Thanks for coming to my presentation
for those who don't know me
I'm distant and here
if you do
expect the expected to not be surprised
this session would be most beneficial if it was interactive
but it isn't
so buckle up, you turgid listeners
I put my repression in a slideshow
then presented a self to the town
It overran and so am I
with all your sneering would've thoughts
you look ugly when you hiss at me
and when you don't
imagine if I were any better
than dishwasher proof glassware claiming not to be
if smashed I'd be lucid to you
I love London
probably because I don't live there
its streets of global collaboration
pulse as the centre of everything
pieces of all that's human
it's now with a sliver of tomorrow
there's a fuckton of poverty
and baby faced posh boys drinking in pubs
time to go
I drag a mouse all day to meet an end found in the heads of boys who are paid like men to get up from bed with work that's just some made up free time. I went to work for nine then did more at home till when the phone's clock still in my coat said it's a new day since thoughts of rest were had as if it could be done.
My weekends have boozy eyelids that open and close to the tune of drizzle. Now they're heavy to crackling spa waters and chilly feet. Saturday's chords closed doors that opened again for post-post-coitus of washing up gone piled. There simply was no forks left. My grandchildren won't know about the ripped naan two days from Monday but I'll tell them about the Sunday Trading Act 1994. They might suggest I liver a better life or never start to exist.
The foetus months felt like only days. Incubation seemed so vividly memorable, until outside took its toll. I've seen old photographs and made new ones with all my camera phones. Snap, snap, stop. My time with no direction has given me seeds of natural selection. A warm welcome to the brood of years to come.
Acres of vapid humdrum spout wispy nothings and creeping misfortunes. In desolation, nature doesn't stop feeding itself. Elsewhere the silent air hangs mightier. Stirred not yet ignited. Wincing, trapped in comfort. Degrading but dying to feel. I've looked after my body with cookies, and my tumbling mind with a song.
Naked and sweating, bathing charmed for an hour. Now I'm clothed and blogging. It's funny how we, conversation and snoozing machines, choose to be entertained. Haha! Either we hurt each other because we hate ourselves, or my perceptiveness is a little off-kilter. Is my receptiveness a little too filtered? I'll receive a fuckton of Christmas. So please, let's enjoy this most wonderful time of the year.
My eyes were wide, my mouth was wider and squeaking erratic frenzied vowels. My brains were thrown up living room walls, where they dripped down towards the skirting boards. I wasn't distressed just fleetingly home alone, eating cereal and picking shit up.
Before too long, the lights went off again and a self was arranged. As tasks of necessity became pasts of necessity, the rock and hard place metaphor came to mind. I considered it altogether ill-fitting, because if my hard place was a post-work engagement, that would make work my rock. I don't think so.
Today, faces in scenery and memories were pierced by eye contact reminding me I'm not the only one who can make me smile. Under my reflex to laugh is a need to scream out in composed fraught. I want everyone to watch me in a cultural space but find me in my dreams.