved / and runs late enough without having to lament about it / oh yeah / she really shouldn't waste the same hours that you've had.

Swan song swan dive
Put the gun down / i just want to talk / I can't hear you / you're breaking up / I can't help being static / a rise in the voice marks the descent / as the atmosphere thickens, it quickens the coming apart / a shooting star / shooting down in the darkend half / sometimes the hinges aren't strong enough / splinters splitting us, embedded in the floor / some nights don't pass quick enough / nor the walls thick enough for you, or me, or next door / I can't help being static / so the wounds aer dressed and each given a name / dated and placed / the records remain / both tired of being the cause of this happening / I'm moving out onto the edge / just out of tocuh / just about out of everything / careless if I slip, careful of wher you stand / you say I couldn't care less / I've alwasys been sure of what should not have been said / I've never had to say I love you to death, because we'd both have to dive on that gun and jokingly say . . . / that it just might have to be that way / you really don't take enough notice of what I'm telling you / you could act as though you give a fuck / I'm sick of disappointing you / you refuse to see me as anything more than what you think I've been / that's not what I was thinking at all.

Where you are
Don't get upset / don't take it as an insult / don't admist for a minute that you forgot where you stood / you know exactly where you are now / don't fall into distress / ignore the ache behind your eyelids / the swarms of your head should relent at the smoke in your hair / you know, there isn't a sting that the hours won't manage / fall into your sleep / as if a sophorific sea / the salt of the worst should dissolve in the folds of your sheet / you're afloat why hold on for dear disbelief.

*Femalevolence* EP

Same Story, Different Ending
I'm tired of being your guinea pig over and over. Just mark down that i did bad and end it. And be sure to tell your herd how I can't string words. I fail to see the point in throwing words 'round endlessly. I recall us by the pool - you felt my arm and I felt a fool. Cut to the part on my getaway bike. Another case to tell psychling down the steep descents. Scaling the schools wire fence. I fail to see the point of keeping unpleasant company. If I come around it wont be through a slapped face. Don't jump the gun 'cause this ones not about the drinking. I can live without it. I'm just staring at my friend also hanging his head and I fail to see the point in throwing words round endlessly 'cause all I see is the same ending to a different story.

Part and Parcel
You dont want a part of me. And i dont want a part of you. That is of course, unless you losethat unbecoming attitude. Maybe then ill change my point of view. Maybe I just dont now you?... Now i want to be a (big) part of you: You still dont want to be a part of me. And that figures - completely.

Short Changed
"There is always somebody ready to be lured to ruin by hope of gain" - Sophocles
Face to face with the s-bend, head to head with every near end. Ill swap an error for an inch. Surely your forcefield has an off-switch. I keep my flags at half mast, but that doesent mean i think that time has passed. Because history repeats. Dint you recieve the call? It appears the gravel broke my fall. The engine burns and tyre marks tattooed your name across my heart. They tried to tell you of the crash in the hope that you might bring me back. But you went home and the machine would only beep one continuous tone. So the message never reached your ear. I guess I picked the wrong day, wrong week, wrong month, wrong year to try it on. You didnt kill me you cannot kill me. Because you cannot kill whats already dead. Remember that day? We shared my eulogy; Too close to seprate. And in ten years time our friends will still word associate our names. But you made it clear that I picked the wrong day, wrong week, wrong month, wrong year to try it on. And until you lift that lid and pull me from my grave, wrong day, wrong week, wrong month, wrong year. And I feel short changed.

Shuffle and Scrape
Ill spend this day in reverie, I wont focus on anything, I dont have to, I dont feel the need. Look at the others with contempt or is it envy? Ill stand in your room and all I can make out are the corners. Its enough to let me know where I stand its the barest minimum to function but Ill be good, I promise to do better. Some things are forgotten, other things matter. Something else is always proving far too strong. I guess Ive been a window gazer all along . . . . See the sparrows fly in low . . . There was a place you said you would take us, Can we go please? . . . Spent the day in societys refinery, unable to focus on anything. Theres too much here, too many people, only way out lies through a major arterial. You remember when we talked about our beloved escape, a place without all the shuffle and scrape and lack of philanthropy. To where theres more trees than cars and leaves have been dried out by the sun . . . Ill spend this day in a reverie, I wont focus on anything, I dont have to, I dont feel the need. This is the closest that Ill come to relief. But Ill be good I promise to do better. Some things are forgotten, other things matter. Something else is always proving far too strong . . . I guess Ill remain a window gazer from now on.

*Music From the Motion Picture* LP

Owls of Laughter
Two little shining people. Huddled close in their Carlton cave. Magazines fall on the floor and university calls but they couldn't care either way. And they smile when they say, "Do you feel like drinking? Do you feel like going out?" But they do that for a living. The sun may greet the world but it seems them off to sleep. After standing straight for several hours, serving brainless wonders - not dwelling on necessity. Take comfort in each other. That's all you really need. And their days are filled with dreamless sleep. But they've got everything to look forward to. They might've thumbed their nose at so-called good judgement, at not doing what they're supposed to. What are they supposed to do? They don't dwell on anything. And everyone who meets them falls in love with them instantly. Yeah, I know it happens. Someone should warn him. You might've kissed her lips. You might know her name. You might know where she live but you'll wonder about the next time and if you're ever going to see her again.

Like A Day
Forgte all your scribblings. Just take each word like a day. One at a time. Take a single minute - alone like solitaire. There's never enough of those minutes . . . and games can have no end. Since I took that job, time has fought and flown away from me. The weeks are short but the days are long. You puzzle over it while you are there and you continue on while you're at home. Thousands of little jigsaws. Games can have no end. Careering down the cables and smashing itself into pebbles - the ocean, it's electrons. It means nothing really, it's just a relative thing. So why do these days take so long to end? Passed by those silhoutted power lines again. they just stand in one spot year after year after year. They don't seem to mind. They don't seem to care. They were born with help and now they are instantly boring adults. I don't want to be like them. Even those power lines have got to come down sometime. It's just a question of when . . .

Suburbist lost his way many years into play, pounding a dead end route devoid of clarity. Suburbist lends his ear, but no one's ever here to help him turn another way. Time to let this one stew and find nothing new. Some scenes only rub more slat into your mood. Suburbist can only accept this drudgery, give up all ambitions and cry: "Sometimes this place has nothing left to offer. Sometimes I feel like I don't exist. I load it up and follow it through, then pick the shrapnel from my foot. My friends can try and analyse but when all is said and all is done - sometimes being here just isn't fun." The station's a good place to sit and make a face at the commuters as they board for the city. Suburbist won't fit there, where all he hears is foreign dialect and only some shades of grey. I find it hard just making sense, let alone trying to keep a clear head. Sit back, enjoy this way of life for all the beauty it denies.

Pick up on the minor details? Are you kidding? Is there really belief in what he's thinking or feeling? Now that the wind has been sucked from those sails, he'll be drifting again . . . saving the soul is never part of the plan. Justify every mistake made. Falling like a klutz, breaking a few hearts along the way. "There might be a fewties that I'll have to sever. But what will it matter? It won't be anything that will cause me too much pain. "THERE"S NOTHING MORE WE CAN DO FOR YOU". There's a psychological factor lurking somewhere deep, dark and foreboding . . . somewhere beneath it all. A dark relentless force. How can this relationship withstand it? We're spiralling faster than we've ever gone before. You were there for what seemed like a second. Please. Don't give it a second thought. I'm sorry. Theres nothing more we can do for you. You're in a sad, old story, a quest for glory where casualties don't mean anything at all.

"I've been trying to find you." I've been here all along. Please don't think that I haven't been listening out for you. I've been home. I've been right here but the stereo has been on . . . too loud for too long. Because everybody's been getting me down. And this is what I do to drown out their incessant drone. And I am waiting for an apparition to appear. Bright and unforgiving. Just like so many that have come before. Just like so mant that will come again. Let me play the prophet. I know exactly what to say. God knows I've watched you often enough! But I'm more fed up now than sad, actually. Because it's the same sentence in a different throat - a tape recording in a loop and it goes round and around. Pass around the crown. We'll all get to wear it for a little while . . . and he says, "Well I've been trying to find you." Please. Don't think that I haven't been listening out for you. It's just that the stereo has been on too loud for too long. (And every word that you hold dear - it's just a photocopied letter sent out to everyone, every year. And what you heard and held sincere - you'll hear a thousand times and now . . .you'll be lucky if you care. Do you care anymore?)

Rule of thumb
You've got a a nerve breaking everyone to feed a selfish urge. Politically supported, morally aborted. Growing not in a stature but just plain dumb, in your quest for No. 1. Self-infatuated, this beast that you've created is spreading like a plague. Won't let me see what I want to see, cover the screen of my TV. Everything, take everything. Just call it a way of getting through your day. Smash it up, tear it down, kick in the walls, invad my town. Nothing has worth unless there is something in it for you. My instant reaction is of hate at the others who just can't stand to let you go. I've seen your love letters. They're all addressed at me and a million other potential suckers. Multiple kisses, smiling faces, bands playing my tune. Calling me up on the phone, do you think that I'd want to talk to you in the state you're in? But I will resist. I don't think i can take much more of this. A rule of thumb: I stick of gum should see me through this one: - my bleak young kid disknowledge (TM) - bouts of anger/ignorance - this stupid song.

Reason being
I arrived underdressed and unprepared. It seemed so disrespectful even though they didn't care. And of course they didn't there is real love here. It didn't matter how black my eyes looked or how rough my shirt or face. There was no excuse. Now i'll there be any made. Im sorry that I left the party. It had nothing to do with anything. It was just bad timing. It seems that I've been made to feel cruel and overgrown. Like untrodden paths. Whats to guide me? A couple of stars? Persistent is that sad, cinematic glow inside. A flickering reminder. They used to say, What other child would smile wider? But now I dont even listen to my own replies. Im not interested in anything thats to be said. Memory is shortening. I know it has always been shocking. Oh, mum I . . . I dont like what Im growing up to be. Yeah, theres a reason being. The reason being . . . and Ive been left hanging. You hang precariously from the edge of what youve got. Each finger holding on. Each, a sobering thought. No Im terrified. What have I got to fall back on? What have you got to fall back onto you? She would say, Think of it as a hallways. Doors to the left and right. Dont you wonder what you will find? Maybe Im not looking hard enough. Maybe theres nothing else. Maybe its just a lack of light . . . Dont even bother trying to figure it out. Youre just going to end up damaging something and thats something you could do without. I didnt leave because Id have more fun in front of the TV. I just couldnt very well front up reeking of my anxieties.

Trampoline Sky
Talking to you is like talking to a mirror. The only difference is that I listen to the advice thats given. You can drop your guard around me. I could drop my guard. Thank you man. That means a lot to me. Tell your school counsellor, Peer pressure saved me. Only because I was lucky and I knew the stupid things Id get into. Drowning cares on a Wednesday night. Leaving later, unsatisfied. Words of encouragement that were much appreciated. Talk into more that just the night. Straining a black trampoline sky for satellites. Its everything that ever mattered at the time. Singing like drunken angels to an anthem of our own thoughts. Laughing at others misfortune, then laughing at our own. Trying our damndest to be ourselves. Trying not to be pushed down. Sifting through the shit. Celebrating what weve found. Sitting in the background. Crying, but quick to laugh and say, Youre lost man but we love you anyway. All the times that I didnt have to say anything I could read you. All the times you forgive when I forgot. All the times it was the right thing to do by you and it hurt. All the times it was the wrong thing to do. You know it killed me later on. The sad thing is, this may never last. But you'll learn more from your friends in their absence.

Dont worry about me if I'm not making sense or you can't hear me. Its hard to speak through shaking teeth and I fucked up beyond belief. Its my fear, I paralyse at the sight of your face. You kissed me on the cheek and now I'm confined to staring at ceilings week after week. But youre attached not to myself and getting drunk just doesn't help me whisk you away and blabber my insides to you. Ive lost the plot over you. Last night we talked for awhile and I was on the verge of pouring my heart out. But a cowards all Ill ever be and I punched myself to sleep. I hope that I can grab another opportunity next week. The scene where we first kiss has played one thousand times over in my head. I'd kill to make it true cause I would wait a whole lifetime for you. Yeah I would wait a whole lifetime or two.

I dont like the cut of your jib
Follow my rules, sign to my club, pay the initiation fee, conform to a non-conformity. Guidelines are set to draw over and cover with obscenities. That is, of course, as long as theyre not mine. Were policing prepare to do the time. Nowadays I look down upon more everyone. Their first concern is fitting in where flattery is just an insult. Boycott those friends you play with and how many units are you shifting? My ways better, believe me! I should know Ive been here two years longer than you. So go back from whence you came.

A road affair
This long black ribbon has us all tied up. Were just fish swimming down the same old noxious stream. Coasting down a needle of man made worth, kept in check by a blur of white lines and a digital clock. But amongst the verbal abuse and collars laced with perspiration, rises a slender neck shapely perfection. I can see her . . . Her wet hair pulled back. Those glasses make her look serene. And for a minute there everything was glistening. Where does she got to work? Is there still sleep stuck in those lashes? Is there coffee on her breath? Oh, what the hell I she singing? Cutting me off at 90 k's. She's cutting in. Does she even know I'm there? Well, if she does, shes not indicating. Im always in the blindspot. Shes gonna win this one with mirrors. Shes the type who wins every race she enters. The road divides between us, we could crash at any moment. A final glance. Its as if she was never even there. Where does she go to work? Will I see her again tomorrow morning? I dont want to have to think about where I am going. Give me a reason to concentrate on this godforsaken traffic tragic figures chiselled our of their own affairs.

Humour me
Nine bourbons refuse to pick me up to bring me down, and so I try for ten. One of those nights where I know I am only as good as the size of my enemies. Unapproachable by default. Take me with a grain of salt. A poor excuse for attention, a student sent to detention for not submitting homework given. For allowing you to leave. Keep the window slightly ajar. Cut me free, distract the guard. Humour me, lie to me, pretend to take me seriously. I think theres more to this. My moneys on a mistake. Ill sit and wait and pass the time, whatever it takes to change a mind whoever minds. When all patches have been sewed well have no holes to fall in. Elbows tilted, hips adjoined, well drink to this solution. Humour me, lie to me, pretend to take me seriously. Maybe its a tried tale and our enemies will always grow in size. Maybe were rehearsing for the second time, that last until we die.

Incapably driven
Lonely no? Like me. But somehow cant. I'm incapable remember? And you my little police officer. Angry little heart. You think everybodys wrong. Covered ground. This songs been done to death, but one little persistent voice sings over the choir in my head. It sings but its still a mess of words. Bad journalist. You were never there. You only covered what you heard. You've heard it all. You know even more. Or less. Rest assured, rest assured. You havent learnt a thing. But all those things you kinda miss. Things that you always hated. Life-giving arteries that were clogged have now since split. What can you do? Just let them bleed . . . until everythings deceased. The distance is increased. The puzzle is unpieced. My bully is finally teased. I cant ever tell you anything again. Straining muscles on next-time smiles. Sorry, got to fake it. But I wont care. I'm incapable remember? And you my little police officer. Angry little heart. You think the worlds against you. But you are really against the world.

Bound to the connection
The sun had just sunk beyone any Melburnians line of vision, leaving the sky a sick, grey orange and fading. And fading . . . Small, even greyer blocks clutter this littered landscape smouldering like a dying fire. The bridge descends into the ask to be lost amongst the man made misery. Built out of want? Or out of greed? Westgate Bridge, were you built out of need? I ride this connection. I dont like what I see. I always swore I was going to bypass it all. And now look at me yeah Im lost in it. Heres your jacket. Heres your task. Heres your payslip for which you worked so hard. Heres a life that so many people wanted you to avoid. Avoid, avoid, avoid. Well, I think I found a reason why punk accepts success (yeah right). Yeah, I can see what a tragedy living for the weekend really is when all that I remember of Sunday morning is yawning. 8am on that Sunday and I haven't even sobered up yet. And it was raining . . . But it doesnt just rain here, no. The atmosphere has a grudge to hold all its own. And it shows on the faces of those who work, rest and breathe. And its arm has grown long indeed. Even now it reaches out and is coldly touching me. Im not so far away from where that bridge first hits the ground.

*bleak youngkid dis-knowledge* LP

The Actor
Fuck you if youve heard this all before. Dont ask me whats wrong? If I dont talk. If I'm quiet then its because I dont want everything to fall down. Seem every time I force air through my throat wrong things sound you know Im trying too hard to be myself but it just isnt me. Its dishonest. Honest. Oh, honestly . . . Don't believe the things I did last night - got caught up in the flood of lights and friends and trends and selfish gripes. Was I listening to anything I was saying? No. Sick of going home and banging my head against the wall. Sick of my own voice (and sick of writing it all down). Sick of putting up with this plane of thought. Finding that it really wasnt what I thought it was at all. You can cry now. You can cry and whinge and sob and complain. And you might try to shut your mouth because it all seems better that way. But in all truth youre going to be a fool in somebodys eyes anyway. Unbelievable. Someone sits down next to me on this tram and starts talking openly about how your thoughts arent really your own (how did she know, how could she have known?) So I listen amused by her sincerity because this concept had been rushing through my head all week. Her facial expression got the better of me. The conversation bordered on theatrics: Look at them she said indicating the occupied seats Theyre unhappy with where they are going on this tragic old street . . . unloading all the negativity that they bring. I know because I used to feel the same when I worked on one of these things. And I know she believed every word she said, but was she peddling someone elses ideas? Look, heres the card of the place that satisfied me (she was) Perhaps she would have made more sense if she has of said plainly to me: Fuck you if you've heard this all before . . .

I ask a question cause the situations bad. Should I find a new direction from the one I had and exercise some self control before I lose my grip and fall flat on my face and succumb to the wrath of the robotic race? Take a step back, cause you dont realise that your load is your burden. Try changing your track and find out what lurks behind the other two curtains. I wouldnt recognise my failures if they came up and poke me in the eye. I should live be the truth and not by this lie. I heard a shot, somebody feel. They dont think twice about remorse in this hell. My mind came screeching to a halt. I looked around, the faces that surround are those of the kind Im inclined to put down and then I realise that I am one of them too . . . And that scares the shit out of me.

Tuesday 5pm
Newspapers, odd hours and shoulders breaking. Years of wear working in cold arthritic. Acceptance to a point when it could be handled but it gets too much too soon too much and then starts snarling. Worked so hard for so little . . . so honestly. And this honest man looks through the can (and even though he could never be) a sid long glance at his life and he says to me, I shoulda been a thief. Friends are not just voices on a carbon microphone. Tired all the time, blanked eyed and sleeps alone. Children uncontrolled . . . well theyre only children. Im a simple man and I need my glass because I get so sad now so easily Screen, give me a break I need in my life, entertain me, tell me whats happening in other peoples lives. But the tube just laughs and it makes it harder. The tube just laughs as I watch my father. Slump in the chair, tries to forget his cares but the producer just laughs and packs it on tighter. No movie matinee just crooked clichs. Dad jumps out of his chair and he says Look what the bastards are getting away with A $19 million handshake to retire to a 25 year old wife with. 45 years spent in a cold cell and now I don't have shit. Ah its just not fair is it? Its just not fair. Look, you always said, Don't let it bring you down its only castles burning. Its only the producer pulling you in. Don't get sucked in.

The Art of Caring
I look around this smoke filled enclosure I don't see much. A few pretty faces, a glass of Victorias finest, a masquerade party (theres a girl here in red pyjamas) and theres one or two that either look confusing to me. Trying not to look like they dont belong to anyone or anything. They don't belong to anyone. One big pot of steaming sameness. One gets the feeling that the air hasnt moved here in years. Forget you. Forget me. She thinks that this is really boring. I feel like that most of the time but theres something deeper that drives me to keep trying. One day youll hate it and then another you'll turn around and try and make it seem more satisfying than it was before. Something to rise you up and out of it.

Widdle Wuv Song
4:30 she comes on the screen, disabled and dribbling Im brought to my knees. The Fox was OK but the cat has conquered. How often my mind decides to wonder. To pass the time while the story goes on, like a loveless fool I write this song: Catriona, Catriona, pick up the phone, I'm all alone. A few million tapes of Catriona retakes AND IM IN HEAVEN! With crazy ol' Nick and hairy Dave, who cares about Sonia's story on Rave. It's the Cat we want on the screen. Come on over and do a story on me to pass the time while the story goes on, I'll play for you my little love song . . .

Stupid Smile
Yesterday you said goodbye and turned and walked the other way without any reason or explanation. Is what I see before me a hallucination? I should have seen it coming. Im not perturbed by the fact that you see me as a disgrace. I need the confidence to take a stand and put you in your place and wipe that stupid smile of your face! So different, I always thought that part was insignificant but still you deem the problems as no accident and thought my fucking attitude was ignorant or was that just bland? I see you run, I see you hide, you breath so soft and talk so slight. I bet you wish Id let things lie but Im just warming to the fight. I see you standing alone on the cold city street as you reach for the phone. The bottles run dry, the tear in your eye you realise now that I tried . . . how I tried?

Why? You ask me how could I do it to my best friend. Sorry I dont have an answer for you, I dont have an answer for myself. She seemed so appealing at the time that you were thrown to the side. Youre out of the picture, thats all I knew; maybe I took you the wrong way. Call me stupid, call me what you want and that you have (yeah, that you have). Threats of physical force dont scare me but the silence cuts the deepest. We were friends and now ignore the situation, each other, everything. Its over now, three months and I wake up (I wake up). What a waste of time, three months with a girl. Ten years of being friends wasted for what? A good fucking question, so now can we talk? I tried but still you ignore me. Time has prevailed and youve swung around. Came to our house and said Hello once again, well its been a long time, how you been? The band is going cool, thats good so is mine. Well maybe we can play some fucking time.

Part2. Awkward
Shes desperately clinging to me (her technicolour rattle). She never outgrew the need for a pair of arms to cradle her. Shell never let that security of a blanket slip away . . . Not yet anyway. Its just talking and making fun of us with the others, with your mind blotted like ink spilled on white paper. And draped over me like some kind of fallen curtain running your nails up and down my back in front of everyone . . . no not in front of everyone. Not here. Not now. You make me feel so awkward. And tomorrow youre going to pretend that you don't remember saying unconvincing things to me, begging me to come out. I can't believe you were on your knees in front of the car and crying out. Listen, could you do a favour for me, without actually mentioning my name? Your reply was No I just think its who ever is there at the time. Why is it always the wrong time? I cant believe how you let yourself down.

Typical Observation Song
Thousands of people question their lives everyday and they come up with different answers based on what is important them. If they cant reach the goals that they have set, lack of drive or means, or just dont know yet it becomes harder to find a reason to sow the next seed. Some turn to God. Some turn to substance abuse. Some turn on the TV and soak up the useless information, which washes over them endlessly. Theres a lot of us drowning in it. What about me well, I'm OK. I can stand up here chanting to you all day (I'll always stupidly think that I have something worthwhile to say!). But what those who jus't cant stand it, not because they're weak but they just dont understand the life dictated to them by society. Knock, knock. Gods not here. And their beer can't blur things forever so they just endeavour to be . . . But when exactly did we get told to live our lives accordingly? We just got thrown in the deep end. Its sink or swim. Young and alone in the swell with no direction. Where the hell is that pearly white angel when you need him? Checked my shoulder, just traces of where his claws had been. 65 year old woman hoarding cans from a garbage bin. Plastered to the asphalt, a sad, wet feather fallen from his wing. 25 year old executive at a pay phone got his wife to ring and the girl right next to him . . . has got her frail white hand stuck down a drain, grasping for a twenty cent piece that she desperately needs to get home on the last train. We pretend not to see it. Im so scared to believe it a parents death away from living the same way and I dont want any part of it. Middle class ignorance deliver me from it.

Three Cheers for the Fuckhead in the Corner
Cold. The kind that seeps into your marrow. The kind that creeps into an old car on a clear night. A clear night. The kind that makes you kill for that unspecific anyone. Finally, because you know it has been too long since you felt someone elses skin. I just want to touch her. In a quiet still coldness that settles onto every blade on the ground and into every pore of your skin. But all you want is the warmth. You dont care how you get it. You're both lying on the floor, soon to be asleep or leaving youre the furthest thing from her mind at the moment. Now you get philosophical and you preach to yourself about fate. You walk out onto the street, do nothing about it and go home because its getting late and because shes drunk on screwdrivers (Shes been dancing and laughing and smoking in corridors). Just forget it, because last time you did this you just woke up sore. In a quiet still sadness that is all too familiar because of expectations because of an over-active imagination. All you want is the warmth. You dont care how you get it. But all you get is a sad disappointment that is all familiar because of expectations because of an over active imagination you're the furthest thing from her mind at the moment and theres not a lot you can do about it.

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