Twitter Feed Bolemia

@me
October 8, 09.07pm:
Mememe meme me,
Me me and me me and me,
Meme,
See ya!!

@me
October 8, 11.11pm:
You,
You, you,
Me, you, me, mememe.

@me
October 9, 02.09am:
Mememe me me.
You'll never guess?
Go on guess.
No??
You're dying to know: nearly three minutes ago,
(Nearly like four now),
I nearly fell over!;
I nearly did!,
Mad ?!
See ya!

@me
October 9, 06.14am:
Youyouyou
You never did:
You nearly fell over!?!
For real?!

@me
October 9, 09.22am:
I did! I didn't but I nearly did!
Mad!
See ya!

@me
October 9, 2010. 10.00am:
Youyoumeyou
I nearly did that once..
I nearly fell over once.

@me
October 9, 2010. 11.23am:
Ohmygod really?

@me @me
September 15, 2028. 11.22am:
Memememe..

And on,
And on and on,
And on.

I Wont De-friend You Unless You Violate My Privacy Settings Or Say Something Weird

I wont de-friend you unless you violate my privacy settings or say something weird.

Facebook,
Facebook,
Facebook,
Facebook.

Are you on Facebook yet?

Facebook,
Facebook,
Facebook,
Facebook.

Are you on Facebook yet?
You're mad! You're still not on Facebook?

You can be my friend on Facebook.

nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnfriends..

are you stll there?nnnnn I need help,

I need help;nnnnnnnnI don't want to sound,

melodramatic,

and, nnnn..I know, nnnn..you've got other groups to visit,

nnnnnnnnnnnnnnor joinnnI really need to talk to someone anyone,

want to kill myself, things have got so bad, never thought id say this need help need to talk..

hello? is anyone still there?

i canttakeit

anyone..

alright then...

nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnsee ya

see ya

Cardiac Karma Cola

Supermarket numbness,
Aura of the damned,
Z-list enforcers,
Endorse and brand.

Food Arcades exfoliate,
The warmth of sharks:
Come hither,
Sup our dark arts.

We are the trench-troughers;
Silken purse sows devour-emoting.

We have assumed Full Spectrum Dominance,
Over our Consumer Ground Nero.
We dribble Manchurian Yoke Freedom.

Sometimes,
I pray for lobsters clasping Uzis,
Waiting,
Their claws on the hair-pins,
Nozzles pointing out from our boiling pans,
And into their hellfire.

Gastronome-dalek bling,
Mediterraneaning,
Exoticeasterning.
Italian, Indian, French, Spanish:
They're of course still missing all this,
But have no fear fluffy muffin,
For they must catch on:
The Credit Crunch Work In Terror ethic,
Will soon enough scold, then vaporise
their ethnic kitchen-culture manana-charm;
So last-century.

Slow-cook growth hormone:
Soy Soma;
Cardiac Karma Cola.

This is the church,
This is the steeple,
Let us pray for wholly bovine people.
And if all the cows die,
We can binge on burgers made from our dead selves:
A greener alternative to burial:
Eat us, purge, then flush,
And if you're in the mood for romance, fat-fuck.

In the abattoir,
Slice and dice us open,
We will ooze and seep,
Melting, radiating,
Factory-farmed,
Minced polystyrene:
Alien autopsies to go,
Scare the hell out of those almond eyed Greys,
All the way back to Alienspacystan.

Masticate,
Contort,
Digest,
Strain,
Donut muff-dive again,
Colon Barbarian.

Alfalfa barbecue with intent,
Pretend you're foreign,
But only for a bit,
Their food, climate, warmth and lifestyle
may be wonderful,
But those people?
Shame, isn't it?

Daisy, Daisy Cow, The

This health and safety notice will explode in five minutes..
Four minutes..
Three minutes..

Sorry,
This health and safety notice will not explode:
It has developed a fault.
Al Queda Health and Safety Executive,
Apologise for any inconvenience caused.

This celebrity has passed his sell-by date.
He has passed with flying colours,
And shall be presented with this lovely certificate,
At his sell-out parade,
To celebrate his stellar achievement.

This meat has gone off,
But no-one knows where it's gone to.
Naughty cow!
Please find and kill her,
And then deep-freeze her;
Then she wont go off again,
For at least another twelve months.
She answers to the name of Daisy, Daisy Cow,
And her middle name is The.

This relationship is past finished,
We just aren't compatible,
And we have nothing in common.
But surely we can still be best friends?

This dogma will pass,
And be superseded by another dogma,
And this will continue in cycles,
Forever and ever.
Dogma is Great! Dogma is Great!
Woof! Woof!
Dogma is Great!
Woof! Woof!
Or Meeow! Meeow!
If you're an agnostic.

Portent Of A Disconnection Foretold

Commuters space-walk along the train platform;
Broken links:
A human chain in mourning.
Faces' lines read like tyre tracks:
Stanzas torn abandoned on a zebra crossing.
Air conditioned skin awaits to shed on the rattlesnake.
Silencer earphones on "stun", eyes like rose-tinted grenades..

Indentured meer cats mutter mobile hydraulic conversations:
I'm calling just to let you know
I can't talk now I'm on the train,
Or I will be if it ever arrives,
Talk later..
And again the roaring silence washes over the caller,
Like a prodigal son,
Surfing a crashing wave of liquid nitrogen,
Smashing against a zero-gravity beach head.
Return to sender.

Such curious nano incantations murmur,
Like a thousand Buddhist librarians:
I'm on my way;
I'm not on my way;
I'm nearly there, but..;
I might be there late;
I might not be late, but if I am
I will only just be late..but if I will be I will still be there;
..and can you buy cat food on your way home,
Love you..Hello.. I said I love you..Hello..?
That hello with its plaintive question mark:
A portent of a disconnection foretold?
She returns her phone to her handbag,
And looks down,
Her eyes shimmer and falter like an evaporating mirage,
And the little mouse on the track,
Weaves and bobs like a boxer on LSD;
He's obviously not a church mouse.

Me?
Oh I just listen to music,
And sometimes text the message:
I can't text you now I'm on the train,
Or I will be if it ever arrives..

An Englishly Simpleodlium

Obsiliquent is not a word,
This word does not exist.
In other words,
Obsiliquent is utterly rindampulous.

Although,
When used in a magical realist context,
Could parse in a bambitarily, omfododily kind of way:
The garden gnome is astride my unicorn, obsiliquent;
For example.

It's so important to get these simple things right.

Bonsai Beast

Some men have penises that can chop down trees,
But some women prefer penises that buzz like bees..

A Fragrance Ghost With No Name Drifts By

And whenever I catch a whiff of her perfume,
As a fragrance ghost with no name drifts by,
Time's warped arrow splices,
And Love's atomic clock,
Tock-ticks its anti-clockwise meltdown,
And a handful of forbidden memories escape,
Their ashes regenerate.

Time's never a straight line;
It's a curving upper-cut -
A cosmic smack,
Care of the Bad Karma Police.
I'm not guilty,
Where's my solicitor?

Glowing pearls on a melting boomerang,
Thrown by a dream-time warrior,
At this desert pedestrian.

Such memories:
Lonesome grains of sand more precious than diamond.
The broken windows of space evaporate Time,
And melt away,
The comic, dark-matter shadow play.
The wistful dolly dagger twists,
A charmed feedback loop of deja vu:
Her scent: her phantom touch,
She's not here,
She's not here she is..

The Pylon And The Scarf

A silk scarf of crimson elevates,
Levitates,
Like a sky-bound alien manta ray;
The deep glowing slate heavens shimmer,
Casting the pylon a mysterious aura of golden silver,
And reflects a light so fierce:
A totem of shining mirror.

The darkest cream grey sky,
Whisked and liquefied,
All passive-aggressive,
Blasts down still-life breaths,
Pummelling the mustard grass,
Like bleached wig hair,
Sucked up into a cyclonic vacuum cleaner's vortex.

Brooding tides of air currents,
Caress and lift this abandoned scarf,
Playfully,
(Lovingly?),
Higher,
As it arcs the beaming pylon,
In spirals it drifts.

This pylon,
Like a dancer frozen:
A bashful pageant Christ,
His six energy-god arms seem to outstretch,
Perhaps to catch her?

The orphaned scarf,
Here in the so silent day after a night -
Abandoned,
Abandons itself,
In turn,
To the pagan power line,
And rests.

And falls,
Like a spaceman.

The Bendy-Bus Salsa

i)
Astringent lemon insurgency -
Eau de Sicily;
My plankton face.

Lapis lazuli olfactory iridescence;
I Gurgle my mint mouthwash arias.
Scorchio!
My coral reef tongue.

Saturday night surgery:
Pregnant prophylactic prophecy,
Carnal dentistry,
Sensual occlusion jihadi,
Lapidary mercenary;
Meat-market crash-team.

No, no.
I think this year I'll stay in -
No desire to set sail for the Babel-tongue-fisted neon canyons,
With my cinema-verite pirate-eyes.
Gottle-of-gear,
Gottle-of-gear.

Laser-guided eye-lines glancing over shoulders,
Cold eyes folded:
The smear-stare,
The double-take;
Let the crumbs eat cake.
Beer-goggle romance,
As tender as a gorilla finger-fucking a souffle.

Clowns and meer cats,
Crocodiles and fairies,
Maggots, mermaids, parrots and canaries.

I'm floating,
I'm bouncing,
I'm a primal blurry blob,
Punching out through my teeth silly words,
Like a twentieth-century typist
banging out bingo numbers in Morse code,
Behind this - my vacant and collapsing semaphore-miming face.

It's the show-and-tell,
My Guantanamo Caligula.
What the hell would Jane Austen make of this?
This Urban Jungle Book,
This Amour Vaudeville.
Piss bolts of silk,
Giraffes:
"Eat My Milk."

ii)
Dark-matter-rainfall spool their angel-down yarn,
Like transcendental fishing lines,
Wispy vermicelli of turquoise-charcoal-silver.
Illuminated whirlpool-puddle-leaves,
Circle and swim,
Like schools of tropical fish,
On a delicates/silk-rinse cycle.

And a couple swoon-loopy,
Aflame,
Ache,
Entwined beneath this wallflower moon:
Our parochial star.
They sway,
And slowly turn,
Alternating clockwise,
And anti-clockwise,
On the bendy-bus turntable,
Like only passengers on a bendy-bus can:
The Bendy-Bus Salsa.

A sonic-boom of de-cloaking pigeons,
Helicopter-blade,
Rotate,
Fan-out and arc,
And,
Fade.

Two sirens,
Now three,
Now four,
Now five,
Hermetically seal,
The rudely awakened God-Squad Sunday sky.

And as atheists pray to Jesus,
To cure them of their hangovers,
Dawn-patrol photo-tourists,
March like lobsters,
And gently collide with shift-workers,
Like deflating, static, party balloons.

In the interests of time,
I'll keep this poem to a thousand unwritten lines.

Eject.

Future Recommendations:

People who bought this lawn mower,
Also bought this Aphex Twin MP3.

People who bought these water purification filters,
Also bought this plastic bonsai tree.

People who sell The War On Terror,
Never buy candles, flowers and wreathes.

A Lamp Post

A lamp post tourniquet of wilted roses,
Hang;
They weep and fuse inside their bag,
Of polythene-condensation-tears.

It's been there for a week or so now.
A note attached,
Rain-ink-drips block capitals:
"WHY YOU WERE SO LOVELY".

A bent-double bollard -
A dislocated thumb,
Its wire fangs and bone,
Expose the torn pavement flag bare.

Child undone:
A hit-and-run.