Land of Diskgrinder

I should write something that explains this thing. But why would you care unless it's a three minute tune or a three act drama. It's neither, it falters half way through. The story gets so far then one of the protagonists fucks off and goes, leaving a wake in the meadow leaving, wheat bent either side. And the sun shines, and the lens flare's there, as she goes.

There's something lonely in the white redundancy of the moon's glow. It looks down on everyone looking up. Small wonder its eye's not reflected.

Many years ago we stood against the vile evil, and overtopped them with garden ideal Shot them full of their own blood Didn't hate, but killed them in their faces anyway To preserve a certain irony, a disbelief in hard politic So we get to today, and fuck off youngsters in the maw of politic belligerence Shits and charlatans making bullets for broken and fucked teenagers Back home, back home. Defending these cunts' ideals

in a daring departure from the accepted norms of tablet design, the iTablet has a cubic form factor, featuring 9 enormous fixed-colour pixels on each face, user interaction is achieved through a series of twisting motions to align the pixels so that same colour pixels align on each face. Once alignment is achieved the user is encouraged to randomise the pixels and give it to their 9 year old son to realign it in significantly less time.

Would the welter of the day to day get any less fucked up and just another form to fill? Would the world spin any slower? Would holes in the road once marked out by me be equally recognised by that replacement?

Is no matter how much you try to be good and impeccable in that Casteneda way, it's always a matter of hours and minutes missed No matter how good you are, the confluence of remarked shit is going to overtop the real deal of little smile cumulating in the lee of shadows You'll count the cuntery of spines and swords cutting large and forget the small flowers of little happenstance Mainly because they are diesel engine down with iron pipes riveted by chip and fish eating salt and vinegar of the earth So, lawn middle class type, you bend under the thrown up mores of ideas less fucked and warm And forget it's ok to say that this, the fire in grate, and steam black certainty is good enough Fuck your stirring of the glass

Shit happens. Therefore this is probably the last post here. Thanks for reading.

That I can't type fast enough to say what I want to say, and I find myself deleting more than I type when I say that's it, that's enough

The reason why I post here is not to do with publication or validation through readership statistics, or looking for an audience It's a Cherry Potter thing. Write a lot, and read it one month later Most of it won't pass mustard Some of it'll be good gas though, and may be keen Fuck knows. The occasional comment from fly-by-knights helps of course Mainly, it's practice

Once upon a time, back when rhymes were better than misaligned lines in prose Back when (1954) you could have baddies and goodies, and you weren't required to story arc the most venal cunt in the plot He just could be a shit, and didn't need to have a reason There was a nasty man who lived under the bridge and played with his twanger most days Until he heard goats up above Billy goat big, and plot device medium, and little tiny, one inch tall, billy goat ant Well, he got up out of his hole in the reek And shot them Then he ate them And nailed their fairy tails to his fender

The last remnant of a bitter gale that crossed the ocean to bite your head Got crossed and confounded in the shored sand defences in the sea So now it's just an irritant gust that blows grit and dog piss in your face Out of cracked pavement in the street

It's a well known conundrum for people who study it A series of crosswords published in the Manchester Guardian Between 1964 and 1992 If you marked the first letter of each editorial And constructed a sentence out of that Read "hjydgbdgbnduooerun" Need I say more? Everything is predicted

I used to hate painting in acrylics, but for pig-based portraiture, it's second to nuns.

Navel-gazing is out for next year, my one 72dpi resolution, the end to much self indulgent introspection: I should write a self-help book, or maybe a help-yourself book (capitalist version), that steers the unwilling reader away from that. I've really had enough of myself. I'm bored with all the conversations I have and haven't had; the rehearsals of situations that therefore cannot occur (it would make me prescient if they did). Maybe I'll stop using parentheses so much (fat fucking chance).

Even though MarsEdit has shortcuts for paragraphs and italics. Still, it's not quick enough to describe the

This is a stub for the story to come Back when I was a fuckwit and shithead working on the railway in orange boiler suit, with a shovel, a snap can and weekend buck shee overtime, I used to drink and play pool in the Rutland Angler. A pub of repute so ill major epidemiology studies were conducted there. More later...

Back when I was growing up in the narrow wilds of Rutland (sandwiched between the urban counties Leicestershire and Northamptonshire, and separated from the sea by piss-on-a-plate-flat Lincolnshire) I knew a poacher called Les. He was the scion of a family of mendicants brought over from Ireland by Lord Burleigh to be his gamekeepers on his acres of dank ditches, mediocre fields, lank hedges and wilting copses. Les reverted to type and drove his pickup into fields and ran down sheep; hoed the bleeding corpse in the back and drove home. Where he would drag them upstairs and cut them up in his bath; later to sell in pubs and car parks. This one evening, pickup full of dead mutton, he was followed home by a jam sandwich (cop car) and halfway up the stair he heard a knock on his door. On opening the door, there was PC Arse and Detective Constable Twat revealed in the twilight silhouetted; both with shit eating grins to the fore. "Les, what's that there, halfway up your stair?...

Means nothing, just a nice phrase Like trumpet trifecta , or prerequisite enjoinment factor Omniscient dog valve (from which mouth sweat and happy face grin wags) Or melon vector , lemon zip , planned obelisks and giraffe excluder

Well, of course it's hard, there's all those middle eights to any melody that don't happen anymore. There's the build into it, the diminish away for one elevated second, and then the head on smash of it. These are probably the things I miss. The little corners of 16 years remiss - in this way I can see up an avenue I wouldn't otherwise. But, really, although I spent so many years trying to live up to your expectorations, the spit you vectored on the hot plain You're not the cure. Fuck off,

Coming up against a utopian architect's wish to narrow my avenue through the spaces he designed in my estate I see his wish to make me turn this particular corner and marvel at this brutalist curve of ideology written in piss-poor false to materials build in shit and gypsum Is ignored by me and everyone other than tramps and muggers who either piss or lurk in the shadow of the overarching concept And that's an easy shame That this was so easy to fuck up That you could think that your modular architecture, just by the shapes You'd make people live in Would make us all shiny Well, you turned out to be stupid cunts, didn't you? And not because central planning is broken Just because some venal apparatchik will find a way to graft the play Shame. It was such a nice ideal that looked good in drawings where the sun shined on sketches of trees and stick figures And then, well then There's still something monumental and fucking fantastic about that idea in blu...

Don't rush up a street on your way to a meeting Walk up a lane under a big blue sky Don't furrow under the concrete that smacks down your eye to exhausted fumes Look left and see rooks fly up from a bramble, a tree, or something other than urban furniture Don't wind your options down with bitter scraps fed through the usual incoming stew of paper inconsequence, invoicing the inner voice that daily says fuck this thing Instead shoot up pure heroin in a forest

Which is why this isn't popular It's not because it's crap It's because it's a sterile debate about proper usage of apostrophe's

Is to describe the Bristol Harbour Festival A crowd of smiling people, taking a cheap holiday from frowning at bills and tax returns. Walking up the concrete esplanade with ugly fat children running out before. All smiles, and therefore, not ugly anymore. Just a hard-grained blue sunshine banging up from the metal grey water Cut in two, or four, or six, by sweaty row boat crews sculling someone else's culture up the floating chop. Whilst red arrows arrest the sky in loops of contrail contrasting air and high disposition With burnt smells of beef and onion coming out of wheeled sheds chaperoned to the front by shiny SUVs early in the weekend morning. The balloons go up, and all the squared eyes watch, whilst smaller scions ignore the up There, and a lot of boats.

How difficult it is to pull out of the curve down the last post steers me into Like I'd like to be happy smily person, but doesn't work, because the differential is not discontinuous, so can't suddenly right angle at a tangent Or, balls. Money it!

Are not full of discarded and disregarded ephemera (lego bionicles, bills and bad crime novels) Then I can focus in on the very apposite sounds and voices coming out of the big screen, the only thing not caked in dust (which is because the electric field repels, not because I take special care). And in this various claptrappery I see something dull and musty in otherwise brandished glitter. That, in the dead, bored corners where nothing happens and the same old becomes the same new. That's good enough, where nothing ever, static happens. The wheels don't go round, or fuck them, they do, but not in the direction I voted for That's the thing that crawls up your spine and smiles over your shoulder; to which you defer. Dog's bums and cat's arses. Are all you see, when you're following cats and dogs. Well done me, finished that one off

I have sublimated my enthusiasm for writing in two entirely different ways in this whole five years gone like an extended fart. One, in precise technical writing where I functionally specify the ins and outs of diagrams referred to in the preceding pages, to a largely indifferent audience who only require the presence of text. And I have tested this by occasionally getting poetic when defining the schema for a database, by making the field names scan in iambic meter, or in blank verse acrostic spelling philosophers' names. On the other hand I have, since 2006, fairly spat away a whole lot of sentences on twitter, all of them finely good in heart and contemporary relevance: diskgrinder twattery . But all the time I've had these two poles of unpleasance : I've always wanted to write something a little more substantial, something more, something less ephemeral: not a description of process and not a reaction in 140 characters to continuing anomie. But I didn't have a ...

Of the usual words that can be piled up, one after the other. For example, usually I just rearrange words in particular order And then I see the fat shit comedian twats on established TV who just fuck and shit on about nothing of any import. And get slack gigs on radio 4 boring my head like a drill. Arrant tits, smug and well paid with smily shit acceptance of the thing that happens. Fuck off and die. Not that I have any answer, any real telepresence in opposition to these funny fucks. Arse

Fusel 1 has arranged that we travel the next leg of the tour by twin-prop Leitmotif. This fills me with fear. The Leitmotif, a flying toilet manufactured in thousands in the dogend of the 40s during the Glorious Reconstruction : when south Albonia was blasted, depopulated, and choked with rusting martial ironmongery and therefore useless; so the north got 5 year planned. Industrialised, strip-mined, stuck full of groaning machinery, and so made in the image of the south. Heavy rivetted Leitmotifs, engines sugar-glued to sagging wings, were spat out of the mills one after the other (or sometimes four at once), painted with big red stars, pimpled with glassene gun turrets and launched into the air to patrol the skies in ugly, coughing bulldog circles. Well, I'm travelling in one of those tomorrow. There is a bonus - Fusel insists that the yaks (Steve and Boris) have to come with us. He wasn't expecting argument because he booked the yaks' flight the same time he booked ...

I can't hear it, though for everyone else it's loud I can't see it, because it's in me And I'd have to have inside out eyes So I could see it, and react appropriately With corresponding horror

Every job I've had and even now Has felt like looking on But being too lazy to take notes Like a crap ethologist

I used to be a watchman on the permanent way Watching out for intercity 125s barking round the curve into the Manton junction, whilst the crucible welders stacked their pots of magnesium and sinter over the one mile continuous track My watch was to warn the late night spit that a 1000 tonnes of 100 mile an hour passenger tube was on the opposite way And, similar conjunction replacing fishplates and pandrols, this years later on summer night with rain just finished I remember that curve of rail under the road bridge at 3am

Seems to have done that already Here's this fine man I've known for more than a decade who has (apparently) given up the metered life, measured in daily summing up, and found it wanting Forgotten his friends, not that I know them or give a fuck, I mean me. Forgotten that there's this one person (me again) through all the splinters, has been there, if not whole and heartened, still somehow unpleasantly there A reminder that the rock of middle and average gets on and keeps on so that you can measure your successes and failures against that stoic benchmark Never as crap, ever as flaked out, whenever there's a sport in drang Always there as an inconstant buoy, riven on the same seas, but anchored to some depth condescended. A concrete example of one standard deviation within acceptable limits Well, fuck you, I'm not your rule, and won't accept the sine wave of my predicted limits as the acceptable measure I'm adrift too

If this Monday to Friday thing stops happening. And it just stops now? When the brittle privet hedges stop being so high and furthermore, stopping me retrieving the ball? It's the question not worth answering. Because the answer would be in the proper view again So, here's the time to scrub that out, and go live in a shed up a hill And finally contemplate the small circle I keep making smaller

Massive increase in traffic on Friday means massive increase in particulates in the atmosphere, meaning massive increase in rain odds, and an extra day for the bet. 1 P(wet Monday) ∝ (traffic on Friday) So it's no fucking wonder it always pisses down on Bank Holiday Monday - stop asking, with varying degrees of incredulity, from shoulder-shrugging resignation to blank outrage, "Why does it always piss down on a Bank Holiday Monday?" It's not the confluence of irony and coincidence, it's basic physics. An alternative explanation for our inability to get over the seeming inevitability of the BHM=rain squared equation, is that, actually, rain isn't any more likely on a Bank Holiday Monday - P(wet Bank Holiday Monday) ≈ P(wet Monday) - it's just that we notice it more as, on most other Mondays, we're at work, in a building (except farmers, this does not apply to farmers. This blog is not for farmers. Fuck farmers.) 2 It's similar to that old...

Joe had a head like a boiled egg And he went through life guarding his special face using bandages and balloons So that, should he fall, on soil, concrete or otherwise brittle answer He'd always have inhaler cushion against the snap glass response But for once, when otherwise engaged in Foucalt discourse, wherein he medicalised his condition He tripped on a rucked up rug and broke his brain in two Right through the corpus callosum So had a real division between otherwise metaphoric right/left brain antagonism Synthesised that through a Heidegger split

The beat and sweat of violins corralled in a corner by the rest of the standing sound All headache in the milliwave, where hares did gyre and mumble And the vorpal blade cut and cut and showered blood in arcs that made patterns on the lesser regarded concrete walkways in the barbican centre Late nineteen thunth century anally full English retrograde argument, has snipe nosed empire detectives wet in ache, sole in answered squint, like magnified tobacco has any relevance, case solved, the arse did it

The islands that drift in the sea, sometimes banging against each other in a land bridge embrace over geologic ages, so some ants or chaffinches can have a common ancestor In deep time can be brothers and happy with that, sharing a bunch of mutual genetic markers Fairly happy, and monkey ancestor therefore Protestant Not conforming to nailed church door There's something camp about that, a certain prissy denial, with handwaving allusion to mystery dicks

Have a mission this hot morning. I have to find a fat taxi driver with the local tabloid held in his left hand (and I'm told I'll know him by the smell of rotten peaches). So I get out of the hotel (concrete blocks, beige, stained carpets and slowly rotating ceiling fans decapitating stupid wasps the size of my thumb) onto the street before, even at shit o'clock in the morning rammed with tinned-dinner carrying chaps fucking off to work, so I get the impression of lots of backs of heads and shoulders, sweat-stained singlets, and rotoring bikes. So I breathe in (because the smog of petrol fumes and dew isn't mixed and descended yet) and take a minute on the threshold. And there he is, a wide little man with the generic moustache, standing by his fucked up taxi, newspaper in hand (self-consciously) and looking up and down the loud road until he spots me. I do that embarrassed grunt of recognition and start towards him. He catches my eye, and with some gesture I don...

I was almost a proper mathematician. Pure, of course (fuck that grubbling around in stochastic shite). I did the graph theory and the algebraic topology . I can tell you how to catch a rubber band around a doughnut manifold , but with symbols and proofs. So, I have this analytical way of dissecting everything I spend time looking at. And then being right. That's annoying.

Fairly ok

I have to admit I'm in something of quandary here. I'm a complete, fundamentalist atheist. I brook no religious guff, and have minimal respect for the idea of any authoritarian (responsibility abrogating) deity up on the celestial pole; perched like a glowering crow on the conical point of believer's concentrated hopes (so that's a pole with a cone on it then). However, I have religious friends, and friends who have fathers as vicars - and they're all really nice . So, I'm British, and politeness is more important than principle always (and I could give a sound philosophical basis for that, but that may be presumptuous of me). So I'll wring my hands and hope I haven't upset you too much when I tell you the core of your life, your most cherished belief is, to me, on a par with animism, astrology, and the belief that black cats and ladders can affect your life profoundly. I don't want to piss you off, you all seem like really nice guys, exceptin...

As you all know. Each of you have your own spiky thorns in your metaphoric pants. Clearly, you need to divest yourselves of the spiky-thorn-pant thing. How should we do that? I hear you ask. In fact demand. Here's my to-do list of GTD spiky-thorn-pant issue resolution: Download the latest GTD application to your iPhone Fiddle with that for about an hour: set some contexts; pinch some overviews; swipe some goals; above all, do that lip-sucking typy touchscreen thing inputting all your to-dos in before you realise it synchs with OmniFracas Download OmniFracas Marvel at its intuitive interface Don't open it for a month; shit, now it's expired Zero inbox your inbox Read every email in the trash Print out the tiny list paper foldy thing to-do list Realise you're not a twat Screw it up and throw it in the fire (if you wrote anything on it you will get a MOMENTARY sense of closure) Send yourself increasingly sweary post-dated emails Stack bills behind the bigg...

Tiny eye that sees little in this narrow purview. Mainlining fighting series of major highs. Spam.

Is the way I wend the troubled way between getting enraged by the indifferent sprawl of shit happenstance and the standing wave of clear purpose. My lack of words to describe this, this thing that fucks and shits and cunts can't really, really make that clear. How fucked up this is. Days walking, days wanting. Days without any personal filling up, just one more day of being. Existing, and finally flattening that out in a lithium way. Take the corners off, round down the edges. Make the serrated blunt. One more, little more, fucking sanded down blank acceptance. Cannons made out of grit and twigs, raised over the head, eyes not seeing below the walls. One more, little more, in the continuing retinue of bollocks.

I lost him in the mall. We walked over the bridge into the rusty iron maw of East Village Kicker Emporium, the local commerce cancer in the middle of a winding of roads and motorways (we took the subway that smelled of piss and paper litter). And once past the destitute orcs ("will settle blood-feud for coin") and elf whores we were inside the heated interior. Big metal cabinets stood at every corner, each filled with heat bricks - because it's just this side of too cold for the clothes you chose. And he disappeared in the crowd. Leaving me again.

In that swaggering stride, trousers hitched up over sweaty belly. There I have the usual mind to flick from one easy leach to another easy creature. Fuck off, smiling cunt, you have more bricks up your arse than a rectally satisfied architect

because I said so

dry and bone that it is Get your twitter mosaic here.