Land of Diskgrinder

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