sixes & sevens

apart from sticking a needle in my arm back in the 60’s, this would have to be the stupidest thing i’ve ever done. so as a welcome change from the me we’ve all grown to hate, i’m not going to fix this fuck up. nope. i’m going to run. pack up and run because it’s been far too long since i’ve felt the lust for life and had oxygen cravings. i want to buzz again. buzz like neon – nah, neon is so overrated. it’s bright, but it only entertains for so long. the humming is too consistan with neon lights. i want to buzz like fridge- you can find hidden melodies at four am when the motor from the fridge hums and the glass jars inside clangs against their neighbours. the buzzing of a fishtank? the filter buzzes, right? stupid goldfish… i hate them so much and i make a point of telling them everyday. that instant of hatred and passion i feel when i abuse those poor little ugly goldfish, i wanna feel that non stop. i dont want to be like my ashton guitar that detuned itself from lack of use, i want to be like my fender strat, with broken stricks, chipped headstock and scratched body from too much wear and tear. so anyway, i’ve dallied off track as usual, but hey things are like that for us war vetrans, we can’t seem stop losing our place. hey- let me out of this place, im out of place, im in outer space, i’ve just vanished without a trace. i’m going to a pretty place now where the flowers grow, i’ll be back in an hour or so. possibly. no, definately maybe. my ex band mates were reminding me about that time i got arrested for pulling my dick out on stage. that was a laugh. god iwant to be hated. i want to be known and hated so bad. not in a dubbya kinda way, though. i want to be like iago, you love hating him. to tell you the truth, i always dreamed of being a wonderkid – done with all that adult bullshit by the time i was sixteen. well as we all know, that didn’t exactly work out as planned. twenty seven is such a magical number…. beautiful if you ask me. but you’re not, because people dont ask me, they tell me, and i tell them back, which usually ends up in my finding solace in twenty seven. [i wish i knew casey donovan.] i wish chris martin would put a paper bag over his head, it’d make coldplay twenty seven times the band they already are. bands suck. their music is good, but bands themselves are crap. i wish i had a sixteen transylvanian horse powered car so i could run over every loser in a band who acts like craig, brian, thom, jim, julian, karen, pete (enter about a thousand other lead singers). lead singers are all trying to be jesus. and we all know jason gillespie is the reincarnation in J.C. its logical – jason is the aussie version of jesus. he has martyr like hair also. i wonder, if ikea made a cross, would the j-man have to assemble it himself? whoa – all those trips from back in the 70’s have friend my brain. im like a tame ozzy osbourne. im kinda stuck in electroclash, synthesisers and bad visual effects because this 80’s resurgance is taking over like the fucking plague. i must’ve missed the memo that went around telling everyone to run for cover. i must’ve been where ever i was when they were handing out consistency. most likely distracted by some shiny object. this is kind of like when i seized power during the russian revolution – i had no idea what was going on and i keep thinking about nailing pigeons to skatboards…