The Better News

I was born long ago in the 1980s.  A time of coal and lizards.  I was yellow when I was born and at school they called me radioactive: The joke was on them becasue in 2009 I worked with radioactive amino acids.   I was put into an oxgygen tent which sounds like a festival but is not.  It’s a tent for sick babies.

Then my sister was born and it was good.  Then my next sister was born and she was and is a small tigress.  Then my brother was born and he is wise like an owl.  My father was angry and sad and happy and made money while my mother made lasagne which my best friend devoured.

At primary school I was the best but then I moved to a special bully school and it was shit for two years until I met the soon to be named Shaolin Monkey Crew.  Big L, Little D, Liono, B-Lime and Feeling with my little brother and Pedro.

I took some acid and watched L’s face fall off.

I went to study Pharmacy and mixed dangerous chemicals together.

I smoked on a plane and went to jail.

I studied Biology and got a first.  I became defacto leader of the W Massive.

I fell in love twice and lust infinitely.

I did a PhD and went crazy.  I became friends with superdave.

I went to Asia.

I fell out of love and into Buddha.

I came home and cried.

I became God realised and Chrisitian.

The End.

Any Questions?

eat

I’m vegan because I think using animals for food is wrong.  I don’t care about all the thousands of animals that died when the jungle in Peru was cleared to grow my quinoa.  They can fuck off.

I’m vegetarian because I don’t think animals should be killed for food.  I think it’s OK for them to suffer and die to produce eggs and milk.  That’s fine. I love cheese.

I’m following a yogic diet because I went to India and a cow farted on me and I spent 3 days in an ashram so I think I’m it.

I’m pescatarian.  It’s not even a word and I don’t have any morals.  There wasn’t a thing for me so I just made it up.

I’m following a paleo diet because it’s what cavemen ate so it must be good for you.  Man hasn’t really made any worthwhile advancements since then.

I’m lactose intolerant because I wasn’t suckled for long enough because my mum wanted to go back to work.

I’m wheat intolerant and I drink beer.  I could explode at any moment.

I’m following the Mediterranean diet because an advert told me to eat margarine made from reconstituted olive twigs and they were all old and Italian and happy.

I’m eating MacDonald’s every day and making a film about it.  I wonder if I’ll make myself sick.

I eat nothing because I have an eating disorder.  I want to be thin and I’m obsessed about my weight.  I’ve not eaten for so long that my body thinks I’m a wolf and I’ve grown lots of little hairs.  There is too much ketone in my body.  I’m locked in a secure unit, force fed gloop and made to eat chocolate bars because that is normal.

I eat nothing because there is no food because the farmers in my country sold it all to your country.

it’s all over

it’s all over social media
it’s a cure I must feedyah.
it’s gone viral,
like a Fibonacci spiral
infecting every sense.
it penetrates the dense, the stupid.
we retweet and make it lucid

remember care bears?
that was caring.
you’re just clicking.
that’s not sharing.
the thing in your hand’s ensnaring
you, you fool

if someone breaks their phone,
they are no longer alone
people gather hear them moan
i broke my phone, my phone is broke
it’s wet, it’s broke.
is this some kind of joke?
you broke your phone?
sit down, I will help you fix your phone
and when I’m done leave you alone
listen carefully to me,
drink some tea,
what I say you won’t like
it’s not nice
put your phone in some rice
you are now without device
and your life is on ice
my phone is broke.
I know, iphone.

hate hate hate

the trouble is,
Muslims doubling,
Muslims troubling your beliefs.

Look,
over,
your shoulder.
they’re taking over.
they took your jobs,
their law is older,
they stone their lovers in the street

this is terror you can’t measure
this is an Islamic state
(so called mates)
and we can stop hate with hate
we can start hate with hate
marvel like we didn’t create
then finally stop all hate with hate

regurgitate the curry ate
The girl you kissed, the Pharmacist.
Well we all make mistakes.
It’s not too late.
hate hate hate.
was there something that we missed?

Let’s make Britain great again.
no shame in the flag
fuck off mate
retaliate
you sound like my dad

 

intra view

Go to interview with bosa nova fusion freeform jazz synth booming in your ears. In a cafe. Panel orders flat white.  The oldest most boring coffee idea.  That’s what everyone used to get from the little chippy van at dickenson rd market in the 80s.  No.  it wasn’t cool then.

green tea while desperately clinging towards the sinking wood of wakefulness (oh yeah meditation, is that like mindfulness?), drowning in a teacup sea of google analytics which I don’t care about and last night’s rajasic curry which I do and cannot possibly be in my rectum.

I am tamasic, lethargic.  Hits, clients, staff bonding, a yoga teacher who was too stoned.  Get another one.  Longing to leave.  Longing to play in the leaves.  I was a leaf when you met me.

I was a thief locked away with the lovable petty criminals apart from the one who wanted to stab my neck with a pool cue or the one who was in for murder.  His mum probably loves him or did and I shudder to think of her and his probable current freedom and prospects or lack of.

These messages are too lazy to be called subliminal.  The planet’s most powerful creations are running sub-optimally, eating waste products.  Tapping, screening, screaming. Drinking bubbly, acidic, black syrup.  Boob lay.

I have awoken for a five sense door championship.  Constantly ignited, firing pistons on an ever ready, ever present battery of electrochemical potential blurring auras and burning chi.  Nothing can be destroyed.  I am nihilistic, narcissistic.  Wheetabix shit.  Staring at my own body looking for changes, I am still a man.  Look at my muscles.  Due to cycling and being thin and a low calorific intake.

Angry scallie screams wildly at middle class woman who keeps her composure and stares her down.  Are you OK?  She is.

Market street is dead and people are catching what it had.  X-factor crud control the cobbles.  Their voices wobble.  Desperation riddles them like digital AIDS.  Hearing aids allow old people, who know a thing or too about unexplained mutations and crystallised ginger, hear us.  Sometimes they switch them off for a bit of peace without ever really striving for it.  Yes, we know there was a war.  You didn’t stop it.

People march to the beach but it’s always to  someone else’s drum, not quite in time.  Everyone was leaving when you arrived. They got cold.  Their feelings changed.  No, I don’t want to go in the sea.  I’m getting cold.  It’s dark. It’s not the same as before.  We were happy then.

Time is wasted dipping into television.  The neon disaster.  Controlled plasma explosions.  Blues in the sky are an unexplained orange.  It’s the street lights.  It’s people’s houses.  None of them are orange.  Do you think you can trick me like I’m a child? Well you can.

converstation eel

conversations reel around, revolve I mean, like those annoying doors nobody needs or likes.  These confuse idiots.  We discuss politics.  The polite tricks of fiendish, selfish, parasitic humanoids.  Homo sexus.  Homo parasiticus.  Stare into peoples’ eyes, talking about the dumbing down of education or pollution or some other banal, self righteous slurry words.  Occasionally make eye contact with someone and see right into something real and then it’s gone.  A momentary sight of clarity.  It’s always a stranger but not always a girl.  That’s the truth and it walked away again.

Drone persons project their fake, saccharin mood on you like cheap wall paper paste that’s gone off and doesn’t work.  The paper slides down, involved in a council estate ritual and slowly degrades as pages of a wood chip book. Emotional residue remains and goes hard.  Spend the rest of the day picking it off like a scab.  Pray for rain.  Pray for scars so you have a story to tell yourself of another you can cover in paste.

Eels are not disgusting but your culture informs you otherwise.  It has a lot to answer for.  Get excited about your ability to grow a baby inside your body, then pay a teenager to look after it.  Your job makes you feel more important and useful.  You are not an identification.

I’m doing a studying for a moment in the future.  I’m revising for a moment in the future where I will be happy.  Right now I need to be unhappy.  I need to push myself further into nothing to get something later.  Then I will have it all and the little people will make me coffee and I will buy things and enjoy this brief happening of decadence.

I will eat things that make me feel sleepy and sick.

Ideas on how to trick people into clicking on a thing.  Don’t ever say hashtag to me.