Saturday, 27 March 2010

I'm the Mojo who loves you

Always telescopic poems

Life = [Happiness + love + spirituality(optional)] – [sadness + hate]

Happiness = Deep understanding of your psyche + positive thoughts and self-affirmation +
Openness and acceptance to the imperfections of yourself and other people + food + shelter + company + water + hope for a better tomorrow + music + fun + comedy

Defiant living is essential. There are too many wankers in the world. I live a defiant life. I was chatting with my friend Freyjopolopolis and I said that if I was to give her any advice about life it would be “do whatever the fuck you want.” Do you want to be a guitarist? Be one. Do you want to swim with dolphins? Do it. Do you want to be President? Go on that ride. It’ll be a laugh. It’s hard to cope with life but there is one thing that I know; I really want to live. I have been brought to the abattoir so many times but yet have not been shot in the head and hung on one of those hooks. My granda was a butcher and he spent his life killing animals. He was a lovely man: The best. There is too much fun to be had. I would not chose to live a life killing animals but why knock it. People take life too seriously. They fail to pay a bill and spiral into self-decay. Invite hell to your front door and spurn it. Fuck your demise. You will live through it. I worry that Jim Morrison and Jimi Hendrix had too much fun and died. I have outlived both of my only two idols. I love those two cunts. They really lived to the extreme. I would prefer to live like Jimi and die young than lead a tediously long life. I believe this fact with all of my heart. It is my only doctrine to living. So I do not have any more heroes (a term that has been used Papa Sir Higgs but that was originally used by me).

I have fun. If you wake up and are paralysed with a deep anxiety by your present situation;, Get on a flight. Fuck your job. Tell the wife “I need to see the Pacific Ocean”. Take a break from living. Otherwise you’ll be staring at death. Live defiantly. Say to yourself “fuck off wanker, I’m living.” Life is sometimes painful but fight on. It’s not a religious quest and it’s not a moral quest. It’s just living the same way a fish lives. There’s no prescribed way to living. Damon Albarn (lead singer of Blur) once gave up on life (See “No distance left to run” or “Beetlebum”) but he fought on. Now he’s one of the most successful musicians in England with his pop concept “Gorrilaz”. I fucking hate “Gorillaz” but I like to know that a man who used to be a heroin addict is singing out my radio. Lou Reed is the same. He used to be a crack addict but look at him now. He’s probably living in a house designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. He once lived a life of harrowing despair but now he wakes up sees the sky and smiles. He probably loves porridge. Being optimistic is a constant fight. Believe me, there are people out there who live pessimistic lives. Their neuroses will bring you down. They are usually the people close to you (family/friends). I live a war of love. I see and hear negativity every day but I kill it in my brain. I say “Fuck you, I’m living.” Kill negativity. Not just in your local vicinity but more importantly kill negativity in your mind. You will come across it at an almost momentary basis (nearly every second of your waking life) so get the knives out and LIVE. LIVE!


I went to Hawaii last year (pictured above). I woke up drunk one Sunday. I was very pissed off. I punched the wall of the shower as I thought about all the wankers I had met that week. My world was full of wankers at that point. I wanted to kill my boss. I phoned him and told him I had appendicitis and decided to go to Hawaii. There was a dental conference happening there and I thought I would go over and mix that shit up. I phoned up Henry, my accountant, and left a message on his answer phone;
“Henry, I can’t meet you on Tuesday. E-mail me the spreadsheets and I’ll get them in Honolulu.”
I phoned up Dave
“I hate the world Dave so I’m going to Hawaii. I may seem dead but I shall be on a tropical island.”
I phoned up my podiatrist:“You’re a cunt, there’s nothing wrong with my feet.”
He was a cunt. I hate that fucker.

I kept thinking: Humanity = Earth’s Natural Resources – Human Idiocy.
So I decided to say “Fuck you humanity, you’ve done nothing but maim me. So I’m fucking off to Hawaii.” The future of the world seemed bleak so I thought I would just take a trip to the other side of the world and shake hands with Obama’s extended family.

Hawaii is nice in August. I spent a lot of the time on an aeroplane. I flew from Manchester to New York to Los Angeles to Honolulu. I slept the whole way there. It was a lost week of alcoholism, beaches and conferences. Most of the time I was there I was thinking “I wonder if I could meet an Hawaiian woman and just stay here forever.” I went on my own and it was great being on holiday on my own again. I flew into Honolulu which is on the island of O’ahu. I immediately wanted go home when I stepped off the plane as it was like an oven. The wee fella wasn’t happy. I didn’t take any luggage which was funny so I first had to get to a place that sold shorts and t-shirts. After that shit, I went and got drunk and found the conference hotel. I thought it would be better to try to find the hotel very drunk and on a hired bike. The bike was a tandem (for 2) but only I rode it. I got into Hawaii at 2 pm and I eventually found my hotel at 2 am the next day. However I somehow lost my bike at “The Big Kahuna Burger”. I fell in love with Honolulu that day as I spent the day drunk, lost and chatting with random strangers about turtles and different types of cocktails. When I was there I liked to walk about pretending to be a Japanese secret agent there to plan “Pearl Harbour 2”.

The next day I had to go to the conference at 9 am. So I had a lie-in to 1 pm and went to the beach instead and decided to go to the 3 pm lecture rather than stress myself out. I sat in a lecture theatre with sand between my toes sipping a cocktail in a Hawaiian t-shirt listening to someone bollock-on about dental implants. Everyone else was dressed in suits. I got very drunk and all that dentistry bullshit made so much more sense. I sniggered when a World Authority on Implants spoke about the use of implants in orthodontics. I mixed in well with the other delegates as we spoke about the future of implant dentistry. They were all born to murder innocent people but happened to find their very sociopathic nature very suited to minor oral surgery. I remember lips moving yet not hearing anything. I fantasized about a meteor hitting the conference hotel. An American dentist named “Chad” befriended me but he just wanted to get some blow and hos. I said “Chad, I haven’t come the whole way to Hawaii for some ho. I’ve come for many hos!!!” Chad was a wanker too and I plotted to kill him from the moment we met. I’m glad I didn’t kill him but it did cross my mind when he accosted a very dangerous black man with an eye-patch for some drugs. He had a fucking eye-patch! My rage was silent but I went home early on that particular night and defecated in his hot tub. He deserved it because we spent the night in some of the dodgiest bars in Honolulu, with Chad trying to convince random women to sleep with us for money. Chad bought two hos and brought them back to his hot tub that night and was shocked by my little present. I didn’t tell him I did it and I hope he doesn’t somehow discover my blog. I enjoyed listening to him at breakfast, telling me about his aborted sex trip, with fury in his two blue Minnesota eyes. Chad was a twat. I still giggle at the thought of his browning hot tub poo-poo were like coco pops...they turned the milk chocolatey. It was a wondrous surprise. Dentists are wankers. Believe me, they’re wankers.

So, Mojo what did you learn on your Hawaiian expedition?
Eugene doesn’t like sand in his eye

Did you not learn anything else?
Never try to beat a ho at poker

What was your favourite moment?
My favourite moment was when the police busted into Chad’s hotel room when he was having a drug-fuelled orgy with 3 prostitutes. I could hear his screams as he was taken to the station.

Is Honolulu worth the trip?
I’d prefer to go to Omeath. I have tried to obliterate the entire trip from my memory and didn’t want to talk about it until this moment. The memories though were too painful to hide.

What about the conference?
I enjoyed the conference and particularly liked the hands-on element. The other delegates did not have any propensity for love.

Would you go back?
No fooking way

Do you really hate your podiatrist?
Yes, he lives a vacant meaningless life and I hope he stands on a landmine one day.

How are you still alive?
It’s just luck

Any luck with the women these days?

What’s on the Mojo Jukebox at present?
RAEKWON. GHOSTFACE KILLAH, SONGS IN THE KEY OF LIFE by Stevie wonder. And "Sky Blue Sky" by Wilco.

What next?
I’m writing a childrens book at the moment. I want to change the world and paint the stars with Magic Mojo Juice.

Thank you,


Sunday, 21 March 2010

D.I.Why? - The Mojo Guide to D.I.Y.

D.I.Why? - The Mojo Guide to D.I.Y.

I was sitting at home the other day and I thought “Fuck me, I’m a useless bastard.”
It dawned on me that I don’t have any power tools and even more harrowing was that I realised that I have never used a power tool. I usually try to hang up framed pictures on the wall with blue-tac. I immediately googled: “D.I.Y. power tools Manchester.” I was given a number for a school called the “D.I.Y. School” I rang it up:

Mojo: hi who’s this?
Man on the other end of the phone: Who’s this?
Mojo: It’s Mojo.
Man on the other end of the phone: I’m Kevin. Why are you phoning Mojo?
Mojo: can I sign up to use Power tools?
Kevin, the D.I.Y. Man (K): You can use Power tools without signing up to a course
Mojo: Ha ha , yeah but I want to do the Power Tools course
K: There isn’t a Power tools course. We have a Home Maintenance course where some of the course we teach some power tool skills. We’ll show you how to use a power screwdriver and drills as well as cordless tools.
Mojo: Aye, sign me up for that one
K: I need to be specific though. Power tools only makes up a small percentage of the course.
Mojo: Aye, you said the magic words. Anything with “Power” and “Tools” and I’m on that shit.
K: Do you do DIY?
Mojo: Are you kidding? I’ve only learned how to use blue-tac. I thought a hammer was a rap star in the late eighties. That’s until I met that cunt Timmy Mallet.

So off I went to the D.I.Y. school. It was the first time that I had been to school in many years and I couldn’t wait to dig out my old Thundercats lunchbox. I filled it to the brim with jelly-based sugary snacks and 2 grams of cocaine. I grabbed a Yazoo and ran to my new school as happy as a cunt.

I busted open the front doors and I realised that I was in the right place. People were wile happy. It’s what I expected. MENTAL NOTE: Men with Power tools = profound satisfaction. Fuck me.... they must’ve been all on speed. I was playing catch-up so I went to the toilets and done a few lines of coke. I stepped into a room entitled “The WORK Room” and I smiled so brightly that it lit up the dark abyss that is my soul. It was predominantly men and they gave me knowing nods. I gave my own Ulster version of a knowing nod, which was a very paranoid facial expression. TO ULSTER!! People then frowned. I frowned then too. And then I wanted to go into a corner and blubber like a lost child but then I was approached by a bullish man about 5 feet tall. He had a crew cut and a “don’t fuck with me” smile:

Bullish man: Hi! I’m Kevin.
Mojo: It’s Mojo!
Kevin (Bullish man): Ah..’re the power tool man. Finally,
We meet. There’s your work table. Go and have a cup of tea. Watch you don’t get the sugar mixed up with the MDMA....a common mistake. {laughter}
Mojo: I’ve made that mistake!

I feared that Kevin may kill me if I didn’t have a cup of tea. He gave me the “I’ll fucking cut you down if you don’t enjoy my tea you fucker” look. So I went to the kitchen. There were pictures of naked women near the kettle attached to the wall. That made me very happy. I made a cup of tea and I read the little articles next to the naked women. “Hi I’m Katey. And I’ll be voting for Conservatives at the next election. David Cameron is soooo dishy” read one article next to a tanned brunette girl with 36 DD breasts. Another read, “Hi! I’m Julie. I enjoy scrabble in my spare time and love a man with hard pecs. Yummy! Don’t do drugs kids ;)” I immediately wanted to run to my nearest gym and pump some iron. I threw the rest of my cocaine down the sink. I was a new man.

The course was the best day I’ve had in a while. There was no sex to complicate things and no awkward goodbyes at the end. The “Kiss or not to kiss” dilemma could be brazenly ignored. It was better than that Christmas I spent in Auschwitz with Santa Claus. It was better than that day Nelson Mandela was freed from Robin Island and was made King of all of Africa. And it was better than thon day David Hasselhoff brought down the Berlin wall with his music of love and peace, all by himself. He was looking for freedom and when he found it, he gave it to the world. What a fantastic guy. I clutched my Power Drill to my chest as I thought about David’s great fight against the evils of communism. What a brave man. I wondered if I could ever be as brave as him as I watched someone laugh as they screwed in a screw with a power screwdriver. It was a beautiful moment. Everybody in the place was smiling as they were using the power tools. This is what heaven must be like but with free sex and beer on tap. I fancy having French actress Marion Cotilliard (who starred in the Edith Piaf Biopic “la Vie en rose”) as my workmate in heaven. She’s a wee minx and I bet she’d love to see me use my Power Drill. Kevin spent most of the time high-5ing my fellow students as we successfully cut and hammered things. We were getting praised for enjoying ourselves. Kevin was the greatest teacher of the Power Tool. I’d only met one teacher of the Power Tool but I could tell by his politically incorrect conversations and the incredible way he blasphemed that he was the greatest. It’s hard to put into words how happy I felt. I often feel like I am wearing a jacket consisting totally of semtex that is ready to be detonated by Noel Edmunds at any moment but yesterday I felt as if I had lost my semtex jacket and inevitable death was possibly, unlikely.

Open your heart to the POWER TOOL.

P.s. It seems strange but every word above of this blog is true.
P.p.s. Not the David Hasselhoff bit.
P.p.p.s. Not the King of Africa Nelson Mandela bit. He’s only the King of South Africa. Tootin’ Kamoon is the king of the North.
P.p.p.p.s. Not the 36 DD bit. I wasn’t sure about her breast size as I’m not that au fait with breast sizes. They were big though. Little boob children.
P.p.p.p.p.s. I hear Bruce Forsythe used to tell a woman’s breast size just by weighing their breasts in his hands. Sexual.

Friday, 12 March 2010

The Mojo Guide To Living

lovely man

shit-hot sexy men

evil cunts hell-bent on destroying the world. well maybe not Liam Neeson, with his gorgeous nose. Feckin dorty bitch.

Mojo Guide to Living

Ok here’s how I live:

Wake up from sleep.
It can be the morning or evening
Brush your teeth
Preferably with Colgate Total
Which is scientifically the best toothpaste
For gums and teeth
They have patented Triclosan (c)
Which keeps gums healthy
Shave face if you’re a boy
Shave tits if you are a girl with hairy tits
Use shaving gel/foam
Have a shower
Enjoy the warmth or the cold of the shower
Water on body = nice
Dry yourself
Put on clean underwear
T-shirt, cacks, socks
Put on your clothes.
Hopefully they are clean and not cum-stained from the night before
Look out the window
Curse at the weather
Even though it makes you happy
Possible options:
“Fucking abysmal. For fuck sake.”
“Fucking Manchester weather. Its wile shite”
“Bollocks like.... {pause}..........that”
“I have to go out in that shite?”
“Jesus...its wile hot. Fuck sake...I hate the heat.”
Make a coffee
Caffeine is a stimulant that is a catalyst for ADPase an enzyme
It makes you think better
And energises you
Addictive yes, but you can curb your addiction
With a decaf coffee later on in the day
Fool your brain, it’s a wanker
Try to have a healthy breakfast
Possible options:
“Bran Flakes”
“Vitamin Supplements”
“Bagel with cheese”-quite fattening
Leave house
Kiss wife/girlfriend/boyfriend/dog/cat/hamster/children/poster of Jeff Buckley
If Christopher Higgins is in your house give him the mit
And wake him abruptly (by punching him in the face)
to thank him for waking you at 4 am
Call him a cunt
Even though, deep down it’s impossible to hate Christopher Higgins
(Pictured in the middle photo, on the left)
Used to be a sweet boy
Holding so tightly to Daddy Sean

Walk to car/bus/train/tram
When you get there congratulate yourself
Say to yourself “I’m fucking cla.
I really shouldn’t even be awake and walking about right now
But because of the over-population of the planet
I have to work or else I’ll die”
You are fucking cla.
Applaud thyself as the bus comes or as you get in your car
Give yourself a standing ovation
Say to yourself: “I’m wile cla”
Go to work
It’s billy-bollix-like
Yeah fuck work
But it has to happen, or you’ll die
Enjoy the commute
Ah yes, lots of other people spinning to nowhere soothing and funny
Look at the sky
It might look detached from “your world”
It is, but try to make it central
Remember without the sun, humanity wouldn’t exist
If you are in car; sing
Say the following out loud:
“Fuck Priests, they’re all paedos”
“I hate Guardian readers, they’re a pack of wankers”
“One day I might live in Derrybeg (A council estate in Newry)”
“I am fucking cla”Smile at the insanity that is human existence
As you watch people rush about


It's a war out there

Keep fighting

It's important to realize it is a war out there
Get to work
Always arrive early
This is essential for a happy existence
If anybody ever questions why you’re always early tell them:
“My wife who died last year was always early for work”
That’ll shut them up.
Start work
It’s horrendous but never feel sorry for yourself
Be responsible for your own existence
If you don’t want to do the job, tell them to fuck off
Or just fuck off one morning
Always have a lunch
Be nice to the other people you work with
It’s just a job
so even if they’re wankers, smile
for example when they inform you that you’re doing everything wrong
and the paper clips are meant to go in the fourth drawer
not the third
Just smile
Your work colleague’s and bosses borderline personality disorders
Will bring you a deep happiness.
Do it for the reference at the end
It’s all about the reference

Leave work
Say to yourself: “That there was just a land of make-believe
Let’s go to the real world now.”
Go home
Kiss the baby/wife/girlfriend/boyfriend/hamster/own fist/ poster of Salvador Dali
Congratulate yourself
Say to yourself “Fuck me, I’m cla. Work was shit yet somehow I still got through it.
Wow, I’m wile cla.”
Remember humans were never meant to work
Don't let the media/politicans fool you

All you were meant to do was: wake up, find food, find shelter, fuck, eat and go to sleep
Think of ways to amuse yourself
Go the gym/cinema/ theatre/ sofa/ Dave’s house/ restaurant/ Indiana Land/ Opera/ Lazer Quest/ Football/ tennis/ badmington/ art exhibition
Elmo must die

Also possibly do nothing
That’s probably the best thing to do
Never forget the housework
Clean the toilet

Kill those germs....fucking wee bastards
Listen to some hip-hop whilst destroying vast colonies of bacteria
Wash your clothes
Have dinner.....must contain essential vitamins, minerals, carbohydrates, proteins, fatty acids

Don't give a toss about what TV chefs say

Fuck you Gordon Ramsey
Look out the window
“Fuck me it’s dark”
Go web surfing
Slow it all down before bed
Dim the lights
Shag partner/read a book/dance on bed/brush teeth


The Real S.M.G.C.A.

Every time I leave the house I often think “What would Stevo do?” Stephen Maurice Graham is a random man (Pictured in the middle photo above to the right of Christopher Higgins). He’d probably go for a ham and cheese bagel and paint a picture simultaneously whilst chatting to a beautiful woman about Space Invaders (the crisps). He’s a great man. Lately though, a dark cloud has appeared. Everywhere I go in the world and on every street, I have encountered members of the Stephen Maurice Graham clone army. They look exactly like him and I often run up to them and say “Hey Stevo!! I can’t believe you’re here!” Yet they look at me with deep pity. This person is usually a member of the Stephen Maurice Graham Clone Army (The S.M.G.C.A.). They go to the S.M.G.C.A. conference every year in Ballymena. The guest speaker is usually Liam Neeson (Pictrured above in the bottom photo with best mate Paul Rankin) or Gerry Anderson (Pictured in the top photo). It is a riotous affair. There are “Learn to dance like Stevo” dance classes where Japanese Stevos and Kenyan Stevos can be seen shaking their little booties to indie dance classics. There are “Learn to dress like Stevo” seminars and you can even sign up for the Steven Grahamology Bachelors Degree. Stevo does not attend the conference. He doesn’t even run it and he may not even know it happens. It is run by an evil mastermind called Mark Carruthers (Pictured in the bottom photo between Meryl Streep and Paul Rankin). He used to present BBC Newsline and he will not stop until the good name of Steven Maurice Graham has been obliterated. But I, Mojo will uphold the good name and reputation of Stevo to my brutal end. DAMN YOU MARK CARRUTHERS! I will track you down to the BBC Northern Ireland Cafe and strike you down. Not even Hugo Duncan can save you now Mark Carruthers! Lots of love Mojo. (The S.M.G.C.A. shouldn't be confused with the Provisional S.M.G.C.A who are much worse. And the S.M.G.C.A. under no circumstances should be confused with the Real S.M.G.C.A who are probably the least real of all the S.M.G.C.A.'s)

Masterchef Zimbabwe

My mate Marvin the Marshmallow was telling me the other day that there’s a version of Masterchef now in Zimbabwe. Every one of the meals the contestants make has to be prefixed by the word “Mugabe”. So when someone is making a burger they say “This is a Mugabe Burger” and when someone is making a lasagne they say “this is a Mugabe Lasagne.” Every week the two people who score the least have to fight to the death using only kitchen utensils. It’s a bit like Blood Sports except its set in a kitchen. Normally Robert Mugabe sits and watches the fight live from his throne which is shaped like a large ladle. Last week a bit of blood got on Robert’s shoe and he murdered both of the last two contestants with a pizza slicer. People were stunned and silenced by Robert’s uncharacteristic rage as he’s usually quite a quiet lad. It seemed like the end of humanity was nigh. But thankfully it wasn’t the end of humanity because Robert started laughing uncontrollably as he stamped on the head of both dead bodies. Then everyone started laughing as the two contestants fragile heads were crushed beneath Robert’s Size 10 Doc Martin boots. A fabulous time was had by all. People couldn’t tell the difference between tomato puree and the blood of the dead contestants. Next week they’re making Mugabe Meatloaf. I can’t wait!

Stay Safe

Lots of hugs


Friday, 5 March 2010

E is for Eugene, E is also for Eighteen Certificate

E is for
in your mouth
Does it feel like that down south?
That day in the GUM clinic
Wasn’t fucking worth it
You said,
“Do me on the balcony.”
“But the hairy gamblers will see my cock.”
Put it in
Put it in
But you
Wanted it in
Fuck sake
If I was 18
I’d think it was my birthday
But I’m a little bit older now
The type of older that’s
Pissed off at the queue in the post office
Or at scented candles
Put it in mojo
Awh, fuck it.

Now, I’m sitting
In G.U.M.
Amongst HIV men, ashen faced,
A syphilitic cock in the corner
Chatting with a camp man
With gonorrhea
Herpetic foreskin watching the waiting room tv
Chlamydia is flicking through
Last month’s TIME magazine
A smile on his face
Me, I’m trying to hold back the tears
I shouldn’t have fucked that girl
The protestant girl,
In Kelly’s nightclub
I’m reading Albert Camus
He’s talking about death
Oh Albert, your hideously sombre prose makes my day
Seem like the happiest day of my life
I receive a text
It polarises me
“I am Party!”
Papa Sir Higgs-a-lot of Baronscourt
I tell him I’m close to death
He understands
It’s nice to know someone who understands
My depths of depravity
The nurse calls my name
I go into her room and sit down
She asks me questions
“Are you straight or gay?”
“Have you had unprotected sex?”“Have you had oral sex?”
“Have you had anal sex?”
“How many partners have you had in the last year?”
“When was the last time you had sex?”
I wish she read out comedy questions as well
“Have you put a vibrator up your arse?”“Ever fucked a donkey?”
“Has a girl ever poo-poo’d on you?”
She asks me to pull down my trousers and get on the examining bed thing
And cover my cock with that tissue
I lie on the cold leather
Fucking cold like
Dust on the windowsill
It hasn’t been dusted in a while
She examines Eugene
Oh the horror
She nods with approval
“Everything seems ok here”
I laugh when she sticks the little plastic thing
Down Eugene’s only eye
Oh Eugene, I’m sorry about this

Now pass urine into this little cup
But first,
Let me take some blood
I have the AIDS. I have the AIDS
I make a mental note
Get Papa Sir Higgs of Baronscourt to Fed-ex the mit immediately
I ask the nurse“Am I the new Freddy Mercury?
I haven’t even released one groundbreaking album yet.”
She said not to worry
As the blood fills the little test-tube

I go to the toilet
I try to piss in the cup
But I miss
And piss
On my hand and the wall
I show an empty plastic container to the nurse
She says
You’re going to have to go again
I’ve ran out of piss
I go back into the toilet
I try to think of waterfalls
But when I do that
The video for “Mysterious Girl”
By Peter Andre
Enters my mind
I am trying to piss
whilst thinking about a tanned man with a six –pack
Somehow, piss starts to flow
Thank you Eugene
You little fucking treacherous bastard.

I waited for months for my results
But they didn’t phone
Then I remembered they said they’d only call
If there was some problem
But I phoned anyway
And the wee girl said
“I’ll go and check your records”
Ah yes, Mojo and Eugene.....
All clear

Minutes later I go out and celebrate my life
I’m not going to die after all
My life is the brass part in “Move on up”
By Curtis Mayfield
I smile at death
Hi “Death”, remember me ya cunt....
We were very cosy there
Me and you “death”, weeping bedfellows
Get the fuck out of my bed now “death”
Well, I’m going to go for ice-cream
At 11 am
Then I’m going to get on a bus to fucking Dublin
Somewhere I deeply dislike
And I’m going to sit in a bar alone
And write awful poetry like this shit poem
Endless lines of shit
Miserable people will make me happy
And discussions about death will feel like discussions
About an ugly cousin
That you’ll probably meet some day
But only very briefly
at the end of your life
Probably for less than a minute
Yeah, fuck you death
Ya cunt.

Monday, 1 March 2010

Attacking the world like Ghostface Killah.....

Attacking the world like Ghostface Killah.....

Hurtling down the motorway you keep checking your pulse. Shit, are you still alive? You take another hit. You watch some bitch-ass swing out of control, spinning across two lanes. Boom! If only you took the rocket launcher home from work today. You wonder why the fuck you’re still alive. “Hello nasty” buzzing from your stereo. It’s hard to believe in heaven when you’re on a 4 lane motorway behind an articulated lorry. “Intergalactic intergalactic, plan-et-ary intergalactic.” The rhythm assaulting your strict catholic history. Before you, hundreds of cars fight their way home. The world is a traffic jam. A pink sky opens up above the service station silhouetting hay bales, horses, oak trees and a large ominous factory. Attacking the world like Ghostface Killah isn’t possible for you Mojo. You want to be Raekwon but all you’ll ever be is a second rate Q-Tip. Damn brother, that’s hard to take. They died on French beaches for this grey 70 miles an hour motorized-stress-fuckathon. You smile at their sacrifice. I can nearly feel the bullets penetrate their skin. You frown then. Electrifying beats punctuate the night all the way home. Every second: an illegal manoeuvre. The sky means nothing when you never look at it. Why go home? Why not just pull over in a small village and fuck that shit up? Then you remember the girl. The girl, sitting nervously in a dimly lit restaurant, fingering the hem of her skirt. She is the horizon. You want to take her to KFC and point that freshly bitten chicken breast at her and laugh. “I don’t remember it tasting this good.” But then you remember again, her name. She would never go to KFC. You then imagine sitting in a fancy restaurant asking open questions and you being revealing about your inner-most thoughts. “I should’ve busted my granny out of hospital. All she wanted was a hot whiskey. That’s all she wanted. But then she died.” Then you’re bare, a child again. No longer a man. You think about your brother swinging from ropes and killing crocodiles. You hear your brother in your dreams.
Fuck me, the city is now here on the big television that is your windscreen. “Good TV, good TV,” you holler. You pull up into your house and notice a boy doing a wheelie on his bike. You laugh at his stupid helmet. “Stupid helmet,” you mutter. But nice wheelie, get on that shit. You run into your room and throw your blood splattered uniform in the washing machine. You look for your favourite shoes. You want to forget about the girl. But you can’t. Toothbrush, Mouthwash, a breath; your shit hair. You run to the bus. You try to remember her name but you’ve forgotten it now. You listen to the insane woman next to you on the bus scream “fuckin’ doctor cunts. Dog-eating motherfuckers” in your right ear. You try to romanticize about the girl you’re meeting as you pass the neon illuminated curry houses of Rusholme. You fear the crazy woman has pissed herself. You get up annoyed and get off at the next stop. You run into Boots and surreptitiously spray some expensive aftershave over yourself. You run to City Hall. She’s sitting on a bench near the statue of Oliver Heywood. You want to run away. But it’s too late. You walk over to her. She smiles. Keep it simple. “Oliver Heywood! Oliver Heywood is here baby. I wondered where the fuck he went!” You point at the statue of Oliver Heywood. You laugh, she doesn’t. But you don’t care anymore. Everything is going to be a-ok. You hold your flaws up like a trophy. You have made a break-through. You are untouchable now. Nothing matters any more. BEGIN.

dedicated to TFY