With Head Upon The Writer's Block...

I wanted to post today (and, lo and behold, I AM posting!) but I could think of nothing to write – probably because of my being sick (something like tonsillitis, is it?) but maybe because I’m an ingenious dullard, which is one who has a genius for being dim-witted, or maybe just because I am a great man showering myself with false modesty like petals from the flowering of my wondrous, vagina-whetting wisdom. Any ol’ how, I told my partner that I knew not what to post and she replied, “You’re a writer – make something up!” I retorted, “Oh, yeah, I can see ’im now – T. S. Eliot talking to his wife – ‘I have writer's block!’ – (in feminine tone:) ‘You’re a writer, T. S. – make something up!’” And then my partner told me I should write that here and so I have.

Now I shall write the word ‘penis’ because the pen is mightier than the sword, as the cliché goes. And I'd rather my head upon the writer's block than that! ...But which head? Arghh, the confusion! When I'm less tired and sick I'll get back to you on that one except that by then I'll be able to wax more eloquwein, er, quollocial, um, more gooder, yes, and shan't need to resort to speaking such drivel as you have here been served today and wasn't it delicious, you rotten, vomiting bastards!

A Knievel In Dressing Gown And Slippers

Like most boring people, I haven’t really been doing all that much over the past couple of days to delineate or comment upon. I ate some pizza washed down with fizzy Chinotto. I applied to return to uni. next year, after a ten-year hiatus, to study literature and such. I’ve been reading ‘White Nights’ by Fyodor Dostoyevsky (English translation by Andrew R. MacAndrew) – his description of spring in St. Petersburg is amusing and depressing. I bought Irish band The Fureys’ ‘Twenty-One Years On…’ compact-disc for AUD$1.99 (gee, they must be popular!); this, the band of the recently released ‘Chaplin Sings/ The Fureys Sing Chaplin’, of which I look forward to procuring a copy. And I discovered the first clothing shop that I can confidently say I liked – a boutique above Central Station featuring designer dandy-wear made right here in this fair(ly acceptable) city! As soon as I am well-to-do, I’ll be dead, but I want to be cremated wearing some of this finely wrought silkiness.

Actually, I don’t really consider myself a boring person, if only because I have some exciting thoughts and dreams and am rarely bored (and am going to have sex with superstars someday). I simply just don’t like partaking in the exciting activities that make exciting people truly uninteresting when you get down to bones and regard their sloppy brainwave configurations as evinced through prosaic references to anime and female ejaculate at engagement parties and installation-art openings and the like. Also, I have done some fun stuff, like, in a chemically contortive mind-state, danced low-down to the floor like a crab to a blaring Alice Cooper ballad whilst the male of a couple entering this party is talking to his partner, “…and then the windscreen…,” virtually stepping over me, “…oh, watch out for this weirdo…,” and continuing, “… yeah, the, er, the windscreen wipers were...” And now it’s time for a lovely cup of organic black tea. Ahhh… Where’s mi crash helmet?

Ingratiation

My brain feels peppered with aluminium filings and my pores feel as though clogged with petroleum run-off. I think that I am sick. Well, we’re all sick, we humans, for it is, of course, part of that condition of being; although, some are sicker than others, such as people who own millions of dollars or Australia’s Liberal Party members (conservatives) or people who nowadays have multiple children (except by genuine accident despite the very best efforts to the contrary) or who shoot Californian sea lions in the head (yes, there are such people, and I don’t mean using a camera), and the list goes on and on and on and on and on and on – like me just now, in fact. My primary point was that I may be developing ’flu but don’t worry, that’s one virus you can’t catch over the internet (although I’m sure some sick prick is trying to discover a way how). My various ailments, which currently include but are not confined to fatty liver, heel spur, sinus problems and a form of obsessive compulsive disorder (o.c.d.), make the job of author an uphill battle, and that’s just the writing part; then there are the problems of agents and publishing and a lack of any real camaraderie.

However, I am working on my second novel and trying to get my first one published, as well as writing the odd poem here and there; odder, indeed, than society’s usual automobile, football and sodomy concoctions and so they, therefore, sometimes earn me the classification of untouchable – or, at least, if I find myself accidentally enmeshed within a crowd of yuppies or suburbanites or urban ‘hipsters’, unfuckable. I shall be splotching this blog with some such poetry soon, so get ready to toss your Keats; but remember, my head is NOT an ashcan.

Also, I shall probably be continuing performing around Melbourne as backing (wind-chimes, steel-string guitar and mouth noises) for spoken-word artist Rupert Owen as part of Boh-Dandy and The Cranks, maybe even adding a poem or two of my own to the mix. Our performance in Richmond earlier this month went very well – frankly, we were the most popular act of the evening – and so this is either encouraging or a sorry story for the state of live performance in this city. But my Mum thinks I’m cool.*

*Actually, she thinks I am odd.

Glade You Came!

Welcome! “Daisies In The Gutter” is a venue where I can express ideas and observations regarding the poetical in this human life – specifically my own, of course, given that I am me, despite the fact that being so sometimes precipitates inner scuffles over who gets the last soul cookie or some such nonsense, and, yes, also focusing on the humourous aspects of life and not just the serious or tragical, and ultimately maybe even reflecting something, however trifling, of the essence of humanity. ...That was me rambling idylly just then – hello! – but, put simply, the focus of this site is the poetical in life - with, where possible, a lightness borne of good humour. So, venture to this electronic glade, dally Pooh-like or trampishly, and peer inside the head of this writer/poet …which mayn’t be too bestirring if mi noggin proves hollow …I mean, rather, come to this luminous hollow in the centre of the smoggy city and dilly-dally with contemplations poetical …yes, that sounds profound, S. Gregory; now give myself half of that ‘Oreo’, soul brother…

Idling

This blog is new and under construction and therefore currently quite an idling bore.