Mowgli OUT!

Order in the genus!
Order in the genus!
Sitting in the kitchen with my dad and my mum
talking about the size of my bum
I said my chin is fat grey and hairy
and my dad said son to be proud of you it would take fifteen green bags of that to take to the tip
yeah said I and there you go polluting the airwaves with your go so slow into that
We all fell about the kitchen cause we are like that
And the night went on and we all got wasted well high on caffeine and the smell of dog farts
and we talked about cheese and bread after they had got through their questions
well they were in the police, both of them I think smiling where my eyes hide somewhere in my belly
But it’s all good fun for them eight eyes staring like a giant spider from some sci fi nightmare
Sorry. I mean We all care and enjoy each others company and i can’t be bothered to take a pop at Ed Sheeran cause I want to be like that sleeping on a sofa in strangers flat with no responsibilities
but a billion fans. Well, fancy that!
I’m sitting on my bum and it time to go home and I get a lift too.
It’s not bad being me.
Stop doing that!
Stand up and be a man(That was a part of the master plan)
But they’re so intimidating and know so much
I barely believe I am a puff
I mean homosexual
Well I thought I was not anymore
I’ve been fantasizing about women and I have one in mind
Who I’d like to give one
If I could speak to her and reason I’d talk myself out of it
There’s no joy in rationalising love
There’s no chance I never see her
Except walking the streets.
Ed Sheeran should have emailed me about this
then I’d be cool with having a mistress
cause I’m married to art and writing
and that’s what causes all the infighting in our house.
But love. Well fancy that I only need one not a billion
to rely on to bring me home.
Now wasn’t I supposed to hate rap
Now love got me into rap
I’ll be black next…See ya.
ENOUGH of this crap!
It’s like North Korea. There’s only unhappiness.
She is attached I already know that
And me. Well, I smell bad or is that my flat.
Well, the dogs eat better than me.
It’s all higgledy piggeldy.
And my music taste is trashy
and doesn’t help me out by taking me to a higher plane
the beat mocks my heart getting all flustered like i spread it with hot mustard.
There. I am real I do care. and that’s what I will tell her.
If I ever see her again.
It feels like I am cutting it short
I have got into my flow.
Well love makes us all
or tha lack of it.
or false beliefs we get sure of
when we alone
and low
and argue with our shadow.
It’s a world problem
living alone
4 billion people and there’s no cure! Well, fancy that!

 

© Andrew Watkins 2017

P-p-p-p-p-aris Arse Was Nice! (Journal)

In 2009 I went to Paris to look for a new start in life in a new country far away from everything I knew back home, everyone too. When I try to think about it I see only snapshots and faces.  Silence does not help. Music does not help. Eating does not help although it does remind me of a baguette shop I visited. What I thought I knew has fallen apart.

Art could put the pieces back together, I thought once.

Medicine could reinvigorate the hard to reach places, I thought.

God would stand aside and watch as I put the jigsaw piece together.

Man and his tools would make the planet whole in the great workshop of the galaxy.

Writing would help me travel virtual worlds of experience and the inner recesses would appear on paper vehemently clear and staggeringly beautiful just like they appear in my mind.

In short I would have excised all the demons and be riding the motorbike of success to wherever I please. Am I trapped?

Aboard. Do you feel aboard or just bored?

 

 

Watching the escalator

It’s funny when if you hold onto the rails you can move without your feet touching the ground. If this feeling is familiar then you could be in the same zone as me. One minute putting on a pair of socks the next hopping counties on a mission to find that perfect leather jacket you saw on holiday.

As far as a journal goes there is nothing much to report except the usual rounds of hopes raised then long disappointments, frustrations etc.

Yesterday I listened to George Harrison song ‘I got my mind set on you’ This is how it is with my jacket.

Still it could be worst yet. I could be homeless without haggis. I bought a haggis the other day and am looking forward to mince spicy goodness with some mashed potato and gravy. My body clock is still on Winter for some reason so this should go down well.

My brother is out of ICU and is being fed through  his bowel. This is a step forward towards eventual recovery from surgery to remove his stomach after a cancer removal gone wrong. My thoughts and prayers are with him and his loved ones.

The decorators who were supposed to come and paint my walls yesterday did not turn up today either and it seems the whole thing was a mistake. A quote is now in the offing for  the work to be completed. It’s long overdue.

I am listening to Weezer and contemplating a creative void in which I type this journal all that I seem capable of right in the moment.

My mother and Step Father go on holiday to Serbia tomorrow and then on to Greece to see my poorly brother afterwards for three days.

There is a party in August to celebrate my Dads 75th. Should  be good times.

My surf jumper trousers and trainers are missing a vital black leather jacket component. Can this be rectified? Stay tuned for more on Andrewmmwatkins.wordpress.com

A poem by one of the greats you can find on the road that is the internet. This road of life will carry you forward in times of strife. When all hope seems lost a click and a google and what have you and you are in new territory which was updated fifteen minutes ago. Whether this is Orwell’s vision of Hell is up to you. There are ways of securing your journey. Antivirus is the condom of the digital age. Shame is, If your computer was being hacked you would not know about it. Cyber warfare can bring government computers to their knees. How difficult would it be for someone to hack into your broadband and look at your emails? If you are panicking don’t worry it will be over before long. If you accept that nothing is secure then at least you will not be neurotic! Accept that the government already has the ability to monitor your telephone calls and mobile communications and think of your home PC as part of that setup. Its sad but true but GCHQ could be looking for keywords now as you type and running algorithms on your letter to a friend you are typing on your computer. This snooping is essential to tracking terrorist cells and nipping extremism in the bud. Its a shady world Cyber-security and the more you dig the murkier the waters.

Still tomorrow is Haggis Saturday! I might even dip into the bowels of the freezer and rustle up some ice cream for afters. Now where did I leave that cup of coffee?

 

Perfect

Stickers are all that’s left

and they aren’t even real.

I have turned inside out.

Bits of me are all around me

It’s an existential maze every day.

But always my thoughts return to you.

 

Excremental /shitstorm /FUBAR

Is this the life for me?

Everyone watching me self-destructing (again)

while I am in a haze writing the journal of a nobody.

Each day brings a false dawn unless I take action

I may as well stay in bed, and become one with the birds.

Who flitter and flutter by. Life is a butterfly.

Watch me fly? Catch me. I’m falling.

Is anyone listening to catch my fall (again)

Inside out and outside in

soundwaves bouncing off the wall

images that haunt me thrill me take me there

No more chances (again) No more chances (again)

Are you in the DIN? The DIN makes you small (more)

There are children waiting in the wings

There is dinner waiting on the table

There is a turkey in the oven

I’ll have mashed potato, please.

I’ll bring you to your knees.

While you pray (while you pray)

I’ll be out there crashing down the walls

weaving baskets made of stars. (stars)

weaving baskets made of stars.

END

Did you detect and echo? KWIM?

Off The Cuff

What makes me think that I can write off the cuff? I cannot do magic. I cannot write Shakespeares missing plays. I cannot ghost write a Stephen King novel (just in case he gets into another auto accident). I cannot. But this is sounding very negative. I can write well enough about stuff. Stuff like …well I have scrubbed my mind clean I can tell. Was i worried about false starts? I can’t remember but it sounds comfortable enough. How many times have i sat down at my keyboard and screen and written ten lines of something I thought would go somewhere but like a packet of Pop Tarts only briefly filled a need. That need, that need to write! You may or may not know what I mean. It’s what started this piece of writing. The belief that all is not lost, that its not too late, that describing words like sluggish don’t always apply to my writing. Well that’s what the writers say on the information stream that is my imagination. If they are all as boring and talent-less as me…then its often not even worth beginning say they. But if i’ve already started, well I can ignore them or presage a new sentence with a new breath. One word will be enough to begin a sentence of many, maybe even the birth of an idea, a small one, enough to get to the next one. Idea. The label on the back of the headboard of my bed is an interactive hologram, not an ordinary fire warning label. and you are not an ordinary reader but a hacker who has stolen access keys to my laptop! And I am a Doctor Who script writer!

To be continued…

The way (of the eternal optimist).

CAPS Lock, NUMBER Lock. Lockdown. Freaky shit down here. Prison gates have nothing on this. Slide Smash, slide smash. We are in lockdown!!

It was another late start for me today, 1.14pm. Still wearing pyjamas. Ate Shepherds Pie. Put on music. Set up mini laptop (netbook) and set about trying to write something original (again). Hello! This approach does not yield results Hello! Trying to ignore the voice of doom (experience?) Got this far and on reread still happy with results. Herman Melville. He wrote a story or was he the character in the story? Wikipedia pause. I was thinking, in a rather abstract way, of the short story Bartelby, the Scrivener by Herman Melville which from some reason, most likely vanity, sat upon some sort of mental plinth ready for an occasion just like this. What occasion? Writing? Being at home in my flat with the music playing just waiting to be interrupted again? I am not sure. Perhaps I am just neurotic. Is this even a story?

A Story must have a beginning, middle and an end.  You try to write a story like that, something that can hold someone’s attention.  I think that this is more of a journal type piece of writing. I have no thoughts of plot except for my own spiraling demise. There are no other characters except for the voices in my head and my neighbours who make odd noises – and me, the central character or literary protagonist. Har! What a fine word. Protagonist. So journal. I am not female, not particularly literary, nor in possession of many social mores or thoughts so I couldn’t possibly write a journal worthy of publishing on my blog. Wrong! I have a blog. I am an artist, poet and writer. I am almost worldly wise! I have opinions. I am a voter. I am a lover. I am past forty. So why can’t I think of anything to write? Search me!

Let me try.

Search me. That’s the sort of thing you might say if you for example wished to be arrested to escape a fate worst than that. You might be carrying an offensive weapon and approach a police officer (if you can find one) and insist that you be searched. If the copper isn’t too half-baked you should soon be telling your story of how you absolutely have to be arrested or end up facing a terror filled fate worst than that- that is why you are carrying an offensive weapon – so you can guarantee being arrested and escaping a fate worst than that. What are you escaping from? A Lover, enemy? Debt collectors? The press? Your children? Yourself? A wild bear? What makes a night in the cells and a mandatory custodial sentence seem more appealing? I guess the unknown with its billion possibilities is worst than say war to some people although it’s pretty hard to fathom. Perhaps tentacles are involved. They are pretty scary, even when on a plate of food. I just imagined the much bigger brother of my curried squid lifting the top off the restaurant and slavering over everyone he was shortly to eat with his evil beak. Well I imagined I imagined it. Really my mind isn’t so psychedelic.

Just put another album on. Felling like I need to poo. Feeling like perhaps I should get dressed. Quite happy with the 594 words I have done up the end of the past paragraph, thinking about publishing to my blog. Thinking about how to end. A rope. No! That should do it. Now I expect follows and likes and plaudits. But isn’t that always the way (of the eternal optimist).