Poppin yer Bubblegum

No offence to any of my lovely flatmates, but over the last few weeks since I came to university it has really been thrust into my face that many people listen solely to pop music. Pop, popular ie. culture fed to people on all fours from great troughs called TV and magazines and adverts. Chomping down these sludgy slops, it's sad to see these people missing out on the wonderful world known as 'outside the charts'.

And I mean hey, come on, I don't want to sound like an arrogant idiot here. I understand that many things are 'popular' because they're bloody good e.g. Galaxy chocolate, marijuana, cups of tea etc. I understand also that the idea of pop now cannot fall into the same category. Some people like this stuff.  Some people like balut (look it up).

Mushroom Talk

What on Earth does one write when one has absolutely no means of knowing the direction of the ink beyond forming letters? What story lives unconscious in the very threads which hold this physical plane? How can you begin when the very existence of this place as we understand it is questionable and wholly uncertain? And so yes, we all roll and pace to the rhythm; lull high lull high, but what external meaning can we give to this rhythm, however strong, however palpable, however utopian?

And yet why know?


How would I alter if I knew this truth and the many others that no one has even come close to? Maybe, and most probably, there is something beyond our little plane, beyond the music and gunshots and engine murmur which  make our tiny home crawl and hum with life. Maybe, and most probably, this inexplicable, incomprehensible thing is undetectable through all of our expensive scientific experiments and we shall never, ever know it.

Are we being watched?

Billions of people think they know the answer to this question. I wish I could find someone who could tell me the right one, and tell it me straight. But even if someone did, I bet I wouldn't believe them. I suppose I'll just have to set to work finding out for myself.


One voice amongst millions of others is sure to be drowned out in the humdrum dumbness of its people. Even the bombs, bass and missile launches cannot be heard from space. It seems that we are but a pixel. 

Scribbles

"Is this still... trendy?" - ecstasy is SO two decades ago!
"Vertical causation is BOLLOCKS!"  - which it is, it just took some magic mushrooms for me to realise and express it in such a way.
"Put some clarity into your life!" - haze it the fuck up with shrooms!

I scribbled in circles on a page, it could have been for hours, who knows? In front of me was a black mess, incoherent, impossible to order, random, meaningless, chaos in miniature. But in a very small segment of the scribble, all of the carelessly laid lines of ink made a Spirograph pattern, a perfect, beautiful cylinder of lines on the page amongst the scribbles. This meant a lot to me. And I said...

"Life is all about THAT bit... when a mess looked perfect."

And here, Charlie Brooker speaks some real fucking sense. Please read, and see the truth! http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2010/mar/22/charlie-brooker-newspapers-dangerous-drug

p.s. The secret is, drugs aren't bad... they're actually really rather good. 

The Apology (PART ONE)

"a guy with ego problems running around with a megaphone pissing off police and upsetting the public"

Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Charlie Veitch says sorry!

So I logged into YouTube today to find a faded, diminished looking Charlie Veitch begging for the forgiveness of you, of me, of we, the people. The beard is gone, and so have those damned sunglasses and silly Guevara-esque jacket - I could never take him seriously when he got to the stage of trying to look like a Cuban revolutionary.

After spending 30-50 hours (extent of exaggeration dependant on which stage of the video you're watching) in solitary confinement, we finally hear something from the mouth of the sorry and the somewhat degraded looking man. He seems so tired. In what appears to be his trademark effort to avoid conciseness at all costs, he begins his 18 minute long apology, directed mainly at the people who loved, respected and listened to him (this includes myself) during the existence of his collaboration with Danny Shine and the rest of humankind known as the Love Police. 

Is he sincere? I would say, closely watching him, that it's at least easy to see he is unhappy. Is this because he's genuinely sorry or just sorry because now the lack of love, the loss of respect and the uprooting of his dignity is starting to set fast in his mind, leaving him feeling alone in the world, possibly more alone than he's ever felt before?

It's hard to satisfy these questions with a sure answer. On one hand, we know that this is a man who seems to flit like a ragged butterfly between lifestyles and ideals. Clearly, this is a man who hates to ever be in the middle. 

Observe: 

banker > Love Police > 'truther' hater > down and out

We could see this as the behaviour of a man who thrives off living on the edge, who, like a child on Christmas day, picks up a toy, plays with it for ten minutes then throws it away for another one. Or, we could see it as the behaviour of a man so insecure that the best defence mechanism is to grab the bull by the horns and live so extremely and so openly that hopefully he will appear strong and fearless. He might be a man who feels the need to attention seek, and if that's the case he's certainly achieved his goal. Maybe he just doesn't know who the hell he is or what he wants from life. You never know, he could just have bipolar.  

It is my intention to carry this on soon. I have to stop writing now as I'm really tired and my writing brain's stopped functioning as it should. So I'm gonna shut up before I say something too stupid.

I Love You

How many ways are there to say I love you? Since the dawn of time we've looked for ways and yet those words say everything. Everything and nothing.
A pointless lexical jabber pouring from my lips, repeated over and over until it seems to lose all meaning.

 I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

 I love you

Should I not say it then? Should I leave out the ancient words and speak with my soul instead? My soul, the ancient, wordless, formless form which only knows what it can feel.

Like light, which gives to all, yet silently. Like dark, which envelopes, yet so comfortingly.

Quiet; quiet.



I feel.

The Pilgrim

To an idiosyncratic little trapeze artist
You have my heart now as you embark
You have seven years on me and yet
It feels as if we are both at a new beginning.

Setting out.

Turns out the town I loved was the town you hate
And now we both left it
As I too started to sense the staleness of the air.
Sure, it was fine for me to find my feet
As happy summers slunk idly by
But the summer past was empty but for you
And old scenes saw my footsteps washed away.

This morning as I dreamt, I kissed you.
And as I woke, I went on loving you,
As I have these sweet months past.
Let the months grow into years
And all the dreams into the truth
Because you are my haunted haunting pilgrim
And yes, (as daft as it sounds),
Every footstep of yours is a heartbeat of mine.
Finally I understand
What all those silly lovestruck children were going on about.
From my hand you draw this desperate verse;
From my head these wishing dreams;
And from my heart the hoping spark.

Beautiful, brave and newly freed,
Come home soon.

Can  I say more?

The Wasp

She shreds the meat,

Entered through the window this morning.

A warning striped visitor, 

Doing no harm 

Just eating.

If I had not been stung before

I would trust her.