evidence

oooooooooooohhhhh
bum
idid it again
oops
c

fear

i broke off
 for fear - or something-
of i do not know

why do we not say what we think?
why do we not know what we think?

what?

i dont know

endsong

the eyes followed me round the room
twerent his fault
i gave away the sex
but you werent interested

youthspeak

by way to clarify
and demistify
to open up my wall to eye
isay: this:
i and i
we are
k

the matter

you'll say:
"I texted him yesterday"
and the timimg will fall off
and he wont say anything
coz he's dead
but there might be something
about lloyd cole
and that will sound trite
because this is the time for dying
and the time is now
and it has been for a while
since we stopped living
selfishly
but, and, off-
taht'll be it
without ceremony
or something you should have said...

end of the matter

Ja - texting...

there's nothing left for vanity,
chastity or insanity
I and I are in agreement
a thumb with it's own life is clever
when the owner's dead.

browsers welcome

i wonder where i'll be if i log on to you tube and just click the main link in 24 hours
(line one)
That was crap
(line two)

postscript
'No Sacrifi - i -i - ice'
by Elton

was the end

need toothpaste

and breakfast

chastity

I'm chased
my willie as good as fell off
the bits of it that did
strangely expanded
on touching the ground
and left a trail of desire
I cannot explain
it chased me to the left
and chased me to the right
I had some attention from
ladies of the night
a part of me was, erstwhile found
blocking the entrance
to a football ground
for a crime deemed heinous
they blamed my penis
so now, I am chased.

I was born on the 23rd of July 1968. I don't have any more information about that event, except that my mother always said: “Never again” First Memories: buried somewhere is a memory I have had, but one which has not lately returned, of a flat over a butcher's shop on Cockington Road in Bilborough, Nottingham. I just remember being carried up the stairs in a cot. I moved back to a house just around the corner from Cockington Road's butcher shop in Stotfield Road when I was five years old, after a few years in some flats on Old Coach Road in Wollaton. Memory has never served me too well. How do you write the story of your life? I have no idea. Chapter One I don't have specific memories. I'd love to begin with: 'it was a warm sunny morning and my father was up early....etc.', but i don't have any recollection of such details... I am beginnng this story with a profound sense of vagueness and maybe even disinterest. So if it ever gets published – I'll be more surprised than you.

KEEP WALKING

there's a dull thing
on the beach in front of him
and he cant care to bend to
it's being the only thing
around for miles

the world is in mind and

no flat skimmers will need counting today
only a cup of tea at the end of the way
and there is success
in that.

no news is good news.

and aware of every foible,
he listens to the screaming sands
underfoot knowing every pebble
speaks well for the silence

that will be an eternity.
a dog would like his attention
but he will not meet its master,
afraid of any complications

to the perfect flatness
of a sanguine fool
who knows when to
just keep walking...

Chris Eubank Phone Sex Poem (to be read with a lithp...)

Fuck it, write a poem
Dangle it down like it's Christmas..
As if you were sitting on santas knee and
Pretending like you don't know him....

Fuck it go on
Write a poem.

A master of the language
It's a bard that it is that You are
So come, I want now, write me poem
Write it hard come on... That's it

Yes

Mmmmmmmm

That's good.

Click

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr