Friday, 18 April 2008
small blog post that turned into a large blog post; posted 'recklessly', not even drunk (but still something i'll probably wake up & regret tomorrow)
there is nothing happening on the internet.
i wanted to write a poem.
i wanted to write this.
i am going to go to New York soon.
i have nothing to complain about.
i feel like a dreadful waste of time.
i feel like a humourless literary novel by a sixty-year-old male writer from America.
i feel like a complete and dreadful waste of time.
i feel like a packet of salt and vinegar crisps.
i feel like a complete and dreadful waste of a packet of salt and vinegar crisps, sixty years old, somewhere in America.
something spilt onto a wood floor, onto sawdust and trodden in.
i am going to write my next novel as if i was a sixty-year-old male writer from America and send an excerpt of it to the New Yorker.
i am going to go into the bathroom and wish my sixty-year-old American penis was working better.
i am going to 'specialise' in something so dull but 'relevant' that people will queue up outside my house.
they will be holding things, outside my house.
i will put my hand through the letterbox and they will put the things in my hand.
the things will be:
copies of Vogue (the smaller version), hundred dollar bills, 3D plasticine models of facebook, terrifyingly realistic plaster-casts of their 'reproductive organs', letters to their grandmas, and sometimes just things picked up off the pavement in panic (cigarette ends, bits of greyed chewing gum, etc.) because they had been queuing so 'hard' that they only realise at the front of the queue that you are supposed to be offering something to the hand that is extending out of the letterbox.
put some cigarette ends in the hand.
fold the fingers of the hand over the cigarette ends and run away.
go home and catch the end of Home & Away because you do not have to go to work today, and can do anything you want.
start a book from the library.
read four pages, 'listlessly', and then talk shit about it at the pub.
attach an ipod shuffle to your arm and go jogging next to the sea wall.
make a sandwich.
make a hummus and spinach sandwich.
stand in a room.
eat a packet of crisps, with 'extreme panache'.
i am going to eat a packet of crisps 'so hard' tomorrow that it will make a 'cosmic dent' in the 'collective psyche'.
everything will weep.
all things will contort into silly, pre-pubescent shapes, like a gigantic version of a playgroup.
my own face will becomee a thing unrecognisable to me.
it will be a person seen on the bus somewhere, and i will feel glad that i am not that person.
it will be a thing with crisps in its mouth.
salt and vinegar flavour.
ethan hawke, circa 1996.
my legs at school.
your face remembered, 100X, and smiling.
the flex off a mini kettle.
my entire life, chewed up and shitted out.
please sleep in my bed and then wake up in the morning and write me a letter and post the letter to me and then go to sleep in my bed again and then wake up the next morning and go to the front door and fetch the post and get back into bed and read the letter to me.
please make an unrecognisable hand gesture at me from behind a frosted glass partition, and then make me feel like an idiot for not understanding what you were trying to communicate.
please lie about the food.
please touch me in places on my body.
please stop the war in palestine.
please tell father christmas what i want next year, December 25th (a tiny kitten, dressed up like this).