Wednesday, November 03, 2010
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Tuesday, March 09, 2010
Sunday, March 07, 2010
1000 words a day
It may take some time working up to that, but then the figured climb may take some reasoned acclimatisation there
It's not like I can think of anything that would engender 1000 words of coherent thought
Back up and beholden to the reek of conscionable ideals, each less well than the last
That's an overuse of the intellect, right there. Why does it seem that an attribution or situation is any better told by my drunken brother safe in his cups, than me, plying the trade of intoxicated vigour.
I should put a question mark after that, but have run out of cigarettes and alcohol so therefore won't.
Maybe I'll revisit Albonia (link) where I managed to put in all the various wholes that weren't half summed by bright realisation.
Means and averages - Darwin couldn't work out why natural selection didn't average out until it's found the bland answer to grass and tree, or the desert, is the solution: a million miles of altruistic vegetable colluding in succour of light.
Why there had to be spikes of predator, as the Origin of the Species neither explains speciation nor justifies diversity.
This base algorithm of blind science when put up against the rolling eye of omniscient purpose (though purpose for what).
Teleology is opposed to atheism as it seeks to find purpose in the little waves of everything breaking, yet that striving for explanation is in itself a contradiction.
Why bother investigating the panoply of undiscovered purpose if there is a purpose? Surely best to ride along without self-engendered moral compass, as fairy belief moves you on anyway?
Why disinter the ghosts encrypted in tombs of text if all they say is what you already know? What special knowledge of unknowingness marks you out as better able to map ignorance?
Who gives a fuck what the dead sea scrolls say, if all they do is reinforce the shuttered acceptance of mystery still in suburban redoubts?
Why would you give a fuck about the revealed truth, if you believed anyway?>
Saturday, March 06, 2010
Introduced by fuck weevils, this phone has all the features of this other phone, but with added sweaty importuning
It has more features, but like a face, doesn't really require them
It has bigger cream and more vanilla. And this is supposedly asked for.
Therefore it wins the fuck out of the competition the other phone didn't enter
Thursday, March 04, 2010
Some dogs digging through the mess of when we died found an electric regress
Where static angels climbed up tesla's poles
And magnetically said
This is the reason, this is why this curls around
And then it's dead again
The shallow brown litter of where once we were
Now wind goes, and stirs up tickets and coupons
Round the base of latter triumph, dead and gone
Sucks up colours and makes it black and white
Takes history and makes it semaphore signifier for gone time
Somehow, sometime sucks the pith and vinegar
And renders it two tone two steps removed
But this is my life metered out in fading photographs
And yellow print
Wednesday, March 03, 2010
Towing a line out of the reeks of someone else's canal
This is the reason and rhyme of not doing it. Not having it and being angry and redfaced, and spitting vinegar in the line.
Wondering when I'm not the recipient for every other little bitter aside.
It's enough to have a happy heart?
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Thursday, February 18, 2010
I think that could work in monarch infested countries.
Delegate regal duties to a big meaty sausage, wearing a crown.
These cockroach parasites could wear their robes of dead things and bits of precious rock in many ceremonies.
Safe in the knowledge that their subjects could bite bits off them any time the tithes and taxes got too high.
This would work in financial markets too.
Make the millionaires edible. I could chew a bit off a banker when the stock market crashes.
Perhaps in a sauce of my own devising. Maybe not, we'd have to vote on that; as it's our democratic right to decide how inflationary soup is filtered out of the Wall Street thing.
I think that's a good idea, and I will vote for anyone who espouses that ideal; particularly if they are made of pigs' sphincters and mouldy bread (i.e. a sausage).
All these words are valid English, just not in this order.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
he voluminous blooming gust of belched air comes across the dark green dark of the moor, and so does the werewolf. His mouth is spittled and raw, his breath strong and red. His penis hangs between his legs a black weight. He will eat and fuck you, his teeth in you and his hips cracking against you.
So (knowing this) you run headlong through the gorse and bracken. When you find the road, its gravel outlying, you run that much faster over its hard return to your slapping feet. No good: you maybe faster, so is he. His breath is on your heels, a hot one two, the leap to bring you down a potential that is about to be realised.
Get your car up the ramp to the waiting ferry. Customs is passed, and you are very relieved that, the weight of contraband is undetected, a freight of tobacco a bible coded prediction of selling in car boot sales, along with lamps, porcelain dogs and bootleg CDs.
kind of shite
There's no win in the motorway, up your arse all the way to junction nine, until you swing a turn as they pass you. The little lights of the exit, as you swing, studded along the way.
You run the last length of road. A memory of a polystyrene float in front of you as you look through the chlorinated blue before you get to the end where the tracksuited (dry) instructor beckons you on with cupped hands and mimed front crawl.
The flecks of spit run up the the back of your neck. The burn of teeth is surely following.
kind of shite
When I was 17 or so I got a job on a farm, and my dad said to me (the only real advice he ever gave me, other than "don't fuck someone ugly", that was any real use) - "if a farmer asks you can you do a job, say yes, because nine times out of ten the job will be less boring than the one you are doing"
On the first day then the farmer says "can you use a hay bailer?" Now, you should take note of the verb in that statement, it's "use", it's not "drive". Had the farmer said "can you drive a hay bailer", I, with driving experience fully described by a short sentence which included the components: "fairground", "bumper car" and "badly" and notwithstanding respected father's advice, would have said "no, I have not driven anything without a pikey hanging on the aerial, and I would like to respectfully decline the implied offer of stimulating employment"
Anyway, the crux of the matter, the reason why I'm writing here (and it's only hypergraphia) is that I have killed an ex-executive - that doesn't count as murder, more humane culling. I stabbed him on the stairs, and his cardboard box of desk clearings fell and scattered pencils, photographs, binders: all the paraphernalia of the recently redundant - an addition to the mobility pool. He coughed once, I remember, and went down to his knees. Before his eyes glazed over he made some attempt to find a photograph on the concrete. I know this because he almost had it when I put my foot on his hand and looked in his eyes.
Part of the benefit of being a cleaner is ready access to cleaning fluids and the furnace. So Mr. Anonymous Binned Executive (Abe) was traceless as he burnt with all the shredded documents in the basement.
And no-one knew or cared because he was redundant, blipped off the balance sheet, and hiding his embarrassment by exiting down the stairs - he chose to forego the ignominious descent in the elevator, box clutched to chest advertising the recent letting go. But even so, as we passed on the stairs, me with bucket and mop, him with box of crap, he thought he was better than me - me with a correspondence course degree! He looked straight through me (never pass on the stairs, it's bad luck). So I stabbed the fucker.
So I sit in my grey room, hearing, but not listening to, the grinding elevator's descent/ascent, and I write this. Whilst all you important people ascend/descend I'm here writing on the back of discarded photocopies.
I take the best home to my depressing "studio flat" where I transcribe keyboard and interweb-wise what I think you'll appreciate. Although, saying that, I know enough about the blogosphere that no links out and no links in make this a peninsula whose only egress is barb-wired by no hub, no authority, search engine obscurity.
And if you have stumbled across this (barrier) then fair play to you, well done, buy yourself a jar of pickled cockles to celebrate. Then fuck off. Move along, there's nothing to see here, this is my cheap therapy.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Words used in tweets:
now as one clearly get up there it's off about top That's No like when all got good Microsoft fucking has fuck Who Big they because via see shit though how More ok back tweetie know too Also well am made measured go Don't doesn't
Monday, February 08, 2010
That's about it for me, I've done nearly 14,000 tweets on twitter since I joined in 2006, every one a finely sculpted insight into my inner turmoil (not interesting), love of wordage (slightly interesting), ability to swear and ANGER (interesting).
Now I'm bored. I'm bored by the ironic hipster slant it's taken, bored by the "ho ho, I'm banal, did you get what I did there?" slackly sardonic schtick.
There's some I'd like to keep in touch with, but most of them have graduated to long-form, realising the one shouting to many not listening protocol isn't great for correspondence that isn't designed for public consumption, and DM is just crap email.
Also, I've run out of bon mots, the bon mot mine is tapped out, no longer a mot that's bon is to be found in the seam (in fact I may have cut a sewer whilst digging).
So that's it bar the occasional "I've just ate a sandwich" tweet, or some 140 character diatribe on what a cunt David Cameron is.
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Friday, January 29, 2010
Sunday, January 24, 2010
on making things not happen
Freud had this thing that neuroses was living with the consequences of things you make happen, or happen to you, in a filtered but not causal way (the giant's causal way, which is the effect of sea on ireland).
Likewise I have this neurotic pessimism trick that I have used since a teenager to aspiritually influence the fate I don't believe in - if I can convince myself something won't happen through the asinine and capricious bollocks of fuckyou that Life seems to serve up on the dinner plate of extended metaphor, but tastes like equal parts ashes and shit, then, and only then, will the fuckyouness of this purgatorial existence deliver the opposite. (the opposite I actually wanted, but in a reversal of solipsism I somehow think there's me and one other only - the personal god who revels in my disappointment, like a pig in shit).
The problem is You (this imagined other who dictates into a cosmic dictaphone cross notes and bitter weaselry) have probably got wise to this trouble-bluffing. So now I have to layer irony on with a vowel (I) in order to not really mean I don't really want it.
This is thinking in parentheses, sequestering a part of conscious contemplation into a bracketed sub-clause of the sentence that's top of brain: "this won't happen (I hope it will), it will happen (not willingly)"
Isn't it though?
This will be edited for tone, balance and ineptitude of this grammar is.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
I will write a novel of serious import and gravity, its weight will break your wrist if you try to pick it up, or throw it forcibly aside.
It will take in a desert journey and an autobiographical rite of passage, and both of those will be seamlessly interwoven, so you can't tell what is warp or weft.
On the continuing journey, each element of paragraph will subsume the usual tropes of fine writing and arch indifference to writerly custom, as is customary.
I will usually divest myself of the novelist decentred self, and make a comedian callback to the thing I said (which is an anagram of dais)
You can tell literary fiction, because there's no description of things.
See, I just did that. At no point gone was the description of a mountainous hedge or grass like wet carpet, when I got thrown out of home, arse over elbow, and got introduced to dandelions at ground level.
Wednesday, January 06, 2010
Tuesday, January 05, 2010
Well now it's the new decade, and I have done a bunch of twitterage that was both angry, incoherent and ungrammatical.
So, I'm taking some time off from peninsula of diskgrinder and retrenching here to the hinterland of blog.
That metaphor works like a simile.
One of the things I decided for this newly minty decade, was that I would construct sentences in a backwards manner, didn't I.
I also read a book that was good (Jesus Son) and am reading one (The Broom of the System), which sofa, is fairly crap - a bunch of literary tricks strung together on an increasingly tenuous thread. or shit. Can't decide, but won't burn it yet.
In other news, I gave up smoking and drinking. Fleetingly.