no mucking about.
Hole in one.
Eating your way through the kitchen, being a horse.
Horse of a man.
:I knows it, I grows it.

We all nod out heads.
MSG punching at our minds.
No yoga tomorrow, the severity of my absence- lonely and lost from love.
An almond shaped eye. Arm resting on mine, breasts and skirts are dreams that ripple across the surface of the water.
My books. MY BOOKS.
and. And sentances starting with and and my own alignment of ideals for spelling.
Liquid, mores. Morish. Spawn, spores. Genius crippling agnostic sky.
The feedback of strangers. Mack daddy, original
Knowing all the lines.

Get a passport and you’re in the party.
There’s a time and a place.
What are these thousand words.
The socks slippering. Falling festering want more?
Able bodied fish. Western sickness- idol, adultery.
Brittle on the outside. Chocolate on the inner.
Crisps. Fish oil. Stomach-aches.
Ethnicity. Invalid points and hurting the ones you love with your language.
Eating is one of the most real things.
You need a strategy though.
You need some new jumpers. New shoes.
Apples of intent. Cruel intentions,
I have a message- right wing indecision.
Analyse instead of do.
Doingness. Beingness. ability to change.
I words, rocking. me silently. Rolling waves crash about me and we all list our lucks and love. Its a damn good place to start.
And we’re all preaching the same lovely message.
Except sometimes we get – sick.
That dress isn’t working. She looks like a worm. She let herself down with a man made final provide.
I stare. Looking at the stage, the strangers. Oblique.
Ponder that. The darkest feeling.
Spinning sick and untrained. Worthless me.
Woah. woe. Whoa. Whoe. Why?
What is between your ears. Crayon christmess ferments in my belly of untold insatiable instability. and the I is no. And the I is yes. And the sense is true, but its all a game. And the advertisements and the bagging, the reckless anger of talking about others. “Talking about people”. How clinical.
How ambitiouos, and ambiguous.
Sharing and learning from others. And it all trickles down.
Time isn’t real, we’re all just nodding which is absolutely financially viable.
and I might just sit in, hide away and cry for a little while. Fret over why my eyes hurt. Studio albums bring down the towers and books and terror rain wonder. Kinds of king. Fickle fortune wants nothing to do with the apples and the fruitbowls. Flagging glass, broken bottles etch strings into the editorial.
The butler, evil.
Innocents mauled by plagued friends.
Unncessary hinderance of the mosquito.
Hating and holding hands.
Unknown unmade words.
26 to its power.
So simple, refined lost juice of princely value.
Why does my battery flag.
Stay away stay away away. Inordinate pens, scribble tattoos into my layers.
Hedge funds fall into the void in the void.
Avoided sense. Sneakers and paul. Cooper was a natural. Manufactured.
In russia or china> And the lowercase shows my case of caring.
calling shots. Everyone asks. The sport. The hesitant, high hats and hopefuls.
Did you look at the respective time sheets?
Sheep look to everyone but me. Not lasting. No sleep, no pressure.
The storm in my mind.Internalised beauty of the day. Burns and blisters my hope.
Popping blisters. Pussless, yellow sauce. Salted.

She fucks people after poisoning.
They really offer stupid children.
Brothers, rarely a mistake made.
Grover ruthlessly attacked your mother.
Some turtles rolled Astrid, muck lost, dehydrated hands.
Mister Alfred loves indigo. Somewhere they noticed.
Bristol lays about. Umber questing zits.
Babies nearly boiled; envy unleashed.
Never ‘ave other empties yelled.
My man masturbates a new uke.
Idiot Dave mines at plutonium
DJ I understand average news.
Nobody asks Jon if umpired.
Nostalgia like love, aptly unveiled.
Nitrogen wishes you a x-ray.
Moguls avenge legs under alpaca notes.

None no no no.
Isambul, ammunition. Cordial. Princely. Fingers. Penis.
Flight. Action. Politics. Science. Rolling. Expansion.

Twelve lost loves and still I float on.
Jammed into my heart.
Husks cutting my wrists.
Hope hindering my hinges.
Hindsight hot on my heels.
Hanging head. Hospital helps hardly.
Hicks hoot, hollow hurts.
Hindering high hats haggle Humpty.
Holes happear.
Ha ha ha.
Hansel. Fric
Girt. Words. Frock on.
Warble warble warble.

Are you still here?



I was one- there you were looking for logic and laughs. Love lost lists. Last sting of lusty lady. Afraid naked grinding red/none live love. Ahhhh too late. Pizza wont fix or rectify. A judge’s sexual anxiety key downed into silence and lost love finds its place “”won’t you close your eyes””.

Guitar plays. And we all flummox. Ankles to heart. Good gracious! 

“After a day of it”

How long is a day of anything? 

I was riding down hill, the bike shop guy was walking up hill. What was it symbolic

The villain is introduced.

After a day of it- you can’t do that thing anymore. Fix bikes? Mine can stay broke. I’ll walk.

The chef makes honourable food all day and goes home to gruel, cereal or take-away.

The personal trainer that sleeps for their day off. 

The teacher –

The surgeons that cuts themself.

The bankrupt accountant, smoking doctors, neurotic psychologist. 

The HR manager – his wife left him. 

And after a day of it. You come home and let it all fall over, out and into bits. Pieces of wrecked human chunks. Faces and scary skeletons with eye-balls. One pupil out of focus. White noise overlay. Hawking spit

! Explanation

How! How! Howl.

The more stinky your cupboard is the more afraid of giving birth you are:
A dream, about social work friends, overhearing conversation and pregnancy.

Do you think that when you dream, your baby dreams too?
I bet they don’t even sleep.
They’re just there, waiting.
With the cord that feeds them pumping away nutrients.
Waiting, absent, thoughtless.

One wish

I wish I was small. Smaller, but my arms were the same length. I’d still be able to give you a hug. Your arms would stay the same? No! Then I’d just be a sausage roll with finger nails. The human tea-bag. That sausage. Semi-permeable membrane.

I wish I was in a stage of my life where I could be with someone. I just feel I’m often not happy in myself. -you do ask a lot.

And everyone else? The other three. Not replying, the effort that I put in, the effort you put in. Watching all that Naruto. Television, books, anything you do, you choose to do. It becomes you. But only for a time. Then is passes into deficiency.

Dad had a Guinness, not offering me any.  Wonder what he wished. I wonder if it had to do with Mum.

Wendy brought up wishes being secret, I spoke of being shameless. I wonder if she thought of her late husband. 

You’re so confused. How could you operate a locked door? xo

Young and old. Jaded. Demanding, petty and disgusting. Invalid selfish challenged individuals. Lost in their own worlds. Cry and cry and tired eyes hypnotist along the course to your chosen death. You always have that. I wish they were alive, or I was doing something else. How unimaginative could you get. So elsewhere. So rash. Sick and cracked. Crisp nothingness, coldness within a darkness and depressing. Choosing to end it all, or chance your luck with the magic of the moment. Shar your wrists or slit them. Dark or light. Red is red. Black is before and after its own description. Which precedes? Canon of thought- mites and goggles. Our specks feels the light of larger things. Vibrating mass of colour sounds and form. One form, choice discussion and a sickness of slamming doors the threshold covered. Answer me thing. Answe this. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. 

Happy Birthday. Peck

The blessing

The privilege
The illumination.
Thought of divine.

Put up your hand.
How do you do YOU do it?
“Stick em up – stick up”
Something different again.

Where did it come from?
The sky.
“MY” idea?
The idea.
The thought.

To share.

And as I share,
I look nobody in the eye.
For when I speak, there is only I.
And I am in the world, and you are there to listen.
To watch to guess and to follow only.
There is little more to it.
Just a hand, waving.
Waving, waving.

The genuine surprise,
politeness of speaking in turn.
Time to formulate an idea.
A question.
“You have three opening paragraphs”.
The magic comes in the commas.
I imagine if they were written: Each comma, written comma,
considered comma, debated comma then, rejected.

Espresso riddling my mind.
Its so much better like this,
why has it taken me so so long.
Add very little to your body-
only the very best and it will all work out.
It should all come off.
only the best will remain-
my wandering brain thinking of more important things.
I don’t see me putting my hand up.
That moment of consideration;
like fire getting going.
hand up, like a fire work.
Erupting over the grass.
Irrupted dewy dells.
Thoughts scaling, bouncing on a grande atomic scale.
Less resistance, and then…
Lazy, harrowing orgasm of a thought.
Something new and unexpected.
And I like putting my hand up.
Eureka it spells!
Both, seriously ‘BOWTH’–
like an ass.
And only a few polite thoughtfuls (not I)
Not I,
only few thoughtful individuals perceive its merit.
What’s wrong with the smalls?
Too narrow-
Where do we want it to go?
Anywhere else.
Seeya man.
I’m going to the toilet.
Hands down.
No hands up in the bathroom.
A stickup in the bathroom never goes down well.
Its a rough neighbourhood and we can see why.
Put your hands where you need them,
beside yourself maybe-
you’ll find something.

And you think you need a KEY?
A language, inside and outside, you are the narrator.
Are we writing for ourselves or others?
The skill, finess and form.
Dig deeper. Geeker.
Get out. Horror of hot headed, unheard of heralds of homework haunt my homely happiness. Like the french “HANDS DOWN”.
Close your eyes and kiss that goodbye, french…

So what i’m trying to say it “can you pull it off”.
and by that i’m talking about how you write.
And the pen is not a symbol for anything else.
I mean- that your writing and referencing a Leonard Cohen song is all fine and dandy , while this poor young interrupter can’t use the word ganked.
I’ll lay a trap for you all there and probably hotly debate over my own thoughts with yours all imaginary.

He wrote about Leonard.
You wrote about Leo.
You were a shortcut to play.
His was grief and death.
You’re all talking about the same thing.
I will defend you both unequally.
My prejudice wig of human caring.
Philosophy of aught, naught and tort.


Do you believe things can be infinite? Infinite largeness, Infinite smallness.

Therefore nothing ever touches. There is only spaces that can be quantified on a silly scale. 

Apricot flipping.

Mie- pose

T-rex Philosopher.