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?

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.

they call it a wasteland
they call it a wasteland, baby
they call it a wasteland
they call it a wasteland, baby
they call it a, they call it a, they call it a, they call it a

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!

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.

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.