I got lost and stumbled across a lawn full of hippies. As if they were pigeons and someone threw seeds on the grass. As if the farmer filled the trough with LSD
I guess I'm just saying, that maybe falling from the cycle of Samsara is a little more important than impressing your friends or a dead Bukowski. So, I'm going to the beach. The beautiful women I'm too scared to talk to await me.
A group of Israelies sit opposing me. Six of them, three apiece, each one as unique and attractive as the next. I fall in love through the scope of my rifle. So good looking I put my free Palestine flag back in my bag.
What are big giant tombs but a flex of the rich too scared to die, a reminder of the way they lived clinging to their identity. Whilst I pay $6 to get in and walk past the children asleep on the street. Maybe if those who could afford to build a memory of their existence put it towards the ones living we would all be better off.
Did he know it was this bad? Probably. But a part of him was happy. Not that she felt like this, he wished she didn’t, but to at least know she is sane, or smart enough to be aware, still be alive, still have a soul in there somewhere, however painful.
I sit there, between the scrolls I see my corrupted eyes in the reflection of the glass. You came all the way to India, sold your house and your attachments for the flight, to sit here and watch porn. Well maybe so, maybe no one or no place can fix me but myself. Or maybe, I don’t need fixing at all.
That’s when I met the big fella, that’s when I met the truffle pig. I called him the truffle pig cause all he cared about was getting pussy.
I don’t know what it was, but when I walked into the stadium, I had to hold back tears. They welled in my eyes and started to fall down my cheek. It’s as if, sometimes, your soul cannot believe what your ego has allowed.
I ordered a pina colada. “Sir, this is delicious” I said, “where do you get the cream?”, “Goats cock”. I ordered another three. Ate dinner. Didn’t get garlic on my roti. Sacrifices were being made. I message her around 7, “What time do you want to meet?”. 48 seconds go by with no reply, ah shit, she’s gone cold.
I hum to vibrate the blood from the bruises of blows long gone. To convince the wounded the lesson is learnt, let’s let go.
The dogs transporting fleas walk around. In comparison the western dogs at home are dumb, because they would get hit by a scooter straight away. Great obvious proof that comfort and coddling prevents the growth of survival. But what a great survival technique; giving in, being cute, being born somewhere safe.
Me handing over my future to Jack to pursue this false reality of travelling the world exporting diamonds and making 400k a year with little to no work was bullshit. Obvious when you see it in text. You get nothing in this life for free, and if you do, then you just haven’t realised what it cost. And if this thing goes down, if the great Riley Dyson finally meets his maker, then find this passage. Show it to the world. Capitalise off it and put all the profits on the six in the first at Randwick this Saturday.