John was seventeen.
His mornings were filled with school-ties, side partings and Underground Northern Lines to a peeling paint of walls.
Hands up please, you know the rules.
He was a meek little scrawny chest cavity slung in the corner with a scratchy fountain pen and fingernails.
His bag was too high and cigarettes too expensive.
"Ninety-six percent average. I just don't know how you do it John."
"Smack, sir. My father raped me until I was ten and my mother was rotting in the spare room from ages fourteen to sixteen. My grandmother always made me sunday tea though so it wasn't too bad. Two sugars. I have no brothers or sisters because they were all drowned in a bath when infants. All seven of them. I suppose it all must of helped someway."
"Get out."
Grime and gristle were his incestuous best friends except for fridays and saturdays when he was a christian.
His shoes were always clean and his genitals cleaner.
He slept with everyone.
His conscience expired, so the only stains he left were spattered patches of dried blood and semen upon the eyes and mouths of the children he stole.
He was kind.
He gave to charities twice weekly and worked at a dog shelter on wednesdays.
He was only free from the etched scratches of peripherality when he had Sainsburys' bags on his feet, mud in his hair and a stone in hand ready to be cracked against the next skeletal frame he saw.
He was such a pleasant child.
Monday 21 January 2008
Notebook 057
(Sex, drugs and missed parole?)
Continuous spuratic reflux of electrical criss-crossing. Tiny whining plane dive. BOOM! Fire fire call my counsellor, I don’t think she’s going to make it. Lashes flutter and clip clop to the seventh of the horsemen. Shiny barrel chambers shoot liquid paraffin to dribble across your face. My God. My Jesus. The time is now we learn Mary was a whore. Cross you crucifix twice fold inwards and shatter the walls of your gut. Pink and yellow puss will smother your burnt and grazing belly to boil and pop at seams. Blink mother fucker and the whole city goes down tonight. Pistol out your cheek, marrowboned and dry it’ll make a pretty necklace. Maggots. As if you saw a shiny white perspex jaw filled with irony blood and spitting mist into your inhalation. Rinse and spit. Repeat if necessary. Camo fuck this pattern worn. Black stain flakes on fingers which snap snap to the quantised rhythm of your swan song. Strangled cats. Deliver me a carcass ripe and worn and dressed all pretty like a pre-teen beauty queen. Pagant. Pagant. Hang them all and leave to bleed dry their tiny little angel faces so I can cut them off at the neck and sit them on my bed. Come come little children, daddy’s got a story to tell. Oh you’re all so eager eyed and wide! Such soft little ears do cup my conversation well. Adorn me. Lashes stroke and flicker blind. Flicker flicker flicker fall. “A ring, a ring of roses. A pocket full of poseseys. I kiss you. I kiss you. We all go down.” On each other. Panting stops. Messed up frocks. Pitter patter says the rain to the only eye awake. Spastic stutters fit out of gaping mouths, scratching away at the ridged flesh and shadows. “My mummy got a motorbike.” He said before he jumped from cliff to sea. “We’re safe in here, from mice and stripes and nobody can gloss my eyes!” Splash into waves. Snap into shards. Week on, week off and still no body found. Stainless steel glints in a forth-fucked dance. Naked and sterile she’s hovering for suspense. Creak creak creak. Entry. Hands so delicate and slow to touch like crystalline glass. A ridge a mount. A bare chest collapsing and rising to the pulse of the air. Moonlight douses as softly as hair. One step. Two step. Tickly under there. She’s gasping. Eyes filled with water, I do believe they’re the most beautiful windows I have ever seen. Fairground facelift and silicone soliloquy’s. Twister twister hey there mister. Shoot the ducks for a special prize, but fuck them in the eye for jackpot. Oh how we danced that night. No music. No beat. Just wind and screaming and the sound of last breaths gargling under the weight of blood. Dearest brother of mine, please rape all my fortune. The sheets are soiled and know how you have a taste for it. Smother smother sniff and cover. I tense your arm, veins full and fat. Splice inside with a skinny silver fellow and he shall blow a glorious wind into your lungs. Sing. Bellow your energy into lyric and to foxtrot. It doesn’t last for ever and my fiend won’t prick for nought. Oh sweet mother I’m scarred from the incest. “…in the name of the father, the spirit and the holy ghost. Amen. No ice barman, I’m going to beat my wife tonight( and I want to feel it?).” Rounded off and humming, it chills till my fingers feel bone. So fat dressed in black yet slender in skin. Latching like meat hooks around waist, hip and stomach. Knees itchy for movement. Held breath. Twitching tendons. Tick tick tock of the timekeeper talking. “Age is harness and youth is the child. Drag backwards for scythe and skeleton. Let crawl and walk for the wings.” Littered with numeracy he spoke in number and formula. I was lithe and laxated. A dripping liquid to his form. Such hollow and rasping was his voice, small and fragile with sincerity. Flammable and twice as vaporising, he moved in silken lines. Boisterous in surroundings cracks and pores spilled over onto the floor. He was air and wall, in glasses and a cardigan. Cut around the dotted line and silhouette presented itself near. Nothing was as stricken as I. Sunbeams heated brick a warmer shade, iridescent and splintered, just a cracked brow sweated for lust. Mercy mercy me. We’ll float them in the sea. We’ll bruise their gown, then throw them down. Mercy mercy she. Movement was still for the sunset as all direction headed towards the sun. Mugs were empty of voice and argue. Leaves hung onto branches, scared to break the silence. It sunk hard, deep and slow like a finger breaking skin. And then night came. Before faces could blink or exhale turn to inhale, the moon was in bravado to all the white specks around him. Slot machines lit into neon and currency clinke hard into laughter and liquid. The night was rye with exhuberance. Arms linked and fluttered around gangs and mobs, friendly and warm. No other could care so highly for broken brick and plastic up than the lips that chanted their showers to sleep. “hush hush baby dear. I’ve been gone for five months. You should have known you’d end up in here.” He was right. She was wrong. Parted and easy, nothing came between her other than his direction. Starward and eager. Tousled hair ran through fingers as they all talked and whispered, cheeks flared red from friction. He was right. She was wrong. Neither cared for commitment.
Continuous spuratic reflux of electrical criss-crossing. Tiny whining plane dive. BOOM! Fire fire call my counsellor, I don’t think she’s going to make it. Lashes flutter and clip clop to the seventh of the horsemen. Shiny barrel chambers shoot liquid paraffin to dribble across your face. My God. My Jesus. The time is now we learn Mary was a whore. Cross you crucifix twice fold inwards and shatter the walls of your gut. Pink and yellow puss will smother your burnt and grazing belly to boil and pop at seams. Blink mother fucker and the whole city goes down tonight. Pistol out your cheek, marrowboned and dry it’ll make a pretty necklace. Maggots. As if you saw a shiny white perspex jaw filled with irony blood and spitting mist into your inhalation. Rinse and spit. Repeat if necessary. Camo fuck this pattern worn. Black stain flakes on fingers which snap snap to the quantised rhythm of your swan song. Strangled cats. Deliver me a carcass ripe and worn and dressed all pretty like a pre-teen beauty queen. Pagant. Pagant. Hang them all and leave to bleed dry their tiny little angel faces so I can cut them off at the neck and sit them on my bed. Come come little children, daddy’s got a story to tell. Oh you’re all so eager eyed and wide! Such soft little ears do cup my conversation well. Adorn me. Lashes stroke and flicker blind. Flicker flicker flicker fall. “A ring, a ring of roses. A pocket full of poseseys. I kiss you. I kiss you. We all go down.” On each other. Panting stops. Messed up frocks. Pitter patter says the rain to the only eye awake. Spastic stutters fit out of gaping mouths, scratching away at the ridged flesh and shadows. “My mummy got a motorbike.” He said before he jumped from cliff to sea. “We’re safe in here, from mice and stripes and nobody can gloss my eyes!” Splash into waves. Snap into shards. Week on, week off and still no body found. Stainless steel glints in a forth-fucked dance. Naked and sterile she’s hovering for suspense. Creak creak creak. Entry. Hands so delicate and slow to touch like crystalline glass. A ridge a mount. A bare chest collapsing and rising to the pulse of the air. Moonlight douses as softly as hair. One step. Two step. Tickly under there. She’s gasping. Eyes filled with water, I do believe they’re the most beautiful windows I have ever seen. Fairground facelift and silicone soliloquy’s. Twister twister hey there mister. Shoot the ducks for a special prize, but fuck them in the eye for jackpot. Oh how we danced that night. No music. No beat. Just wind and screaming and the sound of last breaths gargling under the weight of blood. Dearest brother of mine, please rape all my fortune. The sheets are soiled and know how you have a taste for it. Smother smother sniff and cover. I tense your arm, veins full and fat. Splice inside with a skinny silver fellow and he shall blow a glorious wind into your lungs. Sing. Bellow your energy into lyric and to foxtrot. It doesn’t last for ever and my fiend won’t prick for nought. Oh sweet mother I’m scarred from the incest. “…in the name of the father, the spirit and the holy ghost. Amen. No ice barman, I’m going to beat my wife tonight( and I want to feel it?).” Rounded off and humming, it chills till my fingers feel bone. So fat dressed in black yet slender in skin. Latching like meat hooks around waist, hip and stomach. Knees itchy for movement. Held breath. Twitching tendons. Tick tick tock of the timekeeper talking. “Age is harness and youth is the child. Drag backwards for scythe and skeleton. Let crawl and walk for the wings.” Littered with numeracy he spoke in number and formula. I was lithe and laxated. A dripping liquid to his form. Such hollow and rasping was his voice, small and fragile with sincerity. Flammable and twice as vaporising, he moved in silken lines. Boisterous in surroundings cracks and pores spilled over onto the floor. He was air and wall, in glasses and a cardigan. Cut around the dotted line and silhouette presented itself near. Nothing was as stricken as I. Sunbeams heated brick a warmer shade, iridescent and splintered, just a cracked brow sweated for lust. Mercy mercy me. We’ll float them in the sea. We’ll bruise their gown, then throw them down. Mercy mercy she. Movement was still for the sunset as all direction headed towards the sun. Mugs were empty of voice and argue. Leaves hung onto branches, scared to break the silence. It sunk hard, deep and slow like a finger breaking skin. And then night came. Before faces could blink or exhale turn to inhale, the moon was in bravado to all the white specks around him. Slot machines lit into neon and currency clinke hard into laughter and liquid. The night was rye with exhuberance. Arms linked and fluttered around gangs and mobs, friendly and warm. No other could care so highly for broken brick and plastic up than the lips that chanted their showers to sleep. “hush hush baby dear. I’ve been gone for five months. You should have known you’d end up in here.” He was right. She was wrong. Parted and easy, nothing came between her other than his direction. Starward and eager. Tousled hair ran through fingers as they all talked and whispered, cheeks flared red from friction. He was right. She was wrong. Neither cared for commitment.
Notebook 056
If you change yourself for cause, all the benefits will go to the mirror you have placed as self.
Empty hard walls resonate the delirious silence that compounds all matter. Cold segregated steel prisons show their etched faces in a mocking grimace of the hours to come. Trapped. Surrounded by chunks of flesh carved so elegantly into shapes that void it of its former self. Like twisted war-scarred faces they contort and fold inwards without moving at all.
Empty hard walls resonate the delirious silence that compounds all matter. Cold segregated steel prisons show their etched faces in a mocking grimace of the hours to come. Trapped. Surrounded by chunks of flesh carved so elegantly into shapes that void it of its former self. Like twisted war-scarred faces they contort and fold inwards without moving at all.
Notebook 055
To give yourself up so wholesomely is disgusting. To scatter up on legs so bowed and shattered, smouldering the tiny callous flakes of your burning eager skin. Your enthusiasm suffocates and I can’t help but see your passion as naïve. I understand my dear that your neck is at my feet and I empathise that this is all you can emit. I consider it a burden. Your thwarting direction to everything outward from yourself is pathetic. I cannot feel for the level of your grovel and I will not be the goal of your extended wobbling reach. I give you no leeway because of your years, and I cannot ever believe that your ardency is anything more than a fickle whim. The desperation taints your pretty eyes so please desist in gorging a scar un-needed. It doesn’t make you deep. It doesn’t make you live. And it definitely doesn’t make you any more like me. I can perceive your answer as yes; you would change anything for this. You would take what was needed and give to ne’er receive. You’d be the Juliet for my Romeo. I don’t want you Juliet. I don’t want any Juliet. This is not a fucking fairy-tale and your elaborate bravado doesn’t make it one. This is divorce, beatings, mind-games and gang-rape and you’d better get used to it. Selfless heroism isn’t welcomed when I’m too stubborn to accept your gentle palm. To put it plainly; you care too much, it reminds me of myself, and I feel sick.
Notebook 054
Do you watch as you become more fickle? Shutting off doors along your corridor with an ever-present feeling that you’re riding an escalator? I thought it was well-formed opinions but it seems I’m just bias. I can’t even trust my senses anymore as even these could be as false as the vacuous smile which spreads across my jaw. My mouth bleeds when I sleep, poisoning my dreams with sleepy red metal. Even that’s a lie because I don’t even dream. I wake with a mouth encrusted crimson and dry and I choke. I don’t want your charity you helpless shadow of samaritanism. Take your filthy hands elsewhere.
Notebook 053
The sea. So easily moved, as air is to breath yet more permanent than the child rocks that lay beneath. Crushed and formed by something so fragile it ripples in a breeze. Light cannot pierce to its depths, yet it travels through miles and miles of space to give us life. Adoration gives only a droplet that tides from me to you. We are as permanent as the bed of sand beneath us, yet they are so young as tiny worn down stones. We are water cycled through dinosaur, mountain and evian bottle. So long in time yet so unclear as detail. So vast it grounds more than being can physically cover in its lifetime or comprehend in genius intellect. It is this space, depth and vast quantity with such microscopic detail that is the droplet my dear, for this feeling drowns all the oceans on this planet without breaking tide or ripple in its own mass.
Notebook 052
Heavy heavy sleep burdens upon my eyelids, I fear turning morning into afternoon. Rub rub awake. Rinse. Repeat. My eyelashes lain wet from hilt (or weight) of salty dew. Getting lost in linen and washing the day away with laughter. Sweated smells from the dark night of that lay here before, strong and surrounding. I am wet with odour. The watered wash of lethargy and sleep glistens my limbs and holds them still. I am awake but not arisen. Folds of cloth have been my fashion for this Sunday sky. Tainted from behind a dirty windowpane, the sight of the cold and wind outside makes me heated. It is cold here but I lay warm from what is painted into my eyes. Stark white walls clean and crisp wrap the smog inside. I am your filthy little Christmas present.
Notebook 051
Tiny glinting whispers of sun bounced off recently waxed and polished car bonnets. The lightened grey smokescreen of fragile cool daylight peeped through its windowed frame, teetering through on cautious thin legs until the mechanical hum and glare of multi refrigeration systems intimidated it into dull matt glows looking scuffed and worn. Parallel panels of fluorescent lighting ran the entirety of the store, making up you feel as though the cheap foam tiles hovering on rickety wire frames were brushing the top of your head at every gradient step. Aisle after tightly packed aisle of gleaming ‘new and improved’ products barred the width of walkways reaching out with a mess of eye grabbing displays like savage prisoned arms flailing and clawing at a closely passing female.
Notebook 050
A small family of foxes lay strewn across the breezing sea of summer grass. The tiny little heads of the cubs gently pushed through the crowd of green as a warm breeze ran across the tips like thousands of little fairies jumping from stem to stem in a joyous stampede of ecstasy. The sun filled the sky in-between the two tall oak trees on opposite sides of the verge, cutting through with searing white rays to all that wasn’t shadowed. Considered typical in Oxton the faint tinkling the village stream could be heard, like a bag of marbles being dropped on the solid oak floors that lined the floor of every house in the hamlet. Not so typical were the three stripped bodies, decapitated and arranged so that they were all facing outward whilst their torsos faced together, forming a neat little circle; only attainable by displaying clearly the upper segment of the spine whilst twisting the head one-hundred and eighty degrees in opposition to its natural bearing. The cheeks and stomach caved in from decomposition. The three carcasses had been slowly heated since the sun rose, the foxes waiting till the flesh was soft enough to eat. They were ready.
Notebook 049
A fragile face of tourniquet all twisted from the lies. The cracking teeth and misery, the lips that spell despise. Ears have bled and chests have caved; and fountains replaced eyes. The sadness and the loss of hope that finally has become ‘I’. It’s so easy when you rhyme like this, flames flickering from your spire. You’re naked flesh on show for me you know I weep desire from every breaking hole I have, from every crack and pore. I pour and pour deliverance because of you, I want more. You cackle and laugh at this. I know I’m not to blame but cannot hide the effigy, I cannot dose the shame. Your skin wrinkles quicker than my own, as I throw you to the fire. At east God knows you’re resting now, as I eat you off a wire.
Notebook 048
Candlelit dinners in the back of your house. An attic of dust clouds. Sprained sheets. A collection of photographs of people you don’t know. An antique mirror reflecting what’s missing. Nothing comes close to this. A carpet of stains. Curtains to cover. A shelf stack of dead books. A gift from a lover. She hasn’t been around for years
Notebook 047
A thousand blades of grass all trapped and swaying to the death. The same old spot surrounds them never stopping to take a breath. A million little hands all scratching at your back, fingers curl as cloud storms swirl and she says; “I’m sorry that I don’t feel bad. I’m sorry that I don’t say thanks.”
A tiny little sunshine, heating up the blessed and he says; “I’m sorry that I don’t feel.”
A thousand little street cars and thousand little streets. You indicate the way you go, and move still by your feet. People you don’t care for, and people you don’t know.
A tiny little sunshine, heating up the blessed and he says; “I’m sorry that I don’t feel.”
A thousand little street cars and thousand little streets. You indicate the way you go, and move still by your feet. People you don’t care for, and people you don’t know.
Notebook 046
They got it wrong.
Talent doesn't exist.
Talent is just the lazy mans denial of passion.
Passion makes us determined to achieve that which we think we can not.
'Talent' lets us achieve that which others think they can not.
Realise that talent equals no work or effort and is therefore an insult.
It's passion for certain things that's ingrained into people.
I am not talented.
Thank you.
Talent doesn't exist.
Talent is just the lazy mans denial of passion.
Passion makes us determined to achieve that which we think we can not.
'Talent' lets us achieve that which others think they can not.
Realise that talent equals no work or effort and is therefore an insult.
It's passion for certain things that's ingrained into people.
I am not talented.
Thank you.
Notebook 045 - dream
i woke up in a bed i dont know
my mum walked in just as i woke up
then she walked out tittering to herself saying "i can't believe it. its disgusting. how can he posibly. such a lazy waste. pathetic."
and i got wound up because i hate people talking to themselves as they walk off
so i shouted to her 'whhy do you just fucking say it to me mum. come on!"
then she trailed off and said she'd text it
so i lay in my bed and for some reason imagined photoshopping the words "oh dear, her we go again." on a beach picture
then i woke up and thought shit i need to get my art stuff to carry on with my work
so i ran out the house in pjs and slippers
ran down the street checking my phone all thte time haha
then i ran to the end of the street and thre was this big shop on the corner
a bit like a petrol station
but it had loads backets of stuff ouside with those little neon plaquards on
nice stuff like balls and string and reels of masking tape
i went insside, cant remember how though because everything always stays at the same perspective in my dreams
and went to the corner where there were loads of old books piled on shelves
i went up to it and had a rummage.
found what loooked like a realy nice blank pad but then opened it and it had music score all over it and was pretty much falling apart
it thin and flimsy too
then i saw out of the corner of my eye, my old art teacher
for some reason i began tracing a picture that was on the wall to pretend i was usy
*busy
so he wouldn't say hello or recognise me, even though in real life i think he's ace
i dont know who was in the picture i was tracing but yeah
then i found a white leather book
small, about a5
it was a little scuffed and dirty but still looked pretty new
i opened it up in the middle and there was a page of text with the heading on the back saying something 'printing'
then i flicked back a few pages and it was blank
for about ten pages
then there was a big illustration which was weird
you could see teh dent where it had been pressed onto the page form a block
it was like blue and black and silver
and it was like a collage of victorian patterns and people
but done in a symmetrical style.
then i flicked back a gain
and there was a bit of black paper in it so i pulled it out and folded it out and it was an money note
50 something or other but it was like black suede or really flimsy old paper like fabric
black, with white money print all over it.
so i picked the book up and stood up and thats where my dream ended
me. What a strange and wonderful dream. I wonder what brought it on!
my mum walked in just as i woke up
then she walked out tittering to herself saying "i can't believe it. its disgusting. how can he posibly. such a lazy waste. pathetic."
and i got wound up because i hate people talking to themselves as they walk off
so i shouted to her 'whhy do you just fucking say it to me mum. come on!"
then she trailed off and said she'd text it
so i lay in my bed and for some reason imagined photoshopping the words "oh dear, her we go again." on a beach picture
then i woke up and thought shit i need to get my art stuff to carry on with my work
so i ran out the house in pjs and slippers
ran down the street checking my phone all thte time haha
then i ran to the end of the street and thre was this big shop on the corner
a bit like a petrol station
but it had loads backets of stuff ouside with those little neon plaquards on
nice stuff like balls and string and reels of masking tape
i went insside, cant remember how though because everything always stays at the same perspective in my dreams
and went to the corner where there were loads of old books piled on shelves
i went up to it and had a rummage.
found what loooked like a realy nice blank pad but then opened it and it had music score all over it and was pretty much falling apart
it thin and flimsy too
then i saw out of the corner of my eye, my old art teacher
for some reason i began tracing a picture that was on the wall to pretend i was usy
*busy
so he wouldn't say hello or recognise me, even though in real life i think he's ace
i dont know who was in the picture i was tracing but yeah
then i found a white leather book
small, about a5
it was a little scuffed and dirty but still looked pretty new
i opened it up in the middle and there was a page of text with the heading on the back saying something 'printing'
then i flicked back a few pages and it was blank
for about ten pages
then there was a big illustration which was weird
you could see teh dent where it had been pressed onto the page form a block
it was like blue and black and silver
and it was like a collage of victorian patterns and people
but done in a symmetrical style.
then i flicked back a gain
and there was a bit of black paper in it so i pulled it out and folded it out and it was an money note
50 something or other but it was like black suede or really flimsy old paper like fabric
black, with white money print all over it.
so i picked the book up and stood up and thats where my dream ended
me. What a strange and wonderful dream. I wonder what brought it on!
Notebook 044
9th November 4.40pm 2007
Brantously shank mix & fluctured.
To believe is to forget the original proposition that I ever even cared in the first place. I can't perceive or irritate something which is beyond the ring ring of a bicycle bell that never stops the clicking of clicks between all this grey, black and yellow matter. Were you ever inbetween anything other than your own self pity and conscious delivery of systems chipboarded between what could only be described as a paper matrix origami dashed and purchased between sandfolds of bric-a-brac and nothing but cotton seams faring the eyebrows of your mothers babylon let in what could only be described as a tigers nest of hornet fuckery? Never ever in the whole wide world between the atlas and the inner things that were never really ever there anyway. I hope tomorrow comes on a brighter palette of hope and barricades because I'm worn out from not ever seeing things the right way. All these glasses and open ends could mean nothing to me or to you but I guess we'll never really know that until the sun decides to be upon the horsemen. I collected your money you funk trucked vestibule of apathy and loathe. Your arrogance really did pay the boatman his fair wage and he's ever so happy that you did so in style. Ginger monster I call upon you to kick down these placards that fall between the superstituous gaps in the street and never ever piece the face of my antique mannequin. The shell is long and held and I don't ever believe that you were ever really there inbetween the conscious delerium of tea coffee sugar and rice deluged in what could only be described as a splintered shard of wood and cocaine. I never really drew a boy from the chalken outlines of what could never sow between the frays. I hope I hope I hope it never splits again for it never really was quite clear just exactly what you meant when you said that you couldn't be arsed. Deliver a sequence of habitual obsession my dear? Please long for shackles and rings placed on fingers and necks. Pavy deep inside what could only door onto more and more frustration because I don't think I ever did quite know what was coming beforehand until it finally grasped my slacken jaw with angry nails and breath like domestic violence. If this is anger then I really am a robot in silver paint. Never to be worn or seen again for it can only be what never came or urinated on your mother's whore's bed. Taken over what came before you? My life mission and direction seemed so clear before but what is it now I wonder. What is it other than split seams of what never came to a sudden pounding before now? The only real word I can think of that fits is blame.
Brantously shank mix & fluctured.
To believe is to forget the original proposition that I ever even cared in the first place. I can't perceive or irritate something which is beyond the ring ring of a bicycle bell that never stops the clicking of clicks between all this grey, black and yellow matter. Were you ever inbetween anything other than your own self pity and conscious delivery of systems chipboarded between what could only be described as a paper matrix origami dashed and purchased between sandfolds of bric-a-brac and nothing but cotton seams faring the eyebrows of your mothers babylon let in what could only be described as a tigers nest of hornet fuckery? Never ever in the whole wide world between the atlas and the inner things that were never really ever there anyway. I hope tomorrow comes on a brighter palette of hope and barricades because I'm worn out from not ever seeing things the right way. All these glasses and open ends could mean nothing to me or to you but I guess we'll never really know that until the sun decides to be upon the horsemen. I collected your money you funk trucked vestibule of apathy and loathe. Your arrogance really did pay the boatman his fair wage and he's ever so happy that you did so in style. Ginger monster I call upon you to kick down these placards that fall between the superstituous gaps in the street and never ever piece the face of my antique mannequin. The shell is long and held and I don't ever believe that you were ever really there inbetween the conscious delerium of tea coffee sugar and rice deluged in what could only be described as a splintered shard of wood and cocaine. I never really drew a boy from the chalken outlines of what could never sow between the frays. I hope I hope I hope it never splits again for it never really was quite clear just exactly what you meant when you said that you couldn't be arsed. Deliver a sequence of habitual obsession my dear? Please long for shackles and rings placed on fingers and necks. Pavy deep inside what could only door onto more and more frustration because I don't think I ever did quite know what was coming beforehand until it finally grasped my slacken jaw with angry nails and breath like domestic violence. If this is anger then I really am a robot in silver paint. Never to be worn or seen again for it can only be what never came or urinated on your mother's whore's bed. Taken over what came before you? My life mission and direction seemed so clear before but what is it now I wonder. What is it other than split seams of what never came to a sudden pounding before now? The only real word I can think of that fits is blame.
Notebook 043
26th October 2007
Train induced pepple-dashery bull shunted and pulled from the umbilical inside of you. How wet and shiny it feels my dear as the life slips between your cracked nails. "I hope you washed behind your ears" his mother said "for they shall split and burst upon seams of shattered bronze if not. Then where would the golden king boy be that I have spent so long raising and nuturing and making scaletrix with?" Brazen. Like a rugpile of shattered threads. No mind matter worn from the udders of elders becase click clicking on the keys of this won't blacken it. Sing a song for sluts and writing cause it'll consume you so wholely you'll feel fresh in the morning. Stepping on blankets of crushed doormat, I hope you never save another bird from its nest again. Taking a leaf out of who's book I heard her cheeks flux, raged at maddened consanants.
And to think I ever even tried.
Train induced pepple-dashery bull shunted and pulled from the umbilical inside of you. How wet and shiny it feels my dear as the life slips between your cracked nails. "I hope you washed behind your ears" his mother said "for they shall split and burst upon seams of shattered bronze if not. Then where would the golden king boy be that I have spent so long raising and nuturing and making scaletrix with?" Brazen. Like a rugpile of shattered threads. No mind matter worn from the udders of elders becase click clicking on the keys of this won't blacken it. Sing a song for sluts and writing cause it'll consume you so wholely you'll feel fresh in the morning. Stepping on blankets of crushed doormat, I hope you never save another bird from its nest again. Taking a leaf out of who's book I heard her cheeks flux, raged at maddened consanants.
And to think I ever even tried.
Notebook 041
Once upon a time there was a little doormat.
He wasn't anything special as far as doormats go, but he wasn't a overproduced and undermanufactured rubbish little thing.
He did have something about him.
The things with doormats is, they're made to be walked on. They can't deny their purpose no matter how hard they try to glam themselves up. 'Foot Cleaner', 'Entry Guard', 'Hospitality Note', they're all just the same thing with different names.
This little mat however, liked to be walked on.
As much as it hurt him when people would scruff their shoes on his edges, or MC Hammer all over his little wiry face, he smiled after they looked back with a smile. Even if they didnt, yet still had clean shoes, he would smile for their part.
From the day he first noticed his cosy sheltered doorway and his big black letters saying 'Welcome' he was content.
Even after a year of use and his 'welcome' had become worn, this smiling brown mat felt happy. His wear and tear gave him more character. A definitive past all of his own. War scars to show off in the most timid playground sense of war, but scars all the same.
But one day something terrible happened.
One day this poor little matt opened his screwed eyes, to see the foot leave his face clean and shiny. He smiled. Then he looked down and saw that all his letters had become so worn that they weren't even there anymore.
He felt so mad at first but he then realised it was not the foot's fault. What the foot did had made him happy in the past. He had taken pride in it. Sometimes, he remembered, he had even made the shoes clean themself on him when they weren't even dirty to begin with.
With the shoes not to blame he had nowhere to direct his loss. He became lost, confused and guilty because he could not decide if he was a mat, a rug or just a piece of brown flat with an indetermined life span in this tiny little doorway.
For days and days he sat, in his spot, no longer welcome nor uninviting.
He sat in his spot for weeks and then months debating with himself whether it was his fault for taking pride in something so destroying or the shoe's fault for walking on him too hard and too much.
Then one day the owner threw him out.
Little mat was no more.
The moral of the story is that sometimes doormats get walked on so much, they loose their 'welcome' and become worthless, no matter how proud a mat they are for the state they are in.
He wasn't anything special as far as doormats go, but he wasn't a overproduced and undermanufactured rubbish little thing.
He did have something about him.
The things with doormats is, they're made to be walked on. They can't deny their purpose no matter how hard they try to glam themselves up. 'Foot Cleaner', 'Entry Guard', 'Hospitality Note', they're all just the same thing with different names.
This little mat however, liked to be walked on.
As much as it hurt him when people would scruff their shoes on his edges, or MC Hammer all over his little wiry face, he smiled after they looked back with a smile. Even if they didnt, yet still had clean shoes, he would smile for their part.
From the day he first noticed his cosy sheltered doorway and his big black letters saying 'Welcome' he was content.
Even after a year of use and his 'welcome' had become worn, this smiling brown mat felt happy. His wear and tear gave him more character. A definitive past all of his own. War scars to show off in the most timid playground sense of war, but scars all the same.
But one day something terrible happened.
One day this poor little matt opened his screwed eyes, to see the foot leave his face clean and shiny. He smiled. Then he looked down and saw that all his letters had become so worn that they weren't even there anymore.
He felt so mad at first but he then realised it was not the foot's fault. What the foot did had made him happy in the past. He had taken pride in it. Sometimes, he remembered, he had even made the shoes clean themself on him when they weren't even dirty to begin with.
With the shoes not to blame he had nowhere to direct his loss. He became lost, confused and guilty because he could not decide if he was a mat, a rug or just a piece of brown flat with an indetermined life span in this tiny little doorway.
For days and days he sat, in his spot, no longer welcome nor uninviting.
He sat in his spot for weeks and then months debating with himself whether it was his fault for taking pride in something so destroying or the shoe's fault for walking on him too hard and too much.
Then one day the owner threw him out.
Little mat was no more.
The moral of the story is that sometimes doormats get walked on so much, they loose their 'welcome' and become worthless, no matter how proud a mat they are for the state they are in.
Notebook 040
Welcome generation Inverted Darwinism, the class of 'Post-Millennia'. Before the party begins I'd like to take some time to make a few announcements.
Last years graduates, as many of you know, did a fantastic job on inventing the computer. The Internet was officially crowned the world's largest distribution of pornography responsible for raised expectations from men conditioned to desire airbrushed genitalia and silicone implants. Sorry ladies, you're natural form just isn't good enough anymore.
Also I'm sure you've noticed a trend of virtual socialising in the simple form of increased video game sales, so your son now doesn't need to walk down the street to call for his mate to play soldiers, he can now stay in the comfort of your sofa and his obese body frame and be a more realistic soldier, with a real gun, real blood and real media conditioning so that he's completely numb to obscene violence. You might as well put him in a string vest, stained y-fronts and a can of wife-beater in hand now.
Your teenage daughter though is okay, according to reports. The trade of a real social life for a Myspace and Msn account won't damage her health. Granted it may cripple any form of humane interaction that lengthens above two syllables and acronyms, and emotional involvement will never be committed to anything above aesthetics but please, she's got great tits and all the paedophiles give her all the attention she needs to make her feel good. Just click on her profile and you'll see your naked daughter and the millions of friends she has. Yes. That number there just under her cut and copied 'about me'.
Samaritanism and charity took an all-time pounding this semester as religion revealed itself as the original form of politics. Please, keep donating your money because 0.5% will go somewhere near a third world country in the form of freeze dried food, without instructions to add water first. Oh John Doe, you really did think that their large stomachs and fly-riddled eyes were because they were bloated from lack of food as their stomachs eat themselves? You really should have paid more attention in 'business monopoly' classes. But yes, I can't stress how much better donating makes you feel about driving the ten-minute stretch to drop the kids off via the Landrover in an hour-long traffic queue that actually smells of pollution. They even give you a little plastic wristband to add to an armful and prove to wandering eyes that you are a 'good person'. Please Jane though, don't mistake them looking at your wristbands for looking at your tits because it's too late and the wrong kind of rubber for putting that underage sex consequence back inside you. You should've gone to the nurse at break time and had a full-scale abortion between geography and math class but don't worry, I'm sure the government benefits will feed your child and your loose morals.
Now I must signal the ex-criminal riot police and the bouncers that confiscate, up the profit margin, and distribute drugs that the party is about to begin. Enjoy this year's party themed 'apocalypse' as you are the last few years of human kind finally realising that we've fucked up this globe beyond repair. And no, Mother Nature won't take a fresh set of triple-A's. So please, please, please children, get as intoxicated as your body can handle on drink and drugs, and then have another round. Loose all your morals and sleep with your best friends girlfriend and then her mother. Dance and dress like a blind epileptic spaceman, fight and kill and drive home recklessly because god forbid you wake from this apocalyptic party and the o-zone roof is still holding out. God forbid that you actually have another few thousand years and the rest of your life will be a hangover from your youth...
Alternatively, just open your fucking eyes and get some responsibility.
Last years graduates, as many of you know, did a fantastic job on inventing the computer. The Internet was officially crowned the world's largest distribution of pornography responsible for raised expectations from men conditioned to desire airbrushed genitalia and silicone implants. Sorry ladies, you're natural form just isn't good enough anymore.
Also I'm sure you've noticed a trend of virtual socialising in the simple form of increased video game sales, so your son now doesn't need to walk down the street to call for his mate to play soldiers, he can now stay in the comfort of your sofa and his obese body frame and be a more realistic soldier, with a real gun, real blood and real media conditioning so that he's completely numb to obscene violence. You might as well put him in a string vest, stained y-fronts and a can of wife-beater in hand now.
Your teenage daughter though is okay, according to reports. The trade of a real social life for a Myspace and Msn account won't damage her health. Granted it may cripple any form of humane interaction that lengthens above two syllables and acronyms, and emotional involvement will never be committed to anything above aesthetics but please, she's got great tits and all the paedophiles give her all the attention she needs to make her feel good. Just click on her profile and you'll see your naked daughter and the millions of friends she has. Yes. That number there just under her cut and copied 'about me'.
Samaritanism and charity took an all-time pounding this semester as religion revealed itself as the original form of politics. Please, keep donating your money because 0.5% will go somewhere near a third world country in the form of freeze dried food, without instructions to add water first. Oh John Doe, you really did think that their large stomachs and fly-riddled eyes were because they were bloated from lack of food as their stomachs eat themselves? You really should have paid more attention in 'business monopoly' classes. But yes, I can't stress how much better donating makes you feel about driving the ten-minute stretch to drop the kids off via the Landrover in an hour-long traffic queue that actually smells of pollution. They even give you a little plastic wristband to add to an armful and prove to wandering eyes that you are a 'good person'. Please Jane though, don't mistake them looking at your wristbands for looking at your tits because it's too late and the wrong kind of rubber for putting that underage sex consequence back inside you. You should've gone to the nurse at break time and had a full-scale abortion between geography and math class but don't worry, I'm sure the government benefits will feed your child and your loose morals.
Now I must signal the ex-criminal riot police and the bouncers that confiscate, up the profit margin, and distribute drugs that the party is about to begin. Enjoy this year's party themed 'apocalypse' as you are the last few years of human kind finally realising that we've fucked up this globe beyond repair. And no, Mother Nature won't take a fresh set of triple-A's. So please, please, please children, get as intoxicated as your body can handle on drink and drugs, and then have another round. Loose all your morals and sleep with your best friends girlfriend and then her mother. Dance and dress like a blind epileptic spaceman, fight and kill and drive home recklessly because god forbid you wake from this apocalyptic party and the o-zone roof is still holding out. God forbid that you actually have another few thousand years and the rest of your life will be a hangover from your youth...
Alternatively, just open your fucking eyes and get some responsibility.
Notebook 039
Head Rush Of The Heart
Journal Entry: Fri Apr 15, 2005, 11:44 PM
Like movies with the sound turned off.
Like McDonalds milkshake in 20secs flat.
Like cold feet in a warm bath.
Like getting just your hair wet.
Like smiling when no one's looking.
Like doing absolutely nothing.
Like being invisible.
Like weak knees.
Like chattering teeth.
Like 'Trisha' in school hours.
Like quotes.
Like jokes.
Like comfy, lightweight coats.
Like coffee from your mum.
Like youth in your dad.
Like knowing every fucking thing is going wrong, but you'll be gone by five.
Like love from you.
- Like you.
Journal Entry: Fri Apr 15, 2005, 11:44 PM
Like movies with the sound turned off.
Like McDonalds milkshake in 20secs flat.
Like cold feet in a warm bath.
Like getting just your hair wet.
Like smiling when no one's looking.
Like doing absolutely nothing.
Like being invisible.
Like weak knees.
Like chattering teeth.
Like 'Trisha' in school hours.
Like quotes.
Like jokes.
Like comfy, lightweight coats.
Like coffee from your mum.
Like youth in your dad.
Like knowing every fucking thing is going wrong, but you'll be gone by five.
Like love from you.
- Like you.
Notebook 038
A Night With Only Myself To Talk To
Journal Entry: Fri Apr 15, 2005, 11:55 PM
My teeth are chattering, but only I can hear.
No matter how hard they crumble.
My lips sync the words but my life wont project it.
My heart has become a circle; argent and pale.
My skin is just a layer.
My nails are pulled back to their root and the tender is sanded.
My legs are crossed, and my elbows ache.
My head pounds to the beat of time, eroding this cliff face with all its storm.
This space inside my skull is my only possesion, and it feels too consuming.
I get the same as everyone else; i get a lifetime, but you only told me this now. Im awake.
Eyes firmly shut.
Light upon my face.
Somehow, somehow, I shut out the scars and hide away the voices.
Till morn' breaks.
Journal Entry: Fri Apr 15, 2005, 11:55 PM
My teeth are chattering, but only I can hear.
No matter how hard they crumble.
My lips sync the words but my life wont project it.
My heart has become a circle; argent and pale.
My skin is just a layer.
My nails are pulled back to their root and the tender is sanded.
My legs are crossed, and my elbows ache.
My head pounds to the beat of time, eroding this cliff face with all its storm.
This space inside my skull is my only possesion, and it feels too consuming.
I get the same as everyone else; i get a lifetime, but you only told me this now. Im awake.
Eyes firmly shut.
Light upon my face.
Somehow, somehow, I shut out the scars and hide away the voices.
Till morn' breaks.
Notebook 037
Anticipating The Past
Journal Entry: Sat Apr 16, 2005, 12:07 AM
Time is a wall constantly moving behind you.
You walk, notice the shadow and snap from your concentration.
You stand still and prepare to stand against it.
You feel it against your shoulder as it twinges.
You dig your feet into the ground.
Your palm spread, knees bent and eyes closed you wait.
You wait.
You wait.
BAM! You're moving so faast you barely felt it touch you, your hair swept across your face, your bare feet into earth.
Your stance is still but your motion is not.
You blink.
You realise this wall has no depth.
It's 2-D surface will fade-in, no matter how far you run, to pummel your bones to the ground.
Legs straight.
Back flat against the brick.
Arms out-stretched at your side.
The wind blows away your tears and hair.
You smile.
You realise what wya you were heading in the first place.
Exhale.
Embrace.
Journal Entry: Sat Apr 16, 2005, 12:07 AM
Time is a wall constantly moving behind you.
You walk, notice the shadow and snap from your concentration.
You stand still and prepare to stand against it.
You feel it against your shoulder as it twinges.
You dig your feet into the ground.
Your palm spread, knees bent and eyes closed you wait.
You wait.
You wait.
BAM! You're moving so faast you barely felt it touch you, your hair swept across your face, your bare feet into earth.
Your stance is still but your motion is not.
You blink.
You realise this wall has no depth.
It's 2-D surface will fade-in, no matter how far you run, to pummel your bones to the ground.
Legs straight.
Back flat against the brick.
Arms out-stretched at your side.
The wind blows away your tears and hair.
You smile.
You realise what wya you were heading in the first place.
Exhale.
Embrace.
Notebook 036
Message On The Off-Chance
Journal Entry: Sat Apr 16, 2005, 12:32 PM
Another sleepless night.
Body sleeping wide awake.
Fingers twitch heavy breaths.
My feet are restless.
Head becomes filled with void.
So I write.
And the lights sting my eyes.
I expect no reply at this time of the night.
Still, I write.
Just on the off-chance.
Journal Entry: Sat Apr 16, 2005, 12:32 PM
Another sleepless night.
Body sleeping wide awake.
Fingers twitch heavy breaths.
My feet are restless.
Head becomes filled with void.
So I write.
And the lights sting my eyes.
I expect no reply at this time of the night.
Still, I write.
Just on the off-chance.
Notebook 035
Suicide Is The New Black
Journal Entry: Sat Apr 16, 2005, 12:46 PM
Redring your eyes and dress in black.
Eyeline away your windows in hope that on one will notice the water inside.
Swelling, filling.
Finally, your make-up cant hide the bags.
Your sleeves cant absorb anymore.
Just take them away.
Make yourself some new scars.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
Floor.
But you aint in it for the numbers.
You aint in it for the scars.
You're in this for the ride.
The sympathy.
The greasy hair and fingerless gloves.
The attention.
You smile through your running eyes when a shoulder is near.
Just because they've acknowledged.
But no one cares.
No one minds.
No one has the right piece of mind.
They just dont want the guilt of thinking that they didnt notice you;
When your eyes close for the last time.
Journal Entry: Sat Apr 16, 2005, 12:46 PM
Redring your eyes and dress in black.
Eyeline away your windows in hope that on one will notice the water inside.
Swelling, filling.
Finally, your make-up cant hide the bags.
Your sleeves cant absorb anymore.
Just take them away.
Make yourself some new scars.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
Floor.
But you aint in it for the numbers.
You aint in it for the scars.
You're in this for the ride.
The sympathy.
The greasy hair and fingerless gloves.
The attention.
You smile through your running eyes when a shoulder is near.
Just because they've acknowledged.
But no one cares.
No one minds.
No one has the right piece of mind.
They just dont want the guilt of thinking that they didnt notice you;
When your eyes close for the last time.
Notebook 034
Late Night Masquerade
Journal Entry: Sat Apr 16, 2005, 12:52 PM
The meaning of life is whatever you believe it to be.
Because you can choose your beliefs, and your beliefs become your meaning.
Ominous answers, lead to more solid questions.
Ominous answers often inspire, more than conlcude.
But what I cant help but wonder, will in the end, make the monster.
Sometimes i hate the way my skin feels.
Yet, beggars cant be choosers.
(But they're the most fickles of us all.)
Journal Entry: Sat Apr 16, 2005, 12:52 PM
The meaning of life is whatever you believe it to be.
Because you can choose your beliefs, and your beliefs become your meaning.
Ominous answers, lead to more solid questions.
Ominous answers often inspire, more than conlcude.
But what I cant help but wonder, will in the end, make the monster.
Sometimes i hate the way my skin feels.
Yet, beggars cant be choosers.
(But they're the most fickles of us all.)
Notebook 033
Adoration For Masculine
Journal Entry: Sat Apr 16, 2005, 12:59 PM
....For wherever my roots may lie....
Sometimes I look at them and feel like im thirteen again.
Not sexual, just weak.
Is it pure adoration?
Or just a jealous envy?
For my flaws seem to shine through my permiable skin so brightly.
Am I awfull.
Or awe-full?
From either the weight of this presssure, or weight of the shame;
I bow my head.
I'd rather choose wrong, than say I didnt know what i was doing to be right.
Journal Entry: Sat Apr 16, 2005, 12:59 PM
....For wherever my roots may lie....
Sometimes I look at them and feel like im thirteen again.
Not sexual, just weak.
Is it pure adoration?
Or just a jealous envy?
For my flaws seem to shine through my permiable skin so brightly.
Am I awfull.
Or awe-full?
From either the weight of this presssure, or weight of the shame;
I bow my head.
I'd rather choose wrong, than say I didnt know what i was doing to be right.
Notebook 032
For An Unrequited
Journal Entry: Sat Apr 16, 2005, 1:09 PM
Once again it becomes a late night infatuation.
A few questions I shouldn't ask.
A longer conversation than what should be spoken.
It always comes around twice.
After years of nothing it's twice in one week.
But it pumps my veins.
Even without you here, the thoughts can sustain it.
The impulse around you.
Sticking my tongue out and immeadiately asking; why?
But it feels so right.
I doubt if you doubt it.
You seem to have no ties, no ropes to ground.
I wonder if this is your stigmata.
'Cause Christ knows you're so contrary.
You smile and I cant think why.
I read into it too much.
I guess, I thought that one day I'd make you feel so confused.
Two years on, it's score to you.
I'm pulling my hair out.
I dont know where to start from this time around.
Back to square one.
And i'm facing the same way again.
Journal Entry: Sat Apr 16, 2005, 1:09 PM
Once again it becomes a late night infatuation.
A few questions I shouldn't ask.
A longer conversation than what should be spoken.
It always comes around twice.
After years of nothing it's twice in one week.
But it pumps my veins.
Even without you here, the thoughts can sustain it.
The impulse around you.
Sticking my tongue out and immeadiately asking; why?
But it feels so right.
I doubt if you doubt it.
You seem to have no ties, no ropes to ground.
I wonder if this is your stigmata.
'Cause Christ knows you're so contrary.
You smile and I cant think why.
I read into it too much.
I guess, I thought that one day I'd make you feel so confused.
Two years on, it's score to you.
I'm pulling my hair out.
I dont know where to start from this time around.
Back to square one.
And i'm facing the same way again.
Notebook 031
Gouge out my chest, my head,
until nothing is left but a vast emptyness.
Then realise that no light from thine or my own ribs, wil be emitted.
No sickly golden smell but that of metallic blood.
Frenzy your eyes upon the void that is unfocusable, yet nether the less, present and filled.
No ghostly shroud shall vapour upwards to a heavenly playground of absolution.
All but the gases of my rotting cavity shall fill your nostrils and putrify your enthusiasm.
Turn away and feel.
Turn away and see.
until nothing is left but a vast emptyness.
Then realise that no light from thine or my own ribs, wil be emitted.
No sickly golden smell but that of metallic blood.
Frenzy your eyes upon the void that is unfocusable, yet nether the less, present and filled.
No ghostly shroud shall vapour upwards to a heavenly playground of absolution.
All but the gases of my rotting cavity shall fill your nostrils and putrify your enthusiasm.
Turn away and feel.
Turn away and see.
Notebook 030
For An Unrequited pt. II (An Ending For Now Beth)
Journal Entry: Sat Apr 16, 2005, 1:33 PM
You're so sick and so shallow.
So much more permiable than I thought.
What I thought was yuor glow is your consumption.
All along you were laughing at me.
Somehow I cant take it
Somehow its not real
All the things you've abandoned
All the emotions that I feel
You know I love you in some sick way, I hate to love you
But somewhere, someway, I still do
Right now, its not so vividly slapped across me as later im sure it will be.
Dragging heels and digging up dirt.
At least when falling i can know.
I. Made. The. First. Blow
Journal Entry: Sat Apr 16, 2005, 1:33 PM
You're so sick and so shallow.
So much more permiable than I thought.
What I thought was yuor glow is your consumption.
All along you were laughing at me.
Somehow I cant take it
Somehow its not real
All the things you've abandoned
All the emotions that I feel
You know I love you in some sick way, I hate to love you
But somewhere, someway, I still do
Right now, its not so vividly slapped across me as later im sure it will be.
Dragging heels and digging up dirt.
At least when falling i can know.
I. Made. The. First. Blow
Notebook 029
Realisation That All Is Not Okay, And Never Will Be
Journal Entry: Fri Jan 27, 2006, 12:15 AM
hey yardy yardys.
Who the fuck am i talking to? Its not like any of you fuckers read this. First off FM.CS is holding auditions for new members, all ya gotta recite is the password, but seein as only one person apart from me knows it, thats gonna be quite impossible. Next!
I have come to realise that the only way i can ever be truely happy is to live in my dreams and imagination. Yet even so i'd miss out on physical feelings, but then again if my dreams were all i knew, i'd think that the feelings (as in sensual) would be the real thing, anyhow thats for another day. The reason that this is the only place is because everything would also be perfect because in ya dreams ya never imagine details that make things imperfect. like bad breath, or scratches. And beauty, love, age and something else i've forgotten dont last forever, but imaginations and dreams can. (if you're immortal, read up on greek mythology you punk and dont quiz me.)
The only problem im having with this right now is that each time i esacpe to this place the pain of the world that i have to return to, feels that much more vivid and scarring.
Thats John Keats for ya. Messes with me head. I wannabe a home-grown philosopher.
New philosphic twist on quote:
"The grass is always greener on the other side, yet laced with guilt. If you escape the past cirlcles will be your future and memory will be a void."
i wonder if you were able to forget your past like that *clicks* you'd still be the same person?!
......and with that i leave you children.
Journal Entry: Fri Jan 27, 2006, 12:15 AM
hey yardy yardys.
Who the fuck am i talking to? Its not like any of you fuckers read this. First off FM.CS is holding auditions for new members, all ya gotta recite is the password, but seein as only one person apart from me knows it, thats gonna be quite impossible. Next!
I have come to realise that the only way i can ever be truely happy is to live in my dreams and imagination. Yet even so i'd miss out on physical feelings, but then again if my dreams were all i knew, i'd think that the feelings (as in sensual) would be the real thing, anyhow thats for another day. The reason that this is the only place is because everything would also be perfect because in ya dreams ya never imagine details that make things imperfect. like bad breath, or scratches. And beauty, love, age and something else i've forgotten dont last forever, but imaginations and dreams can. (if you're immortal, read up on greek mythology you punk and dont quiz me.)
The only problem im having with this right now is that each time i esacpe to this place the pain of the world that i have to return to, feels that much more vivid and scarring.
Thats John Keats for ya. Messes with me head. I wannabe a home-grown philosopher.
New philosphic twist on quote:
"The grass is always greener on the other side, yet laced with guilt. If you escape the past cirlcles will be your future and memory will be a void."
i wonder if you were able to forget your past like that *clicks* you'd still be the same person?!
......and with that i leave you children.
Notebook 028
First Case Of Vanity
Journal Entry: Fri Jan 27, 2006, 12:16 AM
There's no smiley for spaced! Pants. Just have to write it in text Anywho, first blog. (Blimey, this box is so small yet it seems so vastly empty!) I'm feeling kinda tripped at the minute. I've had a weekend of lazy days watching movies, so i think the fuzzy world of fiction (or non-fiction? can never remember which way round it is! I mean fake.) thats embelished itself in my mind is starting to blend with what my eyes are seeing. Kinda beautiful, yet cold.
Journal Entry: Fri Jan 27, 2006, 12:16 AM
There's no smiley for spaced! Pants. Just have to write it in text Anywho, first blog. (Blimey, this box is so small yet it seems so vastly empty!) I'm feeling kinda tripped at the minute. I've had a weekend of lazy days watching movies, so i think the fuzzy world of fiction (or non-fiction? can never remember which way round it is! I mean fake.) thats embelished itself in my mind is starting to blend with what my eyes are seeing. Kinda beautiful, yet cold.
Notebook 027
Things Are Lookin Up
Current mood: slightly smiling at myself
Journal Entry: Fri Jan 27, 2006, 12:18 AM
brrr. chilly.
after a weird and slightly emotionally stressing night, things are looking better. got up today and everything was back to the normal cup of sweet tea and cold milk on my honey nut loops (dont ya just hate luke-cold {that a word?} milk, blah!) and yes, i had some toast. you'll understand what that means after a few blogs. breakfast reflects my mood quite a lot. got ready to go to town to drop off my books back at the library, hair was good and yes, no wind. my scarf kept me warm as it was a bit cold but i like cold rather than hot purely cause of the snuggly warm you get in the morning when its pissing down snowballs outside (it wasn't snowing today though). changed my money into euros for amsterdam and i got a kewl little wallet for my change. sweet. came back home, was a bit late for my english lit. lesson but mr. anson's one of those kewl teacher guys who realises that students can have a sense of humour so he's not all work. funny chap. joe was rambling random film quotes in his usual geekiness but nowadays geeks are the coolest (slight paradox huh?). only thing that slightly has set my mood off today is the usual interrogation by mother when she gots home: "dishwasher, coat, guitar, bag, books...." but i survived and i think the time when its just me and mum at home is becoming important. never really thought a cup of coffee with her would be so bonding. anywho im feeling like writing something so im goin to go do that right now. adios!!
(no doubt i'll blog later on with how everything's gone horribly wrong!)
Current mood: slightly smiling at myself
Journal Entry: Fri Jan 27, 2006, 12:18 AM
brrr. chilly.
after a weird and slightly emotionally stressing night, things are looking better. got up today and everything was back to the normal cup of sweet tea and cold milk on my honey nut loops (dont ya just hate luke-cold {that a word?} milk, blah!) and yes, i had some toast. you'll understand what that means after a few blogs. breakfast reflects my mood quite a lot. got ready to go to town to drop off my books back at the library, hair was good and yes, no wind. my scarf kept me warm as it was a bit cold but i like cold rather than hot purely cause of the snuggly warm you get in the morning when its pissing down snowballs outside (it wasn't snowing today though). changed my money into euros for amsterdam and i got a kewl little wallet for my change. sweet. came back home, was a bit late for my english lit. lesson but mr. anson's one of those kewl teacher guys who realises that students can have a sense of humour so he's not all work. funny chap. joe was rambling random film quotes in his usual geekiness but nowadays geeks are the coolest (slight paradox huh?). only thing that slightly has set my mood off today is the usual interrogation by mother when she gots home: "dishwasher, coat, guitar, bag, books...." but i survived and i think the time when its just me and mum at home is becoming important. never really thought a cup of coffee with her would be so bonding. anywho im feeling like writing something so im goin to go do that right now. adios!!
(no doubt i'll blog later on with how everything's gone horribly wrong!)
Notebook 026
Everyone Bums The Underdog
Journal Entry: Fri Jan 27, 2006, 12:19 AM
Sometimes I analytically study the music industry because it's something I want to utilise in my life (All the following is purely my own opinion and judgements. I could be wrong on anything).
I hate it how every1 dislike bands/groups because of their commercial sucess.
Okay let's take busted for instance. Okay busted weren't that artistic or different and their songs aren't groundbreakingly artistic. But thats because I think they were mainly a record labels immensely sucessful experiment for the industry. But as this they worked. I don't know whether or not they wrote their own songs. So what if they messed up a bit live? Doesn't everyone have bad days? (Or did they? They looked to me like they were quite good performers. *update* I've just been informed they were good performers at at least three gigs. Thanks Jessica and good on ya for being honest). The thing i feel mainly when listening to them is sympathy. These three lads were probably quite talented as a group when they first started out (I think the guy with white hair and big black stripe is the brains?!), yet the record labels saw their chance to make a mint, and took it.
A short while down the line, surprise surprise they split. Why? Because Charlie wanted to pursue his interest with his new band. Give the guy some fucking credit. He was probably fed up of being fed that shit from the record labels, and being told how to look and act. He was the first one to speak up and be first to act on his opression, so give the guy a break. He risked alot giving up the sucess of Busted for his music. (We all know they would've survived for a long time more. eg. Westlife...who the fook is actually still buying their records?) And yar, we all know Fightstar will never be accepted because he is 'Charlie from Busted'. But thats happened many a time before. *Cue worn old 8mm footage of every single solo act that's come from splitting up from a band*. But Charlie is also just another record label manipulation. Maybe even just a smart fucker who only cares about money and knows the industry very well, saw his chance to make it out first and catch the ripple from Busted. Or maybe even he's just naíve about the industry, and thinks that this will be a fresh start for him, and yes, the corporate fuckers again seized a opportunity to either a) promote themselves b) make some money or c) get on a 'fashionable' band wagon. Or maybe even still (I know, alot of different options to choose) he is being true to his artistic side and saying "I dont give a fuck about sucess or whether this band takes well in the public eye, because im just in it for the music we write."
So heres comes the people who diss fans of Busted and Busted themselves. Okay, some teenage girl who's only just starting buying cd's thinks they're 'Hawt' or 'Super Kewl', that's what they were made for stupid. And the poor girl ain't in it for artist inspiration. She wants pictures of cute guys on her walls and good catchy songs to listen to. But there's another kinda admiration for Busted: "Yeah I know they're cheesey and the songs aren't that artistic, but what songs they have are catchy, and when they play, I have a good time because it's fun. Both laughing at AND with them."
I personally just feel sympathy for the young naíve aspiring musicians who thought the music business was a lot more simple than it actually is.
Onto my next rage/saddness.
Jeff Buckley. When I heard of Jeff Buckley I was just starting to get into the music industry as a whole and understand what its all about. Hence, I felt Jeff Buckley was kinda a certificate for this. He in one word for me is 'Potential'. Had he been alive today, who knows what he'd of been like. (Word has it he also was quite naíve about labels, so maybe [i can't believe i'm saying this] it was better off that he died when he did, before he got chewed up and spat out by money grabbing corporates and his art be left in ruins]).
But i first off bought 'Grace' in HMV. It was on the radio in the shop and i thought "Fuck me this is a good song!" So i bought it purely on impulse. (And yar the lady looked at me like a piece of dirt when asking her who it was then immeadiately asking to buy it. Bitch. Thats what you're fucking job is, so just do it slave.) I got home, listened to it, and admittedly only liked the one song i'd heard. I then picked it up later when a friend said i really should listen to it again as he's really good (Thanks Timmy-Lar). So indeed I did and now i fucking bum this guy. I'm not goig to go into my personal opinion of why he's so great. If you like, you like. If not, buy something else. Then i looked onto t'internet for his background and blah blah, and it hit me that he is dead. My play of that album after that was the best play of one album ever. Full Stop. (cause thats what 'period' means right?) And yes, I cried.
So I tootled into HMV some time after with a big wad of cash and saw they had nothing of particular interest. Back to good ol Music Zone. And what did i see before me? 'Jeff Buckley Live at Sin-É' for £12. Bargain. (2cd's and a DVD, even though DVD's like 12minutes long). Went home and whacked it on. I thought it was dead kewl. (purely for the video of Jeff saying he carries a notebook everywhere. I was ""AGGHH, that's me, that's me!!") And i also put on the cd. Loadsa live versions and acoustics and a few demos. (I personally think live performances are pointless unless you were there because performances aren't just about the music, it's about a hell of alot more, like visuals and senses, and having a good time dancing or singing along like a demented Godzilla.) So I was not too pleased with that.
Determined to improve my vision of Jeff Buckley, I went in search of a few more cd's and realised the only one that'd be of much significant difference was 'Sketches for `My Sweetheart The Drunk`' so I handed over the cash. I was gutted. Some scrambled old recordings of him with a hell of alot of meaningless noise and wrong chords. In the inlay it says from his mum "I didn't want the labels to release his music after his death for profit" Nice thought darling and i'm sure the sentiments in all the right places but this album cant mean a great deal to anyone except Jeff, and those people who were around him when he was alive. So i kinda took hold of my copy of Grace. Stuck it on repeat and wollowed in the fact that it was never gonna get any better than this. (But it did, with every listen Grace gets better and better. And yes, even though i know i'll never be able to sing the track 'Grace' as good as Jeff, I still try.)
Onto the present. Yet again the internet. 'Jeff Buckley: The Movie' or whatever it is called. Enraged beyond belief. I really hope that it isn't going to be some commercialised rip off, and i hope to fucking hell the actor can lipsync well. Else i'm going to personally smash his face in. I am really dis-appointed that his sad ol mother cant get her wished to keep her son from exploitation even after he's dead. Think about it. Thats something really saddening.
And with this i come to my final point (seems essay structures do come in use): Is it possible for someone truely artistic to be released commercially, be sucessful, whilst not being inlfuenced or maniulated by the love of money/power/fame?
I think not.
Do You?
Journal Entry: Fri Jan 27, 2006, 12:19 AM
Sometimes I analytically study the music industry because it's something I want to utilise in my life (All the following is purely my own opinion and judgements. I could be wrong on anything).
I hate it how every1 dislike bands/groups because of their commercial sucess.
Okay let's take busted for instance. Okay busted weren't that artistic or different and their songs aren't groundbreakingly artistic. But thats because I think they were mainly a record labels immensely sucessful experiment for the industry. But as this they worked. I don't know whether or not they wrote their own songs. So what if they messed up a bit live? Doesn't everyone have bad days? (Or did they? They looked to me like they were quite good performers. *update* I've just been informed they were good performers at at least three gigs. Thanks Jessica and good on ya for being honest). The thing i feel mainly when listening to them is sympathy. These three lads were probably quite talented as a group when they first started out (I think the guy with white hair and big black stripe is the brains?!), yet the record labels saw their chance to make a mint, and took it.
A short while down the line, surprise surprise they split. Why? Because Charlie wanted to pursue his interest with his new band. Give the guy some fucking credit. He was probably fed up of being fed that shit from the record labels, and being told how to look and act. He was the first one to speak up and be first to act on his opression, so give the guy a break. He risked alot giving up the sucess of Busted for his music. (We all know they would've survived for a long time more. eg. Westlife...who the fook is actually still buying their records?) And yar, we all know Fightstar will never be accepted because he is 'Charlie from Busted'. But thats happened many a time before. *Cue worn old 8mm footage of every single solo act that's come from splitting up from a band*. But Charlie is also just another record label manipulation. Maybe even just a smart fucker who only cares about money and knows the industry very well, saw his chance to make it out first and catch the ripple from Busted. Or maybe even he's just naíve about the industry, and thinks that this will be a fresh start for him, and yes, the corporate fuckers again seized a opportunity to either a) promote themselves b) make some money or c) get on a 'fashionable' band wagon. Or maybe even still (I know, alot of different options to choose) he is being true to his artistic side and saying "I dont give a fuck about sucess or whether this band takes well in the public eye, because im just in it for the music we write."
So heres comes the people who diss fans of Busted and Busted themselves. Okay, some teenage girl who's only just starting buying cd's thinks they're 'Hawt' or 'Super Kewl', that's what they were made for stupid. And the poor girl ain't in it for artist inspiration. She wants pictures of cute guys on her walls and good catchy songs to listen to. But there's another kinda admiration for Busted: "Yeah I know they're cheesey and the songs aren't that artistic, but what songs they have are catchy, and when they play, I have a good time because it's fun. Both laughing at AND with them."
I personally just feel sympathy for the young naíve aspiring musicians who thought the music business was a lot more simple than it actually is.
Onto my next rage/saddness.
Jeff Buckley. When I heard of Jeff Buckley I was just starting to get into the music industry as a whole and understand what its all about. Hence, I felt Jeff Buckley was kinda a certificate for this. He in one word for me is 'Potential'. Had he been alive today, who knows what he'd of been like. (Word has it he also was quite naíve about labels, so maybe [i can't believe i'm saying this] it was better off that he died when he did, before he got chewed up and spat out by money grabbing corporates and his art be left in ruins]).
But i first off bought 'Grace' in HMV. It was on the radio in the shop and i thought "Fuck me this is a good song!" So i bought it purely on impulse. (And yar the lady looked at me like a piece of dirt when asking her who it was then immeadiately asking to buy it. Bitch. Thats what you're fucking job is, so just do it slave.) I got home, listened to it, and admittedly only liked the one song i'd heard. I then picked it up later when a friend said i really should listen to it again as he's really good (Thanks Timmy-Lar). So indeed I did and now i fucking bum this guy. I'm not goig to go into my personal opinion of why he's so great. If you like, you like. If not, buy something else. Then i looked onto t'internet for his background and blah blah, and it hit me that he is dead. My play of that album after that was the best play of one album ever. Full Stop. (cause thats what 'period' means right?) And yes, I cried.
So I tootled into HMV some time after with a big wad of cash and saw they had nothing of particular interest. Back to good ol Music Zone. And what did i see before me? 'Jeff Buckley Live at Sin-É' for £12. Bargain. (2cd's and a DVD, even though DVD's like 12minutes long). Went home and whacked it on. I thought it was dead kewl. (purely for the video of Jeff saying he carries a notebook everywhere. I was ""AGGHH, that's me, that's me!!") And i also put on the cd. Loadsa live versions and acoustics and a few demos. (I personally think live performances are pointless unless you were there because performances aren't just about the music, it's about a hell of alot more, like visuals and senses, and having a good time dancing or singing along like a demented Godzilla.) So I was not too pleased with that.
Determined to improve my vision of Jeff Buckley, I went in search of a few more cd's and realised the only one that'd be of much significant difference was 'Sketches for `My Sweetheart The Drunk`' so I handed over the cash. I was gutted. Some scrambled old recordings of him with a hell of alot of meaningless noise and wrong chords. In the inlay it says from his mum "I didn't want the labels to release his music after his death for profit" Nice thought darling and i'm sure the sentiments in all the right places but this album cant mean a great deal to anyone except Jeff, and those people who were around him when he was alive. So i kinda took hold of my copy of Grace. Stuck it on repeat and wollowed in the fact that it was never gonna get any better than this. (But it did, with every listen Grace gets better and better. And yes, even though i know i'll never be able to sing the track 'Grace' as good as Jeff, I still try.)
Onto the present. Yet again the internet. 'Jeff Buckley: The Movie' or whatever it is called. Enraged beyond belief. I really hope that it isn't going to be some commercialised rip off, and i hope to fucking hell the actor can lipsync well. Else i'm going to personally smash his face in. I am really dis-appointed that his sad ol mother cant get her wished to keep her son from exploitation even after he's dead. Think about it. Thats something really saddening.
And with this i come to my final point (seems essay structures do come in use): Is it possible for someone truely artistic to be released commercially, be sucessful, whilst not being inlfuenced or maniulated by the love of money/power/fame?
I think not.
Do You?
Notebook 025
About Me; The Hypocrite And The Slaughter House
Journal Entry: Fri Jan 27, 2006, 12:21 AM
If you're going to take the time out to read this; thank you, but it doesn't mean I owe you anything.
I'm Lewis. (Cue sound of rolling 8mm and out-of-focus slides. Just look at what the lady with the stick is pointing at children. Concentrate.)
I wish I could deliver some 'scene' account of my 'social life', and the nickname that entails from it, but it's just Lewis. Thanks.
3/10 cats think I'm kool. The other 7 are dead.
I basically live by;
A) Missing meals Subsequently Snacking
B) 'Salad Pots' that are 98.5ayonnaise
C) Jaffa Cakes & Biscuits
D) Chocolate
E) Milk (Ice Cold Please Waiter.)
- Hence my fashionably anorexic body tone. It's great for wearing girls clothes but mostly fuck all use for anything else.
I make my own grammar. Mainly because I haven't a clue where things should technically go, but sometimes things just look nice.
(And I Don't Care If You Think It's Wrong.)
I like this little guy especially>> : and his girlfriend>> ;
I like text like this: Text Like Me because it has both super and strong in it's HTML and because it makes me feel like im on pokemon on a nintendo.
I spend too much money on cds. I consider my pedantic nature with cd sleeves, and naracotic-esque spending sprees when confronted with circular plastics, to be a mixture of an imposed economic downfall at which i debit with every blink to feel i'm real and that my statistic counts to some balding account rounding sub-hemi-demi-decimals to the nearest whole. It's also because it's a joke to myself that my musical aspirations aren't in vain; "because every influence makes me the patchwork of originality also known as an; 'artist'." But everyone past the age of 14 knows that originality is like time, beauty and a barry white compilation: you can spend your whole life explaining/searching for its purest definition, and when you're dead, you'll realise; they aren't even real.
(We all know i'm not fooling anyone. My opinions aren't even well educated)As much as it churns me to say it;
No one is different.
As soon as the caveman threw off his animal skin jock-strap and invented hairspray, spandau ballet and micro-chips (quickety quick), we were all doomed to be a nation of stereotypes borrowing accessories and style from decades before -or- the guys with the mics whilst we're dying in the mosh-pit.
Still. At least I'm still trying.
So please, don't laugh mate.
Cause i'm trying really fucking hard here.
Journal Entry: Fri Jan 27, 2006, 12:21 AM
If you're going to take the time out to read this; thank you, but it doesn't mean I owe you anything.
I'm Lewis. (Cue sound of rolling 8mm and out-of-focus slides. Just look at what the lady with the stick is pointing at children. Concentrate.)
I wish I could deliver some 'scene' account of my 'social life', and the nickname that entails from it, but it's just Lewis. Thanks.
3/10 cats think I'm kool. The other 7 are dead.
I basically live by;
A) Missing meals Subsequently Snacking
B) 'Salad Pots' that are 98.5ayonnaise
C) Jaffa Cakes & Biscuits
D) Chocolate
E) Milk (Ice Cold Please Waiter.)
- Hence my fashionably anorexic body tone. It's great for wearing girls clothes but mostly fuck all use for anything else.
I make my own grammar. Mainly because I haven't a clue where things should technically go, but sometimes things just look nice.
(And I Don't Care If You Think It's Wrong.)
I like this little guy especially>> : and his girlfriend>> ;
I like text like this: Text Like Me because it has both super and strong in it's HTML and because it makes me feel like im on pokemon on a nintendo.
I spend too much money on cds. I consider my pedantic nature with cd sleeves, and naracotic-esque spending sprees when confronted with circular plastics, to be a mixture of an imposed economic downfall at which i debit with every blink to feel i'm real and that my statistic counts to some balding account rounding sub-hemi-demi-decimals to the nearest whole. It's also because it's a joke to myself that my musical aspirations aren't in vain; "because every influence makes me the patchwork of originality also known as an; 'artist'." But everyone past the age of 14 knows that originality is like time, beauty and a barry white compilation: you can spend your whole life explaining/searching for its purest definition, and when you're dead, you'll realise; they aren't even real.
(We all know i'm not fooling anyone. My opinions aren't even well educated)As much as it churns me to say it;
No one is different.
As soon as the caveman threw off his animal skin jock-strap and invented hairspray, spandau ballet and micro-chips (quickety quick), we were all doomed to be a nation of stereotypes borrowing accessories and style from decades before -or- the guys with the mics whilst we're dying in the mosh-pit.
Still. At least I'm still trying.
So please, don't laugh mate.
Cause i'm trying really fucking hard here.
Notebook 024
Literate Disonancy
Journal Entry: Fri Jan 27, 2006, 12:34 AM
I had intentions I can't recall (at some point, I'm sure I must have told you I never wanted this voicing). Unknown to me, yet still exploited with virgin curiosity for euphoria; wide eyed and narcotic martyrs beckoned my part-time procrastinatory fashion. These post-its will stick forever. I wish I'd have made something a little more presentable from tangibles of your silken words. Like a crucifix. Lost in the velocity I yearned for, my feet were snapped at the joints. Red-ringed and black I could never scream but at least my hands were warm and nails broken. Webbed in the masquerade I created, I sold my fingertips to a melted plastic man, sustained in consideration. Gaining my losses for a way arse-first way forward. The shit had long ago hit the fan my friend. Smother. She smilied in confused pleasure. Idols died in front of audiences cold for a warm-up pre-show. We never did understand the finale, but we never got the t-shirt free. How quickly their laces broke. How hard their eyes grew to yellow. Softly, stomachs turned into floors. No one ever escaped intact. An all I got was another voice in my head.
Journal Entry: Fri Jan 27, 2006, 12:34 AM
I had intentions I can't recall (at some point, I'm sure I must have told you I never wanted this voicing). Unknown to me, yet still exploited with virgin curiosity for euphoria; wide eyed and narcotic martyrs beckoned my part-time procrastinatory fashion. These post-its will stick forever. I wish I'd have made something a little more presentable from tangibles of your silken words. Like a crucifix. Lost in the velocity I yearned for, my feet were snapped at the joints. Red-ringed and black I could never scream but at least my hands were warm and nails broken. Webbed in the masquerade I created, I sold my fingertips to a melted plastic man, sustained in consideration. Gaining my losses for a way arse-first way forward. The shit had long ago hit the fan my friend. Smother. She smilied in confused pleasure. Idols died in front of audiences cold for a warm-up pre-show. We never did understand the finale, but we never got the t-shirt free. How quickly their laces broke. How hard their eyes grew to yellow. Softly, stomachs turned into floors. No one ever escaped intact. An all I got was another voice in my head.
Notebook 023
A Sonatary Precipice
Journal Entry: Fri Jan 27, 2006, 12:35 AM
I would like to thickly ravish the burnt out seams of your moth-bitten tapestry. Colloquial and somber, the moods approach. with bated hands cracked skin breath they distinguish laxative syllables from the membrane of third seasons. "take away what may you." (The coolest kids always were the loneliest). In broken parables and phrases of rhetoric the languid emotions swept between and beneath, until all but dust was coughing in arteries. "arisen in slander, be ye forgotten for sanitatious contractions." All was said and all was poured. Glasses empty and rich of deliverance, the halls echoed automation, for dawn is a-cogging, closer and closer. Warmth, moss and air to suffocate. asleep, we lay upon dreams. Ready for the night to wallow our palladium.
Journal Entry: Fri Jan 27, 2006, 12:35 AM
I would like to thickly ravish the burnt out seams of your moth-bitten tapestry. Colloquial and somber, the moods approach. with bated hands cracked skin breath they distinguish laxative syllables from the membrane of third seasons. "take away what may you." (The coolest kids always were the loneliest). In broken parables and phrases of rhetoric the languid emotions swept between and beneath, until all but dust was coughing in arteries. "arisen in slander, be ye forgotten for sanitatious contractions." All was said and all was poured. Glasses empty and rich of deliverance, the halls echoed automation, for dawn is a-cogging, closer and closer. Warmth, moss and air to suffocate. asleep, we lay upon dreams. Ready for the night to wallow our palladium.
Notebook 022
A Lesson I Didn't Want To Learn
Journal Entry: Fri Jan 27, 2006, 12:39 AM
Life has been taken off the shelf; disrobed of it's fashionable laminated wrapper. The appeal has all gone.
I remember the years before, gazing upward with awe, at something I thought so special and unique. So precious. I've reached up and grabbed it off the stand, greedy hands fat with curiosity. Already clutching it at my chest, I've gained twenty years in a matter of seconds.
And here I am; confused and stricken with a loss of something I'm not sure I ever really had.
I see his innocent eyes gleaming at the life on the shelf he cannot quite reach. How I'd love to whisper twenty years experience into his small fragile ears. How I'd love to watch him walk away, not really understanding what he's just been told.
They never told me how quick 'growing up' really is. Like listening to the right song at exactly the right time, reveling in the layers that no one on earth could possibly understand the way you do right now, just for it all to be stopped and snapped in front of your face before you realise what the moment really was. The silent and effortless exhale that drains all inflation from your face, sags all positivity into a dissipated vaccuous void that you can all but look at, wondering what it was that just nearly became.
"One more minute. One more second even!" screams the face of the young boy.
"If I had that," I reply "I wouldn't even be here right now to do this. No one wants it, or to have to do this, but sometimes things don't make sense. Sometimes soon you'll both curse and thank the day you heard these words."
I never understood what he meant, and I hope I never want to.
Journal Entry: Fri Jan 27, 2006, 12:39 AM
Life has been taken off the shelf; disrobed of it's fashionable laminated wrapper. The appeal has all gone.
I remember the years before, gazing upward with awe, at something I thought so special and unique. So precious. I've reached up and grabbed it off the stand, greedy hands fat with curiosity. Already clutching it at my chest, I've gained twenty years in a matter of seconds.
And here I am; confused and stricken with a loss of something I'm not sure I ever really had.
I see his innocent eyes gleaming at the life on the shelf he cannot quite reach. How I'd love to whisper twenty years experience into his small fragile ears. How I'd love to watch him walk away, not really understanding what he's just been told.
They never told me how quick 'growing up' really is. Like listening to the right song at exactly the right time, reveling in the layers that no one on earth could possibly understand the way you do right now, just for it all to be stopped and snapped in front of your face before you realise what the moment really was. The silent and effortless exhale that drains all inflation from your face, sags all positivity into a dissipated vaccuous void that you can all but look at, wondering what it was that just nearly became.
"One more minute. One more second even!" screams the face of the young boy.
"If I had that," I reply "I wouldn't even be here right now to do this. No one wants it, or to have to do this, but sometimes things don't make sense. Sometimes soon you'll both curse and thank the day you heard these words."
I never understood what he meant, and I hope I never want to.
Notebook 021
Two Times Over
Journal Entry: Tue Apr 18, 2006, 11:43 PM
She floats apart from her hideaway,
Neither anchor, root nor foot,
Gliding amonst the numbers,
Blunted. Un-truthed.
She smiles with dead pleasure,
Smiles that loathing cannot detest.
She hangs fast and moves still,
Lepered. Sexed. Burlesque.
She rattles through the cages,
Cages thought not, because never there,
She stick her softened powdered hand in,
She will laugh and she will stare.
A screaming part flesh-red in tone.
A voicebox uncoiled upon the floor.
A nice one. A fat one.
A dead one. A blunt one.
She cripples in on whispers,
Takes cause in raging storm,
She flakes off in mirage, a skin so fragile,
Beatiful, like a still-born.
If converse would not stay there,
And these memories placed fake,
It would splinter upon reason,
Tempting haste to take.
.I really can't stand this fucking (closure.?)
A journey in darkness,
Another Void. Another rain.
A complete and utter fuck-up.
A chance to say "I'm afraid".
I'm afraid.
Journal Entry: Tue Apr 18, 2006, 11:43 PM
She floats apart from her hideaway,
Neither anchor, root nor foot,
Gliding amonst the numbers,
Blunted. Un-truthed.
She smiles with dead pleasure,
Smiles that loathing cannot detest.
She hangs fast and moves still,
Lepered. Sexed. Burlesque.
She rattles through the cages,
Cages thought not, because never there,
She stick her softened powdered hand in,
She will laugh and she will stare.
A screaming part flesh-red in tone.
A voicebox uncoiled upon the floor.
A nice one. A fat one.
A dead one. A blunt one.
She cripples in on whispers,
Takes cause in raging storm,
She flakes off in mirage, a skin so fragile,
Beatiful, like a still-born.
If converse would not stay there,
And these memories placed fake,
It would splinter upon reason,
Tempting haste to take.
.I really can't stand this fucking (closure.?)
A journey in darkness,
Another Void. Another rain.
A complete and utter fuck-up.
A chance to say "I'm afraid".
I'm afraid.
Notebook 020
Third Time Lucky
Journal Entry: Tue Apr 18, 2006, 11:44 PM
It's been too long for sympathy to touch.
It's been too long for sympathy to take effect.
The melancholic happiness of missed regrets,
With an underlying sense, that it's still to come yet.
All was sudden.
All was cold.
A cabaret, a montorage.
Deep breaths please,
One. Two. Three. And hold.
A treasure chest made of secrets.
A head full lies.
A conspiracy, the aftermath.
The broken slow goodbyes.
The preparation for a freefall.
A flower in full bloom.
A person turns to body.
A stainless white clean room.
The darkness, the blurring, the oily smeared words.
The darkness, the numbness, the distance unheard.
The darkness, the void, the light filled with air.
The darkness, the darkness, the darkness,
Despair.
Journal Entry: Tue Apr 18, 2006, 11:44 PM
It's been too long for sympathy to touch.
It's been too long for sympathy to take effect.
The melancholic happiness of missed regrets,
With an underlying sense, that it's still to come yet.
All was sudden.
All was cold.
A cabaret, a montorage.
Deep breaths please,
One. Two. Three. And hold.
A treasure chest made of secrets.
A head full lies.
A conspiracy, the aftermath.
The broken slow goodbyes.
The preparation for a freefall.
A flower in full bloom.
A person turns to body.
A stainless white clean room.
The darkness, the blurring, the oily smeared words.
The darkness, the numbness, the distance unheard.
The darkness, the void, the light filled with air.
The darkness, the darkness, the darkness,
Despair.
Notebook 019
Part I
Journal Entry: Sat Apr 29, 2006, 2:23 PM
i've only had three minutes of sleep.
second time in four years my dear.
you know that you make me heave.
whisper upon my eyes and my mouth turns to spit, and my stomach becomes the floor.
i used to dream of you at one point.
it seems like such a very very long time ago.
dont bother with me.
pleasure exceeded to its peak and has dropped miserably like a childs last breath.
success, as you may say, will no longer run through with whom confine and fess themselves
to the inner most of my life.
it seems I'm relying on acoustic violins,
ocean front views,
black&white film,
and the occasional stagnant converation,
to pull me through.
(no i don't think it'll fucking mend).
true friends are bad friends.
who else can see right through you?
who else can carry your sins in their pocket?
who else can clean up your sick and shit and smile?
theres no one like those people.
not anymore.
the guards eventually get released.
conversation and humour trickle through like water seeping out of a broken fish tank.
this fish knows it's going to die, and it's sick of this space.
don't fix the break.
i am a little girl peering through the elders secrets.
it becomes more useless and stale with age,
those that it actually meant something to wilting faster than flowers,
memories and sentiments becoming sediments in the ground.
but it means more this way,
because no one knows just how unimportant and insignificant it really was.
no one cares that it probably doesn't work anymore.
vintage. antique.
the art of paying for someones life in objects.
i never want to be bought.
to be used.
to be spat out and chewed, seeing that look of filthy disgust spore across your tongue.
cut the flower so you can spend days watching it die.
taste that wine turn cheap and feel everything fall apart.
step back and watch your misery.
embrace it. it happens to everbody darling.
Journal Entry: Sat Apr 29, 2006, 2:23 PM
i've only had three minutes of sleep.
second time in four years my dear.
you know that you make me heave.
whisper upon my eyes and my mouth turns to spit, and my stomach becomes the floor.
i used to dream of you at one point.
it seems like such a very very long time ago.
dont bother with me.
pleasure exceeded to its peak and has dropped miserably like a childs last breath.
success, as you may say, will no longer run through with whom confine and fess themselves
to the inner most of my life.
it seems I'm relying on acoustic violins,
ocean front views,
black&white film,
and the occasional stagnant converation,
to pull me through.
(no i don't think it'll fucking mend).
true friends are bad friends.
who else can see right through you?
who else can carry your sins in their pocket?
who else can clean up your sick and shit and smile?
theres no one like those people.
not anymore.
the guards eventually get released.
conversation and humour trickle through like water seeping out of a broken fish tank.
this fish knows it's going to die, and it's sick of this space.
don't fix the break.
i am a little girl peering through the elders secrets.
it becomes more useless and stale with age,
those that it actually meant something to wilting faster than flowers,
memories and sentiments becoming sediments in the ground.
but it means more this way,
because no one knows just how unimportant and insignificant it really was.
no one cares that it probably doesn't work anymore.
vintage. antique.
the art of paying for someones life in objects.
i never want to be bought.
to be used.
to be spat out and chewed, seeing that look of filthy disgust spore across your tongue.
cut the flower so you can spend days watching it die.
taste that wine turn cheap and feel everything fall apart.
step back and watch your misery.
embrace it. it happens to everbody darling.
Notebook 018
Part II
Journal Entry: Thu May 4, 2006, 11:46 PM
Churning out heat by the bucket. He knows the switch.
He knows it's placement and how to use it.
Yet he persists to do nothing.
He persists the freefall. The self-loathing mess that
builds to nothing but solitude. How he calls for a warm
body to take it all away.
"I'm getting better." He says.
Truth be known, he wouldn't be awake to say it to his audience if he were.
His single paying customer; Himself. And his ticket was free.
An alarm rings somewhere in the distance.
He can't quite figure if it's the post office down the road,
or the back of his reverberating skull. It stops.
Humming pipes stir to a grumble in a quiet protest at the light still on.
A heavy sigh for keeping them known, and in restless.
A car approaches in the dead of night. It passes.
It's still passing.
It meanders off, it's echo leaving more trail than it's tires ever could.
The road remains as it was before, and will be since.
Cold and flat, the air deadens and hangs, the memories of sunshine and
t-shirts it's noose. It moulds and decays becoming a poreous space
filling every clammy head, and turning to discomfort.
Somehow the stank glossy walls just don't seem cool enough.
Again, the burning light takes center, for it has been too long since
it was lit, yet she exhales her outward breaths still.
A faint whisper of motion and he realises 'This is going to be it.'
No more moving silences capturing his thoughts.
Only dust can settle upon him now, for he lays without hope and
without grudge. Expelled from his ducts is all but water.
This is 'shame' my friend.
She shrouds and consumes the acknowledgement and acceptance
turning it into bitter hateful fingers.
They point until he opens his eyes.
I hope he never has to open his eyes.
Journal Entry: Thu May 4, 2006, 11:46 PM
Churning out heat by the bucket. He knows the switch.
He knows it's placement and how to use it.
Yet he persists to do nothing.
He persists the freefall. The self-loathing mess that
builds to nothing but solitude. How he calls for a warm
body to take it all away.
"I'm getting better." He says.
Truth be known, he wouldn't be awake to say it to his audience if he were.
His single paying customer; Himself. And his ticket was free.
An alarm rings somewhere in the distance.
He can't quite figure if it's the post office down the road,
or the back of his reverberating skull. It stops.
Humming pipes stir to a grumble in a quiet protest at the light still on.
A heavy sigh for keeping them known, and in restless.
A car approaches in the dead of night. It passes.
It's still passing.
It meanders off, it's echo leaving more trail than it's tires ever could.
The road remains as it was before, and will be since.
Cold and flat, the air deadens and hangs, the memories of sunshine and
t-shirts it's noose. It moulds and decays becoming a poreous space
filling every clammy head, and turning to discomfort.
Somehow the stank glossy walls just don't seem cool enough.
Again, the burning light takes center, for it has been too long since
it was lit, yet she exhales her outward breaths still.
A faint whisper of motion and he realises 'This is going to be it.'
No more moving silences capturing his thoughts.
Only dust can settle upon him now, for he lays without hope and
without grudge. Expelled from his ducts is all but water.
This is 'shame' my friend.
She shrouds and consumes the acknowledgement and acceptance
turning it into bitter hateful fingers.
They point until he opens his eyes.
I hope he never has to open his eyes.
Notebook 017
An Old 'About Me'
Journal Entry: Thu May 4, 2006, 11:55 PM
I like books that I read for reading,
not occupying or making my coffee table look fashionable.
I have a fascination for shit family matinee movies shown on channel five.
(cowboys and plasticine monsters)
I'm not your average;
mother & father divorced, raped and piliaged by those considered close,
dress to reflect to outwardly manner of incompetence in ninty-seven
point six percent of social situations and conversation arising circumstance,
hero/arch-enemy idolising, fashion centered, inverted self-pretentious,
scene piece of mess splattered across everyones lips.
I have a married mother and father from birth, and i'm proud to be a nobody.
I'm the last remaining generation of '2.4 children' and i'm fucking glad
that no one cares.
*shakes hand*
Nice to meet you too.
Journal Entry: Thu May 4, 2006, 11:55 PM
I like books that I read for reading,
not occupying or making my coffee table look fashionable.
I have a fascination for shit family matinee movies shown on channel five.
(cowboys and plasticine monsters)
I'm not your average;
mother & father divorced, raped and piliaged by those considered close,
dress to reflect to outwardly manner of incompetence in ninty-seven
point six percent of social situations and conversation arising circumstance,
hero/arch-enemy idolising, fashion centered, inverted self-pretentious,
scene piece of mess splattered across everyones lips.
I have a married mother and father from birth, and i'm proud to be a nobody.
I'm the last remaining generation of '2.4 children' and i'm fucking glad
that no one cares.
*shakes hand*
Nice to meet you too.
Notebook 016
Long Awaited; Rainy Day
Journal Entry: Fri Jul 7, 2006, 12:11 AM
I just went to sit outside, with a plate full of food to match a rumbling stomach. Flowers were in vast full-bloom display because they too were waiting with dry cracked hands for the the rain. After three days of solid heat, wave upon wave of starving air, raped of all it's moisture, everyone was becoming a little excited at the prospect of a storm.
And so the clouds grumbled their thunder as a last exhale before spewing their stored containment over every eager eyed creature beneath. I sat and watched as everything became a darker shade, as if painted again by a rapid sucession of pinheads, covered in a translucent layer of grey at the tip. I hoped for something quite epic and moving, like an old man who has read the script of life and is waiting for it's cabarét performance.
All I realised is that I really really needed a piss.
Don't think I ever was one for rain.
Journal Entry: Fri Jul 7, 2006, 12:11 AM
I just went to sit outside, with a plate full of food to match a rumbling stomach. Flowers were in vast full-bloom display because they too were waiting with dry cracked hands for the the rain. After three days of solid heat, wave upon wave of starving air, raped of all it's moisture, everyone was becoming a little excited at the prospect of a storm.
And so the clouds grumbled their thunder as a last exhale before spewing their stored containment over every eager eyed creature beneath. I sat and watched as everything became a darker shade, as if painted again by a rapid sucession of pinheads, covered in a translucent layer of grey at the tip. I hoped for something quite epic and moving, like an old man who has read the script of life and is waiting for it's cabarét performance.
All I realised is that I really really needed a piss.
Don't think I ever was one for rain.
Notebook 015
Bus Ride Horniculture
Journal Entry: Fri Jul 7, 2006, 11:29 PM
His thoughts lustered deep in saturation.
Distance with no measure enveloped all but a singular tree,
hazen maroon from long summer days and brackened like flaking cracked marble.
It did not sway like all others in the breeze.
It did not lean like all others toward the sun.
It stood tall and firm through moonlight and cloud storm and whispered time from every shadowed pore.
Journal Entry: Fri Jul 7, 2006, 11:29 PM
His thoughts lustered deep in saturation.
Distance with no measure enveloped all but a singular tree,
hazen maroon from long summer days and brackened like flaking cracked marble.
It did not sway like all others in the breeze.
It did not lean like all others toward the sun.
It stood tall and firm through moonlight and cloud storm and whispered time from every shadowed pore.
Notebook 014
Night In Furnace
Journal Entry: Sat Jul 8, 2006, 12:11 AM
Quarter to two in the morning and I actually consider it an early time to sleep. For the past few weeks I haven't been to sleep without hearing the milkman first. The air hangs still. No breeze, no movement. Even my expirated breath doesn't stir any flow. It just dissipates into nothing, not even still air, not even black space, just a flat rigid block of void. As it expels from my throat it scrapes the sides of my tender flesh red and snaps my jaw to flacidity. It feels like I'm blanketed in heat. Everything I touch is bland and lifeless because I can't break through this stagnant summer membrane that enshrouds my every splitting ridge. Tiny little pores open their mouths gently with eyes closed, timid and weary, only to be ripped into two and out flat like a chicken being stuffed with a tank. Single patches of surface dampness rage across my skin like a small child dropping a match in the center of a petrol playground; Flames flicker high then invert and snake away leaving all but charred flesh. It still crackles and squeals as the body becomes limbs, twisting upon themselves in akwardly jitting angular strides. Like film of a finishing spasm, a last moment, replayed in slow motion. Each reminant of life in muscle slowly tremors and quakes, flicking and flitting until all stalls and the footage is snapped back into realtime, to show second upon heavily layered second of a dead corpse, still and motionless. The peak has it's epic finale landslide; a sharp buzz of movement too quick to monitor aptly enough and figure what the fuck it was that just made your eyes blur. The mountain has been halved across the floor below and nothing stirs but rising dust and haze for everything else is smothered and dead. The small child is left in the playground. Everywhere in the playground. Her skin and face have now become the new layer of dirt to keep the tarmac warm.
It is this in which I am covered. Putrid filth of which I cannot escape, but embrace and squalor. I am a tiny mouse dropped into a lake of burning oil, but I'm smiling now. I am smilng.
Because when you're burning to death, the least thing you care about is the heat.
Journal Entry: Sat Jul 8, 2006, 12:11 AM
Quarter to two in the morning and I actually consider it an early time to sleep. For the past few weeks I haven't been to sleep without hearing the milkman first. The air hangs still. No breeze, no movement. Even my expirated breath doesn't stir any flow. It just dissipates into nothing, not even still air, not even black space, just a flat rigid block of void. As it expels from my throat it scrapes the sides of my tender flesh red and snaps my jaw to flacidity. It feels like I'm blanketed in heat. Everything I touch is bland and lifeless because I can't break through this stagnant summer membrane that enshrouds my every splitting ridge. Tiny little pores open their mouths gently with eyes closed, timid and weary, only to be ripped into two and out flat like a chicken being stuffed with a tank. Single patches of surface dampness rage across my skin like a small child dropping a match in the center of a petrol playground; Flames flicker high then invert and snake away leaving all but charred flesh. It still crackles and squeals as the body becomes limbs, twisting upon themselves in akwardly jitting angular strides. Like film of a finishing spasm, a last moment, replayed in slow motion. Each reminant of life in muscle slowly tremors and quakes, flicking and flitting until all stalls and the footage is snapped back into realtime, to show second upon heavily layered second of a dead corpse, still and motionless. The peak has it's epic finale landslide; a sharp buzz of movement too quick to monitor aptly enough and figure what the fuck it was that just made your eyes blur. The mountain has been halved across the floor below and nothing stirs but rising dust and haze for everything else is smothered and dead. The small child is left in the playground. Everywhere in the playground. Her skin and face have now become the new layer of dirt to keep the tarmac warm.
It is this in which I am covered. Putrid filth of which I cannot escape, but embrace and squalor. I am a tiny mouse dropped into a lake of burning oil, but I'm smiling now. I am smilng.
Because when you're burning to death, the least thing you care about is the heat.
Notebook 013
Money In, Money Out (An Extract)
Journal Entry: Sat Jul 8, 2006, 1:56 AM
[this is an rough form of what could trun into some kind of book/story]
Again the girl, who I can't quite figure out if she's 'special' (in a derogatory sense) or not, tries too hard. The widening of her eyes as she notices I've turned the corner and the few seconds between this and speech, where she runs it over briefly and hopes that it will be as epic as she has been planning these past few days, make me both sympathise and want to be sick on her face at the same time.
"Y'all right?" It isn't epic in any sense.
"Yeah. Are you?"
"Not bad tha.." A closed door cuts off her sentence. I can hear the air escaping her posture and her enthusiasm plummet and splat on the floor next to the swept up dirt and discarded wrappers. You could call it harsh because I knew I wasn't going to put myself out for conversation for anybody. Fifteen fucking minutes late and the boss has already had me in the office twice this month. She will cope.
The endless monotomy of the simple and small five hour shift delivers wholesomely again. The flurescent lighting floods against stagnant plastic displays sucking all sense of time out of the surroundings. Tiny digital displays blink repeatedly at every corner, monitoring and re-monitoring the smallest of anomalies that could bring the mega-chain empire to a temporary standstill. God knows the uproar it would cause if Mr. Brown's pre-packed reformed bacon was one degree above recommended temperature storage. Heads would roll, and the worst part is; I'm not joking.
Bargain after bargain and special offer after special offer keep your eyes from settling. Sometimes I feel like I've read a novel just looking around for a few minutes, except this one's on bright glossy pages, there's no punctuation everybody's looking over your shoulder. People wander in and out, except I can't see the entrance or exit, so realistically they just pass. The only distinction between new and old customers, is the void in their trolley, and even round these parts it's not much to be counted for.
Distinction. Nobody has any outstanding character from the person following twenty minutes behind them. They do, purely on aesthetic value, but that goes for every runt and aristocrat born onto this planet. My eyes can't help but notice details, it's just my brain that seems to count it all as irrelevant information. It's taken me two years though, to figure out why every supposed 'individual' blends into a moving veil of trolleys and fabric: nobody sells. As soon as they walk through the open doors, air conditioning gust and security bollards, they seem to loose any sense of self. Apart of course from the guy who always gets the trolley that steers to the left, but after a few curses and steps outside to get another one, he blends in just like the rest. Their eyes and minds become so consumed on what is available that they loose any natural sense of body movement and become towed along by retinas two foot ahead of their bodies. This constant droning makes them all extremely cold and unaware to anyone else around them and I can't help but laugh as lady after gentlemen bangs into the tiny little metal bollard at the corner of the aisle, and literally shits themself at the loud crash. Almost a highlight of the shift you might say, apart from the given; the end.
Twenty to five. I begin to walk home. The air's temperament and the last few flitting signs of daily custom turn peripheral. A paperboy lathargically meanders through B&Q special offer gardens and financed cars, wishing to God he could just fucking throw it like they do in the movies. A middle aged couple sharply approaching retirement, walk their fat little dog in a bid for for improved health and daily structure. Their drifting conversation beats heavily to the third re-iteration of what the younger generation doesn't deserve and persistently, with lack of any convinction, the husband agrees. Nodding like a cheap balding carsill dog, he just wishes she'd shut the fuck up and pick the dog shit up for once.
Journal Entry: Sat Jul 8, 2006, 1:56 AM
[this is an rough form of what could trun into some kind of book/story]
Again the girl, who I can't quite figure out if she's 'special' (in a derogatory sense) or not, tries too hard. The widening of her eyes as she notices I've turned the corner and the few seconds between this and speech, where she runs it over briefly and hopes that it will be as epic as she has been planning these past few days, make me both sympathise and want to be sick on her face at the same time.
"Y'all right?" It isn't epic in any sense.
"Yeah. Are you?"
"Not bad tha.." A closed door cuts off her sentence. I can hear the air escaping her posture and her enthusiasm plummet and splat on the floor next to the swept up dirt and discarded wrappers. You could call it harsh because I knew I wasn't going to put myself out for conversation for anybody. Fifteen fucking minutes late and the boss has already had me in the office twice this month. She will cope.
The endless monotomy of the simple and small five hour shift delivers wholesomely again. The flurescent lighting floods against stagnant plastic displays sucking all sense of time out of the surroundings. Tiny digital displays blink repeatedly at every corner, monitoring and re-monitoring the smallest of anomalies that could bring the mega-chain empire to a temporary standstill. God knows the uproar it would cause if Mr. Brown's pre-packed reformed bacon was one degree above recommended temperature storage. Heads would roll, and the worst part is; I'm not joking.
Bargain after bargain and special offer after special offer keep your eyes from settling. Sometimes I feel like I've read a novel just looking around for a few minutes, except this one's on bright glossy pages, there's no punctuation everybody's looking over your shoulder. People wander in and out, except I can't see the entrance or exit, so realistically they just pass. The only distinction between new and old customers, is the void in their trolley, and even round these parts it's not much to be counted for.
Distinction. Nobody has any outstanding character from the person following twenty minutes behind them. They do, purely on aesthetic value, but that goes for every runt and aristocrat born onto this planet. My eyes can't help but notice details, it's just my brain that seems to count it all as irrelevant information. It's taken me two years though, to figure out why every supposed 'individual' blends into a moving veil of trolleys and fabric: nobody sells. As soon as they walk through the open doors, air conditioning gust and security bollards, they seem to loose any sense of self. Apart of course from the guy who always gets the trolley that steers to the left, but after a few curses and steps outside to get another one, he blends in just like the rest. Their eyes and minds become so consumed on what is available that they loose any natural sense of body movement and become towed along by retinas two foot ahead of their bodies. This constant droning makes them all extremely cold and unaware to anyone else around them and I can't help but laugh as lady after gentlemen bangs into the tiny little metal bollard at the corner of the aisle, and literally shits themself at the loud crash. Almost a highlight of the shift you might say, apart from the given; the end.
Twenty to five. I begin to walk home. The air's temperament and the last few flitting signs of daily custom turn peripheral. A paperboy lathargically meanders through B&Q special offer gardens and financed cars, wishing to God he could just fucking throw it like they do in the movies. A middle aged couple sharply approaching retirement, walk their fat little dog in a bid for for improved health and daily structure. Their drifting conversation beats heavily to the third re-iteration of what the younger generation doesn't deserve and persistently, with lack of any convinction, the husband agrees. Nodding like a cheap balding carsill dog, he just wishes she'd shut the fuck up and pick the dog shit up for once.
Notebook 012
Grandpa Tells A Different Tale
Journal Entry: Sat Jul 8, 2006, 1:23 PM
If I asked you to tell me a story what would you deliver?
Would you conduct a simple plot, with a humorous aftertaste?
If so, I really don't want to hear or read it.
Not today anyway.
Give me epic.
And no, get rid of that so smirking tender little smile that thinks it can
fill up and satisfy my want with its dainty simple tale.
Delve deep into that place you've locked up all that time ago.
Face what you've been turning away from so hard and tell me how it feels.
Tell me what you see and spell it out fast.
Don't care for punctuation grammar or verse,
just let it tell itself cause once you get your mouth moving,
your mind will fold upon the secrets you're scratch-tapping at and soon you'll
be wholesomely consumed by what's underneath the surface.
I how I am in awe of you now.
Im sorry it took you so long to cover it up,
but please expel it towards me if you're angry the sight.
Vomit all intentions of poison with velocity in my direction.
Show me the rage, and sanity abandoned as you strike.
I want to feel your past.
I want to feel your problems.
I want to feel.
Journal Entry: Sat Jul 8, 2006, 1:23 PM
If I asked you to tell me a story what would you deliver?
Would you conduct a simple plot, with a humorous aftertaste?
If so, I really don't want to hear or read it.
Not today anyway.
Give me epic.
And no, get rid of that so smirking tender little smile that thinks it can
fill up and satisfy my want with its dainty simple tale.
Delve deep into that place you've locked up all that time ago.
Face what you've been turning away from so hard and tell me how it feels.
Tell me what you see and spell it out fast.
Don't care for punctuation grammar or verse,
just let it tell itself cause once you get your mouth moving,
your mind will fold upon the secrets you're scratch-tapping at and soon you'll
be wholesomely consumed by what's underneath the surface.
I how I am in awe of you now.
Im sorry it took you so long to cover it up,
but please expel it towards me if you're angry the sight.
Vomit all intentions of poison with velocity in my direction.
Show me the rage, and sanity abandoned as you strike.
I want to feel your past.
I want to feel your problems.
I want to feel.
Notebook 011
The Waiting Game
April 17 2005
Your head is strained upwards.
You chin, the highest point of your form.
Hands resting on feet whilst knees aren't bent, you pull your head up to the sky.
You are fixed upon terra firma, but only the sky can see it.
No buildings, no cities, just the curve of the earth and breeze in your hair.
The sky weighs upon your eyes as you focus on air.
An angel.
Great winged in flight approaches within a blink.
His expression; blank, his body; uncovered.
Eyes lock and pupils flutter.
He stands on your feet, embraces your hands.
Cupping the the cold, softening your knuckles.
Feathers surround till it is just you and his presence.
Winds stop.
Sounds pause.
His lips speak movement.
His tongue becomes voice.
Then, within the blink that he entered; he departs.
With a kiss.
Eyes closed in his softness.
He smiles. And returns.
Your head strains upwards.
Chin the highest point of your form.
You are fixed on terra firma, but only the sky.....
....and I can see it.
April 17 2005
Your head is strained upwards.
You chin, the highest point of your form.
Hands resting on feet whilst knees aren't bent, you pull your head up to the sky.
You are fixed upon terra firma, but only the sky can see it.
No buildings, no cities, just the curve of the earth and breeze in your hair.
The sky weighs upon your eyes as you focus on air.
An angel.
Great winged in flight approaches within a blink.
His expression; blank, his body; uncovered.
Eyes lock and pupils flutter.
He stands on your feet, embraces your hands.
Cupping the the cold, softening your knuckles.
Feathers surround till it is just you and his presence.
Winds stop.
Sounds pause.
His lips speak movement.
His tongue becomes voice.
Then, within the blink that he entered; he departs.
With a kiss.
Eyes closed in his softness.
He smiles. And returns.
Your head strains upwards.
Chin the highest point of your form.
You are fixed on terra firma, but only the sky.....
....and I can see it.
Notebook 010
Dear Miss. Carráge
Journal Entry: Tue Aug 15, 2006, 11:45 PM
Two hours soaked in rich protein endevours.
Wrinkled skin and tiny clipped feathers.
Smeared in containment, no lust for the lies,
red stained from the waist-down,
screaming echoes inside.
I can feel it reverberate, slowly and swift.
Smothered time waste paints leg wide,
A fetus. A gift.
What vessel is this to set sail and then drown it's crew?
Such empty barracks that sit still and solid,
waiting for the dust to build and build.
These ribbons flowing free from my insides,
whisper gentily against water and ceramic,
like a hush in a snowstorm.
I am argent. I am pale.
I am clotted. I am stale.
Watch the clothing return to the bags and become unwanted gifts.
I can see your sympathy.
I can see your empathy.
But it's all too late for the water has broken and painted my legs.
I'm not stupid enough for questions,
and too shallow for answers.
Bait bitten and red-ringed the finger has been pricked.
These windows are broken and the sill's paint has smeared.
Stained brick wall.
These five walls make my coffin,
white glossy and full to the brim with death.
I hope the plugs and drains can stomach this pass
because even the strongest metal was not meant to touch such spoils.
Unwrapped for the feeder,
fingers and knifes confirm the wide-eyed audience.
You knew it would be so.
You secretly wished it.
But dreams don't come true in this dark tiled room,
they just implode and splatter.
Become the winner and fuck up thrice-fold.
Tickets at the ready please folks,
the freak show is open.
I don't know what you want from knowing all this.
No, I won't ever get over it.
Please place your flowers and mourn with the rest,
for such lachrymal clouds are for quitting and forgetting.
And i'm still holding out.
Despite what you wanted,
and against what you hoped; I will not forget.
I will not forget.
I will not forget.
I will not forget.
Journal Entry: Tue Aug 15, 2006, 11:45 PM
Two hours soaked in rich protein endevours.
Wrinkled skin and tiny clipped feathers.
Smeared in containment, no lust for the lies,
red stained from the waist-down,
screaming echoes inside.
I can feel it reverberate, slowly and swift.
Smothered time waste paints leg wide,
A fetus. A gift.
What vessel is this to set sail and then drown it's crew?
Such empty barracks that sit still and solid,
waiting for the dust to build and build.
These ribbons flowing free from my insides,
whisper gentily against water and ceramic,
like a hush in a snowstorm.
I am argent. I am pale.
I am clotted. I am stale.
Watch the clothing return to the bags and become unwanted gifts.
I can see your sympathy.
I can see your empathy.
But it's all too late for the water has broken and painted my legs.
I'm not stupid enough for questions,
and too shallow for answers.
Bait bitten and red-ringed the finger has been pricked.
These windows are broken and the sill's paint has smeared.
Stained brick wall.
These five walls make my coffin,
white glossy and full to the brim with death.
I hope the plugs and drains can stomach this pass
because even the strongest metal was not meant to touch such spoils.
Unwrapped for the feeder,
fingers and knifes confirm the wide-eyed audience.
You knew it would be so.
You secretly wished it.
But dreams don't come true in this dark tiled room,
they just implode and splatter.
Become the winner and fuck up thrice-fold.
Tickets at the ready please folks,
the freak show is open.
I don't know what you want from knowing all this.
No, I won't ever get over it.
Please place your flowers and mourn with the rest,
for such lachrymal clouds are for quitting and forgetting.
And i'm still holding out.
Despite what you wanted,
and against what you hoped; I will not forget.
I will not forget.
I will not forget.
I will not forget.
Notebook 009
Meet this fucked up little cast of people you can self-relate to, but only on a singular circumstance. Yes. Unlike the disappointment you felt when the skins series didn't match up to the advert these kids love to be the fecal smears on society and aren't going to embellish on their story to widen your eyes. If anything, you won't hear the half of it.
John; Nice enough lad when he wants to be, which is pretty much all the time because if you really knew what he'd been up to with your mother and sister you'd probably want to cave his face in. His ego and pride aren't overpowering his intelligence enough for him to risk A&E for a blow-job or quickie whilst you're in the shower. Not yet anyway.
Korova; A staple diet of ecstasy and kit-kats fuels this girls fuck so that it's enough to have your granddad dribbling like a horny terrier at a trouser convention. Not lip dribble, lipstick. She has a real heart of gold, but don't let that fool you into taking her home for tea. Not unless you want three courses of bed-breaking fucking polar opposite to the motto of her favourite snack of kit-kats.
John; Nice enough lad when he wants to be, which is pretty much all the time because if you really knew what he'd been up to with your mother and sister you'd probably want to cave his face in. His ego and pride aren't overpowering his intelligence enough for him to risk A&E for a blow-job or quickie whilst you're in the shower. Not yet anyway.
Korova; A staple diet of ecstasy and kit-kats fuels this girls fuck so that it's enough to have your granddad dribbling like a horny terrier at a trouser convention. Not lip dribble, lipstick. She has a real heart of gold, but don't let that fool you into taking her home for tea. Not unless you want three courses of bed-breaking fucking polar opposite to the motto of her favourite snack of kit-kats.
Notebook 008
I am the clenched fist against a morning blur.
I can see the palm lines in myself, deep and folded.
I heed the discolouration from pressure.
I can hear the warmth spread.
I smell the snapping sound of tendons pressing.
I feel naught.
I feel void.
I sense and understand, the lack of what there isn't.
I sense and understand, the lack of what isn't there.
I sense and understand, the lack of what there, isn't.
I can see the palm lines in myself, deep and folded.
I heed the discolouration from pressure.
I can hear the warmth spread.
I smell the snapping sound of tendons pressing.
I feel naught.
I feel void.
I sense and understand, the lack of what there isn't.
I sense and understand, the lack of what isn't there.
I sense and understand, the lack of what there, isn't.
Notebook 007
In this particular moment I feel it necessary to express that the modern media is shit. full-stop.
The stations on the television and radio i professed so much of my youth to now seem like they've bottled up my wide eyed curiosity and kept it for themselves to constantly regurgitate upon the new pre-wave of wide eyes and draw them in to suck out any passion or self-autonomy they may have and exploit exploit and sell.
I feel like tha radio is hansel and the television is gretel. They knocked on the door, tied the old lady up and boiled her in the pot then told their own version later on so they'd look oh so innocent. I don't feel anger or sadness i just feel cheated that i once thought they were truely promoters of talent.
In fact, I don't even think talent exists anymore.
It's just an excluded life in one degree, clever promotion and fancy camera angles.
Look at anything seemingly natural and naked in the media and just ask yourself if that couldn't have been pre-planned and dolled up?
I think you'll agree it most probably was.
The stations on the television and radio i professed so much of my youth to now seem like they've bottled up my wide eyed curiosity and kept it for themselves to constantly regurgitate upon the new pre-wave of wide eyes and draw them in to suck out any passion or self-autonomy they may have and exploit exploit and sell.
I feel like tha radio is hansel and the television is gretel. They knocked on the door, tied the old lady up and boiled her in the pot then told their own version later on so they'd look oh so innocent. I don't feel anger or sadness i just feel cheated that i once thought they were truely promoters of talent.
In fact, I don't even think talent exists anymore.
It's just an excluded life in one degree, clever promotion and fancy camera angles.
Look at anything seemingly natural and naked in the media and just ask yourself if that couldn't have been pre-planned and dolled up?
I think you'll agree it most probably was.
Notebook 006
Like broken oxymoronic tails, your tokenism is too obvious.
You have soured the catch.
Bring on all this metaphor for it will endevour to shadow.
Shadow in you, and shadow in them.
Black faces yawn with flaking ash smouldering their movement.
It was never meant to be so grave.
You were never meant to look so lifeless dead.
Ash brooked arms reach and scratch at the tiny ripples in skin.
Your fingerprints charred like melted plastic.
I'm glad I took your jaw.
Adorn my shelf with decay and imagery.
Stained and corrupt, the varnish stays so well.
I sniff the carcuss from it's tangible mangles, decrepid and slow.
Laxate the form from which all taken givens are copied.
Repetition. Repetition.
Ctrl. Alt. V.
I looked so handsome with your hair against my palms.
I stroked the shine off till you were matt and dull.
Then I skinned your face and hoped that someone would find you soon.
You have soured the catch.
Bring on all this metaphor for it will endevour to shadow.
Shadow in you, and shadow in them.
Black faces yawn with flaking ash smouldering their movement.
It was never meant to be so grave.
You were never meant to look so lifeless dead.
Ash brooked arms reach and scratch at the tiny ripples in skin.
Your fingerprints charred like melted plastic.
I'm glad I took your jaw.
Adorn my shelf with decay and imagery.
Stained and corrupt, the varnish stays so well.
I sniff the carcuss from it's tangible mangles, decrepid and slow.
Laxate the form from which all taken givens are copied.
Repetition. Repetition.
Ctrl. Alt. V.
I looked so handsome with your hair against my palms.
I stroked the shine off till you were matt and dull.
Then I skinned your face and hoped that someone would find you soon.
Notebook 005
it's so easy to find someone with the right image.
the right sense of beauty and clarity of aura.
that burning lust and weakened adoration both at the same time.
it's easy.
it's just so hard to keep loving a silent cold photograph.
the right sense of beauty and clarity of aura.
that burning lust and weakened adoration both at the same time.
it's easy.
it's just so hard to keep loving a silent cold photograph.
Notebook 004
8.21pm 04-02-07
Get off this fuck nuzzle worn barricade of apathy. Don't deliver a package with broken seams expecting happy smiles and crooked broken teeth. Let bottles be pissed and thrown to carve a new laceration in your teething brain. Plaintive motives are nothing without the conquest of indifference. Reap for what you dont know and rubbish heaps shall conglomerate the insides of your vacuous digestive system. Track track to nothing new. Pull buttons from a sewn mouth in hope to falsify secrets. Gas shall reap from the rotting insides. Dry cracked lips marking the direction you thwarted. Spit. Take it all in a breath. Believe in idiosyncracy, fortitude and microwave meals. Generations shall reduce you to figure stereotypes and a subordinate ipod playlist. Street lamps scatter a start scene to your black canvas. Oh how doom and death you are. Pull the exposure downwards and see your face become a Bacon portrait. There is depression. There is exclusion. Get out of your niche and realise it's all borrowed. Patchwork. Smiling behind a set of preformed pearly whites i befriend you with manners. Cover my bitchy self egotistic judgements with a polished veneer of 'kindness'. Inside i'm fucking your underage daughter and raping your son. I shit on your toothbrushes and leave cyanide in the dishwasher tablets. Thank you. I'll first-class deliver it to you. Punch a hole in your worn aesthetic in hope to give you light. Bite the bit. Grind your jawline to pulp. Hope that classification is all you need for absolution. Please. Face the front to avoid travel sickness. Swallow tablets to drink your sonar down. Pass the blip. Wait for console.
Get off this fuck nuzzle worn barricade of apathy. Don't deliver a package with broken seams expecting happy smiles and crooked broken teeth. Let bottles be pissed and thrown to carve a new laceration in your teething brain. Plaintive motives are nothing without the conquest of indifference. Reap for what you dont know and rubbish heaps shall conglomerate the insides of your vacuous digestive system. Track track to nothing new. Pull buttons from a sewn mouth in hope to falsify secrets. Gas shall reap from the rotting insides. Dry cracked lips marking the direction you thwarted. Spit. Take it all in a breath. Believe in idiosyncracy, fortitude and microwave meals. Generations shall reduce you to figure stereotypes and a subordinate ipod playlist. Street lamps scatter a start scene to your black canvas. Oh how doom and death you are. Pull the exposure downwards and see your face become a Bacon portrait. There is depression. There is exclusion. Get out of your niche and realise it's all borrowed. Patchwork. Smiling behind a set of preformed pearly whites i befriend you with manners. Cover my bitchy self egotistic judgements with a polished veneer of 'kindness'. Inside i'm fucking your underage daughter and raping your son. I shit on your toothbrushes and leave cyanide in the dishwasher tablets. Thank you. I'll first-class deliver it to you. Punch a hole in your worn aesthetic in hope to give you light. Bite the bit. Grind your jawline to pulp. Hope that classification is all you need for absolution. Please. Face the front to avoid travel sickness. Swallow tablets to drink your sonar down. Pass the blip. Wait for console.
Notebook 003
7.32pm 04-02-07
Punk girls on a train. Corsets, plugs and wood-glue mohicans. more metal in their face than a scrapyard. The old people have quietened already. Brash lesbians use their sexuality as a bravado to ward off any offence towards themselves by producing it first. Ironically they're the same people who fight for women's rights and feminism whilst also making this the only recognisable feature about themselves. I hope they don't see this, yet I doubt they'd realise it's all prejudice and elaborate extreme stereotype, and in getting worked up about it they'd be admitting I'm right.
Give me no title. Give me no name. For then I have the right to never be exclusive (excluded?). Already put into marks. Phone signal more up and down than the punk's profanities. They probably think that word's about female genitalia.
Moaning about the solitary walk to the on-train bar for tins of cider. "I'm not doing that again!" Whether from the buoyancy of train gangway or the shining eyes that move thricefold more violently. I believe it's the latter. Why profess disgust to attention to a harlequin-esque wardrobe when it's obviously designed to be a middle finger to unweary eyes. Or am I missing the point? Is it a statement that modern femininity isn't the curves and sophistication that it used to be. No aprons here. She'll drink you under the table then smash it over your head. You cannot question her reason. Backlash from the womens liberation? What. Surely that'd be extreme housewives? Maybe not. Maybe their contradictory uniformed solitary war against life is what their beliefs are: nothing. They fight for nothing because they believe that's what they are. They fight for nothing and hence fight everything. Oh well. At least they give a semi-submersive rationale to their unique uniform. Patches, neonity and vulgarity bordering on illegality.
Punk girls on a train. Corsets, plugs and wood-glue mohicans. more metal in their face than a scrapyard. The old people have quietened already. Brash lesbians use their sexuality as a bravado to ward off any offence towards themselves by producing it first. Ironically they're the same people who fight for women's rights and feminism whilst also making this the only recognisable feature about themselves. I hope they don't see this, yet I doubt they'd realise it's all prejudice and elaborate extreme stereotype, and in getting worked up about it they'd be admitting I'm right.
Give me no title. Give me no name. For then I have the right to never be exclusive (excluded?). Already put into marks. Phone signal more up and down than the punk's profanities. They probably think that word's about female genitalia.
Moaning about the solitary walk to the on-train bar for tins of cider. "I'm not doing that again!" Whether from the buoyancy of train gangway or the shining eyes that move thricefold more violently. I believe it's the latter. Why profess disgust to attention to a harlequin-esque wardrobe when it's obviously designed to be a middle finger to unweary eyes. Or am I missing the point? Is it a statement that modern femininity isn't the curves and sophistication that it used to be. No aprons here. She'll drink you under the table then smash it over your head. You cannot question her reason. Backlash from the womens liberation? What. Surely that'd be extreme housewives? Maybe not. Maybe their contradictory uniformed solitary war against life is what their beliefs are: nothing. They fight for nothing because they believe that's what they are. They fight for nothing and hence fight everything. Oh well. At least they give a semi-submersive rationale to their unique uniform. Patches, neonity and vulgarity bordering on illegality.
Notebook 002
30.4.07
Waving. Shipping. Ebb and tide. Hedonistic post-modernism sure beats admitting that you're selfish. I can't feel anymore. Trapped. Cocooned into loves nest, I am spellbound. Sure this fairyland is good but is it real? Have my feet run away with my legs? Lost. What is Insanity like? Does it taste like blood in your mouth? Feel like a forever tilting bed? Sound like the light switch on and off and on and on and off? Does it look like a soft focus metal paranoia? Like glass? Like television? Like nothing is really affected so I can do what the fuck i want? I don't know. I know it's name. Time. It licks my back, greases my hair and calls my mother a whore. I always wanted a best friend and i got one that no one else can have. Space. I can't share her because she'll disappear. I call her; secret.
I want the paradoxical nature of this verbatim to spin spin spin, burn. Night flashes behind my eyes believe waxen-tongued deludes of this Mozart broken crack house. Feel the preach of a bracken claved vulture scum. Rape rape pillage and rape. Cervix your agenda to my face and i will scream your hollow pleasure. Scream it loud. Scream it clear. Scream it proud. Scream it here. Then leave. Your mother was a prostitute. I'd know. I'm burnt at the knees weak and bristling. Oh clean clean clean the gaps between the sand and polished flats. I cannot fucking take your bullshit lives.
Waving. Shipping. Ebb and tide. Hedonistic post-modernism sure beats admitting that you're selfish. I can't feel anymore. Trapped. Cocooned into loves nest, I am spellbound. Sure this fairyland is good but is it real? Have my feet run away with my legs? Lost. What is Insanity like? Does it taste like blood in your mouth? Feel like a forever tilting bed? Sound like the light switch on and off and on and on and off? Does it look like a soft focus metal paranoia? Like glass? Like television? Like nothing is really affected so I can do what the fuck i want? I don't know. I know it's name. Time. It licks my back, greases my hair and calls my mother a whore. I always wanted a best friend and i got one that no one else can have. Space. I can't share her because she'll disappear. I call her; secret.
I want the paradoxical nature of this verbatim to spin spin spin, burn. Night flashes behind my eyes believe waxen-tongued deludes of this Mozart broken crack house. Feel the preach of a bracken claved vulture scum. Rape rape pillage and rape. Cervix your agenda to my face and i will scream your hollow pleasure. Scream it loud. Scream it clear. Scream it proud. Scream it here. Then leave. Your mother was a prostitute. I'd know. I'm burnt at the knees weak and bristling. Oh clean clean clean the gaps between the sand and polished flats. I cannot fucking take your bullshit lives.
Notebook 001
I surround myself with things I imagine to be you. Sleeping all day just to get away. Get away from the fact that I'm not with you. Get away from the regret. Get away from it all. Seeing how beautiful you are, when I did so well to forget, is like falling in love with you again. And again. And Again.
These things around me. So false and so real. I wonder how your skin would feel against mine. I wonder how we'd sleep tonight. I wonder, all night, about a life with you. Just to get away. Get away from the fact that I'm not with you. Get away from the regret. Get away from it all.
Then I awake and see the cold beauty of reality.
These things around me. So false and so real. I wonder how your skin would feel against mine. I wonder how we'd sleep tonight. I wonder, all night, about a life with you. Just to get away. Get away from the fact that I'm not with you. Get away from the regret. Get away from it all.
Then I awake and see the cold beauty of reality.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
