Different Voices

You're not

my brother


.

Afternoon Illusion

Tuesday at one. I woke up wild.

What scares me when i'm like that, is the flashes of their faces.

It's a face that hangs, I can see the anticipation of eternity, and the infinite complexities of misfortune that hangs within a short flash and then the feeling that stays for so much longer. I writhe on my bed and try and shake it out of my legs. I believe it's what they call a nervous twitch.

It haunts me.

god help us for the future, everyone

tilted

the house lay in it's frame. TV crusted in mighty slabs of chipped ice. We tried to watch something about animals, but the misty sheets and crystals made it hard to see what was going on. Cigarettes and cans lay congealed in themselves. Once dropped, they would slide across into the corner, the heavier side of the room, and construct themselves in a fabricated hunk of frost. This was also where group of people stood near, and hysterically tried conversation with us. No use, we were fixated on other things. Curtains of the Artics favorite son hung from shelves. Crackle crackle clock hand churning through the next number in a rough diamond coat. Comfortable aesthetics that took us away from the world. We will stay here, just for a while.
And they were cold.
They were always cold.


Naturally.

Mexicans

kleine Finger von Babies an einen Tuerrahmen genagelt und mit Sekundenkleber befestigt, waehrend eine Katze unter Wasser gehalten wird

Babies little fingers nailed to a door frame and held on with super glue while a cat is held underwater

small fingers of babies to a door frame one nails and one fastens with second adhesive, one holds waehrend a cat under water

kleine Finger der Babys genagelt auf einen Türrahmen und mit Superkleber an gehalten, während eine Katze gehaltener Underwater ist

Must prepare the basket.

i need nature back, i need healthy muscles to build and hunt and leave everything behind. The only thing that stops it is the kind of love which idolises you and in return makes you idol. How can I explain, that the emotion of your loss is as selfish as my solitude. What can drive me? I can puctuate, I can fucking puctuate like a mad man without a pen. Consitency and variety. Intelect, spiritual finding, sharing of happiness, and independent strength. There is no such thing as power, only self-effciancy.

Burn your cars, and then love the lonely driver.

way of life

The truth is, we take drugs not to escape; we have already found the door to no where and now in our patheticness, we hang around on it's door step not knowing what to do, or who we are. Some bodies body left behind in it's idolatry rot, one of those little red slideshow viewer things, and here we are sitting and clicking the button at the top, seeing a journey of aeroplanes and magical colours while we grow thin and weak outside of these attractive 2D visions. Any time we put the toy down we find our fingers have grown too frail to effectively pull back open the door handle, and now we turn to our only thing left to play with, toys. And I love child hood, for it's innocence and it's rich images of unknown are what colour the world right. But if you found a kid sitting in the cold left with one single repeating, soulless activity to do, you would call it neglect and feel pity.

Now, I want to throw myself in the jungle.

Still

i could be screaming these words, or whispering them like silk and soft. But you got no idea, without my murmuring voice to tell you, these words don't mean jack.

sublime

And what about him. Sitting on the bench lit bright in Julys predeceasing sun. Young puppies fell all over each other near by, some say that the artificial brunette with the stolen oversized coat use to be his spiritual sister. He knew, she use to tell him. And like all big brothers, casual dismissal. Now you look at her with your wrathy smile expecting her bones to light up; you even plan ahead the conversation of answers written and known. But it is not known that today, she will not fall over every other, but stand tall with a sleaze in heels and dismiss your knowing smile. She turns away, but you expect it is just the well-known double hesitation before conversation of an old friend. Name the butterfly before it hatches. The scared hare drags her down the aisle and buries her in his rabbit hole away in damp mud and greens. Maybe they see you as a wasted crazy.

This was reactionary news to my brain. Now I gotta sit up straight, smile and spit towards the future to turn it all around.

For a contented future has no use to anyone.

Ah but you hypocrite shouter and screamer of your own older man, mon frère. Go far and gain respect, and wallow in a new family. You hate family, but you love to grow new bones.

Funeral Party

slow suit and tie dancing. Why not jump into a field of butter yellow daffodils? Well when you land it's a tube of water, a deep tub of cold.
A beautiful lamb falls in with you, she's 17 and you feel your clothes slide off. For a while, you hold each other as white and scared pieces of a whole. As you learn to press against each others thin skin, you understand the warmth between one another and begin to direct the arms, moving one hand up, dragging water to the cheek bone, and another reaching downwards softly for hollow. If you open your eyes after, you find yourself in the deep freezer, going down.

I'd never trade anything for you

is one of the worst sentences in tender communication. I'm supposing that this person you slur it out as the gin hits the table on early saturday morning, is a person you dearly care about. Supposing they have realised this, i'm pretty sure they wouldn't need you to reassure them that there may be a time in the future where if an offer does come up, they might be on the cards to be exchanged for something pointless and shiny.

If you have to bring that point up, this person now muses, 'Wow, never thought being objectified and then transferred indignantly to a new soulless owner was a possibility in this relationship'. They then may look at you and question what competition they now have, embarking them into a spiral of paranoia and low self-esteem in comparison to that other one who may be better because they had those legs that hair who's there not scared what not no not shocks.

i think

they watch as their fields of crops are rotting under the heavy sun they walked beyond for hours, picking up the plough, starting again under the burning, your burning your tongue on some microwave meal, with it's 3 types of vegetable, pruned tomato, paste of pea, and some equisite onion flavouring. As you pick up the paper to read of the all the loss of money, you still pay the man for it and move away in horror. He still searches for the paper to write upon. The paper to post cheques telling us everything will be alright; and we're still complaining. The king sits upon a wooden chair in the jungle. We arrive as survivors on tour, with only cheap versions of the latest fuji camera. We take pictures of things we can send back home, making clear they had arrived by reading the reciept, pictures that stir emotion. Someone holds a poloroid up to a friend proudly, 'I felt empathy today. I did'. Empathy in terror, believing it was only because the king of the jungle had run out of gold that he sat poised still in a tree-based throne. Poor man, no cushion.

i think, we should chill out with our money, honey, i'm home.

Confidence

He was embellishly smart. Jazz in court, smoother topple to the guilt thought and shame of a runner. Do you like my tongue your honour? As a whisper in licks of long shouting, I see you with frazzled grey hair distant, red chips
poutin.
Gee cruelty in de adelaide cold summer stammer when
he cries out you slam your hammer but to stop the tub and feel the rub ay theres no trouble if you follow the date in which the bitch came over and made rubble of these please pleas you céta a leaz.
Lawyer screw me away, give my life another day. Beat me up and
make me cold, but
don't make me wait
until i'm
told.

I paint two men as we fight

If we don’t act now, we’ll be set in stone as unactable. Your body grows and then one day it stops growing, what if that day is the day you were left alone and filled with malice? Are you frozen in that shape forever more?

I want to use this boat to get away from everything that says you have to be part of something when i’m not a part of something. I’m my own, and I’ll only be free to be so when i leave those who disagree behind.*

*This one dies at sea and becomes part of its soul. The other who holds him back, the younger brother of a friend, stays and enjoys it.

a few tickets.

Second team picks up the baseball bat without hesitation. All strung out across whipped wire, it's the floor of royal blue and smeared white hope. No thanks darling, though beautiful colour your lipstick. They flew fists so fast across the field they couldn't even feel their legs anymore, looking across into the unknown stands of toothed faces, tilting and smiling, where were his parents? Under some freeway; maybe if I hit the ball real hard, the wind will be so impressed it'll let it ride on the flow of it's unhindered airwaves. Some white rider, hurtling towards a clockwork of grey and pale cars, freely tumbling towards the windscreen of some ladies family wagon.

Maybe they use to know what it meant to hit that hard, but ultimately, it doesn't matter because none of you play ball anymore.

Hungry

I don't mind stealing bread.

Cut-ups

I was reading some Borroughs and I thought i'd try out this...

Here is a sample of what i came up with:

New York City freezing his scrawnch hair. His face. Quiet he mutters through chattering, a word celebrity. 'I'm not interested in trembling, it's winter in his holyest. The ultimate downside to the fall'. He could walk these streets one of two ways. His attempts seem credible, in more and more sincerity he chooses the difficult ways.

To point towards the greed and understand that to get their you need presence. Today the actors presence is in sly smiles (His semi-jagged teeth are in the Lower East side, eating a roast beef of cool). I guess i'm a hypocrite with worn-in corduroy trousers as famine distances from me. Red lights; life heads, as he takes his cigar and whispers that he's rising rapidly. He puts his head away and sings out a statement about his day, carefully noticed by all in the room. Instantly however, he is left unrecognised.



well, that kinda worked, I guess.

some afternoon

i looked at my hands and became numb. So I stood up gently swaying, and switched off the lights.
When I crashed back into the far away sea of mattress, I found myself telling myself to not be stuck beside myself.
I wrote this plan and left it on my chest. After some time I could feel deep tingling up the muscles in my legs welcoming back movement. The plan slipped quietly off the duvet and floated down among the ashes. I looked at my hands, guilty of doing something recently.
Helpless, I went to pull on my jeans.
That's when I found the note. I remember it now.
I smoothed it out with prowl, endorsing it's message profusely.
I began to read it out loud;
It said, '

a better haiku

Nightfall,
boy smashing dandelions
with a stick.

haiku

beyond the sitting room,
a hungry snake slithers
quietly.

When did you get here this morning jack

Lying around waiting for the name of your platform with channels of time falling apart on yesterdays late train. You didn't make your dinner, that's just one of the things building up, the hunger to kick over that table of pale green mess of vegetables into the face of distasteful dreams . Take your gun out and shoot the highest big shot. Run down the traffic warden who see's you do it first. Sit down, take an exam, become good at life, get the marks. Grow and learn till you die, conserve your teachings at 22, spit back at any help you ever got, be the business, write a thesis, buy a house, knock down a tree, jack be finance, jack be free.

Jack look back, Jack spit at me, Jack I got a father, who doesn't dream.


And then he turned away,


And another one said,

Okay.
Quit.
Mad.
Stop.

In the magazine

Someone dropped their cigarette. And for a while, watched.

today

when i sat on the roof having smokes i saw;

A man being beaten up in broad daylight

Four gangsters having a rap battle

A black hummer limo

&

A man dressed as Anton

Same as it ever was

In the future, buying music will be become a ritual to pay respect to the artist more than it has ever been. If music is free the best artists will still get their money because they're good. TV shows promoting new singers will fall apart as CD profits finally disappear. If you want to get paid for making music you'd better be the best. The music industry is going to fall, and then everything will sound good again.

So don't worry about anything.

Boom, and silence

Like a plane emerging from the sea, this daylight shouldn't be happening,
it's what all the passengers want, they'll wake up and take up some fine routine,
about gardening and exercise dreams. I stand sideways, while you all fall past my
window and the curtain whips me from the right. Some people have got clean track records,
a lot of people, actually. I don't know whether it's them or me, but somebody out there is blind, dumb and ignorant or whatever it may be. I know because eliajah had it once, he offered me a road forwards. Well of course, what other direction should I take. Well some people stopped and looked to the swallowing red deserts around the highway, or the white and black mountains with their name on it. But I seem to be digging out a trench around this road. What use is it to me, I can't even drive. I can't sleep or move to eat. That's a beautiful colour lipstick your wearing darling. Hows so and so, and who's he?

Palpitating so gentle, he's that guy who sits in the corner with his dark hair while some words which can't escape him, escape him.

I found some others down here, they think this is a home. Well they've got tall palaces upstairs and they know it. I can see my mother running down the escalator the wrong way just so she could teach me to lie still and follow it up when I was born. God damn, you ungrateful bastards. Why do you dig down here? I found some real friends, wish I could save them. I can tell you about them but I can't punctuate them to you. You look around and they were never born.

She's a real flower. I can't tell you anything else. But somehow she floated down beneath the cracks, and maybe, somehow, i'll grow a garden. It'll rain, but after all that, I will lie down in slumber and appreciate it wholly, completely, fully, and finally, absolutely.

Introduction to a book

god damn.


Blue down yellow, floating toxic tonnes of octopus.
Heavy muscle of olive wrapped around your head,
Dull slap as it pulls you up.


howintino laverero quintin tu pas e se can nubra campra tapa.


And then a pin burst through wet paper.

cigarette, holes of billowing, down and round, sweeped up in front of you,
and I reached out and thought it was true.

Tell me what time you start work. Take a cab to Mexico, too much freedom sends you over the edge. When you started to quiver i started to sell, and when I turned round to tell you, *Once upon a time a star interrupted a story and begun to tell you a new one.

Green Window

Hermann Göring

1936-

Guns will make us stronger, butter will make us fat.





---


Good at life.

Sleeve on mouth

And after that spit, I get an email from the Guardian, considering me for job uploading their internet articles... i guess it's ok. It's at night though, but i guess i can't sleep anymore anyway. I like The Microphones thats making me happy. I know i gotta lot of work to do but i got low self esteem about writing, that makes me unhappier. I would like to be with my girl. That would make me happyest.

Oh yeah

And I don't think the internet has any dignity. For example, what if you don't know a word? You could ask a friend and learn, but you might be judged. So instead, you silently find out. You look at pictures of places and people you will never see, and you throw emotionless characters out through metal and fibre and call it a conversation. You weren't at that event, but you found out about it without anyone telling you. Nothing is going to get in your way, you can escape anything. There is minimum effort. You aren't well read, you just know how to right click onto thesaurus, and most of all, you just can't fuck up, it's all virtual, history deleted.

It distracts you from life by giving you a window to the very things you're missing out on by being on it.

and i hate it.

Free Zine

inspired by ryan. Print out and fold. Make a W from 8 folds. Cut down the middle. Squeeze in middle and fold into book.

Chipped and eaten

Tatuke, assum, debucher,

All the dirt looked the same, but it all led somewhere different,
big bear, following his soul, with the red and black blocks of a Kodiak,
imprinted into dark ridges. He grunted, and they followed, under the trees,
trickling into bark and sawdust, as he cried out with a salmon held high to some god
of the month. Yellow hats, shiny with sweat and overused material, more markings,
something like a mountain lion but with less soul. You'll forget about it.

It was in these woods you tripped up and realised the issue at hand. To be caught,
if under the thumb, you need to chew through. Escape something forbidden with something far more criminal, save yourself. Take the widows son, I've heard he doesn't talk anymore, so no squealing. He knows what to do. He's not really there anymore; three parts gone, he can fit through small holes. In fact he can filter himself through the eyes of anything, nobody knows he's there.

The yellow hats are done. The receptionist will take your call; she is your god now, she'll tell you where to go.

At the dinner table

At the dinner table...

(My mum laughs casually about an incident in her hairdressers.

New Girl: (In a Californian accent) Hi, are you Kate?

My Mum (Whos name is actually Christine): Yes

New Girl: (Enthusiastically) Ok, that's fine, just sit down here! Now, how do you like your hair at the minute? Is it too thick, too bouncy? What would you like me to do with it today!? *Beams*

My Mum: Mmmm, it's ok, I suppose, I don't know.


Another hairdresser meanwhile begins to stare at my mum and the new girl.


New Girl: Now what do you usually have done? I could do that orrrr, we could try something new and fresh and crazy!

Second Hairdresser: (Coughing) Erm, excuse me, I think that's Chris... she's Lulu's...client.


New Girl: (In total american highschool-like breakdown) OH-MY-GOD, I mean, just oh my god, I am-so-sorry! I didn't mean to steal you, I just thought, I mean you said your name was Kate!

My Mum: (Mimicly) Oh my god! What's your name?

New Girl: Oh, my names Autumn!

My Mum: Autumn Paxman? Autumn Paxman!

New Girl: Sorry? My names Autumn Wilding.

My Mum: (As she's taken away to Lulu) Autumn bloody Paxman! You were meant to marry my son! Why didn't you marry him?

New Girl: :o


As she laughs and drinks her water, I laugh too, because I get it. Autumn Paxman was some rich american girl I use to know, and my mum was obsessed about me seeing her so she could get some money.

The reason why I respect my mum, is because the girl she happened to play with unfortunately doesn't know the context of our lives. Chris will take an inside joke to the extent were she will cause a poor girl on her first day of work to go home and question both her life and identity, and that is why I like her. She is good)


...at the dinner table she talked, but I didn't say much.

Peaked Street

The light turns off.
The curtain railing snaps and the fabric
comes down,
forgiving the ugly grey sunlight,
it lets her in,
and so she comes.
She smears her pale cheeks all over my table,
my books, my wardrobe and my skin.
Now as I take a small lake of water,
and let the liquid fall across the mirror,
I stand pale too, and asking of what I am doing,
as I let my new friend burn circles through my eyes,
of green and yellow hue.

The spotlight should lie around the painting,
not on top of it.
You have to reach out into the dark to find,
something really interesting.

Bad things are happening all over the world, and journalists are never a part of it. What you read is written by the kid who over-hears. I heard a gunshot, but yet I didn't, because it wasn't in the paper this morning. Therefore,
London
is
pronounced
safe.

Out in the street

Fuck those people with ill-attepted dreads, a small dred like goatee, and hemp clothes.
And yeah they listen to dub step.
won't you join me in a dance?

Burn the tents.

And you know a lot of them were at the riots,
where hippies trampled over the plants



Stupid.

Archive - Paint and word 2007

faintly crackled apple snap
snap snap i think i crack
fizzle brain cells drop
snap crackle fickle pop
does it happen, did it stop,
snorting crystal riskall rocks

doesn't this audience understand me?

And

god damn, my english is bad. Is that a bad thing, or maybe it's a good thing i'm more interested in better things than you too. I'm sorry, I love you english, i don't give you enough attention, but if i did, i'd be sick of you.

Can't

look at you when you speak to me anymore. Is that a bad thing? Maybe it's good i'm interested in better things than you. I got better things in my life to worry about for once, i came out of your dick first, and out her womb second, but it's always the ending we remember most.

I don't really know where to go with this cos i kinda just read someone saying what i kinda wanted to say, about shy but definite groups, and the way i dont know if im from where i'm from a year ago, or 10 years ago or where i was born or now just a londener or just just how will you talk to me different, and if you talk to me the same, will i look back like i use to?

Gotta write a CV for nightshifts at the guardian, and then i think, i'll start the process of going from thinking you know your crazy, to thinking your a charming civilised adult, but actually schizophrenic. I'm going to go back to Snoqualmie one day, and get a motorbike, and take pictures with my eyes and compare them to ones taken somewhere back behind those thoughts about how much summer i have left till elementary school starts again.

"To be a Film Critic, you have to be passionate about films" Really? Since when did being affectionate for something involve tearing it apart and pissing over every insignificant imperfection like that whiny tall guy with the thin nose who use to tell you how you do everything wrong.

Sometimes the answer seems like always. But no one really knows how long ago always is.

God damn. This is why i can never write about anything, because i try and write about everything.

I'm chasing three kids and three adults splitting up.

Pavement puddle, shallow sea, ocean, fishing, seahorse and a crab. All part of the road on the way to avoid a friends house.

figurative figure

over ever seen and sever, meets the
maker hopes to make her, make him
glee, never had a killing spree, don't
look here; look away, look for safety
look for fame.
you should wear them, wear me out,
crack the mirror and pull a pout.
Dream in your talk and sleep in
your sing, you shouldn't sweat
about a thing.

Hows Annie?

theres a prickly sea left rubbing to the side of me,
it's smells like oil and grease and bubbles up my nasals,
the bubbles puncture on the rims of my eye, and a deep
dark rash reveals itself round a half closed, sweating pupil.
Swat that damp lap, do me round, lick me on, lick me dry,
she can rid the clogged and nasty, and sail with it away,
but when the coat comes on, and the door falls closed,
reality comes to play.

Well, the white is turning to red, I didn't expect this to happen so fast. Not good, but quite beautiful none the less.

What is scary is that in about 12 minutes (at the time of writing making that 11.01) the cleaner will start howling, and everything I said yesterday to explain the series of accidents in our flat, such as why the olive oil was dripping out of the light bulbs, why half the kitchen has disappeared, and why the kebab owners spontaneously decided to threaten us with baseball bats, will all have been a waste of time.

I think it's something to do with the precision that will make it hard to explain. I mean, why else would there be a hole in the roof of our flat, directly above one of the toilets unless someone exploring the rooftops suddenly needed to relieve themselves.

I mean i don't see the problem really, if it rains, it will rain into the toilet, that's like fresh water for the bowl, right?

It's about seeing someone do something they couldn't do before. i need to cut my toenails? wtf lolllllllll



In other news, i really am very ill. yay.

but i managed to write 2500 word script in 4 hours last night, pretty stoked or dieee.

Once

I had a stick, I had a queen.

Every city has it's own tallest branch. God damnit, my insides are so fucked up, i cant even move position. Just have to endure that creeping, piercing smell of fermenting ash at the bottom of cider cans and the way my sunrise finds its way back to me so easily when the curtains don't even hold up. And here I am, wide-eyed in this patchwork bed with joint butts and lost pieces of clothing. There's probably someone sleeping still under my desk, comforted by the dirty wash pile. Or maybe they got out. Maybe I shouted at them too. God damn bian.

Someone remind me what happens when this happens. Someone give me a foot up, and i'll get to the top of that tree, i'll show you.

Jade goody sucks

die, and sell your coffin to hello! magazine.

Slow burst

Orange tye-die big balloon,
popped with a pin, and out loose,
a worm of red, purple and blues
entwining around like a hurricane,
spinning and splattering white walls,
angry and old, going pale yellow,
but with dip dop dip of two splats
green and one splat brown.

Why is everything so sepiac.

A man sneezed and a red rose blew out.

I like this place, it's ok.

Three faces lit up in blue fairy lights and lighted up in fairy powder, gathered around a friend who, under some strange circumstances, has been reveled a prophet. In the UK £14, 000, 000 is put into research into schizophrenia a year. Thousands of test participants are subjected to both psychological and medical trials. People are scared by news reports desperately pointing to drugs and lack of a 'normal' child hood. And then my friend, some guy in black deep rimmed glasses and a grey hoody turns round and tell us he's discovered what causes it - and then during the few seconds when we cry along inside some childrens cartoon, he forgets.


The red adidas jeans being moved like a manikin. Wide white whites in their eyes, a reef of coral around the small pupil, dodging yet still piercing eye. The African voices and the Carribean drinks.
Some bar hidden in Elephant and Castle. 50 art students and socialites gather round to patiently wait 4 hours in a room of basic and shit art glossed and licked shut by Stephen Fry's pussy. 5 of the other kids, don't know what to do. Thought the front lobby was the art gallery for 20 minutes. Stand close in a circle, but don't even talk to each other. And they smoke more cigarettes than they usaully would.


I like seeing the kids with leaflets to vote them 'head of the college radio station' or 'Student Union President'. Some world where they're really trying. Some how they never manage to focus any attention on from themselves except their words and their ideas. They don't play dressing up on weekends in Camden or Shoreditch. They still think a vintage shop is for nans. They like moderation and they endure work. Some of them are still probably virgins.

The guy who won't leave the Amersham Arm's. He's like 70 and he's been there nearly every day for the last 40 years, espcially recently (as some sort of protest). He refuses to accept student presence within the pub and barely talks to anyone under 65. The one time Dan spoke to him, he promised him we wouldn't tell him to move up, that's the one thing he hated. Well sure enough a few friends turn up, and we don't really have enough space. We ask him quivering with doubt, when he stands up, raging in inaudible mumbles, he throws over a chair by swinging his walking cane straight into the side of it and leaves the pub.

And you know, that's just the shittest stuff, you can't smell a flower through a picture, you won't know till you start walking down alleys instead of main roads.

I don't know, some good guys really are the good guys.

Why are teenies

either something out of highschool the musical or so very badly deformed?

Topless

It doesn't matter how weak you are,
when you take off the heavy burden
of a shirt and coat, and stretch out until,
the ribs burst towards the air,
and you wipe your self with water,
starting with the chest, and then below
the eyes. Two swipes like war paint,
as the city growls, you can hear the sound,
the sound of noise. You're never alone. Some
big animal, with a thousand eyes, screeches
like a stolen child, think you're scary, lean
out the window and scream back at it.
Make a rope, and climb down from the frame.
You land on firm naked feet and all the excess,
disapears. Rustle your self, Lie on a roof top.
And jack off.

Oh

fuck.

Explanation

He had the table on it's side in the middle of the hallway. Like a barricade for bullets, he sat and ate his sandwich to avoid attention. Anything from the side would be stopped by beautiful glossed pine, chipped into pieces and scattered lines. About an hour ago, one man stood up and got his head shot off. Why? We're in a fucking million plus priced school, I thought you went here to learn, I thought there were rules. Chicken. Everything tastes like chicken, but chicken doesn't have much taste. Some people just don't have taste. Like the kid with the gun. They say he doesn't have taste. Maybe someone should sit down and see what he's eating instead of shoving their damn tasteless chicken in his face all his life. Now see what you've done.

Well I can't talk much now, here he comes.

There's an elephant in the room.
There's an elephant in this room.

This is something better than deserves to be here.

They were all pastey, down yellow.
Little lamps lighted them up to let us know,
We had to use them.

Some flipped up fucked up upside down,
down screw turn pot was not up to get shot,
and if he was,
I didn't see him.

He's coming to write and call them teapots.

I have to write two teapots?
Why the thuck? i can only write one teapot,
one of these
I'm just pretty fucked,
I don't even like poetry.

Yes I had a cat, but it died.

You need to find your ticket,
before you rack that line of drunk,
What they don't press all.
of the black keys, you need,
one step backwards, and three sniffs
left, how much, and when will it run out?

Those legs kick hard, they're not like
the friendly women on the street,
They're the blue lighter in the bar,
That everyone tries to steal.
What day did you decide to go
and run and not sit and swallow.

The answer,



is several.

Josha

Has gone to find some kid who flew out a of a car window on a tight bend.

See you on the other side.

Theres this store where the creatures meet
I wonder what they do in there
Summer sunday and a year
I guess I like it fine, so far
She lives on love street
Lingers long on love street
She has a house and garden
I would like to see what happens
La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la
La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la

Sa turd ay

I dont know. This isn't a poem. Hello. Anyway, I had to go to this really fucking cold house a few weeks ago, it was so cold it was kinda funny, in a really horrible way. but yeah there were flashes and apparently light hit paper and here it is:



I dunno, i like this picture a lot. Silouettes are amazing. i wish some how we could all live as black outlines, and yet have all the connotations that people see when they recognise a face. But thats just dumb.

I cant fucking write and its pissing me off.

You know why I can't fucking write? It's because of numbers.

I'm not a numbers guy, so when someone tries to irritate my writing, by telling me i have to write 4000 verbs, nouns and adjectives, it all goes wrong and suddenly it's all about the numbers.

And the only numbers with any soul are 4 digits long.

You fuckers.

God damn...

Just a babble

And I dunno,
I know he's a wanker, really,
i do.
But that time on the bus when we had a nice chat,
he was a nice guy.
Everyone has something good deep down,
hopefully.
And i dunno,
what they said about me,
or what they said about you,
but im sure they were just protecting themselves,
because it's something they do.
And i dunno,
what she did tonight,
maybe it could upset me,
but I hope shes safe,
really i do.
And i dunno,
Just a babble.
Nice shoes.

Roof

honey slipped roof, down to the dead pan wrattling gutters,
green in plastic and moss, old pigs strutting,
rippling fat rolls of cash from dealers,
Fairies dancing to the sparks of their dire flints,
Kids with tongues for madam sugar,
Poor honey, only misses me,
Nothing to do with the grin of ga-ga land.

Ring around his finger,
Chain around his heart,
His pocket full of posies,

We all come down.