A rebel without a clue.

Rain. Grey. Gray. Regret. Slouch. Slunk. Sunk. Remorse. Rebound. Sink. Skint. Bereavement. Undertake. Coffin. Stiff. It really is me verses alcohol again. Shambolic. Coffee and sugar. Demerera is unrefined but still toxic. Not sure. I reached a land of no return last night. I realise I simply have zero in common with Wetherby. The people here have no idea about life outside the four walls of various pubs. They are really dead people and I can't be like them anymore. I cringe at Carling drinkers. I guess happiness is something else than the driving nonsense that the UK sells. I find the vapid conversations going on in cafes a trauma of Britain. Scooter Works isn't like this at all; oh Lower Marsh. If you have anything: I can do anything. I have always done anything never something. I have no demands, expectations, requirements, just a want to meet people and be useful. I have no use to myself, but that mustn't be the summary of my 41 years. I am learning to see life di...

It's always I, me, mine But never they, them, theirs. Why so? Unitary and solo Standing back feeling hollow. Watching the Swallows, Martins or Swifts swoop Declining level ripple seed Splashing; dividing time. From morning to morrow While from the furtive breeze They borrow lives; temporary, Until the water bloats. And they flee in another Looping gliding hurry Troubled; the river boils, Creeping upon its own flotsom. Moment movements Ousted; fin de siécle, Jettisoned fragments Pushed beyond recall.

I can't be the model of your expectations. Why is it impossible to just let me be whom I am. I never question anyone about all the basic stuff. So many people are convinced that you have to be a certain way before they will accept you or see you as an equal. Why? They don't know what they want more than anyone else; they don't have any keys to the kingdom. A brain filled with money, job, marriage, two week holidays every year, work Christmas parties, BBQs in the back garden, etc ... Is a brain without choices? All the choices have already been made that will ever be. Without consciousness our essence and being is devoid of truth or reality. You don't like me because I have a different, difficult and uncomfortable point of view. I'm happy that you have found happiness in the normal expectations, but that has never delivered me to any promised land ... We will now go our own way, never to meet again.

Kevin delivers the mail on the south side of the street while Snoops growls, snarls and barks at this daily intruder. No harm ever comes of the larger than life barks he demonstrates behind number 42's double glazed, wood effect, window panes. Up the north side he delivers all the needs I have prior to the 21st and grateful I am. The postman, in his sardonic fashion, is disappointed with our dog. His venom is stayed, but Snoopy doesn't understand that the man in red is not a threat. It may be that Snoopy responds to some mental extensions that proceeds balloon-like from Kevin? I calm Snoopy and explain that the mailman isn't any threat, but this doesn't resolve his desire to warn off. Our dog; he knows more than we can ever understand.

I have a recurring dream in which my father is very alive when he should be dead. He won't admit he's dead and no one in the dream will believe me when I tell them he is dead. He has the same incandescent fury I recall of my youth, but I try to kill him and return him to the place he went to in 2001. I think those in my hallucination feel I should be grateful for him being resurrected in this place;created, but I can not help the moment of the dream. It is usually a complete surprise that I find him quite alive and openly accepted. Everyone in the dream seems unaware of his cadaver reality: strewn dustlike between the devil and the deep blue seas. There is a peace between him and the others in the room, but at the moment I perceive this unreality the abhorring of his usual expression turns overtly on to me. It becomes me vrs. everyone, including him, and there is nothing I can do but turn a vicious murderer and return him to the hell he struggles to escape from. Perhaps the n...

Yes I was frivolous in my life. What ever I wanted I told myself I could have. There was nothing to hold me back. Somehow my mind told me I would be fine accepting the fate of this ordeal. In 2007 I finally went bankrupt. I hadn't felt a purpose in my life from around 1999. I had truly drifted without a clue. Briefly I left these lands for sondrie londs down in Brittany, Sweden, Czech Republic, Australia, Spain I took myself. I lived the crazy life, but my record was playing at the wrong speed. I know I fulfilled nothing long lasting in what should've been a brave escape. I feel my immaturity laid me bare. I was hunting for something I never perceived lingering in the blind spot of my sight. The years grew between regular 9 to 5 and bankruptcy. Between 1995 and 1999 I worked consistently. Then I left for Australia. I returned never to connected directly with that expectation from society in modern Britain, but the debts mounted as I felt I must conform to my peers, mother, fath...

From the right hand side a greyed out man woman became my voice; a rainbow stripped momento of Oxford Dons. Stating something I was subconsciously thinking. Someone struggling against anonymity in hell sent Harrogate and sixty years feeling a need not to be the drifting within an inert body. Having the same deathly battle on their hands: mother and father destroyed another young and afraid face. Glenn and I assailed Harrogate on a very cold, winter and damp May day. I was reminded of a July Saturday in London where the temperature plunged to seven and Scarlett and I were battered beyond our meagre senses; I rolled into a copious puddle and sprained my right ankle. The same ankle I went over drunkenly on in Newcastle upon Tyne back on 1993. Another year where realistic and positive weather eludes the English. Anguish of bleak clouds rolling heavily drawning dreading o'er our fragile pates. In the end it was a quiet day and eventually a deep blue shone down on the Stray and upon our ...