Doctor-Finkelstein

A workman’s driven to emaciate, As corporate bosses procrastinate; And the government can only speculate How our dying world should regenerate. Grubby senators consolidate That “Soldier A” died for the state And dismiss the interracial hate As mankind’s urge to decimate. Teenage twats just fornicate Whilst loyalist couples “procreate.” To breed at a steady, growing rate Is a truth which rabbits illuminate. We lust our neighbours through our hate To the point where we impersonate. To say we’ll meet a deadly fate Is what we now all demonstrate. And if there is to be debate – if sickness s

Climbing trees. Branch after branch, reaching higher and higher. The wind sways the frame as your hair becomes tangled in twigs. Up and up, you ride your dreams in child-like elation, wondering when the strain will give and the fun will end. Birds chirp from a messy nest. Leaves shake and glide in the air. You can see so far – far, far in the distance. A magnificent setting sun shines and the first stars twinkle. Higher and higher. You hear a snap as the branch finally breaks. You hit the ground and break your neck. Dream over. Oh well.

Boredom. Like a ceiling fan in an office of suits. Elation. Like a salmon’s glorious gender upheavel. Depression. Like a bottle of whisky only half full. Suspense. Like a midget in line for a ride at the show. Fear. Like a condom lost in the female anatomy. Love. Like a combination of all the above.

Branson didn’t have any friends. All day, every day, he passed the time wanking to Asian pornography which had yet to be deleted off Youtube. His screen name was “HappyPornDude9” and he always left the nicest comments. Then, midway through a topless pillow fight, his hard drive crashed. He committed suicide two hours later. The moral of this story is, friends aren’t really over-rated, but Branson was fuckin’ creepy.

This isn't exactly easy for me to wake up in the morning stressed absolutely shitless about every single thing in my life which has nothing to even do with me My best friend's relationship and perpetual happiness My brother's future and actual stability My father's health and fucking addiction Not to mention everyone else Those who who don't see a way out of the struggle when all they must do is search for the right door Mates who are lost in places just like mine but seem to be coping so much better I want to cry I want to fucking know what it feels like to release all emotion in that fucking volcanic reaction I can't I

It’s bizarre when you do not know the path you wish to take. When the sky's a cloudy mess above the hills, rolling in the distance, and the sun shines brightly upon the road you have already travelled. Where you stand now you cannot tell – unsure whether or not the wind is blowing away your inspiration, one strained ideal at a time. Unsure as to why your feet don’t care to move. Unsure if you can even see what’s in front of you. You scratch your chin and twirl your hair absent-mindedly, as the sunshine all around you feels less warm. The hills suddenly seem a lot more enticing. One day, you vow to cross them. Then, perhaps

The sad man sits on an erected chair. He's usually sad. In fact, he's often quite morbid. All he does is sit on that chair in the corner. Counting buttons. Being sad has quite a few limits as to how you view the world, and button counting often falls into the category of "manageable." They don't care how he touches them, how he sees them, how he interacts with their shiny surfaces. He can put them into categories - slot them into groups - and their opinions of him don't change. Even though they slip right through his hands, they don't come back the next day bitching about the pimples on their brows, nor the stink coming from their underbelly.

"Be open!" he cried exasperated, prodding me with a piece of driftwood, covered in seaweed still, "let down your hair, profess your feelings, show me some affection! Don't be such a stiff-shirt! How on earth do you feel, what's your goal in life, what's wrong at home? Heavens, boy, show me you care; give me a sign of love! A sign of love, boy! Is it school? Is it the family? Is it a girl? Who do you like, actually? Let me help you! That's what I'm here for – I am always am, always will be. So talk. Be open!" His audacious encouragement ended with another slimy jab, seaweed-juices dripping down his sandy shirt, and the line: "Oh, I didn't ma

Why should I write an autobiography? I am not a famous man. Nor am I really just an unpopular man. I fit somewhere in the middle. I guess then I'm a middle man. I never wrote a book before, never scrapped a rhyme together to write a piece of dodgy poetry, never farmed my own flock of Llamas. I'm not a failing politician, an athlete lost in the memories of their successful career (although I ran the 1500m once, and got a yellow ribbon for my efforts), nor did I have a jail-time stint or survive a deadly mine disaster. I don't know the perfect diet, the best weight loss secret, the sharpest way at hiding curves. Nor do I have a problem with

Anzac day. A time of remembrance. Reflection. Respect. All those years ago, all those heroes, fighting tooth and nail for the things they believed in most. When guns struck at the lights of the heavens, and sunken, blistered feet tore at the battered soil. Limits were pushed, breeched – surpassed – and heroes were born through endless suffering. They deserved not to be forgotten – their belief in freedom and nobility deserved to stay intact. And now, nearly a century later, we honour them. We remember them. With marches through the city centres. With services held in the frigid cold of the dawn. With flags waved proudly, badges worn with grea