The only gage I know

My body is water!

My eyes are half filled,

With an ocean.

It rages and it fights,

With my skull.

It sinks through a plug hole.

It spirals down my spine.

The icy shadows of my spirit,

Are drenched,

And cleansed.

It spreads to my feet.

It settles.

My fingers tingle,

As a chill wind,

Brushes past them.

This is how i know,

I am alive.

Discomfort is the only real measure.

The only gage I know.

bats

Dead leaves hang shrivelled on sticks.
The bats on the trees,
And the sky is a cave roof,
Reflecting light not dark.
One by one these tiny beasts fall to their peril,
Where fun can be had.
Small children openly kick,
And shuffle through their funeral pyres.
Adults, during unseen hours do the same.
Autumn is a time for sleep.
We await the winter.
Where we rest,
Until spring.
When maggots creep from woodwork,
Then bloom in an array of colour and beauty.
The bats will return,
Only to die again.

this is our time!!

The sky between my eyes,

Fades between light and dark,

Cloud and smoke whirls,

In tornado patterns.

The sun appears,

In the gaps the mist creates.

It stretches golden fingers,

Across your body.

Taking time to glide,

Down mountains and valleys,

A spark ignites a gentle fire,

This soon becomes,

Burning desire.

The tender hum of your lips,

And a purr from your mouth.

Haze spreads over the giver,

And I receive the moon.

Its crooked smile reels me in.

A cloak is spread across the ground,

Enveloping all land and sea.

The darkness is thick,

But we know we’re here.

This is our time!

I am a still-life

Lights waltz with ripples,
On the surface of the glass.
The ghosts ascend,
Stretching thin fingers,
To an empty grasp.
Five lights ahead,
Illuminate the boatman.
His lantern embers burn bright,
In the dim light.
Hi crook falls,
Burning to the floor.
The water,
Now unmoving,
Hides my body.
I am a still-life,
Frozen and immortal in a hot bath.
Violins screech in the distance.
As music plays on,
It builds with dramatic cry.
I hear the music,
I slow down.
And I melt into a void,
Within myself.

my eyes.

I think my eyes might fall out their sockets,
They are the leaves on a dying tree,
They are the gateways to my soul,
But, they no longer see.
They are limp and lifeless,
They are the willows branch,
My eyes are tired and restless,
They are in a trance.

Sweep me off my feet

Sweep me off my feet,
What a gentle wind.
You play in my hair,
And rouge my cheeks.
I float and drop,
To my surprise I don’t land,
Swept off my feet,
I don’t understand.
Caught in a twirl,
A spiralling mess.
I might sit and lay,
But I do not rest.
Sweep me of my feet.

peace

Silence,
Peace,
Come to me,
Please.
Over the coming days,
Walk by my side.
At night time,
Lay your kisses on me.
And when I sigh,
Rest and hand on my shoulder,
And tell me,
‘You’ll be ok’
‘You know you’ll be ok’
Peace,
I need you now,
I need your warmth,
I need silence,
I need peace.

the time is now

i found this old one....

The time is now; anyhow, my face is changed.
Your dress is nice, by candle light, you dance.
If I get a chance, I’ll kiss you, but first leave.
And so we move and we move, through the busting streets,
Down a covered path, it makes me laugh.
When you trip, with such heals, reveal.
No real skill in walking yet.
We arrive, right on time, dead on nine.
My drink in your hand, and then on the ground.
Your smile fades and mine turns round.
To my joy, your ply, comes kissing over me.
I’m happiest you see.
“this was never meant to be”

friendly fires - paris...

there is a better video for the tune. however, this version has a far better audio quality.
so....

death

Death haunts me,
Like a shadow.
A black beast.
It evades light.
It lingers in the corners,
Of my soul.
No life can penetrate,
The ice it creates.
No amount of prayer or hope,
Can comprehend the despair,
It casts from its mind.
Death haunts me,
And follows me.
I must be prepared,
For the day it strikes.
When shadow and flesh collide.
When all is finally lost,
And the water from beneath deaths ice,
Cascades through my mortal being,
And my body is at peace.
Perhaps, my soul is too.

Winter morning

Each blade of grass is trapped,
Encased in an ice prison.
The sun is still low.
The tress smile toothlessly,
Over their dominion.
A low breeze cuts icily through everything.
The world,
Asleep in it’s bed,
Begins to stir.
It feels the unrest,
Of the turning seasons.
The grass remains trapped.

The Devil’s Boy.

That may very well be, I replied
So it goes, it’s the devil I suppose.
It doesn’t matter much to me.
Nor I, he replied.
I left.
He followed.
We walked.
We spoke about the devil. His cunning and creativity.
Though he is an evil being, he is something to be in awe of. Not awe of his deeds, but awe of his power. His power and cunning and creativity.
We walked further and came to a stop by a weeping child.
Why do you cry? He asked.
The boy looked up; his blood shot eyes pierced into our souls. I could feel him gaze upon my being.
The boy said nothing.
We kept walking.
The devil was in that boy, I decided.
I voiced this thought to my friend.
He agreed.
We walked onward, past the trees with outstretched fingers, past mountains gloating in size, past streams and rivers snaking through the land.
We did not speak.
We could not speak.
The devil was inside us.
He passed from the boy like a fever into our eyes.
We stopped, sheltering under a fan of leaves. A trees great canopy blocking out the bright-white winter sky.
We stayed there. We huddled together in an embrace and we cried.
We wept and sobbed and cried, until our tears were pools round our feet and the ground was sodden with muddy sorrow.
There we fell into deep despair.
The tears now a river pouring from our bodies.
We melted into the ground, slipped softly from reality and flowed through the dirt to a great opening.
Here we joined a stream, a river, a sea, an ocean.
Our bodies were gone and our souls were trapped in the tide.
I thought of my friend. I still think of my friend.
I think of the boy.
The devil’s boy.
I think of mankind’s fragility and our lack of respect for good and evil.
I think of humanities forgetfulness. That we are of the land, we came from the land and we return to the land.
إن شاء الله

Red berries

here is a picture. a picture of me. at a party. im a fantastic fox.

Red berries,
Caught in wire,
Metal fences,
On a station platform,
In a country garden,
I cannot think,
Of a better analogy,
To illustrate humankind,
Our destruction,
Masquerading as security,
I will not fall,
Fall for this,
We are red berries,
Trapped by steel wires,
We are in prison,
All of us.

sunlight.

Sunlight through my window,
Bathes my warm feet,
Clad in cotton socks,
Tight up my shins,
Reversed shadows,
Of the plants,
On my window sill,
Sit and wait,
The shapes they cast,
On my white feet,
Look strange and contorted,
Zebras play in lush,
Green carpet grass.

this is brilliant!

WHITE LIES - DEATH!!!

A reaction to our environment.

All life appears to me,
To be the same,
Wandering sense
Of instability,
A repetitive reaction,
To our environment,
We move forward,
Staggered in our views,
Unwilling and stubborn,
The more insightful we become,
The more short sighted we are,
We always wait too late,
But then, why switch on a light,
When it is not yet dark?

We are lost

We are truly lost,
Our division is only matched,
By our confusion,
This illusion is spurred on,
By our self-worth,
What is important when we’re all gone?
When our homes are destroyed,
When we’re wakeful in the night,
What matters then?
Priority is an old friend,
She left these shores,
She landed an unfathomable distance,
From all logic and common sense,
What is the common sense?
Currently it is ignorance and fear,
We truly are lost,
We are the futile few,
And on our shoulders the future stands,
It is unbalanced and unhinged,
It looks down on us in anguish,
It receives no consolation from its plinth,
Its plinth,
That stands on crooked legs,
And relies far too much on chance,
We are truly lost,
For our sins we despise,
We despise each other and have no trust,
We are misguided by our peers,
We are led by the blind,
Into war and famine and death,
A righteous end?
Some may argue,
But what do they know?
What do any of us know?
If ignorance is bliss,
Why aren’t we happier?
We are lost.

corpses...

I’m walking down the street and I found myself surrounded by corpses.
What are they doing?
What are they doing, littering the streets, strolling about the roads, taking up valuable walking space?
How fucking thoughtless!
I like to be able to weave about the shoppers and commuters.
To duck and dive through the crowds and fight my way to the front of queues.
But with all these dead people, swarming like drunken flees. I can’t. I just can’t.
There’s not an inch to budge.
And the smell!
Don’t get me started on the smell.
Putrid.
That’s what it is.
Bloody, stinking, vile and decaying and putrid!
It’s as if a supermarket meat fridge has broken down and all the meat has been spoiled and someone through a load of old eggs in and burnt it and pissed on it and it’s inexplicably rank with age and mould and disease and shell suits!

That dank lingering smell.
It gets right up your nose.
Maggots are leering out their mouldy heads, their skin is sagging about their sunken eyes (where applicable) and their teeth and nails are bare and jagged.
If one of those maggots lands on me I’ll be irate!
I just saw some poor old woman with one of the little buggers squirming in her hair.
I probably should have said something.
I definitely should have said something.
But I didn’t.
Hindsight is a wonderful thing.
And what can I do now anyway?
She’s gone.
Swallowed by the crowd.
If you can call them a crowd?
A horde?
Yes, a horde of fucking corpses!
They’ve eaten her.
Metaphorically.
I bet she’ll be one of them now.
Bloody hell!
Why didn’t I say something?
I never say anything.

I walk down the street some more.
There’s this new fast food joint opened.
I look in and it’s packed with corpses eating.
Why does a corpse need to eat?
Why does anything dead have a need to eat?
Surely eating is for the living?
Surely a corpse eating is simply wasteful?
It’s not wasteful.
Not when you’re eating waste.
Junk.
Crap.
Rubbish.
It’s all in there.
And they’re cramming it in their limp lifeless mouths.
Letting there chipped grey teeth grind and mash up pulpy stale bread, brown veg and rotten fruit.
These have to be some of the healthiest vegetarian corpse types I ever.
They’re really not like the flesh eating zombies Hollywood paints them as.
Still, it’s a sight for soar eyes I can tell you.
I feel sick watching.
Not that I turn away.
No.
It’s fascinating.
It’s fucking gross!
But, fascinating.
I’m starting to get gaping looks from the corpses inside.
Some with eyes, some without.
Either way, I can feel them digging into my skull.
So, I’m off.

I don’t want to hang about anyway.
Why would i?
Head down.
I walk on.
I listen to some jazz.
I like jazz.
Corpses don’t understand jazz and I feel better than them because of it.
The same with art, films, books.
I doubt a corpse would know its Peter Doig’s from its Gilbert and George’s.
Or Jean-Luc Godard’s from François Truffaut’s.
Or Murakami from Wilde.
Or whatever.
Call me elitist if you will.
(Elitist! comes a cry from the back.) Fuck off! I say.
I just know what I like.
I feel a need to rise about their moronic ways of not living.
I transcend death.
Living death, at least.
So, I’m walking in time to a sweet Billy Cobham track, which I don’t know what it’s called because I can’t be arsed to ever read or remember track names and this corpse stops me.

Got the time, he says.
Now, under usual circumstance I might say yes and tell him.
But last time a corpse asked me the time he punched me in the face seven or eight times, stole my CD player, along with my burnt copy of Avril Lavigne’s first album (Don’t ask), also my mobile, wallet, skateboard, dignity and some of my blood which was left my face quite dramatically on his fist.
Did he ask for that blood?
Heck no.
Did he take it without my permission?
Fuck yes!
So is that theft?
Apparently it isn’t.
Quite frankly, blood to me, is more important than any material thing I posses.
So why do people not get locked up for blood theft?!?
Who knows?

I’ve been thinking about this last incident for a bit and the corpse obviously thinks I’ve got some problem and I’m just gaping into space.
But really I’m reminiscing about past punches.
Either way, my face looks lost.
Got the time?
He’s getting a bit pissed.
No mate, I haven’t.
I say ‘mate’ because it lowers me to their level of understanding.
He stares at me and walks on shaking his floppy dead head in disgust.
I don’t think he is really disgusted.
I think he just did it to provoke a reaction.
A bit of dust falls out his ear.
The only reaction he gets it’s my smirk of triumph.
He doesn’t see it.
It’s an inner smirk.
Of course, I do have the time.
It’s almost 3pm.
2:57 in fact.
That can only mean one thing today.
I need to get back to my car.
The parking runs out at 3:07.
10 minutes.

I practically pivot on the spot and start back towards my car.
It’s in one of those giant concrete sight-for-soar-eyes type multi-storeys.
Mine is the nice blue Renault on the seventh floor.
I always park on the seventh if I can.
So I leave the car park.
It’s all down hill and concrete to the exit.
Outside the sky is bright and white and I have to shut my eyes.
I’m driving down the road and im still shocked by the number of corpses out today.
I feel safe in my car.
My car is my haven.
I feel alone and happy.
There are some traffic lights up ahead of me and the aspect changes to red.
I slow down.
I stop.
I’m in the left hand lane because im going to go left.
A van pulls up in the right hand lane.
It’s a white van.
I think it’s just a coincidence that so many white van drivers are so often wankers!
You shouldn’t be judgmental.
My mum and my vicar taught me that.
It’s hard not to be.
Anyway, in this instance, they are wankers.
I’ve got my window down because its warm out.
I’m listening to Radio 2.
It’s this old cheery motown song.
It’s fucking great.
The corpse wankers next to me notice and shout CUNT at me.
Which, quite frankly, I didn’t see coming.
It makes me jump and my heart is racing.
They laugh.
Wankers.
The lights change to green and we both drive off.
I go left.
They go strait.
I hope they crash and die and burn.
They don’t.
Wankers.
Their van was filthy.
Why are white vans always filthy?
They always have crap slogans scrawled on the back written by corpse school kids.
Little bastards.
They write dumb ass stuff.
I wish my girlfriend was as dirty as this.
As if they have girlfriends,
Little liar bastard corpses!
They should write something true.
As clean as my conscience.
That would be more fitting.

One of the interesting things about corpses is their complete lack of recognition as themselves as corpses.
If you or I look at one, we see a corpse.
We see gross and wrinkly and green and dead and skanky.
If a corpse were to look in a mirror it wouldn’t see the dead.
It would see a healthy-ish living human person.
It’s like vampires.
They don’t have reflections.
It’s one of the best things about going to late night vampire clubs.
You’re in the bog.
You’ve done your business and you want to make sure you still look great.
You turn towards the sinks to give your hands a drizzle and there’s all these vampires there.
You’re thinking how rubbish it is that all these people are standing in front of the mirrors above the sinks.
Then you look in the mirror.
You’re in an empty room.
You’re all alone.
Vampires have no reflection.
Even there clothes.
I don’t understand how that works.
Doubt I ever will.
You can straiten your collar, rough up your hair, pucker up, and wink and shadow box and whatever you can think of.
You can do it all in the confidence that no one will get in your way.
The draw back is that they can sneak up on you.
I mean, you’re not a vampire.
They all are.
Why the fucks do they have mirrors?
I digress.
I only notice when it’s on the brink of being too late.
I have to explain.
Sorry mate I say.
I don’t want to be a vampire.
It’s not my kind of thing.
Im just here for a drink and a dance I explain.
They back down and are all apologetic and sheepish.
I leave at this point.
I feel bad.
I don’t mean to lead them on but I obviously do.
I must give out a love bite vibe.

Corpses like vampires have unusual affects on mirrors.
That’s the point im making here.
However bad their skin,
However ragged their clothes.
It doesn’t matter.
Not a bit.
They see glamour and beauty.
Idiots.
They’re stuck up their own arse and totally self-involved.
Delusional.
Really fucking delusional!
What’s worse is they’re the first to point out your floors.
Anything that is different.
They’re at your throat about it.
Like right now for example.
Im wearing a shirt which is all check and bright colours.
I know it looks like that old BBC test card they used to have on TV late at night.
It had a girl and a clown and a chalk boards and bright colours and check.
I know this.
But a corpse would be explaining it to me as if it were insulting.
As if they were the first to think it up.
Like they’re the fucking man!
All because they apparently humiliated me.
They’re counting coup.
Give them another feather for their headdress.
Actually, fuck that, they wouldn’t know what the test card was.
That’s far too intelligent for them.
They’d have to really think about it to come up with that.
They’d be more obvious.
Ok, I wear glasses.
So, I must be Harry Potter!
That’s what they’d say.
This is another thing.
I love Harry Potter.
Touché corpses!
You think you insulted me but you paid me a compliment.

It’s a new day.
Everyday see the rise of a new dawn and I’m continually surprised by it.
However inevitable it may be.
The sun isn’t up yet and I doubt it will be for a while.
If I see it at all.
It overcast and raining.
I love it when the weather is like this.
I love the rain.

LL

funny story.
i spelt 'collides' wrong in my first attempt!!
i felt like a right little twat.
here is a newer better version.....

midlake, head home, gives me chills....

klausy wausy mousey...

here is a rough of the flyer for the single launch.... blah blah, read the flyer.

im quite pleased with how i done it.

and here is the boy wonder...

and here is proof hes a wonder...



and i guess i should add this too...
klaussaysbuytherecord

doggy....

i drewed it.

this is what i done....

not bad eh? its a self portrait. this means it is me, by me, see?

couldnt agree more....

... Il est dangereux d’avoir raison dans des choses où des hommes accrédités ont tort.

or

... It is dangerous to be right in matters where established men are wrong.

experiment one.... of many.

rhyme as you go..... volume ii

taking apart my heart i found a smile,
and in a while i'll give it back,
then you can replace your sweet face in me.
then you'll see me again from the inside,
you'll know how i beat and how your feet,
run through my mind in double time,
my thoughts are on you and all you do,
all you see and all you touch.
thank you very much.

Ian Curtis was certainly a tormented soul

i have been reading Touching from a Distance by Deborah Curtis.

i would reccomend any Joy Divison fan or infact anyone, to read it.

its the book that Control was based on. here is the trailer...

When the routine bites hard

And ambitions are low

And the resentment rides high

But emotions wont grow

And were changing our ways,

Taking different roads

Then love, love will tear us apart again

Why is the bedroom so cold

Turned away on your side?

Is my timing that flawed,

Our respect run so dry?

Yet theres still this appeal

That weve kept through our lives

Love, love will tear us apart again

Do you cry out in your sleep

All my failings exposed?

Get a taste in my mouth

As desperation takes hold

Is it something so good

Just cant function no more?

When love, love will tear us apart again

is this the best song ever?

debate?

deceit can be great

this is it my friends,
'tally ho' and 'goodbye',
'you're off you're fucking head' you said,
but i dont know why?
'i'm not' i replied,
i dont know why, i lied,
deceit seemed like a good way to go,
i doubt i'll ever know,
i dont know why.

the blanket truth

What is living?
Living is forgiving,
Forgiving for an existence,
With or without persistence,
Trying and denying,
Birth, then dying,
We are all trapped.
By what?
By life?
By strife?
Struggling to understand,
What we can’t comprehend,
What slips through our hands?
What is, or is not sand?
Creating the profound,
Letting the profound create itself,
What is our health?
And what is healthy?
Is it the air from the sea?
The sting from a bee?
The caffeine in coffee?
I doubt it.
We are all part of the blanket.

the london fog

this was in the metro this morning.

its pretty impressive i think.

picature

this is painting/illustration i did for a fashion class at college once.

its based on the Bayeux Tapestry. sort of.

i did it on a role of wallpaper.

you should be able to click on this to expand into a new window. but it aint.

i know not why.