Morning Bed Red

Morning bed red. Red if I turn left, red if I turn right, red if I sit upright or show any signs of the fight. Red for a coffee black, hack. Red again from the hallway in the form of prison guards encultured like green, charlie sheen. I have moved on Schon, into pastures green and new, blue, evergreen trees anew all year round atop rolling hills green and lakes dark and deep with rocks in the shallows and nothing in the deeps. Still it takes one to know one, weeps.

The walls grey are talking to me in tones of severity usually reserved for Biblical scholars. What do I see? A work, created by me? Or a wall keeping me in green? I know what I have seen, what has been. Puddles of pink in which I sat my wellingtons red sitting on a bench of leather black whereupon I did see royalty reflected back at me and the place shone like the palace of Versailles. And blue too. I saw meaning green in the walls too engaging looking at just the right time in order to share an appreciation of art amongst men. And yellow hue, upon the heath I did chance upon you on a stand with a golden frame around you and I thought ‘did I make  you?’ Or did you make me? For real. Black with yellow dots, the colours of every day, a rainbow of grey hues in a blue holdall ready to go, to move.

But I have moved on already, Where else is there to go?


The Toaster Handle Depressed

The handle of the toaster blue, not depressed with a satisfying click, rick, I swivelled around on my bare foot but in my doing so forgot totally red what I was doing next. I gazed around my multicoloured kitchen with eyes blue ready for whatever truth should befall me white. I was accused by violent looking yellows, given the cold shoulder by incandescent blues stared at by vermillion greens, looked at sheepishly by scarlet reds and my light scattered by silver and blue. heres looking at you.

And I hadn’t brushed my teeth yet, yellow and red, blood, of course, would be spat and the moment that contained not a bit of grit as my unkempt hair grey and brown stared back at me accusing the use of a brush-like a murder weapon throbbing black and deadly, or was that the vein in my forehead red.

Meanwhile, the windows in my kitchenette were staring at me brown bread between my eyes in some sort of Wild West face off in a saloon of the slim chance. The condensation soiled white plastic covered in a mixture of dust and grime stared at me sideways while the faded wooden blinds looked implacably at me like policeman annoyed and calling for backup to have a good laugh at the sorry figure before him. It was all I could do not to blood wilt before this visage of brown wood and plastic white. What was gone from me was all mention of the fight. In my eyes was yellow of cowardice striped over me in thick Pebeo paint. The mark of the blind upon me, I shuffled into the living room cum bedroom with the cup of coffee in hand. I chose where to put it down brown. onto a stained wooden squarish coaster red. I am dead. I am rotting at the bottom of a cheap wooden cask on a boat which will dump me at sea which is cheaper than crematoria blue. How can this be cheaper than gas? I don’t know but polka dot blue walls golf ball sized reminds me that change happens. just like in the Allianz advert green. Change happens.

A door sparkly green opens up before me in the time it takes for the toaster to make the sound of ejecting a finished matt piece or two of toast and then slams shut as I reach for the butter brown. Wearing a frown, I am dammed to pick up a clean knife from the pile in cupboard issue number one. Navy Blue. The toast is now neon pink and hot and dusty as I take it from the toast yellow with a sugar coating.

I load butter onto the knife umber burned and place it on the toast black and white and patterned in pentangle blue. The butter melts red and soon my toast looks like a slab of flesh fresh from a bomb blast. It’s impossible to pick it up without shivering at some level deep inside wide.

It tastes good as sausages and I remember that in time soon I will need to clean my teeth. Washing up now building up. Butter put away in a stripey red cupboard. Flashing blue hue as I clang the plate beside the brush beside the sink. I blink and see that it is dirty. I care. I am aware of the things that bring me down, that make me frown. But if I were to be happy I would need to clean fro two or more hours a day and to spend all my moola green on cleaning and polishing products blue with fragrances yellow like a meadow next to an industrial tyre dump fire. I say that now blue cow. Really I seem brown again like soft tree bark again I get it wrong. I meant soil brown. it wears a brown for brown soil you know. a crown for brown you see. It makes me jolly.

I shuffle back into the Bedroom and then remember my tablets blue. I go into my room bath and spy the tabs upon the loo. I take two into the kitchen and water clear pour, not onto the floor but into a tumbler that I use to wash down the chemical splat that I fire myself like an archer twice a day in the hope that they will hit the target Bright cerulean blue.

Now tectonic shifts are taking place in the muscles of my back and they suddenly pull me erect in the direction of the ceiling green as I spy the toothpaste kit upon the sink.

Squeeze out a pea-sized amount is what I hear but I squeeze out double clean onto the bristles green of my toothbrush blue. Do I put the lid closed now green yellow blue red, or do I bang it on my head. Do I play the game red-brown? or do I leave the bathroom wearing a frown? I decide its better red so I bang it on my head closing the cap foolscap. I put the brush red plastic into my mouth and place the pea sized amount against the edges of my gums and begin to brush. Back and forth and above me rains grey slush cold and wet down my back and into the but wellingtons I wear where they will fill until I freeze to death. I brush and soon I am on my front teeth where I change brushing direction to an up and down motion. I could operate farm machinery I thought orange. The pain goblins at work behind my eyes shoot arrows at my mouth which mostly blue miss but sometimes brown connect. I carry on brushing like the wind up father Christmas red. I feel like going back to bed. Thirty seconds have passed says I time to spit and to the toothpaste kit say goodbye. I spit aiming into the centre of the bowl but letting it spray everywhere. I put on the cold tap and rinse it thoroughly before taking a mouthful of water and spitting again. this time more accurately into the centre of the sink black and silver shiny and clean and decaying chrome. I reach fro the towel brown and wipe my mouth dry. I replace it on the rail and turn around ready to  leave that room of pain.

I leave and venture back into my living room cum bedroom green. One day I would like to meet the queen.

To be continued…



Brown, brown, brown was the morning and as I turned over and faced the opposite way brown was the colour I could see there too.

Flecks of black were like wildfowl in the deep grass of doom and the great white wind was rustling the golden stalks in the neighbouring field of a new day in my mind. In my black head was what felt like  a core of congealed pus grease slow pulsing with life force. What a morning head.

A doleful bluebird sang an old grey tune in the corner by the old scarecrow that was nestled like so many of my mid-morning thoughts about making my bed, brushing my teeth (with an aching tooth greatly in need of a filling) or of making a cup of tea or coffee.

Eventually, I blinked a pink blink of stars and felt the same brown fog surround my very being like a tightly fitted velvet jacket as I went about my business thinking about putting on new clothes or wearing those from yesterday whose passing was only a few green hours ago. Pink Blue Green Gold Silver.

As there was no hint of blue rush in my morning routine it extended two or three golden hours into the highest of sky blue noon. In the sky overhead the sun was trailing its majestic arc throughout the heavens but all I noticed was the grey, pink-blue-yellow swoosh of the bus pulling up outside, opening its doors then closing them in a pink-blue-yellow mini swoosh before swiftly accelerating away in a puff of yellow and black dust.

People were walking by in the street right on through this cloud of dust which they inhaled deep into their lungs where it rightly blocked arteries like so much fat or cigarette smoke tar does. Red blood brightly oxygenated still flowed out of the capillaries in these besmirched lungs but for how damn blue long? With all this yellow and black dust in the air, the end was inexorable. For sure.

Meanwhile, a girl in a navy blue coat with brown hair in a ponytail halfway down her back was skipping on the tarmacked pavement. Black-white, brown-white,-pink-white, blue. (is that boy in love with you) Green-white, purple-white, red-white, green. (When you go to London will you see the queen?)Red-blue, White-blue, green-yellow, pink (Before you go to sleep do you wash your face in your sink). It was pink exhausting watching her go backwards and forwards over the hopscotch squares and quickly I turned away back to my green interior which was tastefully decorated with golf-ball sized  blue polka dots before the photoshop vignette of black surrounding my field of vision closed in any further.

My silver eyes fell upon half finished tasks aplenty (orange ,orange, orange) before I motored myself on algae green slime into my kitchenette where I prepared myself a royal blue cup of coffee with gold coloured sweeteners (two) and prepared to toast two green and yellow starred pieces of bread which I would spread with sparkly green butter from the red stripey cupboard (I know it’s there I checked).

Architectural silver (polished stainless steel to you) filled my mind/emotion convergence point which indicated a need for a cigarette. Only it’s black-purple vision would restore my equilibrium to a sanish colour/texture.  But I had quit the day before. My last purple packet was lying underneath an old tin of mouldy baked beans which I had removed disgustedly from the fridge the previous day also. Fucking yellow pink. Fucking GREEN.

I placed the sparkly bread in the luminescent toaster and pressed down on the flashing neon handle.

To be continued…



Hello Cupboard

Hello! Cupboard How Are You?

My Name Is Andrew. Comment Allez Vous?

Ca Va?

Ca va bien merci, Est ce que voudrais un cafe?

C’est in bon idee!

See how we live in the twenty-first century

Talking to my cupboard about the day might seem strange

In fact its as pink as blancmange

to say it strangely you might say as a wavelength of the rainbow

which avoids all unambiguity.

I am feeling blue, smoking my cigar and drinking myself stupid seems

apposite in the circumstances. How I wish I were green again and the sunshine

yellow white and the slush grey and the china white.

Music piped digitally into my abode brings reds, blues and yellows into the shallow swamp

that is my pleasure of murky browns mixed with vegetal greens in a slurry of organic matter.

That I stomp about in my big black boots. Arrrrggghhh! UUUgghhhh! Graaaaaah! Ha Ha!

Purple and blue to you to you purple and blue to you!

The walls of my palace are pale and mild and not yellow or beige but unwhite and warm cream magnolia. There’s a bit of a solipsist wit for you. Not white not right. Christ!

My drink is a straw colour cloudy and in spite of my colour blindness, white and green and something in between like yellow and grey mixed with milk and parsley petals reflecting the harsh sun’s rays of red, orange and yellow.

When it comes to colour…wait for it… I am black and made of all colours although on some days I am washcloth grey or mophead brown despite my drip of gold.

But I am bread white really and I turn a nice brown in the summer. But that’s when I used to go out places. Not these days. Now the seasons drift by like so much traffic and the seasons evidence of my ageing while my mirror silvered tells lies, lies damn lies.

Black is my mind, black are the clouds that stumble on ahead of the weather striking fear into me. The rainbow palette is perhaps the greatest gift to be-stormed residents of weather town. (Where the talk is always brown)

But colours seriously I heard the other day ‘My brown friends’ what did you make of it? You say! Was it neo-fascist talk or shitty coprophagia or some such talk or was it simply earth that is brown and is good. So brown friends or Earth friends! The truth is I do not know and this adds to my sorrow of simpering yellow pus like sores of black blood and red crusty scabs on which my temperament soars like blackbirds from a pie.

But that’s it from me for the time being. Time to say goodbye

I just read a blog on Tumblr

That had in it colour codes for communicating the way you feel about a blog or the person behind the blog.

It went something like this:-

black – I would date you

Brown-  I don’t like you/your blog

Purple – Your blog made me think of waterfalls

Rainbow – BED PLZ

As someone who has stated that colour is the way I think I commend this blog to you.

You can see the original here.