Turn it up, Errol

thoughts, full moon, 2.30 am

I can smell gas. Do male blue whales have testicles? Of course they must. But then, how do they glide smooth through the water with the hugest testicles ever? I've forgotten what time the plumber is coming tomorrow. Kerosene. Gay marriage. They must draw their testicles up inside themselves, somehow. I have to set my alarm for 6.30. The Stolen Generation. My scalp itches. How can a person say that the forced removal of thousands of children by the state is akin to the threat of gay marriage? Moving right along people. Think of the children. It is heat regulation that negates my blue whale testicle theory. It's not a straw man folks. It's a dodgey, slippery slope and here is why. Argument a) equates to b) so if a) makes sense then c) is a logical outcome. Try that one at your neighbourhood barbeque and you'll get slaughtered. It's the comb for me because three kerosene washes ain't gettin' those fleas from my hide. 5 hp outboard motors are nine hundred bucks. How do blue whales regulate the temperature of their testicles? I could buy an outboard motor with my tax return and I'd be away. Gay marriage. Wade out that net on the low tide. I'm wearied by my head lice and my waders are uncomfortable. Why? Aunties, they are great but the state decides, or the church. Marriage: Ahh! Oh, my heart, my ovaries, my skin, all my crawling, creeping little testicular beasts, all owned by a state or a church. The blue whale visits the Sound every April the 18th. To the day. I can't sleep that day. I can't sleep. I can smell gas. Why is it so smoky in here? I can smell gas.

 http://www.abc.net.au/local/stories/2015/05/05/4229914.htm

Bought me a boat

Housing Anxiety? Moi?
In my fretty bloodrush about where and how to live, I've settled upon the perfect answer to such conundrums:
a) Buy a boat.
b) Ask my sister to take glamour shots while it's still on the back of the ute.

Just as a chaotic period seems to be the right time to acquire a puppy, housing stress is the right time to get a boat ... right?
Right.

What a darling she is. I bought her from Old Salt. A vintage, fully riveted Namco, who also made pressure cookers and pots and pans and stuff. Old Salt had fitted her out for his own nefarious purposes and sold her on the condition that he be able to borrow it back on dark and gloomy nights.

A room of one's own and five hundred a year

"I could live in a tent down at Cosy Corner."
By the sea, near the island, watch seabirds plumbline from sky to bait flushed up by bonito. Day by day. Write stories.
"I could live in a cave."
Stroking stone every night. The fireplace smoke swirling around and darkening the granite.

I could live anywhere. But I have the Bobcat. The dog. Oh, and my child standing on the verge and looking toward his life as an adult across the road, ready to step out in a break between traffic.

So maybe I can't feral out down at Cosy Corner just yet. The thing is, I've been so comfortable and happy where I have been living and now it's on the market and the positive offers are flooding in and I have to find somewhere else to live. To live. When I don't actually have a wage to speak of. Or a partner swinging in their public service safety net. I've written two books here. My family are here. I grew up here. I was philosophical about all this, until the real estate agent banged in the 'for sale' sign with a ringing of her gimpy hammer on star pickets the other day.

Back to the shack

 Chased a rainbow to Kundip.

Into the Freaky Forest.

Below is a close up of the strange beauty that is lichen.

Worked on my wall of um ... toa. That's it. The Wall of Toa. 

Kundip kerosene tins, maps and an original Catherine Gordan

 ... and spent ANZAC day wandering about Cocanarup ...

A most excellent ranthem

While we are on the subject of slam poets, here is Ranthem by Omar Musa:

"I am apocryphal"