Keep it Moving Along


Well well well campers. The election is over, the results nearly all in and Mr/ Fucking Abbott has already begus taking names. Weather he can legally get away with his sweeping reforms will be left up to the people. The fucker needs to be taken to court where he belonged the whole time. If anybody out there has the backbone to do it, his arse will hang and I will be happy.

But you don’t need me to tell you how wretched this country is going to become if people don’t get off their apathetic backsides and hit the streets in demonstration. There’s a million places you can turn to get your anger and disenchantment off your chest. Once you get over the initial fear of expressing irrational emotion, rather than letting it build up till your a withered old hunchback who spends their life screaming at stranger’s children in public paths, you will find that active defiance is incredibly satisfying.

But this post wasn’t meant to be about that. I’ve  been so caught up in the disaster of the election that all my doom saying has caused me to lose focus. So I’m going to say one last thing on the matter and leave it at that- To all those conservatives out there who called me crazy for warning them of the extremely backward reforms that Abbott would try to enact immediately after taking office. I fucking told you so. 

There, now I can move on.

It’s good to see the positives that come out of massive depression. In all the horrid rage and depression I felt over the last couple of weeks I have been forced to concede that I don’t have the answers. This is always where depression leads me. I just give up and find myself crying out to a god to show me the answers that I clearly don’t have. 

The less I know the more I learn. I have found myself in contact with some beautiful people over the last week who have reminded me of the importance of love and how I can never make a positive change in the world unless I am at peace.


Ahhhh, much better. I love you world. I don’t understand you, but the less I know the more I learn. And I am in love with learning. I’m so sorry that I’ve lost my momentum with creative writing. I am having a lot of trouble finding things to write about. It feels like I’ve lost my connection to my craft and I have to tap back into it. But I have learned over and over that I can trust you world, so I will. 

I am now going to let go of frustration that is born of assumed control and focus on my creative writing. From now on love comes first. If Mr. Abbott manages to bring the whole country crashing down around us and refusing to answer for it to the press, you will find me at my keyboard with love flowing from my fingertips. And if everything is ok and the world manages to solve the problems that it should have long ago, you will still find me at the key board with love flowing from my fingertips. I love you world. You give me creativity and I never feel more full than when I’m channeling you.

Love is powerful.


Election Depression


The spelling and grammatical errors in the following piece have been left in for dramatic effect.

In my last entry onto these hallowed pages, I never filled you in dear reader, on what happened after I was allowed up from the ant hill. It is a story that still makes me sick to my stomach to recall, but after the post election come down, I don’t realy feel that it makes a difference. Nothing matters right now. I go through spurts of feeling cpmletely numb all over my body sensations of such overwhelming and uncontrollable rage that are physically insermaountable that I find myslef craving a dark room and some privacy so that I can curl myself into the feotal position and wait for the next threee years to pass.

But the re I go on a tangent again. We were on holidays in a dusty Western NSW town the community were all racing camels around a track and as the children of religeos folk, my brother and I were not allowed to attend. We were banashed to walk the streets of the deserted one street town and listen to the roar of 3000 drunken bushies. It had been a hot dry day all those years ago. A fact that had mad the ants particularly restless. And as I groped and kicked my way throught eh empty streets, past pbus and post offices, all of which were adorned by signs that politely said closed, it began to sink in that I wasn’t going to find a place to free myself of the million little ants that were creeping into every little cravice of my soft little boy’s body.

After searching every concieved option in my panic stricken state my poor developing brain searched for ways to not allow the desperation to set in. This , I’m told is natural for anyone in  the grieving process. The rage fase which I’m told usually follows was short lived. One innocent little cry of terror was replied by the sound of the hicks on the hill calling their favoured camel home. The slaps I had been giving me hurt more than the ant bights and did nothing tho remove the buggers so it didn’t take me long to realise I was shit out of luck there.

The next fase was negotiation. This is what really brought me undone. Because the only people around was the prick that had put me in this situation in the first place. Having not leared too many colourful words at that point, I cried to my brother for help using the strongest language I could muster.

AHHH!!!!, I said, You gotto flippen help me.

Don’t swear or mum’ll whip ya.

I got ants on me, you gotta help me. Help me you dill-pickle.

Oh wait till I tell mum.


The reason I call this tormented image to mind, dear reader. Is because that is more or less how the last week has felt for me and many other people I know. Seeing Tony Abbott walk on stage with his disreputable daughters in toe shattered the self esteem of every person with a conscious in what we used to call this wonderful, lucky country. It is a lucky country, and will be for the next three weeks so I might as well use the frase up now. It isn’t going to have the same ring when we say, this used to be a lucky country. It will be bitter in the mouth and will be save for the rare moments that multimillionares and neo-liberal politicians walk past. So long as we have the good sense to switch off our TV’s we will still have enough of our wits about us to know that these are horrible scum bags that will resort to every dirty trick their think tanks can conjure up to screw us over and oppress us.

The last week I have gone throught a similar grieving process as I did on that fate full day when I was a child. The rage stage lasted all of election night. If it wasn’t for the fact that I strategically brout a guitar to the party and had learn to play Dan Kelly’s Drunk On Election Night. I can’t imagine I would have got throught the evening without stealing a car and unleashing havok on the Warringah elactorate whith whatever means I could possibly find.

The next week found me int he negotiation stage. Where I prayed to god for some kind of way out from the terror that had suddenly become a reality for this country. The full implications of which have still only partially sunk in. For any of those who say I’m over reacting, I’d like to illistrate my point by enlightening you on what happened when I finally convinced my brother to help me.

You gotta help me I cried with tears running down my eyes.

Ok, but because you were using such unrighteous language I will.

The miserable bastard then proceeded to pull down the front of his stubbies and piss all over me.

I wretch to think of it now, but the sensof relief was so great at the time that I lay down on the baking black ashfault and took it like the poor ignorant gimp I had become.

The parallels between my parents staunch religeon and Tony Abbott’s is no mistake. I’m sure that he has instilled the same values into his b-grade celebrity daughters. if the stories I hear about them around my university campus are true, his old fashioned approach to parenting has had a similar effect on their self-esteem.

Tony Abbott is a bad man, a miserable scum sucking cretin who sits at home drinking port and scheming on how he can oppress the weak while a fire cast his enormous shadow on the wall behind him and excentuates his sharp spindally teeth. He sitts and rubs his hand together and dreams of the day that he is accepted into the Mount Pelerin Society along with John Howard. To the glorios day of his initiation. A group of such diabolical intenstions and capabilities has a reputation to uphold. You can guarentee that the most powerfull people in the worl will give old Tones the most detrimental hazing.

BUT THAT’S JUST THE PRICE YOU PAY. Compared to the soul staining descissions he has already set his mind to for the next few years, the hazing will be like sweet music. Or if you will, After the suffering the inner turmoil of being th e guy that presses the button on the education and capability of free thought of the majority of Australians and doing his part to allow faceless corperations to suck up the earth’s resources can be compared to being covered by feirce ants, and being pissed on can be compared to havong a baddle stuck up your arse.

One day all this will have to end. Economies can only grow so far and the demand of the human machine has already surpassed the earth’s capability to provide. Any christian that is not a part of the environmental movement is a filthy hipocrite and has no right to claim connection to a higher power. One day it will all end. We, as a species will be faced with the shocking reality that we grew too far and it all had to come crashing down. If you deny this you are far more deluded than you currently think me to be (what are you even doing reading this crazy shit?). The point I’m trying to make is that one day we are going to wake up from the capitalist dream to the reality of a trashed globe and a neo-liberal aristocracy that has taken off to Mars. We are going to have to reorganise and find a workable solution to the madness that we have just lived. But if we are all drone products of a privatised education system that can pick and choose what people learn, how will that happen?

Anyway. I’m not making any sense and I realise that I need to order my thoughts and present evidence for it to be viable. Now is not the time. I spent the last few days in the acceptance fase of my grieving. When I was a child this meant hoplessy and unashamed ly sobbing on a street curb while my salty tears mixed with my brother’s toxic piss. The grieving period this week has seen me exhausted. I have spent 16 hours in bed in the last day. I’ve only just crawled out from the covers and tried to make sense of it all. I clearly need more time.

I will end with this though my beloved reader. My more cherrished than ever. The kind of emotional cripple that can form the kinds of plans that Abbott has in mind for us cannot defeat us if we prganise. Love will conquore if we love each other. the time has come to let go of our hang-ups. In the dark times ahead, apathy will be fatal.

Love is powerful.

When the going gets Diabolical, the Diabolical Turn Weird

The Death of Dirty Politics in Australia

I’ve never been to a Liberal rally. I was however, thrown onto an enormous ant mound when I was a kid. My older brother knocked me down and held me on the mountain of sand until the tiny black ants that had crawled all over me began to run up his arms. Then he gave me a quick jab and laughed as I ran to the nearest shower with one hand groping furiously at my prepubescent genitals and the remainder of my limbs kicking in every direction. It was a superhuman feet to get ten metres without tripping over myself. This is as close to the Liberal Party inner sanctum as anybody need ever come. The experience left me feeling like there were ants crawling all over me for days. It turned me into a nervous whining wreck and shattered my self-esteem for years to come.

That’s more or less the mood that gripped me as I approached Sydney’s Metro Theatre on the first day of Spring. The sun was shining in a perfect blue sky. I had left my winter coat at home and was charging up George Street in my jeans and brown leather boots. I had just been flirting with an Italian girl in a cafe, telling her about all the brilliant places she could go while traveling in Australia. I have money in my pocket and an excellent education, but the knowledge that I was headed to a political rally had ruined it all and put me in a foul mood.

The last leadership debate was a deeply disheartening experience for me. In response to the flood of media bias towards the Libs, Labour -no more ethical but with less corporate backing- had come up with the genius idea of paying the audience to skew the worm in their favor. Why they bothered remains a mystery, but it has left me with the sneaking suspicion that perhaps Kevin Rudd is actually a circus chimp operating a hollowed out sex doll. But then that leaves the question of why anybody would make a sex doll that looks like Kevin Rudd. This is a valid point, I tell myself, sex sells -as everybody knows- and the sex industry can afford to have the best and most intelligent craftsmen shaping their latex works of profanity. No self respecting latex sculptor would ever make an effigy of either of the two political leaders, not even for novelty purposes. The result would be horrific and one that not even the most hardened of demented perverts could stomach.

But we’re getting way off track here. If I’d have been in a better mood that day, it might have occurred to me that the Metro was a strange place to hold a political rally and I could have had something a little more productive to think about, rather than this fractious inner dialogue of sex dolls and experts in petro-chemicals. I’ve noticed that the negativity of the 2013 election has set this kind of demented thinking off in a lot of people. Nobody has anything to gain from this, but unless you are prepared to drink constantly and heavily between now and the sounding of the death toll late Saturday night, you will necessarily find yourself having these kind of disgusting thoughts -at least privately- and it’s best not keep them to yourself where they can fester.

The energy in the room as I enter the Greens rally, hits me square in the face. Political rallies aren’t supposed to feel like this. Political rallies are supposed to be places of unbridled anger that has swollen from the bellies of the famished, or else places of such deep and severe cynicism that it crushes the soul of all those unlucky enough to be born into the movement. But this room is different. It is cheery, happy, upbeat. The rock’n’roll hipster theme that adorns the walls is an indication of why this might be, but there’s more to it than that. I remember thinking to myself that these people are coming to the end of a federal election campaign, how can they possibly have so much energy?

I find a spot on the terrace and survey the room. There is a conspicuous lack of media coverage here. The only recognisable media presence is SBS. Shaking my head at the meekness of Australia’s third largest party I consider why it doesn’t attract more attention. But then again, the absence of commercial media in the room speaks volumes for their credibility. The ABC’s no-show however, suggests that the Greens are a genuine threat to Labour.

Turning to the girl next to me, I spark up a conversation. She giggles a little and I get the feeling that she thinks I’m hitting on her. If only that were the case, if only the fear of randomly ejaculating profane abuse didn’t prohibit me. I’m in no condition to be intimating myself with anybody these days, best to keep things casual. So I talk to her about politics.

She, like me, is here on her own and it is also her first time at a Green’s rally. Despite this she speaks with enthusiastic conviction about the work that she has already done for her newly adopted party. “I was at pre-polling last week,” she says. “A man called me poison when he walked in and apologised to me on his way out.” I make the suggestion that maybe he had been listening to a Murdock radio station and it warped his psyche. “Actually, I got the feeling that people are actually really sick of all that stuff,” she responds. “People are tired of the big parties not listening to them. People are very interested in what grass roots politics can actually do for them.”

This has been a common theme over the last month. People keep telling me how tired they are of parties that don’t have a democratic internal structure. The Libs have never in their history been democratic, and the advent of celebrity candidates shows us all what the Labour Party ethos has become. A former state member who shall remain anonymous recently boasted to me that he was the only person to ever beat a celebrity candidate in party elections. This man is a rarity in politics, possibly the last of his kind for the big parties. He was a man who had an open ear and with every decision he made, he kept the well being of his electorate as his focus. Then Premier Carr attempted to replace him with a Prop Forward. In the end it was the respect of his colleagues that kept him in his seat. He tells me that when Premier Carr entered his chambers the Monday after cabinet elections, our anonymous member’s electorate poster was there to greet him.

I’m off on a tangent again. The candidate for Grayndler, Hall Greenlander is at the stand when I come back to reality. He is a tall man, dressed in navy pinstripe and he speaks as though he’s a larrikin who knows he has the gift of the gab. “We are a positive, forward thinking catalyst for this country,” he declares. The injection of the word catalyst strikes me as effective rhetoric. But as his speech continues on in his flatly stated, positive bursts, I’m shocked by some of his language. “There is a low, negative mood in this country,” he says, “we need less stress, less anxiety.”

This is language that is a world apart from the discourse we have become accustomed to. It takes a while for the words to settle in my ears. For decades now, at increasing rates, stress and anxiety are encoraged by politicians in order for them to use as political tools. This is an insidious tactic that is like a double edged sword. Firstly people are manipulated into casting their vote with fear as their motive, but worse is the power this tactic has to take issues off the political agenda.

Take for instance the way that Tony Abbott promises to scrap the carbon tax “to ease the cost of living pressures.” Australia is an affluent nation, the only reason an employed person has to feel a financial burden here is if it is self imposed. Our financial system has been set up so that  families live beyond their means. They rack up household debt which then hangs over their heads, allowing opportunists and conservatives to prey on their emotions. This in turn leads to the political agenda being shaped by the Financial institution, and big industries like mining who have an obvious interest in not paying tax on carbon emissions and stalling the progressive emergence of eco-technology.

Fear, stress and anxiety are a declining spiral in our country. The high rates of mental illnesses like depression are made evident by the amount of public money that is spent to combat them. But in a country that can afford to put immense finances into such a heady issue, can we truly justify feeling stressed in the first place. We enjoy an incredible standard of living and we would all benefit from being reminded of that from time to time.

After a half hour or so of standing on the balcony and enjoying the atmosphere I realise that the sick resentful mind frame I had been fostering is all but gone. I’ve unwittingly been caught up with the euphoria of the crowd, cheering along with them simply for the buzz, rather than by any conscious exertion. Then the answer to my previous question dawns on me me.

The most common words I hear at the Green’s rally are care, compassion, equality and love. Where boat people are concerned, the Greens want to care for them. Where Marriage equality is concerned, the Greens believe that all people are deserving of compassion and love. Wherever your own values may lie, it is hard to fault a policy that is founded on a genuine concern for the fate of all human beings. And that has to be why there is so much energy in the room. There is a spirit of love and compassion that energises people.

More and more in this world, we find ourselves powerless over economic and political forces. As negativity gains a stronger grip on us all, we become more apathetic. But apathy does not mean that we are emotionless. Apathy -like depression- is anger turned against one’s-self. The lessons of the GFC have still never been learned, and unless our anger is expressed they never will be.

Democracy is fast becoming a thing of the past. 61% of Australians believe that more needs to be done on climate change, yet both our leaders are promising to do less. The time has come to tell Rupert Murdock that his papers and think-tanks can rule us no longer. It’s time to acknowledge that democracy doesn’t mean choosing between the worst of two evils. Kevin Rudd is continuously telling us to not vote for Abbott. I say we vote for neither.

The current political state is not the only possible one. Change is possible. We can become free to engage in constructive political debate. We can release ourselves of the phycological pressures that media and politics force upon us. At some time in our history this will inevitably happen, but it never will until we do something different.

Love is powerful.

luckylukecox is an emerging journalist and writer. Although the Australian Greens are his preference, he is not a member of any political organisation.

The Energy Strip


Walking down Oxford Street in Sydney today, a promo girl offered me a little something something. 

Nothing wrong with this. Happens all the time. It’s a great way to get brand recognition for a new product. So what could possibly have made me so outraged as to be making words on shiny screen a day after I just made words on shiny screen?

I’m going to have to give you some back story. 

Marketers have a traceable history of using drug references to sell products to the kids. It all started with the ecstasy craze in the 90’s. This was when products like Lucozade came on the market. All of a sudden the letter X and the idea of high energy and hyper was attached to everything. It was all eXtreme or high energy or high energyX (actual product name). The day after taking said products, people were often feeling highly eXistential.

Then the 00’s came along and ice became the drug in vogue (or crystal-meth for my non-Australian audience). Suddenly there was a glut of ice coloured products on the market. They had cool blues, silver and white labels and most of the time they were unashamedly labelled “Ice.” -Now you might say that this is a coincidence that there was a rational reason for branding products this way- I really don’t understand the correlation between protein powder and feeling cold.

Of cause the dirty, grubby, coke sniffing marketers will tell you that I’m reading too much into this. After all we all have the right to free speech. And branding is an important component of the market. and as we all know the market is the thing that makes the earth spin and rotate around the sun, holds the starts in the sky and makes us all sleep safely in our Made In China beds at night. Right? Just relax and try some of our new Marley-June Tea. 

-No I will not!!!

So I’m walking down oxford street and this beautiful looking South American/European (who the hell can tell anymore) backpacker offers me the latest and greatest product on the market.

ImageLadies and Gentlemen I introduce to you, the Energy Strip! Bear a resemblance to anything you might have tried at a music festival?

At first I was shocked. I stood there and looked at the little silver package in dismay. The world had begun to lose meaning and I could here the promo girl’s voice coming to me from far away. She was explaining to me that if I put it on my tongue it will dissolve and I will feel great. She asked again if I wanted to take one and I jolted myself from my daise just enough to croak out a “no.” She then suggested I take one for later, “in case I need it.” 

I need one right now, but that’s not the point.

Shanking my head in disbelief, I walked away, playing the role of the proud abstainer. I felt heroic and I had the vague sensation that she was watching me in disappointment and wondering what it is that I know she doesn’t. 

Then I thought, ‘words on shiny screen!’ And I doubled back to tell her I’de changed my mind.

“Does this resemble anything to you?” I asked

“What ever could you mean?” she says.

“Have you ever taken acid?”

“No.” I stare at her disapprovingly while she smiles. “What is it?”

“LSD, a trip.”

“Drugs?” She shakes her head, “No this is caffeine.”

I have no intention of talking all day to this buffoon. Complex as my psyche may be, I bear no genuine ill will to anybody. I love all. But my loathing of this kind of ignorance is sinister and my desire to see it crushed is homosidal. So I search for the best way to explain to her, her folly.

“There’s a long history of using the vogue drug in marketing.”

“But see that picture, it’s a battery.”

“Oh my god. You poor enthusiastic simpleton! Go and do your job in ignorant bliss while Murdock hacks our brains and the globe burns up and we sit around picking nits off each other’s backs. We have all become apathetic chimps due to brain rot brought on by designer drugs and eXsessive amounts of HBO specials. Can’t you see this?!!!”

I didn’t say that. I’m only a complete bastard on the inside. Outside I’m far more obliging. 

What I actually said to her was, “I’m not going lecture you, I’m just shocked.”

“That’s OK, I hope you enjoy it.”


Well, I’m off now. I’m going to take my Caffeine Strip and imagine myself in the desert talking to a weird naked shaman and his green, pointy nosed friend.


The Mad Ranting of the Thermonuclear




I love language. I love getting fired up and making words on shiny screen. But I have a pattern where I build my productivity up to thermonuclear levels and then find myself in bed for and entire week. 

An editor gave me some feedback recently. She told me I have a knack for seeing past the obvious. To me -as welcomed as it was- it made no sense. The only angle I ever take is the one that jumps up at me. If I am stressed about weather or not I should follow my gut I usually end up struggling over the piece for days, or just plain old procrastinating until an hour before the deadline. At which point I’m forced to throw caution to the wind and get it done. 

Again and again I’m reminded that excellent writing has an emotional truth. Even if that means that the physical text is absolute bullshit.

So recently, after building my work rate up to unprecedented levels., I found myself with such a severe case of what I’ll call “head-in-jar syndrome” that I crashed and burned, spending the bulk of the next week in bed.

A friend of mine who is a psychologist tells me this is called hyper-focus. He was kind enough to wait till prompted before he offered me some strategies to deal with it. I was suffering enough to be interested enough to ask. 

One of the things he suggested was to approach writing as a mental exercise rather than an emotional one. He said that if I could do that and break my work into fifty minute blocks, with a few deep breaths in between, I could continue working at a sustainable level no matter what kind of turmoil was going on around me. 

All of this reason and logic is way too practical for me. Usually I begin my writing sessions by meditating on a particular emotion and harnessing it as inspiration. 

But what my well meaning friend was saying, is that I should let go of this idea and discipline myself into new methods. He assured me that by developing an intellectual approach to being inspired, I would set myself up to be less stressed in the future. He then fell into a geriatric rant about some sort of mythical time when I would have a wife and family, a mortgage, a car, an office job, a wide screen TV and a pet dog that understands me in a way that no other human-being can.

I certainly don’t dispute his point. I’m sure that it is advice I should be taking. The problem is that every time I’ve tried it I get distracted by the world of repressed emotions that I spent my twenties trying to ignore.

I managed to avoid these feelings in the past by numbing them with alcohol. This didn’t end well. It finished with me reaching a thermonuclear state of hyper-focus, followed swiftly by a crash that laid me out in bed for a long time. I seem to also remember this as a unique time of my life when I began to accept people’s advice on how to live my life. 

But here I go, ranting away and I’ve forgotten my point.

That’s it! I’m angry and I’m writing about it.

Working Title



After over a month of internal ranting and procrastination I’ve finally returned to my blog. 


The problem that has kept me away from this wonderful and hairsplitting little forum is that I haven’t been able to figure out exactly what I want to do with it. Do I write more long, heartfelt articles that end with a clever twist which nobody is ever bothered to read? Do I get a bit arty and write letters to my left-frontal-cortex about how disenchanted with the world I am?  Do I stop inspecting my navel and do something useful with my time? Like not obsessing over a blog that never gets written?


Two significant things have happened to get me motivated and back here. Firstly, I received some great feed back for an arts review I wrote recently in a Sydney street-press. Secondly, I started tweeting to the ABC, Kevin Rudd and Tony Abbot about the disappearance of climate change on the political agenda. Has anybody else noticed the magical reappearance of climate change in the political agenda? This is amazing!


Realising just how much weight my voice actually carries when I am actually bothered to move my thumbs has astounded me. And it’s motivated me. BOOOM!!!


So here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m going to stop whinging about stupidity and ignorance and start blogging about beauty and…well politicians. 


Now the nob-heads say that if you want to brand yourself successfully when your on the online, you should advertise each of your endeavors separately. This directly implies that “mixing pop and politics” (as Billy Bragg so eloquently put it) is a bad idea. But I say that I’ve always just done what I wanted anyway. That’s how I became a writer instead of a bean counter, which is awesome because I love writing and I’m really good at it and beans just give me gas anyway.


So here it is (for this week at least) my fantastic amazing super duper blog! Where I talk about the Sydney shows I’m covering at the moment as well as express my opinions about how backwards our society is. 


I really don’t see how the two are mutually exclusive.