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I have always been terrified of good advice, For by my nature, I do the opposite—never precise. This makes me the perfect one to judge it well, For I’ve learned its worth where regrets dwell. Once, I was told: “Don’t go to the ECCA show, The flu is bad this year, as the snotty bogan kids know, They spread sickness like a rogue 5G beam, You’ll be sick for a month, a nightmare, not a dream.” I went. I caught Influenza A, And Whooping cough, too, I’m sorry to say. Sick for three months, in my stubborn vice, &nbsp;Proving that not going was indeed quality advice.

My methodology for weighing advice

Election day again. Queensland stumbles, a fool’s democracy— too damn hard, too goddamn unrewarding for anyone with fire to rise up, to make this place better. Politics here ain’t fierce, ain’t fierce enough— democracy should be a cage fight, sharp teeth and grit. Ideas should dance or die, succeed or burn out. It should pull you in, make you want it. Kids should have politicians on posters, right there next to rock stars and footballers. The whole deal should throb with passion, represent every face, every street, every corner. But no— what’ve we got? A tired, grey lineup: the empathy-dead party, the union cronies, the eco-huggers bent on rubbing trees back to the stone age, and the lone nutter with a joint in one hand and a rifle in the other— because why the hell not? I'm saying— enough of this. Let’s aim for a hundred parties, not two-and-a-half. Let’s make this cutthroat, make leadership glamorous. Show the world how to lead, by sheer will. It’s already broken, all it takes is guts, is fire, is balls. So do it.

Election Day

&nbsp; Brisbane, 2156. This city gave up on trees like a bad habit. It just kept stacking concrete on concrete, trying to drown out the sky. Nature? Illegal now. Real plants are contraband, the kind of thing you'd find in a smuggler’s pocket, wedged between pills and regret. What we’ve got instead are these fake trees, metal skeletons that buzz and flicker, trying too damn hard to look alive. The Wardens prowl like lost dogs with a taste for blood, clad in iron, as if remorse was something you could wear. Their job is to crush anything that dares to be soft. No flowers, no ferns, no grass you can run your hands through. Nothing that remembers what rain feels like. But then there’s this kid, Libby. Not tall enough to look anyone in the eye, but stubborn enough to try. She finds a seed in the pavement, just a speck, something most people would piss on and forget. But not Libby. She picks it up like a secret, holds it close like a promise she doesn’t trust herself to make. She kneels down, shoves it into the dirt— what little’s left of it— and gives it her water rations. One drop, then another, like it’s a prayer nobody’s listening to. And suddenly, it’s not just a seed anymore; it’s a middle finger to the whole damn city. The thing starts to grow, a spindly sprout that shakes like a drunk trying to get to his feet. And the people— they notice, then they cling, like they’ve finally remembered they’ve got lungs. Resilience here is like a bad joke, but it’s the only one worth telling. And right on cue, the Wardens show up, all heavy boots and bad breath, grunting “Step aside,” like they’re tired of hearing their own voices. But Libby? She doesn’t budge. “It’s ours,” she spits, like she actually believes it. The crowd grows behind her, a mess of dirty faces and hollow eyes, all of them pretending not to be afraid. It’s ridiculous, really— protecting a sapling like it’s the last slice of bread in a starving city. But then again, what’s more ridiculous than banning nature? Resilience here isn’t poetic. It’s not heroic, either. It’s a grim, stupid urge that says, “I’m not done yet,” even when everything tastes like rust. The sun still sets between these glass towers, casting shadows that linger like a hangover. And that sapling— awkward, ugly, roots clinging to cracked pavement like it’s got nowhere else to be. And if you stand there long enough, just long enough to forget how serious the world is, you might hear it— Libby’s laugh, rough and unexpected, like a punchline to a joke nobody wanted to tell. &nbsp;

Resilience

There I was—a child, soft fists,pushing a block at a hole.The hole was round,my block was square,and I thought, surely,this time. I grew older,arms stretched longer,mind a little wider,but the hole was still there,waiting, indifferent,like the world in school clothes.And my block?Still square,still stubborn,still mine. I kicked it once,out of spite,hoping anger might make it fit.I cried at it next,hoping tears could wear it down.But that block—that godforsaken block—stood solid and unchanged,a silent witness tomy failing geometry. They said,"One day, you'll learn,"but I never did.Not really.I just got taller,older,more tired.Now I try to shove that blockwith notes in my pocket,and a tie around my neck,but it's the same child,same block,same hole—unfit, unchanged,an endless puzzlethat only I believed could be solved. And somewhere in this cosmic nursery,I think maybe the hole laughs.Or maybe the block cries.Or maybe it's just me,still hoping,still pushing,still pretendingI’ll find the right anglefor a round world.

Square

The young man’s love of Oscar Wilde wasn’t merely an intellectual pursuit. It was a slow-burning infatuation, ignited one summer afternoon when he first read The Picture of Dorian Gray, and fuelled further by Wilde’s wicked one-liners, tales of debauchery, and tragic exile. He felt a certain kinship with the Irishman’s wit and defiance, sensing a peculiar sort of elegance even in Wilde’s downfall. Thirty years later, as a man well-versed in life’s ironies, he recalls that fateful day he spent in Père Lachaise Cemetery, strolling aimlessly until he reached Wilde's monument, still smelling faintly of roses and damp soil.The cemetery itself was like a city for the dead. Its winding paths formed a maze that one could wander into and never return, and perhaps some would have preferred it that way. There was Chopin, with his grave sprawling out like a miniature estate, imposing even in death; nearby were lesser-known composers who probably envied his prime real estate. Not too far off lay Jim Morrison's tomb—humble and overrun by cigarette butts, burnt candles, and leather-jacketed pilgrims who were still trying to decipher the lyrics to The End. The hippies, some in genuine despair and others indulging in performative wailing, crowded around Morrison’s modest resting place, trying to out-cry one another. A weary guide leaned in, mumbling bits of history to an audience that didn’t seem entirely present, “He died young, y’know, like, 27… Club, you’ve heard of it, right?” The young man remembered a passing impulse to make a snarky comment about how Morrison’s poetry might be best appreciated six feet under, but he restrained himself, considering it beneath Wilde's style of humour.Then there were the massive, ornate graves, dedicated to French generals and forgotten nobility, each as heavy as the egos they once represented. Some of them seemed less like memorials and more like aggressive reminders of bygone wealth. Others were so ostentatious that one could almost hear the echo of pride emanating from the marble. He thought Wilde might have found it all very amusing: death as yet another opportunity to make an entrance.But finally, the young man found his way to Wilde’s tomb, a silent tribute, a stone angel, winged and inspired by Assyrian art, bore an expression that was part grief, part defiance—like Wilde himself. The man recalls leaning closer, reading the epitaph: "And alien tears will fill for him, / Pity's long-broken urn, / For his mourners will be outcast men, / And outcasts always mourn." He felt a pang then, not of pity but of understanding. The scene was littered with lipstick smears that had bled against the statue, ghostly kisses from admirers who had made Wilde’s grave a canvas for unfulfilled longing.The young man, now older and more jaded, finds his memory tinged with a certain absurdity: the damp lawn beneath his feet, the faint smell of rotting leaves and cheap perfume from Wilde’s fans, a pigeon that nearly shat on his coat while he tried to read the epitaph for the third time. He wonders now if he truly appreciated the tragedy of Wilde's exile or was merely indulging in his own self-styled melancholy. The angel’s missing genitals—vandalized by an outraged Parisian in 1961—seemed symbolic of Wilde’s own experiences, torn apart by scandal and indignity. Thirty years on, it is the trivial details that linger: the way the richness of the grass, the silence punctuated by a passing car’s honk, the faintest trace of irony that hung in the air like a lingering cologne.Looking back, he can’t help but laugh at the theatricality of it all. Père Lachaise seemed then, as now, more performance than resting place. The dead were never truly at peace, their biographies always truncated to fit the plaque. Wilde, however, would’ve probably delighted in the contradictions, relishing the fact that even in death, he managed to scandalize—albeit through lipstick prints and vandalized genitalia.As the man now remembers that day, he recognizes that it was less about Wilde and more about himself—an attempt to touch the hem of greatness, to romanticize suffering, to be a little more interesting for having spent an afternoon with the dead. The truth was simpler, drier, and altogether more fitting for a disciple of Wilde: he was just a young man wandering in Paris, spending an absurd amount of time staring at a stone angel, and wondering if literature could be a balm for existential boredom. Thirty years later, he isn’t sure it can.FSF

An infatuated young man

Ah, Soren stared out of the plane window—the London skyline emerging slowly, a jagged smear of gray that punctured the cloud cover like an afterthought. The city sprawled beneath him, vast, indifferent, and full of that peculiar mix of dread and anticipation that gnawed at him as it always did. London—where ambition had once sparked like a live wire between him and Viktor, his old friend, mentor, and co-conspirator in the early days of cloud computing. That was back when the future had seemed malleable, as if they could simply shape it to their whims. But years had rolled by, and that future had hardened into something else, leaving Viktor to rise while Soren drifted.This wasn’t a casual reunion. No, this visit had a purpose. Soren wasn’t flying halfway across the globe just to reminisce about late-night coding sessions or their first big break. He was here to pitch a business idea, something he desperately needed more than he cared to admit. He wanted to reignite the friendship, yes, but more than that, he wanted to pull himself from the mire of freelance obscurity. He wanted Viktor’s help, wanted to stand in the same light he’d once occupied, and claim—if not glory—then at least relevance.Viktor’s office was perched high in a sleek London skyscraper, the kind of building that felt like an expensive sneer at anyone still trapped on the ground. The reception was all glass, chrome, and marble—a kind of antiseptic luxury that felt alien to Soren as he adjusted his jacket, still faintly smelling of cheap air travel. Too early. Of course, he was. The receptionist smiled mechanically, a perfect cog in this perfectly oiled machine, and waved him toward the lounge, telling him Viktor would be down soon.The wait dragged like thick, heavy minutes through quicksand, his mind turning over the pitch he’d rehearsed endlessly. The idea was good—solid, even. He just needed Viktor to see it. After all, Viktor knew him, knew his strengths. Surely that had to count for something."Soren! Long time, mate!" Viktor’s voice hit the air like a missile, shattering Soren’s thoughts. He turned and there he was—Viktor, all sleek, groomed success, his hand extended, his grin wide. Trim, tanned, and brimming with the effortless confidence that only real power affords. His wrist gleamed with the kind of watch that didn’t need to be flashy; it whispered success just fine. Soren took his hand, the grip solid, though he could already feel the shift—Viktor had grown into a different beast entirely.“Viktor,” Soren said, forcing a smile. “It’s been too long.”“Too long! Let’s grab a coffee, yeah? I’ve got about an hour.”An hour. The words hit Soren with a sting he couldn’t quite hide. He had come all this way for one hour. But, he nodded. What else could he do? He followed Viktor to a pristine little café tucked into the corner of the office like an afterthought, the view from its windows a glittering expanse of London that should have inspired awe but felt hollow.The barista slid them two coffees, and they settled by the window. Viktor took a sip, glanced at his phone, and then leaned back. “So, tell me—what’s Brisbane like? What’s new with you?”Soren forced himself to stay casual, though every nerve screamed to skip the pleasantries and dive into the real reason he was here. “Brisbane’s been good,” he said lightly, though the lie sat uneasily on his tongue. “I’ve been consulting, mostly. Cloud infrastructure stuff. The market’s been shifting fast, and I’ve been working on something I think you’d be interested in.”Viktor’s brow lifted slightly. Here it is, Soren thought. He leaned in, words carefully measured. “With hybrid systems becoming the norm, there’s a real gap for mid-sized businesses. They can’t afford the full enterprise solutions, but they need something more efficient than what’s out there. I’ve developed a framework for optimizing costs and performance. I thought maybe we could partner on something small—a pilot, see how it goes…”Viktor put his cup down with the soft clink of finality. He shook his head slightly, the smile never wavering. “Soren, I appreciate it. I really do. But we’re in a different place now. The stuff you’re talking about… it’s not where we’re focusing. We’ve moved toward bigger enterprise projects, automation, AI integrations. It’s the next big thing, you know? We’re chasing that.”The words landed heavy, each syllable driving home the widening chasm between them. Soren had expected resistance, sure, but the casual dismissal, the way Viktor slid his dreams off the table like they were crumbs, hurt in ways he wasn’t prepared for.Still, he wasn’t ready to give up. “I get that,” Soren said, his voice tight. “But what about a partnership? I mean, even if it’s something small—”Viktor cut him off again, shaking his head, more firmly this time. “It’s just not where we’re headed, mate. I wish I could help, but we’ve got our sights set elsewhere.”And just like that, it was over. Viktor took another sip of his coffee, already looking past Soren toward the next meeting, the next deal, the next opportunity. Soren could feel the invisible walls closing in, could hear the finality in Viktor’s tone, and knew there was no salvaging this. He nodded, forced a smile.“I understand,” Soren said, though it was a lie. He didn’t understand at all. But he couldn’t afford to let that show. He stood, and they shook hands again. Viktor’s smile was wide and warm, but the connection was gone, if it had ever been there to begin with.“Good to see you, mate,” Viktor said, already half turned away. “Let’s not wait so long next time.”“Yeah,” Soren said, the word hollow and weightless. He sat for a while after Viktor left, staring out at the city buzzing below, the cold cup of coffee in front of him like a relic of some past life. This trip had been a gamble, one he had hoped might reignite both his career and his old friendship. Instead, all he had found was that the past had slipped further away than he had ever imagined.He stood slowly, leaving the half-drunk cup behind. London went on without him, indifferent to his small defeat. Outside, the city’s pulse thrummed with life, and Soren, feeling like a man returned from exile, walked into its endless, anonymous sprawl.

F.S.F

Writing, Poems and Rants

My methodology for weighing advice

Election Day

Resilience

Square

An infatuated young man

A cup of coffee