Between the pages of a book,
I’m young or old or cat or crook,
I’m eating leaves that taste of sweets,
Delicious feasts of country meats,

Roaring fires and kicking boots,
Dry-cleaned, crisp and pristine suits,
Flowers hang from ceiling beams,
Fairies come to dine on dreams,

Pan sits by a wishing well,
Drinking red wine from a shell,
Tying saint’s hair to his harp,
A matted hairball by his heart,

Giant dragons made from petals,
Cough up orbs of precious metals,
And as some cherubs hum a tune,
An antique teapot marries a spoon,

Rosaries that hang from trees,
Forever tangled in the breeze,
Bark that’s covered in Russian lacquer,
Paper trees inscribed with Kafka,

And so I go there to a place,
Where rain is scented and falls from lace,
And in the morning I smell the dew,
It is the finest French Perfume.

I can't wait until 'The Reader' comes out in the cinema. Ralph Fiennes is so sexy! He even looks great in HD where you can see absolutely every detail. Watching him in High Definition makes me want to climb into a pore on his face and spend some time there; seeing the world how he sees the world. In fact I would be content living there (in his face), maybe invite Nicholas Cage around for dinner a few times. I appologize in advance but i really can't let this one go...I'd be living in a MANsion. HAAAAAAA.

THE READER

P ROACH

YES! Just found out Papa Roach have a new album for 2009. This makes me happy, also it's called 'Metamorphosis' which leads me to picture things like this... in my head. Which is also good.

NEWSPAPER GAME

This kind of thing never fails to ammuse me. I discovered this game 2 years ago when reading the London Lite. However, using the Sun creates a whole other rhealm of entertainment.

THE SPHERICAL DEMON

This is something I wrote a while ago during 'the clumsy years' when i had a series of mishaps in the kitchen. This is about when I sliced my finger cutting a cabbage.

Today was no ordinary day. It was something different. The air was fat, the light slim. A cabbage called to me from deep within the fridge, "slice me friend...make a salad." I should have been strong, walked away, ignored the layers of green deceit... but I was weak.
I reached in, took the spherical demon and placed it on the side board. Then it was the bread knife that called to me. It was as if they cabbage and the knife had it planned all along. I knew something bad would come about if I used a bread knife to cut a cabbage, especially one as evil as this one. But I couldn’t give in to the ridged persuasions of the knife and the tauntings of the vegetable...

I took the knife in my hand and set about the slicing of the cabbage. It beckoned me to try and cut the slithers finer, Much finer. There were thin slices of death accumulating on the side board but I couldn't stop cutting. Then the knife took a turn for the worse, a turn towards my middle finger. As it slid across I knew there was little hope in me keeping the finger which I had grown to love. The cabbage had spoken. I dropped the knife in a frenzy of shattered expectations. I fled the kitchen and fled the nightmare, never again would I give in to the green temptations. NEVER.

I now live to roam the world as a 9 fingered mutant. An outlaw. A freak. And a fool. Never again would I be able to shake a hang or wave goodbye, not with this shame on my shoulders. I was defeated by a 3d circle of misfortune. The cabbage won in this battle of being versus vegetable

The cabbage had gone but the hurt remained...

PAN TAKES THE TRAIN

Twinkling stardrops, dripping glitter,
Reflecting backwards in my eyes,
Raindrops splashing, bedjewelled, bright dropplets,
Ever falling, drowning skies,
Hazy dreaming, smooth, dark blackness,
Where two worlds are intertwined,
Foggy coffee, clouded windows,
All the edges undefined,
By my hair is Pan the goat god,
Plucking strands to fix his harp,
today brings with it year's best harvest,
matted hairball by his heart,
Picture him all taupe and thorny,
At his legs there lies the clues,
Seems a man from head to torso,
But out of trouser legs stick hooves,
Eyes wide open, sideways glancing,
In the window nothing's clear,
Try ignore all the creatures,
that you find in limbo here.

Basically, I was on the train on the way back from London today and I fell asleep, to be woken up by someone behind me, playing with my hair! I was too freaked out to turn around. Also I was so tired that I couldn't stay awake and everytime my eyes were closed, he started mumbling and whispering. Public transport freaks me out!

LATE 90S

I am determined to write a poem about the 90s but there is so much to fit in!
so far all i have is

Staind were on the outside,
But they were lookin' in,
I said Staind its been a while,
Come in and have some gin,

Full extended version to come...

soon. xox

THE BALLAD OF MYTHICAL NIGHTMARES

There was definitely something strange in the air,
The leaves were mouldy, the trees were bare,
In a murky dark puddle I stood,
Then turned around and ran to the wood,

I ran to the wood and eating the leaves,
Were hundreds of small, angry pixies,
They ran up my legs and jumped on my head,
I felt like I’d walked straight into camp dread-

Into camp dread I should try and crawl home,
But this was before I noticed the gnome,
Now gnomes I know are particularly harsh,
This one said ‘oi, you shall not pass’

You shall not pass? It’s not Lord of the Rings,
He turned to me and said some things
About goblins and demons and things even worse
He said ‘carry on and you’ll go home in a hearse,’

Home in a hearse? Now this really is stupid,
Then up in the branches I saw there a cupid,
Oh good a cupid, they’re all about love,
But this one flew down and gave me a shove,

He gave me a shove, now I’m confused,
I didn’t expect to leave the wood bruised,
I gathered my strength and stood up straight,
But I had a feeling that it was too late,

For bounding towards me at terrific speed
Was a group of trolls all dressed up in tweed,
They carried with them great, flaming sticks,
When they got a bit closer they started to kick-

Kicked by trolls I can play this game too,
I paused for a second to think what to do,
Then I saw beside me there was a mushroom
I looked at it closely and noticed a room

A room, how perfect, I’ll just climb inside,
These weird forest creatures I cannot abide,
They followed but I exited via the basement
Locking the doors, they were trapped in the casement

And there they will wait in this gloomy tomb,
Until someone eats this magic mushroom.

STEAK AND FRIES

It was day seventeen by my count, three days worth of uneaten food was by the heavy iron door and the whole room was beginning to smell like overcooked peas and sour milk. I had devised a rather unorthodox way of counting the days which was actually far easier than scraping lines into the brick. I arrived here on a Sunday and the vegetables that came with dinner were carrots, everyday thereafter it has been peas. So I have been lining up one pea for every day in the corner of my cell until I get a carrot to replace the six peas to make a week. I now have 2 shrivelled carrots and 3 shrivelled peas making it 17 days.

When I arrived here two carrots and three peas ago the cops had me put the contents of my pockets into a shoebox, I gave them a pack of smokes, a box of matches, ten dollars, a piece of string, my Rolex and a picture of my wife. Ha! My life in a shoebox, I was beginning to think that maybe I had shrunk and been placed into a shoebox also. They had me fill out this form as well; name, date of birth, list and brief description of belongings and final meal. I asked the prison officer what was meant by “final meal” he said something about it was in case things didn’t go my way and if I couldn’t think of anything to just put down the last good meal I ate. I scrawled down “steak and fries and a glass of red wine”. I was sure it wouldn’t come to that, I have the best lawyer that money can buy and he’s been a friend for years; he isn’t going to let me down.

When it came to 3 carrots I began to miss the everyday sounds that I’d become accustomed to and sometimes even found annoying: like the sound of a clock ticking, or the irregular tapping of my typewriter, I was angry at myself for finding them annoying now that I missed them so much.

I closed my eyes and sat back onto the cold stone wall. I imagined a giant clock face with golden numbers and embossed wood and lacquer. I tapped my nail, which had grown longer than I have ever let it, on my tooth. It made a “tick-tick” sound instead of a “tick-tock” So I then went about imagining that every second tick was a tock. I found that I could get close to this if I tapped my canine tooth followed by my front tooth, and after hours of this it became satisfactory enough.

I desperately tried to take myself back to my apartment in New York, sitting by the window overlooking the city beneath. My clock sound was now echoing inside my head but that was only one of the sounds that I used to hear. What about the wind whistling in and out of the roof tiles, the people arguing on the streets below and the old lady yelling newspaper headlines at the top of her tar-filled lungs? I couldn’t possibly begin to recreate all of that in here.

By some horrible stroke of misfortune the man who I am supposed to have killed was the best friend of the guard who brings me my dinner, I had come to find this out via a series of death-threats and angry notes that he delivers with my meals along with a sadistic look on his face.

Peas and peas went by until I gave up with my method of counting the days when I woke one morning to find a mouse nibbling on my vegetable calendar. I continued to take myself back to my life in New York, with all the mundane things that I used to do. I ate cereal, brushed my teeth, sat on secluded park benches and read my imaginary newspaper, the lady from my block shouting the headlines to me. The gentle tinkling of someone dropping coins by a parking meter turned into a harsh, deafening clanking of my cell door opening, in walked the guard with my dinner; grinning demonically, he placed in front of me: steak and fries and a glass of red wine.

RAVENS vs. LADDERS

I'm supossed to write a poem where language is the material WHATTT? I don't know what this means and I suck at writing poetry...

SUPERSTITIOUS HOUSE

And OH the superstitious house
Don’t pass salt or knives
Don’t put new shoes on the table
Don’t open the umbrella inside

Don’t mix the red and white chopsticks
Don’t stretch at the table
Don’t let the bird in the house
Or someone’s going to die

And SO the superstitious house
I'll never touch wood
I'll Pull the fourth leave off the clover
Won't tell the magpie what I should

I'll walk under ladders
Step on the cracks
Break all our mirrors
And paint the cat black

Because donkey's milk didn't cure my cough,
So I turned to the magpie and said "fuck off"

WICKED. I'm not going to enjoy reading this out on Monday inbetween all the super deep stuff about blood and death and corpses and darkenesssss.

Incase its a particularly deep, emo, Monday I have this back-up...

Stain-glass window
Churchyard falling
Tombstones creaking through the din

Below
They’re dreaming or they’re screaming
Wind is howling “let me in”

Through the window,
Coat of Joseph,
Through one stripe the rain runs red
Trickle slowly
Oh so slowly
(How the battered steeple bled)

With a cloud the
Colours fading
All the scene’ry left outside
Through the window
Like a photo
There lies something that has died

By the stones a shadow’s cast
It is the shadow of the past

HAAAA Joseph's technicolourd dreamcoat. so deep.