Reading Between the Lies

I am sitting here at 9:33pm where small lamp is my eyes,
I am falling behind with many things – writing, sleep, and people –
The deep depressing rooms lived with me since 1991, each death
Built in mechanically. What ghost does is what ghost sees.
I am being eaten alive by fleas.

A hair on the paper makes a shadow of me –
I am forcibly rubbing my skin for clarity: my arm, my neck,
Regret silences me because the horror of memories;
Because Christina screams out to me!
Because now I’m thinking of three people:
Man stalks another man
Man stalks woman...
Trapped now in these terrible impact talks,

I make impacts – they are dangerous paradise.
It turns to 9:54pm; the hot buzz of the halogen warms the room,
My feet are bare and veins appear in my hands from heat.
The werewolf is angry and says ‘why are you such a stranger?’
The banana is so laid back;

I am the city, I am all around,
Gotta see this city to the end,
Stuck in job till Doomsday – back in work on Monday –
Beard ten-feet long and mounting pressure of waiting still.

Dylan Moran and Basho, gotta see it,
Bout 2:30-ish, if that’s alright?
She’s busy all morning, free in the afternoon,
Comes down with glandular fever, and we’re all doomed.

“TV is shit! I wish I
Ws gettin pssed.”



I got the title from the last piece of notes I had so just threw it in as the title. I don't like it, it doesn't make sense as the title.

[This following one is the same poem with translations to some of the words. Languages used are French, Indonesian, Polish, Dutch, German, and Portuguese. It was just an experiment to see what the words would sound like:


I am sitting here at 9:33pm where small lamp is my oko,
I am falling de balakang with many things – writing, sleep, and people –
The dalam depressing kamar lived with me since 1991, each death
Built in mechanically. Ghost, co nie jest tym, co widzi duchy.
I am being eaten alive by fleas.

Un cheveux on the paper makes a shadow of me –
I am forcibly rubbing my skin for clarity: my arm, my neck,
Zal silences me because the horror of memories;
Because Christina screams out to me!
Because now I’m thinking of three people:
Mannen stalks annen mann
mann stalks kvinne...
Trapped now in these terrible impact talks,

I make impacts – they are gefahrliche paradise.
It turns to 9:54pm; the hot buzz of the halogen warms the room,
My feet are bare and veins appear in my hands from heat.
The werewolf is angry and says ‘why are you such a stranger?’
The banana is so laid back;

I am the city, I am calego,
Gotta see this city to the end,
Stuck in job till Doomsday – back in work on Monday –
Beard ten-feet long and mounting pressure of waiting still.

Dylan Moran and Basho, tenho que ve-lo,
Bout 2:30-ish, if that’s alright?
She’s busy all morgen, free in the afternoon,
Comes down with glandular fever, and we’re all doomed.

“TV is shit! I wish I
Ws gettin pssed.”

Sooner I will come back
And irritate who I am
Some successful demon,
Individual afternoons empty rooms dim romantic light
Tell your sister
Its pointless trying
Tell your brother
I’m not even trying;
Lying down forever
And your spine fastens to the ground;
Lying in bed is torture
And these gorgeous horror evenings
Staring out the magazine window
Portraying a groovy book of sexy
Morose celebrity prostitutes
That hardly practise their sayings like:
Good game, that,
And me, practically born in a tunnel
Because evry place I’ve been
I’ve seen not even everything
But something lying down forever,
Evry polluted morning smells of fireworks a terrible aroma
Evry polluted woman giving me the eye
The body the look the practise turn around
And get –

Practically that tunnel
And strain and strain,
You see, no one dies until someone dies
And then all you get is the phone ringing
Wailing bawling like a baby;
And I sat down and wondered about this strain
Upon my perfect/imperfect vision –
‘Cause colours seem to change,
The high street gets taller like New York
And I close all the blinds in the house
And write these things to you
So you know that there’s been a death in the family.

The Only Snow in the North

19\10

The grey movements bare claw branches
Dazzling light over Lion & Unicorn
Radiates power thru window
Globes of light – orbed like eye-lens –
An Earth explosion howls and speaks to me

The world flashes
Swells and bursts and reveals
Wet footprints bulge in “O” shapes
Thick shadows like sharp black tongues
Fish-hooked barbed wire
Anti-clockwise snail greasy tracks
Trodden one foot on life,

Ave Maria frozen in the gutter
The window steams
And outside one man almost falls to his death,
Dead and bright garden tarpaulin pulled over – held down
By plank of wood, heavy wooden bush, the wooden garden and

Clean clean invisible air freezing cold.
The glowing hysterical road – Dies irae –
Is screaming as two people melt into the ground
Dancing the sky reddens softly
And awful lights of yellow and blue

Dean Street explodes in cataclysmic white,
Lion & Unicorn fight in the street –
Everything set low, the world turns dark.

Broken the full moon drools sit and smile on night
And morning the church is boarded up –
Spires shooting up like vines or weeds
Graffiti plastic bags and empty empty flat

Chimneys on flat hills with the fullest of blue sky
And dead pastel green soil and sick icy road.

Standing around and trainspotting
Then vanished from the air;
Marked wastes cold dark the damp smell:
The ruined
Blackberry

Living thru the eyes of others
Angel eyes I’ll refuse to pray
So you cannot damn me anymore,

Guns sharp swords in the hands of young children,
The air is whispering but the clock is talking,
Heartbreak I can’t change my violence,
Playing with the machine of creation:

See this bottle?
It’s not a bottle,
It’s a machine.

Will you marry it?
One of chief princes settles his violence
Red sky softens and rule of war begins.

My Methods for Writing

What I do is (when I'm in the mood or if I can put myself in the mood to write) drink very sweet coffee. (I drink tea most of the time, but that relaxes me, and I don't need to relax). I put music on loud, which can b something heavy to help me think, but I can also go for lyrical songs form Bob Dylan, The Doors, etc. Then I need to have some books out in fron of me; inc. what I'm reading at the moment (Dharma Bums), some random novels, books of poetry (all I have is Philip Larkin and William Blake and some anthologies, one of which has my own poem in).

With my glasses on and cross my legs sitting on my bed, make sure no one can come in, I get writing what falls into (or out of) my head. Write in notes and fit the pieces together, at the same time looking at lines of poems (not the full poem) from books and websites.

Poets that I'll definately be reading: Sylvia Plath, Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, Ted Berrigan, Charles Bukowski..

I think it's safe to say that I hate writing. But it's the only thing that keeps me sane. I remember sitting in a pub in Lancashire, talking with one of my creative writing tutors, and she asked me why I like to write, and I remember I said to her that I don't, but I feel lke I have to.

Who was it that said never create anything?? I'll look that up.. But I only half agree with that. It's one thing artists, mothers, and gods can do. "Playing with the machine of creation."

... Picked up guitar again. Bought some plecks (or picks). Missing high e string, so switched some round and have a lower sounding out-of-tune guitar.

Hate Writing - Citizen Kane - Bed Bus

I just don't feel like writing anymore - written like one line all week. If writing is my enemy then I feel better away from it. I seem to be writing in small bursts, I can't do it normally, if I write it has to be a proper piece. A great poem or story. Otherwise I hate it. I'm such a lazy writer, don't even know if I'm improving anymore. I should just keep what I've got, I mean Rimbaud gave up at around age 19. I'm just sayin'.

All I've been doing is watching films. Citizen Kane and Donnie Brasco recently. My music has gone towards The Velvet Underground.

Going to quit my job if I get this new job. It's hard to quit in a recession (some smart arse on tv says its now officially a recession), but a few of us got formal warnings for a number of things we've done and not done - being late, shirt untucked, name badge missing, talking and messing about. Don't get paid enough to be spoken to like a child.

Going to get writing over the weekend - even if it does seem pointless where I am right now. Here the note I wrote down yesterday I think it was: "Angel eyes I'll refuse to pray, so you cannot damn me anymore."

Had a dream last night that my bed was a bus. I was getting driven around Preston and I was avoiding the people I knew in uni. Then I was being driven around the streets at home, and I jumped off near my street. I think it cost me £1, which is cheaper than the normal bus.

A Fever - And Frank Turner Gig

My temperature is burning the paint off the walls. I'm not too well and this fever is making my heart go fast. Funny that I went into work this morning, felt myself getting dizzy as I walked around, but I laughed it off. Drinking Lemsip or Beechams and it stings my lips, and there's something on the inside of the cup.

Saw Frank Turner on saturday, and it was probably the best gig I've been to (maybe after the Dylan gig back in 2007). Me and my friend got really drunk. We shouted our heads off (which ruined my voice the next day). Frank was talking with the audience and starts talking about a bar he played in in Liverpool, and my friend shouts "Slaters!" (Meaning Slaters' bar) And that was funny. But then my friend looks at me and goes, "No I think he meant Hannah's bar." So it finished and we had some more drinks, and I wanted my coat back because it cost £50 and it was in the cloakroom for £1. We left and went to Korova, which was shit on Saturday and ended up back were we started. It was just about having a laugh with funny conversations with him and when we decided to leave, walking down the road, some racist starts talking to us. We're just going "yeah, is that so, mate?" until he leaves us alone.

We got the bus home. We had this conversation about music and musicians, and the music of 'now.' I mean everyone knows the great musicans and bands of the past, like The Beatles and Bob Dylan, but people now, like Frank Turner, are the musicans we're experiencing now. And when it gets to 30 40 years in the future, we'll look back and say were a part of that.

So I've been hungover and sick since then, but it was worth it. Anyway, I've been worse than this at uni. I wrote this short story the other day, but it doesn't make sense, but I think for me it's just practising my style.

Excerpt from 'Dharma Bums' - On Poets

'They were all meeting in the bar and getting high. But as they stood and sat around I saw that he was the only one who didn't look like a poet, though poet he was indeed. The other poets were either hornrimmed intellectual hepcats with wild black hair like Alvah Goldbook, or delicate pale handsome poets like Ike O'Shay (in a suit), or out-of-this-world genteel-looking Renaissance Italians like Francis DaPavia (who looks like a young priest), or bow-tied wild-haired old anarchist fuds like Rheinhold Cacoethes, or big fat bespectacled quiet booboos like Warren Coughlin. And all the other hopeful poets were standing around, in various costumes, worn-at-the-sleeves corduroy jackets, scuffly shoes, books sticking out of their pockets. But Japhy was in rough workingman's clothes he'd bought secondhand in Goodwill stores to serve him on mountain climbs and hike and for sitting in the open at night, for campfires, for hitchhiking up and down the coast.'

(Kerouac, The Dharma Bums p.13)


I read this while sitting on the train going to work. I really like the different images of poets and the difference between the upper-class intellectual and the scruffy working class poet.

Tobacco Warehouse

It was cool because afterwards, when we headed home, the sun was going behind some clouds and we were swimming on our out-of-focus words. It was all unfocused by then, I mean it was always unfocused like the lens of a camera was distracted by something close-up or far-off.
We rode the train ten minutes before the sun showed itself again. When it did it shined delicately through the windows. I sat facing you. You said 'What stop we getting off at?'

'Waterloo,' I said.

'That's fine,' you said.

'Yes,' I said. 'I'll get there, my friend loneliness.'

'It's warm today.'

'Weather's fine. It's the people you gotta watch.'

'I'd rather not watch them,' you said. You folded your arms and stared out of the window, the light bristling off your face. The morning Summer light highlighted your facial features and you looked like someone else, like a child.

'I could do with a smoke,' I said.

'Didn't know you smoked,' you said.

'Yeah.'

'When we get back let's go the beach.'

'In the morning?'

'It'll be fun.'

'You're mad,' I said.

'Come on, it'll be empty round this time.'

'The beach is empty all the time,' I said. 'Anyway, I'm too tired with work.'

'Oh come on, what happened to wanting to be young again?'

'I grew up.'

'You only said that a couple of hours ago.'

'I grew up since then.'

'We're going the beach.'

'Peter Pan never went the beach.'

'Yes he did. He lived near the ocean.'

'Well this city is near the Irish sea, not the ocean. And fine, I'll go the beach. I'll like to smoke there, it'll be cool.'

I sweated underneath my workclothes. You looked at me and looked away and then I looked out the window, watching the world wipe past my eyes. An English boy like me doesn't see everything, only what I see, and even then I can't do anything with it but see it. Admire it and walk on. I saw a girl working in a cake shop today. I thought of her making cakes for a living. Eat your work, I'd say to her.

'Would you want to get off here?'

'Here? No. I don't live here.'

I'm sure you got younger on the train. I felt the distant change in people's bodies; all of a sudden bodies no longer seemed beautiful, they were just things. Like my toothbrush or socks. People own socks like they own their bodies, no one shares toothbrushes. I looked at you and liked you.

The sounds of the train were so clear, so loud and fast. The empty and lost feeling of locomotion and impending arrival to at least somewhere was a feeling always there. Something always always going to happen, but never never arriving. You stared for a long time out of the window, you sniffed once and I watched your eyes flicker from one moving tree to another. You were as immature as me sometimes. No one could touch you as we passed the Tobacco Warehouse on the docks to the West.

New Job - Bob Dylan - And Ulysses

Finished 'Naked Lunch.' I'm on 'Dharma Bums' now, by Kerouac.

I'm applying for a new job. It's at the university library, and seems the perfect job for me. And it pays £17,000 a year. That 4 times as much as I'm getting now. If I got that job I could finally get my own place. I've got until the 23rd jan, and my app seems good since I got a degree, but I'd have to put referees from my uni tutors, even though I haven't seen them in little under a year. Now way I'm using anyone from the job I have now as referees.

Going to see Frank Turner on saturday. Can't wait, going to be a good day. Drinking comes early. Bob Dylan's getting closer too, and I was talking to a guy at work (an older fellah) about Dylan. It was cool because he said he'd listen to Dylan in the 60's. Went to see him on London Road, and Joan Baez was playing too.

Watched 'I'm Not There,' which is an amazing film, can't believe anyone has the nerve to criticise it. Also been listening to Damien Rice, can't beieve I haven't listened to him before.

Got back into my reading of Sylvia Plath for a little bit. I don't know why, but every time I read something I end up copying that style. I know I do have my own style, but I do tend to mimic another style after reading it. I end up forgetting what I'm writing. It was like that with Burroughs and Bukowski, I've done it with Coupland and Kerouac. What I really want to read it Ulysses. I've got it some where.

Photos, 8th Jan '09

My Visions Take Me Slowly

Picture scene:
Rocking forth of complete talk on the mantle,
Day-green, its madness bolted to the floor -

Bolted stillness, well she doesn't talk anymore.

Another scene:

A bathroom with acidic stench
Of bile and salt booming music thru floor -

Sitting down on toilet vomit thru mouth and nose,
Hot terrible sick burning the brain and tongue and mouth roof,
Searching thru madness for a swallowed golden tooth.

Over the sand very smooth very quietly
Our feet glide mushroom cloud cool breath
Of cold plants, the shadow slides inwards,

I am turning silver; I am drained outwards;

When naked dreams are talking to me,
"Why don't you talk to me?" my dad screams,

I am become my own vision,
Inside the bronze sculpture is one of stopped,
Incomplete, the chiselled soldier and odd meat,

Now enter this world, universe of slow numbers

Moves your rook.

Tired - American Poet - And Short Story Thoughts

Been dead tired recently, that's with getting up around 5am almost everyday for work. Only working the mornings, but it's killing me. End up sleeping thru the day and feeling far too tired to write - and if I read then I'll fall back asleep. Must have some sort of iron deficiency or something. Not that tired right now, little bit of coffee helped.

Just read some Robert Pinsky, an American poet. Really good. Going to start writing more, as in simple notes because I don't even do that anymore, I'm too lazy to be a writer. Saw a girl at the train station today (she looked like a porcelain doll) and she had this little note book, writing stuff. I wondered what she was writing, and then I thought why don't I write while I'm out and about? I'm thinking up stuff all the time, but it'd just come out crap on paper. Even a mate at work had a notebook, noting down bits of comedy becuase he does stand-up. I thought about writing comedy, thought of some stuff, never wrote it down.

Not done anything on that short story. Don't want to. I just wanted to put it on here. I think I like it, but not sure. It's not religious or anti-religious (I'm neither), but it's just interesting to use religion, and mix it with the narrator's thoughts on socialibility. I know most parts don't add up, doesn't matter as it's a first draft. The last bit with him turning into a robot was strange because I was just writing off the top of my head, describing the metallic taste turning him metallic. It has a funny social-sexual theme going on; the final words were meant to be funny, though. Like, he's becomes a social robot and so does everyone else with socialising and drinking alcohol and taking drugs, and disregarding religion for whatever reason, and they just say to get him up. Whatever, it was a little like my christmas eve.

Untitled Short Story (unedited)

I am a social liability. I am inside everything like a God of alcohol. I am pehaps a physical being, restored to the point of destruction - and the voices ringing inside outside the greasy ear of mine call 'all the best boys,' and a rhythm of continual bathing in society begins. It's a chilly night... he has lost his voice... he has become the very thing he couldn't believe that when he cannot speak he cannot live. When he has no voice I can speak for him. 'Two bottles of Scotch, my friend.'

'Two?'

'What are you? Counting them out? Yes, two.' I say to the side, 'cheap son of a bitch.'

When every ounce of pleasure has gone we go to get some more. Pleasure measured in ounces is hard to come by.

There are now three of us. We have been talking around a table for 3 hours. An aging man of social responsibility hates the flag. A girl coughs behind me. Sounds of electric buzzing periferate the atmosphere below thin wafts of smoke from the sly cigarette before someone gets kicked out. I am an automated, never-before-seen man of destruction. A God machine.

'Have to get to church in an hour,' I say.

'Didn't take you for a church-goer man.'

'I'm not - '

'He's not.'

'I'm not. I just have to meet someone. I'll be back here if you want to wait for me.'

'We'll go with you.'

'No. You're pissed off your faces.'

'Nooo... We'll go in and... hail Jesus!'

'... It's praise isn't it?'

'I'm a Buddah.'

'No your not.'

'Yes I am. How would you know?'

'I know you. You don't do anything to be Buddhist.'

So we walk in the torso of the night and it's killing to be in this cold and everytime I'm thinking of selling myself some exquisite social idea brings me to the next place, but walking the mile down the road freezing in our psycho societies, we're shouting, we're burnishing our voices, we're trying to be giants.

'None of us can.'

'Look at them.'

'Who?

'None of us.'

'Those girls - gone down there now...'

'We're going this way.'

'We can't even get in at this rate.'

'Where?'

'The church.'

'Eer... you aint comin in... your too drunk...'

'So... I'll show that Jesus!'

Laughing I tell the other one, 'Don't let him come in. Please.'

Laughing, he does, and they leave me and my Jesus. Inside the exquisite corpse hung up, the son of lamb a walking disease too skinny and stiff up to his armpits. And where is my Buddah? And where is Mo and the the others. I don't know but I feel like I'm in a pool of blood, up to my knees, and this poor Arab eyes staring at me like a homeless man begging for change and my friend at my left begging me to sit down and I do.

The sermon went on for an hour. I left. 'I have to go. I'll see you tomorrow,' is what I said when I left and I ran back to South Road and the frosty air clamping down on my knees turning my bones to ice and icicles like swords protruding from my eyes. I am running like a barbaric man ready for meat. The sky is dark but almost the colour of gherkins and I turn a corner, running and panting like a sick dog, and I get home... I mean I get back to the pub and there they are. And one shouts, 'Here he is! Son of Man! The man himself!'

'Shut up you fucking pisshead.'

'Bar's closed.'

'Shit.'

He offeres me his Guinness and it tastes of metal like drinking blood and I taste it on the back of my tongue, and my tongue turns metal and my insides turn metal and veins to copper wiring with that red and blue plastic coating, electric soul and all fantastic sexual fantasies are metallic, a bad reaction to the beer I'm having a terrible social erection; what's more painful is we're more or less unchanging unless fighting for some cause.

'I don't have one.'

'One what?'

'A cause.'

'Did you know the onion is a natural aphrodisiac?'

'No I didn't.'

Weeds that smell of onions grow between inch-thick iron and Frankenstein bolt, shit-coloured rust and swollen obscene torsos shaped like guns when bent over. Nurse figures playing on the mind, shoving thermometers that don't read any temperature, my finger on her trigger. And on my own.

'What you need is something special, my friend. Your getting uptight.'

I feel like I'm screaming through my nose and through inches of steel and iron and the taste of rust is like scabs. It's gonna be alright. Society has taken me for a ride and it bled on my metal. I see fleshy atrophied lightbulbs gripping thin-bodied pallid celing, Wah-Wah sound in dead of night, un-living eyes staring down at me behind a million echoes of 'Get him him up, quick.'

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.

Anti-Racism - And A Jacket Too Small

A Quick note: Coming home from work I'd bought Wall-e on dvd and some hair gel and as I got to the train station I found myself in the middle of an anti-bnp rally. They're those racist nationalists who hide behind a political party, so you can see I'm already against them, and I found myself wanting to join in. But it was cold, I didn't know anyone there, and there was about 50 policemen around and I had a knife in my pocket from work, which isn't the most unincriminating piece of evidence and reason to arrest me. So I was on my way, and got some leaflets off some guys who rather angrily protests "Stop the bnp" as I took a leaflet as if he was converting me away from racism.

I felt like saying, "Hey, guy, I've got the t-shirt," you know?

As the quick note goes on, I bought a jacket off the internet, thinking i'd be hip in doing that. I'm only 23 and i'm hardly down with the times. For the second time I got the wrong size. The first one was too big, now this one is too small. They're going to think I'm pulling some scam here, yeah, I'm buying jackets and sending them back illegaly. But I want my jacket!

Got Frank Turner tickets for january. These are replacement tickets (because he cancelled last time) but I've just bought some anyway! damn, I keep spending money when I should be saving. Mental Note: Stop Spending Money.

Metamorphose

Giving Nothing away,

An ultranova,
The small sediment
Travels velocities - deposits in its river -
Runs smaller than myself;

I switch lives
And kill off all cowardice - transfer my

Breathing,
Transfer my voice into Baby Jesus and speak,

Giving away Nothing
Like a Communist hologram;

The major pulpit
The journey

Journeys to Earth.

Roadhouse Blues and Jogging

Today in work I wrote some songs on some paper, while I was supposed to be listing items that needed replenishing. They were shit, really, and it's strange how hard it is to write while at work. I just can't think of any words; and I ended up with a tune in my head of some song I can't remember.... Oh, it was Roadhouse Blues by The Doors. So I was ripping off Jim Morrison writing this shit and I call them songs because I took the rhythm from a song and I made it rhyme. What's with people wanting poems to rhyme? I don't care for rhyming that much, it just seems childish if it's not done properly and if it's not a song. So when I don't use rhyme they say 'it's not a poem 'cause it don't rhyme.'

I left the pad of paper in work, but I might bring it home and write them on here, but they are shite. You can just tell how forced it was. And it gets me thinking, how do I write? Or what do I write? I thought I was good back in Uni, but now I don't know. Whatever, I need to concentrate on my short stories, which I might put on here.

Another thing, while I was going to work the other day I saw two joggers. Now this is like 6 in the morning. I mean, that's commitment. Maybe if I could commit to work like that. Work as in writing.

I got an email from Uni, says they still have my MA application and I'll find out if I got in or not in the New Year. I'd sent them an email because I was worried they'd lost my application since I'd sent it in the Summer and then was told the course won't start til 2009. But I hope I get in. If not, I've gotta leave this place. That place in JMU is the only anchor I've here right now. I think.

Hotel England

This house holds me in - Oh no;
Recluse is a social no-show
Cannot be driven by goddess living room
Coffee queen or set loose but

Reckless -
This house is a
Freedom house;

A house of freedom
A house of free-dumb - Wheel of Fortune
Extravaganza manic-street episodes;
Pre-disposed table, gully and lampshade,
House I am a brick wall,
House ten years old, 11 years, 12 ... 13 -

I mean it stops time,
The point is, house, it is
Going up going down house
Mutiny house;
Mad house on the inside terrace-
Disjointed/detatched - mug house;
Further down the road house;
Work house;
Economical downturn house;
Druggie/alky/loud house of demented
Madness on all fours, Oh abuse me house,
Use me house, November house;
November rain/Screaming house/Inside house/
This house with its glasses on reading this book by Coupland
With a haunting sensation of heade
Stockpiled up against seedy walls and his shuck
House replayed your living space - a room with you and your risky hands;

I know the right way house
No, I'm not a gemini
I'm that horse-man aren't I?
Your words are caught up in Hollywood
Soapy adolescent morale
Bi-polar dog is calling me
I don't know how I feel.

I don't hear a thing.

Black n' White in '06 - Crosby Beach

I found these photos I took back in October 2006, and I did quite a few and I tried to decide if it was worth it to have them in black and white, and these three were the only ones that I thought looked good that way.

Backwards

No Sun Here
Day Broken Fly away
Scarf warm dehydration driving
Head To mind
Hollow Sounds
I like to write this
Sdrawkcab forwards
Splled wrng wrds
Tell Tale of Death
Mmmmm, lovely and bleak
Fragile eyes Fragile ground
Favorite Song: Hey Joe
I know what you're thinking
As you read
And And And...

In Korova

8 arms & I must be high
Half-naked in bed
The high-tide wind comes in
And in the darkness I've taken
You all in my hand ...


All this time the taste of tea and blood
And ticking weather sound in my head
Of clocks and car engines resting their bodies
In cold starry wet grit,


Buddah is more reasurring
Because he hardly speaks;
In an instant before he speaks
There is the soft mellow of reality
Sandwiched together between my hands ...
Lying in bed ... Bare skin my blanket ...


4 brothers at one time,
Firing echoes of words no one hears
(2 half-brothers), heaving a coffin on our shoulders,
Don't let it drop,
Don't let one teardrop fall I mistakenly thought
He believed in whiskey and nothing else.


Most sick of death
When death becomes you -
Or that taste of blood;
Stalking your 70 year old feet,
Stood under the bulky trunk
The stink of shit and antiseptic
Like hospital wards of moaning croners
Wishing for whiskey
Like the Irish and the Indians.


Thinking I was great after I turned
To the blood cut-up into
Voicless pieces of meat
Where am not a man: a boy
Miles away from monday
Mother of hatred;
I do not hate you
Suicidal modern city is drunk again,
You'll rot in your grave for that.


2 friends drinking themselves to life;
We cannot be left to our own faint shiver of reason
Found shallow breathing at 3 O' Clock tables
Such specific nights at the tip of the world
Leaking neon and hydrogen and music sweet music
Made me a man to act this way.


And general music zombie from beyond the grave,
Farewell to the flesh
Crows their falsetto following
Buddah with his own problems ...

The Unluckiest Weekend Ever - And The Best Bar Ever

Didn't see Frank Turner because he'd gotten sick in Nottingham and finished early, so I checked his blog to see what the score was. Only when we were in town I found out he wasn't coming. It was the only thing me and my mate Dan were looking forward to after the worst Halloween. We sat in Lloyd's kind of laughing at how this has been the worst weekend, especially after Dan said last week it was going to be the best ever. (I mean, my dad died, Liverpool lost, Frank Turner cancels.) We went to a friend's flat to get my jacket I'd left on friday and walked all the way back to see if the support bands were playing. They weren't. Town seemed completely empty. Well, it was completely empty - I mean at one point we were the only two people in the Office and you could hear our conversation wall to wall when the song changed. I felt bad leaving the barmaid on her own.

It was a choice of going home and sulking or finding somewhere to drink. It was about finding a place we hadn't been in before. And we found it. We saw some guys taking guitars and amps inside and we walked in too. Got some drinks, sat down. Was a strange looking place. But we liked it. There was a band playing downstairs so we went and saw them. Didn't know if we had to pay, but we'd already bought tickets for that night anyway.

We stayed there until about 2 or 3am. We decided we couldn't tell anyone about this bar, because when that happens, everyone finds out about it and it turns into a fucking night club and 'the place to be.' So I'm not even going to say what it's called on here. We keep saying things need to change, and we got some of that change. But what it is, I need my own place. I'm getting a flat next year when I'm back at uni. It's the only thing to stop us being bored with life - that and learn to play guitar quicker.

Worse Halloween - And a Funeral

That was the shittest Halloween ever. With no costume, I had a half-assed zombie make-up thing put together within 2 minutes before leaving for a night in town that lasted a total of .... 2 and a half hours. I didn't go on the tour with the others, so 3 of us in costume walking around town while drunken criminals in old-man pubs got all rowdy and we looked for anyone else in costume. We found a place. Not only had it gotten shit in there, when the others came back we left for a club that was £8, so I didn't go in. 3 of us went home. I left my coat in the flat in town and it was £15 in the cab.

On the same day I buried my dad. Me and my brother carried it (along with our 2 half brothers). We didn't expect it to be that heavy. It made me sick. It was a Catholic funeral because my dad was Catholic, so me and my brother didn't know what we were doing. When we got to the cemetary we carried it to the hole and we had to lower it into the ground. Threw in soil. Threw in a flower. Family members I've never seen before began crying. My little sister was crying. I felt myself wanting to cry but I fought it back, couldn't be having that. But I have to say, as much as I hated him, it's the saddest and most difficult thing I've ever done.

Holes in the House

How cold is the house when there's no windows? So bloody cold! We had new windows done and so it was like living in a giant block of Swiss cheese ('cause of the holes). Well it all got done yesterday - and a new front door - and now the kitchen's getting a 'makeover' and it looks like a construction site, which is all I saw of the city 2 months ago. I'm living off Cup-a-Soup's and coffee.

I'm off work for about a week and a half starting friday, and Halloween is next week. I was going to go on a tour of haunted places but that was booked up, so we'll prob go get drunk round town. On the 2nd Nov I'm going to a Frank Turner gig. (He's an acoustic musician, look him up). But it's just time to get away from work; the early starts are driving me mad.

I haven't written anything in a while. I just haven't had the energy. I'm falling behind. I don't even read that much anymore. I've started and not finished 3 books because I got bored of them. I have a low attention span, you see. I'm far too easily distracted.

My dad died on Sunday. In his house. Prob drank himself to death. Don't know when the funeral is, but I'll be carrying the coffin. What's that? A Pallbearer? I'll be one of them.

Notes in a List

1. Staring into space is tiresome...

2. Laugh 'till you cry. Hahahahahaha!

3. Saturday the weirdos come out. Sunday seems kind of illegal.

4. Read plays as well as novels.

5. Memorise jokes. Especially other people's jokes.

6. Smoke in Winter. All the cool kids do it.

7. Give your alter ego a name. Mines Mikey. I knew a friend whose was Pedro.

8. Play around with music.

9. Don't buy shit.

10. Steal edible things.

11. If you (or have been) in a place where you can't see for the smoke, you're in the right place.

12. Smell drugs before you take them.

13. Act like the person you look up to.

14. If you haven't a person to look up to, then get one.

15. Learn to speed read.

16. Tell lies. It's like reading a story.

17. Make up back stories for people you see in the street.

18. If you wake up drunk somewhere with green hair and eye liner, lie back down.

19. All the spirituality you may need from yoga is to sit cross-legged.

20. By all means, break all rules.

An Examination of Earth

Us thousands have been used to
Abandoning the ascent chalices
They were scaling no many years
Terfalls on the island aren’t usually a subject for pan
And where I snapped discussion in the pub,
Women are generally much.
Some waiters migrs told her as a monkey
But vital safety feature
Yat-chan serves crashed in Iraq,
The traditional sacked yesterday
Fuku-chan hands tended to put explo –
Instead of tipping in 2003.
Bluster when the subject of the primate barmen
Located and stimulated bar north of Tokyo,
100m (300ft.) lorious sunshine
The ice snapped and could not save
And then the cord its load of ice at (14in) of rain
And who has 12 this Summer?
To the right lining of the horizon
Early Autumn continued up before some of the past
And escaping to small weather.
Children are top RAF commanders,
About their parents cules aircraft needed
But acted only –
One in five young men dies when a plan
Their parents have, fresh evidence confirm the past,
Children think their sive suppressant foam
Ther parents are still taking tanks in 2002.
Fought along narcotics seemed in battles over 200
Thirds of parents tremendous and his bout the effect
Restores the honour and children, the survey soldiers
Whose faith drugs and alcohol
Majestey’s armed forces showed.
To Emperor Akhito, who lives love honey is now selling one,
The moat is separated from the generation
The world isn’t surprised;
Poor summer generation of the stream of fast winds
Only one in ten which blocked war
Lebrities taking Southern Europe ‘cool.’
The first half at Sept addicted months rain 8.2cm.
Frozen on camera the most vulnerable
Narrowly escaped potential solution.
Battle the air which is just
Settle in Britain. The way we like it.
British troops focusing on our Winter.
Dead Ghurka brought away we’re starting
In the wings with an event that is
To reduce risk is guaranteed to be super.
Tactical analysis cool, super early:
Farm and a model taken drugs
A cow in ten of those
A hot knife is young people
Spend up to a month work
63 year drugs more complex designs
Fairly easy say today’s par-temperature controlled studio.
Must maintain a face uninvited inside the grounds
This butter artist deserves a date with the Lord High Executioner.
The Imperial Palace smaller in Tokyo,
Visitors to an artist failed to demonstrate,
Studio could forgive country.
I can’t believe it is wounded Falklands,
Before 1997 night out on Saturday night
Strong ties instantly while her friend dies later.
A jealous woman tried to kill a British artist,
While crossing herself by drinking acid at a wedding
Moving to New York slashed her wrists
Hit by two taxies three months after.
Crowd of onlookers high over Britain
The season was blamed on a jet
An ironic weather from the warm week
A policeman who saw cow riding a motorbike
And a girl lying in bed
Cool enough, but it was unlikely.

Pass the Time

Tell me now tell me now
How long am I going to stand your evil ways?
Tell me now (9:31):
Babes built out of blocks,
And the village just for you.

Tell me now
Except at night on the real town
We make ourselves come true:

Tell me now we can
Try we wait
And complain;
And if only we made the move
Before the darkness folded.
If only, tell me now,

That freedom’s just a word,
You know, and
To stay healthy you eat nothing, don’t you?

Let’s see if we can attract some hatred.
You know we never win at this,
Just make the poems come true.

And the village just for you
Like a stony lover for you,

If only,

Tell me now,
I saw this fly on the wall
And it don’t move an inch,
It was asleep:

Take this season from me,
I can make ourselves come true.

Tell me how long I can stand:

(Cooling mood

Transfers me out of here;

Dogs dogs dogs;

3-string pick-up stand evil ways)

I can make your lights
Blaze – the sign I am coming:-

The weather.

The cool sure outspoken wind
Howl-
ing at the past and
Future
And the now

And finally death has stopped.

Music Envy

I have musical genius envy
Like Mozart and Beethoven fighting
On and on and on
Violin – Do Do de Do

Quick,

And on and on and on...

UNDERCOVERS

AT NIGHT;

Private and confidential:
030 supply chain shop:

Payment
Deductions
Cumulative figures;

£304 plus overtime.

The seagull flies in white morning.

Three days since last drunk,
Can’t remember where I’ve been,
See the white walls turning green,

– Note: See Dan about flat.

Piles of paper on the floor poems books socks dirt
Stale food a tower of Coke cans on the bookshelf

A mountain of nightmares
A pack of chewies, an M shaped keyring, books upon books,
The Journal of Kurt Cobain and The Brooklyn Follies,
A bad bad feeling that all these train tickets

Lead no where,

Or where these books appeared some music
About fifty stolen beer mats,

– Two Chinese men stuck in time

Playing checkers;

Over the hill is night,
Over the hill I can’t see what the days will look like.

A List of Poets

A list of poets that I read (inc. musicians).

Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, Charles Bukowski, Ted Berrigan, William S Burroughs, Guillaume Apollinaire, Arthur Rimbaud, Bob Dylan, Jim Morrison, Sylvia Plath, Philip Larkin, Dylan Thomas, JH Prynne, Wilfred Owen, William Blake, Frank Turner, Robin Purves, Jennifer Moxley.

Rabbit

Something I drew a few weeks ago. Looks like a crazed rabbit.

Moving Jobs? - And Guitar

Over that last week of work I realised about 10 people have left or are leaving, which is kind of weird because I hardly know them, I've only been there three months. But what I'm thinking of is what new people they'll employ over the next couple of months. I'm going to be working there, maybe showing them the 'ropes.' But I only started there in July.

That gets me thinking of moving to a different job. I got told a couple of weeks ago on the train going into Liverpool that I should go after a better job and do what I'm good at. He said don't put barriers in front of yourself. I could write for a newspaper, but last time I did that was the University paper in Preston and I hated it so I quit. They never published my work. I don't know what writing jobs there are, but I sent some poems to some literary magazines to be not read. I'll write a book and publish a book of poetry soon - like after I've done my Masters in Liverpool. It'd look odd doing a writing course when already published.

I've picked my guitar back up. I started in the Spring, but I've hardly touched it since moving back home. I was talking to a guy at work who plays guitar and it got me thinking about playing. Maybe I could sing some songs - people listen better to songs than poems.

Transition

Silent stillness a heartbeat in the thick air your only
Pulse in the world at this moment in time mesmerised
By the tiny mechanical Clack clack of clockwork days
Recent surf going out and in a delicate Shh over thick
Heavy empty sand Starry slush in its eyes like the skies
It stares at all night; We remember driving like lunatics
Half-drunk freedom soldiers out to seduce the world
With our radioactive blood – A distant orange summer
Slick hot and golden and full of eerie practise
Of life and practising death by bottle screaming
Butterflies every now and then in some bold wonderland
With sharp enemy fronts held by our explosive eyesight
That never stopped starring, starring and seeing
The North held by South; A grass and a sky a soily ocean:
Everything wide-eyes and in a daze no doubt
Some unwelcome Vega to come and ruin it
And you said something along the lines of:
“What’s the fucking point?” I don’t know. Why don’t you know?
But you calmed down sometimes we took turns going crazy
Hidden from the country and the political death ray
Around us, sick bureau puddles everywhere;
I climbed a fence and fell off, then a tree
At 2 am in the South of England: I grew up you grew up we all
Grew up like children long friend dope fiend
Morning philosophy; eyebrows raised and set forward
On the horizon were “stuff” was happening –
Separate ways – there and then meeting again –
Fateful artificial deadly water lilies if we ever took serious
The new times: Happening now.
We pass the time around like a bottle of mixed cocktails
And where are you going with that gun
In your hand? Hey? Born victims jelly eyes:
Blackcurrant skies appear over there in wintery morning
Before work at 6:15 am, it’s a slow change you got there
Transition onto next raining slowly grinning.

Sunday Work - And Old Faces

Working on Sundays is always quiet, feels like you're not supposed to be there, feels like you could just stop moving and everyone would walk around you. I'll have a 12-hour shift over night on tuesday. That'll feel like we're robbing the place, like we've been locked in and all we can do is rob the place and throw all the clothes, toasters, and soap dish holders off the roof, so we can get it all in the morning.

I'm seeing old faces, you know from high school and that, and most of the time I don't want to see those faces, I mean, I went through years without seeing them and that was enough, and now they're popping back up like fucking weeds. You can't really get rid of those fuckers. I think it's because I'm living at home again, but some faces I don't mind having a look at, it's just I'd never accept that they were there again. If you know what I mean.

I need to move somewhere else. When I do it will be genius.

One Two

When you live
You will see the harsh
Complexities
Of life
Within life within dreams
Driving cars
Walking waiting
Wailing wearing shoes
Shoo-ing away pigeons.

When you die
You will hear
A voice
(Dark light)...
Tunnel?

On Writing - And Sleeping

One writing technique I like to use is this Surrealist or Dada technique (I think it is anyway) where you cut up bits of your one-line notes to make a poem. Burroughs used the cut-up technique a lot, and it makes the piece hard to read but it's ingenious in its own right. If used properly.

I thought of a technique of writing one word a day. Then over time you put those words together, but that would take ages. But it's all about having them make sense with no sense at all. I like to think I coined the phrase 'Song Line.' This is a line in a poem or a song that sounds almost exactly like the previous line, but with different words. (I found out it's a real technique called Mondegreen, Hendrix used it in Purple Haze). John Lennon could do that. You find it happening in songs, and sometimes it doesn't happen and you only think it does. EXAMPLE: 'Romantic young kissable lips,' from a Frank Turner song. I turned around to be 'Manic unkissable lips.' You see? Also, Kerouac gives the idea, not to cut-up- but to write as first intended. The first thing you think of is what you write. EXAMPLE 2: 'Gorilla lightbulb, hat sits down, lamppost bags paper plughole, wet frog night day lights pushy.' That came from the top of my head, it sounds rubbish, but a technique like that can be worked on if there's a specific theme going on.

Also, you ever get that weird feeling of loss when you sleep during the day? I did today, I slept for 4 hours (2-6) and I lost the day. I had been working all morning, though. I also got the feeling of being watched. There's a strange lack of peace in day-time sleep.

Give Me Money - A Free Spirit in Debt.

I figured it would take over a year to save up enough money to pay course fees and rent a flat in the city. But I've only got a year, and I'm going to work my ass off through all those months and not reach the amount needed. It comes at a time when everyone has high-paying jobs after graduating and even though I've graduated, I'm still only working in a shop. It's a lot of work for a little amount of money. I can't spend it, so I can't see anyone. So it's going to be a pretty lonely year, me thinks.

And I don't want to get a loan, but I might have to. I want to travel and see the world, and you know it's getting bad when the plans you make are a year and a half in advance. Kids like us are meant to be free. A while ago I wrote this line: 'A free spirit in debt.' It's happening more and more to us; you want to be a free spirit or not - take your pick.

Coming Home After Saturday Morning Work

Manic

Today tilts and screams out

Your life’s all your way!
Tonight we will apply our wills
And stand and shout that the world
Is laughing and the night
She’s full of the night
She’s full of the night while
It tilts Moksha! And inside
Wide-eyed our naked eyes
Are selling our souls the old ways

Of thinking,

Culmination the human form
Dog of Dharma,
In a shining world
Where your actions are your best intentions,
But I feel the prize is perfection
Perfect participation in the eyes of growing old.

Best lives will see a glimpse
Of everything:
Miniscule lives the alcohol raining
Ages of dining with dangerous gaming
Working for hours forever complaining
Always embracing the lives of Yogic liberation.

And I will Surrender –

The naked skydive;
It is the Maniac
And we are the Sun,
And yr own sun’s bein lazy;

And Sacrifice –

People remote so wishful inside

And I will remember how it used to be

Mukeshpuri the lives intact with yr loss forever

And I will remember

The half-hearted second thought,
Rubber arms pink elastic muscles
Move like agony sometimes,
One who lies there all day
Driving his headache to sleep,
Seek the grey bathtub-water sky soaking

The patchwork wooden tiled floorboards
Of dawn of time dust asleep

Just waking up like an Indian God

Now
Rolled over to one side;

And I will remember
How it used to be so great;
And turning to the old ways
Surprise yrself with a collection of books lives and music;

Hyper action for my own safety
From losing it

Again,

And I will remember losing it,
Visionary thinks the world of you
It’s all coming true
But it lacks a bit of essence,

And I will remember

Us waking up like Gods.

Delusion Calm

A fat ambush of *sparkling* people
Out seeking wisdom the Sun
Slipped into daze death crazy unstable
The able are able to go
But the lazy are able to stay;
Say why don’t you go?
Away from thick grime and sulphur
Eggy-smell of the old =railway= lines
=Parallel= minds a deuce doth go easy,
What? You say what?!
Go! Leave now and be gone!
Peace! Peace be with you – and all that,
Karma Sutra and Krishna –
Have a nice day, which way?
The order has left its un-artful courthouse
Of spiteful odours & wigs,
Plenty of those overzealous monsters –
Leave me alone!
Leave me the hell alone & find yrself
A spiteful harsh reality that spits out colours
Black pink green
Unseen in – No, always seen!
In sleep, we dream!
At night, we dream!
U n s e e n
Weird eyes skin cocaine-white
Slipping unconscious *sparkling* against granite
With the middle-karma, with dots, man,
With smudges on the windscreen, girl,
Wet wiry filaments in yr eye
Experiencing yr affections;
>
t
urn
<
Train is a long dream train
Short pain a plain pain to go all that
Way and it was a long dream along
A great ghastly obnoxious lovely sexy
Adorable profound sweet
Beautiful wonderful dream
Of everything of everything of everything of...

Cow in the Sky

There was a cow in the sky and I took a picture of him..

Untitled Painting 2

A mania is a mixture, really, like red and blue, fire and water; it's like one thing can lead to another and better yet, one thing actually is another. It's all really nonsense like bathwater in a whirlpool going down the drain all at once.

A friend once told me the best way to feel better is to run; I remember I ended up chasing him around midnight in some field in Cornwall because he stole my bottle of Vodka. When I caught him, we woke up some German campers, so we had to run away again. He ended up going to sleep in the tent and I went and climbed a tree, I remember sitting in that tree in the wee hours, so many miles from home.

Radioactive Bookshelf

Right, say, look this way at certain thing you bring
Then that way at next thing and thing
Turns to be no “thing” expected than what’s
In front of your radioactive bookshelf
That warble red green bloooo –
You will find the old radioactive bookshelf
And it will find its poems
Miles and miles away on some London day
Where a musical parliament hates the bass
Wall-voices – that could be us!
With our heroin socks miles and miles away
On some terrible day watching us go by
Kept divine by the best generations,
These demonstrations wake in morning –
Dartboard stomach shoots by –
Headache-stricken scarf wound hot,
Rock n’ Roll screaming red tongue
Sausage roll screaming tongue red,
We touch the Universe with callused fingertips
Tip: open toilet door with pinkie –
Feel voices remember like afterwords,
Forewords word words worming their way in;
And now the stark bright naked voices with a gun
Your parliament hopefuls are deaf next thing and next
To nothing the body kept divine by practise
Of darting away, half-used, half-abused,
Half a person in trouble
Hoping someone will call to me.

Untitled Painting

I painted this and it took me around two hours. I used oil paints on small canvas. I didn't know what it was meant to be, I was just putting the colours down; but I was going through stories in my head as I painted. Like the green at the bottom was the typical green fields of a normal painting. I thought the black and red looked like fire so I made grey smoke, then the blue-ish sky. There is a red sun at the top, it's the only thing that seems normal in a messed-up world.

Stoic

So it's like, Stoic the way you could be leaning to one side with a cigarette in one thin hand and rabbit ears, and you look to one side and then the other, deciding on your Karma or someone else's Karma and nothing goes so quick, only as slow as your cig; and so what the hell is all this stoicism about when the Fonze was much quicker than this guy? What I'm saying is, it's all about avoiding time.. you see? Is that Stoic? No, stoic is so slow that you end up watching the time, all the cool kids wear watches.

My Guardian Angel Hates Me

The arch of the world arched inwards
Silent sunshine
Like some unbalanced wood house

Construed to be meaningless...
Stop!
I say,
Jazzy temperature of nuclear lightbulb mojo lights up,
Working hours a day aches feet arching forward over

These lips haunt me plain milk
These eyes fringed love of eyes of silk,
Why she hates me is another reason.

Up the alleyway rains for teeming doused
Roads jumper sodding jumper hair and head
Totally wet.

Okay. What black world sky!

What milky bland glass
Plain tabula does she think she’s writing on?

She disappeared for months vanished

And then comes back

Just like that.
What? Just made of milk? Or what?

Cider. A fringe of happiness. A pout.
What a fucking waste, half-misconstrued
Half wasted; what a waste of time with my
Guardian angel,

Green, grassy green...

Red, blood red...

Blue, ice

Bad

Stoic

Unpleased.

Her hair is cut over her eyes
Her tongue behind her lips.