here is distant

brains thrown up living room walls

What do you do in your free time?

I have sex and I take the bins out. How about you?

I can imagine you being very...

Very what?

Very quiet

I'm not a loud person

I can imagine you just sitting there.

Yes, with a mug of green tea and the radiator on.

Don't you get bored?

Yes and it feels nice.


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 I think 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 but 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 because if smashed I'd be lucid to you


I love London probably because I don't live there its streets of global collaboration pulse to the centre of everything pieces of all that's human all that'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.


In January I fell down a deep hole.

February was a mixed bag. I had a delicious cup of tea but also descended into madness.

Things improved in March. I met a wonderful dentist.

I wrote my will in April. I'll be leaving most of my wealth to global conglomerates. The remainder will be divided between oligopoly perpetraters.

I don't remember much of May. It passed quickly, like a holding midfielder.

I'll remember June forever due to the prevalence of the Gregorian calendar.

July felt not like a month, but a river that flows not downstream, but sideways. A strange but promising trench of muddy water.

Sunny, sweaty August. Oh how you lit me up and spat me out like a marzipan candle with a stone centre.

I'm looking forward to September. I can't believe we missed it the first time around.

My grandad's birthday was in October this year. But I shouldn't be publishing this because his birthdate is the code for the burglar alarm at my parent's house.

Remember remember the fifth of November, gunpowder, treason and plot. I know of no reason why my birthday season should ever be forgot.

And finally December! It was great to be home with the family again even if it was a bit stressful with all the Christmas shopping! As we sat down for Christmas dinner, smiles on our faces, we reflected on the year of 2019. And what a year it was! We reminded each other that whilst Christmas presents are important, the gift of love cannot fit in any wrapping paper.

Let's hope 2020 is filled with even more joy!

Happy new year everyone!


I have two headaches, some unread messages and a bottle of water that's three quarters empty. Nose is crinkling thinking.


Said my mother. I've pissed her off again.

I have a dog's funeral and I'm not joking

Said the groupchat.

It's pinot grigio

I said last night, in reply.

You don't remember anything

Accused the girl who stole my eight year old heart.


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 cobbled back together. 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.

Faces in scenery and memories can be pierced by eye contact that consumes insecurity's otherness. I tell myself I'm not the only one who can make a smile, until I no longer need to. Lurking are reflexes to laugh and needs to scream. I want my composed fraught and contradictions spewed all over everyone. Join me in a cultural space, see me in a head place, find me in my dreams


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