Kate Bush

One of the most common things I tell myself when I brush my teeth is
'I need to brush my teeth a bit more'.
I woke up this morning with an itchy palm. And then I went through this whole poem about it in my head.
I told myself I'd get up and write it on here but I needed a cup of tea, so then I forgot what it was -
It was something - It wasn't especially great - So never mind. But what does an itchy palm mean? Can you google that for me - I'm too busy.
I fucking love dashes - they make it easy to write everything that comes into my head without too much conscious thought about the gramma situation. Not that that really concerns me - it doesn't - but it's nice to have one less reason to hate yourself. Not saying my gramma's any good mind - it's not - I just wanted to express a love for something - why'd you have to be like that? - go piss on someone else's fire.

yeh poem (apaaaathy rains) (yes from a cloud)

yeh
right
ok
this is great
just right
please bitch please.

i'm an iguana
and you're a
lost dystopia
no wait
i'm a chameleon
and i've changed colour.

i merge with your
skin tone.
i fit in with
your friends.
everyone laughs at my jokes.
i'm meester popular
and you're a
fucking arsehole for not replying.

but it's my fault
i know.
at least i think.
you couldn't hurt one if you tried.
i'm sure.
i'm in awe of you
and you're a spanish omelette;
a fritata i think you're called.
so full of flavour, you don't leave biscuit crumbs
in my bed.

and i'd try
not to take the piss.
if but only i could not help it thus.
and thought trails
in all honest fruit
are this bitter and plain.

i'm no special
piece of pie.
i'm drout
and gout.
i flare up in the rain
and as far as i can tell
there is no fucking cure.

Simon

he was gorging on fat-spread on toast with tea, but not at the same time, the bread absorbed too much liquid and felt odd, not good.
he was trying to think of something to do or a reason to leave the room. but it was difficult. it was only 10 days until the fight and he was shitting himself.

weeks earlier he'd been running in hyde park, no one could see him but he was there, watching her.

her with her eyes and cheeks, vibrating there set against the green of the grass and the ambience of laughter. she would have looked quite different if she knew Tom was there. and he would have had to leave. i don't know whether he'd have been told to or would have gone on his own accord but it didn't matter. fact was he was there and tom wasn't. tom lost the motivation to keep jogging. somehow fat-loss-brad pit-pecks were of little significance. and everything else too.

as it happened, 'nothing' became quite a safe haven. he did nothing for a long while. just managing to speak to the odd human here and there, to make not a big deal of his invisibility. He was afterall turning see through.

he first noticed it in the shower, where most things are first noticed. he inspected his toes, one nail seemed to be missing. the red bare flesh all full of blood, but as he touched it nervously it felt just like the other toes that had nails. then his cock disapeared. just for a second, then it came back. he fell over and pulled the curtain down around him in sheer fear. 'what the hell was happening?'
he got dressed and went back to his watching television. it wasnt turned on but he didnt seem to care. the duvet on his bed was still warm and felt comforting. he snuggled into a foetus shape and fell asleep. whilst he was asleep, unbeknown to him, his whole body glowed a bright gold colour and it filled the room. passers by hated this as it glared in their computer screens, the ones hooked up around their faces like orthadontics, and interupted their youtube sessions. It happened everytime he went to sleep but no one ever told him. And now he's dead.

tom achieved pretty much nothing in his life. he made small sacrifices for people but on the whole felt like a selfish cunt. confirmed by a few key players in his world. they would say @actualy tom, you're a bit of a selfish cunt@. he would grab the fags from the shelf and light up 50 at once, sticking them into his lung port for maximum relief. but it wasnt enough. he had to leave.

that particular day tom got married to a woman. he didnt really want to or have much say in it but never the less it happened. tom felt like much of his life was moving for him without his saying so. he met her at a tractor enthusiast club where disabled people would come and smile at each other. they were the only two at the party who could walk so naturally they hooked up in the porta loo outside. Mrs. So-and-So saw what was going on but the two lovers were passionately lifted to a higher plain and could not see normal things anymore, like social obligations, politeness and empathy etc. they went home together and formulated a plan. they were going to blow up the world.

tom woke up to the smell of cat urine and he prayed right then to god. it would break his wish to reveal what he said exactly but it was along the lines of, 'i hope she can be happy'. and then he cried quite a bit.

during this manic episode he grabbed his telephone and made the arrangements - tom was going to fight himself to the death.

the morning of the fight came and it was as if he had just woken up beside the ring. 10 days had passed by, he'd eaten, trained hard, slept, got dressed, all the normal things and got himself to the stadium without even consciously realising it.

now the crowd grew hungry for blood. tom shook with excitement. he'd been waiting for this day all his life he realised. his eyes were wide, sweat already dripping, for it was 90 degrees celcius in the ring. he wore a blue spandex suit, tie and everything. he removed the tie in case he'd be choked by it and began to bounce around in a circular motion, waving his fists in an intimidating mannor, gritting his teeth. people screemed things, it wasn't important what, they just did, it was noise to tom, noise. and he loved it!

as tom ducked and dived, counter attacking his own blows the dissapearing act began again. he swang a left upper cut and just as the fist flew towards his chin it completely vanished, tom didnt have a fucking chance. he was nocked clean unconscious. as he flew through the air the crowd went quiet, reduced to whispers now. he hit the ground.

9 weeks later we were all crawling around on all fours. Our skin a shade of grey, covered in silky fur. Our jaws made long and disfigured. Our spines they grew some tails. people would come from the city, to see us perform in the ring. tom became a statue in the centre of the stadium and never saw the girl again.

Terrence Worm

Terrence was a worm. A worm soft and bitter. He hated life. Blind and only able to eat mud he cried every single night. Although he wasnt sure what was night and day for he had no way of telling. This one particular day, terrence surfaced by the road side, which was not uncommon. It was a strike of luck if he made it into the undergrowth and real bad news if he landed up in a wide open space, like a park for instance (birds would get him). Thankfully today was a good day.

The road side was a safe enough bet, (the verge i mean, not the tarmac, that would be quite different, he'd get run over, or worse). On the flip side however, this was a particularly hot day - the sun was shining and such. And although this would be a welcomed weather happening for you or eye (being human an all) Terrence was, as i remember, a worm. As a worm, being soft and that, he was prone to sun stroke and would get a little crispy and die in direct uv glares. This pissed him off. he wanted so much to lay beside the pool with the lady humans, stare at their tits and things, but he couldn't, it wasn't practical.

So as it was Terrence surfaced, poking his little nose thing up through the giant grains of mud and into the warm damp air. He cursed the fucking sun for being so darn beautiful and deadly like a big yellow black widow spider - floating so nicely in sky sea web.
He was a drunk too - couldn't keep a grip - lost his children to the social services and his wife to some trendy young anarchist type with a massive cock. Poor bastard, he only went to get some milk, but he couldn't resist the tasty scotch drink sitting there so pretty. And what was to follow would determine the end of his story.

It was the peaty taste you see; the delicate aroma of posh smoky soil that only the wealthy could afford. This particular brand of drink however was designed for the slightly poorer folk, like Terrence worm, who couldn't pay for the top notch stuff but liked to splash out a little bit. Their customers would excuse a little harshness on the throat for a taste glimpse of aristocrasy. So he went for it @fuck you terrence!@ he said and before he'd even got his change he'd necked half the bottle. He grabbed the milk with his tail end, got confused in the excitement and head-butted the till. But he couldn't carry the whiskey at the same time. So he threw the milk (which went absolutely everywhere) at the fridge and left in a real rockstar fashion. The milk went on to smell really bad because no one could be bothered to clean it up. Terrence put his noise cancellation headphones on and strut down the street to 'where is my mind' by the pixies, wishing for slow motion and moody lighting. When he made the last turn into his particular neck of the woods he could see an unfamiliar pile of curly worm poo sitting outside his front door.

@Who the fuck are you you cunt?!@ he shouted at the male intruder that was sliming his massive french stick all over his pretty little peach worm wife. @What the fucking hell are you doing in my home?!@ The guy didn't answer, he couldn't speak proper english and didn't care to learn. So he just put his thing back in (which was a dramatic process, it being so large an all) and left. But not before a little sweet whisper in terences ear: @i like that mole next to her left nipple, it's cute@ Terrence fucking died when he heard that, and no one cared. Everyone left and spat on him as they walked out.

The end.

My great story

Introduction.

ahem, so alright, this is a first, what goes on now is going down in
history (my history, yours if you read it) and is maybe a sort of
fictitious story but mostly based upon truth, cos i like truth, and
anyway, its thoughts and stuff you know...so they're about as true as
it gets.

Ive not read much in the way of...anything really. the most prominent
book in my mind happens to be 'the big cat book'. i was read to when i
was little and that was good enough for me. i like to say these
things....maybe now I'm looking a little silly to you though, i feel
silly, the word is silly. how will i recover from this hole Ive
planted myself in i wonder? will i sprout, and that's another thing,
there's gonna be a lot of questions but you don't need to answer them,
but maybe it would be fun for you i don't know...perhaps you and your
friends could make a drinking game out of it, like Withnail was
reduced to.

anywho, so its not an autobiography i don't think...I'm kind of
figuring it out as i go along though, so maybe it is i don't know yet,
and nor do you i guess, cos it isn't written or read yet, by you or
me...how exciting, do you feel present? do you feel like I'm in the
room with you? (hypothetically speaking mind, you might be in a
field). so its not going too well so far, I'm a little uninspired by it
all, just dribbling along, writing for the sake of it...words that are
empty i mean, cos id write for the sake of it if it brought pleasure
to anyone else as well as me.

new paragraph. so when then? hmmm? maybe now. I'm not too sure of
myself, haven't often been. been accused of it but Ive been assured
that they were talking shite. i believed them anyway, so i have
scars, on my face and in my mind, a build up, affecting my judgement,
my moral compass. sending me down the wrong fucking road, to brake
down in a puddle.

so whats it about? if it ain't broke don't fix it...I'm not a Londoner at
all. just like that kind of thing sometimes, a catchy phrase, like the
great sir Thomas Yorke, using old idioms and sayings, like don't throw
stones that kind of thing. great stuff. great man from afar, over the
screen, the mist that is fame...i don't know him really, he could be an
arsehole like me...I'd like that, some common ground between me and
the Yorke. but whatever, its not going to ruin me if we don get
married or whatever.

i am enjoying this, it is fun to a degree, i wonder how it reads,
whether you're bored, whether you've given up, whether you're thinking
about the ending yet...now you must be, shit. OK well i die in the
end, its really quite obvious and very predictable. god I'm sad, what
the fuck am i doing. stream of consciousness or contrived bull? well
id like to think it was bullshit, who wants to be great anyway, above
average, stranger than the norm...that's when things get ridiculous ey,
that's when '...you look pretty ugly' - Thom Yorke

1
"I'm sorry if Ive offended you it wasn't meant to happen this way, i
only meant it to be a false alarm, he really didn't get run over at
all, it was just my childish behaviour."
(eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee)
a kind of high pitch ringing in the air like that of a bomb just going
off and leaving you with burst ear drums, blood running from the
ladies ear.

"hey, mummy are you listening? i said I'm sorry, i really am, but if
you don't want to believe me i just might do it you know...i might,
don't think i wont, I'll sick all over it"

"yes dear, its OK, really it is."

"well, I'll go and play now then yeh?"

"sure, OK"

(doo doo doo.....)

a little song flies out of the boys mouth and fades out with him distancing.
"i wonder whether it needs proof, perhaps it does. and what are these
thoughts of a romantic nature all about, why, how in appropriate. i
mean it always comes at the worst times."

"and the whole in the ceiling love? do you want us to repair that too?"

"oh...yeh, I'm sure that will need doing. i don't want you know..."

"yep, right you are guy, we'll get too it"

guy? i don't know. i don't know much i suppose...that why I'm still here,
that's why that fucking explosion never took me out, i was meant to be
somebody! I'm meant for great things!

so now what? where do i go from here? Ive got the ending sorted, I'll
be famous, rich, attractive as hell, desirable, all that, but
now...I'm sand, I'm flaky and uncontrollable, the wind and its
effects...i just don't know what to do with myself.

2
sounds and images of the rain forest..use your imagination, its better
than mine, Ive not been there or watched the tele for a good while.
a monkey falls out of the canopy with a dart in its eye, its gross and
not funny at all. some wanker is standing at the bottom with a blow
pipe telling all his mates "i got it i got it" and they all laugh
snorty laughs into there football 'jerseys'.

this comes around about the time a culling of all Americans world wide
was initiated by the simians, who have returned from their place
wherever that is. so the Americans get killed any way and its the sort
of scene where you love the revenge....and the camera pans to the
monkey lying on the floor who almost looks like he's smiling.

"so should it make tangible sense? i mean where is this going? to call
it a story is bollocks, the acting is weak, the colours are all unnatural.....i mean come on Jeff, what am i paying you for?"

"I'm sorry"

"well...you know, it isn't that difficult is it. I'm sorry too, i didn't
mean to hurt your feelings, just your pride a little, so as to put you
in your place below me, so you'd think about it...i was just feeling
inadequate."

"oh, its OK"

"i think you understand me Jeff, i really think you get
me...like...uh, i want to hug you. would that be OK?"

"I'm sorry but i have a great sense of paranoia surrounding male male
intimacy, i don't think i can."

"----"

"I'll see you tomorrow yeh."

"----"

4
see, maybe i struggle when it starts to make sense, like i was saying
before, i hid from that kind of intelligent thinking a long time ago
because it showed me up for being imperfect, i want to be perfect,
don't you? I'm sure you dooooo...in a nanny voice with the smell and the
grin and the sweet sarcasm developed over 700 years or so.

i hid yes. to save myself the trouble of explaining myself. it comes
from the out of control bit see, so i don't have to make excuses for my
mistakes. but then i cant really take credit for the good bits either
can i? so mind flawed, self pity, feeling a little weaker than before
now, but going on strong...so much in there to say. I'm sure i could do
this forever...would i eventually just hold down keys for hours or
what...maybe. Christ i just put questions out there when I'm lost for
words, its really quite obvious isn't it. see through, until like there
i am inspired by a word and continue along the route of it...i could
have said route of its cause, because that's what i wanted to say but i
decided not to at the same time, weird perhaps...there it is again,
the old perhaps button, like an eject button for my saviour, from
ridicule, now I'm lost again and want another question or what ever, a
word, an image, something along those lines, a tight-wire, no its not
ready yet.....wait....wait and now? Ive collapsed in on myself, I'm
down, or m i through? through the top as the stack falls around me?
shooting out all naked and strong, well is now my least favourite
word...you ruined me, you took me for all i had and left you fuck! you
fucking fuck!


so i almost didn't recover, i feel sick to the stomach, the bug was
removed from my smoke detector but that's kind of irrelevant i suppose.
self doubt is a pain in the arse. it gets right in the way. every time
it invades I'm lost again, struggling with the most simple of tasks.
which word next huh?

All this has got to stop Ive had it, enough of
the spitting bollocks and too many swearing words and crap music
through the air waves, green mist swooping in and around my head
rolling my eyes back, splitting my jaw, head reclined rolling in on
itself until I'm a ball of dust that i cant see in a see through world
looking out across a cloudy blue sky and beneath. blackened, roasted and rolled. poisoned what the fuck am i doing, there's way too many strays stalking the streets for this to be a safe
haven, Ive got the fear, I'm unbound, trying to hold on tight to this greased tug of war. the man in front as big as a building.