Bradothy

My second year of university was finally over. After a month of exams, I was seized with a desire to travel far away from the city. Originally I had intended to go to India, but my wallet had other plans. Instead, I had wound up in a small rural town by the river, to an old shack that my grandfather built. As a result of the family connection, I had frequently spent my weekends in the town as a child. It had bored me more than anything then, and I suspected it would bore me still, but the romance of ‘getting away’ had been too great to resist. When I stepped through the door into that familiar place, I knew I had made a mistake. Bus

And Lee is involved in an argument with Richard:   "Stop speaking. I don't want to have this argument with you. Let's just talk about something."   "Well that just shows that you're not listening to a thing I'm saying. There's no such thing as just an normal conversation. That's what I'm trying to tell you."   "Well you're wrong."   "Listen, goddamnit Richard! It's all or nothing. You can't distinguish between different types of conversation. You talk to somebody of your mutual like of a brand of beer, and you're arguing. Or you ask somebody how to get to the pub, and they argue how to get there. You can't just talk about something; y

They would arrive any minute now. They would pull up into the driveway, swarm out of their cars like ants in the rain. They would smash the windows. They would break down the back door and rush in. The plates, the cups, the chairs: they would break all of them. They would hold knives to his throat. They would taunt him. They would interrogate him. There was no escape.   And he sat at the table, coughing in the grey morning, a stagnant ash try on his table reeking with the butts of the night's cigarettes. A shattered syringe lay bleeding on the floorboards. The clocks on the walls slowly ticked his time away. They were coming. There could be

   "And what reason, Mr Bentley, do you present to the court in the defence that you are not guilty?"   "Because, your honour, I am not who I appear to be. The person portrayed by my thoughts and actions is in fact somebody else altogether. He is in my head but he is not me. But not to worry, I am sure he will be dealt with in an appropriate and fitting matter to his crime. The justice system is not to be underestimated."   "So how could we determine who is the real you? Is it him now or you?"   "Oh certainly not. It would be most impossible for you to ever find him; every thought and action that my person could measurably exist of does

Walking through busy streets en route to university where I am to deliver a psychology lecture. Cars etching their way along city roads, office workers eating lunch at cafes. Approaching the main road, the green man disappears, being replaced by a flashing red double. The drumming beat of the lights drops tempo and urges the blind to stop. But I know these lights. The red man will flash for the period of time it would take for me to cross the road three times. The traffic heading south is stopped so the north can turn right, so the way is clear. Walk onto the bitumen and a siren wails, red and blue lights flash across the buildings. Step back

   Asthmatic dawns spent achingly hungover in the parklands south sucking cigarette butts for relief. Unexplained dizziness and lethargy from yesternight's rum soaked stagger. Woken by a miniature businessman in trademark turtleneck sweater despite the heat. Awkward lovers in the kitchen spouting quixotically about their ambitious desires. Sought shelter and clarity in sunburnt city plains waiting for life to catch up. Welcomed there by cyclists with suspicious glances, sweating joggers, persistent flies and collage of bottle-caps stamped into dust. The shadow of an imaginary vulture sweeps across the grass as a vintage tram rattles by behind

Carcinogenic trumpets          play tunes so great,                    so difficult to resist. Their music fills me with joy          but shreds my organs,                    and rips my body apart A predicament!    I am too weak              and easily fall                        into temptation. I kill myself,   I kill my pride. Those fiery little trumpets.

train numbing;                        mind soothing easing the post-apocalyptic paranoia                                              that resides freedom inside a concrete prison              "Do whatever you like,                                 as long as it's within your 3x4 cell." half memories              from an age long gone lie dormant?… or active?              who knows? I'm confused. a successful failure              that is who I play today.                                 please judge the path I take. artificial cleanliness              feels sticky and fake                  to my drug-fucked skin