I have snakes in mind.

Sly like the reach you palm the crown
and blind me like a rat for attention
well suited to use us for parlor esteem
with weapons you choose not to mention
but he just doesn't mind staying quiet
while tracing like a child with a knife
you compare the lingering smiles of ghosts
as they lament and protest about life
convict us for thoughts and elective repose
with the advice we neglected to citation
competing through politics, religion and love
for the trophy of our destructive invention
sharp and quick like the wit of rabbits but
he's got wolves on the tip of his tongue
and she will slice the throats of lovers
if her mother just repeats to her, it's fun.
You crave the ward for a patent smile
and shiver for my breath on your lips
he watches me step with taming grace
and hopes you don't lean in for a kiss
do tour the prints of thieves and taste
the stray of my forbidding routine
as you prize glances I snare restrained
like a knight for the praise of his queen
his luck has it's way of sleeping
your walls retire at the end of the night
while I find the right pose to hold
and tell you, stop fucking with my life.

Third world countries need help!

Sort of, I suppose. Lets pretend that we don't understand how economies grow and civilisations flourish. Lets instead, throw money at them until they stop sending us videos of them sitting around looking sad covered in flies. Surely the whole spectrum of what constitutes as "needing help" is relative to the people who are offering it. By our standards, with our world of fridge magnets, bidets, cherry coke and a million mild variations of shampoo. 3rd world countries are rubbish and boring. However, the whole situation could be solved if we just left them alone and stop telling them how lame they are, that way, they wouldn't know how bad they have it.

Beings from another world may visit us one day from their world of SUPER FRIDGE MAGNETS and GAZILLIONS OF SHAMPOO VARIATIONS, feel sorry for us then tell us how great life could be if we were them. Well, alien dick heads, life was pretty alright until you showed up and started teasing us with your superior lifestyle, now I can't be bothered being happy with my life of regular fridge magnets, I want the super ones. Thanks.

So, Geldof, I realise you have this thing where you get angry at everyone for not trying to create a lovely, united world where everyone is a rock-star and best mates with Bono and what-not. It's nice and everything but, stop it. We can not fix problems by throwing coins at it, especially coins we don't actually have and I doubt it will help if we simply extend the warm branch of western debt to everywhere else in the world. Though misery loves company I suppose, maybe we could dress all the fly covered children in little suits and teach them how to make several power point presentations for their boss before sitting down and deciding the most organised way to kill themselves.

Welcome to paradise Ethiopian child, here is your cherry coke, a magazine that tells you what clothes to buy this winter so you don't get rejected from society and therapy. Have fun.

Anyway, "Geldof" there are more pressing matters to attend to, like the language bomb you have planted. You should probably diffuse it before it annoys me any more than it does simply because it is called "Peaches".




Seriously though, well done if you do charitable work, however, if you still have money in your pocket and don't donate all your money to all charities equally, you are still a greedy bastard. Who cares though, right? This cherry coke is delicious.

I can make up jokes.

It was a lovely winter morning and as Billy and Sarah woke up from their beds, they noticed it had snowed all night. With excitement rushing through their bodies they rush downstairs, put their little woolen scarves on and little woolen hats and start to play with the snow in the garden. Their mother wakes up and watches them from the kitchen window with a little content smile on her face. The children start to build a snowman and the mother comes out to help, they all pitch in and share a day of laughter and frolic. Soon enough, the most wonderful snowman in the world is made and stood firmly and proudly in the garden. It had a smile of coal, a carrot for a nose and their father's old hat on. The children were now tired so, their mother took them inside to sit together by the fire. While they were inside a bird lands on a branch overlooking the snowman and says, "Oh, hello Mr. snowman, how glorious you look, that family sure put a lot of love into making you! I sure do love the snow it makes everything look beautiful, don't you think?" The snowman turns to look at the bird and replies, "SHUT YOUR FUCKING FACE YOU STUPID FUCKING BIRD!"

Function, dysfunction, destruction, construction, function.

Right firstly, society and the current state of which humanity has reigned itself is disgustingly ambiguous and hollow. The truth is that we are are all mentally Ill and fucked up, there is no perfect specimen. It is my opinion that love operates in the way that when you first meet someone (anyone) you both perform this pantomime with each other, like submitting a brief profile report that includes boring shit like, what films you like, what do you do when you're bored, what's your favourite colour. It's like a script of how to be regular and not draw "inappropriate" attention to yourself. It is the idealistic equivalent of; "Hi, I am normal, are you?" These engagements may be satisfying on a really complex level of self evaluation and worth but, it is just shit, shit and acting.

The more you get to know someone on a personal level, the more they slip on their performance of pretending to be perfect. It works like an exchange, they begin to tell each other how they aren't as perfect as the other person might think they are. Until it eventually moves to the surrender of your mask and armour completely and you both admit how disgusting, mentally ill, broken and traumatised you both are. It is this moment of withdrawal from the silver-lined fog of society that you fall in love. It is the only thing in the world that is actually beautiful, lets not pretend everything is great, it's not. Lets just admit it so we can start appreciating the things that matter. Like each other and how weird and wonderful it is to be alive together.

Subtraction mathmatics, so far.

The morning aura peeled apart my eyelids as though electricity ran through my bones. I immediately recall the remanence of a dream I was just having, yet could not track back to anything about it. I lay awake attempting to dig it back up for a few minutes before giving up on it forever and getting out of bed, carrying the slight twitch of disappointment with myself. While walking to my window I struggle past a mirror and briefly scan myself for persistent insecurities, like a virus scanner, I re-center myself for a socially accepted standard of self-loathing before I even begin to think about interacting with anyone.

I place an excessive amount of anticipation on the mystery condition of the weather outside before I pull the wrapping paper off the world by prying apart my curtains. I shook hands with myself and made a subconscious agreement that if it looks cold and wet then I will have an undeniably terrible day. To my disappointment, it was mild and average. From my window, I have an embarrassing view of a park where children usually go and laugh loudly. I noticed this morning that there was a boy on his own with a toy machine gun, shooting and supposedly killing invisible things. I watched him for a moment and came to the assumption that in his fantasy, he was not under any sort of struggle or war-based peril but rather simply, shooting things which appeared to cause no imaginary threat to himself, probably unarmed innocents and civilians or something.

I smiled to myself smugly as a form of congratulatory praise for being so clever and witty with my analysis of this little boy. This moment of self-aggrandizing glory was quickly thwarted by a realization that I am the type of person who feels better about thyself when I silently make fun of children. I walked past the mirror again on my way to my kitchen, looking at myself briefly in the eyes while sarcastically thinking "Nice one".

The kitchen held a static hum omitting from the homely appliances, all of which were hooked up to the walls like a hospital ward for the terminally ill. I felt sorry for them but, then felt sorry for myself, for feeling sorry for them. The room itself echoed with my footsteps as I dragged myself over to the fridge. My hands felt heavy and clumsy as though the familiar and loyal childhood hands that once helped me to eat ice cream and climb trees had died, I now just have to put up with dragging their bodies around with me on the end of my arms. There was nothing in the fridge that I felt the desire to place into my mouth, I became briefly annoyed at myself from the past and his inability to comprehend what future me would like to eat.

The kitchen had exhausted it's purpose to me now. If I don't want to eat anything, why am I still in this room. I lingered around for a while like a stock-checker, opening and re-opening various draws and cupboards. As I proceeded to do this I realized how preoccupied with aesthetic impressions I am.

I had no personal desire to appear busy with purpose since, I already knew I had none. I was more concerned with the slight chance that someone may see me doing nothing and forge an opinion that, as a generalization, I do nothing. They would be mainly right but, I don't have the time to confront every pair of wondering eyes with a discussion on philosophy and the relative, futile illusion of what actually constitutes as "busy". I often catch myself talking to myself then I talk to myself about how I probably shouldn't talk to myself, the kitchen cabinets had seen enough pantomime action for one day. I decided to move on and try to appear busy and normal somewhere else.