This is part two of an experiment thing I did last week. I'm probably not going to post part one.
so anyway I'm probably going to either stop or change this blog starting from the next post. got a different idea and it's best to integrate rather than coordinate I reckon. maybe anyway. hope you like :)
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Corkscrews that break apart through overuse maybe or perhaps it’s fitting the more you come to think about the history. Cardboard as an excuse for cushions when the slats poke through the fabric.
The sun breaks through and somehow makes it harder to see, sirens wail and you can’t help but wonder what or who for. Toolboxes on the march and the drilling that could make a new song. Flowers kept in milk cartons and spiderwebs manmade. Peeking out through the blinds and seeing someone else doing exactly the same, the seer unseen perhaps thinking up words to tell his own grateful followers and never quite realizing the anecdote he’s just walked into. Ashes of ripped up card and sails that haven’t faced the wind, dust gathers and the spoons that keep collecting.
Bottles of perfume stacked just untidily enough to denote that the user doesn’t really use them or know how or when to. Shadows trace the steps of the fingers as they go about their dirty work, black on white like the sweetest piano. Half circles and jaded crescents held together by an ever-increasing network of crosses spikes and arrows, halted underlines and muted intersections that provide no clues.
Wearing hats indoors just for the look of it and rolling the sleeves up then down ten times a minute. Lightbulbs that never fully did their job, buttons that gave such distraction now face away from each other as if distracted themselves. The brown ring of too many cups of tea and the hood goes up to protect these pristine ears. Ninety three and ninety five, the card and plastic says it all but the only ones who look have seen it all before and pay no mind, not in earshot anyway. The gates are never closed and the front garden sits in messy counterpoint to the hidden neatness behind these walls. A wave of yesterday’s rain is disturbed by a man bound for salvation and hurls against the unyielding rock while the anoraks curse a job undone. No matter how unique one claims to be comfort is invariably found in the same subtle habits and that’s just what the outsiders need to know. Making the rounds a few hours after it’s convenient but still going the wrong way about it, perhaps out of spite, the clouds burst again in impotent envy at the power to glow and make their complaints in a far off land. The tendrils of the web catch nothing suppliers as they are, rooted in a hub as unnatural as themselves yet still prying small delights from observers angling for something to compare life to art with.
Parallel lines that dip and follow and it’s all about catching those who aren’t early birds. The doors are at the same height but the knockers a foot different, uninterested by the brays of conquest nor the flowers in the shawl. Scraping through myriad tiny entry points only to cluster round the same source of food.
Tuesday, 31 March 2009
Tuesday, 17 March 2009
I don't think this is funny
I haven't posted for a while, been busy with music and things like that. also, because I haven't actually written anything for a while. (actually I've written plenty, but most of it was unfinished, private, personal or unsatisfactory)
SO instead of anything recent, here's a short extract from a story I'm in the middle of, which I wrote ages ago.
The title is misleading because it's a reference to some idiot I used to know, nothing to do with the actual story. I do think it's funny. or at least has potential to be. meh.
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It wasn’t that Jim was particularly afraid of death, nor the inevitable (according to them, anyway) toss-up afterward over which ineffable being was going to gain control of his ineffable bits. Nor was it the idea of what would happen to his non-ineffable bits, as he’d watched plenty of nature shows during his time, nor the unavoidable problems that he would bequeath his immediate family when they discovered that Auntie Jo hadn’t in fact been left that tea set she’d been dropping hints about ever since he’d had that first, less hardcore bout of the cancer that was now eating him
No, what really worried Jim about his impending all-expenses trip to the hereafter was the protocol, as indeed he had been worrying about the protocol all his life. Should he greet death with a faint resignation, a friendly wave, a fighting blow to the inane smugness of that skeletal grin? Should he tip the ferryman or try to blag that he was a VIP to St. Peter? Should he in fact go the whole hog and during the admittedly limited time he had left, learn by heart the holy books of every major religion so he’d at least have something to talk about the whichever deity decided his soul was worth the trouble?
These questions mainly remained unanswered for a while as Jim had enrolled into a monastery. Not just any monastery either- he’d done his research and checked into one of the properly uptight ones that take silence as read and go into excruciating detail about trivial things like how often thou shalt pee.
The protocol had quite appealed to Jim, fastidious as he was about how often it was socially acceptable to pee, among other things.
SO instead of anything recent, here's a short extract from a story I'm in the middle of, which I wrote ages ago.
The title is misleading because it's a reference to some idiot I used to know, nothing to do with the actual story. I do think it's funny. or at least has potential to be. meh.
-
It wasn’t that Jim was particularly afraid of death, nor the inevitable (according to them, anyway) toss-up afterward over which ineffable being was going to gain control of his ineffable bits. Nor was it the idea of what would happen to his non-ineffable bits, as he’d watched plenty of nature shows during his time, nor the unavoidable problems that he would bequeath his immediate family when they discovered that Auntie Jo hadn’t in fact been left that tea set she’d been dropping hints about ever since he’d had that first, less hardcore bout of the cancer that was now eating him
No, what really worried Jim about his impending all-expenses trip to the hereafter was the protocol, as indeed he had been worrying about the protocol all his life. Should he greet death with a faint resignation, a friendly wave, a fighting blow to the inane smugness of that skeletal grin? Should he tip the ferryman or try to blag that he was a VIP to St. Peter? Should he in fact go the whole hog and during the admittedly limited time he had left, learn by heart the holy books of every major religion so he’d at least have something to talk about the whichever deity decided his soul was worth the trouble?
These questions mainly remained unanswered for a while as Jim had enrolled into a monastery. Not just any monastery either- he’d done his research and checked into one of the properly uptight ones that take silence as read and go into excruciating detail about trivial things like how often thou shalt pee.
The protocol had quite appealed to Jim, fastidious as he was about how often it was socially acceptable to pee, among other things.
Wednesday, 11 February 2009
NB Fidelities
Haven't posted for a few days because I've been moving house and stuff. This is about my new house, a little bit.
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The bass is punchy, groovy even. Perhaps it’s the card on which the panels rest. A stain or two that you don’t have to feel guilty about. The sharp contraction on only one of your hands, the same truncates your toes. Three squares and a couple of metres of cotton. The fan is only half extended here, now it’s fully closed. The wooden box that dominates and stores, pensive and clammy. Down the road the clocks are given more prestige than the law. Combinations of buttons that make you look so impressive when really you’ve only read the manual. Sipping and quietly debating the next move, and who the recipient will be. New habits started for the sake of a few eggshells, cracks that persist after all this time and you wonder what the reason – guilt, embarrassment, pedestal. Lights on screens on wooden legs, not what they were intended for but a quirky indulgence which keeps us close in other ways. Soon more will arrive painted and shaped to fit the relevant need. Boxes and cables which will find their own place in your heart once you know how they fit together. A slab of marble which serves only to highlight that which has long ago been papered over. Stacked side by side they don’t look as impressive as when they were piled everywhere. The new creaks and rattles that still unnerve you, and a comfort zone at the whim of onlookers and someone else’s gas bill. By turns the space is grey, loud and reduced. Voices crackle across the sphere and tell you stories about people you don’t know. Dreams based on last year’s mistakes and this year’s pranks. Steps on the steps. Slippers in a favourite spot, fortresses and elephants, heat that doubles as lightbulb. First things first, though it tends to slow the rest down. A drunken greeting that never fails to allay the doubts. Food shared like so many old rituals used to be. More space for hide and seek, more time to plan, more ground to scrape. Listening to the footfalls once again, in a good way this time. Reassuring thoughts from the most meaningless coincidences. Spare plates and false walls. Back in the groove.
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The bass is punchy, groovy even. Perhaps it’s the card on which the panels rest. A stain or two that you don’t have to feel guilty about. The sharp contraction on only one of your hands, the same truncates your toes. Three squares and a couple of metres of cotton. The fan is only half extended here, now it’s fully closed. The wooden box that dominates and stores, pensive and clammy. Down the road the clocks are given more prestige than the law. Combinations of buttons that make you look so impressive when really you’ve only read the manual. Sipping and quietly debating the next move, and who the recipient will be. New habits started for the sake of a few eggshells, cracks that persist after all this time and you wonder what the reason – guilt, embarrassment, pedestal. Lights on screens on wooden legs, not what they were intended for but a quirky indulgence which keeps us close in other ways. Soon more will arrive painted and shaped to fit the relevant need. Boxes and cables which will find their own place in your heart once you know how they fit together. A slab of marble which serves only to highlight that which has long ago been papered over. Stacked side by side they don’t look as impressive as when they were piled everywhere. The new creaks and rattles that still unnerve you, and a comfort zone at the whim of onlookers and someone else’s gas bill. By turns the space is grey, loud and reduced. Voices crackle across the sphere and tell you stories about people you don’t know. Dreams based on last year’s mistakes and this year’s pranks. Steps on the steps. Slippers in a favourite spot, fortresses and elephants, heat that doubles as lightbulb. First things first, though it tends to slow the rest down. A drunken greeting that never fails to allay the doubts. Food shared like so many old rituals used to be. More space for hide and seek, more time to plan, more ground to scrape. Listening to the footfalls once again, in a good way this time. Reassuring thoughts from the most meaningless coincidences. Spare plates and false walls. Back in the groove.
Wednesday, 28 January 2009
Miniature Fires
The power has gone out in our house. Here's some words to mark the occasion.
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Miniature fires dotted and flickering, a silence punctuated by creaks and rumbles. An orange light outside, rather than wonder why we’re glad of its company. Food that can’t be eaten in our prehistoric state. And yet technology tries to make amends, fighting the dying battle and giving short relief before another light flashes off – for how long this time? The debt has not been honoured. Layers on layers to compensate the fickle habits of steam, nerves that crackle with every unwarranted sound. An array of useless bulbs haunt every corner and remind you of the simple things. Distant voices provide scant understanding but their presence somehow comforts, knowing nevertheless they aren’t in this situation nor do they even know we are. Rags atop a metal pile, stopped in their tracks as they only try to do what’s natural. Judging the weight of objects to see if they will be useful here, now or ever. The gentle thaw should be beautiful in its own right – here though it brings new hardship, mistaking its place in our plans. The words are yet unsaid but they sound like they’d be reassuring in a time like this – maybe not yet but when the chemical reaction breathes its last maybe then we’ll revert to our former keeper. Knowing that a few hours here or there may have made the difference, then again they may not – at this stage it’s immaterial. Time has slowed and perhaps an early night is no longer an option but a tactic. The art is dependent on the finest circumstance, an inch either way could prove the undoing. Communication ebbs, and it’s back to square one for all we know. Keys muted and the sparks that so define the time won’t be back tonight. The words again, they pull and cajole knowing their calls won’t be ignored for long. Wondering if there’s more than one like this, wondering if it’s something different, and still knowing that in our present state we can’t and won’t find out. Comfort in warmth, whichever side it may come from, cold water and fresh bread. Another miniature fire dies.
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Miniature fires dotted and flickering, a silence punctuated by creaks and rumbles. An orange light outside, rather than wonder why we’re glad of its company. Food that can’t be eaten in our prehistoric state. And yet technology tries to make amends, fighting the dying battle and giving short relief before another light flashes off – for how long this time? The debt has not been honoured. Layers on layers to compensate the fickle habits of steam, nerves that crackle with every unwarranted sound. An array of useless bulbs haunt every corner and remind you of the simple things. Distant voices provide scant understanding but their presence somehow comforts, knowing nevertheless they aren’t in this situation nor do they even know we are. Rags atop a metal pile, stopped in their tracks as they only try to do what’s natural. Judging the weight of objects to see if they will be useful here, now or ever. The gentle thaw should be beautiful in its own right – here though it brings new hardship, mistaking its place in our plans. The words are yet unsaid but they sound like they’d be reassuring in a time like this – maybe not yet but when the chemical reaction breathes its last maybe then we’ll revert to our former keeper. Knowing that a few hours here or there may have made the difference, then again they may not – at this stage it’s immaterial. Time has slowed and perhaps an early night is no longer an option but a tactic. The art is dependent on the finest circumstance, an inch either way could prove the undoing. Communication ebbs, and it’s back to square one for all we know. Keys muted and the sparks that so define the time won’t be back tonight. The words again, they pull and cajole knowing their calls won’t be ignored for long. Wondering if there’s more than one like this, wondering if it’s something different, and still knowing that in our present state we can’t and won’t find out. Comfort in warmth, whichever side it may come from, cold water and fresh bread. Another miniature fire dies.
Tuesday, 20 January 2009
When everything else falls into place
Wrote this last night. like bits of it.
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When everything else falls into place for the sake of the one thing that falls apart. This message is designed to self instruct. Before we go around pointing the finger we should make sure we know that which we are pointing at – only humans look where the finger is pointed, after all, the rest look only at the finger. An empty frame for a burned portrait that died before the paint had dried. Spraypaint as manifesto, ego as palette. That same regrouping for the inevitable covering of your tracks. People say, you look fatter in real life. Sheep that have been static these last decades. A pile of wires surrounds, beeps, pretends not to be watching hawkishly for the least mistake – or maybe that’s what it thrives on, coming to life so readily when it occurs. A casual remark that starts a whole new friendship, a synergy derived from the unlikeliest of sources yet awash with coincidences that suit the story. A way to get back at someone on entirely your own terms yet feeling guilty for doing it and for thinking like that in the first place, not that it stops you for very long. A constellation of notebooks. Grasping for yet another empty bottle to make what use of it you will. The chair that once held great minds now only holds dirty clothes, and the desk groans under plastic containers. Towers and masks cling to the wall. You can’t afford to lose any sunlight this weather.
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When everything else falls into place for the sake of the one thing that falls apart. This message is designed to self instruct. Before we go around pointing the finger we should make sure we know that which we are pointing at – only humans look where the finger is pointed, after all, the rest look only at the finger. An empty frame for a burned portrait that died before the paint had dried. Spraypaint as manifesto, ego as palette. That same regrouping for the inevitable covering of your tracks. People say, you look fatter in real life. Sheep that have been static these last decades. A pile of wires surrounds, beeps, pretends not to be watching hawkishly for the least mistake – or maybe that’s what it thrives on, coming to life so readily when it occurs. A casual remark that starts a whole new friendship, a synergy derived from the unlikeliest of sources yet awash with coincidences that suit the story. A way to get back at someone on entirely your own terms yet feeling guilty for doing it and for thinking like that in the first place, not that it stops you for very long. A constellation of notebooks. Grasping for yet another empty bottle to make what use of it you will. The chair that once held great minds now only holds dirty clothes, and the desk groans under plastic containers. Towers and masks cling to the wall. You can’t afford to lose any sunlight this weather.
Friday, 16 January 2009
These Words That Stare
I wrote this a few months ago I think. Messed up one of the verses but I don't think it's too obvious, and I changed the last one to flow better. I don't know if it's a poem but I think it is, either way I like the structure more now I've come back to it and remembered the method I used. It sounds quite sad but it isn't meant to be. Too many cliches though.
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These words that stare up at me unformed from a bank of helpful letters. Not a day goes by when I don’t wish for something. Stickers on the speakers and wine on your favourite dress. Proximity implied rather than assured.
Through it all we tumble and make what sense we can of the prevailing wind. Ears prick up at half remembered words that still remind you after all this time. The cold bites less and the dark comes with less of a struggle than it used to. Apathy played out to a half full glass.
Irrelevance doesn’t seem as important nor is it now something to strive for. This withered bag is all I have to remember the days when I tried to forget. The moon should be bigger and the sirens should stop at least for a couple of minutes. Hunger as exercise.
A silence made of stillness instead of content. Finding your way by compass rather than satellite when you never thought you’d have to. A pile of wet fabric and a flashing light that reminds you. Westernized and insulated.
The dead eyes of comfort that reflect my stare. Walls that resist the push to extend. The ghosts of meals well up and the cards don’t mean what they used to. Motors that whir to little end.
The great white hope has been shattered once again. The tears don’t well up like they used to when it was easy. The hidden trigger everyone has that no one asks about. A faint gesture as love note.
A slowed down reconstruction that only serves to reinforce. No matter what the background someone will understand you. A return to form and a pleasant misunderstanding. Hope is the message if you want it to be.
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These words that stare up at me unformed from a bank of helpful letters. Not a day goes by when I don’t wish for something. Stickers on the speakers and wine on your favourite dress. Proximity implied rather than assured.
Through it all we tumble and make what sense we can of the prevailing wind. Ears prick up at half remembered words that still remind you after all this time. The cold bites less and the dark comes with less of a struggle than it used to. Apathy played out to a half full glass.
Irrelevance doesn’t seem as important nor is it now something to strive for. This withered bag is all I have to remember the days when I tried to forget. The moon should be bigger and the sirens should stop at least for a couple of minutes. Hunger as exercise.
A silence made of stillness instead of content. Finding your way by compass rather than satellite when you never thought you’d have to. A pile of wet fabric and a flashing light that reminds you. Westernized and insulated.
The dead eyes of comfort that reflect my stare. Walls that resist the push to extend. The ghosts of meals well up and the cards don’t mean what they used to. Motors that whir to little end.
The great white hope has been shattered once again. The tears don’t well up like they used to when it was easy. The hidden trigger everyone has that no one asks about. A faint gesture as love note.
A slowed down reconstruction that only serves to reinforce. No matter what the background someone will understand you. A return to form and a pleasant misunderstanding. Hope is the message if you want it to be.
Tuesday, 13 January 2009
And so to bed
I wrote this ages ago, I seem to recall I was messing around with a 'reading character from handwriting' book and it said you needed a one-page sample of the subject's writing, so I decided to do my writing and produced this. As with most of my stuff, it didn't mean a lot to me then or now. Still, maybe you'll like it.
Weirdly enough, I now live just around the corner from a shop called 'and so to bed'.
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And so to bed, the mystic hover calls. The repetition in his eyes the sanctity in hers. Between them comes a monster and strikes at will and leisure. As far as they knew one was the product of the last but none could tell for sure. Despite the evident craving for sympathy, for understanding, despite the eternal silent wail of a dream long shamefully forgotten. True were their hearts but that did not save them. Between the two a chasm made deeper by their previous communion. And look, the violent music does start. The drone of a thousand grievances yet unaired, the hiss of forgotten lovers now dredged once more. Fortuitous though their friendship be the fact remains they wouldn’t be in this mess and the silver screen would lose its sheen.
Graceful yet unassuming, charmed yet self deprecating. We don’t know who to trust. Asleep, awake. The pace has slipped as the words begin to fail. Touch is lost and the inevitable fear of lasts kicks in. Have I done my last work? The hiss provides slight comfort. Gaining in delicacy and complexity yet starting to sound more familiar. True, we tried, and true, we lied as well. Don’t forget whose side you were on. The heartshaking melody kicks in and plays us out to another sunset in yesterday’s world.
Weirdly enough, I now live just around the corner from a shop called 'and so to bed'.
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And so to bed, the mystic hover calls. The repetition in his eyes the sanctity in hers. Between them comes a monster and strikes at will and leisure. As far as they knew one was the product of the last but none could tell for sure. Despite the evident craving for sympathy, for understanding, despite the eternal silent wail of a dream long shamefully forgotten. True were their hearts but that did not save them. Between the two a chasm made deeper by their previous communion. And look, the violent music does start. The drone of a thousand grievances yet unaired, the hiss of forgotten lovers now dredged once more. Fortuitous though their friendship be the fact remains they wouldn’t be in this mess and the silver screen would lose its sheen.
Graceful yet unassuming, charmed yet self deprecating. We don’t know who to trust. Asleep, awake. The pace has slipped as the words begin to fail. Touch is lost and the inevitable fear of lasts kicks in. Have I done my last work? The hiss provides slight comfort. Gaining in delicacy and complexity yet starting to sound more familiar. True, we tried, and true, we lied as well. Don’t forget whose side you were on. The heartshaking melody kicks in and plays us out to another sunset in yesterday’s world.
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