Undreaming Insect

In the walls there we hear screams of:
"Take me there. Take me there."

The bound of our emotions resolves
An anti-human drunk or sober

Love poem diverges in its opening credits,

The over-cautious worrying over our missus

Pushing away everybody got close

To even appreciate you - "Take me there. Take me there."
Her voice sounds like a time machine

A bogus rogue in a world of explosive energies
Do we ask the brown ash

Do yourselves a favour:

Old recipts reflect your yesterdays:

Sprays moisturisers blades
Canals the walls
Oasis Dylan Shultz and some recorded
Delivery off Lorne Road in Liverpool, England

A first class package dated and dies,
Dropped in smoke - "Take me there."

Truely the C captains itself overboard;

6 times stronger than heroin,
An ounce by the water
My Heroine delivers only me,
Its echo return dressed only in human skin,

The rest shimmers to fingertips

And works all day

And works all night so that the fading light

Never truely fades ...

"Take me there"
Make no mistake old microwaveable future
Already 8% of this century,
And not the least gonna to see the end of it;

Repeat take me away

- "Take me there" -
Christ, do you realise where you are right now?
A chemical bring-down already

Sexton Rimbaud

All my pretty ones;

All my ugly ones;

Come together like a great foundation

Of sinister sly memories.

White Pepper

A blue and white cat claws at my pant leg
Burying itself in the floor of its back
Rounded-off paws padded five times on each hand
Above its head and looking at me.

And I am drifting on by like a cloud of
White pepper dust caught up in the clutch of modern
Black pin-ball mechanics of our new generations
That don't stop their back-brain depressants.

Me on a high and feeling good like that cat
Who had all to live for lying on that floor
Clawing at specs of aerial dust, I come to roost
Like a pigeon in the sky going up with nothing holding me up

Naked Lunch - Cool Air - Laughing Drunk - Gig Tickets

Will publish 2 poems soon, but not sure about them. Just rushed words, which is all I seems to do with poems these days.

Listening to Ladytron, cool electro-rock band from Liverpool.

Reading Naked Lunch by Burroughs. Also got The Dharma Bums by Kerouac, and The Gum Thief by Coupland.

Getting my reading going again; poems are my enemy. Need to attempt fiction, will unlock that door tonight - will overdose on caffine (after football on tv).

Christmas was good, no family problems after it exploded a couple of days before. Like a kind of eruption that coolled down in the winter air. Xmas eve was legendary, I got drunk with 2 friends, and had to meet my family at the church. I showed up at the church drunk, looking round in the aisle for them, and they were stood right next to me saying sit down. I kept getting funny looks off people, but I just joked around with my sister. Had to run back to my friends at the pub, laughing my head off.

Got tickets to see Bob Dylan in May. Got tickets to see Frank Turner in 3 weeks.

"They only want you when you're seventeen, when you're twenty-one, you're no fun." - That's Ladytron, I remember that line. It's from like 6 years ago.

Brothers, Photos, and Paintings

Still haven't written anything, not even in my handwritten journal (hate that thing anyway), but I'll do some tomorrow.

Been having family trouble, which isn't good, especially a couple of days before christmas. My older brother sorted it out, but I think we (the brothers) are trying to be who our dad wasn't. I don't know what that means, my older brother is already a dad and a great one at that. I think we'd try to out-do each other with whatever we cn do; but me, I'd go out my way to out-do them for no reason. Doesn't say much about myself, really.

Been admiring the comments from my photos, which is cool. I'm planning on getting a proper camera, but I can't afford one so I'll just use my phone for now. Funny thing is, I might do some painting instead. I can't paint but I like it, plus I got one canvas board left. No work tomorrow, so I got time to do it.

Photos When I'm Trying

Thinking About Writing Stories - Ladytron - And Poets

Note: Listen to Ladytron

My friend at work taught me some Japanese.

Poets I've been reading: Anne Sexton, Peter Manson

I'm going to have to do my writing on paper again, because I just can't think in front of a blank screen unlike when I stare at a blank piece of paper. I keep writing poems but I don't want to because I don't really like them. I'll just end up reading something different and then my writing will become something different. Which is annoying.

Back in uni I wrote 5 great short stories that went into 2 portfolios. I got a First Class honour for them, (although my degree came to a 2:1). If you read my short stories you'd probably say "What's all that about?" And I'd say: "I dunno. What do you think?" I manage to take one set theme and work in in through dialogue and other stuff, and was complimented for stylising a genre at uni, but the one inspiration (or main one) for story writing was Hemingway's 'Hills Like White Elephants.' It's the only story I think of when I write.

But with poetry, I don't know what the hell I'm trying to say. The best poem I've written is 'Transition,' I think.

I can't think of anything to write,and then I struggle, and then it becomes like a chore. Then writing isn't something I want to do. It's not wrtiter's block, sometimes I can think of stuff, but I don't want to write it down. I just need to leave, go travel the world. But I can never do that, because I always seem to tie myself down to this place.

Some Notes on Discarded Songs

Here are some notes I can't find anything to do with:

"Here's to you
The one I never knew

Hope I find
A way back into your life

I like the way
You find your way into my world

I love the way
You hide yourself from my world."


Yeah, it rhymes, it was pieces of a song I imagined while laying in bed, but most of the time I'm way too lazy to get up and write it down. With this, I was tapping my foot to this imaginary beat and singing this song in my head, I sat up and wrote it down, but all I got was this. I sounded better in my head, there was music and everything.

I wrote pieces of songs on some paper at work. I don't know why I'm trying songs, because I know I can't do it.

"Where has the time gone/ We're waking up so slowly/ Waking up horizontally/Freedom."

"You think about leaving your life for another life."

"The parfume environment smells exactly like chocolate/ But vinegar or coffee."
(I was working with parfumes)

"Growing old at the table."

4 Photos: City and Home

Hypertext Production

Again the process of handwritten exercises
Fill the skin with the permanent non-rush
Of premium fading lights;

Those lights fill the skin
With investigation and thrill and forethought
It is beyond my hand
And prism waterloo plain -

The grass itself exists by sight alone.

Again the process of killing
Universe karma love missy,
I hear your prissy little flavourings

Of talk you

Walk a slow drogue
And assembly of writers

Uttering 'LIFE'
And weeping the resolved time shift

And foreward in time excuse the clear
Shimmer of the fallen; excuse me my sweet
False blood; but not yourself your

Sexy clone wavers another ego.

Again the glass lights personalities
And what we cannot believe is after work;

Really we rarely cut into the arm of attention,

This tint of green vile plumage fills the waters,
Unclear grass ages the wrinkles
Swap beds and kiss gratuitously

Your God is buried with his or her

Laughter in his or her grave.

The Condition

The human forms itself by television
Sequential 'Love Poem' becomes balding surface
Chopping onion rings that shrink
Burn and compose your dear eyes and skin -
Light becomes clear and the human form is,
At length, part of the song -
Only the song and nothing else.

A poem of 'ME' and nought else,
Shit indulgence of rubber and Lords
Shit in the process of hypercondria;
Shit thought-process processes the fateful shit -

The skin, the granite, are similar things;
Unrecognised: the 'US' is a great familiarity
To say the least, I'm held down
By walking bleak townships in morning light,
Poor young fellow by first light
Is taller than he really is.

Never that place in humanity
Is a real place to be secluded;
Humour and horror and red-faced
Understanding the 'Poem' by artificial light
Of treason - a kind-of exception
Walking out on the human a'ghearrach.

It seems to me you've lived
Your life this far: the form -
The form to wait here until completely ready
Or necessary to present the world all our habits;
The form in its naked reasonable face and body
Slender and firm ready to pounce like cats,
The form made of grey and usually no other colour,
The human form owes something to time and hell
And sexy electricity of warm adventure,
The form behind eyes schools and tortoise shells,
The human form in a style of public squares
Hiding our very decent pubic psychosis,
The human form a neo-joke
Grinding our ligaments into flour and then bakes
Into bread ... And nothing else.

Photos on Thurs 4th Dec

Made-up Dialogue

"I think that socially we become more or less adolescent."

"And that means what, exactly?"

"I'm having a hard time putting two and two together."

"Get out."

"What?"

"Just get out. You're getting on my nerves. I hate you."

"Whatever, Trevor, just think about my problems before yours."

"Why?"

"Because mine are more serious than yours."

"In what way?"

"In the way that I don't care about your problems."

"Funny, you are, aint you. Now get out."

"I'm going. But just remember..."

"What?"

"Remember that... Remember that time I got drunk and left my shoes here?"

"That was only yesterday."

"I know."

"...Just leave will you. You're grating on my nerves now."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"I still can't find my shoes..."

NorthWestern Destructive (Or Drift)

What does the buzz of me signify?
You see me here, I am brought to you to destroy
Everything that you see - the fighter in the sand
Great expectation of the world in my hand;
It is mersion of mercy - I beg your pardon?

The devil walks in my garden.

What brings together the bud of your existence?
An unending dog at every great white guru fleet;
It is only in your heaven your haze of not one woman
Who bore our excess of nostalgia of the doorman -
It is a distinct Ki, Swahili, in another dimension;

I fell down in the desert where I will mention

My mind swelling like a balloon blown up by a trumpet,
And seeing above sand dunes and lying down to the landscape;
I am brought here to destroy you.
I am in the 1940's off-camera/settling the authentic aroma of being
On camera. And this is you: begging to the preacher

Such a strange and desperate creature.

Downstairs I hinder all well being of a recylable universe -
Non-recyclable Earth makes it's awful boom
And we make our awful booms riding the highway
Back into the snaking desert; an ancient child.
Your great phony process of lasers moves me,

You are great beyond NorthWestern stars above me

However, I read my newspaper back in Tuesday white morning
And man is not like woman, where life may never end
In pools of clear bright and marble-like creatures similar to frogs,
And our depressed relatives look like dogs
And the lust to destroy you is like giving you the world,

Have it all curled around your finger,

Then a great partition of days separate like oil in rainwater
Puddles in roadside gutter on way to school -
Great Atlantis vantage point from insipid cup of tea - sweet weak
Just like you or me a creature of the meek;
I am quite self-righteous, preaching to the devil

All that I have discovered this side of the sea-level.

This weak white morning froze ignorance in its grave;
Can't make me bide time worried in the middle,
Poor destruction already done suicidal version of creation,
I don't care about economy or astronomy or the death of a nation;
I just wanna know what brings you to me in your warning adept motion,

My brain is in a shoebox - I throw my heart in the ocean.

Tuesday Morning

Confrontation at the Pasty Counter

As I sit listening to The Doors, I'm squashing my foot sitting cross-legged. - problem fixed.

In work today I was talking to my mate as we put stuff on the shelves. He's into stand-up comedy, and it's interesting to hear about his gigs. I haven't seen him at a gig yet. But the conversation drifted and ended and went quiet. Then I smelt some food from the small cafe next to us in the shop. I say to him: "Those pasties smell nice." And he says to me: "Yeah, they do." And then I just generally smile, and that was that. Simple enough.

But damn it when I decide to smile again, thinking about the food, because the guy behind the counter of the cafe kept staring at me, and I noticed this every time I looked over. Now I wasn't looking at the food, but at him. Then, I hear him say something to my mate and I thought they're where just having a quick chat, you know? But no. I hear the word "dickhead," (from the cafe guy) and I say to my mate, "What did he just say to you?" You know sticking up for him.

The guy thought we were laughing at him and we're now having an argument with him. I stick up for myself, you see, acting hard on purpose. And he tells his boss and I tell mine (not manager, but a team leader) and she's saying stuff like, what a silly bugger or something. But we don't tell the boss, who walks over just then. We just don't.

We end up joking about it, laughing. We tell the others. One is quite buff, does karate. He goes over to the cafe but doesn't see the guy. I was angry, not fuming, I'd fight him if I had to. I stick up for my friends. But as we laugh, I'm seeing that this is going to be part of his act; the angry guy selling pasties and fruitcake.

One more thing: found out I have ADD. Makes sense for some things about myself.