ONCE UP ON THE ROOF

I wear my chase-me-fuck-me shoes. But better than sex. You know. You want. You need. I want only for metal and fire, to breathe. Chase me. Chase me. Then I get you.

Piso 3#, third floor, the door to the apartamento was ajar, the bathroom door wide open and, hunched over his throne, trousers scrunched up around his ankles, was his nibs, in a stupor. He frequently was. It was good for him. It kept him off the roof.

The hum of the motor and the turning of the cement mixer usually calmed me, but not that day. That day the brick inside my head clanged against the sides as it chipped off the crusted excess. In tandem with clunky cranky head state was generalised nausea. Up on the roof where I loved to be. I looked out, across the descending expanse of London brick and slate. Foreign train passengers from Gatwick stared out in half-disbelief at its seeming never-endingness, a cliché all the way to Queen Victoria and her station. Of course, they didn't know I was in league with the Spartacists. Usually I waved, but not that day.

He wouldn't be able to get up onto the roof, but nor could he make it out of the bathroom. I retched as I lifted him off the toilet, which like most on the island located more than few metres off the ground, was backing up. He slumped on the couch. Then he perked up. He yanked up his trousers, leaving his belt undone. He slurred, laughed and offered me coffee. Lava java. Of course I'd have to make it myself.

Do you know yet? Soon. You chase. You chase. I creep. I creep. Up onto the roof. Once up on the roof. Once upon a time. I play. I smother, slowly, niggardly, adverbially. Winding up the stairs. To where you crouch. You survey the scene. Peace of mind. Piece of mine. Chase me big boy, chase me. I'm a work in progress. Come and get it...

The stacked-up washing-up wouldn't allow the kettle under the tap. Then I spotted the cafetiere. I went to the fridge, took out a litre bottle of water and used it to make his potent brew. When I returned to the room, he was gone. I went to the front door and looked up the stairs, but the roof terrace door remained closed. I caught sight of him slumped over the balcony railing. I hauled him back inside and got him onto politics, to keep him talking and conscious. When he wasn't in noddy headland, he loved to talk about how he had rebelled against his privilege. His Victorian antecedents, a one Baron von Saxon-Coburg, or whatever, were responsible for the Whites' insurgency against the Oktober coup long before the capitalist involution made the KGB into captains of post-industrial oligarchy, apparently.

That day I had flu. Or the beginnings at least. As the only (minor) public school educated roofer in Gypsy Hill, my inculcated stoicism surpassed even Borstal ingrained steeliness. I wouldn't be hostage to man flu, nor open to the charge of effete toff by my house mates. And it was after all my own roof I was fixing. It was in lieu of a stack of rent I owed. But this was a bad one. So I came down off the roof for a Beecham's Powder and a coffee.

What was the difference between Leninism and the Spartacists? But J. wanted to talk about the roof.

My dragon's breath emanates from the hot metal. A beast quest. A viper's nest. A test. The first. And the last. They roll into one for many. For you. I wait. I wait. You're coming down. Surely sire. Take up thy staff and chase me sky boy. Next time we'll go together. You and I both fly. But not all flight is airbourne. Some flight is terrestial, a descent into dirt, on hands and knees, sucking up indignity and transcendence in equal measure. Look how I am pretty, look how I am fine. A soulmate for the soon to be souless. Chase me roof man. Come chase me.

There it was. Suddenly, cigarette in hand, strong coffee with more than a tot of agua ardiente, came brief lucidity. Where was she? I needed her to take me to Adeje, in the mountains. Some of us had to work. She'd be back soon. But first the roof...

My house mate wanted a coffee and a fag too. She was weighing out the gear and, as had gradually become customary, offered me a chase. I partook and went back up to retrieve my tools. It was then up on the roof the second time that it hit me. I felt so much better. The aches, the sniffs, the shakes flew off in the direction of the South Downs. The sun warmed my closed eyes and when I opened them again, dawn spread through my body like junk. But this was not like junk. This was junk. This wasn't Sparta. This was narcosis.

The door swung against its hinges and in she breezed.

- Sorry for being late. Won't be a mo. Hey Jonathan. You been out today sweetheart? Stay off the roof. See you later honey.

We set off in her Seat Ibiza van up the foothills of Mount Teide towards Adeje to sell advertising space to a chicken restaurant, leaving Jonathan to chase his demons, drink himself back from oblivion and stay off the roof.

Never did find out about the Spartacists.

SOMETHING FOR THE CAT

Rinky dink. She was probably the best. Not for the sex, but for the humanity. They can be very human at times, even the so-called worst of 'em. And this one, she was dregs, supposedly.

Humanity wasn't something I could aspire to. She, on the other paw, had it in shovelfuls in spite of everything. She wasn't impressed by the pink-mobile either. I liked that. Ain't even sure she knew who I was. Cool by me, in the circumstances. Could've been she recognized a fellow traveler in pain. She saw past the animal thru' to my inner core.

Big cojones! She was just glad of an easy-going punter, wheels and a safe, convenient place to do drugs. Or perhaps it was on accounta she was just out of Holloway that day. That's why she was so serene; it was the thought of seeing her two kids-in-care once more.

Serene. Something I was supposed to be. But not that night. That night I was on one. I was 120bpm at least and then some...

I needed the comedown as much as the sex. That and the human stuff. The stuff that makes us go prrr prrr. Rinky dink. Even you guys know that much I know.

I'd been on the razzle dazzle with the guys. Which ones? Who knows? Don't take this wrong, but all you Funny Little Men look the same. One walking-squawking hooked-nose job looks pretty much like another. Same tache. Same squat stature. Identical bottled rage. Blowing steam outta their over-sized heads, except when painting & decorating, or operating machinery. Then FLM's attain an inner peace. That's when they sing, smile and most of all, whistle. Least ways I think it's whistling. It's not in my range. But I can see the musical notation. All them floating crotchets and quavers. Never had recourse to mouth bubbles personally. Cumbersome.

Sure I've used signposts, anthropomorphically, which ain't easy for a cat. See you gotta reach out to your client base, as any working girl'll tell yer. The odd exclamation mark over the head - and boy! can I not resist looking at it, gets a canned laugh every time. Or the dangling mid-air interrogative, invariably with a scratch and ponder. Usually tho' I'm a cat of action. Mostly body semaphore and eyebrow movements. I do like a mobile eyebrow. Lets a cat know what's happening inside.

My insides were racing that night. Brain and vitals in overdrive. I was pissing more than a pensioner in a yard-of-ale contest. My jaw was aching the ache of a vice squad rookie on his first hide-out. My brow was sweating like the twitchy hush puppies of a strung-out low-life gambler crippled by the grotesquely criminal compound interest of an Italian New York gentleman name of Domenico "The Slice" Giannotta. My imagination was stretching verisimilitude to breaking point....Boing! Thwang!! Billy Whizz... Base amphet had just flooded onto the narcotics market. It ain't easy telling how much of that stuff to take. Stings like a bitch up the nasal passage. So dabbing's the thing. With regular sulphate a half g, or even a whole g and you feel frisky, perky, up for action - even if little pinky don't. Know where you are with sulph. But base, jeez! You sherbert dab the teeniest tiniest smidgen on your paw; you're Buzz Lightyear for the whole god-damned weekend, well into Monday tea time and beyond. And in combo, it can get real messy.

The base was only top-up. I'd had a coupla three old skool MDMA caps. That was my regular tipple. But that night, I was an all-pawing, all-jiving, all-action alley feline. Lovin' it. Brought out the show cat in me. The comedian. The acrobat. The scholar. The groovy gymnast. The all-round rinky dinker. The all-American unAmerican super-speed freak.

That night I met Dale on the dance floor. Mincing around in his sparkly crop-top. All coke head narcissism, powder and paint. The repressed short step action of happy handbag. He bugged my pink hind no end. Don't get me wrong. Ain't got nuttin' against a men-only human. Even us cool hetty bi-curious cats've been known to swing it across the urban jungle. Fact, that's why I was there. Those amyl nitrate boys cut a rug on the dance floor. Not this self-conscious mincer tho'. Maybe he felt inhibited by his own C-list celebrity, who knows.

At first we got along fine. Then his showbiz cheese wobbled like Linus' mouth in Charlie Brown. Pets don't always win prizes Dale. And my copy cat Harlem bum shuffle didn't go down well. Fact was, I was freakin'. I'd stripped my skin down to my waist. It hung there like a half-unraveled sausage. Raw and sweaty. Too much. Too hardcore. A couple of big nose-jobs bounced me out on my tail. Totally wired in the wilds of King's Cross.

Not King's Cross King's Cross. Nowhere near the station where the beggars and desperate pimp-run whores hover like concrete mist. No sir. This was The Cross. Up the hill aways toward The Angel and Cally Rd, over by the good's yard sides. That's where the funkier nose-jobs hang. Where the cannier working girls and private hires pick up trade. Fewer jellies, barbs and skag. More cool runnings and your actual joined-up conversation. Conversation. That's what a cat needs when the base speed's veining its way round his race-course at 125 bpm and counting. Conversation. Of the non-verbal kind of course.

I'd left the pink-mobile off of Pentonville Rd, by one of them super-stretch white limos that make mine look like a bubble car. I strode up the hill, hip-hopping and doing 360's, radar fully on. It was too late for post-pub business. Too early for post-club trade. I was headed back to my ride without much expectation of any action. Less than a hundred yards from the pink mobile, I sniffed one out. Whiskers reverbed, snout twitched and tongue rolled out. Animated histrionics. Didn't have to say a word, the word, even if I could. She said it for me.

- Business?

- .....

The trouble with pink comedic felinity is that no-one takes you seriously. Seriously. All they see is a kooky day-glo leopard with a ring-pull cord and a wacky auto. They have no conception of what it's like. They do not know the power of the dark side of the pink.

Deep-veined purple thrombosis. Varicose lavender clutches. Recurrent color fade. Massive ontological self-enquiry. I mean. The shifting sands of transient episodic existence is no basis for solid relationships, let alone run-of-the-mill contentment. Hey! nosejobs, there's a soul in here. There's an animus inside this violet puma. You two-dimensional slapstick schmuck. There's an existential malaise that cannot be contained in this comic shell, despite what the tattoo on my butt warns. The one they never show you. The one next to the Made In USA stamp. The one that reads Contents Fragile: Keep Right Way Up.

None of this concerned the working girl. She wasn't bothered 'bout that stuff, any more than she was impressed by the car. For her we were just a means of transportation. Her intentions were pure, direct, honest and clear. Her goals were set low and achievable: find a glass jar, some aluminum foil and a lighter, and transport that twenty quid (next to my AmEx card in my fanny pouch) into her delicate professional hands. Yep. In spite of jail, the care system, hyper-masculine malevolence and illegal narcoticism, this young lady was more focused and centered than my over-active animalistic antics could ever be. Period.

That's not to say she didn't have class. Her serenity was as contagious as cat leukemia. We didn't touch soul. That would've been too much. Yet we cathected, connected, bonded physically, and stylistically.

- Business?

- .....

- Business?

- .....

- A no-talker hey? You gotta car babes?

- .....

- Pink?

- .....

- Don't worry I won't tell.

- .....

- Twenty pound.

- .....

- Ah weed!

- ......

- And fish?... Fish!

- .......

- S-A-L... Ah salmon! Snout. Right.

- .......

- Round the corner? Upper Street. Nice. I like Upper St. Let's scooby doo pinky.

- ......

- Nah. Sort me the money later babes.

Her Nikes gleamed toothpaste white. She was black, twenty, sticky-out butt, pretty, full-lipped and low key black t-shirt, black jeans casual. She was inconspicuous, an extra in the background. Had a way of lookin' and talkin' at you like she'd lived in your neighborhood all your life, but without the over-familiarity of the neurotic street walker, the crack piper's pimp paranoia, or the massage girls corporate tedium. She was a natural. Just outta juliet that morning. Still in the honeymoon zone. She looked outta the window at main street like she'd never seen one before.

I was still twitching like a savannah cat jacked up on hunger and need. I was glad of the automatic cruiser control. We climbed the stairs to the pad. And got down to business. Drink and drugs business. I made tea. Tea for chrissakes. She pulled out a little glass jar, a hole carved into it. And, once I'd handed over the necessary (cigarettes, foil, clipper) she set about the intricate task of building a pipe. I tried not to look as per, so I wouldn't know how it was done. I had enough vices already. But she was so watchable and skillful I couldn't help but. She snatched glances around the pad, eyeing the books and CDs. She strained up her chin to see outta the window at the smart Upper Street shops. All the time fixing the hit. I offered her the twenty again.

- 'S OK babes. Plenty of time. I like this place. Can I crash the night?

- .....

- Wicked.

- ......

- You read a lotta books pinky. Got any music?

- .......

For a split sec, I thought about playing my theme, dance remix of course, but I'd start cavorting and freakin', so I put on da kool chunes mix: Ibiza Girls (Remix) and Something For The Cat . She smiled.

- Funky acid jazz. Wicked.

- .....

- You look like you need a hit. Been on the disco biscuits babes?

- ......

- 'S right. The Cross is sorted. Thanks for the tea.

Tea, weed and tobacco have magical properties in the wee hours post-Class A dance apocalypso. Ordinarily I go from pale violet, to bright rose, to flashing indigo and finally to ghost white after a cuppa and a spliff. Colour drain is good for a cat. It's kinda the opposite for you guys. For just for a second , she noticed that something was not quite right, like the spell check had been left on British.

- Ok babes? You havin' a whitey innit? ...Alright?

There was to be no meltdown tonight. I'd be jiggy and cranked for at least another 48 hours. I was back in the dark pink before you could say Henry Mancini's Greatest Hits.

Then it happened. The weirdest thing. She passed me the pipe. I sucked. And I faded away. From top to bottom. Like someone had just pulled down the blind. But real slow. An inexorable tide of animation drain. My eyebrows popped away first. Then ears. Snout. Neck. Torso. My slinky butt. Them sinewy thighs. Knocked knees. The curvy calves. The long heels. The arches. The outsize toes. Vanished. And. No sooner. All back. Toes. Feet. Waist. Chest. Head. And last, the eyebrows. Re-materialised like in .. lik... well, like a cartoon.

And I'd been there. I'd been there. I'd been humanized. Just for the merest moment. I'd touched something real. Authentic. Profound. Then it was gone.

But now I felt good. Real good. A cool cat. A sexy jaguar. An erotic psychotic explosion of lusty euphoria, as deep as it was fatuous. We got down to it. Slow but purposeful. Sensual but slightly urgent. Rhythmic. Focussed. Driven.

The rest is just detail. Except for the eyebrows.

Her neat brows stood erect over deep brown pools that threw back my yellowy glare with the cold fire of D.H Lawrence's modernism. I could gaze into them no more. I withdrew. I unsheathed. I raised my left eyebrow and she knew to fellate me. I could resist no longer. I angled the desk lamp from off the floor to see the better. After all, I could feel nothing. My pleasure is purely visual. Aesthetic sublimation replaced the animal physicality I longed for. Like an artist I admired the shifting spectrum of shades. Dark brown and thick pink gave way to languid rose and sheen white. Inevitably, splotts of watery cream splashed against mottled chestnut and the sharp glint of a smile like quartz. I imagined an eruption from somewhere deep down within me. But this time none came. It was just like she said: crack was better than sex.

She cleaned up. Her eyes smiled the smile of a friend, not a service provider. We curled up and she slept. I held her in my arms, wishing I could smell her hair as it glistened with sweat and a drama too real for me to feel.

In a less desirable part of North London, two pairs of neatly-fostered eyebrows dance in time to the rhythms of the fluid animation on the small supermarket-bought TV screen. Their unbreakable focus fixed as the panther's black pupils pinball around the magenta half-circle of his wide eyes. The cat, to the annoyance of an irrascible carpenter, saws through the wood on which another FLM is standing, plunging him into a vat of cement, and releasing an out-of-control chainsaw that cuts the FLM's ladder in two, with him on it! Ha ha ha! Rinky dink.

Suddenly, juddered out of intense focus by the slamming of the front door, the older boy quickly switches off the cartoon. Heads bowed, they go back to their torn school library books.

When she woke up, we made out again. Her beautiful lustrous blackness arched over by the window, staring at the nice shops and well-to-do nose-jobs out on a sunny Sunday morn. I took her casually from behind. She yielded like she'd been expecting me to.

- I've always wanted to do it like this. I love Upper Street. Wish I could live here.

Then we smoked some more. Just Mary Jane this time. We said our good-byes. Pleasant and warm. We shook hand and paw like a pair who'd just agreed a mutually beneficial contract. Maybe we had. As she went down the spiral staircase, she spoke.

- OK babes. See myself out. Maybe see you again. Laters. I like this flat.

- ......

I'm glad I wasn't able to spoil the moment with speech bubbles.

Then it hit me. The AmEx. Bet you she'd been thru' my fanny pouch and cleaned me out. But no. It was still there exactly where I'd left it, next to the twenty bill that was now wending its way downtown. I felt bad for thinking bad of her. Then I smiled. I liked her. It had been nice. I went back to bed and slept peacefully till the next day.

The second I opened my yellow eyes, it started. Purple, violet, indigo: guilt, self-loathing, disgust.

Shame.'Cos it wasn't like that. Not at all.

TROLLEY & THE SWARMS OF KILLER B'S

Trolley has seen the light!

The encroachment of profit into public life and the neurotic social performance that struck Trolley dumb one day persists. Government keeps us calm, as it continues to piss on hands; its citizenry licks its fingers and sticks them up in the wind to dry. Zombie capitalists rent out headspace at a ha’penny a nanosecond, as clicks & bricks rock & roll, the lazy and the cynical seek refuge in marketing.

Trolley has seen the light!

The bipolarity of April has unsettled the emotional climate. A monster in a big & baggy, yellow & black striped jumper has hovered into view. Despite guilt by association with the honey bee, it refuses to swarm, it bumbles. Likewise, Trolley has retained full possession of his cognitive domain through disassociation with the swarm. He ambles around un-housed, mostly; recycling, reusing and reclaiming.

Trolley has seen the light!  

The metal cart has been cast aside; sundry items liberated from its grilled confines. Trolley has temporary ownership of a street bike. He has but one piece of human cargo: Melon, who until 90 hours ago was a complete stranger. He is in the vicinity. Trolley does analytics and containment.  Melon deals with transportation and logistics.

This late morning, speed is of the essence.  That's when you need a street bike. Located in sensible places around town by and for people who live life outdoors, an opportunely encountered street bike parked up for personal use equals mutualism in action. Trolley has been switched on to the possibilities. He must illuminate others in his own mutable way. 

Trolley smells of little. Only if Melon comes up close can he detect the undertow of Clinique Happy - whose iconic display Trolley once savaged in a fit against industrial chemoreception. In revenge, Trolley's high-precision sensing, finely attuned to years on the margins, can pick up a multi-layered fragrance half a kilometre away.  So, when a crusty tang, with shades of Hawaiian Wedding Flower wafts across, accompanied by the rattle of intermediate technology, Trolley recognises the signals of Melon's approach.  

In haste, Melon will shake up any number of jalopies to prise off the cheap lock. It is not one of those he brandishes today, though. Property is theft, but this isn't borrowing back. This is re-appropriation of intellectual rights. This is a street bike. 

Street bikes are easy to spot if you know what to look for.  The basic model is not so much pre-owned as semi-moribund. Deep-crust tyres, just barely inflated enough to be preferable to crawling through broken glass, suck energy like a hungry narcissist. Sombre or sleazy in tone, handlebars and rusty chain come as standard; brakes and unsteady seat, optional. Panniers and racks are the preserve of the housed and the obsessive compulsive.  

Sancho Panza to Trolley's Don Quijote, Melon has found a dysfunctional 70’s Chopper bike to shoulder the burden of those Bags for Life released from the expired trolley. Chipper, like his bicycle's sister model, Melon discusses with his attentive mute companion, who lurches near a gaudy 20” mountain bike with fat wheels, the subject of the evil conspiracy that stole their brand, stuck a crap catch phrase on it and made a billion. 

SHARE MORE. CONSUME LESS.

 -We're the social entrepreneurs! rails Melon.

Trolley rubs second and forefinger against thumb, points at himself, laughs silently and shakes his head side to side, like a Bulgarian who thinks everything is all right with the world. Melon nods in violent agreement, like a Bulgarian in defiance of the foreign occupation of his culture. 

-  Cashless society? Melon snorts.

If there's no brass in pocket, then who controls the money supply? And what happens when you can't get credit? Questions that have shaped their destiny now preoccupy the minds of Swedish tram conductors, Sicilian money launderers and street people alike: now that the cash nexus of human exchange is contactless.

There are refugees from the mean streets of Shanghai, Stockholm and Shoreditch who seek sanctuary in the shadow economy of the Black Sea. Cash money: the feel of old school folding stuff between fingers; the musty odour of ink on paper; a shady president/dictator emerges from the watermark, as you wave your wad like a wide-boy on a summer holiday from technology.

Trolley nods to yet another idle bumble bee. It leans against a wall under the flyover, a sneer on its sleek behind, a wheel stand stuck out to the left like a broken turntable arm; around the corner, the less conspicuous street bike, surrounded in nondescript darkness, under-pressured tyres, but with at least half a working brake.  

Despite everything, it's still miles better than his current ride. Trolley walks over and makes the switch. From off the ofo, Melon has trousered lights and snapped the basket.   

- Fuck 'em Trolley. They started it.   

As they push off, the echo of the bleat of the ransacked entrepreneurial marvel goes ignored by the street, while in Singapore, a Bulgarian hire bike vigilante patrols the gig economy for free.

- Sucker.

WANT MORE. EXPECT LESS.

FIGURES OF EIGHT

ONCE upon a time they lived happily, but nothing concentrates the mind like cancer. The scare of unpaid care would finish her off... 

Dead Sales Managers from TRING are replaceable, I'm confident, going forward, we'll return to sales growth in the year ahead.  Last words he spoke. To an audience. Two thirds of which barely feigned attention. DIVERSION AHEAD. Going forward, then swerving right, he met his central reservation with too much ACCELERATION. To have reduced speed would've been preferable. But the full rhyme had been irresistible. 

The blood-sucking parasite on his arm. The last creature he saw. In slow motion, the Mondeo formed a near perfect figure of eight across the DUAL CARRIAGEWAY. Even the Russian gave a 9.0. It was a thing of beauty and wonder. Why it's a Chagall? Streuth Sheila! Do you think I'm made of money? She did, as it happened. His floppy purple mouth, his high bouffant hairline, his blue-veined legs, traces of animal fat, originally from Australia. Hard not to really. 

His step-sister is uncomfortable. Another pillow is fetched from stores. I can't stand it any more! The post-Brexit haze hangs heavy overhead. But this fine populist spring the Sales Force at the TRING OFFICE will be one light, comrades! Fear not, the medication is here. The room is to be airy, as per instructions. 

NO NON-PR APPROVED THOUGHTS ALLOWED IN! 

The groom is to be kept lairy, as per instructions.  No non-PR approved thoughts allowed. The Sales Force will be one lighter this fine post-BREXIT popularised springtime. His step sister had been uncomfortable with his new position, from her position at the convalescence home. The price they charge, should bloody think so!  he cried, face like a £20 note.  A Chagall for Chrissakes. It was beautiful. A near-perfect figure of eight on the dual carriageway. He saw the flea bite into his wrist as he turned the wheel one last time. He would've done better to REDUCE SPEED. Instead he met his central reservation. Acceleration irresistible. Rhyme scheme complete. Neat.

His last recorded words delivered at the presentation, at the Hitchin Office, where 32.5% of those in attendance had downloaded management bollocks BINGO! I'm very confident going forward. We'll return to growth in the year ahead. DEAD sales managers from Tring! are replaceable, was not among the thoughts that disturbed his step-sister's peace, plagued as it was by the scare of unpaid social care bills and death. 

NOTHING quite concentrates the mind like cancer.  Once upon a time they lived happily.

SHODDY ARTWORK

Manicured nails, gold slip-ons, designer frames, pink mobile, turned-up denim pedal pushers, wedding and engagement rings; she plays with the back of her blond bob. Her nape has a button that releases endorphins. She goes in and out of a vacant stare. So pretty oh so pretty... vacant.

Whenever a man stares, she averts her eyes: a look away that screams she is the object of misplaced sexual desire. It is automatic, cold. The art gallery curator in her regards works of beauty as prone to damage by continual viewing. Post-impressions linger longer in the mind's eye of the beholder. Of all this she thinks little. It is time to move on. 
 

She nods as an assistant signals that she is next. Conspicuous consumption takes a back seat to parenting. Evidently, you can't say I want I want I want.
- I want, don't get. If the lady hasn't got your size, you can't have.

The "lady" attends to her shop work.

- Hello, I'm Claire with an I. What's your name then?

- Go on Ashley. Tell the lady yer name. 

Claire is a trained fitter; growing feet in safe hands her occupation; hands especially chosen by her employers to nurture and protect those precious early steps towards profitability. Ashley remains taciturn. Her T-shirt states her position. Life is cool so chill out!

A lone man sits in the midst of a plethora of pinkification and is pricked by his own maleness. He seeks out his son as he would an unattended baggage on The Underground. P-words pinch his consciousness. Poet. Philosopher. Paediatrician. Pederast. Penguin.P-P-PINK!


Little pink hearts on the bottom of soles of black uppers declare sensible shoes are discreetly girly, girlfriend. 
 
The boy. The boy is bewitched by the bevelled mirror that is used for shoe gazing, ostensibly. He breathes hot breath onto its surface and, in the guise of his actual reflection, talks to a virtual friend. They are discussing the idea that God may have evolved from dinosaurs. An irreligious eight-year-old geneticist with little interest in pink, or blue for that matter. Nobody is watching him any more than they have noticed the promotional pop video for Bootleg TM. A marketized tide ebbs. It washes over everybody with a zee, not a zed.


It's 2012. Zed's dead baby. Zed's dead.
 

Nelly Furtado, meanwhile, vies with messianic T-shirt messages and winking fish for the attention deficit. Ms Furtado is neither a secreted doll or car lurking inside your rubber sole. She has frittered away whatever four quadrant appeal she ever had. It matters little.


- I'm the big sister! announces another T-shirt, meglomaniacally.
 

She is in fact her little "sister's" aunt, as a result of a complex post-modern relationship breakdown/ re-build/ breakdown (again) worthy of Daily Mail vitriolics. Hence the T-shirt's pre-emptive defensive strike.
 

- Wiggle your big toe for me.

- Stand up for me please, Ashley.

- Nice bit of room across the roof. No pressure at all you see. That's good. Sit back down for me Ashley. Gripping fine. Walk all the way to the foot gauge for me. 


Ashley takes her first steps in her new shoes. 
 

The Long March towards sexual political emancipation. Mrs Chairman Mao would have smiled, wryly. 
 

Imelda Marcos, on the other hand, would've stayed for more shoes.

Googlist Poetry for Robots

UNCLE GOOGLE IS UNWELL 

he is not very good at starts/ he is able for his age

he is just a rat / he is the one

he is the light of the world/he is raised by Seventh Day Adventists

he is beautiful/he is my son

he needs a wash/ he is leaving Chrysler

He is arisen/ he is the man

he is management material /he is the next big thing

he is just my dog/ he is finished with Italy

he is with the Inter City Firm/ he is a painter and decorator by trade

he is my eyes and ears/ he is a liar/

he is currently waiting for a lung transplant/ he is one of the game's best/

he is the US leader / he is free to go/ He is resurrected

he is toxic/ he is coming back / he is not here

he is blind / he is very down to earth, not like the others, and he can shoot

he is faithful/ he is not allowed to comment on what happened

he is under complete siege/he is the Unabomber/

he is compassionate/ he is back/

He is listed in Who's Who /he is finished with Tokyo/

He’s 4th in line to the throne/

he is persuaded by agents of the secret state because he’s got no previous

he is the dealer /he is leaving Chrysler, but has not made a final decision

he is committed to reform/ he is an able addition to the team

he is the boss’ son/ he is the one/ he is the light of the world

he is beautiful/ he is the man

he is the next big cheese/He is the Bestower

he is just a low down dirty rat/he is one of the game's best

he is the leader of the free world/

He’s leaving, but hasn’t made his decision final

he is a liar/ He is resurrected

he is coming back for seconds/He is free to kill

he is not there/he plays better blues guitar than Eric can

he is very down and could shoot up his High School at any moment now

he is blind/he is faithful/

he is not allowed to comment; it is a security matter

he is my everything/Is he here again?

he is the next big Charlie in Palookaville/

he lost control of the entire operation

He is the Unabomber/he is compassionate

He is my other eyes that can see above the clouds;

my other ears that hear above the winds

he is my chief surveillance officer/he is Back in Black

He is in The Times' rich list, the mother fucker/he is finished with Italy

he was in Blind Faith/he is your sister's boy

He is raped on Clapham Common/

he is with God who is our refuge and strength

he is risen/he is Boris Yeltsin

he is induced by law enforcement officers to commit a crime

he is The Healer/he is beautiful

he is my son he needs a wash

Is he leaving Chrysler?/ he is finished with Cambridgeshire County Council

He is Free/ He is born again and has seen the way

he is AC/DC  /he is worried about his prostate

he has had enough of Detroit/ he is who he is…

 

he is not a well bunny, Uncle Google               

         

 

robot poetyi is cool... therefore rolf harris

robot poetry is cool...therefore i am i laugh

i##laugh, there fore rolf harris : non-recent/.indecent i am non-recent indecent

i laugh# therefore i am rolf harris doctor error doctor error DOCTOR ERROR!... is the third largest killer in the usa/third biggest in america killer america Killer, googledoctor is insurmountable unaccountable; he's playing X-Box golf with Tiger. how can i help? i am a doctor, not an algorithm. i repeat. i am a doctor, not an algorithm. how can i help? Meta. this is a robo-poem. this is redundant. Meta... Doesn't matter, dude. robot poetry is cool, butthead... i laugh, therefore i am. rolf harris = non-recent/ indecent, non-recent/ indecent. Or an eternal life souped up on stolen tropes and exponential knowledge. wisdom is free; robots are not. i laugh, therefore i am. rolf harris not. eternal life souped up on stolen memes and exponentials. give me a full fried breakfast and a heart attack at 58 any day, mate. given the choice between: the to be or the not to be human; the only option open to a robot is to be like the boiling point of hydrogen. 250 degrees celsius is cool. robot poetry is more than 250 below, therefore, man, it is cool. i repeat. am a doctor, not an algorithm? how can i help me? Meta. is this is a robo-poem. i own humanity. i possess the human touch. i exude rationality. i'm a logic machine. i'm a sexomatic reason queen. dripping humanity; parched of sentiment... how many heartaches must i stand before i finally find a less corrosive substance? how many systemic crashes can i bear before my hardware no longer cares, baby love, oh, baby love. my baby love the vivisections/the valley housewives/and the death injections/my baby don't care fore me/ my baby gets johnson & johnson care, care for your johnson, my johnson is made from liquid metal. it does what is stated on the tin. diplomatic immunity/online community diplomatic immunity @ #i laugh therefore i am not rolfharris. meta. dirty old man. repeat. i am a doctor not an algorithm am i not? how can i help you/robo-poetry is cool. make mistakes and learn. goodbye.

A ROBOT POEM by GOOGLISM

SHE GOOGLES HERSELF EVERY DAY


she is more to be pitied than censured
she is a rainbow
she is a phantom
she is not married
she is unlikely to return to Pakistan
she is Marlene
she is not worthy
she is far from the land
she is the one
she is an ova
she is still very close to her ex-boyfriend
she is gay
She is the right honourable Mrs May
she is cheating
she is not a beauty even when she smiles
she is drowning
she is me
she is you

she still tops over 100 mph
she is moaning after anal insertion
she is up against the skin of her guitar
she is more to be pitied than censured
she is her father's daughter
she is a he at the weekend
she is Martha
she is a vampire
she is committed to democracy
she eats pulled pork with garlic
she is ready for my love
she is not fair to an outward view
she is talking up a storm
she is seeking Heather Stewart on Monday, August 12th
she is the best
she is not the father
she is a showgirl
she is the darkness
she is growing up
she is on the cutting edge of bringing diversity and choice

by educating service providers and consumers alike
she is 138 and has been a member since December 18th
she is spoken for
she is still missing
she is Marcy's handmaid
she is dying
she is a Muslim these days
she is love
she is awake again
she is beautiful and sells for $9
she is undead
she is more to be pitied than censured
she is more used to the military than most liberal leaders
she is sleeping
she is committed to democracy
she is inserting the finger into her pussy now
she's in love with herself and has made some of Hollywood's worst films
she is famous in fetish videos
she is beautiful and hot
she is a rainbow
she is her mother's daughter
she is fucked
she is a phantom
she is not married she is more to be pitied than redacted
she is like a man when she argues
she is unlikely to return to Afghanistan
she is bespoke
she is not worthy
she is far from the sea
she is the one
she is an ova
she is Martha, Marcy, May, Marlene
she is still very close to her ex-boyfriend
she is gay
she is not a beauty even when she smiles
she is busty
she is always seventeen
she is drowning
she is cheating
she is committed to democracy
she still tops over 100mph
she is sore after the excursion
she is unlikely to return to Japan
she is a considerate person
she is up against the skin of her guitar
she is her father's daughter
she is a vampire
she is more to be pitied than censured
she is more to be emptied than filled
she is to be left alone, please / stop.

THE PRINCESS OF SHOREDITCH

ONCE  upon a time. All stories start the same way. Some end happily. Many stop in the middle and never finish. This is one of those.

Once engaged, the princess-to-be seeks retreat from the dazzle of scrutiny; and the prince reigns in his party excess: pot, exam cheating and Nazi uniforms - three official peccadillos. Private sins remain secret, or at least in-house.

 

The princess-to-be counts the cost. She has access to her own chamber, with italics. Control. Absence of. Arrest, cardiac. Father - estranged, loco, white trash. Hollywood career trashed. Not marrying a man, wedded to the virtues of monarchism. Fragments. Consider revising. Thoughts incomplete. I love his hair. Confusion. Shopping. Inner space lacks credibility. Need another word for trash.  

 

In another press release, the prince firmly believes in toys, outdoor play and encouraging an active imagination, then officially remembers these are his brother's views and stops short of expressing another opinion for the rest of the paragraph. 

 

A student of palace history, the princess-to-be googles all things Windsor. As A Merry Wife of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, and member of Britain's most successful immigrant family, she isn't, thanks to the largesse dispensed under taxation under pain of death, the only one to enjoy dual heritage.

A hundred years ago, German sausage dogs were stoned in the street. Now the streets of Kensington are awash with dachshunds and bratwurst. The residents are fully rehabilitated and here to stay. In the name of Her Majesty, conduct ancillary to genocide and complicity in crimes against peace are compulsory. In another time, another place, such hostile environments lead to formation of militias.

At the mention of arms and uniforms, the prince stands to attention at the end of the line.

"At ease, soldier. Chest out, chin up, shoulders back. And repeat after me: happily - ever- after."

 

 

SAH! YES SAH! HAPPILY EVER AFTER! SAH! 

mind your head.

Mind your head.

Control - an addiction to form.

To will spontaneity is to kill

the moment.

Sometimes the machine is right.

Your art is dead, if you live to repeat.

Cut it up and start again.

 

Spontaneity is to kill the moment.

Killing – one of the worst forms of addiction.

To will art is death.

If you live to repeat, repeat.

Cut it up. Your mind, your head.

Sometimes the machine is right.

 

Mind your control.