It doesn’t like itself
it doesn’t
some would say hate
others know the word is too weak
and it doesn’t like itself
not very much at all
It doesn’t like itself
it doesn’t
some would say hate
others know the word is too weak
and it doesn’t like itself
not very much at all
On the forth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
enough change for a bag of chips afterwards
(but she may not have been my true love)
Had a jacket potato with marmite for lunch.
Farted.
Drank 2 cups of water. 6 more to go, to meet quota.
Walked into work as both car and bike are poorly.
A brief meeting.
Spoke to a man at the army regarding some filming.
Wrote blog.
Blogged down with the mundane detail. This is my minutiae. Did you want to know
about the black outs last night?
I can’t help. Nor explain the feinting this morning.
But I do know: I had a nice chat with a friend, today, and that is something.
Perhaps the small things do count? The details. Maybe that’s the purpose. Stop aiming for the big picture and go for the detail. Concentrate on it. Own it. Control it. You can be your own God, then, for the things that you create.
But no. I don’t think that this is it. You need the high aims to get the small.
Apparently when I walked into the office I looked as though I was going to fall asleep. Whilst walking. Its certainly possible, although I think Iwas fairly alert at that stage. Earier? Well, that would be different. But earlier is always different. That’s the only thing that stays the same.
There was that party
the first time that he cried
really cried
age 7
(and a half)
a junior existentialist
all dressed up
mother proud
hating himself
ignoring friends
the first major down
all those around lost by the tears
convinced that crisps would mend him
There were stones on the path to the
swimming pool
sharp and painful but
they wouldn’t let you wear your shoes
we’d change in the classroom
the blue prefab had large widows and strip lights
boys and girls together
for the afternoon treat
the pool was tiny. You could spit across it, now, if it was
still there, not swallowed by a house
Years after, we’d go to the pool on summer afternoons
drive up in the old red VW
change in the hut
and splash about in the water
trying not to drown
us and friends
when we still spoke
On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
three crabs a crawling
They arrived
at 7.30
to make the collection
into the transit
hired for the new job
I was asleep
didn’t hear the sound of the
lock
or the sound of boots on the stairs
Didn’t wake
not for five days
they said I was one of the longest out
I didn’t know
had never heard of it
so nothing to compare
I didn’t see their faces
don’t know if they had any
(features, that is)
my mind was focussed elsewhere
not on making contact
We talked briefly
they told me what I wanted to know
and let me sleep
a restful mind, see, is a happy one
at least
that’s what they’d have you believe
The fat man with the beer gut
ignored the toilet etiquette
The fat man with the beer gut
peed, and peered
The fat man with the beer gut
proclaimed his pity on his inadequate neighbour
The fat man with the beer gut
Found his stomach no match for a well aimed car
Kirwin’s universal theory of porn states that word association will bring any word to porn within 2 jumps (ie original word > new word > porn).