Runaway Cyberpunk India Freak.

As a boy I was crazy for all things science fiction
and dreamt I'd one day travel the Universe in my own personal spaceship
with all knowledge, past and future, at my fingertips,
and as I grew and neared the speed of white light I realised
I was my own spaceship and could go wherever I willed, directing the flight
consciously with wisdom and desire, for my Mind encompassed All.
So I spread my wings and ran away, from woes and bills and responsibilities,
leaving my demented mother for Community services to deal with,
postponing the next operation upon my broken knee, purulent tho it is,
electricity and phone unpaid, employment abandoned, Art forsaken,
India called and I responded, to get lost, and not be found, in Her dark embrace.

Like a cyberpunk astralnaut cruising the Himalayas in red-metallic machine,
a smiling djinn by my side bopping to techno music blasting quadrophonic,
we stop by medieval villages, our MP3s and mobile phones twittering,
ATM card providing the money for the magic-carpet ride,
the peasants ogle us as if we were demi-gods from a space-craft finding cyberpunk bliss
by a shrine at every bend of the road, a temple in every village and hotspot,
proof of democratic awe of the sacred, the Universe singing love songs to Itself,
Aware of Itself thru Mind tho the people know nothing else.
We rest at every clunky chai shop, our mirror-sunglasses flashing
and I remember all the glorious moments in an epiphany of tears :

McLeod Ganj town like Shangrila dreamscape hanging high on mountain-side,
Tibetan monks smiling, the Dalai Lama's temple and the waterfall behind it,
the death-defying drive around collapsing mountain roads Chaos ever-oncoming,
with temples shining white and psychedelic light in the distant mist,
the Sutlej River winding far below with Himachal fields and roof-tiled houses
and a road-side chai-shop that offered fried eggs, coffee and fresh orange juice.

From day ONE on my arrival I was swept away in the maelstrom of Humanity,
as always I thought I was on my last leg and gave myslef up to the turbulent currents,
whatever the adventure: let it come, I am willing to dissolve into the thorny sunshine.
And swimming fast I was taken a long way from my safety zone, thrown high and low
and whispered sweetly into my soul, "don't worry, you'll be taken care of."
India is not only a "functioning anarchy", it is Heaven and Hell enmeshed,
I pass thru level after level of pain and confusion, sorrow and ecstacy,
dirt and clean white cotton, loving friendship and crafty venality.
I am assuredly lost in Paradise, the Garden of Delights and Terrors open before me.
Yes I sipped the Divine Nectar from my skull and from the Indian people, and I saw:

huge leapords leaping in the wild jungle, the wildcat of my spirit called to me,
and snow-peaked mountains like gods vigilant and aware of my passing;
a bride in red weeping murder as she was carried in a palanquin from her ancestral home
deep in a valley in the back-roads of the Himalayas, and behind her I rode a horse.
I smoked a chillum in the jungle with a charismatic sadhu baba and his stone-age chelas
outside a cave where a famous silent Muni baba experienced his death Samadhi,
and his left-over vibes got me high, my spine straightened and AUM took over.
At first I was depressed but a white-water river rafting trip threw me into the rapids
and a whirlpool spun me high, exileration exploded and I felt it was good to be alive.

I danced like a dervish with queens in a gay Bombay nightclub called "Karma",
flipped out without a care I threw myself into the music and levitated in Dance
and watching impressed from the crowd of excited Indian revellors was an angel
who swore to meet me in the future if he could, joining me upon my cloud 7.
In Mumbai I had my own horror movie fest, "1408", 'I Am Legend", 'Thirty Days of Night",
"I Know Who Killed Me", "The Golden Compass" and "The Heartbreak Kid".
I lay on a mat on Chaupatti beach with good friends and looked at the stars
then ate at a chunky Hindu restaurant the best and purest veg food Mumbai's got.
I read only one book along the way, Marquez' "Memories of My Melancholy Whores."

I danced unfazed with the tribals in the Goan Hilltop parties, frenzied and ecstatic,
the techno music entranced the crowd and we moved as one to the Beat so high
like being fucked by the Universe to a funky rythm hardstyle and relentless,
the rave thumped on for 24 hours, night and day and night, atavistic dancing.
I wore my white on black "Great Escape" T-shirt, Steve McQueen on a motorbike,
and mirror-glasses ice-blue flashing, techno cyber-punk cool, hot Auzzie design on show.

And on the beach of Vagatore I thought of all my beautiful friends,
Auzzie and Indian, and I wept at their beauty, their frailty, the transience of Life
and good times rushing by so fast like Light one can't catch or possess,
only AUM to stabilise the giddiness, the sadness, the Ecstacy.
And I entered the Garden of Paradise denied me so long ago in Goa in 1972
wherein I saw the gates open and the child-like souls run to play and dance in liberty and love
but I was left behind, the emotional cripple afraid of brainwashed memes like "God and Devil".
Now I'm brave, wise and kind and an angel flew down to keep me company and Goa was a joy.

I know this comes across as so much ebullient bullshit and rainbow prose, India spins me out,
the smell of shit and sandalwood, the glitter of designer saris and the scabrous rags of beggars,
the angry flip-outs and the smiling shared humanity, I was brought down quite a few times.
One night sitting by India Gate in Bombay, MP3 lilting, wailing heavenly Islamic techno music
and a cool breeze from the Arabian Sea blowing thru me, the people came to sit beside me.
Mums and dads with kids, gangs of youths, old men nodding in their dotage, an old woman
in a gorgeous gray silk sari sat serenely by my side, I spied her from the corner of my eye,
she was regal, proud, a great beauty of her time and I felt trust and peace next to her.
She was helped up limping by her family, again the ancient matriarch near the END of the road
and I was surprised at her transformation to old crone, this place is indeed magic,
how I love it ALL, I felt such a part of the heady cultural mix, smug and complacent.

Then the djinn of India Gate came to take the vacated space by my side, another old lady
but this time looking like the witch out of "Snow White", hooked nose, gravestone teeth,
even a black-hooded cloak, a black Muslim burqua thrown back off the ugly face.
She cackled greetings and asked for a cigarette and leant close to hiss "keep it secret"
and fumbled at the cigs and lighter in my pocket where my costly digital camera lay.
I felt her hands go in my pocket and naively thought, "such a nice old lady, so harmless!"
She leant close and offered small vials of perfume, swiping samples on my wrist
and just to shut her up, her irritating hardsell, I bought a bottle and rushed off to a taxi
and only back in my hotel realised the old hag had pick-pocketed my lovely camera.

The next night I saw her by the Gate again and grabbed her, asking for my camera back,
she screeched like a harpie and flapped her bat-wings and I called for the police.
Two fat Marathi cops showed up on a motorbike as a huge crowd of rubber-neckers formed.
The old bat cursed as I told the cops in Hindi she had stolen my camera the night before
and they wrestled about with the billowing black burqua to shrieks of outraged modesty,
I felt a pain in my chest, Oh no! Not a heart attack here on grungy Mary Weather Drive!
I quickly pushed thru the crowd and frog-marched up the street, the cops yelling "Stop!"
I dont need 7 hours in the Colaba cop-shop with a wailing witch, the camera irretrievable.
As I rushed to lie down and recover in my hotel the cops dragged her away in a car
only to have her bounce back on ensuing nights, prowling for more unwary victims
and when I see her I call in Hindi, "Ap chore, ap purana chute!" (You thieving old cunt!")
For a few days I felt sad and violated, and imagined her being waterboarded by cruel cops
thru the black cloth of her burqua but I got over it, all things come and go in Flux.

But djinns grant wishes once they've taken their price, and my secret wish by the sea came true
tho djinns come with tricks and the most desired can become a curse if attachment grows:
within a week an angel became my constant companion and now it hurts to be seperated
and I fear for his well-being so that I'm restless and I watch the clock, for all flesh is transient.
Now I must swim fast in the torrential river for I have something to live for.
Like the last night in Goa, a live music concert with Prem Joshua at the Hiltop Hotel
with sitar, flute, sax and tablas, drums and keyboards, his band liberated our souls momentarily.

I live for adventure, vision quests, and was enthralled by a fast bus ride into the night
from Goa to Mumbai, I hung out of the window in the lightless dark stoned on ganjha
and I was swept into the Milky Way splashed upon me from the heavens to cosmic techno,
a great soul, handsome as a Rajput Prince, laid out beside me, my childhood dreams come true.
And then the teeming metropolis of Mumbai where I had my last wild abandoned dance
at the Voodoo Club in Colaba with gays, pimps, hookers and mugs, arms and legs entwined.

I left on the fast train to Delhi, the Rajhdani Express, and tried to lie-back in my upper-berth
with MP3 trancing techno so as to ignore the boorish behaviour of 4 Sikhs gabbing on below.
A short fat Sikh like a bandaged do-nut played the buffoon for a blonde Norwegian girl
pretending he was a movie director framing her for the big shot, it was embarrassing.
I passed out from fatigue but was awakened by a hot white light burning a hole in my brain,
it was midnight and the Sikhs were having a booze party while the rest of the train slept.
I asked them to turn the light out and they refused, I demanded and they again refused.
I roared and leapt like a leapord from my upper sleeper, "Turn the fucking light OFF!"
and switched it OFF myself. I was furious to take them all on, the warrior gone beserk.
The do-nut Sikh bellowed and flipped the light ON again as I climbed back up to bed,
I reached down and turned it OFF again, and fatso shouted "we ALL want it ON, mata chud!" "No not all, I want it OFF! Picture this in your director's frame, front page news headlines,
"Scandal! 4 drunken Sikhs thrown from train" with photo, you on your arse in the dust!
After the lecture you gave us earlier about what good Sikhs you are, shame on you!
Some Sikhs you turned out to be, drinking alcohol all night, why dont you light up cigarettes!
And ap mata chud! (You're the motherfucker!)" to which I heard a lot of laughing from the train.

To all this they shut their gobs and the light stayed OFF, then one snored like a hippopotamus
and I envisaged throwing pepper down his wide-open gullet and amidst the tearful splutterings
I saw Sikh daggers drawn, but fatso rolled over and we all blessedly slept in peace.
In the morning they looked glum, contrite, while the Norwegians hid their noses in books
and the other firangis, (foreigners), looked at me like I was demon-possessed, ha ha ha ha ha!
And when I left I said "Good riddance!" I was reminded of John Huston's movie
of Kipling's "The Would Be King" where Sean Connery and Michael Caine in imperious temper
throw a hapless Indian babu from a moving train when he tries to spit on the floor.

Such have been my adventures in this land of my repeated dream-scapes wherein I fly free
and go where I will and where I am taken, and back I come to Shangri-la, my second home,
for one last cruise with friends amid the snow-capped aeries along a temple-landmark route
to once again look into the omniscient jeweled third eye of a strange alien godhead
and figure out my way ahead in the Chaos, the endless Labyrinth, the hurly-burly of Auz
and I pray to the Universe that contains me, and that I contain, that I may find success
and my Art will lead the way for me to come back again.

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If you enjoyed this story please go to the WEB address above and consider buying my book of tales about growing up anarcho-queer, rock and roll punter and mystic adventurer in Australia and India of the 1950s, ‘60s and ‘70s.

Hell is Other Zealots.

I haven't felt the urge to Blog in quite awhile, no real juicy hot tales I feel ready to relate, not even about the underbelly of the Vampire's Kiss Cafe, (The Piccolo), where I spend much of my existential recovery, except to say that Vitto is so exhausted from working 7 days a week he's lost all sense of humour and proprietry, and gets "grumpy old man of the century" award, but we all bear with it, he's like a force of nature, thunder and stormy, sunny and warm, much like my own mood swings. Yet I do have an ongoing bee in my bonnet stinging away at my sanity and feel the need to moan about it, hyperventilating soothes my savge beast.

Everything I read and hear tells me most of humanity suffers from their cross-eyed dealings with their fellows, there's always someone ready to stab you in the back, rip, exploit, bitch and obstruct, it's impossible to please everybody, befriend everyone, each thinks he/she's in the right, deserves more, whatever one's creed, religion, class, status. I'm a militant atheist/science nut and feel world civilization should be based on rationalism and provable fact, mutual respect and co-operation, and I'd like to influence everyone else to think so, but it seems 'parrallel universe theory' rules, most people believe in ludicrous ideas like "god", "heaven and hell" and "righteous lifestyle" and create societies accordingly. I'm wasting my time marching about proseletysing anarcho-socialism and scientific rationalsim, 95% of the population have never heard of "the Enlightenment", humanity has still not emerged from "the dark ages", we've still got a lot of evolution to do.

I get very depressed over it, have the urge to suicide as human attitudes en masse are not going to get more rational in my lifetime, every creed and tribe at war with the other, the planet may get destroyed before a real world enlightenment dawns. When I read the newspapers, I really flip. Gays seem to be blamed for everything and are despised by most. If a politician is suspected of being homo, he's out. The rightwing Christian lobby has opposition to 'gay marriage' at the head of it's agenda. A male member of the British Royal family may have been videoed in a homo sex act and is blackmailed. A Catholic priest has been outed as a homo, shock/horror. The gay friend of a movie star has committed suicide because he couldn't come out of the closet. On and on, every day, from every direction, the antipathy for "gays" is overwhelming, one's potential for social contribution limited or blocked altogether, it twists us till we end up conforming to the monstrous creeps that we're accused of being.

Brainwashed zealots, (Capitalists/Communists/Christians/Muslims/Jews/Hindus), don't want 'queers' to have stable, open relationships, they'd prefer us to sink back into public toilet life, haunting dark parks at night like vampires, denying us our humanity. Whatever happened to kindness and tolerance, the essence of J.C.'s teaching? Bigotry and hatred of "the other" seems to be the true religion ruling the planet, but one would have to start a new Religion to improve the shitty situation, and that's just adding to the huge pile of shit crashing down upon us all. Open your mouth and you're the next messiah! In an age of over-population and tribal strife, it's all going to Hell in a black frock. I can't take it any more, there's got to be a better galaxy far, far away where life forms truly live in love and awe of rational consciousness, and that's where I'll awake, me the Universe.

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If you enjoyed this story please go to the WEB address above and consider buying my book of tales about growing up anarcho-queer, rock and roll punter and mystic adventurer in Australia and India of the 1950s, ‘60s and ‘70s.

Poisonous Mushrooms and Wanking Dildo-heads.

I've been so depressed lately I think I'm going to OFF myself as the human race just doesn't seem worth participating in any more. It's not just the BIG picture of wars and degradation, the microcosm of one's personal daily life contains such disheartening contretemps, I feel like giving up. Every scene I attempt to join, contribute to and act within inevitably has one or more arseholes who go out of their way to obstruct, rip off, destroy or carp at, out of sheer jealousy, small-soul nastiness and to further their own non-careers. It's obvious it has to be this way, world capitalist civilization is cruel, the competition is stiff, there are just too many people on the planet, and you can't like everyone. Still, it's hard to keep going, especially after 50 years of being kicked in the teeth at every turn. (Boo hoo hoo.)

I know this sounds like the usual punk Toby bitch but, really, there's not been an event I've entered over all the years where there hasn't been some exploitative cunt ready to shred the skin from my back because they wanted a nice lampshade to shine on them and not ME ( Yeah yeah, ME, ME, ME!) Right back to my teenage years when I helped build Melbourne's first vegetarian restaurant, (Shitahari), only to be shoved out at the grand opening by the cosmic Transcendental Meditation team leader so he could play the big hero and make his first million bucks flogging chapatis to dumb hippies.

Today is a case in point. I was hiding out under the blankets, loathe to get up and face the world, when I got a phone call demanding I be humiliated further. It was from Mushroom Records (Music/Pictures), snippy because I'd sent them an invoice for a lousy 80 bucks for some old film footage they'd hassled me over to use in some bullshit music doco they were making. When they first contacted me, it was all gushing smiles and supportive enthusiasm, I was rung constantly and chased about the city, they really wanted to look at my old films like "Darling It Hurtz!" to see if they could use some of the footage of the seventies punk bands and rock clubs. Many years ago I'd been ripped badly by Mushroom, (I'd prefer to call them Toadstool), so I should've been warned but, believe it or not, I'm actually an easy-going guy, co-operative, generous, even naive, to my detriment, and I went out of my way to help them, even taking my films down to their premises in Wooloomooloo to save them the trouble of a courier.

They were very eager to get their hands on the material, and I had fond dreams of being rediscovered, offered further film contracts, maybe making some much needed money as the dude chasing me was ever so friendly and had promised me $20 a second of whatever film they used. But as soon as they had the material, and decided only 4 seconds was good enough, I didn't hear from them again, dropped like a hot turd, no more enthusiasm, not returning my phone calls, only making sure I signed the contract giving them the footage.

And of all the stuff from Sydney's burgeoning rock scene of the '70s I'd recorded, all they chose was 4 seconds of the worst rocker of them all, (in my mind), that psuedo-saviour of Indigenous Aussies and the environment, Peter Carrot, the Walking Dildo, who I'd shot on Super-8 in a club called the Stagedoor Tavern, jumping about like a rabid epileptic with his band, Midnight Soil. As if he needed any more glorification, but opportunistic shit-heap climbers like pop-stars turned turn-coat politicians and soul-less record company executives need all the kudos they can garner to bolster their bullshit facade, and I curse the day I inadvertently contributed to the cunts' career. (He's notorious for using indigenous Australians as a photo-opportunity to further his political pretensions, as if he really cared, and for metamorphosing into a politician and opening up Uranium mines where previously he'd campaigned against such noxious trade.)

It's infuriating that pollies get rewarded with a lifetime pension of $150,000 a year in spite of all the mistakes and bad decisions they'd made while in office, such as clearing forests and causing salinity in the soils to the pink-batte insulation scheme that killed four workers.Of course, that's why they all get into the game, for the perks, power and pensions. I can point to a specific case where Peter Carrot ripped me. Seven months after the premier of my film, "The Thief of Sydney" where I animate a nuclear missile hitting Sydney and turning it to a heap of slag, causing the water to rush out of the harbor, leaving it an empty hole, his band "Midnight Soil" brought out a hit record with the cover art reproducing that very same image. In the future, regardless of his selling-out turn-coat shallowness, he's cheered and hailed as a hero by gronks at rock concerts, all of them baying for his return, as if they have no memories and no brains, just vacuous worship of ugly celebrity. Hitler was cheered thus in his hay-day, the masses can be fooled by the media's bullshit hype..

And today I'm hassled over the $80 I've been trying to squeeze out of the multi-million dollar record company. What a bunch of cunts! It was inferred that I was being an opportunistic beggar demanding a measly $80, they'll pay me from petty cash, how dare I trouble them over such a paltry sum. I've been waiting 3 months to hear from them over the "paltry sum" and took great pleasure in wheedling it out of them, Mushroom Records are notorious for ripping off artists foolish enough to fall into their avaricious grasp, the company drone hung up on me with a grim splutter, "It's only 80 dollars, what the fuck!" But I had a mischievous smile on my mug, companies increase their profit margins by ripping off all and sundry and I was happy to wangle my dues, but, nogod, the pain!

Mushroom had ripped me egregiously in years gone by and I wanted revenge! For what it's worth, here's the story of the Big Rip. It's a true story, tho discounted by the cunts who made their careers by it, but I'm sticking to it, for the Akashic Record. A lot of good it will do me, I just don't want to go quietly, like a wimp, I imagine I'll merge back to the DUST tomorrow, I feel that close to THE END, and I want to say my piece and stick it to all the Dickheads that fucked me along the way, fuck 'em, I don't call myself a Punk for nothing.

Somewhere around 1985 I was asked by a friend of mine, Jo Piggot, to make a video clip for her band, Scribble, and I had to go into Toadstool Records to convince the manager, Martin (not so) Fabulosi to give me the job. I showed him my animated film "The Thief of Sydney" and bitched to him how previously his company had ripped me badly over intellectual property rights on designs I'd done for that film. There were no sympathetic whimpering forthcoming but he did watch "The Thief" with keen interest and I did get the job of making a part-animated clip for Jo's song, "He Takes Me to Sunday School", a put-off title I know, but a sweet song none-the-less. (And, tediously, I had to chase the company for months, like a beggar with my hand out, for the measly $1000 wages for my 2 months of hard work.) Unbeknownst to me, he obviously adored the animated opening of "The Thief" wherein a nuclear missile flies in and knocks the Harbor Bridge down and destroys the city of Sydney, a huge mushroom cloud growing out of the ruins.

Years later I saw the logo Toadstool put at the beginning of all their films, and what do you know, it's an exact copy of my animated sequence, only done by some other shithead, the Bridge knocked down, the mushroom cloud etc, like now I've been ripped twice by the bastards, they couldn't be fucked giving me the job to do their logo, and there's no Intellectual Property Copyrights here in Auz, artists can be ripped mercilessly, it's the convict colony mentality, society is made up of Masters, slaves and overseers, and I'm just a faceless, voiceless slave. I defy anyone to look at their logo and my film and say it's not been copied.

(You will probably declare that a mushroom cloud is an obvious logo for that company but, I swear, if I'd done an animated Alice in Wonderland tripping furiously on psychedelic mushrooms while a giant toadstool popped up between her legs, they would've gone for that as their logo as the world is mostly made up of uninspired deadheads with money to buy hack-workers and copy who they like.) Every artist I've ever met has this same tale of woe, of being plagiarized and dumped in the trash, like it's a ubiquitous urban myth but, darling, it fucking hurts!

For the tale of the first time Toadstool Records ripped me, read "The Thief Who Got Ripped Off" on this Blog site. It was the most heinous in my mind as it robbed me of the impetus my non-career as an artist needed in the "ME" era of the '80s. Nobody reads this shit so what's the point? But I've got to get it out of me or I think I'll explode and turn serial-killer, cleverly bumping off record company executives and dildo-head rock-stars. In a world that worships fame and money, everyone is up for having their back stabbed, there are no rules and no morals, it's who wins that counts, dumb suckers for The System overlook how they did it.

Toadstool profited from the Big Rip by selling lots of records, and not only was Martin (not so) Fabulosi disinterested in my complaint when he watched "The Thief", (an ironic title I know), he purposely planned to deepen the cut by ripping off my mushroom cloud for his company logo, like, Machiavelli rules baby.

I'm now on my existential deathbed and this is my dying statement: nobody gives a shit, a loser is a loser and that's what I am, but I've got nothing else to lose and so I spit on all the fame-whores and money-grubbing wannabes in this burning world, for all the clever art and technological progress it's all gonna go up in nuclear smoke anyway, because Arseholes have always ruled.

For every 7 people one meets, 3 will be indifferent to one's soulful existence, (but willing to stand on you to get ahead), 3 will actively work against and try to destroy you, and one blessed sweet soul will try to help, to love, to feel compassion: this is my philosophy, so I'm not a total misanthrope, there are good people about, but they're as rare as friendly cut-snakes. And I just won't passively eat the poisonous toadstools the wanking dildo-heads try cramming down my throat any more. Goodbye cruel world! Stick art and career up your tight crocodile arts-hole, I'm hitting the road.

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If you enjoyed this story please go to the WEB address above and consider buying my book of tales about growing up anarcho-queer, rock and roll punter and mystic adventurer in Australia and India of the 1950s, ‘60s and ‘70s.

APEC Apemen.

The police and pollies predicted the big V for Violence at the protest rally for the APEC summit meeting here in Sydney because that's what they wanted, they love violence, it's mother's milk to them, they live for it, have all the equipment poised and psyches geared up, and if it doesn't happen, they'll make it happen. It's as if the Police are another species from the rest of us, from another planet, (we don't call them Pigs for nothing)(they dont socialise with the rest of us and can only marry each other), they hate humans and are champing at the bit to attack and cage us at any provocation. The way they bashed up that straight accountant just for crossing the road was direct proof, 7 cops stomping on him when it would only have taken one to grab him by the arm.

Anyone who's been to a political demonstration knows what I'm talking about, the Pigs rush in with maniacal glee, it's their version of a rave party, they curse and bash, grapple and drag, punch and kick, and in true Orwellian speak, blame the Peaceniks for the afray. All of it to smokescreen the horror of worldwide warmongers like Bush and cabal with their economic gabfest, who for money and power don't blink at hundreds of thousands being killed and maimed, it's a sick civilization we're in and I'm mighty disheartened.

The protest rally itself was like a feral fashion parade, a freak's fiesta, lots of colourful costumes, crazy placards waved and drums beaten, what else to expect from a motley crowd of Peaceniks. Tho we were corralled and herded about like sheep, still I enjoyed the afternoon with my friends, it was festive and we had a lot of laughs. I went regardless of the threats of water-cannons, capsicum spray and mass arrests for I demand my right to protest, as useless as it is in these days of total population control, where Society is allowed to let off steam and the radicals can march home thinking they've done their bit, while latter-day fascists continue to divide and vampirise the planet. But what can we do? THEY have the weapons and the brain-wash, the religion of Consumerism has opiated the majority into begging for their gilded chains to be made tighter and deadbeat misfits like me can only hide-out and bitch incongruously.

Yeah yeah, I know about 'terrorists', the Islamist Jihadis wont be satisfied till we're all back in the Stone-age picking fleas from each other's hairy backs, but the Bush/Howard approach has increased the dangers and the horror, even created them, so that it's more likely we'll all be bombed back into prehistory, back to being Apemen with no trees to swing from. There are alternative living systems to warmongering Capitalism and Islamic Jihadism, and I'm not thinking of the Communist Party either, it has been theorised that apemen only put in a few hours a week making a living, the rest of the time was spent partying. Once They've had their all out wars, and humanity has to start again, maybe it'll be different next time around. I'll just have to hide out in my flat and wait for it.

www.amazon.com/author/tobyzoates

If you enjoyed this story please go to the WEB address above and consider buying my book of tales about growing up anarcho-queer, rock and roll punter and mystic adventurer in Australia and India of the 1950s, ‘60s and ‘70s.