Brick wall
I was overwhelmed by the love shown to me yesterday by fellow bloggers when I wrote this little post. Some of your responses were so beautiful I think I have to share them. In particular this poem by the marvellous Randall Dean Scott, the man with no face but a huge heart. Thank you Randall. Thank you everybody.
It’s interesting and
absurd isn’t it?
How we willingly
run as fast as we
can into a brick wall.
The wall is so pretty
like no wall we’ve
ever seen but we
must make contact
yet the problem is that
we are too passionate
with everything we
do like da Vinci does
art and don’t give
one fuck about how
hard the wall is if
when it is beautiful and
especially if we
love it.
Fuck them
Today some shit happened that left me feeling all sad, but its cool ’cause I know how to handle that kind of fuckery: turn on the playstation, roll a spliff that’s bigger than I am, order the hottest peri-peri chicken money can buy and turn the music up to fucking 11. I’m telling you, that shit works, drown out any feelings, that will, soothe any aching soul.
Now, I know that this will piss my neighbours off (the music, not the chicken) and I know that they will call the police; after all, my sound system could demolish a god-damn city block, but fuck them. I have to listen to their dogs barking all day and them bickering all night so, likeisay, fuck them.
Anyway, I’m dancing round my little little living room to Professor Longhair, Busta Rhymes, Amy Winehouse and the like, in my underwear, with my teddy and my daft hat on, the mother of all joints dangling from my lips, when the Old Bill turn up. As I answer the door, shuffle decides to play NWA’s ‘Fuck Tha Police!’ I watch this WPC ‘s face contorting in visible pain with the lyrics and its all I can do not to start giggling. Anyway, at least they don’t come in and find the bag of weed on my coffee table or all the girls tied up in my basement, so I guess I get off light with being told to turn my shit down. All the same, fuck tha police!
kyle mew 