Ex-Shit

Do you ever dream about a woman? And then when you wake up you’re sort of in love with that woman? Sometimes it can be a fictional woman. Well, one that you don’t know. Or haven’t met yet. Maybe. But this one, this one was my ex. So all day I’ve been in love with my ex. I hope I don’t feel that way much longer. It’s shit.

2011 – So What? – Part I

There have been a few moments in 2011 that have made me want to shit my life through a straw at the heavens. Many times when I have seen the phantom plane ticket. Times when my feet have been constantly restless. Embarrassingly so. But as a year, it’s been fairly pffft as far as I’m concerned. Fine. The previous one reared it head like a twenty-foot monster in the shape of a demonic three-year-old. And fucking terrifying that was. Destroyed everything including a special temple I had built to commemorate the life of an excellent, but unknown, poet. No matter. One dusts ones self down and carries on, doesn’t one? And so, as 2010 hit its declivity, it was with a profound sense of unease that I bobbed upon the waters of the late December down time. You could find me stationed at the local. My weapons: a pint of strong, continental lager and, when there was minimal risk of losing my seat, a packet of full-flavoured cigs. Occasionally I’d see some shifty figure lope past the window and convince myself that it was a scout. Yes, 2011 had employed scouts and was sending them out into the world to scan, tag and retrieve the data on every poor sod who hadn’t had the sense to lock themselves in their flats. In the far reaches of my noodle, I felt sure that, if it was going to happen there was nothing I could do about it. Hiding would only prolong the panto of persecution. Out in the open, at least I could see their face. Inevitably, though, I’d end up chatting up some girl or be part of a group of lager laughs. If 2011 had busted through the door in front of strobe lighting and dry ice, I’d have been none the wiser. Imagine being sat in a pub, bladder too full, an uncomfortable build of beer bubbles in your colon, and they announce the four-minute warning. That new year’s, like this one, I’m sat behind my curtains armed with this typer and watching to see what unfolds.
And I’ve not ruled out the stay puft marshmallow man.

The War on Electric Enamel

The clearest indication that the task of raising one’s head from one’s pillow is becoming more difficult paints itself in smears of blood and scatters its message in tufts of hair. Normally, whatever that means, the simple act of raising the limbs and trunk is completed without question, without fuss. Yet, as years pass, as women come and go, as new lives emerge from the ashes of old ones, these first movements of the day seem to have become more taxing than was previously the case. Wheezing, half earnest encouragement; the promise of fresh, buttered toast; the precise smell of warm gold; these phantom hoists gently coax the sluggish body from its funky cot, followed wearily by the mind. Ethereal music echoes across the kitchen floor, streaming through microbes of dust, odd insect limbs and ribbons of cellophane, ending at a giant, gnarled set of feet. Hairs jut out of sticky looking flesh like dark brown tubes, tapering into smoother, more ticklish crevices. And, like droplets of chocolate, moles sit upon forearms; idle, almost parasitical.

The slap of the sole on laminate floor.

Big sky whipping up the whooping atoms of Thursday.

Don’t Say I Don’t Love You

Ah yonks, beings of littleness and weather reports and glittery, pink boots. I will not be stopped by the insults in the street, reports on self-destruction or any other bloody rubbish. Tweak the robot gland and save the rainforest. Must you smoke? Atom bomb logic; a thousand fiery fists punching the faces of every man, woman and child. No signatures, no crumpled notes, no entertainment. A huge, ornate bottle of whiskey. Smears upon the carpet. Interest in politics. No mountains. Join together at the foundation of the mountain. Ah, my Untitled 1. Like a monkey. A fountain of sludge; scraped from the fallopian tubes of the diseased city, hermit like, criss crossed and forgotten by clumsy clerks with cheap pencils. No. We can’t help you. Give me a cigarette, I’ll give you money? And the slack-jawed, fashionista lying in pools of their own liquified brains. Crotch splashed with blood. The scream of the arrow, the poison frog. End your dinner now, you are eating your own flesh. The waiter has two, small rings of snot in each nostril which he snorts back into his head. His trouser pocket shuffles. He has only one hand. We laughed and laughed. The poor sod was buried today. Cloudburst. Shellac triumph over red-nosed brioche handed clumsiness. And the bastard hoofed off his clompers and demanded beer. He smelled like cooked meat and stale water. Head through the tent. Saint who? Hot head. Flat bread. Bed.

Bed.