Tim Minchin - Storm

“Storm”

Inner North London, top floor flat
All white walls, white carpet, white cat,
Rice Paper partitions
Modern art and ambition
The host’s a physician,
Lovely bloke, has his own practice
His girlfriend’s an actress
An old mate from home
And they’re always great fun.
So to dinner we’ve come.

The fifth guest is an unknown,
The hosts have just thrown
Us together for a favor
because this girl’s just arrived from Australia
And has moved to North London
And she’s the sister of someone
Or has some connection.

As we make introductions
I’m struck by her beauty
She’s irrefutably fair
With dark eyes and dark hair
But as she sits
I admit I’m a little bit wary
because I notice the tip of the wing of a fairy
Tattooed on that popular area
Just above the derrière
And when she says “I’m Sagittarian”
I confess a pigeonhole starts to form
And is immediately filled with pigeon
When she says her name is Storm.

Chatter is initially bright and light-hearted
But it’s not long before Storm gets started:
“You can’t know anything,
Knowledge is merely opinion”
She opines, over her Cabernet Sauvignon
Vis-à-vis,
Some un-hippily
Empirical comment by me

“Not a good start” I think
We’re only on pre-dinner drinks
And across the room, my wife
Widens her eyes
Silently begs me, Be Nice
A matrimonial warning
Not worth ignoring
So I resist the urge to ask Storm
Whether knowledge is so loose-weave
Of a morning
When deciding whether to leave
Her apartment by the front door
Or a window on the second floor.

The food is delicious and Storm,
Whilst avoiding all meat
Happily sits and eats
While the good doctor, slightly pissedly
Holds court on some anachronistic aspect of medical history
When Storm suddenly she insists
“But the human body is a mystery!
Science just falls in a hole
When it tries to explain the the nature of the soul.”

My hostess throws me a glance
She, like my wife, knows there’s a chance
That I’ll be off on one of my rants
But my lips are sealed.
I just want to enjoy my meal
And although Storm is starting to get my goat
I have no intention of rocking the boat,
Although it’s becoming a bit of a wrestle
Because – like her meteorological namesake -
Storm has no such concerns for our vessel:

“Pharmaceutical companies are the enemy
They promote drug dependency
At the cost of the natural remedies
That are all our bodies need
They are immoral and driven by greed.
Why take drugs
When herbs can solve it?
Why use chemicals
When homeopathic solvents
Can resolve it?
It’s time we all return-to-live
With natural medical alternatives.”

And try as hard as I like,
A small crack appears
In my diplomacy-dike.
“By definition”, I begin
“Alternative Medicine”, I continue
“Has either not been proved to work,
Or been proved not to work.
You know what they call “alternative medicine”
That’s been proved to work?
Medicine.”

“So you don’t believe
In ANY Natural remedies?”

“On the contrary actually:
Before we came to tea,
I took a natural remedy
Derived from the bark of a willow tree
A painkiller that’s virtually side-effect free
It’s got a weird name,
Darling, what was it again?
Masprin?
Basprin?
Asprin!
Which I paid about a buck for
Down at my local drugstore.

The debate briefly abates
As our hosts collects plates
but as they return with desserts
Storm pertly asserts,

“Shakespeare said it first:
There are more things in heaven and earth
Than exist in your philosophy…
Science is just how we’re trained to look at reality,
It can’t explain love or spirituality.
How does science explain psychics?
Auras; the afterlife; the power of prayer?”

I’m becoming aware
That I’m staring,
I’m like a rabbit suddenly trapped
In the blinding headlights of vacuous crap.
Maybe it’s the Hamlet she just mis-quothed
Or the eighth glass of wine I just quaffed
But my diplomacy dike groans
And the arsehole held back by its stones
Can be held back no more:

“Look , Storm, I don’t mean to bore you
But there’s no such thing as an aura!
Reading Auras is like reading minds
Or star-signs or tea-leaves or meridian lines
These people aren’t plying a skill,
They are either lying or mentally ill.
Same goes for those who claim to hear God’s demands
And Spiritual healers who think they have magic hands.

By the way,
Why is it OK
For people to pretend they can talk to the dead?
Is it not totally fucked in the head
Lying to some crying woman whose child has died
And telling her you’re in touch with the other side?
That’s just fundamentally sick
Do we need to clarify that there’s no such thing as a psychic?
What, are we fucking 2?
Do we actually think that Horton Heard a Who?
Do we still think that Santa brings us gifts?
That Michael Jackson hasn’t had facelifts?
Are we still so stunned by circus tricks
That we think that the dead would
Wanna talk to pricks
Like John Edward?

Storm to her credit despite my derision
Keeps firing off clichés with startling precision
Like a sniper using bollocks for ammunition

“You’re so sure of your position
But you’re just closed-minded
I think you’ll find
Your faith in Science and Tests
Is just as blind
As the faith of any fundamentalist”

“Hm that’s a good point, let me think for a bit
Oh wait, my mistake, it’s absolute bullshit.
Science adjusts it’s beliefs based on what’s observed
Faith is the denial of observation so that Belief can be preserved.
If you show me
That, say, homeopathy works,
Then I will change my mind
I’ll spin on a fucking dime
I’ll be embarrassed as hell,
But I will run through the streets yelling
It’s a miracle! Take physics and bin it!
Water has memory!
And while it’s memory of a long lost drop of onion juice is Infinite
It somehow forgets all the poo it’s had in it!

You show me that it works and how it works
And when I’ve recovered from the shock
I will take a compass and carve Fancy That on the side of my cock.”

Everyone’s just staring at me now,
But I’m pretty pissed and I’ve dug this far down,
So I figure, in for penny, in for a pound:

“Life is full of mysteries, yeah,
But there are answers out there
And they won’t be found
By people sitting around
Looking serious
And saying isn’t life mysterious?
Let’s sit here and hope
Let’s call up the fucking Pope
Let’s go watch Oprah
Interview Deepak Chopra

If you’re going to watch tele, you should watch Scooby Doo.
That show was so cool
because every time there’s a church with a ghoul
Or a ghost in a school
They looked beneath the mask and what was inside?
The fucking janitor or the dude who runs the water-slide.
Throughout history
Every mystery
EVER solved has turned out to be
Not Magic.

Does the idea that there might be truth
Frighten you?
Does the idea that one afternoon
On Wiki-fucking-pedia might enlighten you
Frighten you?
Does the notion that there may not be a supernatural
So blow your hippy noodle
That you would rather just stand in the fog
Of your inability to Google?

Isn’t this enough?
Just this world?
Just this beautiful, complex
Wonderfully unfathomable world?
How does it so fail to hold our attention
That we have to diminish it with the invention
Of cheap, man-made Myths and Monsters?
If you’re so into Shakespeare
Lend me your ear:
“To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,
To throw perfume on the violet… is just fucking silly”
Or something like that.
Or what about Satchmo?!
I see trees of Green,
Red roses too,
And fine, if you wish to
Glorify Krishna and Vishnu
In a post-colonial, condescending
Bottled-up and labeled kind of way
That’s ok.
But here’s what gives me a hard-on:
I am a tiny, insignificant, ignorant lump of carbon.
I have one life, and it is short
And unimportant…
But thanks to recent scientific advances
I get to live twice as long as my great great great great uncles and auntses.
Twice as long to live this life of mine
Twice as long to love this wife of mine
Twice as many years of friends and wine
Of sharing curries and getting shitty
With good-looking hippies
With fairies on their spines
And butterflies on their titties.

And if perchance I have offended
Think but this and all is mended:
We’d as well be 10 minutes back in time,
For all the chance you’ll change your mind.

TS Eliot gets involved

S she laughed I was aware of becoming involved

in her laughter and being part of it, until her

teeth were only accidental stars with a talent

for squad-drill. I was drawn in by short gasps,

inhaled at each momentary recovery, lost finally

in the dark caverns of her throat, bruised by

the ripple of unseen muscles. An elderly waiter

with trembling hands was hurriedly spreading

a pink and white checked cloth over the rusty

green iron table, saying: "If the lady and

gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden,

if the lady and gentleman wish to take their

tea in the garden ..." I decided that if the

shaking of her breasts could be stopped, some of

the fragments of the afternoon might be collected,

and I concentrated my attention with careful

subtlety to this end.

I may have just had the best debate of my life.

It was amazing. We were discussing Thomas Hobbes, who is usually considered the intellectual father of the state. His idea was that fear was the deepest and most powerful emotion humans have, and it was also it's most creative and positive, since fear forces people to act in a reasonable way to escape that fear. So, first point, the theory of the modern state is that fear is the guiding principle on which all human interaction is supposed to rest. Second, the state is a 'social contract'. Essentially, scared people sacrifice some of their liberty in order to be governed, and thereby kept safe from whatever unknown dangers might be out there. A necessary evil he called it. He went further, though, and said that in times where no genuine external threat is present, fear must be artificially created - the state must terrorise it's own people - to justify the continued existence of government and avoid a return to a state of 'natural savagery' where people were irrational. We also looked at Augustine, who said that the world should be actively maintained as a terrifying place in order to encourage people to look to heaven for escape.

The debate started with several people claiming that despite this being a bleak philosophy, it was basically spot on. If people weren't scared of external threats or the state, there would be no need to behave in a civilised way, and we would fragment. Fear was presented as unifying force which we could all rally around. I actually almost felt too beleaguered to bother arguing against this awful shit at first. I was tired, no one seemed to want to look beyond a generic and all pervasive cynicism that we were naturally evil bastards and needed a tyrant to terrorise us into submission so that we would be safe from ourselves.

However. I thought I'd at least try to demonstrate why fear was not desirable in itself. I asked everyone to remember a time when they felt scared, and to comment on whether they acted and thought reasonably as a consequence or unreasonably. Personally, I am never so unreasonable as when I'm scared, I think. There was instant and widespread agreement about the irrationality that fear encourages. Thank god I thought. Some hope. Then another guy who often speaks and who I disagree with as much as agree with chimed in and said that fear did not produce unity, it fragmented people. Spot on. If you're scared of Johnny Foreigner, you will unite with non-foreigners but only by at the same time fragmenting yourself into a tiny little group against the world. If you're scared of terrorism, everyone with a backpack on public transport is a threat. No unity there. It is fear that breeds the irrational savagery that Hobbes thinks he's fighting against, not some natural evil in us.

Anyway the long story short is that Hobbes and Augustine were utterly, utterly destroyed in the debate. And I ended up with basically an audience - everyone was listening attentively - and was asked what my solution was. I said I wasn't a genius of social engineering, which got a laugh, but that clearly fear was the problem, not the solution, so we had to start addressing it as a problem. We had to start addressing people's desperation for resources which causes crimes and atomisation, and so on. Widespread agreement.

As utterly egocentric as this blog has been... no, I'm not even going to be apologetic about it. I convinced a room of people that humans weren't evil and that we don't need tyrants or masters to keep us safe. I feel happy about that. :) Stage 3 ftw.

MILK EARS

Everything Everything are an odd band.

Blitz, you test me, no more
I'm calm, now absent, I'm date-rape yellow, black to the liver come on

Take my lung, take my loose tongue, take my sum, take my memory
Of nothing at all, nothing at all is what you remind me
No thread, no lips, no postscripts, no eclipse of my liberty
Oh pedigree chum, pedigree chum I'm never your father

Cause you're gonna sit on your fence when I'm gone
Cause you're gonna sit on your fence when I'm not there

More, my arc light, my knees
When she casts off her clothes I don't know what is reality

My death throes, this indefinite pose, her flesh codes (inconceivable)
Oh suffragette, suffragette I wanna be outlawed and AWOL
No alphabet can be used yet no cassette is available
Oh I dunno how, I dunno how I'm gonna reset my whole radar

(Forget) Cause you're gonna sit on the fence when I'm gone
(Forget) Cause you're gonna sit on the fence when I'm not there

Cause you're gonna sit on the fence when I'm gone
Cause you're gonna sit on the fence when I'm not there


(To the back, to the back row)
Of nothing at all, nothing at all is what you remind me
Oh suffragette, suffragette I wanna be outlawed and AWOL but

Cause you're gonna sit on the fence when I'm gone
Cause you're gonna sit on the fence when I'm not there

My blog needs cheering up

I just woke up from an AWESOME dream where me and jess ran away from policemen who were chasing us. We had baseball bats which were for some reason dangerous beyond their being a baseball bat. We escaped by running into the london underground and different trains to anywhere, chucked the bats and changed our appearance, off at next stop, new train home. It was amazing. And then we called eachother up.

A prelude to re-entering the world

Have some bleak, stupid, crap writing.

Lights up. We see Jack, about 23 years old, dishevelled hair and generally blotchy, sitting on the floor hiding his face from t he audience with his hands. He has various dried blood stains on his clothes, hands and arms. A wise voice rings out; like god but with less bass rumble. The voice should be reassured, like Michael Caine or Morgan Freeman, and in slight comic contrast to Jack's frantic pace. Jack first addresses the audience only, and gradually more the voice.

-Jack. Jack, are you listening?

-How do I get out, that's my first question. How do I get out of here. Just give me my escape I don't want anything else. Oh resolution you say. I don't want your resolution. I don't want any fucking compromise with evil. You get me out. When was the last time anything got fucking resolved anyway, in your life, really? Come on now. Nothing is ever resolved. We just stop talking about it you know. We're all gonna die. There's our problem, where's our resolution? There's no resolution, none, we just don't really talk about it seriously because it's this great ugly mountain of a fact, and a mountain doesn't change with perspective, it's just a mountain.

-Jack, you're talking shit again. Now are you ready?

-Oh son, I was born unready.

-That's fine Jack, because your personal frailties don't excuse you from your duty.

-My duty to what exactly, what duty is there? I can't FACE this, what are you joking? Joking with me? I am Satan, death, a thousand plagues, and you're about to re-inflict me on the world you stupid, stupid old man.

-Jack, you're over-dramatizing how destructive you are as a defence mechanism again.

-Will you just stop that, okay? I'm not interested in your pot-shot psychology. The objective record is there, I am bad news and if I am not bad news it is due to having a muted effect on the world more than any deep inclination to the good that you keep saying you see in me. How many times do I have to fuck things up for you to see that, man.

-How many more times will I have to throw you back in, Jack, before you realise that escape is in the world and not outside of it? Or that you have responsibilities? Or that the universe does not sink or swim according to your failures and successes? If narcissism has got you this far... well it's time to look for alternatives, old friend.

-You're talking shit again.

-See you soon Jack.

What the fuck is wrong with me.

What a hero.

I am opposing a social order in which it is possible for one man who does absolutely nothing that is useful to amass a fortune of hundreds of millions of dollars, while millions of men and women who work all the days of their lives secure barely enough for a wretched existence. - Eugene Debs

War is a spectator sport

One day we were arguing about the war
In the pub

With massive gravitas, Ma said
Our Jonathon's gone away to fight
He's fighting for democracy and our right to be free
He's keeping us safe while we sleep at night
We're all to be proud of him, proud as can be

With what I hoped was equally massive gravitas I said
Our Jonathon's gone to die as a puppet and slave
And get innocent blood on his hands
He'll think it's civilization he's going to save
Not just dropping bombs on strange lands

Then I saw an old man, with medals, in the corner
And I thought
And I thought

That war is a spectator sport
From the sidelines come our claps and jeers
And our touching eulogies for those who've fought
Then we shake our heads.
And drink our beers.

Hardy

“’Peace upon earth!' was said.
We sing it,
And pay a million priests to bring it.
After two thousand years of mass
We've got as far as poison-gas.”

So

Poetry went well tonight, got warmly received and personally invited to a slam by the guy who ran it. That was cool.

New Poem - No Offence To Robert Burns, But

My love for you is nothing like a red red rose
You aren't really like a summer's day
I couldn't spend a lifetime with the scent of your clothes
And I wouldn't fall apart if you felt you couldn't stay

I don't think you're an angel, or anything transcendent
You're not necessarily the first thing I think of when I wake
I don't need you, you aren't my saviour, I'm not dependent
And I won't mischaracterise us for poetry's sake because

My love for you is honest, honest and real
Grounded in our conversations and every kiss we steal
Humming loud out of our cuddles
That's how I feel, anyway


There's no need to write a sonnet or put on some big display
My love for you is simple. And that's okay.

Milky Joe loads webpages well fast now.

About:config for the win. :L

Sleep Walking

Dear older self, as I write this I’m already trying to work out how to impress you. Or at least, you know, avoid embarrassment. Straight away I want to try to apologise for myself, hide embarrassing stains underneath the rug like a paranoid mother before a visit from Gran. But then, I suppose it’s impossible to legislate for the future, and I suppose I should stop worrying or I’ll never get anything done. So I’ll just say hello. And, obviously, I hope you’re okay.

Dear older self, I think I think too much and I realise that that’s ironic. It reminds me of what that girl said to me at the party. She came over to me smiling and held my temples like she was going to read my mind. She said, “Honey… don’t think too much” and smiled wider but with pity in her eyes. Then she danced away into another room. It was as if she didn’t have to work at being comfortable with herself like the rest of us do. As if self-assurance just uncoiled from somewhere in her tummy and warmed her head quiet. Actually, a lot of people seem like that. Anyway another thing that bothers me is you can’t stop thinking too much. Never just like that, anyway, and surely not in the same way that you can stop eating too many iced buns. Minds don’t go blank… Do they? Perhaps one day they’ll invent some kind of neurological slim-fast to help you deal with all the unnecessary mind-fat. That would be nice. I don’t think I’d eat it, though. I want an iced bun.

Dear older self, I realise that it’s a faux pas to talk directly about ideas in writing. You’re supposed to show them. You have to hint and imply them by describing events that happen in reality. If I said to you that I feel sad, that’s insufficient. I’ve got to talk what happened that made me sad, how the sadness is expressed. I’m supposed to couch it in metaphor and tell you all about my deep oceans of alienation and all the rest of it. But I think that metaphor can cloud the world as much as illuminate it. And, you know, I really want to talk directly about ideas. I want to talk about immortality and euthanasia. I want to talk about our tendency to be too anthropomorphic and at the same time subscribe to an entrenched misanthropy, and how it’s silly to hate humans in the abstract because we had no hand in our own creation and we only do what comes naturally to us. I want to talk about how god doesn’t exist. I want to talk about how we all used to be babies and how we have to squeeze each drop of our maturity from experiences, and how these experiences are usually things going wrong. But the trouble with talking directly about your ideas is, people don’t really care very much about each other’s ideas. Most of the time that is. My mum says I have to experience life before my ideas can have validity. My stepdad says if I don’t get my head out of the clouds he’ll drag it out for me. I think he says that because he has had a tough life, and because he is drunk quite often. He’s always asking me when I’ll move out, and why don’t I give him and my mum some fucking space and if I think my thoughts will pay the bills. But this is a letter to myself, and I don’t feel too bad about breaking the rules. By the way, I hope you are still breaking the rules.

Dear older self, Becca sat next to me in maths today. I did the work; of course, I always do the work, but about 98% of my mind was locked tight on the feeling of the smooth, cool skin of her arm brushing against mine. It made me feel a bit light-headed and I don’t quite know why because I’d never thought of her like that, in fact I’d never really thought about her at all before today, but I liked the feeling I must admit. So anyway I went looking for her at lunch and tried to say hi, but she just looked away, as if she was really embarrassed.

Dear older self, maybe we’re all just trying to escape, and leap up out of this grey-faced, messy, baffling planet to some place where strife is foreign, like a chocolate factory.

Dear older self, I sleep walk most nights. I wonder if you still do when you read this. Perhaps you’ll have outgrown it. Probably you will.

Dear older self, my stepfather hit me today. Wake the fuck up, you fucking self–absorbed little CUNT, he said. Wake up, wake up. It was dark outside, and I was about to start writing another letter to you and I heard him pace into the room breathing like a rhinoceros in labour or something, and I thought that was pretty funny so I started laughing. I hear the footsteps stop but the breathing carries on, right, and I just keep laughing, I’m pretty much cracking up, and I hear the breathing stop but I’m still tickled pink by my rhino image and there’s tears rolling down my face where I’m laughing so much, and then he hits me really hard on the side of my head and lifts me off the chair onto the floor, and I sort of still want to laugh, but I feel a bit sick, and so I get up and hobble towards the kitchen to get some water and Becca is in my mind for some reason, wake up Daniel, wake up, wake the fuck up you self absorbed little CUNT, and I just keep walking and then I’m back on the floor and I can’t really move much and there’s blood all over my pyjamas and I think I can hear my mum crying.

Dear older self, I actually don’t much mind hospitals. They’re nice there, and you can just let your mind float out into space a bit.

Dear older self, even though my mum and the doctors say I shouldn’t feel responsible, I think he was sort of right about waking up, and so I’m going to stop writing letters to a hypothetical me that doesn’t even exist yet. (No offence) Living in the clouds is only fun if the ground you stand on is steady. My aunt Julie read that last sentence half an hour ago, and she says I should try writing poems, but I think that she missed the point a bit. I’ve stopped sleep-walking, but my chocolate factory dreams swim through my head at night, more vividly than ever. I haven’t told anyone.

Yep.

When the rhythm calls the government falls Here come the cops
From Tokyo to Soweto viva la musica pop We are black & white
and we dance all night down at the hop and the letters were tall
on the Berlin Wall viva la musica pop so if you're feeling low
stuck in some bardo I, even I know the solution
love, music, wine and revolution love, love, love music, wine and revolution
This too shall pass so raise your glass to change and chance
and freedom is the only law shall we dance...

Certain half deserted streets

Almost completely deserted, actually.

Just got back from Matter. It was... alright. The music was *fucking blinding*, the club was not actually as good as B2t in Birmingham or Bangface, most of the crowd were trendy wankers or rudeboys, and I had shitty pills that did nothing. However, I did see Chase & Status who were excellent despite having their stupid MC talking stupid incomprehensible shit into a microphone straight out of his stupid, self-assured face. I swear for the most part all he said was "widiwidiwidiwidiwidiwidiwidiwidiwoah-oh-ho, let's go", and occasionally paused to shout "Chase and Status" in increasingly ridiculous accents. "Cheehyus un stee-yah-tus". SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU STUPID PRICK. (I don't like MCs) Noisia were good too, as to be expected from old bangfacers. :) I thought Andy C was shit and boring as were most of the other acts. A few randoms in room 2 were wicked, Culture Shock was the best of them, played some stupidly hardcore neurofunk, I felt a bit like I was in World War 1, in a positive way. Wow that was a weird phrase.

Also - while I was on the bus to the O2, meant to be feeling excited and up for it, which I sort of was, I predominantly thought about jess dreamily. And when I met the girl I went with and her mates, supposed to be all sociable, which I sort of was, but I mostly thought about jess still. And when I was in the club, dancing about and whatnot, and when I was at the bus station talking to this big gang of guys, watching fights break out and talking to one about the racist character of the police, and when I was talking to a welsh bloke who'd had 2 grams of coke and a gram of speed taken off him, and a german tourist girl, and when I decided crazily to just walk home from Greenwich, literally a few towns away from home, and when I even more crazily made it, with a flawless route... still just thought about jess.

Being in love is weird, man. =p

• There is nothing like a big crowd of macho slick-haired morons determined not to smile at anyone to bring out the closet elitist in you

• There is nothing like a cheese and salad cream sandwich to replenish one's energy stores at 5 in the morning

• There's nothing like Jacob
  

sorry but this is just too good.

Dance music dance music dance music dance music

God I would love some speed right now.

One of my favourite poems ever.

I have no adequate interpretation of what is being communicated here, no sense of the poem's structure or the author's intentions, but it is... completely amazing. The Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question. . .
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions
And for a hundred visions and revisions
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all;
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet–and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while, 90
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say, "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all."

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."
. . . . .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

John Winthrop, you fat fuckin' legend.

We must delight in each other, make others’ conditions our own, rejoice together, mourn together, labor and suffer together, always having before our eyes our commission and community in the work, our community as members of the same body. - John Winthrop, 1630.

Possibly a nutter apart from this quote, but it's nice to remember that the past wasn't characterised by total idiots all of the time, and that this kind of idea is not new. :)

I know you're a recluse you know that's no excuse

Oh my actual days. A few days of learning, chilling out, christmas shopping and drinks at the hobgoblin.

And theeeeen.

A whole MONTH living at Molly and Jacob's house. :D I'll get to see them all the time. And all my friends all the time. And Jess. :) And it will be christmas. And we'll have whiskey and wine and hot food and it'll be cold outside and cosy inside and we'll play instruments and gorgeous music to eachother and get out of our little heads.

I'm literally laughing aloud at how happy this idea makes me.

It's well your birthday soon

So I was thinking I might let you off maid duty for the day. If you're good. And you make me trifle. =p

<3

Me and Kie on Facebook Chat

Alex

You wake up, with a boner, in a bin filled with shit.

17:51Kieran

And you wank up the walls until, exhausted, you sink back into a delirious, dream filled sleep.

It's December! :D

That means it's literally practically christmas now. :D Time for warmth, cuddles, family, rampant sentimentalism, becoming significantly fatter, mulled wine, eggnog, pine needles, mince pies, rudolph and fuck it, it might even snow!

Get. Right. In.

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.

Mmmhmmm.

Sometimes.

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

What is simple in the moonlight by the morning never is

Why actually is that?

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.

Fucking LAUGHING?

"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.

What?

"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

• 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.

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.

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*

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

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. :)

xxx

That is just amazing.

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

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.

<3

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.

GYM GYM GYM RAWR GYM

MAN MAN RAWR GYM MAN



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

Alex highly reccomends this

Wanna watch this with jess+jacob. :)

Edward And The Thieves or The Foreigners

On the morning of September 13^th 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Dylan fucking Moran

Bitches. :)