Clear Out

i was looking around in my attic today. searching for some spare junk to sell to raise money to buy new things that can be someone else's junk someday. i found this dirty old chest. this is my parents house - these must be family things. family junk - priceless.
unfortunatly, not the good kind of priceless. i open the elephantine box of wonders and shake the hand of a cloud of dust. from the smell i would have said it was centuries old. from the taste i would have said it has been collected from many places. a dust cocktail of the ages. not a nice way to clear out the airways inside me.
when the cloud dispells into the ether, all i see is a red velvet blanket. i reach out to remove it and with i whip away i uncover a collection of old, almost rusting, human remains. skeletal evidence. bones. of course, you can imagine my shock. beside the bones was a torn letter, an old gun that looked like it would disintergrate upon touch, and a golden locket. i picked up the torn paper and read it. it was part of a letter...

the little boy saw you resting on the lips of another in the woods today, girl. you covet these pictures of the blue-eyed boy but you seem to only have eyes of the fair-haired man. the pictures of your proposed love have golden frames that seem chipped and dusty - is that him now inside yourself? you say you love him but you dry your lips on another now, girl. well if your lips have dried up, so has your heart, for any young girl who can switch from one to another so quick must have a heart of centuries past - withered like a body in the ground. eaten by maggots and dead from the lost desire to be held by someone with hands worthy of touching such a vibrant and exclusive being. you seem to have forgotten everything that is real in your wanting for something new and quick and fast and fake.
you remember when you danced all night now girl? well now you dance alone.
all that was so real - gone and dead and vanished with the wind. blown away and starting to decay. a stain on a jacket of the forgotten.
don't rely on me to help you out this time girl. no one will ever know your name.
don't rely on me to fix this one for you girl. no - you will never love again.
you will never love again.

i popped open the golden locket and inside was a picture of a man and of a woman. the picture was either an old painting or one of the early photographs that were so archaic that they looked like paintings. i suspect the bones belonged to a young woman. i sat there and sighed for a moment. the kettle downstairs was whistling.

Followed

I could almost feel him following me. His steps were mirroring my own with a precise accuracy that had my paranoia not reached an inferno i would not have normally noticed him trailing me. The dark dismal streets of this damp and deserted city add an overall feeling to the pursuit that does not shine well with my inner calm. As my mind rolls over on these self-indulgent issues i forget to make a plan of action. The strangers of these streets are slowly disappearing, therefore, as are my chances of avoiding a confrontation. I take a sharp left turn into an even darker alley way. Before my follower can get to the alley, i run with a silent step down to the dumpster at the bottom of this wet path. As i crouch behind this smelly plastic bin all i can hear is the drip, drip, drip of the nights rain on the small puddles created in this bleak street and of course the tap, tap, tap rythmn of my watcher's step. The constant, unwaivering beat of my heart keeping time with the constant, unwaivering beat of his pursuit. I reach into my pocket and ready my pistol for action. I can hear the steps getting louder, getting closer. Closer to death? I hope not. I sit with my eyes closed, talking to God in my head, asking him to sit this one out as i attempt to do what i thought i would never have to face. I can't take this any longer and i burst out from the behind the dumpster and push my pistol-weilding arm out into the air, into the action, ready to defend myself against my punisher. But all i see is nothing. As i lower my aim from nothingness to my side, i wonder - how thin is the line between paranoia and reality? How will i know what is true, and what is fake? What is the difference between the murderous, evil mind of my followers and that of my own bruised and fragile mind?

She's

she's got a slight tan on her skin. not much, just a little bit. and it's kind of patchy too. her face is white. it's got the odd freckle or whatever it is - i dont know the technically terms. her eyes are big. they always seem to be staring, or thinking, or something. the black holes in the middle infuse with the glowing green that make her eyes stand out so very brightly. her cheeks pad her face out a little bit to give it shape, and not skinny and vaccum-packed like the cheeks of a model. those kind always strike me as very medicinal and produced. like food thats vaccum-packed in supermarkets. her hair is straight, kind of long, but not huge. i suspect that her hair would look just as good short as it would at this length. it's kind of red, orange, yellow and brown all mixed together. her hair is autumn. it smells of exotic fruits and hidden flowers. it goes well with her face, which has blood in it. life in the cheeks rather than plastered white lifeless and dead.
she's so beautiful. she's hit me like an atom bomb. she's so perfect. she's not real. she doesnt exist.
when she speaks she always has something intelligent or funny to say. she's got opinions, but she accepts other points of view. she's very emphatic. i dont even know what that means, she just is. her laugh sounds like that sound you get in spring time when every bird is singing and every bee is buzzing and even when you're alone you can sense life everywhere. just the aura of being, in every insect, in every flower, in every breath, in every step. and her voice is just as magnificent. when she's happy, she smiles, but doesnt let it show. like a little chesire cat, she hides her chin away and looks up at you, with those eyes. those eyes. that stare. just her, being her, becoming everything.
she's got excellent taste in music, film, food, drink, everything. but none of that matters, because she's so open that she'll try anything, just for the buzz of doing it. she likes nature and the country, but cant stand being away from the city for a huge amount of time. her heart is with the busy buzzing life that you get in a city or large town. she knows how to relax and how to unwind. she's never angry - only passionate. she's too, i dont know, wise. yes, too wise to be angry. she knows it doesnt matter enough to get worked up over - whatever 'it' may be.
she is all anyone with any sense could ever want.
why is she still alone?

It's Cold Outside

i keep thinking about what's outside.
it gets cold in the winter so i climb in through the bedroom windows of some stranger's house. you would have thought the people inside wouldn't have minded so much - i don't take up much space and, sure, they might be a little scared because they don't know who i am, but thats no reason for them to beat me half to death and leave me outside dying, crying and ready for the big freeze. it's almost christmas.
it doesnt stop me from climbing into peoples houses though. sometimes i can stay there for days on end without being found. sometimes the owners don't beat me so much, they just shoo me away. especially the old ones. they dont have the energy to beat me. i mean, sure i make the kids cry a bit. but it's so cold outside. it's so cold.
my arms are hairy but it doesn't keep me warm. i don't have any clothes either. that might be why they object so much. i suppose they dont get many naked hairy things crawl through their windows into their houses at night time. maybe thats why that child that time was crying so much. i dont like to hear the children cry.
once they put me in this trap. this big glass cage thing, and it picked me up and threw me around a bit. i thought it was the police or something, and i thought, great! now i can have a nice warm cell. but no. the bastards threw me out of their window. the human race can be so evil sometimes. so cruel. so cold. it's always so cold.
i wish i could go somewhere peaceful. somewhere safe. where everybody knows who i am and they dont care what i look like. they dont care about this disfigurement. they dont care - they accept. heaven. warm, toasty heaven.
it ain't easy having eight legs.

Missing

I drive every day from the office. Through rush hour traffic across town and i make it here just in time to see you before those nurses turn me away. Some nights i don't make it in for a chat, but i see you through the window and i wave. I know you can't see it, but i wave anyway.
It's been almost a month now since you had the attack. Why you never told me you had it before i don't know. Arterio-Venous Malformation, or AVM for short, is a build up of blood in the brain. People can go their whole life without even knowing they have it. You had a seizure and fell from a ladder. Now you're a radish and have been for a month. They have no idea what to do, and neither do i. And i knew that you would be as beautiful as your are kicking when you're comatose.
You're so still, proped up in your bed like a stuffed doll. Your hair is perfectly in place. Dark tones of black mixed with a slightly purple-plum. Your eyes were closed by the nurse when you came in because when you fell you had your eyes open. You always knew what you were going in for, even when you didn't have a clue. But now when they're closed it just reminds me how closer to death you are. Part of me wants to get hit by a bus on my way out of this hospital just so i can beat you into death. So i can sit there at the finishing line laughing. I miss our little games. I miss you.
Your smell and your touch. Your gentle voice quivering in the air like a reed in the bush. Your fingertips running over my skin when we made love and your smile waking me up in the mornings. I miss you.
I play the records we used to share and the tears from them send me to sleep at night. It's the only thing that does. An image of you is plastered on the inside of my eyelids. Life without you is no life at all. So i rush over from the otherside of town everynight and i talk to you. I talk myself to sleep sometimes and those nurses wake me up and send me home. When will you come home with me?

True Beauty

You flick the switch and on comes the bulb. You sit right down in front of the mirror. The light hanging above reflects on the surface and then back at your face. You squint a little until you find a comfortable spot on the little chair. You open the little black box that's locked in the top drawer. You look at yourself and you huff. Your chin clean shaven. The light is glowing from behind your bald head. Your blue eyes staring at someone else's blue eyes. You're staring at a stranger.
You apply the mascara onto your eyelashes. You're doing it with such precise accordance that you could have easily been doing them one by one. After you've counted your eyelashes in the mirror, you put on the smallest amount of eyeliner. Just enough to mount your bright blue eyes, not so much that it makes you look like a whore. You get out the blusher and you put a small breath of life back into the milky-white cancer-paitent cheeks that go so well with the ghostly complexion of your whole head.
You kiss the air and apply some red lipstick. Holding your pose just long enough for the paint to dry, and then you relax and smile at the mirror. You're halfway there. You open up another box from another locked drawer and you clip on your earrings. You slide on your ring. You go over to the cupboard. Inside is a white mannequin's head. You bring it over and in front of the mirror you slide on your autumn-red wig. Already brushed and ready for the world it will never see. You look at yourself in the mirror and you know you look beautiful. You know you do, and you know that only you will ever know it.
You play with the polaroid camera for a little while. You shake the little square in the air and examine for a second. You still find it funny how this little stolen image will always be more real that anything anyone could ever see with their eyes. You sit down in your chair with a glass of white wine. Curtains drawn and front doors locked. You dance with yourself to the music on the record player. Dancing alone in the middle of the room. You spill the wine as you glide through the air but in your mind your in some huge palace at a grand gala ball and everyone is looking at you. And everyone is thinking how beautiful you are. Everyone knows how beautiful you are.
And your eyes open as the needle skips the disc on the player. You fall back into your chair, take another sip of wine, and fall asleep. You know how in the morning it's back to slacks and ties and reality. No one will ever know how beautiful you are.

Here comes the breeze

Jingly.
Jangly.
Fun, happy times.
The paid fool will dance about at his hourly rate. Keeps the nippers entertained while the dads discuss golf and the mums get acceptably drunk. The kids are laughing at him. They pull on his clothes and his hair and his nose and his skin and they rip and they punch and they kick and he screams. And they stop.
He screams, they stop, they're all watching him. Watching him stand there, motionless. They watch him as he falls to the ground, falls to his knees, back onto his heals, out comes his legs and he's sat there against the wall. Eyes still. Arms by his sides. Sitting there, muscles dead. His white makeup runs down his left cheek as one tear falls from one eye, into his lap and out into the world.

He only took on this job because he did drama at school once. And that was just to get out of geography. His wife needs medical care and he needs the money. Her income is gone, he's got little kids at home, she needs all these drugs and operations and he needs to pay. His dad got rushed to hospital this morning. He had a stroke. He's got to feed the kids. He's got to pay for the dog's vet bill. He's got to pick up his wife from the ward. Cancer is a horrible disease. He keeps getting the image of his dad in the home. Drool slowly drips from the side of his jaw as he pisses himself for the fifth time that morning. Vegetation is a word that springs to mind. His dad will never remember the times they used to play catch in the summer. Every time he see's his dad, that memory will die a little. Every time he see's his dad, his dad will die a little.

He's in the car going to this kid's party. Some rich kid in the suburbs. His own are at his wife's mothers. She hates him. His wife is having an operation and he can't afford to miss this gig and be with her when she wakes up. His dad's status isn't getting any better. He had to wash his shirt this morning because it was soaked in his brother's tears from when he held him last night. He came to the door not knowing what to do. Neither of them knew what to do. He takes a left in his car. His suit is uncomfortable to drive in. His make up is rushed because he had to tidy the kid's rooms before he left the house. He finds this rich house with it's big glass windows and huge colourful happy birthday banner. He drops his cigarette on the ground and stubs it out with his over-sized novelty red clown shoes. "Let's get this over with" he says to himself. To the ghosts that surround him.

And as he sits there on the floor against the wall, his makeup running down one side of his face from comatose tears, he thinks to himself: "What a wonderful world"

Coffehouse

I can feel the hairs tickling the back of my neck.
It's a horrible feeling, like spiders are itching to get all over you and eat at your skin. I'm waiting for her to arrive. I feel like every movie cliché. All i need now is a little bead of sweat to drip down the side of my head.
Here she comes. There she goes. She has arrived and i have no idea what i'm going to do. Breathe. Be calm. I stand.
"Hi. Hi there."
"Hey - how are you?"
We sit. "I'm good, you know - still here! ha-ha!"
"Yeh, same." We share a moment of nervous, forced laughter. I hope she feels as awkward as i do. "So, i got your note"
Well she just gets right on in there, doesn't she? "Oh - yeh, i'm sorry about that. I was just being me."
"Look - i'm sorry. You're a great guy and everything, and i'd love to, but not now. I dunno, I'm sorry. I know this doesn't make any sense to you. I'm so rubbish at these things"
What was i going to expect? To be serious, i would suspect some kind of evil trick even if this turned out how i dreamt. She doesn't know that i have felt this way pretty much since we met, and i don't know that these feelings are probably just the foundations of a strong strong friendship, and i don't know this because i have never even been close to something like this.
I just don't do friends. I need friends, and i like conversation, and i'm shit at loneliness, but it just finds me. This is real - this friendship. And if it were to shatter, i would shatter. If it were to end, i would end. If it were to die - i would end.
If i were to lose this, i would never be able to lift myself out of nothingness.
I will be on drugs all my life, just like my friends are now, all anti-depressives fed to them by mothers who can't be bothered to try a bit of parenting. If i lose this - i will be lost.
We have been looking at each other in silence for a while now. Her waiting for the emotional waterfall she expects from such a soppy fool, Me emotionless, thinking what i have been thinking.
I lean over the table, i pick up her chin with my thumb and forefinger, i tilt slightly to the side and i kiss her.
I don't fall back to my seat, i start to get up. I leave the coffehouse with a smile on my face because i know what this really is. I know how i feel and i know that it is for me. It's what you love, not what loves you - that's what matters. I leave knowing it'll all be OK. I hope she knows too.
It's not the kind of thing you can explain to a person, but those people who talk everyday, no matter what happens, every single day, and make sure the other is OK - that's what i want.
Those people who have two different bodies, but really share the same mind - that's what i want.
Those people who put each other as Number One, no matter what - that's what i want.

Only love can break your heart.

Time

i like it when life slows down.
when you wake up in your bed at six AM and your not sure if you're alive or dead or awake or asleep and it's hot and it's cold and you're confused and nothing is really real.
when your eyes are open but you can't see and your mouth is open but you can't speak and then you just give up and go back into your sleep.

ten minutes later you will wake up for real. and you'll glance at your clock in horror, but you're not late. you fell back asleep ten minutes ago and you had a dream in your head that lasted hours. a deep, complex, woven story. and in the adrenaline and shock of waking up, your mind has been erased and you could spend all day thinking about what it was you were dreaming about, but you won't ever remember. it's a thin, slim film of dirt under a murky layer of tansluscent plastic. it's there, and you want to get at it, but you can't. it's all so very confusing.

how did life slow down? logically it didn't. my mind sped up so fast that it was processing this dream so quickly that hours were condensed into the space of ten minutes. if only we could harness this trick of nature and slow time down when we wanted. just think of all the money we could make...

Immersion

he walked into the café and out of the rain. his long raincoat was stained from the drab weather outside and as the grey clouds swarmed up above, he lowered his briefcase from over his head to reveal helplessly wet hair. at the counter he ordered a cup of tea with no milk and one sugar. after paying the aged grandma behind the counter he turned to face the café and made a quickfire choice as to where to sit. he chose the red-leather booth towards the back right corner of the place. the whole room was pretty empty. over on the other side was an older gentleman who was reading some paper that was telling some story about some war. but over on the row of tables just to the right of his booth was another person, a woman, who was sitting alone just staring into space. she had no bag to speak of, in fact, all she had was her cup of what might have been tea, or coffee, or anything. whatever it was, she pulled a small silver bottle from her coat pocket, uncapped it and poured a little into the cup. she eyed the man watching her do this and smiled a childlike mischiefous smile.
she pulled herself out of her space and flew over to the man's booth. she sat oposite him and stared at his bemused face. he was confused to say the least, as he was not the most socially able of people.
'so what's your name?' said the cheshire cat lady
'Alexander'
'well Alexander, my name's Bethany, but you can call me Grace'
'why Grace?'
'i like it better. so - Alex, you like your tea there?'
'it's Alexander, and yeh it's ok'
'ok Alexander - would you like some of mine?'
'no thankyou'
'it's very good'
'i, no - it's ok. i'm fine, really'
'do you like music Alexander?'
'sure, who doesnt?'
'and do you know what a mix tape is?'
'yeh'
'well when i meet someone new i like to give them a tape so they know me. a mix tape is basically a letter from one person to the other, so i feel that it clears things up. and then sometimes i use the tapes to transmit messages or themes. once i made this tape for someone to tell them how much a liked them. how much i had grown to almost love them. and it seems so fake and futile now, but that was the way i wanted to tell that person how i felt. and that person either didn't feel the same or didn't get it. and you know what?'
the bemused man looked at this complete stranger, with an open mouth and a blinkless stare: ' no - what?'
'i never once received a mix tape from anyone. do you see what im trying to say Alexander?'
and with that everything was gone. the café, the drinks, the woman, the old man, the smell, the touch, the sight and the sound. all was blank and all was black as Alexander descended even further into his madness...

Misconceptions

thinking about it - things like this always happen to me. i was walking down Highfield Street. this is one of those streets with the trees and the ground and the leaves and the baking smell and all
the other fake plastic suburban furnishings. i have no idea how i got there or how to get out. but i do know that walking with me was Nico.
i only know that is her name because she is wearing a namebadge. i have no memory of her. she has hair and a face and looks human enough. no snakes or colours or fire like all those other people; the dragons that i see sometimes. anyway - apparently she knows me.
she tells me how funny i am, but i havent said anything. she tells me how she has to be home by six because she isn't allowed out after dark. it's light time and the clock at the bus stop we just passed says it's ten to four in the afternoon.
she tells me how there is a lot of crime in the neighbourhood. she tells me how you can never know what could be around the corner. and then, after a few silent seconds, a long car comes cruising around the bend. it has loud noise coming from it's radio and all the windows are down. inside are young people with young clothes and smirks that screamed every angry young-person cliché at you. one of them in the back seat was reaching for something from his bag and
they slowed their speed as they drove past us. Nico was shivering with fear. she clung to my hand as tight as a small child does when crossing the road. she has sweat dripping from the tips of her ears and her breathing increased rapidly. she was scared of what they wanted and what he was reaching for, but sighed the biggest sigh of relief when they drove on past and the boy in the backseat revealed that he was only reaching for his lighter.
she looked to the sky as if to be secretly thanking a god. i was bemused. and then we both turned sharply back to the road when we heard the screech of the wheels. a white school minibus was hurtling around the bend in the road and was swirving all over the road. "The Highfield School for the Gifted" was printed on the side in black letters and there was a little picture of a happy child's face. at the wheel was an old lady. she had a faded yellow dress on that covered her whole body and it went well with her white puff of hair and thickly rimmed black glasses. the wrinkles in her sweet-looking face fitted her image of a lovely old woman. from her lap she pulled a large automatic rifle and slowed as she passed us. with one shot she had knocked Nico down to the ground and driven off at speed and with no direction in her wandering path.
Nico was lying dead and dying in the middle of the pavement. the lead bomb that was lodged inside her was causing blood, both thick and thin, to spray out from her and onto the concrete. i stood there still and an image of a carefree and secure Nico flashed before me. it was the still image of her just before she was killed.
and then i remembered that i had left the television on in my room and ran home to save on my electricity bill.

Flicks

i was back home.
back in my stadium seated plush auditorium. sat down with only the
essentials. popcorn to maintain blood sugar levels. cola - my
essential bodily fluid. my tickets torn and my clothes well worn, i
sat down to watch my film in the comfort of a nearly empty cinema.
there's a lot to be said for the kind of person who goes to the
cinema alone. visions of bearded men in long grey coats with
suspicious smiles and the odd scary wink. but we're not all like
that. sometimes a film is better on your own.
as i take another handful of popped corn i see three girls enter the
cinema. before my brain even registers their presence, it sets off
warning alarms that they may be potential talkers. suspect
twitchers. they may even ruin this film for me. as they walk up the
isle i can sense what's to come. and sure as iceland is nippy, they
sit right in front of me. all three of these skantly-dressed
personality-void walking television commercials sit in the row in
front of me.
by the end of the trailers i had had enough. some people talk in the
adverts and then stop in the film, but not these. the studio opening
is over and the high pitched laughing begins. the rocking of the
seats. the playing with the phones. the constant waves of popcorn
and sweets and nachos and shit being thrown everywhere like the
blood from a lion attack on a zebra.
i was not best pleased.
this was, of course, anticipated. as the first one laughed in her
teenage shrill i pulled it out from my bag by my feet. the shadows
concealed my motions quite well and the odd scattered audience
member would be oblvious to my own existance.
as the second waste of human tissue snorted at some joke as poor as
the beggars outside, i slipped the long black tube onto the tip of
my toy. i twisted it tight and it covered the cylider perfectly, to
take the gas and disperce it with silent ease.
as the third canary sang a window-smashing song i put the silenced
gun to the back of her head and with three quick pops the three
stick-thin ex-organisms each decided that to be polite and sit
quietly through a film would be the best course of action.

i put my toy back into it's box and relaxed again to finish watching
the film. it was particularly good and i had been looking forward to
it. the credits rolled and i left the theatre just before the
lights came up. i had left as quickly and silently as the shadows
did from over the three witch's seats, and on my way out of the
building i alerted one of the brain-dead employees of a rather
disturbing smell in screen six.

News

It was the afternoon of some Wednesday and i was walking around a town. I had bags in my hands and they were full of things that weren't mine. I was my minder's donkey. So i was walking past a shop that was selling something that had electricity running though it like blood through a small baby child. In their window was a colour television. I couldn't hear it because of the inch-thick glass. It was one of those 24-hour television news feeds. Everything you didn't want to know all the time everyday every hour. constant...bad...news... and cut to Sally with the weather. Anyway, it was showing a scene from some war some place. Some poor bugger was being blown up by some other poor bugger who was going to be shot by the first poor bugger's poor friend in a few seconds. And then to Richard with the sport. Suddenly the action changed. Everyone stopped moving and all turned and looked at some guy off screen. Then this guy came from behind the camera shouting something at the big army men. He went over and took the gun from one of them and mocked shooting one of the little arab teenagers. He gave the gun back and the went to have a talk with some of the arab fighters. He was a small plump man with a beard and a cap. He wore a plaid shirt and had a lens around his neck on a string to get a camera's eye on a scene. The camera panned around and some guy came up and dusted the lens. There were a few other men on little chairs holding papers and pointing at things in the battlefield. A few big nasty army men were at a little table in the distance which had an assortment of fruits and sandwhiches. Fixers and joiners were rushing around the place. It looked just like a location movie set, except there was no health and safety ambulance men. The camera swivelled around again and the little man had finished directing the warzone. I couldn't hear anyone say "action" because of the inch-thick glass, but suddenly they all went bang bang and shot each other. The camera man wasn't too good at his job because you could just see some guy in the corner with a suit on and a little network TV badge smiling at the bloodshed. Then my minder pulled me away to go and buy some more things we don't need.

Heat Stroke

the heat starts it, i think.
when you prefer the icey caverns of the cold english breeze (or to put it another way: the grey landscape of this depressive nation) suddenly to find a weekend of hot hot heat to be somewhat a strange encounter. for me it means sweating the skin from my bones and going a little funny in the head.
it seems the weekend has turned in on itself. just this morning i was imagining a squad of black-clad ninjas attacking me as i slurped down my orange juice. of course, being a man of reason, i was calm. i was collected. but i was not cool. the heat has bitten me and boy was it a deep cut. trash cans turned to dragons and my dogs were ravenous beasts who had more in company with a desert vulture than my loveable furry friends.
as i evaporated like an ice cream, i came to the rational conclusion that these beasts who stalked me would be my undoing. the only thing i can do to keep what thread of pride i have left is to not let them take me. the crazed mongoose that waited for me under my bed was indeed going to be the one. he would be the bastard to make that final blow to my skull and feast on the maggoty loot inside.
i would not give them the satisfaction of a dinner, i thought to myself, as i raised the gun to my forehead.

Carbon Copy

i was so bored in my carbon-copy life.
so i decided to take someone elses.
i started by walking around big cities. looking for the homeless and kneeling down and talking to them. even these people, who are pretty detatched from society, still find it strange for someone to come and ask them for their life story. as if i was holding a gun.
at first everyone is too shy, but they all want to tell someone their great story. they say there's a novel in everyone, but i think the 21st century has hit us all so hard that there is no longer a novel, but a screenplay, or teleplay, or short story, or advertisement storyline inside everyone that somehow encapsulates their life so far. from zero to now - here's the lowdown.
so after the homeless, i went for more of a challenge. bus stations and taxi cab headquaters. i just wanted to talk to people. to play around in their lives in my head for a few hours before crawling back into my own mundane existence. some people escape into movies, i escape into people.
i'm at a dinner party and i'm completely alone at a table of friends. these people all live the same lives and are all just itching to compare how normal they all are. just sat there, nodding, and waiting for their turn to speak. they're not real lives, their just carbon copies of what your life is SUPPOSED to be.
we are the TV.

Up for the Down

zeess iz a song for zee person who iz a darn goood frriend and keeps me afloat when i vant to drrrown...

your house is flooded
but your playing water polo
it's raining outside
does that stop you? oh no

you make the best of a bad situation
and that's what i love about you
the upper for my downer
you're every colour but blue

her house is on fire
so she has a barbeque
she never complains
when she doesn't get what's due

she makes the best of a bad situation
and that's what i love about her
the upper for my downer
she leaves me in a blur

it's the apocolypse
soon everyone will be coal
but you've got a smile on your face
because you know your life is whole
you've taken what life dealt
and you played a poker-smile
it's a highlighted event
just to see you once in a while

you make the best of a bad situation
and that's what i love about you
the upper for my downer
that's what i love about you