Random Boo

The 40-Watt bulb swings his way but in shadows he remains, the darkness envelopes him, protects him, from the demons of the light. He counts his matches, each strike of a match a new day is born, and each extinguished match a night. People are like open books with pages torn out, he ponders. He is a man of many forgotten dreams, and many dreams yet to be dreamt. Violently he hates you, for violently he is pure. He is a man without a face yet he a man of many. Like an oil painting that never dries, he is ever changing, each tear an alteration in his disposition. His name, if you believe in labelling a life with but a few words, is Vincent J Foster. After leaving the army, Vincent made a successful career out of designing children’s toys. He enjoyed his job, for he enjoyed bringing happiness to children’s lives all across the globe. Sadly, Vincent was unable, through circumstance, to have a child of his own. It was this they say, that triggered the madness, and sparked the proceedings of the famous Foster Murders that were to shortly follow. It all starts with a milk bottle, them annoying plastic milk bottles, with the impenetrable seal positioned in-between the plastic bottle and plastic cap, the ones that come with a little tag that teases you as it tears off, thus destroying any hope once held of you obtaining the milk you foolishly just paid for.

Up until now this man didn’t exist, he does now, because you make him exist, in your memories. Does that not then make him just as real, as anybody else.  All God’s breathtaking work in creating life, matched with nothing short of a bit of imagination, and a few words.

We are all nothing but the memories of others. Collectively, we are what is remembered, whether favourably or not, what we are or was, is what people perceive us to be. Sure you have your story, but if the story dies with you, then the story never was. Once you’ve ‘popped it’ so to speak, the only part of you that is in existence, is in the memory of others. Existence is a difficult word to define philosophically. But the funny thing about existence I find, is existence might as well not exist at all.

This conscience is going to be the death of me, I hate being soft, I want to be evil, with the evil laugh and big red button. Not some pansy herb growing, reindeer patterned jumper-wearing ponce, drinking organic milk and eating Kiwi Fruit! I want to victimise some random ill one-legged orphan child with a cricket bat and shout, “Ha, I’m bigger than you, and I have a big stick to further minimise the effort required to beat you!”

My existence appears to be nothing but a red wine stain on the fabric of this misfit society, to which my attentiveness is bordered.  Are not we all but travellers of space and time. Yesterdays dream, now today’s concept of time’s hangover. Tomorrow you’re being fed to the worms. Scientifically you are nothing but bacteria with a consciousness.

Love is a burden. Love is possession, love is a private social network of oneness divided and solitarily confined. Love owns you. Your freedom compromised, are you even you anymore? This silence, it deafens you. As the mistress of your undisclosed desire surges, you lose all grasp of reality, the drums beat in a heartbeat rhythm; the sails drift you to a cesspit of sexual orgy, follows then the decline in your ecstasy. The spider web of a make-believe family conceives a BBQ smoke screen of denial. You love to be loved, but somewhere a consciousness breathes life into an existence that categorises you, and fences you in like cattle.

Men in long dark coats, eyes obscured by their beaver hat’s shadows, clanging empty bottles in creates in the dark alleys of the night, as the cigarette butts in ashtrays invade the pub’s atmosphere with its stench. You try to gasp for air but you can’t. Has it hit you yet? Life is not beautiful, it’s an endless disappointment, persistently hit with poverty, famine, sickness, unfulfilled desires, loneliness, and a perpetually wretched cold dead feeling. Oh, and tiredness, you are always tired, it’s not lack of sleep, its loss of hope. Ignorance is bliss, for only the naive can survive. Love only looks good in the shop window, truth is it’s a Trojan horse to an endless flood of despair, it will drown you until you’re nothing but a husk, a number, a single note in an orchestra, a single and instantly forgotten tick from a clock.

Love doesn’t free you, it traps you, your biggest possession possesses you.

Now this societal disability was not necessary a conscious choice, but it has its beneficial delusion of rationalising advantages. We say ‘rational’, but what we really mean is, I do not want a mansion; I am happy with my cardboard box with twig fence accessory.

I guess ultimately, the average loner is alone because they can’t deal with being judged, but I’ll never deal with that, a bit like BT Customer Services; the fault is never with them, it’s everybody else that’s wrong”

But like with many anxieties, you can make many successful steps on the ladder but only takes one snake to put you back where you started. It’s difficult once you’ve been rejected.

I’ve observed people in bars, shops, and pretty much anywhere that these congregation of ‘oh you’re here so I’ll talk to you- the person that unless not conveniently placed right in front of me, I would not bother’ people take place. I often wonder just what it is you people thingies talk about?

Now I have, believe it or not, taken part in one of these fruitless tokens, and the topic of conversation was basically a series of questions for the interrogator to build an ill-constructed profile of me. However, this is not really, to me, a conversation, but really just an interview for the position of acceptance. Or forcibly trying to find a likeness or similar interest in the attempt to relate, which is, in its self, nothing more than an attempt to justify or verify the right to be themselves, whilst applying subtly with the rice filling questions like: age, origin, and name. Name being nothing more than a URL to what to them is you, the No Frills silhouette version of you that can sociably fit within the insipid background of their own selfishly personal world.

Grab a kazoo; let’s have a duel, now when I count three. Did I ever tell you the story about; cowboys! M-M-midgets, and Indians? Then maybe afterwards we could take a tour of the zip lock bag factory, that would be fun. Do not be fooled by April Fools’. It’s all true, we are but sane. But you will learn, no there’s no place like Manchester, it’s like a cross between a Jimmy Hendrix and a Captain Beefheart album; sort of like being drunk whilst experiencing a headache, and somewhat sedatively philosophical like a fly with its wings stuck in honey. Frank Zappa would be spinning in his grave. Nobody looks good with brown lipstick on. A master to one is a servant to another, even at the top they are the servants of all them below. You want to know what power is, it’s having another man’s fear in your hands and showing it to them. Of cause, there are always the grains of wheat on a chessboard. Know your enemy, you can tell more about a person by what they say about others than you can by what others say about them. 

Sometimes, late at night, I tap on the bedroom windows of little children. Then, as I leave, I make sure to shake a nearby tree, so they never know what really did the tapping. Then I replace their dog with a mean one.

The only way to keep your data truly secure is to not have any data to begin with. This is how I hide most of my stuff. Retrieval is easy, as you just create the data. This can lead to insecurities, though, so I recommend never retrieving your data this way. The second way is to steal it from someone else. Since you never made the data to begin with, no one will be able to prove that you weren’t going to make the exact same data as your victim. It’s a flawless system. Why? Because all Cretans are liars, the barber shaved himself not, whilst the travelling arrow was broken down to half of a half of a half… I know that I know nothing at all.

The formidable dichotomy of this cloying bee’s white elephant nest of blind faith is but a tête-à-tête within the lost inner realms of the desired suave part of untenable reasoning. Your ubiquitous scintillating God is a sycophant! Walk in my ostracized shoes of stigma; don’t substitute it for some half-arsed vicarious suffering. Religion is a red herring, the mother of all quintessence. Some mercenary nouveau riche wannabe has all the answers, ha! It’s a, how you say, quid pro quo? Some vomited ostentatious perfunctory remark about your panacea is an insult to logic.

“I totally fucking hate that shit,” he said.

“Really?” she said. “I think it’s pretty good.”

“Well I guess it’s not that bad,” he said.

I have of late, become somewhat a misfit, in this world of treacherous thespians. I wonder on without direction, or a fixed point of view, judge little not without caution, no place to label home, a pitiful reluctant contender, in this world to which I have little relation.

You spend your life trying irrationally to fill a gap, only to choose to die to close it. It is ones conviction of solitude, that curious phenomenon, that peculiar paramount necessity that drives you mad for emotional stability. Alas, it is, and always will be, the inevitable reoccurring hammering fact of one’s existence. You are alone, as lonely as Morgan Freeman’s toothbrush.  Ha! You think it’s ‘love’ you’re experiencing, you just love the idea of being loved.  Welcome to the happy house of wax, now be a good Push Pop, and buy the book, then close your eyes, there there now, it will all be over soon. Life is just a phase you’re going through…you’ll get over it.

“Thing A cannot be discussed rationally,” she said.

“Wrong,” he said. “If Thing A can be discussed, it can be discussed rationally. For if you ever argued that it could not be, then you have just discussed it rationally, disputing your claim.”

“Thing A, Thing A, Thing A!” she said. “YAAAAAAAARRRR!”

“It can also be discussed irrationally,” he said.

The TV eye brought the true naked horror of our lives into the public eye for all to see, then the silhouette of delusion rides into the setting sun, and down pours the names of the Gods that collectively constructed the mapping of your perception. Your life but a stone throw to a lake, tap, tap, tap, tap, splash, as you sink into the murky depths of no return.

“You’re not very tall are you?” she said.

“Well, I, er, I try to be” he said…

And then like the yank of a flush chain, funny how quickly them that love you can forget you. Whilst you’re spinning around the toilet, they’re shopping for new fish in the pet store.

Funny how life can make you feel dead, like reminiscences of a girl called Fred, yes, it’s called creative control, you don’t like it then change the channel, philosophical by Chanel. Look Ma, it rhymes. Like a cat flap in the Radio Times. Look at you, you pathetic sell out, what happened to the rebelling anarchist of the poignant illusion? I got my rivalling bite from a bug of alternative disposition. I’m a new me because, as so often in my life, I shed a skin and become a new. Not always by choice but never regretted. All elements to a bigger picture like a paint stroke on the canvas of what was and is, my concluded individuality, which will be, as for everyone, presented in a box. Enjoy your retirement.

It’s the summer of discontent in a twist of intentional winter wannabes that be this generation of self-pitying sloths. The canvas of creativity needs a wash of monotonous shades for the vivid colours of individuality to strike the foundation of what ‘is’ by comparison ‘was’. By definition, what is fashionable – is boring. In a world where every snowflake is identical, beauty is disappearing with the socks in the washing machine. I yearn for the splendour of what was the majestically infecting disbelief of the ‘should’ anarchist. Welcome to the happy house, we are in fact sane, but only by a selective contrast. Cocktail parties, football games, bar mitzvahs, political rallies, and even nations are all social realities. They aren’t figments of anyone’s imagination; they’re real, really really real, objectively real. However, at the same time, they’re all made up entities, at least in a sense. Cocktail parties exist only because a group of people get together and say, “we’re having a party now”. People just sort of decide that these things are going to exist, and so, they do. Social realities are just creations of the human mind, not individual human minds, but collections of human minds. Is it fashionable to categorize fashion? Too many human minds, too many people, far too many people in this world, only really need about six, look at you all, all over the place like a nest of pigs! Is it fashionable to categorize yourself? There is a difference between being a movement and following a movement.

Numerous born and countless dead, in a world of dreams and nightmares, it’s crowded in here. Put the milk in the cup first, your divergence is the testimony to your madness. Pick a cat and provoke a fight, hands on table, lips pursed, and, go! Retreat, then, into the hours of night, which is your deluded haven, “be polite”. Society is a symphony of logic, but only on paper, it burdens the creative individuals that can potentially generate the spark, which becomes the flicker of light in a room of darkness. The weirdoes become eccentric, the eccentrics become geniuses; don’t underestimate what you cannot evaluate. Time continues regardless, you don’t, so ‘heads up’, judgement day is a comin’, accept the leaflet, and donate the two pounds. You know how to whistle, don’t cha Steve? Heaven is paradise, but for who is the fantasy tailored? Oh, and duck! Ha, you actually believe something sympathetic can willingly conceive a concept such as Hell? Lies! Lie more times than a cheap Japanese watch. God, you are submissive to the oppression of mass, fear not the Spanish Inquisition. Mackerel sky and mares’ tails make lofty ships carry low sails. All the cats will go and the million pigeons remain, ready to be hooked on new religions, clip your wings and fly to Daddy. Existence is a toss of a nickel. The fizz is in decline, gulp it quick or slurp it flat; you can’t quantify life, don’t squander it in trepidation. They do do though don’t they though? Patriotic vitriolic potatoes in uniform make horrific cheesecake. The field is overflowing with sheep, thank you Mr Jintao, don’t ask Reagan for help; he has a cold. Four horsemen with an arrow of time, good show Friedrich Heine, shame about Thor, must have been looking for North. Welcome to the Oscillatory Universe; are you ready for The Crunch? Look in my bag of entropy, there’s a Big Rip; you can blame Caldwell for that. Uh oh, St John is on the punch again, oh look at who’s the messiah; “it’s all who you know”. It’s getting hot, no cold, HIV, HMV, oh mind your step, there’s a Meteorite there, just push the red button and it’ll all go away. Say what you see Mr Chips, “fat lady singing?” and so our survey says *uh uh* No sorry; death is not on the ‘to do’ list. Just row your boat down the stream, life is just a dream. And in 2012, when you’re up to your knees in snow sunbathing twenty-four foot under the sea, raise your glass to the invading aliens and say “chin chin old chap”.

I couldn’t care less if your mobile phone could err, sharpen pencils! My phone can call people, which is odd isn’t it, considering that is why I brought the dame thing! It’s quite depressing that I’m the one considered ‘odd’ in a world full of trivial monkeys nervously shouting “that’s Spartacus there!”  Whilst, like illuminated crickets, they text people stood next to them ‘did ya get me txt?”
Materialism is a burden on your disposition, like baggage of ‘this is me’; like vomit in an ASDA plastic bag with one of them paper miniature umbrellas that you usually find in cocktails. With the aforementioned yoke carried, you’ll fail to fall through the self-sieving that is, what is, the development of constructing a constructive experience of your experience, err, hang on. Your glass maybe half full now, but there is no escaping the fact that the glass is also half empty. Happiness is a temporary distraction. Every distraction and every obstacle is a cause of concern and an obstruction in your will, that is, by you, labelled ‘evil’. He whose desires are in difference in comparison to yours is wrong; he who blocks you from your destination is ‘evil’. Revenge is wrong and unnecessary, unless said act is committed by you, apparently, by your innate logic anyway. Man serves himself, and his neighbours loathe it, as it interferes with their self-interest.
What is ‘evil’? Do you think, really, that the universe has any concept of ‘evil’? If in musical chairs you lose, then you lose, and that is ‘life’ as they say, whoever ‘they’ are, presumably a bunch of haughty, overpaid, overfed, triple chinned hermits sat round a table inventing job titles.
Praying to a God for a ‘get out of jail free card’ is simply just being arrogantly delusional. You are naturally polarising your perception by naively ranking yourself above standard on the goodness scale, stop it! You are not God, kinda. The dichotomy of good and evil is either a lack of knowledge or a refusal of acceptance; crowning one evil is the equivalent of “ask your mother” in this dynamic world of bigger houses and noisier cars, where charity is collateral, and love a token unity.
Rivalry is the mother of development, but development is then the product of envy, thus unjustifiable outrage is the frustration of man and the architect of war, thus rendering the ignorant monkeys forever belligerently unsettled.  Ok, to some, life is a game, and to win a game, everyone else must lose! True, but, unlike the duration, life is not relative, define winning before you throw the dice.

“But why?” she said, “why not?” he responded, “if, as I stand here, in line, waiting to be served at the ASDA checkout, I decide to rub my fingers in circular motion around my nipples, then I will” well what could she say; he had a point. You can’t derail yourself from the tunnel, but when you see the light, you can make sure you’re brighter. A ghost has no concept of time, correction; a ghost has no concept of our time, but then time is relative to everyone anyway. The corpse is nothing more than a husk with the spirit elsewhere, the ghost is the spirit, the ghost is living, or an echo, but we’ll conveniently avoid that bit. Death is nothing more than a transition, and thus you live forever, that is, if ghosts are real. Unless your husk once housed a nut, then you believe in religion (same thing), and therefore believe in heaven, even though it clashes with the ideal of every other living organism on this hanging sphere; I bloody hate harps, and discussions on the calories in Philadelphia light. I don’t want to be rewarded for my inhumane ignorance and arrogance by a creative version of Mussolini. “Is this banana flat?” pondered the monkey on drugs “let’s publish a seven hundred thousand word essay about it” said the other monkey, which had an empty wallet to fill.
Now do that tie up, otherwise you’ll trigger the disapproval of our leader *points at sky whilst doing a woo noise* No; you refuse too? Then I’m afraid expulsion is the only answer, it’s the opinion of the entire staff that Dexter is criminally insane!

Advertising, political propaganda, and uninformative dogmatic newspapers! ”A bag in the river may have contained The Cheshire Cat” of cause it did, it may have also contained a handful of self-adhesive tapeworms doing the cancan whilst wearing tutus. Can you get a tutu for a tapeworm? Oh yes, skip the cancan bit because that’s perfectly self-explanatory for a legless tapeworm!  Who said it was legless? Alas, unless the idea was injected into the insentient regions of the void that is your mind, you will not conceive the notion. You hear what you want to hear, but when combined with what they want you to hear, they can sell you Trebor Softmints to cure testicular cancer. Like Dr Hoffmann of Stuttgart and his leech farm, like a headless budgie to a blind kid, like New Labour, like Lambert and Butler lights, Hellboy computer games, Sunny Delight, and Push Pops, these are not stilts for midgets but a plug-in air freshener for a conservative voting aborigine living in Scotland. A talking parrot is not much better a source for wise advice as is a cracker from a country that thinks failure is the mother of success!  Don’t read the dribbling whining from stargazed decrepit charlatans at the Daily Mail. Don’t fritter your time on politics. Don’t buy a Henrietta for twice the price of a Henry. And don’t ever, ever, poke the dead bird with a stick. Do you have a mind of your own? Use it, or someone else will use it for you.