Saturday, December 30, 2006

This Time Last Year Wasn't a New Year

This time last year,
I was in a coma,
I was dead to the world.

I wasn't alive.

All I could hear were the plastic sheets.

I thought I was a project.

I thought I was a project of tubes.

I wondered if I was alive.

This time last year,
I was in a coma,
Leaving the world.

It wasn't terrifying.
It was a release.

To fly across ceilings,
With no movement.
Even my breathing was controlled by bags and concertina air,
I thought that life was white.
Like music.

I went into different places.
I went up into the sky.

I saw everything in white.

A New Year,
Or a New Year,
Or a New Year,
Or just:

Wake up
Wake up
Don't sleep forever.

Friday, December 29, 2006

the question

"So, tell me, which is your favourite team blog site. Tuche and Automaton or Taking the Brim?"

Sunday, December 24, 2006

god bless animals

in cold comfort he cages the words in code
the better to hide behind me dears
cages the words to secret the meaning
and loose the verb that has no feeling
but the climb up his arse is a long rope
and he spends many a day there
studying his d&g like a bible
like a bible full of tripe and trip wire
with the intent of becoming intellectual.
intellectual my fat backside me dears
oh for the blush of cruel animals
that acts with instinct
and hates with passion
anything better than the semaphor of prose
anything better than that pretension.
copyright forsaken

Thursday, December 21, 2006

upon a ponce and cosmo

dog brave the lucky post to piddle me right and centre too.
well, you would think that wouldn't you?
stands to reason doesn't it?
i mean no two dogs are the same are they?
are they?
canada has it's own pretty boy pumped up and apples and england, dreaming still of past glories, has its hyper humper and grand vizor, visor, vicER.
but you know and i
we don't give a tinkers cuss do we?
fuck 'em all i say.
fuck 'em all.

In the Road

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Strange changes of mind have been happening to me recently. It seems like every time I venture out of the door something happens whereby my original plans are thrown out, replaced by new ideas and intentions. I have just sold my car and this has meant that recently I have had to make more use of the local paths and roads to get around.

I had decided to go out into town to get some essentials and when I was there I suddenly made the decision, without any real reasoning, even though I had not yet bought the list of things that I had intended to, that I wanted to make my way back home and not wander around town any longer.

I paced up the road on the way back feeling the rain clouds slowly closing in on me and my wish to get home became ever more urgent. With every step of my boots the gradient of the pathway seemed to increase in steepness, to a point that when I passed the school at half way I had to stop and take a breather.

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Sitting on the bench, looking around, I spotted a women spewing out a full bucket of soapy water onto the road surface, its suds trickling on the slopes, her head disappearing as quickly as it had appeared behind the tall walls that formed a part of the roadside. The water made an expressive mark, dribbling across the road.

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I felt the urge then, to step out, into the road. For the moment I thought it was all clear.
Once in the middle of the road its flow of bumps and patchworks became more evident. With one ear to the sound of a roaring engine behind me I inspected the river of marks and abrasions lying stiff and dormant at my feet. The earth had moved below the tarmac and a series of ripples had formed. I spotted signs of movement in the different coloured patchworks and recently laid sections of tar. I felt that people had marked out certain areas as if for special consideration, to designate that area or this area for future plans, to further the development of the road surface.

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The fluorescent yellow colouring of the grid might have meant that it was only to be used in emergencies, that take place at night time, the pattern of the top attempting to mimic loosely the structuring of the surrounding gravel, muck and stone-inlayed tarmac. Workmen, for their part, had obviously attempted to leave a mark by pressing boots into the recently painted grid before it was dry, in 1995, for time immemorial.

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Many variations of shadow and texture made up this lower grey deserted area, marking out a history of incidents and accidents, of gouges and pot holes covered up and pasted over, being continuously re-knitted to form an ever larger and more detailed patchwork.

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The scored surface was pressed into to make openings like an advent calendar. Strange puppet heads could appear when lifted up? Some clue perhaps in the top markings, a mystery language to mark out one ductile plate from another. The ground is hard and stubborn under foot yet appears moulded like as if it were made of wet toast or worn leather?

Could there once have been a melting and a pouring, then a spreading all over being topped off topping off with sewn-on plates varying extravagantly in size and dimension?

The molten material had perhaps engulfed everything in its path and descended, as a river of dirt, down the hill. That would explain the apparent chaos of the undulations and the odd bits of clothing still showing through the surface in parts?

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The clouds above clustered together and turned a darker shade of grey with the sunlight burning through, glancing off the wet tarmac, welding together the fine pores of the surface that looked, at that moment, quite like the texture of a well done cake just pulled from the oven.

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The hill becomes steeper and my slow walk peters to a standstill. My legs are so tired that I feel they are going to drop off at any moment.

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Standing there, I close in to inspect the grade A metal that is stamped into the Autumn ground, scraping away the leaves.

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They have underground people in New York don't they? I was expecting a figure to pop his head up at any moment and shout a greeting. He had left his folding knife by the doorway, which a stranger might perceive is an insignificant piece of cardboard.

I framed some passing strangers through my lens but then changed my mind.

Glad to get past the worst of the hill. I was now just around the corner from home, looking forward to getting in, all these unnecessary detours had worn me out.

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I dumped myself inside and having taken my shoes off and put my aching legs in the bath to soak, I started thinking about getting something to eat.

Wednesday, December 13, 2006

Press play and button march

note the protuding ribcage that could pierce flesh.
particles enter timidly and only if guided by sleep.

Sunday, December 10, 2006

What we require for the occasion is something special....something extraordinary.
No, no ordinary ass fucking, anal dreams will do.
We must have something worth remembering.....something notable.

Perhaps, a razor-slit clit would be suitable.
Maybe even a slow space docking.

We must think long and hard on this. We must be sure to realize the full potential of the situation.

Friday, December 08, 2006

die die Geschichte schon immer geschrieben haben

Männer, die die Geschichte schon immer geschrieben haben, haben Lysistrata damit verleumden wollen. Tatsachen sind aber eben Tatsachen, und dagegen konnten sie gar nichts. Und Pederastia ist doch Pederastia geblieben. Schluss.Ach, ich freue mich so wahnsinnig sehr, hierher zu kommen!

my penis 1

i have been trying to find my penis. now i know that it is around here someplace. trouble is i cannot for the life of me remember where. normally i know exactly where it is but not today. normally it is kept safe and warm between by curled fingers. it likes it there. warm and tight.
maybe i left it over on another site.
i guess that i had better go and look....

Thursday, December 07, 2006

Provection Into Testament's Brave Logick

Archita's dove we
to jack for Tresseta's tailwind
the habule
and nosomane ambrosia
of Heliconian nymphs to
spectabundal audysseus es
too ward )_(&_(*_&*)&
by tu thro pune {putput}
ba - boon
as of a coincidence
of angles, angels which inhabit
the Apophreniac climacteries
transparent lichtenthorns broadcasting
a rococo genome of bull-nosed ray
each plodding, toucose varbletete
succour'd in unknowing pleem
tongue the lee medium menain
meaning all shroud of interlocking memory
the innocent sky of mind unfold
stripped of castled shackled rookeries
the smooth colorless ire become
some purer blood
of machinic doves not wrought
or failing
impossible breaking
a dew of turning
and yet not abolish
the forehead's gem (commedia
the cluster plash of serpent
as laser leaps
to empty
current vertue burthen
elucubrations on the solid solemn turmoil
of this deare old isle
precious innermass
what cargo shall pass we
no garrison known
they are all addresses
settling to pub
or fluent terms regained


All of the words that have been lost. I want them to come back somehow. I want to fill up the space, the lack, the want of it.

I want to feel the presence of what went before and I want to hold onto that lack and use it as a force. A Marathon. Really, if you could only understand that story for one moment.

Only, it is not a story. It is an everchanging idea. A meandering stream. A coconut shy of words. A fairground merrygoround flared horse nostril affair for me.

I wanted to come back and taste of all the words that were here before. To smell of them, touch of them, grow them, build them up, match them, rehabilitate them, give them medication. Just to, you know, perk them up again. Perk it all up again.

You can never escape the rubber mark of where it once was. Where the pieces went. Fitting it all back together once more. Filling in the missing spaces. Another kind of CLOZE. I remember it all so well. All of it stuck in my head like a clot of brainswell. Lush and verdant. Under the lanes of broken legs. My memories that lie in those bloody clots. Like the made-up songs.

Just wait for it. Wait for it to come and it will come. I assure you of that. It will come, like an Aladdin box. The treasure will surely come and fill me with pearls.