The Positive Self-Hate Miracle Plan

Let's lose weight,
Let's discover the yin and yang of protein and complex carbohydrate.
It's never too late to let your corporeal fat eat cake.
So let's lose weight.
And, then?
Then, let's look inside your cavernous space,
And discover your previously hidden, 
And uniquely transcendent,
And unparagoned, 
Blissful Essence.

Let's go!

Let's lose weight.
Because it's the only way - to lose weight.
Let's deflate your billowing concertina face.
Let's drain away those flabby bingo-arm thighs;
Sight the edacity: I snack, I die.
Chant: For I am Spirit, pure and eternal..For I am Spirit, pure and eternal..
Let's lose weight.

Pain-feast your lingua-nausea mantra;
Really utilise your hidden pneuma matter.
Oh, and,
The flashing lights, the tingling arms?
Mouth striking shapes to burglar alarms?
Perhaps, a smidgen of self harm?
Tremors, blushing, perspiring, shaking, flushing?
That's okay:
If it ain't hurting..
It's a positive thing to focus there your self-hate.

It's not easy to lose weight -
Especially when you refuse to lose weight.
No, we mustn't allow your feckless mentalism to dictate.
Instead,
Appreciate yourself depreciate:
Scale away your inducing corpus,
And irrigate.
Irrigate.

Stare yourself down, reflecting off your plate.
Speed-read all my magazines:
Glean the enlightened screed of my shapely New Age dream;
Allow me to melt away your pizza footprint;
Gracefully fade you to your sculpted meme.

Unsuicide bomb those spare tyres with love.
Vacuum-pack your stomach with tender wires - see above.
Let's lose weight.
And strike your utter repose!

And you'll soon delightedly discover your swooning lover,
And how the sweet mirror shall melt of you!

Be like a sliver of crystal glass;
As svelte as the skin of flowing water;
Skim through the air like a flying saucer;
Writhe your multi-orgasmic tiger,
Deposing ounces, you shall footfall utopia.
Let's lose weight.

You can do it!
..For I am Spirit, pure and eternal..
Let's go!

She Captures Shooting Stars

Her fingertips lifted my limbs.
And all the glowing universe..

The memories - a flash, and a storm,
Shall never wash away the stars.

The bittersweet enchantment,
Redounds her absence present.
And wherever she goes,
She captures shooting stars.

And like two broken rainbows entwined,
A few months only, a lifetime;
This perfume rain, that brook of sky,
Her essence outside time..

A Real Woman Has Had A Baby (A Real Woman Though She's A Princess)

A woman has given birth to a...
A baby!
Let us rejoice!

What a marvel!
But,
What has been going on?
I mean,
A woman has had a baby?
Is this a twenty-first century cutting-edge technology doing right,
Or doing wrong?

The BBC,
CBeebies,
Britain's premier (subscription) MILF porn channels,
All agog, or gagging - depending on the channel.
On the BBC they were gagging,
The (subscription) MILF porn channels, not so much, ironically.
Nicholas Witchell, by name, on triple overtime I bet.
Quite right too, and thank goodness.
On the BBC, nothing else.

A woman has had a baby!
A real woman though she's a princess.

I remember where I was when I first heard the miraculous news:
I was watching the news, but it was nowhere.
I wondered why.
Then, I stopped wondering why:
A woman has had a baby - that's why!
I said no way!
How? A woman....?
But obviously the scientists have this holy grail commanded.

So, the country that gave the world the railways,
Bendy buses,
And self-service tanning salons for only one pound-an-hour, 
Behold, peasants of Albion, and the heathen boundaries beyond, 
This most miraculous of bounties:
A baby - of woman!
Surely more amazing than the pyramids;
Of more import than Syrian skirmishes?
Rejoice! You must!

A woman - a British woman to boot!
Has given birth!
To a..
There's no other way to say this -
A baby!
I can't stop saying it.
Neither can the BBC, and the other responsible media, understandably.

The baby even said its name: George!
My name is George. Just like that!
My name is George, and,
I am a baby - the world's first baby born to a woman;
A real woman though a princess.

For a moment there,
And I'm ashamed to admit this -
I thought it was all propaganda.
But propaganda to what end? I could not fathom.
So it's not propaganda I realised.
Phew! What a relief.

Now,
No longer shall babies be born under toadstools,
Or be couriered by unicorns from fluffy little clouds.
Sad, in a way..
Maybe these traditional baby-delivering practises will be considered old-fashioned before long.
But is this progress?
I think so.
Outside of work, women need a hobby -
This will do.

Maybe, even in our own lifetime,
Women may soon give birth to babies in such Malthusian numbers,
That it will be considered so mundane and ordinary,
A woman doing baby-birthing will no longer occupy the news,
Full Spectrum Dominance style,
The way this baby has since its "conception".
Conception - whatever the hell that might mean..

Let's see how multi-skilled women really are:
Having babies, and multi-skilling at the same time?
Can they do both, and at the same time?
You know, I bet they can.

I need a lawn mower.
Actually, I don't.
But if I did,
I wonder..

Could a woman give birth to a lawn mower?
A baby lawn mower?
Just wondered.
Would that be silly?
I couldn't imagine Nicholas Witchell getting giddy about a woman -
A real woman though a princess -
Having a natural baby lawn mower birth.
Could you?

Nicholas Witchell giving birth to a real baby though,
That's another matter.
I'd gladly pay to see that:
Nicholas Witchell giving birth to a real baby,
Even though he is a princess.

The Bling Of Austerity

The Rachman-like bijou debt-pools:
The temp-tenement bazaar.
And the cats with weight issues slurp slightly less cream,
They don't mind, it makes for the best PR.

This clamouring ring is the bling of austerity.
It's the best kind of enmity therapy.

In the days of yore, proles bore the poll tax.
Now we are enjoined to rejoice the bedroom tax.
So next, shall we explore the clitoris tax too?
Those lazy, pleasure-seeking, ruby-button scroungers..

This clamour is the bling of austerity.
Swing low that sweet bling of austerity.

Hollowed-out high streets "ripe for development";
Kept-empty luxury apartments boast no viewing tenants.
Some students sell sex to help keep down their debts:
Generation Y funded kindly by Generation X.

It's yet another nudge for the bling of austerity.
Moving forward the soft bling of austerity.

Cashless society, cashless hand-me-downs;
There's a place you can go in these food bank boom towns.
This Baby Boomer wonderland:
This home-owning silver sea,
Saves Jerusalem's equity from eternity, maybe.

The pawnbrokers, and the payday loaners -
The Big Society stakeholders:
Chuggers in clover:
Vampire surgeons drip-feed their blood donors.

With their curtains drawn tight and their wide screen TVs,
Their fecklessness - living shamelessly so beyond their means,
Thus, always it's us:
The Hard Working Families.
You know what I mean..?
..Yes:
Stick the rolling pin on the weakest demographic:
The Legions of Schadenfreude target market.
Stand by the demagogue divisions, 
Speed-date consensus conviction,
Your eyes shut so wide, flash-mob ostrich.

This wonderful thing is the bling of austerity.
Let's swoop and glide,
As the chariot wings of austerity
glow.

Meanwhile, In Sweden..

Human resources -
She works in human resources.
Don't tell anyone.

Sometimes I hear those screams from her basement;
Screams like giving birth to a fully grown and functioning dentist.

Then, after the screams,
There's that familiar matryoshka doll silence.

The crooked blood leaks from her sleek harbinger mouth,
As she carries the sleek heavy-duty plastic refuse bags,
One by one,
To cast into the swollen river, biblical.

Later,
The police boats circle, stall, and circle,
As the deathbuoys from Hades bob to the surface.

And,
As she dreams her distilled murmuring slumbers,
A shocked Japanese tourist tries to understand the good policeman manning the cordoned-off bridge,
And what the mystery of the shiny bags,
Thrown by beautiful aitch-ah lady into the seawater, means.

When the beautiful aitch-ah lady comes home,
Bearing a pizza and some wine,
    She whispers:
           Don't ever ask
Never ask -
   I'm fine...

All right then.
She knows my view on the dead-eyed sharks that throb and thrive,
              in, 
the liquidiser planet: Human Resources.

At night,
Sometimes she slips down the stairwell,
To banshee-howl with the cats in the alleyway outside.
The owls never twi-twoo along to the a capella jazz from hell..

I'm not sure what she sees in me either.
You see,
People working in human resources have also been disappearing from this city.
She never asks why I sometimes have a spaced-out look as I walk through the door,
Entrails swinging wildly around my neck.
She just tut-tuts and suggests:
Have a shower if you like -
Your favourite long-life organic lentil soup is defrosting
in the new solar-powered microwave -
You've got time.

We watch a Swedish detective..
He's striding towards a caravan in the middle of a field by the motorway.
And you can tell even his coffee has a hangover and needs a couple of aspirin..

He opens the door,
There's no-one inside.
So he takes a look around.
Close up: photos and newspaper clippings -
They're all dead!
Dead! except...except for her..
A realisation - boom!
His face twitches: she's next!
He tears off that photo as tyres screech outside:
It's him, the bastard!
He stumbles.
A Saab Estate careers toward the motorway.
Norway!
He's going to fucking Norway!
It's only twenty minutes..!
Now the detective runs, stumbling across the field,
Screaming to a colleague down the phone...

Cut to..
Woman.
Her phone rings.
She looks at the phone,
But she needs to open this special-delivery parcel.
What's in this parcel?
She's puzzled.
She looks at the phone again.
She looks at the parcel.

A pulsating bass arises..
The detective screams again, stranded in the field,
Wild-eyed, desperate.
He closes his eyes.
The sounds of the motorway fade -
Just his heavy breathing now - full volume.
Heartbeats. 
Stop.
Cut to black.

The Smile Sink

I'm a clinical psychologist, 
Specialising in narcissism within hyperspace, 
Where it's all about the first-person narrative: 
Where the photographer is the sitter; 
Where the smirking cat points at their litter.. 

                      and, Flash! 

Gong! 

The preemptive future-proof memory cache:

The show and tell.

But am I here,  

Where my asymmetric self-portraits hatch? 

Is the view only real through the unsleeping lens? 

Is anxiousness the motor of this super-saturated-self? 

Is our interior long and gone chained inside the always-on Panopticon? 

                   The contra-flow confluence - 
Everyone a million points of light. 
Most walk the glass-click-down in stop-gap time, 
Dappled in the shimmering gloom, skin-tight. 
Flex with the nearest vat of wine. 
Yeah, see, I'm looking fine.. 

You could delete that one, though, 
And..that one. 
I'll delete one too if you.. 

Remind me: how the hell am I again? 
How old am I? 
I wonder: how old should I be - here? 

The performer steals themselves for the cage. 
Tag the sage. 
Disconnect to share and engage - 
It's the only way. 
Watch the you-and-them. 
Everyone with earphones on. 
And all the eyes peel down the sounds leaking silence. 

            eat say day date data dated rate 
                     careful addictive sizzle 
                frazzled  

The Smile Sink - 
Don't blink. 
There's a lot to study in the meta of me-think. 
In the liminal smog pools the dawn patrols subject their objects - 
Take the tamarind hit from the gloaming ersatz. 

I'm a clinical psychologist, 
Specialising in narcissism within hyperspace, 
Where the photographer is the sitter. 
You can follow me on Twitter. 

A Benday Dot Haiku Zephyr Adrift Over An Empty Beach During An Eclipse

   0000000000000000000000000000

 0 .... ............. ..

.............. 0000       .... ...................... . .      

... . ................... , 

                                                                                 
o0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000                              

Is Now A Good Time?

Is now a good time?

No?
Oh, so,
How about     dot    dot    now?
Or  dot        dot dot       dot
Now?

Well, that's three,
Now.
Any of them any good to go?
Any of them on the moment?

You say you like the second now?
Okay then.
So turn your watch back twenty seconds,
And we can be right there, again,
In that second, now, any second now.
dot dot   
   dot
Let's enjoy the full detail and texture,
Right now.

               in between the raindrops the rainbow hides

Oh, no..no..
Of course I don't mind.
I have time - 
And time..

Ready?
Any second now then..
And..here we go -
In your own time..

dot
          dot

Hmmm,
Yes, you're right,
This particular now feels...thud...so light.
How now I notice how did I never notice it passed me by,
Now I notice it passed me by?

..It's so silvery!

How it drifts, abandoned, by the sky,
Like a falling blue butterfly,
Tossed on the honeycomb stream,
Yet, the deep-sea slopes in dream.

Here now,
You are here, are here,
The feel - so soft and gossamer;
An mmmnness - nothing heavy;
A heavenly lightness deep.

Yes,
This now is a good time,
In between the raindrops, here.

.                .                .

Unmatch Dot Com

One in four relationships begin online,
But,
Luckily,
Nearly three in four relationships now end online.

That's why,
Unmatch dot com,
Is the world's biggest break-up site.
And an amazing ninety-one percent of people who use unmatch dot com,
Break-up successfully with their new ex-partner.

Using unmatch dot com is easy:
You simply fill in our simple online form, 
And tick the criteria that your rubbish ex-partner-to-be hasn't met -
And, because we have an amazing choice of reasons on offer,
You know, using unmatch dot com, you will never be stuck
with one of those embarrassing silences,
When your partner asks:
But..but, why?

And, if your relationship fails to fail,
We will give you your money back - no questions asked.
That's how confident we are,
When you break-up using unmatch dot com.

Because,
We at unmatch dot com understand,
That,
With our busy and hectic lives,
It's difficult to find time,
To meet to break-up with your very unspecial new ex-partner...
Face-to-face.  

So,
Join unmatch dot com today,
Because with unmatch dot com,
Love is..
Whatever..

It's Not Nothing

   
       the fridge hums

the waterfall sighs
      the tea light night trains
               flicker
      the blowfish moon spills her
limpid  
   tipfull
     spoonfuls

    the inevitable sirens cannot
pierce        the
  brushing of
twenty-thousand jazz-leaves
          insinuating waves
                               rushes 
giant bouffant matchsticks

  the lime and darker
black     blue
             gold     shellac

and
     nothing like kindness keeps
              the living

             a celebrity
   on winning
         a second place
                               in....
    smiled
  oh
it's not nothing

so kindness too
                      it's not nothing

Curate Zeitgeist. Stat.

Please help me curate

                        this poem.

Cascade this vertically down the
One-Stop Poetry Solution business continuity call trees.

Let us crowd-source and zone-trickle (our content-rich abundant richness) Serene and Sure,
Even though time-poor.

• Florescent yellow bibs must only be worn by your team leader 
• In the event of a fire, please lick their hands 

Together and steadfast, we can upskill this poem for immaculate read-across multi-platform immersion.
And zen contemplation.

So: poembomb for species-level change.

Nano-curating is the new black.

One quarter of this poem contains 
• 31%---sodiumlite musings (Argonaut)
• 23%   monochrome thought saturates
• 14% LoFi polyglot carbonates
• 8% self preservative (trace)
• 7% transient fad rumination
• 6% pasteurised illumination
• 7% electrolytes of zeitgeist
• 4% organogenesis de noodling
of an adult's RDA



Best before: 15/05/3029

2033AD: Synchronise, Spiritualise..And You Know The Rest

So why not give your personal space a title - one that you will neatly remember -
Encapsulating a precious memory - your purest essence,
Like the name of a long dead, yet much-loved imaginary pet,
Or that secret, unforgotten, pined-for ex!
(they dumped you before you could them :-( )

Your password should have at least six letters,
Two floating 4d emoticons,
And one hyper-pie-hieroglyphic.
(no low-flowing telepath idiolect allowed.
Nixt.)

Your preferred personal space provider Values your privacy.
We're delighted you have chosen us.

We will only disclose your data with our trusted partners.
And we will only disclose your data with their trusted partners.

[ * Please disabuse your ptryctv mind cookies while we populate our enmesh-streams washing through your cerebral cortex 
Your subcon OS is now in ZiFi hottubs 
So please ignore the legions of splintering dreamstream floatboats on  flash-through zoomtrees, and feel free to call upon the divine intell all around you ]

for your eye cone icons: tick "biomorph in chimedawn¥[glittery] - yes" 
icons//.bluesky.flossSlashdot.dress//#myinteriors
.meme>>butterfly.yogamirror.dreaming .....

Waiting to synchronise...

Standby..
 With Caresses
....

Welcome...
 And what would you like to think today?

Spiritualise me.

Ok
 Anything else?

Monetise me. 

Ok