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Yeah so scribbled this down earlier, I’m liking the way the linguistics help it flow between the images…last verse needs some work though

Electric jolts through my face, freezing any feeling
Left in the dust by a pack of colts,
Like the crux of sensational speed,
I miss your fuck when you take the lead
By Demanding I strum a ditty,
Minus the arousing crescendo, you tame yourself for
Sepia toned loving.
Antiquated dimensions of time are stretched to their breaking point
Under the flex of Dexedrine;
All we can hear are echoes, echoes, of a flagging Pegasus,
Wings clipped, melting like wax, on a collision course with the sun.

I’m Dexy’s midnight runner, through the streets of Philadelphia
Where the sunrise lasts five hundred days of summer.
I’m Equus, slaughtered for my hide and stripped to the bare insides
Falling, limb by limb, further from any future success.
Could we be aware for just two seconds and beg for a requiem,
For a reprieve from this dream, this self inflected stained indolence;
Carry me away now down the mellow brick road,
Flecked with fools gold that erupts with laughter as light particles
Serenade false idols, the whole scene is farcical…

And we’re back in the room, in and out of the womb,
Playing tag with nature’s crèche is just so, like, you know, Dépêche.
But, alas and alack, not when you wilt like the desert flower,
Calling yourself a cactus is a slur on poor Dexy,
I abide by the house rules, even though her fake caterwauls of ecstasy
Aren’t me, but the ecstasy.

I should be sat in a library reading a biography of the celebrated English Romantic poet John Keats, instead I’ve just watched two hours of ‘Young, Dumb, Living Off Mum’ and am now listening to Justin Bieber slowed down 800% – both of these things are brilliant:

YDALOM is everything Big Brother should be and for this BBC3 should be congratulated on creating such a brilliant show. Basically the premise is to throw a load of spoilt young adults together in the same house, many of whom make mentally handicapped rocks look clever, all of whom make mentally handicapped rocks look clever, and then force them to become independant…to a degree. YDALOM follows in the footsteps of another BBC3 classic ‘Snog, Marry, Avoid!’, in exposing the cretinous underbelly of young adults in England. We all know these idiots exist, and handily the beeb decides to present them in a nicely packaged format for our lazy consumption.

It is superior to the now defunct format of Big Brother because BBC3 doesn’t care about controversy – for some surprising reason – and because of this we, as viewers, get embroiled in the thick of expletive ridden slanging matches about who should wash the dishes – a situation that struck me as very similar to many stand offs in my last house – but the fact that it isn’t me means that it’s fucking awesome!! Furthermore I can totally facebook stalk these idiots and check out how true to life their portrayals are (FYI they’re identical).

Oh and the J.BIEBZ t’ing? Yeah it’s awesome, it’s as if Sigur Ros started a song and then forgot how it ended, ala Bender and Beck in Futurama – anyway, check it out, it’s beautiful: http://soundcloud.com/shamantis/j-biebz-u-smile-800-slower

I’ve been thinking of Garth Marenghi’s Darkplace for the last couple of days, these are some of my favourite quotes:

‘It’s all thrust this and penetrate that, what happened to “he glided in liquid smooth”, “her wispy mound”, or “her mossy cleft”

‘I’m one of the few writers to have read fewer books than i’ve written’

‘I see my role as publisher is to add punctuation, commas and full-stops mainly, no semi-colons – it’s not joyce, and no hyphens – once again, this isn’t French writing’

‘You and he were buddies…weren’t you?

‘Tell me about this Renwick customerrrrrrrrrr’

I can’t remember them all, sorry. Yeah, I know how superfluous this all seems.

‘Don’t you know that last night
Turned to daylight
And a minute became a day
Last night
All my troubles
Well they seemed so, so far away
Searching my reflection
For a glimpse of, another me
I’ve got to get away from these high times
All these high high times
Cause these hight times
are killing me.’

That above are lyrics from the Jamiroquai song ‘High Times’ and they seem pretty apt seeing as how i’ve finally finished reading Lolita. For the un-initiated Lolita is a Vladimir Nabokov’s tale that details how the peadophile Humbert Humbert (an alias naturally) kidnaps a twelve year old girl, the titular Lolita (aka Dolores Haze) and proceeds to start a sexual relationship with her.

From a personal point of view what interested me most was less the taboo subject matter – which, due to be being so far removed from personal experience, is hard to comprehend – but rather the way Nabokov has crafted the novel. His writing is almost akin to prose poetry with it’s beautiful use of word play, anagrams, metaphors and general pomp and plushness.

As a poet it is these sort of novels that I tend to find most interesting, A Clockwork Orange is another. Novels that challenge linguistic heritage, molding and shaping it in new and fascinating ways always appear, to me at least, as the freshest and most challenging way that I can expand my horizons, at least in a literary manner.

Furthermore I think it says something about the novel, and possibly me, that the only time i was acutely aware that I was reading a novel was when Humbert appears most human in the closing pages of the book. The slight realisation of his guilt slash crime seems to pull the novel out of the heightened and hyperbole world in which 300 pages of Lolita seem to exist and although tis may be intentional to ease the reader out of the novel, one can’t but feel a little tinge of sadness for the fact that the gentile prose is starting to ebb away.

A must read, go check it out, and then read Pnin – also by Vladimir Nabokov, that one comes highly recommended by my English tutor haha

I think we have a new Catchphrase: ‘FUCK’

woah, there’s a been a veritable flurry of posts this week, and for some reason this surprise me even though i wrote them. So basically the last few scribbles have been tv screen orientated and i’m not going to buck that trend now unfortunately. I would say it’s a winning formula but no-one reads this anyway.

I finally started playing Final Fantays XII yesterday and after a 7 hour stint I have a few complaints. Don’t get me wrong, i’m a huge fan of the series, in fact if Aerith Gainsborough were here right now i’d happily make love to her sweet, polygon body, cuboid breasts and all.

(gagging for it)

Here are a selection of my favourite complaints thus far:
– far too linear, where the hell has my world map gone? (yeahhh i know 12 and 10 didn’t have them but at least i could explore)
– So what…Vanille is English right? / Australian right? / American right? / Mentally retarded right? / Irritating as shit right?

Seriously, I am majorly vexed by Vanille, but fortunately she absorbs the brunt of hatred which would otherwise be directed at the terribly (and ironically) named Hope, whose constant moaning is doing my head in. He also keeps squaring up to a 6ft behemoth of a man, Snow – yeah the character naming crew were all on holiday – and alsways bottles telling him what’s what; in fact Snow interprets this as affection. Jeez.

Meet Hope:

Now meet what Hope should have been:

Now that would have been sick, but alas time to go grind.
x

So LOST has ended. Bummer. LOST holds good memories for me, sort of the way people remember what they were doing when certain things happen, i.e eating..spam, when the Berlin Wall fell – that sort of vibe. EXCEPT extend that period over 6 whoooole years.

LOST encapsulates my first serious relationship (2 months – still a record), Sixth Form, other stuff – also it has proved a powerful pulling technique. More than once I’ve used a LOST season finale as a means to an ends for sex.

So, this will have to brief, but best LOST characters are:
Desmond
Charlie
Sawyer

to be fair 3rd space is always shifting, Boone’s been then on occassion – but Desmond and Charlie are lads. Period.

Look how rugged he is! What a fucking badman. Furthermore ‘Brother’ is one of the best catchphrases of all time; it happens most days that I happen to find myself slipping into a Scottish lilt and mutter ‘ay brother’ ain response to someone.

It’s a good job i went home and my Tin Tin boxset over the weekend, because it’s got a mightly big Island shaped hole to fill (and that’s not cos i’ve eaten a whole packet of immodium and haven’t shit in a week)
x

So my exams finished at approximately 11:30 last tuesday and since then I’ve been drunk every night bar one. It’s been pretty mental, the sort of bender the Daily Mail would crucify me for if i was worth writing about.

But the key problem i’ve faced is this: how do i fill the in between times, the time from when i wake up to about 7pm when i start drinking ( yes, early, guilty, sorry, student, see ya later). This has been solved with me kicking back and getting right into Harvest Moon: Back To Nature for the Playstation. Let me tell you one thing: Harvest Moon is fucking Ream, in fact that exact facebook status netted me 3 likes and 4 or 5 comments. I won’t bore you with the details but only the essentials:

1) Harvest Moon is like a billion times better than skanky farmville – so much better in fact that i refuse to capitalise farmville’s name.

2) I have a dog called Io, a horse called Lucius and three chickens called Gabby, Harry and Larry.

3) Tom lives on the mother fucking RENEGADE FARM.

and 4)

This girl is a BITCH. Seriously. Like she is permanently on my case for talking to her or giving her flowers and when she’s not bitching under her breath about me TO MY FACE, she’s whining about her asshole brother Rick who is their parents favourite.

Oh and a gratuitous 5) Winning the swimming comp on the first day of summer is impossible. Either i come second or i drown. And both of those options suck.

What I resent as well is that i’m forced to interact with society as well, what if i just wanted to water my crops and kick back with Io and light up spliff on the ranch? Well I can’t because the Mayor is at my house every other day telling me about some festival that’s on. Is that his job or does he just want to seduce me? Kind of life the mayor in The Business.

Easter is a lovely time; a Pagan festival ‘utilised’ by Christianity as a vehicle for the resurrection of Jesus and then further ‘utilisied’ as a vehicle for chocolate eggs by crafty marketing sorts. It’s a long line of non-sequiturs rammed into one weekend…in fact Christmas is exactly the same: Pagans – Christians – Marketing.

I’m currently visiting family in Birmingham – yep, I occasionally travel north – and am enjoying good, home cooked food in a loving environment, and to me, this is what Easter is truly about. It is about letting your legs melt like chocolate so that you slump into a comfy sofa, surrounded by loved ones, and guzzle down bag after bag of Cadbury’s Mini Eggs whilst watching TV. Glorious. Last night the new series of Dr.Who premiered and not only was it superb, but it truly felt like an event as I was sat on the floor surrounded by a room full of people all eager to watch Matt Smith fill David Tennant’s HUGE shoes.

And to be fair to the newcomer he was delightful in the role. A mix of giddy excitement and a quick wit that combined to create a character still in transition from Tennant’s 10th Doctor, a theme evident throughout – that of transition, mirroring the fact that this is a program in transition itself, moving from the Davies era to the Moffat era. In between the copious amounts of running and sharp movements that Smith was involved in (he LOVES running) the audience was introduced to Amy Pond, the Doctor’s new assistant, who, handily had a back-story created for her, and one full of pathos at that! I won’t delve into too much more detail, I’ll save that for http://denofgeek.com , but I will say that the new Tardis is wonderful and seems to have been based on a time period when the SNES ruled supreme, and is comprised fully of nik-naks from my childhood, which means that I can now relate Dr.Who to my childhood, much like my parents relate the original series to theirs. A lovely touch.

I need to go now and get my head in gear for the return of the one and only Alan Davies in tonight’s new episode of Jonathan Creek, another program that will draw a room full of related people all looking to relax in one another’s company and enjoy BBC drama at its best. But before I go, a couple of my favourite answers I got to the question ‘What is Easter?’:

‘It’s to do with Bunnies ain’t it?’

‘It’s the weekend Hitler betrayed Jesus’

…and my own personal thoughts? It’s the weekend Jesus got crucified and then battered open like a piñata only for Easter Eggs to pour forth from his stomach!

So, for now,
Au Revoir and Allons-y!
x

I’m currently in class, listening to poetry. Here’s some of mine:

Were I so steadfast that I could lie in the snow and observe
Clearly into the twinkling, aphotic void,
Craning my interests upon up high – acolyte to the night;
All is silent and cowering at the edge of space tonight.
It is not my frozen bed that causes me to shiver,
To tremble at the tabula rasa that threatens to
Efface me should I dare to blink.
Imagine the supernova hidden in the Cimmerian abyss
Resting, sight beyond sight, the notion fails to persist
But instead seeks to run and hide, bemiring my mind:
Murk sullies sanity giving rise to a tenebrous vanity,
One so focused on nothing at all that I cannot help but shrivel
Straining to stare through the closest cluster of orbs
Only to admire the subtle static behind,
Losing myself in an eternal mosaic of stars too faint for the eye.

A lone queen is hung aloft the night sky
Resting with a million subjects in her domain,
Holding in her left hand a caged Quetzal whose plumage is now so dull,
But shimmers like a hope under the flecked cloth.
Cooing gently with the wind, it teases black leaves stitched to the pitch sky;
Simple shapes, no, merely sounds embellished by an effervescent glisten.
The moon simpers as she waxes and wanes,
Patiently waiting for the sun to make her day.
Reflections in craters engulf my white eyes as
Cavernous Irises fail to ignite and drown in darking inks,
Frost now weighs heavy on eyelashes, and I cannot see,
As filmy skin draws close for the night,
Skeleton me bow to sleep ‘midst the twilight.