BotlBrush

Kleo is a writer of enormous talent and potential. Her writing tends to form in a fairly manic stream of consciousness, but Botlbrush proposes that the day this promising talent begins to chop and change, there will be lightning in the publishing world.

THE WORK

The Shadows Under The Desk

Lost poems
sing to the long boy
letters unopened can be good news
(are you owed your dues?)
until theyre opened

Hither yonder, the green weeds gone,
good ol’ Mary Jane
Oh, I could smoke with you
through and through
forever and a day

Shut up mum - dont ask the question.
Dont you know
it has no answer
so why bother to ask if you
already know

what I know is what you know
and you’re supposed to know
more than me so why
dont you know not to ask -
The Fucking Question!

Desk shadows, dark.
They permeate the room
like a headache that refuses
to leave just hangs on
making water in the mind…….

Ripple and turn quite fetchingly
swimmingly, I suppose
but it creates disconnection
disorientation
The Real World bucks like a horse

But thats the thing -
thats different in me
The Real World is that place -
Just look at the shadows under the desk

Smokey purple octypus suckers
tentacles, nuero toxin -
bright lights, pin pricks and Oh
pins and needles. Swimming sensations
and fuzzy head.

But Fuzzy head -
fluffy chick sweet wings
means other things and so
describing the sand trickling pathways
becomes

Impossible
To go on, to leap, to look at a letter,
cos its all bound in hope and fantasy
Until its opened.
Then its just more junk.

I dont worry about myself
my thoughts. My senSAtions. My urges
my voices and whispers
I love them.
lovingly embrace all my friends…….

That is why I fear.
Oh, I wish, My man were here.

THE EXPLANATION
The poem was written when I was out of a job. A letter had arrived that day and I had the most wonderful fantasies that it would involve a job but it didnt. My mum was home so I felt cramped and crowded, and as Ive mentioned in the poem, we were entirely out of money for luxuries like drugs. Drugs have featured in my life, and I enjoy them, but I see no difference between illegal ones and the ones you buy over a counter - theyre all dangerous, all should be used in moderation and with common sense.

Anyway, as a general rule, Im not fond of Stephen King, but I was reading ‘Lisey’s Story’ and if you want to get the poem you have to read that book. Its a mastery of the human mind and it deals with things that are common place to me. The poem is deliberately confusing - imagery is fragmented, verses that seem completed yet bleed into one another.

Aaah, fluffy head sweet wings refers to my mynah bird Najara. Better known as Bink.
The message of this poem, is that I like being the way I am. I like being crazy, different. I wouldnt have it any other way. That doesnt bother me, but it should. Really, thats where Im going with it. And my man hauled me out of insanity, and always does, hence the ending.

THE INTERVIEW (Kleo chooses 5 of the great secret 20 questions to answer)

1. How would you cope as the opposite gender?
Brilliantly. I’d love to be a man. Theres so much I could get done! Sure, I like the power of females over males - but Id rather be a straight guy than a girl forced to sit on a pointy fence. (once Im male I’ll want to be female again though)

2. What is the meaning of life?
The meaning of life? To LIVE!! Then die, and live again! Its the journey and the lesson, and you do it lots of times. Believe me.

3. What is something in life you always wished you were able to do but either weren’t able to or haven’t had the chance to… and why?
mate, life aint over yet!

4. How much money would it take for you to have sex with a man 40 years your Senior?
Sorry to admit this, but I see every person as a sexual creature….So Id probably do it for free, but dont think I wouldnt hold out for the highest possible amount I could get.

5. Which creative person has influenced you the most?
We’d be here all night if I listed all my influences, but Christopher Pike has influenced me a hell of a lot. He has a particular brand of dark humour I like, a way of fitting things together. To this day I wish I could meet him….*cheeky grin* Is he 40 years my senior?

THE PLUG

More of Kleo at http://www.kalikapsychosis.com

The YOU

If you’d like to be interviewed and have your photos/words/music promoted, give us an email at Brenton.clutterbuck@gmail.com.

Ok, I’m trying to be calm here but inside I’m exploding. Hear me out before you dismiss me as a looney bin.

Ok, ok, *breathes*, you might think I’m crazy but please, hear me out, this is Chrono Trigger, Square is going to announce Chrono Trigger for the DS, they think they have me fooled but oh no, not me, I’ve played through that game dozens of times, I know that ticking sound on the ‘countdown’ site, that is taken from Chrono Trigger.

Also look at the URL, ends with /ctds i.e. Chrono Trigger DS. That’s right, Square is getting ready to announce Chrono Trigger DS!

This fan can’t wait!

Damo is in charge of My Apologetics, the place I go when I want to clarify the latest world news, or need a laugh. The talent of this writer is quite impressive, and it is with great admiration that I present some of his work here today.

The Work;

If we are so clever why can’t we stop killing ourselves?

If we are so clever why can’t we stop killing ourselves?

As I write this we are actually sitting on the edge of oblivion staring toward a disaster that seems impossible to stop. War makes beasts of the gentlest people; it creates hatreds that can last generations and untold misery. We all know this, so there is no point try to convince people that war is bad. It is bad and only the insane claim it to be otherwise.

We are a clever species. We can put a man on the moon; cure diseases; feed millions; move rivers and build cities. We can write great works of philosophy, mathematics, engineering, theology and science. We can enjoy music, art and nature. We can feel empathy, sympathy and compassion. Even our ancient ruins stand as testament to what we have done. We are so clever that we can do all these things but we cannot stop killing ourselves. We cannot stop war.
I write because a friend has reminded me that the civil war in Sri Lanka has broken out again. It exists in all but name. The ceasefire that has stood for the last few years is being eroded and the peace talks in Geneva have failed to find any agreement. Why is this so? Why has the very opportunity for peace been thrown away like an unwanted illegitimate child? I could say that the causes of war are complicated, or I could say that they are simple, but knowing the cause does not automatically give the solution. Who started this horror does not tell who is going to end it.

To be honest, I know of no Sri Lankan who has not been personally affected by the civil war. Either they have seen killing or they have lost loved ones to the killing. It does not matter if they are Tamil, Singhalese, Moslem or Burger; they all have the same colored blood. It does not matter if they are Hindu, Buddhist, Catholic or Protestant, they cannot raise the dead. Their children and wives all grieve at their funerals; they are essentially the same people wearing different clothes.
It is easy to look away and pretend that this does not exist. It is easy to find someone to blame. It is easy to see it as typical of people who are not like us in the ‘Superior’ West. All the easy answers have failed and all the cleverness of the humans is failing to provide peace. Is there anyone who can claim to be cleverer than our primitive ancestors living in caves and bludgeoning each other with spears and clubs? Are there any people clever enough to know how to stop the killing?

To you the reader of this article, show me how intelligent you are. Tell me how to stop the killing before it descends again into an unstoppable blood bath. How do you stop a civil war? Are you intellectual enough to think of an answer or will you find more people to blame? Tell me how you would influence people to find peace?

Damo on Damo;

As an overview of what I do.
Basically
My profession has changed over the years but has usually been technology or science related so I usually feel comfortable with
a neutral disinterested approach to many subjects. Mostly I write for two reason: one to practice it and the other to exorcise a few demons. The bigger the demon the more pointed the response.

What helps me write:
I try write something everyday if possible, as a kind of challenge to myself. Most of my literary heroes were as great essayists as they were novelists so I find the concept of the essay an excellent way to clarify thoughts and test their logic.

I try to keep an eye on world events, especially when they concern Human Rights or the Human Condition. I do keep a very close eye on Sri Lanka because that is where my wife come from. We contact friends there by phone on regular occasions. Yet despite the magnitude of tragedy (War, Poverty and the Tsunami) I always find that good people make a big difference. Fortunately I know a lot of good people who have suffer far greater than most can begin to imagine and still they manage to be good people. Challenging indeed.

Books are good company and offer words of comfort in darker times. Thinking requires effort for many people so if I can provoke a little thought once in a while, then so be it. I have never been one for floating with the current of popular opinion. Only a corpse floats with the current.

Regards
Damo

The Plug
http://www.myapologetics.com

If you think you’d be worth interviewing click here; it’s easy.

There’s a certain flavour to Brisbane writers, as anyone who’s munched on a Nick Earls or John Birmingham novel will attest. This is the same flavour left in the mouth of anyone who decides to have a bit of the awesomeness that is Always Eighteen.

The Work:

KIDS AND LOVE

Our young love is different. It’s hard to understand. At first it starts off with a conversation, or even just a word, or maybe not even a word – all it could be is a smile from across the room, a smile up close, a kiss behind the ear. And afterwards the love pours down like cheap alcohol, smothering our entire bodies with every single emotion you could think of. Our love will never have a definition. We’ll call it love, but we’ll change its meaning when we’re angry, when we’re happy, when we’re talking to friends or parents or therapists or our journals or ourselves.

My young love started like this: a conversation, an e-mail address, a phone number, a date, and from there she became a partner. She became a camera that photographed me and giggled as I drove. She became a hand holding mine in the cinema, in a party, in the car, on the walkway. She became a set of eyes that watched me sleep, a short skirt on my birthday and a candle that glowed and overpowered the tonne of black night sky around us. She became my encouragement as I’d write, she became the force behind my studying, that girl I carried as we ran around the beach, the girl that danced and then giggled when she caught me watching. She became sinking bed sheets, cotton pillows and closed and opened curtains, cigarette ember and smoke, music volume raised and my partner against the fucked up world. She became someone who recognised my new clothes and old clothes. She became a set of crying eyes, an angry yell before a dead silent mobile phone. She became a slap on the face. She became yells and things thrown and making up and making out. She became this bright, piercing thing inside my heart. She became the source of my everything, the thought behind every second pulse, every first pulse; I’d be happy because of her, I’d hate because of her, and there was no piece of advice or parent or best friend that could change what either of us felt. She then became a rare phone call, a gradual decline in interest. She became a photo, a memory, that story to sometimes pick out of my brain or heart, this short piece I now write. We annoyed everyone, we were ridiculous, we only ever spoke and complained and bragged about each other, but who cares, that was it, we were in love, that was it, that was us, that was our young love, and when I closed my eyes I remembered the way she’d touch my face and smile and tell me that I was worth something.

Young love exists behind our young masks. We smile and fuck and smoke and get cut and go to parties and drink but deep down, it’s that love story that’s the most important to us. Our radio stations are littered with songs that all deal with love and sap and corny lines that we all secretly listen to and adore. We won’t admit it, but we’ve fallen in love with our friends and have never told them. We’ve fallen in love with a teacher or two and have never told them. We’ve fallen in love from simple, stupid embraces or compliments or gestures we so desperately needed at the time. We’ve fallen in love with actors and musicians and posters and cartoons and friends’ partners and statements and arguments and ideas and ourselves and these feelings either stay with us, stay well and deep within us, or sometimes these feelings last only a second, or a second of a second and vanish and appear where we won’t see them again. Our hearts are forever damaged, but their shapes are always changing. There’s nothing that affects our sex more, our decisions more, our beings more, our anger more, our sadness more, our stupidity more, our thoughts more than this beautiful, tragic monster scrape along the road.

Always Eighteen on Always Eighteen.

My creative work is basically me whoring out my soul for the temporary pleasure of others. I write because people in my life have stories to tell, but will never be heard unless I write about them. I write to escape, I write to find things, I write to both forgive and insult myself. I’ve come third place in a short story competition, third place in a design competition and third place in a shitload of other competitions. I hope to one day be bumped up to second place.

I started Always Eighteen for the money, but then realised it’s almost impossible to make real money from blogging, especially with the sort of stuff I write. So I decided to keep Always Eighteen for my love of writing. Always Eighteen is partly based on my life, partly based on my friends’ lives and partly based on whatever you want it to be based on. I want to remind others that sluts, bastards, liars, prostitutes, cheats, cunts, cocks, dickheads, beaters, perverts, alcoholics, drugos, snobs, intellects, stupid people, rich, filthy poor, psychos and saints – they’re all very, very real, and they don’t just live in Sydney and Melbourne.

5/20
The Interviewee is given Twenty Questions, and supplies Five Answers.

• 1. What is the most interesting sexual experience of your life so far?

Well, it’s not really a sexual thing, but a “sexually related” thing… it was the first time I met a pimp. I think I was eighteen; I don’t remember. The pimp was a transvestite who wouldn’t look at you in the eye; she’d constantly look left and right.

• 2. How do you think you’d cope as a member of the opposite gender?

I’d be angry at every man

• 3 What has caused you the most stress in your life?

My manuscript

• 4. What TV show do you most like?

I like a lot of shows. Currently, it’s Californication.

• 5 What’s the most you’ve ever hurt somebody?

If it’s a physical hurt, then I guess stabbing someone in the ear with a pen.

The Plug;
You can see more at www.alwayseighteen.com.

If you would like to see yourself interviewed, click here.

G’day. I’m Brenton, one half of the BotlBrush team.

What do we do? Well, We try to feature some of the most awesome talent in Australia (and a little bit from elsewhere).

It was here that I thought; how can I assume to be the hero of creative talent if I display nothing of my own. So here it is; not Earth shattering, but some of my photography, Uniden Digital Camera, Edited in Picasa2.

If you think you’d be a good candidate to be featured, send us a bell HERE. You’ll have to be registered, but it’s quick and worth it.

All images licensed under a Creative Commons attribution, non-commercial license.

The above image shows the six types of white people; Men who look like your girlfriends father, Women with bad hair, Potential Bush rangers, Fried Chicken franchise operators, Women with limited fashion taste, Fishermen with waxed mustaches, Lawrence of Arabia and The guy who comes to the party even though nobody invited him.

It’s true. I genuinely like being white. A pride in my whiteness- a white pride… no wait. That’s no good is it? “White Pride” et al has become synonymous with racism and bigotry while racial pride – in almost any other ethnicity, is still associated primarily with positive ideas such as self esteem, battling adversity etc.

It’s not as if there’s no good reason for this to be so. Mainly the reason everyone gets so terribly exited about ‘white pride’ et al is that it’s usually in the domain of beer chugging swastika bearing Leb bashing bicep flexing ‘some-of-my-best-friends-are-Aboriginal-but’ claiming racist dickheads. “There’s nothing wrong with being proud of your race,” they say, “and I’m so proud to be Australian I got the Southern Cross Tattooed onto my scrotum with glow in the dark ink,” which really wouldn’t deserve to cause such cynicism if it wasn’t so often followed by “I’m not racist, but… Aboriginals are Just deadbeats/ We’re letting too many Asians in/ Islam and Christianity are just incompatible…” and so on.

The fact is that White Pride is such a sin because us White Folk have been overusing it for years, as a weapon of our arrogance, to crush others, to dominate culture, and generally, to justify treating others as lessors. These things tend to come in waves, action, to equal, opposite reaction, and as fashionable as “Go Whitey!” once was, it has inverted, not entirely unfairly to “Blame Whitey.”

The downside of this all of course is that dozens of white kids have really nothing to be terribly happy about in their personal sense of race, really, asides from some reasonably good looking statistics. But of course we can’t really gloat or any such.

The truth of it all is, ultimately, that I like who I am. I like being white. I like what we have – our humour, our sense of fun. I like white music. I love white literature. Not to exclusion of others. But I’m happy to recognize I’m a product of a racial tradition, and that race is kinda cool. And that’s ok.