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


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

Nepali Punk

I was going to write an article about nepali punk but I didn't in the end because I didn't know what to write and I didn't want to exaggerate and pretend there was a bigger scene than there was all I can say is everyone we met was fucking cool and Rai Ko Ris let us stay in there guestroom which was really cool...for more info check out this blog run by Maneesh from The Doltish:

Here's some pictures I took along the way

 Practice room at Rai Ko Ris house..
 Youth Unite playing at a cultural festival in Patan (Lalitpur)

 At Pratik's (Youth Unite) house...

 Free outside contact organised by Kathmandu Punks in Patan....

 The Doltish...

 Youth Unite....

Paranoia reigns supreme

A little bit of insanity goes a long way.  In fact someone once told me that it's vitally important that every once in a while you almost lose your mind in a basement bar.  It could be that it was actually me who said that, to myself, in the mirror, it was that kind of a night.  At some point it became clear, well actually the opposite of clear, that my friday had been taken over by some strange puppeteer.  My actions, the re actions my dialogue, whoever was controlling these things must have been one of the guys that writes those japanese anime films in which with no foreshadowing the little girls mum turns into a cat that is also a train and declares that she is also one and the same as the spirit of the forest.  It was an inverted mirror image of social interaction, it was people and things but without the logic that normally binds them.  Paranoia and fallacy reigned supreme, it was like when I was in the toilet trying real hard not to piss on my myself everyone swapped faces and picked strange phrases out of a hat, ready to say to me when I bumped into them on my way back towards the bar.  "I invite you, I invite you" "Joe, you have a stone for me" - what do these things mean? Now, the morning after I try to decode these things and see If I can't just shake them into shape.  And who sent me the text message that says "Is this your phone? I'm on to you motherfucker!!!".  It could all have something to do with the incident with the fat girl, you remember the bit when for no-fucking-reason-whatsoever she grabbed my hands like we were playing mercy and pushed me half way across the bar, what was that all about? who knows? no one it seems, people kept asking me and I could only ask them back, it will be a mystery forever.  Maybe it has something to do with the last incident in the basement bar, when the same fat girl now a regular feature of all weird nights (in future I should remember this she's a bad omen, if I see her under no circumstances take acid) grabbed me and with her tongue deep in my ear, she must have tasted wax, said "ich liebe dich".  These are all symbols, tokens of some underlying sense that I totally missed out on that perhaps I can never get in on, why did the australian never pull down his hood?, in moments like this, scrap that in times like these paranoia reigns supreme, the silver lining is that I think in reality I was actually being the least weird, I mean what kind of creature comes to a basement bar on a friday night and precedes to take everything seriously....