Hot tea in my left.

Put it down lets see what pours out.
tunes on. Comfy couch, flatmate out, the other in bed.
The yerning in me for something.
Body sore, legs wrecked. Shoulder tweaked.
Tired eyes.
Lazy, need to take my antibiotics.
Need need need finish you script etc.
What are the fallover effects.
Carry over.
Crazy, cat and mouse.
House maison. Blazen, rasin,
Razen. Haven, heaven.
Misspelling. Miss. Pell. Cardinal. Kids.
Child innocence.
Useless waste of time, tickling toes, tweaked limbs.
Tidy but tired.
annoyed, not committed to spending my time wisely.
Believe my own lies for time.
For spending myself as I do, as I like as I please.
What do you do to make yourself feel better?
How do you fucking occupy your time?
Well its touch and go.
Tough, god.
Mother ucking.
Impermiable. Translscent, glow, star-sign, organ energy.
Fake, fraudulent, incongruent, unrelated, special, wild weird and
spelling. The stolen language, IAGO. silence and power in the monologue of ones life.
The bias. The prejudice, the master and the apprentice.
The jack of all trades.
The duke. the bower.
The prince. Women too. Elizabeth.

Cromer was a young man.
He snapped to ontop of a building. He’d slashed in joint at the knees and elbows.
The blood and dried, caked and chaffed. Now it came away in clumps.

It began to rain. His feet felt heavy, converse.
If he moved he felt he’d slip.
He was standing on a pylon, cement, polished. Almost marble-esque.
So eager, but now he was drowsy with the bright lights down below and stretched out towards the hills.
God if only he could dance, he though.
He’d been posessed. He’d be snuck upon.
Fatally almost.
It was raining. He…
he fell backwards.
The sound of flutes played from somewhere.
Strings. A cohort of violins.
Oh god, the wrong way. His feet slipped as his angle changed.
Blood running up his legs for a moment, then back down.

-Another macabre dance.
He’d a woken from a dream, not in hospital.
In bed. Sheets stuck to him.
He’d dreampt of his mothers death again.
She smoked far too much, a chimney of that day saw less smoke.
How high the pillars rose in the house was amiable.
God dammit he thought sickly, as he shifted ever so slightly, sheets sticking to the backs of his knee, left calf and both elbows.
fuck, fuck, fuck.
He rolled out of bed.
20 outta 7! He sighed as he sluggishly let gravity take him over the side of his bed.
some of the sheets followed, his legs came last.

He lit a cigarette in his tiny bathroom.
There was a mirror and a slit-throat razor.
“TODAY” – he said in an accent unknown to himself, thinking maybe he sounded like a bearded american president.
Poking out his bottom lip, the pulling at it, looking at the skin and flesh in his mouth holding it all together.
The but of the cigarette fell to the floor just next to a bucket.
he took the remarkable razor to his hair.
“Trush me doc, i’m a specialist”.
He carefully shaved.
Then, leaving the hairy and horrible smelling room Joc busted back into his bedroom.
He cupped the breast of one of his maniquins. Kissed it dispassionately on its black, solid plastic lips. His hands scratched at his face and he traced the perfect jawline of the unrealistic human model. His hand crept up from the jaw as his other hand slipped back to the breast. His face red and white from his own scratching; he removed the straw yellow wig that was cut into a bob.
Placing it on his head, he dressed in a tracksuit and carefully tied his laces in a double knot. His waistband was a roomy.
He sniffed, slapped his thighs and went out for the day.

It’d been a week since Mar had seen her. When they first hooked up they’d had sex maybe 3 times a day atleast. He didn’t need lube with her. She wanted him, he knew it. Their coupling was always a climax. His respite was only gifted when they were apart. And when that was the case he yearned. Moaned, felt morbid, sick and hollow. Wasted and reckless.
Fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuck.
Last he’d seen her she’d let him shave her. It was a strange and intimate thursday. She’d said her parents were moving so he’d see her again when that was all done.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
She was from California and liked wearing gumboots to bed.
He’d never been intimate with someone before, she was a year older than him, and radically strange like him, he thought.
He always amused himself thinking of her, looking at the world and attributing all he saw to her. She was the designer of… of all clothes. Prepared all food, wrote all documents. She was beauty and aggrevance.
God he missed her. There was so much he had to share with her.
He was changing, he had a cut on his hand that he worried would turn green if she didn’t get back soon.

Shelby was taking too long in the 7/11 so she got an a tram.
It was hot and the tram wasn’t going where she lived.
But fuck it. Her boob hurt. A rat had bitten her at an underground rave. She’d rolled off a trampoline into a bunch of bin bags. It was pretty gross.
Something had bit her anyway.
She got pretty fucked up there.
The punch was always spiked, so she always drank the punch.
People didn’t do that back in the fucking dark ages did they.
Shelby caught up with the tram and blew a huge pink and purple bubble. Her one talent was not combining bubblegum in her mouth, and so could blow multi-coloured bubbles. She didn’t give blowjobs. Everyone asked why, because she’d say it like it was a badge. But she never answered the question. I guess she was good at that too.
But that’s about it. We were both pretty trashy then.
Fuck my tit hurt. That’s for sure.

Suddy or Sudden, the gang would call me. That’s because I would systematically flex in a cycle. Every two hours, “for presentness” i’d say. Staring with my left foot. Left for creativity. It’d spark up my mind. Get me going. By breakfast I’d be at my left shoulder or wrist. A huge jerk. “Gah!”.
I put my cereal on the top shelf in those days, so that i’d stretch early in my daily routine.
I washed my hair with warm water in the sink, and the rest of me with just cold water in the shower.
Both insufferable and brilliant ways to wake up in the morning.
My googley cakey eyes always freaked me out.
If I masturbated, which was rare because it always brought me down afterwards.
Anyway, if- i’d always keep eye contact and repeat a sort of mantra.
Or list of names of girls i’d met and loved.
Looking back that was weird. But it stuck with me – haha.
My eyes were really caked anyway, it was gross and strange.
But i’d look at myself, my soul, spill my essence and just fucking wonder.
Humans are gross, and twisted. I tended to ask “what is normal anyway” when i’d frighten people on the bus with a calculated spasm.
Fuckin easy. I once tested to see if I was human, I’m human.

I don’t wear hats, I live in the bronks. And the weather is brilliant.

Chaos and bomb rain. My tastebuds alight. The devil in the nutritional infomation.
Good logic, my lodging. No reason, learnt is my everything. I am devout in my routine. White bread. The shape of the perfect pasta spiral. Like DNA I imagine. Making me strong. Needs salt and pepper. Not white pepper, I reckon that shit is just mouldy pepper.
My brother was caught in a house fire but survived by hiding under his bed. It was a miracle they said. He knows spanish, we’re so different we could be not alike, I mean… more not alike. I don’t know if I didn’t pay attention to him when he was young, and I was young or If he wasn’t there.
Maybe he was adopted.
The lids on again. Look I don’t really know what’s going on. L

I sit behind laughter. I weep at night and sometimes can’t get errections. I wonder if its BECAUSE I wear dicky-bows. Bowties. Whatever. My parents said something like that when I was going to graduation.
My god my girlfriend is beautiful.
Like a ballet dancer, skimpy though. With the right curves. Twists.
Its like dominoes in my mind. A sick wanting repitition.
I will make her mine, my god I’ve got to possess her. She’s all I want.
Its a twisted religion. Nothing just happens, its all for reason.
The words aren’t good enough to explain.
Its all verbs and bullshit adjectives, description. Likeness.
Invalid premise. You’ve got to laugh don’t you.
Roman dress could be this summers new look.
Its all bollocks and worth laughing at.

I’m shorter than most me. Scraggley but jolly.
I love sport and doing new things. Catch is chaos and not because I’m bad, I just can’t promise anything. Too much chance and continuity.
I used to snowboard until I was in a pretty bad accident. Funny how a lot of people say that. But seriously this was some-sort-of-fuckin-wipe-out-maaaan.
I crushed my chest on a mountain pass trail. Airborn for 20 seconds and landed on the sharp bit of a half-pipe bowl. Christ. I never breathed the same again.
I was fit and younger and fucking inderstructable. God I was able.
I had a bounce, a glimmer. A glint.
I was a red, paddy, pudding loving, milk guzzling, beer clinking goblin of fun.
Nothing was above and beyond me. Early nights, Jesus I was good in the mornings.
The tragedy now, its all changed.
I like my friends, but I didn’t need anyone before.
Now its me, them and xbox.
A mission is something that involved friend food.
Effort is a word that surrounds me.
Zounds. I need to piss but don’t want to get up.
Its like a repeditive piano key in my mind just being played over and over and I can’t change it. Its me, done. And it hurts like hell.
Melt the slopes. Pentegram tattooed on my eyelids.
Let me dissolve. Die and start again.
Stardust snowboarder.

Its never come on so hard you know.
A few girls walked past.
I’m from Vietnam and only speak passable, at best broken conversational English.
I dont know what those peoples were talking of.
I really don’t.
I like watching people. And listening.
I don’t like that I sometimes don’t understand.
I work every day, but secretly have time to myself on the weekends when I go to the park, or if it rains then I stay inside in secret garden with a water feature just out the back of the mall.
Also there is a toilet with a sign in gold writing that says that it’s “the best toilet in Sandy Bay”.

I’ve heard all the jokes about my name there are, surely people get sick of that.
It makes me wonder if originality died someplace and forgot to tell everyone.
So much recycling, I blame Coca Cola for that. Any POP for that matter -haha.
I wish you wish that was was original because maybe it was, but maybe it wasn’t.
I don’t even know, I know nothing. Well I know some stuff.
My name. That’s important. So why do poeple forget it, and or make jokes.
They say i’m not from Denmark so I must be an imposter, that’s the most recent once. Strange I say, maybe I am from Denmark i’m just lying to you. What do you know anyway Monty. So I just sat, there and then, not in a place you’d usually sit and protest. I didn’t set myself on fire, there was no big spectacle, sizes are boundless and pointless anyway. I think its all related, naturally. Bah. There I go again. So serious. I’m hitting the wall, its-all-been-done syndrome.
I classed myself.

What do you think?
Can someone that isn’t an expert have an opinion?
A field you say, it has to have a field.
Do I need to study the past? My people, my family. What then.
How much of a back story do I need to be passable.
Amiable, acceptable, noddable. Yes yes yes, I’m an expert.
Let me pull your strings. Pupp. You are mine animal. Fuck I’m a prince.
A god, regal and noble, purple, gay and straight down the line.
All of these statues, frozen. Let me see you, blindly watching static.
Coddle me, cold and armless. Burn me. Kill it with fire.
Death and destructioin and piercing screams let me
hold onto you, crushing you like you were a pumice stone.
I’ll walk out on the jetty over time and cast you.
Out into the valley. Time may fill it with water, you may float or fly back over my head. Vengence of the mind, spite and anger. Your animated silent violence, piercing. Shocking. Rocking the boat and floating. Airy ideas and fears of the unknown. But you will like all of us be dust afore sortest perceptions of time be upon-us. Dust and sand an all thing grande.
Not quite how this doctor self prescribed and medicated.
Certainly not planned or anticipated.
This quack, liver patte, balding goose. Gold melts at room temperature.
The Air Con.
Left on. Its over, its over. GIE, Joe, Cro, Sin, Doe, Hit, Pin, Hin, Fin, Wid, Joo, Jhi, Lau. Silence now, but only because we aren’t really here.
Be empassioned into the knowledge, let it pass through you, this feeling of knowledge. Like the passage of life to death. The stone cold on-top. Rigid cemented final words of soil on wood. We aren’t here, you cannot hear this.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
But wear a freedom.
Sealed in plastic.
Your latex wrap, association.

-I Drew The Shadow Of A Binder 19-09-2016

Imagine an art installation called “Access”
For we are the access generation.
Do you EVEN know what that means.
Everything up until now has just been preparations.
We are born to a now, and our purpose is for the others to look at and wonder.
You make it hard.

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