Too many people
Too many views
Too much Product
Too much to choose
Too few solutions
Too few clues

Too many conflicts
Too many tunes
Too much opinion
too much news
Too few answers
Too few truths

Too many schemers
Too many needy
Too much grasping
Too much greedy
Too few rising
Too few leaving

Too many reasons
Too Many meanings
Too much overload
TOO MUCH INFORMATION
Too few silences.

Brent.19/11/2018

I dunno why
I was driven
to come spit puke shit piss my soul
onto the tiny white fields of snow
pages seeking the movement above and below
microphonic bellow
with no sideline in the straight shit show
the insane circus
there you go
joined up joined in disjointed joinery
carping, carpentry maybe?
A young me Raven coated
crazy feathered
railing against the conformity
before the roar of my furious gleeful crew
ancient youths hell bent heavenly
Lunacy.
and it’s late
because the smog n smugness is thick
on the slaves as they masturbate and negate their fate
consummate consumers expert in gathering
clockwork clogged clots in the vein.
conformed and performed
the ritual of cooperation
again and again
as the money press
mamonumental case
ground on and crushed the rest.
I watched from my hiding place
useless
helpless
dissipating dispossessed
mysteriously designed for disinterest
in the progress of the projectionists
in a suicide belt and bullet proof vest
unwired to implode
under howl wake
I dunno why
I was driven to this bleak edge
watcher
voucher
witness of the witlessness
winter eyed
weeping at the wickedness
numbering the numbness
fearless furious
a figure of fun spurious
serial seriousness
menial meaninglessness
I dunno
I dunno
I dunno
why the gung ho tongue
the blunt blade

came
to
be
clamped there bloodied
in my mouthy teeth
I’d spit it out
and indeed
thought I had
but it wont leave me
it wont
it’s ingrown
and I can’t shake it
it’s an immortal pain
an endless fucking ache
sounds like a horn
for fucks sake
under Howl wake.

The day starts with pouncing practice as the new kitten ‘Scampy’ stalks my waking wiggling feet
under the duvet..nice to have helped the youth develop before you’ve even left the bed..er..
That’s the kind of sentence that can bring the thought police to the door.

The theme here is precious time.
It’s a heart attack theme
a washed up old fart theme
A quick step with the reaper is enough to remind us ‘this is it’
we better get on with it, be funnier, finish stuff, confess, I dunno.

I share my bands masterpiece (The Firedogs philistines better than Blurk)
‘Tick fucking tock innit’ again on Face bonk..no one says much only a thousand and fifty seven views.
Bastards.

Yesterdays unique and fabulous creations all went round the u bend with the other shit.

“How are you coping with things Mr. Jackson?”
asks doctor patronicus In the heart attack check up sketch.
“By drawing cartoons of myself in a blue onesy and claiming I’m one of the greatest artists ever on social media, I answer.
He stares a while in my poker face, still writing..
Eventually we both glance down wondering what he wrote.

I like the easy funny writers, the nearer comics ones..I’ve got nothing to prove by struggling through some convoluted doorstop of doom to impress my imaginary friend. fuck that.

Milligan, Vonnegut, Pratchett, Townsend and Hornby are the kings..funny clever and nearly as lazy as me..I’m a better cartoonist of course.
Just Saying.

Life is fucking sarcastically ironic really, Me and three talented mates pour a lifetimes experience and quite a lot of effort and skill into a musical opus (The firedogs LP philistines better than Oldplay)
and all we get is a five star Mirror review and eleven and a half sales.
I knock off an electro track with Asian female singing and sequencers throbbing semi automatically and before I know it I’m an award winning soundtrack bloke.
So it goes.

I find this scrawled on an envelope by the bed. The writing is a blind child version of my already partially sighted infant script.
“Now I’m slowing and shrinking I’m at odds with the rest of the universe, which is, they say, speeding up and inflating, or fucking showing off as I call it.
I’m super reluctant to live in this grotesque insane circus shit show they call consensual reality
I withhold my consent, preferring to live in Middle ear, or Risk world as they are nearly called.

If my parents had encouraged me properly I could have made Leonardo look like a shady chancer who doodled a bit, still, the pubs were open.
Did I mention I’m one of the greatest artists who ever lived?