Spit and Polish

Tom And The Pole Cats have, at long last, shown a fruit of their labour. It's in the form of a birthday song. Will this ear-teaser lead to a full length LP? Well, that's unlikely, but at the very least I'm hoping this isn't a swan song. And just for the record, it seems I can no longer be bribed with non-blog related treats, so Tom doesn't climb any rungs on the back of this alone. He did, however, post recently, but it was an incredibly brief sentence which didn't indicate a renaissance in any way.

The song itself indeed showed potential, but he'll have to produce more for him to be signed to Bucket Men's label.

A song with my name in the title didn't rocket its creator to the top of the ladder. What is the world coming to?

He, You, Hey, Mill, Ten

Well, an hour ago's day was standard. Things happened. I bought my dog a pillow. Good excuse, huh?

Think Hollow

There's been poison poured on many a road before mine, but mine's the windiest, and thus deserves greater attention and affection. So get ready to pour when I tell you my brightest secret.

I'm whole.

Last of the Summer Whine

Actually, make that the next one.

Don't Need Another Set Alight: Why Burning People Shouldn't be Tolerated

I was hovering above my next of kin one day when a bird the size of an apple flew in through the boarded-up window and air kissed me. It was all innocent at first, of course, but eventually I flapped the hell out of that bird and we raised hell together. We didn't raise it very well, mind you, hence the name, so it was allocated the bottom, 'bad people' spot in the afterlife hierarchy. We were so ashamed we threw ourselves off lovers' bluff. But the bitch could fly so only I died.

Chapel Box

This is to everyone who has a wind-up bird inside them.

Goodnight, and sorry about that wind-up bird I put inside you.

To Climb Silly Rituals

I was caught with foil and chocolate in the theatre, which means this is my last post as a toon who looks a twoon. Soon I'll be a tee who looks a twoon. And still will I be with obscure and fattening monuments celebrating someone I don't care for. Nor whose existence is confirmed. I'm in the wrong place. But let's not sit and say "This generation is the worst" while wiping an angry tear. Let's instead ignore everything. Every fucking thing. Especially profanities. Only jesters use 'em. And jesters, like comedians, are lousy cunts. Swearing isn't funny. Nor is this. And this generation is nothing. No generation was anything. Nothing is anything. Nihilism is less. People are grand. People aren't. Things change oft. I'm a prophet. I know things we know but more so. I know when to end. I know that there's only one more sentence to go. And this is it.

Thursday's Unhappy Bath

I'd dip my toe in first. Just to see if it was wet. It was. I did. I usually don't listen to my toe's findings and slide in regardless (feet first, as is the norm), so that little technique isn't particularly useful. Then I stare up at the tiles and see how far I've reached with each passing year. The first 16 in the row are cheating — this is a fairly recent habit, after all — but necessary in depicting my bathroom tile progress filtered through human age. When there's a decent amount (fingers crossed), I'll be dead. I wonder if I'll have achieved anything? Probably not. I wonder if I'll have found someone? Probably not. Well, if that was the case, maybe I killed myself. Maybe in the bath too.

Right now I'm staring up at the ceiling above the bath and thinking, "When will things, like me, look up?". Would it be ironic if I died right now because the laptop on which I'm writing this gunk fell in the bath? Hopefully just after I click "Publish post". Well, maybe more fitting than ironic.

Startin' From...

Whenever it is I begin to achieve this goal.

Grind the Pears and Spill the Letters

Bonfires as grand as fleece lit my path with ease. But I didn't take any, as they were all lowercase and I'm into the harder stuff. Nevertheless, I tucked the sock back into the drawer and sucked down the rest of my pillow. The onlookers — all sweaty — came and went. And looked. And went.

Life's lessons have a habit of creeping up on you at your most incoherent. Evidently not here, though.

Flushed from Success, a Boy of Two Decades Decides That Now, Not the Handful of Thens, is the Right Time to Start up the Engine Again

And here signals the first stop on an infinite journey by train. And by infinite I mean finite. Still, my fingers'll be clockwork till the tomb, and perhaps even keep the beat when I'm floating massless in a void with my lovely. Bye, babes.

Lilly Thinkers

Th's mornin' I was porting m'self a cup o' steamin' brow'. Not fo' long, mine you, as rilly, it only takes arrant five seconds ta fill th' cup — if that, so don go thinkin' that's 'ow I spen' m'whole mornin'. Bu' i' was what I was doing wh'n Lilly woked into my live. Oh 'ow beaut'ful she was! 'Air like pearly silk, skin like flesh, and bits like big. I was'n love. I stark out m'hand to 'ers and we torched each author. And lemming tells ya, boys, she fell so nice! Not only was she pleasin' to the eye, but to th' hans as well. Is dare a more heavily compilation? Anyway, we two got to talkin' pity soon afte' that, and turns out she's caught a grade mind too. We talk'd fa ours and ours. She's a fun bun, all ride.

In chap' two, I toll you 'bout my mistrust, who's a lov'ly lady when the Mormon's right, but is not too crash halt when it isn't. An' I toll you 'bout her 'abit fur not gong starkers at th' time when y'think moist people sh'd be. Anyway, Lill's not lark that. She weaped off 'er dressin' gow' beaver I even took off m'socks! Was a lov'ly s'prise, let me tell you. And, if you'll park on my friends, we forked like rabids. Not in the sends that we gore dow' on or fours or anythin', but in the sends th' it was excitin' and bashin' it. That's wort they mean with the 'ole rabid fing, ride? Anyway, whatever. We had a want her full dime.

Thirty yeahs later, I married th' beach. That's 'ow love works, boys. It's as symbol as that. And on a person'l level, we godda care chew a woman.

Respectable Sheet

Once a day! Once a day! You didn't think it could be done. And yet here I am, four days after my last post, posting. The stamina that keeps these fingers in check must be awesome. And yes, it is. Fresh dipping water by the keys is the key. And a stretch on Mond'ys. It's funny how the world works. Not to you, obviously, but to me.

The Wounded Boy Returns!

I aimed around the bowl. Yes, like Ptolemy, I had a silent pee.

Gee, this is good stuff!

Finger Up Date

Well, seeing as no one else is going to do it, I'll be the next set of features to splurge my insets into the spider mail. And yes, from here on in (not there on in, as I previously let on) I will stick 'em up once a day! Yes, I'm so determined, I even used an exclamation mark. Perhaps to mark my words, as I'm advising all of you to do (i.e. not just your limbs or torso). Well, cheerio, lads of the lamp. I'll be here, like the block I am, tapping away with my steel-toed fingers and providing regular updates on The Human Condition™, because sometimes only the force of a doctor's dedication up its outlet can keep the bugger from excess.