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The old man plants potatoes again, paddocks and paddocks of them. We spend our 
time picking them up, bagging them, stacking them in boxes, sweating away as we trek up and down the hills. It wasn’t exactly my idea of a holiday at 17, but it got worse.
You see, once you sold off all the good potatoes, you were left with the ones for next year. If a potato has what you call eyes - those little bits that stick out - you can slice it into pieces, and each piece can grow into several potatoes. There were boxes and boxes of these, and a knife, and you just sat there and cut them.
Now, that could be fun if you had a group of people who were fun to cut with, if you 
could listen to music, crack some jokes. But no, we always got the Brethren or the 
Selected Brethren or the Selected Selected Brethren, the Knights that say Knee or folks 
from some other religious group who didn’t like radios, talking, young people, or fun. So, 
cutting in visceral silence was the order of the day.
One day, there was one box left. Of course, the old biddies, the religious nutters, and 
those clapping their coconuts all decided to leave and leave the last box to me. So, there I was, utterly alone, sitting under the house with a knife, cutting potatoes.
Then a youth pulled up, and we'll protect names to protect the guilty, so let’s call him Simon Freestone. He came out and saw the last big box of potatoes. “Who would know, 
Forbes, if it was there or not?” Not a bad idea, Mr. Freestone.
Let’s think about this. We went down to the shearing shed and found an old 44-gallon 
drum. Inspired by an old trick a neighbour taught us, we decided to have some fun. You 
get a plastic bag, fill it with aluminium nitrate and diesel, a stick of jelly (which the old 
man used to blow stumps), a fuse, and off you go. What we didn’t realize, of course, was 
that potatoes are an excellent accelerant in an explosion. More attention in chemistry 
would have helped.
So, we packed these potatoes in the 44-gallon drum, filled all the gaps with aluminium nitrate, flooded it off with diesel, rammed in some gelignite with a long fuse, maybe 20 
or 30 meters. Feeling quite clever, we loaded it onto the back of the Ute and took it out 
into the bush. We found a spot with some trees, some grass, and a bit of space. We 
rolled out the 44-gallon drum, packed with potatoes, diesel, and aluminium nitrate, 
detonator and set the fuse.
I kneeled down, Freestone stood behind me, and there was a tree behind him. It went 
bang! I mean, it went kerfucking Kaboom, like Hiroshima revisited. Everything around us 
was eviscerated, and hot metal flew everywhere. A piece of the 44-gallon drum slammed into the top of the tree above Freestone’s head so hard you’d never be able to pull it out.We shook for a while, only a rip in the universe had somehow allowed us to be unharmed……..in many universes we were left as cloud of red mist. Eventually we agreed we had failed the bush IQ test, and suggested it was prudent to keep our mouths shut.Till today.

The bush IQ test

Don't draft me for weekend presentations when Monday finds your chair empty.
Don't school me on lessons I've mastered over a lifetime.
Don't mistake me for a rookie;My ego knows its girth,
My pride, its tenacious grip. Once a king, crown gloriously intact,
Now reduced to a peasant,
My castle shrunk to a humble hut,
My courtiers, just a cat and a handful of stragglers.
I expected a journey toward humility,
Yet here I am, unearthing deeper layers of pride, Cutting myself on each sharp edge.
I used to seize victories; even undeserved,
Winning was woven into my being.
Then came the loss, and now defeat is all I brew,
And still, this knowledge crushes my pride,
My ego, a beast that refuses to rest.

Pride

Our 117-day streak; broken.
Craving you, an enigma, unfathomable.
Is it you? Or the scorched remains of my first act allowing me to feel? Rookie errors?
The last whispers of chemicals?
Isolation biting deep? Or am I just some phantom knight, a secret Galahad?
Projection, perhaps—but why must it be you? Why, why, why, why, why, why...
Maybe you are, simply, inexplicably.
I pray you are

Maybe you are

In every land where knowledge is pursued, there lies an avenue, a path trodden by&nbsp; countless seekers of wisdom. This avenue, in its journey towards the hallowed halls of learning, harbors a house – not just any house, but the Eternal House on Academic Avenue. This house, a mosaic of time and tales, stands as a testament to the unending cycle of student life. Its walls, though seemingly weary, are vibrant with the echoes of laughter, debates, and the subtle hum of a life lived unrestrained. Here, the front door is but an ornamental relic, as the preferred entrance is a side&nbsp; window, opening into a realm where the conventional is politely shown the door. The interior breathes with the rhythm of a kettle eternally on the boil, and a fridge, an ever reliable haven for thirst-quenching brews. The backyard, a sanctuary of the surreal, whispers of late-night musings under the moonlight. Here, one might imagine the odd sight of socks serenely growing on banana trees, a curious thought born from the fertile soil of youthful imagination. The house's soul is woven from the fabric of countless stories – of rooms flooded in impromptu aquatic escapades, ceilings lit by the rogue fireworks of indoor revelries.&nbsp; Each corner, each creaking floorboard holds a piece of history, a fragment of a story passed down through generations. Within these walls, the saga of unspoken romances, of hearts entwined and then&nbsp; unraveled, plays out with the passing years. Stories of love, passion, and sometimes,&nbsp; the comical misfortunes of romance gone awry, become part of its lore. Then there's the legend of the ghostly visitor, the spectral figure whose brief, turbulent encounter with a drawer left an indelible mark on the house's humorous history.The decor itself is a patchwork of dreams and aspirations. Walls adorned with the 
emblems of sports teams and the remnants of games played in jest, each sticker, each 
mark a symbol of the times.
This house, dear listener, is more than a mere abode. It's a perpetual chronicle, capturing the essence of each era it witnesses. Its legacy is not in the bricks that hold it 
upright, but in the unceasing spirit of youth that fills its rooms.
Cheers to the Eternal House on Academic Avenue, a bastion of learning in its own quirky right. In its embrace, every generation discovers a piece of itself, contributing to the 
ongoing saga of this extraordinary, eternal snapshot of history.

The enternal house on academic avenue

In a bar, not so far from the Milky Way's star, Stalin sipped vodka, eyeing caviar. Ladies in flapper dresses, gents in top hats, Joe thought, "Politics aside, I'm quite the aristocrat." "My reputation's tarnished, they say I'm severe, But put me in this bar, and I'm the man of the year. Those gulags and purges? A simple faux pas, Like spilling your drink on a femme fatale's bra." He winked at a lady, with legs up to there, She raised an eyebrow, gave a devilish stare. "If only," he mused, "they saw this side of me, The playful, the flirty, the downright carefree." A jazz band played, the saxophone wailed, As Stalin danced, his mustache never failed. To tickle and tease, as he twirled on the floor, Had history got it wrong? Was there more to explore? He whispered to a dame, "Come, let's elope, To a land where there's peace, and endless hope." She giggled and said, "You're quite the charmer, Joe, But remember, it's just for the show." As the night wore on, and the stars did gleam,Stalin awoke, realizing it was all a dream.
Yet in that brief moment, of risqué delight,
He wondered if history might someday rewrite.

If they knew the real me

Ah, the Rose, you are but the Trash Panda of flora's land,A marauder in red, a bandit with thorns in hand.You offer refuge to the scoundrel, in your petals she'll nest,After an evening spent under the CEO's desk, no less. Oh, how you've been Hallmarked, boxed and sold,A symbol of Valentine trashery, a lie that's old.Brutalised by a love that's anything but pure,A societal farce that we're all supposed to endure. You're as artificial as Pamela's assets, or the Gold Coast's gleam,A plastic effigy of love, or so it would seem.You signify society's fakery in matters of the heart,A falsehood in full bloom, a deceptive work of art. So if you claim to love me, heed this verse,Know that of all the flowers, the Rose is the worst.Give me, instead, a Dandelion plucked from the field

F.S.F

Writing, Poems and Rants

The bush IQ test

Pride

Maybe you are

The enternal house on academic avenue

If they knew the real me

The Dandelion