stroll, cont.

gallery road, someone has written, in reference to the huge colourful scrawls lining the no mans’ land between tracks and building site. NOT TRUE, i want to scream. galleries are not so organic.

greenlight leaning over the tracks, poised. another train hums casually over.

a man up ahead appears at first glance to be pissing, but actually he is sketching a bush.  he is wearing earbuds. i wonder what he is listening to.

it’s too painful to stand on this viewing platform; the drilling is too loud. at least there is a creek today; it flows like a fat slug in the rain. brambles reach into the walkway and i find myself looking for the cracks, the in-between, the clues, caught between decimation and desolation.

this kind of barbed wire looks like a fleur de lis.

the smell of sawdust. cigarette butts and polystyrene. moudly apple core.

luxury flats overlooking the sewage treatment works.

stroll, cont.


Frankham Street smells like an armpit.

Further along this devolves into garam masala and chlorine.

The arches of the train track are all dripping mildew and piss.

Techno scrawled over techno in different coloured paint.

GCHQ= STATS! in melting white.

The roof drips into tiny gravel pits, makes pigeons jump.

A huge crude face on one, tentacles on the next.

Wake up? in red.

Plants burst through cracks in the brick.

A train thunders overhead.

I step into a cloud of mosquitoes.


on cyclical-ness, a hyper-rant essay thing

i am cyclical in the biological and also the creative sense, i can never focus permanently on one specific method or type of creativity, but instead switch between 5 or 6 different types (poetry, prose, songwriting/ music in general, visually creative stuff like graphic design or drawing or photography or filming). i reliably come back to each of these different methods in time (in between worrying that i’ve ‘lost the knack’ or the inclination to do any of the others while focussing on one), usually after a few weeks or so. recently the pattern has been; poetry for maybe 2 months, novel writing for a few weeks, and now songwriting. design has snaked its way in to all of these other than the novel writing part (as yet i’ve not tried to design that big a publication…. plus i only have 23,000 words in quite vague form atm). i’m trying not to focus too much on the ‘visual design’ of my music because i possibly gave too much importance to this in the past. i need to try and work on performing; showing a good version of myself on stage (intending on doing a few open mics soon, watch this space, for recordings also, which i’ve been working on).

i’d like to try and figure out how and why the whole creative cycle thing seems to happen, and if it fits in any way to the biological cycle (i’m currently reading “threads” which is a super interesting book/zine about the physical/social aspects of menstruation); it fits my character because of my sort of hyperactive quality of always wanting to be doing various things at once, switching between things… (anyone who knows me well enough knows i can rarely sit and watch a whole film without fidgeting/ reading/ writing/ drawing or whatever. not that i don’t find films inspiring, actually i get inspired really quickly if i like a film’s aesthetic, or the music that’s used or whatever, and then i just can’t stop thinking about stuff i want to do).

it sounds absurd to feel like i’m interested in too many different things, but my brain is always this big hyperactive sprawl, i picture it as a city where there are different areas dedicated to everything that matters, and everything that might matter. this isn’t a problem; it just means sometimes i need to translate the big powerful river-stream of thoughts and feelings and weirdness and inspiration into words outside my head.

books queued up to read next; the 1st two i got at offprint london the other day which was stressfully full of people but way worth it:

  • bad feelings (AAC collective; collection of essays/ poems about how bad feelings are ok b/c things are pretty bad)
  • go to reception and ask for sara in red felt tip (Holly Pester; poems and short stories based around a library archive)
  • the diary of frida kahlo

music atm:

  • “17”- youth lagoon
  • “living in the city”- hurray for the riff raff
  • “better days”- dark seas
  • “floated in”- frankie cosmos
  • “imagining my man”- aldous harding
on cyclical-ness, a hyper-rant essay thing


Not pastel wonderlands full of mythical creatures, or nightmare dungeons full of my deepest darkest demons. Grey places with no real direction or meaning, flipping past like the leaves of a discarded copy of the Yellow Pages lying in a railway siding. Flat landscapes composed of high hedges on either side of silent country roads, long-crashed cars with the headlights punched out, a low distant unexplained roaring, ominous but strangely comforting. My dreams are s l o w . They form parts of my sub-conscious I never bother to explore during my waking hours; as I believe I’ve stated before, my dreams are not this weird. Life is stranger. But dreams are moreish. Ever wake up from Chapter One and try and relax fast enough to catch Chapter Two?


self-portrait (morning mop)

after bunny rogers


every morning.
mop myself up off the kitchen floor; there’s violet & lilac; azure & indigo; turquoise & teal.
running down into the cracks, between the floorboards.
i am all mess and no substance, as certain figureheads would probably say.
my dreams are not this weird.
usually i teeter on the edge of the unreal; the frayed rope between neon and grey clouds pregnant with rain.
rain falls & replaces me.
i am only untidy due to hue; clear water is not troubling.
(perhaps only the sink leaking?)
it is when violet is involved that things become worrying (for purple is the most vexing colour; unsettlingly close to blue- the easiest colour to see.)
things are always most alarming when they are only not-quite right.
but back to the mopping of myself; the splintered wooden pole, with its soft malleable feet, is my partner.
we dance the foxtrot (if Hesse is to be believed / this is the easiest of the dances).
twist, twist, twist.
the mop is a beautiful thing; by itself it does not clean up.
merely collects the dirt & preserves it.

self-portrait (morning mop)

the problem with the world that we live in

the problem with the world that we live in
is that it isn’t the world that we live in
fuck, 2, 3, 4
find a job, 2, 3, 4
learn the jargon and accept your place and be accepted into a place by the people who make the tea and cakes
learn to fuck, learn when to think for yourself (rarely necessary)
be quiet in libraries and fuck in bedrooms, preferably ones that aren’t yours

the problem with the world that we live in
is that there isn’t any one satisfying problem
ooh, let’s solve it, let’s take it away, let’s crush it down,
down until there’s nothing left

the problem with the world that we live in
is that crushing is an act which repeats forever when it’s started

and it has

the problem with the world that we live in
is that it doesn’t have a face
(the world or the problem)
if it did we could victimise, anaesthetise, villain-ize
instead we do it anyway

the problem with the world that we live in
is it’s just too simple to yell
and without any further thought
there we are
in some sickening jellied pastel world of
“we did the best we could,
it just wasn’t enough”

the problem with the world that we live in
is that it isn’t the world that we live in

the problem with the world that we live in


“As soon as volume exceeds 80db, blood pressure rises. The stomach and intestine operate more slowly, the pupils become larger, and the skin gets paler- no matter whether the noise is found pleasant or disruptive, or is not even consciously perceived… Unconsciously we always react to noise like Stone Age beings. At that time a loud noise almost always signified danger… That is therefore pre-programmed, and when millions of young people hear excessively loud music they register: danger. They become alarmed. That word comes from the Italian Alarm, which in turn leads to all’arme, a call to arms. When we hear noise, we are constantly- but unconsciously- “called to arms”.” – Paul Virilio

A sinister resonance echoes through empty buildings- natural or fabricated? Science fiction or a real-time sonic war, played out in bouncing frequencies ear to ear, mouth to mouth, a snowy construct in a beaten-down land?

The abandoned artifacts of sonic warfare:

  1. An inauspicious telephone kiosk, double handled and facing North, waiting for the order to release chaos.
  2. Cement domes, turned on their sides, monuments to old battles staring proudly, nowadays pointlessly, into the North Sea. Who is out there now? Whose jets would be exposed to the land, roaring inward to invade?
  3. A truck advancing ever closer to the retreating crowd with hands over ears, a loudspeaker mounted atop
  4. A single mosquito swarms to attack a child and warn it away from public space.