A rebel without a clue.

Between porcelain cups and plastic leaves, The muzak hums it's hollow tune. Octogenarians dissolve like sugar in their weak teas — edges blurred, their moments thin. But an insect’s bite: the only truth that stings, draws And Come Together plays, but no one blinks. The mansion stands, a stage set for the fading While pilgrims walk its edges, Restless, unassuaged. I measure a life in coffee spoons, yet still the void awaits Beckoning. A silent witness at every table, nibbling crusts of another time, As I recoil in panic.

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...