Oh, You Loved Me As A Loser.

“Oh, you loved me as a loser, now you’re afraid that I might just win…”

– First We Take Manhattan.

Hey, does anyone know how to upload tracks from your iTunes on to WordPress?

I mean, I know how to, only when I select the desired track it comes up as muted grey rather than black– meaning I can’t select the track– which is a shit as I’d planned this great little audio story for this evenings entry and… nadda.

No dice.

Can’t be done.

Computer says no.


Aww well.

Plan B.

I’ve been playing my guitar all afternoon and am having some difficulties with the lovely little Yamaha my father spent two entire hours hand selecting for me last year in Shanghai. Namely, when I affix my strap to the neck it mutes the sound of the top string, which I tend to feature a lot in my songs. It’s not really that annoying as I’ve devised this brilliant little system whereby I either take all my clothes off– or pull my shirt up– and slap the guitar to my tummy– and it sticks. Sans strap.

I’ve tried this method during winter with varying degrees of success. Australian summers however, are ripe for this kind of carry on.

Allow me to digress as I tell you that I’ve just discovered some gawd-awful lint residue, I think, from the dust on the body of the guitar and oodles of afternoon sweat.


So anyway, I was working mainly on a song I’ve been playing for years. It’s still without lyrics which is odd as lyrics traditionally come fast and eas(ier) for me.


This song doesn’t seem to need words yet.

It’s very slap-slappy and the brain-child of years and years of trying to become a better blues player. Which is actually, haha, well, only for this particular song so far, coming to fruition.

Oh, if the lipstick dykes in Tokyo could hear me play now.

They’d be so proud.


No dice, as I said… computer says no… So…

I’ve decided instead to share with you my theme song for the week.

I saw Imogen, as I mentioned on the night in question, Monday evening at The Metro.

And she was so cool and so inspiring and so special that I walked home


There has got to be more

than this fish bowl I’m swimming in.

Turns out there is.

Which also turned out to mean I quit my job the following day

and spent the day wrapped up in Egyptian cotton sheets, by the fan,


A new life.

A new plan.

Fuck knows how I’ll bank roll it.

But to be honest, I was beginning to feel like that working like a mule anyway.

When you spend 40 hours of your week– more if you’re commuting, walking, cabbing it to and fro, what have you…

You start to desire things you otherwise wouldn’t care for.




Random sexual trysts.


Fried foods.

You relish the opportunity to take three minutes out to pee, like urinating is

some sort of fucking luxury.

You talk shit.

You talk shop.

You talk too much.

You sleep like a zombie, not like a lady.

You snore louder.

You want for more.

And you have very, very little.

And I think the thing that really socks a punch,

more than any of this,

is the twits you encounter in positions of power,

chewing on their tongues,

wanting for very little else…

I’m not one of them.

I never have been.

I just want to sing.

I just want to write.

I just want to live.

And ideally, be able to upload tracks from my iTunes on to my blog so… you know…

if you know how, I’d love to know.

In the interim, however.

Here. Have some lyrics:

First train home, I’ve got to get on it…

Bodies disengaged, our mouths are fleshing over.

It’s just an echo game,

irises retreating to ovals of white.

The urge to feel your face

And blood rushing to paint my handprint

A Frisbee one by one

Your vinyl on lamanent

Desperate for some kind of contact.

First train home, I’ve got to get on it…

To Catch, to catch, catch catch catch.

First train home, I’ve got to get on it…

First Train home

Temporal deadzone where clocks are barely breathing

Yet no one cares to notice for all the yelling

All night clamor to hold it together.

I want to Play-doh wait

forms in the hideaway

I want to get on with getting on with things

I want to run in fields,

paint the kitchen

And love someone

But I can’t do any of that here, can I!?

First train home, I’ve got to get on it…

So what?

You’ve had one too many.

So what?

I’m not that much fun to be with

So what?

You’ve come silly hatter

So what?

I didn’t want to come here, anyway.

What matters you, doesn’t matter, matter to me.

What matters to me, doesn’t matter, matter to you.

What matters to you, doesn’t matter, matter to them.

What matters to them, doesn’t change anything.

First train home I’ve got to get on it.


I do not miss work one little bit.

Not one little bit.



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