Wednesday, 9 March 2005


This doesn’t feel right, I am forcing myself to eat. I have no appetite. Thinking about sex a lot. I am in the middle of a long, protracted leaving. Experiencing hiatus, I sleep like a normal person.

I have never felt so good.

However, waking up and watching television before breakfast is a real danger. Almost every morning I find myself slumped with tears in my eyes, my dry throat burning, as I watch someone renovate their dream house or sell all of their mother’s jewellery to fund a jet-ski purchase

Moving from within these four walls. A residue remains though; a commentary states that people deny that they love, or have ever loved, the mute attraction of order. Leave for the other side of the postcode, following the fortuitous right angles of the streets, rows of terraces opening before me, like thighs.

(I tried to leave the house with a packet of tobacco in my back pocket, it wasn’t until I was out of the house that I realised that I had not picked up a packet of tobacco, but a book. I didn’t even try to smoke it.)

Some views:

i) A man wrapped entirely in nothing but a white sheet, driving a Renault Clio
ii) The perfect employee, a deaf labourer, unable to hear the foreman’s requests to take an hour for lunch.
iii) Friends in a convey of cars, being driven to a photography shoot for the new album cover. I held them up, they lost their way.

White padded envelope at post-office, containing old education certificates, the most recent being a degree. We cannot think of two without thinking of three.

That roundabout looks like a nipple.

Walking back, wanting to make peace, to instigate a retrieval of acquaintance through shock. Turn up at door, weeping with a cluster of stolen flowers, rain smearing on face and hair full of dandruff, cigarette unlit in corner of mouth. Abandoned plan; forgot tobacco. We were more than this.

Got home and put certificates on a chair, rest fatigued wrists on weathered keyboard full of old food and dust.

Fell asleep while viewing poems as circuit boards and diagrams of Ford Escort engines circa 1989, and the sky as a pair of tits.

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