18 November 2016

05 11 2016, Brussels

What to do.
No one is there anymore to hide your doubts
Rather exposed
But maybe less alone than usual
You'd Never Know It
Something has been passed through
Is being passed through
This must be why there is so much pain
Can we make it?
Will you still be there
Will I still be there beside you
Will we be unrecognizable to the other
Or will we find ever more love beyond this pain
Which I feel and maybe you share
Nonsense pain felt anyway
Inexplicably as weight and doubt and fear
Let me be rid of you but not lose the one I love

09 2016, Brussels/Ljubljana

empathy for the bloody countess
melancholy and bestiality
(beasts do not have language)
the Red of the bloody countess,
to kill all those girls
and for each one to be I.
All bodily
“girl monster”
(rise from the dead)
return to
a torrent of words.

19 January 2016

17 01 2016, Berlin

Inside the boiling water of the artichokes is your and my frustration
Inability at communication
it steams and bubbles
dying the water
like envy

I turn the heat down
because I love you too much to see your frustration
pain tells me I know better
and loss – this time –
would not be welcome

28 August 2015

25 08 2015, Melbourne

Beats and cowbells à la The Rapture at 8.30 in the morning in a café where everyone works alone in the guise of a collective morning experience. The morning bar/club music keeps pace as people type emails ever faster. It gives the sense that what they're working on, while eating their 1L organic muesli is in time with the pace of the city. That their very soul is part of the fabric and energy that holds the economy together. I'm interrupted of course by the demand to order for, after all, this morning vibe is expensive. A lot of soy FWs keep this place ticking over. There's always rent to be paid to someone. The morning breakfasters~workers must know they're paying rent for the privilege to be in public, alone, with others. At work.

16 July 2015

early 04 2015, Tokyo

I find myself in Tokyo looking for
signs of queer on the Yamanote line
The circular one
Circle line in London
Something else in Berlin
Anyway, a ring
A feminine moustached person
Low cut top
Crossed legs, angled hips
A young girl who
Says dyke
That hair flick, the way she looks at
her friends
The clothes
But mainly the way she uses her

'You're in the right place, it's just that
there are multiple ways to get here.' -
USA man at Otsuka station to
another Caucasian man

2 October 2014

01 10 2014, Paris

when struggling in the quagmire of one's own thoughts,
-stories, people, futures-
which swell and cross like rough surf
not permitting - not wanting - a clear line to shore
the best approach is to tread, lightly,
cultivate patience,
and remember that there is always more to come,
that waters calm and roughen
as the pulse that tempers them needs not much
to fall in and out of sync
with the world
the moon, for example,
could suffice

22 January 2014

22 01 2014, Sydney

'Cannot believe you pulled the gender card. BUSTED.'

Yeh I will pull it whenever I want sucker!!! That card is stuck on you like a lick of fresh cum in the morning sun. And I meant it like I said it , the male is there no matter what and my maleness will never touch yours, cunt

[Poem of the day via iMessage]

23 December 2013

23 12 2013, Sydney

Cup poem

The cup is full
Whether we like it or not
We fill it up with things
Like history, habits and personality traits, relations and obligations, desires
That we believe define us, give our life shape
And then we attach things to them that seem impenetrable, indisputable
Like loves that come to serve as cordial that flavors all else in the cup
Until nothing can be tasted anew
Only through the taste of the self-spiked liquid
Colouring all
We toil over the sloshing cup nonetheless, ignoring its bias
Rearranging particles, trying to get to the essence
But never able to see clearly
Due to drunkenness

10 June 2013

10 06 2013, Sydney

i wish.

that would be cool.

i wish i cld be cool.

but i'm in a fug me

07 06 2013, Sydney

I read in The Marriage Plot: "Breakfast was a coffee and the biscuit that came with it" and I remembered I'd been given a biscuit with my coffee this morning and put it in my left pocket. I got it out and took a bite with my afternoon coffee, just now.

6 December 2012

06 12 2012, Sydney

if my love is blind
then i don't want to see

- R. Orbison

17 August 2012

17 08 2012, Sydney

life question numero uno :

opportunism or attack ?

going with the flow can be wise, comfortable, complacent, even to the extent of fatalism

until the day you wake up and see that the flow took you somewhere you didn't want to go

but where do and did you want to go ?

and does it even matter ?

in any case

$$ won't make you happy; but it can get you where you want to go.

so there must be a want.

want is the opposite of flow

want makes things happen.

but where and what is want in a world of obligation and prescription ?

in a world of flows?

(answer : attack)

5 June 2012

05 06 2012, Sydney

my mood is the rain

the rain is my mood

so keep raining, sky

but not for too long ...

15 May 2012

16 05 2012, Sydney

we live in dark

and yet
the sun

21 April 2012

20 April 2012

20 04 2012, Sydney

We will look back and laugh at how ignorant we were.

Soon the lives we live now will seem like strange hallucinations.

The things we did and had and said become absurd nightmares that occurred in the most utter blindness (voluntary blindness), producing the thickest darkness the world has ever known.

Our light will be the day we can - if we're lucky - look back and see how dark it really was right now, what horror we undertook in the name of complacency.

To see this world, back, will be at once the reward and the torment of those who survive.

21 March 2012

21 03 2012, Sydney

if you think it -
but then realise,
suicide is not even an option,
everything is suddenly wonderful,
nothing feels quite so heavy as it did,
with the knowledge that you want to live
even if life is confused right now,
one is given strength, power.
the knowledge is:
living (right now) is infinitely preferable
to giving up (right now)
which would mean (i assume) never knowing
what life could become
whether more confused or less so (beside point).
so the thought of the possibility of suicide
is a force that can breathe life not death
into tired, overwhelmed heads
lucky, i suppose, that there is so much breath
to be breathed, lived
(so much more confusion to be had)
so much to wait and see!
and make happen oneself

20 March 2012

12 December 2011

12 12 2011, London

I found this, today, quoted at the beginning of Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri's Commonwealth (2009):

"People only ever have the degree of freedom that their audacity wins from fear."

-- Stendhal, Vie de Napoléon

Glad to see we have all been thinking the same things for centuries...
Sad to see it still needs to be said...

11 December 2011

08 12 2011, London

[Written for I'm with you's I'm with you : Occupy London event - 08 12 2011, London]

I woke up in a new bed, well
I laid in luxuriously
I was warm and I was comfortable and I was enjoying the light
I was daydreaming
But I was annoyed at myself
Because last night I couldn't do what I'd set out to do that evening
I couldn't bring myself to
Make the move that I so wanted to make
The move that seemed so easy in dreams but so impossible in confrontation
Because I was somehow, somewhere, irrationally

Fearful of rejection (which logically I'm quite sure would not have come)
Fearful of putting myself on the edge, making myself vulnerable and responsible and risking comfort
I despise this fear, it is poison,
And rationally, existentially,
I know that audacity in fact very rarely brings about rejection
And that being comfortable, secure and acceptable is not what I want – in theory
For surely if audacity could bring about rejection, in any form
Then it is a pill worth swallowing
For it can only help

Whereas fear, the opposite of audacity, or boldness as we may like to call it
Is like being rejected without even the attempt!

So to choose fear over audacity
Because there is less chance of overt rejection
Is like choosing rejection straight up
Choosing rejection before even permitting the attempt
Choosing rejection before even attempting to move

I know all this ! And yet … the fear is there
So how do we confront?
How do we move?
We must move!

I propose the attempt itself as the kernel of audacious and bold life
We know we must move
We must move in all directions
In any direction
We must only ensure that we are not deluding ourselves that rejection isn't worth the risk

So don't let me stand on the safe side
The side where my sensible, well-trained mind is very comfortable, actually
The side that prevents us from moving

The side where there are no attempts, just preempts

3 December 2011

03 12 2011, London

We talk when there is nothing to say,

we don't talk when everything needs to be said.

14 November 2011

14 11 2011, London

tailored fags

smoking friends down to the filter
like tom says

we want to
but the other prevents
(usually, but not always, I HOPE)
because of 'work' and fear

and laziness
of mind and spirit

and the self condones
oh! the horror

of denying magnitude
for the sake of the safety of this phoney world

(of 'No Smoking'!)

27 October 2011

27 10 2011, Moorland

fortified shiraz

slow conversations
of past
waiting for sentences to finish
learning of grandparents, great grandparents, Switzerland, Sydney, Moorland, and the depression
"country bumpkins" ? ha ha !

Benedict Weber (great grandfather, immigrated from Zürich), James Otto Weber (grandfather), Ada Aileen Weber née Pryor (grandmother), Flora Helena Weber née Kidd (great grandmother, whose pendant I wear now), etc.

Benedict came to Australia in (circa) 1883, first to Kangaroo Valley, where he married Mary Flynn, and had two children, then settling in Moorland after Mary's death. There he married Flora Helena and they had seven children, including James Otto, born 1906.

Jack (Otto's older brother) was visited by Joseph (cousin in Switzerland) in Paris where he was in hospital during the First World War.

Aileen lived in Sydney with her Aunt Jean until she was 25. They went to the Randwick Races often; Aileen's father Arthur Pryor bred horses and Aileen liked to bet!

Aileen went to evening dos with her cousin, a dentist. She wore crocodile skin shoes.

Jean and Aileen cooked and served food to homeless and hungry people during the depression. She wore crocodile skin shoes.

Otto lived in Moorland, where he worked the farm, played piano in a band called The Chequers, and represent the North Coast of New South Wales in both Cricket and Rugby League.

Aileen and Otto married when Aileen was in her mid-thirties, Otto was seven years older. Jean didn't approve of Otto for Aileen, who she thought could do better (read: richer).

James Michael was born in 1949, when Ada Aileen was nearly 36.

love over money romance rendered so by (me) (and) decades hindsight
maybe it was
we will never know
but the story goes that they loved each other

we play piano, violin and sing
go for walks in the paddocks, along the river, creeks and dams
to explore familiar land
with those still here

looking at maps of the world, maps of possibilities, histories and lives lived
by someone important to someone
then looking out our own broad windows to a whole world
a whole history
that is somehow irrelevant, somewhat irretrievable
and at once vital, necessary, useful for self-narrative
for future narrative and time perspective
connecting now flesh to then flesh will enable future flesh, perhaps
otherwise it is lost? lost is a silly concept. it doesn't need to be found if it is really lost.
i guess that's why we attempt retrieval while it's still possible
to get an idea
to create that narrative

this irretrievable is sought
through the slow conversations
the wandering across paddocks
the attempt to ask, to retell
to remember
what is long gone

people who i never knew, will never know
people who never knew me, will never know

people i have nothing to do with
except blood and earth
depending how you look at it
what day it is
and if you are on that earth

which is a lot and nothing

6 October 2011

06 10 2011, Sydney


from the task at hand
from the only thing
in this world
that i 'have' to do
and 'have' to do well

instead i invent great stories for myself
make grand plans, devise my next moves
book intercontinental flights
reply to dozens of inconsequential emails
reconnect with long-lost or never-attained friends
spend too much time on skype
speak too enthusiastically with everyone i meet
but refrain from socialising
in self-punishment

i lock myself in the library
or install myself for hours in a café
with my ever-present companion
my shitty laptop, who i dislike
i plug headphones in
and listen to 80s synth, heavy techno or cheesy chansons françaises

waiting for gmail to relieve me from the torture -
of trying to construct academia -
or for someone to call
(this won't happen, i have no phone)
or for there to be an emergency
to relieve the sedation of staring at screens and tabs

but nothing comes
so i resort to my old ways
in the knowledge (hope) that 'it will happen'
but just not right now
meanwhile, while waiting...
i stare at the pages and dates in my agenda for a long time

tactics like this belong to the mentally unstable
we are told
obsessive compulsives
well, what do we expect ?
after all

it is hell
to be forced, given no choice
to do that which
under other circumstances
you might do willingly,
without need of such burdensome coercion
such masochistic, or rather ridiculous self-oppression

i want to enjoy this, i should
but i cannot
i am too distracted
and maybe too confident
that 'it will happen'
because i know it 'has' to

5 October 2011

05 10 2011, Sydney

fu-tu-re ... refut(e)

FU, tu re ... tu (me) re-trouves

on se retrouvera jamais !

someone today said something
to me
even though i have spoken to no-one all day

they said :

"so much of this so-called extra time, or “non-productive” time, taken tends to be consumed by the anxious desire to figure out the right thing -- the legitimate thing -- to do. AS IF YOU COULD EVER WORK THAT OUT IN ADVANCE"

this non-present friend is so right

22 September 2011

22 09 2011, Sydney

en ascendant les escaliers (toujours) vers
le septième étage de Fisher Library du troisième (rez-de-chaussée)
je compte les pas

première compte (vers 14h30) : quatre-vingt-trois escaliers

deuxième compte (vers 17h30) : quatre-vingt-six escaliers

troisième compte : à faire

conclusion : la realité n'est jamais fixe

12 September 2011

10/12 09 2011, Sydney

Sydney is a safe city for bicycles
But not for cyclists

7 September 2011

07 09 2011, Sydney

∑ O S E R :::: R E S O ∑
∑ R O S E :::: E S O R ∑
∑ E R O S :::: S O R E ∑
∑ S E R O :::: O R E S ∑
∑ :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ∑
∑ O R E S :::: S E R O ∑
∑ S O R E :::: E R O S ∑
∑ E S O R :::: R O S E ∑
∑ R E S O :::: O S E R ∑

5 September 2011

05 09 2011, Sydney

the sun sets into sky scrapers, orange and dusty, slowly beating them into darkness until they switch on their electric show for the night. they are secretly so ashamed of that poor imitation of the sun's rays that they will only show the moon. for the moon naturally understands imitation, but what the scrapers don't understand is that the moon would never stoop to feeling shame for it.

3 September 2011

03 09 2011, Sydney

"You Who Will Never Be Mine" (L.I.)

it is always, always the self
under scrutiny
in any issue whatsoever
in every circumstance whatever

the self may believe the other to be a cause for scrutiny
the self may believe that the other demands scrutiny
the self may think:

why did the other do this to me?
what does the other want from me?
why doesn't the other understand me?

but the other is merely a foil through which the self ignorantly

scrutiny is directed at the other by the self, flowing from the self
the self believes in the other's problems, in the other's ideas, in the other's necessity or uselessness

every thing the self says to, thinks of, does towards the other
is merely a reflection of the self
a projection of the self
an idea of the self
the necessity of the self

the other serves to give the self excuses and blindfolds for the self's
weaknesses, loneliness, desires, faults, confusions, obsessions, fears

if only the self would see the other as just that
as is
then the self would see
there is no need for scrutiny
and without scrutiny, the excuses and blindfolds appear as ludicrous as they are cruel
these would fall away and the self's fears would seem tolerable
because the other is there, just there

but never near enough to scrutinise

the self will then stop bothering the other with all that hidden self stuff
and they will both learn they will never know the other
but that they can try to learn to know the self

25 August 2011

25 08 2011, Sydney


all is lost
no direction


all throwing me
in different directions

so that (as They say):

i have none.


i can't focus my eyes
without something sure to see
(there is nothing, of course, i know that but...)
suddenly i've not even the illusion of surety
to see to, to look after, to cling to
because everything is blurring and slipping

my eyes are bleeding and my organs are crying
heavy wind and rain would be welcome relief
pound me all over
until blinded eyes learn why


They are right:
lost, no direction.

and i blame Them
for trapping me
so that i no longer know

what to do to
how to move to
who to go to
where to look to

just live

25 08 2011, Sydney


22 August 2011

31 07 2011, Sydney

[Written for l honneur de timur's rezeption happening - 27 08 2011, Berlin]

When we talk about receiving someone we imagine them to be physically before us
When we talk about missing someone we imagine them to be physically absent
Reverse the terms
How much do you hear?
How much do you see?
Can you see me?
Can you hear me?
Can we be together?
It is the same story over and over
The same numbness and the same loss
The same ecstasy and the same gain
Whose loss and whose gain?
Reverse the terms
Reverse the terms
Reverse the terms
They are only terms after all
Grammar has long chained us
As it does now
From feeling each other to be here with each other now
Now, now, now
Here together
Again, again and again
Past, present, future
Present, present, present
Does it make a difference
What we say
What we said
What we will say
Are you here with me?
Instead we are fearful that we will be seen
That All Will Be Revealed
And so we conceal
Forget about being seen
What do you feel?
Are we here?
Do you hear me?
Can we be together?
Hear me as I hear you
Say that, please
Hear me as I hear you
Does it make a difference
What we say
What we said
What we will say
Are you here with me?
Ask me that, please
Repeat it back to me, now
Are you here with me
If I have lost you, I am no longer here
If I was never here, you have lost me
Let's understand that
Let's hear that together
Tell me that
Reverse the terms
Receive me missing

6 August 2011

06 08 2011, Sydney

the pain of time passing
of feeling that it is passed
is unbearable

we feel this time but cannot see it
'signs of change'
have nothing to do with time itself

and everything to do with vain attempts
to fix time to a physicality
a body, a face, a city
to possess it

we will feel them all change,
think we see time's traces,
try to grasp its cruelty,
and why we will never see again as we did
but only feel something is no longer

look at your face
time is not there, engraved

time is beating in your chest
floating about your mind
bleeding from your skin

and one day it will be pulsing through your inert body

26 July 2011

26 07 2011, Sydney


let's see what happens

maybe i don't belong to you, after all, my old lover

ha! what a novel thought!

but, granted, take you away
and i'm starting
here, of all places

which is odd
and 'nonsensical'
and easy (or the opposite)
is it giving up?
or in?

but why not, actually?
why not?

(i lie to myself constantly
but i can't hear what i'm saying
it's all muffled
by endless jetplanes
and chlorinated water)

17 July 2011

17 07 2011, Paris

je suis triste

after nearly a year of parking my Paris bike in the street outside my flat
in one of those bike-parking-lots you see
with a dozen pieces of bent metal
to support all these vehicles
old and new
belonging to all these people
you'll never know
but who all have many different stories
and ways with their bike

tonight I leave my flat
I go to my bike
I unlock it
and it won't move

after nearly a year of this wonderful bike doing (almost) exactly as I tell her
it takes me longer than it should to realise
what's going on !
I scan the chain
the gears
the shift
all looks OK, even if she's seen better days
but she still won't pedal
and I'm bewildered

slowly I realise there is a dent in the metal mud-guard
merde! dents that will not budge despite the attempts of my weak hands
they press into the tire and grip it like defiant scars on otherwise normal skin
scars of an accident
always and ever an accident

I'm sure it meant nothing to the driver
if they even noticed it happen
as they hurried down the narrow, one-way street
towards the inevitable traffic lights that will tell them to
the driver notes nothing but the way to traffic-lights (feux)
but I find - after the fact - a block in the road
or a signal - material as it could be - that the road is changing
must needs change

ce que dire rien pour le conducteur / what means nothing for the driver
signifie beaucoup pour moi / says a lot to me

for one, my plans are changed
I can't go meet my friend and dance as planned
too far, too slow
so plans are changed,
and changed again

for two, how could it not strike me as prescient
that the day before I leave Paris
(in the most official sense to date)
my bike - my always companion during this time here -
permits herself to be intervened with
by one of the larger, more aggressive road vehicles
(who until now, a thousand times, passing by this narrow road, haven't affected her)
while she waited patiently in the bike-parking-lot
for me to collect her
and take her on our way

the red back-light is smashed
all that's left is a tiny little bulb
I imagine it still works
but its reflective casing is non-existent

it feels violent, this random act
that no-one will acknowledge as such
except me
it feels strongly
I feel it too pertinently

l'hasard frappant qui se lie à la verité actuelle

if it was my bike trying to tell me something
it is either:
get out of Paris !
I can't live without you !

so I'm even sadder to leave her in this
lonely, self-sacrificed state

this accident, among many
speaks to me
and gives repercussions
all the more strong
the driver has no idea
and certainly thinks not to it now
while I
not only think
but write, seek answers
by what I term this violent occurrence
but which is nothing more or less
than accident
like all the rest

perhaps I'd be better off heading for traffic-lights
instead of seeing prescience in broken bikes and altered nights

it must be that all is accident or nothing is

15 July 2011

15 07 2011, Paris







6 July 2011

06 07 2011, London



je me suis dit
j'ai plus du temps te donner
j'ai plus de l'énergie te donner
j'ai plus de l'amour te donner
et que maintenant
j'ai envie de la distance que tu m'as toujours offert
à travers tes yeux attentifs
à la fois
je me suis dit
j'aurai toujours du temps te donner
j'aurai toujours de l'énergie te donner
j'aurai toujours de l'amour te donner
et que maintenant
j'ai aucune envie de la distance que j'avais supposé tu m'aies donné
chaque fois il semble que tout soit trop proche au truc-même

chaque fois tu te sens peur (moi aussi, forcement) qu'un jour il faut arrêter le jeu
et se dire:


mais bon
tant pis
pour tout le monde et personne
aujourd'hui n'est pas le jour
ni pour nous, ni pour l'amour

finalement, je me suis dit
c'est que une question du timing
comme toujours
mais, quand même
c'est triste
c'est rien sauf triste

30 June 2011

30 06 2011, London

Strangers in the Night

A series of bars, a series of beautiful faces

Of laughing smiles and glistening white teeth
Of arched brows and over-shoulder glances
Of a wine in the hand, and a cigarette in the other
(Here we take life and death together)

Of cascading conversations about nothing in particular and everything at once
Of enthused introductions and realised connexions
Of witty eyes and generous grins

Of the slow descent into floaty intoxication and communal seduction
Of beautiful goodbyes at the ends of endless nights
Of emerging into the city's breathtaking exactitude from smokey hallucinations

We dreamed it all and we wake up alone
Only to play it all over again, again, again
(Whether in mind or body - it is the same)

Until all that's left is a series of bars
A series of memories
Of deep words and fleeting expressions
Of beautiful faces -
Glowing candlelit, peripheral, with ever-fading edges -
The cold shock of Time
The joyful pain of ecstasy surpassed

The knowledge that all series must end
And that the end was written in those radiant stars
From the first time we think 'beautiful'

29 June 2011

29 06 2011, London

tired and tired
i want to go home
i want to stop
i want a hug
with someone who
just gives it
without expecting
me to be

someone who just loves
like the animal
that i am

that we are

26 June 2011

26/27 06 2011, London

six minutes left

cyber cafe life
headphones fading in and out of functionality

now five

and what did I want to say?
something about something else

in speaking in third person
about something
with someone
with whom the topic is actually first person
with whom the topic is actually yours
one feels the weight of abstraction
the inherent fear -

three minutes -

of revealing that behind the third person
there is a first person
an intimate person
a relationship
something very, very particular indeed

if we could escape our social moulding!

one minute

even in love we are tormented by fear
and if truth is only a dream
abstraction brings it closer

17 June 2011

16 06 2011, Paris

things always seem much lamer in hindsight
either that
or we romanticise them and make them seem much more wonderful
both are lies
to make our lives tolerable

6 June 2011

06 06 2011, Berlin

another sign

during thunder lightning torrential rain storm
where i find the most beauty and reason to smile
kids running

5 June 2011

04/05 06 2011, Berlin

one chooses to read this as one likes

on the first day a beaded Union Jack bracelet falls out of the arm of a lounge chair we are moving

"it's a sign" Florinn says to me

today, whilst exploring a courtyard, I see one lone photo lying on the ground beside a skip bin

I pick it up
it shows the back of a woman
dark-haired, dressed in black
looking at Tower Bridge

"it's a sign" I say to myself

(we generate meaning from events we presume are unrelated in order to give our lives shape and sense
both are delusions
but neither dangerous
unless taken to be necessary instead of chaotic
for the shape and sense of life exists more precisely in the chaotic than in the necessary)

30 May 2011

29 05 2011, Berlin

I live my life
in the assumption
(grounded or not)
that I will be around
in a year's time
to start
living my life

(everything that happens
in the meantime
is preparation)