A rebel without a clue.

A good reception. For those it invites. And for those along willy nilly well who can say? I switched between rooms. Walking the fine line. Between all kinds of life. I turn to watch and look to tell. Some how I keep walking the line. Shame shame shame. I can connect the dots but without owning. [Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

Some odd feeling of being swamped and concrete comes over me in the welcome break. It really make me hate. But KFC to waken my appetite and coffee to fill my veins. There is a vapid tastelessness in my cup. Leaving me caffeine charged, last one until morning. Banal hell of muffins, flapjack and coke in cans. At last, very chilled by northern wind, set off for Watford Gap. Oh pathetic happiness on the M1, south. [Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

On the m1 with our car sped by Those in a sub lane sub continent Families of gold nosed and studded Hitting the 30 limit nearing Nottingham While decisions are being made. [Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

Business meetings always happen next to me and people always stare at me. This is a public place, but it's not a meeting room. I wouldn't work for a company that didn't have a meeting room. And now some old guy is rearranging the furniture for his wife who has gone down with her Geordie accent to buy teas. I have so many hates but they just go inside and, like water inside a pressure cooker, they build up just to seep away when I rationalise my temper. I could say something, but I will not. I may one day and never stop. But if I do open my mouth I am scared that it'll be blah blah blah. Nice girl smiled a winning smile and flashed her teeth and stretched and pointed her chest at me. Nearly had my eyes out and out of the corner of my eyes I thought she was drinking actimel and the old guy who rearranged furniture is staring staring staring. Ever heard of a Elvis Presley film called Clam bake Tm? It must be a bad one, probably the worst, its not in my scrapbook that I...

M an next to gas van wiping Another victim bloody on a rag After assisting another fault Boiler broken and dreams halt.

S now melted leaving damp muddy Slipping steps caked shoes and wet toes Greasy and rotten brown ridged tracks Where all clothing must be ground. Old lady misses the bus And shits herself in the rush Trousers poo splattered And we sped on road. Fear of loving Live to not love Life free of loved Clove of lovers. All this rotten Brown coffee grown Trodden these feet Mud cracking soled. Soul is not hear Just impressed their Rubbered plastic Lipid feet trudge.

I t was like someone reaching 70, or more, Who had never been on a bus before.  Ah. She didn't know how to ask for her destination And maybe the bus had but one. To take her to where she needed to be?

G ot myself to a Starbuck's in the 'Heart' of Roundhay to send you a missive...I went for a long walk with me new flatmate today and wanted to write a poem on the change that occurs between early joyful snow and brown hell sent, self obsessed slush; writing poems in my head never works out...i need paper!!! lets try it...1.2.3 On Monday gladly the snow fell on our roofs and minds By Tuesday slowed had the traffic to zero or no go Or Tuesday it was so crisp my body rocked off a ledge or 2 Between some words were exchanged without a cuddle ensuing. Thursday we played common cold on a bus frozen glare Friday was a bouncy doggy walking heaven; sticks and eating snow Saturday we must confess zero activity on the park - good fish food. Sunday early jaunt but displaced by crowded, rotten, selfish, heavy handed brown stained virginity. This needs an aside or two... I had the best of times and the worst of times in the snow deep and cold and emoting. Tuesday T...

28/01 Went to Meet the B'ageists 1300, to pick up that IT textbook from 1976. I will pull it to pieces and use it...thank you Susan , not woolbridge, but Wooldridge? This book is actually part of a series. Just like the dogshit up Roman pooh alley. I needed to be eagle eyed, I am action man circa 1972...What is a dridge? is it a ridge and a dredge or is it d'ridge - look at that d'ridge man! How about a d'ri-dge-man - prior to cro-magnon! http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=dridge Alexis said meet the Beigeists. I like that! I think we have Alpha B'ageists and Beta B'ageists. Alpha's work in the shop for an hour a week and Beta's come in to talk for an hour a week. One has 2inch long grey hairs all over her muzzle! I wonder if she stopped owning a mirror when her husband died in 1982? or maybe it helps keep her warm? Maybe she is really a he! I noticed our Romantic park is being landscaped by the local council dudes init. Soon the bump...

Oh little girl staring at me. Roundhay, street lane. Must've been something I said or did or felt? A heart so empty and nick drake brays on too long Again repeated colours of brown, beige, yellow and cream. Random art that we can't help but frown at It is nothing; it is hard to define its edges. My mind is like sludge as i took a decision Severing my tie with dirty bad rotten caffeine Nothing in this coffee and nothing in this daydream. I guess i'll need talk to everyone, maybe one will smile But if i squander my coffee shops style then where? Miles of dreary roads and shopping queues. I text to often and oftener hear silence, monotonous I consider this my death by arabica and robusta And dwell on that hate which murders and kills A high hair wine bespoken ugly brat with voice Ah, winehouse you sing woefully of trouble From your voice I feel a bubble consciously explode.

She moves like a shadow on the sand Twisting sidewise against the ripple and Darkly testing us for silicate and rust Footfalls tread in the melancholy dust The colours there represent a simple pallet But she tells me that she has more left The choice is simple and is easily balloted What more can i do to stop being alone But she will not help me solve her clue There i am a single singley chosen hue Deserting her love choice multiple tone.

I left the flat for Starbucks, on Street Lane, but I had to leave very shortly after only a solitary grande mug of their Café Estima Blend® and a brownie. Suffering from no internet I walked back to the flat through what I have decided to call 'dogshit alley' on the Roman's Estate. It is called The Romans locally, but its actually turn of the 20th century suburbia which becomes a 1950's council estate in the north end before trailing off into a mucky park known locally as The Bumps where there is more of the sporadic dog shit; I live on the otherside. I don't think calling it the Roman's does it any justice as it feels foetid and dirty, unusually for Roundhay it is more Gypsy than Ravenna. Personally I have no issues with using parks perimeters/edges as dumping grounds for dog faeces, but I hate having to hop along a path between steaming piles, from gap to gap, hoping I haven't missed one that will lead to a comical end (back in 1985 I remember falling ...