Twice now that rancid bugger's insulted me.
First time round he wombled up to my door with Labour propaganda masquerading as a neighbourhood watch scheme then ran off (or at least made a quick getaway) a bit later when I began to question his politics, the showboating old career liar. Talk about Machiavellian 'round here. And no, he didn't drop the leaflet he said he would through the door either. Falsehood one.
Second time he bluntly shoo'd me out of the local park as I was doing a private, personal grounds inspection and my usual flora and fauna analyses, on the premise that he'd got a phonecall and I was "scaring the children". I've got children Brian. Five of them. Also, there weren't any in there - and I look bloody carefully when I'm out walking. I'm attempting to help teenage drug-addicts, etc. at the moment, as well as mulling over sneaky... well: the machinations of bizarre cult activity, to put it mildly. These days, in Thickville - my moniker for the local area, they don't have a damn fecking clue what I'm up to, the ungracious, judgemental, self-righteous hobbit-peons. I go, as usual with Mr Doolittle (of Kiev) over the matter - bloody dispassionate serfs. I think you just wanted to exert a little power, once more sending the delicately flayed (yup... literally, think of the film Martyrs), Hell-bound wretch stomping off up the road to get a fucking coffee and analyse GCHQ, Common Purpose and the Tavistock chaps then get back to a Thomas Sheridan lecture and wait for Mr. Gerrish's postal surprises to arrive. No - I don't like socialists Brian. I don't actually like politics very much, you ancient, mole-faced twunt. I do tolerate you, or at least can cope with you, as, even now, given two direct insults, you haven't been eviscerated in single combat with a personally-crafted 'trench-style' warhammer. Oh, who am I to talk... he does a lot of good work, or at least work, in his own way.
I just bet he'll make it a hat trick though. I wouldn't want *him* on a team, I don't think.
The background's just some musical blah, (etc.).
I think I've noticed by now, it's okay. I have my own personal personnel (and locally hand-picked, at that). I'd love to say 'squad' but I'm not *that* twee. I don't think I trust this whole Discus 'thingy' very much. Some rather malicious wee buggery going on on there. I think John Douglass might have a position on the matter. Then again, I'm not one to automatically trust much very much these days, especially on 'The Internet'(TM). Just how many Brits are there on here, or otherly, yet similarly-minded folk(s) hiding out amongst the great herd of 'the usual set(s)'? I'm not pissed-off, don't get me wrong; a mere curiosity. I'm still waiting in my little house (and indeed out the Front - both of them - and out and out more each day) in the 'Great Laconic Kingdom of Uk' for Gavrilo Princip or the like to turn up. That bugger, he's been on my mind all week, and somesuch. A glorious near-humourless notoriety reminiscent of The Black Monks, and indeed Monk Time. It's a good album. I do feel for them though.
Part 2 coming soon, as I release Brian from his evident torment at the disgraceful annoyance of my own mind.
He did insult me a tad of a tad though, and twice now.
Yerp. Seems quite fun so far. Gonna get a bit gnarly testing it in real-time, one suspects.
Oh well. Might as well go out with a lady, and not that awful, old wee badger of nonsense.
Like to almost-attract like? In that case (yes, even that one), I assume he's off a bit below.
You silly twit. Electro-shock stun guns on infants? I don't think I like that, somehow. Yes...
Meanwhile, here goes another one of my letters to my somewhat ruthless polymath father, having a little semi-fun gently roasting the DPRK. The song's available on my Hate Tusk album, marvellously remixed by Flesh Eating Foundation.
There's an insane amount of planning that goes into my songs.
There’s a nude man in the basement
He’s begun to scratch his head
There’s a deep old complex issue
On the screen above his bed
And he’s moving his antennae
But the bloody signal’s dead
So he snatches the remote
And picks some ethnic dirt instead
It’s already almost-over
And he’s watched this one before
The case says “Mounting Miss Yamantau”
Mr Peterson next door
Has seen it too (and he’s engaged)
Although his missus seemed severe
She was on him in a flash
And screaming static in his ear
They’ve had some fierce drawn-out exchanges
That’s the worst fallout this year
They’ve really pushed each other’s buttons
Utter termination’s near
So the nude man in the basement
(Once he’s checked he’s barred his gate)
Scuttles round the dirty scuds
He’s scattered there since ‘88
And it’s only fair to said
He’s worked up to a rabid state
And past the piles of stinking tissues
And the Yamaha CX
And those machines from IBM
He bought to iron out defects
And the photographs he’s got from some vacation to Kuwait
When he went fully off the rails
And let his company liquidate
But it’s 1 minute to midnight
And he knows just what’s in store
By those stained briefs in the corner
There’s a locker on the floor
And he scrambles down his key chain
(And re-checks he’s barred his door)
And chops his prize from out the packet
He’s begun to salivate
And this one’s called “Termite Madam”
And it’s getting very late
He might watch it with the sound off
And it’s quite a novel show
And based on something quite bizarre
(And no-one else will have to know)
usual-r-lllllrlrlrlrllr-ermmton vesk - lamb chuaul?
Might be a thirtenn-plus kinda ting.
Er... hmm... watch it will ya?
WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW?---??????????????CCCCW ----- - -
boght about rohyhf,. .<<. sketchpayne : P? ++
addsaaddd,,,,?~/ hahahahhaha!ooooooofodoooooosssssss eu jaminbanana.
heac hospoter narnian vile flail :P rsun sun alleudddddddd oiol not alqunbcnh cointokhhhhhhen.
yeaah riht.orvhh homble booiumpimpiistetich smalh mightea lahd noish :).
good old innithert...goon on him.
mice fur shilty0sommut :P but facthkt him isto allreeeight :).
well... in plenspetch...i'm almair heeeled....but ...aw, feci t...it's a bit or a boooty willy bum bum poo to
cstylun. and jeckton vedti tontsy. in nyarl bhy, vyy. - i.r in spance verse of more sensible mid...darnmnint hour's late. but shei sleptith. thank fucking fuck.
fhnt yau ahyll patronise mye too mutch,
Here bandwork nee
of a mild-various timestance.
The last barrage of whatever was bitterly intense. This is how I relax - and, somehow, you'd even think I'd bloody notice by now.
Just for other souls who could.
Computer games are rather likewise of a fun accord.
Ooooh - oh...oh if only, Mr Parts :P
Damn cold's put me in a dire mood. Seems best to graze on food and keep busy.
Well, it all moves, but it doesn't change *that* quickly does it?
Shit - already shot myself in the toe area.
This is here for mild-level 'easy mode' intermediates. I feel rotten if I feel smug. I'm not that thick.
However, I could do better. Multiple avenues.
Thank you for proactively tolerating me, diary.
* damn-feck Linguistic Psychiatry; (yup). And then more so.
Other people utilize their cloud facilities, or what have you. I'll just spew it all up on here. I imagine it makes limited difference.
Right, now that grim speculation's out of the way... on to yet more of my idle and rambling musings, following a memorable day. Then - of course - and naturally, though with brief and mild sadness, I went back online.
Damn. It'll take a while to break this debilitating nonsense. One can be optimistic though.
Created 2 months ago.
|Category||Arts & Literature|
I'm accustomed to trying out little concrete poems, ciphers, and phonetic semi-jokes in this box and also on into my pieces, usually of an *extremely* dark nature. You need a sense of glum, clandestine humour if you're privately researching the topics that I do. Not for now though.
My covers are generally bits of my art - ranging from bizarre synesthetic and symbolic collages, to Surrealism and Dadaism, to baroque (even Gregorian) dark fantasy, tattoo art, and sardonic cartooning. Not always linked to the content directly, but usually tangentially. I have over 20 years of this sort of stuff stored all about the place; recently flung up on here.
I hope you like the content: songs, extensive diary logs, snippets of erratic yet mildly-eccentric code attempts, TTS-experiments and, well... an awful lot of pitch black, if poetic, moaning.
There a mite of logic behind that, but I tend to keep that fairly private.
Here's my email address though: [email protected]
Cheers to all,
PS. I'm looking forward to getting back to my studies. Quietly in the background - this is, at near-most, nothing but R'n'R.