was pitchforked into society at a young age where people blindy did there part as cog all good tho, because i could see through the fog. through the ruin, and the lane they put you in to work hard and buy yourself things work hard at school, earn a crust go to uni and leave them no hopers in the dust get a good car, wear the latest fashion stick to the latest trends and dont really pursue your passions talk like the others, walk like the others, be a sheep and walk to the beat of the drum on the street with your head up your ass of your own importance You may have gone to uni and now you have job your killing it in life mate, to me your just a knob. I dont make a lot of money, i have a shit car, even tho my first car was a mercedes benz worth 130 grand with leather interior, i bought it second hand. I did think i was into that shit, but i wasnt really, i was just a cleaner, a gentle dreamer that evenutally died in a sense, i left school and my anxiety grew and grew my depression was dark and i saw the world a new- place a shit faced enemy i was paranoid and bitter day after day in my bedroom i would lay infront of the computer watching porn, with a grey third eye i was rotting in my own sadness and astonshing anxeity about life. ………. It kind of crawled up on me, a pyschotic type event.. Which led to help, not that my mind was bent but i needed help.. I died in those years. Eventually giving birth to jiru im still thomas james rowe but im not as well. Im a complex animal, sensitive, Happy, unhappy, i fell so deep, and i managed to climb up out in to the light of day. and we have all done that. Im very much a fringe dweller now. more delicate, but more stronger than before

the station master

The gas station was home for Mick.
He was born into this commitment.
He felt time was this thing; a lonely stretch of dirt road that went on forever.
But it had to be done. It had to be driven.
Just like his father had done. Right to the very end.
It was a stale existence.
But the station needed its master.
Silence… A paralytic warmth inside Micks head, something he grew to depend on.
It wasn’t natural being in the same room each day.
Its painful. gruelling.
Mick was 25.
He was an energetic guy, a closet room eccentric.
He wore a grey a grey steel cap and when his father died he planned to wear a opal blue ear ring.
The station was on the outskirts of a strange little town.

the sky was forever blue, locals hunted foxes and ran piggeries.
The station sold gasoline, as well as generic car oils and diesel.
It also had a small porn section and a few grocery isles.
Dawn, till dusk, mick managed the station.
He took great pride in his work.
There he sat, behind the wooden counter on an old body- weathered stool.
He looked outside through the window
A wicked little wind was kicking up dust.
He observed it, it disappeared off down the street.

He could hear the footsteps of an ant,
the yelp of a car tyre burning rubber somewhere in town.
This was his world, and he was a master of it.

Fuck love

I hate how love hurts so bloody bad

Everything is perfect then your sad

There was a split in the road

The timing wasn’t right

Everything was so daffer so beautiful and bright

To hell with love

It will just hurt you in the end

To hell with it

Let’s fuck and just be friends.

I fell in love

And i dug a hole for myself.

And now I have but only memories and a deep longing for her


james tee

harry price

thorne davidson

moonlight clyde

matlida wormhood

gary the creep


30 days of writing.

Each day,  for 1 hour, for 30 days i will write.

DAY ONE.(Yesterday)

I walked to the creek in the hot summer heat. The road was hot and sticky. Dead straight, it seemed to go on forever. Paddocks were either side of it. There were very few trees on the landscape. My feet were burning on the bitumen. I started to jog, merging into hot pockets of air.

Far ahead i could see the large T intersection.

Left was bridee ridge. A place of gamblers and retired miners.

Right was the road to casson gorge.  An old gold mine once used in the 1950’s. Ran by the Japenese. I was now at the T-intersection. The breeze was whipping through the tall grass shapeshifting into a land animal.

I would take the right road up towards the goad mine. The gorge was but a check point to finding the cool water of the gentle flowing creek.

clouds were gloomy way over in the far corner of the sky. Resting above the dry shadowy peaks of mountains.

Ahead, the tarmac would turn to dirt. the road cut through a grass field and continued.

DAY 2.

“Whats your plans for tonight” ?I asked Jay.

“I think im gonna’ go back to Cartrights.”

“I’v been thinking about it all day. ”

“That place is odd.”

“Well, yeah, i said”. “Its a graveyard.”

“And its not odd, its spooky.”

“Why would you even want to go back there anyway ?”

Jay looked aat me slighty shocked.

“Why wouldn’t you? you dont think its wierd what happened?”

“The feeling you got from the place? The new grave, and the owl?

“You dont think that was at all wierd how it didn’t move  on his grave like that?”

“No”. I said bluntly”. “I dont”.

“Owls hunt at night. “It was probably there looking for food”.

“But it didn’t even bother to move!”. Jay said anxiously.

‘Even when i was eye to eye with it”.

“Iv never seen anything like that before”.

“Maybe it was protecting that mans grave?” “His soul?”

Maybe, it knows something about the person we dont?”

Who knows, maybe it wants..

I cut jay off before he went on with any more of his theories.

“Why are you looking into this so much”. I said.

It was probly just a tame owl.

“A tame owl?” Youv got to be kidding me!

I was over talking about it again.

“Anyway man, i said, whatever, im off to get some lunch, il see you up here after lunch alright.”

(Page missing)- jay cannot stop him self thinking about what happened. and the mans grave they had read.

The lunch line was a massive move. I lined up behind some 12 people. I began to think about the jay and the cemetery that night.

It did strike me odd how unusally persistant jay had been in talking about what happened last week at sir cartrights cemetery. Ever since then he had not shutup about it.

I tried to stick with the facts in my own head.

We went in there because it was something scary to do.

we ran through past the big old grave stones, each one did a have a perculair presence of its own. That i can say was a fact. It was a scary, but definatly cool place. For a little while anyway.

We then ran up towards the back, and came to, which must have been an old over grown part of the graveyard.

And then thats when we both saw a fresh, new grave stone, gleaming in the moonlight.

It shine caught our eye. What more was upon it

A small greyish owl was looking at us. It didnt seem scared, nor at all alarmed  that we were moving toward it.

We both had said we just wanted to read the stone, and see who had died and when.


The owl stood still. Its black orb like eyes were frozen, fixed on us both.

A few feet away we could start to see the carvings in the graves stone.

I didn’t think it was a good  idea  to keep hanging around it, so i told jay we should go back.

But he didnt seem to hear me he just kept moving closer to the owl.

Him and the owl looked at each other for a while in silence. Then jay began to read aloud what the stone said in an unusual tone.

G- martin


to 17-2017.

The owls eyes seem to glow a little bit darker once jay had read it out.

Then i said, “comon, lets get out of here man this is wierd”.

And thats what we did. We left, jay was quiet on the walk home to me.

Jay was sitting alone wit his back against the demountable. He thought hed have lunch here until his next lesson. Try and think a some more about what had happened.

He had tried, but he couldnt seem to get the owls figure out of his minds eye. It wasn’t kind. He felt uneasy and nervous.








dont touch the dog with a hand made of cheese


dont touch the window if your afraid of the breeze

the rifle of timber was bendy and soft

a maingey old dingo repairs a car cleaning cloth


Seinfeld the phorno



inglewood was a rugged town. it snowed hard in the winter the streets where white as ghosts

rooftops were loaded in snowfall, windscreens were thick with it.

Come spring, the snow would ease. The sun would burn, and the shrubs would bud and bloom.

the town would come alive in the springs spirit. The birds would chirp, and flutter in adrenaline. Liquid ambers-

burst into colours. Inglewoods- man made lake came out of  hard slumber with the local rowers back in training

using it.

Steadily the train of spring, well oiled and gaining momentum working its way through to the summertime.

And that meant christmas was coming.

Christmas is a type of trance. Its a contagious fever that spreads like wildfire and chicken pox.

Suddenly the air you breathe is a magical faggot that can’t be forgotten or left cold.

Your thoughts and ideas keep it warm and lucid.

its childish and externalizes its self.

the ugg boot factory.

The ugg boot factory
In the shelter of the night a man named Venice worked the conspicuous craft of weaving and sculpting foreheads into lamp shades, eye balls into toned objects.
Weaves and dissected, adrenaline burnt his tonsils out before morning came. He was a strange man Venice
an un masculine choir boy with a fantasy to dry and cure loved ones pets.
The streets were crooked with shame
the moon sang behind the skin of black.
It was him, all of this deplorable acid.
Cars were icing sugar with the little frosting cubes of reflectors up the dead end street.
My mind was mixed up too long ago
this reality chamrs me and its gonna’ take me away with it forever.


how can you open your eyes without not seeing?