An Attempt At Stream of Consciousness Writing From My Head Box: 4AM. (If anything offends then it’s your own problem. Own your feelings, suckers!!)
Stream of consciousness…
Here we go.
No stopping to reread,
Just a blast of hot sticky air,
Something like a beer fart
Erupting through my cantankerous mind and
Along my fingers to the screen.
Warbles?! Who invented them?
Are they a cataclysmic reoccurrence
Of time well spent in an emporium
Similar to a gas station?
Or do they just appear?
I can’t tell you.
I haven’t got time.
This a stream after all.
People say things don’t they?
Words which are supposed to ring truth and
Not meld spines to plastic chairs.
I don’t know if I’m one of them.
I could be a jolly holiday with a deerstalker on. Or a fucking nightmare with
Theresa Mays pugface peering out of a child’s belly,
Or a shit covered welly.
Who’s to say. Janis Joplin?
No of course not.
She could sing though!
Talking of singers:
My mum had a singer sewing machine.
You know with a foot pedal and blood caking the needle where thought was trapped and sewn into time and it screamed. My god how it screamed.
Motor bikes. Now there’s a concept.
I remember scrumping.
Do you have it where you are from?
Does it have another name?
It really should be called thievery!
But kids running into other people’s garden and “scrumping” their fruit; namely gooseberries, rhubarb and apples, aren’t regarded as thieves. They are scrumpers.
I think because the above fruit are bitter fruit that makes toilet time a groan and too right too.
Two, two and howdoyuydo.
I know!! It’s not meant to be one word! I am not allowed to stop and go back until I’ve finished the whole howsyourfather, am I?!
Crikey. What sort of word is crikey?
How come crikey is okay, but fuckaduck isn’t?!
Strange world not getting any less strange at the moment.
I don’t trust politicians, but I do trust CORBYN more. No idea why. Maybe he understands the need for kids to scrump more than May, who’s probably only ever had fruit handed to her on a silver fucking salver.
What’s with her and fox hunting?
Why do they not see how horrific such practices are?!
I wonder if she stood behind Cameron when he fucked a pig screaming, “My turn, David! My turn next?! And then afterwards we will chase a fox with fifty hounds to see what will happen!!”
Empathy needs spoon feeding to the whole bastard lot of them.
See?! I don’t usually swear when writing, but this is me when streaming! Scary, eh?
What else don’t I like about these days? Bigots!
Terrorists claim to be muslims. I’m not a Muslim, but I damn well know that strapping a bomb to my arse and running into a packed auditorium to blow the shit out of innocent people is definitely not the act of a Muslim. I’ve met many and consider some good friends. Terrorism is as abhorrent to them as it is to me.
So stop generalising.
Badgers. I like badgers. Once saw one burnt into the Tarmac of a path in Cumbria. Sickened me.
Did I think,
“Well all Cumbrians must be horrible bastards!”?
Toothpaste. It’s nearly time for bed and toothpaste is the taste of choice just before I lay me down to not sleep.
Akin. I like that word.
Metaphor. It’s a tap dancing on a table with a square of cheesecake on its head type of word.
Now I’m just naming all the words I enjoy mouthing to Swans. I think and believe they must like me doing so, because they smile back.
Anyway. I do hope that all the likkle turtles are dreaming nice dreams and you and yours are too.
Now time to read back… or forward! Who knows. Bruce Forsyth doesn’t. Something always unnerved me about him. Probably my problem. Feelings are you know? Mine, or your, problems. Let them go. They flitter off like live bait beef stew.
I can’t stop.