La under it

For my next trick...

I'm not the only mad one in here. I have lots of friends who are mad too. Like you. Madness is sexy. Miaow.

Friday 13th is a right write-off thanks to the lack of any ability to sing, or even talk without sounding silly. Put an extra comma in there and you'll have a fun time imagining me sounding silly when I sing. Like when I sing along to Burial for a laugh if i trust you if i trust you if i trust you... will you realise that being deranged is nothing worrying unless you can't handle novelty? The write-off was written off in style by a fire which made me take a different route home, on a bus, going to the wrong town, but via a vegan restaurant which is rarely open and which holds meditation sessions rather than meals when it is open. Soya cheese pizza is hardly something you'd eat, but I'd eat it and relish every moutful. You can't say 'soya pizza' without saying 'oya pete', so say it and I'll turn around and expect you to be a geordie.

Cake is great but not good enough to return my brain to me, and everything has been written off this evening, the records won't spin properly and I can't talk properly and after spending a day doing nothing but waiting for time to pass so I could go home I now find myself spending an evening doing nothing but waiting for more time to pass so I can go to bed and get the fuck out of this cruel world for a few hours. When I wake up, it will be party time once more, I have a framed picture of a naked old woman to pick up so I can hang it on my wall and scare anyone who dares stay the night. I have records to collect, and others to pick up besides them, and friends to pat on the back, and the launderette beckons.

THE LAUNDERETTE BECKONS! A lovely word, and a brand new experience. Fuck your "arty" pictures. The launderette beckons, one day a girl went to work there and the letters had gone missing, her clothes went unwashed, the pub was visited and the ladette was created, and now look at the mess we're all in. The talent is in the asylum.

I can explain it all with one statement of fact: a cappuccino was drunk this morning, yet sleep was had this evening. And that really doesn't happen. When I wake up tomorrow, all of this will seem like it never happened, and my dream will be the only thing I want to think about. When I close my eyes the reality arrives. When I open them and find that I'm in East Croydon, I can't work out what's a dream and what's reality, and for some reason or other you're still there and it confuses things even more.

Another statement of fact: nodding off at my desk on Thursday, I managed to install an IDE, but when I came back from the cafe I didn't know if it had been real or just a dream, and when I pressed ctrl+alt+del and saw the stuff there, I was unsure where it had come from and why it had come. The only thing to do is to persevere and try to work out the purpose. But I'm still trying to work that one out. To press ctrl+alt+del.

plain useless

When you don't want to feel, you can't feel the cold, and when you don't want to feel, the rain doesn't matter either, and when you don't want to feel, the music means nothing, and when you don't want to feel, you don't want to feel, because the feeling is horrible. When the people look like they've just seen an alien because the feeling has disfigured you, and when the people look scared because the feeling is reaching out into their zone, and when you can't see yourself properly because the feeling has blinded you. Shouting here is pointless. The swearing will come later.

Have you ever waited for a bus and the other person waiting looked so worried that you just walked home instead, and you wanted to walk forever but your house was closer than you wanted it to be and the route was far more familiar than you wanted it to be because with every step you took you walked into another universe of memories, but the memories had been disfigured too, and the whole world was grotesque and you wanted to retch and throw it all up, back onto the world, but the confusion was too much and lying down would be the best thing to do, but you can't lie down because you can't do anything because nothing seems to exist any more? This isn't poetry, it's just stupidity.

If the rats crawled out of the sewers and into your car and all over you when you were trying to flirt and show no fear, and if the rats threw up blood and your hair got dirty and your friend ran away and told the world about your baby rat and you felt so stupid for ever driving anywhere, even more stupid and confused than reading stuff written on the internet makes the writer look, then what on earth would the people think and what would your friends think and would it be an experience to treasure for the good side or for the bad side and do you think you could ever look back on it at some point in the future and laugh about it, or would it disturb you for the rest of your life?

When you leave the house and it's sunny so you've got no umbrella, but then the weather turns nasty without warning and you get soaked by icy water... then what, bitch? You just have to feel nothing and change your clothes and dry your hair and wonder why the fuck it happened to you. Petrol prices are on the up, slut.

back like that

At least I've finally realised why Martyn's DCM remix of "Broken Heart" gets all the attention. All I needed to do was step back and sit down and do something else. I zoomed in, but now I can't work out how to zoom back out. Nose to the grindstone? (I used to think they were saying "grimestone"). The time to phone and feel less alone has long gone and now you won't even poke me I write rhymes with juvenile patterns so the vicious thoughts can't choke me IF ONLY!

When I drop the dots and dashes and silly adornments and lay the words down bare, do I give the impression that this was written because you don't care? Nonsense nonsense nonsense! Read it however you like, you'll read it the wrong way because there is no right way: it's all wrong, and all that's left is a rhythm of feeling and a trickle of memory, the imaginary reader who sits on the other side of my screen is probably the only one who won't read this, but in another universe there exists a version of this and a version of that and they come together more gracefully, with no collision, untainted by puerile images injected into your brain by those shows on the television WAKE UP and put down the children's book and the adult's magazine and the commuter's newspaper.

I have to go now, because I have a record to mix in to the one that's just started revolving.

Bus Horror Victim: First Picture

Even if you wanted to turn and hide you couldn't, but you don't want to do that, you just can't help but stare because that's what you've been trained to do and you don't have the discipline to untrain yourself from these ready-made paths of thought that they lead you down put your hand in your pocket why don't you and when you get home turn that tv on and sit in front of it while you wait for someone to call you and make the emptiness seem acceptable. If you extract my brain you'll find it's as complete as yours and if you compare my soul you'll find an extra bit of growth that yours lacks, it grew out of necessity and absence and tried to be the part that yours found elsewhere, the part that gives you that sunny air.

The words are only coming out wrong because the world has been destroyed by stupidity and it is relentless inexhorable exhaustible far from adorable abhorrent stupid stuff, you swallow it whole. When I read over those pretty words of naive stupidity, the meaning is clear, and the meaning is rubbish, but if I ever read over these words of twisted nonsense I'll struggle to understand what on earth was falling out of my fingers and why it fell in that peculiar way, I've had such a particular day which saw me sitting in a lecture theatre full of perfumed ladies and educated gents, old patrons and young upstarts, silly tarts dressed in leather and confusing 'prodigious' with 'prolific' in the final show of complete stupidity dressed up as intellectualism GET OUT OF MY WAY but thanks for showing us the show at least you know talent from tripe even if you don't know what the words mean.

The words were harassment back then but they are now nothing but embarrassment, and look at the nonsense I have to tolerate in return. If pretty pictures are flashed on the screen before me and the grotesque is what we find intriguing, then what was the problem anyway? One day a database will spew this crap out just as fast as the server can transform the nonsense into nuisance. Nonsensefallsoutofapachewebserveralldaylonglikeyougiveafuck. The words were so lovely that the writer was forgotten and the words were all that was treasured, so the writer threw the treasure into a trove and drowned himself while everyone else frolicked so happily, plucking words and pulling birds out of the database... get fucked and go to space I hate this place.

Spice Bun in the meantime, hun.

unedited shite #348

SMILE! (it might never happen)

SMILE! (jesus loves you)

SMILE! (it takes more muscles to frown than it does to smile)

bollox bollox bollox I SHOUT IN RETURN, even if I did get my capitalisation muddled, who are you anyway, you cynical whore? Words that mean so little that they should be annotated and edited and then annotated and edited again until some semblance of conformity has been imposed on them. WHAT ELSE AM I SUPPOSED TO DO with my evening when I've spent the evening housechoring while others did something less boring with someone they find more interesting than anyone else in the whole wide worldwide web? There is nothing left but to mess up a blank page and hope that somebody notices the wonderful clean odour in the same way that they notice my wonderfully bright jumpers and intellectual sparkle.

If I say that word again, I'll have said it too many times. Who reads it anyway? Even if you read all of these words they'll fly right through you like radio waves and cosmic radiation, they don't come structured like a gnossienne or a gymnopedie but I wish they did sometimes. Such music can touch me so that I feel my soul pulling on my tear glands, and it's a strange feeling and one that I can't grasp.

After the mad dutch woman finished giving me her immediate impressions of Maria's well thought-out expressions, I was left wondering if there was indeed any sense in what she had said, and then everything became even more confused when the question was posed:

"Do you think she still has sex, at her age?"

And I had no idea what to say think or do but I laughed all the way to the next exhibition.

Words fall out of my fingers all day long, and you don't give a fuck: you'll just watch them fall.

What am I su-posed 2 dae?

What is ne1 su-posed 2 day when 4am comes and the eyelids are open before breakfast is even ready? Get chocolate weetabix minis and cover them in chocolate milk before your body even knows it's not yet breakfast time, and feel like you're having a midnight feast shortly before dawn and not much later after midnight. If Nelly Furtado could hear that tune, she'd go nuts.

For the sake of random writing I disconnect the part of my mind that focuses on threads and let my fingers wander around the fragments of sentences that jostle around in my head. Ever seen a broken mirror? That's an image that will stick with me forever, and I will spend forever trying to dodge the obvious connotations and seek far deeper-reaching objective correlatives when I drop words onto screens and into your minds.

This is unmoderated and unedited, unlike everything else, this is half-baked like an Asda doughnut that you think you might like until you realise that it's not at all good, but then you argue with other people who think it's divine. Loneliness is cleanliness, and clean living throws light on all the parts of the body and mind that had previously been forgotten.

6 am has come, and I can now rise and shine more brightly, Brighton is my destination and Europe is still my playground. nonsense nonsense nonsense likeugiveafuck.

Surreeling from the fx of newfoundlands of emotions

Two weeks without a drink or a smoke and I'm beyond reality, so far that if you examine the syntacticality of this made up story that you won't even follow the first thought, let alone the middle 8 sentences of infinite madnuts. 8 sentences I mean the sentence of 8 weeks; 6 weeks is a long time and 8 is infinity, my sentential obsequies for reasonable sense and words now follow.

My opening is beyond belief but please believe it if you want to see it then step right up and I'll show you, I went to the bar and at first they thought it was a hoax, but by the time I found my flow both my minder and I were in no doubt of the severity of the laughter that was on its way. J2O is my juice, and if you're celebrating a birthday and fortunate enough to have found yourself a pub full of the mentally ill and the physically afflicted then you're also keen to escape the occasion and glance at the insanity while it stares back behind you and wonders just how the years have failed to take their toll on you.

Pointlessness defined is continuing to babble incoherently in the hope that eventually the pieces fall into place and hang together like a coin pusher, the drug pusher has no chance any more because the thread snapped and not even the sky looks real: WHAT IS THAT IN THE AIR? This isn't stream of consciousness, before you try to pigeonhole it, the whole collection of flying emotions has everything to do with the cold at 5am this morning and nothing to do with ignoring my minder, who is now mindful of the fact that I only bought a thin laptop to make my lap look fatter.

When I find a way to double-post, your poster boys will fall and your poster bed will collapse, you'll find you can untie yourself too, this isn't a relapse, it's a new way to relax and you're yet to grasp such basic facts, so I write a crass rhyme to bring music to your ears and help you forget what your deeper feelings struggle to comprehend.

- - - - -

|economics|
Deficit may lead to consumption if there is domestic investment.
Excess on current acount: consumption for future generations.
Deficits often associated with international competitiveness.
|end of economics|

{meaning?}

you forget about desire, and then a moment may come when you suddenly remember it, and you spring into action.

{really?}

__________________________
P O EM E T R I CITY
(ahem)
_______________
Plosives appeal like rosies
Brangdabblish and uff
Trewpaz kadum yo
Restolutivisionism brakered hard
Nonsense NONSENSE nonsense
Likeyougiveafuck?
___________________________


*If you blinked as prettily as your eyelashes suggested you could, then the happiness would flow*