disgrace

THRILLER?! Getthefuckouttahere, what is this? Suddenly in a posh club with coked-up barmen ringing a bell and clapping their hands, what the fuck?! And commercial hip slop, dropped like there was no mixer, some well mixed but ultimately horrific electro, what am I doing? I'm going home, that's what I'm doing: I'm looking for a reggae soundsystem, but it's the same story here as in Spain, there's no dread. No dread, just happy go lucky singing about social injustice, it's the same story as in Spain: where's the dread? The dread? If this is a playground, then there should be some funky. And if there's none of that, then I'm not having any of it.

skrev on my væg

Dansk! No more will I write, because I've said enough and the clue is obvious. But I'm not in Danelandercountry, oh no, the jordbær are called frutilla where I am, or at least outside they are, not here where I am at the moment, lost in a world of speeding bytes that get magically put together by the sort of wondrous code I hope to one day write. I'm practising.

And as I practise I tire, and the need arrives for me to yank myself and purge the rammed junk, here, here I say. Right here. They call it whatever, and I buy it however, they don't make it like that over here, in fact they make it so poorly that I'm making my own most days and most nights these days (and most nights). If I punctuate so well at times, it's to give you a break, a chance, something to stick a hook into and attach your rope: stay safe as you climb, my dear!

Imaginations and engineering, dream-buccaneering and sneering, cheering, drooling, oh dear, my friends lack friends and years, and some lack everything but a relationship. Tell the whole world, darling, but don't let them send you birthday cards, befriend the world but trust nobody. What pap, what piffle what nonsense nonsense nonsense likeyougiveafuck, like I write here, and as if I read through to check, the thoroughness of this lies in the lack of any plan, of any test, it's made up on the spot and preserved for centuries. I could make myself famous just by including the words "I feel" in a sentence, and maybe I could attract the attention of at least one lucky star just by saying "I feel marvellous" I feel I feel I feel, I feel myself, I'm feeling myself, and now I've hi-jacked the sentiment and twisted the whole meaning of the database, I feel like throwing this immense sentence of inconsequentiality out there and if they feel me then they'll follow: LOOK AT THE LENGTH OF THIS SENTENCE, it's like a book in a sentence, a world write here, go ahead and java extract me I'll tell you everything you need to know, Ms Curious.

And with that, the final stab in the darkness of insanity, it's time for an acceptance test of the most regular order, the master of one style is the amateur of another, history has been made, but there are so many histories now that making a new one is a trifling experience.

before the bubbles go flat

Before the bubbles go flat it's time to use up the last few words that are contained in my fingers, I'm dropping them all over the place right now, some even ended up in the physical world, where I still couldn't touch them but I could blur them, scribble them, make them messy. Send them. Stamp and send. Bang!

The siesta was long-lived and the influence of the book in the park, under the tree, was at first distracted by falling invisibleness that stuck the pages together in the most annoying way and in the most strategic spots, a brand new book suddenly destroyed by an invisible killer. The visible ones were there for all to see, proud of their water balloons and pleased with the coincidence of hot weather and holidays. My feet were placed strategically, but although I could avoid the visible dangers, the invisibility fell, and I realised that yesterday wasn't an anomaly: the killer was always at large in that square. I had to go elsewhere, I had to move.

With turbo crunk and words from the future that nobody bothered to find in the past, I flew back to base and collapsed in a synchronous sleep with the foreign writer of the facemail I'd just read, my sleep was long-lived and the energy burst even longer. Back to the future on a bench, with filthy pigeons trying to feed off invisibility: it wasn't falling there, fortunately.

The bubbles have gone, the final few were beginning to flatten, maybe like a yield curve. The book never told me what it would look like in cases of deflation, so my eyes are on the lookout, and my mind is on autopilot. Sleep favours the autopiloted mind.