Wednesday, 21 April 2010

Good Posture Please

Today I listened to Dolly Parton's flawless '9 to 5' and decided that I'd probably listen to it every day from now on and be wholly rewarded by the deep message of unfulfillment it's sending. That was while I was in the bus station waiting to go home. Yesterday in the bus station I was accosted by a pack of woman gypsies with weeping sores on their bare feet and a stench of debasement and cheese and onion crisps about them. They got off at a bus stop that had three raggle taggle ponies tied to it. I think they were probably going to ride them into the sunset taking the hearts of the once honourable village boys with them. Who knows?

In other news, news that I hope will please you all as much as it did me, I started to eat my Reece's peanut butter filled egg on Saturday. There was a slight delay with the estimated start date due to a terrible affliction that struck me down for nye on a week. But Saturday was P(eanutbutter)-Day and OH BOY was it worth waiting for! Sweet and salty delights like you've never imagined in your wildest most violently horrific and stunningly opulent dreams!
In a way I thank the universe for my illness, otherwise the egg might not have lasted so long. The egg might well have been devoured in one gasping mouthful. The egg might have been liquidised and hooked up as an intravenous drip to see me through the weekend. But thankfully there's still a third of the egg left.

Oh, the egg!

Anyway, I wrote another poem this week. It's not quite finished, but I wanted to post one anyway. It doesn't really have any obvious relevance to the above insights, but let's just say it's about a certain EGG and not a person and leave it at that.

Peace OUT homedawgs.

Thursday, 8 April 2010

'Negotiating with the Dead'

I got to thinking about walkmans today. I was listening to my iPod and thinking about how the battery just dies. Pop! That's it, charge me, biznatch! I felt pretty sad to think I'll probably never indulge in the disappointment that went hand in hand with the drawn out sound of a singer's lyrics as the batteries of a walkman squeezed their last morsel of energy into the slowing tape reels. It just made me sad when I thought about modernisation, that's all; just the modern world making people sad again, nothing new.

I was also thinking about how, sometimes, people sound as if they're speaking through a mouthful of peanut butter, you know? Now don't get me wrong, I love peanut butter; I really fucking love peanut butter, but I don't speak when I have it in my mouth, that's just not right. Maybe those people ought to try taking a sip of water every once in a while instead of forcing me to listen to the sound of them peeling their dry tongue from the roof of their fetid mouth every time they go to start a new sentence, especially since all I really want to listen to is the sound of my walkman batteries dying. But I'll never get that chance again because apparently walkmans don't have a place in our society unless we're speaking in terms of music-technology history (which we rarely are), or we're getting all "retro" and acting like the art fag scenesters who casually mention walkmans in their oh-so-quirky songs as though they use a walkman every single day of their lives. Really they should just face up to the fact that their songs are just a passing phase and have about as much staying power as a fucking walkman in this every evolving world we appear to live in.

Anyway, I bought a Reece's peanut butter egg while I was in America so I'll mostly be spending the weekend nibbling at that. And playing on my Wii. Because I recently bought a Wii and I'm currently working on my Sarah Connor biceps, so a spot of Wii Sports baseball will no doubt shape me right up.

Here's a poem I've been working on. Pretty much sums up children and encapsulates the general feel of this little life excerpt you have nowfinishedreadingtheend.

Little One

Let's play a game.
- You take my large hand
in your small sticky one.
Peanut Butter permeates the air.

Look. He gets him with this sword.
- We play at destroying lives
for almost an hour. Then
you have to use the toilet.

This man is going to be killed now.
- You speak in slow motion
to emulate a man dying,
and sound like a walkman,

(NB, If anyone reading this considers using any of my work, just don't. You'll die. Like a walkman. Believe me, you don't want your legacy to lie with the scenesters; they'll only hate you for it three days later. Plus my copywriting is fairly airtight.)