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and you you just sit around & ask for ashtrays,can't you reach?

Dec. 12th, 2006

05:57 pm - ad-lib

cunts to all of you
no really
really really

especially you,you,you and you

Current Mood: deprived, man.
Current Music: The Gideons

Nov. 7th, 2006

08:15 pm - fists, pounding, head

by poison tipped dart of the past
spent last week or so in bookshop terrain
there's often a gun inside my brain

Current Mood: fray..ed..ing...ugh
Current Music: fu manchu i believe....

Sep. 4th, 2006

07:44 pm - curled up

i am curled up and i do not move so perhaps if someone could just give me a violent shove of some sort in an appropriate direction we could get this show on the road..not to mention screw all this web shite

Current Mood: bollocks
Current Music: no

Dec. 4th, 2005

09:08 am - 'small town secret,no such creature'

got Snapper's 'tomcat' stuck in my head,just the

'maladusted little shit...
eats his own kind...
chainsaw sitting by his side

oh how many bookshops have i carried today
then sitting at mcdonald's with heather,tom,niamh,sorcha,dean some girl and jesus like old times but grisly i had to go out and smoke i couldn't eat or talk just sortof look at breasts and yawn,what a guy...

cowboy boots fucked my feet
boxes fucked my arms...
but i just put a stella in the freezer,made a pretty stoner appointment and shall now undress and recline...but for a pet cat,an sexual encounter and a really good book i am right sorted for the nonce

god you know i left shortly after ten for the bookshop
waited roughly an hour
'dun boxes'
joined them on their tea break
and arrived at ten to ten
i hate to think what i'm gonna feel like tomorrow
so what's new squire...

yeah yeah yeah and it's been another five/six v's today,bloody excess
after a day working for tom and heather well..
my urine's green and that's all there is to it
oh decorum and dignity hast thou deserted me in this my darkest hour?

starting to feel like gram parsons only he was ever so sexy
and wore that fab dope jacket
You i want You to compliment me about that song please
whereas you,well why not take a running jump?
i've often wondered..well i was gonna go somewhere with that but it didn't work out
turned into a little old man selling coins on the street
well,at least a mental image of him..not a physical apparition as it were
god,the bollocks
the guilty orro is the only thing getting me down just now...
which is nice,as far as it goes
and i have watched myself perform in social situations recently with such admirable results it's as thoughi never left the stage...despite that the right folk,being right,will always see through me...still the old ladies and the young hussies and the man in the street curtsey when they pick up my scent...sort of like something but anyhow,basically it means i can still,at a pinch,charm the bollocks off people i disrespect...fine and dandy...now see this time around i am trying to.. not cock up the charm on the till front...uh i believe an appropriate reference would be 'what a pity you know me you're weary of me all bitter and lonely..' ...i alternate vbetween calling that song 'pity i wrote it' and 'just lovely'..it's polemical enough to stand,i reckon...coz it's too heavy for me to carry..like..uh...by which i meani can't be arsed deciding..or i can't decide
oh decision
it doesn't bother me..or anyone..we know how things work...trial and error bashes a path,yet always the damn pretence..gosh i've got so many more important things to pretend than to pretend it matters who decides what or what happens when... yes,even I have...
listening to lotsa the clean...love em,takes me back..i was raised on the 'topless women talk about their lives' soundtrack...gave billie the clean for christmas which i plan to do to You as well,sod surprise...it'd have been a fairly minor shock in any case...
oh yes and i found phoebe a present,a quintet of poirot stories in one handy broken volume...i bought 'anthology' to complete my bestofcleancompilation frenzy so i will give it to either pater or mater... see trouble is i'm so ungrateful i don't think they deserve it
i mean of course they do...they deserve..well a lot of compensation for me..
but a gift with personality?
to the two ingredients that have given my character this awful slant of ....complete boring numbing genial mundanity with bloody rich vital cracking melodrama
hannah has turned out fine
except we're all so very selfish
me the most
then phoebe
but..perhaps it's 'society'
no no,and the pafrents have done everything that seemed right
i think they just gave us ...good brains and early reading...which
taught us to think
taught us to lie
taught us to weasel
so we didn't get caught so much and learn perhaps some socalled lessons

well frankly,there's not enough time
and i don't mind being a sinner
it's a thought....going round and giving people what they have always wanted then killing them so they go out cheery enough,do them over and use the cash tohappy up person number two
it's odd that what is clearly a favour is clearly sick and terrible
it's coz 'people' are something that cannot rightly be talked about
they are not possible to factually express or even consider
they happen to situations yeah

or crappen to them
and crap unto this
gag unto me with a spoon,it's bollocks this

Current Mood: obviously loquacious
Current Music: Morrissey

Dec. 2nd, 2005

07:57 am - Come and Get it Little Fagin

they described your number with the cards buddy
you have been working too hard,buddy
your nose is all bloody holding roses and some muddy
overcoats from helping ladies your
politeness drives them crazy you're a cypress he's a daisy
with a rock and a bucket of chicken you'll settle his hash,alright...

a couple self-consciously holding hands
a boy with ugly pants
clean sound,clean air
vaccuum cleaners with bats
attached are on the ground and
anything could happen...
and here come the crew,o yesteryear,o molten rock o
mould and mildew

oh,remember to send her calzones as well

putting commas in front of our intentions we swerve off the road to pick up dead cyclists from mounds and rustic tombs...when the air gets thick we roll the windows up and are immersed in sick blue clouds and thin,rakish poisonous gases...the mountain breaks before us and swivels around on its hind legs,slavering tooth jawed horrific monster slice right through you like a hot wife through brothers...
'dirty creature coming my way..'

Current Mood: clapboard-evangelical
Current Music: I'm Not Your Fool Anymore-Tom Waits

Dec. 1st, 2005

06:12 am - peeking under the floorboards

send her paraguay,send estragon,send her frills and car accidents and settlements and high fashion publications...send her books about egypt,send sheikhs and tigers, pimps, bipeds, mulattos ,hairspray and cameras 'to remember how good you looked' plus bouquets and rakes and coffee and twelve briefcases in the boot of a mercedes benz,send maps and highlights, toiletries and noparking signs and fancy underwear and little guns to go with it send her a lampshade and a ship in a bottle and some tumeric, some gold-tops, some sneakers,high-heels, whichever she likes..send ghosts with paper plane haircuts and vinegar smiles who dissolve at the touch but come back in a while...send her a captain's jacket and a free toboggan,send mary queen of scots,a short story about the ocean,gnomes that go bonk in the night and binoculars for seeing.. send her grave mistakes and petty thefts,send jars of honey or leather or mildew,send port royal and speight's and fighter planes and if she doesn't reply send her camouflage and the monkey,send hydroponic kits and gallbladder surgery vouchers send her aneasthetists,fugilists,bank accounts and plageurists,send hummus or paté or an icecream on a stick.. send her memories,park benches,small trees that get little sunlight in out of the reach places,send her postal orders,late nights on the riverbank,tallycharts and guesswork and lovemaking and ratracing and send her a payrise...you could send her a bus timetable,a fork,a cannon,kid-gloves,watch chains why don't you send her a rabbit...maybe send her some eyeliner or some nicotine or clever little tents that fold up when you clap your hands thrice,thusly...send biggles,heavens and betsy and murgatroyd all sealed in their original company wrappers,send the skins of your former lovers,send your eyebrows,send boxes of used kites with 'kansas' printed on them in gold glitter..send snow and glass and things to draw her picture or maybe those purple pansies with black eyes and yellow flashes...send polo mints,a prince among men, paupers,pipelines and a package from the transval,how strange..send her get well soon limousines,send her felt caps and heartfelt and treefelling harnesses with big brassy buckles all polished like a duke..send her conditioner and jumpers and wax and a kiss on the lips or a pet or a crystal or a carton of individuals, cigarettes, milk, strawberries, futons or regicide send her no junk mail.. send her fakirs,errol flynn,w.c fields..send a battered pork pie hat and a well used whip with the compliments of her recently departed, send cheeseboards or fish and chips or snakes in oil or pasta snacks on the boil or throw off this mortal coil or send her her birthplace in envelopes full of soil send her patriots and tinned food and rest over the winter and arms around her and hotels in the sunshine and novels on a clifftop send her parcels wrapped in enigma send her cloves, dictionaries, apostles or her weight in gold..send dumptrucks and steam shovels and clipboards and placards and overcoats and business skirts and things that laugh or crawl or swoop...

Current Mood: .meh..inspired?..meh...cheery?
Current Music: time to decide really

Nov. 29th, 2005

10:58 am - in sepia..

The Devil Does Not Speak He Hides In Your Photographs

hey you in the jesus sandals,the neon eyelashes...
haven't i seen you,read your name on a crowded platform
or between the eyes of a stunned bull at carnival time?
were you sitting behind the piano in that photo on my mother's mantlepiece
holding a lipstick mark with a cigarette on your cheek?
rogue. you were there in the kitchen during the tornado
and i saw you rip the throat out of a chicken the day before mother's miscarriage,
you were standing on the gravel
with a toothpick and a beergut
when we welcomed in that girl who stole all the money from the restaurant...
there's you beside mark and debbie
before they went on that hunting trip that saw her passed
and him locked
away and i thought i saw you last year in rome
beside a crowing rooster
talking to a little girl with a lizard tongue
or were you the man who came to the house after dark
and sat in the treehouse with a pocketknife
you know the one whose son was found in a bottle...
...but you look more like the girl from the florists
in whose presence the greenfly that infest the place just shrivel up
you came with us to cornwall remember,where the dogs were poisoned
and there's one of your legs sticking out behind the priest
in every wedding photo i've ever seen
you used to follow me around with a sticking plaster.

Current Mood: don't have one
Current Music: Bowie

Nov. 28th, 2005

09:36 am - rotating endorse

send her microscopes,send leaves,send frozen doctors coats,send her a brace of candelabras and a piano made of jam,send hosts and hiatus and heimlicks and heaters and hymens and hoplites,hyphens,hitch-hikers and a sandwhich,send her flowers,a lawyer,send her candy stolen from children,send her contraband, convicts, condensation, cocaine, contents pages ripped from outdated geology textbooks,send her a copy of dracula,send her lozenges, goatherds, puppeteers, farriers, obelisks, send her asterisks..send her money send her imported records send fine wine send lice send grey birds with yellow eyestripes send her a pleisiosaur,a fang,a grove,a telescope,futons,filing cabinets,foxgloves..send her little packages,send toothpicks,bottletops and a big sellophane bear full of grass...send her tools and towlettes and tolkiens jawbone and send her fire ants with inscriptions on send her footballers,send her footballers' wives,send hindrance send help send hospitalisation for her enemies send poppadoms for her friends send grit send feathers send gizmos send ghetto blasters send awful young men in horrible trousers with a stick and a target send glistens send gleams send gluten free produce and red rackham's treasure and a dirty novel and a five finger discount and a robot dolphin and pliers,pouches,pocketknives,pocketsful of posies and guts and gravel and hamstring and hamsteaks and smiling alligator boots and pills and a tardis and plenty more besides

i had a pleasant sunny day,i had a nice evening,what next cries the liontamer and the ringmaster hits him with a hammer and a sickl..ittle german girl who gives him a virus

Current Mood: "like stylish,like vague"
Current Music: Like Murder

Nov. 27th, 2005

07:59 am - that bus conductress don't got no money,why you rob her?

so what's new?
lord knows
and seein as he does..well..well,i've got my eye on him,with the lenscap on on the fake binoculars in the little room in the black outfits in the absurdist excerpt in the popular show
so he'd better not hit the 'smite' key and send poor little insertnamehere to bedlam...
so what's new
lord knows
hiding in a mushroom cloud but just the same just the same,you know there's been no hunger left in me for such a long time,only complaints.old,wizened,bitter and newyorkjewish before my time perhaps.fuck i hate woody allen
that brings me round
i'm sick of the baggage (hahaha private joke..well)and also jesus christ what voids all of our interpersonal (loadaballsical) relationships in dunedin are,mind,we're a terribly somethinged generation aren't we.
read some of my writing today,had a good laugh...i've always been quite aware of how stilted all those 'noveaucrapwhatever' bits of 'jive grammar' that i use are..it's unbeleivable that nobody nobody has ever mentioned it,that's society all over..it doesn't cater to not taking oneself (or just ones in general) seriously ...'society doesn't get the joke'
society of course is us
or at least you
coz fuck the truth .i.e of course i'm society but not to meee i'm not am i..
we're supposed to livejournalise with the dunedin crowd as solidarity rebels... others who hate and whine about the society blahandbollocks
to me you're it you sameasmenohopecretins
sometimes you're all so fantastic
but i'd rather be sick
this has become something odd...something hidden...something fork and unhinged...
but then again.,..i suppose
as society,you all don't get the joke...
i'd like to thank all the whining little shits who contribiuted to this entry
by writing that middleish part of it over and over again like an unpleasant smear on a windscreen..

see and when i say such things i expect everybody to laugh with me and go..."yeah,you're right...those wanker bastards..."
of course..they don't because ...well who knows why with these young layabouts
oh fuck this,it's not funny anymore..
that is the lesson.
remember that
you dozy prick,because people do not read this ...
so go..go and check if your father is in bed so you can start filling his house with gas to give him heartburn..
life's dull screenplay...
jesus what?

Current Mood: Jesus What?
Current Music: carriage h

Nov. 25th, 2005

09:21 am - on nows,up till nows,nouns,alcohol and crude sundae

a million people i don't want to see or hear from again a million dead legs like insect bits on the lawn or the grass and a soft noise of deflation that sears and a grim setting of mouths and clicking machines and whirling blades and tortured brows and overcast and parasite and filled with metaphysical bile the music of your voice retches harmony and a torn scrap nail hair tooth bone doll fragment lights up and looks forgotten with people together and people apart and smiles that grope the face looking at the rock saying the grit between your teeth and beading sweat to shit out the grit between your brain and you glue small triumphs to low men with heavy trophies and burden armloads and in such a short space of time 'for no one we are blameless' all cut up on your back with trainmarks your frail bones which snap under my breath and whittle each other down to bloody points pouring bloody pints on a dead stage of snow and carcass with blackers flapping down croaking eulogy to the eyeless yesterday who calls his character the symbol he represents and bakes his little hat of friends into beehives around him sitting smoking pretty girl legs trying to fathom cool but waking up dead one day with an organ in his throat and if i point and say vapid at him you will spring defensive and point at his horde of days gone by well i burnt all of mine so there's a group of people laughing each one of them growing rippling muscles beyond control choking on them and bleeding out the neck around the fine cords taken from violins in gmajor out of car windows onto forgotten shoulders in bottomless carparks where bailterspace never shoot their videos along with those fingers from above as you look up the sky a mass of guillotined heads fat bitches you slept with and pigeons on one leg whose image you stole corrupted and fed to the fuzz and there's razormen in your haircut looking longingly at the fringe festival trying to pick up a bullet or a pretty little cancer to introduce to your pa but you can't run forever much as you'd like to carve out a box for yourself or fall down winded in the sand waiting for the crack of the rifles in pursuit or the wolf tearing holes in your belly as you look up on a face like your own kicking mud in your eyes and grappling with ashamed hackney detectives or edward franklin aimes who screms a tortured black blood curdling horrible gut wrenching closet in a dark storm scream and it's feather to the wind and death on your handlebar and fuck off i want to leave you a wilting beauty at a tombstone and burning matches and tall flags and green faces of those who peeked inside the casket and a tulip that flowers in a cellar and pointy noses that slice young lovers and fangs with windows into men's souls and girls that smile and don't put out and clothes that burn labels onto your skin and leave you running in docklands and badlands and minefields with up against it and the runaway hightail life social here we are what we do who we see think talk to look around at the sky have a glass of milk a kick or a chaperone maybe sit down on a tuba of reference and sensation and howl and howl and howl with vengeance and wistful glance.

Current Mood: deduce it.punk.
Current Music: zilch

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