Monday 23 May 2022



Roll on wetlands;

roll on Burke

and roll on Wills

—needles in shapes of sites and statues

and info centres

pumping you with life-blood still;


roll on sunsets over oceans

—my first since Adelaide.


I planned on heading south

but the road is largely westward.

The Mormons knew it. The cowboys knew it.

McCandless knew it.

He died, but don’t we all?

In many ways

we live forever.


Throw a dart to the right of Katherine,

the left of Cooktown,

aiming low.

There’s Karumba and sunset over ocean

and miles from Ravenshoe and minutes to spare  

between the setting up of camp and the jog to the point.


Until tomorrow, Helios,

sinking beneath the sea at Henley Beach

and the Gulf

of Carpentaria all at once.


Opposite ends of Oz

and opposite ends of my life

together for a few

exquisite minutes.

Wednesday 18 May 2022

Bumbling through


What of the memories?

They're photos to others

but shots of my soul

to me.

Often I feel I left it there

and there.

But it's never mine to lose.

By grace, I've been but 



to my soul

as I've been bumbling through.

Sunday 15 May 2022

Western culture's relationship with Western mainstream media - an essay

I think we can all understand that none of us can be sure about anything at all, at the heart of it. So the default position should be, if any is taken at all, skepticism. About everything.

We should be especially skeptical of mainstream political and cultural views because they are especially vulnerable to falling into a kind of trance-like mass formation. All of us are prone to just fall in line whilst at the same time grab onto the easiest thing that gives our life meaning.

This can be seen in Western culture's relationship with Western mainstream media. I could be completely wrong, however I can imagine that in many other parts of the world, a greater majority of people would understand that their mainstream media is essentially propaganda. On all sides. Whether they agree with the regime and its media mouthpiece or they don't, each side would basically understand the compromised nature of mainstream media. I reckon so anyway.

However, tragically enough, amongst so much of Western society we believe that mainstream media is independent of the administration beneath which it operates.

Even if there was a remote possibility that this is true, then all that could be said is that Western mainstream media instead directs the regime (a Curtis Yarvin idea). In any case, this would at least make its constituent parts completely non-independent of thought as they instead viciously push ideology, as they obviously do.

It's probably even more accurate to suggest that mainstream Western politics and mainstream Western media sit and eat at the same metaphorical table, where everyone is equally set on trying to get a piece of the pie or at least maintain their seat. Here, you'll also find the financial players, the defence industry as well as academia. That's not to say it's all some sort of masterminded organised get-together. Perhaps it is, although I have my doubts. No, it simply operates in a loose kind of rhythm where everyone unconsciously plays their part and contributes to a loosely organized way of things. That's the story of history and the story of the way in which human beings generally organise themselves everywhere and anywhere.

And it's how the so-called 'intellectual' class in the West is so drastically out of touch with reality and seems to drone along without any real pioneering thought. By the time I had completed my Masters degree and had been bashed over the head with all the cultural Marxism you can think of, it was clear to me that we are at the regressive stage of our Empire. If anyone is thinking of going to university to study the humanities, then in my opinion absolutely do not. I would caution against social sciences too. My thoughts are that these are indoctrination grounds that unfortunately also afflict the next group of teachers coming through that then pile the cultural Marxism on their students in primary and secondary school. Love to all my teacher friends. I obviously speak in general terms. The pressure on teachers to follow a certain program, at least outside of home-schooling - which I totally recommend - is off the charts anyhow.

Instead of going to university, do a trade or at least keep to engineering, and in the meantime build parallel economy, parallel community and parallel culture.

Meanwhile, regime branches such as what I believe to be dying academia will continue to be reflected in the toxicity of the monotonous machine-like western mainstream media, which will over and over again hold the exact same views across the board. This is apparent in the media's one-directional Marxist push with regards to the culture wars, in the lockstep coverage on lockdowns and vaccine mandates, and in the tone-deaf and one-dimensional take on the Russia-Ukraine conflict. The latter is actually incredibly complicated and layered. It's better summarised as a continuation on the Ukrainian front of the Washington-Russia conflict.

The 2020 U.S. election forced me to question if there is election integrity in the west, as the election seems to have been so obviously rigged. If you haven't yet, watch Dinesh D'Souza's recent '2000 Mules' documentary c/o the Rumble video-sharing platform. However, in general, with the way in which much of the Western eye seems to put an almost theological and religious gaze on its mainstream media, many elections would never even need to be rigged for this ridiculous and preposterous regime to continue to chug along anyhow. Sad enough.

Best to remain skeptical then. Of everything. Including of what you read here. And never ever ever believe a word of the propaganda.

Much love from a rooftop tent up in Northern Australia!

Tuesday 10 May 2022

Not much has changed - an essay on the course of history

Things change so radically and yet they remain totally the same. All of us are doing our best. Just humans doing our best. However it's worth remembering that the priestly class of the Middle Ages, along with its subjects, thought they were oh so much more intelligent than those Pagan simpletons that came before. It's worth remembering the Pagans themselves would have laughed at those that came before them, too. And now of course the oligarchs that run our world, along with their own subjects, laugh at all such apparently silly and backwards people of yesterday.

Unfortunately then, each generation including our own is doomed to repeat the same mistakes as have always been made because, understandably so, they seem to find it difficult to escape their pride and identify their own bullshit. Each new empire, instead, heralds in the new dawn. Each new age with its new ideas. But the contemptible hubris exposes the weak underbelly.

Our society is simply no different to those that came before. No worse perhaps, but certainly no better. Docility continues to offload responsibility to centralised power structures whose sole claim to apparently justifiable power is that they, eg., have a monopoly on access to 'the science' (whatever the hell that means). This all follows the same all-too-human pattern as when the priestly class of the Middle Ages had a monopoly on access to God (again, whatever the hell that means).

Of course, nothing and nobody has a monopoly on access to truth. Myself included. It seems a righteous system - if one existed - might recognise the naturally fallen state of humanity, each person being capable of doing wrong. It might recognise that power is thus necessarily dispersed over the widest possible surface area. It might recognise that centralising power - in the way we do and the way we have - never provides a monopoly on access to truth but only amplifies evil. Contemporarily, we see this with the tyranny of injection mandates and their widespread moral and social costs, but really this is just one example. Another is reflected in the Marxist push within the culture wars; another in the destructive propaganda we are force fed and beholden to when it comes to the conflict in the Ukraine.

We gotta enjoy the ride when and where we can though. It's even kinda funny sometimes. At least when you can look at it all objectively, even if only for moments at a time.

I mean like, you know, whatever.

Sunday 8 May 2022

A hostel in Cairns


Stepping in and hitching

on the wheels of savings,

now in a hostel in Cairns.


I’m 35 this year. 35.

That mean something?

It sounds like it should

in a hostel in Cairns.


Over dinner,

beneath gazebos,

beside dorms,

I wanna tell this couple

not to do it.  

Perhaps return to Scotland, kids.

Get some land in a sleepy town.

Give us stacks of babies

and feel the warmth of it all:

the dog at your feet,

the child in your arms,

the love in your bed.


Ya really wanna break each other down?

Think of the honey,

the toast

and morning porch

you built with your mates.

Don’t be charmed by the road

—the first temptation of many.

Go back.


Do I even believe that though?

Do I?


Too late anyhow.

We’re here.

Adults of the adolescence.

Was it worth it in the end?


Maybe not.

Too late anyhow.


I’m 35

in a hostel in Cairns.

Life’s canyon has roared

with torrents,


so much song,

so much noise

coming up to 15 years.

For now

it’s emptied out.

Trickles down escarpments

here and there;

thunder far away.

A hostel in Cairns.


I stare at the ceiling before the lights go out

and think of the Scottish couple

and hope they make it.







Sunday 1 May 2022

A selection of past and present


Don’t talk


Don’t talk of gender

or of sex.

Don’t talk it out

at all events.


Don’t talk of him.

Don’t talk of me.

Don’t stand

for masculinity.


Don’t talk ideas.

Don’t ask for proof.

Don’t be so brash

to ask for truth.


Don’t talk of drugs

or family.

Just bark the word,



Don’t talk free speech

or liberty.

Just bark the word,



Don’t talk about

South Africa.

You shut your mouth!

Don’t act bizarre.


Don’t talk about

the media

or Marxist



Don’t think it through.

Don’t be that chump.

Just sing along

to “I hate Trump!”


Just do what you’re

supposed to do.

You know the drill.

There is no you.


There is no God.

There was no Fall.

In fact, you’d best

not talk at all.



Remembering Whitman


You sang the body electric.

We sing the body sinful.


O graybeard, O Walt,

to talk of the white-blow and delirious juice,

the jets of love hot and enormous,

the woman and man,


would at one time cause storm,


now it causes politics.


O father of America, O poet of the body,

how would you observe us?

We who’ve turned flesh to words

and words to wars between

woman and man, between

body and soul, between

history and culture, between

sight and desire.


O Walt, O song of the fires and rains,

the black and the white,

the organ and spirit,

what flag would you raise in the culture war?

I’d think the flag of a Taoist Americana;

a lucid flag

—no, a translucent towel of a Taoist Americana

you’d set upon the sands of the Golden State

to get brown on;

sunbathing, naked, your beard, your masculinity,

the air, the animals, the women and men

singing the body electric

and soul electric

whilst beyond the world destroys itself

with words

and politics.


O graybeard, O Whitman,

uniting the states of being

in our world of severance.


The world would likely reject you now

with that beard and masculinity,

your body electric,

your body alive

and unapologetically free,

in brazen love-grip with a soul in love with life.


O Walt, O rugged individual,

accountable as much in love as in hatred,

loving love as much as hating hatred.

O wind and rain and surf and saliva,

O sun-bleached body,

O woman, O man, O human soul,

O joy of love-grip and the juices of life.

Your redwood, Walt,

your moose.

Your deserts, your canyons, Walt,


as we all embark on that numinous path

that none can wander for us. 



Now and then


We were up in the freezing hills,


warm in our little room,


as the morning stumbled in.


You were at the window.

A sparkle of light came

falling across your breasts.


There you stood,

aflame in panties and womanhood,

soon to return to me.


There are countless men

—all compete for bits of light,

all are forgotten,

all drag some chain or other.


But as you stood before me

—the morning fallen across your breasts—

I recalled that, now and then, a man will catch a break


and the chains won’t feel so heavy,

like they’re not

even there

at all.



I was you


I was you

and you were me

and that’s the way we wrapped ourselves in love


—our silken case


that hatched a memory

flying back to me from time to time.


Though love did not survive,

it didn’t die

but grew the wings of

something else I need not understand


that flies to me from time to time


to reassure, to let me know it never died


then sails away,

thanking me, I’m sure, for having let it go.






I miss you

though I’ve not yet left.



Venice Beach beneath

a burning, blasting sun.


My burning heart for you,


How long can you withstand?



buses and deserts







Oklahoma, suburbs

and questions, America.

Fears for you

in my churning gut.



just how

will they loot your legacy?



Texas and longhorns

and NFL with pizza.

Jazz and sweat

in New Orleans

and dirty secrets

of a city

that sweats on a port.



so confidant.


I fear for you.


The mob attacks

the shining city upon a hill.

They want to clean you out.

They need to clean their rooms.



the mirror in our rooms

reflecting the image

we see in ourselves.



you fought the Crown

then fought yourself.


Warrior, liberator

in dark nights of the soul,

you’re Booker T.,

you’re General Patton.


Are you on your knees,


—Your history, your anthem, your children




if you go

we go.



you’re strange afflictions like CNN.

But more,

you’re founding father,

you’re proud father

coming home from work. 

Enslaver but, much more,

emancipator; you’re a people

that shine a light upon a hill.



you’re the stretched fabrics

of all the world has sewn


and yet remain

the best we’ve known.



My mate and I left lovers


My mate and I left lovers

and hit the road.


On mountaintops we worked it out.

We marched back home

ready to love our girls.


We dropped our bags and told them we’d commit.


They dropped their eyes and turned away


and said they needed space.


Funny, really; that’d always been my line.


It made sense.

Love has a left and a right

but little else.


But oh how we dance:

She in, me out,

me in, she out,

around and around the pillar of love

that ceases to exist

once we take our eyes off our lover

and onto the pillar of love.


We amble by back roads

searching for the corpse of god,

flail down the rabbit holes,

try instructions but

plunge through darkness


and that’s why we love each other


for we can’t completely love each other

the way we’d like to think we can

—on this we all relate

on levels more unconscious.


So we pull away,

so the dance.

But I know she tried.

I tried too.


My mate and I came home

and the girls—well—

they gave us just what we deserved.

But it’s just the dance.

Perhaps it’s what we’d hoped for

all along.



Little sparrow in my heart


Little sparrow in my heart,

seems as if we soon will part.

Stay inside for some time more,

though your flutters make me sore.


Little sparrow, chant your tune.

Seems as if you’re leaving soon.

Break my heart just one more day

for the girl that’s gone away.


Little sparrow, when you leave,

taking with you all I grieve,

take the ache within my chest.

Wait before you take the rest.


Leave me with the thought of her

long enough to feel it stir.

Little sparrow, then you may

take it all and fly away.