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.