Greetings from Melbourne Australia. This is me shedding some of my light on the places that are not often frequented. Maybe add a smidge of dark humour or a wee dose of irony and fuel it all with a strong flat white
Painting with Words I don't know what kind of messed up writer I am. A poet, a novelist, a lyricist, a script writer, or a scribe? Not sure but I do know that I am a part of the sum of my work, and I have many stories to tell. It's just that the medium in which it is conveyed can and will take a myriad of different forms. I have reached the point where the quality of my works has caught up to the quantity and I get all introspective. Am I getting high on my own supply or is it OK. I think its brilliant and am very happy with what I have produced since 89. Sure there are shockers and cringe shots but that could be a literary winnowing process as the rough husk is blown away. Because what we want, what we are after and what we truly need is always deep inside. Not easy to get to on purpose, that would only lessen its value.