At The Perimeter

I don’t know exactly just what it is about cafes. Toasted Brewery serves their latte with a lotus flower in the milk-froth. I normally sit near the swing doors watching the morning crowd, without the internal sensations other than from my coffee.
Two older women do the same thing when i’m there. If my papers no good at holding my attention their conversation makes alright entertainment. For a little.
One’s name is Janette, but the other doesn’t address first names as liberally. Janette has a bob cut like a lego hair-piece that is golden and amber coloured. Then untitled has bushy and unkept red hair, with a husky and frank element to conversation.
Sometimes when it is bad enough, i go to the franchise, which is three shops up from my flat. I’ll enjoy immigrants working a till. I walk in with a mild crowd and then wait.
“This is what i’d like,” I say.
They list the sizes in monotone, then i pay. Only skimming the skin of social pleasantry. There isn’t any seating.
I’ll then walk inside the door of my flat, then i shut the door to the hallway. Today I listened to rain pelt the glass of the window. The clock ticked through bright cacophony of the rain fall.
I wanted to avoid the white noise of the flat, it was too early for that.
I turned on the independent radio station on my stereo. I don’t know exactly just what it is about the radio for music.
I sat down on my recliner wondering what the weekend might be like for the radio.


A Cicada Shell

Baz Stevenson was like the commune
On the remote property.
Seems illicits wake you up more than
voting, working or paying for tickets;
Tucking top-stock inside hemp clothes.
Philosophy, Crusades amongst the bush,
Safeguard crimes toward trivial civilities
Like serve humanity.
Ask B.S. why he’s on the dole
and happy.
He won’t know of the distance inbetween
Enlightenment then Nobility.

O. So World Weary?

When you truly believe in these jokes you’re telling
I worry for you
I go to bed and i’m worn until night
The world ain’t this much horror and blue
I think you’ll find it’s only slightly Orwellian in the West.
Your cynical anxiety is the bubonic you look at;
What great understanding can have you yourself so miserable?
You jot realism on your name-tag
loosen your mouths cross-hairs on wonder and dreaming.
Then whistling in faces of people;
We’re tired of that sound
How you’re shallow feeling,
I don’t want to say anything about anything when i’m low.

Gregory Jones’ Life Cause

Leap for the throat, try and kill it.
You will perish.
Be it foreign embassy or a foreign land.
It is cantankerous and a wit to ethic norms
Well accustomed to practising on meek hearted.
It is convenient, and a well groomed allure
But the heresy of the temptress.
It’s ease will never feel like any good content.

Greg Jones knows, the fruit grocer, in Newtown.
He thinks not to be an activist,
Whispering so the mechanical lobes skip:
“Jump away from the 1%, and stay hiddenly silent,
that will confirm their place –
Young Guerrillas must be with economical sights, and
dabble in the legislative weaponry of modern ways,”
He broadcasts in the morse of his lifestyle.

This dreamer marxist, knows no more than youth,
Not of confronting those with shadows that cast night.
Yet matured, and wiser; his fulfilment is not denied –
His fruit empire has him content enough, his actions sing
Living in sound of quiet ideology.

Trufflenator Review

This burger stands as a kill-grave equivalent i guess, your friend is now this mesmerised narrator. And everyone, myself, people aroScreen Shot 2016-01-07 at 10.33.09 PM.pngund fall under this spell with reckless abandon to your % DI in lust.  This beautiful burger, is composed of what you’d assume is a noxious pile of ingredients. Splitting the room with a generic, ‘Auuugh! let’s go,’ And then others who are healthily shrieking, and covering their heads in yoga-mats.

Reviews spread across my newsfeed. They’re describing sensations induced, sketching the Trufflenator. Dee Why Hotel’s personal hydrogen test-site.

I’ve eaten the burger twice. Both occasions i swore i’d never eat it again. Confidently the best burger i’ve eaten.

It comes quickly. You order and can grab a beer at the bar, opting to sit throughout the room at various spots. They all have their own style that feels personalised wherever you sit. We chose to sit at the edge. There’s a phantom window as backdrop to a cutaway extension of the larger bar. The place is a nice mix of timber floor, almost-boutique furniture, tiled or stone walls and industrial roof. It’s this hipster’s bar without its cast.

Alas: burger. 2 wagyu patties. Defaulted at medium rare. Bacon lined, crowned with onion rings, soaked by cheese and maple syrup. Truffle is infused in 5 ingredients. It links the sweet maple with american cheese and savoury. Each juicy mouthful balanced by a fluffy milk bun, flossy enough till squishing it for average human mouths. Totally American. But with all the casualty of an Aussie bar. With all the comfort of zero hipsters. 

But as you know a smile hurts eventually. Halfway i lost focus and stared at the psychedelic table. Hypnotised by illness and this dumb satisfaction. We were all slurring in the end, i was too full for a cigarette.

Fatties Burger Appreciation Society (FBAS) comprising just-shy of 30 000, all over Sydney, filled my newsfeed’s with witty, in depth reviews by friends & strangers. 30 000 people self-exiled from the pop-culture health craze. It’s fresh and clean. All the people you affiliate with in reality have a legitimate organisation, with you’d assume through an astonishing following and protocol an ABN. They post honestly, brutally recounting their burgers with creative prose from around Sydney. The reviewers always animate the meal for your eyes through magic of literature; the odd review is transcendent of the meal itself. 

Accompanying is a signature review system. Accounting total bones it costs, a rating out of a potential 5 pickles, and potato or onion rating for chips & onion rings. A 5 pickle rating is not highly thrown around. Very few side with the rarely-outspoken reviewer stating they’ve found a unicorn. It’s nearly unattainable and ought to be recognised delicately. But the truff’s tense hype in it’s early days will supersede most’s stance in polls.

Bones : $18.50

Pickles : 4.8/5

Spuds : n/a