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You’re venom mumma. I love you but I’m a mess. I’m slipping through the words I’d put to paper.

‘I remember me. All the little things that make up a memory’ I wish you were you were still breathing in and out.

Don’t fade away, I AM you. All you were all you are. I breathe your breaths now and I couldn’t be more proud.

Come and find me and run your fingers through my hair. Tell me to stay the nice person I’ve always been  and stop it from raining so damn hard.

Tell me a job is a job and I’m gypsy rose lee.

You were born today. Drunk on placenta you went blue at the sight of so much injustice.

I held you baby, you slipped through my hands like salt through a sieve.

You screamed for the ocean and to lay on top of a parked car. I vomited with protective fear, for you. Only for you.

You stood in the circus tent and paid for the payers. For those who would cash in on lightning strikes. You cried at the end.

You took a trip in your head and found a girl who was falling. The buildings grew quicker than you - but you just looked at your watch.

‘I’m sick of waiting’ you said. I want to see the blind vision.

I took you around the corner and threw you as far as you could bear to leave.

You drowned in the darkness and said ‘I’d rather blind than lonely lover’

On the edge of a world untamed, lived a humble maid, bruised.

She drank and drank until the bubbles rose up and out her nose.

She danced on the bar until the wood began to splinter and cut her feet with slices deep.

She slept with a pillow over her face but she always woke up to a sunny day she felt selfish for resenting.

The flowers on the vines followed her for days until she got lost in a street parade.

Her coffin floated to the top of the sea and the creatures fell from the sky in mourning.

I saw a burning man on the street today. He danced amongst the flames as if they were ribbons and he was performing for the street stalkers. His skin melted and dripped off and all that I saw remained was a small green vine. Safe from the flame, it stood in his stance without char and shone through as if it were the only life left in the world.

The flames became enraged by the show of rebellion against it’s power and grew stronger and louder, intent on burning the vine to ash. It smoked and swirled almost black with madness that this small life form should dare defeat it.

The vine stood strong, and used the heat to grow stronger and wrapped itself around the flame and choked it until it dwindled down to a lit match laying on the pavement that went out with a breath.

When the wrath of the wirey fire had vanished, the vine felt sad and alone as it’s one and only battle was over. It pushed up toward the sun for the warmth it needed but felt nothing. It withererd away with thoughts of the flame until it was nothing but a lone weed stranded in the sidewalk.

I hope you remember how strong you are while the fires are burning.

I have a problem with 2 types of people. Those who make music and those who make coffee. Both laborious tasks I know but we pay them for a type of pleasure. Kind of like the leading prostitutes of todays society. When they get it right it’s so so good but burn that milk or talk about Tennessee when you’re all of about 19 and living in the western suburbs of Sydney and it all goes a bit sour.

I myself, with no instilled genuis or birth right to talent have asked whether it is in fact my place to pass this judgement on the creators of these concoctions, but I feel as a loyal consumer I must provide some feedback on these nasty flaws that are ruining two of my favourite things.

The issue with both those who brew beans and those that sing and clap their hands is that they feel it is more important to be a personality then to do what they do. No need. It’s when they are trying to be Johnny Cash or indulging in 15 minute instrumentals because their guitarist is ‘heaps good’ or talking to some of their mates about their M A S S I V E weekend in a loud enough tone so you can be simply amazed at their acid intake, that your milk gets burnt and you realise that the next song is going to be the next best thing to a cover.

We’ve had our Kurt Cobains and our Jim Morrison’s - we don’t need little poppets living with their parents working part time in retail telling us how hard life is. Lucky they have those big rollin’ mountains just ‘round the bend back home in Tennessee.