Morrison 2.0

Hung over, painting trim in the mansion on the hill. The electrician’s boom box sounds half a world away :
“Come on, come on, come on, come on
Now touch me, babe
Cant you see
That I am not afraid?”

For a second, you’re thinking - Tom Jones? Covering The Doors?

But no - no, it’s the actual song.

And then it hits you, if Jim Morrison were still alive today, he would be playing Vegas show rooms. Still wearing the same leather pants, wrinkled as a Sun Rype raisin. An acid fueled revival of faded glory - dick out, fending off the broads with his walker.

Morrison 2.0

Christ, don’t clone the lizard king.
Image from Toon Pool .



"That's our tragedy : nobody, except destructive exploiters like Sick Boy, or bland opportunists like Carolyn, has any real passion. Everybody else is just so beaten down by the crap around them. If the word in the eighties was 'me', and in the nineties 'it', in the millennium it's 'ish'. Everything has to be vague and qualified. Substance used to be important, then style was everything. Now it's all just faking it."
Porno / Irvine Welsh
I don't need one of those pink pills with the elephant imprinted on it. I get a contact high soon as I enter the room.

Dance like a madman from ten until two.

Image via The Publics.


Seen Today
Wet highway on the way to Sooke. Mist in the fir.

Swans on the flooded pumpkin patch beside McNally's farm. White and orange on blue.

Golfers on the green. Dawn golden in the dew.


I'm About To Delete Yet Another Post

I’m about to delete yet another post when my bedroom door explodes inward and a booming voice says,”DON’T TOUCH THAT BUTTON!”

Shit. It’s management. They’re onto me.

Ready to drop the bomb, my finger hovers over the keyboard.

“Ah. Last time. I promise.”

“That’s what they all say.”

The suit standing in the doorway pulls out a stunner. The gun jerks in his hand.


The electrified dart whizzing toward my face in slow mo cuts a new part line in my hair before embedding itself in the wall.

“Wait! Don’t I get a chance to explain?”


Another dart. Another near miss.

“I’m obsessing, that’s all. Let me set it free!”


Feathers burst from the pillow to my left.

“If it doesn’t feel real, then what’s the point of saving - “

The next dart catches me in the throat and I go down.

Because I am paralyzed and drooling on the floor, I don’t get the chance to explain that I am not Kerouac - that writing really is rewriting.

Only wet sounds escape my mouth.

I don’t get the chance to pledge allegiance to the creative and all her whims - good or bad.

Don’t get the chance to detonate the home made bomb that I carry around in my backpack.

The suit’s shadow falls over me.

“Agent West, you are in violation of Acts 365, 367, and 369 of the Bloggers Code. Thou Shall Not Repost, Thou Shall Not Blog About Blogging, and Thou Shall Not Publish Before It Is Time. How do you plead to these charges?”


“Right then. Guilty as charged.”

Heavy footsteps sound in the hall.

“Another unrepentant sinner, boys.” The suit says to unseen troopers. “Lets haul his sorry ass in for reprocessing.”


That was two days ago.

I can remember them dragging me out of the house and strapping me into an awaiting gurney.

Everything after that is a blur.

The endless hallway - white on white on blinking white. A cursor moving backwards through my life. A doctor made of pink porcelain. A scalpel made from a spiders leg. A staple gun pressed against my tongue. A nurse with an elephants trunk and seventeen arms taking a pencil eraser to my eyes.

And then only voices, “You will learn to own up to the words that you write.” “Click to send -” “Backwards slash” “Dot” “Reply” “Reply” “Reply”

I can’t quite explain the pain one feels when a god constructed solely of punctuation reaches deep into your brain to tweak and rewrite -

But this morning when I woke up in my room, back in my life, the whole incident felt far away.

Instead of fear and trauma, instead of plain freaking out - I felt elation.

I felt better.

Because today, instead of a thousand different doubts pulling me in every direction, there was only one thought in my mind :

No need to change anything. I feel fine.
Image from ‘The Long Tomorrow’ by Mobieus.


From The Bottom Of The Aqaurium
Three days chill. Ocean cold in the folds of your clothes and then biblical downpour. Noah at the lumber supply store examines the diagrams that he scribbled on a cocktail napkin the night before.

"Cubits," he mutters, looking about. Feet. Inches. "What in the hell is a cubit?"

Three days chill. Life in slow mo. Dreaming of scuba gear and plastic underwater castles.