A Fine Dead Sound

An exploration of Australian slang

oi cunt, whadaya doing mate, fuck yeah, totes defs, shit bro, the fuck, holy crap, yeah boy, shitting bricks, so hot, get outta town, what a joke, that wanker, are you fucking kidding, fuck me, pass the goon, do you want a stubbie, how about a sanga, boz, baz and bez, takin ya kids to the water park are ya, what a hoon, bloody hell, nah mate, on the rag, doin a dump, gettin trollied, how bout a telly, barbie and kanga-banga.

His whistle stayed with me as I got off the train and I feared he discovered a way to disembody his voice and implant it in my head. He had such a smile on his face. It didn't quieten until the doors closed. It echoes as the tune plays out in my voice while he, probably giggling over the torment, would be in Neukölln by now.

Frankie Teardrop

David is lying in his bed with no lights on. A breeze comes in through the window and his skin tightens. He feels his penis recede inside himself. He checks his pulse and breathes deeper. And he shuts his eyes. He drags his fingers across his scalp, picking the skin that grows around the follicles. A grey hair becomes stuck under his nail. He fondles the short, coarse strand for a while and pulls it until it snaps. David hasn’t left his bed for days, his legs are itchy and he would see dust on the navy sheets if he turned on the light. He can see into a bedroom across the street, the curtain half drawn. The light switches on, slightly pink.

Debbie holds her breath, her insides stand up and walk to the window but her flaccid muscles won't move her body. She clenches her sphincters and breathes out more carbon dioxide her lungs could hold. She walks to the window and brushes her hair, from the bottom up. The ends snap off and cling to her tights and dandruff dances gently. She pulls the leftover hair out of the bristles, wraps it around itself and puts it in her mouth. The souls of her feet sweat.

David puts on a Suicide record because it makes him feel sexy. He takes off his shirt and throws it on the floor with the other shirts. He can feel Debbie looking at him looking at her through the walls. ‘Frankie,’ he yells, ‘Oh Frankie.’ His stomach gurgles so he pulls out the gun he keeps in there. He throws it on the floor with the other guns. He flicks his hand towards the wall and the acid sticks to the paint, bringing up the blue layer beneath the white. His stomach settles.

Debbie pulls out the wet hair and her saliva slops down her chin. She can hear the constant bass through the glass, 'let's hear it for Frankie'. A hair has wrapped itself around her uvula so she gags, spit covering the floor, clinging to the split ends that have fallen from her legs. Some urine leaks onto her underpants as she convulses.

David takes off his pants. He walks to the window and lights a candle, illuminating his stomach for her. He stretches the skin around his belly button and pries it apart with his nails. He wraps the flame around his spine and it licks up to the cervical vertebrae, setting the atlas on fire. He ties up the wound using his pubic hair and strokes it lovingly. The light follows his digestive system, masticating in between his teeth, down through the epiglottis into the stomach; it lights up the gastric juices, bubbling in the intestines. He shits the light out and blows it out the window, across at Debbie.

Debbie holds eyes with the light, and watches it seep into the night. She smiles at his darkened room. She takes off her still damp underpants and pushes them under her hospital-cornered bed. Her blonde hair unfurls. She throws it across the empty space between the rooms and David catches it with his teeth. He ties it to a nail and climbs over.

David's eyes glint with bewilderment, unsure where to look first. Her nipples smile at him. They stand and stare at each other, hearts pounding with Suicide. He looks at her long toes and she looks at his tightening jaw. Their breaths cling to the air, staring at each other with the same gaze. Their eyes lock and the conicals twist out and around each other, desperate to find each others insides.

Debbie feels his abdomen spasm and semen pool under her arch. He doesn't notice her muscles contracting but can hear her breath quicken. When their eyes separate he is standing at his window, grasping the cool metal frame. Debbie smiles at him and turns off her light.

David lays down on his bed and checks his pulse. He dreams of her red lips and pink tongue. 'Frankie's lying in hell'.

Today I received a smiley vest in the mail and other than that my headis blank

If things came into my head I would write them down, but all I can think about it the clicking noises that cockroaches make and the plastic arms that find themselves where my usual arms are and when i scratch my face I can't feel any pressure on my fingers and I scratch them and it's like air. I think about hair growing around my vagina and where it comes from and I think about how much I love my vagina until it starts ripping me up from the inside and I think about the blood stains on the floor boards. I think about how no one wants to admit that they do poos that probably smell. I think a lot about my insides and wonder when they will stop working, when they will hang out with the rest of my skin, breathe the stale smoke and get too drunk and flail their flesh into the air. I think about how fantastic it feels to take my bra off, because, well, fuck bras. I think about how cool I want to be, and how life is really just too hard sometimes, because, well, what the hell is going on. I think about having sweaty feet and how sweaty they are now and how I like to rub them on the crinkled sheets. I think about living in the walls and I think about a Möbius a lot. I could write all that down, but it will just come out horrible and contrived and I'll hate myself for it. ;)

If I wrote it all
like a poem
I would probably
like it less
because i'm sorry but
i don't get poems
I can't read them
or write them

(see)

I really have to urinate. Wee. Tinkle. Take me kids to the water park. You get it. I think my interest in scatology scares people. Te.he. I'm going to whiz now.

edit: I still haven't gotten up to pee yet.

edit: in case you didn't believe me

edit: I can't believe this is me writing as a sober person

there's a trail of my vomit all over sydney
and a trail of my blood all over berlin
by the time i get home i'm going to be an empty skin
but then i can fit in a pocket