So many battles I've had to fight alone. Betrayed by those I loved the most, they were also the ones I had been fighting for. The weariness of this realisation makes you weak at the knees and yet you must continue to fight or else the duplicity of their motives will win the day. You become hollow inside, not by cancer, but by the fact that something deep and magical and life enhancing has closed down never again to be reignited. You feel lighter as you inch closer to death. All that remains on most days is a shell. This is when you are called upon to become an actor and give 'em what they want. A performance. A great performance because it is so convincing most people think you still function and have risen above the hurt and damage of the shadow people. But then again, your life, or what's left of it, hangs on the thread of your ability to push on through the small talk and darkness of "What if...?" without puking on someone's expensive shoes. So many amongst us are asleep at the wheel and do not understand or care about what is at stake. Love is a distraction. Pain is the only honest constant and it has become your friend. You cannot be hurt anymore, which is disappointing to a lot of women. You cannot be brought down any further, which is crushing to many men. You cannot be bought, because there is nothing you need. You cannot be humiliated anymore, which is pleasing to God. For now all layers of bullshit and make-believe have been ripped away. You are free now. God almighty, free at last! You once had a dream too. But now you have awakened to see the game for what it is. Nothing can scare you now. You are impenetrable. This makes you frightening to those who only operate by spreading fear amongst us. And at the dawn of our demise you are noticeably at peace. And powerful again. (c) Frank Howson 2017 Painting by Frank Howson (c) 2017
Once I saved While others played I came fresh faced In a suit of blue Sacrificed on the altar Of others' agendas Sent scurrying to find Things that were never there Was given love Only to have it taken away Was made to laugh Until I cried A man of peace Hardened enough to kill I always went crazy In the final reel "Since I lost my baby" Is all I play On every jukebox That I find In this burnt out wasteland Of broken hearts Paperback dreams Second hand lives Mercy murders The billboards tell the truth There's nothin' down here worth savin' We've filled our lives with shit Auctioned off paradise And gambled away the money The writers get degraded And then ignored They're resented for knowing too much About what makes things tick Now there's a lonely kid Livin' on the street With dreams of makin' it big But little does he know He's already dead Dead to the world Dead on arrival At the feet of the paedophiles And the worshippers of Satan Who shape shift Into human beings Regret is my supper For turning my face away From all the horrors I have witnessed That killed me Piece by piece Believing politicians That didn't even believe themselves Until it was too late (c) Frank Howson 2017
I was born in St.Kilda Lived most of my life here Travelled the world searching for what was Probably already found And like the prodigal son I returned My face lined with lessons learned To the only place that ever felt to me like home My childhood was spent in Fawkner Street It was for a time my whole world Among our neighbours were ordinary battlers Sly grog salesmen Gamblers and gangsters Public enemy Number one Norm Bradshaw nicknamed The Beast for good reason Lived there When he wasn't on the run So did his in-laws The Shannons and our next door neighbour, the Aussie equivalent of Bonnie Parker - Pretty Dulcie Colourful big-hearted contradictory characters I remember the night that several rival gangsters Kicked in Pretty Dulcie's front door and walked down her corridor Spraying gun shots One stray bullet came through our wall and if it'd been a little further to the left Somebody else would be standing here today The 6 o'clock swill at the Barkly Hotel Produced enough colourful characters and street poetry To fill a thousand pulp fiction novels There was no better grounding to be a writer or an actor Than to stand on the corner of Fawkner Street and Barkly at sunset And watch the cavalcade of originals spew out onto the street and wander home in what seemed like a slow motion drunkard's dance Two steps to the left, three to the right Mr. & Mrs. Kilpatrick owned the corner Milk Bar And were the moral guardians of the neighbourhood If you were having a poor week They'd give you supplies and keep a tab You survived on your word and good name In those days people trusted each other My father worked for the St. Kilda Foreshore for over 30 years His little office was under the biggest dip in Luna Park's Scenic Railway and he looked after all the beaches as well as the O'Donnell Gardens The latter was where a lot of my boyhood was spent Playing while he worked In my mind recreating Sherwood Forest, the Alamo and every John Wayne movie Hiding in the bushes, climbing trees, attacking the cavalry Developing an imagination Robin Hood, Peter Pan, Davy Crockett and Spiderman I fought beside them Blood brothers every one We used to save the world before each day was done My mum worked across the road at Candy Corner To me, in my memory, still the best lolly shop in the world bar none And my dad, during the summer months Would work a second job at night Running the ferris wheel at the sideshows to the right of the Palais My first public appearance was on the stage of the St. Kilda Town Hall at the age of seven, performing "Give My Regards To Broadway" Although to us, Broadway may as well have been the moon Years later my father actually died in an ambulance outside the Town Hall It was a fitting place for him to leave this world For you see, our world was St. Kilda It was engraved in our hearts Everyone I have mentioned, other than me Have gone now They are ghosts that haunt these streets and boulevards and beaches You hear their faraway laughter on the wind and see their outlines in the mist of dawn The spiritual guardians of a place that was every bit as unique as Times Square, or Soho, or Wanchai Every weekend people from all over Melbourne would jump a tram Or a train and come to St. Kilda To see the freaks, hear the music, eat the exotic European food, Rub shoulders with the ten most wanted Poke fun at the bohemians Sneak a guilty sidewards glance at the painted ladies Eat the cakes of a thousand calories And parade along the promenade with someone special Please, for sake of all those ghosts, Don't let the soul of St. Kilda die Atmosphere can't be planned or created It is a magic Like stardust from the Gods And once it's gone It's gone It can't be explained And it can't be fabricated It's not a trick of Houdini There is no recipe It can't be reduced to something mortals can understand But at the heart of it there is a truth People don't come to experience a strip mall Even if it has been exquisitely designed They come to experience Life That to me is St. Kilda And our Art Tells the world who we are What we think And where we come from And like Davy Crockett at the Alamo I'll defend that till the end (c) 2017 (Speech delivered at the opening of the St. Kilda Arts Crawl September 21, 2017.)
fake reporters pushing their opinions into fake news fake views disguised as news flashes fake polls reported by fake news outlets designed to discourage people from voting how many lines have to be crossed before something is recognised as what it is and a light is shone on the darkness so that we may know its face when we see it or does it really matter? win at any price? fake scandals fake quotes fake candidates in a fake world of fake feelings and photo opportunity expressions of concern fake headlines that take the focus away from the real issues and the real scandals and nobody really cares as long as their team wins but at what price? and who do you wake to see in your mirror after such a triumph? and what is the statement you are really making? where is objectivity in a dying world rendered impotent by our naivety as we dance to the tune selected by our puppet masters thinking our opinion means anything to the NWO guys but their vision of a new world will sink as surely as Atlantis taking us all with it into the depths and darkness of a hell of our own making where is Paul Revere when you need him? silenced like them all or assassinated by a bullet from a lone crazed gunman a plane crash a sudden heart attack or a scandal or jail people keep voting for change and parties keep running on that promise only to deliver the same ol' same ol' same car, different driver and yet we complain when any change comes as we are not used to it and our stupidity even angers God and Mother Nature and not even the worst disasters can wake us from our sleep we no longer dream as our nightmares have become comforting and the great nothingness of indecision is all we are used to and crave and so we live until we don't (c) Frank Howson 2017
So many fucked up people in the world Monstrously negative feelings about every living person Every word from their mouths another poison bullet Aimed at someone, anyone Most times they actually kill the person who was attempting To help them But I guess to them we all look the same Eventually they implode and eat themselves But don't breathe easy There are many who will follow They weren't loved enough by daddy So now they reach out frantically to everyone they meet To give them the loving family they were denied But when such immediate desperation hits They frighten off their targets And their baby love turns to a cold-hearted hate Within a blink of an eye They hit out at the world For not giving them what they wanted Yet they can't tell you what that is They want to be celebrities Without doing the hard work They want to be successful writers Without facing the pain They want to top the charts with songs That touch us without ever exploring themselves They want babies But marry those who don't Almost as though this self-fulfilling prophecy Will forever more be their excuse For not having to love anyone Or give of themselves Or try If you are trapped by them There is no escape Only a small room where death awaits The living are always under attack from the dead The spiritual vampires Of the new millennium Sucking off your light force Until you are done And then they will mourn you Because now you are safe to be Whoever they choose to invent As their next excuse (c) Frank Howson 2017
Your mother poisoned you So you'd never fly away And now you're chained To St. Vicious of Lies Who turns every glass of wine Into water I once too believed in her But her well of advice Is only self-serving And projects her Far above those she breaks Be warned you won't stumble You'll crash Washed up upon her rocks Of insanity She worships her own image Above all else And speaks in tongues Not her own She is not clever But dangerous Like a snake Like a rat She hides her true self Until she strikes She steals others' opinions And whatever words that work And accuses those left behind Of what she does She resents your light And will work overtime to extinguish it Fearing that to linger in any light Will expose her true self For to gaze upon her real face Will blind all those who do She keeps her secrets Locked tight in her mind But will tell the multitudes Yours Holding up your vulnerabilities and missteps To public ridicule Bending the facts To suit whatever occasion Suits her best Setting you on fire And then silently laughing At your helplessness Whilst voicing concern She steals other women's husbands Not because she wants them But because it elevates her Above her imagined competitors She is the daughter of Satan Her father was jailed for theft But now, released, judges everyone And kills with his ignorance They make a fine pair While pretending to care I took a walk In the sun today To prove that broken men Can rise again (c) Frank Howson 2017
I don’t usually remember my dreams, well the in-your-sleep dreams I mean. Maybe three in my life. But the other night I was awakened in the middle of one and it’s a little bizarre to say the least.
Anyway, in this particular dream I am arrested for killing Ayn Rand. Still with me? Not sure if I actually did it or not but as we know newspapers are only interested in the charges and not so much in the final judgement, so, pretty soon I am in big hot water. Boiling in fact. And as if that wasn’t uncomfortable enough they are throwing the book at me. Perhaps The Fountainhead, I was too busy ducking to check. I then remember going through a very lengthy trial that was straight out of Kafka. I have to say things weren’t going well for me as the cavalcade of witnesses were called. Drunks, the heavily medicated self-published, real estate agents, Mormons, one armed guitarists, fortune tellers, gypsies, tramps and thieves.
My court appointed lawyer was an elderly Chinese gentleman who appeared to be about 500 years old and dribbled from the mouth when he got excited. Still, he had his wits about him and had he been able to speak or understand English he may have been quite effective. His cross-examination of the witnesses had to be seen to be believed. If the Judge had’ve been awake at the time I’m sure he’d have called a halt to the circus. He did wake a few minutes before the end of proceedings and grumpily pronounced Hemingway to be “…a cunt!” I wasn’t quite sure how this applied to me or my case but was too intimidated to enquire. My Chinese representative seemed to take it in his stride and smiled in a knowing way. Perhaps this was a good sign? Taking the positive angle I smiled at the Judge who smiled back at me. He then announced in a disappointed tone that the jury weren’t very well hung and adjourned the case until they could be re-cast. On that note everyone went home to be greeted by their loved ones and a hot meal, followed by re-runs of classic football matches, while I was beaten to a pulp in my holding cell which the guards took literally and, having no TV set to watch football, they attempted to kick a goal with my head. In all objectivity some of them did show promise as league players. I did at one point attempt to convey the news that the football they were using had a migraine but this was met with increased hostility and I was accused of using too many big words.
Hence another three quarters were played. This time I kept quiet and assumed my role. Finally I threw my voice and did a very convincing imitation of the final siren which they bought, hugged each other, shook hands, copped a feel of each other’s bums, and left the field complaining about the lack of good umpiring decisions these days. I couldn’t, in spite of my intense pain, help thinking what great sportsmen they were. Dreadful human beings – but great sportsmen. This was the last thought that stampeded through my mind before I lost consciousness.
I was shaken back into this world bright and early the next morning, in dream time, in order to return to court. I told the guard, who smelled of cheap bourbon and herbal cigarettes, that I had to postpone my court appearance before our esteemed Judge as I was fairly convinced I was in the initial stages of a brain hemorrhage, but this was met with “well who gives a fuck you dumb fucker fucking your way through life and fucking every fucking thing up for every other fucking dumb fuck!”
I took that as a “no”.
I found that if I tilted my head till it was resting sideways on one shoulder it relieved some of the pain. So, that’s how I appeared back in court. Looking like an amateur theatre version of Quasimodo. I’d fretted needlessly over my appearance as the Judge looked past me and mistook a nun in the next row to be me, stating that he was going to take into account that I was a lady of the cloth and not to worry.
My lawyer, the very learned Mr. Dim Sim, gave his final impassioned summation, in Cantonese, to a silent ovation from nonplussed creatures inhabiting human-like bodies. The Judge finally broke the stunned silence by burping and muttered, “Better out than in” and the really hung jury and those in attendance took this to be the final judgement and a deafening uproar broke out in the courtroom, along with several fistfights, a rape, a child birth, and a scattering of small time thefts.
As everyone had lost interest in me, and noticing the open door, I slowly made my way best as I could, considering my head was still laying sideways on my left shoulder, through the crowd of rioters and those with an axe to grind. Soon enough I found the sunshine and a busy city street awaiting me.
Within seconds I was lost in the crowd. Well, as lost as I could be given my new appearance.
I bear no grudge against anyone who mistreated me, but if Ayn Rand was still alive, I’d kill her.
(c) Frank Howson 2017.