The night was like every other. Dark, and cooler than during the day. But that was where the similarities ended. For this night was unique and individual, due to the steady procession of time. Every second that ticks by is irretrievable. It is the one steady notion. For even as this note is written time marches on, for every second that you read this note time does not stop. The last second you experienced will doubtlessly be marked down in the records of immediate history through meticulous record keeping, but it will never happen again. Never! People oft quote Carpe Diem- 'Seize The Day', but I say seize the second- the immediate present, the most fragile and inexplicable things a mind can deal with. Stop to imagine it for one second. That second has now left you behind. It is gone, you will and no one else will experience that ever again. Impossible.
Time travel, an impossibility! If the universe is as it seems, you surely cannot add nor subtract matter from that space, it is a finite amount that is contained within something which we do not know nor are able to comprehend, yet it must surely contain a mass, a quantifiable amount of matter which completes the whole. Imagine a glass container filled entirely by a liquid and encompassed entirely by glass with no air within. Now, attempt to remove some liquid. Impossible without breaking the glass. Now, attempt the opposite. One is unable to remove liquid without breaking the glass again. This simply has to be the same case with whatever it is that we occupy, true?
Therefore, how can you attempt to remove matter from the universe and transfer it along the 5th dimension (time) without thus rendering all existence illogical and therefore impossible? None shall be removed from existence, and none shall be added. If the human race is simple carbon with a specific configuration of atoms and molecules, we have been born of earth and are part of this great mass.
What should fill the gap of where we once were?
There surely cannot be any more matter in existence to fill that hole in reality, and even more so if one was to attempt to move more mass into the university. Such as is the chaos theory, one would not know what immediate or lasting damage this could do to the space-time continuum if even a small change in the past can have dramatic and extreme effects upon the present and future.
One should always question their own reality. It is imperative that we are informed of the 5th dimension and the ways in which it cannot be tampered with. Time.
It marches slowly until oblivion.
Monday 27 April 2009
Tuesday 31 March 2009
Toulouse Sausage
I have to expound from my mind, dear reader, whether you wish to indulge or not, a tale of a man bound by the SELF-INFLICTED inner horrors of his own mind. Actions which may have extolled virtue upon him were ignored due to the ignorance of his place in society.
Outwardly, the man seemed perfectly at ease with his life and his friends: A laugh for anyone who wished to engage in witty banter, and a kind smile for his community. You may even go so far as to suggest that he was a gentleman, being brought up by stoic but kindly parents and given all he needed to succeed in the great game of life.
You would not suspect the slightest blight upon his pleasant countenance if you were to spy him at leisure, whether frequenting the many drinking establishments of South London town, or engrossed in the fine arts of the great Capital of beautiful England.
But all is never as it seems.
For inwardly, he was a hollow and dangerous husk of a man. From a young age, as long as he dared regress, he felt nothing but anger and hate towards these lowly wretches around him. He found it so easy to manipulate the thoughts and actions of those around him through the base means used by other men, simple rhetoric.
A word here, a whispered piece of advice there, another spur for the filthy maggots to engage with made him feel nothing at all but a loathing so deep and dark that the one thing close to joy he ever felt was in the knowing that they might one day be gone, to their GOD, their pathetic egotistical ideas of a life after death.
To think that they thought they were in some way more special than the rest of life around them. To believe that they were so important as to warrant vulgar prose and gaudy memorials to all they believed important. Themselves. To believe that they were here for some special purpose, the hideous and self satisfying preachings of 'Save the Planet', as if it were something that needed saving. Ha! I shall be happy when we are all dead, said he.
His outward appearance was fashioned by hate itself, a hate so bitter and dark that it was unable to manifest itself in known ways: For if he were to act upon his ideals, the filthy peasants would know, and he should be identified. He knew that anonymity, to blend in with those that he hated was his penance for insight. But a necessary penance so as to be viewed as ONE OF THEM.
Do you know, kindly reader, who he is?
He is you.
Outwardly, the man seemed perfectly at ease with his life and his friends: A laugh for anyone who wished to engage in witty banter, and a kind smile for his community. You may even go so far as to suggest that he was a gentleman, being brought up by stoic but kindly parents and given all he needed to succeed in the great game of life.
You would not suspect the slightest blight upon his pleasant countenance if you were to spy him at leisure, whether frequenting the many drinking establishments of South London town, or engrossed in the fine arts of the great Capital of beautiful England.
But all is never as it seems.
For inwardly, he was a hollow and dangerous husk of a man. From a young age, as long as he dared regress, he felt nothing but anger and hate towards these lowly wretches around him. He found it so easy to manipulate the thoughts and actions of those around him through the base means used by other men, simple rhetoric.
A word here, a whispered piece of advice there, another spur for the filthy maggots to engage with made him feel nothing at all but a loathing so deep and dark that the one thing close to joy he ever felt was in the knowing that they might one day be gone, to their GOD, their pathetic egotistical ideas of a life after death.
To think that they thought they were in some way more special than the rest of life around them. To believe that they were so important as to warrant vulgar prose and gaudy memorials to all they believed important. Themselves. To believe that they were here for some special purpose, the hideous and self satisfying preachings of 'Save the Planet', as if it were something that needed saving. Ha! I shall be happy when we are all dead, said he.
His outward appearance was fashioned by hate itself, a hate so bitter and dark that it was unable to manifest itself in known ways: For if he were to act upon his ideals, the filthy peasants would know, and he should be identified. He knew that anonymity, to blend in with those that he hated was his penance for insight. But a necessary penance so as to be viewed as ONE OF THEM.
Do you know, kindly reader, who he is?
He is you.
Tuesday 13 January 2009
The Thirst of Many. Carne.
We find our two protagonists lying prostrate upon the beach of a desert island. It would ordinarily be around the time for luncheon, but neither Claridge nor Bertrand knew this, being stranded quite unexpectedly without a proper diary or means of telling the time.
"What on earth? Has the Numismatists Club expanded? This is most peculiar. Bertrand? Dear brother, where are we? Bertrand?" Claridge grabbed his brother smartly by the lapels of his rather fashionable but somewhat bedraggled dinner jacket and shook.
"Just leave the paper under the door, and do please label the society pages for ease of reading..." Bertrand was coming round from some delightful dream thought Claridge, beginning to realise that this was hardly the West End and that obviously they were in some part of the home counties he did not often frequent.
"Oh dear." squeaked Claridge.
As Bertrand began to shake off his slumber, Claridge turned his oft-monocled eye to the scene before him. Surely we mustn't have taken a cab this far he thought, adjusting to the azure blue of the tropical waters and the blinding white of the sand; littered here and there with scuttling Red-Clawed crabs doing whatever it is that they do.
It began to dawn on Claridge that maybe something was amiss. He reached down into his luxurious inner pocket for his cigarettes and found them to be wet. "Blast." Searching with his delicate piano-playing fingers, he laboured to find a receipt from his usual cab company. Good men, a little rough round the edges perhaps, but good men nonetheless. Well, up until now anyway. What rotters!
For what reason do we appear to be here? I do believe that this is some sort of trick.
"Bertrand! Damn and blast you man, wake up! We are in a pickle!" Cried Claridge, tossing his soggy packet of Players towards Bertrand's rather plump and sandy face. The packet misses and lands with an innocuous splat. Well, not so much of a splat, but that wet sound that a small cardboard box might make if damp when thrown upon a sandy surface.
Bertrand stirred, as he might often do in this sort of situation, because unfortunately he was a rather lackadaisical gent with a great propensity for society drinking. He was also rather partial to non-society drinking which; although rather crude and common, was markedly less painful on the wallet and allowed him to fraternise with the somewhat looser women of Britains capital. But putting the thoughts of his brothers fondness for the great and venerable Bellini to the back of his mind, Claridge did what only a brother could do for his brother.
Pulling off one elegant white glove (albeit missing material from the ring-finger and covered with yet more pale sand) and leaning over to his left so that he was within striking range, Claridge used all of his strength to pull of a textbook slap across the now snoring cheeks of his dear brother.
"PPpphhfffuuutttttssssttsts..." Bertrand spluttered, allowing enough sand to transfer itself from the glove to his mouth, nose and tongue in a wonderful coating before cracking open his eyes to the blazing sun. "What the dvil are you playing at? I told you I was not to be disturbed Mrs Brannigan!" He bleated. (It may be worth a note for the undisclosed reader that Mrs Brannigan was Bertrand's House Lady, a rather plump and motherly woman who cared for his multitude of possessions and collections and other bits and pieces over in his pile near Hampstead Heath. But more on that later)
"Bertrand, dear, dear brother! Arise from your tumultuous night-terrors, and do stop being such an arse!" Claridge finally wailed in his rather nasal, but Harrow educated, voice.
"What? Claridge? What are you doing in my chamber? Oh. What the deuce is this? What happened to he Numismatists Ball? This is most unsettling..."
"Finally, another brain to ask yet more questions, I have been pondering this myself for some time whilst you have been asleep dear brother. I do beieve the cab-man has played some sort of trick on us. What happened last night?" Posed Claridge, who took this opportunity now to stand and brush off some of the more stubborn sand and crustacea. Taking a few paces to the shore, he realised that he had never said goodbye to Ms Dutton, the rather charming heir to the great Industrialist Lord Dutton, he of the ship-building and gold-prospecting type: all hats and britches but sadly not an ounce of wit.
"This is most odd indeed. We seem to be on some sort of island." Bertrand added whilst struggling to his porcine legs and shaking seaweed from his matted hair.
"I can see that brother. But what on earth is this all about? The last I remember was leaving the ball at Sovereign House and hailing our usual cab. Then we argued somewhat on the extent of your indulgences, and then simply nothing until I awoke not half an hour ago."
"Any chance of a drink?" Bertrand gasped, looking around for the bar. "Oh dear." He added, realising the extent of the problem, as a large seagull defecated upon his elegant three piece suit and tails. There was no bar, not even one of those delightful poor people in uniform that push refreshment trollies on the late sleeper train to Edinburgh from Victoria.
"Brother, I do believe us two dandies are in a spot of bother" Claridge mumbled, and made steam for the inner part of the island.
What will happen next to the intrepid brothers? Will Bertrand find a bar? Will Claridge ever dry out his cigarettes and find a way off this place? Stay tuned for more...
"What on earth? Has the Numismatists Club expanded? This is most peculiar. Bertrand? Dear brother, where are we? Bertrand?" Claridge grabbed his brother smartly by the lapels of his rather fashionable but somewhat bedraggled dinner jacket and shook.
"Just leave the paper under the door, and do please label the society pages for ease of reading..." Bertrand was coming round from some delightful dream thought Claridge, beginning to realise that this was hardly the West End and that obviously they were in some part of the home counties he did not often frequent.
"Oh dear." squeaked Claridge.
As Bertrand began to shake off his slumber, Claridge turned his oft-monocled eye to the scene before him. Surely we mustn't have taken a cab this far he thought, adjusting to the azure blue of the tropical waters and the blinding white of the sand; littered here and there with scuttling Red-Clawed crabs doing whatever it is that they do.
It began to dawn on Claridge that maybe something was amiss. He reached down into his luxurious inner pocket for his cigarettes and found them to be wet. "Blast." Searching with his delicate piano-playing fingers, he laboured to find a receipt from his usual cab company. Good men, a little rough round the edges perhaps, but good men nonetheless. Well, up until now anyway. What rotters!
For what reason do we appear to be here? I do believe that this is some sort of trick.
"Bertrand! Damn and blast you man, wake up! We are in a pickle!" Cried Claridge, tossing his soggy packet of Players towards Bertrand's rather plump and sandy face. The packet misses and lands with an innocuous splat. Well, not so much of a splat, but that wet sound that a small cardboard box might make if damp when thrown upon a sandy surface.
Bertrand stirred, as he might often do in this sort of situation, because unfortunately he was a rather lackadaisical gent with a great propensity for society drinking. He was also rather partial to non-society drinking which; although rather crude and common, was markedly less painful on the wallet and allowed him to fraternise with the somewhat looser women of Britains capital. But putting the thoughts of his brothers fondness for the great and venerable Bellini to the back of his mind, Claridge did what only a brother could do for his brother.
Pulling off one elegant white glove (albeit missing material from the ring-finger and covered with yet more pale sand) and leaning over to his left so that he was within striking range, Claridge used all of his strength to pull of a textbook slap across the now snoring cheeks of his dear brother.
"PPpphhfffuuutttttssssttsts..." Bertrand spluttered, allowing enough sand to transfer itself from the glove to his mouth, nose and tongue in a wonderful coating before cracking open his eyes to the blazing sun. "What the dvil are you playing at? I told you I was not to be disturbed Mrs Brannigan!" He bleated. (It may be worth a note for the undisclosed reader that Mrs Brannigan was Bertrand's House Lady, a rather plump and motherly woman who cared for his multitude of possessions and collections and other bits and pieces over in his pile near Hampstead Heath. But more on that later)
"Bertrand, dear, dear brother! Arise from your tumultuous night-terrors, and do stop being such an arse!" Claridge finally wailed in his rather nasal, but Harrow educated, voice.
"What? Claridge? What are you doing in my chamber? Oh. What the deuce is this? What happened to he Numismatists Ball? This is most unsettling..."
"Finally, another brain to ask yet more questions, I have been pondering this myself for some time whilst you have been asleep dear brother. I do beieve the cab-man has played some sort of trick on us. What happened last night?" Posed Claridge, who took this opportunity now to stand and brush off some of the more stubborn sand and crustacea. Taking a few paces to the shore, he realised that he had never said goodbye to Ms Dutton, the rather charming heir to the great Industrialist Lord Dutton, he of the ship-building and gold-prospecting type: all hats and britches but sadly not an ounce of wit.
"This is most odd indeed. We seem to be on some sort of island." Bertrand added whilst struggling to his porcine legs and shaking seaweed from his matted hair.
"I can see that brother. But what on earth is this all about? The last I remember was leaving the ball at Sovereign House and hailing our usual cab. Then we argued somewhat on the extent of your indulgences, and then simply nothing until I awoke not half an hour ago."
"Any chance of a drink?" Bertrand gasped, looking around for the bar. "Oh dear." He added, realising the extent of the problem, as a large seagull defecated upon his elegant three piece suit and tails. There was no bar, not even one of those delightful poor people in uniform that push refreshment trollies on the late sleeper train to Edinburgh from Victoria.
"Brother, I do believe us two dandies are in a spot of bother" Claridge mumbled, and made steam for the inner part of the island.
What will happen next to the intrepid brothers? Will Bertrand find a bar? Will Claridge ever dry out his cigarettes and find a way off this place? Stay tuned for more...
Monday 12 January 2009
Read. My. Lips. - Kofte
Running, feeling the cold winter air blow into my face and through the all-to-thin lining of this cheap jacket. So often I thought that the way I looked in public was the most important thing in life! I would say to myself it was my own version of PR, the whole reputation jib I'd always pretended 'not to care about', but secretly spent most of my time thinking of ways to try and attract some attention. But none of that mattered now. All that mattered was eating up pavement, striving for the next corner, my lungs burning and breath panting in ragged gasps. I knew much before that I should exercise, but apathy lives strong in this one. Now, exercise would have paid out ten fold, because if I'm too slow, that's it. Dead.
You know you always hear about it on the news, on the radio, in the newspapers. Knife crime. Growing up in leafy suburbia numbs you, turns you into a soft turd who is full of loud voices and boastful stories of giving someone a hiding when you were sixteen. The truth is that that 'hiding' scared you shitless and made you realise just how fragile a human can be. And made you realise just how fragile you were. You can still feel the disgusting jolt as the lad's jaw broke on your fist, the once leering face twisted into a grotesque mask of pain and fear: and you running, the adrenaline searing through your arteries.
That's the problem with suburbia, it dulls the senses and lets you forget that there really is an undercurrent of unrest throughout society whilst you think of the next party or the next spliff. But it changes all too quickly. A bit stoned and sat on the bus, you recollect the evening. Lovely, a few drinks with the boys, even a chat with a girl at the bar. Her number safely in your phone, you roll a spliff under the table because you know you're a bit of a geezer. And with the boys around to back you up, of course you're going to be loud- you're in your element aren't you?
A quick tequila (none of that salt and lemon shit, that's for fairies) and it's chucking out time. On goes the jacket and it's out into the cold. The wet stones shine under the streetlights and all pile round the corner of the bar to have a puff. Round it goes until everyone's nice and lit, the smoke adding to the alcohol buzz and rounding off the night nicely.
You say good night to the boys. Shame, we all used to live close together, but a man needs his independence. Plus, further into town is always a plus- living out in the boring outskirts will do you no good I said. Waiting for the bus I listen to a couple of wankers going on about fighting and 'the streets'- I just want to turn around and tell them that 'Yes, I can fucking hear you, and no I do not give a damn about your pathetic pikey lives.' Now where's that bus?
As it pulls up, I move to get on first which is only fair as I waited for ages for this one. But tweedledum and tweedletwat decide to test my patience. Idiot A looks me up and down whilst Idiot B barges my shoulder to get on the bus first. Big deal, the urban display of strength, establishing the alpha male pointlessly. So I do what I always do when I've had a couple of drinks: I tell him to fuck off and think nothing of it as they saunter to the top deck.
I spy my stop through the condensation on the window and press the bell. As the bus slows down, I check my pockets and the seat for loose valuables and make my way to the door, feeling hazy from the night. I thank the driver and step off again into the cold. Feeling somewhat blinkered, I pull out my phone to check that girl's name when it happens. It's not like a bad horror film, no sting of music to turn the mood from brooding to terror, but awkward and without poise, I suddenly realise that Idiots A & B have gotten off at the same stop and are approaching.
I turn around to them, still feeling the dutch inspired bravado of the evening to kindly ask them why they are following me, yet I only receive an harsh order to hand over my fucking phone, or else I might lose some blood. I call the bluff as the hero would do in the fairy tale and inform them of my intention to hold on to my belongings. This is when Idiot B pulls the flick-knife from his pocket. Even through this hideous cliche I began to feel scared. And not the knock-knees horror film terror, or even weed-related paranoia-based terror, but real and sickening terror, the sort of terror you feel when someone pulls out a knife and lunges at you with it.
It was quite funny really, you see it on televison often enough and in the harmless computer games which award killing sprees with virtual cash, but you nver stop to think what it might feel like to be stabbed. It felt like someone thrusting a metal blade into my side, that seemed to be the only real way to describe it. So, here we are, back at the start.
The pavement seemed to slow down slightly, or was it me running slower? I'm not sure any more, it's getting harder and harder to think clearly. Am I getting more drunk? What was that girl's name? I wonder what my Mum is doing right now?
I reach down to my side and feel the warm blood seeping out. I'm scared to touch the wound itself, but it's at least nice and warm out here now. I'm tired. I wonder what happened to those idiots? Huh, stupid boys, messing with me- I'm a big lad with a big heart. The heart of an ox, mighty and strong. I sit down heavily on the pavement, just need to rest for a minute, get my breath back, rest and relaxation, R&R time. I cough, deep and wet. Wipe my mouth- blood on my hands. Ha, the irony of it all, there's blood on my hands. Time to sleep, Mum'll wake me up in the moring, just close your eyes and sleep. Mum'll have a nice cup of tea for you in the morning...
You know you always hear about it on the news, on the radio, in the newspapers. Knife crime. Growing up in leafy suburbia numbs you, turns you into a soft turd who is full of loud voices and boastful stories of giving someone a hiding when you were sixteen. The truth is that that 'hiding' scared you shitless and made you realise just how fragile a human can be. And made you realise just how fragile you were. You can still feel the disgusting jolt as the lad's jaw broke on your fist, the once leering face twisted into a grotesque mask of pain and fear: and you running, the adrenaline searing through your arteries.
That's the problem with suburbia, it dulls the senses and lets you forget that there really is an undercurrent of unrest throughout society whilst you think of the next party or the next spliff. But it changes all too quickly. A bit stoned and sat on the bus, you recollect the evening. Lovely, a few drinks with the boys, even a chat with a girl at the bar. Her number safely in your phone, you roll a spliff under the table because you know you're a bit of a geezer. And with the boys around to back you up, of course you're going to be loud- you're in your element aren't you?
A quick tequila (none of that salt and lemon shit, that's for fairies) and it's chucking out time. On goes the jacket and it's out into the cold. The wet stones shine under the streetlights and all pile round the corner of the bar to have a puff. Round it goes until everyone's nice and lit, the smoke adding to the alcohol buzz and rounding off the night nicely.
You say good night to the boys. Shame, we all used to live close together, but a man needs his independence. Plus, further into town is always a plus- living out in the boring outskirts will do you no good I said. Waiting for the bus I listen to a couple of wankers going on about fighting and 'the streets'- I just want to turn around and tell them that 'Yes, I can fucking hear you, and no I do not give a damn about your pathetic pikey lives.' Now where's that bus?
As it pulls up, I move to get on first which is only fair as I waited for ages for this one. But tweedledum and tweedletwat decide to test my patience. Idiot A looks me up and down whilst Idiot B barges my shoulder to get on the bus first. Big deal, the urban display of strength, establishing the alpha male pointlessly. So I do what I always do when I've had a couple of drinks: I tell him to fuck off and think nothing of it as they saunter to the top deck.
I spy my stop through the condensation on the window and press the bell. As the bus slows down, I check my pockets and the seat for loose valuables and make my way to the door, feeling hazy from the night. I thank the driver and step off again into the cold. Feeling somewhat blinkered, I pull out my phone to check that girl's name when it happens. It's not like a bad horror film, no sting of music to turn the mood from brooding to terror, but awkward and without poise, I suddenly realise that Idiots A & B have gotten off at the same stop and are approaching.
I turn around to them, still feeling the dutch inspired bravado of the evening to kindly ask them why they are following me, yet I only receive an harsh order to hand over my fucking phone, or else I might lose some blood. I call the bluff as the hero would do in the fairy tale and inform them of my intention to hold on to my belongings. This is when Idiot B pulls the flick-knife from his pocket. Even through this hideous cliche I began to feel scared. And not the knock-knees horror film terror, or even weed-related paranoia-based terror, but real and sickening terror, the sort of terror you feel when someone pulls out a knife and lunges at you with it.
It was quite funny really, you see it on televison often enough and in the harmless computer games which award killing sprees with virtual cash, but you nver stop to think what it might feel like to be stabbed. It felt like someone thrusting a metal blade into my side, that seemed to be the only real way to describe it. So, here we are, back at the start.
The pavement seemed to slow down slightly, or was it me running slower? I'm not sure any more, it's getting harder and harder to think clearly. Am I getting more drunk? What was that girl's name? I wonder what my Mum is doing right now?
I reach down to my side and feel the warm blood seeping out. I'm scared to touch the wound itself, but it's at least nice and warm out here now. I'm tired. I wonder what happened to those idiots? Huh, stupid boys, messing with me- I'm a big lad with a big heart. The heart of an ox, mighty and strong. I sit down heavily on the pavement, just need to rest for a minute, get my breath back, rest and relaxation, R&R time. I cough, deep and wet. Wipe my mouth- blood on my hands. Ha, the irony of it all, there's blood on my hands. Time to sleep, Mum'll wake me up in the moring, just close your eyes and sleep. Mum'll have a nice cup of tea for you in the morning...
Tuesday 6 January 2009
New Year, new idea. Snapper.
Here's an idea: Tomorrow is Tuesday right? How about you don't get up for work? How about instead you plough your money back into the community and fund organized crime? The one last example of a free market in a ultra-capitalist society. Meet your local dealer: stay in, read those unread books you were bought by your son/daughter/wife/husband/lover/co-worker/lawyer/therapist.
A lot could be learned from a World-wide day off I believe. But here's the 'problem': No electricty, no post, no TV, no radio, no drive-thru KFC, no news, no heat, no light, nothing. Build a fire! Burn some wood, play hide-and-seek with the weird fellah up the street, pick flowers, write a song. Do something that you would never do otherwise. If you like wearing a suit- roll in effluence and cosy up to a nun, if you are religious - check out The Origin of Species. (Happy Birthday Charles by the way!)
Just please, do me a favour, in the name of Joe Pesci THINK about what this would do for society for one day. I implore you to throw away your obscession with damn celebrities and fashion and all the things that make life just that bit more depressing when you really think about it and LIVE. Just once, live.
Or in the form of a song I have just written (to an anarcho-punk backing track)
It's a medical condition,
Not a family tradition,
How can I say 'I love you' when your fist's in my mouth?
Why do you knee me when I go down south?
Oi, oi, oi
Refrain
Repeat.
A lot could be learned from a World-wide day off I believe. But here's the 'problem': No electricty, no post, no TV, no radio, no drive-thru KFC, no news, no heat, no light, nothing. Build a fire! Burn some wood, play hide-and-seek with the weird fellah up the street, pick flowers, write a song. Do something that you would never do otherwise. If you like wearing a suit- roll in effluence and cosy up to a nun, if you are religious - check out The Origin of Species. (Happy Birthday Charles by the way!)
Just please, do me a favour, in the name of Joe Pesci THINK about what this would do for society for one day. I implore you to throw away your obscession with damn celebrities and fashion and all the things that make life just that bit more depressing when you really think about it and LIVE. Just once, live.
Or in the form of a song I have just written (to an anarcho-punk backing track)
It's a medical condition,
Not a family tradition,
How can I say 'I love you' when your fist's in my mouth?
Why do you knee me when I go down south?
Oi, oi, oi
Refrain
Repeat.
Monday 5 January 2009
Rivers of Consciousness. Lamb.
You pull out hairs with your teeth, the arrows hit the cork with a thump. I try to think of something to say, but nothing comes out. I call myself an 'effective communicator' but I stammer over my words.
The New Great Depression sinks in, and I realise that everyone else goes through it! It has happened to you too: Once you were young and carefree but... like a stinging slap to the cheek- reality sets in. Young, qualified, yet still no prospects. You read about famous individuals, intelligent individuals, successful individuals and it dawns on you that you could make something of your life. But will you? Not with this syntax.
Isn't it funny how easy it is to read an inspiring quote, think "Wow, that's deep, maybe I can change myself for the better" then turn around and keep fucking your life up, over and over again. For example intrepid reader: "Be brave. Take risks. Nothing can substitute experience." (Paulo Coelho) So what risks should I take? Follow my dreams? Do you even know what my dreams are?
My dreams are shallow: I want life's equivalent of a free lunch! To do absolutely nothing. To live in a wilderness on top of a hill, with nothing but trees to every horizon, absolutely nothing save the distant wisp of smoke from some other lonely soul. But I will never be lonely, because I have the moon. We all live under the same rock, spawn of planets colliding. Apt really, that no matter what your circumstances, your bank balance, race, creed, breed, species, anything, we stare up at the same moon. From the billionaire to the amphibian, same rock.
But my shallow dreams dreams are not important.
What is important however are the dreams of a collective society. The collective dreams of 700 lifetimes, the 6,000,000,000 consciences that are voluntary slaves to an insane idea of freedom.
Martin Adams is the bomb.
The New Great Depression sinks in, and I realise that everyone else goes through it! It has happened to you too: Once you were young and carefree but... like a stinging slap to the cheek- reality sets in. Young, qualified, yet still no prospects. You read about famous individuals, intelligent individuals, successful individuals and it dawns on you that you could make something of your life. But will you? Not with this syntax.
Isn't it funny how easy it is to read an inspiring quote, think "Wow, that's deep, maybe I can change myself for the better" then turn around and keep fucking your life up, over and over again. For example intrepid reader: "Be brave. Take risks. Nothing can substitute experience." (Paulo Coelho) So what risks should I take? Follow my dreams? Do you even know what my dreams are?
My dreams are shallow: I want life's equivalent of a free lunch! To do absolutely nothing. To live in a wilderness on top of a hill, with nothing but trees to every horizon, absolutely nothing save the distant wisp of smoke from some other lonely soul. But I will never be lonely, because I have the moon. We all live under the same rock, spawn of planets colliding. Apt really, that no matter what your circumstances, your bank balance, race, creed, breed, species, anything, we stare up at the same moon. From the billionaire to the amphibian, same rock.
But my shallow dreams dreams are not important.
What is important however are the dreams of a collective society. The collective dreams of 700 lifetimes, the 6,000,000,000 consciences that are voluntary slaves to an insane idea of freedom.
Martin Adams is the bomb.
Wednesday 24 December 2008
What really matters
I'll tell you a little story. A man goes out to the pub, he has a few drinks. Some mouthy git at the bar, most probably spurred on by the bugle, actually, definitely hurried along by the Bolivian, the yayo AND the white starts giving people a hard time. The man has had enough. Without a word, he strides to the jukebox and enters at least a nicker.
On comes VAN HALEN, and everyone rocks so very hard that the altercation is completely forgotten.
Lesson of the story: Real men don't fight, real men ROCK.
On comes VAN HALEN, and everyone rocks so very hard that the altercation is completely forgotten.
Lesson of the story: Real men don't fight, real men ROCK.
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