Nightmares

From those lonely moments when I wonder what the actual fuck I'm doing with my life...

Nightmares

The whole world was at my feet, 

but I had forgotten how to dance.

I knew I would move in rhythm,

if I could only re-live that chance.

All the people were singing,

but I didn't know the song.

I mouthed onward aimlessly

and tried to mime along.

I saw a young child crying.

I stopped and asked him why?

He just turned away sadly

and gave a remorseful sigh.

I went to see the women.

All gathered at the well,

but they had set themselves all scurrying,

to the tune of wedding bells.

The men had all set sail,

their ships had all come in.

So I headed to a bar,

to drink in all its sin.

When the bar had shut,

I set my course for home.

On the way got lost,

ending up all alone.

With nothing but my thoughts,

I sat a while to ponder,

and in my lonely introspection,

my mind began to wander.

A dark dawn realisation set in,

Like a slow descending mist.

I sat and screamed in the silence,

of a mouth stuffed with a fist.

There was an overwhelming emptiness,

to my solitary existence.

Truly without meaning,

not even a false pretense.

Not knowing where to turn

I struggled now to breathe,

my mind raced with panic,

calmness a broken sheath.

Inwardly I was falling.

A deep free flowing spiral.

The feeling of inadequacy.

in my mind had gone viral.

All time stopped,

mind fading white to black.

Memories drove me deeper,

Memories of what I lack.

Before it became nothingness,

my mind began to wake.

Another of my nightmares.

Another I won't be able to shake.

In these dreams the reflection,

of what I fear the most,

That I'll end up walking the Earth

as a lonely forgotten ghost.

The Storyteller

Well it's Friday in my world and for most of you I guess that might mean guilt free beers tonight. Unfortunately that means that you won't have the pleasure of fronting up to work tomorrow. In running with this bittersweet feeling that Friday can invoke in a person, I give you this-

The Storyteller

He's old and geriatric,

Can hardly see six feet,

Silhouetted by the fire,

He makes the scene complete.

Waldorf or Statler,

It doesn't really matter.

He's either one or both,

And mad as a hatter.

As the years pass,

his feats get more outrageous.

His infectious enthusiasm,

Grows ever more contagious.

We know it's mostly bullshit

And we've heard 'em all before,

No-one ever calls him out

His word is the 'lore.

It's always entertaining,

A night with him by the fire.

Every fabricated escape,

Runs right down to the wire.

He kidnapped Harold Holt,

And did away with Elvis,

Says he could never stand

The sight of his gyrating pelvis

One time he and Albert,

Spent all night getting beery.

When the dawn-time came,

'Bertie had a brand new theory.

He was linked to Audrey, Greta,

Marilyn and even Mae.

Yes he was quite the pantsman,

In his younger days.

Sent behind the Iron Curtain

Single-handed won the Cold War.

Breezed through checkpoint Charlie,

And pulled down half the wall.

Was he really in Korea?

Was he really in 'Nam?

We know he probably wasn't,

But we don't give a damn.

We just give him his Scotch,

Watch as his eyes begin to glisten.

Find ourselves a comfy seat,

Settle on down to listen.

He's never happier than this,

With a sparkle in his eye.

It's our last cherished moments together,

Before the last goodbye.

Enjoy your weekend, catch you next week.

Heart Attack Monitor

Heart Attack Monitor

You little mite,

You stinking shite,

That jumped out gave me such a fright,

Now you stand and strike a pose,

Like a honey bee on a ruby rose,

Then away you slink, your tail flip flopped,

While I keel over, my poor heart has stopped.

This quality photo provided by my old Nokia mobile

Lace Monitor - One of many spied that day

Some time ago I decided to go out for a hike. In my mind the track I intended to take was no more than 14 km through sub-tropical forest. I packed accordingly and set off. Upon arrival I discovered that rain the previous week had closed the track for maintenance, I decided that I knew better and continued on my merry way. A few kilometres into the hike I found the sign for my intended trail, 24 km return. Despite it being summer, my exercise routine best described as infrequent and inadequate water supply, I still wanted to give it a crack. The combination of the rain and track closure had left the trail a little overgrown and lack of human presence meant an increase in animals. Several times I nearly stepped on tree snakes hidden on the cluttered track. I also encountered several lizards, lace monitors, exploding off into the undergrowth. Initially the path winds down the side of a gorge where it traces a creek for several kilometres. Until about 9 km into the track it climbs steeply to a lookout, then tapers down to a dam, the turning point. Not knowing the length of the track, it's obvious I didn't know the layout of the entire track prior to walking it. Once the track leveled out on the gorge floor I found the going easy, undeterred by the steamy forest walls. Overconfident I upped pace, even once the track started climbing, unaware of how steep or far the track climbed. Needless to say my poor conditioning caught up with me about halfway up the climb. I was hitting a wall. I finished the climb and struggled to the lookout. I was 2 km shy of the halfway point and fast running out of water. After a rest I decided to pull the pin and head back. It was the middle a warm summer's day and along the humid gorge floor I was sweating profusely. With about 4 km to go I ran out of water, I was battling and still had the final ascent up the gorge wall then another kilometre or so back to my car. I was parched but it's not REALLY all that far, so I steeled myself and pushed on. The relief as I managed to reach the top of the climb, I was so close. Then it happened. This fucking lizard jumps out on the track right in front of me. Dehydrated, exhausted, the start it gave me nearly stopped my heart. It just sat there looking at me, I had to piff rocks at it to get it to piss off. Eventually it did, I got back to my car, got stuck into some water I'd left in there, I wrongly assumed that it would just be dead weight for the length off hike I was doing. Needless to say that ever since I plan hikes thoroughly, making sure to include excessive water. I chalk the experience up as another of life's lessons I learned the hard way, look before you leap. Just so you know, I have been back and conquered the trail. Didn't run into one lizard.

Dirty, Bent and Stolen...

It was during a fourteen hour day of solo driving, the fourth such trip of that fortnight. My wandering mind suddenly spat an image of a bent old man on a bent old hill. This preceded an old and dusty memory, striving to be heard. A childhood rhyme about a crooked man, but try as I might I couldn't recall the words beyond just about everything in the rhyme being crooked. I shelved the crooked man deciding to investigate the rhyme properly once I had reached my destination. In the meantime to keep myself entertained I decided that I would compose my own version, incorporating my original thought of the bent old man. It was mostly a nonsense but it kept me sufficiently occupied to prevent me from nodding off and straying from my course into a tree, oncoming car or any other potentially fatal obstacles. Upon arriving I recorded my version and you can read it as follows-

Bent Old Man

There lived a bent old man,

upon a bent old hill,

and when he'd et his meal,

he liked to bend his fill.

How he loved to bend,

he'd bend for weeks on end.

When he'd finished bending,

he'd just bend over again.

His poor twisted liver,

so swollen up and bent.

One day the liquor was coming,

but his liver went.

So they bent him out a grave,

and bent him in the hole.

The marker for the spot,

an old and bent up pole.

He bent his way to heaven,

Bent the angels round the bend.

They all decided,

that he was no Godsend.

On his way they bent him,

right on down to hell.

The man bent all the demons

and they began to yell.

The Devil himself was deciding

with the man just what could they do

but before The Devil knew it

the man had bent him too.

It was back to his home they bent him,

Back to his bent old hill.

And if you should pass by his old bent pole,

you'll see him bending still.

Afterwards to satisfy my curiosity I looked into the original. It is an old traditional British rhyme usually included in Mother Goose collections. It appears to be written about the reign of King Charles I (1600-1649). The most common version is as follows-

There Was A Crooked Man

There was a crooked man and he walked a crooked mile,

He found a crooked sixpence upon a crooked stile.

He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse.

And they all lived together in a little crooked house.

I didn't do too much reading on it but the crooked man is apparently a Scotsman by the name of Alexander Leslie (1582-1661), the stile is said to be the border between England and Scotland and the house makes reference to an agreement between the two countries, the more you know. This brings about the close of my musings on men with possible physical disfigurement and/or questionable character.

Any Port In A Storm

I'm single and an alcoholic. Nuff said-

Any Port In A Storm

The driving rain was blinding,

 A heavy fog hung in the air.

 I was getting desperate,

 I was starting to despair.

Whilst rollicking across the floor,

 I glimpsed a beckoning beacon,

 Then tacked a new recourse,

 Before my knees could weaken.

A distinct lack of options,

 Left my mind decided,

 To wait for blissful calm,

 Whilst the raging tempest subsided.

The open headland was wide,

 Not offering much protection,

 For me and my small tug.

 I might struggle for detection.

The water it was dirty,

 And nothing good for drinking.

 How'd I end up here?

 What on Earth was I thinking?

But desperate times, Bring desperate measures.

 And my lonely sea-salt thirst,

 has a yearning for desperate pleasures,

 This couldn't be my worst?

So I set my rudder straight,

 And peering through the smog,

 Made bearing for the Unprincess,

 With my warty frog.

All was going well,

 As I anchored to the groyne,

 Full ready for some in R + R,

 Eased into this consensual join.

Suddenly a rogue wave,

 O'er my poop deck crashed,

 But I battened down the hatches.

 Watched as her lighthouses flashed.

The boat she gently rocked,

 As much as I could endure,

 But well held up in the port,

 I was thinking thoughts unpure.

Time stood still, all was calm,

 Held in the lull of the eye.

 Then out of the pan and into the fire,

 It was time for this fish to fry.

The whistle blew, the storm was spent,

 It was at the break of day.

 With the French letters I had sent,

 It was time I was on my way.

The port had been accommodating,

 For my lonely cause,

 Then I go and set my sails,

 Seeking more attractive shores.

We Don't Like Cricket...Australia

I'm going to say it. It might not be popular, but I'm going to say it anyway. I like the way Mickey Arthur and Cricket Australia are building a pool of fast bowlers. Despite all the negativity I've read on sports articles, despite all the opposition from former players on the radio, TV and web forums, I LIKE the rotation policy. I've heard commentators (most of them former players) say that they agree with building a strong squad and exposing young players to international cricket, yet at the same time they disagree with the rotation policy. How can you build a large squad without rotating players? Their answers appear to be to wait until one of three things happened. Either there was a consistent drop in form by a player, an injury or a retirement. Unless you've got a poorly performing, injury prone and ageing attack, I don't see how this approach allows regular opportunities for new talent. To be fair Australian Cricket seems to be experiencing a spate of injuries to fast bowlers so this approach has some warrant, even if it is highly negative. To just continue to bowl bowlers until they can't bowl anymore, what a caring lot. Put the best XI available on the pitch is the catch cry. Sound theory but my best XI might not be your best XI, who might not be the selector's best XI, so the discontent continues.

Personally I see no problem with having depth in the national side. I don't see what is wrong with testing players at international level and seeing how they perform before there is an injury or retirement. When Shane Warne, Glenn McGrath and co. retired, Cricket Australia seemed to cop a whole lot of shit because they hadn't developed the next generation bowling attack. They had relied too heavily on Warne and McGrath and it was all CA's fault that Australia had no immediate replacements ready, waiting in the wings. Now they're getting sprayed because they are developing too many players. Damned if they do and damned if they don't. Lastly, I've heard some of these same commentators lamenting the fact that international cricketers don't play enough shield cricket. If Australia has 10(or more) fast bowlers, who have all proven themselves at Test level, vying for 3 spots in the Test team, where do the other unused bowlers go? I assume that one will stay in the squad as 12th man but the the other half dozen or so will go back to shield cricket. They will take their international experience, and hopefully intensity, back to their state sides. Ideally developing talent has a knock-on effect by playing state cricketers against Test players more regularly.

I'm no expert. Not a former international, not a sports scientist, just a bloke standing outside looking in. I'm also not suggesting it's perfect, and I'm not saying I agree with every decision the selectors make. I don't think any decision the selectors make is going to please everybody. I like to think that I'm not alone in saying that if I stopped watching cricket because I didn't agree 100% with the selectors, I probably wouldn't have watched a match in at least the last five years. Call it rotation, call it player management or call it whatever you like, I do like the idea of depth, not relying on the same two blokes to get the job done every time.

End rant.

Eternal Screw-ups Of Colonel B.

A jolly rollicking rhyme to get the poetry ball rolling. I can never seem to figure out where the influence for this came from but I can't shake the nagging feeling that I've borrowed heavily from something in the creation of this. One of the first I wrote; it's just a bit of fun so enjoy.

The Eternal Screw-ups Of Colonel B.*

He's a daft and docile bugger,

that one and only Colonel B.

His senior's used to talk about,

the officer he could've been.

But somewhere along the line they say,

it all was a bit too much.

The Colonel lost his mind in a way,

and drifted out of touch.

His first command was foreign,

He led with bravery in his heart,

but alas his poor confused soul,

was doomed right from the start.

He sent them East,

Was supposed to be West.

Some of the men got scurvy,

Dysentery for the rest.

He marched them up that hill,

then right back down again.

Signed up 500 conscripts,

with no ink in his only pen.

They wandered lost and forgotten,

for forty days and forty nights,

took a left and ended up in Paris,

great big city of lights.

They tried to go AWOL,

but didn't know what it meant.

So they went into a blue movie,

and practiced pitching tents.

Afterwards their esteemed leader led the charge,

on the biggest whore house in town.

After the full frontal assault

Colonel B was adorned with a paper crown.

They left their new-found short-stay barracks,

they'd dubbed the shooting range,

All but one with syphilis,

that lone soul had mange.

Then to the zoo,

for to practice real Gorilla warfare,

They found their spot between emus,

and nestled by the bears.

They guzzled down bananas,

Swinging through the trees,

Colonel B and his troops,

passed that test with ease.

Their fighting ability

by now it was deluded

despite all the 'expert training'

all combat having been eluded.

They carry on regardless

going through complex maneouvres

Mostly this involves

escaping through an angry husbands louvres.

The self regulated medal ceremonies,

only a matter for the course,

of these slick and wily veterans,

a well trained, elite 'fighting' force.

What does the future hold,

for his loyal men and he?

You'll just have to wait,

and for the latest chapter see,

The eternal screw-ups of,

the unflappable Colonel B!

*No relation

On The Subject Of Pool Cues

Yesterday evening I was in the local bar with my younger brother(I don't like to refer to him as my little brother because although I may be his senior in years, he is, in actual fact, my superior in height). As we were enjoying a few refreshing lagers, I enquired of my brother weather he would enjoy a game of 8 ball. He replied in the positive and shortly we were engaged thus. The evening wore on and we made our way through several more games and several more lagers. Presently the barman appeared brandishing some fresh equipment in the form of unspoiled chalk and brand new pool cues(they were still encased in their plastic wrapping). Upon receiving my brand new cue I felt that for once I would be able to play a game of pool with a house cue that was straight as a die. In an effort to satisfy the feeling, I performed the shaft distortion test. It is a simple procedure, lay the cue prostrate upon the playing surface then proceed to roll the cue while watching the tip. If the tip traces circles through the air, the cue is surely bowed. I was full confident of tracing the straight line that my cue tip would render across the air. Imagine then my dismay to witness its curving, almost acrobatic tumbling path, as it traversed over the felt. My faith in a cheap, readily available pool cue has been shattered. However, I feel that the experience has been positive and can only serve to strengthen my game. It occurs to me that planning on finding a straight house cue is a fruitless endeavour, hence my game must adjust to allow for this fact. Accepting this I could free my mind and play a with an unprecedented confidence and timing. Shortly thereafter our transport arrived and the evening, just like this anecdote, ended.