main gareeb hoon.

if there was a market for unfinished short stories i would probably be able to pay my rent. other potential new jobs:

+ sell tshirts with pictures of new zealand on them to new zealanders.

+ let myself go and become one of those gross people malls pay to hang out at food courts to make people leave faster and free up more seats.

+ be a documentary film maker covering weird shit that happens in Japan.

+ rich people can pay me to hang around so they feel better about themselves when they are sad.

+ become, like, the Warehouse of christianity and undercut Brian Tamaki by offering salvation for like 2-3% less.

if you would like to pay me money to do something real easy that would be cool.

drums

Those traffic lights, they looked like supernovas in the rain. Light exploding in every direction. That was the only thing that could take the edge off my jitters, walking down the boulevard. This town, and this damned weather. The thunder was starting to wake me in the night. The sky-boom and window rattle had got me thinking about this far gone old drunk we used to know. He'd sit down on the boulevard, beating hell out of an old bucket and telling anyone who'd listen how he'd invented jazz. He was just like the thunder. Far off, no sense of timing and invasive as hell. If that man invented jazz, then I invented rain. If only that were the case. If I'd had the good sense to invent rain, I'd be collectin' royalties, and these last few months woulda been my retirement fund. Sometimes when the thunder wakes me, I wonder what happened to the drummer. Some things don't bear thinking on, though. Probably dead like the rest.

eschatography

your heart, which you thought so eternal and constant, will be plucked still beating from your ribcage and thrown upon the smouldering ashes of your youth.

blowback pt 2

You feel the slow shudder of adrenaline release as you break down the rifle and return it to its canvas bag. No matter how many times you've been in the same god damned roof-creeping position, you start to shake. Well, I start to shake, anyway. Like Muhammed Ali. There's no helping it. Most everyone you'd ever run in to is smart enough to write it all off as nothing more than some shakin' dope sick blues in any case. I walked down the staircase shaking and high on the goodness of life, thinking about the twenty thousand I'd been promised just to save this city from even more tacky high-rises.

Feeling smaller and less like God down on the street level, I decided to ride a cab over to the Boss' club. A luxury I could afford. They buzzed me in and it was the usual scene of Boss and Jimmy and Pope sitting around the card table, no cards to be scene. I was leaning against the pillar, waiting for them to throw me the cash. Their faces were cut with the biggest grins I've seen, and looking back I should have known something was about to fuck me right then. These are not happy people.

Finally, after a cheshire grin eternity, the Boss finally decides to let me know what's up.

'You know who you just shot?' he says.

'Naw, some yuppie I guess, owed yous some money?'

And the fuckers started laughing.

'You know why I like this kid, Jimmy? Because he's so fuckin' thick. He'll fire without thinking. Hell, we could probably get him to shoot the president for a few speedballs, huh?'

This was not going well and right about now was that increasingly common of moments when high spirits and anticipation u-turned into outright fuckin' dread and cold sweats.

'Who... who was he boss? Who was the guy in the suit?'

'Since you're gonna find out soon enough, I'm gonna tell you. You know the Robinsons, right?'

'As in the north side Robinsons? The ones that car bombed those Chinese for tryin' to get that crack in?'

'Those very same fuckin' Robinsons. And that guy you just shot. Rob Robinson. I hope that name means something to you, or you're already dead'.

All the paper in the world couldn't fit the amount of fucks and shits and misfired neurons my brain was throwing out at this point in time. I probably woulda busted one of those fancy heart rate machines down at St John's Hospital too. Messed up as I was, I could see how bad this was gonna be.

'Here's the problem, kid. They find you, they're gonna beat hell out of you. And you, being the junkie piece of shit that you are, is gonna tell them who paid you to shoot that guy. Maybe they won't even have to beat you. Maybe they'll just wave a fat needle in your stupid god damned face, and let you choose between goin' out hard or easy, if you snitch. And we can't have you telling them shit. And on top of this, there's no doubt gonna be a bounty on the head of whoever was stupid enough to shoot our man by the end of the week. So, the way we see it, there are two paths open to you from here out. A plane ticket away from here and away from this horrible life of sin, which your obviously deficient brain has led you to so badly fuck up. Or, we shoot you, and give your body to the Robinsons. Maybe even put a bow tie round that fuckin' neck of yours. You're lucky though. I'm feelin' generous today. Pope's got your plane ticket here. How do you like Korea?'

This was where I got lucky. The fuckin' plane ticket thing. Last time Pope got me in was to help him stash the body of some some other ex-jerk who messed up. He couldn't stop talking about the plane ticket thing. Thought they were so clever, how they tricked the guy into thinking he was about to start a new life in sunny Mexico. Next thing, slam, 45 caliber to the brain and the only place the guy's headed is to an abandoned house down by the lake. Wouldn't shut up about the look on this guys face when he pulled the gun rather than some paper. I took it as my cue to split, and ran like hell for the door.

Reaching it, I heard the soft thud of metal on plaster. I didn't have to look back to know there'd be two guys standing, firing hell at me. I could even picture the sour fuckin' snarls on their faces as each slug somehow sailed too wide or too high. The pillar had covered me long enough, and somehow I'd made it out of that damned old hornets nest. As if that was enough.

I took off down King Avenue, still not looking back. Thank fuck, there was still a good number of day time shoppers around. Too many civilians for anyone chasing to risk getting trigger happy. By the time I'd cut across Castle Park and down two brick alleyways, my legs were burning. My heart was hammering even faster than earlier. Everything was a blur. I chanced a look around. There was no one around. A pigeon landing above me scared the hell out of me. I sat down, and it was as if my heart and my head were tryin' to out do each other in a foot race, both going far, far too fast.

blowback pt 1

I should have seen through their lies, but sometimes you just need the money so bad that when there's just one dead suit between you and it that you stop thinking things through. You start thinking about the sweet dopamine drift that will follow the work. And oh god you never, ever think about the suit. He's just a suit and nothing more because if he becomes something more than just a suit, or just a pair of grey eyes, that's when you start feeling bad about the whole deal. And if you start feeling bad, you start to shake. And if you're shaking, you might miss. Either that or you take the diazepam to stop the shakes and then you got no idea what's going on because the sky looks like somebody burst the sun and sent its insides spewing forth over the world, and fiery death is held out only by that thin ozone we've all been ignoring. Or something. They're never more than a suit, or a pair of eyes.

This guy was no different. Should have been no different, anyways. That's what the boss told me. Just your average nouveauriche property developer type. Turning brick buildings into apartments for young professionals. A king of the commodification of shitty vibes and making people feel 'urban', while they sit safe behind two alarms and steel-barred windows. Got himself into trouble with the wrong people, as it turns out. I'm not sure how, or why. They never tell us why – just where. Where and what time and how much, and maybe if you're lucky they'll tell you you'll get half in blow (at their wholesale prices) if you do a good job. And so you do a good job.

You show up early, and get up to the roof opposite the guys work. Where he comes in at around 8.30 every morning, leaving his car for the valet outside. Sometimes he'll have a hat on and maybe you'll miss him for the hat. Maybe it's just some other grey-suited jerk in a hat, and this is the kind of think you want to maybe have a little bit of certainty of before you pull the trigger.
I was feelin' a little jittery still. The night had not been a kind one and the wire sting to my nerves from altogether too much speed and maybe just not quite enough liquor wasn't exactly helping. The endless loop of nonsense thoughts I couldn't throw away had me on edge. I was screaming focus in my lungs but my brain wouldn't follow, it was caught up in the idea that the competitive feasting of primitive societies was often called “potlatch” without knowing why or how it knew this. I had nothing to pull myself together except the strange adrenaline which will flow every time you point a gun at another man from on top of a building and feel just a little bit like God.

Today there was no hat. That face, fat from years of 'business lunches', almost filled the telescopic lense. I waited until he turned his back from the car, passing the keys to the red-coated valet. I took a last look at the suit before squeezing the trigger.

I watched through the scope just long enough to see the two arcs of gristle and gore which had erupted from his head splash to the pavement. Sitting back with my eyes closed all I could see was that copper ten cent hole right through where our man’s most intimate thoughts used to live. That’s life, I guess. One minute you’re on top of the world, and the next minute you’re a pile of bones on a street corner, avoided by the mid-day shoppers and big business suit types, and not even the homeless will touch you for the easy dollars sitting in your back pocket.

TBC.

girls xxx

I have never dated the sorts of girls
that have pictures of themselves
and 'their BFFs'
wearing sunglasses and hugging
at relevant social events
like the Big Day Out
or maybe
something at Orientation
as the wallpaper
for the laptops
which they bring to lectures.

I imagine you'd spend
a lot of money
on drinks and taxis
dating one of these girls.

I imagine that they,
with their expensive hair
and expectations,
would cheat on me.

I imagine this and
I don't care
They ignore me
and
I ignore them
and
It's as if we are
different species.

Theres is the species
which gave the world
MTV
and
Vajazzling
and
that thing where
slutty girls call equally slutty girls
'moles'.

My species?
We gave the world nothing,
I guess.
Maybe some wasted breath.
Maybe some extra SSRI prescriptions.
Maybe audience to other
dead-hearted devils
getting CDs pressed by the hundred
and selling half of them
and caring less.

Sometimes I wonder where I went wrong.

voices and fists

There was that one Summer when we all agreed that our voices were stronger than fists.

And we went tumbling down into a world of metaphor and 3am debate on metaphysics.

When we were young and thought our words would reshape the world.

If only we could talk one on one with everybody.

Sparring them, delivering left hooks of perfect syllogism and haymakers of analogy.

Thinking, knowing that the only punches we would feel would be the thud of our hearts against our chests.

As we skim read Bakunin, called ourselves Anarchists and plotted the revolution.

Printing presses were going to be our machine guns.

A thirty second television advertisement was going to turn the Southern Broadcast Region into a Hiroshima of free-thinking enlightenment.

When we were high on home brew beer, badly cut speed and the untenable arrogance of youth.

The group momentum sent us onwards, carried us onwards, always onwards.

We were sure that Summer was our May 68.

Our voices are stronger than fists!

Our voices are stronger than fists!

We shouted, our rallying cry for the weak of arm and the hoarse of throat.

Every day there was a static in the air.

We got arrested and released.

We stole photocopy credit from our bosses and gave out pamphlets showing wrenches stuck in gears.

We ate food from dumpsters and it was all lifestyle revolution.

We didn't know about the working classes and we hid our private school educations to claim 'proletariat'.

It was as much Kerouac as Kropotkin

Our voices are stronger than fists! we shouted,

Until we found out that no one ever lost three teeth at 3am outside KFC, City Mall, from someone's voice.

Our voices are stronger than fists! we shouted,

Until we realised that no one ever went to hospital from a cop's voice.

Our voices are stronger than fists! we shouted,

Until the liquor ran out.

Until the job offers came.

Until you moved away.

Until pot became your own personal revolution.

Our voices are stronger than fists! we shouted.

Until we realised that swift knockout is maybe better than the slow erosion of empty rhetoric and the same grating voices.

And I am still shouting.

'My voice is stronger than my fists'.

But I'm lifting weights.

And I'm keeping quiet.

And I'm counting down the days until I can punch myself out.

For all the shit I ever talked.