This is like an online notebook, this stuff is not finished or often even started properly.

The Philosophy Of Self Improvement

governments are toppled by the weather
all of this and more
compare our readings
your beer is getting flat
everything has been pasteurised by the weight of exposure
the thing I don't like about bank charges is that they come with bed bugs and hangovers
concrete between the toes
hard not to keel over
the philosophy of infinity
there is a thing called you
it can be better than it is
there is a thing called better
it feels like an erection
and it will always let you down
the only thing less believable than life is death

you are the one and only
the king of a piss poor realm
you are the one and only
the king of a piss poor realm

all of this and more
looking straight into the eyes of people I like
and seeing only twitching
a rolled heel
spoiled milk
a toe poke in the ribs
they got a pill for that now
all of this and more
The philosophy of self improvement.

Itchy Guillotine Finger.

I used to think it was a seasonal ailment
or linked to the contours of my life
but it's not
it's part of my anatomy
an itchy guillotine finger
I'm 90 percent rage and 10 percent resentment
I hate in deep breaths
in gasps
full bodied
and it itches
I sympathise with atrocities
and feel deserving of shrapnel wounds on crowded commuter trains



I spin the old man around so that he’s facing me and punch him in the face.  After so many hours spent doing press ups on concrete I barely notice that one of his teeth is imbedded in my fist.  He’s crying and I think to myself, look at the hippie crying, boo hoo hoo.  
Physical abuse is always emotional, emotional abuse is not always physical.  That’s why it’s best to keep them mixed up.  That’s what the Allies understood when they bombed Dresden.  Suffocation is the perfect balance between emotional and physical pain.  I release the choke.  The hippie spits blood all over the floor.  
I make a point of laughing at him.  I make a laugh out of pointing at him.  To be dominated physically is to be crushed emotionally. 
I read to the hippie from the bible for an hour because, loathe as he is to admit it, his whole world is built on it.  I ask him about his job and he tells me in words smothered by phlegm and bile that he’s a primary school teacher.  Jackpot, I think.  Habitual Labour voter too I bet, community volunteer and weekend smiler, committed recycler and denim wearing cheese enthusiast.  Sickening isn’t it? How cocky can you get? I stamp on his fingers and then with added vigour on his knuckles.  I feel his hand snap somewhere in the middle.  Won’t be helping any old ladies across the road will you now?  Cunt.  I hang myself in front of him and go out knowing that no one will ever find him in time.  As it fades to gasping black I am assured of one last victory, even as the aggressor I died first.  
These are the kind of fantasies I’ve been having my whole life.  I could be sitting on a wall reading a free daily paper well stomped on by commuters' Third World factory produced work shoes and be having these type of thoughts  Until I was twenty I was convinced that somehow people would be able to read it in my face but eventually I realised that nobody has any idea what’s going on inside my head.  Nowadays I can be having a staring contest with a four year old while thinking about bludgeoning a neighbour to death with his own elbow and not even break a sweat. 
My problems start with the fact that the sky is up and the ground is down.  They start with 1+1 = 2 and continue throughout the many strains of our so-called society.  Sanity is sickness perpetuated by the criminally insane.  Maths is a form of black magic.  Regression and progression are two sides of the same coin, spinning in a pool of spilt beer and spit.  Inevitably the whole world is moving closer to an absence of anything.  The human who has the pleasure of witnessing the Apocalypse will most likely be an imbecile who has spent his short life amusing himself by sticking his finger in his own shit and then sucking his finger.  How can I go to shopping centres with thoughts like that?  It’s indecent, it makes me feel like I’m walking around naked with a an erection, out of place, on edge, like I said - indecent.  
The doctor is giving me a kind of test.  He hits each of my kneecaps with a cricket bat and makes me drink milky tea while reciting the National Anthem.  I don’t know the words to the National Anthem and I’m lactose intolerant.  This is a dream that it took me a week of trying to have. 
I’m a bit older now and all that hate (see above) has been tempered by long shifts and blisters.  Nowadays I think there is the possibility that pick 'n' mix politics can change the consistency of the soil and the rain flow.  No, wait, what was it?  The icecaps melting.  Yeah, that's right, you know when you need to defrost your freezer and you have to eat everything, yeah ?  Think about that next time you want to vote Green.
So what's all this shit about sex being less sad and lonely than masturbation? Did you hear the one about the two people who spend their whole time exalting friction and sweat?  Fucking is asking, wanking is answering.  Spinning on a merry-go-round, driving in endless circles at a roundabout reciting your shopping list, overthrowing your government. 
Somewhere in an industrial estate on the edge of a town long since forgotten but not a stone’s throw from the motorway services, the one with the Burger King staffed by Chinese immigrants, a man absentmindedly strums at a guitar.  He’s got a headache and he wants to go to sleep.  He was up all night reading Aleister Crowley and learning the riffs to Sabbath songs.  He’s got a spot on the end of his nose and he will never doing anything unique in his entire life because everything of any interest has already happened.  This is the comedown.  We are living in the comedown after the great orgy of fucking and killing and moral certainty that came before.  Feeling unsure of what you think, eating a takeaway.
“Did you ever consider the horror of hereditary muscle memory?” 
“Shit, sorry, did I say all that out loud? Does it cost more if I get two more chicken wings instead of the fries? No? Great then, yeah. Sorry, mate, it’s been a long day."
"Can I ask you a question, mate?"
"Go on."
"How do you feel when you see the pigeons outside your shop nibbling on the discarded bones?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you're like enabling cannibalism aren’t you, kind of?"
"I don’t get your point."
"Sorry, did I offend you?"
"No, mate, I just don’t get your point."
"Well, I was just saying, like, don’t you ever get a strange feeling when you look outside the front of your chicken shop and see all the pigeons eating discarded fried chicken?"
"Get out of my shop, mate."
It’s the first week of November and the Christmas lights have gone up and me and the homeless man who used to live in the public toilets are both throwing up in the multi storey car park.  He’s throwing up because he had two cans of Special Brew for breakfast.  I’m throwing up because I find the way the Christmas lights hang from lamp post to lamp post sickening.  Guilt tripping you into smiling.  It's somewhat obscene and I don’t like the anxious sound of money.  In fact to make it so cerebral is a lie.  It’s more like an allergy.  My whole life I’ve found things like Christmas lights nauseating.  Things like Christmas lights and wedding dresses and freshly cut lawns and small brown bowls of potpourri and legislation and tourist attractions and phone-in TV shows and romantic comedies and elections and the list goes on.  I feel it coming up my throat again and I bend over.  The homeless man is patting me on the back, his breath smells like sick and synthesised spirits, I hear him say, “I’ve got a son and a daughter I haven’t seen for thirteen years”.
My grandfather passed away.  I felt sad, even though he was old and by all measurements lived a pretty OK life.  I’m walking around the garden with his second wife, she’s pointing out flowers to me and telling me the latin names.  The lawn is very carefully trimmed.  She’s telling me that towards the end my Grandfather worried that the world wasn’t getting any better, that for most of his life he’d felt like the human race was moving forward but towards the end he felt the opposite.  I said he was probably right.  What I thought really was he was probably wrong all along, the human race was never getting better.  Better implies a capacity for individual change of which humans are not capable.  The only real power is structure.  A re-jigging is in order.  Get the guillotine back out.  Under the paving stones more paving stones but this time made from compressed bone.  The second wife of my grandfather turns to me and says, "Aren’t the flowers pretty.  It’s a shame that they have to exist in such a ugly world."  I nod my head and I think to myself, just imagine if you didn’t even find flowers pretty. 
Two men are standing under a lamp post.  The light doesn’t flicker like in the movies.  One of the men smokes and the other one bites his nails and spits the bits of skin and nail onto the street.  The man who’s smoking takes a plastic bag out of his inside pocket and unwraps it.  Inside the bag is a gun.

"It looks old"
"It is old"
"Does it work?"
"Did you try it?"
"No, but trust me it works."
"Trust me is the type of thing people say when they aren’t to be trusted."
"It works."
"So we’re going to do this?"
"Yeah, we are."
"Who’s shooting?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yes, it matters."
"It only matters that he dies."
It took the professor’s wife a while to recognise her husband.  The bullet had made a hole in his face where most of his recognisable features used to be.  She nodded and the policeman put the sheet back over her husband's body.
"We think that one of the attackers was injured in the attack."
"We believe that the weapon exploded in the attacker's hand when he tried to fire a second shot.  We’ve identified blood and matter that doesn’t belong to your husband."
"Does that mean you’ll find him?"
"The attacker"
"If we have his DNA on file we’ll be able to identify the perpetrator.  Did your husband have any enemies?"
"He’d received threats recently.  We contacted the police."
"What type of threats?"
"Relating to his work, they were strange letters, almost like stories."
"What was your husband's job?"
"He was a professor of economics."
 I lie down in the bath and watch the water becoming cloudy.  Underwater the damage isn’t so easy to see, it almost looks deliberate, the two fingers missing like that.  He’s standing in the doorway smoking.  
"I’m going to leave now."
"Do you think it was worth it?"
"These things are hard to quantify.  History only goes in one direction.  Who can say?  Maybe the Allies could’ve won the war without destroying Dresden but we’ll never know, so we just keep acting like it was necessary."
"I feel faint."
"I’ll call an ambulance."
"I’m scared."
He finishes his cigarette.  
"Can you turn on the TV? I want to hear the news."
"Of course."
After he left I lay there and listened to them say my name over and over again on the television.  They said my name and then they said "murderer".  


Bukowski-ing, it’s a verb.

I take my fingers out of the sink hole and let the half chewed steak, rejected chicken and washing up liquid boiled vegetables drift into the palm of my hand, I’m like a fucked up prospector, a dung beetle of some kind, a bottom feeder for sure, but of what calibre? Theres an acute feeling, a tingle in the spine and the balls that you can’t escape when you make your money so intimately acquainted with the leftovers of those no good masticators…
The olympics have long since left my memory, exorcised and told to ‘do one’.  I’ve found a heightened pleasure in the ride home, down the empty wide streets ethereal at just past 2am my only company a compilation of film noir soundtracks, complete with hard talk from the best of them, as I cross the bridge to Brandenburger Tor the horns and piano reach a crescendo and I turn to watch as a lone figure on a bicycle piled high with bags full of pfand shoots past me through the fog in my mind, some time later I see another pfand man, the hero of my early Berlin adventures, Emmanuel (a whole book would not do the man justice) a serious character, carved from the pavement infected with so many 21st century diseases that he could be offered up as the century’s martyr, a modern day Homer no doubt, his genius trapped under layers of tightly knotted eccentricity, I leave a fiver in his pocket and head onwards…powered on by the salford eunuchs dangerous verse…
And this week they finally took Tacheles and I want to smash something, not because tacheles was so worthy of saving, it had become a craftshop, a tourist hole, a shops store mannequin for the squat scene but because no one did shit, no one said anything and I didn’t even know it was gonna happen, the black block pussies who’d rather batter an 18 year old kid and a 60 year old man with pepper spray, were in bed wanking over schiesse linke kultur hip hop, talking about nazis but too fucking prang to ever fight any.   
I was in their manor last night and there was no buzz even fisch was full to the brim with american yuppie crust punks and worse, cunts with long hair and stoner rock t shirts, what used to be a respectable tramps bar is now another crust punk infected scab.  Homogeny, homogeny and rhetoric reigns on the streets and in all parliaments of the world.  Today I’m gonna smash something, for no good reason.

I was looking for a job, then I got a job and heaven knows I’m miserable now.  It happened like this, with no meaning.  I tore down the poster from the kitchen wall, it was  bad poster, bad in many ways, bad in the way that people dress badly and that meals can be badly thrown together.  Once it was in the bin I replaced it with a poster for a tattoo shop called, No Pain No Brain tattoo.  Then I went on Craigslist and applied for a job putting up posters for a club night, some time later once I was drunk and loosing steadily at kicker I got a call from a  guy whose dreadlocks I could hear down the phone line, brushing against his bird like rib cage.  The rendezvous was arranged for 10 am (a force of habit when applying for jobs that goes against my otherwise terrible relationship with mornings).  We met at Henrich Heine Strasse, outside the Kit Kat club, a place open on Sundays between 10 am and 10 am, apparently there is a toilet in the middle and you can fuck anyone you touch.  I get the posters and head back home and realise I have no intention of doing the job.  Fuck it as my mum says, life’s a bitch and then you die, anon.
I try to pass the posters off to other layabouts but no one will take them.  I tuck them under the sofa I sleep on with my girlfriend and hope never to see them again, or even think of them.  I get drunk and sniff speed through a biro while a room of people chant “Machu Pichu”, later we set off a flare on the platform of the station.  Headaches all round.  
My life has been bought to it’s knees by the fever dream of dishwashing, textures, terrible, burnt and sticky.  Mashed potato, hard and crispy at the edges like on my mums shepherd’s pie, a symbol of my happy childhood turned against me, a twisted symbol, an emblem, a fist.  As I watch the African at work new limbs shoot from his torso, with one hand he peels garlic, with another he sprays plates and loads them into the jaws of the steaming machine and with a third and forth he deposits metal dishes into a pile which I clumsily shelf, my finger tips complaining about the heat.  I have not yet mutated like the African, I am bound by human form, his transgressions against god and darwin and the legal working week make him and invaluable part of the economy, a sweat drenched symbol of the protestant work ethic, blood shot eyes and palmers coco butter.  
So the job makes me mad.  My bitten nails burn with bbq sauce, I hate in deep breaths and never stop moving, I lose everything and become a temporary fan of Tom Waits.  My skin rots, the whole squat complains about the smell of my t shirt.  My jeans rub my groin till it’s sore.  I want to cry but have lost track of my tear ducts, I haven’t had the time to maintain my database of orifices.  FUBAR after two weeks.  
One morning while I’m half sleeping my phone rings.  It’s the guy about the posters, he hasn’t seen them around the town, he’s worried and so are the ‘artists’, it’s vital that the night of clicking techno goes ahead without obstruction.  I tell him I resigned at least a week before, I left my note in piss on the wall of an alley in Kreuzberg.  He’s confused, I tell him it’s ok - it’s confusing, trust me I was there when it happened.  He puts the phone down.  Sometime later, the phone rings again, he ask’s me to email someone explaining where and how the posters can be collected.  I roll over and grab my laptop.
I don’t why I do it, but I do.  I paste this poem into the body of the email and click send.

Too much
too little
or not enough
too fat
too thin
or nobody
laughter or
or immaculate
armies running through streets of blood
waving winebottles
bayoneting and fucking virgins
or an old guy in a cheap room
with a photograph of Marilyn Monroe
many old guys in cheap rooms without
any photographs at all
many old women rubbing rosaries
when they'd prefer to be rubbing cocks
there is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it in the slow movements of
the hands of a clock
there is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it blinking in neon signs
in Vegas, in Baltimore, in Munich
there are people so tired
so strafed
so mutilated by love or no
that buying a bargain can of tuna
in a supermarket
is their greatest moment
their greatest victory
we don't need new governments
new revolutions
we don't need new men
new women
we don't need new ways
good Columbian
water pipes
rubbers with corkscrew stems
watches that give you the date
people are not good to each other
one on one.
Marx be damned
the sin is not the totality of certain systems.
Christianity be damned
the sin is not the killing of a God.
people are just not good to each other.
we are afraid
we think that hatred means strength
we think that New York City is the greatest
city in America.
what we need is less brilliance
what we need is less instruction
what we need are less poets
what we need are less Bukowskies
what we need are less Billy Grahams
what we need is more
a typist
more finches
more green-eyed whores who don't eat your heart
like a vitamin pill
we don't think about the terror of one person
aching in one place
unspoken to
watering a plant
being without a telephone that will never
because there isn't one.
more haters than lovers
slices of doom like taffeta
people are not good to each other
people are not good to each other
people are not good to each other
and the beads swing and the clouds cloud
and the dogs piss upon the roses
and the killer beheads the child like taking a bite
out of an ice cream cone
and the ocean comes in and out
in and out
under the direction of a senseless moon
and people are not good to each other.

I forget to put Bukowski’s name on it.  I fall asleep. I wake up to an inbox full of emails, threats, there is talk of a crying intern and conversations with the police, of me being arrested and charged with the heinous crime of being pretentious, of immaturity and poetic theft: of being a fan of the kind of poems that always make me think of the Son Of Sam, of David B’s most poetic line 'don't think that because you haven't heard from me for a while that I went to sleep. No, rather, I am still here. Like a spirit roaming the night. thirsty, hungry, seldom stopping to rest; anxious to please Sam. I love my work. Now, the void has been filled'
I repented, my girlfriend and my friend delivered the posters.  Some monthes later, when I was working in a different restaurant with my fingers deep in rich people’s leftovers, I managed to blag press passes to Berlin Festival by promising to interview popstars.  I didn’t, I got as many free drinks as I could and then went home and slept.  Once again my inbox was flooded, once again I resorted to bukoswki-ing to clear the air.  It’s a wonderful feeling, like wagging school or getting stoned for breakfast or deliberatley being late.  


Just found this again, prompted by this vice article

The Marathon

We are at the top end of Camden, the Chalk Farm end, up and past the markets towards the park with the zoo in it where we trip on summer days.  We are in The Marathon, a kebab shop speak-easy run by Cypriots and bounced by Arabs.  Bruno says that it is a “beat place, a secret place”.  The back bar is a small room with table up against the walls, and a small dance floor in the middle.  In the corner a rockabilly busker I’ve seen often on the Tube is strumming with his junkie fingers, speaking to heroin through a fretboard. Bruno describes him as “typical”.  I understand he means he has seen him around many times, but he is also typical of Camden.  A pair dance to the music: a fat North London southern belle doing the twist with a podgy New York Doll. We drink cold cans of French lager in the corner.

“You always find interesting people in the Marathon” Bruno says as me and Ryan stumble from a conversation with an African academic making moves on the Spanish girl who loves Madrid but not Barcelona. He was intoning seriously, as only Africans can, about ‘difference’ (in the Derridian sense) and Toulouse.  He was speaking for himself, we were an audience, not participants, although he did spare a broad-teethed smile when I threw in my tuppence on tea and British cultural colonialism. 

His friend has the shaky hands, junkie fingers yet again. Heroin speaks through the hands and eyes of users.  At some sudden point he leant across the table and with a twitching hand took Joe’s tobacco, so I gripped his wrist and took it back. “Always trying to put a nigger in a box”, he weakly retorted, and reminded me of the days at school and college when my mates would play the race card whenever someone challenged our rights, and as I looked around the table and saw only white-faced companions to my own Caucasian demeanour, I realised I’m at university now.    

Still I recognised his impulse, and the weighted down nature of his words spoke of a lifetime of excuses and as he fumbled into his seat muttering racist slurs and pulling his trilby lower I felt no anger.  And so the conversation and the night died there on the floor of The Marathon, as the bouncers rounded us up and out into the warm night. We gulped down our drinks in the shadow of the Roundhouse and scared away the Spanish girl who likes Madrid but not Barcelona with our English way of smashing bottles in a midnight prayer to the swirling sirens of a weekend stuffed with fuses, in a city ready to blow.  

All Under Heaven is in Utter Chaos: The Situation is Excellent. Leaked Sipper Memorandum

   International Headquarters of The Sippers
                     Sipper Department of Casual Observation

8:00 AM

Current threats to Sipperdom.
(Internal white man memorandum)
As accessed by a coalition of pre eminent Sippers:


After a month of field and investigative work Sipper Agents have deduced that the Far Right scene is made up a bunch of milk drinkers and “Billy No Mates” who use banter and chatter about lone wolf tactics as a cover for the reality of how weak and pathetic they have become.  Those that were tailed by Sipper field agents were observed to live at home with their mothers (invariably fat and abandoned) and to masturbate in the toilets at their places of work at least twice daily.


This lot are a serious threat to the table legs. Led by a collection of ex machete wielding hard bastards from some landlocked African state that Sipper Agent Davis couldn’t find on a map, sent mad by too many hours with their fingers in sink (as Agent Davis poetically noted although dishwashing gives you a lot of time to think, it’s hard to gain perspective) They are quickly amassing strength and could represent a return to the kind of black militancy that has not been seen in the white man’s soup since The Black Panthers.


Fellow Travellers:
Still out there on the edges, slowly stagnating, the idea of a global leftist revolution is dead in the water (see Sipper Memorandum THANK FUCK FOR THAT 17.12.91) however worldwide in the last few years Sipperdom has seen a resurgence of leftist ideologies, the threat of Red revolutions in the Middle Africa and certain troublesome sections of the Mediterranean should undoubtedly be monitored but can be done Sipperly from the leisure of your perch.

The compiling of this assessment has been a joint effort with Sippers on both sides of the pond putting in long hours and threatening to put at risk there very essence as  Sippers, over exertion is of course being fundamentally opposed to the proper disposition of a Sipper.  We would therefore like to suggest commendations and possible Einkommen rises for some of the key agents involved.

Rims to lips and sups up,

Top Sipper Agent Myles




So I demand phantasmagorical films […] The cinema is an amazing stimulant. It acts directly on the grey matter of the brain. When the savour of art has been sufficiently combined with the psychic ingredient which it contains it will go way beyond the theatre which we will relegate to a shelf of memories - Antonin Artaud