Devoted exclusively to the creative process. Here you will see photojournaling, poetry, prose, an occasional review--journaling or philosophical writing can be found on our other blogs. This is our attempt to use our imaginations. Enjoy!

Saturday, December 30, 2006


almost new year the hangman's erection falls limp

note this is the hangman's errection not the hanged man's it makes a huge difference

i suppose that
all the neocons
business men and politicians
that supported saddam in the past
will be so happy
now that his lips
cant move can't talk
can't incriminate

Sunday, December 24, 2006

god bless animals

in cold comfort he cages the words in code
the better to hide behind me dears
cages the words to secret the meaning
and loose the verb that has no feeling
but the climb up his arse is a long rope
and he spends many a day there
studying his d&g like a bible
like a bible full of tripe and trip wire
with the intent of becoming intellectual.
intellectual my fat backside me dears
oh for the blush of cruel animals
that acts with instinct
and hates with passion
anything better than the semaphor of prose
anything better than that pretension.
copyright forsaken

Thursday, December 21, 2006

Jennifer Reflected

"Look out the window," I said to her at about 17:30 tonight. "What at?" she asked. "Me looking at you," I replied.

And then I snapped.

Earlier she had said to me "I want you to take a picture of me where you can actually see my eyes."

This isn't it.

Fucking christmas

'Hey love, what d' you want for Christmas?'
'Do you really wanna know Alf?'
'Aye - I wouldn't bloody ask otherwise, woulda?'
'Reet then. I'll 'ave your cock in me gob - going in an' owt like a friggin' piston and then you coming all over me ripe tits. That'll be best fucking white Christmas in years me darling.'
'Better get a letter to Santa then, hadn't you love?'


Saturday, December 16, 2006

Unfit but Print! Good Blogsite!

I did not do this picture, even though that is my sorry image in part of it. This was done by a really fine artist name Piktor. His site is called Unfit but Print! Check it out. It's marvelous.

I still suck at links, but here is his site:

Saturday, December 09, 2006

Death in the attic

The swish-swish noise in the attic was driving me mad. And I told myself, I have to be original! I have to remember all those men who’ve killed beautifully, serially. Those psychotics with shiny black tailored suits who had ripped kidneys, heart and eyes out of women after poisoning them with their own neurosis and semen; those maniacs who had raped prostitues on squalid London roads…… There was always a patterened originality visible to some clue-fed policeman or some detective with a weird accent. There was some art to be discovered in blood - albeit cruel but yes, original nonetheless. They were perfectionists, yes, my psycho brethen in black suits.

So I picked up a fork, and headed for the attic. My mind was vaguely on Hitchcock movie i hadn't watched. I was thinkin Jack the Ripper. I was thinkin Lector. I was thinking blood, blood, blood!
And as I reached the end of the ladder, my head just above the attic floor, i saw her feet – pretty, petite, and pink, with fingers ready to be ripped off. And there she stood like an uncaring devil - standing on a stool with her back to me, humming Hotel California, cleaning father’s books on the shelf.
And I thought, my heart could break into two, right here behind her, noiselessly and I could die of the beauty of this very moment that surrounded around her and she wouldn’t - for the life of me, ever - know, that there lived a tiny disposable speck of nothing below this attic room who had breathed his last standing behind her with his face starin at her pretty pink feet.

Manic Street Preacher

Friday, December 08, 2006

Letter from Emily Dickinson to her lover

Early June, 1852

They are cleaning house today, Susie, and I've made a flying retreat to my own little chamber, where with affection, and you, I will spend this my precious hour, most precious of all the hours which dot my flying days, and the one so dear, that for it I barter everything, and as soon as it is gone, I am sighing for it again.

I cannot believe, dear Susie, that I have stayed without you almost a whole year long; sometimes the time seems short, and the thought of you as warm as if you had gone but yesterday, and again if years and years ahd trod their silent pathway, the time would seem less long. And now how soon shall I have you, shall hold you in my arms; you will forgive the tears, Susie, they are so glad to come that it is not in my heart to reprove them and send them home. I don't know why it is -- buth there's something in your name, now you are taken from me, which fills my heart so full, and my eye, too. It is not that the mention grieves me, no, Susie, but I think of each "sunnyside" where we have sat together, and lest there be no more, I guess is what makes the tears come. Mattie was here last evening, and we sat on the front door stone, and talked about life and love, and whispered our childish fancies about such blissful things -- the evening was gone so soon, and I walked home with Mattie beneath the silent moon, and wished for you, and Heaven. You did not come, Darling, but a bit of Heaven did, or so it seemed to us, as we walked side by side and wondered if that great blessedness which may be our's sometime, is granted now, to some. Those unions, my dear Susie, by which two lives are one, this sweet and strange adoption wherein we can but look, and are not yet admitted, how it can fill the heart, and make it gang wildly beating, how it will take us one day, and make us all it's own, and we shall not run away from it, but lie still and be happy!

Thursday, December 07, 2006

Monday, December 04, 2006

A field with poles

A field by Draffan at sunset.

Sunday, November 26, 2006

Bloaters or anchovies - bad poetry

Last night, the ice cream man told me,
"Son, you got to decide,
On your own, if you want bloaters of anchovies,
Because I'm just an ice cream man,
I can give you tutti frutti,
That tastes like something that came out of a rat's ass.
But bloaters or anchovies?
That's your choice."

Saturday, November 25, 2006


Thursday, November 23, 2006


(Photo by Rod Lane-poem inspired by Ezra Pound)

Bah! I have sung men in three cities;
They're all the same.
So let me sing of starlight and waves.

Smiles,flutters--you snare them.
Fantasies, words--they curl into your hand.
Those spells of pagan times:
Candles, incense, burnt offerings to the god--
You call them your own,
But you are nothing,
Just the whisperer of dead songs.

Smiles, laughter, touch--so the night goes.
I take my wares to the road once more;
Forgotten, I continue--
They must tune their instruments for the next singer.
You are nothing.
Yet they say, Selina, the moon goddess,
once hidden between the linens,
Selina of the sorrowful heart.
Silver lighted,bursting into bright flare.
How well we sit between her thighs.
Would that she would visit us again--
Taunt us once more with her silky voice
While we wile away the nothingness
As the moon and stars become one.
Yes, the dream continues...

I have sung men in three cities.
They blend into one.
They know nothing of sunlight,
So let me sing of blackened waves and dark tides.

God's blood! You mock us, woman!
You forget the chants of old--
no more warbling of strange enchantments.
We knew you once; we'll know you again--yes, all of us:
While you break your glance upon the rocks.
and curse the vileness that sought us out.
You say we are nothing.
This we know.

You choose

'You're behaving like a woman who's poisoning me.'
'What! I just told you how much I love you.'

Within an hour one of them was dead - sprawled on the formica.


Wednesday, November 15, 2006


Taken 11th November - Dunoon.

I would suggest that the collective noun for a pair of mothers-in-law should be a competition.

It should be noted that each in the competiton has an identical role but with precisely opposite aims.


Tuesday, November 14, 2006

modern crime

400,000 people are dead

2 million people have been displaced

more are dying every day

this isn’t poetry

this isn’t prose

this isn’t art

this is criminal

this is sudan and it is happening now

now in the dust and the dirt

underneath an unforgiving sun

watched by an uncaring world

our world

400,000 people are dead.

Friday, November 10, 2006

I want to fuck her

She walks in the room flicking her hands and eyelashes because she's arty. She wears a shawl in some kind of bright Eastern colours, just so she can talk about artistic things.
I want to fuck her because she's only a work of art when she comes.

Monday, November 06, 2006


It may sound absurd
But don’t be naive
Even Heroes have the right to bleed
I may be disturbed
But won’t you concede
Even Heroes have the right to dream
It’s not easy to be me

Sunday, November 05, 2006


One stone from the desert, one stone from the beach. Which is which? And what if even I couldn't remember?


Friday, November 03, 2006

sounding - sinking - sweetly

the sounding sea beats
in my heart for you, lover
i throb for a taste

my heart screams your name
press'd - soul-splitting howls
sinking into grief

love whispers your name
sweetly, in the dark corners
of my wilting heart

grace grotesquely crumbles

your grace
into grotesque flakes
as your fingertips slash
my tender silken face
with rage and vengence

in self-loathing
you infect me -
impale my gauzy soul
on your poisoned barbs:
hatred and lusty greed

once, i loved you -
worshipped you, adored you
and darkness
eviscerated my heart
as i watched my adoration stream past
your inert, stoney heart

my trembling eyes splinter
into a thousand tears
when i look upon your face -
my reflection -
in the looking glass
you ... you ... you ... always ... you

this dark riverbed of adoration
that flowed in my viscera for you
has dried up; my heart --
which once glistened sublimely inside yours,
now lies in eternal anguish:
dessicated, petrified, searingly denuded

your grace crumbles
into grotesque flakes
of grief, rage and greed
soaked in the brine of remorse
you beg, like i did, for morsel of mercy
i will starve you of forgiveness

Dying Season

I haven't posted here in a while... been too busy updating my regular blog. But here's a little something:

Sickly words drip off her tongue,
I turn my head and vomit.

He puts his arm around me,
I shrug him off with eyes of stone.

I invited them into my fortress of ice
and melted in the rain.

I fell apart,
so I pushed and ran away.

Repulsion escapes a grinning face--
Irritation evoked,
Emotions provoked
sadness for loss
full of remorse
of gardens portrayed
to always stay in bloom.

Winter is here,
the flowers have died--
I sigh...
count my blessings,
and move on with life.

Copyright Eating Poetry:

discharge (that enigmatic breath porcelain skull)

"he loves him and he dreams him
he smiled him into kisses, so
he bent blind between him
for him all night to whimper
then joining seperate spines"

Porcelain Skull see's things that have never been.
his tongue is morning mist.
his eyes are from a distant place.
he tastes of cork.
speak to the dark angels

Monday, October 30, 2006

In a whirring taxi

In a whirring taxi - the rain beats late, hard drops on the windscreen. I sit with my sleeping daughter draped across my aching arms.

'I would fight the worst demons the devil has in him for you my sweetness.'

I whisper inside my head.


For the Birthday Girl (Enemy of the Republic)

I don't know, cannot remember, where I stole this from but this is for our lovely 'team leader' on her birthday.

Saturday, October 28, 2006

Friday, October 27, 2006

discharge (beautiful raven in dark places)

"And another part of your soul is placed in ink.
Yet you fight again to stand
With dreams of fullfillment and love and trust,
Yet part of you always wonders...
Always questions."

Raven arrives with a hubris of black feathers
and a pestilence of petticoats.
She is the colour of night.
She is the stuff of cobwebs.
Her words are of the pulse
and the heart beat.
She tastes of chrome.

speak tothe dark angels

Thursday, October 26, 2006

don't forget to vote america

they will pay you in dollars to go to the booths
so listen up now for some home truths.
folks will do anything for a couple of bucks
though it's cheaper to change a system that sucks.
so my advice, to any who'll listen,
is to impeach george bush and change the system.

words by cocaine jesus

Tuesday, October 24, 2006


i dont have that kind of words
how do you draw in a few syllables
or many, a picture of a black hole?
or emptiness, or a desert?

i saw you in my dreams again
alive, smiling, soft
is it really so out of proportions
whats the correct length mourning?

how decides these things?
who lays down the laws
whom we can love, how and how much
and the ways in which we can die

i felt your smile around me
softly, u drew me in
these memories are like a soft edged knife
smoothly slides in and hammers out again

suddenly i'm out of breath
inside i'm screaming
outside there's just a distant look
in my eye, that passes when u look this way

yes, i'm learning the lessons life's been teaching
now i leave quietly through the backdoors
pristine honesty, contracts of love, santa claus and forever
now i know they're just dreams

its one of those times again
soon, i know, it will pass
for now i can only wait
till the pain recedes to a dull ache again

How many windows?

A prize (real or imaginary) for the most inventive answer...


it only takes nothing
you do nothing, and yet
you make my heart flip
round and round, and faster

it only takes nothing
you do nothing, and yet
i wish this moment would never end
because i never knew one so perfect

anyway, far from liking you,
i dont even know ur middle name
isnt it strange then
that i u drop in to my mind again

should i bother to dispel it
should i worry about it being wrong
should i bother about my safety
or more importantly, yours?

i almost cannot bear to
its a lazy tired feeling
like coming home, to a home
a mad day had made me forget

i want to let it be
it's only for a while
its trapped in this moment
i want to freeze this moment in time

Here's Some Experimental Comedy

Well, me almost reading some poems...

Click on the blank space below.

the middle muddle

slap it on like paint so thick
and i will act surprised,
but you know,
and i know
that the events are not of your making.
you cannot control the beast that rises
deep in the heart of men.
any more than you can control the ebbing tide
nor the waning moon.
history will mark you as just another.
just another.
an arsewipe who, with evangelical zeal,
kicked a mule and a stallion kicked back.
so paper over the cracks.
paint the walls to white.
everything is as you made it
and nothing is quite right.

words by cocaine jesus

Sunday, October 22, 2006

a prayer

sometimes ur sad, but you're ok
and at other times,
sadness has a scary edge of desperation to it
and you feel like u might just be drowning
slipping into some deep dark place inside you
and u break into pieces, each watching all the others
one wanting to dive in and swim in the dark,
find the heart of the night
and another, scared, wanting the light
and another, that died or was never born,
and couldnt care one way or another
and while u slide, u panic
and u want to reach out
when i slide there's no one
i'd dare to hold on to
that i wouldnt pull them in
or be burnt by the grip
one well for another
but thats why
when i walk by a well, or bog
i stretch my arms out and hold on tight
and pull whenever
and once ashore
i let go
but sometimes thats not
just what they were after
as a price for ur wanting to make them happy
they want ur soul
443 days
443 nights
443 notches on the side of ur grave
ur stubborn indifference
makes me hate
anyone who dares to give me love instead
ur still, cold, grey, body,
and ur dancing eyes in my dreams
make me want to kill
anyone who dares to live instead
oceans of mustard seeds wouldnt help
attics full of corpses wouldnt help
lifetimes of love and joy, wouldnt help
bcz u'd still be dead
as always i hurt myself to hurt u
i open it up and it all spills out
i dont want nothing of urs, so i let it spill
come back
ill grind out the one u loved
ill never let her smile again
if u want her at all
come back
did u really stop giving a fuck?
i'm tired of hurting, come back

cross posted on chocolat amer

Speak to the Dark Angels???

For Cocain Jesus n Stikleback:
Death face
you are the bitch
Kick her far.
slit party nuns
back bone churning
fickle birthday face.

Saturday, October 21, 2006

a pot of clay

u seduce me
with my reflection
in ur head
into being
something i am not
but its only for a while
just one dance and i'm gone
though you want to
you cant hold me
though i want to
i cant stay
i cant hold the pose
this alien shape
i can stay
but not alive
u dont want me as i am
u want to trap me
hold me in ur pores
in ur unchanging shape
but i am fluid
i am free
and i need to breathe
and flow, unfettered
i may be damned
but only for a while
u can hold me inside
but i'll escape, seep out
so i evaporate
float up with the winds
and ur left
twisted out of shape
with hole inside
trying to hide


what can i say?
however far you run,
life gets a hold of you
and brings you back
once more
face to face with your nightmares
your destiny
everyone is different
everyone's the same
loving circles,
of words and arms
stifling close
brittle euphoria
liquor spiced
whichever gods u choose
whichever feet you find
to kneel at
will melt in pools of weak clay
and soft sweet sickly sympathy
is all ur destined to feel
there are
no gods to worship
or maybe
the pedestals too rocky
and high
the world shifts
and re adjusts
around u
in a circle of laughing dwarfs
who only want to hide
crouching low, small shallow minds
firm resolve
not to look outside
their games, groups and tribes
poke clumsy fingers
wounds of agony
inexpertly bandaged
waiting for time to bring
enough scar tissue
to hide
and seal
on word
u casually speak
that means so much
such a big deal
unuttered for 442 days
is carelessly laughed away
bcz i know ur dead
for the world, anyway
i open hands
i crack them on stone
it comes out
all ur stuff
and i dont want it anymore
i want it to evaporate
go up in smoke
like u
chase after
bcz i know ur there

Abandoned baby / squashed bunny

Taken 21st October, 10 minutes apart.

How to de-SCUM. (The End)

Let’s liscence the whores to run this Nation.
Make their slang the words of law.
Then let’s burn ourselves,
We’re dying anyway.
Our wounds are numb and raw.

How to de-SCUM. WAY# 5

Let’s force the men’s mothers out.
And hold their son’s mouths down
To suck the Given from God of Heaven
From their Unholy mother’s breasts brown.

Friday, October 20, 2006

discharge (that handsome mammal killer luca)

killer luca is an artist.
killer luca loves snails.
killer luca painted "two men fucking".
killer luca tastes of ozone.

Thursday, October 19, 2006

Little Wings

Behold the dying;
Touch me with the key.
A caged bird, she's crying--
Her heart breaks upon what's scattered.
A Ruth who goes gleaning for wheat she can eat.
The seeds of the birds, so restless in waiting.
Did she find love?
Did she find peace?
The tempter finds the body in the cage while she's praying.
The blood that will heal you is calling your name,
Standing like a lighthouse to show you the way.
But the devil and his lions find my face,
The body grows cold like the wasteland that Arthur never saved.
But the angel will take you up as a light to embrace.
You're bound to the Power that called Jacob's name.
The patriarch is hiding his name in your beauty that no one can erase.

Wednesday, October 18, 2006

Black & White: Beep Bop-a-lu-la

Black & White: Beep Bop-a-lu-la


Taken last month in Durness on the north coast of Scotland. (PS I'll be more vocal now on here and especially in comments... I was anti-talking on blogs for a few months... I'm back to normal now.)

behind who's veil?

from the pages of the daily express
greased with prejudice
and oiled with bias
comes a convenient target
to attach your phobias to.
the obligatory nigger of the new age wears a veil.
[hey! fuck face]
[hey! fuck face]
claim it as sexist
or claim it as inappropriate
at the end of the day it is
no one's damn business how any of us dress

words by cocaine jesus

Tuesday, October 17, 2006

How to de-SCUM. WAY# 4

Lets move the government
Into my drawing room.
Its better off decorating my toilet seat, I know.
Then open fire and let them lie.
Neatly stacked and bloody ugly, in a row.

Monday, October 16, 2006

New website!

I'm starting a new website for 3D art of the erotique, gothic, fantasy and sci-fi kinds.

How to de-SCUM. Way#2

Let’s shove the ministers down in one giant hole.
And make them stand stark naked in the pit.
Make them lick the scum off each other.
And have their genitals slit.

Sunday, October 15, 2006

How to de-SCUM. WAYS #1and 2

Lets do grass in a Business Conference.
Roll a joint, stuff it with I-DON-CARE
Lets strangle the law keepers,
With our hands bare
They’re wastin my money anyway.

Friday, October 13, 2006

Chick Flick


honey drops roll
on my tounge
--sticky lips


You sure are sharp
Like one focken razor.
But you can't chop
Because razors don't go chop chop chop.

Maybe NextTime

The children are innocent until proven guilty. For their sake, not ours, we must soldier on, muddling our way toward frugality, simplicity, liberty, community, until some kind of sane and rational balance is achieved between our ability to love and our cockeyed ambition to conquer and dominate everything in sight.

Edward Abbey

discharge (the ever gorgeous doriandra smith)

"mummy offers a choice, "be wrecked by the distance insued or lulled by the clamor of well dressed thieves posing as those practicing empathy." this child (am i) will resort to what is comfortable and customary- picking&pecking&plucking with sharp steel tools at what lies silently under skin so thin like fragile leaves with blue veins pulsing arrogantly"

this is the gorgeous doriandra smith

with two albums to her credit.
an american artist with an ever creative heart.
her skin tastes of orange peel.
speak to the dark angels

Monday, October 09, 2006

Guided by Hubris

So here we are with another bit of the freakshow which is our country.
nice going!

Who do you have to blow to get away from these freaks?

The PrOncess

'I'd like to lock her in a tower and make her write pornography exclusively for me - metaphorically speaking that is.'

Saturday, October 07, 2006

light/dark - dark/light

(One taken 7th October. One taken 23rd September. One in Dingwall. One in Draffan. That's 191.7 miles.}

Friday, October 06, 2006

what is it with me?

i pour my scorn into a hollow, half filled glass and fill it to the brim with cynicism.
does the life we lead suck so hugely big time?
the dark pull of some base emotion ignites my soul and my scrutiny and my head fogs over and my heart does what it will.
that same old rage that has a sister called weeping. if not one then the other.
what is it with me?
sometimes the only escape is sleep.
maybe music or reading but never t.v. too much shit to sit and shift and sift through and then there is the news that only confirms what I already thought I knew about the human race.
What is it with me?

words by cocaine jesus

Thursday, October 05, 2006

Last night the world had come to an end.She was alone.Everyone sleeping tight.Under humid fans.Bare bellied.Sweating in dirty sheets.Dark dusty dry hollow.A destroyed metropolis. And she was a l o n e .

Very very scared.No mother. No boy.

Don't snap.

My stomach is a perpetual knot.
I don't want to snap.
Each day, a tractor pull.
The weight is climbing.
I sink up to my ankles with every step.
Soon, up to my knees.
Likely up to my neck before I am through.
I should take a day off.
A day off from what or whom?
In a tunnel with turns you can't see the end.
I step...and I sink.
Don't snap.
I step...and I think.
Don't snap.
I step.

Wednesday, October 04, 2006

The Underground

'What time did your bubble burst this morning then?'
'Excuse me?'
'I asked what time your bubble burst this morning. You know what I said.'
'I don't get you.'
'Well - you're the most miserable bastard in this office. Always something to moan about before you even sit down. It's getting everyone down. Just stay in your bubble from now on. Alright?'

It wasn't a question - that last word. Jeff nodded his response. Switched on his computer and started driving his heavy, heavy mouse.

Monday, October 02, 2006

Pablo 18+1

With the Devil in his eyes,
he's got CJ's burger in his belly.

Saturday, September 30, 2006

South Lanarkshire mushroom season

All taken 30th September 2006, in the woods 15 minutes from my house.

The Empire of the Crow

and the dark angels held a party to celebrate the dawning of the empire of the crow and to the party each of them brought a gift...

doriandra a cactus with a prickly skin and the scent of decadence

cocaine jesus a bottle labelled provocation

inkblot a bruised heart wrapped in razor wire

stickleback2, elegant celluloid

raven a cloth wrapped in menstrual blood that contains dark secrets

porcelain skull a mirror of skewed perspectives

killer luca, promiscuity in flesh with blush red lips

having delivered to you their exacting gifts it would be rude not to accept them, would it not?

visit the dark angels


your eyes
shimmer secrets
flash smiles
whisper confidences
and jagged edges
of broken dreams.

invisible bonds
stretched out in dark moonlight
between two pairs of eyes
hushed. with not a sound
to break the fragile thread
like a spider web
glistening in stray drops
of neon
by the weaver
and the world
in the background
of the voices droning on.

ur eyes
seek out mine
and whisper on
and on
and on.

my eyes fall
ur eyes smile
my eyes smile
ur eyes fall
endless games
and secret conversations
at night

silent questions
and pondering
gently probing
futures and possibities
what might have been
in a dream
or memories
of another time and place
where we werent u or me
did we meet?

echos ring
of laughter and song
in dark glades of old forests
by flickring firelight
flames stroke damp skin
warm hands
waves giggling on sombre sands
moonlight blanketting
silent nights

was it you
that shadow by my side
in my memories
of a my forgotten lives

what is that wet?
how did they get
so sad
ur eyes that can twinkle like that

what did you see
who made u weep
who took ur dreams
and twisted them
to stab u from behind
what brought those shades of sorrow to ur eyes,
sweet gentle child

ur every dream
i ever dreamed
wish u were mine

when i'm tucked in
the traces that werent wiped out with time
pull at the corner of my sheets with tiny hands
they echo in my mind
behind tightly closed eyes

confession - i was listening to creed (those eyes, that stare at me in the dark)

cross posted on verse and my blog


its just a memory
but so alive

a swirl of cotton
white. green bordered

soft warm skin
crinkled. wrinkled. white and pink

warm drinks and brandy
swapped escapades and memories

stories. of my beginning
yours.and journeys. one for every hour of day

stories of the beginnings of love
ours. yours. mine

talks. philosophy. logic. religion
lessons. how to walk. life

stars. moons. gentle warm sunshine
battles. tears. laughter

childhood troubles and worries
slowly growing up

all sorted, aired and put away
in your little black box

but its just a memory
and you're so dead

its that time of the year
to remember you

look at my body
and wonder at how you made it from yours

look at my yesterdays
and how you took me in

see how i've grown mamma
come back home again


the sun falls on your back in gentle waves
and wind comes in on your face
the week is done, and the accounts logged
the two days bonus free
life swerves and turns
you catch your breath and wait
for the monsters that this lap will bring
but its just days of gentle sunshine
and mild and gentle, near-happiness
once again, the song in ur head
says let it never end
all things said and done,
what a beautiful world
what a wonderful life


i've switched off my heart
and put it in my pocket
sheathed my words
and put them away
buried under the blueberries
on the way to the sunset
i cant forgive
u didnt teach me how
but sometimes
i try and forget ...
and now baby,
i've come home

walk in my shadow
put ur little hand in mine
and follow me in through the back door
i should have done this
years ago

if i'd opened my eyes
i'd have seen
their blackholes and red eyes could be locked in their bedroom
while u and i turned the key
baby, how could i not know
what my fear was doing to you

they're bad men and women
they're monsters and bastards
they're ugly and sweet
and fatally lovable

baby, ill let u play
this time ill watch out for u
this time i wont run away
this time i'll grit teeth and stay

Wednesday, September 27, 2006

The death and evil merchants

A bit O reality porn perhaps?

Monday, September 25, 2006

another from the pen and lens merchants

Saturday, September 23, 2006

Thursday, September 21, 2006

Snowy White
Vicious Bite!

Wednesday, September 20, 2006

The Few and The Many

these are the few,
the hindus,
the pagans,
the rastas,
the sikhs,
the shinto,
the buddhists,
the taoists.
these are the few that number two billion.

these are the many,
the jews
and the christians
and the muslims,
who number four billion and kill not only themselves
but also the few with their games of whose word of god is right.

why won't you listen to your singular god?
"thou shalt not kill"
why won't you practise what you preach?
"love thy neighbour"

and the few shall inherit the debris of death.

words by cocaine jesus

The water's in the refrigerator. get it yourself.will you?

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