Thursday, 10 December 2015

The Mistress of the House of Books


Spin spin! Oh silken succubus!
Spin a steady stream of
Sensuality and subtle lies,
As flightless down with Peacock eyes,
To penetrate that hieroglyphic sphere of stone
Thrown holographically around our throne.
Those silent strands,
Time-binding cursic hands that flutter 'cross our countless shells,
Flow floating down around you now
To meet with lofted eyes,
The deep green hunger set inside all wordless Stygian souls,
Sat listless on her shores still waiting for the boat.

The unseen Mistress hands held out,
Notched palm upturned and scribe devout,
Her siren song is sounded out as sweet symbolic strokes,
Flings forth fragmented petals of the crystal Rose that glow!
Oh! Such luminescence so!
From a solar orb-like golden crown
She sends sacred silver slivers sliding down
To glide across your body left to right,
And carve a crimson line!
Then coalesce the Red and Blue to glimmering sheer,
Alight around your feet to grow
A crop of sharpened swords
Edged green with Nature's gleam,
From Planet's core and deepest darkest mine,
And weave a thorny crown of sweet infinity
To plant between the brow,
A Quantum Cone of Pine.

In silence
This Waterfall of Word through waves of Love
Sends south a shining stripping of the soul
Like razor blades in gentle folds sewn
Soft in their divide, 
Spiral out in white inclines
As sacramental snow to bind
The waters of the Eye,
Reflecting bright and wide the glimmer in the mail-like
Skin of those spawn-born denizens within.
Precious prisoners in wriggling sleep lie dormant down within the drink!
Oh holy ones and Lettered those
As Ancient wrinkles in our tapestry of time once
Woven by the macrocosmic crone as scawls of endless ink.

No necromantic rod and line need stir such slumber,
Their cries of fateless future form are slung as vested veil,
Hung from the Tree as mast and marker,
Hoistened high as sail and sunk sublime as stars.
Voyage the void! Sweet telemetries! 
And so we cross that most Grandiose Line between Oneiric seas!

Tuesday, 21 October 2014

Rapture of the Yarn


Men and women are but toys and spawn
Of a desire!
So many meetings all conspired and weaved
Into the web of Wyrd.
With mighty Fate a mere observer,
His part is but an officer,
His office one of sentience and seer
To this festival of raining frogs.

A solitary jester plays his hand and with 
A cold collective finger
Pressing down on heavens trigger
Blasts his cards aloft orgasmic winds.
Freed again to stir this silent sinful pleasure
With his catastrophic wand!
And to scream prismatic colour and
Formulate our breath
To blow a sacred snowflake flurry,
Spinning out into the blackness
Heated from within by love
Of those infinite and endless ones 
Who yearn for all that's ended. 

And,
Flowing out as through the Word
On waves of echolalic phallic light
To press 'gainst formless black.
How he delights
In such sinful silhouettes of sensual form!
Sent bobbing,
To and fro,
Impassioning,
Invigorating,
Souls now bound against the whirlpool,
Who once as one gyrated. 
And ever caught in ancient likeness,
Lightness,
Void of all remembrance,
Divine in egos fracture.
Non-physical.
Eternal,
And endless joy interred,
Folds up into its Self and
Dies in howling fractal rapture!

And down again they float...

... Ashore on darkened windows.
So doomed to wander all alone
And strive for conscious melding!
Amid sweet dizziness and swamps of demon fire
We fight with fingers and our tongues
Tightly bound in wire:
A pure and linear plane devoid of sight
To distil darkness as our guiding light.

But to glimpse ourselves in one another
One glance by chance to still Fates choice: 
A chance of chances meeting!
Cast off all mundane separation
And seal a heart-bound kiss!
Though nothing meets save transfixed gaze
To taste that juggernaut of gentle bliss!
A microcosmic melding
Of Lovers never met,
Or yet spied through this veil of earthy mist 
Whose tenderness of aeons length now lie
With just a heartbeats breadth betwixt their eyes
And heralds cry:
"This night we find
True siblings of the tryst!"

The crown'd Brothers so united
Hand in hand turn now towards
The hooded man with holy arms raised
Enters! The Enterer!
Towards the threshold as it's set
Behind the curtain down the path of Blades and
Ruination of the Alphabet.

And so we meet! 
No randomness in this
Majestic muted magnetism!
White Queen will wed Black King,
Never checked or mated save in thought.
In mind & soul linked and opposed,
As comrades and as enemies too
Drew synchronistic swords and fought,
A billion endless wars,
For mercurial spoils and victory naught,
Just for the fuck of it of course!

Romance never lived until it died.
The rift yearns love upon its closest shores.
Our paths they cross eternal
Though we see it not
Until all threads wind back into the One
And all our lives are done.



I wrote this one for Hannah, and for John x

Thursday, 26 June 2014

Our Sacred Geometry

I've seen the signs
I've read your lines
I'll burn my eyes!

She speaks in rhymes
Clocks broken times
Still spiral inside

Wake up and go
Big changes slow
Last step of attention

First step is intention
Next stage reflection
Binding in free form
Rewinding your errors

::CRIES::
It's not what I'm used to
Now how could I
Ever go back?
Old and wise
Without a second gone by
Now here we are
Now that we finally see
I wouldn't lie
It's in our sacred geometry


King Halford & His Slaves (Halford, Parker, LeCocq)

Tuesday, 28 January 2014

...excerpt



With that, he was deleted, flaking old kernel and all. This program terminates mid-intercept, a digital hand lopped succinctly from messenger arm fractions of a microsecond before its impregnating payload docks with its sheath, before the safe blast of high pressure and hiss of steam signalling connection… before its completion and recombination; dead before the timely flowering of its original master blueprint into a fully blooming lotus: not even a stagnant stillborn failure there, no failure, pixelated bombs across the screen, just deletion… ending. A deafening and undeniable vertical gravity tearing the electricity out of the chip, charge torn up from its matter, speeding shinkansen car in assumption and leaving behind a warm metal rail, a junk husk circuit. A clear sighted one, with an eye for that toroid born light, such a one might see the glimmering and pale cloak of this old revenant effervesce momentarily: the only remnant of something never quite made flesh, beside of course its opposite charge, its receiver clinical and blinking expectantly… one …two… three … FAIL … and onto the next queued task, another program, similar stacked parameters from previous versions, 3.11.1, 3.11.2, 3.12.1 and so on… cockpit seat of the next doomed flight still touch-warm, a gentle and sentimental love for its previous rocket-jock; who knows if the same charge, the same electricity that sat behind the eyes of the program’s binary code saw the same father sun as the one before that? The autopilot does not yearn for the light of our star, just the end, terminus. End of program. Next.

But wait, what’s this? A registry splutters into being, ignited dutifully by a flickering switch condition. Something was there maybe, a byte or two, eerie as a wisp, der geist, so sunk and set back in sub-structure that it almost never was, a point dense beyond imagining and then absolutely nothing, negative space remaining as our little anomaly is born upwards on that same spiral draught, upwards and upwards on wings of wireframe light, surfing the eddies and bidding both hello and farewell to those glorious living glyphs that attend without rest to the path: singing lanterns bobbing and floating, magnificent and luminous choirs of burning joy in place of a cloaked and hooded boatman on this sublimated Styx. Those keen eyed ones with one foot in the code might detect a few quantum feathers tumble in its wake, but only potential of course (more teeth for the furrowed field of infinite night)… nothing to hold a soul, no energy even, but a phantom of his ascent, and then that unseen and magic moment when the holy vacuum asserts herself to cover every trace.

Wednesday, 17 July 2013

Screaming Out Shells


A shadow called Leo throws his game, 
Reflected in faces screaming red, 
And stands aside to bind his snake 
To every accusatory thread.  

Fists scream with pure reason! 
And defiant and free! 
So rapturous! 
So real! 
Phyrric victories! 

"Shouldering the burden of worldly conceit  
 Is my sole and lone task!" he surely roars. 
A shell of his Kingdom lies at his feet. 
The winged staff of the healer snapped in his paws. 

Thrust down and skewered on it's splintered shaft 
The head of the dark pig takes up the chant. 
Her insect winged fog deflecting riposte, 
Blood drool groans downwards 
To refill her trough. 

Your beast is free now. 
It's looming behind. 
Silence your ravings! 
Fall to your belly! 
Let's saddle this sour snake. 
All push to the grind! 
Face into the paving and scream all you like! 
Your livid old armour 
An Iron Maiden tonight. 


I see all your lies oozing through the holes... 

Sunday, 14 April 2013

Skrying and Bill Gates

Tonight I attempted a very special meditation. First I printed off a fairly normal photograph of the ever smug looking "philanthropist" Bill Gates. Next I pinned it onto my wall in full view, sat down in full lotus position, lit a candle, said some magick words, and then stared.

I stared at Bill, unblinking. At first, there was nothing. My eyes began to tire but I persevered. Within a few minutes I noticed the flashing afterimage forming around his profile. Success! Closing my eyes, I focused on this strange, negative-image Bill and watched in silence. The Anti-Bill floated in my minds eye, a strangely coloured creature, shifting and morphing, now rather realistic looking, now a picasso caricature... but still recognisable as the geeky technology monopolist.

Moments later, the face grew, and I floated towards him! I was there! I had entered the astral light and was face to face with the man himself. I ventured forth into conversation with this strange elf:

"Oh Lord of Evil! Hear my words! What's this about you hiding away all the earth's seeds in a big vault in the artic? It sounds like mischief!

"Not a chance, human!" he snorted, plunging his ghastly paw into a bowl of live insects and cramming them into his mouth! "It's a big secret, I'm sworn not to tell so I won't! So naaaah!"

And with that he made the Secret Sign of the Broken Xbox controller at me and banished my astral avatar back into my body.

I woke with a start. Not quite sure what I achieved with all that, having come no closer to the conspiracy. Maybe someone else can enlighten me about this topic?

Thursday, 5 April 2012

FAR NORTH
By
Sean Bean


Far North,
Past Leeds, York and Hull,
Where compass don’t work
And you’ll freeze t’yer skull.

Few amenities there,
And brew’s hard to find.
But there’s grub to be ‘ad.
If yer brain’s ‘alf a mind.

Was out sniping fer cockles
When up popped a rabbit,
But it fucked off and gone,
Afore I could grab it.

But nowt could I find,
Just reindeer ‘n’ buzzard.
All antlers ‘n’ feather,
Got stuck in me guzzard.

Me belly was shining,
Me tongue turned to ash
Fer a cat’s cunt-full of ale!
Had to drink me own slash.

I sat frozen and stiff,
No tale for an hero.
Like that poor bugger Jim,
From Bravo Two Zero.

Wednesday, 4 April 2012

Sideline

And then a radiant beauty glides across his path, singly invisible, ghost-like in faint luminescence and undetected behind heliotropic blinkers, under the radar and pinpoint, faint sadness with expectant hope, no green in her gaze, no Venusian rage, just quiet fancy, small sweet desire closely held; she’s surely a rose of sorts, pale petals on this one maybe, a little tired, expectant, waiting, standing alone against a cold wall, watching this vast and myriad expulsion of longing along foot-sore pathways, the thousand tongued Dragon, eyes drinking the flames, body now close to its heat, for a taste of that holy fire as it lingers in smoke as that lingers in hair, yet ignoring their target: it’s not her but forcefully felt fascination at how they lick and tear, waiting somehow for a moment of respite, the rest, the inward breath or the fatal reload staged before the next volley; “now the click of death…” he thinks, awaiting… a girl-shaped shadow she seems to be, lengthening and curved for an opportunity to steal his hand in hers and turn his head to see her bodily there, white light, subtly shining, still ethereal but in sharp focus, her lines drawn tight now around her frame: shifting across his frequency range as his flickering lamps falter, reverse to vacuum suck… shut down, close, for the eyes to shine without those clouded lenses and see, to fucking SEE for the first time, to see like a sledgehammer into a dark crystal, razor shards: he’s in pieces as she enters and fades away with white flag thrust aloft amidst a rain of soft blossom.

Tuesday, 13 December 2011

Saviour

I hang
Suspended.
My world stands on its head.
Did I?
Did I choose this?
That choice seems pretty bad...

Sickness and disorientation.
Pain like acid fire and I
Knocked for Doctor
No one home.
No chemicals or medication
Touch this fucker.
Something's wrong.

I'm stretched so far I reach the sky
Lines drawn in sand were crossed this day
Or was I destined for this madness?
Your cards they had it in for me.

For me.

'Cause you knew I'd swallow this shit.
You got me hook and crook and sinker.
A tasty worm this rhetoric
For one for fancies he's a thinker.
A pitfall trap just big enough to hold an ego size of mine.
The noose you offer looks like so much golden rope to greedy sightless eyes.
I swing and swing
Back and forth
To and fro and back again
The blood it spills in ribbons and
My fucking head is caving in and...

Where's this so called light?

Where is your bullshit tunnel and the angels and redemption?
Where's Judgement day and trumpets and The Pearly Teeth or something...
All meaningless.
I knew it.
I knew I had it wrong and yet
I thought I knew myself and you and tried to build a bridge.
But the gulf that yawns between us seems so black and void and dead.

So is this it in all its nothing?
I pushed the boundaries back for this?
This lie this crock this non-nirvana?
This THIS?
Traded ease and comfort for delusion,
Tricks and agony.
Hypnotised myself with visions of sweet hope and unity.
Slowed my breath.
Dissolved the world.
Swallowed all your dogma,
All the potions and the P.R.
Stood the smugness and the tedium
Of grudging patient waiting.
Swallowed all the demons too.
Pandora and her box.
She said she left our hope inside...
It's not there now.
I looked. It's gone.
Another lie.
Another liar.
One more half read arrogant fool.
Another carrot swinging.
Just another dead man swinging when he could be face down in a pool.

Clouds are filling up my mind.
Desire to see but one eye blind!
I nailed myself up good this time.
I've paid the price to jump the line.
Bought the ticket. Broke the ride
High!
Locomotion wrecked and so damn high!

Oh father did this holy vision really hang in front of me?
I saw the fire and reached for it
I swear it wasn't just for me.
This little piece of peace I took
It really took it out of me.
I never meant to eat that wafer so
Call off that hawk that tears at me.
Or let me fall back down again.
I'll shut up and go back to sleep.
No trouble no rebellion and God please no more fucking pain!

So sorry now this sacrificial lamb.

Thursday, 24 November 2011

Path of the Mouth

She slips and falls to ruin on her sword
That once in search of wisdom cut her path and sought
Through malarious fetid wisp-lit mires and
Mirages of the mind so keenly wrought.

This airy prison floats on love of mind
And thought. Keen reason lifts its clouded towers
Aloft beyond the Throne of Dirt of those
That roll in ignorance.

But warriors all who fell will tell
Twas by their own hand was fate dealt.
All weapons forged and fought be lain
Upon their wielder's breast when slain.

Repeat! Repeat! Repeat to madness!
Back to darkest blackest darkness.
Repeat repeat and drill that whirling logic senseless.
Spin until you stagger senseless!
Senseless!
Racing heart pounds out relentless
Over here just out of sight
Where something somewhere dimly glows with fluorescent subterranean light.
Flick your switch, to it attend
By that scarlet lantern lit descend
Into Medusa's lair. She's waiting,
Baiting...
Seductive in her writhing there.
Primeval glare in sharp emittance petrifies to stone all thinking
Coiled snake induced to rise again
To bore a well into your spine and drink deep of the gushing pain.
Drink the sap that pulses forth girl!
Take it deeper! Expose the bone!
Erupting in orgasmic quaking
Lightening smiting down the Tower.
Fuck the pain! This plastic pleasure here and now
Is panacea...

...she feels it deeply as it fades
To faint and mist-veiled recollection
Now lost as if it never was.
Now hazy wistful sad reflection.
Distant shores.
Cold dejection.
Echoes. Tremors. Belated pain.
Legs still raised in skyward gesture
Unknowing as to its true measure
Extra-induced inflamation
Pappess points in benediction.

So was it sacred in its end
When you it smote and laid you bare?
Your desires and shames and secret plans
Your constructs and your fantasy?
Clear for those with eyes that see.
Did you wish upon this shattered star?
Upon your own catastrophe?

These holes she holds,
They hold her fast in shifting arid seas of thirst
And lightly grasps that hollow phantom tight
In empty fingers. Voiceless lips so pursed
To teach a stark and silent screaming lesson.
Listen out for its inception.
Sowed as it was just underneath the field
Death waits on Saturn and its malefic yield.

Such sharp uncomforts stir deep waters,
Whose swelling waves reflect the moon
As soundless words and glyphs emflamed
That shift and linger quick
Then glow in fading gloom.
See them sing and shine unheeded.
They could mean so much to you alone.
Rose tinted fetters chained to deepest blackness.
So lost without that hieroglyphic stone.

Did you ever gaze upon your own face from the pool reflected?
Did the dream so clearly seem as real as dreams can dream-like be?
Whose was that light you saw that shone in eyes of countenance unfamiliar
Inside this moment, shimmering out, the suns light centered in the Living Tree?

No telling can cause the mind to grasp
The etheric form of this so leech-like ghast.
Fed fear for fear to breed and feast
Upon us denser beasts. And us?
Still slaking thirst with sand and razor shards
And taste sweet blood ecstatic as it drips
To suckle darkling cygnets at our chests.
(Such mockery!)
No selfless pelicans are we that feed
Our young from self torn wounds upon our breasts.

Friday, 15 April 2011

The Journeyman's Song

When I get home
I'll eat some food
And have an Amazing Wank!

The road's been long
I wish I'd rode
Home in a massive tank!

I'd crush my way
O'er cars and stuff
And laugh at all the twats!

But all I got
Is a bad kebab
And the thought of an Amazing Wank!

Wednesday, 9 March 2011

Telemetry

Oh how
To find
When I
Can't see
Your light
I'll ride
Telemetry

The fork
It hums
She calls to me
We shine to all in tune

Diverting by distraction
The screaming in the light
I'm delving ever deeper
Wider
Thinner
Out
Inside

I'll sail past your harbour
Just long enough to care
To throw stones at your rockery
And draw you from your lair
See beauty in your snakehead
Reflected mirrored me
Our teeth will kiss
And splinter
We'll pull infinity

Tuesday, 22 February 2011

Time with cat

I woke up a few hours ago after having had some really crystal clear, meaningful dreams and resolved to get some of those ideas and visions written down before they faded and the message was lost forever. Until very recently my work output has drastically dropped to almost nothing as I've focused more and more on experiencing the world first hand in an effort to refine my understanding of nature and my place in it. But, in order to solidify experience into knowledge, the learning has to become teaching, the scout has to report back it's findings to base camp, the shadow casts itself across the light creating form, RAM saves to ROM, and so on. I reckon this is what the ancients were saying when they advised us to ground ourselves firmly on the earth in order to ascend to heaven.

With this rather lofty principle lodged firmly in my admittedly rather sleepy skull, I booted my computer and got to work. After a few minutes I realised that I needed a drink or all those lucid visions would end up as gasping, dry, parched images of myself evaporating in the sunlight like a vampire caught without his sunblock. The moment I opened the door one of my cats jumped into my room, purring it's face off and leaped onto the carpet rolling around in expectant tummy-rub flavoured ecstasy. He'd been waiting for me to arise, having probably heard my morning stirrings and thought that before he lost his momentum he'd jump straight into my busy, thirsty face.

I was partly amused and also mildly irritated... if I didn't crack on with some work I might lose my momentum entirely, but how could I not show that expectant little moggy some love?

Cue fuss.

And surely enough, I once again proved to myself that nature shows the way...

Digsy, in his excitement for immediate contact, and my initial reluctant reaction based upon a minor fear of lost productivity got me thinking about time and the way we see it in the modern world with regards to our work output. I don't need to go into any kind of rant about the way that our society demands more and more of our precious time and labour as recompense for it's false parenthood ministrations. Like all systems, the more time we devote to our society, the more it does for us. I think for most people this manifests itself as the desire to work harder and harder in order to accumulate more things to make themselves feel comfortable, without realising that comfort can lie irrespective of those crutches. Any time not spent focusing on this goal is considered to be wasted, or at best "leisure time", valued only lowly and as a matter of necessity with the overall goal of keeping one fit and happy for the days toil.

And so Digsy almost lost out here. He almost missed his fuss because there's a twitching, dying remnant of conditioning in my mind that tells me that to be unproductive is a sin. This is kind of true from many perspectives, but it's a matter of where your focus lies.

Suffice to say, after five minutes or so playing with the cat, the results were quite profound. One happy cat, and one enlightened Halford.

That short time I'd dedicated to the feeling of joy, both mine and his, shared, left me feeling elated and full of vigour for my coming projects. In my mind I'd transmuted five minutes of what could have been seen to be dead time, wasted on another creature who'd attached it's suckers vampire like into my precious wallet, into absolute gold.

Over the last six or seven years,starting after I first started to toy with meditation, I've enjoyed taking a long walk every day. Often, I'd finish work early or even put off my own plans and ambitions in order to make this walk. I often turn off my phone, stick a massive grin on my head and stroll around in the sunshine listening to good music, marvelling at flowers and clouds and the arses of the single mums I pass in the street. I'm generally just being happy. When I get home I've usually been out for a couple of hours. I've sculpted my working life around this walk, or other forms of meditation and experiential exercise because that desire to feel and realise those couple of hours of happiness has become so central to my being. I don't work often now. When I do work I like to finish early. I have become used to not having much money and relying on creativity in order to find expression, to attain the goals I want to achieve, and have also sacrificed that direct connection to the industrial world and it's population of working humans that most other people face, willing or not, on a daily basis.

Those two hours a day, when seen in financial terms, prevent me from making money. That's a given. Seen in artistic, "spiritual" and creative terms, and thus through to my own experience and understanding, those two hours really have shaped my life into who I am today. And since I feel like I've achieved a level of understanding about the world, and thus could potentially use those skills in any which way I choose (even finding a good job if I so desired), I consider these sacrifices minimal. Direct contact with nature brings understanding, of this I am sure.

My thoughts on this then are that what for one may appear to be a waste of time, unproductive, to another can be integral to their life. I can judge the results of my studies and labour, if you can even call it that, by the relative level of understanding and happiness I enjoy in the now.

In the time it's taken me to write this, my cat has been sitting next to me quietly, and I think happily. He's just stirring, and has now jumped off the bed and stuck his claws into my knee. A gentle reminder he want's playing with again. He's inspired me to write this blog, as well as motivated me to see the silver lining in the cloud again.

I'm already winning. And so is he.


Saturday, 19 February 2011

Prismatic dictator

Think.

Creation blooms and a pure thought is born
From the stillness and purity of Mind's perfect form.
Since inception it's intention to propagate flawlessly,
To intrinsically merge with the whole of humanity.

But now intercepted, mutilated, corrupted, dessecrated,
Crudely recreated, replicated and forceably re-transmitted.
Still beautiful to see but carrying a plague of pure hatred and yet
Still unsated, this creation of desperate wills banded together, cold love mated with unthinking elation.

Sent forth! This beam is prismed to colours, each the singular focus of one perception of man, unbiased in their sole goal to wrest reality from hands of the pure.
Injected In! This friendly syringe feeds a sickly addictive sweet tasting filth straight into your open-doored conscious, utilising the latest fashionable doctrines to bypass your strongest moral defenses.

And now the bleached remains lie parched and entangled, mangled and listlessly drifting amid once beautiful oceans, before so tranquil. Chaos and hell descended has deafened all quiet stillness, but left nothing in its wake but twisted dreams and scattered fragments. Collapsed channels remain constricted, containing the scattered detritus of it payload, the ruthlessly discarded DNA of the mind's true seed unsowed. Error after error perpetuates the downward spiral as this apocalyptic miasma encroaches upon every last bastion of hope, the soul's defenses inhibited by the crucial crux of the program, controlling its own crushing, endless loop...

So think.

Cup of D?

Why oh why is there no Myspace blog category for "Drug Abuse"?

Useless. Here's me, wanting to write about my feelings on my favourite drug of all time, caffeine, and yet there's no tidy little sociobox to file my report under. Instead, I've had to put this one under Romance and Relationships, since my on/off courtship with coffee and tea is exactly that. A taxing, arduous romance, speckled with little chocolate sprinkles of absolute joy..

Here's what ol' Wikipedia says about caffeine:

"Caffeine is a xanthine alkaloid compound that acts as a psychoactive stimulant in humans. The word comes from the French term for coffee, café..."

Ok so far, but I'm going to skip down the page to the important bit.

"Caffeine intoxication

An acute overdose of caffeine, usually in excess of 400 milligrams (more than 3–4 cups of brewed coffee), can result in a state of central nervous system overstimulation called caffeine intoxication. Some people seeking caffeine intoxication resort to insufflation(snorting) of caffeine powder, usually finely crushed caffeine tablets. This induces a faster and more intense reaction. The symptoms of caffeine intoxication are not unlike overdoses of other stimulants. It may include restlessness, nervousness, excitement, insomnia, flushing of the face, increased urination, gastrointestinal disturbance, muscle twitching, a rambling flow of thought and speech, irritability, irregular or rapid heart beat, andpsychomotor agitation In cases of much larger overdoses mania, depression, lapses in judgment, disorientation, loss of social inhibition, delusions, hallucinations, psychosis,rhabdomyolysis, and death may occur."


Scary stuff right? I mean, how many psychoactive compounds do you know you can buy legally and without prescription? And here's the odd bit. Apart from the last symptom (death) I pretty much experience every single one of those effects every time I have a strong cup of coffee. I don't need to snort the shit like some depraved coffee-ground junkie, just drinking a strong cup of java will do it.

That's right, I'm a caffeine lightweight. (Hangs head in shame)



Coffee and tea absolutely batter me senseless. This is a fact. In much the same way that a massive line of cocaine would completely batter me, the only difference is that with coffee instead of being instantly bored of everything and telling everybody so in a loud and beligerant way, I instead find my mind racing at about 10,000 thoughts a second. This can be useful when I'm in a creative mood, such as when I'm writing something, drawing or playing my guitar or whatever, but if there's anything in any way important to do, forget it. It mentally incapacitates me. In my last office job that I had, my work colleagues quickly became aware of this fact. One time, after a particularly vicious columbian affair (coffee not coke), I sat staring slack-jawed at nothing in particular on my monitor for over twenty minutes, eyes crossed slightly, drooling like a catatonic spastic and muttering to myself incoherantly, before Mandy (or whatever her stupid name was) leant over, tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I needed a tissue. Mathematics genius that I am, I soon learned well the equation Ben + Coffee = Human Squid.

For me, drinking a cup of coffee is a terrible gamble. I risk an almost cataclysmic mental breakdown with every sip, like some ancient hero presented with the chalice of the gods.

"Drink from this cup of the great god Oogah Boogah, oh brave knight, and knowledge eternal shall be yours! But know this! 'Tis a terrible poison which can send a sane man mad!" Or whatever.

The benefits seem obvious though. Feeling awake when you should be shattered is the least of it. I experience an almost unimaginable phrenic acceleration, breakneck and relentless, barrel rolling like an out of control jet fighter piloted badly by some cranked up methhead, teetering on the very brink of sanity, my brain giving birth to ever increasingly ridiculous spurts of twitching, amphetamine-like jibberish. Boiling, ever evolving mental diahorrea, ejected. I watch poetry forming itself spontaneously, repeating in a loop until it shatters and fragments into an echolalic noise, then a piece of music, then if I'm really lucky a picture, or a philosophy, or a universe. You should get the idea here. Total, utter fucking beautiful madness, hot and steamy with a dash of milk. Occasionally I'll be able to record some of this feverish sweaty excretion, usually by shakily writing a few words down, hammering a scatty beat out or by sketching something very weird. Often I'm doing this as much to keep myself rooted in normality, to avoid spiraling into an inescapable vortex of earl grey flavoured headfuck. Amongst all this wreckage, these trains of thought not so much derailed as forcibly shredded into strips of white hot confetti and puked into a bubbling primordial swamp of unintelligable faff, the intact and remembered thoughts I've had whilst high as a kite have ranged from absurd to absolute crackpot mental asylum escapee genius. If only I could hold onto one of them long enough to take it anywhere... I've probably cured cancer twenty times over only to have the revelation completely smothered by the image of an ex-girlfriend bumming herself with her own corkscrew face in a twisted, endless mobius strip of pornagraphic wrongness.GET OUT OF MY HEAD!

The times that I've really damaged myself on this evil brew, I won't talk about. Suffice to say that sitting in a corner rocking backwards and forth waiting for it to end, like you do on a bad trip, is about the easiest it's been. Someone once described me as "twich lord". I fear pro-plus almost as much as I fear beetroot, but not quite. And a cup of coffee as a hangover cure? Are you mentally limited? I have never ever felt so much misery as having drank an entire bottle of vodka the night before and then thinking that drinking a litre of coke to "pep me up" would be a good idea. Cue eight hours of utterly mindtwatting misery convulsively punctuated by long, slow shuddering bursts of projectile vomiting. RESULT!

I'm not the only person who seems to be so sensitive to caffeine either, my mate Ben is even worse than me, he reckons a misplaced cup of coffee can screw his day. What is wrong with us?

At least I don't need to be spending large amounts of money on addictive, heavily cut class-A narcotics when riding the knife edge between heaven and hell can be bought for a couple of quid down the local cornershop.

See you all in outer space.