My Life. My art.
Thursday, 24 February 2011
Saturday, 5 February 2011
Yellow moonlight, changed scenery, a fly drifts into the neverland of tomorrow,
I just wanted to see the light from outside coming in, im an insomniac, wanting the blame for something else rather than the lack of direction, I could have written books in the space of someone dreams, but this nightmare is not current enough to be rest assured, im so tired of excuses, they haven’t got enough baggage to give you sympathy. I wanted the washed up shore of my thoughts to have something written in the sand, however, you are walking the pebbled sidewalk and hiding yourself in the shade. Get into that light. Drumbeats keep me awake, you should know this. I want you like that when youre sleeping. Feels like im going down down down untop of everything. Im losing ground and you are fixed into that state of mind. It’s a lonely time this shortcut of waiting. Doing something else rather than this. What can I do? Something has to be done for us to make a mark on that shore. The sea sometimes makes me feel like im losing touch. I want to be different and difficult. Wear the wrong clothes but have the right attitude. Be disciplined with no help.
Friday, 4 February 2011
Drunken ramblings
We could live at the end of a rainbow, show the search party that we weren’t
supposed to be found, make a plane out of banana leaves and make them pack their
own suitcases, and when the night comes we dance around the flames of their clothes
being burnt on sticks like naked Indians, singing dancing in the rain and hoping
against hope that when they crossed that bridge to get more fire wood, they wouldn’t
be coming back.
We could break it off and run into the hills, having freaky sex every time the sheep
sound the alarm whilst making plans for our next meal.
We shouldn’t be in the situation of begging for our lives and hoping that we’re not
waiting for nothing.
We’re just constantly running away and smiling all the time.
Lets make our own weed plantation in the middle of the ocean and see how far we can
live off of sharks and their anger.
We’ve finally found ourselves and this is who we really are.
Ceasing to admit that we should be in a mental home for the things we want to do
with our lives.
Live the high life and pretend to marry a bimbo brown head with big tits and an even
bigger lip-glossed mouth, sneering and posing for nothing whilst leaning all of her
weight on your hip, hoping that she wouldn’t get ditched for someone who can
actually see their toes and can actually add numbers together, and can do more than
compliment mistakes.
Hopefully you can resist the urge to fuck her until she screams, more pain that way
I’ve heard.
But yes, live the high life, smoke whatever is circulating in that tighter than tight
circle of people who knew your father or your dead brother and are hinting for
unlimited favours, whilst you sweat it out and beg silently that tonight can be an
evening of simple gossip, no business being dancing the last dance with someone who
has the ticket to the Almighty stretched across their forehead in neon lights.
So many conclusions whisper at you and your doorstep that seems to be fully open for
anyone, even the thieves and the night stalkers who want a good time.
Good time?
We seem to need something more than this.
Let’s attack the sunlight with plastic swords and make noises containing magical
animals make for our own enjoyment; we could escape in our own little game where
no one knows the rules and no one wants to see the end result.
We could experience each other by exploration and exploitation.
I could be your best friend or your worst enemy, and that is the beauty of it.
Have you ever done anything that you didn’t want to do? Stop thinking and fucking
do it.
Sing that song that makes the girls want you more and then laugh in their faces
because you are too intense for their tastes.
We should go back to that banana plane and set it off in the sky like a huge kite and
illustrate its amazing ability to fall down and explode green flashlights with
whooshing spectacles of our love in this place.
Cancel out the feelings of reality and reach for the stars in the what-ifs of our
understanding of anything that has nothing to do with us.
There are too many dictators in this society therefore I vote for you to make them
believe everything you say; make them humiliate each other by having a contest to
see how many silly expressions they can make whilst their mouths are trapped behind
felt tip pen coloured duck tape.
Be two steps ahead and walk behind those who run in circles, wanting to know the
truth about the Bible.
But what can I do with you whilst you are in that state, you know the one, where you
ask rhetorical questions at the walls, at the skies and want to blind yourself in constant
study of the whys in historical banter that emphasise that the past shouldn’t be messed
with.
C’mon, disappear with me; make me a smoothie in a witch’s cauldron and chant the
list written in your own hand, that show all of the things that I could do to you, to
make you smile that crazy smile.
We should go dancing un-top of someone’s house and hope against everything that
we get some attention. Get the karma policemen and the screaming boys to chase us
down the stairs instead of the elevators and scratch the priceless pictures in the
lobbies, tear down everything that is fake, grab a couple of ecstasy driven loser artists
to paint the walls the way they were supposed to be in the eyes of deranged
psychopaths.
Are we the lunatics or the brains of this fourth dimension?
I don’t care when the moment I wake to the moment I sleep we’re not the ones
sponging off of a couple of well dressed men behind too big desks made out of some
trees in the middle east.
I just want to go back to the beginning, with the dancing naked like Indians with the
thought that the bridge has broken and we’re alone in the world with the birds and the
bees.
No internet connection can cure us and expect us to grow up as we’re always waiting
to get onto that 4 o’clock bus packed to the max; tearing off each others personal
space and not meeting each others eyes as the tin can moves with a lurching rhythm.
Not like our music under the stars, under the roof of a tent, under the influence of
alcohol and drugs. We need to get more firewood before the darkness shows the
withering bouquets that you left on my doorstep.
I want to forget the fire side stories, instead we can shout for a miracle that someday
we will get our way, a constant stream of good will, of festivals in the day and night
and where they mix together for always.
We want to see the candles that fight with the wind and see its burnt out mistakes in
the morning.
Sex, punk rock and roll and intensity in the lower intestine; as we wake up with the
knowledge that whatever weather hits our zipped up door, we’re ready for it, we’re
ready for the music and the fist fights and the gossip in groups and the changing of
attitudes that are frequent as the clouds.
Let’s read a healing book to pass the time and make do with voodoo and the pin
cushioned doll that was made for your last birthday.
Make it happen and it will.
Lean our heads out of a fire war aircraft and in that moment our heads fly off, our
eyes water without the aid of sorrows and our mouths are gaping wide, showing the
need to brush our teeth.
Rock and roll in the roller coaster where no one is strapped in properly. That’s a
whole lot of fun banking on your security and safety when the track ends in a
heartbeat, and your heart has actually beaten you to the game.
We want ice cream and scream for the rides that we cant afford to break down to the
misfortune of others; they shouldn’t give us the evil eye for we have been there
ourselves.
We’re cowboys in the wild east and facing the west of the end of the world and
partying all the while, knowing that the bearer of good news is on their lunch break.
Our flame inside of ourselves is like the Indian induced flames of the firewood.
Our banana plane has shamefully broken itself up over our bad skills of making a
massive aircraft like the ones in our dreams.
Don’t get tired of the imagination of a 30 something year old; they seem to understand
the consequences and vanquish the demons on the computer screen better than any 10
year old we’ve ever seen.
Better even, then the well dressed men behind those big desks sipping champagne of
cloud 6, climbing the makeshift lift to the next deal and wishing the public, the natural
and unusual public of both the inspired 30 something as well as the 10 year olds
would listen to them for one freakin’ second.
We should make a new lesson in how great it is to shut up and smile as well as chew
their faces off.
It’s better than trying to talk at any rate.
At least those with duck tape stuck to their mouths know the difference. It’s ingrained
unto their names. Much like us; we have names, we have places to go, people to see,
but the choice is still there. We could watch the world go by and let people fed our
mouths with all kinds of garbage from the social network.
supposed to be found, make a plane out of banana leaves and make them pack their
own suitcases, and when the night comes we dance around the flames of their clothes
being burnt on sticks like naked Indians, singing dancing in the rain and hoping
against hope that when they crossed that bridge to get more fire wood, they wouldn’t
be coming back.
We could break it off and run into the hills, having freaky sex every time the sheep
sound the alarm whilst making plans for our next meal.
We shouldn’t be in the situation of begging for our lives and hoping that we’re not
waiting for nothing.
We’re just constantly running away and smiling all the time.
Lets make our own weed plantation in the middle of the ocean and see how far we can
live off of sharks and their anger.
We’ve finally found ourselves and this is who we really are.
Ceasing to admit that we should be in a mental home for the things we want to do
with our lives.
Live the high life and pretend to marry a bimbo brown head with big tits and an even
bigger lip-glossed mouth, sneering and posing for nothing whilst leaning all of her
weight on your hip, hoping that she wouldn’t get ditched for someone who can
actually see their toes and can actually add numbers together, and can do more than
compliment mistakes.
Hopefully you can resist the urge to fuck her until she screams, more pain that way
I’ve heard.
But yes, live the high life, smoke whatever is circulating in that tighter than tight
circle of people who knew your father or your dead brother and are hinting for
unlimited favours, whilst you sweat it out and beg silently that tonight can be an
evening of simple gossip, no business being dancing the last dance with someone who
has the ticket to the Almighty stretched across their forehead in neon lights.
So many conclusions whisper at you and your doorstep that seems to be fully open for
anyone, even the thieves and the night stalkers who want a good time.
Good time?
We seem to need something more than this.
Let’s attack the sunlight with plastic swords and make noises containing magical
animals make for our own enjoyment; we could escape in our own little game where
no one knows the rules and no one wants to see the end result.
We could experience each other by exploration and exploitation.
I could be your best friend or your worst enemy, and that is the beauty of it.
Have you ever done anything that you didn’t want to do? Stop thinking and fucking
do it.
Sing that song that makes the girls want you more and then laugh in their faces
because you are too intense for their tastes.
We should go back to that banana plane and set it off in the sky like a huge kite and
illustrate its amazing ability to fall down and explode green flashlights with
whooshing spectacles of our love in this place.
Cancel out the feelings of reality and reach for the stars in the what-ifs of our
understanding of anything that has nothing to do with us.
There are too many dictators in this society therefore I vote for you to make them
believe everything you say; make them humiliate each other by having a contest to
see how many silly expressions they can make whilst their mouths are trapped behind
felt tip pen coloured duck tape.
Be two steps ahead and walk behind those who run in circles, wanting to know the
truth about the Bible.
But what can I do with you whilst you are in that state, you know the one, where you
ask rhetorical questions at the walls, at the skies and want to blind yourself in constant
study of the whys in historical banter that emphasise that the past shouldn’t be messed
with.
C’mon, disappear with me; make me a smoothie in a witch’s cauldron and chant the
list written in your own hand, that show all of the things that I could do to you, to
make you smile that crazy smile.
We should go dancing un-top of someone’s house and hope against everything that
we get some attention. Get the karma policemen and the screaming boys to chase us
down the stairs instead of the elevators and scratch the priceless pictures in the
lobbies, tear down everything that is fake, grab a couple of ecstasy driven loser artists
to paint the walls the way they were supposed to be in the eyes of deranged
psychopaths.
Are we the lunatics or the brains of this fourth dimension?
I don’t care when the moment I wake to the moment I sleep we’re not the ones
sponging off of a couple of well dressed men behind too big desks made out of some
trees in the middle east.
I just want to go back to the beginning, with the dancing naked like Indians with the
thought that the bridge has broken and we’re alone in the world with the birds and the
bees.
No internet connection can cure us and expect us to grow up as we’re always waiting
to get onto that 4 o’clock bus packed to the max; tearing off each others personal
space and not meeting each others eyes as the tin can moves with a lurching rhythm.
Not like our music under the stars, under the roof of a tent, under the influence of
alcohol and drugs. We need to get more firewood before the darkness shows the
withering bouquets that you left on my doorstep.
I want to forget the fire side stories, instead we can shout for a miracle that someday
we will get our way, a constant stream of good will, of festivals in the day and night
and where they mix together for always.
We want to see the candles that fight with the wind and see its burnt out mistakes in
the morning.
Sex, punk rock and roll and intensity in the lower intestine; as we wake up with the
knowledge that whatever weather hits our zipped up door, we’re ready for it, we’re
ready for the music and the fist fights and the gossip in groups and the changing of
attitudes that are frequent as the clouds.
Let’s read a healing book to pass the time and make do with voodoo and the pin
cushioned doll that was made for your last birthday.
Make it happen and it will.
Lean our heads out of a fire war aircraft and in that moment our heads fly off, our
eyes water without the aid of sorrows and our mouths are gaping wide, showing the
need to brush our teeth.
Rock and roll in the roller coaster where no one is strapped in properly. That’s a
whole lot of fun banking on your security and safety when the track ends in a
heartbeat, and your heart has actually beaten you to the game.
We want ice cream and scream for the rides that we cant afford to break down to the
misfortune of others; they shouldn’t give us the evil eye for we have been there
ourselves.
We’re cowboys in the wild east and facing the west of the end of the world and
partying all the while, knowing that the bearer of good news is on their lunch break.
Our flame inside of ourselves is like the Indian induced flames of the firewood.
Our banana plane has shamefully broken itself up over our bad skills of making a
massive aircraft like the ones in our dreams.
Don’t get tired of the imagination of a 30 something year old; they seem to understand
the consequences and vanquish the demons on the computer screen better than any 10
year old we’ve ever seen.
Better even, then the well dressed men behind those big desks sipping champagne of
cloud 6, climbing the makeshift lift to the next deal and wishing the public, the natural
and unusual public of both the inspired 30 something as well as the 10 year olds
would listen to them for one freakin’ second.
We should make a new lesson in how great it is to shut up and smile as well as chew
their faces off.
It’s better than trying to talk at any rate.
At least those with duck tape stuck to their mouths know the difference. It’s ingrained
unto their names. Much like us; we have names, we have places to go, people to see,
but the choice is still there. We could watch the world go by and let people fed our
mouths with all kinds of garbage from the social network.
Thursday, 3 February 2011
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