start with an empty cup - born slippy
the fear caresses me at waitara
i don't notice it at hornsby
which is my second stop
because I sit facing away
from the layers of cups
stacked in
floor upon floor
of apartments
It grips me at chatswood
the towers of humans are higher
a study of the floorplans
would show the skeleton of the buildings
place the kitchen roughly there
and if you cut the building
precisely
as you would a cake
to enjoy with your tea
you would see inside
the cupboards
and wonder
at how many cups of tea
we could serve
together
in an emergency
Small, regular, large
in a pot, bag, infuser
milk, sugar it's equal
Ready to pour
I can ask how much
tea will we share today
but
your answer
depends
on how much you
already
carry in your cup
to share
time, tea, each other
start with empty cups
Train pulls into Milson's point
look back over North Sydney
sounds of chaos, war, and difference
bouncing between humans in my carriage
wonder at the empty cups
my rainbow lanyard
perpetual offer of tea
and a walk to the office
from Winyard
pushes the fear
of unfilled tea cups
stacked tightly
in towers of separation
til at least 10.30
adjust time for regional
variations in
smoko
0 notes
Darkness holds the light - Born Slippy
hand me down blazer
gold curtain trimming sized
highlights at cuff, pocket, collar
new ones too big
for my body
I'm not a wizard, no cloak, no colour
The bubble of silence
around me an elvish cloak of distraction
eye contact shooting over, around, through
First day of high school
everyone knows someone
but me
Finally the Bell.
Time to Start.
Instructions. Directions. Can't keep up.
Everyone ia moving.
Just follow.
Can't keep up.
Can't follow.
Won't.
Hanging from my belt.
Hooked.
Boys change rooms.
Bell.
Another.
Bell.
At second breakfast someone will come.
And lift me from my impalement.
If. I had my words I could travel
there
and back again.
Footsteps.
Teacher.
Rescue.
Lots and lots and lots of words.
Not mine. I don't try to follow.
Soon it will be dawn.
Trolls.
The small and crafty survive
by escaping notice
I survived.
Until. I was noticed.
I can't describe what my eyes saw
it is impossible to imagine
a being stepping from the world of my words
light held by darkness.
everything stopped moving
except them
and me
I wish these times were different
I said.
All do. They replied.
All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.
and they scattered into countless sparks of light and dark
I recognise them now
I have met them
meet them
chosen family
fellowship
fragments of dark and light
Home
There and back again.
0 notes
Nonsense - Born Slippy
I thought there was none sense
because I was stupid
young
'different'
it couldn't be explained
properly
to me
so no one tried.
I learned about logic
and people logiced me.
Procedurally pointing to places
events, moments, facts, feelings
that added up to
the point
of the thing.
I could see them raise their arms
hear their voice fill with importance
fingers on end of hands
splayed meaningfully, pointing here and there
I very carefully tried to trace the line
from end of hand to
somewhere
there was nothing.
It couldn't be explained
to me and thanked them for trying.
I learned about faith. And it was pretty and comforting and
there was more pointing and important sounding words
And more nonsense
Get to the fucking point
You might well say.
BUT I couldn't see one
and don't know if there is one
it is a little comical
so I made my own noises, and points, and gestures and
waving and hands and fingers and faces and I think
at some point I cosplayed very convincingly
and I thanked me for trying
This is the final words.
At the end of these words
I will loop it all back to
something
events, moments, facts, feelings
that add up to the point of the thing.
How am I doing?
Absurd.
Isn't it.
Grotesque maybe.
In it's appearance of something.
in the nearly, but not quiteness of it.
Did you catch it?
Grotesque. When you see that word
where is it?
events, moments, facts, feelings
that add up to the point of the thing
at THE POINT of THE THING
where is it?
who is there?
who is grotesque?
nearly but not quite
loop it all back
how are you doing?
Absurd.
Aren't you.
am I other
or
are you 'different' like me
and it can't be explained
properly
I am
it is
grotesque
there is no other
0 notes
this page left intentionally blank - Born Slippy
The wisdom of the fool won't set you free
In the end
There really is
There really is no difference
Freedom within, freedom without
It doesn't make a difference if we make it or not
On previous episodes of Positively Nothing At All
we learned that
It's a sin to tell a lie
but the list of sins grows everlong
in the mouths of the everything everything everything everything under one sky.
When you're young, you find inspiration in anyone who's ever gone and opened up a closing door
When my brain lights up
it all lights up
at the same time
Chris and Neil spoke to just me.
1987 Smash Hits.
Laid lovingly over a bed of
TR-808 and DX-7 sounds from the beginnings of the Apocalypse.
Lightning Crash.
Driving Synth.
When I look back upon my life
It's always with a sense of shame
I've always been the one to blame
Desk just too wide to reach both edges with outstretched hands to left and right. I tried.
Height just perfect to rest palms on it face down, slight angle down from elbows to plastic surface.
Drawers under filled with every parcel envelope, box, satchel and envelope available in 1987.
Back of desk a book case style shelf unit with tape and stickers and pens
On the 2nd floor Mezzanine, rows of carefully labelled small medical and other computer parts in shelves, in rows, like a school library but with less sexual abuse of minors
On the ground floor, same but scaled bigger and bigger.
I vividly remember 2 weeks in 1987.
Alone with Chris and Neil, and the best songs of the year. Packaging things I didn't understand for people I'd never meet. Work Experience.
I found me.
Briefly. And vowed to never give me up, let me down, make me cry…
I
Turned over a new leaf, then tore right through it
In between songs fading and rising that is the nothing that is also nothing.
Nothing is the canvas upon which we paint the picture of our lives, we paint in colours we can't see about songs we never heard, bringing to life feelings we don't have. Nothing is all that we truly have.
and we will paint such a thing
such a wonderful, loud, beautiful, rainbow of rainbows thing.
It will echo in these meaningless days of our lives co-creating forever harmonies, chaotic and absurd.
At school, they taught me how to be
So pure in thought and word and deed
They didn't quite succeed
They lie they told me
uncoils itself
from around my throat
With this new ease of breath
I religiously grasp the brush
dip it in the colours I have lived,
and paint the album cover
of my mix tape
"The Joy of Nothingness"
Songs to make things that matter.
0 notes
Invisible Dry - Born Slippy
This is the pink crush
version of our best song
it smells like disruption
in so many little ways
it is less dangerous
load up on irony
load up on beautiful lies
eyes down
hands buried deep in denim
rage layered under flannel
shuffling somewhere else
angry? Oh no, not me
I never lost control
I very carefully cut words
from other conversations
into tiny possibilities
Everyone is waiting
keep walking
tape playing
left hand rewind
listen again
again
lean against this wall
again.
Flick it out, rotate, press play
On Side B
Culture has no opinions.
When I was an alien
we sang in silence
in bedrooms
of heart-shaped violence
Outward opening door
Not waiting anymore
I’d rather be dead than cool
maybe I’m just happy
maybe I love myself better than you
Pull the door inwards
Rewind. Play.
lights off
dangerous
contagious
emerge
this is not pretend
The news said the light is gone
the day is closing and the times are done
appreciate your concern
maybe I’m just starting
maybe I’m just happy
maybe you are the one
who likes all our pretty songs
are the man who sold the world
are the one who knows not what it means
Verse Chorus Verse
What else should I be?
This is not an outtake.
Cobain was not a rock star
Bukowski told you to find out what you love
and let it kill you
Burroughs said you’d be dead in 2 weeks
if you didn’t dream
Go outside and ride your bike
Rewind. Play.
On Side B
Sunbeams are not made like me
I don’t need words that rhyme with shame
In the sun I feel as one
What else should we be?
0 notes
Inner Space Nature Boy - Born Slippy
I didn’t write this song
and neither did Nat King Cole
the things I notice
and notice and notice and notice
and notice and notice and and and and
and and and
Did you open the Fridge, or was it me?
How did I get here?
I catch my reflection in the sheen of the jello
I didn’t make but need to have in the fridge
on this occasion
to help with this story.
Who is that boy?
that very strange enchanted boy
A little shy and sad of eye
I have, on occasion, wondered what was under
the H O L L Y W O O D
sign.
A cave.
is the answer.
under the L.
And then one day
A magic day I passed your way
And while we spoke of many things
Fools and kings
This is what I will say to you
The greatest thing you'll ever learn
Is just to love and be loved in return
And here is the kicker.
The long note at the end of the 2nd Chorus
That may not end
We want it to not end
Never end
hold that note
until you know and know and know
Loving someone is easy.
Being loved in return
Is something
A person
can only learn
unwashed, writing
this song
in cave
under the L.
Hoping
Nat King Cole
will track them down
and sing
Nature Boy.
Is what Nat called me
And it may be
I’ve more called myself
Dirty numb angel boy
In the doorway boy
Tears boy
Inner space boy
And remembering nothing boy
And the moment before I fell asleep
never soon enough to remember
never slow enough to recall
that very strange enchanted boy
A little shy and sad of eye
born
slippy
shouting
If this
does not
make sense
listen to
Nature Boy - Nat King Cole
and
Born Slippy - Underworld
at the same time
in two distinct browser tabs
then come find me
in a cave
under the L
writing this
song
0 notes
No Place I’d Rather Be - Born Slippy
I have never been here before
and those are my palm prints
  on that door.
thumbs touching
     palms pushing
fingers reaching
That Door
Must be opened.
When I was a small boy
crystal thin whisps of white hair
hid my face
as I looked past where I could see
through the back fence into forever
no shoes, no plans
no place, I’d rather be.
       and
it was wonder full.
Carrying buckets of imagination
upturning the things
placing them
beside the other things
a castle of possibility
I lived there
          for a time
swimming in the moat
gloating
I was outside the wall
When I returned
my hands singing with the texture
of these worlds
I found the same closed door
offering to turn the volumeÂ
of my song down
with it’s noisy spring,
pull down handle,
and easy adjacent location
to people who lived inside.
Once I tried waiting until
someone else opened the door
so that I could show them my hands
and hope they could hear the music
And just now I remember the secret glance
we Imagineers recognise
when we see
another, palms raised, leaning in
quick look over their shoulder
before pushing through a new door
Finding a space
that isn’t a place
           yet
and can be
with some buckets
some upturning
some placing
beside
and hands that sing
Of new places
that are less foreign
than this side of the door
and the loneliness that is,
but never is enough,
to stop
palms pushing doors
to write new songs.
And there are always doors
I hear footsteps
and the sounds of palms
against a door
I didn’t know
was there.
Can’t talk now.
Time to play.
No place, I’d rather be.
0 notes
I don’t know - Born Slippy
There
Are
Many very important, valuable, meaningful
helpful, knodding along knowingly
Questions
and
For all
the times I know
curiosity is fucking wonderful
and
embracing it fully
is
Captain, My Captain,
Carpe-fucking-Diem
I find
I don’t know
because I don’t.
Or I may
but can’t remember.
Inside my skull
is grey flesh
and
yes
I don’t know the Answer
I would be so ace
If it wasn’t
so seratonically
tragic.
7 notes
·
View notes
16 Days before her birthday - Born Slippy
Betty WhiteÂ
died 16 days before her 100th birthday
Gone too soon
The world isÂ
less
Yes
and
It
hasn’t
fucking
changed.
I
can see
feel
touch
experience
be
with
traumagriefpainlosstragedydeath
And
I can feel the
the taking taking taking taking taking taking
waiting for balance
for return
for more
Waiting is a time bubble
everything stops
every year
day
moment
minute
is every other year day moment minute
the next one
doesn’t
fucking
matter
Or.
It does. And the loss matters
and the taking hurts
and the hole where giving in return
waits
staring at the empty space
under the new year’s
gift tree
matters
until
I
remember
I
didn’t
gift
anything
either.
For the moments that take too much
to matter,
I have to live
this moment
Like I have plenty of fucks
Yes
and I am
giving them away
Betty White
died
16 days
before her 100th birthday.
I didn’t.
And a day ago
neither had she.
Looking towards the fierce new sun
sharply burns my eyes
Please do not mistake my dried tears
as indifference
0 notes
We will be working closely with local authorities - Born Slippy
To identify people
who need us
to ignore them
as they exercise their
personal responsibility
in a manner that we
are indifferent to.
unless the zeitgeist shifts
through the day
then
you can observe our concrete
unequivocal
always was, always will be
support for the thing,
punctuation matters
because it tells me
when to wave my hands
in protest.
The television keeps speaking
I can’t turn it off
I’m not listening
I can’t, not, hear
When do I get to wave my hands
in protest?
This feels like the correct
number of words
to give
this year
acknowledging the
absurd
pythonesque
Sam Raimi
film set that we stumbled into
last christmas
“Thank-god your here”
we ironically cheered
as we stood up
grimacing
from the hard shove the year before gave us.
I have gained far more than I have lost
this year (unironic effort to find the silver lining)
I gave last year my heart
the very next day
I just tried to breath
in short
shallow
inoutinoutinoutinoutinoutinout
And that brings you up to now.
If you’re here
when I wake up
lets do next year
differently
As an idea, I am fully satisfied
that we comprehensively tested this one
And I don’t need to do it again.
By the way.
I am going to need an exit.
Cue 90s modem sounds.
It’s always last christmas
0 notes
Why - Born Slippy (2021)
Cries from the backseat
are we there yet
are we there yet
but why
small hands dragging the Y across your soul
like tiny rhetorical fingernails down a chalkboard
why
The answer to why
is microwaved rice
left out uncovered over night
crispy yesterday rice hates you
screams why
and you leave it
don’t eat it
yesterdays why
it will not nourish you
Are we there yet
feels like a future why
but is a lie
it looks to catalogue
the reasons
for our failure to have arrived
Clean the chalkboard
with your hands if you must
lost shape chalk
is a pile of answers
with forgotten questions
wipe your hands on your pants
and write
why
on the board
and then
nothing
Let the word speak
demand goad request suggest
but don’t let it lie
like looking at a sunrise
half a morning after it happened
gone now, but it happened
truthfully it was over there, eastish
I point in an ambiguous way
you can’t find morning
looking into the past
Leave yesterdays why where it lies
Seek tomorrow’s why where it hides
Draw morning
just don’t stare at it
it will scar your eyesÂ
hiding tomorrow under its memory
2 notes
·
View notes
X marks the spot - Born Slippy (2021)
At the base of a tree is a Red X
this island is not your home
you travelled here to
dig on a promise someone
left you something precious
claw through sandy soil
strike a foreign object
and
leave it
stand
leave
by the way you came
trace your adventuresome steps in reverse
Cheek to cheek that shit
Ginger Rogers it all the way back to your place
Sit
where you sit to be comfortable
take off your shoes
and your adventuring hat
look around
what can you observe?
seesmelltasteheartouchtexturecoloursound
X is fucking there
Find the value of there
Dream, about there
Draw fantastical maps of wonderous treasure, there
Lockdown is a lie
You can check out
but you can never leave
you have to stay
but you can check out
draw an X on a page
and claim it
leave that palm tree
to grow it's own X's
leave the island home
to those from that country
find the wonderful tiny mundane everyday
life filled flavour explosions of adventure
in the life you live from there
0 notes
Who - Born Slippy (2021)
Imagine an early morning
soft gentle lapping of lake waves caress the shore
footsteps
somewhere
the fog, a ventriloquist, steps here, wind from passing there
Who comes
Who waits
Who tells this story
Who reads aloud
Who listens
This year
among many, took many
waves, mornings, stories, wind, steps, passing
Stopped.
Stories. Stopped.
Fucking Stopped.
Ended.
Death sits patiently in the chair by the window
light frames face
take up the brush
hold the pallete of paints in your other hand
consider the colours you collected there
the colours you can make in their joining
the shapes and shades
the places your brush can take us
anywhere
everywhere
Death paints the world outside the window
Tragedy steals the vivid and mixes it with anger
Brown red rusty blood in a bucket
pick it up and paint your canvas
Death sits patiently in the chair by the window
face turned, light spearing past and missing
I take up my brush
I hold the pallete of my paints
colours chosen by me
I imagine shapes and shades
the places my brush can take me
and I go there
I go there
Death sits patiently in the chair by the window
Unpainted by me
Imagine an early morning
soft gentle lapping of lake waves caress the shore
footsteps
somewhere
go there
find some colours
take your brush
paint the world outside your window
0 notes
Pocket - Born Slippy (2020)
There are large boxes
I can put my things in
and carry them from one place
to another, over large distances
There are large bags
I can put groceries in
and carry them to my car and
to my house, kitchen, pantry, fridge
There are large buildings
I can put my money in
and fool myself into thinking I own this place
THIS IS MY house, kitchen, pantry, fridge
 squatting on Guringai land.
There are large ideas
people put their faith in
and carry fools to hurt and harm each
other, over large distances
and small distances
distance isn’t the criteria
skin colour
gender
belief
politics
lines on maps
accents
language
food preferences
penis preferences
a shopping list of
fuck you, you aren’t one of mine
On the sides of my pants
there are small pockets
I can put my things in
and carry them with me over distances
small things
that feel nice to hold in the palm of the hand
without looking, just holding
rub between index and thumb
forget it is there
small
I think I will collect
my used bags and boxes
build my own building
on the lawn in front of my house
Draw a giant big rainbow
YES
on my box house
and as strangers pass by
I will ask them
What is in your pockets?
And I will know the liars
from those who keep well
the secret of the pockets
by the quality of
the silence and smiles
0 notes
Almost - Born Slippy (2019)
Almost sleeping
  walking
     waking
       turning
         learning
             being
               cruising
                  crushing
                     rushing
                        looking
back a few years
doesn’t require the same
turn of the head, neck, torso, feet
can still point forward
move forward
In 2019 I started a tattoo
Henry Dorsett Case
face embraces traces races space
on my left upper bicep
it fucking hurt
a lot
my tattooist, a tsarist artist flourished circuits
down my arm
near future
cyber future
I was a preacher teacher reducer producer
of moments pointed towards
now
my left arm reminds me
looking back a few years
as a catapult to look back and back and back and back
is a trip
and it is a trip
a dirty numb in the doorway beautiful tears chemicals inner space trip
Born Slippy
the future is bright
the past is a scar on the fibre of my life
covered by art, colour
and prophecy
high density succulent shimmering wonderful hot wet
prophecy
angels of the apocalypse
prophecy
I have seen the future
I know how this ends
it doesn’t end
it goes and it goes and
it has a sound
listen
you can’t hear it
it pulses under my flesh
under the art
it is the art
if you live
long well open present whole turning and turning and dancing and dancing
you will find your art
song sound verse version melody malady cure choir care kind
kind
kind
here’s the drop
there is no why
fucking
be
kind
can you hear it
count it in
it’s yours now
1, 2, 3, 4
intro
go
0 notes
3 walls and forever - Born Slippy (2018)
Press tightly
bars groove skin
eyes pushing twisting reaching
see and see and how far is freedom
outside this cage
is all of the more
and still more
of it
tiptoed
hands frame face
knuckled grip
either side
red cheeks
strain
lips closed
words are not enough
this prisonÂ
cares
none
don’t fucking give it
the satisfaction
Very fucking clever you
Very fucking strong and relentless you
Impatient patient ready waiting go stay you
Focused eyes
unblinking
you
turn around
you
how long
has this cage
had 3 barred walls
and forever
Decision.
Fight the walls and win
fuck the closing in
fuck the care less prison
or
Turn around
you
and
0 notes
Bell - Born Slippy (2017)
Lightly ring the bell
small bell
silver bell
can't hear it
from the other room bell
soft bell
lightly ring
that bell
hear
ding
softerhigherlightershorter
ding
hear?
Turn the light off
ding
same?
walls soften
echo ripples away like it never happened
room fades
no need for closed eyes
on the dark side of the moon
One small step for them
One giant step for us
hear?
nothing
if you can make it, hear
you can make it anywhere
risk it, roll it, spin it, go
hear?
can't see hand in front of face
can't feel air in lungs
on the dark side of the moon
ding
darkness cradles forever sounds
timeless crystal calls from other
there's no time for us
don't wait for us
time slips away for us
who wants to live forever
one small step for us
ding
at night I hear
impatient
ringing
base code
of the universe
summons me
her alarm
in my
earsheadheartbonesbodysoul
small bell
silver bell
can't hear it
from the other room bell
fucking listen
hear
here
0 notes