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.