here is distant

brains thrown up living room walls

A step by step guide to the end of the world sponsored by Jasmine scented candles and the concept of fulfillment

Up the walls down the drain phone calls well trained

all the gear many inches round here time inches

tea, tea, green tea, tea no one wants it more than me

ring more wind blows crawl the floor windows

say goodbyes end the day close the eyes roll away


In my grandma's attic I found an old recipe book the pages were dusty but I could just make out some curious text that read a little strange given the current global health crisis

Simmer for two minutes adding a sprinkle of Coronavirus for a zesty twist take off the heat and serve.


Here's a question for the readership

have you ever shoved your head so far up your own ass that it comes out the other side appearing to an onlooker as if it were still in its original position just above the shoulders

I have and it was stimulating to say the least


Wind in my face on top of a big hill are you jealous how I came to be here how I carry myself or do you not care I ordered a sausage baguette and a pint or two before heading trainwards to a bar for some wine to talk down about the lifestyle of others as if our own were infallible

tell me you care tell me you think of me when playing with my hair my face as absent as your dad has been to you I know it sounds mean but somehow I don't care that we're losing sleep as if we're winning but no one's winning we both think it's worth it as if we're infallible


When I was twenty-four or one of the other ages when some say you should choose who you are, again or for the first time, I was walking home with thoughts that went a little like this:

Wintered into action, sprung into flower. Passion for a season, lust for an hour. Hunger for a reason, but with every must I cower. No one is seeking me out to

Ask me how I am. The contradiction in description would be fiction not fire. Not tiny metal canisters saw my moonlight desire. I'm wild like the flame, but by twelve just a lier. Rested on request from empty streets I tire. I confess I forget to ask how you are...


I remember cutting my first onion thinking

How will I ever get used to this?

My eyes were stinging in pain but today seven years later I can watch the knife pierce the onion's skin with eyes as dry as a bone I guess I did get used to it


If something I say, do or create can enter the vicinity of others, I will always overthink and underplay it for fear of lacking the required clout. You could characterise this as insecurity or, at more of a stretch, as perfectionism. Although aiming for flawlessness feels productive, it's often unattainable when facing my dynamic incoming challenges in social interaction, romance and business.

My perfection pursuit makes me a terrible conversationalist. My internal speech filter will often sound like an officer of the law.

You do not have to say anything. But, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.

I'm slow to text back because I can't without overthinking. I fear judgement of imperfect opinions, which hinders friendships and stalls romance.

I believe perfection in romance can't be achieved anyway, at least not outside of hindsight, wine-sight and loveisblind-sight. Passion is controlled by blustering impulsive winds that don't keep direction or pace. The best we can do is soar or battle towards functional and loving relationships, understanding the effort to do so will never end. Although my love life will never reach perfection, as a romantic I will keep on striving towards it.

In business, perfection isn't the goal, so shiny things outdo clarity. I'm discovering that rigour is less common than impulse and egotistical pride. Progression can be dirty, reached through context abuse rather than diligence. Rhetoric is easier to understand than process, so resonant deception is often propelled over the mechanics of good. I spend longer than necessary working on reports, satisfying a creative need to the detriment of cut-throat capital.

Blogging is a creative outlet with a lot more freedom. When writing I feel in control, as I can fail and improve until there's something I can be happy with. Like in life, I don't know where to go until I've been there. Unlike in life, if nice phraseology is hidden in a mountain of crap, the crap has no reason to still exist. My process is caressing up, addressing around and softly messing until the fruits of the moment become as fuzzy as the time between their conception and recreation. Blogging is a haven.


I'm so interested in myself in what I am and want to the absolute detriment of what I am and want it's why I blog not why I eat scrambled egg, hash browns, baguette, ready salted crisps, my own head


I'd like to apologise for being difficult in the meeting today

let's put it down to my inclination for mischief and your pride of age let's collaborate tomorrow align and click peter then go home

I need to clean my teeth and fall asleep in my own arms lain across my chest like a sky diver who's peaceful, diminishing but far from over


The evidence of 2020 is walking home half an hour with the remnants of freezing storm Ciara in my face work trip to Bucharest cancelled for fear of being quarantined there because of Coronavirus as you were


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