A rebel without a clue.

Feeling opposite Standing across Staring in hope Always apart Indefinitely positioned Sometimes desperate Otherwise frustrated Another time willing.

Are narrowing concept. Isn't everything cancer? Inertia? Nothing is! Stopping is never a reality. My true self prefers another existence. Yet, here I sit watching the slow twisting. Many scaffolds dangling upon Reelled out unending lines, Where their feet hang twitching. Why? To visit those condemned at the moment of their mortality. What is that? Or to go follow them to a graveside - freshly dug - stand head bowed. Death mustn't be at all! Don't you see? Thursday's steps are truly a stampede Of the slowly shuffling: A plague of never ceding feet; Unknowing That they hover before a crucial footfall. Decisions are made. Is this the waiting room? Is this purgatory? "Please take a seat" And we'll deliver it. Death is our service Striking off the moments. With a faux smile Pointless spoken words "Are you well?" Wetherby: Meso A place unchallenged perpetually stepping; mundane! What is death? "It's nice and c...

Watching hordes flee up New Station St a legion. Back they return. When will they shake their heads? Damned. Back to the telly, the food, the bed to copulate and argue. Headphones and bowed down. "It's so annoying" cries another waste of DNA. Where are we all going: nice and brown "gutted". Dog and beggar on the corner. Usual nonsense. Ubiquitous Vans. Black and white and slaved upon. Some tattoos and ripped jeans, done for fashion and not as an effect of the drudge. The human race needs shaking soon. Otherwise it's really a banal end? Not with a bang but a whimper. Observation. It's one of my functions. To watch and freak. Listen and wonder. Wait and wait and wait. Never in line, but crenellated. We only wear clothes because without them the boredom would drive millions to suicide. The veneer of humanity began with a leaf and ends with hipster's!

He took no interest in me at any point in my life. Did he assist me with my learning? Finished school in 1992. Jared moved me to Newcastle-upon-Tyne. Pizza Hut with Jared in 1992 as a thank you (or was that Jason)? Fled from Jesmond in 1995. "Now go and get a job" - thrown down the coal mine! Must I must go? Echo echo echo. Thomas moved me out of university. Invitations to Tom in every YHA I worked.. Father? He died in 2001. It was such a weight off my back. But then I stare back at the chaos. My life was ruined so many years ago. For most of my life I thought I made myself. Now I realise I made none of me. My perception is always a distortion. It's still hard to reconcile. Forgive myself my illusions. Dad came back from Australia in 1989 unwillingly with mother around his neck. Dad returned from Australia with his cap in hand and tail between his legs. It didn't work. He was always at war with his son who he made distant. Where were you father?

Sprawled, Completely off my shed, Laid out in the back of their car. Thought, I quite fancied her! Thought, James an, interestingly, bad choice. But what happened? She drove us into a field. And I didn't care! As they bickered I floated, Up and away.

I didn't go to my graduation. I didn't return to Newcastle upon Tyne for fourteen years. It didn't get me into its bloodstream. Final year of uni was fucking awful! On every distropic level. Work, levels of debt, shitty flatmates. Answering to the wrong texts on the wrong exam ... Only leaving me with novels I didn't like! Dad, apart from the one Easter break on the Strand in Western Australia House, was unrelenting in his personal destruction of me as his son and the inevitable depersonalised individual he made me. Oh those ten years of spite. Oh his forgetfulness. Oh his tyranny. And oh, I got drunk in the Cooperage while trying, one last time, to copulate once, at least, with one of girls, who were always exclusive and elusive, who I'd come to know (hardly) in those tortured three years! It was always pissing it down. And windy. And dark. Here I sit feeling little towards Them Yet have I some affinity towards The smoke stacks. The chimneys; No long...

Why am I afraid of this world? Why am I afraid of being happy? I've created idols of no use to me. I've chosen the Ego over the HS. This is not the truth. And so I am bound in chains. Recurrent dream: my father is alive. No one believes he is dead. Everyone interacts with him normally. Even with proof of the funeral and cremation convincing people is impossible. Other than my mother, Emma, Julia and Jayne the shopowner also didn't believe me: even with an eyewitness. Agitation. Can't relax Can't stop thinking Meditation is becoming more difficult