I have no reason to write right now. Okay, on reflection that was a stupid thing to say when you’ve taken the effort to sit cross legged on your new double bed with your back against the wall and opened a word document. I spent a good ten minutes between the opening credits of the Sopranos and staring open mouthed at my girlfriend’s Facebook page umming and ahhing about whether I should try and justify this evening of sloth by putting finger to keyboard. I have thousands of reasons to write; I just said that I didn’t to look cool. I started this pre-meditated article like that so it would look like I pinch out an article with the same ease that a dog shits on the pavement. The truth is that I can’t I just want you to think I can so I make up excuses not to write things. So that aside, here are some of the reasons that I have tried to suppress in order to fully realise a state of feeling sorry for myself. As I mentioned before it’s a pretty good way of making you think that you’ve done something productive with your day. I guess that says a lot about me; if the only way I can feel good about what I’ve achieved in the daylight hours is by saying I managed to do something with my hands while I sat down apart from masturbating. I just imagine a Mercian serf coming home to his small holding after a long day of back breaking labour and avoiding ox excrement when his unwashed serf wife asks him what he did with his day and he replies, “Oh, I lay down for hours on end and then moved into a sitting position so that my hands would be nearer my face to shovel Doritos down my gob”. Another reason I have for writing is that it expels all those nasty feelings of loneliness from my life. Of course writing isn’t the only thing I can do to forget how cripplingly self-absorbed the time I’m spending awake is. I’d normally read a good book, browse some pointless websites or walk up and down the stairs. These processes have done me well in the past. I feel visibly smarter when I read a book; it’s a rewarding experience. I feel like if I nip down to the co-op for a pint of milk people are going to look at me as if engorged grey matter is pressing against the insides of my temples; that people would look at me as if I had pointed out to them that the reason their car wasn’t moving was that the wheels were square. The problem with all these things is that writing’s the only thing that actually gives me a release for the mounting piles of pure bat-shit insanity in my head. Maybe it’s being in a house designed for four all by myself where lights randomly flicker on and off or just refuse to turn on at all. Generally this style of living has contributed to my already high anxiety levels topped up by nicotine boost after nicotine boost. Every time I hear someone walk past the window I assume a) they’re either going to try and leap through my 1st storey bedroom window proclaiming that Cthulu the dark lord has come for my soul or b) they’re going to be massacred by Cthulu springing from the shadows. In the distance earlier this evening I could hear some sort of firework display/ random celebratory explosion event and I kid you not, I prepared for the impending vengeance of the Cloverfield monster.Is this the behaviour of a mad person or the behaviour of a bored person?
March 25, 2011
The Collaborator’s Canteen
In the collaborator’s canteen where I paid for five meals a week and ate two
Where Nurse Ratchet guarded warming trays using a ladle for a rifle
On Fridays Fish was served, unspecified marine species drowning in oppressing batter
Suffocating in saturated fat coffins slender ethereal spines freezing in edible setting concrete
And all this based on the myth that moons ago the world’s first revolutionary socialist fed thousands
With gilled martyrs, those who we’ll remember as the Galilee Five.
No-one specified whether it was line caught or whether they had been imported and in what conditions
Were they transported live with catfish to keep all that scalene scaled flesh supple or nubile?
Did they have a tick from the MSC, and if not were they discarded dorsal finless by Japanese whalers
Who were instructed by some higher power that when eating their mid slaughter sandwiches to only eat the bread and throw the filling away.
Nurse Ratchet couldn’t give a swimming fuck, lifting up my hair on the back of my head to tie a blindfold to spare the sight of her cocking the cooking implement.
It’s easy to feed a scad when all you give people is what they can handle rather than employing over-exaggerated marketing ploys; all you can eat, eat as much as you like, eat until there’s bile cascading down the front of your eyeballs as if you just opened your mouth when your mouth’s full of soup
I felt that if I wasn’t a carnivore I couldn’t support a family, a hunter-gatherer with a cave-wife constantly in biblical floods of tears
If I’d have asked Nurse Ratchet if they had any Salisbury, Sirloin or Chateaubriand on the go she’d have blown me then and there, like opening my fly would leak link after link of kielbasa sausage
And try not to misunderstand me because I’d kill for a steak. It’s just that I’m not sure whether to kill the bovine in which the steak resides to qualify myself for meateaterdom or the guy stupid enough to get between me and a steak.
With excess comes in simpler terms retardedness. Spell-check it if you please but put even simpler I don’t boule about the place fucking everything in sight because
a) I’d be that strange person at parties who upon looking at a girl about whom he is discussing with a fellow party goer , midway through conversation as casual as the sex he will no doubt describe that he tapped ‘that’
And b) I would ruin the sexual expectations of everyone involved with my deplorable, odious love-making technique.
Consumers have rarely cared about the medium in which they operate but if foods the operation and the farmer is the scalpel it helps if its sharp and at hand not blunted by frustrated sebaceous sessions and currently embroiled in a commute/import from somewhere they still know how to grow the things we enjoy to consume but couldn’t be bothered how to re-learn how.
November 28, 2009
For some reason this blog doesn't seem to understand poetry. the internet is like HAL from a Space Odyssey, " I'm afraid I can't let you do that, Daniel"
But it does look pretty rad. I guess just hope you can comprehend it
Well here we are folks. I've thrown out the diary, condemned it to the manual wastelands of pen and paper and unveiled a blog. I won't say much more than that because this is simply it. A place where periodically I will log my writing for you the reader whoever you may be. By all means remain in anonymity but if you feel you want to comment, do feel free. Any comments will be greatly appreciated. Below you will find a poem that I'm using as a trial. I discovered this form of tristina after reading Seamus Heaney's poem "Two Lorries", written in a sestina form. Having been accidentally redirected to a very strange poetry by numbers website I thought I would give this form a try.
Basically this is a poem about reaching the cusp of manhood and male inadequacy. But make of it what you will!
Tristina Perhaps you've tried to see some reason Strolling down the boulevard of melancholy. The negative print of the ocean reeks
Perhaps you saw compassion in her cheeks, You're at that age when you need a son, If only to use as a starting pistol, all he
Would provide is a spark, to raise you from your melancholy Selfish in your procreation, progress is all you seek Between Autumn and Winter there lies a new season
Those who watch will say to you that there's your melancholic reason tied up in yourself. It reeks