no work again today: elation and guilt. the muscles beneath my skin ache with ferocity and keep me pegged to this machine. with my time i keep up with user manual translation/adjust to the moody temperatures/change footwear often and embark bravely out to buy cigarettes.

new found Eureka all over Love Liza tonight . . . made me gush like a child. a perfect reason to revisit old favourites. and on a stomach of guiness pie we drove out to dymchurch and realigned ourselves with our youth: the claxon sounding off the ghost train.

dr. beech is a professional man: his handshake and his assistant. the strategy to put me at ease is transparent but i am grateful for it. he chats politics with her behind me and they chuckle lightly as i wait with my pants down: tissue on leather. and i observe the work almost detached.

kicking our heels through the flyers desperate and forlorn we suffered in hope of a last reprieve. the gig was only ever guaranteed for one. but like so often and so many times before we fell upon our powers of resource and bucked up to camden town for absurdity as consolation. by the finish we were back in our arms and seeking out the weirdest. egging my brother to battle the slippered pool shark. we had to have something to relate.

today i drive in to the capital city . . . commerce, steel structures, the evening standard and tubes . . . radiohead's second night at the apollo . . . airbag would be nice . . . especially if we crash the volkswagen on the way there.

having found myself unable (or was it unwilling?) to melt, i wake with thoughts of guilt . . . and it was just last night that i described the difficulty of waking with the same intentions as those we go to bed with! . . . curse these cigarettes and curse the pleasure of relaxation! i can tear about for as long as i like but it will catch up with me in the evening . . . and this morning consists of neil young's new anger.

these hands mingle the sweat and dust of my father . . . in these pores are the grimey strains of his trade . . . in my nostrils i can breath what i breathed a thousand years ago through him growing . . . if i allow myself.

closing one eye the perspective changes . . . slow it right down and a magical quality surfaces . . . just like my nails i alter the string tunings so that my guitar is a guitar but not a guitar . . . i want to destroy beautiful inanimate things.

it is surely time to get a job . . . the bank will almost certainly be in touch, the debts are beginning to spiral . . . these cash handouts help nothing but help to keep the habits.

as this part of the world comes alive again with colour - and with it the sense of our very selves doing the same - my desire to record its splendour increases . . . the magnolia has already flowered and continues to wilt . . . there is mutability in abundance! . . . what else can i do but paint my nails in subtle decorations as i await the imminent arrival of 'the digital camera' . . .

on the saturday i phoned her and on the sunday i pined . . . by monday we had settled back into comfortable laughter although she sat several feet away . . . when it was time for her to leave i couldn't resist her angelic countenance and pressed my lips against hers again . . . it was lights and spark instead of time . . . it was everything i wanted.

we laughed . . . a little nervously, and looked around us carefully to inherit something of the night. it was different now and stretched to a shape that reeked of certainty and confusion . . . she knew ciccone was madonna's real name but i couldn't tell her what impact this had on me . . . and i resigned myself to the fact that a man in love can never be wise

Every time the dawn comes upon me i resist its ruby ornaments so that i might immerse myself again in ignorance. the grey sheets remain clad in the sewage of indulgent slumber. i don't count the revolutions i make nor do i have bedpost notches to consult. it is the world that turns and my breath regulates it.