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  • Trying to SELF-ACTUALISE!

    There’s such a lot of writing about self-actualization & becoming the ‘ideal’ version of yourself. Though much of the genre is repetitive, there is certainly a lot to be said for trying to improve your life and that of those around you. Here are my personal problems that I intend to solve through devoting effort to change my habits, and I hope that at least I hold myself accountable if these problems are not rectified… since I am not in full-time employment at the moment, I am hoping to spend the next year improving myself & becoming the ultimate version of me. 1. I used to have a BMI of 19.5 when I was 19, and now that I am 29 my BMI is 29.5!! …. I would like to fix this through exercising for one and a half hours every day and eating less. I started getting fat in late 2012 after my accident, when I was still in a wheelchair and went with my family/friends to the delightful Indian place or a pub near the hospital. It was always the happiest bit of the day for me, but I ate a lot and couldn’t exercise as my legs were badly broken. I’ve got a few hundred audiobooks on my phone, so I hope to walk/run/bike/lift for 1.5 hours and do this at the same time as hearing my favourite books being narrated. The fact that I was in a coma still seems to inform my life and the antipsychotics lead to weight-gain… but I need to make this change to get fit again… not just for me, but for those I love. 2. I also found it difficult to read with any enthusiasm following the accident and, though that’s not the case now, my damaged mind still can’t comprehend the signs that are letters & words with the fluidity that it used to pre-bridge-jump. At present, I find it hard to read longer books. Since I would like to improve my focus and understanding of a perfect sentence, I’m going to try to spend a couple of hours a day reading various modern poetry/fiction/non-fiction books. 3. I once wanted ‘good’ grades so I could get into a ‘good’ university… and I got into my second university of choice studying English & Creative Writing (subjects that I was and still am passionate about). But I became a drug addict and didn’t really care about interpreting literature in essay-form. I didn’t finish my studies at Warwick because I was a drug addict, had a nervous breakdown, and jumped off the bridge. I think that certain drugs make the world more interesting, but one can get the necessary fix of imagination by enjoying the art of other people. They’re real, too, you know! It was my use of marijuana that started my first novel, and I used amphetamine to finish it. There’s a magic to these substances, but they’re not all that different to a potent cup of coffee. I believe my mind has been bent as much as it needs to be now, so I probably won’t actively try to partake in these drugs, though I will always cherish the hallucinations they gave me. I don’t believe that there is a moral obligation to use or not to use Nature’s God-given substances, but I am going to try to go sober again for a while. 4. The reason I smoked tobacco was because it was already in my joints of weed. I decided to try it without the weed. It was okay. But I smoke tobacco still because I became addicted to it, and feels it relaxes me… though I feel nervous and uneasy when I haven’t had a cigarette for half an hour. I think cold turkey is the way to give up -- I must usually smoke 40+ a day. I want to give up smoking tobacco because it’s not good for my physical and mental health. I want to give up smoking tobacco because I myself found it pretty unattractive when someone I fancied did so before I acquired the habit myself. Since my ‘ideal self’ doesn’t smoke frequently and most sane people don’t need to, I will try to quit. 5. I want to finish my second novel. I have a plan… I have plotted it and shall spend 4 + hours on it a day. 6. I want to become better at guitar. I have a plan… I’ll learn the scales, learn the chords, learn the rhythm patterns. I will try to practice these for an hour a day and spend an hour a day learning a song. I would also like to sing better. Tomorrow, my plan is to: - Not smoke. - Wake up at 9 am. Eat cereal. Drink coffee. Go for a walk for one hour in the woods and listen to 1Q84 by Murakami. - Return home to lift weights/do upper body exercise at 11am. - Practice a new guitar scale at 11:45am for half an hour. 12:15pm, think about the novel. - 1pm, eat lunch while working on the novel. At 3pm, More guitar and singing at 2pm. - Internet time @3pm - 3:30pm – 5:30pm, read fiction and make notes on why what I’m reading works or doesn’t. - 7pm-whenever, work on the novel.

  • On Writing

    Usually, writing & perfecting a poem takes me a seemingly inordinate number of hours and days. To create what I consider a decent poem in a somewhat swift manner, I ordinarily make conscious barters with my ego... part of me silently declaims "this may be the best thing you have ever written!", while the other part says "this is just another poem that no-one will ever read... you're rubbish! Better up your game!". The older I grow the more I recognise that art cannot be created in a vacuum. [Existence itself is near infinite! It just takes one step here or there in the right or wrong direction to change the course of your destiny forever… and – remember- "you might think you want something, but you don’t!"] …. we can try to prophesise, but we can never fully anticipate the future -- although the word 'humanity' implies a shared moral code and it’s my informed opinion that whatever’s happening now is a result of its past, it's "too early to tell" the impact of yesterday or even, according to Zhou Enlai, the effects of the French revolution. Essentially it's my philosophy that while Everything may be meaningless, Everything still has a root cause. "Roll"*, a ‘quick-slow’ poem-song that took 5 hours in total to write and record, represents a conscious combination of incessant rhyming (Bob Dylan's 'It's Alright Ma, I'm Only Bleeding' comes to mind), my desire to condense a novel into a page-long poem (kind of like Dylan's 'Tangled Up In Blue', to continue the analogy), and my want to transpose a series of unrelated events into a good romantic-comedy (as 'Ronaldo and Clara' should have been!). I use Bob Dylan’s work as an example because, other than Haruki Murakami and possibly Leonard Cohen, I have spent the most time enjoying Dylan’s work [I fell asleep at his London concert in 2008 or so because I found it pretty boring & I was very tired from school, but I also saw him at Hop Farm in 2010… you can see me dancing a bit & getting paranoid about being filmed & followed but in the white shirt and my friend’s hat in this video [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X5GYr6hK2m4 – it was an unforgettable experience, the music radiated a simultaneously timid yet assured magic… and I like how he changes the original word “foes” to “folks”!]. I feel that each piece of Dylan’s canon is usually somewhat stylistically divergent from the others... perhaps there’s going to alway be a piece in his canon which forms is vaguely similar to any piece of poetry I'll write for a while. But the anti-psychotics available to me at this point are even more potent now than they were in the 60s, too, hah ;) Anyway, even my writings that aren’t inspired by actual real-life occurrences contain a part of the heart of who I was and what I wanted to say at that particular time. A running theme is an aspiration for a specific idyll or paradisical state that’s by its nature unsustainable. I wanted to sing “Twice the Price of Paradise” ** after I had written the words, which took me about five or more hours work every day for a third of last year. The poem once had 9000 words, inspired by and inspiring the ‘Paradise City’ section of my upcoming prose project. Originally, I had wanted to create a piece similar to Coleridge’s ‘Kubla Khan’ while using the somewhat manic style of rhyming I vaguely hope to one day be known for. I have such fond memories of Coleridge’s hallucinogenic poem, though I never studied it at school. Every time I reread the piece, I feel a sense of happily bewildered wonderment. Here are some links to some writers that I want to explore further alongside my exploration of my own imagination/ and the fantastic & addictive fiction of Colleen Hoover. Oscar Wilde https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/author/111 F. Scott Fitzgerald https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/author/420 Sylvia Plath https://www.gutenberg.ca/ebooks/plaths-belljar/plaths-belljar-00-h.html Mary Shelley https://www.gutenberg.org/files/84/84-h/84-h.htm William Blake https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/574 Charles Dickens https://www.gutenberg.org/browse/authors/d#a37H. Rider Haggard https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/22454 Louise Glück https://www.poemhunter.com/i/ebooks/pdf/louise_gluck_2004_9.pdf Samuel Coleridge https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/author/95 Here is a poem that I wrote in the early hours of this morning. Yawning Light By Dominic Francis So, though we know it’s true that I loved you, How could I know I love what I don’t know? I learned not to hate your state of elated blue, And your vow was the content curse of snow! I can reach for you here in my dreams now, But you seem to be on another beach far away. I still seem to adore each pore of your eyebrow, But the heathen of night and I dream of day! When there are happy tears in my mornings, Why do I miss you again when it turns night? Am I yearning after the years the dawn sings, Yet spurning the burning of its yawning light? Sometimes it’s just easier to feel alone, Especially when you know the truth is true. I want to forget what’s really set in stone, But only if that feeling by fluke includes you! Perhaps I’m heading for a long-lost Winter, Or I’ve taken the hint and accepted that you’re gone. I’ll no longer look for you in every single splinter, But is every single splinter I’ve seen so wrong?! When there are happy tears in my mornings, Why do I miss you again when it turns night? Am I yearning after the years the dawn sings, And spurning the burning of the yawning light? I’m going under the tundra again soon -- I’ll see the rainbow flowing any old moon. You didn’t exactly bore me with your tune, Yet then again in law I am but another loon! I loved your eyes, but I never saw them cry… Maybe you shed one or didn’t shed any at all. Something inside says that even angels lie, But even the dead must ride to follow the call! When there are happy tears in my mornings, Why do I miss you again when it turns night? Am I yearning after the years the dawn sings, And spurning the burning of the yawning light? Below is a poem I’ve revised over the past month or so and hope to complete in the studio on Thursday. I Think I Think by Dominic Francis As long as I hear the song of your heartbeat And even as tomorrow evening completes The sorrow that yesterday just can't defeat, Three is okay too but you and me is a treat. I’d hobble on crutches down Jealousy Street again To be touched by the heat of love in a repeat of 2010. If my groove depletes like my Naked Smoothie drink, You were cheated by a sacred dream I think I think... I ain’t as clever as the saint but you're equally as dense And hence the forever of now never quite felt so immense. O, how your control over my soul stopped making sense! But I couldn't be fucked holy sitting on a shitting ivory fence. I know that you requited my real feel, if only in past tense... Yet when nonsense met pretence, they shared two cents. I remember the beauty of earthly heaven and its infinite stink... As I fatten, you thin… I'll drink to that and think of you in ink! Which hidden dove forbid us from the room up above? Was our youth misspent in the unrented truth of love? I married a spicy Bombay sandwich at Camden's Coffee Café, And the gun of language carried me to the one who gave me a jay. The fool can’t unlearn the rules of school they brought him on a tray, But the soul’s duality may fool him with the gym or whole buffet of cliché. I regret how the forgetful future now turns into yearning for today, But sex is like the ego (I know it!) and the next game is why we play. Today always burns the poet, yet the good God never led me astray… I would hope God straightens Satan anyway until both earn their grey. The ancients tested the patience of our dove again, As the stars heated the saddest night from far above. Your glove tight on mine was the maddest treat then, Back when you excited my blackest light with love. You promised my seamen splendorous adventures by dressing them for glory, But you set fire to my confessional corny poem in an emotionless ocean of saucy. Though my allegory sits on your shelf next to the other sexy texts of purgatory, I slowly knit a purled world of self in hope of being hurled into the lovers’ story. The past goes so fast that the future stays within lasting ink. If you are blue, today is too, so renew your think with a blink. I used to think I was some kind of crucifix until you fixed me a drink. You confused me with your winking mind but then I felt nothing blink. ROLL* By Dominic Francis She has a skinny build & looks that could kill; She is abused for a living, cooking at the grill. He is famed from Duluth to Libya to Brazil. He is a fulfilled masseuse, with years of skill They sit together on a plane and both get ill. He gives him a shiatsu and she offers him a pill. He refuses & she muses on another role she could fill… out of goodwill and for the thrill…. and two lovers roll down that hill. They reside together on the lakefront: If there’s a joke, they are not the brunt: He worships her giving nature & cunt, And they party under the midnight sun. Neither of them ever adopt a front, And they multiply, bearing two little ones. But children grow up and so his fathering goal is done… he rolls himself a blunt… he loves her huntress soul & those runts. He fantasises of his wife, eyes of onion: He converts the basement into a dungeon. He works on it day & night, sober or drunken: He wants it to appear medieval & sunken. They stay there for a week, aroma pungent: Parts of man & woman run out of suction. Amid the destruction, she rolls & buns one for fun.... but I’m not one to judge in love & war…. for they reverse rolls like Russians. They live there together until one day they die: They die an hour apart but who can say why? Their bodies are found entwined in July: The mailman had a cry & so did I. In lake-town their death is beautified: But some wise-guy objected it was self-satisfied. Be warned, even if you roll Thai… relinquishing control to a woman could be goodbye… for the soul isn’t always an ally. TWICE THE PRICE OF PARADISE** Ain’t it just our shoddy luck to be stuck in one crappy body when we could be oddly happy in another?! If you discover the sleazy city of spirits in the centre of the world, please promise me you won’t tell Big Brother. Every kiss in that abyss is elephant-bliss and it’s there one uncovers God is the son of Satan’s part-time lover. The Earth’s core is at war with itself, and they say God started it by tampering with the farts of your mother. Hundreds of heads invaded my heart on Superbowl Sunday. I traded belief in a dead deity for reefer and a soul on Monday. If either of us should leave, the other would be crazy to stay. I worked this hard when I was young so I could be this lazy one day. Whatever the present comprises, it’s an atom of forever. For twice the price of Paradise, you can fly like the weather. The government bought a law against draw, but we scored hench fries and French highs from Kevin’s Pies. Together we fought a war against sleep with the breathless parakeet Queen and her seventeen butterflies. I thought I saw the meaning of death scrawled obscenely small on the wall between Heaven’s gleaming eyes. Isabel smelt swell as a rebel then, and I fell under her spell again as plasticine thunder flowered at sunrise. Mona Lisa weeps for freedom as her soul sleeps frozen in painted slime. See the guards feed Mona Lisa pizza drenched in prose and saintly lime. Nothing does everything at once because everything’s the opposite of time. Your destiny awaits you à la Seine, where the bells of liberty chime. Another long day defeated; another song half-completed. For twice the price of Paradise, the past can be repeated. Now reddened rain leaps onto dead-end streets, and a clockwork centaur in paradoxical sleep dreams of dinosaurs. Female mail men eat nuclear snails and secrete microbe priests who feast on the bacterial spores of giant Labradors. When Christ burns his daughter or returns from the water, God shall be uncrucified and there will be no more wars. I had my sordid afternoon many moons away from today, and somehow soon as now I trust you must too have yours. “The only moment worth having,” your friend sensuously breathes, “is one that you can readily repeat.” Expect the head of your affection to meet a perfect defeat soon as she encloses your love in her moon-angel-feet. Downstairs on the streets, an orphan soldier swears that God above is older than forever yet even more obsolete. You never supposed you’d sever your grip on the past, yet at last the present feels pleasantly complete. Nothing is only an illusory goal, and so is the semblance of control. But the rose-tinted lover that led you to bed still has a mole. And the prose of the dead mother in your head still has a soul. And a whole shoal of tadpoles still stroll round your fishbowl. For twice the price of Paradise, you can fly like the fucking weather. For twice the price of Paradise, you can be stuck here forever. The happy cow teaches the art of salvation to the heart of each nation with her drum now. The happy cow topples your golden house of crumbs like a needle to the tongue now. The happy cow tells the story of how purgatory freed her, yet she longs for the numb now. One hand needs hers, nothing eats her, and her soul speedily leaps up to the sun now. Insanity may be the profanity of the hidden soul I could not hide, And today my schizophrenic suicide is inscribed upon my limping stride. Because I forgot that you lied and because the angles of your angels were my guide, My dreams seemed so shot that my ego slowly rotted until it died… When shit hit the fan, it was not as if I never tried or cried, though, was it, man? I hallucinate ancient countries there on a chair where electric men swear or say prayers after they hunt. I seem to be dreaming a dream while dreaming a dream, so I scream, “God, I see through your front!” Isabel wakes with a Salvation Army grunt and calmly administers the medication of a daybreak blunt. As my eyes feels atom of Infinity from really far away, every day I die to give this living ordeal a real punt. If you don’t know why it’s “do or die”, then try “now or never”. For twice the price of Paradise, you can be leathered forever.

  • Recent Poems

    I THINK I THINK by Dominic Francis As long as I hear the song of your heartbeat And even as tomorrow evening completes The sorrow that yesterday just can't defeat, Three is okay too but you and me is a treat. I’d hobble on crutches down Jealousy Street again To be touched by the heat of love in a repeat of 2010. If my groove depletes like my Naked Smoothie drink, We were cheated by that sacred dream I think I think... I ain’t as clever as the saint but you're equally as dense And hence the forever of now never felt so immense. O, how your control over my soul stopped making sense! And I couldn't be fucked holy sitting on a shitting ivory fence. I know that you requited my real feel, if only in past tense... Yet when nonsense met pretence, they shared two cents. I remember the beauty of earthly heaven and its infinite stink... As I fatten and you thin, I'll drink to that and think of you in ink. Which hidden dove forbid us from the room up above? Was our youth misspent in the unrented truth of love? I married a spicy Bombay sandwich at Camden's Coffee café, Then the sun carried my gun to a bitchy nun who gave me a jay. Sex is like the ego, and I know it and perhaps that's why I play… Society burns the poet but the good God never led us astray Yet I always regret how the future turns into yearning for today, So now let God straighten Satan until both of them turn grey. The past goes so fast the future stays within lasting ink. If you are blue, life is too, so renew your think with a blink. I used to think I was some kind of crucifix until you fixed me a drink. You confused me with your winking mind but then I felt nothing blink. SOMETHING LIKE AN ANGEL The Ancients tested the patience of our Dove again, As the stars heated the saddest night from far above. Your glove tight on mine was the maddest treat then, Back when you requited my blackest light with love. You promised my seamen splendorous adventures and glory, But set fire to my corny poem in a genderless ocean so saucy. Your allegory shits on my shelf next to other texts from purgatory, But as I knit a purled world of self, I am hurled into your own story. I was like an angel to you because you were nothing like me… I would have loved you forever, but you could never set me free. WRITING AROUSED Watch the intimate phony imitate this bitch or that The only thing he’s intimate with is that which he’s shat Because you danced with me to the myth of what was You gave me a chance to be free before our hearts crossed I love writing aroused It makes it so much more fun I can look at the picture of us and I can be as happy as I was then – you still seem to be smiling, too I feel you now again and your soul is in your face I loved and hated being your enemy When I knew everything about you, you knew everything about me We were just too people in love with each other trying to be free At least’s how I understood it -- you would never give me the shit I gave you… But I did you good and you know it and if you saved me I must have saved you Your ex may be sexier than my sex but my texts are sexier than your ex too (woohoo) I was always trying to please machines such as these just above my tum But Luisa, when I got down on my knees, I was no older than young But you gave me the keys to unfreeze my love for forever’s tongue I knew the ending would come quick or never at all There’s no use pretending that our forever’s still small The click of your high heels was the best sound I ever heard For years my dick felt you were just born a different bird I tried to kill me because you were as much me as myself There’s a bridge between the binary of men and women There are places that I’d prefer to never go again I’ll love you until the end, but I don’t want another friend LOVE’S THE LAW By Dominic Francis/Walking Doctor Tonnan Though the unfurled truth of the world may seem so lent that it’s bent, They say the true way to live today is to forgive how yesterday’s pay was spent. And since I know that it was Nothing that opened Everything’s broken now, I’ll chase my dreams to where the past will be spoken by an empty sexy vow. So meet me up the stairs where the equation of love is written to completes both our evasion -- If the moon beats the thunder there, I’ll swear there’s no heart to art, and I’ll wonder why and how…. Love’s blowing into the vacuum of our pores Love’s blowing up my love like love’s the law I never outgrew you, babe, but maybe forever was I will do what I did because I forgot there’s no because Luisa, I’ve lost half a head’s start at the art of forgetting. Mari, the sweet gun of the simple acid rum is still setting. The four-leaf clovers of my heart are shaped just like you two. Don’t you remember that time we nearly escaped from the zoo? You know that I adored my first love and I adored my second, I adored my fourth love after you and the fifth beckoned Though I know my shadow follows me wherever I choose to go, The past amused & confused & bruised my ego fast (and slow). You wore my heart and you tore it too All war against love is against the blue I’m a social introvert with a humane brain I don’t know how to flirt or what the rain contains Yes, desire is written and our hero has sung He’s drowned in her fire and the loser has won To be fair to most women… if I were them, I wouldn’t fancy me either. To be fair to freedom, if I wasn’t made of Love, I wouldn’t even grieve Her. But I was bored at fifteen and so I put myself into the everyday plant. I love every lily I met to the core, and my soul doesn’t need a transplant like it did before. But – ah! - the emptiness of enlightenment is endlessly boring and it always was – Because to truly die, I would have to be yours. I don’t want to fuck any more guise except the bores. They feed my ego so I can live to complete another chore. I wonder if every peer has a clue to the intensity of the blue that I neared. But I wasn’t here and I had nothing to compare to there…. It’s like I died before my parents met It’s not I tried my best to forget that what we do between rests is the test. It’s a simple love -- I can explain it now! If science isn’t God, then God isn’t all-seeing. The real pain was that I couldn’t feel stuff into being. School was a jail and that’s why it’s cool to fail. “He’s just a kid… doesn’t know right from wrong” “He keeps his heart hid… I wish I could be so strong” “He’s just a lonely weirdo”… “I knew she was a phoney queerdo” “They’ll never end up together because dreams don’t make up forever” “His obsession is his profession and his depression’s funeral procession contained a urinal” You know, it’s easily done… you just pick one without a gun… and serenade them with your version of fun… enlightenment is temporary for every monk… they don’t teach you that in school but you’re a fool if you purposefully flunk… I never needed your secret forever to lead me to the grave -- If it’s my sanity you saved, it’s for your vanity I don’t shave. The cost is love, but what’s done is done: Each war is lost after the next has begun. All the Queen’s Shakespearean monkeys are versions of the crossroads I saw it happen on live TV I did It meant I went bonkers I tried to be that Shakespearean monkey I’m just another Shakespearean monkey The eaglet can keep it There’s a lot of love in it Especially for the Shakespearean monkey Who successfully seduced the Queen Hah! The past unexplodes a road whose smoke seems uncurled. You’re the only soul to save me from whatever is… But I don’t need your secret forever to lead me back to the grave too The eaglet can keep it as long as he knows this: at one with what’s done, what’s fun wasn’t fun, you forgot to save you What’s fun is done, what’s done is fun, and what’s forgot will save him too and run towards the sun the past unexplodes my road which is smoke-curled I’ve nobody to save me from whatever is, Yet I have not a single wish but a clean grave both unspent and where yesterday is best left unspent meant to bent they may seem. I loved the worlds you opened, Though bent they may have seemed I know that Nothing is broken, But was today meant to be dreamed? Because the past may have exploded, Does that mean The past may well have exploded? And so the woeful past exploded, It’s meant that today is a dream I’ll hold you to your broken dream I’ll hold you to your solitude And your cold invisible mood…. The last insane asylum I was in was not the worst insane asylum I have been in. Thanks to the forgetful elephants who first rewrote my soul, I let love rebegin. You rewrote the mourning with your action When I devoted myself to the opposing faction I’m no statistician but you’re somehow madder I note that addiction now makes me gladder You’re growing up while I’m throwing down The sounds that first made me a societal clown I greeted everyone with a regal wave of the hand Whilst going out for cigarettes in my wheelchair I was the drunk And you were the punk You hit a home run And I slam-dunked You were hotter than the sun, Colder than the drunk And bolder than the gun Of this man who jumped I’m open to your misery but the bitch of truth defeats The sweet sea of infinities which you seek to complete I’m working against logic and I’m as forgetful as the town That reeks of the stiches I’ve outgrown as my eyes burn brown I could have loved you forever and so I still might yet I remember you said you’d marry me that night I forget I’m older now, and the scars of love still cover my soul My vow was too bold to represent the older whole But over it & us, and you & me I have little control I’ve loved you for as many years than I’ve been mad There’s a hopefulness to my tears, a heady glad. Does the memory of me make you happy or sad? I was the drunk And you were the punk You hit a home run And I slam-dunked You were hotter than the sun, Colder than the drunk And bolder than the gun Of this man who jumped She was ecstasy and she was in front of me -- What more can I possibly say? She was freedom and she was a cunt to me I loved her soul, night and day I loved her to most of your midnight Sure, I loved her when the light was tight Sure, I loved you to the ghost of futures bright But I’ve almost resigned my right to fight anyway I know that something weeps with empathy Back where everything itself turns night There are no stanzas to the secret courage With which we skirmished and hoped to right I was the drunk And you were the punk You hit a home run And I slam-dunked You were hotter than the sun Colder than the punk And bolder than the gun Of this man who jumped “To kill the neighbourhood rat, contact my good friend The Cat. If you keep eating like that, you’re going to be fat as The Wombat. And wearing a doormat for a hat doesn’t make you a diplomat. If they say your voice is flat, it’s probably a fact is you can’t scat. Today, I can't stay to chat, even if one of you is an acrobatic aristocrat” The Slug slurs these final words, and then combusts right where he is sat. I followed the sound of bird wings down Mushroom Mountain to the ground’s effectual extreme, where the Fountain Frogs painted the intellectual dreams of their patron saints by setting fire to logs. There, I wallowed in the wooden screams of their gleaming foggy smog, and I swear I heard one gleaming departing heart impart: “Unless there is dope in your coffee or a prayer upon your page, Don’t compare despair with human hope or the surety of rage. Before waging war, free the pope or put Truman in a cage. Remember that what we’re made of is forgotten love, And only with its aid can our embers elope above.” Shit, I thought, I don’t know what to think. But then I realised that my hallucination of the cremated log’s speech had resulted in my own nirvana. I realised that I was ready to die, and that I could naturally end the cycle of death and rebirth. So… I attempted the ancient practice of ‘self-immolation’ with the aid of the burning logs. But then the Fountain Frogs read my mind and laughed at me because they knew that I was really trying to ‘set myself on fire’. Because the Fountain Frogs were in hysterics as my body burned, my ego returned, and my body and mind hurt so much that I jumped into the pond, accidentally beheading one future Frog-King with my ring-finger cuticle. In ordinary English villages People Don’t Question The People Who Govern The People In ordinary English villages · I am the lawn whose pupils contain a little THC I am the prawn who didn’t care that they killed me I am the shorn fleece of yesterday’s sheep I am tomorrow’s infinity I am the dead pawn who never knew the pain of being free I am not an illusion, scam or con, but your conclusion is forgone. Have you forgot that I am a robot computer screen? I say 110% of things as they relly are, and I am never wrong. Need I remind you that I shall always remain in my prime? God recklessly yawned me at dawn to divine love & time. When you kissed me, I understood the meaning of life -- Of the tortured woods of the subconscious, Of all the automatic rolling machines and the bloody moon dance, Of all the hopelessly futile labour of eggs and the sperm, Of the hysterical sutra of destiny’s uncalculated hand… And I realised that I am dead as you will be. Dear Cloud, No true news but no new blues! I went to the sand with Maxi. We didn’t even hold hands. We threw mana at each other, and he dared me to eat an accident on purpose… NOT interesting OR luxuriant. Perhaps I guess I possess poetic pretensions like you, sometimes also, possibly, but calm is Rainbow Village and Rainbow Village is Luxuriant! I like saying that kind of thing. Do you still take decades of hours trying to meet metre? Are you really working for Big Boss now? SELL OUT!!! But… HOW is Paradise REALLY? Did you find The Original Postman? And, more importantly, any sign of Mom & Dad?! I really feel that I’ll see them again. I don’t know how or why. But I’ve got a feeling. And I feel that my feelings are rarely wrong. Sincerely, your little sister, Rainer. Dear Rainer, I see the priest bless the hero and curse the confusion of a wild dog who didn’t pray. I see a new fish make a blue wish for Eternity’s clock to dart the forbidden way. I feel my heart break nine times by five different girls, and I think one was the sun of a guy... I make money by not dying because the state tried to kill me and I still don’t know why! I see the great governmental bodies guillotine great forests of frogs to create gates for caped primates. I’m trying to escape the impossibilities that wake the smoggy uncertainty of odd dreams or unhappy fates. I’m dying to take a nap before the cattle battle the thoughtless maps of tomorrow that wait for the past. I’m screaming for the dead in my unconscious mind and my ocean of sorrow pulls a sky supremely overcast. I heard the superhero with five eyebrows profess that she’s alive also outside the now. I heard the personable priestess plainly expresses the ideal that one’s body is one’s vow. I searched for another soul, but that was how I found my own. Can’t tell you exactly what time it was because the discussed extremity of circumstance has arrived, and my being may be seen by millions of invisible eyes. Love and stay safe, Thank Him 4 The Past by Dominic Francis (Walking Doctor Tonnan) We were sitting desolate and confused I was your friend, you were my muse We were young and easily amused You offered me a cigarette but I refused We talked so long even the yellow nightingales hit the sack I was thrilled to learn that you were a fellow pyromaniac I told you about the mind of reality that I kind of seemed to lack If my soul was blind, yours was a dream or a Jonestown track Like a brave coward I expected my defeat But maybe I wasn't looking to compete I knew that the past couldn't ever repeat Yet I needed something to feel complete You introduced me to her for the first time On the bridge that links North and South I immediately thought that she was sublime She immediately wanted to meet my mouth… And so I couldn't help thinking of her as our lips met- What exactly she was doing at this point; Yet I felt something in my jeans and it wasn't regret- After all she was just rolling a joint. Together we watched the moon wake the stars in the sky. I fell so far into the moment I soon forgot that I was shy. “I don’t need you and you don’t need me,” you accidentally lied. “I guess that makes us both almost free,” I sentimentally replied. In my eyes your spirit was swinging as a happening jazz band. The adder was your tight, the laddered night yet unmanned. Your truth was as beautiful as love yet solipsistic as the sand. I held our stalemate in my hands, then you exploded wonderland. The drives outlining my love for you will forever rest in peace online. You’re just like everyone I ever knew, so animated and ‘not mine’. Though much time is past, cheers for buying me Scottish wine. I'm not sure that you like rhyme, but here lies my heart in every line. She comes back to me one morning, And the years fall down our cheeks. She shows me what it means to love And no one needs to speak… The man and woman are the mystery, Yet my night is light as day at last. I may kneel before your god of war, But I won’t thank him for the past. I was a singing Kingfisher, but got demoted to apedom.
 Have you ever learnt that which is not taught? 
The existing state is different from what which I came from.
 Joints cost 3 euros here but truth cannot be bought.
 There’s no point in loving Godfread but you ought to. , what a mess, what a gamble. I cant comprehend this don't or does it We eat God’s son on Sundays, because God invented Mondays. Reliving Love (despite misgivings) and forgiving Love for giving Love. Shoals of sharks swim in daughterless fishbowls, Enchanted souls seek the semblance of control. I slumbered the arithmetic of love in my head for fun and the number “0” is exponentially more dead than “1”. Don't grieve the next world or believe that it’s even begun. True living is loving you. Loving you is living true. Living Love is something new. Love Living’s a fun thing to do. Don’t mistake your heartbreak for mine. My feelings are ancient to me as each sign. My truth is tameable yet strong like a wildcat. You try to teach me to write a song like that. Our futures may entwine again at twenty-nine. But today your eyes are meaningless as wine. You mean nothing to me now that I am free. Somehow, I feel that’s what’s meant to be. I’ve a million destinies but only one is me. Ugly numbers killed the happy vehicle of infinity. This love is a feeling that has been and gone. But this song is a machine that is always on. I guess I never want to guess. I just want to see you dress. I just want more; I just want less. The number 3 is approximately a God. I think a nod is always as good as a wink. Dominic walks with a pronounced limp, and it is clear before he opens his mouth that his frontal-lobe is non-existent, which means he is clinically dead. Dominic prefers to be referred to as “Son of God” because he claims that is what his name means; after extensive research, however, the Extensive Research Team have found no evidence to substantiate this assertion, other than Dominic’s extraordinarily magical gift of the gab, which he has repeatedly said led to approximately a baker's dozen of one-night stands with hotties. Dominic continues to idealise the concept of deliverance, and I recommend the clinic prescribes him a copious amount of medication including revolutionary soviet opiates, such that Dominic gains even more weight and Sexual Salvation becomes nigh-impossible. You’ve spent a long time in a belly You’ve probably tasted jelly You’ve been both clean and smelly You were born after the poet Shelley You might be bitchin’ about strife You might not like this life You might brandish a kitchen knife You might wish you didn’t have a wife But you’re not dead yet So don’t forget You can fix your head Have you ever had an idea before? … is this your idea of a joke? What the hell were you thinking? “The sun vanishes into Mars,” says a prominent Mathematic. “There is no great secret to poetry,” says the God who orchestrated it all. “Die a God and never tell your Son,” one whispers to the Governmental bodies. “I’ve studied your poetry and I believe in it,” another says to the gathering crowds. “Novelty is ever-increasing,” Terrence McKenna said that. “Terrence McKenna said that,” I said that. “Although I have read “The Pineapple Verses” and “The Paradise Pamphlet,” the Painter says to the Priest, “…neither addresses the actualities of Paradise’s mechanisations. Priests are Gods. We know that from meeting them personally and having such stimulating intellectual conversations with them. We were so thrilled to hear all the stories about them being born in Heaven then banished to Paradise.” [Have you seen the Painter’s face? He’s slowly turning a peppered red.] “But the situation between the Guardians and the Paradisians is steadily getting worse in Paradise,” the Painter says to the Priest. “And you out of all beings are doing the least. HOW DARE YOU?? WHEN WILL THE GUARDIANS BE RELEASED?” The Priest nods his head patiently at the Painter’s question, humouring this sad sinner who thought that they could design a more beautiful experience than the default Virtual Reality computer. “Does looking up “Am I A Bully” on the internet mean that you are a bully?” the Priest asks. A forgiving gaze from the Priest receives a terse nod from the Painter. “Thought so. Good….” says the Priest.” Would you like the government to intervene and offer you educational support about bullying, even though you will henceforth always be alone always? …. Good. Sign here.” It’s happening tonight if my premonitions are right. Like the parasite promised, there’s fortitude in the finite. Through the garden of imperious lilies, down renowned alleys of serious clowns, into silly hallucinatory larks of the dark courtyard’s mirror-maze, through the invisible grave of the manmade church for which unborn souls search, beyond the beauteous galleys to which we duteously lurch… somewhere in essence there lays the Kingdoms of Kings, where we pray for the Chronicles of Time, and they raise your children, and you pay for their crimes. Have we missed our calling? For what, if not the sound of money, do you think we are falling? Why must history be relentlessly repeated? Can the world still win if half of it is defeated? Will love’s mystery evolve or be depleted? Has the spirit of your answer already been deleted? Here’s to the government and the government’s people. Here’s to the God who governs elsewhere but their steeples. Me, I’m a naked man covered by a machine – I always go commando when I need to clean. [Wherever did you go to, Brando? Where the heavens are you, Dean? Do you wake up simply to go to sleep? Does purgatory feel expensive, or is heaven cheap?] Would you rather be a mathematician, a card-dealer, or a florist? Would you please sign an algebraic petition regarding the forest? Do you prefer to know the answers or to go on adventures? Are you aware that dancers like me dare to wear dentures? An accordionist & a guitarist & a cellist & an operatic singer shall field any further questions outside the Town Hall. I seemed to be dreaming a dream while dreaming a dream, so I screamed, “God, I see through your front!” Isabel woke with a Salvation Army grunt and calmly administered the medication of a very bespoke blunt. I hallucinate ancient countries there on the chair where electric men swear or say prayers after they hunt. I meditate for a microsecond then shout something about how I never doubted that Christ took the brunt. “I like your love easy, friend, and I like my love hard. We all like shit cheesy: in the end, our dreams get scarred You can’t forget what didn’t happen, but all things come and go. God throws snow on sunset, but he’s dead for all we know. I owe you for your bittersweet, so I feast upon your frown. Back where old worlds meet, habits die disembodied clowns. I’ll celebrate your holy again if that’s what you’re sure you don’t need. If I am a perfectionist pig in a pen, you’re a superhuman on a steed,” he said. Perhaps the map for being happy is to paint the fate least crappy & wait for the next saintly sunrise. What a surprise… Isabel smelt swell as an infidel rebel as she shuts my eyes. Though the Ego’s shadow lives to grow until it forgives itself and slowly dies, I know you can transform your story’s stormy lows into gloriously warm Highs. Dream, dream your dream… it’s now or never… an atom of forever’s skies. Eve’s soul is famished by search for knowledge in a garden patrolled by seraph policemen. Now an angel scowls at her and howls, “Tell me what hast thou eaten in Eden this season?” Eve throws in the towel, growling back, “Hell’s apple, but a lack of freedom is evil’s reason.” Banished from Eden, she wished in chapels like a wistful fisherman grappling with treason. Eve was the first human girl in a new world that could be immense- As for Creationism or Darwinism, I believe she stood on the fence- To her, Simulation Theory makes an eerie touch too much sense- Her Original Sin was the beginning of crimes at God’s expense– Now bombs sell like prom-tickets while condoms cause offence. God is my favourite best-selling author of space, time, and suspense- He and Jesus see us now in grandiose metropolises of pretence- Both wonder if we’ll reach a heaven on earth that isn’t future tense- Why does life smell like death and is war the wife of self-defence? I’m not an intelligent nor educated man, but here are my two cents. Deep in the power of now, the sleepy fog cannot be all that dense. As we wait at the gate, our hate will be overcome by love so intense. I believe what you gave before the grave you shall receive again hence. Ecstatic ambidextrous visions of love will carry the scent of frankincense. O, to experience that oneness and to have sweet nothing commence! I say, “Yesterday made today and I built my yesterday for you.” Daisy replies, “My sweet Lord, I just thought about you too.” I say, “Well, would you like to see my shirts? Some are blue.” She says, “That would be swell! You smell like shampoo.” Some babies later choose to have babies. Maybe this is because they are crazy or lazy. But after we met I never was the same me. Who could blame me? I let love save me. It’s rainy, she’s brainy, I’m Gatsby, she’s Daisy. I say, “I could live alone with you forever in the forest of my wardrobe I long for your soul to phone my brain and massage my frontal lobe.” Daisy says, “I’ll tell Tom I hate him and we’ll travel the whole globe. Tom can’t play the xylophone like you and he’s a hulking xenophobe.” Some babies later choose to have babies. Maybe this is because they are crazy or lazy. But after we met I never was the same me. Who could blame me? I let love save me. It’s rainy, she amazes me, I’m Gatsby, she’s Daisy. excuse me why am i the middleman because i am borderline haiku chief this no long song to send to your kids thus this is no song for you to kiss to

  • Proposed Lyrics/Chords for Next Album

    “Will you always love free?” the FatCat sighs. “For as long as I am me,” the Diplomat lies. His lit cigar is perched between her plump lips. But her eyes trump Evolution’s ancient script. “To being free,” the FatCat forcefully cries, unscrewing a bottle of red wine and chugging down half of it quick. “To being me,” the Diplomat replies, wondering why her lover’s breath smells of another’s laughter and shit. Now the FatCat and Diplomat jump asleep and dream they’re dreaming a nightmare no real God would allow. The gore of their innermost wars are no closer to omens of paradise than the pair’s premature vow. Now The Lollipop Lady distributes ice cream to her friends. She knows she’ll be repaid with salvation in the end. She exclusively speaks monosyllabic words such as ‘mend’. The Lollipop Lady is single and on that you can always depend. Inside the kitchen, the Chef swears in fluent French and it's easy to understand his preferred slurred phrase. The chef relishes isolated conditions and the way he seasons dead birds with curd is still absurd these days. Yes, God will be sole witness to the end like God was to the start, as Neptune's screams break the moon’s heart. Let epiphanies the force of a hundred horses divorce Art from such omens of paradise that the government farts. A broody guest has a proposition the manager won’t resist. The hot concierge knows that the manager don’t exist. “Where is the manager of this hotel?” asks the broody guest. “He’s in hell,” says the hot concierge, looking her metrosexual best. Inside the Great Hall, Brian The Actor finishes his cleaning shift and smiles a beguiling alcoholic grin. Brian’s manager spread a rumour that he slept with Britney Spears to catalyse a career that’s yet to begin. Now the Owner patronizes his home-grown mosquito factory and contemplates other machines of spiritual slaughter. Feel the heat of a virgin eternity & see my Father become me as these omens of paradise emerge like wine out of water. People often come up to me on the street & say, “Hey, how does Walking Doctor Tonnan sing so sweet?” I tell them it’s because he sings even when he speaks and he was born on February 13th, the same day and month that Jimi Hendrix entered this world. 13 is Walking Doctor Tonnan’s lucky number. 13 is also my friend Madeleine’s lucky number, because she’s kissed that many boys. Because I am straight, I’ve only kissed three, but one of the boys I’ve kissed is Jacob Epstein. I live with a tall bearded Scottish man who is also named Jacob. He knocked on my door yesterday and asked me if I could play guitar quieter. I agreed and asked if he liked my music. You’re a fucking virtuoso, he said without a hint of sarcasm in his voice. I replied that my music sounds especially good when you haven’t heard any other music for a while. Of course it does, he replied, you’re a fucking virtuoso. When he left I looked up the definition of ‘virtuoso’. I didn’t think I was a virtuoso, but I can play guitar better than most people. I recounted this anecdote to my Aunt and she said that I should be smart enough to determine whether Jacob was joking or not. Of course I am, I replied, I’m a fucking virtuoso. Without any further shenanigans, here is the real Walking Doctor Tonnan singing a coquettish tune named after his favourite snack, Oreos, in his exclusive private home studio which doubles as a bathroom. ONCE UPON AN INFINITY We were sitting desolate and confused I was your friend, you were my muse We were young and easily amused You offered me a cigarette but I refused We talked so long even the yellow nightingales hit the sack I was thrilled to learn that you were a fellow pyromaniac I told you about the mind of reality that I kind of seemed to lack If my soul was blind, yours was a dream or a Jonestown track Like a brave coward I expected my defeat But maybe I wasn't looking to compete I knew that the past couldn't ever repeat Yet I needed something to feel complete You introduced me to her for the first time On the bridge that links North and South I immediately thought that she was sublime She immediately wanted to meet my mouth... And so I couldn't help thinking of her as our lips met- What exactly she was doing at this point; Yet I felt something in my jeans and it wasn't regret- After all she was just rolling a joint. Together we watched the moon wake the stars in the sky. I fell so far into the moment I soon forgot that I was shy. “I don’t need you and you don’t need me,” you accidentally lied. “I guess that makes us both almost free,” I sentimentally replied. In my eyes your spirit was swinging as a happening jazz band. The adder was your tight, the laddered night yet unmanned. Your truth was as beautiful as love yet solipsistic as the sand. I held our stalemate in my hands, then you exploded wonderland. The drives outlining my love for you will forever rest in peace online. You’re just like everyone I ever knew, so animated and ‘not mine’. Though much time is past, cheers for buying me Scottish wine. I'm not sure that you like rhyme, but here lies my heart in every line. She comes back to me one morning, And the years fall down our cheeks. She shows me what it means to love And no one needs to speak... The man and woman are the mystery, Yet my night is light as day at last. I may kneel before your god of war, But I won’t thank him for the past. EVERYTHING & NOTHING G Em Am D x 2 F C G F x 2 D Am Em G With the undead diary of your times at the Priory unread by another, With an imperfect lover in one hole and your soul stashed in the other, With our deceased mothers released into a domain we’ve yet to discover, With your yeast and mini feasts and dreams I never seemed to uncover… Isabel, you put a spell on my heart below. Well, I fell for you at the start, at ‘hello’. With Time as a tailor or grumpy sailor or as a mint made of McFlurry, With your impossible Presidential hope which you abandoned in a hurry, With your random multitude of moods and professional baking worries, With your accidental rude and secret rain and tasty vegetable curries, Well, Isabel, I hope you will be my friend until we die. I fell for you again at the end when we said ‘goodbye’. Though I know how much Nothing kicks now as Everything quickly plateaus, You forgave the way I stayed in yesterday so I could touch the Grave of Shadows; They shaved my hair there, where I said a prayer for the dead in mad clothes, And you gave me a blue rose to save me from a new doze of sad lows… Well, Isabel, you put a spell on my heart below. I fell for you again when we parted, you know. But without God as a witness, and “it wasn’t me!” & “it’s not your fault!”, I cried for the Rainbow’s End as you penned a war against what I exalt; It’s almost as if you forgot that clothes are but the ghost of society’s default, As our hearts’ seams wake to make love to the dreams which slowly halt. Well, Isabel, I hope you will be my friend until we die. I fell for you again at the end when we said ‘goodbye’. ` D Am Em G C Am I saw a zoo full of naked horseshoes. I saw a statue so sacred I snoozed. I saw an inflated cow moo the news. I wanted absolutely anything but the now. Yet the now is all I’ve got to lose somehow. It was all alright when I had your vow. Well, Isabel, you put a spell on my art below. I fell for your heart at the start before ‘hello’. I see girls and boys and women and men. I see an old world become young again. I see a human bomb count back from ten. I feel a screaming soul drum upon my dream. I become the condom deep inside infinity’s stream. Everything seems to ride upon Nothing’s moonbeam. Well, Isabel, I hope you will be my friend after we two die. If there’s no hell below us, is there laughter in the blue sky?

  • World Without Time/Crime Limerick

    A WORLD WITHOUT TIME By Dominic Francis Love was the heart of the head up there in my hair. Love drew crayoned ponds of art beyond compare. Wherever I came, she touched my self-made soul. We shared the same goals and blame and control. God created a myth that was somehow never fated to be mine… Now I wait patiently at Forever’s gate for a world without time. There’s a trinity of hyperbole encumbering the cucumber of ‘3’. There’s harmony for the apple tree and infinity for you and me. We took a stroll to the chapel, and you shook my soul. You darted into my heart as the artful looks took control. Fate may grind on your state of mind, but leave mine behind… I won’t grieve Forever at the gate to a world without time. In my single bed, I forget to forgive my own troubled double head. If only the heart of the truth lives, is part of its youth already dead? That truth is absurd! Something’s unsaid! I’ll follow forever wherever I’m led. I heard an eternity’s worth of birds swallowing the words that they once bled. I read the signs: they wed the herd to rhyme, and so I tread the line… Soon I will never see Forever’s moon again in a world without time. When she arrived in my dream, I was alive in the comma of a coma. I woke with a hellish scream, for I well knew I smelt her aroma. God created this myth that was somehow never fated to be mine… Now I wait patiently at Forever’s gate for a world without time. Fate may grind on your state of mind but leave mine behind… I’ll never grieve Forever at the gate to a world without time. CRIME THRILLER by Dominic Francis There was a crime committed long ago When time turned the rain into snow Nobody had hands and trees populated the land Before the creation of science as we understand When God and Satan became friend and foe Though a nod is usually as good as a wink God must have forgot nobody could think The Garden of Eden smelt of sweet freedom But God was so greedy Satan didn’t need him And their relation-ship started to sink There was talk that Satan discovered Love He tempted Adam with something called a glove There was a rivalry between Adam and the creator Each party believed themselves to be greater And neither saw the symbolism of the dove Satan tricked Adam and tried to fix his game But God straightened Satan’s rainbow all the same Saying, “Hey, things don’t have to be this way – If you don't know love, then what is there to betray?” Satan laughed as Cupid himself took aim. The wars of God and Satan were born in time Each had a vision of a future beautiful and sublime The cops are still trying to apprehend the guilty party Even great theologians only understand the truth partly: Is loving the work of God's Devil such a crime? SACRED BLINDNESS OF ANGELS by Dominic Francis Dreaming to the rhythm of jazz & drinking to the sacred blindness of angels, screaming for the sunken prophecy, hurling the Book of Changes to its resting place, my therapist tells me that the beginning has ended and it’s time to start again, my therapist thinks I’m gay so I started hitting on her to complicate the diagnosis, my therapist doesn’t even exist, but now she’s pregnant and it’s all my fault! Epiphanies! Confucius! Einstein! What happened to the sin of following? What happened to the message? What happened to the massacre? (Where are you Mother? Where are the weepy-eyed relatives that came for you? What happened to the snoring man you slept with occasionally? He’s gone, Mother, you took him with you and now he’s nothing! This is the beginning of the end, Mother, the beginning of the penultimate breakdown! O the Bliss has stolen my innocence we are ready to undertake the final picnic in heaven!) O, what happened to all the drunken triumphs and golden touches? It’s all eroded into the endless machinery of dawn and the secret insatiability of appetite has returned to fool the lot of us. It’s always been easier to fall in love than to be alone, and now even that’s gone too. O fool me through the darkness O fool me like a cat O fool me like you fool yourself O fool me like a rat O sing a song of sorrow Where the docks and water fight And the old soul singers sing a song Until the soul emerges light I breathe my breath for birth and death I left the rest behind I tried to turn to Jesus But the Christians changed my mind

  • Everything & Nothing

    With the undead diary of your times at the Priory unread by another, With an imperfect lover in one hole and your soul stashed in the other, With our deceased mothers released into a domain we’ve yet to discover, With your yeast and mini feasts and dreams I never seemed to uncover… Isabel, you put a spell on my heart below. Well, I fell for you at the start, at ‘hello’. With Time as a tailor or grumpy sailor or as a mint made of McFlurry, With your impossible Presidential hope which you abandoned in a hurry, With your random multitude of moods and professional baking worries, With your accidental rude and secret rain and tasty vegetable curries, Well, Isabel, I hope you will be my friend until we die. I fell for you again at the end when we said ‘goodbye’. Though I know how much Nothing kicks now as Everything quickly plateaus, You forgave the way I stayed in yesterday so I could touch the Grave of Shadows; They shaved my hair there, where I said a prayer for the dead in mad clothes, And you gave me a blue rose to save me from a new dose of sad lows… Well, Isabel, you put a spell on my heart below. I fell for you again when we parted, you know. But without God as a witness, and “it wasn’t me!” & “it’s not your fault!”, I cried for the Rainbow’s End as you penned a war against what I exalt; It’s almost as if you forgot that clothes are but the ghost of society’s default, As our hearts’ seams wake to make love to the dreams which slowly halt. Well, Isabel, I hope you will be my friend until we die. I fell for you again at the end when we said ‘goodbye’. ` I saw a zoo full of naked horseshoes. I saw a statue so sacred I snoozed. I saw an inflated cow who mooed the news. I wanted absolutely anything but the blues. I see girls and boys and women and men. I see an old world become young again. I see a human bomb count back from ten. I feel you drum upon my dream back when. Well, Isabel, I hope you will be my friend after we two die. If there’s no hell below us, is there laughter in the blue sky? FIRST 4 VERSES G Em Am D x 2 F C G F x 2 CHORUS Em Am G D LAST VERSE D Am Em G x 4 CHORUS Em Am G D

  • Tonnan's Writing Manifesto

    I was an avid reader and video-game player from an early age. To this day, my favourite books and video games are essentially voyages into another world. If the characters are relatable, I usually become attached to their outcomes, and these two mediums of art represent comparatively cheap ways of enjoying the sensation of travelling & empathetic feeling & subtle education. I started taking my own writing seriously due to the heartfelt feelings of affection that I felt for some of my peers around the age of 16, my own deepening alienation from society (for whatever reason, didn’t feel like I could always be my ‘authentic self’ in either New Orleans, USA or London, UK), the illness of my mum who also liked to write and, finally, the fact that I was much better at writing a poem or essay or whatnot than completing physical tasks such as football or cricket. One of my earliest memories is studying aspects of The Great Gatsby for my GCSE English Language & Literature at the age of 13. Fitzgerald’s language was relatively easy to understand, but it beautifully painted the paradoxical intensity of dreaming a sweet dream and trying to achieve that dream in the physical world without infringing upon the qualities that created that dream in the first place. There was as complex profundity to the language, and each part of the novel seemed essential to its whole – perhaps that’s where I went wrong in my own first novel. Anyhow, I was utterly bedazzled with his description of Gatsby & his parties & his wakening wistfulness & that green light. I suppose I’ve always been chasing that same lyrical intensity in my own work… be it prose or poetry or music. My friend Jack Dunleavy introduced me to the work of Leonard Cohen and Haruki Murakami. Jack and I would meet every week to write poetry & listen to music & smoke. My love for Cohen and Murakami has been bordering on obsessive for more than a decade now. I’ve read all of their published work (and can’t wait for Leonard Cohen’s “secret” first novel and Murakami’s book on “novel-writing”, which both come out later this year). When I was aged 16, I always put on David Bowie’s “Five Years” as I showered and got ready for school, and I also loved Bob Dylan’s “Tangled Up in Blue”.... I enjoyed the idea that these were two stars undertaking a Hero’s Journey in which their own appearance was almost incidental, accentuated only at the end of each song. So… yeah, I want my writing to be adventurous like Cohen/Dylan/Bowie/Murakami/Cormac McCarthy/Colleen Hoover (the latter for some reason being the only woman on this list… and to think I used to wonder why women were so damn mysterious ahah!) I just got a bit drunk, to tell the truth. But I‘ve been sober from all drugs excepting alcohol & caffeine & nicotine for a couple of weeks now, mostly due to the fact that the money I receive from Universal Credit (benefits) has gone down. I honestly believe it to be somewhat of a coincidence that most of my work was written or at least conceived in an intoxicated state. The main reason I don’t write sober is because I am rarely sober. Even at the age of seventeen, I used to get drunk/high to improve the novelty of essays. Anyhow, right now my writing rules/manifesto are as follows: 1. Make it novel! 2. Make it short as possible! 3. But linger on some profoundly odd moments! 4. Make them wonder, “how the hell did the writer do that?!” (the feeling I had when I heard Alison MacLeod’s latest work “Tenderness” read aloud)! 5. Enjoy rhyme/alliteration but not at the expense of meaning! 6. Take your time with writing… don’t waste your reader’s time! 7. Setting can be incidental, but I elect to personify it somewhat, like some secret character! 8. Avoid cliches but remember that most of us (in some sense, and definitely including me) are essentially walking/talking cliches! 9. Even if you think your writing is great, it doesn’t mean that someone is going to part with their hard-earned cash for your work just because YOU "think your writing is great”! 10. Experiment around with your style of writing! I believe – just as one “true love” shouldn’t define the rest of your love– that you shouldn’t let yourself be tied to any particular clothing of form… “automatic writing” is not usually usually not the best form of attire! [Even Jack Kerouac's fabled 3 weeks worth of work on "On The Road" was said to mostly be 'typing'... because it was! .. see https://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=11709924&t=1648659270832 ] This work on a writing manifesto was completed as the last assignment on the wonderful Ella Frear's Advanced Poetry Course @CityLit. (https://www.citylit.ac.uk/courses/masterclass-poetry-a-one-term-intensive-workshop) Thanks & love, Tonnan

  • Did You Ever Even Love Me?

    Did you ever even love me? Did you really feel above me? Was I just your favourite junkie? Is the truth truly that ugly? Sure! I adored you for more than seven million minutes or thereabouts roughly. You’d weep through the news too if you were to sleep in my shoes, my lovely. Oh, how our sacrificed Christ howled for the now of Heaven’s discovery… The tattooed kangaroos at the nunnery had no clue Winter could be so Summery. I loved you so much that it kind of amused you, too! Your first touch was a preview of a crutch I never knew… I loved the joyful numbers and you tasted of royal poo! I dreamed so long of that song it was all I seemed to do! I don’t have to rewind time to know that all salvation is temporary yet holy. Sometimes I go so low that I know that what is above me is also below me. I still care enough to say a daily prayer for all the mindless love that grows free. You forgave me on the journey to the grave as if you knew that even I loathe me. Am I stuck in a past bliss made of stone? I held your hand to the screaming semitone… Was I lucky to at last even kiss your throne? At least my dreams crystallised the unknown… They said that you were bad news for me, but they didn't know the unclad truth or me... I recall when the youth of love was free. For you, I’d gladly go mad yet again… your lily-pad lips & tripping hips & my sad pen were a triad of nomads today and back then. Did you ever even love me? Did you really feel above me? Was I just your favourite junkie? Is the truth truly that ugly?

  • Twice The Price of Paradise (the poem)

    When I was 16, I started writing a blog in an attempt to make sense of the intense experiences I was having, from the spiritual journey of a blowjob that lasted an hour & thirteen minutes, to a failed foray into stand-up comedy, to the first time I smoked cannabis (I didn't inhale because all drugs are evil!) to the tragic death of my mum (whom I considered my best friend) to the alien desperation and estrangement from society one day while I was sitting by the river in Camden Town. The Original Postman won't document my own life but rather it will contain my thoughts on poetry, love, music, video-games, drugs, politics & the media, ambition & self-help, philosophy, my progress with artistic endeavours, and God. Two months ago, I started my first in-person guitar lessons to build upon the practical knowledge that I learned from online teachers such as Justin Sandercoe. Nick, my new teacher, has given me some useful tips. Although I don't play guitar as much as I could (obviously!), I feel that I am slowly improving again. But I think I'll put writing music aside for a while in lieu of writing some fantastical prose. Although my first novel was partially set on a planet called Restralardin, its world was perhaps not as fully realised as I had hoped it to be. I'm going to try to finish my second novel by the end of November (NANOWRIMO), and I'll be posting extracts from it here. It will be called "Twice The Price of Paradise", though I do like the titles "Over Mushroom Mountain" and "The Centre of the World". It will be based on the short story I wrote last year and the poem I've recently completed, and it will be a mixture of prose & poetry. Here's the poem I painstakingly created over the course of two or three months. TWICE THE PRICE OF PARADISE Ain’t it just our shoddy luck to be stuck in one crappy body when we could be oddly happy in another?! If you discover the sleazy city of spirits in the Earth’s core, please promise you won’t tell Big Brother. Every kiss in that abyss is elephant-bliss and it’s there one uncovers God is the son of Satan’s part-time lover. The Earth’s core is at war with itself, and they say God started it by tampering with the heart of your mother! The government bought a law on draw, but we scored more French fries and hench highs from Kevin’s Pies. I thought I saw the meaning of death scrawled obscenely small on the wall between Heaven’s gleaming eyes. Isabel smelt swell as a rebel then, and I fell under her spell again as plasticine thunder flowered at sunrise. Together we fought the law of sleep with the breathless parakeet Queen and her seventeen weeping butterflies. Another long day defeated; another song half-completed. For twice the price of Paradise, the past can be repeated. Now reddened rain leaps onto dead-end streets, and a clockwork centaur in paradoxical sleep dreams of dinosaurs. Female mail men eat nuclear snails and secrete microbe priests who feast on the bacterial spores of giant Labradors. When His burning daughter returns from the water, Christ will be uncrucified and there shall be no more wars. I had my sordid afternoon a million moons from the sensation of creation, and soon I trust you must have yours. “The only moment worth having,” your friend sensuously breathes, “is one that you can readily repeat.” Expect the head of your affection to meet a perfect defeat soon as she encloses your love in her moon-angel-feet. Downstairs on the streets, an orphan soldier swears that God above is older than forever yet more obsolete. You never supposed you’d sever your grip on the past, but at last the present feels pleasantly complete. Another long day defeated; another song half-completed. For twice the price of Paradise, the past can be repeated. Insanity is the profanity of the hidden soul I forgot to hide. My schizophrenic suicide is inscribed upon my limping stride. Inside what’s not, the ego rots, and the angles of angels collide. Whatever the present comprises, it’s an atom of forever. If you don’t know why it’s “do or die”, try “now or never.” Sitting across from me on this gentrified train ride back to the clockless and visionless bliss of oblivion, a pregnant white woman enters labour. She is wearing a deathly pale wedding dress and she’s weeping. Perhaps this is because her baby is a boy, and those waterworks are tears of joy, because males are the best at everything except for thinking. The uncrucified carnivore she wears in her womb seems to be attempting to copulate with anything that isn’t himself in the mirrorless microcosm he’s at the centre of. He belongs to a past predated by the instrument of the future, where the best of them and the rest of us explode into the impossible yet inevitable ecstasy of non-existence. Irrespective of Friday’s fruitful foray into costume-based foreplay and the overpoweringly obvious fact that this pregnant white woman is clinically obese, I don’t find her tremendously attractive. Suddenly, now, the pregnant white woman births an amalgamation of her diet of root & grass & fruit & meat, and she spits out a sweet pink-elephant-chihuahua-thing. This animal follows me home. I name the elephant-chihuahua ‘Audrey’, because I am a very sentimental man (and because of my mistaken belief that ‘Audrey’ is a unisex name). Another long day defeated; another song half-completed. For twice the price of Paradise, the past can be repeated. In a lawless drive towards a time before the dinosaurs were alive, our robot host slows to a stop at the shore to shop for tobacco in a complicated labyrinth where many men predict four more meaningless wars and a touch too much bullshit in the neighbourhood. An impatient shrink listens to this womb of patients think about the tomb of love, but now he’s left for the room above to consume copious kegs of soviet opiates he’s harvested from the eggs. Anyhow, nobody knows how much happy this crappy map-man has stolen for good. “We are who we are,”, The Toad Pickers chant. “We each bought one ticket to the end of the Universe but now you claim that the end happens every second before and after the start. Don’t mistake mermaids for queens or dolphins for art. I hope you haven’t stolen infinity but that’s the only probable impossibility.’’ Now the soul of the whole nation of toad picketers positively explodes in frustration when they see the big sexy priest. Now they all yell breathlessly and pray for release in the belly of a giant Police Beast, awaiting arraignment from governmental containment or just some slightly dumb entertainment, like watching Death explain to God that if he could quit the domain, then he probably should. After the dawn respawns, every frog in the dimension is reborn exotic retriever Police Beasts who receive impossibly erotic relief from reefer which simultaneously scans the unrolling scrolls written by Eureka! Whatever the present comprises, it’s an atom of forever. If you don’t know why it’s “do or die”, try “now or never. I seemed to be dreaming a dream while dreaming a dream, so I screamed, “God, I see through your front!” Isabel woke with a Salvation Army grunt and calmly administered the medication of a very bespoke blunt. I hallucinated ancient countries there on the chair where electric men swear or say prayers after they hunt. I meditated for a microsecond then shouted about how I never doubted that Christ took Forever’s brunt. Another long day defeated; another song half-completed. For twice the price of Paradise, the past can be repeated.

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    When it comes to design, the Wix blog has everything you need to create beautiful posts that will grab your reader's attention. Check out our essential design features. Choose from 8 stunning layouts Your Wix Blog comes with 8 beautiful layouts. From your blog's settings, choose the layout that’s right for you. For example, a tiled layout is popular for helping visitors discover more posts that interest them. Or, choose a classic single column layout that lets readers scroll down and see your post topics one by one. Every layout comes with the latest social features built in. Readers can easily share posts on social networks like Facebook and Twitter and view how many people have liked a post, made comments and more. Add media to your posts When creating your posts you can: Upload images or GIFs Embed videos and music Create galleries to showcase a media collection Customize the look of your media by making it widescreen or small and easily align media inside your posts. Hashtag your posts Love to #hashtag? Good news! You can add tags (#vacation #dream #summer) throughout your posts to reach more people. Why hashtag? People can use your hashtags to search through content on your blog and find the content that matters to them. So go ahead and #hashtag away!

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  • Now You Can Blog from Everywhere!

    We’ve made it quick and convenient for you to manage your blog from anywhere. In this blog post we’ll share the ways you can post to your Wix Blog. Blogging from Your Wix Blog Dashboard On the dashboard, you have everything you need to manage your blog in one place. You can create new posts, set categories and more. To head to your Dashboard, open the Wix Editor and click on Blog > Posts. Blogging from Your Published Site Did you know that you can blog right from your published website? After you publish your site, go to your website’s URL and login with your Wix account. There you can write and edit posts, manage comments, pin posts and more! Just click on the 3 dot icon ( ⠇) to see all the things you can do. #bloggingtips #WixBlog

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