The first time you made me a Bloody Mary I didn’t know you well enough to spit it out. We've come a long way since then...
Please don’t be so sentimental when it comes to writing my obituary; just note the crudest facts about how I took my own life. Please, no tears, just high blood pressure and palpitations. Donate my body for scientific purposes, even the eyes; I’m too scared to see the after-life. Please cremate my remains, I don’t fancy rotting in a wooden box, I’d rather burn.
Thursday, 30 June 2011
Monday, 30 May 2011
Fathers Day
When I think of you I think of bald heads and Risk - dining tables filled with boards and armies. Tactics and conquering.
I think of first footballs – too hard for my toes to handle.
I think of games we played with Lego and remote control cars - I can’t remember what that game was called, maybe you can remind me?
I think of mixing my cereals – you call it the Shenanigan Mix.
I think of Slip-Catch Willy – blindfolded siblings playing games at the bottom of the stairs.
I think of finger games like PC Plod.
I think of cough candy twists in the morning and The New Forest in the afternoons.
I remember kissing that van with the tomato on the bumper before bedtime and hearing stories about rabbits and bombs and living on a farm.
Nanny Duck loved you because you were charming, but I only know her from the photographs.
“To Timothy, Happy Christmas, Love Timothy”; you used to buy yourself Christmas presents – little books about trains. The Mallard was your favourite (it’s my favourite too.)
I guess that being a gas man from fifteen to fifty isn’t what you wanted at fourteen; I believe you wanted to be a butler, caring for an old Major in a country manor, but you shouldn’t be sad. I am proud to tell people about whom you are and what you do.
I promise I’ll pay off your mortgage soon, but first I need a job.
I think of first footballs – too hard for my toes to handle.
I think of games we played with Lego and remote control cars - I can’t remember what that game was called, maybe you can remind me?
I think of mixing my cereals – you call it the Shenanigan Mix.
I think of Slip-Catch Willy – blindfolded siblings playing games at the bottom of the stairs.
I think of finger games like PC Plod.
I think of cough candy twists in the morning and The New Forest in the afternoons.
I remember kissing that van with the tomato on the bumper before bedtime and hearing stories about rabbits and bombs and living on a farm.
Nanny Duck loved you because you were charming, but I only know her from the photographs.
“To Timothy, Happy Christmas, Love Timothy”; you used to buy yourself Christmas presents – little books about trains. The Mallard was your favourite (it’s my favourite too.)
I guess that being a gas man from fifteen to fifty isn’t what you wanted at fourteen; I believe you wanted to be a butler, caring for an old Major in a country manor, but you shouldn’t be sad. I am proud to tell people about whom you are and what you do.
I promise I’ll pay off your mortgage soon, but first I need a job.
Wednesday, 11 May 2011
PRE ORDER BEWILDER EP FROM ART IS HARD RECORDS
http://artishardrecords.tumblr.com/post/5338564404/aih006-bewilder-this-isnt-life-its-just-stuff
Saturday, 16 April 2011
Monday, 14 March 2011
sunset
I think I’m sat away from everything that nobody can know.
I think I’m sat away from everything, where nobody can go.
The farthest branch could hang me,
The weakest branch could hold me.
If I could just escape, this tree is where I would want to go.
If I could just escape I’d find this tree beside the silent lake.
The farthest branch could hang me,
And the weakest branch could hold me.
And in sunrise my silhouette would be to the west
And at sunset it would be swaying in the east.
I am king of all the castles when I’m here and when I’m dreaming,
I should show you all the bruises up and down my spine.
I should teach you all the ways to drink my skin like poison.
Bewildered and sunburnt, I make my way back to you.
I think I’m sat away from everything, where nobody can go.
The farthest branch could hang me,
The weakest branch could hold me.
If I could just escape, this tree is where I would want to go.
If I could just escape I’d find this tree beside the silent lake.
The farthest branch could hang me,
And the weakest branch could hold me.
And in sunrise my silhouette would be to the west
And at sunset it would be swaying in the east.
I am king of all the castles when I’m here and when I’m dreaming,
I should show you all the bruises up and down my spine.
I should teach you all the ways to drink my skin like poison.
Bewildered and sunburnt, I make my way back to you.
Tuesday, 1 February 2011
Flying South
Chapter one
I guess the first time we spoke was around winter. I remember because we watched the birds flying south, and I remember saying
“I wish we were flying south, th...”
There was a short interval of sirens. Neither of us spoke. I never speak over sirens and she had nothing to say.
I also never speak in night clubs. I hate raising my voice over loud noises. I’m the same around trains. Sometimes I just stop talking mid sentence. Leaving whoever I’m with in limbo. Hanging on my last word. I continue, mid sentence, as if nothing had ever happened. And everybody except my closest friends just look bewildered as they try to remember what I was saying. They usually never do - loud noises always come in the middle of the dullest conversation. I guess it’s just god or whoever trying to make me shut up. But I always carry on. Fuck god, or whoever.
The sirens pass, and I continue
“...en we’d be there to watch them arrive”
She replied, instantly
“then let’s go”
I said no, but we shared a smile. Brief, but real.
I knew from this moment on, if we weren’t already close friends (which we probably weren’t) that one day we would be.
I think she knew that too.
Chapter two
Her feet were always cold.
I remember lying in bed with her. Our bodies close and warm and wet. When it got too warm she’d bend her knees and put her feet on my stomach. I’d tense up with the cold.
But she wouldn’t flinch. She’d keep them there a while, till I had absorbed most of the cold, then she’d straighten her legs again and we’d continue lying. I’d take her hand and squeeze it softly. I never thanked her but she always knew I was thankful.
Some things just don’t need saying. And when you do say them it never feels right. It takes something away and you just lay there a while, regretting the words and wishing you could turn back time by thirty seconds, and just turn to look at her in silence instead. That always says enough if it’s the right look. And when you’re in love, it’s always the right look. Even when it’s an angry look, it’s the right kind of angry.
It’s the same with “I live you’s”
She never liked them and I didn’t really get why.
But now I know “some things are best left unsaid”
Chapter three
She had cold feet, and I had cold hands.
We were probably both anaemic but neither of us liked the doctors, Guinness or iron tablets so we never bothered to do anything about it.
Sometimes when we sat in bed at night, reading, whilst her housemates watched the Simpsons, I’d hold a cup of tea in my hands to warm them up.
It felt amazing, like drinking soup on a winter evening.
After holding the mug for as long as I could stand, I’d let go and softly take hold of her upper arm. I would always grip the mug in such a way that the palms of my hands became numbingly hot, but the fingers would remain icy.
This is what she liked
Pure heat would be too much
And the combination of boiling and freezing was a bit of a head fuck and always made her dizzy.
Helium dizzy.
Chapter four
Her and her friends had a theory -
The first day of summer is the day you go to light a cigarette and you can’t see the flame at the end of the match.
Summer didn’t start until that day
And that night they’d all go to the local seaside town and get drunk on the pebbly beach to celebrate the start of summer
Sometimes summer started early and sometimes late
She told me once that the latest summer she’d ever had was in two thousand and seven.
The eighteenth of august. It had been a particularly rainy year.
The earliest was a few years before. The fourth of February
They didn’t celebrate that year. The group saw spring as their favourite season, and this year it had been skipped, and so they all felt a bit bitter.
I guess the first time we spoke was around winter. I remember because we watched the birds flying south, and I remember saying
“I wish we were flying south, th...”
There was a short interval of sirens. Neither of us spoke. I never speak over sirens and she had nothing to say.
I also never speak in night clubs. I hate raising my voice over loud noises. I’m the same around trains. Sometimes I just stop talking mid sentence. Leaving whoever I’m with in limbo. Hanging on my last word. I continue, mid sentence, as if nothing had ever happened. And everybody except my closest friends just look bewildered as they try to remember what I was saying. They usually never do - loud noises always come in the middle of the dullest conversation. I guess it’s just god or whoever trying to make me shut up. But I always carry on. Fuck god, or whoever.
The sirens pass, and I continue
“...en we’d be there to watch them arrive”
She replied, instantly
“then let’s go”
I said no, but we shared a smile. Brief, but real.
I knew from this moment on, if we weren’t already close friends (which we probably weren’t) that one day we would be.
I think she knew that too.
Chapter two
Her feet were always cold.
I remember lying in bed with her. Our bodies close and warm and wet. When it got too warm she’d bend her knees and put her feet on my stomach. I’d tense up with the cold.
But she wouldn’t flinch. She’d keep them there a while, till I had absorbed most of the cold, then she’d straighten her legs again and we’d continue lying. I’d take her hand and squeeze it softly. I never thanked her but she always knew I was thankful.
Some things just don’t need saying. And when you do say them it never feels right. It takes something away and you just lay there a while, regretting the words and wishing you could turn back time by thirty seconds, and just turn to look at her in silence instead. That always says enough if it’s the right look. And when you’re in love, it’s always the right look. Even when it’s an angry look, it’s the right kind of angry.
It’s the same with “I live you’s”
She never liked them and I didn’t really get why.
But now I know “some things are best left unsaid”
Chapter three
She had cold feet, and I had cold hands.
We were probably both anaemic but neither of us liked the doctors, Guinness or iron tablets so we never bothered to do anything about it.
Sometimes when we sat in bed at night, reading, whilst her housemates watched the Simpsons, I’d hold a cup of tea in my hands to warm them up.
It felt amazing, like drinking soup on a winter evening.
After holding the mug for as long as I could stand, I’d let go and softly take hold of her upper arm. I would always grip the mug in such a way that the palms of my hands became numbingly hot, but the fingers would remain icy.
This is what she liked
Pure heat would be too much
And the combination of boiling and freezing was a bit of a head fuck and always made her dizzy.
Helium dizzy.
Chapter four
Her and her friends had a theory -
The first day of summer is the day you go to light a cigarette and you can’t see the flame at the end of the match.
Summer didn’t start until that day
And that night they’d all go to the local seaside town and get drunk on the pebbly beach to celebrate the start of summer
Sometimes summer started early and sometimes late
She told me once that the latest summer she’d ever had was in two thousand and seven.
The eighteenth of august. It had been a particularly rainy year.
The earliest was a few years before. The fourth of February
They didn’t celebrate that year. The group saw spring as their favourite season, and this year it had been skipped, and so they all felt a bit bitter.
Wednesday, 12 January 2011
Friday, 24 December 2010
Wednesday, 22 December 2010
I
The smoke curls round my fingers
Out of time with the ticks
And the gargles of the baby swans -
The intestines of their dead mother
Their only source of survival.
Once I saw three children
The eldest, a girl, fourteen,
She was holding a paper umbrella
It disintegrated in the rain and her hair got wet
Her brother was three
and his white hair reflected the sunlight into my eyes
so I had to turn away
and when I turned back they were gone
I never noticed the other child
So I’ve painted a picture of them
It’s black and smudged
And I call it something like ‘failure’.
I don’t like the title but it’s the only word I remember the meaning of.
II
It’s like that sensation you get when you stare at a bright light for the countdown to a power cut.
Like sun spots in your vision then absolute darkness.
It’s like shaking the clammy hand of the guy who’s sleeping with your ex girlfriend.
Or maybe I remember it wrong?
The child was grey.
Either his hair or his eyes were brown
But his skin was entirely grey.
I’m guessing hyperthermia or the Chernobyl.
CHA-KNOB-ALL.
I could count his strands of hair on one hand.
His pulse came less frequently than... (insert metaphor)
His skin so taught, you could make out the marble of his bones.
For some reason I said yes when he asked to sleep with me.
I was half aware he was HIV positive
But the other half of me didn’t care.
The other third was indifferent.
And the remaining quarter felt too much guilt to turn down the body of a child who would most likely be dead within the next seventy-two hours.
III
It’s been a week of horrible nights and hangovers.
£180 worth of education wasted.
Perfect days spent for free.
Lifeless bodies. Bloodless limbs.
Watching clocks from 5.25 to 5.26
Then just wishing you were alive to see 5.24.
But your head was somewhere in that lamp
Or in the fireplace.
Or your eyes were lost someplace in that mirror –
The one that shows you the reflection of a cancer ridden widow.
An empty entity of hollow timber and deflated helium balloons.
If I put a wooden spoon between my teeth now,
By 5.36 I’d be left holding a wooden handle
And stood above a pile of blood, ivory and sawdust.
It’s because I’m nervous, and when I’m nervous I grind my teeth.
The acupuncturist asked me to stop.
I should have listened.
It’s constantly taking my jaw out of line.
Wednesday, 10 November 2010
Monday, 8 November 2010
text
shoelaces tied round our necks to make necklaces
small children in pots of boiling water
the darkness getting lighter and lighter
until i cannot be afraid any more
petals from month old roses
like the leaves of a
rotting
butterfly
small doses of poison in every mouthful
i hold your hand but i have to let go
my cold blooded skin smokes
on each point of
contact
waxy calluses scratch the cheeks of all the baby's
faces i stroke
i hold a cigarette now
and will hold it forever
i don't smoke
but i like people to think i
do
and i like the yellow fingertips
i hold
my head
underwater
until i can no longer think any more.
Sunday, 3 October 2010
a dream i dreamt up
Last night I had my first dream since the turn of the millennium...
Four Czech ladies were sat beneath a lamppost, drinking three day old filter coffee and pouring the remnants of their stomach acid down a drain. Black children from all around used intelligent straws to slurp the, now frothy plasma from the sewers. The straws turned to leeches that found their way back to the rotting corpses of the anorexic Czechs (through a series of mole holes and underground tunnels) and latched themselves onto the nipples, quenching their thirst with the urine that spilt.
Three men came from the local tavern;
• The first was below five feet and was dressed all in black, save for one navy shoelace.
• The second man was nothing more than a wax mannequin.
• The final man was wearing nothing but a shabby grey beard wrapped around his torso. Wound so tightly that it was slicing his stomach like a hoard of baby paper cuts.
The men walked quickly then slowly in sporadic bursts and in complete unison. With each strike of heel to pavement, a wild loop of violin would ring. It wouldn’t echo – nothing ever does.
The men didn’t disappear, rather, they never existed.
Instead, the street was filled with bloodstained pigeon feathers.
The rain poured the remains of an Asian miscarriage.
A bullfrog sat atop a NatWest bank, frantically using his tongue to sweep the pale foetuses from the roadside, in a race to have the streets clean by rush hour. He succeeded with plenty of time to spare and in celebration burst open into fireworks and confetti. The other reptiles gawped in admiration of their uncle. He’s sat at God’s right side now, on Jesus’ lap.
I wonder if Jesus has a boner?
Four Czech ladies were sat beneath a lamppost, drinking three day old filter coffee and pouring the remnants of their stomach acid down a drain. Black children from all around used intelligent straws to slurp the, now frothy plasma from the sewers. The straws turned to leeches that found their way back to the rotting corpses of the anorexic Czechs (through a series of mole holes and underground tunnels) and latched themselves onto the nipples, quenching their thirst with the urine that spilt.
Three men came from the local tavern;
• The first was below five feet and was dressed all in black, save for one navy shoelace.
• The second man was nothing more than a wax mannequin.
• The final man was wearing nothing but a shabby grey beard wrapped around his torso. Wound so tightly that it was slicing his stomach like a hoard of baby paper cuts.
The men walked quickly then slowly in sporadic bursts and in complete unison. With each strike of heel to pavement, a wild loop of violin would ring. It wouldn’t echo – nothing ever does.
The men didn’t disappear, rather, they never existed.
Instead, the street was filled with bloodstained pigeon feathers.
The rain poured the remains of an Asian miscarriage.
A bullfrog sat atop a NatWest bank, frantically using his tongue to sweep the pale foetuses from the roadside, in a race to have the streets clean by rush hour. He succeeded with plenty of time to spare and in celebration burst open into fireworks and confetti. The other reptiles gawped in admiration of their uncle. He’s sat at God’s right side now, on Jesus’ lap.
I wonder if Jesus has a boner?
Tuesday, 3 August 2010
I ran to the forest for that final cigarette
I finished it, then sat alone with Pedro, the camera
And an imported, Dutch lager
5%
£1.59
I’m looking at the oldest house,
The one they’re attempting to make look the newest
I see that flock of birds flying over the ghost of a popular boot sale
I feel guilty
They may mistake my fag butt for a worm
But I don’t pick it up. I’m too lazy.
Besides, my conscience will be clear, I’ll never even know if I took a life. And if I’m unaware, the death is almost irrelevant.
There is a leaf trapped in the barbed wire
And it nods and shakes in the breeze.
The most in-decisive leaf I’ve ever seen.
I keep asking it the same question on repeat
But its answer changes depending on the direction of the wind.
“If all that’s left is duty,
I’m falling on my sword...”
I can see a tractor coming closer and I’m starting to get scared.
I came here to be alone, and now there’s another man.
I wish I took a photo of the tranquillity,
Instead I just photographed the past.
When it’s developed, I’ll spend time, holding the relic of what can never happen again.
If I sit here long enough I’ll just become part of the backdrop.
Opposite the tangled leaf and beside the butt.
Birds will eat the ivy from my eyes
And my heart will only rumble when the wind blows.
The old lady will walk past me in silence and wonder why she’d never noticed me before
And I’ll just frown forever
Because it’s always too sunny to smile.
I finished it, then sat alone with Pedro, the camera
And an imported, Dutch lager
5%
£1.59
I’m looking at the oldest house,
The one they’re attempting to make look the newest
I see that flock of birds flying over the ghost of a popular boot sale
I feel guilty
They may mistake my fag butt for a worm
But I don’t pick it up. I’m too lazy.
Besides, my conscience will be clear, I’ll never even know if I took a life. And if I’m unaware, the death is almost irrelevant.
There is a leaf trapped in the barbed wire
And it nods and shakes in the breeze.
The most in-decisive leaf I’ve ever seen.
I keep asking it the same question on repeat
But its answer changes depending on the direction of the wind.
“If all that’s left is duty,
I’m falling on my sword...”
I can see a tractor coming closer and I’m starting to get scared.
I came here to be alone, and now there’s another man.
I wish I took a photo of the tranquillity,
Instead I just photographed the past.
When it’s developed, I’ll spend time, holding the relic of what can never happen again.
If I sit here long enough I’ll just become part of the backdrop.
Opposite the tangled leaf and beside the butt.
Birds will eat the ivy from my eyes
And my heart will only rumble when the wind blows.
The old lady will walk past me in silence and wonder why she’d never noticed me before
And I’ll just frown forever
Because it’s always too sunny to smile.
Sunday, 1 August 2010
Thursday, 15 July 2010
my parents paid for me to go on their car insurance for two weeks. it costed £70. it's a two litre mondeo estate. not a beginners car. it's a big engine so a big price in terms of insurance. they also let me drive it to brighton and basically anywhere i wanted. and cos i used it so much they had to start using the train to get where they wanted. they are sometimes too kind. so as a little thank you, I DREW THEM THIS CARD!
Wednesday, 14 July 2010
in summer i watch the ice melt. i guess that's enough to leave anybody feeling guilty. i like it when the clouds are grey on days like this. they look more two-dimensional than white clouds do. just pasted upon the pastel sky. they look more superimposed. they make you feel like everything is fake. that nothing up there, nor down here has the ability to mean anything. i like it most when it's windy. when i'm in a coat and drinking cold beer. being hit by wind. the cold air giving me the sensation of pissing in a winter forest at night time. the little wriggle of the spine as the flow of urine starts to cease. the body shiver as you shake the last dribbles of piss from your penis. i love that shudder. i like it when the sun comes from behind the grey clouds. the false hope for the school children on their weekends or holidays. running out to the streets to play, only to race back inside moments later, dodging the ice cold rain drops. standing in hallways being dried by grandparents. towelled dressing gowns. i don't believe that clouds don't move. on windy days, i see them in races. like ducklings in puddles. or ducks in ponds. the dinosaur shaped cloud, beaten by the three-legged dog in wellingtons. i like being alone in the country because nobody can hear you grate your teeth. they can't see your thoughts. you can just hear the trees, and they sound like the tide, striking a shore of fossils and eggshells.
Sunday, 4 July 2010
sometimes ambition seems so useless. sometimes it seems like the most sensible thing in the world is to be lonely. not lonely, but alone. alone, both in terms of company and communication. you should avoid speaking to, being around, reading about, or even observing society. there is so much corruption. it's better to die alone than to die beside the devil.
sometimes i feel more empty than hollow. if you tap a hollow man, you get a mahogany reply, a deep and cordless echo. but sometimes you just couldn't even tap me. there'd be nothing to tap. and even if you managed to tap the nothing, you'd just find a cracked egg and a swollen embryo, bloated by the sunday heat.
Wednesday, 30 June 2010
silence as we watch the tyres treading paths into the flattened out harness of freedom. ancient freedom, modern slavery. each object in each row a replica of the last. bricked exterior with phoney tudor fronts. thickened glass stands firm, keeping bills down and humidity inside. keeping secrets inside. keeping seedy scenarios away from the face of the identical neighbours in their identical cars and houses. men in glass houses. everybody knows truth but it's scary so it's allowed to dilute into the distant subconscious. we'll dig it up when we die. it's carved into their torso's, chiselled into their features like the dreamy cheekbones of an anorexic russian whore. the baby girl is orphaned. "as long as the hand that rocks the cradle is mine."
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