A lot of good people
Pushing on through the rain
Painting whimsical rainbows
With impossible pain

Searching for salvation
Searching for love
Searching for a safe place to dream

A lot of bad people
Killing joy for money
Killing peace for kicks
Pissing on batteries in the name
Of righteous indignation

I got a whole suitcase full of madness
Demons and monsters instead of brain cells
I got more pain in my bugged out head
Than any one man should have to bear

But just for today
I’m going to get myself quietly shitfaced
And keep trying to devise
The spaced out alchemical algorithm

That will convert all this excess emotion
Small oil tankers of pain
Freight trains packed full of anger
Convert all this shit to Shinola
And keep polishing the blues



On Being Broke

Broken inside but still ticking
No way of knowing
Where this train is going

So many dangerous words
Dangerous thoughts
Evil beckons slyly

For a chance
To flower

Poison dripping
Into my soul

I would have to save this whole awful world
To make a dent in my perfect wrongness

Or just go away
Quickly and quietly
Before doing any more harm


Sometimes I’m up, sometimes I’m down


I have a confession to make. I sometimes listen to the Carpenters. In fact I’m listening to Rainy Days and Mondays right now. In polite company I probably wouldn’t admit this – would rather reference Jimi Hendrix’s Manic Depression. But, well sometimes I need to cry, and Karen just seems to turn on the waterworks best.

Manic depression or, as those with a more dispassionate scientific idiom prefer, Bipolar disorder, is not everyone’s cup of tea. Definitely not for sissies. And, the ubiquitous studies have shown, can be fatal if untreated. Fatal in the sense that between 15 and 17 percent of sufferers choose suicide as their preferred mode of getting the fuck outta here.

So what kind of lunatic would choose to experience it. Choose to soar the heights and plumb the depths at the whim of an unstable neurochemical environment.

Well this kind of lunatic for one. And for the sake of the scientists amongst you I’d like to try and explain why. Well maybe not for the scientists because they’re a famously unsentimental bunch. Perhaps just for the closet Carpenter fans out there.

When I take my medication everything is grey. Don’t get me wrong, grey is ok, but it’s never going to be the new black. And it’s definitely not colourful. Not black, not white and not colourful. Actually fuck grey. I’ll leave it for the accountants.

When I’m up I’m a ninja. Or a Jedi. I can do anything. Well yes, if I’m up I would say that but what’s the evidence? Well, for example, I can get the job, or get the job done, get the girl, steal the show, charm a corpse or even an accountant and solve some pretty major philosophical problems. All before breakfast.

And have. Every major achievement in my life has been stolen from pandora’s manic box. Oy – that’s a horrible mixed metaphor. Should have categorised this as NSFW.

But honestly I’ve done some pretty rad shit from a position of manic invulnerability.

So. What’s the problem, you ask? Well it’s the old Icarus effect innit? Not a pretty sight – like Wile E. Coyote when he looks down and realises that he’s running on air. If he could just learn to not look down. If I could learn to just not look down.

But those magic neurochemicals that open pandora’s box don’t give a fuck about my sanity, my mood, my usefulness to the world. And when they turn, they turn 180 degrees. Stop on a dime and all that is pure and true and fluffy and light suddenly turns to deep dark drek. And it’s hello abys my old friend, wonder how deep the hole will be when I land.

How many friendships will I have irreparably burned? How much money will I have burned. People let down, possessions lost, time lost. Dignity lost.

So why don’t I just take the fucking little pills? Well, I just don’t like grey. I like to live in colour. Rainbow colours. Peacock colours. Blood and guts and pyrotechnic colours.

And no. I don’t expect you to clean up the mess 🙂




Meaning, madness and shite TV


“A casual stroll through the lunatic asylum shows that faith does not prove anything.” Friedrich Nietzsche

“Have you ever fallen into a mental space where even the slightest detail seems excruciatingly overburdened with meaning?”

That’s just the typical jargon riddled silliness that I’d come to expect from my friend and sometime persecutor Umberto Vlok (aka Big Jim)

But, being of a sensible disposition, especially since the course of electro shock therapy that I got at half pice in Panama, I felt obliged to nudge Big Jim back towards a semblance of sanity.

“Ja, nee, ou maat – it happened once when I confused the dosage of my valium, thorazine and TicTacs – think it was those blerry TicTacs that done it!”

“But have you never thought that we are surrounded by meaning, tips, intimations of a world that actually makes sense?”

“Ummmm not really – not since arriving on this planet. I once believed in fate but my pot smoking lesbian neighbors cured me of that.”

Anyway we rambled on in a similar vein for some time before the tannie at the next table intervened.

“Jislaaik maar julle twee kan sommer lekker kak praat – why don’t you go home and watch the Rugby like good Safricans!” (Geez you two can talk a lot of crap …….)

I did go home but instead of the Rugby decided to watch a particular episode of Only Fools and Horses for the 17th time certain that I’d missed something important the other 16 times. But my mind had started drifting to matters of deep and dark significance –

  1. Isn’t it better to die living than it is to live dying?
  2. If I do cut my ear off would I be better able to sell my series of 213 portraits of my favorite toothbrush?
  3. I better find my life’s work soon – before I get fired from my day job
  4. Why did the lady at the till give me that look?

I was starting to panic – had Umberto infected my brain with some evil nanovirus? What if I really am supposed to make a difference in my job, save the company, save the world, invent a new and improved toilet seat?

I reached frantically for the remote, which was sinisterly just out of reach,  and started flicking manically through the channels in desperate need of solace and salvation.

Shit – no Top Gear, Masterchef, American Restoration – shit not even Storage Wars.

I was beginning to sweat – my mouth was dry and my stomach filled with wasps (much worse than butterflies).

Then in that last terrible moment before falling into the abyss I had an epiphany – I didn’t need to go mad. I could regain control. I was flooded with a feeling of pure joy as I took my steel capped safety boot off and threw it with all my might at the TV.

Woooooohooooo – fuck DSTV, I’m bigger than that. I’ll go play in the hills and valleys and shopping centres. I had found FAITH. I was bigger than TV.

When the nice men came to take me away they gave me a nice big injection and just as I was drifting off the man tightening the straps said:

“Don’t worry Bru – there’s a TV right above your bed!”