I tried to sleep in the wardrobe cos the bed felt lonely, but the bed felt lonely and soft like felt, like it has done in the past, so I then resigned myself to dreaming sensibly about normality in a bed of formalities. The white walls mock me with their lack of pigmentation. I surrender to the art of doing nothing but staring blankly into space. The clock remembers every promise I make for the sake of reminding me each night before I go to bed in a state of betrayal. I insist on not being woken. This silence is a token of my gratitude. Everything must be done so that there is nothing left to do, not even write. Who will read me? Who is reading me? Who missed the interpretation, but made it to rehearsal as if their life depended on it? I forget my lines. Forget my lines. Dissect everything. Put it all back together again at last, the end is insight, but remains distant and emotionless. I lay distant and motionless so you don’t notice, until they hatch into up close, in focus and dynamic. I die slowly and controlled, and add soul to the group dynamic. Add salt to the stew for Yannick, he’s low in sodium, and I’m high on life. He dwells in a cellar and I ride a bike. Music is how my ears absorb nutrients, you knew this for years but still hid the headphones. I’m not a good public speaker. I soundclash with the rhythm of pulsating stares and visible thoughts. My madness is my method; my goodness is what big ears you have. I’m a great listener, listening is easy, easy listening and judgmental to your face about your face, but unwilling to face the consequences for fear of losing face. I’m a simple manmade boy in the mind of an imaginary figure of complex proportions. I was about seventeen by the time I began to wilfully blow my nose instead of simply sniffing. Growing up is the feeling you get looking back on yourself realising that you were always this way. Artificial light shits in the face of the sun and everything he stands for. I take comfort in knowing I took office supplies to comfort myself for my lack of knowledge about who supplies our office with office supplies, and then act surprised when I’m told that stealing is a crime. Nursery is a rhyme, school is a bagpipe solo and college is funeral for a friend. I will write alliteration’s obituary and shed a skinny tear over a vegan canapé at the wake. But when I die I’ll leave a cloud of dust in my wake and a well-deserved jar of ashes to dust off once a month or so. Water is just melted ice, which is just solidified gases, which are full of nothing and invisible to the naked I. I naked, stand in my bedroom and fake interest in my clothes. Following fashion doesn’t make you right, case closed. The drink was laced like a shoe full of cyanide and eight toes. I sip the sunlight and provoke dusk from behind a pint glass. Gravity must not affect me. I cannot find equilibrium, nor fly. Bees in the buttermilk, birds in pie, over the rainbow refusing to cry. I’m choosing to take interest in currant affairs and raisin relationships. She’s the dried apple of my eye, and I’m the banana in her breakfast porridge, while eye on the other hand glares at nose on the other face from across the table. We periodically exchange unstable glances for a break in the monotony of chewing and swallowing. Blood plays my organs for fools, fulfilling a philharmonic destiny of cellular proportions. An animal knows that it must eat and drink to survive but knows nothing of digestion, therefore I am lead to believe that each individual cell must possess its own consciousness, and strive to achieve a predetermined goal that is ultimately the same as every other cell, animal, plant and human in existence. To achieve oneness. I am to belief what passivity is to knowledge. Why does the sky insist on appearing false? Or does everything look feigned from far away? The farmers they fade away, and shepherds reminisce with delight over red nights and a takeaway. I am a microcosm among microcosms that cannot fathom the possibility of trees, for they were born myopic in the city with USB umbilicals. I disrupt my experience of time as a constant by lifting heavy weights in five sets of five repetitions. Light mimics everything slow enough to be caught in the act of having merely physical presence in a multidimensional universe of our own making. Opposites attract, like similes and metaphors detract from any pleasure that may be derived from enjoying the simplistic nature of all things. I’ve thought this through. I began as an electrochemical impulse in response to the irony of boredom as a stimulus, slowly snowballing and gathering speed under the ever watchful eye of the rational mind, and the iron fist of stubborn resistance to what it is that troubles us. I emerged from the other side a soldier who has earned his stripes, only to return home a veteran of a lost cause, a loophole in unholy wars. You owe me recognition, a deck chair, and at least a porcelain pot to piss in. I listen to the conversations of people who talk loudly and pretend they don’t want you knowing their business, because they get to be right and heard, instead of quiet and wrong. I refuse to look at people who want to be noticed. Especially the women. I also refuse to look at people who want you to look at them so that they can have a conversation and some human contact under the pretext of a highly macho and ego driven physical altercation, because they need to learn effective social skills. The days of bullying the girls you like are long over. Be nice to the people you hate. I’d rather be hated for my kindness than perpetuate such catchphrases as ‘treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen’. I have a preference for turning in an anticlockwise direction. I would like to be browner, have better posture, a good singing voice, and the ability to die and be reborn at will, knowing all that I have learnt up until this point. Bad timing is the astigmatism in the eye of the beholder, and religion is the not so benevolent optician. Calluses are the stigmata of the working man. I am not the working man, the white man, the man upstairs or the man you married. I’m just too racist to even begin thinking about tolerating gay men, let alone sleep with one. Never forget where you came from. Knowing what a vagina is can be very useful whether you own one or not. He then proceeds to write that the dictionary is full of useless words and that there is no need to expand ones vocabulary as it would just take you longer to get your point across if you choose to use unnecessarily long sentences full of unnecessarily long words. Find a word and repeat it until the meaning wears off and you find yourself repeating a meaningless sound. I find myself repeating myself a lot, and then I escort him back home and make sure he gets a good rest. I find it difficult to imagine anything other than what I can currently see, hear, and feel. It makes me wonder how I get out of bed in the morning, and whether I actually did wake up today, or I’m experiencing one of those epic dreams that take place in that small space between when you last looked at the clock and when you turn your attention to the construct of time once again. Every word looks the same. It amazes me that some sort of sense can be filtered from this mass of horizontal and vertical lines of black. I today imagined that inspiration must be a process of converting or shifting energy from the person or source of inspiration on to the inspired individual. Since the feelings that accompany a moment of inspiration cannot be attributed to a spontaneous surge of energy that originates inside the subject himself, it must be that the origins of this energy are at least second hand in nature. The shifting of energy goes hand in hand with the changing of moods and emotions. Does this mean that we require large energy supplies in order to achieve or maintain good, or better feelings? No. In fact the process occurs in the opposite direction, where better moods elevate our energy levels and enable us to participate in areas of life that were unavailable to us in our bad moods. If this is true, then where is the origin or source of this energy that is available only at specific moments? If this is not true, then we could surely all find happiness through eating the right foods and perhaps exercising enough. Health and happiness appear to be interconnected, but good health does not equate to happiness. I don’t believe that I yet understand or know enough science to live in peace. I rest in pieces, shattered by the toil of fragile existence, pacing patiently in my dreams, awaiting someone to decipher them and arrange me in the morning light under clean sheets so I can turn over a new leaf. Spring fails to do its name justice and the jury cannot decide whether to bring a sweatshirt just in case. I pack sunscreen and draw heat as a series of wavy lines emanating from a hot surface. I’m convoluted on the surface, but harbour contrived insides like convicted ships of disgrace. Grace has a non stick coating and a limited warranty, and even less appeal, so it must pay a fine or serve one hundred hours community service. I serve my community by keeping out of their way, so I stay home and play games on the home computer. Solitaire is my arch nemesis and addiction is my angular sidekick in whom I place all my trust fund. A modest and abstract piggybank with human feelings. Come see me rolling in the mud. It never rains when I want it to, my desire lives in a perpetual state of anhydrous belief. The stormy season yields nothing but a static atmosphere charged with aiding and abetting the self fulfilling prophecies of my youth. I live a treble life, and all of them are troubled, I try to place the pieces right but they seem to be muddled. Fortune flavours the brave but bland, so fate can savour the taste first hand. The second hand’s a better man than I am, for I am but a grain of sand in an hour glass, with lofty aspirations of synchronicity. We’ve got everything but the kitchen sink in the city. Oh the elusive sink! Ever out of grimy grasp, but not for lack of wanting. He then surveys the area, questions the bare feet and the fresh sheets, and thanks them for their time. This is not a circular. This is very straightforward and easy to understand. What lies beneath my skin is a misleading heart and an untrustworthy gut. Stomach acid isn’t proof that I care. God is the ventriloquist of my ventricles, and I exist like a breath of fresh air. I have no faith in involuntary reactions so I’m thinking about outsourcing actors to play the roles of my bodily functions. Woody Allen will play the part of my neurotic and overcomplicated sweat glands. Certificate PG. If you were home alone and fell over, making a loud crashing sound on your way down as you knocked over various items in your hallway about twelve minutes ago would you be drunk, old, ill, dying or dead, or any combination of the above? It’s my duty to pose these questions to myself like catwalk models with a humble sense of low self esteem under oppressive stage lighting. There will always be migration, separation, divorce, disorder, erosion, wear and tear, displacement and replacement, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, and therefore dust to dust. I sum up the futility of life with a proverb about housework. The trials of every organism pale in comparison to the ordeal that energy itself goes through. I sympathise with the potential, but lack empathy for my kinetic kin. I’ve been doing a lot of soul searching recently, and so far I’ve drawn a blank, and painted an empty mural devoid of any spirit. My spirit is white, and artists with colourful language come to bathe in my presence like a holy river. Life giver and life taker, the pensive pen and peaceful paper. I’ve made my peace with everyone and everything, reality is a collage, and the experience of time is the PVC glue that dries transparent and enables sense to adhere to the rules of existence. In a sense I am the imperfect tense of stick, but I am not without guilt, blemish, or tension. Happiness occurs as a movement of arms, like a shipment of chemical weapons to a place you know little of, and care even less about. It seems odd that more people are choosing to fight insecurity with chemical weapons, when civil war requires chivalry, and the cavalry haven’t learned their lessons. I did my homework and earned a living stuffing envelopes in an imaginary job. This is not a pyramid scheme. This is an upwards spiral that is cascading dangerously out of control like a ten ton slinky that threatens the conventions of a Jenga society, placed at the bottom of an inevitable set of stairs. I collect longing looks of desire in my role as connoisseur of modern expression, but I moonlight as a bathroom mirror in the house of God, just to get an imperfect Perspex perspective on things. I take offence to those who behave in ways that expose my most hated traits. I betray humankind with my honesty and waltz through the valley of the shadow of debt wearing sunglasses. Fashion is an untamed beast that roams the streets in broad daylight without fear, preying on the young and weak. We need an irony-free knight in shining armour to vanquish this hideous monstrosity. It pains me deeply to think that there are people who share the same taste in music as me, yet behave like music that I hate. They are the celebratory back flip of fools in a humble auditorium to my discreet footwork of a blind ballerina behind closed doors. Few who know the secrets of sanity are able to endure the Chinese water torture of a dripping clock. I read between the enemy lines and find empathy in no man’s land. She’s nomadic, and has had her stature transformed by sadness like weathered rock that saw better days in heaven’s sock. Good intention is the building block of Satan’s highway, and we drive our SUVs to work out of the innate kindness in our heart cells. I am the nucleus of the universe, but equally irrelevant as the rest. Let sleeping dogs lie, pay them no mind, and someday they shall awake to the truth that is embodied by physical form. Your body is a temple, your Achilles heel, a crack in your code of armour for the apparent arrows of your opponent’s composure. The flesh is weak and decomposes slowly, wishing to hang on by tooth and nail, but then come hell and high water shortly followed by hail. Will you greet death with surprise when you meet your demise? The way you die is a reflection of your personality and intrigue. I will forever associate spring onions with a man’s exposed butt cheeks due to an unfortunate sequence of events that will tarnish the immaculate veneer of enjoyment of many a summer luncheon much like a persistent wasp irresistibly drawn towards the picnic table of life. Tightly bound skin resonates with the beating of drums and the rhythmic cries of distraught strings. Every note carries with it my DNA as if a confession in a bottle sentenced to life imprisonment. Comfort has chosen to hide its elusive face in unfamiliar territory this time, opting for sombre spontaneity in place of faithful predictability. No one could forecast my skill over a rain-soaked crystal ball. I understand the needs of the wind and the demands that winter makes of us. Summer makes fools of us by honouring promises. Do not deny your desire, it is a forest fire in a national park. They disguise the limit with starlight and galactic glow, but the sky’s the limit and we’re acting slow. The space race is a struggle to find seating on public transport during rush hour. The industrial revolution is the way everything revolves around money and business. The Iron Age was left to rust outside the realms of human memory. The summer of love will not punish us with skin cancer and drunken rage. The big bang is the sound of a car exhaust backfiring. The birth of word is the weak link in the chain of events that follow. I am a leader of feet and toes, body goes where head goes. I am an extrovert, solid matter is the result of my personality. I see my insides in the dusk light and my guts spilling across the rolling hills. I behold the beauty of it all like a proud owner. In spirit I am my material possessions, and will live on after death as a ghost story. I direct sunlight and capture the results like fugitives on film, method acting in a role they relate to. I find it difficult to connect with people who are the same as me, for they drain me of compassion. I try to live my life by imagining I am someone else wishing they were in my shoes, doing what I’m doing. Chlorophyll is a standard by which all grasses are measured. Electricity fills my head too much. When I am awoken from sleep in the middle of the night I believe in things that aren’t true. My opinion is always right. There is no such thing as lack of confidence, only a belief in self doubt. Allow the defence to rest in pieces as righteous pulp at the bottom of a tired case of orange juice. Retired is another way of saying ‘worn out’. I do not wish to retire. The tread on my wheels is fine, but I fear the journey may be wearing thin. To fall in love is the greatest honour circumstance may ever grant you. Don’t play the dentist to a surgery of gift horses. Get an uplifting job. Antonio is a special hamster, he sleeps in the bed with me and he can talk. He has his own passport. I paid four hundred pounds to bring him back with me. I’m not crazy. Yesterday I discovered that the most annoying thing is when two people you don’t like who don’t like each other decide to try and have a conversation. Chitchat is idle engines in endless traffic, releasing poison gases to spoil the planet and its atmosphere. The world’s not perfectly round, but that’s a geological fault that tax dollars can’t fix. Money makes the world go round in a triangular universe. The dilemma is that I am caught in a cubic relationship of opposites with mind, body and soul. Remaining equidistant and indifferent to one another. But I must assert myself as the dominant male with fringe verging on eye contact, like lovers soon to agree. My indulgences impress no one, my depression survives by breeding with familiarity as second choice in an overly idealistic and romanticised, abusive relationship. I wish there were no arms to have hands to write these things that mind thinks, but better never begin, once begun, better finish. It’s always an indivisible question, does everyone at least at some point wish to die faster for the sake of completeness? Life is in complete disarray, all perfect in pieces, that’s the order of the day. The night time requests that we rest, but I plot a fine course to go against the grain of reason. The route of all evil is treason, and I start the journey with a single shingle step with bare feet, while the rest prefer to bear arms. I wear a vest and hold my tongue like a gun with a hair trigger, ready to split arguments into centre parted particles and follicle molecules. I expose fraudulent moments on film with the plainest honesty of daylight to face up to. Art is a façade, interior decorating is the real self improvement, unless the shelf is inferior. Beauty penetrates my stomach walls to the point of nauseation, so potential lovers are forced to carefully navigate the subtle intricacies of my majestic bowel in order for me to feel any emotion, other than pangs of mere indifference. In different situations I savour the flavour of love as my bittersweet saviour. I live again every time someone who shares my name does something that I would not. They’re in the supermarket picking things off the shelves that their mothers refuse to buy, they’re in playgrounds going up the slide backwards and pushing in front of other children, and for that I thank them. I used to spend my time playing computer games, watching TV, and feeling lonely. I sold my computer, and gave up the TV, but nothing’s changed. Growing up is learning how to live with your own dishonesty. Wisdom is learning how to live with others’. Humanity is only as strong as the missing link. Unfortunately, I rarely find strength in anything other than hatred and anger. I have more experience of people talking about the things they hate or fear than actual experience of those things themselves. There is no discernible line between what I imagine, and that which can be considered fact. When creating anything do not consider the facts or take plausibility into account. She said that the clouds on grey days reminded her of the convoluted surface of the human brain, hence her melancholy. I tried to comfort her with Freudian anecdotes of reassurance, but she failed to see the funny side of my cerebellum. She plucked a stone from the stony ground and tossed it lightly in her palm like a light kitten, before tossing it at a light kitten. We continued on through the heat, losing in straight sets to immaculate temperatures and drinkable humidity that demanded humility. Her mind was a fortress of tin cans and habit that I consistently attempted to conquer with a multitude of Swiss army questions, but to no avail. She tossed her hair lightly to one side, much like a kitten with a stone. The enjoyment she seemed to squeeze from the lungs of every gesture puzzled me like the systematic process of elimination in Sudoku. Was this a normal relationship? No. Was this a normal girl? Providing that he exists and is omniscient, God knows. We came to a stop but carried on walking through the tall grass like a couple of playful snakes. The mystery of her motivations hung in the air like drying bed sheets. She seemed to be gaining momentum, and began to pull ahead as if in a state of perpetual falling maintained by the daintiest of feet. I wore my t-shirt like a sponge straitjacket, the short sleeves felt like cuffs choking at my arms. I punished myself for perspiring to such a degree, and cursed my dense limbs for their inability to keep up. I had lost my bearings like a scattered bag of marbles on a polished floor, and was hurdling over intuition into oblivion. The sky cracked and shed a thousand tears instantaneously, and forced me to face my own growing vulnerability, now standing alone and weather-beaten in a field somewhere. Two hemispheres solidify in the thickened mud of my mind, but my body has overruled any decision I may have arrived at, and so I now lay like a precious egg on a bed of dampened straw, trying to locate the exact origin of every individual raindrop. They fall gracefully to earth in some unknown sequence, like a message in Morse code from the heavens. They stain my cheeks like false emotion, for I am in a complex of peaceful moments, calmly trapped in their subtle embrace. I swerve recklessly across the central reservation of thought directly into oncoming traffic. My Life flashes before my eyes before I have a chance to reminisce about how perfect it all was. The train’s complacent wheels tell a familiar story as we pull into the station, and I awake out of deeply ingrained routine. I drool on my pillow at night, so why not on myself in public once in a while? I stand solitary in my beliefs and haggard suit, feeling more like an impersonator than the real me. Reality is the matter of fact, and as a matter of fact I really am an impersonator. I falsify the self evidence and lead a blind life under a veil of theoretical wisdom. Everything I say is either a quote or a misquote, but I hide my inspirations well. I choose not to involve myself in the ensuing stampede of approval as the doors pull back to reveal fresh air and solid ground. Footsteps are a deliberate act not to be taken lightly or applauded, so I pace myself and steep in the moment. Walking the thin line between humility and ignorance, blanketed from the icy stares of the apparently sane. I find it easy to admire my feet when they are the two most stable things in my perimeter. Pure disgust persuades me gently to ignore the ignorant and pay the mindless no mind. I search for self respect in their reflections instead, like a soldier resigned to finding no survivors in the rubble. The journey home is marked by such events, like milestones in human history that repeat themselves with all the vivid enthusiasm of a forgetful veteran. It’s five minutes from my day, five days a week that I don’t want to continue living. This is exclusive of the pessimistic episodes I numbly watch myself participate in daily. There is a key in the door being robotically turned clockwise by a hand. It is my hand, I am home. Finally I am greeted by emptiness as my mind enters and lowers its long fatigued guard. My loneliness reverberates off these dead walls that keep me underexposed and misunderstood. I stand under the shower head, unable to comprehend purity, water, and oxygen within the same breath. Willpower and blood flow are diametrically opposed in this bi-polar solar-powered celestial body. I’m overpowered by routine rooted in my blue genes, watching the day decay behind these dusty shutters. My perpetual cocoon, the birthplace of invention. Dawn soon cracks like a guilty first-time offender under the interrogation of an old sun. Tap water is added to dried grains of varying variety and origin, to be eaten with a stainless steel dessert spoon. A second tap furnishes a lifeless tub with twenty seven centimetres of cold, crystal water. The heart is reawakened like a dying desert in a rainstorm. My square peg of a body is forced into bespoke garments obviously tailored to fit the suitably round. Humiliated and brimming with sarcasm, I set sail for an ancient land called work. As planned I arrive fifteen minutes late like a blatant ninja. My training has served me well. Lunchtime is but an urban myth, and pointless paperwork is the stark reality nobody wants to face. We mass hallucinate and justify our madness over a break of stimulants that I abstain from. Placing my desk by a large window is surely some kind of cruel joke, or simply that metaphorical carrot on a stick. But I long for the moon over a painfully short lifespan. My only option is to stockpile rubber bands to comfort me with their elastic properties and expendability. Everything I have ever worked for is contained within this large plastic envelope of standardized stationery that has failed to reach its intended destination for a second time. Instead, I commandeer this bloody vessel to begin my voyage to the heart of the matter in all its spiral-bound glory. For one day only God made an appearance like a wise and benevolent packet of limited edition flavour crisps. And like a bullet in the wind he was gone, leaving me with the necessary tools that were necessary to complete my mission. I snuck out of the front door at lunchtime never to return to return the pens, for they were my responsibility now. I’d be a liar if I said it hasn’t weighed heavily on my third and fourth vertebrae, and even if I didn’t. Autumn is a hesitant creature that seamlessly seeps through the silkscreened scenery. I press on through time, barely disturbing space in these disturbingly spaced out weeks, separated only by Sundays. This is too normal, too uneventful to glean any sense from. I suspect everyone of being made in my own image, and as such they’ll refuse to admit it, except a select few who will feud with the rest. I fight to keep my eyes open, fearing that sleep will yield but more disappointment, and expose my lack of subconscious like an albino bikini line in the sunshine. Silence urges me to reconsider with ever-deafening pleas, I need to rest in peace. This road is a rocky relic of potentially infinite length, but I maintain superposition in a world so sure of itself I can but only observe it all collapse around me. My point is merely a curved edge under microscopic scrutiny, like all men just want to be loved. Universal laws were made to be broken, and physics is a Ming vase in the hands of a buttery boy on an eighty-eighth floor balcony. Wind factor is irrelevant in this instance. I’ve seen infant swine fly, or at least I think I’ve seen them try. They simply wish we all keep our selfless promises, and honour them properly, putting dollars where our oesophagus is. I prey on Sundays, the weakest of all seven, killing time with a razorblade, splitting seconds sending them to heaven. I feast upon the flesh of a newborn morning, midday is a toothpick, I belch stale memories without warning. My calendar memorial, of all the things you could have kept, you chose to dwell upon the past and missed the future while you slept. The truth so few and far between it must be stretched just to make ends meet, like internet friends converging for a bite to eat. I’ve the right to speak a book tongue, and forge imagery with a forked pen, for the thoughts come forth from my vexed cortex, and rhyme comforts my brainstem. I must remind myself that headphones do not go in the eye, nor should they plug ears to give courage to hermits and would-be heroes. My stance on any subject is that of a skipper in a storm, dancing with a trumpet, playing overtures until the dawn. I’m sometimes fluid, often hardened to the world, avoid me at all costs, but that’s just the tip of the iceberg, my advice is swerve me I’m disturbed, and learn to love me for my words. I am tormented by the bed, and the pillows reject my advances, therefore, being barely conscious I cannot evolve into sleep fully clothed in a blanket of sporadic dreams. I am Jack, a novice of bodily functions and social luncheons, but I’ve probably mastered none bar the art of laughter. I barter with the earth’s orbit for a bit more dawn, but come away empty-handed, except for a yawn.