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

Films are just like friends except they’re constant
And their flesh is luminescent 
Even when your eyes aren’t just rotated by lent chemicals
Newsflash, narrative can never die
Cinema has stolen the sky
And kneecapped Prometheus
That clumsy hustler
Ersatz shoplifter
My lists are immortal 
My escapism is cut from the fabric of the universe
Raise your glasses to ethereal tea leafs
To half inched experience
Death and smog to theatre!
That after dinner embroidery could never hold a flame 
To the captive pugilism of the kino eye
In my bed I don’t know what day it is
Or the temperature of the monotony outside
I’m a captive student of a strangers internal clocks
To an industry of shotgun artists
Taking pot shots at God from many corners of the earth.

*Picture by Man Trout Ink.


Some scribbles from BLUE EYED MONSTER (poetry for the one day a week worker and other olympians)

The hell of five faces.

There two types of people with 5 different faces
Thats about it, the rest is just misinterpretation 
Like if you count a cigarette twice by accident before deciding to give one to the tramp at the bustop
The faces don’t match the bodies
You can find Bela Lugosi servicing slot machines at a motorway service station
Once I saw the split of Tupac eagerly pillaging the bins behind Iceland
But this is not fact, there are eyes involved here
Even deformation and terrible physical misfortune is more evenly spread
Than they would have you believe
Peddling all that that babies aren’t mud 
And architecture isn’t just temporarily frozen ash

Morning Coffee vs man.

Maybe I’ll just stitch up their pockets while they sleep
Why not?
Its not so violent like to sew their lips together
And within a few days they’ll become desperate and
Open them up again with the edge of a butter knife
I mean its possible I’m saying
Would it be that bad
We share bread and milk
So whats the problem if did it
I mean it makes no sense
Like the feeling I sometimes get that my girlfriend is slowly turning into my ex
That one day I’ll wake up with flakes of skin in between my covers
I’ll scratch off whats left anyway
She’ll be looking back at me, a stranger with who I once shared
So many lies it makes me cringe.

Arguments for Dishwashing.

It can be nice to rub the backs of your hands in left overs
In the same way it can be nice to sleep in your own sick
There is a special kind of confidence that can only be found under tables
Or in the lager suicide of sportsmen who know they quit too late
Hatton will live to make Best look like the pope
What do most of Birmingham and Amir Khan have in common?
They’ve both been robbed in Digbeth
HA but I know what you thought
I was gonna say, write, say!
But I won’t because 
Thats just statistics not truth.

When The world is poor.

When the world is poor everybody has the same toothbrush
When it is strong the curves and softnesses come thick and thin
I am an excavator in human waste
With my fingers in the sinkhole
But these thoughts are lost on the others
Who rack up tabs while they work
And come back on free nights
Drag girls into the toilets
With sniffing powder and washing up liquid lubricate their way
To a moment of clarity
In a storm of hissing steam.

Sour Kraut.

They said he was a midget but he wasn’t
He was just smaller than those giant krauts and had bad bone structure
Later when he was older he made his money performing circus tricks at traffic lights
While his wife and kid waited with sandwiches on the curb
He thought his was good life
They said he was just a vaudevillian and a benefit scrounger
A rat, just another rat sprinting to avoid the cars then rushing back in the road to gather crumbs and coins.


Some new scribbles on The Cadaverine site:


Has become little more than lyrical embroidery, a racket for milk drinkers and arts council fluffers, destined to be left for dead in the same middle class purgatory that has already turned nature into hedges and the hallucinatory insanity of catholicism into the wrinkled grey tweed of protestantism.


The tinnitus in the city is the sound of a thousand put out candles
The scream of stopped watches sliding over the train tracks
The concrete stretching in the shadow
To avoid another day of torture under foot
At night you’ll notice that the buildings lean slightly
All the nub ends cease to burn at 3am
And finally have the decency to die and give birth to clouds
The danger is gone, holed up in peadophiliac backrooms,
Billiard tables on which inky hearts are knocked around by blunted ribs
Brandished like kebab skewers, slashing down the posters
For another fucking rave
Go ahead and drown us in wheat paste
Let the dogs have the doners
Let the cats have the sushi;

Please crack open the main roads I want to see the magma underneath
I want to see this city rebuilt in the image of Babylon

Banish the PR Gurus and Yoga Teachers
Throw the Hippies in a river
Bag and gag the Punks
Put a bullet in the head of every cop and leave breakfast cereal smudged around their mouths
Where are all the fucking bats?

Clone Hitler so we can kick him in the balls
Sieg heil activites!

That's Buddhism For Ya

When you think about it it’s almost insulting that we try to name it or describe it.

It's insulting that people try to do anything about it and care about it’s outcome in the face of such overwhelming stasis. To call your house, your house or your wife, your wife or even you body, your very cells, yours is a pathetic lie. The only force that has any claim to ownership of anything is time. You’ll spend more time decayed than you will alive and in the grand scheme of things you and all your love ones belong only to time. You don't belong to or with each other; you may be married for fifty years but time knew the particles that made up your love of fifty years before you did and it will observe them long after. Even space must secede to time. Now I know this has been an adolescent sub nietzchean rant but I hope it’s persuaded you that C.V your so in need of off me is a fucking irrelevance as is your entire body, life and thoughts. Your carefully shaved face will end up worm munch whatever you do so why bother? You are a shimmering irrelevance basking in ignorance and I hate you. I don’t mean why move. Infact the opposite, I mean why ever stop moving? Oh I know it’s relative, but I’m thinking relatively. I mean instead of comparing my longevity to a healthy human I’ve chosen cot death as my peer group, I’m a fucking one of a kind, a walking talking 20 year old cot death so fuck off.


He knew the beetle was there, feeding on the roots of the trees and polluting the air through the drains and the open manhole covers. It was the reason his foreskin was so sore and couldn't fuck without pain and blood. He didn't know how to break it to her, he didn't want to upset or scare her. But he'd seen it in his dreams, buried deep beneath the water pipes and electric cables that carried the TV signal. It was all his fault. The summer when he was ten and he'd tortured them with fire and needles. Now it had come for him. Sending it's ungodly spores out into the air, turning everyone against him. Insects despise our individualism, our liberty. Like cockroaches in america, the beetle is waging a principled war.