A rebel without a clue.

I am slowly building up to explode. I feel like the answer I have been waiting for is ready to present itself to me. I sense it is a final and certain destiny. It's just beyond me now, but I feel like it's in me. Some explosion of angst and frustration that means all I've lived for in 39 years is stoking the furnace of confusion and muddle. Every time I sit in company or near company I begin to panic that I will wobble and deflate in a stare or glance. Only today in Waitrose I couldn't act normally or inhesitantly when purchasing my few items: 2 mozzarella, cherry tomatoes, Maldon salt crystals and discounted sausages. Some guilt was on my face: like I was using a stolen credit card to purchase these items. I couldn't look convincingly into the cashiers eyes. I felt weighted down by manifestations of guilt. I'm surprised I wasn't also blushing. Blushing for my poultry fayre? I absolutely have no idea. I feel almost that the person I am facing might catch me ...

If you happened to see a ghost how could you be sure it was a ghost? Other than approaching the ghost and asking, quite politely, 'are you a ghost?' If you let that ghost walk by then you could never know for sure. If you were to ask someone you thought was a ghost if they were a ghost, and they weren't, what expression would that person take? I see lots of people close to death, but today I watched a ghost cross from the County Arcade to the Thorton Arcade. The clue that led me to believe this man was a ghost was the locomotion employed to cross the distance of those 30/40 feet and his pale and shadowy persona. I am looking at other people in the same space, but they don't maintain that same corpse distinction. The greyness and the physically tinged aspect.

What is this bean which demands so much o'er us? Half the planet over is in ruin in barista or plantation growers Or major corporate density method. Where once tea was the madness that we shared Now coffee is the branch of chains Like slaves rowing to a distant land Locked synchronized we spend all alone Maybe in huddles or meeting Where poets and revolutionaries once demanded more.

Dogs are clumsy and generous Cats are dainty and mean Dogs are rough and ready Cats are shirts and tidy Dogs might whiff a bit Cats will usually smell serene Dogs take a life of walking Cats make a life of stalking Dogs can't take solitary life Cats are happier on their own Dogs are part of the family Cats scorn friendship alone. Dogs are always hungry Cats are usually lean Cats make giant furballs Dog licks their balls But the they both make us happy When we return after a long day From the trials and tribulation Of that thing we call an occupation

Today, what of it, that is left I brought you rocket, olives and bruschetta bread For me the stage was set for resting amongst the noises feeding my head Right amongst the section of architects stones stood such spitting scholar Closed eyelids and puffy face while waiting to face heavens appeasement The craft of which you speak hasn't levened cleavers leaving me dead and hollow. My pedimental marble is cold and unfeeling framed against a rattling voice. Fucking further than I forsaw from the distance of 5pm and 8pm.

Oh no, I have developed an abscess in my left earlobe. It regularly bleeds when I squeeze it slightly. I think it's appeared where I used to have a piercing? It's like a bump that feels empty until I start playing with it. If I don't touch it it never disappears. At times it is larger than at other times. I discovered I have a new one on the lobe of my right ear last night, but that ear was never pierced. They both bleed and when they bleed they're are slightly sore after, but not intensely so: infact the gentle pulsating pain is soothing. I took one antisemitism look around Starbucks and decided I couldn't pay for my antisemitism: came to Caffe Nero Espresso Bar on Albion street (good old romantic Albion Street) and away from Kosher Coffee. Hitler and co. were trying to kill all Jews in Europe before they were defeated. It was a desperate game they were in. They knew they had no time but had to achieve this one goal, as if the world post war depended on it entire...

What might've been? Victoria Street. The house @ £41,000 in 1995. Almost £29,000 above the candy shop. Simon Gordon and I. Stability and possibilities. No real risk when looking back. I was working at ROCOM. I was banking with Barclays. I had a PEP. No chance with Victoria Street. Not enough space in the second room to rent out. Large enough for a baby, bairn or child. But Crossley Street was a blank canvas. Was an office. 4 large rooms on 2 floors. It's now 2 flats. Shit we missed our chance there didn't we Muller? Why would a young mum of chav nature feed her child crisps: Wotsits to keep it quiet? Manufactured horrible. What will that young body do with all that hydrogenated fat and processed food? Why are you so oblivious? This journey to and fro proves to me there isn't any hope for England. As Daniel, Megan and I set off for Cable Beach, Broome we were coming towards a road kill with 2 birds picking at the leftovers on the Tarmac. Only as we got close enou...