Spare A Thought

This morning I woke feeling distressed. It may just have been because it was so darn hot last night and my mouth was glued together with dehydration and I'd been haunted by repetitive dreams about not being where I need to be at the correct time and I was a little bit hungover. But I think it was really down to the fact that the only thought rushing through my mind was that everybody always forgets about chicken breasts. I felt terrible.



So I decided to declare this Sunday the day of BREAST. It's not really going to be so much different to any other Sunday, other than the extra 'B(ee)' I've tagged onto the ol' day of REST saying. You geddit? I don't.

I've been wondering lately if maybe I should give vegetarianism another go. But then I decided that it's probably okay to eat things like beef and pork, just as long as the meat isn't coming from baby animals, because big animals have had their time, right? They've seen the sunrise, they've felt the rain spatter on their thick skin, they've endured the sting of a wasp on the end of their milk-sweetened teat. Plus I was reading an article about the lambing season and nearly started to cry for all those bleating balls of delight I've eaten in the past. Verdict: I'm giving up lamb.

Other than this, peanut butter is rocking my world once again. Is there really anything finer than sleeping late on the weekend before rolling into the kitchen to indulge in a slice of toast smeared with that crunchy delight? I really do not believe there is.


*exit stage trapdoor*

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.

'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,
dying.


(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.)