essay: #026: Hell in Sepia


Mirage of sun.
Rises over Middle Eastern desert.
While I drink.
Bleached hues of Jarhead.
Showing, right now.

The futility of war, combat, and ideology.
Boys, living the nightmare.
Of politics.
Of hypocrisy.
burnt-out cars.
And emotional wreckage.

And celluloid artisans.
Homage to Apocalypse Now.
And Full Metal Jacket.
Where marines play football.
In latest chemical-warfare masks.
Hummers, same as you see on Sunset.
Scatter like roaches, across foreign sand.
In a place.
We don't belong.

Yes, Sam Mendez.
Hell in sepia.
Showing, right now.

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essay: #025: DNA in the Food Chain



Brave new world, this...
For a genetically modified breed.
Exploring our ever-changing curiosities.
Scientific or otherwise.

Mess with our gene pool, please.
Change our ecology, once again.
From the petri dish.
To us.
The DNA in the Food Chain of Progress....

It's the wild, wild, west.
Whispers someone close.
And he's right, god bless him.
More provocative acts,
And tales, from the frontline.

To be continued...
I'm sure.

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essay: #024: Black Swan


Snorkelled with giant Sea Turtles.
On Great Barrier Reef.
Along spine of the Continental shelf.
Where aquatic life meets rainforest land.
And us, mankind.

Stood on a beach, devoid of ocean.
Went AWOL after dredging began, back in 1930s.
Now the tide comes in late.
And one day, soon...
Maybe not at all.

lazy afternoon

Saw crocodiles on river's edge.
Pythons sliding down trees.
And sailed on a boat, from South China seas.
Point break, in the ecological chain.
damn, it's beautiful.

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essay: #065: androids dream electric


Why do we dream.
And reach for the stars?
Spear flags deep.
Into craters of the moon.
And draw maps.
Over sea and statelines?

What would it be like.
Out there, in space?
If androids dream electric.
Then why can't we?

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essay: #023: dreaming in color

carlton gardens
c.Kenton Miller

Melbourne, 2006.
Life really is...

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essay: #022: long, green mile

c. AFP/Art Lein

Jihad's over.
For one man, so it seems.
37-year-old, 9/11 conspirator, Moussaui’s.
Matrimony to martyrdom.
Foolish rhetoric.
From a skewered perspective.
Honey, welcome, to the rest, of your natural life.

Damn that.
Just missing out, on the death penalty.
Newest tenant, on the Supermax bloc.
Poor mama’s bleating:
How dare, they leave her boy, to die.
Like a rat, in a hole.

Sweeter, I’d imagine.
It could not be.
Yes, right, this time round.
Poetry from the lips of Judge Leonie Brinkema.
As she sentenced him.
To a green-mile, horror.
Of the most, unimaginable kind.

You will spend the rest of your life in a supermaximum security prison… It’s quite clear who won… and who lost. You came here to be a martyr in a great bang of glory, but to paraphrase the poet T.S Elliot, instead you will die with a whimper. .. You will never again get a chance to speak and that’s an appropriate and fair ending.

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essay: #021: Palm of My Hand

c.9 news

Fetish, and the art of it, all.
Boudoir secrets.
Suck them in.
Suck them out.

A friend hands me.
Small boxes, of human hair.
Over Asahi.
Dated, from eternal summers.
Into the autumn of now.

How strange it feels.
Weight, of a whole head, of human hair.
Minus its body.
In the palm, of your hands.

My brother’s fetish.
It turns out.
Is life, extremes, children, and body art.
Beautiful, as he is.
With symbols sharp.
And sometimes, soft.

Just words.
Some may say.
But we’re all naked, without them.
In the end.

Secrets we keep.
The ones, we don’t.
Life, shines on, regardless.
Whatever, turns you on.

For me.
It's the waves, now.
hop aboard.
Surf, another sunset.
one door closes.
Sayonara, and thanks for coming...

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