A cloud floats by which looks exactly like your home.
You see your bedroom window.
Puffs of movement inside.
Another cloud drifts by:
Binoculars.

twit

I love bowling alley earthquakes. X X X X X X X X X

My screen grabs will all go here: taz

Mysterious Letters is a collaboration with Lenka Clayton.
We sent a personal, handwritten letter to each home in Cushendall (467) which all arrived en masse.
The letters were all positive, perky, peculiar.
The art work consists solely of the discussion between the recipients about what on Earth these letters are, who sent them and why, etc.
On the day the letters were sent it was announced in the national press.

Read the Mysterious Letters here
Listen and watch Lenka and I talking about it at: it's nice that
More more more on Lenka's wonderous website: click

I've two stories in a guide at Tate Britain now. (not now, too late.)

They're supposed to help explain what "altermodern" is.

Everything said at the party had to be a lie.
It went well.
Only one person was asked to leave.
He gave his real phone number to Bridget (Gillian).
She’d asked for it.
She told him that she was sick of the shitty stage school party and
she really wanted to get to know him, the real him, straight after.

The field of view widens throughout the whole dream.
(Not panning out.)
After ten minutes, further width seems impossible to take in.
It continues.
Quickens.
Left side a touch faster than the right.
The dream itself is just a still landscape.
Grass, trees.
Tiny, trivial movements.
After a few hours, it rains for a moment.

I wanted to stand in front of all of the great works of art and cry.
And absolutely burst.
So I hitched and hailed around the globe,
spraying, squirting,
hither, thither.
Then one late day, by a Lorenzo Lotto
I realised that the person beside me was tearful too.
We looked at each other.
Paused at each other.
Embraced.
Extensive sobbing.
Delicately dabbing, we compared check lists and techniques.
Sometimes she’d have to imagine her friends getting
tortured to tease out a tough tear.
I told her that was completely against my way of thinking.
I told her that torture, even just imaginary, absolutely sickened me.
Then I met her friends.

The aeroplane’s shadow gets
lighter and lighter before
it leaves the ground.

Dear Scott,

here’s the pesky email I’d promised. I hope all’s lovely with you, and the preparations for China are ballooning along bonnily. I don’t even know if you have lots of things to prepare for that show, I presume you do but maybe it’s all the same clothes as the last show? I’m clueless. Clearly: no clue. Which is this why this:

As we briefly chatted about, the characters in my stories have never had any of their clothing described, and, since you’re an inferno of astonishing style and a real-life, globe trotting fashion designer, I thought you might quickly scribble something they could all be wearing. I won’t mention it in the stories, but it’ll be understood that everyone I’ve written about so far, and everyone I’ll write about in the future will be wearing these clothes. I think one outfit will be enough, but it doesn’t need to be unisex, it’s completely up to you. It could be something as simple as:

No shoes, no socks, no underwear, green jeans, white, slightly damp Garfield t-shirt.

I don’t want you to feel like it has to be some vast description, it’s completely up to you what goes on. It doesn’t have to be funny, or serious, or tasteful, or elegant or anything. Maybe just the first thing that pops up in your head would be best. The main thing is, I don’t want this to be a nightmare for you.

If I ever have my work made into a film, this clothing will be used. The only time I’ll deviate from the clothes you pick is if I specifically need a certain type of sock or vest or whatever to make the narrative work. Stories set deep into the future or past will still have your choice.

To "unveil" this clothing thing I’ll just put this email on my website, word for word, and your response, if that's ok with you. (don't worry I won't put your email address on!) I think that's the best way to do it.

Cheerio, and huge thanks!

Michael

A camera takes photos of its own innards

until a vital piece is removed and it no longer works.

Update: All ten places taken now, sorry!

My next ten pieces require participation.
If you’d like to help and take part,
I want you to email me your phone number.
(outside the UK is fine)
I’ll email the first ten to respond a short script in return and
if you like your role
we’ll arrange a time for me to call that suits you.
My hello will be straight into the first line of the script.
There won’t be any small talk outside the scripted conversation.
Any deviation from the script and I’ll hang up.
Obviously you can read your lines any way you fancy,
but I’d like it to be fairly natural, casual.
I’ll be reading my part badly, but only because I can’t act.
I’ll record each call and put the results on here.
I won’t use the phone numbers in any other way.
It’s safe, non-toxic fun.

slowlyberserk@hotmail.com

They planned their first kiss in a state of
absolutely untouchable elation.
At first it was just a flirty joke,
a choppy, sarcastic discussion of the basics:
Duration, spontaneity,
hair ruffling,
gusto,
nibbles.
Then, as it became clear that it was actually going to happen,
they flung themselves in,
giddily meticulous.
They collected stories from friends and family
about their first kisses,
memories of the build up,
the minutes or years just before,
the movement in,
the moment,
the thoughts during,
and all the afterwards.
They met every evening to discuss possibilities,
and sometimes just to sit and
look at each others lips.
Silent staring for twenty minutes.
Thirty minutes.
Little smiles,
thirty five minutes.
Bigger smiles,
thirty six minutes.
Thirty seven minutes.
Explosions of laughter.
Ecstatic shopping for lip balm.
Letters to-ing and fro-ing about pouting.
Telegrams on ideal humidity.
Earlobe memos.
They hired a couple of actors to go through their plans,
dressing them in the clothes they’d be wearing and
running over the lines in the designated spot.
They held hands, grips squeezing as the actors kissed.
It was decided that cheesy fireworks would be fun and
a faint smell of coconuts should be drifting by.
The landscape was going to completely change too.
During the kiss, between eyes closed and eyes open,
hundreds of thousands of tiny paper snowflakes
would be flung by friends and well wishers hiding behind
trees, post offices, etc.
Finally, after a year of planning, the day came.
6 August, 1945.
They met at 8am (the most beautiful light)
and spoke for fifteen minutes as planned.
Then, a pause.
Tiny turbulence.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. Are you?"
"Yes."
"Come a little closer."
“I’m sorry?”
“Don't you remember? Come a little bit closer.”
“A bit closer?”
“A tiny bit closer.”
“Just a bit...”
"And a little bit..."
They kissed, and as they kissed the sky
burst with light and the strangest,
most peculiar feeling.
They looked at each other.
Both tried to raise a confused smile but it was impossible.
These were completely new feelings.
Utter confusion.
Their stomachs were churning,
their skin was scorching,
their eyes melting.
The buildings around them were gone,
screams began, Hiroshima had been destroyed.

At a recent group exhibition my work was 26 sealed envelopes which looked like this:















Everyone seemed to play along. Inside was this, each with an individual time (click bigger):

The secret was, my oranges weren't oranges. They were little orange helium balloons which floated straight up when I dropped them (most times...). As my oranges floated over the museum, I took the photo.

I was helped enormously by Alex Clegg, Anna Crowe (photos of both below) Bimba Champion, Katherine Cooper and Emily Austin. All wonderful people who had to suffer my company for hours.

The piece came from a chat with the fantastic Stuart Thorn, who suggested the oranges float off. He is a nutter.
Thank you to everyone who came along, I love you long time.

Lenka Clayton and I will be making our latest collaboration during a two week residency founded by Bill Drummond in Curfew Tower, Northern Ireland (above).

This is a collaboration between Anna Maria Pinaka and Michael Crowe. Originally this was written in English by Michael and then given to Anna Maria, who translated it into Greek, making as many changes as she wanted to, wholesale huge or teeny-tiny. Michael will never translate the final Greek text back in to English to see what has been altered. He just accepts that Anna Maria has done wonders with the story.






Μια μεγάλη γκαλερή χτείζεται για να φιλοξενήσει τα καινούργεια αγάλματα,
Το πρώτο απο τα οποία είναι ένας δρόμος δέκα μίλιων, ένα αυτικίνητο και ένα καινούργειο άγαλμα.
Μπαίνεις στο αυτοκίνητο.
Πρόσεξε τα δάχτυλα σου. Σοβαρά, πρόσεξε τα δαχτυλάκια σου.
Η πόρτα κλείνει με θόρυβο.
Ένας βοηθός στη γκαλερή σε χεραιτάει και σε οδηγεί στο δρόμο.
Το αυτοκίνητο φτάνει τα 120 μίλια την ώρα και περνάει το καινούργειο άγαλμα
Που είναι ένα πεζοδρόμειο.
Μπορεί μονάχα να ειδοθεί στα 120 μίλια την ώρα. Έχει σχεδιαστεί να είναι ορατό μονο σε αυτή την ταχύτητα. Ενα μίλι αργότερα το αυτοκίνητο σταματάει.
Οι εργαζόμενοι στη γκαλερί ζητάει να μάθει αν εχείς κάποια ερώτηση.
Πρέπει να ενθαρίνει τον καθένα να ρωτήσει τουλάχιστον πέντε ερωτήσεις, δύχνει ένα πολιτιζμένο επίπεδο περιέργειας.
Οι εργαζόμενοι είναι πολύ καλά ενηξμερωμένοι.
Αν ρωτήσεις μια ερώτηση της οποίας την απάντηση δεν γνωρίζουν, θα υπάρξει μια μεγάλη παύση που ακολουθήτε απο τα εξής μαγικά λόγια
«Πενηνταπέντε φορές καλόγερος»
Το επόμενο καινούργειο άγαλμα είναι κλειδομένο μακριά.
Ίσως μπορέσεται αλλα ίσως να μην μπορέσεται να το δέιτε.
Το ακροατήρειό του είναι συνκγεκριμένο.
Για τα πρώτα δέκα χρόνια μόνο όμορφες γυναίκες μπορούν να το δούνε.
Μία κάθε φορά, οδηγούνται μέσα στο δωμάτιο απο μία όμορφη ταξιθέτρεια.
Οι φωτογραφίες απαγορέυονται αυστηρά, .
Μετά, ίσως προσπαθήσουν να το περιγράπσουν σε άλλους - εντάξει.
Μπορούν να φτιάξουν ένα αντίγραφο, να γράπσουν ένα τραγούδι για αυτό, να μιλήσουν στον ύπνο τους για αυτό, ότι γουστάρουν.
Και με το «όμορφες γυναίκες» ενοώ κάθε γυναίκα που έχει τουλάχιστον μία ελιά στο στήθος.
Μετά απο αυτή τη δεκαετία, για τα επόμενα δύο χρόνια, μονο δεκάχρονα με μπαλόνια θα μπορούν να το δούνε.
Οι ταξιθέτες είναι δεκάχρονα με μπαλόνια, που οδηγούν τους δεκάχρονους θεατές ένα-ένα.
Μετά απο αυτό, για τρία χρόνια μόνο άνθρωποι που έχουν δουλέπσει σαν οδοκαθαριστές για πάνω απο δέκα χρόνια μπορούν να το δούνε.
Και πάει λέγοντας…
Υπάρχει μια ολοκληρομένη λίστα με το ποιός μπορεί να το δεί και πότε στον οδηγό της έκθεσης.
Η λύστα καλύπτει τα επόμενα τετρακόσια χρόνια επισκεπτών, μετά τα οποία η φορά επαναλαμβάνεται.
Συνκαικριμένα κοινωνικά στελέχη δεν θα αποχτήσουν ποτέ άδεια εισόδου και θα πρέπει να βασιστούν στις μαρτυρίες αυτων που το είδαν.
Το τελευταίο καινούργειο άγαλμα είναι ένας διάδρομος του μπόουλινκγ.
Η είσοδος επιτρέπεται σε ένα άτομο κάθε φορά.
Περπατάς προς τα μέσα και όλα φαίνονται φυσιολογικά.
Τα χαλιά είναι περίεργα και οι εργαζόμενοι φαίνονται κουραζμένοι.
Εκτώς απο δύο απο αυτούς που φλερτάρουν.
Πραγματικά δεν τους νοιάζει που πρέπει να φοράνε ανόητα καπέλα.
Είναι ερωτευμένοι.
Δεν θέλουν να τελειώσει η δουλειά.
Αυτός ο αναγουλιαστικός διάδρομος τους φαίνεται παράδεισος. Βγάζεις τα παπούτσια σου και ξεκινάς κανονικά τις διαδικασίες.
Γράφεις το όνομά σου στην οθόνη.
Διαλέγεις μια μπάλα. .
Τότε την ρίχνεις στο διάδρομο.
Δεν το φαντάζεσαι να έχει πλάκα, το να παίζεις μόνος σου.
Νοιώθεις πως όλοι ψυθιρίζουν για σένα
Όλοι φάινονται να σε κειτάνε.
Ρήχνεις την πρώτη σου μπάλα.
Ρήχνεις όλες τις κορίνες.
Χαμογελας.
Δέυτερη μπαλιά.
Πάλι τέλεια.
Μετά απο πέντε μπαλιές, κόζμος έχει μαζεύτει.
Σε χαίρονται και σε χειροκροτάνε.
Φιλιά και αγγαλιές.
Μπορείς να παίζεις για όσο θέλεις.
Θα κερδίζεις συνέχεια.
Νοιώθεις θεός.
Φυσικά δεν είσαι.
Πίεση και αέρας διατηρούν τις μπαλιές σου σταθερές και στο κέντρο του διαδρόμου.
Αυτό το ξέρει όλος ο κόσμος
Εκτώς απο εσένα.

My exhibition at the Hand and Heart gallery (Nottingham) is finished. Oh, don't cry. Pull yourself together you big softie. It was lots of writing and a sex mad slide show.

Many massive thanks to Richard and Sophie.
Hands down heavenly people.

From every dream ever dreamt on
planet earth (animals included)
I’m interested in:

The best and worst dialogue.
The best music.
The best overall plot.
The most elaborate dance sequence.
Any obscured with a thumb over the lens.
(I know there’s no lens.)
The most interesting camera angles.
(Again, I know.)
The most pitiful special effects.
The most ill lit.
Tiny candle.
The best architecture, the best clothing,
the most detailed August.
The most inappropriate character sneeze.
The most expensive to make as a film.
Or just to make.
We don't really need to film it.
I'm sorry but this does go on and on.
I just keep on writing.
Way past your bed time.
You should probably just leave me to it.
Any where everything was upside down, including subtitles.
Any where the whole thing seemed badly acted.
The smallest set.
So there wasn't enough room for everyone or everything.
Elbowing.
Any dreams with cleaners milling around sorting out the mess made.
So the person dreaming just knocked everything over, power mad.
Any with a cave entrance that was talkative and witty.
The slowest thunderbolt.
The most thoroughly shuffled deck of cards.
Shuffled for years of dream years.
Any where everything was made out of rosewood.
Even the air: rosewood.
Any where the whole dream was covered with black chiffon so it
was hard to really see what was going on underneath.
Muffled sound too.
The best use of colour.
For example, last night every object was taken out
of France and replaced with all of the red objects of the world.
Anybody who wanted to visit had to wear red when they arrived.
Red aeroplanes landing on red carpets at the red airports.
And then it started to snow.
Every falling French flake had its own different colour shadow.
It was like multicoloured polka dots dancing over everything.
I’m also interested in any dreams that I've appeared in.
Whatever I'm doing in them I want to see.
Even if I'm just sat on a toilet for five hours.
Or drifting around in the background for a few seconds.
I think I've got every right to see.
I need to see.
I’d like to watch the dreams I'm in and guess who dreamt them.
Every time I guess right I want to be awarded a golden medal.
Big lavish ceremony.
If I guess wrong I want to be told who did dream those dreams.
And I also want another gold medal.
And an even bigger lavish ceremony.
And if nobody has ever drempt about me then
you can keep your gold medals and your ceremonies.
I didn't give a shit about them in the first place.
Don't you want to find out what you've been getting up to as well?
Good lord.
The mind boggles.
It's a secret life you're living.
It could be happening right now,
someone's dreaming of you.
You're somewhere else.
Perhaps you're happier there.
Doing better things,
saying better things,
thinking better things.
Or even just reading better things.

Every gift you’ve ever received,
back in the original wrapping paper,
with the same tags,
and then:

1. I deleted number one. It wasn't very good. Not that 2 is any better. Part 6 is fantastic. Perhaps you should just skip to 6.

2. Floating out at sea on an enormous piece of polystyrene.
The polystyrene has been cut into a profile picture of you.
Some of the lighter presents are sliding near the edge.
By your nose, and one by your chin.
Curious seagulls.

3. Tilted with twigs, so they’re looking up at the moon and the stars.
I don’t know if there's a campfire nearby but I can hear a crackling.
Your gifts mull over the mysteries of the universe.
They think of you too.
They speak to each other:
"These stars are the same stars Napoleon once looked at."
"This moon is the same moon Jesus once looked at."
"And billions of little white mice."
"Countless captivated eyes."
"All looking at the same thing."
"Some crying."
"All clueless."

4. Gently massaged.
For hours.
Until the paper comes off.

5. Balanced one on top of another and used as the new
silent/tall Queen of England.
Everybody loves her.
Every single human being.
People wonder what the top gift is.
Her crown.
The smallest gift you've ever been given.

6. In your bedroom, filling it absolutely entirely, waiting for you.
So exciting.
Spilling out into the hallway.
All yours.
All completely yours.

Now you’re sat in a cinema next to me. I bought the tickets, it’s a classy cinema it wasn’t cheap. But anyway it’s my treat, since you’ve gone to the trouble of reading so much. Don’t ask for any popcorn. Do not ask for popcorn. There is none. Yes, I've got some. I brought it myself from home. Popped it in my own pan. You can't have any. This is my dinner. I'm serious. Honestly I’ve not eaten anything all day.

The film starts. It’s original footage you opening every single one of your gifts over the years. Ten seconds per gift. It’s obvious when you hate a gift. I mean really obvious. That’s followed by another film of each gift being originally purchased/made. Ten seconds per gift. Sunlight coming through the shop windows lighting the hair of the person buying.

The first list:
All the things you won’t do.
Not just any old things.
Things you would’ve enjoyed.
It’s a depressing read.
Even just the first thing on there.
If you saw it, you’d be in denial.
No, no, I’ll do that!
I’m doing that next week!
With Terry.
Honestly, it’s all arranged!
No.
It’s not arranged.
There is no Terry.
I’m sorry but that’s just the way the
cookie (your life) crumbles (crumbles).
Once you’ve chipmunked through that list I’ve got another.
All the people you won’t meet.
A few billion names. (Terry’s included)
It's a pretty boring list.
I added a colour guide.
The names in blue are the people you would’ve been good friends with.
Really interesting, funny people.
Lovely people.
They would’ve found you fascinating.
If you’d met them.
They’re out there now, but your paths just won’t cross.
Nothing can be done about it.
Some of them are really very sensitive.
They cry from time to time for what seems like no reason.
They don’t understand it themselves.
They just think there’s something wrong with them.
They keep those tears to themselves.
After blue it's red ink.
The red names are the people you would’ve fallen in love with.
If you’d bumped into them.
And when I say love, I’m not going by the common definition.
I mean my definition.
My own private definition.
(Frothy.)
There are pages and pages of red names.
Gallons and gallons of cherry ink.
A little asterisk by the name means love at first sight.
Two means love at first sight for both of you.
What else?
God, there's loads.
I'd hate to bore you.
I'm boring myself.
I should skip through some.
There's yellow, silver, gold, black.
Italic names are all the people who would've written a song for you.
Using your name as the title.
Some names have their own roaming spotlight.
They're all the people you would’ve happily married.
Purple are people who would've made you feel uncomfortable.
Really, desperately uncomfortable.
They would've crushed your confidence.
Lovely to see them on this list.
Kiss those names.
And it goes on and on.
Just names.
Then finally, there’s the third list.
Probably the most important list of all.
This week’s shopping.
Which, if you enjoyed this story should include:
A reasonably expensive gift for me.
Something that's probably out of your price range.
But that you couldn't resist.
Something that's perfect for me.
I will accept gift vouchers.

This, and other projects Lenka and I have done, "will be featured" in June's issue of Artist's Newsletter:

Same Age Sculptures, 2008, a series of sculptures made when the artists were the exact same age. Lenka Clayton and Michael Crowe produced them all blindfolded, in order to remove aesthetic anxiety, and to emphasize elements of surprise and play. Michael, being older by 34 days made one a day, for 34 days. Then Lenka began, and 34 days/sculptures later her first piece was coupled with Michael's first piece, second with second, and so on. They explain: "Age is frequently used to compare what two people have accomplished, creating a winner and a loser. This work gently throttles that belittling system. The most interesting pair of sculptures will be cast in bronze."

Titles from pairs above:

1. Dug hole and lightbulb.
2. Monument to acrobat troupe and rose.
3. Spilt tea and yodelling.
4. Polar bear balancing fish on nose (metaphor for global warming) and little car.
5. Human on mountain and game of noughts and crosses.
6. Cat and collar and pancake.
7. Ripped up love letter and fear.
8. Lit candle and reclining Saint Sebastian.
9. A camel is a horse designed by committee and Stone Henge.
10. Hamburger with sesame seeds and Arthur Craven leaving Mexico in a small boat watched by Mina Loy.
11. Pissing cat and Alberto Giacometti dancing to Michael Jackson's Smooth Criminal.
12. Small crushed horse and a drawing pin.
13. George Machiunas in hospital and banana skin.

(I've more pickles to post, but it's so late now and the speed of this website is driving me mad.)

p.s. click on the pictures, they're much better bigger.


- - See them all on Lenka's (excellent) website! - -

http://www.lenkaclayton.co.uk/gallery.php?gallery=sameage

click me

The juicy intrigue which once squirted out
of the Edwardian Period squirts no more.
It’s finally squirtless.
Similarly sour:
The Industrial Revolution.
The Jacobean Era.
The Dark Ages.
And more.
All collectively curdled.
Ordinarily, this would honk historians into action,
but it seems they’re all too preoccupied with
a new field of study.
You.
The historical facts of your life so far.
They’ve unearthed all sorts.
The major events.
The significant arguments.
The turning points.
The monumentally preposterous fuck ups.
And more.
Things like how many tears you’ve cried.
Where all of those tears are now.
How many Jacuzzi’s they’d fill.
Why you cried every time you cried.
How long you cried for on each occasion.
Who made you feel better afterwards.
What they said and how they said it.
Thousands of verifiable facts about your streaming eyes.
The history of your wet cheeks,
your dripping chin.
And not just the seemingly endless blubbing.
How many times you’ve smiled at each individual person.
How many times you’ve been smiled at.
Who’s smiled at you more than anyone else.
Why they smile at you so much.
Who’s feelings you’ve hurt the most.
*Note to printer: The text fades out from the next line.
How many times you’ve said, “yes,”
how many times you’ve said, “no.”
What made you laugh for the longest amount of time.
How long that was.
How many photos have been taken
with you accidentally in the background.
Where those photos all are.
*Extremely faint.
How many things you’ve eaten which
you’ve dropped on the floor.
The compliments strangers have whispered about you.
*Text disappeared now.
The exact amount of money you’ve wasted.
The people who love you without you knowing.
The most intelligent thing you’ve ever said.
How many times you’ve sneezed without covering your mouth.

If it's too hard to say sorry, just say
so.

Somebody somewhere
looks more like you than
anybody else.
They probably looked in the
bathroom mirror today.
They probably fell in love.
Probably fainted.
Probably hit their head quite hard.
Probably on the sink.
Nice taps.
Gushing hot water.

The next thing I write won't be going on here (ever),
I want to send it out individually.

In letters, postcards, etc.
It's a bit nicer.
Whoever wants it, wherever you are, I'll send to.
Just email me your postal address and I'll do the rest.
Really!
Don't be shy, my email is,

slowlyberserk@hotmail.com

Thanks to everyone who has responded.
I'm Michael Crowe by the way.

I fell asleep much earlier than normal.
The set for the dream was only half built.
I was supposed to be on a hospital roof,
admiring the view, but there was no hospital,
only a building site, a stethoscope and
six pale people in purple pyjamas.
After a little sleuthing it became clear:
I had to build the hospital myself.
It was an enormous, virtually impossible job,
but it had come at the right time.
My waking life was going nowhere and I was
desperate to do something,
one thing that I could be proud of,
something I could tell my children I’d achieved,
even if it was only in a dream.
I approached a cement mixer and rolled up my sleeves.
Five hours later I’d figured out how to turn it on.
Clearly this was too big a task for one evening.
I had to return to it, night after night, dream after dream.
Years were spent just learning the basics.
Structural engineering, site planning, materials, insulation, etc.
Months of dreams just trawling through architecture textbooks.
Luminous green highlighter pens running out.
Luminous pink highlighter pens running out.
Hours of scholarly tedium,
decades of drab dreams.
Sketching, erasing, sketching.
Planning.
Model building.
Yawning.
In one of them I actually fell asleep at the desk.
I was dreaming of dreaming while dreaming.
In the dream in the dream the hospital was there.
Overbuilt, but there.
It had a fizzy moat bubbling with Pepsi.
I took a sip.
Definitely Pepsi.
Or Coke.
Which one's got the most sugar?
Isn't that Pepsi?
Anyway,
it had a crystal drawbridge.
I walked over.
It had a single neon pillar (horizontal)
Why?
It had gold gargoyles.
Unacceptable.
It also had a pile of bodies at the entrance.
At first I thought it was a sculpture.
Something controversial about death.
But no, they were dead people.
Dead architects.
They’d seen the building and decided to
review it by leaping off.
Frank Lloyd Wright, Le Corbusier and several others
far too famous to mention, all snapped and mangled.
I realised if I ever finished my hospital I
wouldn’t be on the roof admiring the view.
I’d be up there to step off.
I heard an ariel scream and looked up.
Frank Gehry was plummeting towards me.
I woke, covered in sweat, back into the first dream.
I knew what I had to do.
I put four bricks in a square and threw a paracetamol inside.
That was my hospital.
I stood on top and stepped off.

It nearly snows but
conditions change and
only one flake drops.

Outside
every weather condition is
occuring simultaniously.

Print this out on colourful paper.
Pink would be ideal.
Secretly take it with you when you go out for a drink with a friend.
When your friend goes to the toilet, take this out and look at it.
When your friend returns they’ll ask you what you're reading.
Quickly rip it up twice, wink at your friend and
put the paper down on the table.
Walk off to the toilet, whistling.
When you return your friend will have pieced the pieces together.
They will have read all of this.
They’ll be waiting for you with a hand held up, for a high five.
It’ll be one of the best high fives of all time.

A photo of Bill Cosby throwing a snowball at you.
A photo of that snowball getting struck by lightning.
A photo of Bill Cosby with two thumbs up next to a neon sign that says:
That snowball would’ve hit you in the fucking face.
A photo of Bill Cosby getting struck by lightning.
A photo of Bill Cosby with one thumb up, in a hospital bed.
A photo of Bill Cosby which everyone says is definitely a photo of you.
A photo of you with no thumbs up next to a neon sign that says:
I don’t look anything like him.
A photo of you for sale online, listed as a signed photo of Bill Cosby.
A photo of Bill Cosby which basically sums up your whole life.

Sculpture which looks more and more aggravated
every time a bird shits on it.
Sculpture which says fucking hell louder and louder
every time a bird shits on it.
Sculpture which cries every time a bird shits on it.
(tears collected from public)
Sculpture which throws a tantrum every time a bird shits on it.
(tantrums collected from public)
Sculpture which plays celebratory music and dances
every time it’s shat on.
Sculpture with bird shit sculpted on.
(subtle version and completely covered version)
Sculpture which displays times between being
shat on and number of times shat on.
Sculpture which relocates every time it’s
shat on. (To be shat on by every bird species.)
Sculpture which fires bird shit onto
other sculptures nearby, then innocently whistles.
Sculpture which releases a juicy worm every time
bird shit lands near but not on it.
Sculpture with a polite plaque (p.p.) asking birds
not to shit on it.
Sculpture with a p.p. asking birds to
shit on it only at certain times.
Sculpture of someone sleeping in bed.
Wakes up if shat on.
Sculptures of historically important moments altered
by a bird shitting on them.
Sculpture which grows taller every time it's shat on.
Sculpture which flies after the bird if shat on.
Sculpture which takes a photograph of
itself every time a bird shits on it.
Sculpture of someone who has to clean bird shit
off sculptures, smiling with umbrella.
Sculpture of a baseball mitt made out of bird shit.
Sculpture of a basketball hoop.

If the North Pole
and the South Pole
heard about each other
they’d melt.

The older you get
the less time you have to
reminisce.

The combined weight of
everything in the air
is so hideously enormous
it’s amazing any of it
got up there at all.

We draw each other cameras as gifts.
All day we pretend to take photos.
Then we draw a picture of us taking
the film to get developed.
We have to wait an hour for them.
We wait.
Obviously they won't all be great.
I think I took some good ones.
An hour later we draw the photos.
They're great.
Really.
One or two are a bit of a blur
but that's to be expected.

Every time somebody says
I love you
it loses some of it’s clout so
I’ve decided not to say it again.
I hope you understand.
Please don’t take it personally.
You know the way I feel about you.
I South Korea you.
I little blue blazer with brass buttons you.
I Kindergarten Cop you.
More than ever.

Little waves
power mad
shrink and expand countries
constantly.

I made a dictionary which has
every word from every language.
There are over six thousand languages.
It’s enormous.
I really don’t know what else to say about it.
It’s hard to find the right words.

Children wonder why magicians with
such beautiful, electrifying powers
always resort to such
fraudulent, shameful tricks.

There is a leaf,
higher up than any other, somewhere
in my hand luggage.

While trying to be friendly and helpful we
all make tiny mistakes and silly blunders.
It's a real shame because these errors, added up
over the course of a lifetime,
are the equivalent of one brutal,
sadistic, remorseless murder.

The words you constantly misspell are
humiliated and discombobulated.

I've written millions of
poems about snowflakes.
They’re all different.

I haven’t much time so this is a bit of a rough draft.
A lot of the detail I'll just have to leave to your imagination.
Don’t worry, it’s easy.
The only thing I know for sure is that I want thirty characters involved.
They don’t need names, you can think some up if you want to.
Whatever names you like, I don’t mind.
You could call them all the same name.
Bert.
Thirty Berts.
Actually, I'd rather they weren't all men.
And not all whites either.
I’d never have all whites.
Not to be politically correct but there are
thirty people for god's sake.
They can only be all white if you're not white.
Or if you've got a really good reason.
I don't even know why I brought that up.
Let's just have a sensible mix.
Now, I’ve not thought of what they’ll be doing.
Not at all.
Just get them up and about.
Get them busy.
If you're stuck for an idea they could
help you to come up with one.
They could all be inspired writers if you like.
Surely you can get something good out of them.
If not then we're really fucked.

Sculpting the pot takes so long
I have to water the clay
before I can make the flower.

I’m going to ask you to do something at the end of this.
Nothing kinky.
Just something to connect us.
In quite a pathetic way.
Honestly, it’s nothing kinky.
I don’t want to build it up too much but I think you’ll like it.
It’ll just be a nice little moment.
Not that your life is short of nice moments of course.
I’m sure it’s bulging with enchantment.
That sounds sarcastic.
It wasn’t supposed to.
I’ll bet your life, compared to mine is astonishing.
Again, that sounds sarcastic.
Insincere.
It isn't.
I've eaten beans on toast for six days in a row.
That's the absolute truth.
I'm poor and miserable.
Despite that, I've still written this as a little gift,
from me to you.
And, if you do it, it's a gift from you to me.
This isn't about me being power mad.
I’m not power mad, I’m perfectly healthy.
I’m so healthy I know how crazy that sounds.
Really, I’m perfectly healthy.
Oh god, this all sounds so wrong.
Beans, misery, power, health.
That should be the title.
I don't know what I'm thinking with "Safe Hands."
"Safe Hands" means nothing.
Anyway, please, when the request comes, just go for it.
You’ve nothing to lose and, I promise you,
very little to gain.
Minimal gain.
And by the way, I know that some people
will be reading this at work.
Perhaps sneaking online.
Hello.
I appreciate the risk you're taking to be here.
You are very welcome.
Still, you might think that because you're at work,
you're exempt.
You're not exempt from this.
Don’t worry, I’ve taken everything into account.
Every conceivable thing.
Nobody will notice.
Ok, it’s just you and me now.
Relax.
It’s getting closer.
Just relax.
Really relax.
We're getting closer.
It's really close.
Now I'm worried you'll be disappointed.
Fucking hell, it's shit.
Oh god, it's too late.
Here it is.
Over to you.
Go for it:
Very slowly,
scratch the
tip of your nose.

I made a sculpture of the space where the sculpture was going to go.
Then I made a sculpture of you looking at the sculpture.
Then I made a sculpture of you sat thinking about the sculpture.
Then I made a sculpture of me halfway through writing you a letter
asking you what you think of my sculptures.
Then I made a sculpture of me setting fire to all of the sculptures.
Then I made a sculpture of me wondering why I did that.
Then I made a sculpture of me wondering what to sculpt next.
Then I made a sculpture of someone buying all of my sculptures.
Then I made a few sculptures of me squandering the money, in restaurants, etc.
Then I made a sculpture of me, morbidly obese, sat wheezing.
The wheezing is really authentic.
It’s stunning wheezing.
Then I made kinetic sculptures of me lifting weights, working out.
They’re really inspirational.
Really, really inspirational.
Then I made a sculpture of me at the top of Mount Everest.
A look of absolute bliss in my eyes.
Healthy, glittering bliss.
Back in shape.
I like that one so much I tried to
lug it up to the top of Mount Everest.
It was too heavy.
It was like trying to climb up Everest twice in one go.
I had to drop it into an enormous crevasse.
My blissful eyes falling away, deeper and deeper into the darkness.
Absolutely horrific.
When I finally got to the top, I couldn’t believe it,
there was already the most amazing sculpture of me up there.
It looked really excited to see me, shocked, surprised.

Everything reminds us of something else,
which reminds us of something else,
which reminds us of something else,
onwards and onwards
bouncing infinitely on.

You’re here, right now, reading this.
Which means the pressure’s on for me.
Really on.
Oh god.
You might think this is awful.
Abysmal.
You might call your friends and
tell everyone I’m a nitwit.
A fucking moron.
Which might be true.
Why else would you say it?
Oh god, it’s true isn’t it?
It’s an actual fact.
Maybe I should just delete this.
Start a new one.
Something more dramatic.
Something more nutritious.
Something that’s more you.
I don’t know, what do you like?
Something about food?
I’ve no idea.
Giblets?
I could call it Giblets if you want.
It’s called Giblets.
Maybe I’ll set it in January.
Or March.
I don’t know, what do you want?
August?
Fucking hell, I don’t know.
I don’t know what month to set it in.
I really do not know.
Fuck it: December.
Anyway, I’ll open it up strong.
Straight away I’ll use some great words.
Honky-tonk.
Puff pastry.
Orthodontics.
Jogging bottoms.
Yeah, it’s coming to me now.
I can feel my confidence rising, big time.
Wow:
Now I’ve got an image of a tissue.
A shoelace.
And a bell.
A ringing bell.
Ding ding ding.
If you don’t like that then you don’t like literature.
Ding ding ding.
Can you hear that?
Brilliant.
I can ring that any time.
No, this is great, this is really coming together.
This is really taking shape.
A good shape.
Maybe I should send it off.
Get a book out.
Giblets.
Wait a minute, more images are hitting me like crazy:
Dogs.
Wild dogs.
Mints.
No, mince.
Carrots.
Somebody's niece.
Coffee managers.
I don’t even know what coffee managers are.
That’s inspiration for you!
This is really rolling along now!
Hang on, there’s more:
I can smell frankincense where it’s set.
Where’s it set?
I can smell the dogs.
The wild dogs.
I think they’re eating something.
Dog food.
Ok, it’s definitely August.
And that’s that.
Fabulous.
Done.
Now I think you should call your friends back.
Mention what you said earlier.
Tell them you were wrong about me.
Apologise to them for wasting their time.
By all means, mention Giblets.
Maybe you could ask them what they’re up to tonight.
It’s your call.
Your phone call.
You could find out if they’re alright.
Maybe one of them is upset.
Feeling a bit down.
Listen to them.
Try to cheer them up.
Be a real friend.
Help them out in any way possible.

I can’t draw.
My pigs always look like cows, etc. etc.
It’s not a problem though.
I’ve adjusted.
Whenever I need to draw a cow,
I just step up to the plate and sketch a pig.
There’s your cow.
You can keep the plate.
Enjoy.
He’s just grazing.
Yeah, it’s pretty accurate.
Thank you.
I’ve got a whole system ready to go.
Mike Tyson is a Scotch egg.
The Cosby Show is a balloon.
I’m a farmer's arsehole and
you’re a lovely little
caps-locked kitten.

We’ve all got bits of our personalities we hush up.
Chunks we hide from everyone.
What kind of an infantile world is this?
It’s ludicrous.
These secrets, they’re holding us back from something wonderful.
Something miraculous.
I mean it.
If I was joking I’d say, oh, and by the way,
my secrets are that I’m actually a terrific singer,
a fine cook, and a sensational lover.
But no.
I really mean it.
And anyway those secrets aren’t funny enough to end on.
Basically because they’re true.
I really am a terrific singer.
And a fine cook.
A damn fine cook.
I'll cook you any dish you want.
Name it.
No problem, I’ll cook it.
You’ll love it.
And then, after that, whatever.
No pressure.

Writers can do anything they want to at any time.
It’s one of the perks.
Anything.
For example:
I’m crawling through your legs right now.
I’m halfway through.
Jesus Christ I’m stuck.
Move a bit.
No, I’m ok.
I’m on the move.
I’m through.
I’m stood behind you.
I’m running off.
I’ve gone.
Where am I?
I’m miles away.
I’m poolside in Rio.
I’m sipping milk and clicking my fingers.
I’m diving in.
I’m already out and dry,
I’m stood behind you again, I’m
back in Rio again.
You see how nimble we can be.
It is fairly impressive to non writers.
We can be persuasive too.
For example:
I really did just crawl through your legs.
Genuinely.
I did.
I really did.
I did.
I didn’t go to Rio but I did crawl through your legs.
You know I did.
I did.
I did.
I do did.

(That's my brother's clutter, ignore it. "White cube" photo of it soon)

I flick through a chunky catalogue
brimming with pictures, diagrams and lists of
all the things you’ve forgotten.
It’s complied in order of importance, so
the first three hundred pages are
rather humdrum, and
the last two pages are
fucking scandalous
you monster.

Every exhibit in the Tate Modern is
remade from memory by Nicolas Serota (Tate Director).
He is given two hours to complete the work.
The reproductions are all half the original size.
Night falls.
The gallery is demolished and rebuilt, half the size.
The demolition and rebuild is completed in one evening.
Nicolas’ duplicates are installed.
Daybreak.
Visitors arrive and thoroughly enjoy their day.
They all feel enormous.
They love the art too.
It seems more lively,
more modern.
Night falls.
Owls hoot.
Everybody is distracted by the beauty of the moon as
the small Tate is demolished and replaced with a cardboard box.
“Tate Modern” is painted on the box in white.
It humbly looks over at St Paul’s Cathedral and waits for daybreak.
Daybreak.
It’s a confident, crisp morning.
Visitors arrive from all angles after breakfast.
Omelettes, cereals, marmalade.
They circle the gallery.
Some people start to cry.
Others chuckle.
Some pick it up and have pictures taken
with it on their head.

These thirty two words are a
painstakingly comprehensive record of
everything I’ve ever said,
everything I've ever written down,
and everything I've ever thought,
with all of the stupid shit
edited out.

Fallen eyelashes from
every human ever
cling to clothes
and stick to elbows,
silently travelling
the globe in their
billions.

About 150000 people die every day,
which is over a million funerals every week,
which is 3 nice people every year.

Are you chilling out?
Yeah, I’m just doing a bit of chilling out.
How long have you been chilling out for?
I don’t know. Four or five hours.
Do you mind if I join you?
What?
Could I chill out with you for forty five minutes?
I suppose so.
Thanks. Is this how you do it?
No you’ve got to sit further back, more like this.
Ok.
And put your arms here.
Here?
Yes, and then keep doing this with your ankles.
Like this?
Yes. Perfect.
Really?
Yes, that’s just right. Now you’re chilling out.
We’re chilling out now are we?
Well, as soon as I get into position, we’ll be chilling out.
Ok. Are you in position yet?
No.
Are you in position now?
No, give me a second.
Ready?
Yes, I’m in position now.
We’re chilling out?
We are chilling out.
Now I want to tell you something.
Can’t it wait?
No, I wanted to tell you while we were chilling out.
Ok, what is it?
You’re sacked.
What?
You’re sacked.

I dreamt I was planet earth and everything on it.
Every street, every conversation,
every cheeseburger, every hair weave.
Everything, simultaneously.
It was equally depressing and beautiful.
The depression would have won out-and-out, but
I had one overriding thought.
It was about how great it was to be you.
How brilliant you actually are in person.
How lovely your thoughts are.
Why don’t you tell more people what you’re thinking?

Nobody monitors love and
without any governing body,
without a single supervisor,
it has gone fucking crackers.
If you don’t believe me take a look:
It is shitting mischief as we speak
and I’m sure in five minutes
it’ll be pissing calamity on your blouse.
That's unacceptable behaviour.
It's a beautiful blouse.
All this from the most influential force on the planet.
Lives are at stake and something must be done,
which, of course, is why we're here.
As you know I’m looking for a ballsy administrator.
You have answered my advert.
You’re stood in my office.
I’m also stood in my office.
It’s a bit uncomfortable.
As you can see, there are no chairs.
I have ordered four.
Four chairs.
Where the fuck is the delivery man?
Anyway, please, take a seat on the floor.
That’s better.
Now I’m thinking to myself, I should sit down too.
I’m leaning against the wall.
I feel very uncomfortable.
Okay, I’m sort of sliding down the wall.
Jesus Christ.
I'm still sliding.
I'm still sliding.
Right, I’m also sat down now.
We’re relaxing.
I’m telling you that you're over qualified for the position.
You’re telling me that you're happy to work overtime.
I’m telling you that you've got the job.
I’m now giving you an example of the scale of the problem we’re facing.
I’m telling you that I’ve fallen in love with you.
I’m telling you it was love at first sight.
A troublesome thing, nobody controls it.
It's a perfect example.
I’m suggesting we work around it.
Or I’m saying we could ignore the work entirely.
We could just get to know each other.
I’m saying it’s entirely up to you.
I’m waiting for your response.
I’m watching you stand up, I'm watching you walk out of the office.
I’m sliding back up the wall.
I’m continuing to slide up.
And up, and up.
I'm dangling from the ceiling, stunned.
I'm shouting out at you to come back and see this.
I'm looking down and thinking where I could put the chairs.
Four chairs.
I'm thinking one there, one there, one there and one there.
I'm watching you walk back into the room and look around for me.
I'm about to say hello.

I don’t like rain much now but
when I was five years old it was my favourite thing.
I thought each droplet was a little superhero,
leaping out of clouds and flying down to
save some daffodil in distress
or thirsty chicken.

I would kiss kiss kiss when it was pouring,
so any landing on my lips
had a huge welcome to earth.
I consider my first real kiss to have been with a
buxom raindrop called Priscilla.
She trickled and tickled all over my tongue and
weaved wandering between my milk teeth.
She was amazing.
I haven't forgotten you Priscilla.
Clearly, I wouldn't have brought you up if I had.
I wouldn't have been able to.

On my sixth birthday I drew myself a target for raindrops.
Inside the outer ring I wrote,
“Good aim. Well done little goose!”
In the inner ring I wrote,
“You are amazing. So accurate my little pea!”
And then there was a tiny bullseye,
too small to write anything inside.
I took the target into the garden and sat next to it.
I waited and waited with the excitement building as
the sky darkened.
Finally, the first drop fell and galloped down.
It landed, where else, dead centre!
Happy birthday!
I was so happy I shed a tear.
Then the tear and the raindrop fell in love.
I assumed the role of priest and had them
bound in holy matrimony.
Then I assumed the role of aeroplane and had them
flown to Brazil on a glittering honeymoon.

While making friends over the years we all find the people we like best,
and gradually lose contact with everybody else.
It’s not a nasty process, it’s quite natural:
everyone’s got limited time and nobody wants to waste it
talking to arseholes.

The people who do slip through the glossy fingers of our glamorous lives
congregate in desperation and
become parts of other groups which create the same process.
They basically keep the kestrels and boo the bees.
Hug the hazelnuts and boot the brutes.
This whittling down continues globally,
into smaller and smaller batches of people
until finally
there is just one person left.
Me.
Thanks guys.
Much appreciated.

Everybody should have their own museum when they die.
A vast celebration of a life led.
Detailed commemorations showcasing the wonder of
each human existence.
Perhaps the clothes you're wearing now could be one exhibit in yours.
Would you like that?
You could have a whole floor devoted to
your day today.
Crammed cabinets choc-full of the
objects which surround you now.
Rows of things snaking down hallways,
all of the shoes you ever had,
all of your watches, your books,
your underwear.
The cafe can sell your favourite food and favourite drinks.
People can try on wigs of all of your hairstyles, and gasp at
a wax model of you as a three year old, peeking around a corner.
Of course some museums will get far more visitors than others.
That could be for various reasons though,
the whims of any given time,
the quality of presentation,
the museum’s architecture,
the price charged for admission,
the state of the toilet facilities, etc, etc.
Anyway you don’t need to worry that nobody will visit your museum,
I’ll be there every day,
and you'll be dead, so who cares?

We’ve not got anything to talk about have we?
No.
Oh god. It’s awful.
It’s not awful. We’ve just covered everything.
Should we talk about not having anything to talk about?
No. That’s desperate. We should just sit quietly.
I think I’d be embarrassed just sitting here.
Well that’s all we can do now. Sit in silence.
A dignified silence?
We’ve already talked about the different kinds of silences.
I know.
A dumpy silence, a Dixieland silence, a floodlit lollipopping silence, a...
Alright, I know.
We need to just shush.
I can't shush! How did we get to this stage?
Once we started talking about sport, it was obviously curtains.
Curtains!
Curtains?
Have we talked about curtains?!
No!
Great!
Fucking hell!!!
Brilliant!
Yes!
Ok, ok, how would you describe them?!
They’re just bits of material!
What happens?!
You hang them in front of windows for privacy!
Yes! What colour are they?!
All kinds! Some have patterns on!
They keep the cold out!
They’re fucking great!
They go unappreciated!
It's not right! We should embrace them!
Sing to them!
Coo ditties!
Coo ditties!
Who invented them?!
I don’t know!
What colour are the ones in your living room?!
Green! A glittery green!
Oh this is glorious! We're talking!
Yes! I love you! I love curtains!
I love you and I love curtains too!!!
People have got curtains that open when they clap don't they?
Yes! I used to really want those!
Me too! Let's make some!
Let's do it!
Can you imagine clapping all the time?! It's lovely!
I know! A round of applause for the curtains please!
A standing ovation!

Intellect wins.
Emotion starts crying.

When I say yes to you
I really mean yes.
A huge rosewood yes,
with deer grazing nearby.

And when I say no to you,
I mean yes again.
A sweetmeat, chrome yes,
a reverse yes,
a yes to the opposite of
whatever you're saying.

Every time you press the traffic light button to cross the road you hurt the economy of your country by halting commerce for 30 seconds. Those 30 seconds add up to hours, days, weeks, late deliveries, postponed decisions, lost orders, financial misery, ruined lives, suicide after suicide after suicide: as you skip merrily across the road.

85% of the future
will be converted into the past.
The rest is too far off.

I don't believe in infinity.
Numbers end at 50 million.
That's as far as I'm prepared to go.
Anyone talking about 51, 52 million anything is lost.
Seriously lost.
Billions are a miscount.
It's really that simple.
I've limited my minus numbers too.
I go down to -45 and that's it.
Finished.
I've never needed -46 and I never will.
Prove me wrong and I will hurt you and your family.
That's not a threat, it's a promise.
Well, it's the promise of a threat.
It's a threatening promise.
Fuck it, it's a threat.

Tornados annihilate everything in their path
except rubbish dumps which they
rearrange into quaint Alpine villages
with skipping Heidi’s and
tap dancing, thigh slapping St. Bernards.

I dreamt I was dead for forty thousand years.
It was only a twenty minute nap.
Nobody believes me, so I’ve been thinking of writing a novel
describing the first eighty or ninety years of the dream.
I don’t quite know where to start though since
absolutely nothing happened.
I was just dead.
In nothingness.
Even blank pages are misleading.
Perhaps the only accurate way I can
get across what I went through
is if I don’t write a book at all.

When I read Wittgenstein
I’ve got learning difficulties.

Doctors all die.
They prescribe something for themselves,
their health deteriorates,
they stumble to the floor
and then they stop breathing forever.
That is not what I'm looking for in a G.P.

I love you so much that I’m mourning your death now. It’ll make your genuine death much easier for me. Every night I think about your laugh, your smile, or just a few of the things you’ve done and I softly sob for half an hour. From time to time I see something that reminds me of you, a bluebottle or a gravy jug, and I fall apart. Hopefully I’ll over-mourn you. Then in sixty or seventy years when you do die, I’ll be delighted. It’ll be the happiest day of my life.

Charles is tapped on the shoulder, he spins around

Hi Charles.
You’re here!
Er... Yeah?
Unbelievable. You're not going to believe this.
What?
I dreamt this whole thing last night.
What whole thing?
That I’d meet you here.
O.k.
Really. I’ve got no other reason for being here.
I’m buying a seahorse.
I know, you said.
When?
Last night.
In the dream?
Exactly, in the dream.
Of course, of course.
You said you wanted either a squirrel or a seahorse in the dream.
What!? I just asked for a squirrel. They’re all out.
Out swinging through the trees.
Yep, out kicking nuts around the woods.
Well, this is embarrassing.
Why? It’s always good to see you. However weird you are.
It’s embarrassing because in the dream, I kissed you.
Oh.
Yeah...
When?
Right now.
Then what?
Then you slap me.
Ha! Sounds about right.
Then I kissed you again, and you liked it. You kissed me back.
What was that like?
It was beautiful.
What happened next?
Then I woke up...
Lets try. Come on.
Come on what?
Kiss me. Come on! Kiss me.
No, I can't.
Of course you can!
In the dream I say I can't. And then I do.
(he kisses her, she slaps him)
Oww! What are you doing?
You said I hit you in the dream!
Not that fucking hard you crazy bitch. (storms out)

The collected humiliations of any given life are normally scattered over the years, puncturing confidence at strategic moments, preserving an attractive modesty in us all. This subtle spread isn’t always properly maintained. A lifetime of humiliations can happen back to back, over the course of two days. This brings the victim to their knees, however strong. If you’re going through this beastly kind of irregularity I can assure you, I've studied the phenomenon, and the most delicious things are just around the corner, waiting to pounce and lick. Collected humiliation is always, always followed by the complete works of joy. Expect decades of mesmerizing enchantment. Thunderingly vigorous, bafflingly beautiful love stretching infinitely onwards. But before that I’m sorry to say, you will look like a bit of a dickhead for a while.

Everyone turned up to show their last respects.
Superman’s red and blue suit seemed disrespectful to say the very least.
Raised a few eyebrows.
Kept them raised for some time.
Then slowly, one by one, they sank back home.
You’ve got to question his brainpower.
I mean, even Yosemite Sam came in a black suit.
That’s basic etiquette.
Absolutely basic stuff.
As an opening gesture, a petal was buried.
It was quite a striking start.
J.S. Bach altered the mood somewhat by
slaughtering a lamb unannounced, in his seat.
It was bothering him.
The lamb wanted a cash loan of £50,000,
to be paid back over the next fifteen to sixteen years.
Ludicrous, I know.
Yeah, I know.
No, I know, I know.
The lamb actually said he would pay him back in
“dribs and drabs.”
After all of that died down Stevie Wonder walked solemnly to
the alter, tapped the microphone and
fell through forty four trap doors.
Ferocious applause.
Silence.
A little more clapter.
Silence.
The unmistakable plop of a blind man landing in mustard.
Silence.

Interval.

Slides from God’s sketchbook splash up on the left wall as
people mingle.
The images are very Seurat.
Highlights included a preliminary charcoal sketch of a
whale fitted with a sail, a gravy granule and the most
beautiful, beautiful bees.
There was also masses of magic eye nonsense.
Five minutes before the end of the interval the
slide projector had an epileptic fit and caught fire.
The Easter Bunny ripped Superman’s cape off and
used it to pad out the flames.
EB was actually doing Superman a favour because someone
had drawn a big floppy cock on the cape.
It hadn't been done with a permanent marker, but still,
the stain would've been very subborn and who wants to
fly home with that filth flapping on their back?
After the break the Devil took to the alter and was
pelted with a cacophony of boos.
He encouraged the booing, revelled in it.
Pleaded for more.
A milk bottle smashed him in the face.
Titters.
The Devil composed himself and then sang beautifully about
falling in love with daffodils in 1943.
He then briefly mentioned the orgy he attended the previous night.
Nobody else turned up.
He had the most passionate night of his life.
More booing.
A second milk bottle.

We played chess for 48 hours straight.
I thought it was her move.

There’s a planet somewhere where only one snowflake has ever landed.
You’re talking bollocks again.
And there’s another place where a single snowflake falls once every ten thousand years.
Why do you do this?
All the people are desperate to catch it, to feel special. Chosen.
Just shut your mouth for two minutes please.
There are asteroids out there as well which have never collided with anything.
Right, leave it there, I’ve got a headache and...
Infinitely moving, yet forever destined to miss everything.
...Are you trying to tell me you’ve never touched anyone?
...Yes.
...Do you want to touch me?
...No.
Really? Because...
No, I want you to touch me.
Ok... Where?
...Could you just hug me for a minute?
I’ll hug you as long as you want me to my lovely little paperclip.
Thank you.

The iceberg which sunk the Titanic
is now it’s the size of an ice cube
and is no longer a threat to human life.
Cheers.

Kindness comes in various forms.
For example, I tested your saliva.
Now that’s just flat out kindness.
A lesser man would’ve taken it to a laboratory.
That’s not the way I operate.
I tested it myself.
The results came back on Thursday.
I say “came back” they were with me at all times of course.
That's just a turn of phrase.
Anyway, it turns out your saliva isn’t saliva.
It’s tears.
Shocking, I know.
Tears.
Something catastrophic has happened in your mouth.
Something dreadful, just awful.
The only way to change things is if we kiss.
Specifically you, specifically me.
Asap.
Don’t look at me like that.
I don’t make the rules.
I just try my best to follow them.
And if we don’t follow rules,
obviously society descends
into absolute fucking chaos.

I couldn’t get to sleep last night so I got up and started to write the biography of the most boring friend I‘ve got (and believe me, I’ve got lots of boring friends). I thought it’d send me to sleep, but it turns out that he’s actually really interesting. I couldn’t type fast enough, I was fascinated as to what was coming next. He's just incredible. Then I started to worry, I mean, did he really want me to know about all of this stuff, this intensely personal stuff? I felt a little bit like a stalker, but still, I couldn’t help myself. I got so deep into the writing that I actually wrote on, past what has happened to him so far. His future, the next thirty years, well, it’s remarkable. He’s got a lot to look forward to. Chapter 32, when that actually comes to pass, Jesus Christ, he’ll be smiling for a long time to come. In fact I mention the long smile in the chapter after that. Chapter 33.

Some people are much better than others. More empathetic, more talented, more this, more that. Somebody is the best person alive, somebody’s the worst. Sometimes the best person slips from the top spot after making a mistake, burning scrambled eggs or stepping on a balloon, something like that. The list is updated hourly. Now what I want to do, with your help, is to get the world’s worst person to become the world’s best. To get this done, we’ll need to work flat out. Really, it’ll be such hard work. Oh God. Wow! Such hard work. Crazy toil. We’ll be working weekends, with no pay, occasionally arguing. It’s not all work work work though. We’ll have moments of absolute euphoria. We’ll make love as well, after we’ve fallen in love. Hopefully our work will increase our chart positions too. So if you’re interested, if you want to do this, come to my house on Wednesday at about four o’clock. Bring some rope, a spoonful of honey, a chicken, a detailed plan of action and one of those plants that eats flies. A Venus fly trap. Oh yeah, bring a bee as well. Then I’ll sit on one of my bean bags and listen to your plan. (you’ll be standing up) Ok, so Wednesday, four o’clock, see you there.

p.s. Seriously, do come. Even if you aren’t happy with your plan, or if you can’t get all the items we ABSOLUTELY NEED.

p.p.s. If you can’t get the chicken, just bring a prefect’s badge or something like that. A few prefect’s badges. Okay then, Wednesday, four o’clock, see you there. Wednesday, bye!

What would you like to talk about? We’ve got an hour.
I don’t know.
What do you like talking about? What would be your ideal topic?
I'd be hard pushed to say.
Sex?
Certainly not.
Food? Potatos?
No thanks. Sorry to be so choosey.
We could chat about tyres falling from the sky, small bouncing.
That's better. Maybe sparrows are flying through, swooping through the tyres as they bounce.
I could chat about that all day.
Let's talk about that then.
Lovely.
But I don't want love to have anything to do with the tyres.
Or the sparrows.
Nor the sparrows. Love is not implied.
Nor sex.
No. Or food.
Maybe we should whittle out all the fake symbols and side paths.
I agree. Then we’re sure to be talking about the same thing.
The tires don’t represent homesickness do they?
No chance.
And they aren’t meant to suggest freedom.
Nope. The sparrows are just sparrows.
Strictly sparrows.
And the tyres represent hope.
Yes, that sounds about right to me.
Ok, well, let the grand chat begin.

Hand in hand,
we travel through space,
looking back, Earth appears no larger than the
full stop at the end of this sentence.
If we go a little further,
it'll disappear forever

It hasn't happened yet

Balloons want to go up.
Any plans beyond that are vague at best.
Perhaps they're trying to get up to heaven.
Perhaps one has actually made it.
Perhaps not.
Perhaps something else.
Perhaps anything else.
Perhaps nothing else.

The Demented Order

Sometimes I start with plan B.
Just to keep my life throbbing with excitement.
If that fails then I whip out plan A.
Bosh.
Then if plan A fails, fuck it, I retry plan B.
When that goes nowhere for the second time
everything is permanently fucked.

Massive atom

Do, but then don't've.

Twenty Sugars

I tracked down Peter Stringfellow’s milk teeth.
Took a while but I got the complete set.
They were a bit off-white.
I put them in the dishwasher, in the cutlery basket.
They must’ve gone down a pipe during the wash.
I called a plumber, he said he couldn’t come until the 18th.
I couldn’t wait until the 18th so I called another plumber.
He was busy too.
The first one came around on the 18th.
I asked him if he wanted a cup of tea.
He said, “Please. White, 5 five sugars.”
He had four cups of tea.
That’s twenty sugars.

Pats

Big muscle men.
Everywhere.
All screaming at each other.
Something about gym equipment.
Some are barking.
Screeching and barking, rabid.
Basically gearing up to kill each other.
You enter the room and start clapping softly.
In between each clap, you click a finger.
You’re smiling.
Everyone looks at you.
You have your best outfit on.
One by one you go around and whisper something into their ears.
They look down and scuff their feet against the floor.
Lots of bashful looks.
One by one they start sobbing.
They hug each other.
Little pats on big bulging backs.
Lots of little pats.
Pat pats.

Fruit, meat, sparrows or sprouts.

Twenty miles away, sprouts roll around you in a perfect circle.
Do you know that this is happening?
They’ve been circling since you were conceived.
First we thought that they were going around your mother.
The sprouts move anticlockwise, although one has been spotted going clockwise.
That could’ve been a dropped sprout, nothing to do with it, just rolling down a hill.
The general consensus is that there are six sprouts all in all.
Reports of a seventh sprout have been made by a few young observers.
Little boys.
One man claims there are fifty sprouts.
He’s fairly aggressive about that number.
His day-to-day lifestyle choices hinder his clout.
He has very colourful, disturbing theories about why the sprouts circle you.
I advise you to steer-clear of this individual.
Drive off in the opposite direction if at all possible.

I found out that you were going on holiday and followed you to the airport.
I've got footage of the sprouts moving close, circling your aeroplane, then taking off with it.
I’ve no idea how the vegetables get airborne.
They can also swim, hurdle, knit and throw shot putt.

I’ve often wished that something would circle me too.
It needn’t be sprouts, it could be anything, you name it.
They don’t have to roll either, they could just drag.
An old shoe dragging slowly around me.
Then I could approach you and say we had something in common, get a chat going.
We could talk about anything, the sprouts, or something else.
We don't need to focus on greens.
I could chat about fruit.
Or meat.
Or anything.
Sparrows.

New York

You won’t find a better location for New York street photography than the Scottish Highlands. They’re popularly described as one of the most scenic regions of Europe. New to photography? Relax. Those enticing “Don’t Walk” signs, those yellow cabs, those hot dog vendors etc. etc. won’t be filling your viewfinder with clichés. The area is sparsely populated, with mountain ranges dominating the region.

God pre-punishes evil people extensively
during childhood.

Your brain has to assemble
very nearly out of date pork,
flushing toilets,
black curtains, your last cough and
everything else it knows about
into some sort of order.

Watermelon buttons

Unscrewed fangs

4 balls of wool

Tractor

A tractor has been parked in the city. Why is it here? Why are the big wheels at the front? A rumour circulates: it's been abandoned. Elbows swing to elbows, cupped whispers, shushful in ears. Will a crook claim the tractor and drive off, cackling?

The city has an electrifying nightlife scene which the tractor seems to seek to undermine. The tractor’s calmness is daunting of an evening. We try to have fun, adult fun, but its presence is unsettling. A colossal, ominous, brooding presence. Children hug the tractor and attach balloons.

Committees can’t figure out why its paintwork is pink one day, grey the next, then lime and so on. No, it’s not a different tractor, we checked. This chameleonic behaviour is never not unnoted in diaries.

The city’s unlisted buildings hate the tractor. They consider it life threatening. First one tractor, then ten, then green fields unravelling over pavement, lambs snowing down, scarecrows on corners, etc. etc. until buildings are knocked down for pasture land. Us city folk can feel the revulsion wheezing from their walls.

The tractor won’t be around forever, surely. One committee says it will, “Levitate for a month, a metre above the ground, then it’ll start spinning very quickly before drilling itself an exit through the ground.” This intriguing guess is the product of four appalling questionnaires, none of which have been filled in by anyone I know.

Newsflash:
Someone who looks like a farmer has been arrested. She was roughly handcuffed in a supermarket. Talking in your sleep you say: “She’s just a normal lady who knows nothing about the tractor.”
A list was found in the lady’s pocket, seized, photocopied thousands of times and pointlessly stuck on luminous fly posters around the city:

milk 4 pints
cloves, tomato juice, celery
daz
bread

Frogger

A green square tries to hop across a busy road.
Trucks hurtling by are simple grey rectangles.
Inside one truck the gear-stick jams and has to be wiggled free.
The driver tuts.
He really shouldn’t tut.
I tut his tut.
He tuts my tut.
A slight pause.
Tension mounts.
We start tutting back and forth,grandiose tuts.
The tuts crisscross, chatter-boxing each other until the honking of the horn.

The Honking of the Horn:

The honking of the horn happens because the green square darts out 4 spaces, left 2 then back 1.
Squeamish people watching the square slop dollops of squeamishness on paper plates.
The paper plates are spinning on sticks.
A studio audience watch the plates spinning, mesmerised.
The plates slow and wobble.
Once over the road, the green square then has to cross a river, via logs.
Brown rectangles, the logs.
Water sloshes underwater.
Seaweed lollops unguessably in gulpless currents.
One sea-weed is tied into a lovely bow by the twisting squirts.
Fish gather around the bow and think about swimming through.

Two Dinosaurs

Two dinosaurs are dropping through the air.
They’ve been falling for about six months.
People found it hard to believe at first.
One of the dinosaurs is dressed as Spiderman.
A theory explaining the costume has two spelling mistakes.
Kitten and cog.
It’s hard to ignore those two errors.
They severely compromise the theory’s clout.
People finally started to accept the situation when the sky began to whistle.
The sky whistle gets deeper every second.
Lorries dash by full of earplugs.
Preparations for the landings are going full steam ahead.
Every child has pledged to unfold a trampoline inside a bouncy castle.
Mattresses have been shipped in on ships shipped in.
Cyclists swerve around puddles.
An inflatable paddling pool floats out at sea.
Cub scouts are relentlessly fluffing up pillows which are being jogged in and out.
Badges for pillow fluffing excellence are sewn on jumper arms during tea breaks.
Girl guides are practising archery in case the dinosaurs land hungry.
Buses are covered in toy arrows with red suckers.
Bus passengers are familiar with sucking thud thud thuds.
Poison arrows are on standby, taped to lampposts.
Windscreen wipers have also been dipped in poison, in case of an arrow shortage.
Telescopes come with free jojoba massage oil.
Through the telescopes we can see an aeroplane circling around the dinosaurs.
The passengers take it in turns to shout at them on a megaphone.
Some choose to croon.
I mean, really croon.
Really, really croon.
Suitcases are thrown at the dinosaurs.
They tend to open upon impact.
Socks, shirts and skirts.

If you have nowhere to sleep,
if you’re cold, lonely and afraid,
little stranger,
I will not welcome you into my home.
Make alternative arrangements.





The younger you get, the more you
learn to appreciate your parents.




You churn out a constant stream of lies about me and my family
but they are all complimentary
carry on.

Rattling through the differences between
a donkey and a hazelnut,
you don’t stop
to think of all the
lovely little similarities.

I never think about walnuts.
Even when I'm eating them
I never think about walnuts.

Sprayskirt

credibility crumbles

Black

Black can be infinitely darker than the blackest example we have.
Our black is white in comparison.
One’s a butterfly’s breakfast, the other, a cameraman's voice.
A held hotdog and a bouncing forest.
A flooded fire and a flip-chart fox.

The scrawny soilder's shoulders

For Kate Beresford

Once upon a time a snowflake and a hailstone fell from neighbouring clouds. Being civilised, they had a little chat on the way down. The snowflake cleared his crystal throat and asked,

“Where are you headed?”
“That desert over there.”
“How lovely! It‘s so rare to see a hailstone in a desert!”
“Well, it’s not quite a desert any more."
“No?”
“No. It’s one grain of sand short.”
“Oh.”
“And in my centre, I’ve a grain of sand.”
“You’ll get such a pleasant welcome!”
“I know, I can‘t wait!”
“I wish I had such a magical purpose.”
“You do my little friend! Look at the sea below us.”
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s not really a sea, it’s one drop of water short.”

Just then a looping wind took the hailstone whooshing away, leaving the snowflake to sway down into the welcoming water.

A propensity towards ostentatious language.

Tap dance tantrum

Both boxers prayed for God’s help to win the fight.
God didn’t know who to root for,
“Larry’s the most dedicated, but Shawn’s got that cheeky sense of humour.”

Costa Rican Kitten

I was once the newest living thing in the entire universe.
I was younger and fresher than absolutely everything else.
Nothing had my vigour.
Some people were forty six years old, I was the youngest person alive.
Then, within the most frantic dicing of a millisecond something knocked me off my perch.
It could've been anything.
A premature cockroach.
A Scottish bee.
A Nigerian daffodil.

Bouquet of hay

Miles from here, miles from anywhere, two porcelain reindeer have fallen head over hooves in love. Unfortunately, some careless nincompoop has fixed these precious creatures on opposite sides of a carousel, leaving them nothing more than a glimpse at back of each others legs.

The carousel turns with a cheerless sorrow as our reindeer chase each other around, breathless circle after breathless circle. Some days the ride moves in reverse, on others it rattles forwards at the speed of light, but of course they never get any closer at all.

These are the only words that I know in the English language. I haven’t been taught anything outside of the selection that you see here, in this compact, bulging little paragraph. My teacher assures me that these seventy seven words are all I should ever require. You might well think that she is misguided in her opinion and you certainly wouldn’t be alone if you held that viewpoint. I’m not sure if I should believe her. To be blunt, she does have some rather peculiar ideas, however, I don’t feel particularly confined by this narrow vocabulary, in fact I feel wonderfully agile, incredibly free.

The poverty odyssey

Burrowing gallops

Halfway through writing this
around about now
I wished I'd never started.

We fell in love because we're so alike,
and it's only natural that I want
to kiss you,
but we don't have
any lips.

She didn't want sex while she was pregnant. I waited until she fell asleep. Very slowly, very gently, I got on top. While I was inside her, quietly rocking, I realised that although I was raping her, I had never been so tender with her, or with anybody else before. I started sobbing. Still, I continued, until suddenly, I stopped. Something was holding me. I could feel it, a tiny hand inside, gripping my penis. I couldn't scream, it would wake her. The hand was holding tight, it wouldn't let me slide out. Just then I felt the hand tapping, tap tap tapping its little thumb on the tip of my penis. It grew quicker and quicker, frantic, until I realised, it was morse code... It was saying,
"Harder, harder."

Dead or Alive

The curtain rises revealing another packed auditorium. Both audiences state at each other expectantly until you apologise to me about what you said last night in the car on the way home from Wimpy. You had absolutely no right to say that to me, especially in front of Rita.

Once you say sorry the curtain drops, lifting again on the third cough. Bruce Willis tumbles onstage, evading security by disguising himself as a rope and swinging in on a rope. He pulls a gun out and squints up into the harsh show-business lighting. Bruce then takes aim and begins shooting at a tiny brown mouse which is paragliding onto the stage from the circle. The mouse has an eye patch on and a cutlass in his teeth. Bruce shoots the lights out accidentally and the theatre is plunged into darkness.

Eventually a candle is lit. There is just enough light to make out that Bruce is dead. A second candle is lit and we can see that the stage is crawling with rats. They all wear tiny hats, very bright colours, fantastic styles. Rock star Jon Bon Jovi is jerkily lowered down from the rafters on some string. He looks bemused, with candyfloss shoes, a nosebleed and frizzy-piccalilli hair.

A JCB nosily trundles out onstage, scoops up some rats and then falls into the orchestra pit. The driver clambers out and takes her helmet off.

Judi: Oops.
Jovi: It’s Judi Dench everyone!
Judi: Thanks. (Nodding to crowd) Thank you.
Jovi: Hey Judi, look at me! Look! I’m up here.
Judi: Oh!
Jovi: Put all of your trust in me Judi.
Judi: Fine.
Jovi: (Turns aggressive) Everything! Every last ounce, every last grain of trust! Twist and tense every muscle in your body until it points in my direction, with my likeness!
Judi: You silly little man, why on earth should I? Who are you anyway and how dare you speak to me like that?
Jovi: (Calming down) I am Jon Bon Jovi. (Wild anger again) You may have heard some of my (pause, takes a breath, then screams through grating luminous white teeth) MUSIC!!!
Judi: Can’t say I have. What sort of thing is it?
Jovi: (Berserk) ROCK!
Judi: Oh. I can’t say I’m…
Jovi: I’M A COWBOY! ON A STEEL HORSE I RIDE!
Judi: (Quietly sings) And I’m wanted.
Jovi: WAAAAAAAAANTED!
Judi: (Deep voice) Dead or alive.


The audience hiss, boo and throw sweet-corn.
The curtain falls and falls, filling the whole auditorium, packing material
into every nook and cranny until a crack appears in the theatre’s white brickwork.

God, in his infinite love,
made hell a gorgeous
charming place to be.
(full of fucking nutters)

The Death of Snoopy

100 nazi's try to draw a swastika

Who are you?
Well, you know when you’re driving home alone in the dark?
Yes.
Well when you see what looks like a fox in the distance, and it rushes off before you can get a good look, that’s me.
Ah!
But when your biro runs out and you make a barely visible trough in the paper, that ghost-line is not me. I’m
essentially the possible fox.
Yep. Got it. The maybe fox.
The shy possible fox, with an ear for engines.
Okay. And what am I?
You are an incorrect answer in an exam that is subsequently marked incorrectly as correct. That marker’s error tips the
balance of the grade up a notch to an "A" which spurs that student onto a life rich with confidence. That self-belief is
expressed chiefly through acts of extravagant romance to a previously depressed, lonely person.

A drawing of a sheet of A4 paper, exact size, on a sheet of A4 paper.

You wanted us to discuss your father with the whole team.
We said okay.
The basketball was put away.
We sat cross legged in a circle.
You sat in the centre.
You told us about him for five minutes.
The discussion began.
The discussion ended.
We got back to the game.