small beer

my right hand is cold

i read ENVILLE so i must be fucking branché

frederique taddei he say: sarkozy will announce in 2006 that chirac tried to rape him when he was just a little boy.

and also, that the bedroom is the last place where we can be truly savage.

FUCKING COMMONPLACES if you ask me

'vous croyez lire le journal, mais vous lisez télé 7 jours'

i dont understand this ass

intellectual property theft is like pissing in a dark suit or something

er i saw a graffito in a metro station that said gash

it was written on a poster-girl's leg

do french people get gash
do french women even have gash

yar (boo sucks)

jack says i simply must write something new
(yes he speaks like a fag from the 1920s, or the &çéàs as we call them here on french keyboards)
id rather waste my expensive internet reading vice but there isnt even a new one
no photos from paris because i havent taken any and even had i taken any (which i have not) and took my camera down to fnac and let them charge me 20 euros to décharge my appareil, even then there'd be some stooping, and i choose ne'er to stoop


that was kinda fucking laboured wasnt it

i eat ramblers

yeeah mountains are the new black and dorks on the summit are the new icing on the cake or whatever. i wish i was a mountain, and if i were then i would call myself something with that norwegian 'o' in it. damien rice sucks my balls on a daily basis, by the way. when you float like a canonball? when you deserve one in the neck, irish boy.

Samson Agonistes

the best thing about the photo below is that one of them, probably the blonde isn't even fucking doing it right. the sheer sluttery of it all. yay i'm going to wales! this rented world or something yeeah

i could buy you, oh yeah oh yeah... but i'd rather buy a packet of malboro medium. mm it's no coincidence.

apparently we should all read snow by that turkish guy
i think you should all read t.y.o.d.o ricardo reis by saramago
lucy sucks and is wrong and blindness was so-so

papa t'es plus dans le cool, papa

I ruled for 2 months while the sign was up

just seeing if stealing pictures works..

More Poemnessetry

'This was Mr Bleaney's room. He stayed
The whole time he was at the Bodies, till
They moved him.' Flowered curtains, thin and frayed,
Fall to within five inches of the sill,

Whose window shows a strip of building land,
Tussocky, littered. 'Mr Bleaney took
My bit of garden properly in hand.'
Bed, upright chair, sixty-watt bulb, no hook

Behind the door, no room for books or bags -
'I'll take it.' So it happens that I lie
Where Mr Bleaney lay, and stub my fags
On the same saucer-souvenir, and try

Stuffing my ears with cotton-wool, to drown
The jabbering set he egged her on to buy.
I know his habits - what time he came down,
His preference for sauce to gravy, why

He kept on plugging at the four aways -
Likewise their yearly frame: the Frinton folk
Who put him up for summer holidays,
And Christmas at his sister's house in Stoke.

But if he stood and watched the frigid wind
Tousling the clouds, lay on the fusty bed
Telling himself that this was home, and grinned,
And shivered, without shaking off the dread

That how we live measures our own nature,
And at his age having no more to show
Than one hired box should make him pretty sure
He warranted no better, I don't know.

Poem of the Day

Like the Blowing of Birds' Eggs


by Neil Rollinson

I crack the shell
on the bedstead and open it
over your stomach. It runs
to your navel and settles there
like the stone of a sharon fruit.

You ask me to gather it up
and pour it over your breast
without breaking the membrane.

It swims in my palm, drools
from the gaps in my fingers, fragrant,
spotted with blood.

It slips down your chest,
moves on your skin like a woman
hurrying in her yellow dress, the long
transparent train dragging behind.

It slides down your belly and into your
pubic hair where you burst
the yolk with a tap of your finger.

It covers your cunt in a shock
of gold. You tell me to eat,
to feel the sticky glair on my tongue.

I lick the folds of your sex, the coarse
damp hairs, the slopes of your arse
until you're clean, and tense as a clock spring.

I touch your spot and something inside you
explodes like the blowing of birds' eggs.