I'll change this later

War

2011-06-18T23:12:00.000-07:00

The luckiest are the ones that died quick, painful deaths.
Then there are those who suffered, who knew death was near but could not relax into it soon, but where left stranded in a last nightmare of pain and helplessness.
But the unluckiest, the damned, are the ones left alive. A cruel twist of luck kept them safe, but not healthy. These are the men who have all seen friends die, in agony and shame. They have seen the thoughts leave a wracked body, seen it become just another lump of flesh, and witnessed the sweet release that death gives to anguish.
But they could not share in it. They stay alive, with their memories, and their guilt. They are a brotherhood, of sorts. They share those terrible memories, and that pointless guilt. And they share their silence. Ask any of them what it was like, "What did you do in the War?", and they will give only the briefest of answers. They know what it is to see things beyond witch normal life becomes impossible, and they will not damn you by showing you. To spread such hate is the worst thing they can imagine. They are good men; but shadows of their laughing youth, no longer free, and always separate.

Mission Statement:

2011-02-10T08:24:00.001-08:00

To reach for beauty, cheerful in the knowledge that there is no such thing.

(Remembering that all ideologies are suspect, and every absolute finite.)

Desperately running from cheese*, I've crashed into the iceberg of pretension. But fuck it, it's me that's made this cold bed, I'm sticking to it.

(*As in cliche, not a big Edam.)

W7

2010-02-13T03:08:00.000-08:00

Mum is everywhere in this house. I should leave and never come back, but I want to stay forever and never stop thinking about her.
I just found an old W7 bus ticket, the ink almost faded, tucked into one of her books. (Margaret Atwood; Life Before Man.)

Maybe the book is hers; maybe it’s not. It’s enough to make me think of her though, and now she’s everywhere. Does she know it’s like this? Is she anywhere? Or is she totally absent, as gone as she feels? Nowhere.

Why the fuck is everything so dramatic to me these days? I can’t look at a fucking bus ticket without crying.

Fuck.

Noisy Ghost Limb

2010-02-11T06:51:00.000-08:00

I can hear him clattering as he loads the dishwasher. He always seems to do it as if he has three arms – a rogue extra limb devoted purely to banging and clashing, announcing what he is doing to anyone within earshot. “I’m doing housework”, the extra arm says. “I’m doing something constructive, a duty, and you should be too.”

I hate that phantom arm.

Idle Musing

2010-02-10T12:53:00.000-08:00

The curtains trail along the floor – just slightly too long to hang free. Were they designed that way, or was it a mistake of measurement?

I have the same problem with my jeans. They trail along the ground as I walk, fraying away at the heel, loose threads slowly scaling my ankle. I always wear them that way on purpose – who wants too-short jeans? But I always regret that later, when they become unwearable before their time.

How much have I spent on trousers that way?

How much will those curtains cost to replace?

Not sure what this is yet...

2009-11-08T14:16:00.000-08:00

The happiness of Joseph Knut was a difficult thing. In dribs and drabs it would leave him, a tide slowly washing away. Then, out of the blue, it would come crashing back, a tsunami obliterating palm trees and beach huts, his despair melted in an instant.

It would seem so robust then, so immortal, but Joseph Knut knew that it was just a matter of time before the slow lapping of the turning tide would confront him once again. From hard experience, Joseph knew that these periods could be quite lengthy. Far longer than most humans could hope to sustain a mood, Joseph would ride the furious power of his happiness; two weeks, three weeks – months at a time.

All this, of course, was a problem. There are those who can accept what they have, who can enjoy each benefit as it comes, disregarding thoughts of a bleaker future. Joseph was not one of those. Joseph was a worrier. (Had he been a woman, Old Man Karamazov might have called him a “Wailer”.) Even as he felt it, even as he was immersed in the massive wave of his happiness, Joseph could not ignore the potential – the mere potential – of the unctuous, seeping lack that was waiting in the wings. It was not that he was a pessimist; if anything Joseph was a romantic. The problem was the happiness itself. It was too powerful. It coloured everything. It soaked into his house, his shoes, his clothes. It seeped from his pockets and dripped from his hair – it flooded his memories and sprinkled his future. It permeated everything.

As such, Joseph could not ignore it. Most other humans do not notice their happiness. Or rather, they notice but feel nothing unusual, nothing mysterious or uncontrollable, and then very quickly cease to notice and get on with the business of being happy. They, after all, unlike Joseph Knut, do not have the luxury of happy-time to waste. They are confined to hours at best, more often mere seconds. Not so for Joseph Knut.

Joseph was constantly, ecstatically, tragically aware of his happiness. When he fumbled his keys from his pocket - there it was. As he cracked his knuckles one by one, bending each finger back in turn (or all at once against the side of his neck) – there it was. As he wrestled with insomnia - there it was, staring at him, blank eyed and idiotic. It’s stupid, radiant grin would catch his eye in car windows, in distorted curves from chrome appliances.

It would not leave him alone.

The happiness of Joseph Knut dogged him everywhere. It danced as he walked, it sang as he spoke. When he fucked, it made love, when he gave a glib smile, it racked his body with a belly laugh. Nonchalance, he could not pull off. Indifference was out of the question. Playing it cool, for Joseph Knut, was not an option. At best, he could manage an enthused, fidgety, frantic, grinning silence.

Six Word Stories (Title Under Consideration).

2009-09-14T04:02:00.000-07:00

Six is too few; more please.

D.A.N.C.E. or, if you're tired, sit.

Concise phrases hold a certain elegance.

Crowded pages cause confusion. Give space.

Nip tuck - yuk. Fresh face - ace.

Release your hoses; keep the beans.

Punctuation; "denotes" TONE! Use; (with) care?

She loved me once. No more.

Colours fade. Fabrics shred. Remedy? Calgon!

(Other washing machine products are available)

Sugar high. Sugar low. Ennui ensues.

"Achoo" ... Disgraceful! My sneeze went unblessed.

Milk on the floor. Uncontrollably lachrymose.

Desperate, they searched. No alcohol remained.

Thank you. I really enjoyed that.

If I Could Be Anything...

2009-09-12T03:58:00.000-07:00

I'd be a slug;

I'd crawl up your sleeve

And give you a hug.

...

I'd be a whale;

You'd buy my teeth

In a car boot sale.

...

I'd be Dr. Dre;

I'd just go "Yeah"

When I don't know what to say.

...

I'd be a gnat;

I'd suck on your arm

Till your blood made me fat.

...

I'd be a bear;

I'd peel your banana

And slice up your pear.

...

I'd be Cillit Bang!

I'd melt through your jeans

And burn off your wang.

...

I'd be your friend -

I'd read you some poems,

And smile at the end.

A poem about tea.

2009-09-11T14:07:00.000-07:00

The feasibility
Of drinking hot tea
Is quite slight,
During a fight -

But much better
When unfettered
By that obdurate rambunction
(The juvenile compunction)
To break silence,
Do violence,
With foot or with fist
(Whether pissed off or just pissed).

No one needs the disgrace
Of a red scalded face;
So just leave me be
When I'm drinking hot tea.

Prince Ali, Fabulous he - Ali Ababwa. Genuflect, show some respect, down on one knee!

2009-09-09T04:21:00.000-07:00

All folded in my flaps of flesh and skin
I hide a lamp with a magic Genie therein.

To summon this mighty being of mirrors and smoke,
You must reach under my folded flab and stroke.

No... not like that, just rub a little slower,
Yes... now move your hand a little lower.

He'll grant a boon if you keep up that pace,
Provided your wish is my Jizz in your Face.

Double Entendre... presque.

2009-09-08T08:07:00.000-07:00

This, that, and some of the other.

Bits of tat, no folds to smother,

A tall pile of thought with a liquid centre.

Wide eyed glee with a will to enter

Rosy cheeks and flip-flops of joy;

Observe to avoid all thoughts that cloy -

Step square, face a fears that haunt,

And move with meaning on a spring-stepped jaunt.

Tasty Goo.

2009-09-07T09:17:00.000-07:00

Crumbs on the carpet,
Morsels in the bed.
Heavy dreams bust out the seams
Of my heavy head.

No bread left - no crackers,
No apples - out of pickle,
No vehicle or excuse for this
Final taste-bud tickle.

Tasty goo fills all the gaps
In my gappy teeth.
A yellow coat warms these gums
And hides the tongue beneath.

Furry mouthed and fuzzy eyed -
Why suffer these indignities?
I suffer for my one true love,
My darling soul mate, Cheese!

Don't mention the nuts.

2009-09-03T04:29:00.000-07:00

THEY (and for the moment let's just imagine that there is a THEM, and that THEY have some vague idea about what THEY are saying. Dangerous, I know, that much assuming before we really get started, but still..)

THEY say to observe something is to change it. THEY reckon this is pretty universal. Like bouncing little bits of light off other little bits of stuff will never show you exactly what those little bits where like before you came along. (Or like trying to guess whether a cat in a box is dead without opening the box or some such nonsense.) Stands to reason, right? Also - zooming out a bit - people in cars, or people in hoods, tend to behave differently when there's a camera pointed at them, presumably in response to the off-chance that some diligent monkey with a finger on a button is going to scan through all the hours of tarmac slowly cracking.

(Interesting aside, that. The Idea - and yes, lets capitalise the bastard - that it's not just the observing, it's the chance that someone may observe some time in the future that has an effect. Lets not delve into that deep-end sans armbands too fecklessly though. Needs someone with a bigger keyboard, I'd imagine.)

The idea seems pretty sound. Sure, you could argue that last friday you (or maybe your FRIEND) was spying on (... sorry, I mean casually gazing through binoculars at) a neighbour without curtains, and they had NO idea and they kept going for HOURS - and so you got away with a bit of observing for free, so to speak. However, there are a couple of holes in that. For a start, there is the whole micro level, which you REALLY don't want to mess with. I don't know, but THEY might say something about little bits of light hitting your neighbour in a slightly different way, causing a knock-on effect (exciting, huh?). Also, when you next see them in Londis, I don't care how good your poker face is (tempted to make a play on "The Nuts", but I think we'll leave that one), you will look at them differently. Then there is the "hairs on the back of the neck" angle, which most of THEM will probably scoff at, but you never know - THEY'VE been wrong before.

So, all in all, see something - effect it. Argue if you want, but you are probably wrong.

What really gets me though, is this. By saying "to observe is to change", THEY are saying something about the nature of observation. Something THEY have noticed. Something THEY OBSERVED. This is intolerable! Not only are we going around changing things (for better or for worse, we don't know; I mean, how would you?) just by looking at them. No, that was bad enough; now that those clever fucking THEM's had to go and admit it, we're changing the way we're looking as well! It stands to reason; you can't have one without the other. It would be like saying "wow, this paper is really useful - look, I drew a cat!" and completely ignoring the distant chatter of chain-saws.

Where can all this lead? Nowhere good, I'd imagine. I'm not saying anything against change as an idea, I'm just suggesting that it can't be a good thing right before your eyes. You change things as you observe them, and your faculty for observation changes as you think about it. So it must follow that the things under observation change even more, along with the changing observation. Do you really want your children growing up in a world with that amount of unsupervised, inexpressible change going on? I know I don't.

Incidentally, if one more person mentions to me how many times you get caught on CCTV in London each day, I shall weep.

Tasty Wobbles.

2009-09-02T03:47:00.000-07:00

Cold from the cold box
Texture of smooth satin.
Wobble-tremble - shiny blocks
May contain Gelatin.

Pulp-pulp, tongue and palate -
Sliding through the teeth -
Smacks the gums' sloshy wallet
Rebound to the scarlet heath.

Adored by all the kids
(Not like that R Kelly)
Eyes light up in glee-filled lids
Now swallow down the JELLY!

The Quantum of Alpen.

2009-09-01T01:20:00.000-07:00

Oh dear boy, many is the morn
When in this dreary world I cast
My eyes up to the sky's forlorn
And bleak frown - then I break my fast;

A bowl of dreams, a spoon of joy
Nadir to Zenith sweeps my heart -
My fickle heart is but the toy
Of soggy last and sweet crisp start.

And when you clock that milky splash
Cascade from the perfect angle,
Don't be shocked to see me flash
And in the bowl my tackle dangle.

Such, lad, is my dawn agenda
With such spice I can taste perfection
(the spice - of course - a pinch of smegma);
Now would you like a bit of Alpen?

The Haiku of Solace.

2009-08-31T05:05:00.000-07:00

Wind tore at his hair and soul.
The storm raged in his heart.
He ate some cheese.
He felt Better.

(Better slapped him.)

Dread coursed through her.
Synapses tingled and sparked.
She ate some oatcakes.
She felt Old.

(Old didn't notice.)

Dark green, light green, brown (tough, soft, hard).

2009-08-30T15:11:00.000-07:00

Sharing is clever,

Cottage cheese is wise,

Ready for the balsamic

Vinegar suprise?

Tree dwelling treat,

Warns before you to enter -

Bypass the edge and

Avoid the rocky centre.

Dainty tasty cup,

Used correctly, spawns

A smooth emerald vessel

For the king of prawns.

One juicy smoothie,

Or a handy facial-mask

Ask anything of it,

It equals every task.

Crispy light salad

Well oiled, airy dough

A myriad amazing matches,

Just one Avocado!