House of Stairs


It is ready for your entry and you are you, ready for a little world of your very own.

Let it suckle on your life force because it is everything you ever dreamed of.

And you are ready and willing and I know you are tougher than you look.

You are going to take on the world for as long as you humanly can because if for not than a moment when you can you will shred the papers and build your brand new world inside four walls a door and a damn tonne of stairs leading to nowhere


The egg was laid in space.

The egg was resolute and wanted to be broken, to spill out its life essence but everybody knew the big egg wasn’t ready.
The big egg was full of life and it wanted to crack and spill and sizzle all over the universe.

People didn’t trust the big egg from space and they locked it up.
Locked it up with life and love and everything else mysterious and burly.
But the egg did not retreat into sadness, it didn’t give up and it gave the world a yelling.
It shook and shouted and pleaded with strength and gave it’s prison a what for.
“What for this and that?”
It shouted it knew all the answers but no one would listen and life would go on.
While the egg sat and festered and rotted from the inside out and eventually the shell began to weaken and the egg started to seep.
It seeped out a stench worse than your nightmares.
The smell was fetid and had a foreboding that could only strike remembrance in the battles of old.
Of trench warfare, where dysentery was not as common as death but it was close.
And men, rather than running to relieve themselves in an obscure crater that an artillery barrage had landscaped would relieve themselves on their iron dinner plates.
And men would cry and lose their minds and die of chemical gas and bullets shrieking through the bones and organs.
And the egg would seep this stench for a millennium and then a millennium more because the egg was forgotten.
And only a large puddle of stench and gusto would reside in it’s place till eventually, the roof split open and the sun would dry it up.
and all we have left is crackled rotten proteins that seemed to mock what could have been.

A story about Mina

Painting by Arna Baartz @

Mina placed the last piece of cutlery on the table. It was part of an antique silverware set her grandmother left to her when she passed. Mina knew her grandmother would be delighted to see her using the set for a dinner party.

She looked at the clock, it was nearly seven and her guests weren’t here yet, her husband hadn’t returned home either and he finished work at five. This wasn’t the first time he had done this and he never had a real excuse for why not.

Mina didn’t mind, she didn’t love him enough to mind, she wasn’t sure if she ever loved him at all. She supposed she only really loved him once because he was interesting and unusual and would do things which surprised her, once he woke before dawn to climb a hill and take a photo of the sunrise for her so she wouldn’t have to wake up early to see it.

It was a beautiful photo but it was nothing now. Mina thought he was out there in the city with all the beautiful girls in the world, this would suit her just fine because then at least he would be interesting again. She imagined him, with his tailored suit and beautiful eyes buying a drink for a younger prettier and fun version of her.

She was surprised at how jealous she was; doesn’t he know that he can take me out and buy me a drink? If he would just tell me something interesting I would be interested. Since when did it become a wife’s duty to act interested in every boring thing her partner says?

Mina returned to the living room and picked up the phone to call her husband but there was no answer and she didn’t leave a message.

She collected his place from the table, Mina refused to be embarrassed by her husband again and would not satisfy her guests (who are ruthless gossips) with an unsatisfactory answer. Mina would lie and say he was out of town because if she could help it, he will be by the end of the night.

From a firestorm came the monkey

Artwork by Michael Baarts on

From a firestorm came the monkey.
With its tail flicking embers of its burnt-out womb into your eyes.
It reaches behind its buttocks and prepares itself to throw its feces at you.
It smacks you on the chest as hard as a solid gold brick.
you pick it up and covet the shit and put it in a shrine so the world can see.
They will either realize or not, it matters wholly to you.
You preach sermons about the monkey and will cast out family for not believing with you,
for you.
And you bend to its divine will and suckle at its teat because you are devoted.
Forever you are devoted.


Grinning with satisfaction

The easel is empty, holding up air

Growling with ambition.

The palletes paint has dried.

Its up on the wall you see, your fondness of life.

Up there with the joys of laughter and moments of serenity.

It sticks out because it’s the last thing you painted and you used bold colours, bolder than the rest at least.

Chonza- Chapter 1: Crisis

A dull morning, the sun, like always, was covered by smog and acid rain clouds, “you wouldn’t know it was there if you were born yesterday” Jacobs’ would always say.
You wouldn’t know anything if you were born yesterday, Michael thought, At least that was his general impression from all the newborns he has ever met, though he has only met one.
It was Michaels’ impression that Jacobs isn’t very smart.
The fertility of humans (and all animals for that matter) is so bleak that the population of all living things is maybe only 10 percent of what it once was. The Earth is quieter now than almost any other time in its history, Michael is depressed, he thinks this is the reason.
His doctors think it’s a lack of Vitamin B and they added it to his daily Vitamin injection.
Michael remembers food and tries to think of it whilst enduring his morning shots, he could only conjure up a vague memory of his fathers’ thirtieth birthday, everyone eating some succulent pork from the spit, the smell. That’s what he could remember, the smell.
Food is expensive now, still available, but much more expensive. Most people live off shots of essential vitamins and minerals and a cheap stomach filler. This is bleak and Michael thinks this could be another reason for his depression.
On his way to work, Michael passes ancient fast food outlets, reduced to selling imitation chips and flavoured filler. People like the familiarity of take-out. Restaurants aren’t accessible to regular people anymore.
It’s not really fast food since a vending machine injection takes seconds, it’s just an outdated term that people still use to feel like everything is normal.
At work, Michael and Jacobs’ are the yes men for an eccentric Philanthropist named Sam who has pledged to solve the problems of the world. So far, he’s come up with the vitamin shots… Michael despises Sam for this and wishes he could’ve come up with something better.
Michael wants to drown himself in beer, he had gotten a taste for it in college but then the malt and barley fields died. The liquor that is available has become so tainted with artificial additives that he can’t drink a shot without getting an almost immediate headache.
Jacobs drinks the stuff like a fish, he also looks a little like a fish, with those bug eyes that seem to stick on the side of his face, not so much that he doesn’t look normal, but just slightly. He’s got a short pointy nose and a long face. Michael can’t stand him. He hasn’t done anything wrong, but his demeanour is off-putting and he occasionally makes obscene jokes that would have only been at home in the 20th century.
Jacobs is waiting out the front of work, which is really just a warehouse with a bunch of smarties and a couple of go-getters (Michael and Jacobs) inside.
Jacobs says immediately “we got our work cut out for us buddy”
“What do you mean?” Michael replied
“Apparently Fast Foods not making any profits and people are dodging their shots. It seems they would rather starve” Jacobs was glad he has the upper hand “don’t you read the news?”.
“I skimmed through it” depressed about this also, Michael didn’t want to go into why he doesn’t keep up with current affairs even though it’s part of his job.
“Well they’re rioting, people want real food, apparently.” Jacobs starts walking into the warehouse.
“Not much we can do about it” Michael replies opening the door to see Sam waiting on the other side.
“That’s no attitude to have their little buddy, you two are late.” Sam said condescendingly “I’m not paying you for destitution, I’m paying you for Institution! I want an idea from both of you by lunchtime”
“nice one” Jacobs leered at Michael.

Modernising Workers Compensation in WA

As we speak, the Western Australian government is drafting a new bill to make Workers Compensation a more accessible law.

Delivering on an election commitment, the McGowan government looks to utilise public consultation to modernise workers compensation in Western Australia.

It looks like this bill will be introduced into parliament by the end of 2018, provided there are no hiccups along the way.

The bill will be developed in consideration to the WorkCover WA’s Review of the Workers Compensation and Injury Management Act 1981.

This is a long time to put off a bill, and so far, the bill will only implement changes that support lifetime care for disastrously injured workers.

Commerce and Industrial Relations Minister Bill Johnston said that[1] “The current Act has only been amended on a piecemeal basis since it was adopted in 1981, and it’s unwieldy for stakeholders who use and apply it,

It seems the government is mostly rewriting the bill just to make it more assessible and transparent for workers seeking compensation claims and businesses wishing to know their rights when it comes to compensation payouts.

According to the[2], Bill Johnson stated “Rewriting workers’ compensation legislation is an important part of the McGowan Government’s commitment to modernise the States industrial relations system.”

It seems they have forgotten to mention the rights and issues currently facing expired 457 visa holders, workers that have overstayed their visa and people who are working for businesses without proper documentation.

Illegal workers constitute a grey area[3] in current law and each case has been mostly settled in court; in current law, illegal workers are not defined as workers due to conflicting legislation, perhaps this new bill will address this issue.

This Bill could be a great example of leadership from the McGowan government, but we are yet to see what it really entails.

Main Source for  article:





Folk Bands Acolytes- Episode 1

I apologise for the improper format, It is hard to copy and paste a script from PDF.

Season One, Episode One: Rodney

By Max Larkin


1 EXT. TOWN (TBA)/ DAY- Old mining town pretty much dead empty. A mediocre folk band is rehearsing in a garage.


2 INT. DINGY HOUSE / DAY- Walt, the dedicated singer and guitarist of the band is smoking a cigarette and writing.

3 EXT. RESIDENTIAL STREET / NIGHT -Diggs, the lost drummer is walking home alone while drinking alcohol.


Diggs wakes up from a rough sleep, depressed.

5 INT. COUNTY TOWN HOUSE / DAY Prill, the content flute player is sitting in her bathrobe at home eating breakfast with her family. Prill is enjoying her life.



The three band members are standing in a circle listening to a low quality recording of the song they just played on a phone voice memo.

PRILL Well it’s no Simon and Funk, but it’s pretty good to me.

DIGGS You’re out of key again Walt.

No I’m not.

PRILL He’s not, Diggs, he’s just a bit flat.

A bit?

WALT If you know another singer in this town I’ll be glad to give him the mic.

PRILL No you’re fine Walt, I love your Singing.

DIGGS It does the job.

WALT Why are you giving me doubts man?

Sorry dude.

PRILL I gotta get to work guys, catchyaa.

Prill exits and gets in her car or scooter.

(Shouting) If you spent as much time on this band as you did at work we might have a shot Prill!

PRILL (half in/on her vehicle) That’s bullshit Walt!

DIGGS Yeah man, that’s bullshit.

WALT Why don’t you just leave?

DIGGS (Exiting) I’m on my way.

Walt walks into his house practising his vocal scales.


The band’s roadie, Rodney, very happy and humming the tune of their recorded song. He is packing all the bands gear into a single cab Ute without a canopy. After loading it all he ties it down with a single rope gets in the car happy as a chap and drives away.

Roadie now driving sees a sign for his destination ‘Kempsey Pub 2kms’. Police lights flash. The roadie pulls over and a Policeman walks over carrying a mic stand.

OFFICER CHARLES Is this yours sir?

RODNEY Hey Dad, yes.

CHARLES Rodney, I’ve got to fine you for this.

RODNEY Dad you know these guys don’t pay me!

CHARLES You don’t have a cover for all this equipment. It could all just fly out when you’re driving and what if it rains, god you’re dim!

RODNEY These guys don’t pay me dad, how am I supposed to afford a cover!?

CHARLES Son! Why on earth are you doing work for free?

RODNEY Because they’ll be big one day, I know it!

CHARLES (scoffs) With folk music? – They don’t even have a bassist

RODNEY (Surprised at stupid statement) Which is good… because Bass cabs are heavy.

Don’t fall into this trap son, because a person’s glory is their own. When they are big shots. They won’t remember your hard yards. They won’t remember any time. They won’t pay this fine. There won’t be a
single cent of recompense, and money is what makes the man.

RODNEY You are wrong dad.

CHARLES I’ve been there son.

9 EXT. SIDE OF THE ROAD / DUSK Flashback to the cop as a roadie to some band. And being left in the dust as soon as they got a contract signed.


RODNEY These guys are different dad.

Son, the police force teaches you that everyone is the same inside, self-serving, ego indulging and manipulative.

RODNEY Are you going to fine me or not?

CHARLES You’re given a formal warning, If I see you driving this vehicle with a heavy load in back uncovered again, you and your band buddies will be fined heavily.

RODNEY Fine, Thanks I guess.

CHARLES Seeya son.

RODNEY Hey Dad!?


RODNEY Can I use your phone?

CHARLES What happened to yours?

RODNEY Outta credit.

Charles passes his phone to Rodney he rings Walter. CHARLES Here.

RODNEY I hope you got your carrying shoes Walt because I’m immobile about half a k away.


Indifference, like a poem.

we are all

I’m not where you are.

Function & form
Function & Form by Joshua Ian Cowley,

I have not felt your pain
thus not in a position to comfort or withdraw support.

The world is an oyster, that was left on the rock too long.
The world is dripping out pus and misery, barrel & stock.
flock, stock, stocktake, take the numbers down.
Because that’s what it comes down to.

Lets’ hoard,
we’re all absolutely flawed at the unimaginable terror, that is ongoing and has been ongoing…
since we found greed.
and we build and build upon buildings in rubble and stones.
and we bomb and bomb.
and we bomb and bomb.
so the buildings turn into rubble and stones and our people live out of caves, and we weren’t even the chance to behave.
We had a second to run.
We said no to bullets but they still passed through us.
We had a second to run.
We said no to chemicals but they still burned our skin and asphyxiated our children.
We had a second to run.
I think God wants us to handle a rifle.
We had a second to run.

H, S, K & T

As stomachs rumble over the east,
and eye sockets shrink so eyeballs stare
While the lungs have taken in all the air
and are refusing to breathe out.

As shoulders have forgotten how to twist,
and hands have gotten so large they grip hell
While ice fills the mouths of the forgotten,
turning into water while freezing their teeth.

As lips crackle in the oven and spit,
and cheekbones stick out from the skin
while your legs are stamping out the mess
that they kicked apart in the first place.