A New Trend?

I don't know...

Perhaps so. 

This is the game. 

Public postings that probably should be private made by people who are clearly off their heads and thus...by pressing the wrong key (s) become a form of regretful, bad poetry.  

(HERE GOES) 

Darling baby girl.I love you so so much.Me and you in Ibiza next year ! i say we go for a month ! maybe via Bermuda !?

What do you think beautiful girl ?? i cant wait to see you embracing Ibiza.I say we save for a Villa and live there in a few years.

You are the most beautiful girl in the world......By a country mile !!!!

2 weeks until the 2 most important people in my life re-unite !, Im so happy
that im gonna see it too!! 
Norman will go crazy,you know he thinks about his Mummy everyday.
His passport is ready also baby !!

Love you so much ........X

And Now For Something Completly Different...

I like the title of this blog, so I shall keep it. 

But...

The poems have dried up. 

I no longer am assaulted  

by rubbish papers. 

It's better this way. 

I bought a bike. 

And suggest you do as well. 

I save over 1000 pounds a year,

'am fitter and feel better.

I don't miss the cattle-like

conditions of the tube. 

The hot, standing heat. 

The smells of others' lives

rubbed against my own.  

A journey that once took

an hour, I can cycle in 14 minutes. 

Do I miss reading of Kate Moss'

exploits or seeing pictures

of Amy Winehouse looking a mess? 

Well...life goes on without them. 

I did see a gem, though...in a 'London Lite'

that found its way into my living room. 

Seems like in the future we'll have:

"Bomb-Proof

Super Bins

That Will Tell You

The News" 

It's very difficult to top that. 

Thanks and 'see ya.' 

I wanted to post a picture of myself 

on my bike...outside our house. 

However nature has made

each day a wet or a dark one. 

See you soon, with another idea. 

'Hope it's a bloody good one. 

It’s been the darkest August, ever.
Ever.
Since time began keeping
records.
I keep records, under my bed
where there it is dark as well.
It’s been the darkest August, ever.
Ever.
No sun in the sky no needle in my
eye.
My eyes can’t read, they can’t
read, read in the daytime.

CNN CRAP NETWORK NEWS

I think I have a far and distant memory of when CNN was first launched in 1980. I was 14, and I recall that the network stood out for being innovative as well as entertaining. Then again…I was 14, so what the hell did I know about broadcast journalism or news coverage.

During the years CNN has been a channel that consistently served me well. My obsessive personality was grateful for the extensive coverage of the O.J. trial (A trial because of my then working hours I was able to absorb almost every minute of). Their coverage of the Yugoslav wars was excellent, with Christiane Amanpour providing erections as well as precise news coverage. During Iraq I, CNN was the source for excellent coverage, even though Bernard Shaw thought fit to take shelter behind the sofa as the first attacks took place. Even 9-11 (and I was in New York) it was CNN I turned on to view the horrific spectacle of the second plane hitting the south tower.

Right, so now I am the transposed age of when I first saw CNN and I would like to think at 41 I'm a bit more clued-up than when I was 14, although sometimes I do wonder.
It occurs to me that lately CNN has dumbed-down its news coverage for a demographic not surpassing the age of 10. No longer does it stand out as clever and innovative; it stands out like a load of bollocks.

Today: CNN ran this on their website:

LONDON, England (AP) -- Collectors paid thousands of pounds (dollars) Saturday for letters from British royalty to a trusted servant, including a note from the late Queen Mother Elizabeth requesting the aide pack bottles of gin and Dubonnet for an outing, "in case it is needed."

Pounds (dollars)? What do the two have in common? A pound is worth twice as much as a dollar, for starters. How about writing pounds (currency)? I think more than just being stupid…it’s arrogant: would a news organization in another country, say Greenland write ‘pounds (krone)?’ I think not.

Just after its birthday the ‘United States’ stands out like an ill-educated, overweight boxer…punch drunk on past and fleeting glory. Stumbling, slow. Trudging through muck, self inspired doom and a really bad personality crisis.

CNN provides all the insight to this, in this one encapsulation of the very insular society that becomes more a victim of its own failure each and every year.

Happy (albiet belated) birthday, USA.

‘So sorry things have failed to work out.

Sorry too, for CNN.

You launched like your country: full of promise, full of bright ideas.

You become like your country: no promise, out of bright ideas.

Oh, and just to let you know: your flag is ugly and all the world hates you.

The character Dr. Henry Henry played so very well by Christopher Lloyd in Nick Roeg’s great film ‘Track 29’ once bellowed to his wife, “Women and trains do not mix!” I agree with those sentiments but would like to expand the idea to women and public transportation in general. (There are other things with which women do not mix: mobile phones, for example, but I’ll leave that rant for another day.) Right, this morning on the bus…a sort of posh bird gets on and offers the driver a ten pound note. Of course the driver doesn’t have change for a tenner and so the argument begins. “But I don’t want to be late for wark” the bint wimpers. Oh, oh…you are going to be late for work. Oh no. What about the entire bus load of people you are delaying because you don’t have the basic common sense to purchase an Oyster Card (things Londoners use to travel) or pay with a two pound coin? “Is there a chance that you get some change some where along the route?” Yeah…this is going to happen. And so the discussion went on. Almost equally annoying the bus driver never told her just to 'fuck-off' . So, this four minute banter between the two great brains continued until the driver backed down and let her on the bus for free. So the bitch got a free ride, while all the other customers paid and well, I just hope she wasn’t late for wark

I, however, was. Yes, because of that delay I missed my train, had to wait six minutes for another and turned up 15 minutes late for wark. I curse this ugly soulless bitch and wish her a speedy and painful death. Life would be more liveable without people who can’t think three minutes ahead, women who shuffle through great big hand bags to find there travel card while boarding a bus, after having spent seven minutes waiting for it to arrive. Women who suddenly stop at a tube exit because they suddenly realise they need their ticket to actually get out. The problem is a very simple one to work out. Just think…what am I going to need to do in the next three minutes…and what can I do to prepare myself for it. But no…and alas Dr. Henry Henry will always be correct: “Women and trains do not mix!”

Okay ladies/girls let’s just clear up one thing: right here, right now. Your Ugg Boots were fine for the winter. Great even. You managed to turn London into a female army of furry boot wearing robot manikins. One or two of you even looked good. But now…it’s almost June, ALMOST JUNE. Please, for the love of man, take them off. Take the fucking boots off, ladies. Purchase a pair of ‘flip-flops’, paint your toenails and start living in the present. I’m not asking for a lot. Please. Today?

I mean you would have to,
wouldn't you?
Viva La France...

Family outing.

Girls in old Volvos drive me mad.
Their dogs in the backseat looking so sad.
They're early sixties stylized,
my true ambitions realized.
They're so disassociated and cool
and those dogs, how they drool
on the re-upholstered seats
of discounted, faux, bengal fur.
There are sunglasses hiding

vacant stares, despondent pouts

and looks like, "WHO CARES?"

Turning signals never work

and epoxied dash attachments

and little quirks make me want to scream,

"I LOVE YOU !" each time they drive past.
Four on the floor or three in the tree,

it really makes no difference to me.

Their exhaust is noxious, but then so am I.

Cross my heart and hope to die

stick a needle in my eye but...

Fifty five in the slow lane drives me wild.

They're going nowhere and not getting there fast.
You, Volvo Girl, are rebel. You are outcast.

And it is not your fault that people do not

understand your constant and undeviating

requirement for individuality and your disdain

for the human race. So don't let them stare you in the face .

Because you'll get nothing back but a look that says, "DROP DEAD, DUDE."
I dream to find one broken down one day.
An "eighteen hundred E," my dear
what would you say to your knight in shining armor
coming to your automotive rescue?
You, in your leather jacket and paint splattered jeans,
and that interesting hair cut, you know what it means
to embrace those old Swedish machines
and make them young again
like I know you would me.
And I'd be down on my knees
and you'd rattle your keys just out of my reach.
I want to be your hairless dog
and run on the beach and pick up your sticks
and ride in your car and drool on your seats.
I want to be your ornamental pooch.
To conquer the world back
to an airbagless age with lapbelts and leaded.
So lock me in your cage of dispassionate bemusement
and let's drive, honey.
Let's just drive.

We are
mo......

Bad Friday.

One feels
like one
might die
tonight.

Guilt.
Guilt, guilt guilt.
It gets you






down.

Rest in peace, Anthony.
You were much too young.

So, that was then,
and this is now.
I remember…
you, like
a warm English day.
You took the piss.
Letting me down
hills in my pram.
Pretending you
had died. In any
given afternoon.
I kicked a football
Into boiling water.
You told me
they went to the moon
in my damp, damp room
You are always.
You are always.
Pretending or not.
Alive.
I remember you,
like a warm English day.
Letting me down
hills in my pram.

1926-2008

She awoke
screaming.
Hysterical.
I asked...
but nothing
was wrong.
We keep
our secrets.
She loves her lies.
I worship my sleep.
My pain,
my teeth.
my misunderstanding
our misunderstanding
is
nothing more
than
a word.
Any word
Shout one out:

Rush on supermarkets.
Booze is demanded.
Tesco warns:
'There's enough
for everybody.'
But is there?
Labour pricing pubs
out forever.
And, well I never...
never thought...
I'd see the day or live
the night. Without
a fire by my side.
Without that burning
deep inside.

Alistair, darling
you smug little git.
4p on a pint?
You're taking the piss.

Tax the chavs,
tax the rich...
leave my beer alone.
You cowardly bitch.

Right.

This has nothing

to do with London.

New York, in fact.

1977...1978

about?

Debbie, in fact.

Seems to have

forgotten.
.

Something...

It appears

to me.

Blew Monday.
http://www.liveleak.com/view?i=4d8_1205149248

Find a paper
from 300
years ago.
Same news.
Same crap.
Same worries.
Same rap.

Special Oil
Special Oil
Special Oil
Underline
it your bible.
Use it on your
victims.

No news
I can say.
All made in
the USA.
What rhymes
with Hillary?
Artillery.

They're coming to town.
Indeed they are.
To protest.
They're not
even Sheffield United
supporters. At least
I don't think they are.

http://www.britishpigs.org/breed_we.htm

The King
of Soho
is dead.
Long live
The King.

William...
Would your
mother be proud?

Boy caught
being
naughty boy.
Boy court
smoking.

-.-. .- -. -. --- - --. . - - --- -- .- -.-. .... .. -. . .-.-.- . .- .-. - .... --.- ..- .- -.- . - --- --- ... - .-. --- -. --. .-.-.- -. --- .-- .- - . .-. .-.-.- ..-. .. .-. . ... - .... . -.-- -... ..- .-. -. .-.-.- ... . -. -.. .... . .-.. .--. .-.-.-

Brown in town.
Love to make
Maida move.
Beat the bounce
in Citypink.
The professional
approach to mingling
with lesbians.

Some crazy bitch
is putting tortoises
in the fridge.

Gascoigne Diaries:

June 1996-

Involved in
alcohol-related
'dentist-chair'
incident.

Okay, right...
Ahm, It's 'Official'
we are a nation
of drunks.
London has
the fattest kids.
A knifed boy
was an orphan.
And, Maddie sighting
was actually a different
blonde haired little
girl. Whoda thunk?

Someone
told me
nothing
happened
today.

This charming man...
A Dracula family
whose last name
is Frankenstein.
A crocodile wife
a murderous life.
Reward for your
10 million pound scam?.
At least you're going down
with Fulham.

Obesity is like...
global warming.
Okay, I'll bite.
Fish are like...
carrot batons.
And birth is like...
a point head stick.

Lady Madonna,
When will you learn?
It's not the cocks
you've sucked
or the gallons of sperm.
It's talent you lack.
It matters not
how many a penis
you have blown.
It's talent you lack
you sad old hack.

EDITORIAL

Sooner or later, life will catch up with you. Someone you love or depend upon will leave you or they will die. So, if you have your health and a few coins in your pocket why not do something you enjoy tonight? If you are lucky enough to be in love spoil the one you love. If your not chat someone up on the bus, tube or train. Ask them out for a dinner or a drink. The worst they can say is “no” and you have only your self dignity to lose…and that’s not a lot. Forget about the commercialism of St. Valentines’ Day and have a good time. Shag something. Eat lovely food and drink expensive Champagne. Be in the moment. Moments are, after all, finite. Your moments and your chances will, one day, run out. Then what? Who knows? But that’s when…when life will have caught up with you. So, while you're able…run from the consequences. Flee. Leg it while you still can.

If all else fails and you still find yourself alone do something that will make you happy. If that means taking a handful of barbiturates and rolling into a ball in front of the television…go for it. If you want to go for a long run along the river…do that. Just remember that the clock is also running. And it’s not running in your favour.

On the 452
this morning:
Death boards
at Queenstown
Road. The elderly
scream and
punch windows,
a bid for escape.
Children on
school runs
just laugh
in uniforms
funnel shaped.
Death doesn't make
a fuss. He takes
his seat just like
the rest of us.

Camden Market’s
burning down,
burning down,
burning down.
Fire, will you
take the scumbags
take the scumbags
with you?

Camden Market’s
burning down,
burning down,
burning down.
Fire, will you
take the death flags
take the death flags
with you?

Corpse sands
head found
behind boutique.
Leg set
and torso
oh, tre chic.

Using a mobile phone
does not increase the risk
of AHH shit developing brain
cancer. Ahh. Catn see straight.
Studee found regular use
of DDAAAHHRR devices
did not significantly affect
the human gynone, fucking
sheep everywhere developing
glioma, meningioma and pituitary
adenoma. Ah, hursts to think. Ah,
hurts to think so much all the time.

Chemically treated body parts
on sale to the public:
but, they'll cost an arm and a leg.
16 transparent horizontal slices
of a human (head, neck, torso, extremities).
Standard quality (fragile): €1,400, [£1050]”
says the price list. “Robust quality
(unbreakable): €2,800. [£2100]”
Pet owners are a particularly promising market.
“The little dog can then hang as a transparent slice
on the wall and look at his master for all eternity.”
Cost of a sliced lapdog: €460. A millimetre-thin slice
of a horse's head will be offered for €900-€1,800.

S&M flat.
Hang the
ex-DJ.
Dungeon
full of...
meat hooks.
Found
upside

D o w n

in studded
harness.
Class A
drugs
not B or C
S&M flat
in Battersea.

Shell Oil.
Billions of
pounds
in profit.
But scandal
does embroil.

Big Macs merger
of mice and men.
Two twats chatting
the chicken and the hen.

Free condoms
for under 11’s.
Free breast implants
for under 9’s.
Free penile extensions
for under 7’s.
Free piercing
for under 5’s.
Free Viagra
for under 3’s.
Free circumcision
for under 1’s.

I don't want
to be alive.

I want to be
dead, instead.

Slow.
I might have
another cold.
This one...
from New Zealand.
I'll pay attention
to the snot
to see if
it explodes clock
wise. Or not.

Who polices the police?
20,000 protest.
They want more money.
What's all this about then,
an advert of hypocrisy?
Did they hit you
with a bat, Old Bill,
for leaving your beat?
Did they hit you
with a bat, Old Bill
your violent
plates of meat.
Did they hit you
with a bat, Old Bill
for standing
In the street?
Did you carry your
guns, Old Bill?
Was it a blast?
Are you going to get
pissed, Old Bill?

And then get glassed?

Again, nothing
much. Seems
that young adults
enjoy stabbing
each other to death.
Usually black ones;
but not always.
Ken Livingstone
drinks whiskey
at work and spends
money like it isn't
funny. Nor is he.

Nothing happened.
What?
WHAT?
I didn’t say anything.
Why?
Why…
are you looking at me?
Okay it rained.
It did, yes.
A lot?
Well...
define that.
Okay...
It rained so much
today. It covered
the rain fall for
the entire month.
Happy?
What?
I didn't do it.
I didn't do anything.
It's just...wet.
But...
Oh, the stock market
that...sort of crashed.
I didn't do it, though.
Stop looking at me.
I am innocent.
I am...free
an innocent
in all the above.

(and below)

And they thought
it was just a bumpy
landing. Give the
captain a medal
the size of a frying pan.
They all survive
but...Girl, 19, died
after brushing teeth
with Aquafresh.

Kate is a whore
at thirty four.
Her legs
S P R E A D
so wide. You are
painted. You are
tainted. You sleep,
until it doesn’t matter.
and collapse
in vacant Croydon
chatter.

Water, water
everywhere.
So much you
could drink.
Radcliffe can’t
resist London
calling. Houses
on the brink.

Reasons to be cheerful:
It’s a deadly flesh-eating
form of pneumonia!
Complete with tennis ball-size boils
on the skin: Ladies and Germs,
I give you the USA300 bug!
Even…fatal blood poisoning or…
a necrotising pneumonia
which devours the lungs.
Wait, it gets better…
It’s resistant to conventional antibiotics!
Yes! And…it’s very difficult to treat.
It can be spread by those involved in sports,
such as wrestling, with skin-to-skin contact.
So put those tights away boys.
The potential widespread dissemination
of the infection into the general population is…alarming.
Alarming? Why…set mine, yes set mine
for the end of the world.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

Nobody home.

(Apparently)
Reality shows
‘harm babies.’
ASDA are selling
15 pound designer
suits. In polyester.
(Apparently)

NO NEWS: JUST A FACIAL.

Attitudes toward,
acceptance...
of the act vary widely
depending upon
the specific country,
culture or individual preferences.
It is an expression.
It is.
It is.
It...
Wait a...
Sorry.

Towel?

You could use my jumper.

Go down the Chinky, yeah?

On me.

On me.

All over me.

Boris and Ken
in TeeVee Row?
MP’s ‘fail’
on touts.
Theatre tickets
should be free.
French gay farce
a drag.
Lads line up
to twirl Wills’ girl.
Judging porn
and 'Tubbies'.
Harry snubs
the Toon link.
Brain dead, now
like bunnies.

Everyone
is
ill.
And
not
in
a
funny
way
either.

A man with the blue face,
tries anti-freeze. Trapped underneath
fallen masonry. House of horrors.
9-year-old girl's face mauled.
‘Maddie The Movie’
Cast me, cast me,
as the one,
the one who got in,
the one who got out:
the devil.
Or, the god.
The prince
of tapas.
The acrobat
on the line.
The tight line.
The line...so tight.
It hurts;
It hurts;
so much, daddy.
So much,
daddy.

Baggage law
confusion.
Girl bombarded:
photos of male genitalia.
Leaving out vital information
and failing to mention risks.

Two mothers die
a year…of loans misery.
Gay bar pays the other ways.

Networks fail.
Snow and hail.
A hospital burns.
Parents yearn.
This doctor’s
crazy! They
thought. We’re
quickly crashing
down to naught.

Not much:
train rage,
accidents
and violence
mar new year.
Anger,
hatred, death
and fear.

Being A New Year And All That

I will turn things over to one of the best writers ever...

A true holiday from me.

Ladies and Gentleman...I give you...

Donald Barthelme

And a part of his novel...

'THE DEAD FATHER'

‘FATHERS ARE LIKE BLOCKS OF MARBLE - GIANT CUBES, HIGHLY POLISHED, WITH VEINS AND SEAMS - PLACED SQUARELY IN YOUR PATH. THEY CANNOT BE CLIMBED OVER, NEITHER CAN THEY BE SLITHERED PAST. THEY ARE THE “PAST”, AND VERY LIKELY THE SLITHER, IF THE SLITHER IS THOUGHT OF AS THAT ACCOMMODATING MANOEUVRE YOU MAKE TO ESCAPE NOTICE, OR GET BY UNSCATHED. IF YOU ATTEMPT TO GO AROUND ONE, YOU WILL FIND ANOTHER (WINKING AT THE FIRST) HAS MYSTERIOUSLY APPEARED ATHWART THE TRAIL. OR MAYBE IT IS THE SAME ONE, MOVING WITH THE SPEED OF PATERNITY. LOOK CLOSELY AT COLOUR AND TEXTURE. IS THIS GIANT SQUARE BLOCK OF MARBLE SIMILAR IN COLOUR AND TEXTURE TO A SLICE OF ROAST BEEF? YOUR VERY FATHER’S COMPLEXION!