stop the clocks.

I think everyone knows of this poem. No doubt because of Four Weddings & A Funeral.
But still....

‘Stop The Clocks’ by W H Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message ‘He Is Dead’,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

There's a reason

'There’s a reason' by A A Bondy
And I gave my hand to the fates

And they took me around

They showed me the seven wonders

The sights and the sounds

There was a man with cinders for eyes

There was a girl with a dress made of flies

And there's a reason

There's a reason

And it's love that's tearing them down

And it's love that turns them around

Say it is so

And the ballroom is filled with the joy

Of making old friends

And jukebox girls trip the light

They wiggle and they bend

Blind Joe, he's feeling no pain

Sweet Georgia, she dreams of the rain

And there's a reason

There's a reason

And it's love that's tearing them down

And it's love that will turn them around

Say it is so

When the moon follows you where you go

And you cannot hide

And when voices of doom ring your ears

And horsemen do ride

May tomorrow the land be anew

May every bird sing unto you

That's the reason

That's the reason

That the love that's tearing you down

Is the love that will turn you around

That the love that's tearing you down

Is the love that will turn you around

Say it is so

Are you drinking?

‘Are You Drinking?’ by Charles Bukowski
washed-up, on shore, the old yellow notebook
out again

I write from the bed

as I did last

year.

will see the doctor,

Monday.

"yes, doctor, weak legs, vertigo, head-

aches and my back hurts."

"are you drinking?" he will ask.

"are you getting your

exercise, your

vitamins?"

I think that I am just ill

with life,

the same stale yet

fluctuating

factors.

even at the track

I watch the horses run by

and it seems

meaningless.

I leave early after buying tickets on the

remaining races.

"taking off?" asks the motel clerk.

"yes, it's boring,"

I tell him.

"If you think it's boring

out there," he tells me, "you oughta be

back here."

so here I am

propped up against my pillows

again

just an old guy

just an old writer

with a yellow

notebook.

something is

walking across the

floor

toward

me.

oh, it's just

my cat

this

time.

Messes of Men.

'Messes of Men' by Aaron Weiss.
"I do not exist," we faithfully insist,

Sailing in our separate ships and from each tiny caravel.

Tiring of trying, there's an unnecessary dying,

like the horseshoe crab in its proper season sheds its shell.

Such distance from our friends,

like a scratch across the lens,

made everything look wrong from anywhere we stood.

And our paper blew away before we'd left the bay.

So half-blind, we wrote these songs on sheets of salty wood.

Caught me making eyes at the other boatman's wives,

and heard me laughing louder at the jokes told by their daughters.

I'd set my course for land, but you well understand,

It takes a steady hand to navigate adulterous waters.

The propeller's spinning blades held acquaintance with the waves,

as there are mistakes I've made no rowing could outrun.

The cloth low on the mast, I say I got no past;

I'm nonetheless the librarian and secretary's son.

The tarnish on my brass, the mildew on my glass-

I'd never want someone so crass as to want someone like me.

But a few leagues off the shore, I bit a flashing lure,

and I assure you, it was not what I expected it to be!

I still tastes its kiss, that dull hook in my lip

is a memory as useless as a rod without a reel.

To an anchor ever dropped, sea-sick yet still docked,

Captain spotted napping with his first mate at the wheel.

Floating forgetfully along, with no need to be strong,

we keep our confessions long, but when we pray we keep it short.

I drank a thimble full of fire,

I'm not ever coming back...

Oh, my God.

"I do not exist," we faithfully insist,

while watching sink the heavy ship with everything we knew.

And if ever you come near, I'll hold up high a mirror.

Lord, I could never show you anything as beautiful as you!

Everybody Tells Me Everything

'Everybody Tells Me Everything' by Ogden Nash

I find it very difficult to enthuse

Over the current news.

Just when you think that at least the outlook is so black that it can grow no blacker, it worsens, And that is why I do not like the news, because there has never been an era when so many things were going so right for so many of the wrong persons.

Not a poem, a statement.

I am going to go away from this blog for a while.
I need to collect my thoughts and cease posting mediocre writings which I am not all too happy with.
When I have something more tangible and virtuous and worthwhile, then I shall return and pin it up with all the other rubbish.
Thanks.

Richard
x

p.s I have had a thought. I shall post poems by other people for a while. At least this way my 6 disciples shall receive some poetic nourishment and I will have something to do whilst I am work.

Love.

I want to write about love.
I have no idea,
Where to begin.
I will say just this;
Love: everything poetic is within.

Do I give in?

This is really terrible but i feel i should post something today and it's all i have.
sorry.

Do I give in?
Do I give up?
Do I carry on,
Feeling so stuck?
So lost and so blind,
No pathway I find.
Just brambles and confusion,
And hopeless reminders.
I have no reasons,
And have no help.
I am alone,
I am adrift,
I am churned to a pulp.
Self pity,
Right now,
Is all I know.
And when we’re scared,
We cling to familiar things.
So right now I’m stuck,
I’m lost in the dark.
I am naked and cold,
And have no spark,
Of warmth in my heart.
Just an empty dead space,
And a longing for sun.
I am lost and alone,
I am no one.

The smell of cinnamon and winter sun.

The smell of cinnamon
And winter sun,
Reading about a writer,
Who likes to run.
Stretched out on a soft single bed,
With a book and tea,
Or a beer instead.
No happier place for me,
That’s for sure.
I am relaxing and enjoying,
The frivolity I implore.
Alone for now,
With peace of mind.
Calm sensation,
And serenely blind.

Rank red monster and a green eyed sign.

" Be young and shut up"

A red monster
Rank with rust
Rumbles by.
I sit on a low wall
And wonder why.
Afternoon traffic
Frantic and erratic
Ignores me.
A green eyed billboard
Thirsty with provocation
Notices my position
And declares
“560 New Houses!
4.5 Acres of Garden!”
‘At least this land,
Is condemned’
I think.
Sinking before it even set sail.

Natural scenery.

These pins on my arms,

Stretch toward my bag.

Reaching like crooked branches,

On a naked tree.

Brown leather bag,

Lit white,

By the cloud strewn sky.

The void on high.

An emptiness,

Drenched in winter white,

And deep hazel haze.

My limbs ache,

And creak,

With fatigue,

And want.

My body is screaming for you.

Natural scenery is aged.

It is tired,

And leathered.

It cannot wait much more,

These trials,

Are endeavours.

Birds are brackets.

(Untitiled 27 has morphed into this new body of words. More limbs to come no doubt)

Birds are brackets.
They punctuate the sky,
As they glide by.
Signals and codes,
Are misunderstood,
By my untrained eye.

Untitled 27.

Birds are brackets,
They punctuate the sky,
As they glide by.

Office women.

I feel frustrated,
By the whining people,
In my office.
The overpowering squeal,
Of argumentative women.
They spew forth their spiel,
And they say nothing of worth.
It is gut wrenching,
Ear piercing,
Unnecessary.
Their words stab through,
This office space.
They are daggers to the heart,
Of my morale.
So, I feel frustrated.
I am irritated by disturbance.
By the ringing screams,
Of banshees,
In my head.
The little calm I have,
From an earpiece,
Blocks out some of this rabble.
Some of this racket is foiled.
But, I am discouraged.

The rain is here the snow is gone.

Lungs flipped upside-down,
Sway in a gentle storm.
Their Veins silhouetted,
Against Victorian sky.
Black white birds,
Swim through the clouds.
They dive in out of weed,
And grass.
Dipping toward lakes,
And colliding with the ground,
All muddy and wasted with water.
The rain is here,
The snow is gone.

People seem to think they can resolve my problems.

People seem to think,
They can resolve my problems.
Why do they not understand?
These are my problems.
No theirs,
Not any ones,
But mine.
In time,
I might get a grip,
On the situation.
I might clasp my fingers,
Around a good solution.
For now,
However,
I don’t have a clue.
And you,
Keep trying to help.
I want to be alone.
I push people away,
And they come back stronger.
Why don’t they keep out?
Keep their big noses out?
No longer!
I want no more of this.
I bid it to end!
But hope is not my friend.

all the birds that watch the snow

All the birds,
That watch the snow.
Sat atop frozen,
Cotton draped trees,
Watching ice flutter down,
In spirals and swirls.
The stone white sky,
Shudders gently.
Petals of snow,
Collide wildly,
With one another.
Miniature outbursts,
Of blizzard are familiar.
This snow is coming down,
It is laying blankets,
Across the ground,
And I frown.
I am alone today.
Alone in my house,
With but warmth for a friend.

nothing...

...but this

golden bliss.

The sweetest drink,
To touch my lips.
A gentle trickle,
Of bliss.
An endless hour,
Goes ticking past.
A nectar ale kiss.
A loving cup,
A golden mead.
A hour gone,
An hour I need.
Time to me,
Is an old wrist watch.
Battered and worthless,
Upon a wrist.
A gentle ticking,
Of golden bliss.

Frozen Rock

Give me an iceberg,
So I can point out,
One tenth of my problems.
So you can sit,
And figure out,
What it is that bobs,
Up and down.
Issues are yo-yos,
And solutions don’t come.
Sunlight is the answer,
And warmth would help.
That could melt this cold harsh mess.
But it is almost night,
And dusk makes,
A fool out of me.
Constantly mocking,
And heckling.
And at the end of the day,
When my problems,
Are melted away,
And the sea has risen…
Will it be my fault,
There are homeless and dead?
My selfish fault.
I have guilt,
And plenty reason for it too.
I’d do better to bottle it up.
To put a stopper in death,
And destruction,
And have hope.
Hope I can ignore this frozen rock,
Before it crashes into me once more,
And drags me deep down,
To the sea floor.

my empty head

My empty head,
Sits upon my shoulders.
Portals look out,
And survey surroundings,
Which are bathed,
In light and dark.
Sacks of meat,
Hang twisted,
Painted grey and blue.
Dull thump and a sharp pain,
Is not uncommon.
My empty head,
Is isolated,
Upon my shoulders.
It sees nothing of worth.
The eyes are a gateway,
And they lead to a cave.
Damp and cold,
In my empty head.
Aged and worn,
And lonely,
In my blank and empty head.

Intellect is little more than tiny rocks.

Intellect is little more,
Than tiny rocks.
We collect them in our shoes,
We remove them when,
We find them unfit.
We pick and choose,
Our knowledge is groomed.
It is biased,
And it is ugly.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
We all fall into that trap,
But perhaps that is the point?

Panda eyed.

Punched out panda eyes,
Like planets with dark rings.
They show the signs of age,
And they show the time of day.
Bright sun makes me squint,
And I feel on edge.
Rest would be welcome,
But at no point exists.
Awake and weary,
These eyes are blurry.
Rain rides down my face.
A gentle splash,
Of salt water on skin,
And I’m home again.
Home in a loose sense,
Riddled with meaning,
And metaphor.
A home I abhor.
A home for torment,
And a home for regrets.
A home for my natural shape.
Panda eyes,
No surprise.
When I burn the candle,
At each end.
An effigy to you and me,
A dummy of my core.
Panda eyed,
And howling blind.
I want sleep once more.

room.

Dark grey light,
Spread thin,
Throughout this room.
A green so final,
It ceases at the threshold.
Limited time,
Jeers at me.
Its teeth are bare and gritted.
Empty spaces,
Seem lonely.
But clutter is not welcome.
Middle ground is hard to find.
The contrast is striking,
And infinite.
Negativity Is passed unto me.
A positive is lacking,
But hardly misplaced.

Enter firefly.

i think this is a bit rubbish, however...

Bright in the night.
Little light.
Flitter of flight.
Duck and dive,
Through soot black space.
Round dark doorways,
With enchanted pace.
Enter firefly,
Light my way.

Knowledge is a withered man.

So, enters a man,
Old and callus,
To withered to work,
But wise beyond words.
The man leaves,
Stench tails him,
Mould rises as his feet,
Leave the floor.
He is dust.
Wisdom is with you,
But only for so long,
Before it becomes old,
And used.
Second hand information,
Is infested.
Knowledge and death,
Ride hand in hand,
They are sand,
And pass through your fingers,
Fleeting, unobtainable, remote.

My life as a spec of sand.

Untold.
My life story.
But then,
Why would it be told?
Who am i?
I am nobody.
But then,
We are all somebody.
To someone,
Or something.
We are all,
Grains of sand,
On a beach.
Some in the sun,
Some in the dunes.
But we are all there.
All of sand,
For all of time.
Who are we?
We are the rocks,
Which make up the earth.
We are the dirt,
Beneath Gods nails.
We are his cultivation.
Some is swept up,
By wind,
And carried like a sail,
Over our heads.
They land on pastures green,
Or they land in the sea.
Change is common place,
But it doesn’t happen to me.

i am alone

I am alone.
Alone for all time.
Alone with my thoughts,
And my expectations.
I sit and I stay.
Stay for all time.
Stay with my thoughts,
And my expectations.
I am away.
Away from time.
Away with my ideas,
And infatuations.
I am riddled,
With the imprint,
Of crooked teeth,
From grinning clowns.
I alone,
Know the route,
Of the problem.
But I ignore it.
Ignorance is bliss.
Bliss is expected.
It is in my thoughts,
My ideas,
My infatuations.

Hiccups, monster, mole, queen, raisin.

A green grassy meadow,
Hiccups dirt and rocks.
Monster claws scratch,
Through the ground.
Raisin eyes gleam blind.
Queen mole has come,
To gaze at the stars.
But, daylight prevails,
And she returns to the underground,
Leaving a mountain in the wake.

ten

Turn back time,
Till you were ten,
Away and free,
And happier then.
No struggle,
No worry,
Just innocence,
And fun.
Not now my dear,
Not now I fear.

Leap onward,
Till now,
I am 24.
I have not a lot.
I don’t expect much more.
I have worry,
And struggle.
I care less and less.
I am lost at sea.
I digress.

If life is a roller coaster then what part am i?

If life is a roller coaster,
Then what part am i?
If the rails are wooden,
And crumbling with age,
Will I die quickly?
Or will I not cease,
Until the cart stops?
And does my soul ride,
In my body?
And get off,
As the next life gets in?
And do birds fly past,
And shit on me?
And does the sun beat down?
Am I by the sea?
Does the wind blow around?
And the rains drench my bar?
And what if I jump from this car?
Life has its ups and it downs.
On a ride it is reversed.
The down the fun part,
The up is boring.
The anticipation of a drop,
Is more invigorating.
How can life be like a roller coaster?
I think it is not.

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