Why does death appeal to me? What does this reveal in me?

I will sleep in my jacket in contrast I'm calm to this racket couldn't live without my mobile phone, cig packet, passing out... passion.

Drink window cleaner.

Rule number one of sleeping: Look comfortable.

In the dark shed I become the terror. In the dark I face my fear. I am not alone. And if I focus on my fear it will come to me with force and the flavour of a rhapsodical nightmare. But if I understand the fear, it will greet me happily like a rebellious teenager greets their parents who take them back into the household, with a strong and gnarled grasp.

Hunter S is my muse. Between he and I we have nothing to lose. Life itself is a clever ruse. But, ho ho, gotta laugh at the blues. Even Jesus died young. So just chill the fuck out you are so highly strung.

Walking on the moon

Fight against the tide

Boy loves Emma watson. He gets to go to her birthday party to meet her. She doesn't notice. She is too caught up in her fame. Boy returns home determined to get on with his life. Becomes famous through chance. When he reaches stardom she has dropped off the radar. Now she wants to know him but he doesn't care about her. He is too caught up in the fame.

Sweat bored it's way through the pores

Non-plussed, double tucked and kinda fucked. Wouldn't walk for the sake of flying. Wouldn't crawl to save myself from dying. Gotta give to get and get given. Gotta talk to be able to listen.

Linguistics. Incorporate the pyramids. Historical amnesia. It is scary to think of how much knowledge we have lost.

Now I think about, what sound I make, when I breathe in and out.

Red mist red shit. Mist strangles the headset necks twist closed mind and closed fist. Chemically de-brained why strain no pain head explodes chest gets wet. Life destroyed with a single bullet.

Listen long to my lucid lamentations.

Scientists creating animals with out pain receptors. And making humans this way for organ harvesting. A wayward chicken is found by a failed scientist who dropped out of school because of a drug addiction. Cocaine and amphetamines. as colonel krumkiy they don't have to pay for things to dull the pain. no pain, no happiness.

colonel krumkiy is a woman with only one child. the child is sick and needs an organ or two. Colonel K went to uni with Adrian. Very smart. Difficult uni to get into. Adrian fell in love with her at uni. She thought he was a hopeless drop out. He took drugs and wrote poetry. Now he must show her what she is doing is wrong. Her husband died a few years ago from liver failure. She doesn't want to lose her son - the only tangible link to sanity. In the end Adrian befriends her son and finds out he thinks that it's wrong as well but she won't listen. Adrian and the son convince her to stop - one life is not equal to thousands. Just before the son dies adrian and Col. K fall in love. As they tell him this, he dies. The son leaves behind a poem. Book finishes as a new sun rises. It is not known that the colonel is a woman until late in the book

The idea came to me as a i bit into a chicken wing from nandos as paul and i drove home.

It was all a sham. Pain enveloped me.

I like to talk in circles rather then outside of them because inside a circle my ideas echo and reverberate around; my questions are answered in the cacophony of sound.

The irony of dancing on a table wearing a disguise.

baby boomer material.

Turn the music up. I can hear my conscience.

Don't look so glum. I was just kidding. I wouldn't subject you to such highly challenging yet stimulating intellectual material on the forefront of universal knowledge with respect to historical literature. Your young minds are far too weak to handle such intense academic critique.

Anecdotes, he/she says, are the clever orator's equivalent to the stick a jockey uses to make their horse run faster.

Anecdotes: witty remarks or fillers of wasted space? A speculation about anecdotes in post-modern rhetoric.

I am delivering a speech on the distinctness of grammar in 16th century English hermetic literature.

Good Evening... formal stuff then for the students, read out names... pat, chris, jeremy, jodi... etc.

So gentlemen, be robust in life. Be intelligent. Be caring and carefree. Enjoy life. Enjoy learning. Enjoy being yourself.

An anecdote I shall conclude with is taken from the 2007 graduation speech delivered by the most gracious Madonna Spillane. Her words were... R.O.B.U.S.T

Thank you for entertaining me here today my brothers. Until we meet again, I bid you adieu.

Anecdotes my dear friends, old souls and searchers of the truth.

In my experience anecdotes have a wide range of use. Some are used to take up time or space in rhetoric or other forms of literature. Whilst at times they also can be used to separate the coffee mug and the table to prevent that awful stain from occurring. In the most peculiar circumstances the right anecdote can fold a square piece of paper in half eight consecutive times. No easy feat, trust me.

Anecdotes are the most beautiful things in language. They are the way the most pertinent, witty, beautiful and intelligent words that have ever had an audience are preserved.

He tells me that this speech came to him in depths of some dark night. His hand moved across the blank page, the cold sweat shimmering in the halogen light, he said. It took him 3 minutes to write the speech down word for word as you will soon hear it folks. But it took him five hours to re-write it in legible script. His hand was a tad shaky after seeing an angel, and all.

Therefore I am here today to present to you a speech written by a most brilliant gentleman who goes by the name RVRFNX

An annual anecdote will keep the analrapist at bay.

Potential pedo. Hates Lilly Allen. Well dressed. Likes a cocktail called the 'poet's piper'.

He lived in a town called reality and he moved away when he was 13.

He could punch the heart out of a grown man's chest.

Which knowledge burrows fear into your bones: the fact that I am a criminal or the fact that you are the only person who knows I am a criminal?

London is a phoenix

bronte langbroek

With every evil there is a corresponding good. Balance. It's the way of the world. And when we fuck with it, it fucks with us.

I'm going to give my first child the name 'opinion' so they will never be wrong.

Twisted cutlery. Pissed off?

Navel fluff

I like to say good night to passengers as I get off the train at 5am.

Like an old restrictive carcass shell I strip it off and relax.

Capture me in my most down and out poses.

Got people stomping around the dance floor looking like angry little ants.

Why does the bass sound like it is saying 'sex, sex, sex, sex' over and over again?

Not being famous sucks when you know you will be famous and all you want is a little servive, sex, booze or money.

The End Club - a group of writers who know the end has already come and don't give a fuck.

Imagine the fucked up dreams when asleep in a club.

I love it when I can feel the music

I'm not sleeping goddamit. I am just enjoying the music with my eyes closed and drool running down my chin. It's seductive, you fuck wit.

Parched. Can't swallow. The bass reverberates around my dry throat.

Transvestites in cages tricking everybody. It's all a sham. Fake. Not real. But people pay money for it. Fucking disgusting money.

A bundle of guts vibrating in a heated box, wet vaginas and cocks rubbing against the ferocious crotch.

Pretending to dance with the girls in the cages.

Music. The great communicator. Along with fear. Making everyone feel good. Even the girls in the cages look happy as they sell their souls.

Am I a freak? Do they know? Am I different? What does THIS mean?

Sweat mixing with tears. Really. Is this love a sear of people moving but not knowing. Love is blind. But not this blind.

Floating nowhere, foot scraping the wall for grip.

Who comes to a club to lie down?

Such as: I am mitsubishiying this waterboat.

Poet and student. In his spare time he writes exposes on dreams and creates new verbs from nouns.

For a sack of bones, some guts and organs. You really are a beautiful individual. On the insides and out.

I can be nervous but I want to push the boundaries.

Camera pointing. Segment. One thousand dollars.

And that's when I realised she was a pike.

Navel fluff.

Why the long pause

Waking up to people having sex. Horrible. It sounded like they were dying.

It was brilliant. It was beautiful. There was magic in the air that night.

Sex, philosophy, travelling, love and vodka. A tale of one boy's journey to manhood in a London Hostel.

Laura love story

What do I know? I'm a young impressionable student with a brain like a sieve.

Exploring the heart and soul of the boulevard of broken dreams.

Love the little things in life. A warm bed. A cup of milk. A bottle of vodka. Salt and pepper squid. A bottle of vodka.

Sleeping under the stars these days means sleeping under pictures of celebs.

You gotta bleed to know you're alive.