Sirocco

The product of emotionally turbulent period in my life. At least, that's what it looks like. left to myself I see what this has made of me before the end I'll change another way forward for another day old man waiting dripping blood couldn't see the lies from where I stood fuck it all so I can find peace in what's left of my mind what's left inside is residue that fucking taste of the hate you spew in my mouth and in my brain it's the residue it's all that remains street corner on a dark night asking strangers for a light the rain puts out my cigarette another bitch I wasn't done with... yet (over and over and over and) one of my little episodes (over and over and over and) tell my mind to leave me alone (over and over and over and) bird's eye view of me a dot a spot a nothing no not a lot (over and over and over and) not again (again) what's left inside is residue that fucking taste of the hate you spew in my mouth and in my brain it's the

*Sigh* ancient history. Written on hearing of some agency's copy test a long, long time ago, on a piece of paper at what was then Pizza Express in Juhu in about 30 minutes. The brief was simple: write a short piece involving the Dalai Lama, a Duckback raincoat, an ashtray and a dinosaur. Here goes. His Holiness put the cigarette out in the Bowl of the Ninth Heaven. This was taking too damn long and his old DuckBack raincoat was getting itchy. He liked the feel of cloth against his naked buttocks as much as the next holy man, but that twerp Tsering had better hurry up with his robes. He had to meet a man about a thing. There was a knock at the door. “Come in!” The door opened to admit a large, purple and thoroughly wet Deinonychus. “Rainy, isn’t it?” “How should I know?” asked the Dalai Lama “Well you’re the one with the rain coat” “True… but that’s only because my robes are being laundered.” “Chinese laundry down the road?” “You’re kidding right?” “Ah. Sorry. I’m Barney.” “No shit?

From January 2005. Serendipitously found in my Gmail archives. old men wait where young men die to pick up the pieces and plot again another generation lost to hate another woman's son not coming home and still they plot the filth of destruction leave no grave unopened no tombstone unturned old men have waited since the dawn of time to regain lost youth bathe in youthful blood we rebel against the ways of the past a millstone round the future's neck a hopeful future untouched by tradition where age is a state of mind and philosophy an anachronism may we never age in spirit lest we become old men. waiting.