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As I stroll through the morning mist, My feet squelch in blue Crocs, Adorned with 'jibbitz,' a tribute to my daughter, And a silent middle finger to the world, That dares to dictate my steps.I embrace contrariness down to my bones, Each squelch, a meditative mantra, Drawing me inward to a place of reflection. Here, a thought takes root; I am guilty. Guilty of the Good I didn’t do. No future deeds can cleanse the past. Guilty of not going that extra mile, Of not handing the homeless man that lazy $20, Of letting micro wrongs slip by unchallenged, Of not giving more to the community That cradles my existence. Guilty of withholding deliberate gratitude, Of not always being kind, Or generous, Or empathetic. And in this reflective dawn, I vow to be a bloody delight, To every soul I meet in the days to come. But can one truly live up to one’s philosophy? Or is it just another squelch in the muck?

Guilty

I, Scott, stood in my own cage now—a Tasmanian father trapped in a twisted fever dream of performance art. My face was a map of volcanic acne, each bump a landmark of my misfortunes, each pore a crater where confidence once bloomed. They called it art here at MONA, the Museum of Old and New Art, but to me, it felt more like being ground into dust between the gears of something I couldn’t see but could feel pressing on my bones. My job? To sit. Just sit. Sit there while crowds shuffled past, blinking like sheep confused by the moon. I was a living installation now, a body sold to the idea of itself, encased in glass as though I were precious—or perhaps something that needed to be kept out of the world, quarantined. I wasn’t sure anymore. My skin, full of pus and shame, gleamed in the fluorescent light. It hurt, but not as much as the silence of the spectators, their eyes grazing me like cattle over dead grass. And let’s be honest, I was never going to win against the wall of vaginas or the electronic cow that endlessly pooed into a plexiglass tube just down the hall. Next to a pooing machine, my mere hunger paled into irrelevance. They could’ve hired anyone to sit here starving, but apparently my acne was what elevated it to art—turns out cystic embarrassment really speaks to the soul. “Starving for art!” That’s what they called it. They hired me for my presence, my aura of a man who had been eaten alive by life and spat back out onto the sidewalk. Here, I wasn’t even eating sidewalks anymore—I was devouring nothing. They gave me a corner and a clock, and I was expected to disappear. The audience thought I was deep—spiritual, even. They marveled at my "dedication," the way my ribs began to stretch beneath the skin like fingers reaching for something just out of sight. But they misunderstood it all. I wasn’t starving for art. I wasn’t starving for transcendence. I was just hungry. Hungry for something that wasn’t another smashed avo toast or the cold comfort of instant noodles in the dark. I wasn’t an artist. I was just a bloke too poor to be picky and too tired to pretend otherwise. The guards? Oh, they were a laugh. Sat there with their meat pies and sausage rolls, keeping one eye on me and the other on their phones. They weren’t worried about me sneaking a bite of something. As if I could have found anything edible in this gilded hellhole. No, they were there for the spectacle, guarding me like some ancient treasure no one understood but wanted to make sure stayed in its box. And then, as always, forty days passed. Forty days felt like a lifetime, but also like nothing at all. I was thinner now, my body a collection of raw angles, like a bad sculpture someone had abandoned halfway through. I waited for them to drag me out, to applaud the performance I didn’t understand myself. They would shove a stale sandwich in my hands and smile, thinking they’d done something profound. But the thing is, the longer I went on, the clearer it became that no one really cared. Not about me. Not about the art. The whole thing was a shadow of something grander, some deeper truth I could never touch. It was about control. About holding back from the world until you vanished into a mirage of discipline and deprivation. But was that art? Was it worth it? Was my suffering supposed to say something, or was I just the unfortunate punchline of a joke nobody told me? The crowds grew thinner. The days grew longer. Eventually, no one came at all. MONA moved on to its next curiosity. There was talk of a new exhibit—a panther, sleek and alive in ways I’d never been. They would love the panther. It would roar and they would listen. Its hunger would be real, sharp, immediate, understood. I, on the other hand, was becoming a ghost. Fading. My acne felt like the only part of me that still had a voice, each swollen pimple screaming into the void. I wanted to scream with them, but I had no words, just a hollow kind of hunger that gnawed at me, not from my stomach, but from somewhere deeper. Somewhere older. There was a past—one that felt distant now, like an old coat you suddenly realize you left on a train years ago. I knew it existed, but damned if I could remember where. Maybe it was a time when my skin was clear, my belly full, and my kids still saw me as more than just the bloke in the glass box. But that past was like fog in a rearview mirror—blurred, unreachable. One day, someone—an overseer? a manager?—noticed I hadn’t eaten in what must’ve been weeks. He leaned in, close enough that I could smell the sweat on his neck. “Why?” he asked, “Why keep going? No one cares.” I blinked at him, feeling my throat dry, my skin tightening like a drum stretched too thin. The answer was simpler than anything he could have imagined, though maybe not as poetic as they wanted. "I never found anything I liked," I whispered. And there it was—the great truth of my existence, ridiculous and tragic all at once. It wasn’t some grand artistic statement. I just never found anything worth the bite. I think he understood then, in his own way. Or maybe he didn’t. It didn’t matter. Shortly after that, I died. Or at least, I think I did. Death here in this museum felt more like an exhibit change than anything else. They swept me away without a second thought, just as they would sweep away my glass box and replace it with the panther—a living, breathing creature, full of strength and hunger, but of a different sort. It would bask in the attention I’d never craved and roar with a vitality I’d never known. The audience would come back. They’d marvel at its power, its rawness, its life. They’d forget about me—the man who sat in a cage, too lost to find a way out, too stubborn to let go of the idea that maybe, just maybe, there was something worth tasting out there. But in the end, the panther would stay. It would live. And me? I was nothing more than a whisper in the halls, a smudge on the glass where once I sat, staring into the abyss, waiting for something that never came.FSF

The Artist

The sun, a cheeky ball of fire, Wakes us up with morning's glow. It's nature's caffeine, free for all, No queues at Starbucks, what a show! Winds dance by with playful gusts, Ruffling hair and spreading cheer. It's like nature's own DJ, Mixing tunes from far and near. Rain falls down in liquid gold, Quenching thirst of field and stream. It's Earth's own sprinkler system, Keeping everything so green. Clouds float by in fluffy troops, Nature's own imagination. Kids see bunnies, grown-ups too, Sky-high entertainment station. Elements play in harmony, A concert we get to attend. Front row seats to nature's show, No ticket price, just comprehend. So praise the sun and wind and rain, And clouds that paint the blue. They're working overtime, you see, To make a better world for you. Remember folks, it's not so bad, This planet's quite a treat. We've got free light shows every day, And that's pretty hard to beat.

The Gift

I chat to a girl, She scolds me, sharp as a knife, For a grammar fopah (spelt wrong, too fast), She says, "You fool, learn to write." So I ask her, gentle as a breeze, " Given (f(x) = 2x^2 + 3x - 5), find (f(2)) " I feel her face contorting, "Don’t be a tosser, what’s that to you?" The equation's simple, clear as day, A cat on a mat, the math’s child’s play. But no, her fury rises, She spits and snarls, “Who cares about numbers? It’s letters I hurl!” She blocks me quick, no time to chat, Elitist pig, she says, "I’ll have none of that." And I, in silence, ponder the curse, Of a world where math is something much worse. Oh, how did we fall, where did we trip? Now words rule supreme, numbers just slip. But I wonder still, in the quiet of night, If the mathless know what they’re missing, Out of sight. What do we want? More math, more now! When do we want it? Now, anyhow! But I’ll sit with my numbers, My sums and my squares, And wonder if anyone, anywhere, Still cares.

Faux pas

In a world choking on its own bloated sense of self, where the streets are lined with the fattened souls of the comfortable and the coddled, we stand at the edge of something grand— or something grim. The Great Soft, they’ll call it. A time where we clutch at our gadgets like talismans, forgetting that wisdom’s been left in the dirt. We parade our lives as if they matter, documenting breakfast, lunch, and every thought, while the universe chuckles in the background. Leisure’s become our new religion, where we critique the stars from our sofas, wrapped in blankets of smugness, and addiction is our daily bread. Addicted to likes, to outrage, to the sweet sting of being offended. We’re junkies for the trivial, and we revel in the intoxication. Happiness, we demand, but to earn it? To fight for it? Not in this era. We want the summit, but the climb? Too much work. And fame, that glittering promise, we chase it with desperation, only to curse it once it’s in our grasp, ungrateful for the very pedestal we begged for. Politics, once a noble pursuit, is now a circus of clowns, where we elect the fools and then act surprised when they juggle our lives into chaos. We blame, we accuse, we fabricate, stirring the pot of our own pathetic existence. So I say, with eyes blazing and no grin at all— bring on the war. Not for the love of fire, but for the love of truth. Let the bombs fall and the cities crumble, let the streets run red, if that’s what it takes to shake us awake. Purge the weak, the soft, the endlessly offended who cringe at every word. Let war be the harsh teacher, the cold slap in the face we so desperately need. When survival is at stake, suddenly, the petty squabbles of our pampered lives won’t seem so important. Elect me not as your leader, but as the executioner with the axe, the one who’ll press the button and watch the world burn, not out of malice, but out of necessity. This war is not a metaphor, it’s the reckoning we’ve earned. Let history be our judge, and let the flames cleanse us of the rot that’s set in too deep. Let the weak fall away, and in the aftermath, maybe, just maybe, we’ll find ourselves again. So, rally to the call of Cathartic Conflagration. Not for destruction’s sake, but for the rebirth that only fire can bring. In the ashes of what was, we might just find what should be— not just survival, but a life worth living. Vote for me, and let’s press that button together, not with a grin, but with the grim determination that this world needs to burn if it’s ever to be reborn.FSF

The call of WW III

Who’s in charge of the Addict Olympics? Gold medals for coffee, meth, and mirror-gazing, I presume? “I’m no addict,” you say, clutching your third cup of denial. But who’s counting, really? Not you, clearly. Katherine’s caffeinated, Andy’s running (from what, we don’t ask), Zane’s arms are a blur, fapping like a confused bird. Skylar’s liver sends its regards, while Jill’s web of lies is more tangled than her earbuds. Corey, stop winking at yourself—it’s getting weird. Lilly, sweet as sugar, sharper than a candy cane, Billy’s into meth (which is… a choice). Freddy’s lost in verses (someone throw him a thesaurus), And Lars—well, Lars is… *exploring* hobbies. Tina’s smoke signals are getting less subtle, Gyles, please, for the love of God, close TikTok before your boss notices. Sophie and Ella? Still glued to their screens, Looking for meaning or just memes? Who can tell? So who’s the real judge of vices? Not you, Captain Sanctimony, perched high on your throne of virtue. Go on, feed your own little craving— And kindly leave us to ours. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some poetry to overthink.FSF

F.S.F

Writing, Poems and Rants

Guilty

The Artist

The Gift

Faux pas

The call of WW III

Addiction