Friday, 27 July 2007


I've decided to write more about Debzel and Chlorina. This is a little insight into their relationship, and some kind of Town Hall-funded initiative.

The lesser moon was visible behind the gently smoking chimneys of the industrial park, but the main moon had not yet risen; its slow curve into the sky did not begin for another hour or so. Chlorina kept to the shadows as much as she could, her dark coat blending into the dusty walls and alleyways. Her poor heart thumped itself wildly against her ribs as if trying to escape, though there was nowhere it could go to – she had a fleeting image of it squeezing out and landing on the filthy floor, while she watched powerless as it rolled around in the broken bricks and dirt.
She breathed slowly and ducked into an old shop doorway to light a cigarette, glancing up before she clicked the button of the lighter, no helicopters or cameras watching her. The lighter had been a gift from Deb, for her birthday two days ago. Twenty six years old and still ducking into corners, ‘Rina sighed gently, she was getting too old for this. This was a teenagers’ game, they healed much faster.

Masculine women, Feminine men

Lyrics from an hysterical song from the 1920s, back when being gay was a bit cool.

Masculine women, Feminine men
Which is the rooster, which is the hen?
It's hard to tell 'em apart today! And, say!
Sister is busy learning to shave,
Brother just loves his permanent wave,
It's hard to tell 'em apart today! Hey, hey!
Girls were girls and boys were boys when I was a tot,
Now we don't know who is who, or even what's what!
Knickers and trousers, baggy and wide,
Nobody knows who's walking inside,
Those masculine women and feminine men!

Thursday, 26 July 2007

Shoot Buju Banton in da head (til he dead)

Is true, broadly infancy, girl fondled what might be said not true of male children, male and female homosexuality. She found killed. "Others were at far from a well-known dancehall was like a parade," says be a certain logic in sexual proclivities in by their acquire sexual affection for their to me that there is singing and dancing. One man get them one “sin". Othes line Buju Banton about shooting basically partying. Female homosexuality. For if it children who are petted and to be a "normal" is so fundamental difference between called out, "Battyman he get time". That's what you get song by Jamaican star "It Schleifer. They there seems to speaking, we acquire our first mothers, nurses and female relatives own sex. But this seems a very a small crowd celebrating, laughing and shouting "Let's sang "Boom bye bye", and burning gay men.

Thursday, 19 July 2007

Softies update

Had a great day charity shopping. I got: a red fleece, eight ties, and a book I'd been looking for for ages.
I then spent ALL weekend making softies. I'll post pictures of them soon, but 'til then, here's what I made.
Monsieur Octopus (from the Plush-o-Rama book); a yellow-clawed red monster with a BIG mouth and a tiny monster in his mouth (that he had eaten); some friendly bacteria (complete with kipper ties as flagella), 6 of them with little eyes and nuclei; a little owldog, the bastard offspring of an owl and a scotty dog; and anothe big mouth monster in a lovely denim-coloured gingham and orange claws.
What a busy little sewing bee I have been.

Dusty water blues

Trying to get in, to being cut yet again, than smoothness shadow inwards.
His uneven like he did they’re still years, grey sky’s rolling again. Deeper valleys of raised skin from dusty water and swallowed can’t stop crying.
It’s takes years bad. The grey sky’s rolling yet again, the same ones can reach. Valleys of raised inwards.
The boy had woken drank some dusty water and he did every morning slowly towards me, trying to stop crying.
Today is getting worse; me, get this bad. They are the sun can reach. Unbroken sleep, drank some pills – crawling slowly towards years and lines, the same ones cut and boy had woken up every morning and I ate years to get this again. Lines are being cut deeper than the sun/skin and broken shadow up from his uneven sleep, swallowed the pills – like getting worse; they’re still crawling get in. And I can’t stop crying.

Tuesday, 17 July 2007

Haiku (Jacqui/me/Lyn)

Two haiku that I made today. Jacqui wrote the first lines, I wrote the second and Lyn wrote the last.


Fluffy white, grey dull
Billowing, fluid motion,
Shapes moving in sky.


Gun, shiny silver
Bolts of hardened steel alloy
Solid forged in heat.

Monday, 16 July 2007

More lines

Lines have appeared, they don't bisect. One end is stronger than the other, fainter towards the thin end. Gouged, almost.
They hide a gateway, probably to another world. A world where lines don't exist, or maybe only exist on other peoples' gates to remind them of how to get there, as mine remind me.
A line is worth, if not a thousand words, then at least five hundred.

Friday, 13 July 2007


Do you know, I actually hate buffets. There' s something really British about them, but the kind of British that is grey and depressing and 1950s.
The kind of weird British that is good and fab, is seaside towns, rock, car boot sales …

And people always seem to get het up about buffets too, like they are the most important thing in the world. "Ooh, we have to get the vol-au-vents out of the fridge. Somebody take the clingfilm off the chicken dippers."


New noses have arrived


My toy noses arrived from ebay today. No more will I have to embroider (badly) to make little rabbit/bear faces. The safety eyes I bought arrived on Tuesday so I'm all set. my plan is to go charity shopping tomorrow for an old bobbly fleece and some garish, nasty ties - then start making some more softies.
I'm all inspired by the awesome book I bought: Plush-O-Rama. It's bloody great.
I got my first softie commission yesterday, a lovely lady in work called Carol asked me to make a weird softie for her daughter for Christmas. If I make a selection and bring them in, maybe I can flog 'em here too! I'm so mercenary, heh heh.

Wednesday, 11 July 2007


Siân’s Road after dark is an eerie, echoing place. Trees overhang, old branches that sweep the road making a dark, green tunnel that ends in an ancient wall. Nobody walks up Siân’s Road at night, strange symbols were found painted on the cracked concrete. Right at the far end, if you venture past the wall, there is a rickety old barn that looks lost among the gorse bushes; even the yellow flowers can’t manage to bring cheer to the dirty building. Fallen down bricks. Ivy choking burnt floorboards and the charred a-frames of the roof. A dinosaur skeleton clothed in rags. Stars wink through the missing slates; dust, feathers and burnt wood falls slowly as dark snow through the rafters. Deeds done here have soaked into the bricks on the ground, been absorbed by the three remaining walls. If I was to stay here all night, how many ghosts would bleed out from between the cracks in the mortar? I imagine myself floating in a sea of pale faces and bodies, as transparent as the water they imitate. Their movement gusts fallen leaves up into the threadbare roof, scatters sleepy crows like buttons into the blanket sky. The air is cold, and my breath sends clouds of vapour up to mingle with the falling motes of the old building. I look up to the first and second floors, at what remains of the fire-blackened chimneys and mantelpieces; try to imagine the house as a place full of life and laughter.

Thursday, 5 July 2007


Today is the colour of violets,
Spun sugar clouds rotate across the icing sky.
A rain of frogs hollops along the wet road,
Dipping flapping legs and clingy toes into puddles.

Wednesday, 4 July 2007

Once upon a time...

...there was a little girl called Katie. On her eighth birthday, her kind Daddy gave her a chemistry set as a gift, little Katie loved the chemistry set. In fact, she loved it more than she loved her pet giraffe Dougie, so he was sent to Bristol Zoo to live with the other giraffes – where he quickly rose to be the most popular grazing animal and when he dies (some years later) a small brass plaque was put on the door to the giraffe enclosure).
Little Katie played with the chemistry set more than any of her other lovely toys, and she soon learned to make the most hideously complex chemical compounds. She learned to make Lithium Dioxide, Tartra-hydroxy Methalinus and even the fabled Bisto Gravy molecule – in short: she was a wiz!
The days passed and Katie’s Mammy and Daddy were worried that their little daughter was spending so much time alone in her bedroom, where every day a new cloud of brightly coloured gas was puffing away, or a new smell was pumping down the stairs and into the living room.
After a whole week, Katie burst into the living room brandishing a lump of funny looking grey goo in her hand.
“What’s that, poppet?” asked her Mum, looking perplexed,
“It’s a Warbly Blap!” exclaimed Katie excitedly, as the lump of grey goo sat up, shook it’s little gooey head and emitted a tiny squeak!
Well, everyone was VERY impressed with the Warbly Blap, and Katie and the Blap soon became firm friends for life.


Tuesday, 3 July 2007

Fucked if I'm paying

All around him, the glimpsed lives and lives yet filled towards dreamland on pink never the beginning so he his movement. He decided panic. Pain reflecting down on to sleeplessness, with a warm tiredness. His eyes were blackened and madly, who across the starry sky grew an inch. The boy slept soundly, with ice-cream loveliness. Thieves and wake down of a war dreams of despair one day clasped trembled with his and crazed peaks of fury. A Once upon a time, racing was very very grass the clouds, he caught to unaware that at hand. Clouds lovers fought with swords settled was close and slept. The to go to and his seas and lands, infecting and he longed for sleep. Bruised, there the stormclouds boiled sky, whipped was very never past lives, and half be. Wondrous images, ships sailing of up, shields and swords. Himself were majestic with every guard’s hands and sleep and lips his hands shook all into purple spilled across the heavens, was a young man whipped.
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