Bio?
In all honesty? I’m a creative writer. That defines who I am, pretty much.
I live in my mind (the life of the mind) most of the time. I forget I have a body most of the time.
It’s a useless appendage most days.
Just like my cock. I only use it to take a leak or whack off.
The only sperm depositories in my life? Tissues. Hankies. Paper Towels. My undies. The porcelain washbasin. (pressing the scrote against it? It’s like a woman’s cold thighs. Plus I can look at my eyes as I orgasm?*). My stomach and belly-button. My face sometimes (If I’m really aroused. And I often get it in my hair. What’s that film? ‘There’s Something About Hair Gel. Two slices of rump steak basted in garlic & chilli & ginger butter, if I’m feeling sick, and need some heat in my life. My favourite lubricants? My own spittle or soap and water. Lathery.
I’ve been a creative writer for 12 years now. Most of what I write? Pure fantasy. Pure fiction.
What do I write? (apart from dribble, piffle, banality and triviality on the net … Films, novels, stageplays, (contemporary Australian fiction: caustic, biting, piss take, dark, black humour genres; social commentaries on the absurdity of modern life, and how fucked most people are in the head. And I’m eminently qualified to write on how fucked up in the head people are, okay. The beauty and depravity of human nature melded and mingled into human beings? Insanity? Or reality? Fact, Fiction or Faction, poetry (mostly erotic, sensual, sexual and totally sicko stuff) …
My free-verse, free-spirited poetry, inspired by the greatest secular love poet of all time; Pablo Neruda? I like to call it CLITERATURE. (My favourite genre … Sort of Jack KerouWACK – OFF … Beat-the-Meat literature. I’ve invented a new genre. BEAT-OFF GENERATION writing. Jack was On the Road. Me? I’m off the rails. I’m the first of a new generation of writers. The first Beat-Off Generation writer. Derailed and Undone. (well my zipper is). I have a permanent HARD-ON. Maybe I should write an autobiography? My life as a concrete footpath looking up crutchless knickers & panties? Or shorten the title to: ‘Pounding the Footpath’? The Jack-Hammer of my Brutal Hands?
My number one passion in life? Besides the female form, womanhood, and the delicacy of femininity (and women who wear skirts and dresses)?
Words. Words are my number 2 Passion and Obsession in Life. My favourite books? The Dictionary. The Bible. True-Crime novels. Before I die? I’m going to know every word in the OED and the meaning of every word if it’s the last or penultimate thing I do.
It’s not like I haven’t done other things besides writing. I’m 46 not 18. My CV? I couldn’t fit the jobs in a four volume Academic Wank, Diasporatic, Cathartic, Encapsulatory and Eclectic University thesis. Me? Creative Writer. Uni Writers? Wankers. Full-stop. Amen & Alleluia to Madmen and Monks like me. Yay for Non-Me … (I think …
Yep I think. I use my brain. I’m going to have to apologise to it just before I die for treating it so brutally and giving it a damn good thrashing and hiding every day of my life … Making it exercise all day long … the intelligence … the imagination and memory … especially … (Sure beats going the gym and poncing around without a brain, and shrivelled testes, I reckon … (My cock? My pill-bag? No steroid abuse down in my nether regions of the groin. … No shrivel factor down there from horse steroids …
Anyway … My jobs before I became a writer? … The experiences of my rich full life that enable me to write the way I do???
A brief selection? Copper, Monk, Chef, Gardener, Sheep-Shearer, Woodcutter, Postie, (Barman, Waiter, Barista), Builder’s Labouer, Photographer, Taxi Driver, etc, etc, etc … blah, blah, blah … big deal … * Whoopee-Do, lick my shoe, and suck me off with a petrol-bowser gun, cocked on full-flow-petrol-tilt? Or an LPG gas gun? Or siphon me off with a rubber-garden hose in a gagging, bobbing-head, petrol-sniffing-way?
On my CV nowadays? I usually write: ‘They used to call me unstable. Now they call me multi skilled.’ Not that I apply for any jobs. Don’t need to. I sponge, bludge off the Govt. Na, I’m on a carer’s pension. I’m a mummy’s boy. I care for my mother. She’ll die soon, (or turn into a cup of tea and bleed to death all over the floor. A red tannin death, and I’ll have to retire and get a job. Or go on a Mental Disability Pension preferably. Work? Tried it once. Didn’t like it. Not for me. I just go brain-dead. Conquer and master the job in a week, then get bored shitless.
I’m not living my life in Bland Mediocrity and White Picket fence, consumer-minded style thanks. I’m a Blue Velvet, Dennis Hopper, Baby wants to fuck Mummy, or Bad-Boy-Bubby boy? …
Give me love and lust and mirth and passion and laughter and tears, thanks … Give me the intensity of a moment-to-moment-to-moment existence, thanks … I’m passionate. I want to live with passion. I want to experience life … experiment … and if I can’t do it with a woman and food and strap-ons and S&M Sub/Dom sex aids? I’ll pour out all of my passion on the page … because I have no other outlet …
Look out the woman who does take a chance on me … LOOK OUT BABY! WHOAH. Vesuvius festering and bubbling with molten spermatozoa under the surface for years here … I’ll explode and you’ll implode … and we’ll meld and mix and mingle in pubic hair and mixed come bliss. And I’ll just say, “Kiss me baby … Let’s drink each other’s come in draughts, and kiss in a kiss of mingled come. And fuck furiously fast or sensually slow, with tempered brutality .. delicate ferocity or ferocious delicacy.” Either? Both maybe?
Life? I’m not dying wondering. I have a crack. (and not just the one between my arse cheeks either, Ladies). I have a go! To me? Every moment of life is precious. I live every moment with intensity. I live a moment-to-moment-to-moment existence.
I’m a bit full-on for most people. So I live in my room writing 18/24/7. And that’s pretty much who I am.
Any questions?
Location
Adelaide (The City of Dark Secrets)