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Fami-liar - Born Slippy

Music takes me away brings me back is familiar new known calming energising heavyweight light as air drug insomina DJ the drop takes me to spaces others move in inhabit connect. fights the block in me, the wall I can't dance on. crushing neurons pushing ideas people apart away sunburn is the day on my skin when it is dark music is the together in my brain when I am alone movement wraps me up in blue mondays I remember days when I feel them. as I sleep. they are fami-liar.

#music #neurospicy #dancing #memory #memoryisaliar

start with an empty cup - born slippy

the fear caresses me at waitara i don't notice it at hornsby which is my second stop because I sit facing away

from the layers of cups stacked in floor upon floor of apartments

It grips me at chatswood the towers of humans are higher a study of the floorplans would show the skeleton of the buildings place the kitchen roughly there

and if you cut the building precisely as you would a cake to enjoy with your tea you would see inside the cupboards and wonder at how many cups of tea we could serve together in an emergency

Small, regular, large in a pot, bag, infuser milk, sugar it's equal

Ready to pour I can ask how much tea will we share today but your answer depends on how much you already carry in your cup

to share time, tea, each other start with empty cups

Train pulls into Milson's point look back over North Sydney sounds of chaos, war, and difference bouncing between humans in my carriage wonder at the empty cups my rainbow lanyard perpetual offer of tea and a walk to the office from Winyard pushes the fear of unfilled tea cups stacked tightly in towers of separation til at least 10.30 adjust time for regional variations in smoko

Darkness holds the light - Born Slippy

hand me down blazer

gold curtain trimming sized

highlights at cuff, pocket, collar

new ones too big

for my body

I'm not a wizard, no cloak, no colour

The bubble of silence

around me an elvish cloak of distraction

eye contact shooting over, around, through

First day of high school

everyone knows someone

but me

Finally the Bell.

Time to Start.

Instructions. Directions. Can't keep up.

Everyone ia moving.

Just follow.

Can't keep up.

Can't follow.

Won't.

Hanging from my belt.

Hooked.

Boys change rooms.

Bell.

Another.

Bell.

At second breakfast someone will come.

And lift me from my impalement.

If. I had my words I could travel

there

and back again.

Footsteps.

Teacher.

Rescue.

Lots and lots and lots of words.

Not mine. I don't try to follow.

Soon it will be dawn.

Trolls.

The small and crafty survive

by escaping notice

I survived.

Until. I was noticed.

I can't describe what my eyes saw

it is impossible to imagine

a being stepping from the world of my words

light held by darkness.

everything stopped moving

except them

and me

I wish these times were different

I said.

All do. They replied.

All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.

and they scattered into countless sparks of light and dark

I recognise them now

I have met them

meet them

chosen family

fellowship

fragments of dark and light

Home

There and back again.

Nonsense - Born Slippy

I thought there was none sense because I was stupid young 'different' it couldn't be explained properly to me so no one tried.

I learned about logic and people logiced me. Procedurally pointing to places events, moments, facts, feelings that added up to the point of the thing.

I could see them raise their arms hear their voice fill with importance fingers on end of hands splayed meaningfully, pointing here and there I very carefully tried to trace the line from end of hand to somewhere there was nothing. It couldn't be explained to me and thanked them for trying.

I learned about faith. And it was pretty and comforting and there was more pointing and important sounding words And more nonsense

Get to the fucking point You might well say. BUT I couldn't see one and don't know if there is one it is a little comical so I made my own noises, and points, and gestures and waving and hands and fingers and faces and I think at some point I cosplayed very convincingly and I thanked me for trying

This is the final words. At the end of these words I will loop it all back to something events, moments, facts, feelings that add up to the point of the thing. How am I doing? Absurd. Isn't it. Grotesque maybe. In it's appearance of something. in the nearly, but not quiteness of it. Did you catch it? Grotesque. When you see that word where is it? events, moments, facts, feelings that add up to the point of the thing at THE POINT of THE THING where is it? who is there? who is grotesque? nearly but not quite loop it all back how are you doing? Absurd. Aren't you. am I other or are you 'different' like me and it can't be explained properly I am it is grotesque there is no other

#absurd #absurdism #death #life #crimesagainstkindness #grotesque

this page left intentionally blank - Born Slippy

The wisdom of the fool won't set you free

In the end

There really is

There really is no difference

Freedom within, freedom without

It doesn't make a difference if we make it or not

On previous episodes of Positively Nothing At All

we learned that

It's a sin to tell a lie

but the list of sins grows everlong

in the mouths of the everything everything everything everything under one sky.

When you're young, you find inspiration in anyone who's ever gone and opened up a closing door

When my brain lights up

it all lights up

at the same time

Chris and Neil spoke to just me.

1987 Smash Hits.

Laid lovingly over a bed of

TR-808 and DX-7 sounds from the beginnings of the Apocalypse.

Lightning Crash.

Driving Synth.

When I look back upon my life

It's always with a sense of shame

I've always been the one to blame

Desk just too wide to reach both edges with outstretched hands to left and right. I tried.

Height just perfect to rest palms on it face down, slight angle down from elbows to plastic surface.

Drawers under filled with every parcel envelope, box, satchel and envelope available in 1987.

Back of desk a book case style shelf unit with tape and stickers and pens

On the 2nd floor Mezzanine, rows of carefully labelled small medical and other computer parts in shelves, in rows, like a school library but with less sexual abuse of minors

On the ground floor, same but scaled bigger and bigger.

I vividly remember 2 weeks in 1987.

Alone with Chris and Neil, and the best songs of the year. Packaging things I didn't understand for people I'd never meet. Work Experience.

I found me.

Briefly. And vowed to never give me up, let me down, make me cry…

Turned over a new leaf, then tore right through it

In between songs fading and rising that is the nothing that is also nothing.

Nothing is the canvas upon which we paint the picture of our lives, we paint in colours we can't see about songs we never heard, bringing to life feelings we don't have. Nothing is all that we truly have.

and we will paint such a thing

such a wonderful, loud, beautiful, rainbow of rainbows thing.

It will echo in these meaningless days of our lives co-creating forever harmonies, chaotic and absurd.

At school, they taught me how to be

So pure in thought and word and deed

They didn't quite succeed

They lie they told me

uncoils itself

from around my throat

With this new ease of breath

I religiously grasp the brush

dip it in the colours I have lived,

and paint the album cover

of my mix tape

"The Joy of Nothingness"

Songs to make things that matter.

Invisible Dry - Born Slippy

This is the pink crush version of our best song it smells like disruption in so many little ways it is less dangerous

load up on irony load up on beautiful lies eyes down hands buried deep in denim rage layered under flannel shuffling somewhere else angry? Oh no, not me I never lost control I very carefully cut words from other conversations into tiny possibilities

Everyone is waiting keep walking tape playing left hand rewind listen again again lean against this wall again. Flick it out, rotate, press play On Side B Culture has no opinions.

When I was an alien we sang in silence in bedrooms of heart-shaped violence Outward opening door Not waiting anymore I’d rather be dead than cool maybe I’m just happy maybe I love myself better than you

Pull the door inwards Rewind. Play. lights off dangerous contagious emerge this is not pretend

The news said the light is gone the day is closing and the times are done appreciate your concern maybe I’m just starting maybe I’m just happy maybe you are the one who likes all our pretty songs are the man who sold the world are the one who knows not what it means Verse Chorus Verse

What else should I be? This is not an outtake.

Cobain was not a rock star Bukowski told you to find out what you love and let it kill you Burroughs said you’d be dead in 2 weeks if you didn’t dream

Go outside and ride your bike Rewind. Play. On Side B Sunbeams are not made like me I don’t need words that rhyme with shame In the sun I feel as one What else should we be?

#kurtcobain poet burroughs bukowski bowie vaselines cutitup putittogether

Inner Space Nature Boy - Born Slippy

I didn’t write this song and neither did Nat King Cole the things I notice and notice and notice and notice and notice and notice and and and and and and and Did you open the Fridge, or was it me? How did I get here? I catch my reflection in the sheen of the jello I didn’t make but need to have in the fridge on this occasion to help with this story. Who is that boy? that very strange enchanted boy A little shy and sad of eye I have, on occasion, wondered what was under the H O L L Y W O O D sign. A cave. is the answer. under the L. And then one day A magic day I passed your way And while we spoke of many things Fools and kings

This is what I will say to you The greatest thing you'll ever learn Is just to love and be loved in return And here is the kicker. The long note at the end of the 2nd Chorus That may not end We want it to not end Never end hold that note until you know and know and know Loving someone is easy. Being loved in return Is something A person can only learn unwashed, writing this song in cave under the L. Hoping Nat King Cole will track them down and sing Nature Boy. Is what Nat called me And it may be I’ve more called myself Dirty numb angel boy In the doorway boy Tears boy Inner space boy And remembering nothing boy And the moment before I fell asleep never soon enough to remember never slow enough to recall that very strange enchanted boy A little shy and sad of eye born slippy shouting If this does not make sense listen to Nature Boy - Nat King Cole and Born Slippy - Underworld at the same time in two distinct browser tabs then come find me in a cave under the L writing this song

No Place I’d Rather Be - Born Slippy

I have never been here before and those are my palm prints on that door. thumbs touching palms pushing fingers reaching That Door Must be opened. When I was a small boy crystal thin whisps of white hair hid my face as I looked past where I could see through the back fence into forever no shoes, no plans no place, I’d rather be. and it was wonder full.

Carrying buckets of imagination upturning the things placing them beside the other things a castle of possibility I lived there for a time swimming in the moat gloating I was outside the wall

When I returned my hands singing with the texture of these worlds I found the same closed door offering to turn the volume of my song down with it’s noisy spring, pull down handle, and easy adjacent location to people who lived inside.

Once I tried waiting until someone else opened the door so that I could show them my hands and hope they could hear the music

And just now I remember the secret glance we Imagineers recognise when we see another, palms raised, leaning in quick look over their shoulder before pushing through a new door

Finding a space that isn’t a place yet and can be with some buckets some upturning some placing beside and hands that sing Of new places that are less foreign than this side of the door and the loneliness that is, but never is enough, to stop palms pushing doors to write new songs.

And there are always doors I hear footsteps and the sounds of palms against a door I didn’t know was there.

Can’t talk now. Time to play.

No place, I’d rather be.

I don’t know - Born Slippy

There Are Many very important, valuable, meaningful helpful, knodding along knowingly Questions and For all the times I know curiosity is fucking wonderful and embracing it fully is Captain, My Captain, Carpe-fucking-Diem I find I don’t know because I don’t. Or I may but can’t remember. Inside my skull is grey flesh and yes I don’t know the Answer I would be so ace If it wasn’t so seratonically tragic.

16 Days before her birthday - Born Slippy

Betty White died 16 days before her 100th birthday Gone too soon The world is less Yes and

It hasn’t fucking changed.

I can see feel touch experience be with traumagriefpainlosstragedydeath And I can feel the the taking taking taking taking taking taking waiting for balance for return for more

Waiting is a time bubble everything stops every year day moment minute is every other year day moment minute the next one doesn’t fucking matter

Or.

It does. And the loss matters and the taking hurts and the hole where giving in return waits staring at the empty space under the new year’s gift tree matters until I remember I didn’t gift anything either.

For the moments that take too much to matter, I have to live this moment Like I have plenty of fucks Yes and I am giving them away

Betty White died 16 days before her 100th birthday.

I didn’t. And a day ago neither had she. Looking towards the fierce new sun sharply burns my eyes Please do not mistake my dried tears as indifference

We will be working closely with local authorities - Born Slippy

To identify people who need us to ignore them as they exercise their personal responsibility in a manner that we are indifferent to. unless the zeitgeist shifts through the day then you can observe our concrete unequivocal always was, always will be support for the thing, punctuation matters because it tells me when to wave my hands in protest.

The television keeps speaking I can’t turn it off I’m not listening I can’t, not, hear When do I get to wave my hands in protest?

This feels like the correct number of words to give this year acknowledging the absurd pythonesque Sam Raimi film set that we stumbled into last christmas “Thank-god your here” we ironically cheered as we stood up grimacing from the hard shove the year before gave us.

I have gained far more than I have lost this year (unironic effort to find the silver lining) I gave last year my heart the very next day I just tried to breath in short shallow inoutinoutinoutinoutinoutinout And that brings you up to now.

If you’re here when I wake up lets do next year differently As an idea, I am fully satisfied that we comprehensively tested this one And I don’t need to do it again.

By the way. I am going to need an exit. Cue 90s modem sounds. It’s always last christmas

Why - Born Slippy (2021)

Cries from the backseat are we there yet are we there yet but why small hands dragging the Y across your soul like tiny rhetorical fingernails down a chalkboard why

The answer to why is microwaved rice left out uncovered over night crispy yesterday rice hates you screams why and you leave it don’t eat it yesterdays why it will not nourish you

Are we there yet feels like a future why but is a lie it looks to catalogue the reasons for our failure to have arrived

Clean the chalkboard with your hands if you must lost shape chalk is a pile of answers with forgotten questions wipe your hands on your pants and write why on the board and then nothing

Let the word speak demand goad request suggest but don’t let it lie like looking at a sunrise half a morning after it happened gone now, but it happened truthfully it was over there, eastish I point in an ambiguous way you can’t find morning looking into the past

Leave yesterdays why where it lies Seek tomorrow’s why where it hides Draw morning just don’t stare at it it will scar your eyes hiding tomorrow under its memory

X marks the spot - Born Slippy (2021)

At the base of a tree is a Red X this island is not your home you travelled here to dig on a promise someone left you something precious claw through sandy soil strike a foreign object and leave it stand leave by the way you came trace your adventuresome steps in reverse Cheek to cheek that shit Ginger Rogers it all the way back to your place Sit where you sit to be comfortable take off your shoes and your adventuring hat look around what can you observe? seesmelltasteheartouchtexturecoloursound X is fucking there Find the value of there Dream, about there Draw fantastical maps of wonderous treasure, there Lockdown is a lie You can check out but you can never leave you have to stay but you can check out draw an X on a page and claim it leave that palm tree to grow it's own X's leave the island home to those from that country find the wonderful tiny mundane everyday life filled flavour explosions of adventure in the life you live from there

Who - Born Slippy (2021)

Imagine an early morning soft gentle lapping of lake waves caress the shore footsteps somewhere the fog, a ventriloquist, steps here, wind from passing there Who comes Who waits Who tells this story Who reads aloud Who listens This year among many, took many waves, mornings, stories, wind, steps, passing Stopped. Stories. Stopped. Fucking Stopped. Ended.

Death sits patiently in the chair by the window light frames face take up the brush hold the pallete of paints in your other hand consider the colours you collected there the colours you can make in their joining the shapes and shades the places your brush can take us anywhere everywhere Death paints the world outside the window Tragedy steals the vivid and mixes it with anger Brown red rusty blood in a bucket pick it up and paint your canvas Death sits patiently in the chair by the window face turned, light spearing past and missing I take up my brush I hold the pallete of my paints colours chosen by me I imagine shapes and shades the places my brush can take me and I go there I go there

Death sits patiently in the chair by the window Unpainted by me

Imagine an early morning soft gentle lapping of lake waves caress the shore footsteps somewhere go there find some colours take your brush paint the world outside your window

Pocket - Born Slippy (2020)

There are large boxes I can put my things in and carry them from one place to another, over large distances

There are large bags I can put groceries in and carry them to my car and to my house, kitchen, pantry, fridge

There are large buildings I can put my money in and fool myself into thinking I own this place THIS IS MY house, kitchen, pantry, fridge squatting on Guringai land.

There are large ideas people put their faith in and carry fools to hurt and harm each other, over large distances and small distances distance isn’t the criteria skin colour gender belief politics lines on maps accents language food preferences penis preferences a shopping list of fuck you, you aren’t one of mine

On the sides of my pants there are small pockets I can put my things in and carry them with me over distances small things that feel nice to hold in the palm of the hand without looking, just holding rub between index and thumb forget it is there small

I think I will collect my used bags and boxes build my own building on the lawn in front of my house Draw a giant big rainbow YES on my box house and as strangers pass by I will ask them What is in your pockets? And I will know the liars from those who keep well the secret of the pockets by the quality of the silence and smiles

Almost - Born Slippy (2019)

Almost sleeping walking waking turning learning being cruising crushing rushing looking back a few years doesn’t require the same turn of the head, neck, torso, feet can still point forward move forward

In 2019 I started a tattoo Henry Dorsett Case face embraces traces races space on my left upper bicep it fucking hurt a lot my tattooist, a tsarist artist flourished circuits down my arm near future cyber future I was a preacher teacher reducer producer of moments pointed towards now my left arm reminds me looking back a few years as a catapult to look back and back and back and back is a trip and it is a trip a dirty numb in the doorway beautiful tears chemicals inner space trip Born Slippy the future is bright the past is a scar on the fibre of my life covered by art, colour and prophecy high density succulent shimmering wonderful hot wet prophecy angels of the apocalypse prophecy I have seen the future I know how this ends it doesn’t end it goes and it goes and it has a sound listen you can’t hear it it pulses under my flesh under the art it is the art if you live long well open present whole turning and turning and dancing and dancing you will find your art song sound verse version melody malady cure choir care kind kind kind here’s the drop

there is no why fucking be kind

can you hear it count it in it’s yours now 1, 2, 3, 4 intro go

3 walls and forever - Born Slippy (2018)

Press tightly bars groove skin eyes pushing twisting reaching see and see and how far is freedom outside this cage is all of the more and still more of it tiptoed hands frame face knuckled grip either side red cheeks strain lips closed words are not enough this prison cares none don’t fucking give it the satisfaction

Very fucking clever you Very fucking strong and relentless you Impatient patient ready waiting go stay you Focused eyes unblinking you turn around you how long has this cage had 3 barred walls and forever

Decision.

Fight the walls and win fuck the closing in fuck the care less prison

Turn around you and

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