A rebel without a clue.

A journey to the end of the novel Or a journey to the end of the night? When does this conveyer belt become comprehensible? I distrust everything I despise everyone As I trickle over Towards extinction And excursion It's Domingo And I'm tired And appalled.

Final whole day of this mixed up two weeks in France and Spain. It's too damn hot for September/October. Spain is becoming more and more impossible to cope with, personally, as overheating isn't the ideal condition for an Englishman who considers 20°C perfect - especially when the bag I am carrying is 11.5kg too heavy! And in the last two days I've heard numerous complaints from locals who are also infuriated by non stop baking sun. The final morning is tomorrow, but this morning I walked back the way I went yesterday, along the coastline from the campsite (Trillas, Tamarit €33 for a cabin), to return to Tarragona to give it a second chance. On Wednesday I had one too many Vermuts, wines and beers and then slept, fitfully, in a busy, overheating cramped hostel (Hotel Tarragona €18 dorm/€45 private). With a heavy heart I have decided to give backpackers a final goodbye as I have developed a real hatred of these establishments which are aimed at the ...

Two hours out with Lola and The Demon Dog Then measuring life in espresso cups One sugar and a glass of ice cold water. Watching them participate banally, Barren dream, waiting for 'it' to happen. Tramping over Barleyfields Along the Ginnel onto Westgate Left by the Town Hall Onto the Market Place Ready to scream (like Edvard Munch) A wasp lingers to sting Puncturing a deflating sack Which connects nothing But frowns melancholic, Asking, Can you pass the poison?

Top floor, overlooking Top dog, basking. My feet end His majestic head begins And I feel protected. Happy eyes blink up, As he balances sleepy, Knowingly reciprocated The safety spread Universal. Such a happy lad Sleeping at the foot of the bed The sound of a sleeping hound Is a pleasure to be had. Looking up for a morning cuddle He's so sweet being there With love spreading inwards And onwards, intertwined. A cup of coffee, watching North Street come alive preparing for a day By his side until he stretches. Then, locking tight, We go to meander Before traffic overwhelms Or the day sweats us

Leeds is such a dirty town And the stench wraps itself With grasping arms  To choke the life out. Such a soreness Pustules and maladies Lingering in doorways Or walking passed lifeless Litter, blowing east Where saviour leans With spice haunted eyes Just the solitary beast: Watching I can't comprehend Where it went wrong? Post-industrial, Post-milltown, Post-worsted, Post-trauma: Please X99 arrive to deliver me From Vagabond folks Emoting something broke. A crack through which I can see What was meant by Conrad 'Exterminate the brutes'. Get me away from this filthy waste! It is up to me. On the plus side I slept peace full Last night.

Central line o o o o that shakespearian rag line. stick with me in this line. shadow of the law line. over the yardarm line. a stitch in time line. a yard of ale line. London town line. a bird in the hand is worth two in bush line Gules, three lions passant guardant in pale or armed and langued azure, line shandy drinking puff line. booze time. England - it's time line. we've run out of bog paper line. solely a political motive line. power corrupts line. divide and conquer line. your finger goes through line. put that in your pipe and smoke it line. pretty vacant sounding like pretty vacunt line. move on time line tuna make me retch line. marmate, love it or hate it line. teatime line. a Pukka pie line. your eyeliner is dark line. 4 and 20 blackbirds line. thin line. thick line. long line. short line. nice line. awful line. a fine line Ontological line. just stop-starting line. we always pretend line. in line. on the line. over the line. line line. head line....

Piles of refuse, dirty pigeons and vagrants... To me this is Leeds: a filthy stain, dried onto the trudged pavement where the monotony of hungry ghosts' do linger; malcontented and always always vacantly staring. In the station a very sign warning of the untruth of homelessness and want. We do it to ourselves. We gouge away. Cigarettes, alcohol and an ascending/descending array of other poisons. Banal and broken. Yet the three cities I've traveled between in the last couple of days, Bristol, Birmingham and Leeds, are exactly the same. They offer scraps and titbits. Distraction: opiates for the masses. And I think it is over entirely for me. Come the autumn I must venture forth once more unless I rot my core where nothing can repair. Life is a movement forward: an energy to be coupled with. ... A week since I returned from Bristol and how it recedes into the dim past. Most walking memories spring up when I'm feeling low: when I struggle with meaning in my life. They are reca...