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pages from a notebook
It worked!! I have finally got my wireless connection working on my laptop and I was able to copy and paste this! No more writing everything out again in order to submit it! You can't believe what a relief this is going to be. Hope you enjoy a bit of my notebook.
Put a cherry tomato in your cheek and press it against your friends to see who’s bursts first
Thinking of your day in court, cards sponsored by solicitors
Ironing the cobwebs
Sitting under parasols waiting for the sun
Hang around a new town
Small fish, small pond
Like the feeling you get if you accidentally hurt a child
On your face a childs hurt
Unwanted tugging on my heart
Hate on both knuckles
Dead guinea pigs, surplus to requirements, wholesale or retail
If he loved too he would have knew
An eloquent and glittering necklace of lies
A subtle, insincere gesture of affection
The soft smothering smell
Of darkness without sound
Down with the Secret rivers
Of the underground
Limpid pools of blind fish
Sudden whirls of certain death
Death dressed in trilby,
Scarf and crombie coat
And beyond the light
Darkness all around:
Sometimes smells do it.
Take you right back to it
Remember, as a small child, walking into the smell of a house that was not home?
It was the anniversary of the Normandy landings and they were talking to an American who had been on the beach where it had all so nearly gone completely wrong. He said “There is a certain smell to hot blood and we smelt it all that day”. I was never a soldier, so how did I know that iron-sweet, sour smell? Did childhoods heightened senses store it away in memory at the scene of some otherwise unremarkable and unremembered accident? Or is it a race memory as old as the first rending of flesh, whatever, I knew it, smells do it, the adrenaline filled numbness of boys killing boys as fast as their 1940’s machines would let them. I felt I shared a memory with the old man who had survived. It was just a feeling, Memories don’t share thank god, I don’t want to remember that. Nor did he. But the Gods were dancing on his grave that day leaving him walking in a metal-mouthed waking nightmare dream. Death with his pale lumpen chicken strangler hands protruding awkwardly from the crombie walked others beside his subterranean stream. It has been more than sixty years, soon he will return and free him from the memory.
Often relived but still not relieved
Those guys knew about extraordinary rendition
Took them to Poland by the train load
Pain based information extraction techniques?
They wrote the book
The exploitation of civilian secondary support systems?
Their slave labour camps are the stuff of legend
Sometimes smells do it
The gagging essence of putrescence
Goes with the loss of humanity
Sometimes a house smells homey even when it is not home
More often it is cold and clean or damp and dirty
And leaves us feeling alien and alone
Aware of our true place in the world
Sorting out the weeds and chavs
She’s a three minute tingle, a face full of adrenalin
A smack in the chest like a ampoule of methadrine
But never normal
The Gods are dancing on my grave
Metal mouth fear, wide eyed wonder
All freedom to no freedom from
Grave wonder from the free
Is it for or from we save
Or only blunder
Anti government reactionary elements
Resistance groups, freedom fighters
An insurgent element
Pain based intelligence extraction protocols
Illegal enemy combatants
The exploitation of secondary civilian support system capabilities
Evil organises well
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