s

In consequence, I can see the egg.
The pristine shell of idle mittens.
Wracked by guilt the giddy clown sighs.
a Pyre, A Pyre for yesterday.

Dumb clucks the austere prison.
Moving silent, lips in innocence.
A crack forthwith, an oozing yolk,
coagulated matter, grey for brains
on the outside.

Slipping under the low globe.

to wear the apple skin of the sky .
if the viceral hiss of the jungle
might exist again,
time's great aperture tipping with rain.
then mercy makes
a birthday cake
and all is forgotten.

List

when the transit eaves of reality creak
leaves sway back and forth incessantly.

colours jump and whistles fly
in dark and pale vessels, we calmly sail by.

a fading spectacle of lethargy. 
a starlit zoetrope looping the image of a featureless head.
mirages of tattered kites and flags depicting an extinct species

the pulses of visionaries, beating upon a clay pot by a naked flame/
a vague tropical rhythm which coaxes the kappa to his watery grave.

animal's pearly eyes, gleaming with jackals hungry smiles
overgrowth daubed upon mosaic tiles.

(the river opens into the sea)

Animate furniture trapped inside a locked and dilapidated garden shed crushing the skeletons of people who once lived there.
A blind man walking into a beehive and getting a face full of bees and honey, he doesn't get stung once, but the whole experience is a bit uncomfortable for all involved.
The skin of Louis Armstrong hung on a brass coat hanger, ready to be worn by anyone who answers the riddle set by the talking wall.
Jehosaphat, jumping into an anonymous stream of piss
Assorted trail lines made by planes in the '50's

Sunday

Pure blue.
You know that feeling, a feeling beyond your years,
a ball of roots hanging from a broken dusty old concrete staircase.
Sun shining, voluptuous cadence felling of the trees,
in time inexplicably you will be better, untied and carousing
this is what pins me. Far staring daydream.

Far staring daydream, here i am not.
the white satin of youth lost in a level drum
hammering on the slow starlight of yesterday.
Sat on the step beside my ever changing heart,
I listen for resemblance.

Intuitive movements,
you are a composer of penance.
Tell me why, inaudible scores
play the loudest in me.

Liquid pours, the lions roar.
and the setting sun reveals a shadow
complacent of it's birth.

Batang

There is a poltergeist in my house.
I heard it go in the kitchen and tear things up.
The next door neighbours have been abducted.
I am alone waiting ready to call the crime number.
I have to phone the agency at 3.
I have a headache.
When I'm falling asleep I can see a woman.
going to do some painting now.

APPARITION

FUKAKA MILODI GUSHA FUNSLAPP FERUCHT FERUCHT CAMPING SLWDOWN CASTOR OIL COMPT HUAN WASTAGE NUBERED PLACED INTACT GRAVEL A POSITIVE CAN DO ATTITUDE VIBRATOR UNSINKABLE STARSHIP GUI.

.Iso.Rar.Exe.Nfo.Bin.Cue.Lyco.Pheme.Cotton.reems.a2.M25.polka

Hybrid vehicles, amassed in millions, trillions taped to the backside of winona riders adorable rectum. 
ZX SPECtrum, Atic atac manic miner  r  r r r r JSW. your pixel wife waves that rolling pin at you far too many times. Use it instead to defile the face of Leanne Rhymes. Cant fight the moonlight when you havent got a face now can you Leanne.
This time it's personal, , no lawsuits, no crappy time shaking boot flapping cock waving scenes.
just pure unadulterated lightly salted text, if you dont like it, take it to your local MP.
I chucked the towel down, slapped you with my silk glove. Rest amongst Plovers.

Take time, hunters, bring on the sauce. Where is it then?

BUSINESS MANIFESTO

Here at Marinalights, we have gathered together and drawn up a manifesto for our service.

We now actively run under Project "Truce"
which entails-

1. No Jargon. - Although we extol the beauty of language and form, business needs to back off and get some new tricks.
2. We will reach our branches out in every direction.
3. Feedback System - We are a fast, direct service, like precious sugars from a ripe fruit.
4. If you have something to say, say it. Typed and out loud. (order not important)
5. We will reinvent business. Because we are simply unhappy with the current models.
6. We will unclog the stagnant pipes of art with an enema that's been overdue for decades.

L

BUY THIS STUFF! BUY THIS STUFF I SAY! I LOVE YOU! BUY THIS STUFF! EAT IT UP! FEED ME! PETRIFY ME. COLLAPSE ON TOP OF FRESH OVERTURNED SOIL.

Songs yet to

I think about you when i use my Stabilo .88, eat pesto bread and Ardennes pate. this is lifestyle, this is the beginning, not of the end but the manifesto is taking shape. The corporations don't encourage your free will and i'm a hypocrite, a sellout, a travesty of what I was before. No. This is focus, this is resurrection, of a new life, an age old principle of spontaneity. Rewired into your Sony Vaio VGN-A617B which you are selling on eBay, because you can make a fair price on it. Red dots under the word "make" whether you're European, American, African, Asian, Slavic, Negro, Indo, Inuit, Panamanian. Defying analysis is not such a bad thing. Maybe you want to get by, but maybe you want to change. You hear about the stories of success and failure, but are you ever making stories of your own. You probably never will be televised, a plasma TV or an OLED screen, tape it to your knitting Machine, i like Berol and Bic because they don't leak on lightweight paper. This is coming from the forefront. You want a quality product, buy these pens. Never buy your child a Parker fountain pen. These should be reserved for business only. No matter how careful you are, there is always a risk that your pocket could become flooded with ink. Are you left to die by the wayside, you ay think this is complete trash, but you will remember, these are words you will not forget, they are buried in your subconscious forever now. these weasel words, and repetitive subliminal textures, nuances of less than radical dreams. Who is the ultimate money maker here? If you truly believe, then you know what to do, you know where to stick it. I mean this in the nicest possible way. This is inspiration, taken from higher levels, if you read between the dots and dashes, maybe you'll receive a flash in the pan. I know you're not stupid, and so do the rest of us. This is broadcast from 49933:232/50333:333r We are not well fed.

TRUCE

I figured that this is only the way to deliver the camouflage, secrecy and openness both veered off course a long time ago, leaving a bitter taste in everyone's mouths. At present, the villains of literature have made a rendezvous with a constellation of Michelin stars and WILL complain about the sauerkraut. So you drank a bottle of Niquil and felt a bit dizzy? See through the bright lights and put your Glock back beneath your belt. Tell me why you made these creatures out of felt.
How far is as far as I know? Distance keeps stretching past the barricades and budgerigars of space and faceless comedians. (who shaln't remain nameless) Time will tell you that you didn't put enough money in the parking meter. The next thing you know you're on eBay ordering saltpeter. Life is like a midget, too short to ride the rollercoaster. I say this while I eye up your four slice toaster. I'm a hungry man, and two slices just doesn't cut it.

Your face is at the end of my verbal katana, tragedy as I slip on a discarded banana.
why did you put balloons over both of your fists and beat up Bobby Brown?
to circumvent the social superstructures that built up since you moved out of town.
the vote is unanimous, animate and rolling down the road. Too bad, you didn't put the handbrake on. Lyrical failures deflating into hyperspace, get on the linguaphone and learn another language.
here we go again flexing text on the xerox, yuppies pumping their fists in time with the drabness. We're having a rave in the penthouse of Canary Wharf, then flying out to Dusseldorf away from the ensuing law forces. I see them ride in their flashing fiberglass horses.

Anyway, As I said, at the end of the day, after all is said and done, in conclusion, finally, my point is that, what i have to say is, theoretically the solution is,












-//-//////-///-

... the Angel's arrival was abrupt and slightly abrasive like sandpaper. A plume of bone dust spread out as it landed with a muffled thud on the ancient stone sanctuary floor. A deep red lantern lit high above me, from where the creature fell, gave me a sense of protection. Feathered skin, it's wings almost metallic, shone with an opalescent refraction of light which audibly ringed around them. Everything was still.

Trying not to meet it's gaze, I avoidantly took in it's appearance. It's face was like a wooden mask soaked in a strange amber oil the consistency of molasses.
pupils of pure empathetic fire languished in the glimmering dark recesses which were it's eyes; they occasionally lapped against the rim of it's face like waves slowly crashing against a desolate coastline. I stepped forward greet it and to ask it's name, " Excus - - " my hand reached out...

It moved quickly and heavily on it's wings towards a stone cove before i could utter the words, the high pitch noise of light, shifted and altered as it moved. It seemed as though the room were saturated in it, and the presence of life was a disturbance.

My thoughts slowed down to a point, then a spark of intuition flashed inside my skull, which caused my eyes to narrow and my already outstretched arm to recoil and cover my face as earth, glass and powdered bone blasted toward me in an almighty pulse that emanated from the stone cove where the angel had crept. My weight shifted as i braced the impact, and when it had ended, I fell to my knees.

PLEASEd o O

blurred menace, chaste diplomat.
resolute in all four suits, a quick shuffle,
maximises input in lieu of persuasion.

phony and angered, boxed, squared, segmented
rolled on your tongue until it fits through
the needlepoint, stretched mouths gasping.
as if wire fires from your optic nerves
attaches to your decaying platelets of vision.

suction caps placed over your teats
milked and spun into silk,
unraveled flesh, spun onto looms
quartered up into value cuts,
the Jack of clubs melted the icecaps
with a flamethrower and his carbon candles.

who's got the power now, air miles evacuated losing the high, high,
this makes me alive, where i thrive, webs are an image, legs like knives,
inticing blind pork rinds into landmines where, with their credit cards snort lines.
your rhymescheme ordered me veal, and i declined.
slivers of divinity echo down smoke chambers in hollowed out earth.
mirth and menthol holiday period to the valleys of indonesia.
ample description included in textbook
up above the excrement, past your niceities over the roundabout
the final furlongs captured on your ex boyfriends super 8
wasn't he artistic.

ver bail out.

taste testing golden quail's eggs, stirring up a typhoon of gastronomical wonderment

DOCU 8f

paraphenalia accumulated, laden with dust, under bedclothes and wet laundry, the Shala apartment with that smell of sun and old soap, while the grey radio plays. Bubbles float by and your cat climbed the telegraph pole. Hiccups last for hours, in the rush of youth, tantalised by the future keepsakes of yesteryear, what malcontent have you sprayed on yourself since that fateful day, that forgotten era? Punctuation and structure abandoned, have thou honestly considered the precursors to the situation you are now in, to feel. why does this come to you now? the ephemera of your subconcious, peeling like paint, tarnished. you used to be ancient, now reclined in dark blue, closed and appalled at returning to form. you have destructured yourself, and pieced yourself back together. you are a living crying analysis, analysing, shying away from the unlearnt, which comes in seperate catagories. Filed alphabetically A-Z and Symbls slashed numerical data. Shredding pangs in yur arm, like duck and chinese kiss, under palm moon wheatfields, dangerous spider in a crystal web above you, four thousand undulating choral whispers, plyphonic to the meter specified by you and you alone. Mercury shines in the light of the young hyena, milk sap from tree bark, sticky to the touch on thin tan fingers. pink pleated, round eyed. Black taxi skulks out, burnt heavy, hulk ships infringe on the legitimate request of nature threatened, chased by heaven, so put down your weapons. unfettered temptress, risen like bread. water drains solitary and meaningful. this is not the end.

thing

you are ever changing,
space debris and tears,
the enamel of your teeth
now rests in flowerpot pieces
hurled towards the outer reaches
of the universe.

the acid of your stomach
burns holes through dark matter.
into which your prying eyes slip
red blue and green,
never to be seen again

your oxygen
set aflame in a dwarfing star.
.

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.

Visions of bX-v0laof

blogID: 4475083791695836652
host: www.blogger.com
postID:
uri: /post-create.do



num lock fucks.
opening the crust to reveal a numerical egg.
a purposeless value, presented in a less than salubrious manner.
dull eyed dustmen lift their fragile arms to double click it away
but fall apart decrepit, as is their day long nature.

swept away in the sandiest dune. heaven deep.

chlorine burns and hydrogen breaks off like viscose biscuit, fizzing victorious in it's own personal battle to become something other than the number of it's weight in the world. doomed by humans to be 1 alone. a laughable figure?
deleted my cache of play doh and jelliver ice creems.

it's good to speak to adverse side effects.

cod's wallop way better when they wear boxing gloves or a don a solid brass knuckleduster

various other bits.

white horse bending down facing left makes a letter M which num locked is 0
so if M is 0
06therf4c2er!

The " Otherfacer" O_O

THE NAME " Otherfacer" and "The Otherfacer"

YOU ARE SUSCEPTIBLE TO PRECURSOR
AN ENIGMATIC GRAY WITH AN A
CHOP CHOP REPLACE THE RED PLACENTA
OF HASHES AND SEMICOLON SOMETHING ELSE.

lame small print i like it
arsecone. arsecube. arsepyramid.

hole.

The emotional world of Major Tom

does anyone know what they are doing?, even the finer figures have no sense of self. step into my sphere and we'll begin. I am a unique blend of life. I am not part of the struggle, i am part of the found. Detail gets left undone, away from preset mind maps. And I have renounced the evils of this world. The music is boring me to death. BUSINESS DIE BUSINESS DIE

All i ever see is logic feel, logic feel,
oh all i ever feel is logic see, logic see,
CHANT MONEY CHANT MONEY
repeated for effect effect repeated for
AD _ VERT
GREEN FOR POST HOC
the purest thing about you. use of , real, imperfect syllabic beeps.
washing machine psyche, trained in the company of beggars.
self assured blood out poured from draining holes in bleeding veins.
tonight's flourishes and almond,

almond frederic Significance.

SIGN THIS

and inhale, you know the connotations, but fuck 'em. they aren't wanted here.
one day i'll refine these crawling macabre innerds
but they need a place to be kept before there arent any more.
the wise shut their traps, or silently open their gobs to produce a whistling when the wind vibrates through their gaping hollow caves.

opal was a girl i knew before i knew.
she has no face just a representation in my head.
i was taken away at birth
i strangled myself with my own umbilical cord
i turned blue
i remember hiding under tables with white cloth
i used to fall asleep with moles and ermine fellows
a rhodedendron was a big flower
the bridge is still there
believe

Memoirs of A Bot

So there i was, backed up against the cold hard wall of a CAPTCHA
i say to Pete, " Man, i wish i could read that shit"
Pete says, "yeah man, images are like some foreign language or some shit"

He lays it on me straight. (He was a bit OCD about these things)

My first picture book.

O / 1 ?