by kilaheem

when i get angry at them i dont like it anymore and I was trying to change my head

then i was always folding my legs and can only seeing some blackness

i said it is the nothing

it was hurting and sweat was coming

i keep to work

i am always trying to perfection my head

in there some secrets cant hide

then i was dirty and i think nobody can friends with me

i was in my head at the bridge and so far down is the water

when im sitting on the steps jack said if i was ok

he told me did i ever kiss a man

i wasn’t doing it or the other things but i had before done some things

then my girlfriend heard it and asking that she doesnt know it

i was telling her and she was always my girlfriend and said dont ever to change.

i am asking the questions everytime what is the point for all this things in a book

everytime the pictures and blog and in and out some breathing

finn said not always changing yourself

i was inside dont know who am i

then i said hi im chris bell!

you cant answer your own question

There is no answer for always breathing

You will all the time ask it and learn dont to ask it at the same time

I think that was called a paradox

you were always have to trick the mind so it cant see whats your plan

always saying what is the point!

then i said nobody knows it


dont always looking for some instructions from someone different

then i drink the coffee but not some beer why?

my head wants to looking out the clear window

not if it has a shit inside

so how to stop saying why?

you dont and you keep in and out some breathing

i think it was accepted

all the time life was entertainment











At the edges of our town you could walk for miles through paddocks, across streams and wetlands, through vineyards, tall grass and bushland, past kangaroo’s bedrooms where bobtails hissed and kookaburras laughed.

Whiteman Park was in the middle of it all and Gnangara Pine Plantation stretched off into a never ending mystery of shadowy tracks beneath tall needly arches.

Single carriage roads connected the towns, people had credit at the shop and long driveways with names on their letterboxes.

Then the suburbs expanded and displaced the ducks that now sleep next to the widened road, pine tree bellies lie sawn in rows next to their root systems pulled from the earth like dusty hearts.

Kangaroos still graze in places, behind developers signs promising to house 2000 future families.

Why can’t those families live somewhere else?

Kangaroos used to graze where my house is.

Nov 26 2014

I’m staying in the ethnic community of Peckham with Flo in South East London. We live in a 5 bedroom townhouse with 6 of her friends. I’d like to write about them because they make me smile and a more conscious person.

Flo grew up with Charlie who is in a lesbian relationship with another housemate Finn. They both wear binders which flatten their boobs. Charlie does not identify with gender and requests that when being referred to the pronouns “them” or “they” are used. I slip up all the time and they gently remind me. I imagine how frustrating it would be when people don’t understand or hold importance to Charlie’s wishes, tempting them to just put up with it and suppress themselves which they are obviously sick of doing.

The attention Charlie pays to our conversations produces a feeling of self worth. I see a great empathetic sagacity within them which they are perhaps unaware of, it encourages the pure vision and prejudicial end I seek. I wish not to disappoint them with my tongue.

Flo and I are almost too good. We hadn’t seen each other in 4 months and I had suffered intense periods of doubt over the future of our relationship. She came to meet me at the airport. She stood there bright eyed and smiling with pieces of fruit. It was weird, like I had to get to know her allover again. But I soon remembered why we are together.

She kept smiling, and holding me all the way home, telling me of my new home and housemates, all the things we were going to do, the talks we were going to hear and the art we were going to make. I haven’t told her this but as she led my hand across London Bridge Station I was filled with the familiar fears that it was not going to work, that I was going to be trapped, fabricating a self eroding affection that would destroy me and send me running across the Eurasian continent.

I talked to her as soon as I could about things that have worried me and which I could not tell her before due to distrust of my own emotions and fear of hurting and losing her. It’s a fucking spider web and she does NOT like some of the things she hears but the critical point is that honesty dissolves uncertainties and increasingly proven is that she is the best equipped to deal with them. I can see why it’s SO hard to tell people exactly what you are thinking because you just don’t want to hurt people or are petrified of being alone. You end up hiding, acting, doubting, with a closet full of skeletons.

I told Flo that I don’t feel like having sex all the time and that I have felt pressured in the past, that if I didn’t do it she would become unhappy with me and look elsewhere and that there was something wrong with me for feeling that way.

I believe that our connection has a greater conscious magnetism when our lesser desires are not being expelled into a pile of tissues everyday.

If sex were meant to be a passtime noone would get pregnant from it.

She reassured me tenderly, her love continued outpouring and it will all have a positive affect on the cause.

Flo took me to her University to see a portrait she painted of me. People’s work was allover the walls and much of it was way out of my reach. I felt at home in the photography studio, I was ready to sign up there and then, if only I had my citizenship.

As I came around the partition into Flo’s studio her position diverted my attention to an intense burnt orange profile up on the wall, I seized momentarily, it was me, actually me – not just the body but the soul, with blue, neon pink and lime highlights. I didn’t have to pretend I liked it, I felt justified, like she sees in me something I can’t, like a good fire.








Emotions continue to be a constant battle for me so I support this sort of expression. Good Luck.

Originally posted on Recovering The Flow:

Recently the feelings of self loathing and worthlessness began to creep in stealthy, morbid thoughts began to replay in my mind, and suicide was beginning to seem like the easiest way put before hitting he abyss again.

I knew my health was becoming an unbearable issue again and knew things would get dangerous without help. So on Thursday I went to my GP unlike my usual reserved self and actually explained how I was feeling with brutal honesty, describing past traumas and their affects leading to my current lack of sanity. In a disturbingly calm manner I managed to consciously tell her of my unwanted subconscious plan to end my life just after Christmas, likely cause being death by drowning since I have already once failed with the method of overdosing. Overdosing…don’t do it, horrible horrible experience. So anyway my doctor was wonderfully understanding and decided that I should try…

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♣ ♣ ♣ ♣ ♣ ♣ ♣

Inside some sort of dark factory

with dim lights on

roller doors with chains opening and closing them

down each corridor is a deep lane of water

someone is there with me, Blake?

The walls are black and slimy

I dive in and look around

it’s dark but visible

sudden glance left

there is a massive orange octopus tentacle next to me

it is looking at me

pulls back it’s tentacle and starts waving

I call out to my friend

I think it’s Blake

for the trust I feel in his underwater knowledge

I swim right to the bottom

unlimited air?

I backstroke underwater

The view is beautiful

crystal clear water

slimy black walls

an underwater bat

the night sky with stars and 3 moons

I must be living.

♣ ♣ ♣ ♣ ♣

I became fascinated with graffiti in the early 90’s around 11 years old. Writers usually operated within a group called a crew and from my observations “GAS” appeared to be the most prestigious one.

Me and my mates started our own shitty crews and our own tags trying to recreate that underground rebellious mystique ourselves.

I continued destroying endless stacks of paper practicing my tags accompanied by intermittent vandalisation from then on.

In 1997 after leaving High School to work in the city, I returned to a mature age school called Cyril Jackson Senior Campus. It seemed like people were only attending for the big social atmosphere including me who skipped class down on the oval, high on dexamphetamine, smoking cigarettes with everyone.

I noticed a guy I did swimming lessons with when we were boys at the pool in Morley that’s not there anymore. I’d also seen him at Basketball in Midland a few times, he was over confident and had graffiti on his Nike Air Force.

We started hanging out, he was doing art at school and would show me his drawings, he was older and walked a certain way, listened to Wu Tang, wore cool clothes and people talked about him, (especially girls.)

After school one day at the train station he got out his marker and started tagging on a panel, he wrote TUMBLER – GAS followed by my tag TWERP. He looked over at me and said “I bet you think your hardcore now coz I wrote you up.”

He drew my tag in an amazing piece, I’d never seen anything like it. “Don’t bite my style,” he said.

I soon realised that Tumbler was using Heroin. I could tell when he was on it because his face was pale and vacant, his eyes were red and his heart was generous. His gold rings would disappear some days and he would jovially anguish over figuratively injecting them into his arm. He’d winge about his pimples and ask me to help him get off drugs to get his life together and treat his girlfriend right. He’d say how pathetic he was for hanging around people much younger than him.



Through a new mysterious blue eyed friend and other people at school, my circle extended amongst other vandals, thieves and like minded youths. I got invited into a crew even though my writing sucked.

Funnily enough besides crime, most of the writers were generous and morally upstanding amongst their friends, welcoming new people and sharing what ever they had. That’s what it was all about, making friends and getting known.

I grew up excited by what I could get for free, smashing things and going where I wasn’t allowed so breaking the law was familiar to me but some of these guys had been in jail and had no fixed address. They were very street and their acquisitions could be methodical which took my dishonesty to a new level.

One of the big news stations did a prime time report about Perth Graffiti and interviewed 3 of our friends with their faces blurred. I know at least one of them is now dead.

One day in the city some of them stood in a fancy watch store appearing as innocent window shoppers, a minute later they had looted a cabinet with a screw driver.

We walked passed an older Aboriginal guy soon after who reprimanded VIRUS about bombing his area disrespectfully. He tried to change the subject and got told, “Don’t try make a conversation with me VIRUS just walk away.”

We went into Macdonalds across the road from Midland Gate Shopping centre. There was a glass donation box half full of money fastened to the counter and everyone was too scared to take it so I walked up and cut the wire with my snips and walked out the door. A customer said “that’s not yours,” and I laughed at him then disappeared over an adjacent fence.

We went straight to the bottle shop and I bought Strongbows for everyone. TWERP was officially a mad cunt.

My family went away for a weekend so I invited friends round to get drunk. Early in the afternoon the phone rang and my mate Tom picked it up and started teasing the caller.

An hour later Tumbler stormed through my front door and went for Tom, “Was that you on the phone?” His fist cracked Tom’s mouth like a baseball glove.

I started screaming and telling him to get the fuck out, he grabbed me and forced me down the hallway in a bear hug. I was drunk and crying, summoning all my rage to break free as he overpowered me. “I love you man,” he said, sedating me, “I respect you more than anyone, you stand up for yourself.” He did weights and boxing and was just too strong and had too much influence over me, I gave up. I’d found my role model.

We all got pissed and Tom forgave him, holding frozen peas to his pummeled mouth.

We had a bonfire out the back and some of my other friends from Lockridge came round. Tumbler had picked up his mate from jail after being released that day. They were sitting by the fire and his mate was leaning right over to one side with eyes half closed, mumbling and shaking hands with newcomers like he was mentally impaired.

My Lockridge mates left disappointed and angry that I was hanging out with drug users.

I followed Tumbler into the bathroom.

“Have you used man?”

“No,” he said fixing his hair in the mirror with red eyes and spotty cheeks.


“I fucken haven’t,” He said pushing passed me with the tonal warning not to interfere.


Some uninvited dude bought police to my house so 2 of us smashed him while Tumbler disappeared with a girl.

Then I slept with Tom’s girlfriend.

As the sun rose over Swan View I sat on the street kerb with Tumbler comforting him as he cried about cheating on his girlfriend and being out of control. Something had happened to him between growing up in the middle east and migrating to Australia and he was angry about it.


After he had cracked Tom


I was spending a lot of time with blue eyes by now. She had been in my health class at school, sitting directly across the room with short bleached hair, striking eyes and vintage fur coats. I couldn’t stop looking at her and one day she caught me, I looked away immediately returning shortly later to a wonderful gleam of white teeth and direct eye contact. I thought she was from another planet.

She moved into a house on Bushby St in Midland with 2 friends, one being Tom’s now ex girlfriend. I’d hang out with 3 chicks and everyone was curious because blue eyes was popular and I had fast become her best friend. One night I’d had a few sleeping tablets and was settling down in the lounge room when all three of them came and tenderly tucked me in, I felt cute.

The house started getting very busy with all sorts of people and one morning Tumbler came around early with a pocket full of jewellery and 3 or 4 watches on his arm. “I just broke into 3 houses,” he chortled and continued his brash repertoire. He’d started ignoring me by now and was living somewhere near Maylands selling gear.

I was giving someone a haircut one morning out the back when we decided to break into a nearby house. I jumped the fence with someone and pushed through an open bathroom window. I let him in and he went straight to the bedroom and tore it apart, he looked in places I never would have thought of and found all sorts of cheap jewellery. “She must be a hooker,” he said. I went into the lounge room and there were kids toys allover the floor.

Later on we were out playing pool and Tumbler showed up to sell gear to us, he had gold rings allover his hands and a roll of cash. He ignored me. Even though nobody trusted him or necessarily liked him, they respected him because he was the supervisor, he dominated everyone. He once told me that he used to look up to the bigger taggers until he met them and realised he could push them around. That’s what he wanted from me, to stand up for myself and be someone he could look up to.

I hadn’t done hard drugs before but we went back to Bushby St and I shared a needle with VIRUS (irony?) I felt nothing, Tumbler had ripped us off and no one would say anything about it.

Tom’s ex took a few of us with her to break into her parents house for food. Seeing as she had apparently been kicked out of home we figured it would be alright to rob the place while she was in the kitchen.

Someone must have found a bit of cash because the police raided my bedroom looking for it.

I was the only one to get caught because she knew where I lived. The police promised not to charge me if I told them who the other people were, so I did. I started getting threatening phone calls from someone who said they were going to break into my house so I moved to Sydney to live with a relative and straighten up.

I constantly listened to a hip hop cassette tape Tumbler had made.

One night about 8 years later back in Perth I saw Tumbler coming down the stairs from the Look Out pub in Scarborough. He called out my name smiling with that same self assurance. I ignored him.

Not that long ago I heard he died from an overdose.




15 September 2013

Glasgow, Scotland.

Yesterday Tom and I caught the bus out to the country, there were lush green rocky hills covered in animal shit. Someone owned the land but there are no trespassing laws in Scotland. We were looking for magic mushrooms.

I stood on the perimeter walls and noticed a Ram had fallen into a narrow channel of water and died. I showed Tommy and he staggered over, slipping on some of the rotten remains and almost falling in. I started laughing, he was so drunk. “If A’m drankin I’m drankin ya knoo?” he said.

He insisted he could sell the rams head to a local pub for 30 quid and fished it out by the horns detaching it from a mass of bones and rippling wool. There was a lump of white matter at the base of the skull which was obviously brain and spinal contents. I imagined it to reek of high hell and Tom kicked it off with his boot. I was laughing uncontrollably like that felonious cartoon cat while picturing this unashamed drunk tramp trying to get on a bus swigging a bottle of wine and carrying a stinking rams head.
I encouraged him, I wanted him to make a scene, carrying on like he does, I wanted people to look at us because life is fucking boring.
I took a photo to capture the mild luncay on Tom’s face as he tried to stuff the rams head in a plastic bag which wouldn’t fit, he hid it in the bushes so noone would take it, covering it with leaves.

We found the Whiskey Distillery he was moaning on about and creeped out a few trail walkers. There were mushrooms all over the sloping pastures, I picked hundreds of them right out of horse shit and started eating them.

Tommy smoked another whole packet of my tobacco and I had to pay for his bus fare home after losing his ticket.
He repeatedly told me not to lose mine on the way here. I was a bit pissed with him as we stood in the bus doorway looking in his pockets detaining all of the passengers. “Nooh nooh don’t take this Australian’s money, I’ve got it, I swearr.”

Before we got on the bus I ate a whole tube of pringles and a packet of biscuits. Tom fell over backwards in the bus shelter darkness like a helpless 80 year old pensioner. I fucking laughed at him, he is so funny sometimes. I could see why he had so many eccentric friends and people liked him. But now he has flaps of skin hanging under his eyes, his face is always flushed and he repeats himself constantly. I find myself competing with tales of my own adventures, feeling dirty after each one.

I’d been learning to play guitar and Tom told me not to worry about the “Horse with no name Shit” and learn Nirvana. It fucking cut me because it was the first thing I’d learnt to play and I liked it.

At Karaoke later that night I wanted to sing something I knew and suggested to a mangled tom (who had been asked to sit down by the host before hurting someone) that I sing horse with no name. He screwed his shadowy face into a grey unshaven disgust and said Fook thaat as he turned away.
My chest and arms tingled as I pondered knocking him right off his stool onto the floor. He then spilled half a beer allover his brown bag and looked up in bewilderment. I laughed, I enjoyed it immensely.
Tom if you read this your my hero.

Here’s some more stories with Tommy…..

Trainspotting (I’m in Scotland)
The Trap (Favourites)
Something in the way (Couldn’t leave Tom’s)

Inspiration for this post came from the recent development of a roll of film.

Being a pervert is easy.

I take a quick glance as a girl sits down near me on the train, she appears to look back, instant pleasant feelings, she has a glowing face with smooth olive skin, bright eyes, black ringlet hair and a thin frame.

I’m tempted to indulge in previous habits of analyzing available data to see if she is attracted to me.


1. Now I have a girlfriend who is the best.

2. I used to be a pervert.

I think most men are perverts, am I right? Fucking ANIMALS more like it. And yes women can be single minded too. I used to watch porn and jerk off everyday, develop rapid fantasies about girls I just met and fall in love with checkout chicks. I was lonely, and even though I used to get casual sex from time to time and feel like a player, the loneliness would always return.

Slowly I started to hate the intoxicating lust I felt for women and their bodies and set about changing it.

The only way I can articulate the change is by becoming aware of what I don’t want to be and by disciplining myself not to let my mind wander into old undressing habits. I think the final catalyst was making a new female friend who I could see much valued our platonic connection, unfortunately I was calculating the whole time how I could make her fall for me and jerking off over her everynight. Didn’t matter if she had a boyfriend, if she was my best friend or even if she was 16 years old (I’m exaggerating for effect on the latter but I don’t think it would have been out of the question).

It troubled me profoundly and probably stemmed from the dynamics of my childhood, marketing and most certainly by our group at high school who ran a competition to see who could fuck the most girls.

Women somehow held the key to my self confidence and it’s all I thought about. I read books on how to pick up women and experimented with the techniques, exalting those around me with manicured looks and big statistics.

I knew it wasn’t right because I felt disgusting every time I hooked up with a stranger and I’d usually have to get drunk off the face of the earth to do it, dying a little death every time.

My aim became to be objective with the opposite sex, equal, not intimidated, not calculating and marginally disassociate sexual gratification with someone I’m not romantically involved in. Some have said it’s impossible, that it’s human nature to perve, each to their own and this is what works for me.

And it is, I have female friends who I can actually relax around because all that other shit that used to pressure my masculinity into believing I was a faggot because girls I spent time with weren’t lining up for me like Luke the great silver tongued misogynist Alpha Male.

The more I flex my egalitarian muscle the less it is an issue, obviously there has been significant changes to many areas of my thought processes over time and it’s not just as easy as ignoring the impulses (I’d say especially for sex offenders.) And that’s a whole other story but I have to say I understand how it happens, this world can twist you if you don’t have the right tools.

A frequent test of fortitude is when your downloading music and a naked women pops up on the side of the screen with her head banging against the wall and mouth open, obviously being dominated from behind and appearing to like it.

I’m not saying don’t watch porn but don’t watch porn.

We all know that dude we just met in a circle who stops mid sentence to perve on a girl walking past with his tongue hanging out, making comments about what he’d like to do to her, like a dog. He’s only doing what many of us are doing internally.

It lowers us, limits us, opresses women, depresses men and perpetuates unnecessary division between us.

So for now I honour my girlfriend and slowly wash the slime from my epidermis by looking straight ahead and knowing I’m making a difference. If that deprives me of possible interesting interactions so be it. I’m sure what’s meant for me won’t go by me.



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