it’s an odd thing to delve into. there’s a verse, a chorus, then a middle-8 section (nowhere near the middle), another verse & chorus, a guitar solo then another couple of choruses. it’s also at quite a speed to jam all this in together. is this the way we pleasure ourselves – quickly, partially-effectively, in an altogether non-standard manner? turning the curiosity of attraction into pop?

but for me it was always all about the meaning below the entendre, underneath the sex, the hands reaching but never quite touching. the desperation. i apologise for the mic that couldn’t quite handle what i wanted to do vocally with only one take. but i’ve always been about spitting it out. so to speak or write.



my guitar / yours

there’s more sadness than happiness making up a life. if pressed i’d put the ratio at 70/30. but then maybe some of that 70% is simply emptiness, or boredom. it’s hard to tell. you choose what to remember though. i’ve been watching a lot of long-form tv shows that involve detectives and crime. the lyrics in this track were meant to echo that and use the language as an investigative lens, repeating the images of urgently garbled radio squad car directions, and fervent leading questions posed in stark interview room (usually a green palette). but i don’t think any of that comes through. not really.

town b

20160707 murrumbidgeemy favourite sandy beach disappeared a while ago. now a vast expanse of mud. i mentioned it to julie & she said that’s just what rivers do. the river has taken away the beach, & at some point in the future it will replace it, maybe. maybe the same, maybe different.

there’s nothing metaphorical in this it was just some words we said to each other to pass time to fill the emptiness before other things.

twelve months into this & still learning.

across the reserve

Screen Shot 2016-06-08 at 8.19.17 pm

these unknown vantages are

mine alone every thatch is a mark

of experience a weathering of trouble &

doubt if the muted palette is the world

each picket a page number & most

stray strokes evident measures of defiance

i’ll avoid place after place for all the reasons

sidestep obdurate satellite towns, my mind

ramshackle & functioning still as fire     but

let’s figure on leaving that matrix secure

on a wood-fired early afternoon

secure as fiction


artwork – ‘across the reserve’ by matilda julian

whisper my name

Remapping 1 - 'Whisper My Name'


each stitch was a body wound

you felt & traced years into     like

an antique camcorder you peer

low & hard & inside


your fingerprints are all

over yourself in the end shaping

shapeliness beyond recognition

a wine bottle of veiled origins


we were known by the colour

of our hair but it’s always fleeting

speech marks effective tattoos


you’ll creep from the gloom like

a stationary china doll then

nothing will happen then

actions feel too simple too

open to interpretation then


artwork – ‘whisper my name’ by sarah mcewan


i drove through the night with nothing

else to think about / the speed-trap zone

into cowra & a massive roo stands counting trucks,

mulling over the headlong leap into something /

your overbite is now a varicose watermark

to my neck, this temporary tattoo appliqued

with a steady hand though, each tooth

a bright pinpoint of intent / rear-view mirrors

reveal the past or the future they just don’t

care i mean / watch my thinking dissolve

into a silly night-time daydream fusion &

there are outcomes dotting the sky, each

meteor shower line directing touch /

then / my cat angry at the lit window /

photos of you into the morning


kind of linking up your intensity even tho

it’s subject to being chill: can we please anyone?

six lines such abject bullshit: you tell me how to touch you


it’s enough of a new thing (& no you don’t have to do it now)


i walked out of my childhood house aching

for the hour home, to talk again


falling sick is falling into a pleasant & easy air of detachment. for a change i can drive to work without dwelling, mulling. realising ten minutes after the fact where i’ve been at. the flu seems to occupy some careful part of my brain that won’t leave the past or future alone, in perhaps a more effective way than prescription drugs. memory still exists but it’s elided, the substance of the footage slides into a mild haze, a wispy & dreamy slush pile of thought. the seasonal body invasion that is, yes, surely ‘going around’ leaves me free to operate at a slightly elevated level, above normal consciousness, observing the circular drift of cloud & the illusion of cold air paralleled in the sky’s colours, or something. i photograph it all – keeping my left hand on the wheel – & later edit for sharing. but the best bit is that an unexpected lapse in my hand’s steadiness creates an extra roil, an enhanced cloud curlicue. i go with this as a metaphor for something i haven’t discovered yet (like the people who like beautifully rendered slices of motivational text in a 1:1 ratio image, but who also like ironic commentaries on motivational text) everything is accidental, inconsistent, meaningless. but nevertheless beautiful & poignant. because why not. we catch a vision out of the corner of our eyes & hold onto it. something as simple as a shaft of ice blue sky against the late-early morning cumulus. or, particularly impractical shoes, a freeze-frame from behind, captured but untagged in someone else’s album.