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

Fearful Alco-rhythm

We are not long for this world
Stuck in the mud
Fearful algorithms
Or was that
Alco rhythms
Lost in the medina 
Or the shopping centre
The labyrinth
That ancient
Eldritch angst
What ever happened to air sickness?
To vomit in paper bags?
No data 
No date, like an abscess
A rushing jet
Hot / putrid
The fear of failure
Dis-success / unprocessed data
Particles on the cobblestones
Chicken hearts and broken bones

Screens like offal

The Nightmare of History

The Great Distemper

here be men with heads like lightbulbs
greek tragedy in the cul de sacs
screaming on your mum's doorstep that you are more than the sum of your sins
pretty faces blushed in blood
you pick the glass out of the washing machine filter
every two weeks
the question on everyone's lips
'whose the daddy?'
chips are flying
chips of bricks
chips of shoulder bone
the great distemper.

Flab Of The City Part Two

Flab of the City.

I was trying to decide whether to buy the Swedish bread with holes in it (they reminded me of a rash) when I heard the sound.  It sounded like a bone cracking but I felt no pain and none of my bones appeared to be broken, however I was sure the sound had come from somewhere within my own body.  I couldn’t be sure where exactly - in fact the more I thought about it that was strange in itself, normally my body has a very good sense of it’s own geography, but this cracking sound seemed to come from some undiscovered organ or space, unmistakably internal but not yet mapped.  I bought the bread and paid for my shopping on my visa card and left.

Outside I suddenly felt very faint.  My mind was filled with the most intense confusion, a storm of dislodged thoughts.  I had to sit down on a bench between two red faced tramps.  They passed a can of super strength lager between them and I stared into my bag of shopping and it seemed to me like a infinite pit, bored straight through the middle of the earth itself and out the other side, I felt like I was watching the cosmos and everything in it drip through the bag and pass out the other side into nothingness, an absence, an abscess. 

After a moment of staring into the shopping bag I suddenly realised that I was real.  That I was an adult and that I was terrified of myself and the future and of the creeping terror of the the day to day.   I interrupted the flow of the can between the two tramps and snatched the can draining it’s contents and crumpling it one movement.  Just then a child slipped in a puddle, the fear of death flashed across the mothers face, but the child was fine.  I took some coins out of my pocket and pressed them into the palm of one of the tramps.  

Then I got up on with my life and but the episodes continued regularly, like internal earthquakes, moments of severe reality unfiltered, raw, yet I never deduced a proper reaction to them and in many ways these episodes, these attacks, dictated the flow of my life.  I died never understanding the inside of my own head and never having found that mysterious organ, from which that devil crack originated, I died surrounded by my grandchildren, to all extents and purposes, a happy man.     

Shopping Lists / Manifestos

Ideology and survival.  Pragmatism and idealism.  Crumpled in pockets.  Tightly gripped in the hands of a body broken under the wheels of a commuter train or the cogs of a system.  A list of aspirations.  Rubbed thin in nervous anticipation.  Heralded by the anxious rustling of money or the pitter patter of bullets on old walls.  Governments are toppled by the weather not by bullet-points.  Your future is not your future however much you stock up.  A whole century squeezed between two aspirational concepts, stuck in a crevice, gasping for breath, choking on mucus, a manifesto - a shopping list.  Cultures and nations anointed special by the friction of conveyor belts, lauded in tinned goods and cushioned in receipts.  People frogmarched to landfills by assertive ink stains on pieces of paper, justified by repetition.  A consumer, a revolutionary, a manifesto, a shopping list.    

Tresen Libretto

The inside of a thigh, smudged 
Like the black stone in mecca 
Everyone cops a feel
And the world swoons
Chinese whispers spelled out in fag ash and spilled beer
The minor turnings of the earth
Turned over by turncoats
Turn me over and turn me out
Good turn-out tonight 
All the clapping tongues and aching balls
Itching wallets
Scratch an itch, pat a back
Bruise a lip
We’re all one 
Your limbs are my limbs
Your sprains are my heart aches
Sharing shards, nose spikes
Once again, three shots more
Another tale or was it tail?
Time will tell
Tell me the time?
Vorbei mate 
And we all go tumbling to get up
Stumbling down the stairs and into public transport
Our pockets frothing
Personalities fermented
Another night at another bar
The minor turnings of the earth
Turn me on
Turn me off
Turn me down

Gum On Your Soul (SIC) Part Two

The Chewing Gum Kid said it,
it's a like a bit of gum on the soul of your shoe
getting dirtier the further your walk
then the sole comes off altogether
not once but twice
it bookends the week in tableaus of drunken walks down cobblestones streets
the 2nd time
at Abstand
I saw the sole in the hand of the lead singer of a swedish hardcore band
he waves it like a dismembered hand in a bad joke
need a hand mate?
from where I was leaning, struggling to stand
the gum looked black
black and withered flattened by the pressure of all the days spent under the foot.