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.

as the layered bite of stone's guitar crunches down and eddie makes words catalyze passion I relive the fractured innocence of a decadent decade. a generation's hopes couched in anger and disbelief ephemeral geniuses cut short by blade of unsought fame we had a voice that spoke to the world with words of our own unrestrained and undefined by the boundaries of commercial creation a sound unsullied by that so-perfect production raw emotion unhindered by your fucking expectations.

*It's a day for songs, it is... a couple more days like this and I'll have an album. Anyone want to form a band? :) Here goes: I was in my usual place right at the back of the line when she comes and throws it all in my face like it happens every time. She says "listen baby, my life is a mess and i don't know what to do you're not the first to know, i must confess but y'know this really isn't about you" And I said "hell whatcha know, I've been down this road before I hate to think that's where we're going Because I really thought this was more" So she stops and she looks like I'm levitating "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" And I stumble a bit - it's a little intimidating! And she tells me what she feels - "This is my prerogative, I hope you can understand I don't need another talking to, It's more than I can stand "It's my prerogative What I think and what I say Don't make it ab...

Foolish, nowhere, Johnny-head-in-air Open. Read like a book, cover to cover; Nothing to hide, make every reader a lover. Reciprocity though, is so hard to find; So hard to unveil a reader's mind. And so, trusting pages begin to wrinkle; Smooth corners curl and paper crinkles. Lines & names hidden in a creased fold; so young and yet the book feels old. Reader be kind to a simple book; It's open about everything Perhaps you could share more than a friendly look?

The image falls of its own volition. Smashed against the floor, staining the carpet as the paint seeps out. I kept it fresh, that paint, adding new layers as they seemed to occur to me. And now, they run together and merge into an unfathomable murkiness. I lift the image up and stare; faded lines and blurred colours stare back. The layers I painted, I realise, Were merely my perception. The truth stares up at me from the carpet. Stain.