Land of Diskgrinder

This is stub for an article that may or may not be, deeply insightful, fulminating, and bathetic. Probably.

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.

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. shite 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, ...

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...

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.

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

Gone, the way of things. Diskgrinder on twitter is fucked: half my fault, half spam fault.

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 o...

you're looking for some proper foundation as to why you're fucked. It's not built on other fucked. Fuck off

That's just lush Created in pencil

My only contribution was a line in the credits, can you guess which one? Created with Pixelmator , iStopMotion and iMovie

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)...

Coming soon

Really, I do. I'd like to meet me, because I think we would we agree on a lot of points.

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.

Where I'm coming into a new room It has orange parameters that burst red when I get near them And although my fingertips and lips are blue Because I can't breathe hard enough I see this is one step down the continuing spiral To the point

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.

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.