Monday, 30 November 2009

Battered Accoustic

Here is my version.

One night in December the four of us came staggering back to my place, laughing and singing loud into the deep; as if we could, this time, chase despair away for good. We never had much food in my flat, but there was a battered old acoustic in the corner, a view from the loft window that could be used to see the stars on cloudless nights, and love on tap.

The door was stubborn, but eventually relented to a shoulder barge. This prompted a totally disproportionate cheer from the others. I grinned and shook my head as we shuffled in, shedding our wet winter coats and boots in the landing and talking happy nonsense. I turned the heating right up, and listened to the strangely comforting groans and complaints of the pipes. Sophie danced into the kitchen and began to pour everyone some wine. I watched as she stretched to reach the glasses, and her white tee-shirt rode up a little, revealing the perfect skin around her hips. Mike was at the computer and had put Radiohead on, and Lily was busy with powder and credit card on the coffee table.

I came up behind Sophie and hugged her, feeling her smile through her back. We stayed like that a little while… I closed my eyes. After some time she turned, still hugging, to face me, her forehead resting against mine.

“Let’s drink our wine, Jake”

I breathed a laugh, and we took our wine through to the other room, where Mike was laying stretched out on the floor, grinning at the ceiling, and Lily was sitting propped against the sofa, eyes up, sniffing and breathing out.

“What would we do without MDMA” she sighed.

We all giggled and looked knowingly at each other. Mike spoke from the floor.

“We would stay inside, you know… We would withdraw, and we’d be those petty little creatures that our parents all became, live the 9-5 and get excited when a special of fuckin’, the bill is on, or something.”

“So cynical, Mikey” Sophie purred.

“We’d do coke instead” I said. Everyone giggled again, and we each took turns to sniff a line of those magic crystals. Then we knocked it back with our wine.

I stretched out on the floor like Mike, breathing heavily to keep some control. I think everyone else did the same but I can’t be sure. I know the floor felt more comfortable than usual, and I knew I was in one of those rare spots where I wasn’t out of place. A brief moment of sanity, I thought, and smiled.

At some point all the lights went out.

A t s o m e p o i n t ... a l l o u r l i g h t s w e n t o u t .

The warm waves of Everything In Its Right Place washed over us, and we… simply flowed, with the tide. Problems couldn’t touch us. Not there. Not then. It was the Promised Land that our young minds craved to live in. The moon, the air and all the world gently tingled with attunement and approval, whispering reassurances in our ears, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.

It’s okay, I remembered.

I felt Sophie’s delicate fingertips touch mine and lightly rake along them. I reached for her hand and held it. After a minute or two, she rolled over to me and nuzzled my shoulder. We looked at each other with spaceship pupils, and smiled. I closed my eyes and listened to her contented sighs, wondering how I’d gotten to this beautiful point. After a while, I sat back up at the coffee table, with the idea of having more. Mike, Lily and Sophie all had the same idea, funnily enough. We chuckled.

“Addicts…” muttered Lily, grinning.

Mike hadn’t stopped smiling, and stretched out his big arms, pulling us all into a group hug. Our heads rested together. We stayed like that for a long time, nobody said anything. We swayed a little.

Sophie brushed her lips across my cheek, and then round to my face. Our lips were still but touching for a few seconds, and I held my breath. Then we kissed and kissed and kissed, sighing into each other’s mouths with relief. And then all of us were, Me, Sophie, Lily and Mike, heads turning to one another without discrimination or care as we pressed our lips together and ran our hands over each other, delirious and drunk on indeterminacy, consequences a faint memory in the flush of instinct and absence of fear.

What goes up must come down… The pedestrian hesitation of our interactions the next morning presented itself as it always does; a little jog back out of reality, a reminder that mental health is a temporary pleasure and nothing more. I didn’t care, though. I woke up cuddling Sophie underneath sleeping bags. And besides, we had touched the infinite, or nearly at least. Mike quietly played Blowin’ In The Wind on the acoustic in the corner as I cuddled closer for warmth and comfort, and though the world outside was bright grey and there was scarcely food for breakfast, we were at peace that day.

My copy of No.1 Fake arrived today

It was cooool. My flatmates read it, all liked my poem and it sparked off a general discussion about poetry and technique in art. Get in. :)

Today I got lost in Lewisham. Funny times. I asked some chavs for directions, they were actually compeltely polite and pointed me the right way.

Man... we actually have the most delicious takeaway pizza place near us. It's proper nice. I wolf their pizzas down in nooo time. Like I literally ate my whole pizza in a 2 minute walk to the library just now. That's good pizza.



I'm living in fear, a little bit...

Thursday, 26 November 2009

Edward and The Thieves Part 2.

Rory crumpled to the floor, spitting up blood and clutching his stomach. Keith stood still, eyes wide as they could go, as if their very widening would prevent further bloodshed. Edward stood quivering in the centre of the room, tranquil. Tears still snaking across the little trenches of his worn-out face. His eyes were closed, and it seemed for all the world to Keith that any minute now the wind from the kitchen window would sweep this poor old man away. Everything was quieter in the aftermath of the gun shot... In the distance, birds sang.

Fuck, thought Keith. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. What now? I'm not prepared for this, for fuck's sake. I'm not a violent man. He nervously felt for the Animal Liberation Front badge by his breast pocket. 20 years in this cause... is this it? Is this little loopy loo with some antique shooter gonna finish me off? His heart raced. He thought about his family and, hating himself, let a few silent tears grizzle their way out from his veteran eyes.

Suddenly, Rory croaked "A...amm, muh, muh... ambulance"

Keith stared horrified at the blood-soaked American. So he's not dead. He reached for his mobile.

"I can't take that risk, I'm afraid" said Edward. The gun was trained on Keith.

Keith took a few shuddering breaths. "Edward, now, just... listen alright? It is Edward isn't it?"

No reply.

"Edward he's gonna die if we don't call an ambulance. Alright mate? You'll be a murderer. None of us want that."

No reply. Despite the horror of the situation, Keith felt a twinge of every-day frustration at the old man.

"Edward for fuck's sake!" Keith cried, voice cracking.

"No... no. We can't call him an ambulance. I've already shot him, that's jail time, and I don't rate his chances anyway. Now who the bloody hell are you people?"

What the fuck is going on. It really, really wasn't meant to be like this. Keith's hands shook.

"We're... we're animal liberation activists, Edward. Please let me call an ambulance, alright? Please."

Where is this old boy gettin' confidence. Jesus fuck I didn't sign up for this.

Edward's face switched from glaring anger to a contemptuous sneer. He gave a low chuckle.


"You mean to tell me that my home has been invaded by bleeding heart hippies? You mean to tell me that you are responsible for stealing that letter?"

Keith just stared.

"Well then. I shall dispose of you both in the river. I daresay you'll enjoy getting back to nature"

"You know what Edward? Fuck you, mate. Fuck you, you silly bourgeoisie cunt. It'll be an honour to die by Rory's side, fightin' against your fuckin' cruelty! And that daft old bitch is never gonna love you. In fact, I bet she thinks you're a tit."

Scarcely believing what he was doing, Keith walked towards Edward, arms outstretched, leaned his chest into the barrel of the gun and spat full into his face.

Edward had been struck momentarily rigid with rage, but on feeling Keith's spit slap into his cheek, snapped out of it.

"Well then. This is it. Get ready".

Keith thought about adopting a crucifix pose, emulating Jesus, but decided it was too pretentious. He mentally made vows of undying love for his family and his wife. He was ready. He braced himself for the bullet. In the distance, the birds sang.

And a car pulled up.


"It's Margaret!" hissed Edward, scrabbling around frantically, gun cast aside.

Keith stood dumbly blinking, wondering if he was dying and this was all a hallucination.

"It's Margaret, you unwashed brat!" Edward seethed, slapping Keith into the moment. "Help me! Hide! Get behind the TV and take Rory with you".

Keith was so shocked that he simply obeyed, thinking longingly of the roast dinner he would have been enjoying by now.

Edward danced about the room like a man possessed, throwing a rug over the pool of blood where Rory had been and trying, ludicrously, to correct his appearance. Keith heard the sound of the door open and shut, and footsteps.

Keith heard a woman's voice.

"Edward... I've been meaning to say this for a long time... Look I know you're a good man. I'm not promising anything but... oh, god. Will you take me to our spot in the park, like old times? Just once? I know you want it too. I know it."

She sounded more hopeful than confident. Hang on, thought Keith. This is my chance. The old man hasn't got his gun on him and he won't wanna ruin the moment. I can walk out of here.

Once more, Keith leapt from behind the television. Margaret let loose a deafening scream and nearly fell over as she staggered back in terror. The look in Edward's eyes was baleful.

"...Edward. I'm gonna walk out of her now, okay mate? This is over. It's all over."

Keith began to walk slowly towards the door, hands raised. Once more he heard the gun click, and froze.

"Edward... Edward, what are you doing?" sobbed Margaret.

Edward blurted out what had happened in a half-crazed shout. Nothing to lose now, thought Keith. He turned to face the two of them, and noticed that Margaret had a strange, distant look in her eyes.

"All... All I know is I should like to be taken to our spot in the park a few more times, at least. And if my Edward gets locked away for murder that can't happen... and I don't suppose that between two of us we can lift that man's body..."

Suddenly her voice hardened. "You there. Thief. If you help us get rid of his body, we'll spare you".

A little flame of idealism deep in Keith's belly guttered and died as the tempting scent of continued existence wafted over him.

"Alright. Alright you old bastards."

I have an idea

I am blocked on this opening for a short story. So, maybe anyone who reads this should just comment and continue it how they want to. I do have my own version but it's not working for me. Bah, here it is anyway continue it as you will, I've called it battered accoustic:

One night in December the four of us came staggering back to my place, laughing and singing loud into the deep; as if we could, this time, chase despair away for good. We never had much food in my flat, but there was a battered old acoustic in the corner, a view from the loft window that could be used to see the stars on cloudless nights, and love on tap.


  • Get Involved
  • Interesting
  • Good times
  • Interesting times
  • You love it
  • Hab
  • Han
  • Brynevere
  • Is that the original
  • Is that a bit freudian
  • is that a live version
  • sandwich bags
  • i'm harny
  • habby days

  • ...Writers block can fuck off. :(

I really, really miss my girlfriend.

Wednesday, 25 November 2009

Distant dial tones

I dreamt that I was going to meet Molly&Jacob and it was summer. I was in a new house with my mum and it was kinda nice and I was wondering how I would be able to get in touch with them. Then I heard someone shout "Jacob!" from outside and it was Molly's voice. I went outside and it was a gorgeous day, bright clear blue sky and awesome sunshine. No one was on the street, but then I thought, hang on, this is stonehouse drive. So I ran in the direction of their house, but it had been replaced by a a big detached house that was sort of circular in shape, and decorated in a really bourgeoisie way, and you had to go to up some little spiral stairs to get to the door. and cleo was knocking on the door and some guy I didn't know, so I said hey to them. And then some distant friends of the family of a slightly chavvy and matriarchal bent opened it, and beckoned them in, and then saw me and in total shock ushered me in where there were more of that crowd and they all wanted to ask me about stuff in that really loud, outgoing and superficial and overly concerned way that they do. Then I saw Freya Samuelson who I've met like 3 times and never spoken to, and a guy from my uni. They said hey, I asked how they knew eachother. The guy said "well, we're friendly now, but we used to step out back in the day". I laughed and mocked his use of the phrase 'step out', comparing it to how an 18th century gentleman might say it. He laughed and expanded the joke a bit.

Then Dan knocked on my door and I woke up. He wants me to go to the science museum with him and emily in a bit to make some robots. :) I might go.

Whenever I wake up from afternoon sleeping I feel strangely floaty and egoless, and like I want to just be meekly nice to everyone.

Tuesday, 24 November 2009

Someone give me something new and geeky to get into

I like getting into things that are new and geeky. It can be anything. TV shows, films, intellectual subjects, books, games, whatever. :) *nods*

Monday, 23 November 2009

God... fox hunting. =s

You loved the fucking poll tax, and you propped up Maggie Thatcher, and you didn't give a fuck about Tony Blair until he threw your hobby back at ya

Sunday, 22 November 2009

Hyperdub, hyperdub

I went to the hyperdub launch last night. It was a totally elite dubstep rave. It was in elephant & castle. I took drugs. There were famous DJs. The club, corsica studios, was actually a squat, and is run by a not-for-profit art collective, so there was no commercial shit on the walls and it had a very underground feel. Well, technically it was slightly underground. I spent the night with some students from Oxford that I met. One random bloke was talking to a mate of mine in the toilets, and when I came in stopped me and went "ahhh. See this guy's got it locked up you know what I'm sayin' man he knows I know you know" and then he started laughing and shook my hand. And then he said "but seriously though the girls they love it don't they? *gestures at me* these broad shoulders?". I just laughed. "he went nah nah seriously tell me man do they or do they not." I said "Well it's probably more to do with confidence than shoulders really". My friend laughed and agreed. The bloke said "weeeeeeeeeell you say that but fuckin'... I'm confident man, you know what I'm sayin', and they ain't flockin' to me" and laughed again. "You've gotta admit it man, girls love dat shit". I said "Well, my girlfriend does like my shoulders. but I'm not some fuckin' casanova mate. I wouldn't worry about it really." And smiled. He grinned and said "yeah yeah, fair play boss". Then I said "Right I'm gonna do some drugs in the toilet now. It was nice meeting you man" and we shook hands and that. I saw him later and he pointed me out to someone, and like mimed a wide frame.

What the fuck? :L I wonder if he was gay. It was a funny encounter though.

Another strange one was this guy on the dancefloor near me at one point. We were both raving away, and we caught eachother's eye and grinned as you do, and he was really going for it. Then he leaned over to shout "THIS IS FUCKING RUBBISH!!!" still dancing like a madman and grinning. I laughed and shouted back "WHY ARE YOU HERE THEN?". He shouted "Absolute fucking shit!" and laughed and carried on dancing.

London life, yo. Got back at half 7 this morning. Chatted with the people I went out with for a little while, then went to bed about half eight. It almost felt like old times. :)


Saturday, 21 November 2009

Friday, 20 November 2009

Thursday, 19 November 2009

Yush yush.

I'm becoming insane

Is an awesome track by Infected Mushroom.

I keep getting massively excited and hyper and random lately, to the point where I sort of scrunch up and spin round and squeal a bit. I have no idea what to do with the energy of it, but it just suddenly booms to a level far beyond what a human can usefully contain. But this is not a new phenomenon, I've had phases of it for as long as I can remember. Just absolute extremity of emotion for about 10-20 seconds.

And I like my new uni friends. They aren't my real friends. but they're nice and funny and unique and clever people, genuinely. And no bullshit or anything. Sort-outs.

I want to be immortal. I really do. Fuck the pseudo-romanticism which seems to sometimes surround death.

I want to get published before I'm 20. Not as in famous author of a novel or whatever, although obviously it'd be nice. I don't particularly care how or in what sense, I'd just really like to be. Don't care about money or anything, just the achievement would kick arse.

I miss Molly and her never-ending sarcasm/loveliness dynamic. And her molly-ness.
I miss Baz and his randomness and beaver humour and occasional deep sincerity.
I miss Kie and his wild, paradigm defying, infectious Joie De Vivre.
I miss Jacob and there's really no sense trying to categorise what I miss of him.
I miss Jess and her everything. With ludicrous intensity. :L

Tuesday, 17 November 2009

Funky seminars

They've been good today. :) There was a desperately interesting lecture about how madness has been defined, viewed, treated and so on throughout history. I though the analysis of Michel Foucault, who no one except Jacob will know probably, was especially provocative; he said that madness/insanity is entirely a social construct, invented to alienate those who don't fit in to whatever the society of the day is like. He claims it has no objective existence at all, and that necessarily to label someone mad we must assume that we have a monopoly on what is rational and sane, which we don't.

I think Foucault was wrong. But I think there's a lot of truth in his analysis and a very strong case for it. I also got to defend the Marxist view of human nature (it largely doesn't exist) at some length today, and it was unchallenged. In fact there were nods, smiles and agreement+expansion. Unhearrrrd of I'd have been laughed at and indulged for the sake of argument at school and college. I was. Not taken seriously! Weird. =p And a further chance to discuss how religion is essentially subservient to political and economic interests later (more Marxism) which is actually the consensus in academia by the looks of it.

My blogs are getting geekier.


My favourite intellectual

Is, I think, Michael Parenti.

The goal of a good society is to structure social relations and institutions so that cooperative and generous impulses are rewarded, while antisocial ones are discouraged. The problem with capitalism is that it best rewards the worst part of us: ruthless, competitive, conniving, opportunistic, acquisitive drives, giving little reward and often much punishment -- or at least much handicap -- to honesty, compassion, fair play, many forms of hard work, love of justice, and a concern for those in need.

Sunday, 15 November 2009



Normally... gym wears me out and makes me feel sleepy and post-coital. This time... not! :o

Saturday, 14 November 2009

Alex highly reccomends this

Wanna watch this with jess+jacob. :)

Wednesday, 11 November 2009

Edward And The Thieves or The Foreigners

On the morning of September 13th Edward Brannegan knelt down onto the plush carpet of his living room, and began to cry. Normally when people cry it starts as silent tears or perhaps some quiet and dignified sniffling. Not so for Edward. As soon as he saw the room he howled and wailed with immense volume, as if he’d been stabbed by one of those asylum seekers he’d read about in the Daily Mail. Still wailing, he set about rolling around the room in his blue and white pinstripe pyjamas.

“No, no, no! Noooooo! I simply, I, I simply shan’t have it!” he cried to no one in particular.

“This is the very last straw, the VERY last straw I can tell you” he said, his voice high-pitched and hysterical.

All of this came as something of a surprise to the thieves who were hiding behind Edward’s grotesquely oversized television.

“So, Keith” breathed one under the cover of Edward’s spectacular sobs, “is this how we roll in Britain?”

“Shut it Rory. You tryna tell me nuffin’ ever went a bit tits up at Uncle Sam’s Gaffe?”

“Sorry, what?”

“I thought I told you to shut it, you stupid yankee dick’ed.”

Rory smirked. “That’s right Keith. That good old soft racism of the British is alive and well in you, huh pal?” he whispered.

Keith’s face turned purple-red, rather like the helmet of an erect penis Rory thought.

“Well I’m glad you’ve got time to offer some socio-fucking-logical analysis Rory! Pratt.” Keith hissed. “What the fuck are we gonna do now? This bloke’s gone bonkers.”

Edward had begun rhythmically pounding his head against the exquisite coffee table, and was now loudly muttering incoherencies in a highly distressed tone.

“Wotsy sayin’?”

“I don’t know. I think he said Mummy just now. Yah, mummy.”

“Mummy? Fucking mummy?? Jesus Christ. The richer they are the… weirder they fall, I spose” murmured Keith,

secretly quite pleased with his turn of phrase.

“That’s great, Keith. Pure poetry. Now can we stop messing around, god damnit? He’s an old frickin’ man, I could knock him out in say… six seconds. Okay? I’m gonna do it and let’s get the hell outta here.”

As Rory began to move Keith immediately restrained him.

“ ’Old the phone mate. You said it yerself. He’s an elderly gentleman. We can’t just run round there and knock ‘im on the bonce, we might kill him! Fuckin’ hell. That’s just your yankee attitude innit? You’re all the same. Justa buncha soulless playground bullies when ya get right down to it aintcha? Make me sick.”

Edward was staggering about the room as if drunk now, wantonly tearing books from their shelves, idly smashing up the furniture, and deliriously yelling about Margaret, who had never loved him.

“Yeah well you know what Keith? This is all about your lack of moral fibre. Yes Keith it is don’t sit there all open mouthed like you’re in one of your shitty British cartoons. Face it. You aren’t really devoted to this cause. You don’t really care.”

“How bloody dare you! I have been in this movement for twenty –

Both the thieves froze in place as they heard the gun click.

“Margaret… Margaret… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ve tried and I’ve tried and I’ve tried and I can’t do it anymore.”

“What is happening?” mouthed Rory, eyes wide with tension and fear. Keith did not reply, and his complexion became much whiter.

“I realise… I realise that I failed you. I know you wanted so much for me to get off the bottle and spend more time with you and Jack but look I just couldn’t, you know? Life isn’t some fucking fairy tale, you know? IT’S NOT A FUCKING FAIRY TALE!”

Edward sobbed noisily and ungracefully.

“Look at me… moments from death and I can’t even say goodbye without crying. But then I was never much of a man”

Rory’s face was an ocean of troubled questions. Keith frowned and hesitated. Then he ominously mimed shooting himself. Rory closed his eyes and gulped.

“But… but the point is… if I, pathetic wretch that I, that I am… can be permitted to say any final thing to you it is this… I love you and I have always loved you. And I’m sorry you got me. You deserved… so much b-better and I know you’ll find that… s-someday. God… I had written all this in a letter but it seems that fate has conspired to take even that away from me. Now I am a silly old fool. Babbling at the breeze.”

Rory and Keith stared with horror at the envelope they had assumed contained money.

“Enough… goodbye.”

The thieves leapt out screaming no, wait a second, stop.

Edward screamed and fired.

Monday, 9 November 2009

Sod it one more he's awesome

The past month was the 10th anniversary of the massacres in Rwanda, and there was much soul-searching about our failure to do anything about them. So headlines read "To Say `Never Again' and Mean it; the 1994 Rwandan genocide should have taught us about the consequences of doing nothing" ; "Learn from Rwanda". So what did we learn? In Rwanda, for 100 days people were being killed at the rate of about 8000 a day, and we did nothing. Fast forward to today. In Africa, about 10,000 children a day are dying from easily treatable diseases, and we are doing nothing to save them. That's not just 100 days, it's every day, year after year, killing at the Rwanda rate. And far easier to stop then Rwanda: it just means pennies to bribe drug companies to produce remedies. But we do nothing. Which raises another question: what kind of socioeconomic system can be so savage and insane that to stop Rwanda-scale killings among children going on year after year it's necessary to bribe the most profitable industry that ever existed? That's carrying socioeconomic lunacy beyond the bounds that even the craziest maniac could imagine? But we do nothing.

Chomsky, you fat fuckin' legend.

Of course it's extremely easy to say, the heck with it. I'm just going to adapt myself to the structures of power and authority and do the best I can within them. Sure, you can do that. But that's not acting like a decent person. You can walk down the street and be hungry. You see a kid eating an ice cream cone and you notice there's no cop around and you can take the ice cream cone from him because you're bigger and walk away. You can do that. Probably there are people who do. We call them "pathological." On the other hand, if they do it within existing social structures we call them "normal." But it's just as pathological. It's just the pathology of the general society.

Sunday, 8 November 2009

It's never quiet here

Motor bikes and dubstep pounding away outside my window, and my thoughts buzzing round lazy-persistent. But I'm warm and peaceful. I might go make a chip butty. But it is 4am. Who the fuck makes a chip butty at 4am? Hmm. I'm gonna go for it though.

Saturday, 7 November 2009

Fireworks night in London. :)

It should be good, right? I'll compare and contrast with Hastings. I have a standing invite from a flatmate to go to Crystal Palace on Mcat and Nitrous. I may put aside my suspicion of Mcat for a night. :) Anyway, I'll have a shot of JD for each of you, of course, and yeah long live the queen mother on a space hopper.

I miss Jess. :(

Everyone should clearly listen to Drum and Bass a lot more

Eat it.

It's better than grunge. =p *shamelessly offensive blog*

*prepares for abuse*

Oh god it seriously is though. :D haha

Relax, nothing is under control.

Friday, 6 November 2009

So there it is

So there it is, work it out for yourself,
Yeah be selective, be objective,
Be an asset to the collective,
'Cause you know you've got to Get A Life

Is there anything I can do about anything at all

The first thing you see is a blank wardrobe with no clothes in it because they're on the floor. Resting on top of it is a blank greeting card bearing a black and white photograph of two road signs, one pointing to "Outer Hope" which is apparently found in the wardrobe, and the other pointing away to "inner hope", found either in the unmade bed or, perhaps, out of the dirty windows and onto the streets of London. Next the focal point of the room, the desk. Disorganised heap of day-to-day essentials. Money. Toothpaste. Nail Clippers. Some miscellaneous print-outs of dreamy and amateurish poetry. Debit card. A stack of as yet unopened David Bowie albums. Vitamin pills knocked sideways next to empty wine bottles and beer cans. Books abound - left-wing political polemics, histories, creative writing. Acoustic Guitar leant against the bed, patiently waiting.

Wednesday, 4 November 2009

Open Letter To A Business Man on the London Underground

You smile while you're on your mobile and in your private zone
You laugh and broadcast happiness straight into your private phone
And when you hang up your smile drops and your cheeriness quickly fades
So were you really enjoying yourself or was it digital charades?

Do you hate the public? Are we boring? Are we dull or stupid or scary?
Are we the unwashed factory slugs to your ethereal fairy?
Do you find my curiosity disturbing? Do you find my naivety funny?
When you fuck your high-class escort girls, do you think about your money?

And how is it that you make the journey from 'me' to 'our'?
And in your quaking moments where do you find your power?
And what's the real scope of men, and where is our real range?
And why's life so mysterious? Why's it so fucking strange?
Why would I even ask you this, why don't I let you be?
Who's the villain of the piece, is it you or is it me?

Still December

It began on one of those still December nights when the whole world is quiet and unhooked, and nothing seems to move save the impenetrable whispers of the breeze and time itself, impassively drumming out the beat of ever. A night where a downtown street thug paused and let some wonder of the purpose of things float into his mind. A night where the local vicar had found himself leaving his marital bed and venturing out to a poker game some streets away, never sure why, but with godly guilt left suspended. A night where wolves and sheep danced noiselessly, and blended into a myriad.

It was also a night where Shybur was crouched atop a church spire, licking his dagger from handle to point and staring without eyes at the moonlit horizon. Awake. Awake. In his other hand the flickering oscillation of a compass needle told him why he was here again. He was not the only one. The pace of Shybur’s dagger-licks increased so that years of dirt were quickly removed revealing the weapon’s name, glowing in faint green lettering, Arkadas.

In another part of town, an inordinately fat man in a red and golden robe was bursting ridiculously out of the door of a bar and onto the cobbled streets, his rich chocolate laugh echoing loudly into the cool night air, absent the warmth that usually accompanies humour. A local pick-pocket noticed him.

“Nice dress fatty!” he guffawed.

The night stayed still and held its breath.

“I said NICE DRESS FATTY. You deaf as well as massive?”

8 miles away, Shybur silently mouthed no, and leapt with terrifying speed from the church spire.

The fat man was chuckling – an oddly high-pitched sound.

“Well, quite.” He muttered, his voice dropping suddenly to a rumble. “I would expect so.”

The pick-pocket suddenly felt his throat run dry, and his thoughts turned to his mother for the first time in many years. He mustered some bravado and managed to almost entirely conceal the shake in his voice. “I was being sarcastic, you fuckin’ mug. You look like a post-op Dawn French who got battered by a travellin’ circus.”

No, no, no Shybur breathed as the city raced beneath him and the wind cracked at his twisted physique.

The fat man turned to face the boy, slow and thoughtful. Jimmy the pick-pocket took an involuntary step backwards and his mind fell blank and cold.

“Would you like to know how I got it, Jimmy?”

“Whuh, wha, how’d you know my name??” Jimmy exclaimed. Why was there no one else coming from the bar. Surely there were more people at the bar for fuck’s sake. Oh god. Oh god someone help. I only nick to pay for food someone fuckin' help. Please. Please.

“How… how d’ya know my name? HOW DO YOU KNOW MY FUCKI-”

Jimmy fell silent as he noticed the bloodied corpse of the bartender lying in the doorway of the bar.

And then there was nothing but his heart. Pounding. Pounding. Pounding.

“Well Jimmy… that’s a long story.”

Off to see Beans On Toast in Camden.

Crisps. Carlsberg Export. Ben and Jerry's. 'Ave it.

Monday, 2 November 2009