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?