The Rapture of Decadence

There hangs a Shadow above this door

2011-09-13T22:57:00.006+10:00

There hangs a shadow above this door.
Inside dwell the living dead;
Technicolour shades in a haze of monochrome
Within who's eyes the fire had died;
Extinguished in a cloud of cards and drink
One rainy afternoon.

The lines were cast long on the patchwork of tile
and their hair hangs limp in the chambers of this black house.
Where light hums in the cracks and creases of every room
Where emptiness hides behind eyes of sea and earth
Where shades breath their days away;
Battering blind on locked doors with keys held in their mouths
and siight sewn shut.

There hangs a melancholy in the air
And to breath is a long boring death that reaks of mustard and stained clothes.
In one corner hang 3 hidden birds within a lackluster sepulchre,
The bottom of the cage; a vipers nest of dead branches the colour of smoke.

The clutter in thin hallways echo nothing at night but the hollow walls reverberate
with the poundings and scratching of vermin.
And when day-breaks, even when the sun shines
There hangs a shadow over this door.
And the silent wails of long limbed leperscan only be heard in the eyes of sea and earth.

God's Voice

2011-09-01T12:45:00.003+10:00

God spoke to her. He spoke to her through curls of smoke that rose from the city, through the rustling in the leaves outside her window, through the radio which sung of songs from bygone days and now through her mother, who knocked on the door to tell her it was time for school. God had a voice like caramel. That smelled of coffee and felt like woolen nightgowns. That gave hugs every morning and helped her get dressed when she couldnt. She was blind.

Some who knew her said she was one of the lucky ones, she couldnt see the routine atrocity around her in this once fair city. Men and women, walking the free streets wearing gasmasks. State troopers patrolling the suburban roads in black vans, making sure there were no guilty party's involved in neighbourhood anarchy or thought crime. Or how the sun, filtered by the sanctioned pollution, came down in tiny waves of red light on a yellow curtain.

She found her skirt, left behind by her mother (It was in the same place she always left it; the edge of the bed) and slipped into her school uniform (dark red skirt, white shirt. Hair tied up in a bun) before heading down to breakfast.

God did not speak to her through her cereal; at least not today. She had juice that morning, (orange juice to be precise, but she didnt know what colour an orange was, or even what colours were) as they ate in a muffled concerto of clanging spoons and sipped coffee.

Like everyone else in the city, she was forced to wear a gasmask, after the failed attempt by the Omega Coalition, a government funded team of International scientists, the air became corrupted with S2RE; a thick yellow gas, highly toxic to those who breathed it. Or so the signs said, every wall was plastered with large posters shouting slogans such as:

YOUR MASKS ARE YOUR LIVELIHOOD

and

FORGETTING IS FATAL!

Inside all the masks, is a filter soaked in a chemical compound, which protects your lungs from the harmful air outside and turn toxins into clean air. Clean air which gave you a headspin whenever you breathed it. All houses (at least in the richer parts of town) were outfitted with their own air filtration system.

She got to school on time, the ringing of the bell still remained in the air as she ascended the stairs with the greatest of ease and grace given to her by years of practice. This was a very special school, not one that practiced mathematics or science, but one that prized creativity above all else. Her field of study, was music. And though she could not see, she had a voice that spoke the words of beauty with such clarity a stone would weep. Her recital was this afternoon and as she shuffled to find her place amongst her peers (many of whom were jealous of her voice) she felt the sting of emerald eyes upon her. So she sat, and waited through the other performances.

Then it was her turn.

She was let to the stage in front of the class, the teacher leading her by the hand and through a gauntlet of stares. She stood and waited.

One benefit of being blind is the fact that you cannot see your audience or count how many there were. The pianist began to play, opening bars to a movement of Mozart's Queen of the Night. And then she begun. Her voice broke free from that body like a shotgun blast, beauty escaped its fettered chains and flew to the rafters, laughing at those who would seek to chain it. When she had finished, she quietly took a seat at the back of the room, led there by the familiar, leathery hand of the conductor. This was her final exam, there was no more school after this. She could go home.

After classes she walked down the school steps, savouring the smells of the city. God had spoken to her in the burnt rubber perfume of the road where she waited to be picked up. She was humming to herself, listening to God's voice within her head. Today he sounded like birds chirping and beautiful notes played on an old dusty harpsichord. Combinations that had never existed before this moment. She stepped off the curb, listening to the notes waft in her imaginary concert hall, when suddenly the sonata was broken by the violin pitched squeel of tires and hell fire heat of excruciating pain that ran through her. She felt the concrete, with its rubber soaked smell kiss her head, and warmed to the touch of blood that seeped down her cheek. Blackness. Fear. Pain. Death.

She heard the voices of people coming to look and help, the pleading broken voice of the driver soaked with remorse and agony apologizing to a dead girl who couldnt reply, felt the medics hands as they slowly pulled her away, the rustling of the trees above sounded like seraphs wings to her and finally the voice of God that spoke to her in that one shining moment, clearer than ever before.

He sounded like silence and she lost herself to the music of it all.

Wave into the Lizard (2004)

2011-09-01T12:24:00.000+10:00

It had been many months ago. Stress with study had driven me to the familiar arms of insomnia. I'd not slept for days, my mind wired with an intensity, hardlined with stress. So when i was asked to acompany a friend to a party, my natural instinct was to agree.

The night started as usual, Steady stream of alcohol tothe bloodstream, hitting the head with a slow intense pressure. Taking my awareness for a seemingly endless ride into oblivion.

I met a friend of mine by the name of Will. Known his stature and persona for years, a short man, lithe yet built at the same time. Like a cheetah on steroids. He wore a goatee to hide his lack of chin. We went to a nightclub after this. Wherein I partook in every alcohol known to man . We danced and drank and smoked, danced as madmen, drank like reincarnated Arabs with an unyielding obsession with tobacco. The night grew long with hours into morning, effervescently glittering lights blinked with firefly grace. Dancing upon a blanketed stage of night; mute but for their efect upon their voyeuristic audience. Symbyotic in its addictive need to see such a concerto to a music that meeds to be played to exist.With each dying minute the dawn grew ever stronger; A white sheet upon nights dark light. The decision had been brought to disband. Our necks would hate us the next morning, a gyrating savage dance had occured the past night. Our necks were not used to such abuse.

I went back to his place, The couch was comfortable under my ass, we spoke about movies. He offered me a drink and i took it. As drunk as I was another wouldnt hurt. We then smoked reefer. Bowls being sucked into our lungs; two needy decadents killing their care of the world.
Many bong hits later...I sank into the darkness that spread around me. Will had long gone to bed leaving myself to my own vices in dealing with this drug.

I felt the change at once. The air had grown thicker, more smoglike. Penetrating my lungs with incredible clarity. I began to panic, "what have i become? is this the first step to being a needle-sucking junkie?"

No.

This skin felt harder, colder. I felt my senses charging; hands turning into claws, hair becoming non-existant to my reality.Body becoming skale, world hitting sensory deception...

I had the urge to eat flies.

A lizard I had become, cold blooded, hiding Inhuman. I understood what Jim Morrison had meant in that one moment of inhuman recognition.
I was no longer Alex Gray.
I was a lizard.

I was primitive, unevolved, primal, animal.
My urges were savage and reliant on my needs. I hungered. I ate. I feared. I ran. I demanded. I gave.

It took me all night to escape that hideously interesting reality.
It took me all night to escape that hideously interesting reality.
When I awoke I was me again.
My savage urges were unfullfilled.
Non existant. Caput.

I was human. I do not like it

THE INAUGURAL SALT WATER FESTIVAL – A TRIBUTE TO NEPTUNE (2010)

2011-09-01T12:18:00.002+10:00

THE INAUGURAL SALT WATER FESTIVAL – A TRIBUTE TO NEPTUNE

By Sasha Cuha.

The familiar smells of salt water and burnt sausage rode high upon the sea breeze and met me
as I entered the unfamiliar grounds of the Salt Village Resort in Southern Kingscliffe. My arrival,
I felt, was well timed. I had come here in order to cover the inaugural Salt Water Festival; a two
day outdoor water sport and music event, the brainchild of surfing and Iron Man God Trevor
Hendy and hopefully the first of many. As it appeared, the morning’s events had gone off without
a hitch. The competitors had left their starting positions for the 30km Nautical Marathon, an
endurance test of a high caliber. Waterboarders, kayakers and other types of craft riding were all
present at this event. From what I gathered this was not a race in any traditional sense; no first,
second or third place prizes or medals, this was for charity.

The stage had yet to be set, which as I am primarily a writer of arts and entertainment, posed
a slight threat for my work ethic. There was nothing to do but wait, watch, and hang back for
a couple hours until something that I had an idea about was to happen. Realising this, I felt
the need to disperse myself, lest I become a nuisance to the other press members. So after
registration, I retired myself to the nearest bar where I could rest and recover my thoughts for the
moment. Amber lubrication for mental lubrication.

The Salt Bar, located in the new Salt Resort, I found was fairly packed with all sorts of people,
and considerably warmer than the outside world allowed. Sidling up to a refreshing beer I began
to consider the absurdity of my drive here and the general weirdness that seems to pervade the
entire area of Kingscliffe like a fog out of some early 50's B-grade horror flick. Personally I believe
this strangeness to begin in the Tweed area, the surrounding suburbs and townships one passes
through; Broadbeach, Miami, Elanora, Burleigh, even Tugun and Coolangatta...Palm Beach
excluded of course, all seemed to be content with their level or normality. It all changed once you
enter Tweed. Mark my words. There is no way to explain the vibe one feels when passing from
these areas into Tweed. If old elephants go into the desert to die, old Australians go to Tweed
and open shop and never die. These aging relics of a time gone past seem to congregate and
spread throughout the area, it is as if the Tweed carries some manner of shining beacon calling
to them. Car culture is permanent here within the young folk of the area. Tweed is full of rev-
headed space vampires; undying and from another world and this level of weirdness seems to
spread down, perhaps carried by the northern winds, to Kingscliffe. When one rounds off into the
first turn leading in, the first thing you'll notice is, as my driver so eloquently put it, that it looks like
a shanty town. And I'll be damned wrong to argue with this. For a large stretch all we could see
were what looked like ramshackled buildings, held together half by local spirit and half by sheer
luck and the fact that the roads were deserted seemed to give this area an even stranger vibe, as
if the Tweed madness had somehow created a Twilight Zone rerun the further you drove into it.
We drove down a wide road that slashed through the vegetation, a long and desolate patch
hosting no other cars with the shadowy overhang of high mangrove trees and sand dunes
hugging our sides, keeping us from the outside world. At the end of this road we met our
destination; in stark contrast to the rest of Kingscliffe a five star resort town had been built called
the Salt Village Resort. Clinical newness seemed to strike us as we drove through. Where we
had last seen shanty's and expected one eyed pirates and buck-toothed river folk to meet us, was
now replaced with shining modern architectural creations and we now expected to be greeted
by wealthy retirees and smart, young businessmen and developers looking to settle with their
families and keep the almighty Buck rolling. I think I now understand what they mean when they
call Tweed the Valley of Contrasts.

Soon my train of thought was derailed...What was I doing here? Several weeks ago I was sitting
outside the Carindale Hotel in Brisbane, enjoying a refreshing glass of premium wine, avoiding
the politics of the Film scene that I was there to network in and having a conversation with
Caroline Russo, who insisted that I come and cover this story. Frankly, I am not a sports writer.

I have no interest in sports and any physical activity I ever engage in these days happens to
be in the bedroom or on the stage...let it be noted that they are not the same thing. However I
do live on the Gold Coast, Queensland's Surfing Mecca, so I probably have some manner of
understanding that other's don't. The southeast portion of Queensland holds a strange fascination
with water. The entire Gold Coast is built upon surf culture and what appears a tribal manner of
paying tribute to the sea. Though surf culture has changed greatly since the days of the early
pioneers in this art, in technical, social and other manners. It certainly won't be leaving any time
soon. I noticed the time on my watch, 12:20. And decided at this point that I should check the
beach, maybe something was happening and the need to get back to the event and cover this
story for good or ill was pressing.

The Beach was mostly deserted. Only a handful of souls remained to brave the heinously cold
sea wind that seemed to cut deep down to our very core. Those that remained were in the
process of playing a game of beach volley ball, clearly not affected by the cold, or not caring.
I directed my attention to the finishing line, which was a short walk from where I stood and
happened to notice a strange and tragic sight; a large promotional object, that could have once
been a large balloon or marker was deflating rapidly, being pushed around by the wind like
some manner of geek in high school, the bright red and yellow Red Bull logo pulsated as the air
pummeled it into submission. "Clearly" I thought "Red Bull gives you wings."
The northern sky was graced with paradisiacal splendor. The canvas upon which, the clouds
were painted with the lightest touch of gouache colour. However the athletes were coming from
the south. Upon whose charcoal canvas were painted ominous dark splotches straight from a
nightmare or a fever. Those poor souls. In centuries past men were lost in conditions such as
these, and here they were; braving the very elements, casting themselves prostrate unto the
roiling breast of Neptune, that savage and mighty sea God upon who’s whim and savagery their
fates resided.
From what I gathered of the rules of this event, the contender had to land their craft on the
beach in order to qualify finishing the race. As I stood and watched the arrival of some of the
contenders, from a speck on the horizon I watched a man come closer and closer to the shore,
growing larger and larger with every paddle stroke. He was maybe 5 meters out from the shore
when Neptune's sense of humour seemed to be clear. I have no idea of the mechanics of what
happened, but he suddenly went from paddling to the shore, to his craft shooting out of the water
almost vertically. Neptune truly has a sick sense of humour.
The sound of strummed guitars and singing came from behind me; the stage had been set up.

The first act was an all girl trio; performing covers and original songs. The crowd seemed to enjoy
their work, which was to be expected; they were good. The second performance I witnessed was
by a male and female trio, with a bright blonde on vocals. When they had finished the stage was
taken by Caroline Russo and Trevor Hendy, who gave a short speech and introduced us to the
next act; the beach inspired and soft blues sound of Clay Blyth.

Night began to fall, the gouache and charcoal sky gave way to a stunningly bright oil painting of
peach, blue and royal purple as the stars began to emerge from their beds. In 20 minutes day
had completely left and with the arrival of night it seemed that all manner of technical issues hit
the area. One of the generators had died, for the second time today. We were without power
for the better part of an hour. During this I struck up a conversation with a young amateur
photographer named Dion, who it turned out was the brother of Damion, one third of the family
folk act The Twine. This meeting was fortunate, for after the crowd were born witness to their
unique sound he took me backstage and introduced me to the members; Damion, Mel and little
Obi. They were some very cool people, down to earth, relaxed and full of amazing stories. "Obi's
going to grow up to be a rock star" I told them, "He's already there, he took his first stage dive the
other night. We were playing a gig and the crowd was loving it, he stood at the front of the stage
and ushered them in closer and just dived right into 'em! I've been waiting thirty years to do a
stage dive he's nine years old and he beat me!" Mark my words, this kid will become a rock star,
the Force is strong with young Obi.

As I hung out backstage, the crowd was entertained by Tailor an original band that managed
to combine famous cartoon theme songs with their riffs in an interesting manner. The night
was growing increasingly cold; I could barely feel my extremities, so I headed back to the bar.
The only warm place to be found at this hour, I noticed Clay standing in front so I struck up a
conversation. It seemed he was a professional musician, played since he was 8 years old and still
kept it up. A very cool guy I must add, probably one of the most laid back people I have ever met.
He plans to go on tour soon so keep your eyes out.
As we were leaving the warmth behind, a troupe of roughly 25 men and women in bright red
costumes covered with shining lights appeared playing a tribal Samba beat. To this day I have no
idea whether they were a scheduled part of the evening’s entertainment, they simply appeared.

The hour had finally come, the big band event of this festival; Mason Rack. I hurried back to
the stage area to get some shots off before I ran out of time. They, as always, were incredibly
professional and entertaining. The crowd lapped their sense of blues rock right up; there was
nothing I could say apart from brilliant. The strangest part of their performance, however, was
that there was a large man, dressed in an immaculate suit black suit with a bright white tie just
standing behind the stage watching and checking his watch, occasionally he would break this
pattern to stare into the crowd and try to intimidate people with his eyes. He was probably their
manager but I have no idea.

With the end of their set the first day came to a close. Day had left and night had come, the stalls
were closed and the people dispersed. And all through this Neptune sat upon his mighty throne,
and I imagine, smiled a happy smile at this part of the world, for unto him tribute was paid.

Stream of Conciousness, C. 2006

2011-08-29T14:33:00.003+10:00

I heard somewhere that "Hell is a place where the lights never turn off". This is true, John Milton would have felt the same way if he had ever been here. A manufactured temple for the cult of materialism. A pagan cult; polytheistic with many gods by the names of Dior, Gucci and CK etc. We come in droves; take out families on a long, arduous journey to worship these gods and their immaculately dressed Saints. We bring them offerings of money and in exchange they give us their blessings.

"Say three Hail Gucci’s and ye shall be cooler!" and we thought the Romans were pagan. Waves of political correctness wash over us; crashing against the rocks of conscious thought. We will fill our wells with this water. It will make our crops better, stronger and more drone-like then ants. Our brains poisoned by this so called culture. Viva le Bastille. A prison of our making.

The laws of attraction are a dirty, lying disappointment. But fucking entertaining. When approaching a prospective new cafe; one always observes the clientele to determine whether or not this is the place for "me". Much like a gazelle approaches the watering hole. If it sees lions its natural fear instinct will kick in to overdrive. And he will run, adrenaline pumping its legs.

We've left that savage place now. pale white walls of polished marble, stone floors are long gone. Now were sitting on cushy chairs in a pub. MY backs against a stone wall and my hands cold from the pint of Stella Artois i just drank from. This place gives me a strange vibe. A mixture of metro sexuality and boganism. Your local, friendly sports club with no sports team and no decent clientele. Sports on TV. Golf, some strange black and white flashback to the heyday of the sport, whenever that was. I glance down to see Chris talking up the barmaid. Cute little thing about 20, dark hair and a petite (small) face. He’s returned now with nibblies. Pork rinds for the cynical soul.

He’s a tall man, dressed in a comfortably faded hooded jumper and cross faded designer jeans. Old as well. The area where his heal has constantly rubbed against it has strands of white, like ermine fur, hanging from his resting foot. He writes in silence. Pen inscribing immaculately s p a c e d letters on a virgin sheet. Pork cracklings are goooooooood. the salt content really hit the spot.

People keep coming in and out of the bar; like a halfway house in hell. A surreal halfway house. Hard rock was softly coming through the speakers, covers of classic rock songs play. Its strange. I don’t know which songs playing, Chris has just gone to investigate. But goddamn is it annoying! It sounds like a strange Led Zep song. He has no idea, the bartender has no idea. And this beer’s getting to my head- DOWN BY THE RIVER- NEIL YOUNG. It sounds like a tuneless LedZep cover by a stoned garage band. Now it's ONE by U2. It brings a small smile to my mouth, a sense of belief in disbelief.

The romantic ideal of one is a strange, uncanny feeling. It’s beautiful, simple and almost perfect. My girlfriend has espoused the idea of one love, one life etc. Much like life has made me cynical towards this. Life is short, we should enjoy it. Experience all we can. Experience of sensations is what makes the world go around

ByronicTwist featured on Steampunkerie Blog!

2011-05-01T18:41:00.003+10:00

My music was just featured on the ever amazing Steampunkerie blog by the more amazing Steampunk DJ Omega.

If you have an interest in thing's steamy, coggy or just plain Victorian it's the place to be.

Head over here to check out the full article.

Song of the Day

Past the Sparrow Flight Hour - NOW AVAILABLE!

2011-05-01T18:25:00.001+10:00

Past the Sparrow Flight Hour; the debut album of music and spoken word by artist ByronicTwist is now available for purchase in both CD and mp3 format.

His music is an eclectic blend of dark acoustic sound-scapes and hauntingly beautiful poetry; a rich mix of the insane and the bohemian, a midnight tryst between an angel and a demon. This multi-instrumentalist plays all of the instruments on the tracks, mixes, writes and delivers the work in a way that only comes once in a lifetime.

Past the Sparrow Flight Hour is available now from the official ByronicTwist Store over at ReverbNation.

CD format comes complete with original Album art, and a 4 page insert.

Head over to the Official ByronicTwist Store to make a purchase!

The Album Art of ByronicTwist

2011-03-04T18:49:00.002+10:00

ByronicTwist Album Cover’s.

On the 24th of February, I was a part of the Bliss Industries 2 year birthday bash, at which I performed an original electric violin piece. As part of the raffle I released a limited number of cd’s with my original music and poetry. I hand drew and painted 13 album covers; all numbered and signed by myself. The backing of the Cd was also numbered and had a message attached :

“The album art on each of these cds is an original.
No two are alike.If you are a lucky recipient;
please make a copy and pass it on to someone
else so that they might share in the enjoyment.
-Sasha Cuha (aka ByronicTwist)”

I believe that music; like art, beauty and ideas, should be enjoyed, shared and appreciated by as many people as possible. One of the reason’s I did not charge for my work.

The track list on the cd was:

1. Past the Sparrow Flight Hour (Inst.)
2. Opiate
3. Lonely Stars (Inst.)
4. Bleakest August Blues
5. Past the Sparrow Flight Hour

If you’re interested in hearing the tracks, visit http://www.myspace.com/byronictwist

I just want to say a very special thank you to everyone involved, the Bliss Industries girls, the other performers and Temple Bar and Lounge and congratulations to the winners of the cd’s. I hope they bring you some enjoyment.

Ode to Pleaseure : Words in Sensual Context

2010-10-22T19:34:00.004+10:00

Ode to Pleasure

And there to rub, flesh upon flesh
Silky touch and incandescent scents.
Where hands dare to tread and pleasure derived
as the prelude to the vainglorious swive.

And in that all knowing, all blowing moment we both reach
tis heaven not hell that our sense's beseech.
Wherein those walking fingers of yours do dance?
Tell me, is it the same place i imagine, by chance?

That dripping, devouring, ever hungry cunt.
Who's end does comes like the fox, who cannot survive the hunt.
That men and hound, chase for cruel nature
And hearts cannot begin to truly venture.

-:-

Written in Lover's Blood

Write me your vows on paperflesh
Pen me your desires in lovers blood
Slip it in an envelope, seal it with a kiss
And I shall trace it, with the same pen
dripping still with lover's blood.

Curve your spine over my desk
And spread yourself open as a book
Desire lines penned upon your chest
Heartstrings bared, across open pages
covered with lover's blood.

Bookmark the chapter of desire
Close the cover in the dark
And retrieve my pen, an empty needle
from virgin page fold.
No longer dripping with lover's blood.

-:-

Bind Me

Cross me now roombound
over the threshold.
Cross me now hellbound
over the bed.
Burn me now everbound
to your silken touch.

Bind me to the sensation
of skin upon skin.
Hang me from the rafters
of desire within lust.
Tie me to the taste
of mouth upon mouth.

As we flow as tides do
that endless ebbing and rolling;
With moon-tormented need
the waves make love to the moon
and the moon fucks back.

Hold me now with the grip
of your sinewy arms.
Taste me now with the whiplash
from tongue to flesh.
Hurt me now with the kiss
of your desire and mine.

Cross me now roombound
as I lose myself to you.

-:-

Upon the Continent of Us

Sweat infused with sweat came riding upon the soft night breeze, sliding through the ebony air; bringing with it the scents and perfumes of faraway and exotic places. The continent of Us where union was shared and passion blazed through the rolling waves that lapped and endured with the temperate tides at the beach of Now.

And how the tall trees shook and rocked as the churning wind rushed through them; clinging from it intoxication for our senses, sensual pollen released. Released…released.
In the broken silence of Monday night, the incensed symphony of sound and sweat and passion and desire, the unbroken breath of truth begged upon hands and knees for us to realize its beauty. Simplicity and instinct. Ah that depth to which we sank with stones tied to our decorum; and how relaxed we were to sink to that ocean, upon the beach of Now; the western coast of the continent of Us.
Parting from these natural shores, eyes ever westward we sailed to the peninsula of Dream on the angel-wing blown tempest of Sleep; whence we found ourselves clinging to the memory of that soft, lost land of Us. Where a moment is a lifetime and will not allow us to pass unscarred, unmarked and taunted for it will often blow its breeze so we never forget. And never forgive the time spent upon the beach of Now.

Now a memory as precious as a pearl.

-:-

Strange Instrument

Who's soft and scented neck does beat
With a heart I move and set in heat.
As lips are pressed to silken flesh
And teeth are set to pleasures test.

That moaning, burning hearts desire
Awakens me, your body's a lyre
As I strum and pick and touch your strings
I cannot feel the pleasure it brings.

For how strange does this harp sound
As it moans as I taste it's mounds.
Savage notes from its depths
No orchestra noise can this not best!

Applying gentle hands to rough keys
A crescendo emerges and makes me pleased!
Your sounds entice my crude senses
Whilst you reign as both instrument and audience.

-:-

Song to Indulgence

Temptation lay within her eyes
Dark and open to my gaze
Which hath told countless lies.
And through which many had felt demise.

Upon Her lips I place a kiss
And trace a road to that place
Wherein sleeps all knowing bliss
A beast upon the stage.
Awaiting he who should not tread
Within the door who's owner fled, a hand a dart
to entice the heart and turn the wheels of lust.
Who's countenance is reflect upon her face, her
cheeks and bust.
Her breast heaves with every sigh, mountains grown around a chasm
My eye wanders to her face, now grotesque with lusts spasm.

Trembling lips upon her neck, her lips spew forth a sigh!
If only her lover knew what she did tonight,
under the sheets and betwixt my thigh.

The Oroborus of Lust

Crawl to me on all fours, and fix me with those eyes.
Gleaming ivory in the pale darkness.
Suitored to alien mires, foreign environments of crawling dust and spires of simplistic grace.

That we move into.

That we move into as fingerpads touch skin and lips and wet tounge tips that grace the very edge of taste itself.

The sonata of flesh has begun as we begin this symbiotic ballet that signifies the end, the start, but not the middle of our burning tryst.
Which burns brightly in summer night heat, washing down the walls separating me from you
and you from yourself.

Fix me with those eyes once more,
tilt the timer; make the moments slow.
And the gaslit beam dance and grow
to our scaly sonata of flesh.

Played without violin
or cello
or trumpet noise
or flute.
But with arms,
and lips
and hair
and bust
and drums.

There are always drums; beating on through the night,
beating their primal rhythm as you crawl towards me,
on all fours, in that oroborus of lust;
symbiotic with itself,
reflecting off itself;
encased in itself.

Crawl to me on all fours
Crawl to me -
And taste of my being.

Shots from the Big Smoke

2010-10-19T17:54:00.011+10:00

"Regent"

"Chifley's Alley"

"Don't Worry; Be Happy"

"Window to the City"

"Chifley's Antique"

"All Free"

"Staircases"

"Arches"

"Magdalena"

"Walkabout"

Past the Sparrow-Flight Hour

2010-10-14T01:23:00.004+10:00

Ladies and Gentlemen.

I have just finished the first music video for my project, ByronicTwist.

Viewable at this link.

Enjoy the screencaps!

Past the sparrow-flight hour of fancy
Into the Belle Époque of love and death
I will find you;
Lost in the moonlight corridors of memory.
Past the sparrow-flight hour of fancy.

Born on the wings of ideals
As starlight shutters your image
Into my iris
Past the twilight hour of fancy.

So that when eyes are closed
You remain, bejewelled like Venus
forever in memoriam.
In that Belle Époque of love and death.

In the hour of roses
In the arms of stars
And on the moth-touch of our lips;
Brushing as stardust does
In the nights caress...
In that sparrow-flight hour of fancy.

-:-

Philosophical Ramblings from my Diary

2010-09-13T14:15:00.003+10:00

'Tis not mearly adequate to think and believe anymore.
I feel that I must now put record to these thoughts, philosophical beliefs and feelings in order to incarnate them in flesh.

1. The inner reflects and shapes the outer.

Our inner mindset and subsequent emotional state is reflected upon out outer bodies with the stirrings of every newborn thought.

This is a truth which I have explored, exploited and used in the past in order to affect change in the environment which I was privy to.

Every moment, scent, sensation, conversation, colour, fabric, thought, hour, minute, second, gestre, outcome etc.....has a corresponding underlying note or colour. They are preceded by a 'chord' that rests under the shell and gives it life. And these chords are, in fact, readable and primally understandable by us all within our subconcious. The understanding and exploitation of these chords is paramount to my art as an actor, and my art as a human being.

It all comes down to this; we have a thought or belief. That then will affect our actions, gestures, speech. Our 'outer' self, directly in subtle and not so subtle ways.

If we know that nothing will stop us, then nothing will.

If we are fearful and consider ourselves a villain or criminal, then the world will treat us thus. Our subtleties will encroach and say more than our words in plainest, cleanest English or other speach ever will.

The first step is to remove fear from our inner selves. It is in knowing that we do not know anything, but what we know, that we lose fear in the face of it.

Be as water. Do not think as wter. BE. Flow with the events.
Do not be rigid as stone, if the path turns into a wall, go around.

There is always another path for those willing to seek it.

If you want change in the world, first you must change yourself. The good criminal is the one with confidence and clarity, the bad criminal is fearful.

The first would walk in unnoticed.
Because he is not noticed.

The second will be spotted.
Because he has fear.

2) There are no such things as pipe dreams. Opportunities will be everywhere, if we open ourselves to finding them.

It is not as important to think as it is to be.

It is not as important to be, as it is to think.

It is most important that we think and be simultaneously.

The subconcious is where it all starts, and where it all ends.

Our bodies are finely tuned, organic, precision instruments. The slightest thought in one way or another will cause massive changes. Everything is connected.

There is no such thing as 'Negative' or 'Positive'. One is neither better or worse than the other since neither exist as such. They simply are. For some; thoughts on the negative spectrum are considered 'good', for others it is the opposite.

"Positivity" is a very powerful and unpredictable force. If one is positive that one wants to do themselves harm, then one will (negativity) and will invite factors that contribute to that.

If one thinks that they are hopeless, then they will become hopeless.
As will their world.

I cannot say for certain that there is, or isnt, a 'real world' all i can say, is that what I consider the real world is based soley on my experiences. Perhaps this is just a shared dream by us all. That we are all wanderers in dreamland holding hands in this reality, and seeing things. I have no idea.

What I do know, is this:

EVERYTHING IS AS IT IS.

Two people can see the same object and it will trigger different responses (ie a painting = love/hate/confusion) Our subconcious defines our view and thusly our subsequent actions. Regardless, everything is as it is. And that is that.

Memories.

Your mind is like a scrapbook, full of old photographs; antique and sepia soaked.
Photographs that we know so well we don't have to look for them, we know which page they're on instinctively; know what they're of. Who they're of. And forever are they kept locked in this album.

But one day; a scent of sound or moment or change in barometric pressure will cause us to suddenly remember, and rush to the album; opening it subconsciously. Then we realise the photos are not sepia toned or faded; but new and brightly coloured.

I lay on a bed of night

2010-09-13T14:08:00.000+10:00

I lay on a bed of night.

-:-

Lo! I lay on a bed of night,

head weary and lost in the haze of sunrise.

How sweet the jasmin upon the wind

In springs married Madrigal.

Wed between Winter and Summer

In it's own field of midnight memory.

The broken, the battered, the lost

found in season-time Madrigal.

Search North upon the tower of grass

Through day-dream masquerade

Of rainbow banquets set on verdant plate

Find South in the dram of wine

The Year of Existance

2010-09-13T13:57:00.001+10:00

The Year of Existance
-:-

We wake, and play, in the garden of January.
We play, and want, in the fields of February.
We want, and learn, in the halls of March.
We learn, and feel, in the eve of April.

We feel, and run, in the morn of May.
We run, and feast, in the day of June.
We feast, and fail, in the afternoon of July
We fail, and love, in the lap of August.

We love, and hate, in the song of September.
We hate, and hold, in the kiss of October.
We hold, and wilt, in the glance of November.
We wilt, and die, in the arms of December.

Bleakest August Blues

2010-08-02T22:57:00.003+10:00

Head on over to the Myspace page of ByronicTwist and hear this latest one.

Bleakest August Blues
-:-

It was in the bleakest august

The day of the first

When I walked out the back

To quench my thirst

From a rusty tap

Near the foremans shack

And there I spied the first Madonna

Sunning herself on the porch.

She was an exquisite shade of winter

Was the first Madonna

Like a phantom

Caught in the headlights

Of a 1964 Cadillac El Dorado

Barelling down Hell’s Highway

Past Baker, Barstow and Berdoo

In search of the crow faced men

That sat and ate freedom

From the silver dollar plates of angels.

It was in the darkest night

The day of the second

That I saw, the second victim

Plucking roses near the river shambhal,

Who’s banks played host

To a tea party

Of murderers and killers.

She was a broken hue of midnight blue

Was the second victim

Like a raven

Soaked in tar and starlight

Painted in sapphires.

Hand in hand with doom

She walked the land

Looking for truth, beauty

And an oatmeal pie.

And there she slept

Underneath

The Joshua Tree.

It was in the perfumed dawn

The day of the third

That I smelt the third angel

Bent double across a copper pot stove

Underneath dawns crimson glare

Did I smell

The third angel’s hair.

It was in the bleakest August

The day of the fifth

That I left the valley

Before my artwork

Was found.

By the crow faced men

Who warbled my coming imprisonment

My encroaching departure

From the land of the free.

It was in the bleakest August

That I left the Valley

To once again join…

The land of the free.

The Rainbirds Call

2010-07-30T15:53:00.004+10:00

I've just completed a new track, it's available at the myspace page of ByronicTwist.

The Rainbird's Call
-:-

"O son, hark ye to the rainbird's call." Said father to son as the golden light spilled out the fireplace, casting their backs into darkness. "O son, hark ye to the rainbird's call, for when the rainbirds are a-comin' the times are a-changin."

Son's wide eyes soaked in the golden fireplace light and the sound of father's voice.

"O the rainbirds, they's a-comin'. They's call ain't like the call of no other bird. Yer a familiar with the warblings and the cawings and the baying's and the singing's of other birds. The rainbird, he don't sound like that. When the rainbird a comes a callin', you best be knowin' his sound. For he don't warble or caw or bay or sing, on no, he don't warble or caw or bay or sing. He's a makin' a different sound all together. O the rainbird, when he comes a callin' you'll a-know its him."

Father puffed long on a clay pipe, his voice accompanied by the sounds of a thousand night critters a-haunting the outside world with their chitin wings and nightmare fur and ebony eyes, shining through the night. O yes, father puffed long on a clay pipe.

"Son, when the rainbird calls. He drowns out the other birds, ya wont be hearin' no warbling or cawin' or bayin' or singing. When the rainbird a-opens his beak, all ye hear is a marked silence from the other birds. O they is still singing, mind you they is still singing, but that bastard the rainbird, he dun drown them out with his silent call. Son. That is how you know the rainbird's callin'."

The golden light kept a-burning, and the fire was a-crackling as the night was a runnin' over the valleys skies. And father kept a-talkin' and his pipe; he kept a-lightin'.

"Son, that is the sound of the rainbird's call. He don't call much round here in the valley, but when he does, you hear the times are a-changin'. And when the rainbird sings, o son! When the rainbird sings! He BELLOWS! And he SINGS! And the valley will shudder with his song. When he sings, the valley will shudder and the darkness will come, for he be callin' on all dem other rainbird's. And they be comin' and the sky will darken like night and they'll a come, like a cloud, they'll a come. And they's flappin' wings will a-shake and a shudder the valley, and they'll a shit lightning and his brethren, his brothers will a-light down and they be filling the valley with their rain and their shit and the times will be a changin. Oh they be a changing."

Son's ears heard the tale of the rainbird that father told him, son believed the tale father told him. He believed, for the night birds did suddenly fall silent all through the velvet darkness outside the shack, and the air was a markedly different thing from what it was before, and the fire sputtered as the rainbird called. It sputtered…it sputtered…it sputtered.

Her Hands, These Hands

2010-07-26T11:05:00.004+10:00

Her hands give away
how old she is.
In halcyon time
did spring tick
As pastel-lovers kiss
Did awaken the rose
long lost in Morpheus's
fantasy.

How free did angels feel
When God put thunder in Eden?
How light do lovers feel
When life put them in heaven?

Her hands give away
how old she is.
In Autumn's tock
did summer yield
As pastel-lover's kisses
sailed down the slipstream
in memoriam.

The Transition of Meaning

2010-07-22T18:07:00.000+10:00

The murderer and the killer sat
Across from one another
On the banks of the river Shambhal.

The killer said:
“My actions are my own.
My kismet; my own.
My victim’s; their own.
My ripples stop without a stone.”

The murderer sat in silence.
He drops a ruby into the river Shambhal.

The killer continues,
With a quote by Johnson
That speaks of man toward man.
“He who makes a beast of himself,
Gets rid of the pain of being a man.”

The murderer stands in silence.
He drops another ruby into the river Shambhal.
And walks away in silence.

The killer laughs,
With a hyena cackle
And wraps himself in a cloak
Woven of mirrors.

The murderer turns in silence.
He smiles with knowledge
And speaks with tears.
“My actions are my own.
My kismet; twofold
With victim and self.
My ripples are not stopped
With stones, or banks
or time or thought.
Brother we differ;
For your’s are the actions
Of Caine.
And mine are the actions
Of Hamlet.”

The killer sat in silence
On the banks of the river Shambhal.

New Poems

2010-07-20T14:49:00.006+10:00

Under the Bow.
-:-

Why under the bow do you sit?

With Pamela hair and subdued wit

To seek the earth and hide the moon

Why did your spirit die so soon?

You are as Blake surrendering to demons

As Michaelangelo drunk on ink

As Baudelaire sniffing poisoned pollen

From Le Fleur Du Mal.

Within mirrors gleaming

A ghost sits screaming

As glass softens in focus

Underwater, drowning leaves us.

Why under the bow do you sit?

Why does the grove hold you prisoner?

Whilst stars glance

And glance

And glare

At you under the bow.

Stand.

Stand and be heard

Stand and be seen

Stand and be lived

Stand and leave the bow.

Leave the bow.

The Auguries of Time

-:-

Can you see the auguries of time?

The bend and creak of day

and night and timeheld wind.

how it erodes and breaks

and sends hen-broken emptiness

into death

and time

and hours.

I see the auguries of time

and hear the clash of hours...

The clash of hours

on the edge of now.

Untitled

2010-07-19T16:30:00.004+10:00

"Untitled"
Pencil on paper.

I felt the need to return to pencil works. My appologies for the shitty scan.

Into the trees

2010-06-24T22:23:00.003+10:00

Into the trees...
-:-

Ink, pencil and red food dye on paper.

The Violinist/Diabolic

2010-06-19T21:43:00.003+10:00

The Violinist
-:-

Diabolic
-:-

The Poet & the Prophet

2010-06-18T16:52:00.012+10:00

The Poet
-:-

Written in Lover's Blood.

Write me your vows on paperflesh
Pen me your desires in lovers blood
Slip it in an envelope, seal it with a kiss
And I shall trace it, with the same pen
dripping still with lover's blood.

Curve your spine over my desk
And spread yourself open as a book
Desire lines penned upon your chest
Heartstrings bared, across open pages
covered with lover's blood.

Bookmark the chapter of desire
Close the cover in the dark
And retrieve my pen, an empty needle
from virgin page fold.
No longer dripping with lover's blood.

-:-

The Prophet

Alas blind Tiresias,
how your sundered eyes
dispell
the folley of ideals.

Alas blind Tiresias ,
How ye see not Heaven's
rays, how ye see not
Heaven's rays.

Alas blind Tiresias ,
seek the truth
and ye shall find.
In the land of vision;
the King is blind.

-:-

All words and photography copyright Alexander Gray, 2010.

The Innsmouth Look

2010-06-17T22:47:00.013+10:00

Inspired by the work of H.P Lovecraft.
1890 – 1937

-:-

His Jonah's Soul
By Alexander Gray

O lone insipid mortal;
Who's shipwrecked eyes
Gaze unto the blue
With melancholy.

O lone twisted wretch;
How your driftwood heart
Beats in tide-time
Effortlessly.

O lone martyred brother
Wherein have thine hands lain
Once lily-white, now carved
Inhumanly.

Oh lone tragic effigy
Where lies your Helen
Ridden with Dagon's chisel marks
Diabolically.

O lone lost wanderer
How rests your Jonah's soul
Ridden with blood's fractures
Guiltily.

O lone thane of Neptune
The lust of Poseidon consumed.
How rests your Jonah's soul?
How rests your Jonah's soul?

Under the shackles of man.

-:-

Your Siren Song
By Alexander Gray

How sang you the siren song
You ravenous, raptured
raven-crested wraith?

Gliding through the coves' and
age-crafted holes of mystery
lain unseen to the eyes of man
now uncovered to the briny breath of
Persephone.

Why sang you the siren song
In enchanted, embroidered
evening-patterned arpeggio?
To snare, snitch, snap the
selfish souls of savage men?
To forage, feast forever
on the forlorn faces of
now forgotten men.

How lost unto your breast!
How cast into your heart!
How many feasts have you had?

-:-

Digitally painted, ink and pencil drawings.
Old paper image by mourningstocks.
Click here and here to see the original pencil and ink drawings.

Words and image Copyright Alexander Gray.

Recent forays into Illustration

2010-06-16T19:36:00.006+10:00

Elf
Ink illustration.

The Unfortunate effects of Dabbling with Cthulhu.
Ink illustration.

Cthulhu Cultist.
Ink Illustration.

Jack and the Snake.
-:-

"With a mighty blow
Jack slew the snake.
With a fateful blow
From his trusty rake."

Unfinished ink illustration.

All work copyright Alexander Gray.

Sights of the Hydro Majestic

2010-06-15T15:55:00.008+10:00

Nestled high upon a cliff in the Blue Mountains is the Hydro Majestic Hotel. Known as the Belgravia Hotel once upon a time, it soon became a sanatorium due to the Victorian belief that mineralised water could cure the sick. The interior is a mix of Art Deco and Nouveau aesthetics, and is one of my favourite places. I took these photos several years ago on a day trip whilst visiting family down in Sydney.

Due to size constraints the images have been cropped, click for full sized images.

-:-

All photographs copyright Alexander Gray.

Portraiture : Shannon

2010-06-11T18:59:00.005+10:00

Portraiture works.
Model : Shannon Louise Penny.

-:-

All photographs copyright Alexander Gray.

Earlier Photography

2010-06-11T16:24:00.002+10:00

I can't remember when I first gained an interest in photography. As a child I'd play with my dad's old, broken camera pretending to film and photograph whatever I saw. It was innocent play then. A few years ago I purchased a digital SLR in order to actually try out the medium. Somewhere around then I got hooked, the bug sunk it's teeth in me ferociously and leaked developing fluid into my veins (figuratively speaking of course).

Anyway, here is a selection of some of my earlier works that I don't completely hate, as most artists are want to do.

-:-

Many Armed God.

Glass.

.gills

See more at my DeviantArt page.
All photographs copyright Alexander Gray.

Dream Until you Die.

2010-06-11T15:46:00.002+10:00

"Dream Until you Die" - Martin Martini

There sometimes comes a sensation; or rather, the feeling of a sensation.
A sense of a sense of nostalgia.
It comes, dreamlike on cats paw's, when the weather hits just the right peak, the sun rising and beating helpless through the fingers of clouds. With the wind carrying through just the right chords. For that moment, as the summer storm begins to boil in the cosmic pot overhead, for that moment the memory of that sensation is clear, pure, bright and the cleanest shade of white, painted ever delicately upon the hollow walls of my heart.
For that moment the sensation is clear, as if slipping into a dreamstate waltz with every ounce of conciousness still dripping from hands brushing through the watercolour reality.
And all we can do is slide upon it, hold onto it. Play the music louder, drown out the waking world that we are trapped between and lose ourselves in that whirling dance of memories, music, sensation and impression that flees beyond outstretched fingers as we try to catch it.

Life is but a dream.

-:-

I felt the momentum of the city as I saw the China-glazed dawn rise and whitewash pale across antique facades from the cab window. They hid the nightstains that remain in the cracks of bricks, such old bricks. Whos God's and creators and architects now remain dead.

The morning light, traveling as we did, across bridges and through tunnels and over tar soaked roads, that twisted and winded near the river. Who's scent and rippling, ether-soaked history intertwined with us. Lying dormant as a gigantic snake; aware of us and its effect on us. It's uncaring lidless eye somewhere deep in that mass of water and trash, watching our passing without tears or compassion.

And as the porcelain dawn light graced the snake with its brush, whitewashing it too, the night was eaten by the orobourus of time. Only for tomorrow will it die and the night will resurface; born again from the ashes of the daytime phoenix. That great winged serpent...that great, ambivalent, winged serpent.

Words and Photograph copyright Alexander Gray.

Visions of the Macabre and Apocalyptic

2010-06-10T18:14:00.003+10:00

I can barely conceive of a type of beauty in which there is no Melancholy. - Baudelaire.

-:-

Hands in Bondage.
Photography.
2006

Nuclear Nouveau.
Watercolour, ink and food dye on paper.
2006

Beauty is Grotesque.
Ink, acrylic and coffee on paper.
2006

Muses of Destruction.
Set of 3, framed original ink drawings.
Available for sale.
2008

Gasmask Girl.
Ink on paper.
2007

Tree at the end of Now.
Acrylic on canvas.
Available for sale.
2009

The Martyr of Passion
Acrylic on canvas.
Available for sale.
2009

Temptation
Acrylic and ink on canvas.
Not for sale.

For more work by me, visit http://cuha.deviantart.com
All work, copyright Alexander Gray.

Morning, Noon & Night ; A work in progress.

2010-06-10T18:01:00.002+10:00

Two years ago, a close friend of mine decided to surprise me. He randomly called up around midday one sunny autumn afternoon, with three canvas's under his arm and asked me to paint something for him.

The only stipulation : I could paint whatever I wanted.

Two years later, the project had begun. One cannot rush good art. The concept I am working on for him, is an attempt to represent the three times of day; Morning, Noon and Night through the symbols of the female form.

In two nights, the first two were completed.

Three months later...I still have to finish morning.

Noon: Acrylic on canvas.

Night: Acrylic on Canvas.
Her pink arm still needs to be painted over,
the white paint sucked up some pigment
from the background.

-:-

All work copyright Alexander Gray.

Blues on Broadbeach

2010-06-10T17:54:00.002+10:00

Urban Cowboy : I have no idea who this guy is.

-:-

Chase The Sun : An absolutely brilliant band.

The Zombies of Broadbeach.

-:-

All photographs copyright Alexander Gray.

The Melancholy of the City

2010-06-10T16:34:00.003+10:00

There's something tragic about Brisbane; the city speaks of an older more Romantic time, though the people speak of a newer, modern; more disposable age. It seemingly looks at you with a lost lover’s eyes.

Though the city still retains some of its antique glamour; take a stroll down any street in the center and around you will be found the remnants of that age.
Victorian Red-bricks dot the city like proud sentinels, keeping watch over the ever expanding invasion of its contemporary neighbors.
What tales would these monolithic madmen tell us if only we had the ears to listen, who's feet did once trample up the now year-stained wooden stairs, who lived and died and loved and uttered curses and birthed within those walls...and what tales would they have to tell if we only listened?

Ah, gentle reader; you see the way your mind wanders at the mention of these thoughts?
The City certainly has its landmarks: the Clock tower of Town Hall over looking the new modern space of "The Deck" in King George Square, the facade of Grand central station still retaining its grandeur and majesty; now turned into theme bars and a nightclub strip. The old houses littering West End and the strip of red bricks running like a sepia toned river up Elizabeth Street. And of course the dotted remnants of Old City Life being ever encroached upon in the center of the City's smoke filled heart.

The most curious of these is the impression wrought in plaster and cement, white over red, of a window in the city center, with a set of stairs leading up to a place that no longer exists; 50 feet in the air.
Whenever I gaze up at that window, that reminder of the past, I cannot help but wonder who would be staring down at us, on this date in the last century.

"Suffer them not" I wish to say, "For these people are of a different age, with different Gods and values than you."

Suffer them not, ignore their slings. Suffer them not.

I love Brisbane.

Its mish-mash of centuries, its people, the tales of its unwritten past. It seems as if the city exudes both a sense of joy and one of unutterable melancholy.

I'm on the train, homebound now to my modern house in the ultra-modern Gold Coast. This is quite depressing. The freedom, the movement, the chance, the ebb and flow of the people-soaked tide of the city is leaving fast behind me as this electric trap with seats barrels under facades and tunnels, with enormous neon snakes glittering down from the peaks of modern and ancient towers and we find them reflected in the winding river like innumerable fireflies...dying and twisting and being reborn in the soft moonlight.

South Brisbane Station.
An immortal Victorian construct, still surviving to this day. The same architecture, the same route...different paint though. This Industrial Relic is overlooked by the shining modern whirlpool of THE EYE, a gigantic Ferris wheel giving you the chance to see the city by air, to one side; and a multicolored, four story glowing monument to the hairdresser franchise god Stefan on the other...which I dub "Stefan's Pintle".

It's garish as hell.

Passing through the night the train goes ever on, powered incessantly by the ticket payers seemingly endless dollar supply.

There's a strange transition from City to Coast, the outer lying towns left in the dust and wake of one and unsure whether they belong to the other. Places such as Kuraby, Banoon, Runcorn, Altandi, Logan and Eden's Landing.

Yet the train ponders on into the night, as it's denizens relinquish themselves to its discretion and desires.
Yes; the train ponders on into the night...

We slowly pass through Woodridge, one of those last bastions of civilisation, neither here nor there. A glittering town trying desperately to be a city. They have a McDonalds. Yay. These places always scare me, and confuse me.
What are they like? Their people? I guess I'll never know, I’ve never stayed in one long enough to realize.

Welcome to Loganlea, this is a strange place...the funniest thing about it is the fact that it IS a hole. Yet the sign into it shows a shining beach with palm trees and boldly proclaims "WELCOME TO LOGANLEA".
As you draw closer you realize it's pock marked with bullet holes and rust stains.

A train whizzes past, and we find ourselves reflected in its windows, our reality traveling one way; our ghosts another.
Into the long, pale night, coloured by the stars of a thousand distant streetlights. Like a million tiny man made suns; created to fend of the darkness and keep our fears at bay. We truly live in the age of endless day.

The melancholy of the city is far behind now, it's streets, its smells, its people all gone. As we are lost in the brightness of the endless day and the night grows ever long, touching those distant, far between places with its natural, velvet splendour, running its hand down the cheek of time. For there will always be a night, even when we create days, and the city will always be melancholy, and the coast will always be a glittering sequin on the dress of a cheap, soulless whore.

I love Brisbane.

-:-