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.