uhh...

im unstable like nitroglycerin, watch me pull the pin, wrap your head in tin foil, fry your face in sunflower oil while your organs boil in a body bag, my dogs tail wags cos he's waiting to feed on your blackened skull, your opinion is null and most definately void, youd get better reception on an asteroid flying into outer space. maybe you can make a belt, cos i wanna watch your face melt as you head into the burning sun like a firework, you see me smirk at your miserable demise, my words gather round you like a swarm of flies, cos you fucking stink like shit, youre reeking out the place like an obese man on a hot day lifting up his armpits standing in a cat litter, follow him on twitter, get resentful and bitter while you sit on the shitter eating meat in a pitta.

Yu & uY < < bark > >

type out your horror. Xanthan Gum. If you are reading this, (which you're not) then. um. yeah.

Today the sun is colder, colder than it was maybe last week? I would take a photo, but i'd rather hack into your RM nimbus and make a pattern on Logo.

- 232 Kelvin and falling. Words that are willing and able, grated like parmesan over a thin crust base. Making my fingernails ache, my teeth sweat and my skin fold up neatly and put itself away in a drawer ready to be worn by someone else who doesn't have a skin.

Acacia leaves paw the sky, waiting to be nourished,
lip syncing to the sound of whatever you want.
I cant really be versed in the tomes of wave goodbye.
Coco Monkey in the passenger seat of a minibus, eyes you slowly as the vehicle pulls away.
good grief, bad grief, ok grief, heres the deal.
i know we said we'd meet again, but I don't think thats such a good idea.
Uploading nothing.

if i was one of those people who paint pictures painting pictures
or those 90's european airbrush artists, or puppets in boxes who just stand there.
stand there, motionless not even waiting for anything. their insides scraped clean and replaced with old time confectionary, the stuff your grandma really likes, and gets emotional over.
laughing at you all the way down the street.
talkative as always, they slink inside gasping for air.
well, thats the spirit. i guess. i cant keep up with all these thoughts, wrenched from every angle of a psychological being and be anchored down by form, a freeflowing output of melancholy carving, etching a mask of insipid grey slather. rather appallingly appraised by nothing.
a wow factor of nil, one comes crawling in, reeking of ineptitude.
Dullard ducking away from the talons and whips hiding in a small trench, runs away and finds a place to stay in the woods, a nice little thatched cottage, suprisingly it is empty, just like him.

i'll just post this now. ¬_¬

you. yeah you.

whats all this?
why is blogspot deleting and rearranging my posts?
could you stop it please?
thankyou.

THERE ARE WAYS OF MY I

On the cusp of the dredges of time, I awoke lamp lit, blue faced and starved of oxygen, I remember, gasping and newborn that I was to be taken away. In the recesses of my memory, I can see surgeons, and the outside view of an abandoned hospital where I can hear muffled footsteps walking across a car park. I also recall a conversation with another newborn child, using facial expressions and eye movements. I have never found out if this was true, but for some reason I have always felt that it shouldn't concern me and I should never know this.

There are ways of my I, the pale vertices of my '86 form which move onward, outward into bare space.

The illegible bronze and gold jagged vehicles of my dreams move lightly over the surface of my day, calling me up, or knocking on my front door.

“Hello, It's the skeletal remains of leaves buried neatly in graves with their names on.” ...

… “Oh, yeah, and you've met the scent of metal haven't you?”

Places I have visited in my dreams often recur, sometimes old dreams get loaded up and played and I wander about in them more lucidly, picking stuff up and kicking dusty bits and bobs around. Maybe I'll sit down in an armchair or something. Depends where I am, I guess.

A sound. Louder. LOUDER quiet again. click and the tape ends.

The guy across the table (unfortunately a fairly generic detective) quietly flips over his notepad and puts his pencil behind his ear, he turns his back to me and looks at something on the wall.

I get up and walk out of the interrogation room. A large fan spins heavily, high above me, giving it a momentum which you could almost be certain would snap it off and would come whirling down onto some innocent person.

I briefly try to spin with it at the same speed so it looks motionless, then walk outside.

The breeze is strong but warm, dying down occasionally and the sun sporadically pokes it's head round the hurrying clouds. I put my hands into my pockets and head back home thinking it will probably be cold later.

Some kids are loitering around a stack of large wooden crates, they are wearing Hessian sacks printed with dark green writing and are embroidered with thick orange rope. They have big black boots on and are smoking coloured cigarettes. As I approach them I hear the crackling of fire gradually getting louder and the smell of motor oil gets stronger.

Suddenly, an arc of molten metal comes spurting out of a hole in the wall on my right and is quickly channeled into a series of clear pipes which are half embedded into the floor, the pipes seem to run down to the sea. Some liquid metal splashes out of the hole and lands on my shoe. I just start to feel the heat on my toe, before I panic and press down on the back of my shoe with my other foot to prize it off, then accidentally kick my shoe down the pipe.

Earlier I mentioned I was going home. This was not technically true.

The asphalt road under my one bare foot was dusted with bits of gravel which made it slightly painful to walk, but I kept going, onto my unnamed destination.