Nelson Mandela was the sort of human being the world sees only rarely. He rose out of segregation and imprisonment to lead a nation, to symbolise the rebirth of a nation. Not since Ghandi died has the world lost so important and influential a man. RIP Mandela.
Sunshine and sycophancy dancing,
Light a cigar,
Light up the room.
If the man in the slipstream moonbeam
Smiles at you
His thousand yard a second stare
Might burn the jungle down.
The gooks ain’t spooked by the Duke of Puke,
All suckling pork and feather belly,
Ice cream dreams
And wobble jelly.
His lunatic goons sing, sway and swoon
To the sound of a silver spoon.
And left, right, left:
Whichever side appeals the best
To our invested interests
And allows for time to rest.
Turn up the sandstorm jukebox,
Tap your feet and inch yourself a little more this way.
We play a numbers parlour game,
We play bunfight sonatas,
We play a trick called Normalise,
Catch summer fruit flies,
Come back as cats.
And that’s about that.
The sycophants fall flat iron on their faces,
The rest of us have grace enough
To hardly laugh at all.
Tags: Allen Ginsberg, America, brain, Daniel Radcliffe, Edith, Editing, Editor, Film, flux, fun, kill your darlings, Novel, novel-writing, phrase, reader, rewrite, Sense, sit, skull, Sub clause, Surprise, title, writing
Editing. I am editing. I edit, therefore I am. Not that word, this one. Remove this sentence. Add this subclause. Rewrite this paragraph entirely.
Surprisingly I currently call this fun. Currently. All things are in flux.
Kill your darlings, they say. They say it so much there is a film with that title now. About Ginsberg. Didn’t think he’d coined the phrase. He might have done, while he was simultaneously scolding America. Anyway. Some of my darlings die. Some of them remain. Kill the ones that are too darling for their own good, perhaps?
This may make no sense. You, reader, are probably not editing your novel. If you are then this may make perfect sense. But for those of you who are not, sorry, I am editing. Did I mention that bit? Am editing and my brain parts have gone all…Edity.
Spell check wanted that to read ‘my brain parts have gone all…Edith’. Now that would be a surprise. Hello, I’m Edith’s brain in Steve’s skull. I don’t even know anyone called Edith.
I am Edithing.
This is the way. The passing over of coins and cover notes. Package yourself up and pass it on. Devoted to base ten and to dichotomy, all errors must be evil, all happenstance divine. You may find the grump and bind a warm intoxicant; collapsing veins, period pains, a hoop, a stick to beat yourself to death.
A fast-expanding city folds itself around the fields. Garden flowers tell the time, never tell how lost or lonely city lawn strip cages feel. This is the way. Build them cheap. Stack them high. Their seeds wither and die so that envy grows much greener. Envy grows.
Collide. Never apologise. Collude but don’t connect. Insect wings beat fast enough to drown out minor sins. The streets too hot to tread by day, unsafe and cold by night. This is the way. The hidden charge every unwitting customer must pay to keep their place in the parade.
The iron taste of blood upon the tongue. Patiently keeping coppers in a jar. Steel yourself for all this plastic authenticity. Proud of a petrochemical metropolis, the houses of the dead in snow-blind rows. All id and all identical. No value, just exchange. This is the way.
Tags: Tabloids, Students, Christmas, George Clooney, Radio, Sport, YouTube, Science, Gender, News, Newspaper, conversation, arse, Tuesday, Grumpy, sleep, men, body, world, women, Awake, penis, early, body clock, brains, Hard-wired, spatial awareness, Men Are From Mars Women Are From Venus, City centre, pedestrians, cartoons, Oh Brother Where Art Thou?, sportsman, same sex relationship, boxcar
Way too early. Being awake at six in the morning serves no purpose. I do realise that my body has sucked up more particles of sleep over the past three days than it would normally ingest in an entire week, but it’s a cruel body-clock trick to spring me wide awake into Tuesday at six of the freaking a.m.
To cap it all I find out that men’s brains are wired differently to women’s via the medium of grumpy radio conversations. Well, the grumpy radio conversations are about politics and education, but in passing they’ve mentioned this Men Are From Their Own Arse, Women Don’t Really Envy The Penis research.
It seems that men are hard-wired in one hemisphere and are therefore better at spatial awareness. Really? Have the researchers watched students stagger home at two in the morning? Floppy-wiring there. Have they checked out men in city centres in the run-up to Christmas? No fucking spatial awareness whatsoever. They bump into other people, stop dead right in front of fellow pedestrians and basically show a complete lack of comprehension that the world extends beyond their own face.
But it’s science so it must be true. Which means tabloids will spend the rest of the week running little cartoons about men being better at parking than their spouses. Unless their spouse is another man, in which case they might argue about who is best at parking the car until the end of time.
On the same sex relationship theme, a sportsman yesterday took to YouTube to say he is in a relationship with another man. He’s been hailed as something of a hero and in the world of sport it often does take great courage to come out. But in general this is not news. Someone above the age of consent in consensual relationship with someone else above the age of consent. No story really because it’s none of anyone else’s business. Which is of course why I’m mentioning it. Er…
Tags: Alive, arse, bugger off, bullshit, crystal meth, December, digestive tract, Drugs, elf, existence, existentialism, face, Friday, fuck off, goblins, happy, head, Imagination, Intestines, Julie Andrews, Maria Von Trapp, meh, migraine, Molotoc cocktail, mountaintops, Nausea, nun, Photosensitivity, Planet, punching, saturday, Self-pity, sleep, Stabbing, Sunday, Swearing, synapses, terrorists, The Sound of Music, unhappy, Wake up, world
December started without me, I see. I’ve been adjacent to, rather than a part of the world the past few days. Friday was a day of meh. If I still took drugs it might have become a crystal meh day. Saturday was a day of wondering what the fucking point of existing even is. You know, that sort of stupid, up-your-own-arse self-critical bullshit that over-imaginative people spout at themselves when they feel lost and lonely.
To make me realise I do quite like being alive really Sunday brought the worst and longest migraine I’ve known in, like, ever. Tiny goblins invaded the synapses of my facial parts with stabbing implements. Stab, stab, stab, went the goblins. Ouch, oh fuck off, went the Steve. Sleep, sleep, sleep went my defence mechanisms. Wake up, went bits of me now and then. Ouch, oh fuck off, went Steve again. I couldn’t eat because the goblins had slipped down into my digestive tract and were punching me in the intestines. I couldn’t find a decent position to relax because nausea terrorists were setting off Molotov cocktails in my ears. And even the smallest chink of light made my eyes explode and the centre of my forehead shout swearier words than I realised I knew.
So, the moral of the story is, when you’re feeling sorry for yourself and wonder if the planet would even miss you if you buggered off, have a migraine because when it finally disappears, 36 hours later, you are so ridiculously happy to be alive and able to move your head around without a trillion goblins stabbing and punching you that you go all airy-fairy elf-friend tra-la-la and dress up as a nun to sing on mountaintops.