A rebel without a clue.

M onkey puzzle trees right, left and left left. A solitary weeping willow too. Arranged around the Eastgate/Quarryhill roundabout, which is now disused where once there were fountains and before that a Fina Garage. I am travelling back towards Wetherby on the 3rd of May and I am telling myself I need to visit Mind, the mental health charity, on Kirkstall Lane, and I must venture there soon. This bus always takes the same forsaken route to get out of Leeds; with its bland 'To Let' bulldozed wastelands, low rise warehousing with its pulled down shutters and a Nissan flagship and another few dozen flurried showrooms which are so out of place in this 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 . From behind me on the bus I hear the sound of second hand 'r n b', the dumb and chavie youths music of distinction, but ...

What more do I need...except weather like today, birds chirping and geese chattering, snoops in the river fetching the whole breadth of the channel, the distant sounds of a prop plane, golfers striking clubs on balls, swallows diving over the calm shrinking waters, joggers...work, relationships and money perhaps? A thrush is my mothers garden searching for food, grubs in her hanging baskets and plant plots while snoops lays supine on his cream polyester throw and snoozes content after our 2 hour hike and swim(he swam). Snoops stretches and swallows. Leaning backwards as his breath settles into that sighing deep satisfied slumber. Some how that feeling has spread to me. On returning to the house I curled up next to the dog and dropped to sleep. Out for 2 hours. By 2:40 I'm in the garden still following the dogs singular example: lingering over sleep, but the choral tunes I hear prevent my drifting like an ancient man. Slightly irregular day. Off to Leeds 4:20. Bus has 4...

If only I knew how to break out of this persona I have become. I know it follows some very repetitively bland pulses and rhythms. Everyday seems to be about getting up just to get back into bed again that same day or even in a wider scope just like living each day just towards some final longed for moment. This isn’t good I can see that, but why can’t I shrug off that feeling and the demented persistent bashing of my head I currently maintain? I follow the same never ending paths that actually lead me nowhere. I will get up tomorrow walk the dog, get on the bus, get to the flat in Leeds, change clothes, take my pills, look at the mess in the living room, feel the coldness of the emptiness of the flat, smell the fetid and rank stale odours, etc. To find there aren’t any jobs but there is yet more manufactured bad news; then I'll haul back to Wetherby, along the same bus route I have been using since 1983, after no one has spoken to me all day, while trying not to spend any money w...

Gonna get me a gun The smell of oil, grease Pointed towards my head Drifts leaden to my mind Pull a trigger for release Pull a trigger for fun? Is this the saddest find The saddest dies in deed. 

Got up and about for 7:50. Ran bath, washed and brewed coffee. Spoke to mister dogg and told him he's my favourite dog. Off to Leeds for a night to try to find another job. Still not heard from Salsa Mexicana's. Boring old persons on bus. Discussing decline of magpies and cook-coos.  Yes yes: no no. Yes yes they do yes yes. Yes it is. Yes it did. Honest that's what they say! Yes they have, hmm, they have yes. Consanguinity so much to answer for. I recall ignoring DG on Sunday afternoon as he endeavoured to attach himself to me. I can't stand him for a good reason. A person who I used to look forward to seeing immensely all the way from School, through Uni and up to a few years ago. This is only my observation, but he has real issues when he drinks too much and becomes a vibrant example of a sex pest. There is a dividing line in the night between normal discussions and openly obsessive fantascism and I think I want the old Dave back. The swallows have arrived. Wh...

Panic time to panic Time to struggle alternatively With sombre reality And dreamlike hope What is this plain And grey simple man Who rubbed out is Grubby and putrid Eating and eating To play out the end In a ball so giant And corpulent sack Parts of lust Parts of fear Parts of pathless wandering.

I started with such eagerness and gusto and I worked with belief. I was organized, worked all day and had to multitask constantly. I was really very happy. Indeed it was the happiest time of my working life and it lasted 4 months. I started my working life in 1995. Just said 'Happy Christmas' to Ash from the Nation. Far out! For persons who don't care tomorrow is a day to get over the hangover of today. For those who care... Who cares? Where did it all go wrong and why does all my effort suddenly feel like it means nothing? I couldn't care less or be suddenly confused and walled in-up. Am I glimpsing insanity or something else. It certainly feels overwhelmingly depressing or like weight from a subtle increase in the earths gravity. Snoops is absolutely worn out. Is that his sudden demise too? Is he suffering with something in silence? He makes no complaints if he is. I would hope he would whimper or look different. He just looks shattered. Even talks of 'whe...