Hello, another bunch of random off the top of me hed cause Im bored crap for me to post.

Robert, the smithsonian blacksmith, eyed his prize non-chalantly. The dapper young thing with the mincey grin eyed him head to toe, as she sidled her way through the pressing through of people. He sprinted after her.


I listened to CD’s today. I listened to the music going ‘boom, boom’ in my ears, while I sat and played pool with the trout inhabiting the Leath. I just was, and for a moment, it was my birthday, with a little ‘da-da-dumm’ and the crescendo in the music spurred my thoughts off at a gallop. The people passing by don’t smell the flowers. They tred on them. The poor little things, I’d like to go throw some bark at them, make them respect what is all around them, rather than just the cigarette they clasp in their grubby little first-year hands, huddling in masses like shoals of fish. Lucky for them it is safety in numbers, maybe not with an uzi. Then I think the motto becomes every health sci for himself. But they would all scatter, and tred on all the lovely blossoms that do-not lie in the direct path between their science library sanctum and the lecture buildings. What we need is a fence, so that the tapered mayhem many people often refer to as a ‘sence of fashion’ could be shielded from eyes that are already bloodshot and sore, from witnessing the blatant disregard for the beautiful blossoms. It all comes down to lectures, I would guess. Put them all in one big building, and save the beauty for the rest of us.

Four tall men, boards in hand, shelter from the cutting breeze. Don’t tell them no, those cigarettes kill, just say hello in a warm manner, and maybe they will flee from the cozier environs provided free of charge with every cigarette pack purchased. But I would not hold out too much hope. When there is no smoke screen to hide behind, pretending to the world that you are something else, everything seems so sharp and clear, almost cutting. Like the music permeating the atmosphere about me, arising, as I spy, from the crusty old building where the music students lie. It quivers it dances, its sweet and bitter, im a lover, a painter, a dead man, the hunter, I am a bee on a treck through the Andes, picked up and tossed about by great gusts of snow-melt air, till atlast I glide free and graceful on the wings of a condor. To sail the seven seas, like a pirate, with a wooden leg. Stride mixed with thump. Arrr, mixed with clomps. I would like that a lot. A bastion of eternal freedom, scaling the walls of human experience, with a load of cannon to bring down stray vessels, not unlike, those four tall men.

Look at me, in a puddle, all muddled and wavering, while the wind whips up the hair. Never to impress the ladies like this. With hiccups and burlap sacks, to hide my inner poverty in. I could look at them, see straight through their eyes, into nothing. Nothing at all, but the next lecture or the next party. Cant stand to watch, all the swirling vibrancy that can be so representative of the whole. But I suppose it is true, that the world is round, I must return to the beginning wherever I venture to. But the trout have given up on our game, as I have no more bread with which to sustain their interest in the pittance affairs of humanity.

The leaves of the page line up in a strange way, while the saber-toothed man in the lolly-pop stand sells sweets to minors at a fraction of the price of fame. That is the ticket though. Behind all these numbers, im told, is a world of meaning for me to inquire, and to be inspired, with the wretched self worth magazines and high payload electronic gadgets I can use to interpret the swirl of nothing written on my page. It would all be a waste of time, a persute of drunken hoolagens, if it wernt for the internal assessment marks, chasing me through the nine-hells of exhaustion. Tommorow is another day, in which to be clean, in which to read another book, searching for the truth inside these numbers and wonder what the heck is going on…..

Don’t look at me funny. You are all laughs and clowns, but I saw the darting glance. He says to me. But I didn’t, I would never. I respect privacy, so leave me alone…


Take us in captain. The jumbo elephant comes down. I am not here, complains the captain. Well too bad says the first mate, this is mutiny. And stage school is started by the random pitterpattering raindrops on me windersill.


Harry the-crab had a big lunch of salamander. It is not good for crabs. He smiles, in a chitinous way, like the way his old man did before he passed on. Run over in his prime by a gang of confederate seals bent on revenge against the Lobster don. And Harry ducks under again, to begin hiding and waiting for his chance……


I am a space.
All these are people, how could you go in there?
I am a SPACE
But they all died because of you! You are not a nice person
I am A space
When the moonbeams come down, you will be locked up in a room with no doors.
How will I get in there?
You are a space.


X is for narrative locking the plates down. P is for the small man under my pillow. H is for Harry in his nice little hidey hole. And M is for me about to bed. Don’t forget S, Sally, the driver man, drives me wherever, I wanna go. To the moon, or to Venus, or to Alabama, or some other planet, it don’t matter where. L is for the big old potato that hates me because I ate his brother. E is for the soup I never let go. T is for the time it is 10:39. And Z is for nothing because it is the last letter in the alphabet, and therefore racially discriminated against, and although he has a great resume, is unwanted in the entertainment industry.

Beep. Beep Beep.