Another Day.


He wakes up. He sent emails last night that he regrets but then tries to forget as he rides in the car and rides off the wine and rides off the memories of embarrassment and missed opportunities. Then he logs onto an email address that he never logs onto and his heart skips a beat because he has a reply from the girl who he loves and he opens the message but then his heart is confused because it is a link to a page about working from home and he thinks to himself this is most odd and then he replies and tells the girl that he loves that her account has been hacked. Then later as he sits on the train his heart sinks very deep because he thinks he knows what has happened. After receiving the email last night she deleted her account and the moment that happened bots went in and took over the name and used it for their nefarious purposes so he was emailed by a bot. So he is even unhappier and looking at pictures of her doesn’t make it any better and when he gets to work he has failed to do a fundamental part of his job and he is reprimanded and he feels bad about his incompetence. Then he eats chocolate and then the day drags on for hours and he finds himself frozen with indecision and cannot do anything at all. Wrecked by the poor choices that he has made he finally gets to do some work that makes him feel worthwhile and he draws some more art and posts the art and hopes for validation with likes and rebloggings which he gets. Then in the taxi on the way home he texts the girls who’s email was hacked but really deleted and pretends to offer advice just so that he can contact her but it makes him feel better and then when he gets home he goes to sleep.

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Another Day.


He wakes up. He tastes wine in his mouth. He is late. He runs but he can’t run far or fast because he has a bag. He spends all day at work drawing a picture of a lorax and being satirical. Then he drinks some more wine. He plays some Mario Galaxy 2. It is an elegant game. He is not an elegant man. He sends an email even though he shouldn’t and he doesn’t expect a reply. He goes to sleep and wakes up to Lawrence O’Donnell at 1am.

Another Day.


He wakes up. His alarm from the week is still on and it wakes him up on Sunday and he cannot get back to sleep and he is annoyed at this. He watches some television and then plays some board games and then goes out for a walk and it is cold but fresh and refreshing then he learns that the woman he loves was accidentally texted by the woman he doesn’t love and then there was an exchange of words and this happened a few weeks before the Trip so he starts to whirr and click and think maybe that made the whole trip a failure, maybe it was these unknown texts but he knows that it is not but he wants to rationalise his madness and hope for his fantasies and live in a Reality that he lost last year with his cowardice and the choices he made to have to pick between selfishness and selflessness and he picked the latter and he goes to bed thinking that he hated that he had to make that choice.


Happy Birthday from your Stalker.

I know it’s your birthday today

But I know you don’t want me to call

So I took your last text message you sent me

And changed the meaning so all

The lines are opposite:

Thank you for your gift

It was very thoughtful.

It all turned out just as you hoped

I want us to be together forever

It was the perfect gift at the perfect time

I’m so alone without you 

Please keep sending me love letters.

Happy Birthday

I didn’t mean to turn love into

Stalking.



Happy Birthday from your Stalker.

I know it’s your birthday today

But I know you don’t want me to call

So I took your last text message you sent me

And changed the meaning so all

The lines are opposite:

Thank you for your gift

It was very thoughtful.

It all turned out just as you hoped

I want us to be together forever

It was the perfect gift at the perfect time

I’m so alone without you 

Please keep sending me love letters.

Happy Birthday

I didn’t mean to turn love into

Stalking.


Another Day.


He wakes up and goes to bible study and is confused when he is asked how he could help the bible study leader tell him what he thinks God is. The whole point of these bible studies is to find out what God is. What is God? He doesn’t know. He gets confused and he gets angry but he manages to calm down. Then he wonders what he is still doing there because the woman he loves no longer loves him and the only reason he was going to these classes is so that she would love him more but now she doesn’t love him at all, after the tragic stalking debacle of the weekend before so he wonders how he might politely extricate himself from these proceedings then he has a better idea and thinks maybe he should keep on going and become a member of the Jehovah Witness Council that will make her love him he thinks. Then he calls his friend and tells him this idea and he soon realises what a silly idea it is. Even though his friend suggested that he use the money he has saved to go back to San Francisco and ride a horse to the woman he loves house and spread rose petals everywhere. He thinks his friend is joking. So he laughs. He then thinks that he should hire Depeche Mode to play for her as that is her favourite band and he will write a song for them and teach them to ride horses too and then everything will be fine and he will get married to her and have children with her in New Zealand. This is not going to happen. He knows this but he still dreams realising, as he talks that he is always happy thinking about the places he used to be in or the places he will be in not the place he exists in now. He will never be happy but he is used to this unhappiness and to have his life any other way would confuse him now that he is old and slowly balding in all the wrong places. He spends the afternoon drifting between sleep and masturbation until the two become one. Then he eats some food and plays some monopoly and watches some terrible television and thinks about his future without the woman he loves and sinks into the bitter sadness that he made for himself.


1970s movie aesthetic and the phosphorescent tube.

I was talking with a friend about how much we love the way that American movies from the 1970s look. We rattled off a few of the macho gritty films that we loved; The French Connection, Black Sunday, Klute,Prime Cut; as much to show off our knowledge as to make our point about a particular film aesthetic. The washed out colours, the use in genre pictures of the new wave hand held camera that would become so derigeur, the location shooting outside on the cold streets of whatever city they happened to be in at the time; Chicago, New York, Washington D.C. This is how I came to know and love America before I moved here. The overwhelming of the senses through big architecture, big emotion, big human interaction. All of this, as it turns out, artificial and created for the films that I watched – but I was not to know this at the time. I had not yet experienced the boredom of America, it’s long empty roads of meaninglessness. I had not experienced it’s tired citizens and it’s angry indecision. I was ignorant of the simmering cauldron of anger that boiled below the surface; acting as threat and fuel to all the fine people of this nation. Recollecting the manner in which I watched these films I realised that I had seen most of these works, not at the cinema, with pristine new prints, but late night on British television with the volume down so as not to wake the rest of the house on a tiny set with poor colour correction, little contrast and the glow from the tubes that gave any hope of showing the directors vision short shrift. My understanding of the aesthetic had been totally false, filtered, by chance and the limitations of 1980s technology, into washed out pastels that had never been the intention of the filmmakers. It was not an America that had ever supposed to exist or an America that, now with the advent of Blu-ray and online movie stores, would ever exist again. Yet, even now, I recall with nostalgia, the hunched shoulders of Popeye Doyle as he swaggers down the street to save America from Europe’s heroine barons, the relentless stride of Lee Marvin as he tries to save Sissy Spacek from Gene Hackman, the obsessional drive of Robert Shaw to stop a terrorist attack on a football stadium. It just makes me realise that what we want others to see is not necessarily the thing that they will see and what we ourselves observe can be filtered through any manner of myriad devices, experiences, dreams and nightmares. Will anyone say the same of Transformers: Dark of the Moon. I suspect not. Then my mind wanders to a deeper problem, beyond aesthetics and something that still exists, albeit in a more subtle way today. I was watching films where white men get things done, white men strive and fail; everyone else is a backdrop to their drama, their hopes and dreams. It is not the America I live in. It is not really an America that has ever existed. The America I live in is a kaleidoscope, shifting, pulsing and alive; archetype free with a story constantly in flux pushing relentlessly on into a future it knows, deep down, it has no control over. That is why I love America.


1970s movie aesthetic and the phosphorescent tube.

I was talking with a friend about how much we love the way that American movies from the 1970s look. We rattled off a few of the macho gritty films that we loved; The French Connection, Black Sunday, Klute,Prime Cut; as much to show off our knowledge as to make our point about a particular film aesthetic. The washed out colours, the use in genre pictures of the new wave hand held camera that would become so derigeur, the location shooting outside on the cold streets of whatever city they happened to be in at the time; Chicago, New York, Washington D.C. This is how I came to know and love America before I moved here. The overwhelming of the senses through big architecture, big emotion, big human interaction. All of this, as it turns out, artificial and created for the films that I watched – but I was not to know this at the time. I had not yet experienced the boredom of America, it’s long empty roads of meaninglessness. I had not experienced it’s tired citizens and it’s angry indecision. I was ignorant of the simmering cauldron of anger that boiled below the surface; acting as threat and fuel to all the fine people of this nation. Recollecting the manner in which I watched these films I realised that I had seen most of these works, not at the cinema, with pristine new prints, but late night on British television with the volume down so as not to wake the rest of the house on a tiny set with poor colour correction, little contrast and the glow from the tubes that gave any hope of showing the directors vision short shrift. My understanding of the aesthetic had been totally false, filtered, by chance and the limitations of 1980s technology, into washed out pastels that had never been the intention of the filmmakers. It was not an America that had ever supposed to exist or an America that, now with the advent of Blu-ray and online movie stores, would ever exist again. Yet, even now, I recall with nostalgia, the hunched shoulders of Popeye Doyle as he swaggers down the street to save America from Europe’s heroine barons, the relentless stride of Lee Marvin as he tries to save Sissy Spacek from Gene Hackman, the obsessional drive of Robert Shaw to stop a terrorist attack on a football stadium. It just makes me realise that what we want others to see is not necessarily the thing that they will see and what we ourselves observe can be filtered through any manner of myriad devices, experiences, dreams and nightmares. Will anyone say the same of Transformers: Dark of the Moon. I suspect not. Then my mind wanders to a deeper problem, beyond aesthetics and something that still exists, albeit in a more subtle way today. I was watching films where white men get things done, white men strive and fail; everyone else is a backdrop to their drama, their hopes and dreams. It is not the America I live in. It is not really an America that has ever existed. The America I live in is a kaleidoscope, shifting, pulsing and alive; archetype free with a story constantly in flux pushing relentlessly on into a future it knows, deep down, it has no control over. That is why I love America.

Smoothly blue.


Smoothly blue.

wuntu, wuntuthreephor…                     Aaaaaaaaaaah…

                                                                crazee… diggit down, reelmellow down, yeah;

                                                ooooooohhh

                                                                                sha

                                                                                                                sha sha

                                                                                la la la                                                                    lala

ooooooooowwwweeeeeeeeaaaarrrrrrrrr   oh yeah

yeah;                                                                                                                      yorragonnaluvvittt, hmmmm.

                                                                                man…

gidown                   huh                         gidown                   baby,

                                                                                aaahh                    ahhhh.

thankuverymuchladeesngenlemen…

                                                                                                                                                    ur2kynd, 2kynd.

Untitled 1.


THE WORDS melted wetly together

Slickly sliding across the page.

I was dubious; unsure whether

I could, should, would control my rage.

Confined to this fibrous vehicle

The seeping slowed gracefully like

Honeyed thought. Soothed by the treacle

Glow of newly found delight.

Then it’s liquid limitations

Congeal, curdle; all thickened.

Each wet syllable, parched then, shines

With a light, cloyingly hardened.

Drunken Whinin’.


Oh now help me dear Lord,

What am I gonna do?

I’m so very drunk-tired,

Gotta hole in-ma left shoe.

*

Been wanderin’ since…

Been wanderin’ since…

Been wanderin’ since…

Since you threw me out,

Out of your heart,

Your barbed-wire heart.

*

Temples pulsate with off-

Ended remorse. Whiskey

Guilt’s a-flowin’ and I’m gettin’ me a cough.

Think I’m gonna rest down under that ragged tree;

*

It’s old and twisted, cracked and rough,

Just like me.

I lean back on some creaking bough,

Sinking then into dreams free-

Dom:

*

While the Cocytus flows into Acher-

On’s course; Interlaced in abhorrent em-

Brace, dithered along their fractious borders.

*

Nothing proven remains true.

Time’s initial casu-

Alty, grasping, hopeless love.

*

In her was contained all perfection.

There’s no doubt, she gave me an erection.

Touched.


                 MANIC depression,

                                                            Anarchic aggression;

                                                                         Deep-felt obsession:

                           Meandering digression,

                                                  (Auto-suppression)

                                                                                        Nullified oppression.

Snap-shot.


*

When the sky, for brief moments, stops.

Leaves no longer rustle as, briefly

Everything ceases. Drops

Of molten reality, unceasingly serene,

Drip, in shimmering uncertainty,

Sluggishly down like some surreal stream.

*

He drinks in that empty moment.

Savouring it as some trans-

Ient truth he knows must melt. Penitent

Yet, despite the gloating ignorance

Of the Hollow Ones, with their tidy, superfluous

Charm. That icicle spear glance

*

Shatters the moon-pool calm,

Like dreams twisting the empty ill-

Usions of a drenched emerald balm.

Now, creaking Time, casually recommence

In your random, untidy precision, kill-

Ing with every division all sense.

11. Me without you.


A diver without an aqualung,

A paedophile without the young.

A camel with no hump,

A boxer with no thump.

A clown without any fun,

An American without a gun.

Strawberries without cream,

The BFG without a dream.

Communism without Marx,

An underwater adventure without sharks.

Christianity without the philosophy of Greeks,

The Welsh stereotype without leeks.

A monk without a cowl,

An archaeologist without a trowel.

A Catholic without the guilt,

A Scotsman without his kilt.

A gun without a bullet,

An 80’s pop star without a mullet.

Sex without any sweat,

Rolf Harris without a vet.

Santa without a reindeer,

A pervert without a leer.

A war without deaths,

A tramp without meths.

The Psyche without the Self

A ninja without stealth.

A widow without a shroud,

A mushroom without a cloud.

Four horsemen without an apocalypse,

The Queen Mother without broken hips.

Jack without Daniel,

An aristocrat without a spaniel.

Hercules without tasks,

Balls without masques.

The police without crime,

Coleridge without a Rime.

Muslims without jihad,

Addicts without rehab.

Gaffers without grips,

Fish without chips.

Roman Emperors without insanity,

Fair without the Vanity.

Haunting without a ghost,

Sunday without a roast.

Christmas with no suicide,

A playground without a slide.

Meals with no eating,

The Olympics with no cheating.

Pull without a Force,

Death without a horse.

A storm without the rain,

Fisting without any pain.

Silence without peace,

Pain without release.

An Italian without a scooter,

A six-gun without a shooter.

Depression minus the manic,

Start of the century without the Titanic.

A sniffer without glue,

Is like me without you.

A foot without a shoe,

Is like me without you.

Caged animals without a zoo,

Is like me without you.

Treading Pitch-Black Paths.


Speeding like a freight train,

Running from the great pain,

Ending with a jarring strain,

On Time’s last sand grain.

Sticking to the path,

Sticking to the path,

Sticking to the pitch-black path

Of His soul.

Tearing at the last Fiend

As the Devil’s scream

Echoes…

As it echoes…

As it echoes…

As it echoes…

As He echoes

In my head, in my mind

Searching for a freedom;

A freedom I can’t find.

Old Man Bone-bag.


“I live between the cracks of a mountain’s

Soul”, The old man said. His great time-carved arms

Stretched in knotted leather strength; his skin, tan

With Nature’s bruising intensity. Charms

Hung from his gnarled neck in casual

Superstition, shaking with his calm drawl.

“I tread the blanketed paths of your long

Forgotten past” he continued. “I seep

With the Memory’s flow from the Lost Song.”

I left Old Man Bone-bag, for he was mad.

Toast-Footed God Monster.


Semolina sperm boy eating

A dated doughnut porn ring.

Do you cry in your acid tears

Bitch child? Whip-crack shifting gears

Accelerate’s the corporate worm

To a feverish wet-squirm.


http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf

I love this because it demands that you make an effort, don’t just sit back – embrace me, enfold me, concentrate!