digital lets us all dig it

the first decade of gregory's new millenium gave cause for some people to celebrate. a small fizzy province in the north east of France is supposed to have done well out of it. what was going on? there was a bug going round faster than rumours - a virus that looked like a computer chip. what was all the fuss about? after smoke signals, beacons, flags, optical heliographs, telegraphs and telephones, was it a new chapter in the breakdown of technological elitism and an end to the media monopoly? was that the sound of the world shrinking? were they celebrating the fruition of the biggest resource in human history?

in the egalitarianism of the blogroll, in the twinkling night of flashy appin' pappin' camera phones and post-hangover photoshop face-lifts, we try our hands at things we´re not very good at.

a network of interconnection, drowning in debates of sticky flummery spewed back and forth between ignoramus and obnox with the intelectualism of a food-fight. hillbillies with computers! hillbillies with computers! that's what we're up against! unending pages of vacuous comments, tallentless pixels and the unedited duplicates of selectiveless snap-happy facebook profiles; worse than gran´s slideshows. a result of the undiscerning abundance of megabits. whatever happened to Bill Gates's prediction of an economical 17kb one-size-fits-all allowance?

stuttering vitriol. capitalised sentences. google whack. the spaces between the clouds get exponentially bigger, so you choose which tube, tunnel, pipe or wire. cathode rays, electron guns - it seems so retro sci-fi. internet cafe time-out.

love letter

i wana fuck you in roller-blades, flippers and stilettos. in stockings and kids socks; trainers and snow boots. with wings, in wellies, in a bowl of jelly - on telly. in the mud, on the moon, in the snow, in the rain. i wana paint you blue, and i red, and make messy purple love. i wana eat sorbet out of your pussy while you wear a peacock feathered mask. i wana fuck you like a lion, like a slug, like a spacca, like a rapist. like an octopus with tentacles and 3 racing hearts. i wana fuck you in uniform: military, monsters, maids and mademoiselles. nurses and nappies, cartoon characters with impossible hair. like manga, lolicon and a lap-dancing lolita. i wana fuck you blind with my lids closed. i wana come in your eyes, in your mouth, in your nose. in your ears and everywhere else - all at the same time. i wana fuck-fuck-fuck you in the head. i want you in stars and stripes, in rips and rags, in plastic bags. hair up, hair down, curled and shaved. on the alter, away in a manger - in cages wrapped in duct tape, cellotape, masking tape, cling film and foil. i wana fuck you covered in blood, in a crimson tide. i wana fuck you cold and lifeless on white tiled floors. i wana fuck you in a rage, on stage, on drugs, in my sleep, in your sleep while you're dressed as bo-peep. i wana fuck you with your parents watching, in french, russian and double-dutch. i wana fuck you when you're giggling, when you're tickled and laughing, when you're crying and sulking. when you're trying to fight me. i wana fuck you up a tree, on a small boat in the sea, in a sauna in space, on stilts and in free-fall. under the stars, under the tables of bars. in mini-skirts, in pumps, in jump-suits and tuxedos. in string-vests, in glitter, in recycled litter. in ripped up tights, while i'm riding a bike, doing underwater hand-stand sixty niners. when there's an earthquake, when there's an eclipse, in a tsunami or the apocalypse. i wana fuck you while firing a gun, in garters while burning in the sun, in headphones and ear-muffs, in a corset and cuffs. in a sci-fi B-movie wardrobe, in lights that strobe. in burkas in a ball-pit, in bondage and buckles, in straps and while stripping; when we're skinny-dipping. naked, clothed or half-way-undressed, messy and tangled in a polka-dot dress. in push-up bras and tiaras and panties - crotchless and frilly, ruffled and rough, silk and satin while reciting latin. under sheets alone and in the middle of a park. i wana impregnate you in a graveyard in the dark. skull fuck and throat fuck you, in lightning storms, making porn on a heath, tearing off electric blue tights with my teeth. in a bath full of custard with horns and snorkels, in antlers on acid, in gloves, gags and goggles. i wana make a bread mould of your bum and eat it. i wana fry eggs on your hot-hot stomach. i wana eat your cunt while you blow bubbles. i wana wrestle you to the floor and roll around in puddles. i wana pull your hair and pin you, choke and provoke you. hit on you, spit on you, sit on you and read you nursery rhymes while wearing a bonnet. i want you with antenna, in fishnets, in wet-suits, in knee-high boots, bent over, eating peach fruits, in front of mirrors and behind closed doors, on marble floors and on all 4's. i wana fuck you tied up with rope and in between tokes, in chokers and chains and cherry-chapstick, with whips and wands and in ponds in the park, in UV light so we glow in the dark. by candle in collars - in a duvet of dollars. i wana make you a slave to saliva and sweat, come on your chest and let you lick up the rest. i wana fuck you like a doll, in every hole - play role - swallowed whole. i wana come in your belly and play one-man bukkake, with braces on your teeth, with cats ears and a tail. while smoking, while painting, while doing the dishes, talking on the phone while getting blown. i wana put on a pair of lederhosen and say, "let me climb you, you bavarian whore!".

diary entry

another blank page to ruin. 

coming on a cat´s face. 

they cut the dog´s fucking balls off. 

long sunrise discussions regarding sex with Robin. 

who´d have thought he´d turn out to be the sexual one. 

hanging out with too many virgins 

- celibate through association. 

(this is a problem) 

100 hours without sleep. 

hallucinations and violence. 

our skulls are literally shattered. 

playmobile prostitutes, 

pissing in the corner. 

Robin mopped it up with my freshly cleaned clothes 

(it was pretty funny) 

 secret entrances and holes behind cupboards, 

sometimes we pretend we're crooks or superheroes. 

Coco the Clown, 

Gabriel, 

Brummbär der Zwerg, 

Pocahontas, 

Quasimodo 

(...other disney characters) 

stoned paranoia in the vestibular void. 

without torch or fire for orientation, 

you scrape the walls with a key, 

in blind catacombs full of drip-drip-drip.

the scuttle and swoop of rats and bats. 

no light of day but electric. 

vampires. zombies. 

(heroin is boring) 

toilet graffiti and ice-cold showers of DIY. 

ashtray carpets and spit on the walls. 

Anton´s ex used to collect his scabs and eat them 

and Xi eats his own snot. 

since the accident he can´t smell or taste anything. 

he works as a cook. (ironic as deaf musicians) 

we bake our daily bread. 

or else it´s amphetamine in black tea with 5 sugars. 

or the classic existential früstück of fags and coffee. 

pot noodle in the tea pot, 

and tea in the noodle pot.

X (criss, cross)

sick to puking of kiss chase 

of schizophrenic pussy 

and defective, bed-hopping, 

midnight drip-and-then-drop, guessing games. 

suggestive wet sounds in the dark, 

making my paranoid heart race my face moist. 

i do not like wet dreams. 

and i dont like to keep my mouth shut. 

neither do i like to hold my dick between my legs. 

i will go crazy if i have to... 

ach, egal. 

 the torture of spectating your X, Tine 

like i´m in an ugly round of kiss and tell

 - plagued by its playground injustices. 

and all's fair in love and war, 

but this game has lost all its fun. 

and now it hurts to look into the void 

into your terrible, beautiful, awful eyes. 

this is not my kind of masochism.

ride the M8

Berlin - Berlin
your wide open spaces
your 1st gear paces
your colourful communism
so dated and preserved
in residential concrete
still
shining a shadow on our grey
western council slums

and further east you see the slant
snapping at the fair poverty
of egalitarian property
like an urban safari
of extinct culture

smoking propaganda II

i need a breath of monoxide to stop me from dying
to whip out the apparatus of a smoking barrel
from a side-pocket holster

dispensing a concertina of bleachy sheets
moistened through a fabric of humid shorts
in a greenhouse denim of a fully clothed sauna

peeling at clingy membranes
and separate sheets
dumping brown cancer inside a pale skin

itchy fingers rolling like beads and droplets
my molten scalp falling into a half made craddle
so salty fresh

then a careful twist like delicate origami
(it seems impossible)
till lucifer dances and i breathe like a dragon

the legs are out again

it's summer and there are legs again - these legs - these kempt and bobbing heads - these beautiful brain bowls with bending lips - slippery slopes equating degrees of sex and hormonal jilt - smooth rejection like limp wrists - deep and violent eye shadows - my doe-eyed dotes and a bondage of brides - like a gaggle of geese - laughs open wide and belts tied to the side - the brass shine of thighs and nylon - my fantasy - like horses in the night - clean bite - blonde hair of pigs, platted - like a fair tail with airs of aesop.

drunken rambling in Mauerpark, Berlin

public transport transition 1

we're pulling off from the platform
with a tug.

off the rails
and into the dark.im dwelling on it;
on the pull of possession.

begin to lose track,
but the webs save the weight.
the spider ties
and elastic nerves;
saving tons.
spring loaded suspension
stringing me along.

the luxury of buffers and shock absorbers.

odd and even anti (everything is marketable)

alternative is

a swallow

tattoo on the back of your neck

and a black
and red colour combination.

and

the ghetto is clean

trainers and braggable jewellery.

different like everyone else

the world isn't upside down

the poles swap

every few hundred thousand years

the world is outside in.

CEOs wear t-shirts splashed with THUG LIFE

elitist cliques of proletarian chic

afford the poverty

of prada tracksuit insurgents

and a middle class flat cap resurgence

flatpack claptrap

covered by a tatty home

insurance jargon pile-on

some people

put on a cockney accent

some put on a pair of pre-ripped jeans

adding insult to injury

they copywrited the graffiti

of true grassroots reaction

for a suit & tie marketing ploy

to sell us back the ghetto.

some people spend money on making themselves

(out to be) poor.

engaged

i kill 3 beetles while i wait for my wired asshole to relax. one of the 3 is BIG and lies squashed between my legs, looking up at me while im trying to get in the mood, its creepy legs, contorted in a neat splat, twitching occasionally. it's a real turn off. theyre coming up through the dried out drains of rickety campsite troff and bucket plumbing. there's no graffiti in the cell. what shame. shame on the scrub of a cleaner's brush, censoring these public message boards. these open forums of slander and frustration. no memo of the best night you never remembered, or the happy hour register of 2006: jez bartley? here. sarah miller? here. sexy-marvin? here. stan-the-man? was ere '06. we were all there. no scribbled midnight confession, no scrawled biro-political slogans, no carved tribal allegiance to the team, no obnoxious outbursts of hate in tipex. not even a pencil cock & balls. the shame of those blank surfaces. this cold come down. lock jaw, nausea, flashback. dizzy: but then i see a light at the end of the tunnel. a motion! a motion! stay with it. holding that frequency of concentration so tight - it's damn near meditation. desperate, summoning my pineal gland to astral project cosmic rays to uranus. i dream of uncorking a bottle of champaign - of squeezing the last toothpaste from the tube - of unscrewing the lid of a sealed new jar - of babies' heads popping out of vaginas - of the sun being eclipsed by the moon - when - like one of god's reluctant rewards - a miraculous tremor in the bowels. i brace myself and then comes the quake. report - trajectory impact: minimal. debris: easily managed with sparing sheets. thank xenu. there's only 5 leaves left. i pull out my black bic chisel tip and give the toilet bowl my signature. art. it's a joke. toilet humour. my territory.

when you're taking a shit, your asshole is the star of the show.

gorge

the trickle down trees

smell like green

daylight thunder

in schizophrenic forest acoustics

the electric backchat

of backhanded echoes

talking to yourself

under rough and tumble tons of lime

the rain harping on

like a tip-tap

tip tap

the red rose

im sitting in Rote Rose. it's late. obviously it's late. i have never been here sooner than 06:00. it's a matter of etiquette, even. i imagine there's a whole different clientele at 19:00 (it's a german clock if you're wondering). no joy in showing yourself jibberish before 4AM. Rote Rose is a kind of rut for social mildew to form in - between the clattering antlers of fallen intellectuals, burnt out hobos, the prowl of perverts hiding hooves and horns, the fables of junkies', hormonal brawlers, home-sick ballers, wayward losers, crazies, bums and other fascinating dregs. we'd been scharni earlier with some scottish school girls that Nicolas and i had met busking in the subway. Robotron were playing so all the punks showed up, limbs flailing and other people's sweat. after the show the scottish girls say to the KvU boys, "eh, u lads look rar like the sex pistols, ya ken?". it's true that ToeB is the spitting image of Sid Vicious, snarling lip and vacant, and Ro-Bean like some forgotten 5th member. fucking fashion punks. then it comes, "u in a band?". of course they are. what else would they be doing if they weren't at a gig, making a mix-tape or spitting on each other? huh-huh-huhr. i feel like i'm in an 80s remake of Ross McLaren's crash 'n' burn. the bar starts to thin. i get drunk and lose at kicker. twice. maybe 3 or 4 times. moli grabs me by my cuff and hem so i figure we're leaving. we are. her brother is DJing some supercool new underground club that no one knows about but everyone is talking about. i'm looking fantastic - all white in half a smashed up computer, a digital sphygmomanometer, kids knee-pads and a pair of moon-boots, but no one even compliments my outfit. for what do we make the effort? jesus - everyone's an asshole. mmm, no attention, no drugs and done with dancing. i start to look for Moli but the club is rammed. i start to get sexually frustrated like all the pussy in the room is staring at me - winking at me - dripping. it gets so bad all the walls start lining with couples grinding and groping - god - they're so hot and annoying. fuck, get me out of here before i sexually implode. i have to get out of here. Oskar saves the day by dropping us some drinks tokens. we cash in and take the booze with us on our way out the club. moli rarely touches alcohol these days so that's a blessing coz i get double drunk, and, after some staggering and jumping around on cars, end up sitting in Rote Rose. moli's here. she's explaining to some low-life that ToeB is on his way, and so, sadly, she cannot marry him. he's saying he's gonna fight him for her coz ToeB could never treat her as good as he would. moli tells him that she finds the sentiment unlikely and that it wouldnt be fair for him to fight her boyfriend coz he's skinny and probably wouldnt fight back. it goes on - the play - like a drunken burlesque afterparty. the guy next to me keeps touching my ass. it's kind of annoying, actually. "if you touch my ass again, dickhead, im going to stick my thumb into the back of your eyesocket" i tell him - and he hears, as if it were a compliment, grinning like a dozy clown. i raise my voice a little and lean over to him, "wenn du nochmal mein arsch kneifst, du scheiss pappnase, dann druck ich meine daumen in deine augen rein". he continues to smile at me, blankly. *sigh* it's at this point i decide to get really drunk. ToeB bummbles in after having sat for over an hour, most confused that we weren't there, in a bar across the street called "Rote Rosa". it's confusing. we throw our change together and get a few more rounds, but the beer keeps changing price so before long all our money is gone. we hear some stories. ToeB says the Modern Pets and KvU boys went back to the scottish girls' hotel and smashed the place up, filled the room with fire extinguisher foam and robbed a load of bloody underwear which now hangs next to the Traffic Light Gang parachute bra on Elias & Veit's wall. eventually it's after long and not only is there no money left, but also no beer. ToeB and i are very drunk. i realise suddenly that it's of the utmost importance to leave immediately and go steal something to eat, but as we fall out of the bar into the street; where the sun is already making our side of the world painfully visible; i see there are only döner shops. what a surprise - i am a mess. again. i stummble through the kebabish door and slump to the counter grunting drunken bad-mornings. "eh! EH! wzzzblorg uh... watt'n dat'n? hRRRf... *snigger-splurt-cough*...". i figure the guy thinks i'm mentally handicapped and so won't suspect my guilty paw as i mummble a not-so-cunning distraction and whip up the nearest edible in the blind spot (it looks lumpy and gooey - some kind of chocolate rice pudding arrangement). i stuff it down my shorts and shuffle out the shop with the bowed-leg swagger of a hip-hop reject who just shat himself. * * * * * * * the rest of the night is mostly evaporated, but the next day moli explains a few things to me - like - why i have a swollen wound on my head, "err... that was me, you asshole" "huh?" "well, you fell asleep on the ring-bahn, probably rode it round about 3 times till you got ticket fucked, then fucking come up here, smashing the door in while im trying to sleep, bouncing on the bed in an attempt to get me to dance with you, like, you would NOT shut the fuck up for at least an hour so eventually i got pissed and threw my boot at you. clocked you full in the face - then you shut up." "shit man, i dont remember" "guess you dont remember being chased by the dönerman for stealing that rice pudding? you were falling all over the place, getting onto the car bonnets of taxis, asking for rides to the bottom of the street, then lying in the middle of kotbusser tor with your dick out trying to masturbate", "serious?" "yeh, but you said it was too cold" "i swear i didn't steal any pudding. i dont remember eating any" "Kai, it didn't even have a lid on it - it's probably still all in your trousers!" "what?" i sat up in bed and my crotch squelched...

open casket

Berlin, winter, 2009/2010 

they gutted the place while it was still alive; ripping it apart from the inside-out; windows sawn out, the gas channels demolished, water pipes severed, electric cables slashed; the immune, respitory, digestive and nervous systems of the house, completely corrupted - anything to make it unlivable. it's only current prupose? to be empty. of us. to rot and fester till further developments somewhere in the distant future. but we still went there. to look around, to remember, to take back what we left behind, what was locked from us. to sleep in on the nights when no one offered us a bed and the freezing street was the only alternative. Nicolas and I stayed there some nights - with the wind blowing into our bed clothes - finding it difficult to leave. even though we weren't getting any decent sleep and the danger of being caught was always a nosy neighbour's phone call away.

for the first time i understood the families who stay in their homes as the bombs rain down, and the refugees who walk back into the warzone to take another look at the shell of what had been the venue of domestic life. for the first time in my life, i understood that home is where the heart is and that you only feel it when it's been taken away. 

RIP B183

wall-mounted-vending-machine-hustle

when you have complete freedom and no responsibilities, life can be a bit daunting, having no routine or institution dictating what you should be doing and when you should be doing it. you can even get the blues just sitting there in complete freedom wondering what the hell you're doing with your life. it helps to have some kind of addiction. to something that, to acquire, requires some, but not too much, effort. like alcohol or pussy for example. just to give yourself some kind of direction, you know?

to maintain a normal addiction, albeit mild, you gotta get money. and it doesn't grow on trees. i don't know why it doesn't - it should, but i'm neither an economist nor an ecologist, so i'm out of my element. most people get their money from jobs, but statistically... 95% of jobs are fucked up, so we prefer to hustle and steal. us rats, sitting around smoking bowls, think up fool-proof calamities.

we are creative, adaptive types, always looking for another crack, loop, hole, cycle, shadow, space, from which to refund ourselves for the damage that capitalism does to society and from which to salvage the wanton waste of a market driven economy and from which to redistribute the wealth of unfairly pocketed profit. we are proud of our actions - proud to rob from the faceless riches of legal persons. to live in leisure at the expense of no-one who deserves any less. proud to brag about our most mischievous endeavours.

the two latvian street urchins, Nico and Janis, were particularly sly. while selling old u-bahn tickets at the airport, and in general raiding the airport of discarded luggage ballast, they had spotted a toothbrush dispenser in the public toilets, loosening at the rivets. they could almost get enough leverage with mere fingers to pry it off the wall, but not wanting to risk a botch job on this potential jack pot, they came back the next day with some ramshackle gear. with the help of a scruffy screwdriver they removed a few more screws and started tugging at the piggy bank. to imagine the situation you can think of a latvian troll that looks like a pretty 14 year old girl, suspended above the floor, both legs pushing against the wall gripping the box with scrawney arms, body perpendicular to the tiles on the wall, muttering "come you fuckrr, come!" while the other keeps a shifty watch on the door for squares and snitches. finally ripping it from the wall, they stuffed the tin chest into a bag of sleep. then, with the pasty pig stuffed awkward under gnomish arms, they walked it through the automatic doors, laughing, past security, who wished them a nice day like a tease. on the street they cracked at it till the treasure was split. €60! what a haul. Nico was in such a tiz, clutching at his splitting sides, laughing and spluttering so hard he literally pissed his pants, and, having no other pair to change into, had to walk around in wet trousers for the rest of the day. he didn't care. he had a €30 share, and spent the the rest of the day, high as a cloud.

badly lit scene

the end of the birmingham sun, set like a heavy gold coin submerging beneath the stretched cleavage of clouds, sideways on the horizon - lying. the sun out of puff and subsistuted by gross, twilight-destroying sheens of yelling low. lights - action. the monotonous burnt shade that bores into you like suburban childhood in the dark. you know what im talking about. the hypnotic street-lamp glow that you used to stare out of your bedroom window at when it was past your bed-time. not the new white clinical, set into the walls and ceilings, but the old green and grey iron, pushing out through the tarmac, swaying such heavy yellow.

if you think it gets any better you can fuck right off

Birmingham is not tall, it is flat. flat like tires and crushed cans. flat like the world. wide and expanding slow liquid over middle-earth. where "multi-story" means 5 floors (including the ground floor n basement) and no one's yet tried to build a sky-scraper coz we don't like to look down on each other. we watch cracks growing in the pavement and know that life doesn't get any better.

railway announcement

if you have children, be sure that they are well supervised and do not stray near the platform edge. this is a security announcement. make sure your baggage is attended to at all times to ensure there are no delays made to your journey. (i like the suggestion that delays happen because of not attending to your baggage at all times...) it is against the law to smoke ANYWHERE in this station if you see any anti-social behavior or an incident that requires police assistance, please call british transport police on 0800 40 50 40 

(what do smoking and anti-social behaviour have to do with each other?)

these well thought out snipets of propaganda blare out offensively from the crackling speaker overhead and reverberate round the tinny walls. a few people wince or cover their ears. samo' shit, i think. is the wank PA, through which no important information can be made out, part of the eternal traditions of british rail or is it there as the station-master's joke? as a form of revenge for having turned out such a wad of gob? is that the game? that despite the advancements in decades worth of audio-technology, our railway announcements still sound like a geordie shouting down a tin-can-telephone? i try to take my ears off it by trying the eyes and looking around, but it's not much good either. i count 50 adverts before the sockets start to ache like i've got the pain of 1000 wombs stuck between my temples. this is 'Mingham. Moor Street Station, precisely, n it looks like it just had some more money thrown at it. there's a fair bit of chrome around to prove it, plus a set of turnstiles and a new CCTV system installed. no grafitti, no busking, no hustle, no life, not even bins. NO LOITERING hangs a large sign on the waiting room wall, in bold, ironic font. what next? a clock that's stuck at midnight? no - but the automatic doors do tell you - with a sure and propper accent - when they're opening and closing. why? coz this is marketting upon us again; trying to lure us with cheap electronic tricks into believing that the hocus pocus of capitalism is leading the world into the modern and cutting edge and that these are things worth caring about, whereas actually people just want the train to run on time and are quite happy when they have enough leg room. i dont need doors that tell me what theyre doing. i know what theyre doing. physics man, physics! they're opening coz i said "open sessame", ennit? this has nothing to do with physics!

blocked drains

(must keep writing, even if it's shit...)

i had woken in the hungover darkness, tongue as dry as a nun's cunt, grunting for hydration like a confused tramp, till i made it to that tapped fountain of gorgeous wetness, and downed myself 3 consecutive pints of diluted syrup, the sloshing sea sickness of which caused me to slop up effortless litres of undigested flotsam and chunky orange junk. 7 times my stomach summoned a lazy lurch, like the stuff was just falling out of me into the sink. i think to myself... how does it all fit in there, seriously? the more came out, the longer it took to drain away and i started to get worried, poking chunks down the tiny slits of the plughole with a chopstick as the pipe gargled n choked like it, itself, were about to chuck up. i didn't blame it, having to swallow someone else's vom. eventually the plughole just wasn't gonna take any more and packed in. with the basin still half full, i started the slow and fetid task of fishing up the scum with a cup. yay. in my body's attempt to free its own gutteral pipework from clogged chips n battered grease, another network of waste was getting plugged with puke like some universal law of conservation. like some kind of sewage karma. unsurprisingly, the next day dad had noticed and begun his usual ritual of sighing and dissaproving huff. however, after a few hours of sweating and heaving with some drain rods and a closet auger, the passage was rid of my internal refuse and the plughole was gulping healthily once more. i thought dad would be even more of a crotchet than usual after what would probably turn out to be his annual heave, but to the contrary, i've never seen him so happy and full of himself: achiever of basic DIY - glowing like he's in an advert for colonic irrigation. PROPS ALL ROUND. so the moral of the tale, if there is to be one: if you glut, you will clog. and if you clog, you will pop.

a reason to get out of bed in the morning

haven't written in weeks.
what's the point of anything?

a forgotten alarm,
is a reason to get up in the morning.

an addiction to coffee,
is a reason to get up in the morning.

a struggling bladder,
holding in a yellow slug of the hydrologic cycle until it's painful,
is a reason to get up in the morning.

today i didn’t get up in the morning at all,
i got up in the evening,
but only coz my bladder hurt.

and as i looked into face of armitage shanks,
i realised that a puddle of piss is metabolic alchemy,
churning all that poison into golden showers.

and later,
after an existential breakfast of coffee and cigarettes,
i realised further,

that hunger is a motivation,
that confusion is an inspiration,
and that suffering is our fuel.

setting an alarm gives us a reason to get up in the morning. that's why we do it. to draw a line and say, "this is the start", in case one day we woke up disorientated and realised we had nothing to live for, and just stayed in bed until something happened to US, rather than US seeking the happening something that might solve all our problems. it's a trick to keep the machine going. you hear the ALARM and you are given a problem that needs solving. boom, you're already in the trap. you get out of bed to stop the alarm and shit it's cold: you're roped into an action of getting dressed that will remedy the cold you got lured into, by which point you probably ought to go for a piss coz, gee, you bustin to go, so on the way to the bathroom you flip the switch on the kettle, hoping there's enough water inside, for this could mean the difference between a good day or a bad day, and before you know it, there's enough little problems in the world to give you and your life some purpose, like, oh, the sugar pot needs refilling or i should get on some washing up coz there's no clean mugs, or maybe i need to go to the shops and buy myself a new kettle - this one keeps blowing the fuse-box and yodels when it boils.

fairy dust

borrowed lips sparkle
with the glitz and glam of a 70s episode of TOTP.
a blue powder forms a cloud in the bar of the pub in which we sit.

i came of my own accord,
but now there are 3 people at my table,
wearing my girl's glitter.

i wonder what she's doing here,
flying nest to nest,
spreading shiny love,
like a generous polychromatic magpie.
a free bird,
like in that cheesy song.

eight for a wish
nine for a kiss
ten for a bird that you won't want to miss.

i'd like to blame someone,
but i probably twist my own knife,
just by associating with the love of my life.
listening to her harp on about the sticky details
of her other romantic interests.

is this masochism? jesus.
my eyes so open and tender
to open and tender lips on others',
when her legs aren't open to me.
those lips so closed and without tongue
when she says the words

i love you, like ventriloquist's words
that i can hardly understand.
like tragic mime,
they hardly move.
tantric.

i listen to her moan as i finish my pint,
and make conversation with her other lovers,
oblivious to the situation.
it riles me like playground injustice.

can't stand the tease
of baby, you're the one
with so many prime numbers
triangulating spirals
and ugly emotional geometry.

but there aint no law in love
so i leave the pub.

sauce

poem about condimental preferences from about 6 years ago (when poems rhymed) 

* * * * * * * * * * * 

i maintain it's insane, 

if the meal isn't plain, 

to prostrate to a state. 

homogenise your plate. 

'cause i wont love the neighbour 

who'd savour the flavour 

of table sauce bought 

by the sort who support 

mayonnaise as a glaze, 

(this i can't give praise). 

and i frown on those 

who might drown with brown 

a genteel meal, 

or a prime cut of veal. 

with tomato, it's hard to, 

escape ostinato. 

a jar of tartar, 

i see off with "ta-ta" too. 

now let this dirge 

mourn the tastes that have merged, 

and i urge, stop the splurge; 

stop your bottle's surge. 

it's a sin to begin! 

wipe the muck from your chin! 

...this dish is delic' 

without any false swish!

verge

frantic exploration of this slim, skin island,
with hands that want to be hard and soft,
rough and smooth, stroking and clawing,
like a perfect paradox that doesnt confuse.
deltas, ridges, planes, verges,
inclines, corners, coasts, clefts,
pinching peaks and just scratching the surface.
surfing fur and folds to the edges of skin.
to the ends of the world,
where you fall off, or fall in.

it still makes my eyes swell
when i see my sexual digit disappear inside a girl.
remembering the glee of my virginity slipping out of sight,
and that this was as close as i was ever going to get
to being back in the womb.

...now i'm digging myself a hole.
...and later, when everything is old and broken,

they'll dig up the earth
and put me back in a hole.

short of advice

good writing is like a traditional wedding. you will need: 

something old 

something new 

something borrowed 

something blue. 

and who the fuck is the holy ghost?

smell

i say, i say, i say, my fly has no nose.
then how does it smell?
well, it's got a thousand eyes and that sort of compensates.

a pollution of scents in the perfume clouds of coughing crowds
you smell of alcohol and the sucked souls of foliage
and hold your nose when i raise my arm to ask a question

coz i am an animal and smell like one.
coz i refuse to plagiarise the natural copyright of flowers' identities.
coz i have no one to impress and dont do market research.

so, sniff my pits, fucker.

making a killing is murder

i was just killing time like casual murder. dropped a fag to the concrete. stamped. killed it, and thought, 'i can stamp and stomp all i want but you're killing me, arent you? you fucking scrunch of smoke. you slug'. tobacco! tobacco! like a coughing opera. i wasn't sure if it was a friend or foe. manifesting doubts. and then i realised that i had nothing on time either, and that i was the victim of time's violence, rather than the inverse, as everyone seemed to believe. what nonsense is pop. what next? we're killing mother earth? no, mother earth can shrug us off at any moment. environmentalists are in denial and can't admit to themselves that they care most about saving their own skin. mother earth doesnt give a fuck about plastic or CO2. she's looking out at those asteroids, smiling, waiting for release. yeh, yeh, like, trust me, i've asked her.

wisp

so weak i cant hold a book up to my face.
and this pen is difficult.
it's not the top of a lap that writes,
but the bottom of a ball,
leaking ink,
as usual.

i lie here, still
in bed, breathing slow and thin,
like the smoke from a discarded fag
in my ashtray, still burning,
in a graveyard of cummpled worms;
it's soul ascending to heaven in whispers,
and the rest is rust and dust to dust -
sticking to the earth and rot.

so faded and light,
i wonder how gravity still holds me down.
and my sinking eyes
(pale echoes of hospital vacuums),
there's no surprise,
when i gawp in a vacant mirror,
and cannot cry.

when i die,
i want to be buried in a graffitied cardboard box,
so there'll be nothing left of me to see,
except paper.

hung

i wake up and im already dying.
oh god, what have i done to deserve this?
i get my answers.

a half eaten Döner in my sleeping bag
car parts scattered around the room
5 people who dont know each other
and i dont know them
i am totally soaked
from head to toe
and i dont know why
i drink at Fisch
till i cant hold a cue
or else fly off in the storm
bloody knuckles
different clothes
i dont know how

and blame doesnt exist.
nothing exists.
i think.
i am.
it is.
fuck it.

free love (D4M)

a handshake, 

a hug, 

a poem, 

art, 

anything you put your heart 

in 2 

and when push comes to shove, 

break your back in, too

the big head sea made 4. teil

keine haare an den beinen und keine cellulite. last n1te a sweet polish. girl - imeenwoman - imeenshehasakid - she got me in a bottle. back to black jägermeister. nip n tuk me in Bella 2goC a show, cow in sea dent ally, or thru un-noun similarity of tastes and flavours, 111of my faaave-writ bandz. wrist bands. rawk! BATTLES. shudder-nt name. drop - (l8r h8rs) - pop2. hop2 the nxt txt, next bar::: KØPI. should earnt naym. drop. another show, but NO. out staged by our entrance, we staggered in shifts. everyone shift was there, ro-bean and toe-b and man-u and eli-arsch and yo-hana and shift . . nd . . los . v . . utha . thngs . blurrring in the blender. the n the ton gue tide stummble home. some shelterless art.ists R selling, sailing, draw rings for 1 or 2 your-O under ▼ oberbaumbrücke. icy a mermaid wiv a cunt. how can eye RESIST? then we got 2 herz. end i got laidlike the 1st thyme in months. i got out. i got some shift. igotit. may bee. i will be Abel. to stop. the-ink-king bout LEGS 4 sum weeks. shift.

an excersise in chopping up

sentences. everyone is so fucking COOL (as cool as sunglasses) Mauer - Park - Berlin where every weekend is a festival where there are so many legs - coz it's april: all these legs like i'm gonna cry LEGS!# striped & tight, or else bare and open. i have to puke. i am a mess. i am crumpled, like neglected notes. scribbled and blowing down the road. brooding in public. in the light. i need to get out more. i never felt so lonely as in paradise. alone without the constant pressure of a hug. or the beat of the sun, hurting me. making me feel alive. the population of fists in the mosh-pit. the orgies that have to happen, to stop us from going mad. it's much easier to belong in a smaller group that is not daunting or crowded with competition. where there is space for everyone. where legs are familiar. shift.

Bare IV

we yawn to release pressure in our ears
then we wake up with a hard-on
an effect of the body re-pressurising itself.

enough tension in the bed?
we are all speaking different tongues and kissing different languages
fucking our dialects and stumbling over common threads
in bathrooms and beds
awkwardly and bizarrely
in stranger's houses
at 4 o'clock in the morning
in fantastic tangles 

in a naked mess

Bare I

i am not a rude boy.
and i cannot get it up.
and i'm not big enough either.
sorry Rihanna,
i don't think it's gonna work out, babe.

- - - - - - - - - - -

man-oh-man, do we have it good
question, Mark.

some of us wish we could lie like you can,
with your soft holes, so simple. safe.
just lie there with no responsibility in the act.

coz we're so scared of failing
so scared of performing
scared of the expectation
of being the male sex
of being judged -

we worry

wasnt emancipation about dissolving power?
didn't we have a sexual revolution?
did people not realise that the deep sexism comes not
from men against women, or vica-versa,
but from people who are scared to suck a cock,
and think eating pussy is disgusting.
who are dumb,
and keep genders as they are.
it is conservatives and the silent that are sexist!

we worry that our dick's are deformed maggots.
we worry we were the worst lay you ever had.
we worry that you will find out that we are nervous
and terrified creatures.
we worry that you'll find out that it's all a lie.

well, i'm bored of that.

fuck that.

it doesn't take any balls to lie;
that's why we do it all the time.
i've had enough of feeling like i have to make excuses,
when i don't fit the dream

to all my future lovers, i must run, yelling:

NO - i'm not gonna provide!
NO - i'm not gonna say forever!
NO - i'm not always gonna give you an orgasm!
NO - i'm not gonna be true!
NO - i'm not gonna die for you!

a bad influence

Ezra Pound, Bukowski and Allen Ginsberg lie at my feet 

all copies are stolen 

it makes me laugh 

it makes me cry 

when i lie 

to myself 

and steal from a library 

it's a bad influence - 

the thrill of all these words; 

under my jacket; 

pressing against my chest 

this is roughly how it works... 

i go in 

pick up whatever interests me 

stuff whatever that might be into every available cavity 

and leave 

usually get a ripple on the threshold. 

an echo 

a recurring flashback from bad trips to the very-free-shop 

hm... then what? 

well then i bounce all over the street 

like manic hopscotch 

these hot volumes 

fresh from the shelf 

down my boxers 

starting to singe 

surplus spines 

starting to spill from my collar, till 

i hit the green of the park 

bun up a zoot 

and let this language do dirty things to me 

he-he-he 

ho-ho-ho

41linepoems

0 nothing like a hardcore haiku.
1 one line in a poem is neutral.
2 to tell a lie like, "this is false".
3 this is a waste.
4 then-again: it isn't.

maths equals fail

the universe is not an equation, but we do know that if a = 1 and b = 1, then it follows that†...

a = b

and so...

a^2 = a*b
a^2-b^2 = a*b-b^2
(a+b)(a-b) = b(a-b)
(a+b) = b
a + a = a
2a = a

and if a = 1, then...

1 = 2

objective language is a wet dream. even the definitive rigor of mathematics; with its axioms, identities, derivations & transcendental #s, rationalisation of abstract quantities that established architecture & put π in the base of wine glasses & man-hole covers‡; develops from the tangible purity of sacred geometry to hodge-podge probability and chaos when trying to digest messy shit like quantum physics, the stock market, love and lust, or why my ex is a bitch.

∴ although language ≠ a clear picture:

THE PROOF IS IN THE PUDDING (consult your pineal gland)

__________________________________________

†the trick is - you can't devide both sides by (a - b) coz from a = b, a - b = 0 & you cant divide by 0 - it's against the RULES, yo.
‡& bottle tops; wheels; plates; tea lights; cogs etc etc

the B183 water crisis of 2009

after a while of not paying the water bills they cut off the water. the taps were dry and you couldn#t flush the loo. it lasted 4 days before me and moli (fuck you pernickety linguists), before me nd moli had taken it upon ourselves to organise an impromptu DnB soli party to cover the reconnection charge. the night was called "help us flush" and inaki drew us up an awesome flyer - i'll try and include a copy. X had rinsed the supermarket for 10 or so bottles of 5-finger discounted spirit so the bar could sell the strongest and worst tasting cocktails in the whole of Berlin-Mitte. no one knew how to consist a cocktail so we blended blindly. rum and orange juice with a shrug of brown sugar. apple and ouzo. vodka and milk. it was a dirty poison and had you crawling home. we gave them appropriate names: "sewage sunrise", "bitch piss" and "apocalypse - NOW!", respectively. so in-between; trying to borrow a PA, organise DJs, copy flyers and paste them all over the city, clean up the bar, buy in the beer, set up the lights, clear the yard, get some kind of wind in the sails, get balls rolling etc etc; people were still using the toilets. 50 people, 4 days, and at the best of times, 4 toilets that ran when there WAS water. do the math. so moli and i are running round like teenage anarchists on their first riot - not really knowing how this thing works, but knowing, with a humming bird franticity, that something has to be done right now - and we notice the crappers getting out of control. course we told people to go somewhere else (library, döner, park etc) but drunk punks tend to need this shit explained in disgustingly obvious detail. day dot wasn't so bad, but by the second day the shit was threatening to escape the bowl. by day 3 it had, and pyramids of shit were forming just above the rim of the seat. you could see that people were excavating the mound's summit with jets of high-pressure piss so that it was still possible to drop one last turd on top of the heap. by the morning of the 4th day the situation was truly remarkable. the mountains had risen in the night and stood well above the rim, their peaks breaking through a ceramic ring of clouds. i wondered how they got to be so big! no one could have SAT on it. had people been shitting into bags and then depositing the waste into/onto the toilet? and then it dawned on me. someone must have got up, each foot on opposites sides of the seat (to stand, head almost in the ceiling), squatted over the mound, and let another one rip. i was genuinely inspired. what a hero of depravity to have handled such a manoeuvre. i just couldn't believe it. and as i stood there pondering - hand on hip and shaking my head - less viscous turd was leaking through the gap between toilet and seat like skanky lava and brown vomit. like diseased alcholic lahars. like some terrible skat monster from the world's worst porn movie. i gagged. i gagged and staggered out of the cubicle. i dont know who eventually cleaned it all up. i dont like to think about it. meanwhile in the bog of the bar there's a similar problem, except we're doing water runs over to the pond in the park. we've got buckets and handwritten instruction ("DONT SHIT") pasted to the wall for the punters. thats our defence. anyway, these people are loving this stuff like "omg - look at that!" and thinking all the nude art is just fabulous. Toto is working the bar & vokü - dishing out Reis mit Scheiß and washing the dishes in more pond water (LOL). back and forth it goes: this salty mess. dumpstered veg that would kill you if it wasn't cooked, floating in a soupy sauce. fuck it. it's vegan, except for the sweat, and it's basically free. shut the fuck up. we're eating it too. and we're really gonna need those toilets the next few days. Robiin finally agreed to work the door on the condition he can style it his way. he's basing the entry price on the roll of a die - 1 to 6 - and generally being a dick coz he doesn't like Drum n Bass or the "yuppie-tanz-kacke" clientele. a guy in shiny shoes and a dull designer jacket starts up whining he doesnt want to pay €6 coz he landed a 6. Robiin checks the cuff - the cut - the clogs, and slowly leans over to spit on the floor, posing heavily with his eternal smoking prop. "dont piss yourself like a baby, micki" Robiin tell him, and the guy pays anyway - wait for it - with a 50! i dont think he even understood that to a poor bloke that seems fucking ironic. TWAT. we stabbed at people's arms and gave them lame tatoos when they were too drunk to resist the lure of our charming, stinking, priceless, smashed up punk cavern. i remember Toto kicking out guys (and i mean - kicking!) for being too yuppie; the definition of which largely entailed owning car keys or sniffing too much coke off the bar. sometimes we had to restrain him or else we would have been our own customers, serving no one but ourselves. we stood up for each other like a unity i've never felt before or since. that's how it was. tru solidarity, yo. B183 vs The World. and that was the best thing about it: we werent confined to the alternative pens of F'hain. we were smack-bang in die mitte. Mitte: square and square and feigning a pathetic push against the current of crawling investors. it wreaks of marketing around these parts and all i can see is pretentious art galleries, trendy bars, luxury flats, scaffolding and i <3 Berlin. foreign gold; forged in Berlin's heart; branded and minted. just like these landlord fucks will be in 10 years or so. naturally, i loved squatting Mitte. i loved being the wart on the celebrity's face; devaluing their screen-time-dollars.<br /><br />anyway, the party went well and we got our water back. it's a shame we had to pay the bill, but you know; you can't win em all. besides, we were the only houseprojekt in Berlin not paying a landlord and we ripped the leccy black for about €100 a month between the 50 of us. ANY QUESTIONS? i-don't-think-so.

letter to an ex (wish you were here)

i'm frying. i'm frying. i'm frying.

like i'm a raw egg getting good.

i wanna burn you like cancer rays;

growing in your guts

and crisping your soft, shaven shell till it's edible.

if you can stomach that then you know how i want you:

your skin in-between my teeth

and me, growing inside you like erotic tumours.

it's not healthy but it's ugly-romantic.

if it's not killing me, it's killing you.

Love letter from Gran Canaria, March 2011

death from above in a spanish island airport

my eyes crack and there aint no peace anymore. this sterile airport is full of filth. squinting old bats whose husbands don't know why they're there and are just going along with it like, "it was her idea". i figure they shrug alot and can't chose colours at IKEA either. babies scream apocalypticly, and bimbos, with nails and knockers as fake as their contracted marriages, tower over shriveled old men who trundle after them, breathlessly heaving suitcases twice their size. there's so many of them i feel the claustrophobia of a zombie movie moving in on me. so fucking many of them! dribbling drivel like "ooooh yeees. the resort is very exclusive, you know", and from others "well, the only problem is ... non of the locals speak any fucking english, do they?" all this filth around me like a menagerie of sin*. codgers, crones, cads and cunts. louts and lads, abusive dads. lovers elusive and all inclusive. business class losers, credit card users and company expenses pay for the high hotel fences. retirement home drones. the dragging droves of sagging bones. a plethora of the petted and pampered: pompous poodles and pugnose pups owned by prattling pumpkins and oompa-loompas. gymed-out fellas, casino dwellers, insurance sellers, and other rot. parents whose children fiff and faff. conservative families who think theyre getting away from the riff-raff. i see a hundred Hyacinth Buckets. kick it you fuckers! i can't be the only one here who wants to curl up and die! actually there's a lot that are on their way for one reason or another and i spot a few drab heliophobic faced motherfuckers who look like they already have. died, that is. died and just continued moving with a few surviving brain stem reflexes or something. and the whole time, there's more of them turning up. like they've made the journey here just to make my morning hell as if sleeping here wasn't bad enough. whole armies of these leatherfaced turtles in frothed up furs about as glamorous as tuesday night karaoke, persistently swinging through the damn doors. batches of em; bastard-bitches, deployed by private busses from their smug-hole hotels, pushing their fat asses into the airport and filing themselves in order of who's the biggest twirp who thinks they will reach their destination faster by being 1st in line for checking in. you stupid fucks. anyway, let it be known that there is no hope for the human race. whatever. fuck em. so moli and i haul ourselves some breaky from the bins and within 5 minutes have a feast of apples, peaches, pears n 'nanas, juice, doughnuts, pop, biscuits, crisps & profiteroles (i shit ye not), sandwiches, a pair of shoes (unfortunately 1 size too small), towels, a rucksack and ...well, a whole plenty of stuff that i threw away anyway when i later found more coca cola than jesus could carry in his gut and about 3 meals worth of fried shit at burger king. hell yeah. it was mostly still warm-n-all so i tanked up on junk like a greedy monarch and almost puked on take off. in fact a little bit did come up, but i swallowed it back down again like a good boy. not that it would have mattered if i hadn't - it was just out of instinct. i mean, after all the whining i've just done about my fellow passengers, i'm hardly gonna give a fuck about a little vom' slipping down the side of my cheek now am i? bon voyage (or whatever they say in whatever language they speak in whatever country we're leaving) 

*bear with me a moment, i'm about to go into a rhyming onslaught. in fact, not only does it rhyme, but also includes mass quantities of ... alliteration!

one day my talent will be recognised

I AM AN ARTIST! TAKE ME SERIOUSLY! THE DECISIONS I MAKE ARE DEEPER THAN OTHER PEOPLES COZ IM AN ARTIST! LOVE ME! LOVE ME! I DESERVE TO EARN A LIVING FOR BEING ABOUT AS CREATIVE AS ARRANGING STATIONERY OR CHILDREN'S SNOT SCULPTURES! LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT MY WORK! IT SPEAKS FOR ME AND I SPEAK FOR IT! I AM A GENIUS! LOVE ME! I AM AN ARTIST! TAKE ME SERIOUSLY!

recycled paper

(sorry joe - i robbed the opening line off you, but you know, you're not famous yet, and probably never will be, so i guess i don't have to pay you royalties or anything...)

into you i pour all of my best lies.
my self, my sin, my soul.
writing and wronging
and wasting away, like,
oooh, trash can, you are my best friend
and only confidant!

the ink sticks and stains.
the page sips and drains.
it's engraved in paper:
a resignation to be perpetually burnt
in fire, and drowned in ink.

then i read it in the tabloids,
and i wipe my ass with it,
and i inhale it.

i'm smoking a fag and i'm fucking breathing:
BLEACH.

on a roll in the loo,
when i'm mopping the floor,
in a perfectly white, pristine envelope,
like resurrected virginity,
fresh with the fragrance of Daz.

PS. i'm posting the big businesses of bleach letters coz they like my type of character. the type that drowns themselves in reams and reams.

translated from english

words,
worms,
wriggling rings,
working inches below the surface,
in sublime dirt,
murky & vague,
recycling the world's compost.
and above we play guessing games;
eye-spy and hangman;
trying in vain to describe our seemingly acute dreams,
until we each realise it's safer to slur than pronounce,
as it's safer to slide than to stick.

writing in the dark...

everything was ok. it always was: coz you don't have to sweat the small stuff. and by the way, it's all small stuff. heavy lines, hugging me like MOTHER. godamn i'm so stoned. writing in the dark, i can hear tribal music in the waves. i can literally hear it, singing. and the lights in the sky spell geometric patterns. dodecahedrons and spirals. characters and figures. they've got numbers, see, like dot-to-dot galaxies. one-two, buckle my shoe. three-four, knock at the door ... (dot-dot-dot) . dotty like my grandmother's living ghost, crazy with alzheimers. smash your castle before the tide comes in. or else nuke the moon in half. that's possible too. writing in the dark? don't even try. goodnight, sandman.

 - A cave on an unnamed beach on Gran Canary, March 2011

i wrote a whole other blog for the trip to Gran Canary, which you can find below. Me and M0 knew it was going to get seriously cold again in Berlin and we wanted to get away and go somewhere warm. We figured with the shit-show in Egypt, by which we mean the revolution, flights would really cheap, but that wasn't even the case. The cheapest warmest place we could find was Gran Canary, so that's where we went to live out the cold month of February.

https://atobtoa.blogspot.com/

Working with Michael

Collecting bottles in winter is no fun & stealing was bringing too much heat. busking was kinda cool but i couldnt sing and play at the same time yet and i didnt even have a guitar of my own, so that maent borrowing. i hated it, but i needed a job.

David introduced me to Michael with the promise of working a cash-in-hand opperation on a construction site. i had met him before, as David's chief, but never for more than a few minutes & the words were always of work so i hardly ever listened.

Michael is one of those eccentric pseudo-hippies who's into taoist flagellation and self-improvement; alchemists' wonder serums and manifestations a-plenty. dogmatic pacifism and a belief in "the secret" rules of attraction. those who contract cancer have been attracting it. energy can be absorbed from light through the skin directly.

"i prefer to use my digestive system", i say, and point out the concept of ecological biomass. it falls flat. Michael doesnt want to attract logic right now. i mean, he's a ncie guy with a strong moral compass. very patient and non judgemental, but then he slips into his fantasy world of well-meaning but confused captains of industry, where politicians stay up at night reading his long and thoughtfull letters regarding the greater good of the world and realise their mistakes. as if they would bolt up in bed, palms sweating, "fuck me! i've been killing the world's culture and shitting on the common man. i must rectify my my mistakes! thank you so much Michael for showing me the error of my ways!"

He's a fucking idiot like that, and self-righteous too, but he's kind-hearted, you know? you wanna hit him but you can't. i mean, he doesn't know what he's doing. or rather, he doesnt know what we're doing. we're earning some beer and grass black-cash, whereas his priorities are fucking COSMIC. so it looks like this: we got no materials. we're all broke and waiting on money. the owner of the house owes Michael for previous work and yet is still charging him 200€ a month to live on-site in an incomplete appartment running off a 12V power supply, no furniture, decrepid half-demolished walls and a ceiling that's caving in.

After a small discussion between tobi and chrissi and myself, we suggest to Michael cornering the landlord and cutting ourselves an ear off if he doesnt front some fucking dollars.
"Oh no. Gentleman. Sirs!" Michael protests with genuine shock.
"We are not some band of common thugs. Sirs, we shall do no such thing"
"And why is that, Michael?"
"Well this man has a family. i have spoken with him. just because a man has money does not mean he does not have problems. quite the opposite! it is a burden. Herr Fleck probably has problems we can't even imagine"
"He's gonna have problems HE can't imagine", says Chrissi, fondling a hacksaw.

Maybe Michael is even correct in his approach. in looking at the problems of capitalism as problems that capitalists have and we can help them with, like a disease they are ill with. i just find it difficult to stomach that naive, everyone-is-innocent one-love bullshit.

"we can't go round threatening people just because they hold on to money. i tell you now: they dont really want to hold onto it", he finally comes out with. i flip.

"NO Michael! some people are just selfish dickheads who don't give a fuck about other people and spend their time trying to get one-up. get a little further in the rat-race. who jump at the opportunity to use their position of priveledge over the less fortunate for purposes of personal capital gain. it's called fucking exploitation, Michael, and capitalists the world over do this to keep the rich, rich, and the poor, poor. to keep their motherfucking tailored pockets full. if this CUNT landlord owes €2,000 here and there and is still taking 200 a month for this piece-of-SHIT "appartment", then he's dealing enough dough to throw us a few hundred so we can eat and drink and smoke and enjoy our lives of hummble comfort."

Breath. Breath. it goes on.

Anyway, back to work. So we're renovating this flat. wall-to wall: doors, floors, frames and fittings. drilling, filing, and forever sanding away through layers and layers of domestic geology. shades of ancient paint, rising through sand like an excavation of decorative preference.

Chrissi is living on the building site too, so he's having it the hardest. the guy's been there 10 days with Michael. by the time i return to work, after a week of leisure (by which i mean playing pool and poisoning myself) they're arguing lots and not talking much. waiting on money and no food. just this god-awful self-made bread with no salt, no yeast, no nothing. nada. just baking off mass-quantities of gross, vegan swamp dough. bags of flour all over the shop like Chrissi is wasting away. liek he's becoming a ghost in the flour clouds and omnipotent dry-ice of winter construction ash, left over from sanding away the ages. on every surface and in every square metre of air, blowing into Chrissi's hair and lashes.

letter to yourself

you kick downwards and you are unfair. you abuse your position of power, even if you weren't aware you were in such a position. you are sexist and racist and you are a prejudice fuck. you are, and if you think you're not, there is no time for you. please kill yourself now. do it. seriously. kill yourself. you are lying to yourself and you are spitting truth in the eye. please, kill yourself, now.

another drunken night in Berlin

"it's fucking freezing". again. we pass the fortified bottle frequently coz neither of us wants to hog it. it's too nasty to drink.

i'm reminded of england, gagging on red wine. cheap, cold, screwtop. it's like trying to gulp medicine but we get it down. we decide to walk home even though the weather is ball ache. fuck taxis, man. i just can't bring myself to pay a tenner to save an hour walk when an hour's work is a fiver.

we move and the wine hits me. suddenly i'm surrounded by urban treachery. wind tunnels of swinging lamposts and benches with missing wrungs. concrete slabs that duck and dive. land you with a full frontal return to gravity. i'm wasted, scrambling around in other people's gardens. i find a bike. it's small. maybe a kids. try to ride it but fall off. again and again till i get mad and shout, arguing with the bike, ending the discussion by throwing it in a dumpster. then i'm running wild. flailing, bleeding, screaming at god in the skies. what the fuck am i doing? i'm fucking lost. where's jack? he's here. he's holding me up. wait. who the fuck are you? this isn't jack at all! fuck THIS asshole!

then i wake up. before i move, the first thing i'm aware of is that it hurts. i twitch my foot and i'm still in shoes. bad signs. sit up. im wet. soaked, in fact. there's handfuls of broken glass in my jacket pocket. the beer bottle must have exploded. thank xenu i was wearing the leather.

social geography

we are the sediment of generations worth of failure to avoid contraception.
crushed by promiscious volumes of history, thousands of years thick.
all so that our children can add further oil to the future's burning horizon.

life is a sexually transmitted terminal disease.
and don't you fucking forget it.

Dry

i'm fucking dry. dehydrated from all the pissing about and drunken tears - liquid spilt over nothing like delta divided by 0. water, poured careless, over absorbent surfaces. and the only thing i have to write about is how i can't write for being too parched. too wrung out and over-oozed to produce any more juice. and hell, i'm squeezing. i'm fucking clenching for just a bit of spunk or saliva. sometimes i wonder if the only thing i'm bringing to show and tell is honest failure. to have shit myself and told someone about it. to shine a light on the sublime crud that lives in skin-deep diaries.