fairymoon

Heaven is a world I�m not familiar with
Coventry is where I live
There�s no place to leave the scum
Oh forgot! Birmingham.

Controversial start to new book
No disclaimer � sod that
ballsed it up before I start
rusty falling flaking apart
If nazis had ten seconds to save themselves from Winston they would have died anyhow.

RESTART : (sit down)

I began not believing. It was taught. It lingers inside. But where � in our lost thoughts? There�s no rotting in yourself. There�s a body with no health I speak too soon for pen to write and bark the haze of mornings fright. Fairy moon�s pointless bullied strange hobby. I don�t know what it sets out to achieve. By doing this? It�s a puzzle - isn�t it?

Bored. Lost. Afraid. A dolphin that isn�t paid, It no longer does it�s tricks - it�s ball cannot seem to grip. There�s a net upon his nose. There�s two figtime twilight mooses near the portal of excellence. Defeat. Sheer wordplay. Strange mumble stutter. Brain flicker shutter. There�s no blunt way for this to miss. A talescape sideline isn�t missed.

Defeat without a winner.
Fat but they�re all thinner.
Bread I love the most
So why invent the toast?

He had no purpose. He lives on himself. Outside is a mystery. Like it or not we live in the same world and he can invade your privacy. No nonsense. He has two buttonholes missing. One head. A defunct brain. Slaughtered by the defeat creature within. Strangled by his own perception and misery. I haven�t met him yet.

The mirror that speaks beyond its reflection. Draws stuff from around it. Decides to crumble nearside. I took it back to where I bought the thing. I only use it to trace the shape of my head, the parts that my eyes cannot see. Nobody remembers it now. It lives in someone else�s hall. Now I�m wandering away from this old scene.

She bowled me up. Whipped soup. No good. Just a bitter horizon of broken castles that hangs like sick on a broken web. No posters to cover the cracks. Aint too misbehave. No. I aint too jelly. All seriousness blocks off the playful child�s mind. No hijacking please. It all ends with a dudded thump. How did it all start? A pregnant lump. If everyone had a toothbrush where would they all be put? On the same rack? I think not, because there is more than one bathroom in this population of thousands. It all evens out.

A rat in a wheel. It can�t swim. There�s no start to the end so when will it begin. Cast aside the fear of the unknown by defeating ignorance. A sword of knowledge lands in that hands of the brave and hurts the soft throat of them who distort mother knowledge�s fragile womb. No children today.

Another (same day) attempt.

God tempted the devil/ to leave his life of trouble / Devil said he�s dead / killed point blank in the head / but live then I am / in the depths of man / so dear God my mate / I can�t agree to that proposal.
God shaked his thumb. His heart beat true and strong. He raised his hand to above his lips. Then his brother said �away with this lone banter. We don�t know if we�re real or having everyone on�.

You look like that long lost consciousness of that young Bob Dylan pretender. Your brains have surrendered. To the God of imitation
break through the shell of that crustacean?

Them words buttoned inside. The meaning in them collide,
I didn�t know which to choose. No one, someone, here a brush or a charity a human founded. Losing one�s way in a circle of thought. It�s easy enough if your not prepared. Bored of this bollocks I�m writing. God and his disciples. They wrote a book called the bible. I�d like to believe it happened. Like the lost aran soil and stomp upon. The neverending endeavour we never find. It finds us when we like it most. Oh so jolly nice all this crap. Like a picture of Gods Dad. Scooping up a dream is dearing the unseen. Projected from within. Devils dead shadow newborn sin. No my pen must rest. Boring, I know. Jobs need to be done. There�s work clouds to leap from. No one ever knows, until they see their toes, that they can walk. Although without the equipment evolution seems pointless. A product of chance? Sod them all � I�m gonna watch footy.

Good day. Todays pointless word exercise comes from my old room. The little front room on my dads desk. The ones wearing the hallmarks of his obsessive hobby of whereabouts of dead people in the first world war. A harmless pursuit. Still it carries on. His book he�s been planning to write for so many years. I still believe he can but I don�t know if there�s a specific target market for it really. Everything is controlled by the market. The invisible force of many dangles all manor of tentacles to us all. Drawing us in to it�s power. One half of human existence depends on money it seems. Career. Or am I glossing over a mural in the same colour. I need money to exchange for goods and services. Do you? I suppose it works but supply is first drawn out of demand. The unwanted shreds of a capitalist upbringing lie around the beggars heels.

So much I don�t know. But in my room I sit, I�ve paused once � my arm aches from it�s constant and unrelenting vibrations of this pen. All crampt. No inspiration here. It�s only thoughts. I mean if I�d thought of things that could be conducted through actions I�d be encased in a world of slight difference. Like drawing things from the lonely and mysterious abyss of the mind to the world people are familiar with, in this case, through language. I�m sure I�ve said these things before in another, undiscovered little book. So will I get anything published? Depends on me and the market. This would also facilitate my position in the demands of capitalism. Oh goody! Anyway this is the first of a factual Fairy Moon. It met the requirement, odd stutter as cars went by � but basically the mystery of coherence confronts me. It�s done.

A bald, flat jellyfish degenerates gracefully beside the pasta infected face of shame. It bobs to the surface, it reaps what it sews. It pukes what it eats. It eats what it knows. It�s bad for tourism.

A James Bond film. Dr No. Dr No. Yes that�s one. Bedclothes only set themselves on fire if they are about to be wetted. No curtains flicker beneath a room of fire proofed onions. These words mean no destruction � let�s hope they invite none. Barbequed - hotdogs laying in the sun avoiding bacteria. Anthrax is people�s fear. I know. It grips people and shapes them in a way. Deforms their halos of plesenthood into off coloured masks, each of the thousands faces painted with the same colourless uncertainty. Knowledge is not a weapon if used and clouded by ignorance. I�m not afraid of not knowing, just not caring! Don�t write words you don�t mean. It�s a bad insurance to the world. Iron testicles that shatter like wind chimes. Sexual tension on BBC DIY makeover shows. Slow rot of the common species we all adore, but rarely see. Feelings � some lost some borrowed never admitted. Slugs that eat plants but we don�t eat them. The bait that rests in the heels of a Stephen King novel. All brain incompassing. All horrific. All imagination.

Phones that tinkle. Not for me. There�s eyes are red � how can that be? I see no rubbish. But it�s there. I like the heartbeat of a rabbit in a snare. Fast thumping but light. A mountain bike. Whatever. More bollocks. All this book is adoned with a coat of meaningless, surrounding the core of it�s unleased promise.

Behold the pattern of adventure. Never ending � just some don�t make it. Fall down before their heart stops. All bollocks. Nevermind this Fairly pointless rotten arse. Like a neverending stream of bollocked, half baked words. Welling up in a book. So many of these pages could be better spent. But nevermind.

The vents of freedom are clogged. The stench of opposition hangs low. A chandelier sways � will it break? The thoughts that ooze too slow. There�s nothing around here to suggest Weetabix is bad for you. Unless you�re milk that absorbs into it.

A chair with three legs. A house with no ledge. Writing that rains down from clouds, meaning splattering on unwitnessed ineducated people. Move over. Yes. I�m sitting here.

The telephone despises its Internet brother. Dialtones of jealous wonder. Noise and pictures and boring envelopes stuffed with adverts. People disguised, meanings hide. In the web of self made triumph.

There�s menhole covers. Some of them don�t cover men, I wear clothes myself. Some people I know don�t live in holes. Others don�t live near holes. Awake. The neverending bridledom that follows cabbages in the ground. Uprooted. Removed from where they grew. Sold and eaten by me and you. Food. Wealth. No one associates them together � just the trappings of commodity. Good status elevates us towards the high rise of meaningless strangling the world of doom. No one escapes to the bottom but some fall off the edge. Pilarst in the brain don�t remove your head.

Remember where you came to rest. A dove doesn�t mean peace to the things it attacks. No clientele near enough to realise the mistakes of the managers. Rowing in long strokes, not short paddles. Frantically trying to keep afloat. South African submarines that don�t breathe in the sea yet are useless on land. Sometimes they just sit there. Kind of death lays in amongst the rings of iron. The lost meanings they once found are skattered across the water they long to lay in.

No one ever published a one word book � if they did what would the title be?

I don�t think I want to buy another car boot. Why do they keep selling them? Do cats have nine lives? I suppose they might be invincible but this invites complacency. If I had nine lives I would be surprised. Yes. I actually don�t think I am a cat. No. Really.

My forgiving heartpin never kills anyone but the never-ending squirrel that clambers up my arm, through my temple � no that�s not right, would you know? I think you might. So fairy, so morning so bright. Like a skip full of type writers. The computers sneering through gleaming windows at the sound of their departing ancestors. Tears stream in the mechanical madness I�ve latched onto. A bulldog clip cries its disgust at its new Microsoft overlords. Preying for a life of usefulness. The pen is unthreatend but its life is short. The dustbin the fear of it�s tomb.

Her head soared. Rose after the event. She puffed out her cheeks, her ears pricked and bent. The meaning arose, between her toes, a crab creature never expected it to end. So many people in one place. So many words that don�t work together (like a giant combination lock that can only release confusion). All language barriers between reptiles and fish. Why? When evolved from the same base object? Did one generation forbid communication with the last? Perhaps you don�t look back after you�ve moved on.

Degree upholstry sogging wet. All that time ago we said stuff we meant. But does it hold now � battered by time. Or memories like calypso mountains charge through the sky? It�s all pretty bollocks. It�s like tryna find the remains of a beach through a microscope. No sleep tonight.

All this whole event. Nevermind. I�m resigned to the boring motorway of mankinds existence. Not much crazy paving. All fragments. Ripples from beneath the main raft (yet it supports it somehow) Hegemony, philosophy � it doesn�t matter if you can�t afford a duvet.

It all pales like a velvet glove sheltering a splintered robot hand. All rise from below to the arm in convulses. To find there is no origin. No other organism apart from itself and it�s lonely obsession. Hardcase. Against the rules. No shelflife left for them new fools. Cast adrift. Never let them get you you. Because when they do. They�ll be no silly questions just hard bargaining. And you might get more than you bargained for. You�re so smart but you need some food and a bet your shit tastes just as bad as mine. Let�s get on and eat curry instead. Across the table � as friends. (the crab forgets)

Why can�t sheep fly? Why don�t flys swim? It�s all anatomy I suppose. Painting a fruit in stripes is good fun. Try an apple. You never seem to see a stripy one. Perhaps it�s because them trees have no style.

Just imagine a little fruit dancing away. Trying to get into a club of fieldmice and ladybirds. David Attenbough missed that one out? A big pile of elephant shit is little compared to a mountain. All size. Nevermind it says. If I hang about in the herd long enough I�ll beat that cocky Everest. Piss off you. Anyway none of that actually took place.

But I saw some people playing chess once and they looked busy. If the stripy kings and Queens of the apple world went to see a chessboard imagine the fun they�d have. I can�t.

They might get eaten, cos stripy apples and people who work with chesspieces are lubricants to the madness that runs through gardening and interior design programmes. All done.

Lovely circular fruit. I saw a ringroad once. It was fluffy. No � that was a sheep.

So many of them. None are aeroplanes. Mind you planes can�t fly � they just pretend. I saw one of them on the ground and then it was in the air. But it was near air on the ground � just a bit lower down. I noticed cos I was on a hill.

I�m glad I�m not a dodo. I�d be pretty lonely. Dead even. But the memory remains.

I saw a pink apple. No that was a silver birch. Yes it was OK so I was a little drunk. So the sheep don�t fly and the flying fish never land. Because it�s not their place. Mind you most of them ARE homeless. Unless you could call water a home and then I�d live in a sink.

It�s so innocent being ignorant but you�re guilty of misguided fact: a freckled strawberry told me that � then it flew away.

Bob Dylan. I like his blues. There�s many people who trod on this earth. Some engaged themselves into it, stabbing ideas into its fabric. All sailed along the surface. Some had impact. Some passed by in a blaze of enjoyment never to be recaptured. I don�t know how many people I�ve met but none of them have been the same.

At least � not that I know. There�s so many genes out there. Its not like a really good album (liked Revolver or anything with a good beat) its like a never-ending spiral of improvisation played out by a almost infinite population of billions.

Some smiling � never meeting. Paths not colliding or maybe little puffs of insignificance. Kind of the bloke who announces the trains are late. Preaching a practical timetable. How many people have asked you the time? Then it�s changed after you�ve told them. Then they disappear from your life altogether. It seems that spending time in the vacinity of people is the good way to know them. The only time. Then friends form � be it from college courses, prolonged exposure, venture scouts � some kind of system that binds people into the same tube � then they can joint intellectually, get on, get off, work together. Fall away. It�s weird but its happening all the time. Now they walk away � ready and fresh to explore new human beings � maybe make a bond.

All secret agents have to be careful of this. It�s a dangerous job � but not as dangerous as falling down the lavatory in the land of the unforgiving bogbrush. There�s one encounter I�d be glad to avoid.

Along with a lot of others I don�t know but havn�t met but TV suggests would be bad for me. Bacteria. All wise and boring and lonely minders of time and the lost ark. They�ll find it somehow.

Plaid. Their music is around me, Being lost in music is like loosing yourself in another mans thoughts. A world they created. Tapping into their work, hard crafted. Yes. But perhaps for them it was easy. Bubbled to the surface from some uncharted depth. Perhaps a life work is yet to come forth. Lies at the bottom, the barnacles clinging to the shell of excellence. Not risen for all to see � but enjoyed.

If I was in a coma what would I know? Nothing of the world? Perhaps. I�m not in one now. But it�s a fascinating place I�m sure. Very understated.
Death is a fact � the flipside of living. It�s a small price to pay for such a good side that opposes it. There�s not one without the other surely. Only there�s (I�m lost in the music of Plaid so this may only be one side). It�s hard to be in two places at once. Brain jumble. Mind fires away. I�m lost in Plaid, so writing slips away. That�s why I stopped.
The turret was blue. As a beacon it descended polluted by mind boggling insecurities. Pepped by lost love. Lettuce � there was some nearby. Not much but some people would have liked it. Lettuce. Mainly leaves. Some moist. Never upset at making money. Who�s bothered what it costs to make lettuce. Agriculture is bad for soil but good for microbes, toilet factories and ben saucepans. Don�t quote me as a sensible source.
I�ve never seen a person. No that�s made out of any other non human or substitute human components. Like a man with a tomato face. No ears. 2 haircuts. 1 hair. A kneeful of bees and an elbow made of cheese.
I imagine living as a reptile is stupid. When there�s things to smoke. Never underestimate what would happen to turtles if the price of their shells increased. I don�t want to forget that my insides ache. What about that beacon? I don�t care I just don�t like that mouse sniffing my elbow. I might eat it.

Guitars. Poetry. Recital. So different every time. The exacting audience, adding their perceptions to every blow. A creative child. Never born into a present world of manufactured menace. Rather not. Kind of grew up on its own. Secondary to it�s reasoning. All intellectual. Apart from in itself. Others impose their values, cascading it down the narrow blade of truth. A jagged hairline. Popular culture. The masses. Words preached from academics who fall under their umbrella. Theory. Complimented by fact. Never underestimate the powerful struggle for thought. It can hit people hard. All talk of revolution appeased by a pay increase. It swells. Them in control are skilled. Never leaving a minute to chance. Calculating every glance. We are together. They need us.

Stalin was a bitch. A real paranoid motherfucker.. He�s a cunt!! I�m glad he died before I lived. I�m glad I m not under his deadly spell in Russia. Fear. The evil eyes of fear casting fire and rigid bodies flung in paranoia. No war worth dying for. Not his. Not mine.

Hitler was a twat. A right motherfucking cunt of a fascist. People believed him at first � then he had enough wedge of power to drive a cold blade of fear into the warmish minds that opposed him. Again I�m glad I wasn�t born under his spell.. The deadly venom of hatred, preached, then believed. At least it missed me. I would have gagged, played along with it � not stupid enough to witness or engage my survival.

I was born under the guidance of Margaret Thatcher. � no � 3 days I was old before she came to power. She was a bit of a bitch, it seems, although I was too young to understand. I was worried about toys and other things. I�m glad she wasn�t like the other two. Shuffling public opinion around instead of killing, purging people. Still, she was a bit of a whore, it seems.

Sleep never rests. It�s always working away. Giving up it�s free time so others can spend theirs having a nap. Relaxing for a hard day. Labour pains. I�ve never had any � but I haven�t had any children either. So many people have haitcuts � no hedgehogs have them. I suppose they all got spiky dos! It�s not worth combing them. I breathed near one � which was a good thing cos I need air for some reason. It�s a good job lungs don�t go to sleep.

I love Tommy but why all them Gangsters. Them ones with moustaches, neat cars, no binoculars or themous flasks. All abrasive. In the 20s they were all the rage � but now they�re more illegal. Shame.

I like films. I like them. Yes. I do.

Don�t catch fishermen. No. It�s bad luck. Ironic - the bait could be a good fish. They�ll try and catch it and walk into your trap. So to fish out there with good imagination � try it. You�ll risk one of your colleagues to save more. A whole shaul. I�d like to think we�d taste nice � but fish taste like bolllocks.

No excuses for being dead. � but I�m not gonna have a go at you � you�ve got enough problems.

Irish old fellow walks into a bar. Never walked out � stayed there the rest of his life. Mind you � it was in a maze.

Tabletops but what�s on table bottoms? � legs. I like carpet � it�s better than falling into a ditch of spikes.

Nobody does anything except me. Apart from other people near me. That�s bollocks.

Windchimes never chimed in the sun. Perhaps they�d be happier on the summers day if they did.

Spiders never disintegrate �they are too well made. No return back there.

�I would like to hit the number� so abstract. Paintings. Words. Letters. Numbers. Meaning associated with them. Hidden languages like music. A code that surf along. It�s meanings a means of communicating into real value. Yet others can unpick the bare bones of it and reconstruct it themselves. Move beams around. Keep bits of the structure intact. Make their own things to settle on top of it.

I love music and language. Numbers � not so keen on them. All abstract origins. But they seem to hide in amongst their own figures. It supports nothing. Just a plain (sometimes very important) fickle pan that is a hollow skeleton. Taught and a valuable asset to doubt. I suppose music�s pretty similar � you don�t have to know the key or the defined notes to appreciate a good tune. It thumps in you. Settles in you. Music. Playing. Making noise. Drawing things. I don�t see calculating in the same field. But it�s important and I suppose possible to be excited by mathematics.

Chemistry is quite good, me thinks. Putting different materials together and seeing what happens. All jolly nice. Powerful. Genetics. All these areas of skills invite their own masters. Instruct their own attracted experts. Trying to uncover new forms, mainly to credit a reasonable objective. Like everything I suppose it can be mistreated. I don�t know if language can be mistreated. It�s just a hammer � if you use it to break down a wall or smash a piano it�s up to you. An extension of inside. The tentacles that pull yourself out into the compact and sophisticated sphere of life. All jolly.

There�s plenty of things to master out there. Inviting individual triumph, success. All nice and some horrible. Getting a job to compliment the things you like is a bit like levering up the good stuff with the bad.

I like so much stuff I�ve discovered � perhaps I might like mathematics some day and write some in here. All nice. I like triangles, sometimes.

You don�t have to be a slave to television. It�s quite good at eating up time � like writing and stuff.

RESTART: change music. (NIRVANA unplugged).

Restarting is impossible in the real world.

Away from computers � the human brain buzzes � trying to find a new way forward. Stress clutches the stomach. Trying to set out feelers hoping to reach new ideas. The brain lost in a furious loop of concentration. Fidgety hand movements the only indication at the frantic (and hopeless) driving going on inside the cavity of the world. The boss walks into the office.
�You found a way of silencing my opponents who are 300 times more efficient at squid manufacturing?�
�No� you have to say �I prodded them once and told them to hurry up�but there�s still only 3�
�nevermind� the boss says politely
�Perhaps it�s the rustic atmosphere in this office.�
A grim look strands itself firmly on his face and his body clenches nervously
�I�ll phone seaworld� he says �Tell them to cancel the order.�
�The sharks will have no supper tonight�.

Cut to Atlantis � the lost city. It has master artefacts in the jungle. No one has found it yet � apart from the mortgage lender. His hands clutching a pair of scissors. He never rests � just wanders the hillside looking for his life�s work. A client of self claimed absical confronts him on his lonely way �do you eat brambles?� he asks
�Only when I hear dockleaves are near� he replies, lying.

A dog � a duck. A slipper. All in Blackpool. Nevermind.

I never saw an orchestra with a random tramp conducting it. It�d be fun. Frantic squibble. Squid. Atlantic lost jagged ideas � it�s all over now.

So the beginning of time is only the start of despair. It hangs and grows alongside the creation of the universe. Outwardly mobile, eating up the swirls of happiness it encounters.

Negativity � the disease of ill thought. Never too close to be seen yet its vibes are destruction, simply rocking the axis of peace. Achieving a wave over it � I dunno � ignoring its threads is the power it has removed.

Feelings. Bleatings. Oxen with toothpicks. None too extravagant. All the never-ending warbleings of mice impersonating art.

Neighbours. False universe of a soap opera. No contest. All lost in the nerves of the unforgiving monster.

Analysing jokes causes logical brains to fray � smoke rises. Clouds of uncertainty, vaporising them thoughts.

Learnt. To obey. Physics. All everywhere. Holes are floods in sewers.

All I see is all I know. You know me better than that. I feel like a madman processing thoughts in here. It could be taken any way. No. Analyse. Evaluate. Ignore, process. Beautiful people with bricks on their feet. Were tenses on their faces. No noise in the rush for diamonds. Stop! a long groan from the inner earth. Escaping through the mute of the now silent population. Chairs for people who stack soup. Beer for orphaned with no knowledge of themselves. Policemen wearing jelly noses in an attempt to trick their way into high society. A pudding as Prime minister. Nice tea cakes run the show behind a permanent curtain. Worms � some of them baked in a cake.

Humans. I�m one. I live. Here, I�m writing. I want some things. I yern for others � I�ll admit none to anyone else. Stolen the years away from me. The pain rises. Feeling. Aching. Jazz books. Textbooks. Clarinets filled with mud. Iron testicles. Cancer kills what it encounters � death is it�s only life. Turn on the lampshade. Ears are sticky. A swan has babies.

�Life is a splendid idea� says the philosopher of basic measures. Witnessing the rich packaging against the backdrop of the void. �There�s no truth in the way of ancient wisdom�but there are lies that cannot be repeated�.
�You�re not going to convince me of that� the philosopher screams. �I need to live!�
The airwave shuddered the boundaries of the void. It starts to crack and the darkness seeps. He runs � but is engulfed forever. Frozen still. His lasts words still hang from his mouth.

In another world God lives. Maybe not the God defined by man � created to the notion of his blind arrogance. He sifts himself too hard. Expressions I can�t comprehend. Understanding remains a silent past. Seeing his thoughts is like seeing the depths of the void. Black, silent, deadly to us but you need to understand the mass of blacks contained there. Beyond comprehension. A blind panic. Further than the supposition of the frozen philosopher � like talking to a frog. It�s words all lost on us. It could know the truth behind the lies.

The sun drives the wheels of the world. Shifting seas, plants that regurgitate their excess fuel. No mention of the magnitude of its task. It burns throughout the day.

Planets are mountains in the sky. Cycles of rock treading their orbital path around it. Not in a hurry � not thinking � no slime in their brains. All removed from this cosmic wealth � the void. The complex rainbow of brain shattering meaning that stretches beyond the depths of the known mind. To us it�s blank and seems to go on forever.

(Yet there are specs) � added a minute later.

A box of seaweed. Sludge. The phantom whinings of a millionaire. Paving slabbed over the deadly truth lies can be uncovered. I like swans. They lay eggs. I don�t eat dust.

In another lifetime another version of the unknown. What is consciousness? I like fruit. Screams from inside an oven. Baking a soul is like removing soil from the earth. Sheer confusion confronts the fortress built brick by brick, it�s foundations illogical yet it is bolstered year by year as the decay sets in.

Freedom of speech. Freedom of flatulence. Speaking to a dead woodlouse who doesn�t reply. Must be bored or something.

Art is around me. I like it � displaying wood in a gallery. Trees in a field � denied of fame. As nature intended � although it has no result of trying. Broken apples. Sauce made out of iron. Rusty creatures crawling around a semicircle imitating success. Buying time then wasting it on getting a watch to monitor it. The dispersal of rain excluded sellotape. No holepunches either. I swore I saw a moutaintop. It was the flip side of the rest. Together with no reason for doing this. Apart from them. It all adds up to a bunch of random crap really. Language is syntax. I like pictures � I�d like to speak in pictures but conversation would be illogical � except for Rolf Harris. Cats. Knees. I exist. Yes!

The fascination of bread. The light in the sky that disappears like flames in a lava lamp. Coming to rest. The torture of the desert for things not adapted to it. Binday. Disposed. Opposial. Reflection. Remorse. Torture. I like some people, yes. Clutch them.

Authors note: some of these dates are slightly out. Today (Thursday) is 25th October 2001

Success is happiness. They can fuse into each other or lay apart like two beacons on opposite sides of the sea � supporting each other. Barriers of living. Drawing breath. Removing all thoughts of uninnocent, monitored state. Perpetual gloom. Nothing to grab. CV explains a person. Pressure of expectations. Mates in high places � Dwarves on ladders swatting sticks at Giants.

People mingle and merge. All lifeforms on stilts above their natural landing. Duvet quilts. Some hotdogs without mustard � others not. Plasticine that never changes. Lumps of attitudes. Inobtainable joy objects. The sigh that speaks a million times louder than all the symbols � of the world � to the right ears. Mountains are made of dust.

RESTART (Just a break).

White teeth that gleam through frozen layers of fact. Lara Croft is a tombraider. Yes she has a strange job which there is a definite right way of doing it. Her designed universe � she it�s centre. The world isn�t like that � no. Inheritance is the nearest we have. Dads and happy enforced expectations.

All living souls converge on the outside of town. Their chests beating in harmonic force. Snails that eat their own shells. Cannibal dugturds. No escape from the gloom. No height to the room. The rocket is here, by the glint of the room.

The TV flickers in the corner. All sexy female comedians. Very fetching. Quite funny.

I love to know stuff about things that don�t exist � but there isn�t much to know.

This is life � here it is. It�s not a sample through the letterbox � a magnet falls down the fridge. Backwater relaxation invites no other peril.

Fasination that grows from fear. Staring death in the face � fire reflecting off its glasses. In all honesty I�ve never been there. Death is a morbid place I�m lead to believe. Beyond its centre the lost turf that drags people in. The quicksand no-one can replace. Tables shudder in the perimeters, loosing their grip being dragged in. The face howls. Evilly. Its eyes drip bloody tears. White hair flickers against the silhouette of a bright light. Its nose runs. Mucus falls in a puddle on the floor. Like candlewax but molten hot. Another car crash � another feast.

Mischief. Lonesome and indispensable. All alone in an igloo, strangled but nothing to eat. Carpet tiles and igloos and luxury.