Tim McDonald

Boom…boom, boom. Tribal, house, eerie beats. Mind lost, groovin’, bumpin’. Progressivley spindling in liquified licorice ropes of thougt that dissovle like cotton candy, sizzling into popping atoms. Canals of turqoise flow a’round purple pyramids that rotate in the retina of the opiate-induced mentale of the bearded lady lying in the freak tent, leaking onto the fabric …

Fucked up frenzie—into the wild blue. Kegs of schlock ready for squelching. No weak cunts out here. Just pure and nasty rough riders. Leather chaps and all—just came off the donkey haul, dry mouths and a belly full of balls, ‘some trip ay?’ Says Tong, ‘oh yeah!’ says Wu. They paid for the cowboy trip of a lifetime. Westworld styl—robotic cowboys with faces hiding wired-up comput…

Kooks of various types comprise this city bar—those who try to dress avant-garde by coupliing a 70’s plaid jacket with a pair of striped business slacks, thinking a pair of square specs and a frizzed-out do is eccentric. / Others, throwbacks to early nineties, sport wayfarers, beanie pushed back on skull, hoodie—Teddy goes stick-up kid—hosebag in a flannel smacks down you…

Writing for writing’s sake while ensconsed on a lamb skin sofa in the air-conditioned confines of Southgate shopping/dining precinct. Sassy girls troll the shop windows like crocs in wait, chomping at the bit to buy that croc-skin bag and matching kicks, to get their kicks in the bars and clubs, clubbing through the masses at the festivals, festive and feistly after several cocktails while…