Sunday, November 29, 2009

I'm living on a Chinese Rock.

Here we are in a new age,
wishing we were dead.
There's a TV in my front room,
and it's screwing up my head.

There's a scanner in the toilet,
to watch you take a bath.
There's a picture of Hiroshima,
to make sure you never laugh.

Zyklon B is still in production in the Czech Republic in the factory Draslovka Kolín, in the city of Kolín under the tradename Uragan D2, sold for eradicating insects and small animals. The cyanide based pesticide, used to eradicate six million Jews, is still being made.

Joseph Lewis Clark, (15 January 1949 – May 2, 2006), was executed by the State of Ohio. He was the 21st person executed by Ohio since the state resumed executions in 1999. Clark was sentenced to die on November 28, 1984 for the murder of 22-year-old David Manning during a gas station hold-up in Toledo.

Clark's execution was notable for a number of reasons. He spent 21 years and 5 months on death row, making him one of the longest-serving inmates between sentencing and execution. He also gave the longest (10 minutes) final statement according to the Ohio Department of Rehabilitation and Correction.

Clark's execution was also most notable and controversial because it took officials nearly 90 minutes to complete the process. The problems began when the staff were unable to find two suitable veins to attach the IV lines leading to the lethal chemicals. Clark had an extensive history as an intravenous drug user, making his veins weak and brittle. Under the state's execution protocol, two veins were required with the second serving as backup should the main line fail. After unsuccessfully trying to find a suitable second site for nearly 30 minutes, the staff opted to move ahead with only the single main line.

Shortly after the chemicals began flowing Clark shouted, "It don't work. It don't work." and attempted to raise his head and upper body, according to witnesses. The director of the Ohio Department of Rehabilitation and Correction, Terry Collins, on just his second day as head of the department, ordered the curtain to the visitors' gallery be closed, while execution team members strived to find another suitable vein. It took another 40 minutes before the second vein was found and the execution continued. By 11:26 a.m. Clark was dead.

Frankie Sutton turned to crime at an early age.
Throughout his professional criminal career he never killed anyone.
Described by Mafiosi Donald Frankos as "a little bright-eyed man" who stood at 5 feet 7 inches, he was very talkative, chain-smoked hand rolled Bull Durnham cigarettes, and dispensed mounds of legal advice to any convict willing to listen.
Inmates considered Sutton a "wise old head" in the prison population.
When incarcerated he never had to worry about assault because his Mafia friends looked after him.Gangsters from the time period, and many incarcerated organized crime mafia family leaders and made Mafioso loved having Sutton around for companionship.
He was always a gentleman, witty and non-violent.
Frankos declared that Sutton made legendary bank thieves Jesse James and John Dillinger look like amateurs.

Sutton married Louise Leudemann in 1929. She divorced him while he was in jail. Their daughter Jeanie was born the following year. His second wife was Olga Kowalska, whom he married in 1933. His longest period of (legal) employment lasted for only 18 months.

Sutton preferred the name Bill, but police nicknamed him Willie.

He robbed about 100 banks from the late 1920s to his final arrest in 1952—with several prison terms in between; he was also a master at breaking out of prisons.

"You can't rob a bank on charm and personality" he once observed. In an interview in the Reader's Digest published shortly before his death, Sutton was asked if the guns that he used in robberies were loaded. He responded that he never carried a loaded gun because somebody might get hurt.

He allegedly never robbed a bank when a woman screamed or a baby cried.

"Why did I rob banks? Because I enjoyed it. I loved it. I was more alive when I was inside a bank, robbing it, than at any other time in my life. I enjoyed everything about it so much that one or two weeks later I'd be out looking for the next job. But to me the money was the chips, that's all. Go where the money is...and go there often."

Saturday, November 28, 2009

Ballad of Worms by Chris Palko.

What kind of God is this?
Gave me the hottest bitch, then took the life from her chest and left a pile of shit.
Sloppy with a fork, so Chris gotta feed her,
Too numb to cum, sometimes she piss while I eat her.
I tell her, keep her head up, even though I gotta hold it up for her,
and she seizure when she try and get up,
I know I'm perking her but can't stop what's hurting her,
No sleep with her screaming all night, I'm thinking of murking her.
Her parents paid for the coffin and left state,
After signing the contract, do not resuscitate.

Yellin' for mommy, I dip in the morphine to calm me,
I'm known in town as the creep that's into zombies.

I can't get that sound, you make, out of my head,
I can't even figure out what's making it.

Stare in her eyes to look past horror,
Morphine tolerated, I'm out coppin' horse tranq for her.
Like I won't have to go through hell again,
Her skin is like Saran Wrap, barely hangin' from her skeleton.
With each one of her ribs defined,
My crib's designed to keep the light out cause she can't lift the blinds,
Drifting behind, I'll be outta friends soon.
Nobody, visits the guy that keeps the body in his bedroom.
She's barely alive and taking life from me with no appetite but the meningitis is still hungry.
Wants to make love,
But I had to substitute it with holding hands while we take drugs.

She's cold as a corpse and still holding The Source,
Up in the air like: "One day the cover is yours".
Took the IV out her wrist, tried to give me a kiss,
Before I tasted her lips, she dislocated her hips.
Started shaking.
Couldn't feed her no medication.
To scared to beat on her chest in fear it'd cave in.
Death waved again, and each time leaves her,
In a coma, for a week, to wake up to more seizures.

But this time ain't like the rest,
I can see right through her chest,
And see her heart ain't got no fuckin beats left.

Then a voluptuous ghost falls from a host,
Looking like she did in High School, then fades, when I get, close.

I'm feeling bad as me.

Saturday, 5.34pm

How did such a beautiful woman end up singing about Heroin?
I have no idea.

Gimme some chat. What do you think then, you what?
You're the quintessential definition of indecision.
I'll give you ONE more Sunday night, to get it right.

Fuck my mind has been invaded.
I don't mind, it's a refreshing change, and when I'm in that mood, I'd still donate it to charity.
There's something about Doloxene.

Spaced out and police cadets recruitment earning the Prison Industrial Complex money.
Look it up.

The fucking, fuck. Computer copulation that is made a spectacle of, will not convince me that we are any better than the oppressors. Pick a petal and pull.
Droogs might not run, but they sometimes join the other team.
The riot squad, the TRG, Police Rescue, SAS, USMC etc.
And just like that episode of Seinfeld, you can't just change teams.
Busrides to big city lights. Coffee is nicer when the glass is half broken.
I'm trying to handle how this world works. It's hard. Someone out there is my friend.
Then again, someone out there must HATE MY FUCKING GUTS.
There's always a spoilsport, a bad egg, a silly sausage to piss on the embers of my frozen heart.
Years of being told you're not as good as them,
would really, REALLY fuck up a kids head.

I recommend quitting your job.
Darcy quit the Queens last night.
That's been his life for, like, two years.
I'm only twenty two and I've had memory loss nearly that long. What the fuck am I thinking?
It's like the home made I did on Joe.
Remember Joe?

My Heart is an Idiot.

I'd rather drink, fight and fuck.
Failing that, I'd eat, mung out and love. The polar opposites are still opposite. By way of the polar icecaps, bi-polar, bi-cycle, bi-sexual, bi-focal, bi-gger.
Class war?
The mere fact that the anarchy symbol was invented as a FASHION icon and not a symbol of rebellion, would dribble piss all over the culture we have succeeded. Our revolution will never come.
We are too apathetic.
"What's the difference between ignorance and apathy?"
"I don't know, and I don't care buddy."

I'd turn on a checkout chick and go postal for a pouch of nicotine leaves when martial law comes.
The zombie hunt.
Fuckin' BANG.
Few things to do tonight. Might make one of them a real horrorshow, so stay tuned.
Motivational music includes The Temptations - Papa was a Rollin' Stone + Ain't too Proud to Beg, Michael Jackson - Rockin' Robin and Cock Sparrer - Argy Bargy. By the last tune you can see I'm still on that 1982-1984 tip hard.
I'll get off that, just like Drake, when I'm good and fucken' ready.

The Bargy Argy Squad, Burgers and Shakes, Betta Aks' Sumbody about The Bastards.

I got proof.

Friday, November 27, 2009

Saturday, 3.21am

At The Moon, solo. Writing on this infernal machine. I tried sedation for tonight, no avail. They just tried to take me to rehab. The people who work here are either dope or jerks. Sipping on a Pipsqueak, just lost three lives on 1984 in about a minute in a half. They think I'm going to do a runner, I'm sitting right at the door. That reminds me of when I got arrested on unrelated matters and I had on my person two photos of someone who looked like me, running out of here. I had in a Xanax haze thought to remove said photos from a former wall of shame. No wonder it took them five minutes to bring me a drink.

Has my life returned to it's former faux glory?
The essence of drug abuse, embodied in a flanno wearing, hoodied up, sockless man drinking by himself on a Saturday morning. I have laid my foundations on shaky ground, unsound and unsafe, prefixes can't fix me, neither suffixes or fixies either. I'm comfortable performing this traveling monkey show for you. Just laugh at my misfortune as bad turns to show pony firepower embezzlement. Do the monster mash. Do you love me just as much as she did? And the one before? The eternal quest to crawl back into what we fell out of.

I'm nearly finished my first drink, and I need to have a cigarette. Let's see if they think I'm going to do a runner. I can feel the laser pointing eyes manufacture a new gouge in the back of my head. I'll leave my headphones on top of my flanno and drink and hope they don't take away my precious dregs.

No luck on the confrontation front, they ignored me. I'm burping up acidic beans. Too many beans. I might stay here until they throw me out. The music has gone shit. A girl probably picked it. Hang on, there's a harmonica solo. Worth it. Not as intolerable as I thought.

Just another solo punter, not willing to buy food when he drinks. Is that a warping of personas? Third or first, it's all perspective. Some guy just asked me if WE were finished with the menus. Does that mean he can see all fifteen thousand facets of my personality? Hovering across from me, in an empty seat.
You don't need to catch a plane to lose yourself. Just put your phone on airplane mode and take the trip outside.

The music is sombre now. Maybe the dude at the counter had a funeral today.

Maybe this is the future, and going back on my word is like hitting backspace on the typewriter of life. It doesn't change a thing except shake everything up. More punters arrive. If looks could kill, I'd be a lamb led to slaughter. Five girls and three guys who would probably spit on my grave if they knew me better. But based on that reaction, they just don't like my haircut. At least they are playing Prince now.

Cash ruins everyone around me, C.R.E.A.M, get the money, pop the fucking till boy. Too many cameras and panopticon kaleidoscopic viewpoints.

The bicycle ride home is going to be an interesting experience. I'm not packing plementimays, so it's going to be more of a scenic journey into my iPods shuffle function.

Fridays are worse when your alone. I hate the weekend. People with money and jobs and lives come out to play. Give me the serenity of a dead main street at 3.33am anyday, over this travisty of a calender week.

I work, just not the hours you do. Vampires of an new empire, deciding our fate with the roll of the dice.

Sevens or snake eyes, stupidly slung.
I'm going to go look for drunk people to borrow money from soon. Obvious underagers are entering. Downhill like Cool Runnings.

There is a new Larry David movie poster up. It just looks like a ninety minute version of Curb Your Enthusiasm. I met Mick tonight. Earlier. He grew up with Bon Scott.

That is better than you.

Good Evening readers, hope your festive weekends started with a pop bang pop bang smash crash head on collision. Good Evening and Goodnight.

I had the best lunch today. Parmesan and Onion bread, freshly baked, tomato, cheese and avocado.

Time for another drink.
I should really just go home and save the money for tobacco.
No, I just got conned into grabbing another drink.
I forget you have to pay at the end here.

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Busting All Snitches.

Been a long time since I unleashed the bastard within.
Locked doors with flaws of unrelated brainwashing
A sin commited yet sentences sentenced to death.
Requiem for a terrible track record, recorded alpha beta.
Only love can break a heart.
My faux fixie is fantastic.
High five honey, I lied. The mental prowess seems to decrease our friendship.
ROTE learnt like I was writing lines on reference cards,
Stop playing the part, it's destroying the art, horrible cunts with horrible English. Rust corrodes slowly my bicycles wheel rim.
No need for Hell, it's here already. I witnessed many fitnesses, finesse through photographic partions, my gift is my wisdom.
Go straight to jail, assault a transit officer.
Sounds different the other way around, doesn't it.
Bang like a rabbit, cocked back, aiming steady,
Go straight for the throat, junkie zombies crawl already.
Crawl for me, sit by my feet. I'm a freak, a creep, decieved into decorticating with the devil. No aslyum here anymore. The borders are.
Papa Sam, Uncle Sam, Cousin Sam.
Leave at your own chosen speed.
It's a struggle, but the froth is overwhelming.
Right or wrong, my life.

But it ain't me babe.

That argy bargy.

Monday, November 23, 2009

Note to self and Internet.

Give up. Keep going. Chase 'em down, let them run. Watch them fall or help them up. Been an eighties kid since vicious Sid, but I can't seem to grasp the only thing that makes me happy.

Reservoir dogs, for real. And I wouldn't care about pinching your violin and giving it a strum. How you like me now? Ignored, gnawed at once too many times.
Yet, hands and knees, I beg forgiveness?
Is this it?
Should I just fuck it all up and explain myself, whilst sober, all the while knowing it's one ear one cup and out the other.
You don't know either, and that's what's up.

My past lives a blur?
Chairman applauds and concurs?
I need an anchor for my rowboat.

Goodnight Perth.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Enjoy the Junkie Business.

This post I thought, why not be like, I enjoy these things. I should tell the Internet. They won't mind. They read this but don't let me know they enjoy it too.
But I do.
Prepare for serotonin, as I take you up the three steps to heaven.

Christianity Dior bathrobe and my Versace Jeans shirt.
They get enjoyed.

Chicken Crimpy shapes, 1984, paintbrush and Painstop. Not to mention The Curse of Lono coffee table made out of a milkcrate. All enjoyed.

I enjoy women's magazines.

I enjoy buses and waiting for buses.

I enjoy fucking with newspapers. Dada wasn't just a streetwear label.


I enjoy The Moon. I enjoyed it more when smoking out the back was kosher.

I enjoyed the devolution of Billie after 4 glasses of wine.

I enjoyed seeing where she gets it from, all the while enjoying viewing people's flexibility.
Hi Crystal.

I enjoy both of those things. I enjoy the fact that tomorrow is always too late. I enjoy being selfish. I enjoy waiting, if it's worth it.
Enjoying Green curry is a must.

now or never motherfuckers.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Choose One.

On to the next one, somebody bring me back some money please.
On to the next one.

Who would of thought the sample of one of the best tracks on Jay Z's newest print, was D.A.N.C.E by Justice. I guess the chopped up nu rave got flavourwave oven status.

I don't get dropped, I drop the label.
That line is thoroughbred, stable quality.

Double your money, make a stack,
Find me in the corner of the club, huffing Ironlak.

On to the next one, on to the next one.

Monday, November 16, 2009

Row, row, row your boat.

67.167.141.# from Romulus, Michigan, North America googled "shut your fat ass! i can't buy a pack of cigarettes" and got to my blog.

Sunday, November 15, 2009

Big bang, I saw the whole gang.

Photo update coming soon.
I killed the internet streaming season five of It's Always Sunny.
So worth it though. Egg. Leather chair. Wrecking balls. The waitress. Danny Devito.
It's all there.
Wait til after twelve am or two am and I'll get unshaped.
Doesn't that sound peculiar.

Right now it's all about:

Little Peggy March - I Follow Him (She's a mad stalker, but it's kind of cute.)

The Weathermen - The New Vandals (If you haven't seen the album art, go look it up. Vampires. If that isn't enough, these days they are just all arty logo nouveau vogue vandals.

Jimmy Barnes - Working Class Man (He believes in God AND Elvis, plus he's STILL mad at Uncle Sam.)

Hospice Crew - This World (Is DOG eat DOG.)

Tuesday, November 10, 2009


"A ghostwriter is a professional writer who is paid to write books, articles, stories, reports, or other texts that are officially credited to another person. Celebrities, executives, and political leaders often hire ghostwriters to draft or edit autobiographies, magazine articles, or other written material. In music, ghostwriters are used in film score composition, as well as in pop music such as Top 40, country, and hip-hop. The ghostwriter is sometimes acknowledged by the author or publisher for his or her writing services."


Surprised? How could you be?
The nuisance of my stride will subside, as soon as I make cents off of making no sense.
I got nothing to say but I can still spin a yarn from the hairs of an ear of corn.
Still listening?
Babylon wasn't what I was trying to relive, and denial is only a river in Egypt.
The definition of garbage, the unoriginal keyboard funk is only one step away.
One step ahead, not proud of the guilt, afraid of all the money hidden inside what the cranes built.
I could sit and scratch all day, turntables turned the tables and I didn't mean what you first thought, it simply enables. Shut your mouth. They're alot of sentient beings that have mindless drivel leaking out their gobs, only accusers of the abusers.
Busy Bee Pharmacy.
This Block's Pharmacist.
Cyst, tumour, humidor, black comedy, vanilla essence, sixteen, virginity, modernity, line, designs, recordings of a new era, reflections of an old.
My eyes are fighting gravity, death defying as they sit quietly and piously in the front of my face.

Won't stop.

I have been running on minimal sleep lately, and I should be passing out round eleven at least.
The insomnia is back, I can't be out and about during business hours.
3.33am bike rides are back on the agenda.
Anyone in the same boat?

King Friday XIII's version:
Propel, propel, propel your craft,
Unforcefully down the liquid solution.
Ecstatically, ecstatically, ecstatically, ecstatically,
Existence is merely an illusion.

French version:
Rame, rame, rame sur ton bateau,
Doucement, dans le courant,
Gaiement, gaiement, gaiement, gaiement,
La vie n'est qu'un rêve charmant.

German version:
Fahr, fahr, fahr dein Boot
Durch Wasser und durch Schaum
lass dich treiben, treiben, treiben, treiben
Das Leben ist ein Traum.

Dutch version:
Roei, roei, roei je boot,
zachtjes door de stroom,
vrolijk, vrolijk, vrolijk, vrolijk,
`t leven is maar een droom.

Polish version:
Płyń,płyń,łódko płyń,
W dół strumienia hen!
Życie jest jak sen.

"And if you don't like Vodka, then fuck it we'll drink Jack, and if you don't like Jack, then fuck it, we'll drink Yak, and if you don't like Yak then fuck it, we'll drink Moe, and if you don't like Moe then fuck it, we'll puff 'dro, yo, pick your poison bitch, forget your boyfriend."

Viva Hate.

This Charming Man obviously was in a Panic after Half a Person or a Boy with a Thorn in his Side threw a bottle of water at him, and hit him straight in the Suedehead at a concert in Liverpool.
He stormed off stage, Disappointed.
But really,
What Difference Does it Make?

Did you get all the Smiths references?
Bigmouth Strikes Again.
See what I did there?

That Joke isn't Funny Anymore.

See, I did it again, and personally, I still find it funny.
I'm certain there's only about four people who will get all this.
If you don't then just Oscillate Wildly until someone stops to see if you are ok or Ask anyone who knows Nina.

Monday, November 9, 2009

No prophet, it's pathetic.

I've stopped smoking as much.

The partridge is not a peacock, and Alan is not Steven.
Alan Partridge could be dressed as a Peacock or have a penis that resembles a pea.
Alan may also play a character named Steven.

Basic principles and pinnacles of simple fact you'd think, but therein lies the Easter egg. All the while I'm laying peacefully single,
in my double bed.

(What if that dead leg never happened? Why can't people paint their own pictures with the words supplied on the palette?
If I never had a dead leg, I wouldn't of moved to a prone position, hence I cannot see out my window, hence,
You get the drift.)

The butterflies in my stomach are always actually moths, and get burnt by bare bulbs as they brainlessly follow the light.

I finally got published by someone other than myself.
It might only be a paragraph in the local street press,
but I now have a doctorate of some kind.

Obsessions of the moment would have to be playing Mario Kart online on the Wii my flatmate took from a youth centre, my cheese knife, black and white acrylics and
being violently ill for no reason and throwing up into my backyard at random intervals.

And now a monologue from another obsession, while I wear my Dior bathrobe,
Boondock Saints.

Donna: You killed my... my...
Rocco: Your what?
Donna: My...
Rocco: Your fuckin' what? Huh? Your what, bitch?
Donna: ...
Rocco: I'll shoot myself in the head if you can tell me that cat's name! Go ahead! Your what? Your precious, little...
Donna: Skippy! Skippy!
Rocco: Oh, Jesus! What color was it, bitch?
Rayvie: Don't you fucking yell at her like that you prick!
Rocco: Shut your fat ass, Rayvie! I can't buy a pack of smokes without runnin' into nine guys you fucked!

I write scripts like The Shining, but never get no Oscars,
except ones that come in clip seal Glad bags and cost ya.

Sunday, November 8, 2009

Happy birthday, I got you a urinal cake.

Places in the United States:

* Freedom, California
* Freedom, Idaho and Wyoming
* Freedom, Indiana
* Freedom, Maine
* Freedom, Michigan
* Freedom, New Hampshire
* Freedom, New York
* Freedom, Oklahoma
* Freedom, Pennsylvania
* Freedom, Wisconsin

Sunday, November 1, 2009

Goodbye cruel world, I'm off to join the circus.

Sitting in my half cleaned room, with a half dry shirt on, with half an hour to kill and I have blood on my hands. There is alot that can, or could, be achieved by not just letting time pass me by.

So I decided to write some erotic fiction.
For some.

Kathy was dressed like a clown, with her ovaries ripe. Her vulva, pulsating to the rhythm of a skipping record. She sat, legs akimbo, atop a cloud of poisonous smoke, strumming at her bean guitar. The labia, tightly tucked like she was a virgin, were being casually splashed with urine and whipped cream.
"Bring out the whips" screamed Kathy.
Each stroke left a welt, a red rising welt, that looked like a myriad of pink threaded spider webs on her thighs and her buttocks.

As she cut her finger and let the blood drip into Victor's mouth, there was silence.
Drip by drip she held Victor down with her knee and let the blood trickle down her finger, slowly, and into and around his mouth. Drip.
The IV drip was inserted haphazardly.
Liquid ounces of love, being delivered straight to her bloodstream, then into Victor's craving mouth.

Even though Kath was pregnant, she still fucked like a demon. Her hair was just another rope to pull tighter, another way to get the ship to shore.
For sure.
Anyway, Victor stood up.
Standing over Kathy he pulled out a pair of forceps. The cold, silent metal began its journey. It slowly pried apart her vagina, and he inspected it with a stern knowledge.
The whip lashed.
Her juices gushed down so profusely Victor had to take another swig of Vodka.

A sharp, shooting pain was felt by both of them. Kathy, with the forceps hanging out of her rectum, and Victor self mutilating himself with a Zipppo lighter, watching Kathy squirm in pleasurable pain.

Darling, stand by me?

As Victor nailed Kath into her coffin, he left her a rotten cucumber and a electric toothbrush to remember him by. She gasped one last breath as Victor hammered the lid down, secretly knowing when he returned the next day, or next week, he'd have a present for her.

Join the motherfucking circus.