A rebel without a clue.

These things happen Which are not too nice And blinking unnatural Politicans say and speak Blunt of commiserate Desperate for votes Desperate of a tragedy. Did so need Hain, Cameron and Miliband: Homing in are we Eyes like switches, On result in rattling Platitudes battling Windy spoken twitches These automatics drone On and on for votes we sue. So sorry: a neighbour cries Because this is worthy copy But I forgive him their loss Maybe in the great mine Up in the sky Look to the big coal dipper And the coaled graves there?

Aren't we all aware of the #1 satire of the 1960's: Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention. Brown Shoes Don't Make It, etc. understood the dark mystery of suburban existence in the TV dinner generation of post war baby boomers. Didya get any onja? discusses the prewar tensions of harassment in Tchermany? the human discord and paranoia of questioning

Why do you so refine your mouth from trash to snob, when you're really a sham. In you I see fake and forgo yourself, But you grace our threshold with eyes that look to find a way to suck; Forced out of a gentle spinster hands: you never change. Under that address you are trash and valueless. You have more than you need, yet thrown you coins against the drain and show you friendless palm: Away! Break off this carping bullshit. Shut the door behind your relentless device: That mammoth lustful sloth and a voice so squeezed in corseted accord And I leave, exeunt stage left to a lofty height. Take you bag of bones and stash of coins hence you witch, Begone on your broom to be burnt by the sun as you are taught a lesson much too late. Take the mismatched pooch and swap it quick!

Had my first nightmare for years last night: I witnessed a barbaric act on four women by 2 dismembered 'hands' and 1 bodiless 'penis'. I recall it was in China some time not too long ago, but maybe was during the Japanese invasion/occupation: Shanghi. Basically the 4 women, 1 in her 80's, 1 in her 50's and 2 in their late teens, where raped 1 by 1 by this dismembered penis until the two hands appeared and set fire to them. As they were already hysterical: they screamed horridly as they burnt, hair first. The only person who understood the gravity of the situation was the 50 something. I think they were all drugged, but maybe not the one in her 50's. The eighty year old was very gummy and docile. Horrible scene: I woke up at 3.35am with a start. If dreams are somehow cathartic: was this?

Right on my way, late, to meet my Internet 'date'. This might be the last ever if it doesn't work out. I've joined those website from loneliness, not necessarily to met the kind of girls it has linked me with over the years. What is the point if you I don't have anything in common. And I'm getting too saggy to care. Some girls, on the late X98, discovering hen party cheeriness. I stand and fire straight between their eyes. Joining us are the Hindi/Urdu tribe who climb aboard at nPower(where once I worked oblivious of the world beyond Leeds). I really can't stand England anymore. It's become ruined and empty. Even the Victorian gatehouse at Roundhay park is a mere façade as I piss into the brambles. The new hybrid bus creaks and shakes. It's been on the road a month and I can't stand the reek of burning plastic from somewhere.  How big are the batteries and how bad is all plastic for the environment. Not a logical improvement. Just anot...

Do I  live in a shit town? Oh yeah! I live in a shit town Just there hacking with odour And without any ardour Shimmying oozing Wharfe and Wafting poos Into the midnight air Some sparks dying there.

The building of the bypass between 1986 and 1988 signalled the beginning of the end for this middle England, middle English, middle Yorkshire market town. Slowly but surely all the symbols of Wetherby's local mercantile trade were erased until by the end of 2010 Horton and Hollander's, toy shop extraordinaire, vanished on the High Street. All pubs, with the exception of the Crown, have been face lifted out of existence or else banished to be replaced by wine bars, restaurants, toy shops and bedding shops. Every pub, apart from the Crown, has had a few walls removed, appallingly cheaply make overs, façades of MDF and threadbare millenary, gardens covered with vast smoking areas and dens for paving slabs and concrete blocks. All menu's are steam in the bag affairs in kitchen's run by snot dribbling, fag smoking, oil stained 'chef's' for whom food is a four letter word. Just look at the cleanliness of these individuals: would you be willing to eat food prepare...

by Daniel J. Sherburn Written in May 2011. Part 1. Growing Monkey puzzle trees right, left and left again A solitary weeping willow Arranged like one hand caressing  the Eastgate/Quarryhill round-a-bout; Disused where once there were springs, fountains and a petrol pump. Travelling back towards Wetherby My mind has become unravelled Mind and I must venture there soon. A bus route forsaken dump Rambling bland 'To Let' bulldozed wastelands, Low rise warehousing with its padlocked shutters A Nissan flagship and another dozen flurried showrooms Stand shoulder to shoulder Out of place in a cheap rent part of Leeds. Where the very nature itself springs from the roofs of too often forgotten Victoriana: Tailors', Machinists' and Pressers' Trade Union on Cross Stamford Street. Coming loudly behind me on the bus The sound of second hand "r 'n' b", the damned Dumb and chav-youth music of distinction, Surpris...