No Time To Wait In Line

By Moss at Verona on K road

I walked into Verona past the polynesian bartender making idle chit chat with a flame haired broad. She was guarding her icy beers with a watchful eye, they stood like identical twins languishing on the wooden bar. One of the glasses looked slightly shorter as it had been drunk from more. I wondered where the woman's partner had gone, the unknown mans thirst only partially quenched. Upbeat music was being played by a worn out dj propped up on energy drinks. He was fast approaching the end of his poorly attended set. I couldn't place the dj's ethnicity but he looked pleasant enough spinning his last lovesick song of the night. Outside the windows open at the front of the bar framed the drunken passerby's walking some happy, some beautiful, some lost deep in thought. Cruising to the back of the restaurant i found the loo hidden behind a heavily posted corner wall. The stall was remarkably clean, smelling of pine woods yet to be defiled. I was glad my gamble had paid off. Struck with bored inspiration I had ditched the line queuing up at Neck of the Woods. All the ravers on ecstasy or rat poison had suddenly needed to relieve themselves of the excessive amounts of water they had been drinking. I was rather glad not to be one of them as the toilet line was sprawling out for miles like the great wall of china. In a cunning ploy I had torn up the dimly lit stairs in my dark leather boots to get some fresh air. I then wandered down K rd walking slightly faster than usual and was rewarded with a vacant restroom awaiting my arrival. Sometimes things just pan out the way you planned them and it's a glorious feeling.

Drunken Nostalgia

I saw the woman again after many years. After a while she saw me. 

I was only a hairs breathe from her. It was only a couple days out until xmas. 

She was standing neatly amongst the exotic teas surrounded by floral aromas in the St Luke’s tea shop. I remembered her perfectly as a girl from school who 

dyed her hair. Sometimes she would wear to much make-up at all when she

really didn’t have too. Her skin was fair even though she was part maori 

and enjoyed preforming Kapa-Haka. The last time i saw her face must have

seven years or more ago.

In the interim she had become rather plump, but in the most splendid way.

Her bottom always large in my hazy memory was now enormous easily double

if not triple the size of what i recalled. By the grace of God i swear upon your 

beating heart haha I nearly had a heart attack when i saw her turn round.

After a moments with memories performing backstroke in my head I slowly realised 

she was wearing a boring grey jersey around her body. She was trying to conceal 

maybe even restrain her fine  architecturally designed curves. 

I almost chuckled, as if a woman alone could hold back the raging tsunami 

that was her surging femininity. In many ways the woman reminded me of

a deep crush of mine being Nigella Lawson, except the girl now a woman 

was much younger and without a famous name. My thoughts then returned 

to her body to which I  do feel guilty for sexualising without consent or approval. 

Her breasts were round and vast like bumbling twin moons happy and gay in 

each others company. Her nose forever her finest feature remained angular 

and as lopsided as ever, giving her flare and character, one could never hope to

 achieve such asymmetrical beauty with the help of expensive plastic surgery. 

My eyes also noticed how her healthy jawline remained intact as well as her

protruding cheekbones that would easily slice the toughest french baguettes like butter.

When she cast her gaze upon me I sensed she was ill at easy. Insecure in her body, 

she seemed as if she had been through a taxing war of emotional disappointment since last I saw her. I thought wisely about pouncing on herald making trivial chit chat to try re-establish our paper thin high school connection, but was unsure. She seemed slightly 

frightened almost tearful and the last thing i wanted was to bring her dis-comfort.

 If i had talked to her, which In hindsight I should’ve had I not been a coward,  

i would’ve told her in all  sincerity how serenely beautiful she looked the night 

before Christmas eve. Perhaps in my drunken state of mind I may have even rabbited

on about how she looked far more stunning than i remembered her all those years ago

as a skittish snot-nosed girl in the eternal bloom of her youth.

Blocked by a Beautiful Stranger on Instagram

 

I felt a pang of sadness well up inside me when i realised she had blocked me on Instagram. I searched my conscience to filter back through time to see if i had been rude or mean. It came up blank. She had such fine features, Da Vinci himself would've struggled to render her onto white canvas. Her personality was so free spirited and zany. I felt rather devastated. On the scale of past hurts the pain was slight, a mere flesh wound. 

Yet at the same time it felt as if both my arms had been sliced from my body like the black knight from Monty Python.

Deep down I knew she would never know how such a small unthinking act of hers had flattened me. It took extra effort to get out of bed the next morning after being confronted by the bad news that I had been discarded. For all intents and purposes I had been declared surplus to requirements. The woman, someone, I had grown to adore in the most innocent of ways had left.Slowly I realised we were strangers even though we shared the same city and love of burgers. It was obvious now we lived in two vastly different circumstances, our circles would never intersect, unless dumb luck intervened. 

Over the coming days my love for her slowly evaporated 

into the dry cracks of my heart. Then one evening rain clouds gathered outside my window and let down a torrent of rain. I woke up and heard the cry of the wind as I hugged my worn pillow under my blanket. The lack of stars in the next sky only intensified my sadness and irrational sense of loss, and yet I was still glad I had loved her, in my own gentle unsuspecting kind of way. The only way I knew how!

Zombies and Asteroids

Sometimes we all get fatigued and can’t be bothered stepping

down into the muddy cesspit of humanity. Together in groups or alone humans beings become identical when you weigh up  how they live. I believe it was Warhol who said whether your rich or poor Coca-Cola taste equally as good to you. So the woman flaunting her green diamonds is really no different to the poor unwashed beggar sleeping in a bus shelter. Both eat, drink, sleep and have unfulfilled wishes. It's the same with the sunburnt men bickering drunk while smoking expensive cigars in late afternoon. All the fat self-confessed know it alls have absolutely no idea why they're alive, each one knowing far less than the next. 

From a view educated by common sense, almost everyone seems to have the same generic facial expression photocopied across their faces. To hell with these people, impostors, fakes. What is the point of their stupid vacuous lives, like worn plasticine drooping from a rented ceiling they're destined to die like plants left out in the sun to long. No matter how much money they amass or alcohol they consume in time they will perish.

In this super-city of millions, Auckland, the sense of irony is that one can still struggle to find someone to dance or sing with even hold a meaningful conversation. Long gone are the days where courtship flared like lightning over a shared mulled wine in a cheap restaurant. I wouldn't go so far as to say that cerebral conversation was dead. But I would say it was dying, on life support, struggling to pay the bills with the doctors santized finger looming precariously over the white hospital switch. 

    

Drones, zombies, even spitting cobras are transformed into arrogant office workers in the mid-day sun. With their cynical spreadsheets and exotic cups of coffee they mull about as indistinguishable as over-sized ants crushed under the obscene weight of society. The last remnants of their fractured self is liquified by their bosses who control like Hollywood directors every action of there bad acting. Like caged animals bankers, accountants, lawyers all wander back and forth slowly breaking into pieces. Their brains reduced to pink putty ooze out across their new clear desks. The overworked zombies, men and woman alike they all seem so unloved, as if they were tortured in Guantonmo bay with a continuous loop of Eminem songs. After work the all simply fall apart like children's toys discarded and thrown into trash cans everywhere in the CBD. There human emotions bought for a pittance and manufactured and sold back to them in the form of flatscreen tv's with a Netflix's subscription not included. 

I still didn’t want a microscopic thing to do with these Camusian strangers. Even if they were destined to become the unfeeling leaders of our corrupt draconian world. These proletariat lords lingered heavy over me like a symphony of crying rain clouds reducing the world to grey, and yet like soggy unread newspapers the zombies were remarkably beautiful, even necessary to justify the whole of human achievement. For amongst the heaving madness of human society with all its mindless depravity one could still find glass shards of splinted miracles. Time and time again all throughout history a rainbow unicorn or a sharpened needle would be haphazardly tossed into the infinity of space. By the hand of beauty the oldest living Goddes who still breathed in deeply the smoggy air of our blue planet. She alone was truly Unbroken, love, gave life too all and sustained the growing nightmare of life in concrete deserts. Amongst the unfeeling and pitiful human's some rare souls still existed like love propelled asteroid's crashing landing into barren lives with the power to electrify reality.

Merry Christmas

I caught up with Santa Claus earlier in the week. He told me it was a tough parking the sleigh up in the St Lukes car park. Apparently the reindeer weren't happy due to the lack of snow. I asked him if he could give my sweet niece Desdemona a toy for Christmas, he said he would have to check his two lists. I told him if she wasn't on the good list there must've been a mistake! All she wanted for Christmas was a brand new Ferrari so her uncle Mossy could drive her to playgroup, that might've had something to do with it 😂🎄

I heard it was you - Only a Fool would say that

A Place Where Time Never Ends

Stupid Decisions

Colourful Handmade - "Blankets By Ryn"

Baby DeeDee loves her new "Blanket By Ryn" check them out at Blankets by ryn they have heaps of blankets for sale perfect for babies and grown-ups a like. The cosy blankets are handmade with high quality wool in Auckland and are all machine washable so no problems :)          https://www.facebook.com/blanketsbyryn/?fref=ts&hc_location=ufi

Cute baby not included ;) 

https://www.facebook.com/blanketsbyryn/?fref=ts&hc_location=ufi

One Foot in the Underworld

The girl was on drugs. 

She wore all black to disguise the fact

that she was a colourful mess. 

To anyone who had loved her they could 

quickly see the life-force draining from her body. 

Her jaw squeaked and rocked in her face 

struggling to find the middle centre point. 

Her once beautiful pearl white teeth had begun 

to erode at a rapid rate. The cocktail of ingested 

chemicals were turning her teeth a corrosive brown colour,

they looked as if they had been stained overnight by Coca-cola.

More worrying was the state of her petit body 

and the mental diss-array of her mind.

Death was stalking her in Asphodel’s meadow.

To the untrained eye she would simply resemble 

a worthless and detestable drug addict. 

But this wasn’t always so, at one time she had been 

a cherished family friend loved by all, especially 

the hopeful adult children of a certain middle-class family.

She had even been a maid of honour at the first born

daughters wedding. The same woman accelerating towards decline 

had once been the picture of health before being ripped 

down the centre by vice and schizophrenia.

Late one night she crawled into the backyard 

and lay comatose in our purple whicker chair.

She came to our home, the only one she knew

naively offering an assortment of drugs for consumption.

She wanted to trigger off a ballroom tango of 

dopamine and sertonin in the brain of any person 

stupid enough to accept her offer. We all collectively 

refrained from partaking and also judging the wayward soul.

On the contrary the desire to plummet towards death death 

was not upon us with any urgency. Or the need to short circuit the human brain

causing irreparable damage and kaleidoscope mania.

She was in the iron grip of the vortex, struggling to 

differentiate dreams and hallucinations from unwanted reality.

The thought fled through my mind hiding behind a walnut tree

to cast the defenceless incapacitated girl into the night.

I mentally weeped for a moment then thought better of it.

This grown woman had transformed artificially into a child

and had slipped with a thud back into the agony of drugs.

Some bastard Hopper must have supplied her after 

cleaning her small rented room from top to bottom.

Despite her habitually lying haze 

I knew that she needed to be cared for. 

I made her thrice cups of tea and waited

out her long drawn out siege upon the living. 

A peppermint tea was enough to drive her out an hour before midnight.

After chain smoking ten cigarettes in a row  

she decided to wander the streets again looking desperately 

for something she would never find. 

Five hours later she posted before her ramshackle departure 

in eloquent prose:

to my sweetest of devotions. i love you forever....

The Killer in My Dreams

In front of me there’s a smashed in door

with a burnt out body inside.

The killer is scuttling around on the loose.

I can hear his feet padding around noisily.

I steal second and steady my breathing, my thoughts

racing into the recesses of my neocortex.

My desire to survive is overpowering.

This demands that I too my must become a killing machine

to escape this deadly encounter.

The hunt is on and I only know three things about

the assailant. He is male, armed

with a shotgun and has only one

shoulder. His slight of frame allows

him to hide in crevices and slide into

passages most men would get stuck in.

He may be a worth adversary only time will tell.

I will likely need my whole combined strength

mental and physical to take him down.

With a last gulp of metallic oxygen I burst through

the blood covered door shouting. I see him in the corner stunned,

everything turns to slow motion. Gun shots rattle

the walls like a child’s play toy. I am hit twice ripped flesh and blood leaking out my leg like spaghetti, but he lays motionless twitching.

As he lays dying it turns out I only knew two things about him.

He actually had two shoulders the myths and rumours were wrong.

Now he just looked like something resembling week old roadkill.

Who said hunting criminals was hard obviously never did,

the only thing tough about it was not turning into one yourself.

A Wedding a Bouquet and a Second Marriage

My sister caught the weathered bouquet at my fathers second wedding. 

She smiled with glee as she proudly won the assortment of red and white

roses. The laughing sunlight perfectly reflected the ridiculous nature of the occasion.

My Dad was head over heels at the ripe old age of sixty-three. It was funny to see

him tumbling down and falling in love again and again.Thank god he had recovered

from his grief of losing our mother. His loving heart had found another to satisfy

his real need to be loved, he was unhappy otherwise.

On the other side of the dance floor I saw my younger sister fawning over her new

boyfriend. She was staring deep into this eyes, her head a buzz of serotonin and 

dopamine. Of all the men she had brought home to meet the family this one took

the cake by a country mile. He reeked of garlic had a stupid crooked nose and worked

at some random sewage plant. In many ways he wasn't dissimilar to Homer Simpson

except infinitely more unlikeable. Thankfully he was slightly more intelligent than the Simpson patriarch, a lesser intellect than Homer in the family would be very hard to stomach. If you could imagine a skunk run over and served up on a plate of garlic 

your almost halfway toward realising what the new boyfriend smelt like. 

I despised the man but accepted him purely for my sisters sake. I couldn't bear

to see any of my family members unhappy so I always tried my best not to judge

what made them happy. 

Even Dad's new bimbo of a wife had her good points all you had to do was block

out her gargantuan plastic tits. Dad sure was happy bless the old sod. In stark contrast

I was feeling a bit flat so I got up and stretched my rusty limbs out. Then I haphazardly

wandered over to the green punch bowl in my new pinstripe pants that coiled too tightly

around my legs like black snakes. I still couldn't quite bring myself to join a gym. 

Mildly irritated and half-drunk the raucous sounds of the wedding really started

to grate on my nerves. Next thing you know the bloody folk band starts up, God I hated

Dad's taste in music. I imagined getting a mega-phone out and screaming at the

top of the lungs to play anything but what they were currently playing. 

Somehow I managed to withhold the urge to kick the lead singer in the balls. 

To steady my nerves I had a gulp of the formally non-alcoholic punch from an unused tumbler. I was glad I had spiked the punch even if it was a sin. A strong hint of white rum rippled through the fruit juice like a dangerous crocodile. I wanted to spice up the place and 

get people feeling a bit naughty. I felt slightly bad for all the unwitting alcoholics who would unknowingly be drinking away their sobriety, but I couldn't please myself and everyone too. As fast as the guilt appeared it dissolved. I raced off to the dance-floor my spirits refreshed ready to dance with the rest of the family. 

Pangs of a Poetess

Pangs of a poetess
Afraid to love
With broken words
and fragmented sentences
She hated herself 

Always choosing a simile
Over a smile
How all her words came out wrong
In a rebellious rage
She aimed to dominate
all her ideas upon a page 

But it was useless
To no avail
How could a true poet
Give up on the quest for love? 

For somewhere
Out there
In treacherous lands
A future beloved
could be heard
singing her name 

Travelling miles
dreaming of little else
carrying only
A passionate desire
to love her
some how

Bob Marley the Forklift Driver

Crashing around Rotovegas

I went down the luge in Rotovegas earlier in the week. I had a real need for speed in the 3 wheel gravity propelled go-kart. But I took one turn too sharp at break neck speed and crashed into the barrier. My whole body jolted to the side and it felt like I was going to be thrown out of the humble vehicle with its wheels wailing. My friend Si was upahead going blatt out. He turned around at about a million miles an hour when heard the jarring crash. He thought we had a man down, but I was totally fine. Although my ego was severely deflated like a hot air ballon haha I coasted down the track for the remainder of the run 😂 Thankfully I recovered and was back to breaking the sound barrier in the next race 🏁 👌

The Burning Pits by Joseph Hickman (2016) - How Trash Poisoned U.S Troops in Iraq

Sad state of affairs. Military bases in Iraq and Afghanistan were built on contaminated ground. Remnants of mustard gas and chemical weapons poisoned civilians in Iraq and American troops. KBR a subsidiary of Halliburton a U.S company who was paid billions by the U.S government courtesy of the tax-payer caused mass fatalities. KBR operated 'the burn pits' that burnt all the U.S armies trash in open fire dug out holes. The trash pits burnt 24/7 and the poisonous plume started causing severe respiratory problems. Soldiers and civilians lungs were all irrevocably and unnecessarily damaged leading to mass cancer outbreaks and disability. This all happened because KBR and Halliburton operated the "the burn pits" with no regard for any form of regulations or testing. 

The plume smoke and the ground dug up for the trash pits was never monitored or tested for carcinogens or adverse health affects. One particular sad story is about a very young soldier who was posted in Iraq. He complained to his commanding officers about the smoke affecting his battalion form the burning of U.S trash and was rubbished. He stood in a guard post tower for 365 days 12 hours a day. He never saw any rebels. But the poisonous smoke from the burning trash pits would cause him great distress everyday. His lungs would splutter and his throat would become inflamed and feel like it was on fire. After ending his monotonous tour of duty 2 years later he died of brain cancer with full blown respiratory problems. He had never had any bad health until shipping out to Iraq. He is one of thousands of soldiers termed 'delayed casualties' who die after going to war. He received no help or financial aid from the U.S government and the VA who help veterans with health problems. 

The U.S government has not yet acknowledged how it killed and maimed its own soldiers by allowing KBR to win the trash disposal contract without any competition. Meanwhile in Iraq the cancer tolls increased by 15% due to the invasion and war on terror killing thousands due to magnesium and dangerous chemicals burnt in the pits and breathed in by citizens. Iraqi nationals are to scared to have children now due to birth defects on a scale dwarfing Japan's problems from the fallout from the atomic bombs. Good read. Had no idea about this problem. War is never just in my opinion. Especially when the ones signing the bills into law do not fight in the wars they create. Currently only a 5th of the U.S senate have any military experience, and only 1% of U.S politicians children are fighting in American wars currently.

Mixing and making records!!

Mixed a song today - got the thumbs up when I played it to Volita. Excited to see I'm getting better at mixing after being severely humbled 😂 Learning to be more subtle with e.q. Also starting to slowly start using compression again. I really enjoy the interplay with the kick and bass line when mixing. Getting the vocals to sound the best they can be is also important. De-cluttering all the middle spectrum audio that builds up in the mix is great. Thinning out guitars and percussion kick ass too. Working with the brass instruments has also been a real learning curve on the record in working on. Gonna be finishing this record soon. Happy days 😄🙌🎤🎼

Reading John Fante - Ask the Dust, Wait Until Springtime, Arturo Bandini

Two books 📚 into this writer John Fante. His poetic ramblings are psychologically insightful. I preferred his first book "Wait until Springtime, Arturo Bandini" to the overhyped "Ask the Dust". However, I throughly enjoyed his famous book about L.A as well. His writing is poetic, like movies 🎥 projecting in the vivid matrix of the human mind. It's also nice to read about an Italian writer battling it out in America. Fante has a distinctive voice. You feel the emotion of the characters in his writing. One can easily relate to the pain and anguish of the anonymous people he writes about. His books are first and foremost about the subjective experiences of living life. There is a strong existential (philosophy of existence) theme running through his books. Questions surrounding religious faith and atheism are constantly simmering under the surface. The philosopher Nietzsche is cited in his works. The "death of God" stalks his characters constantly. Fante like Nietzsche seems obsessed with human suffering. Fante's stories are played out in a godless world 🌎 where faith is mocked and fundamentally prized at the same time. Intricacies, contradictions, suffering and euphoria are all themes that permeate this writers thoughts. There is also a strong sense of 'the will to power', the metaphysical foundation of Nietzschean thought. That above all human beings desire power, success and expansion of the self. This is seen in the desire and will of the writer to become famous in "Ask the Dust", here is a man willing to sacrifice everything for greatness 🙌 thanks to my Dad for putting me on to Fante. Cool stuff 😎

I Want to Laugh in the Face of Death

i want to laugh in the face of death 

get inked up, dead man walking across my chest 

I want to laugh so loud that my face turns red 

scream so hard that my cat drops dead

you see, im passing through, so how bout you

with our bodies worn no sign of youth

destined to become what we always knew

like worms in the soil twisting and turning

a stupid rusty screw loose in your head 

waiting to maybe take you on that fateful dance 

a long slow waltz

with deaths hand gripping your beautiful ass

your drowning in black and white

while i'm freezing in multi-colour baby

of all the sweet joys of life 

imagine music lost and unheard

For on your fatal day, betwixt two worlds

suddenly abruptly rudely wrenched from your dreams

one finds the world not destroyed but continually reborn

for what is crushed in an instant  

is destined to eternally recur 

Phill Goff has no mandate to be Mayor of Auckland - 39.5 % voter turn out to LOW

Good work everyone great to see Aucklamd is making a stand and deciding not to vote in the latest local body election. Hopefully we can get it down to 35% voter turn out next mayoral election. Currently we're sitting pretty on 39.5% so we're well on our way. Voting is a system that strips away all political expression from everyone living in Auckland. Year in year out we see career politicians like Phill Goof elected to run OUR affairs that the rate payer funds. I have a modest television I mean dream were we can drive down voter participation so low that we can force change in the way our city is run by the council and all those slimy beaurcrats wasting money and achieving fuck all. It really cheers my spirits to see people abandoning voting it is just veiled oppression of the people by big money and national political interests. If voter turn out isn't at 50% it should be declared a vote of no confidence by the public basic bloody stuff. Phill Goff does not have a mandate from the people to make OUR decisions on how to run the city to be blunt he needs to jog on and crawl back underneath that red Tory rock we all paid for!

http://www.radionz.co.nz/news/political/315243/low-turnout-prompts-online-voting-rethink

Aaron Smith Illegally Recorded in Disabled Toilet - Legal Argument from Jeremy Bioletti

The recording of All Black Aaron Smith and the woman he 

allegedly had sex with in a Christchurch Airport toilet raises

the important issue of whether the recording may have been

a crime under the privacy provisions of the Crimes Act.

According to media reports a person directly outside the

disabled toilet where the incident occurred used a cell phone 

to make an audio recording of the activity that was occurring. 

This apparently “left no doubt as to what was occurring.”

Although I have not heard the recording it may well be that

communications occurring between the two people involved 

were captured by way of the recording.  Clearly at no stage 

were they interrupted to inquire as to whether they consented

to being recorded.

Part 9A of the Crimes Act defines crimes against personal privacy.

Section 216A defines various terms used in the offence provisions

of the act. Under Section 216A intercept includes in relation to a

private communication to record the communication while it is

taking place. Obviously here a recording took place.

 An interception device includes any electronical device that is 

capable of intercepting a private communication. 

The cell phone used on this occasion is clearly such a device.

The section defines private communication which means

a communication (whether in oral or written form or otherwise)

made under circumstances that may reasonably be taken

 to indicate that any party to the communication desires 

it to be confined to the parties to the communication; but

(b)

does not include such a communication occurring in circumstances

 in which any party ought reasonably to expect that the 

communication may be intercepted by some other person

 not having the express or implied consent of any party

 to do so.

As the activity occurred in the disabled toilet it may well be that 

the door was closed and the particular space was sealed off. 

Disabled toilets are usually a self-contained space within the

 toilet block. This would indicate a desire by the parties

 that any communication be confined to the parties and 

that there was no reasonable expectation that the

 communication would be intercepted.

Lastly under section 216A a party is defined as any originator

 of the communication and any person intended by the

originator to receive it.

Accordingly  party is an intended party to the communication

. The person recording the activity on his cellphone 

was not a party to the communication.

In this instance a private communication may  have been intercepted.

Section 216B of the Crimes Act  makes it an offence liable to

 imprisonment for a term not exceeding 2 years to intentionally 

intercept any private communication by means of an interception

 device.Section 216C makes it an offence to disclose a private 

communication or the substance meaning or purport of the 

communication of it or any part of it which has been unlawfully 

intercepted if you know it has come to your knowledge through

 an unlawful interception.

The actions of the person who made the recording and the media 

who publicised it may constitute a crime. Certainly the consequences

 for Aaron and his former partner have been severe. The woman involved

 whilst anonymous at the moment will be suffering from being hunted

 by the media and if identified may well suffer serious personal consequences.