she writes to forget that effort is imminent.
Why Kirk missed his own youth he wasn’t sure, because he felt nothing but sorrow for the youth of today.
“No Frog. Wed. Marry. I am going to marry the spirit of the forest.”
I stay formless so the knife I prepare for my own back has no where to enter.
So what if I told you that your dreams are in a prison in your mind, and only with no expectations of the future will the imagination of trees be able to show you how good it can be?
I wish for the days of a new one every few where the moon was constantly honey. I wish for the days where I did not care. But here I am, loving and caring more than ever about you.
To drink the flower you must kill it, to live you must die, and to be reborn you must surrender to the flames
The beast unseen, the routine. The slow callous of the soul. How quickly we fall into the beautiful comfort of the monster with a velvet mouth; familiarity, security. The sound of the door slowly creaking closed, the spirit realm behind an eery knowing you cant trust.
The fisherman pulled the line from the shallow waters and looked at his bait untouched
Walking down Bangla Rd. There is a monsoon in Phuket, and still there are more prostitutes than rain drops.
If you are so good, do it yourself, reinvent the world. The arts do not need a gatekeeper. It has the beauty of the rose with the determination of a weed.
I'm sorry Michelle, I have a sense of freedom that is easily corrupted. I live in a world of seduction and I'm a measly fool.
Could it be, she is a victim of her reputation, by becoming what they think of her in a rebellion to what they think of her?
Often reality is not true, it just doesn’t know it yet.
Whilst smoking a pipe and looking into the night you tend to poke feelings and thoughts before reality creates them for you.
To walk in the unmanifest, in the heart of another and step on glass, and instead of crying you ask if they are okay because there is so much broken glass within them, well, that may be love.
"Yeah, so maybe don’t get your hopes up too much, maybe don’t travel across galaxies for it. Also, this is a thought I just had as I was talking, maybe not knowing is better than actually knowing, the anticipation is better than the resolution, the open ended story is better than a completed one, like life you know?"
I did not feel a part of humanity. There was no pride or sadness to the statement, it was just how I felt, or should I say, did not feel. To me, it was all just poetry, and I know, I’m a character who will stay on the page as the pen keeps going.
I looked at the chicken laying on the grass lifeless and I felt bad. Some experiments do that.
“Yes, I lost everything but the pain.” “I don’t think that is true,” I said to the ghost. “You have so many beautiful qualities that you have displayed to me in this short time. Manners, kindness, compassion, humility, awareness, if that all stems from pain, then either pain is not a bad thing or pain is just a part of everything.”
On the way, on my scooter, I accidentally run over a snail. “This better be good,” I say to myself as I arrive, “I killed to be here.”
“When you find yourself pondering into the fearless past. It’s a necessity to use it as awareness; that this moment, riddled with emotions, will also be nothing but a beautiful memory you wish to relive.” – Riley Dyson
To say I love you to someone, and mean it, might be the reason we are all here. And if the most amazing girl you have ever met tells you that they love you, you must be doing something true.
A dangerous thing to do; slaughtering the sacred cow to assure yourself it was alive.
When they sleep, eyes completely closed, off having little cat dreams of a life better or worse, when they want nothing, can be anywhere, but choose to be beside him, he smiles, smoking his pipe, drinking his wine, writing his stories, having his own dreams whilst awake.
Searching for the love of my dead dog everywhere, never going to find it. I wonder what Ralph did in the small backyard to aid the pain in his anxious little heart? Grew a tumour. I like to think he worked a few things out. I feel like him now, waiting for me to come home, listening for the car to pull into the driveway, a release, a relief.
I listen to these sober people, I listen to the discipline love sharers, the bliss salesman, they’re so oblivious to their own bullshit they generally believe it. So they want you to be sober with them, so you can be ignorant with them. They’re too busy healing to live. Learning about love to love. They can give their entire selves to a stupid fucking bongo but not a friend.
Hi Riley, this is Evgenios from Airbnb Rose Bungalows, you’re not responding to Airbnb and we have to clean the house, are you guys, ok? We saw a lot of blood on bedsheets and pillows 🙏
When you bridge the gap between your truth and your hope, you will find the truth is all you hoped for.
Everyone here, a slave to their freedom. Giving it labels of meaning. Me too… I am a writer. I am someone. We all just don’t want to work. We all just want someone to tell us that all this pain is worth it.
Bangkok is like Varanasi for the west. A holy ground. A pilgrimage. Where instead of worshipping Shiva they worship Ronald McDonald.
Sitting at the crematorium, there's something about watching twelve bodies burn that makes you feel good.
On the plane a lady kept resting her arm on mine; Indians must feel lost when their skin is not touching another’s. A super fat man was on the other side of the aisle, I find it farcical I have to pay $45 for an extra few kilos of luggage when such a man can steal space and weight free of charge.
She rubs oil into my skin pathetically, we are both bored. She calls another lady, she walks in, looks very young, offers her services and I say no again, slightly more tempted. It’s nice to see your morals hold up in a town that does not have any. Anyone can be a good man in a strictly governed society, who is he, when he can be anyone?
I'm tired of this cotton candy world making me feel insane because the little voice in my head wants to burn it down. Wants everyone to run around in circles in fear of their impending death. We all sit beside the truth without looking at it. Here’s my ego, the tough one talking of ego deaths of the past and how good they are, until its his turn. You are going to die buddy, that’s why you write, because you're so scared of it.
I have been with girls that make me feel safe, but they don’t make me feel much else. Does love bring unsettlement because you're scared to lose it or is that cheap lust because true love wouldn’t make you feel like this. What cotton candy land bullshit that must be, for it to just be easy, that is boring, right?
Words are so obvious, they are just one thing, wouldn’t it be cool to write something that didn’t make sense? But no one would like it.
I still want to be me, even if no one wants to be with me, not even me.
I see writing as like having a girlfriend; you can only go to her so much to make you feel better before she just leaves you because you're a miserable loser.
I thought she trusted me because she fell asleep when I was in her room but when I found over a hundred pills in the skirting I knew she was keeping secrets. I wanted to yell at her but she looked very peaceful when she was asleep. I wonder if she dreamt when she was asleep or only when she was awake.
I believe every human is a type of dog, a breed and often with their own characteristics. So I started to see Ralph in the eyes of humans. Because I was treating humans with the love of dogs, the line started to blur between what a dog and a human are. So I accidentally spoke to a Dog, forgetting he couldn’t talk back and because I forgot he did too.
Is this the downfall of every artist? A beautiful woman... Well, I keep writing, maybe more now than before. How many drunks are out there, too scared to face their reflection in the blank page without the devil's elixir to aid the battle. Am I writing well?... what kind of writer am I if I have to deny the beauty of life to do it?
He ripped up his story and threw it to the birds. He had already got everything he could have wanted, he didn’t need eyes to tell him it was a good story. He was just happy to play. He knew it was all just play. The world went on, trying to get her attention, she told it to be quiet, she was too busy documenting the past to see the present. But Riley smiled, loving her anyway.
“Fuck him man, I’ll kill him, I'll slit his fucking throat,” showing his fear through aggression about the boyfriend who wanted his head.
On the other side of the river a body lay dead in silk. Next to him a man scrolling through his phone.
It is exhausting; giving everything the benefit of the doubt. Accepting anyone is prone to corruption. Double think; entertaining both signs of the coin. Never being fully sure. Your internal soul knows everything already. Ideas, virtues, actions, poems, songs, silence, symbols can lead you on your path. You chase the rabbits tracks but never see the Rabbit, because the rabbit is you. You are following yourself from the front. A little more efficient this time or maybe the wrong way to learn it was the right. Learn nothing to realise that’s what you learnt.
laughter takes the misery from truth, truth puts the ink in the pen and he sits with no ink, not even a pen, and far from a truth.
You can bare your soul, give a little more of yourself without the inevitable pains of attachments and labelling. Love has been corrupted by insecurity. Me, more than anyone. A part of me died through the pain of my big break up and although it hurt to die I'm glad he is gone. Jealousy sits in the shadows of pride. A status. A handbag for the ego.
“Say sorry”. I said sorry and there wasn’t relief. “Ask for forgiveness”. I did, and she gave it to me. Young queen Elizabeth putting white sheets on the line in the backyard of an old lived in timber home on a horse breeding farm. “You have to say goodbye now Riley, we need to continue our journey”
“This is life in Jail baba” Shaking his head and making a clicking noise with his tongue.
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.
I sit in the dark pub playing house music, on my phone getting laugh reacts in group chats. Drinking kingfishers and eating prawns. I walk home drunk, poetically sexting beautiful women from home. Listening to Watermelon on easter hay by frank Zappa, knowing my emotions are passing cars and I think God is everywhere, and he doesn’t much care for worshipping, maybe he is Australian.
"I was trying to work out his motive. Did he want to fuck me? Did he want to kill me? Everything he said was leading towards something, but I didn’t know enough to work out what."
Yes, I was here looking for GOD, and I wasn’t going to find him at the bottom of a Kingfisher. I had a troublesome thought. This trip will change me, sure. But what if for the worse? What if I get home and the life I used to play in was now completely unbearable. Expensive and entitled people. Restaurants not having 11 people waiting for your eye contact. You see, what if I get home and I don’t have that privilege. Here I am rich, in money and sometimes spirit. At home I am broke, in money and sometimes spirit.
I had been played, played a fool by a K9 whore, like those silly cucks at the strip clubs. I was smart enough to have my guard up against them but never have I seen a dog of the night; so suave and charismatic, to fool me into giving him my soul.
As I sang the crowds surged towards me. My fingers had their own existence. My wrist was a passage from above and my voice made the Arabic Sea feel small.
I sat on the couch alone; in the house I bought with my supposed soul mate and watched the panic of presence reach me until I had to move, walk anywhere, take your clothes off and sit beneath the cold water and scream, smash the photo frame against the bedhead. Every item in the house told a sad story.