January 2011
4 posts
Watch
Multiple apologies coming at you like tubercular...
Laser, lasers, dartboard full of lasers.
Starting citizen journalism.
Right now.
Mrs. Old Lady
Lost her cat
Who we find
Dead and decaying in the flowerbed
That half
That didn’t get fucked and eaten
By the hoodies
Who live in the bitter glow
Of sodium lights
Bright in areas
Where stabbing isn’t
Blight in areas
Where easy clichés breed like
Sweaty fucking journalists
...
Things have been telling me so...
for a long time too long and too fucking boring to relate. This is a middle class disaster happening fitfully, but spiralling, to show a minimal abyss opening up.
The main fact being I am embarrassed to complain.
About the beset set of shits and charlatans, in object and subject, beset and reset by my continuing, and unwelcome (mark that, this is not a trajectory somehow embraced by self...
Storage
Clearly lacking faders
Once luminous, now dim. It burnt with cold. Sucked anti-entropic from anything nearby, so you’d get warmer as it got cooler. I kept it in the shed at the bottom of my garden. The shed sheltered under the sticky sycamore, and late nights I’d sit inside staring at the thing’s faltering glow, hearing, but not listening to, the wind whisper through the...