We are all ugly, and lost.

We are all ugly, and lost,
I come to the foot of Clapham Common,
and basked in September’s Autumnal glow,
I see the city falling inwards across its people.
Drunks and hasbeens,
Rahs and Bankers,
Children of money,
Money of children.
Drugs float through the air,
my fingers crawl down by my sides
my fingers touch the soft grass,
in the morning, dew is beginning to form.
The sky crashes
London’s crescendo is silent
But as it peaks the sky is empty
Blue, Vast, There is no break,
Empty but impure,
Open, but falling,
Clear, but muddied.
We are all ugly, and lost.

The Dead Flag Blues

Editing is such a horrific phase. I’m finally in editing mode; a state of mind where objectively I’ve got to find what’s wrong with my novel, what doesn’t work, where sentences don’t make sense, where ideas don’t line up, where metaphor is too sensationalist, and rhetoric is too obtuse or verbose.
I’m finally at a stage where I can see all of this, and all it means is I can no longer see whats good. Its kind of hit me that this whole thing is just terrible, I’ve suddenly developed a skill in summarising the novel to friends, they seem to like the concept, and yet the novel itself seems childish, uncaptiviating, completley uninteresting, flat, lifeless, unbelievable.
I am truly beginning to doubt my talents as a writer. On ‘Come Dine with Me’ the other day, there was a woman who truly beleived she was a good cook, all of her guests couldn’t stand her food. She got one of the lowest marks possible and it hit her that she couldn’t cook. She took it with a pinch of salt; her realisation was one of a hobby. Mine is what I dream my career to lie with.

September isn’t as happy as it usually is for me.

The Dead Flag Blues

Editing is such a horrific phase. I’m finally in editing mode; a state of mind where objectively I’ve got to find what’s wrong with my novel, what doesn’t work, where sentences don’t make sense, where ideas don’t line up, where metaphor is too sensationalist, and rhetoric is too obtuse or verbose.
I’m finally at a stage where I can see all of this, and all it means is I can no longer see whats good. Its kind of hit me that this whole thing is just terrible, I’ve suddenly developed a skill in summarising the novel to friends, they seem to like the concept, and yet the novel itself seems childish, uncaptiviating, completley uninteresting, flat, lifeless, unbelievable.
I am truly beginning to doubt my talents as a writer. On ‘Come Dine with Me’ the other day, there was a woman who truly beleived she was a good cook, all of her guests couldn’t stand her food. She got one of the lowest marks possible and it hit her that she couldn’t cook. She took it with a pinch of salt; her realisation was one of a hobby. Mine is what I dream my career to lie with.

September isn’t as happy as it usually is for me.

sonnet 30?

August dooms happiness on the best days;
leaves fall short, sunlight stretches over the park,
Inside, curtain call; hot, Sunday Earl Grey
Fall to ethos, I don’t wish to embark.
I remain lost a posse ad esse
The tea boils, it burns, it bitters, I look
Waiting for the clock? Me fallit
Imagined future, I try, but I’m hooked.
And yes, I wrote that inscription for her,
Trouble finds difficulty by itself,
We are pawns, as black to white we transfer,
I need not speak, for I cannot find help.
August dooms happiness on the best days,
Opiate dreams of nights; by her I lay.

1979

So its pretty late — I think — I’m drunk. The sky is pondering as to whart to do and the court oif law leads on…

faxing Berlin

If you’re between seventeen and twenty something, don’t worry about exams, forget Universit acceptance fears, ignore the doubts about jobs or whether you’ve just got your girlfriend pregnant, for there’s a much bigger fear. I am of course talking about the Mandibular and Marillary teeth, the dens sapientiae, or to you and me; wisdom teeth.
Sneaking up on you like a freight train to a deaf person, they hit you fast and hard. Actually they don’t; there’s a rather annoying teetering of pain for a few days which seems manageable before disappearing for a few weeks, and then they hit you. BAM, and this is only my first one.

Babies are in the incredulously fortunate position of not being able to speak, and so teething comes and then the incessant crying. Well, hear my wail I’m teething at 20 and its utterly horrible. So bad in fact I cannot quite comprehend nor convey how much of a complete and utter arse I’d been only weeks ago; desperately ignorant believing that was as bad as it gets.

I’ve got three to go and am considering getting myself some anaesetic of some kind, I think it’ll be required

Welcome To The Black Parade

Just heard the song at work; its a shame when Radio 1 is the best option of radio if you can’t stand Terry Wogan and Radio 4 doesn’t want to tune.
At work, just remembered a depressing dream, perhaps it’ll become something, who knows.

Woken up at six, considerable lack of money and really quite need it for deposits; what to do.

Met a new staff member just now…

Heima

I’ve just put the Sigur Ros DVD Heima on, and it reminded me of when an old friend and I stayed up until around six in the morning in April watching it stoned.
After it finished the sun was just coming up and we went and sat outside watching the sun come across the houses in Lincolnshire.

That’s one of my favourite memories.

Don’t Look Back In Anger

So I am moving in soon with my friend and his sister, I’m scooting over the river to Battersea, or Clapham (depending on which of the two houses we prefer the look of).
I’ve also just got a new blogging tool for my BlackBerry, so hopefully updates will become a little more frequent.

I’ve pushed the 50000 word mark on my novel, which is quite an achievement for me, and only have five or so chapters in the first draft left.

I’m going to go out again today, enjoy my days off work that I needed to get to support myself, and I’m going to go sit in the park and read again, and I can’t wait.

Love and Beauty, in Battersea Park

Pedestrians taken to the paths of the lake, on pedalos,
And the distant smell of marijuana drifts through the trees.
Silence of those who spoke it, and
Laughter from those that mean it.
Light breezes leave me in awe,
Joni Mitchell, the Kinks, and then Dusty
Springfield.
What a day it could be.
Cyclists and tricyclists, offer pathways for those on foot
And the quiet thud of the tennis ball asphalt afar.
A boy and a girl hold hands, smiling; love.
I read Kerouac and could do until dark,
As lilac sees me in Battersea Park