WetWell

Serene cadence of neo-noir death of masterpiece velvet upon screen. A story to unhinge the listening soul but a wicked reflection almost unseen. Such harrowing beauty and sublime honesty in fact purloined. My heart breaks at such artistry. I hear the solemn song of my existence as laughter within a gilded purse. Echoes ring in vault-like basements filled with dusty reels, lies terse. From the final tone of such betrayal I set my body painfully, ruefully upon a value. I give to the listening soul my song, my art, which shall be all true.   

Alone at night in an unlit room the mind fashions itself external, and all about becomes darkened chambers of memory and life. Shrowded history....my own indeed....my lived and unlived days.... my wasted days and....the others. In an unseen doorway I see....HER....black, sublimate figure of all my earthly works....my history is HER as perfect black. Faded and at rest, waiting one day to rise, one day in the final flame....to rise. I would have HER gone! Drawing me to recollect....my choices.... options that drifted across my life as fumes do a city street....and I grasped at what I could....I chose....I remember....artificial light

Friday fades behind the Regency terrace and the Oriental domes, Georgie's maisonette awaits its nightly glow and glass fronted appartments wait patient for the coming of the dark. Amidst the city's failing hue and herbal funk, the merry prepare for their unfurling. Polyphony, wine, laughter and idealistic prose sit upon the tip of evenings tongue. In the library sit the weary time-killing crowd, eyes engaged in routine left to right with intermittent cascade to dozing. Conscientious students too, the obsessive, and the homeless. Softbacks lean against one another like lovers, woozy lovers, swooning....prescience of tonights streets perh

The insight granted us by television's frame is like striking a match in a blind king's mausoleum..... preparations for the afterlife,   chalking off of equivocal deeds,     dull eyes set upon one last enduring triumph. A life lived in the mud of a golden cage and virtuosity engineered in the play of syntax.... bespoke adjective welded to inflated verb,   conjunctions rivet together glossy print monuments,     exclamation mark ends sentence but plasticises sentiment. Death lived out as food for tabloid guts whilst sedated public salivates the terminal approaching eternal.

The candescent prodigy of the greatest age. Demanded by the mass, renewing the Eucharist beyond the old world; unforseen rituals, sweat rising up in the "blood". The greateset saviour of the day, perhaps even the week, but it is already prophecide that he will give his life for us, so that we may sin, so that we may self-forget, but he will have his column inches. I speak as a self-forgotten man who sees the world transfiguring in the very moment in which it's failed to be grasped. A little like, I think, I see a starling on a tree branch singing its nature away, I blink, now it's lying lifeless on the road. A little like, I think.

Ra Ra Ra Ra Ra Ra Ra! The sound to be heard flowing from the royal mile of rugged disposition. The sound of joviality decieving, of enchantment bequeathing, of lust beginning and death on creeping. Walking inconspicuously in a heaving mile mass is a two pointed affair, great spur to either end. All about is a dance, full spectrum of colour, screams and music too. The steps are without rhythm but they find one sui generis in the bustle and the din..... Life could be no more irrefutably proved than here. Supping on burning coffee in the middle of it all, searing insides witnessing madness in a biting Arctic wind. A lone kite flies

Hangman, Hangman, slack your line slack it for a time, 'coz my eyes do hold an honest feelin' born in the waste of the days, born in the waste of the days. Look, look, look, look, look, look, look, into my eyes will my tears stand as your fee?, or do you have to send me swingin' high from your hangman's tree, high from your hangman's tree. My, my, my, my, my, my, my, what I could have been In the days I ne'er shall see, 'coz my crimes have brought me to your dealin' soon to be waste of my days, soon to be waste of my days. Hangman, Hangman, hold your line hold it for a time, 'coz my life can't end with me a swingin' high

A - The clock ticked 11 seconds and two minutes more as we sat and waited B - I waited to hear it said that what I knew meant something more than dead... A - Was he dead!? He was a happy thing, it is sad that such a thing... B - These things happen, sometimes we make mistakes but never to be respected is... A - I suspected as much as the tenth hour passed, he stole her fickle heart B - As soon as the heart of that dainty queen was pressed between my legs... A - Those lads over there have stolen beer, I counted thirty kegs!