It’s the new year now, 22.
Boy don’t those years go bye.
There’s a sense of urgency now.
We are all racing to our graves.
Pain, feelings of cold, hunger, being uncomfortable are like hound dogs, racing behind us, leading us towards the gates of...
If I’m in hell, boy I’ll write a few wrongs.
He called me the Transformer.
What’s the transformer, I asked.
That cartoon robot.
Oh, I see.
So I’m not Crazy Ivan, I asked.
You are that too.
Adam said I was so unpredictable.
I could swing one way or the other.
But he was no stranger to mental illness.
He really was taking his job seriously.
The problem I wasn’t.
I was fucking around and enjoying cruising Perth off my heads on methamphetamine.
It was catching up on me.
I lost a job roadying for a local crew.
‘Too many crack head jokes for our liking,’ was the comment under my name in the ‘Banned’ list.
Well fuck you.
So I created my own Road Kill Tour. And even employed myself.
A double fuck you...
