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I accept like fate
Deify this believer
freeze as a liar.

Almost all preclude
what you cannot hold back
spring swells driest dam.

I just want to write,
but the words come out so wrong --
fuck you; paper, pen!


Youth is wasted, bah--
wasted on the virile and
the poverty stricken.


Grandma is waiting
for me to call her at home.
But I don't want to.


I'm not really me
anymore -- Why not? You ask.
Because you're a cunt.

crept like memory
unseen to arise as want
in blossom fear died.


Dead terraces wilt
in the summers charming light
she is alone now.

thoroughly gifted

you've rotten sand, thawed
brontosaurus bones, and
now broken thunder.


handsome devil

repeat, yawn, repeat.
wipe your hands with a clean cloth..
kill the kid again.

The daughter of my friend ended up with the Libertines appearance contract for this weekend's festivals in her hotel room. I hope I have this right - Libertines £1,000,000 and Guns 'n Roses £1,200,000. Guns 'n Roses were in dispute for appearing 'late by design' and could lose 50% of their fee.

thats a lovely thought thank you x

You're welcome. In Outliers, Malcom Gladwell reckons investing 10,000 hours in something, and you can start to consider yourself a master of that thing.

Bob Kaufman put the hours in.

Would you wear my eyes

My body is a torn mattress
Disheveled throbbing place
For the comings and goings
Of loveless transients.
The whole of me
Is an unfurnished room
Filled with dank breath
Escaping in gasps to nowhere.
Before completely objective mirrors
I have shot myself with my eyes,
But death refused my advances.
I have walked on my walls each night
Through strange landscapes in my head.
I have brushed my teeth with orange peel
Iced with cold blood from my dripping faucets.
My face is covered with maps of dead nations;
My hair is littered with drying ragweed.
Bitter raisins drip haphazardly from my nostrils
While schools of glowing minnows swim from my mouth.
The nipples of my breasts are sun-browned cockleburrs;
Long-forgotten Indian tribes fight battles on my chest
Unaware of the sunken ships rotting in my stomach.
My legs are charred remains of burned cypress trees;
My feet are covered with moss from bayous, flowing
    across my floor.
I can’t go out anymore.
I shall sit on my ceiling.
Would you wear my eyes?

look-locked
in deep conversation
about nothings
while stair hoppin'
the world around us
What world?

Just watched / listened to...didn't realise they did trip hop in Hartlepool back then, nor did I realise that Kelli Dayton ( now Kelli Ali ) was more or less asked to leave the band - they were never the same without her. '6 underground' / 'Spin spin sugar' matches up with anything from Bristol.

Her inner core is the jar of sweets that my grandmother used to leave too high on the shelf. Tippy-toes made it smash and fall into a hundred danger splinters.
For a short while my mouth trembled when I thought of her.
Her nature is like a mirror. I tried to discover the secret. Taking grandmother’s hand-mirror, the dust and aged rose-pink came apart in my tiny hands. Only to see how it made reality disappear into it's equal image. Nothing, except romance.
All of my life I have searched for that lost image, and she no longer disappears abruptly.
Lola Tinguely (a.k.a me)

sometimes i long for you/ but then i know/ it's just emotional addiction/ and i'm a fucked up junkie whore