scratch

the truth isn't often revealed in a flash of light. not everything hidden is sinister. darkness can be comforting for small monsters afraid of lightbulbs and switches.

back scratch

it's not the same as it was, but what is?

and it starts at the bottom.

ghostwriter

small forearm scars lay like a warren of paths in long grass leading to a house built out of branches, leaves and building debris. corrugated iron and car doors, tarpaulins and black plastic form over bedsit for a couple of pricks a knife, stash, stereo and a dead redhaired protagonist who never understood why it had to be him to have his body and life so meticulously split.

then there's movement, darkness and sand pressing in. the warm, firm hand of the same land that gave, raised and took his body back again. and then he breaks down, the last spirits start seeping out and the bits of a sleeping heart and mind that go uneaten are leeching down into the groundwater.

soul and memory travel in different directions, infecting the ether and the earth respectively, they're unravelled and absorbed by many during the learning journey from the end to eternity

scratch

new winter rain disturbed my sleep today. i'm awake and too tired to try to wrap my mind around the way the colours have changed under the overcast.

scratch

sisters follow of the wave that just left me sick, for a couple of reasons. they'll pass like a breeze through a tree's leaves and leave me to drift, breathing easy again.

power lines

sometimes i'm alone in a hundred people, taking assumptional junk from the crowd. impressions easily picked up and most easily laid straight back down. some are menace and others often won't look around, focusing like insight exists only in the meter of ground a metre in front and five-and-a-half feet down. moving shoes that can't bare to share their stares eclipsing wearers' surrounds.

look up and forget about your feet, there are lines of power running down each side of the street.

'mental

a guy i'm acquainted with had his room burned - whoever's responsible put a gas bottle at his door and lit it .. the firefighters got there in time to save the rest of the place, but he lost everything.

when i first heard about that, i thought - fucked, but no tragedy.. he wasn't inside, is alive, can replace what he lost. i guess it's a guy mentality - we kill, with our hands, we shit, we eat, we don't cry. we most definitely do not collect 'knick-nacks' that 'mean a lot to us'. we don't 'treasure our memories'. we're busy out on the tundra, surviving, toeing the icey line that could anytime betray us to collapse and devour. watching documentaries from someone else's couch, sipping scotch from a pint glass.

i've never owned a photograph album, never kept letters or cards, never archived emails, never kept a diary, never held on to the past, never had a lot of 'knick-nacks' i had to keep because they mean-so-much-to-me. when i move house, i'm ruthless in throwing everything out i don't immediately require. i keep necessities only, and sometimes not even that. in spite of this, i have a small box of shit that mocks my masculinity;

the box itself was given to me by my father, it contains a letter from him, a photograph of a girl i had a primary school crush on, a small wind-up stegosaurus that reminds me of my grandfather, a pocket-knife from my sister, scrimshaw my ma bought me on our holiday, the sheath of a knife that belonged to my pa that i lost - i've tried to find a replacement for years, some basketball cards that were once worth something, a piece of paper with the name and then-address of what i think was my first love, a gold pendant i found when i took apart my grandfather's record player, a watch i found on the street, a book i used to scrawl in, with most of the pages that embarass me removed, tickets, and the most recent addition - a picture of my mother drawn by my niece.

i mention all this here not for your interest or entertainment, or some insight into my murky shallows. i write it here because my place may burn, and i'll have lost it all.. but, as i mentioned earlier - chances are that somewhere these words at least will be recorded, diligently transmitted and backupped by some human or automated process that has no idea what these items, or even this brief recollection of them, mean to me, as most of you won't.

mp3: Cursive - Some Red-handed Slight of Hand

capital jee

i don't think God is a benevolent creator or even a vengeful punisher. i believe if something actually exists with power enough that we could mistake it for the omnipotence usually associated with God, extrapolation of the natural order of our world would to me suggest it either wouldn't give a fuck about us, or it'd eat us.

another weeks end

at the monkey a friend and his friends gave their all for us and did it well. routed by the screaming shirtless we regrouped in the bright belgian lights. good beer and good people. good hamburger. slipped through a locked gate to have fun with scaffolding and an unlocked empty building. nearly fell. one man less, not lost but lost to us. those left reunited once more at a rose. a quiet man and an officer. three officers. two horses. two more enforcers. a taxi ride and conversation filled with well meant expletives and cursing quite politely. an easy day. good beer and good people. good havarti sandwich. smatterings of virtual conversation. pinted at another rose and left to arrive alone at the rose mount. found a slightly younger old new friend for company in a crowd of rude boys. ignored by someone who shouldn't have, though i did it too. ute ridden to a comfortable pad. bad club and in company awkward i hit the street. strolled in conversation with another much like me. near the river found a tent over a born again ex-junkie jesus guy. gave advice and didn't mind me drinking from my flask while he talked. left to jump fences. rescued fireextinguisher from a mediocre-at-best life in rubbish. jumped a fence. jumped a wall. climbed a wall, fell. climbed again, jumped. fell. now theres blood on my jeans that would've stayed in my right arm if it could.

mp3: Jehst Feat. Kyza & Ricochet Klashnekoff - Nightbreed.mp3

1 UP

so, we all managed to survive the robotic Dr Xmas that was the end-of-level badguy for 2004 and may now sit briefly back in filtered sun, sipping cordial and finally blinking while the loading screen of a new years morning sunrise hints at the novel new badguys and powerups to come.

having never played this level before, and with every level played so far being so different from the last, i offer no kind of resolution other than to react as necessary. i will again run, jump and shoot, do all three at once as required. and i'm still holding out for a jetpack.

mp3: Rollins Band - Whats the Matter Man

T.L.G 'n T.L.T.A

sometimes i feel a burning desire to scream at the world. to rear back and spit a big flegmy chunk of rancid bile and clever insults at this enormous cosmic fuck up. i feel cheated. like there was supposed to be more. like all the lies my mummy told me should have been true, like i really am supposed to be capable of anything. like i was supposed to be the centre of the universe but some fucking metro guy with great arms pushed in line.

like, y'know - the same old shit. then the little pisspot of rage topples over and the angst dribbles away, leaving a kind of hollow, cold, slightly damp laugh at the stupidity of desiring so sincerely to scream bloody murder at a 166 bus full of passengers or the dragonfly outside my window.

well, i'm quite happy with how that all sounded. maybe it is cool that she went with him.

merry christmas.

mp3: the Descendents - Good Good Things

theres no christ in xmas

it's here and i'm not ready. I haven't bought enough stuff.

weeks end

fennians evil executed with the enthusiasm of the irish. cheap teriyaki fish. ok, enthusiasm of the drunk. kicked out of the band for being black. carousel a harsh bitch mistress. we were fools. fifteen minutes of cursing brands and we left for