Rage, rage against the dying of the light..

Once perhaps, I would have lazed long in the sun of summer and drank deep the evenings with slow setting suns. Perhaps I would have wandered down the endlessness that sprawls into english countryside, nothing but a fond smile and some bread as I searched for trickling ravines with hidden radiant gems of last light. Leaning back against a worn tree, night standing imperially over the waters, I would allow my thoughts to flow away into eddies and ebbing tide as the sparks from a fire took flight. Such calm.

Now I am looking forward to autumn's warm cloak of embers and russet apples, bloody rose red leaves amidst bracken and the earthy smell of Samhain. I look forward to the food. Oh the food. I am all set for pumpkin carving, baking pasties and brewing virgin mead before spiking it with the belly heat of brandy. Toasty, buttery, spicey, baked and sweet. I look forward to the welcoming of a new year come october, to hopefully being in a catering course and most of all to being happy. The tempting calls of squashes and sweet potatoes with nutmeg and cinammon gets me glowing. Long skirts, the clattering of boot heels on the stairs... poetry. When Autumn comes she will be my sweet muse. And I shall be her poet.

What else is news? To be fair, I have sat around alot, gotten ill and stayed thus. Everyone keeps offering to make me tea and let me rest but stolid as I am to myself, there is little mercy. I continue to housewife around folding clothes here, fetching everyone tea and breakfast, ensuring there's plenty of food ready for tired and hungry workers (or just lazy stoned masses!) and so... Mother Nature has allowed me to make an early start on my winter fat storage. The bitch.

Oh, Nigella.

Cooking has never been so sexy. Nigella Lawson is a true woman. Despite her husband's death she remains (although curvier) a beautiful woman and an indulgent cook. I do not consider her a chef by any means as her food seems to revolve around stay-at-home mothers, newly-weds and mothers with children. That kind of cooking has to be simple, complex and accessable. However, that said, her food is also serious crowd-pleasing stuff. Main ingredients use chicken, salt, chocolate, sugar and cream.
Her hair is perfectly coiffed. She licks and sucks, smirks and winks as she whips eggwhites, sprinkles sugar, leans forward to the oven and slowly inserts a tray of her perfect meringues.

'Nuff said.

My chef idol is Angela Hartnett. Now there is a hardass if ever I saw one. A dominant and powerful lady with the culinary skills of a demon, a Michelan star and an MBE. I aspire.

Everyone will come, everyone will come to my funeral :)

Yes, I DO feel delicious.

It fills me with smiles and warm buzzy slightly nausiating feelings to know people sit and read here on an occasion only ritualistic to their own :) I rarely write well, I rarely spell correctly, and I rarely use good grammar. (The punctuation there was a joke. I know no one got it. Maybe Sofa did...).

Anyways. A big snuggle and snorgle to everyone when/if they read this post and since you are here you should get some tea, juice or water and chill out for a bit. There must be a reason you were driven to reading :)
Go now. Tea time.

Fine. Well you either obeyed, ignored or considered. At least I poked your squidgy brainthoughts :) Yeah, I feel drunk, and I feel really good... shows alot huh..


There's a savoury meal of choice awarded to who ever can find every grammatical error :) Homecooked and paid for. You know you want some.

This is just sunshine ray in the storm.


And Mike, I woke you up at 8ish impaling myself on the bedframe trying to get the lighter, grabbed your shin and fell on my face. You won't remmeber. It was epic fail.

Burning Down The House (fighting fire with fire)

Maybe it's just lack of sleep, a weed fix or an orgasm. Somehow I woke up feeling like death and am now chilled. I am a calmness in the air as opposed to being calm. It's probably the drugs- it's always the fucking drugs. I'm going to go on an MDMA binge sooner or later, for better or worse... definately gonna be poorer.
I wish the mind didn't delve so deeply into itself because mine practically has its lips in its arse. I just need a break. A couple of hours (biblically speaking) to do a 720 and be in complete understanding.

Also.. a list of great things to do.


Central London before rush hour, and business lunchtimes.

Sunrise on the bridge.

Beard Papa's.

Get high. Appreciate a gallery.

Drop MDMA. Go to the Science Museum.

Mutilate

I love that I was the chaser. I love that I couldn't make myself chased. I love that you put up with all my mind games. It was just a test. I don't do that now, I don't need to test people I love.

Grah, what ever am I supposed to buy for Mike's birthday? I have a fair idea of half of the gift(s), but seeing as I can't post them here I'm going to leave this post as an elusive clue.

Something dark and sexy.

Something with a pleasing colour.

Something to remind you of our first date.

And something home-made.


Guesses welcome :P

Suggestions extra welcome.

------------------------------------------------------------------


It is me, in all my glory.

I am oppression coaxing the fire.

In the night- the draught. In heat, the drought.

Between and under cracks in rocks, I await the arrivals. Departed.

Mutilated, I am the throne of injustice.

Together I become the scales of paupers' reason.

But alone,

I am just a breeze.



Talk to me, help me understand why I do this for you. Please, please... if I'm crushing you just speak out.
I don't understand.
But I know I'm to blame.
Now.

Absolute pleasure bowl, and The Only Way To Eat Spaghetti Now

Ingredients


Two deseeded chillies - hot
One large clove of garlic
Five Kaffir leaves
Diced ginger - one dice sized cube
Diced candied ginger - one ball of
Fish sauce - a teaspoon or so
Sugar - a half teaspoon
Lemongrass
Black pepper
Soya sauce
A few shallots
Vegetable oil

Blend these into a paste.
Fry this paste in a little oil before adding - pork, finely diced green beans, broccoli, mushrooms. When the mushrooms appear to be cooked, add water and cornflour, grated carrot and cooked noodles. Taste and season accordingly. Add chopped fresh tomatoes and a squeeze of lime immediately before serving.




Pasta Sauce So Easy Even Sofa Can't Fuck It Up :)

1 - Break spaghetti into pan, add boiled water and leave simmering whilst you
2 - Dice a small onion, two cloves of garlic, two medium heat chillies and two extremely ripe good sized tomatoes.
3 - Fry slowly in a generous amount of olive oil, adding seasoning. Mash tomatoes in.
4 - Remove spaghetti when al dente, stirring into tomato sauce with a handful of parmesan.

It's done.

Double quantities for 3 people. Or two fat joints to yourself.

Fuck You :)

;lkjh says:
yer theres a party at mine tonite
its partly kells bday and hes bare nt on seeing you aparently
i shud hv one end of august tho tht u n mike shud come to
ChemiKaze- The death toll continues to rise as shocking numbers of teenagers are dividing by zero. says:
okies
if it's partly his party and he don't want me there i can understand it
;lkjh says:
yer me cesar n kells doin like a joint thing innit
cesar bare nt on seeing alex bt i dont think she knows
ChemiKaze- The death toll continues to rise as shocking numbers of teenagers are dividing by zero. says:
aight
;lkjh says:
kelly blatently wants to c u tho
in his bed
oi alex want to follow u where the sun dont shine

Just Like Sands...

Just like sands, unreasonable sounds
That slip through frozen hours.
Subservient to the rule
By which the millimeter stands,
A measurable passing, a granular lapse
Through the eye of a weevil
That boars itself inward.
Torn asunder, these seconds split-
The difference divides. Fleeting
Moments provide no clues,
Elusive.
The only flawless imperfection-
A quarter.


Today's waking was very nice. Considering the complete over-abuse of alcohol on mine and Sofa's part in Colindale... How do you boys put up with us? I'll certainly never understand.
After a bath in good smells with Mike, we clambered into bed and no sooner had I given him a hug than I was crashed out. Waking this morning I had those lovely simple thoughts you get for the first five minutes-

Mike looks cute.
He's warm.
And soft.
I didn't have a nightmare :D
I'm gonna make lemonade.
Gods my hair feels glossy.

It was a clean stream of simplistic, gentle thoughts that I could understand. They didn't require analysis and I could deal with each of them. I also like that my thoughts went - Mike, tummy, head in order of how much I pay attention to them and heed them :P.
Long-sleeved shirts just make you more cuddly, honey. :D
It's raining, but the sky is still yellow so I hope for more rain although I do feel slightly better.
I've been sneezing such a lot recently. Illness. Allergy. Spores in room. Who knows.

Gimme Some Sugar

I am sitting here.
I am selfish.
If I stop writing I will die. I used to say, "If I stop writing poetry I may as well be dead", and now I feel as if I write to pospone a bad trip, a deadly accident, liberation.
Every day I get more miserable and depressed and yet.. on this cusp - the brink of mutilation I feel more clarity.
For the first time in an age I am cognitive which seems to be the most beautiful irony since I cannot use this clear glass for looking, only reflections of what I know already and what I refuse to aknowledge but have seen my whole life.
This room is just full of sharps, the house is basically a walk-in suicide masion and the roads are all dusky and beautiful. I think I may have lost a few marbles under the desk.
I am sitting here.
I am selfish.
I take everything I need but will never give. That is nature.
Not mine.
I want to be the blossom that cracks open into the Sun, giving his fire this clarity, stealing his passions.
I will be the Moon in her calm ebbing and flowing- cool waters and deep dreams. There lies the life I beg to give and to nourish those that already live under the shade of my cyclical silver smile.
I want to be silent on the inside. Peace without murmers. Silence without chaos. Still without static.
Most days, the voices are comfort. There are kitchen maids and nannies from lost eras, strict mothers and poor slaves with whom I have dinner and civilised conversations. I help the slaves to clean and the kitchen staff to cook. I sit and embroider listening to harps that have long since become ruble and dust, compost and junk buried away. I also dip into other conversations and go about my day listening to exchanges between many types of people. Once, I am the mother in daycare socialising. Another time, perhaps I am watching an army of men weep and bare raw emotion before war.
This type of behaviour is so simple to analyse I find myself doing it. And then I become to caught up telling myself what explanations are there. And it all falls down just like London Bridge. I'm a few knives short of a crayon box.

Say what?

Maybe
I could hold your hand,
Take you through a field to
Roll amidst the flowers.
We could stay there
Breathing in the night,
Waiting to take flight just
Murmering for hours.
And then
As I walk you home, we're
Thinking of excuses even though they won't believe us,
It's all I can do
To say
You're keeping me from Venus.

Nervous?

Do you ever feel something with such intensity that it actually scares you? Something that scares you so quickly that you can feel your follicle nerves twitch into gear, something that causes hot and cold sweats all at once. All this happening it a mere second or so and feeling for every split in that second like an eternity. A desire so strong you get a psysical pain, like you are falling, like the first time you got fucked real slow and sensual.
It's so easy to trigger the human mind. All it takes is one image, one sound. It could even be one colour, or an object in the room of a house somewhere on the other side of the world. Whatever it is, you know that it is your weakness and you try at all costs to avoid it. Yet, true enough to human nature, you know you are perversely drawn to it all the same- because what's life if you can't test yourself or work yourself up into a frenetic state. Superman had Kryptonite, right?

Well, since you're all welcome into my mind (blogging automatically rolls out the red carpet for you, leading straight to my limbic system) I'll tell you all a little secret. I absolutely cannot look at pictures of self injury. There's something insatiable about being so utterly fixed to the spot in fear, sweating and trembling to the point of tears as screen after screen of images appears. In a matter of seconds I am completely overcome with an icy desire to destroy every part of my body, to feel pain and see blood and fat, to sit in a bath and bleed and sting all over, completely covered from the shoulders to the ankles in varying sized cuts. Of course, I more than go out of my way to avoid seeing any such pictures but they do seem to cross my path an awful lot more than I'd care for.
I am totally powerless to remove this emotion. Even sitting here blogging it out is to no avail whatsoever. It doesn't help that I was positively in the foulest mood this morning and getting back into my dark room was all that I could do to stop from really losing the plot. Now, to have been triggered into this state I am frustrated. I do have the option of simply obeying my desire. Obviously I do. But I have no intention of hurting the only person I love. And so I am stuck here. If I were of the Christian persuasion I would say this is very much Hell. As it stands, I am not and I find it more of a limbo state to use the term loosely. I am stuck between absolute bliss and calm, and total self-annihilation.

This song is sexy.

Vodka, Pride and Nothing to Hide

Pride was a coming together of drinks and drinkers alike. The photos speak for themselves and can be found across facebook. I'm too tired to blog.

And Here's A Quick Fix For The Mix

I told you already he is addicted to it, so don't promote it or make it seem acceptable by taking it around him. I told you don't take it around me. I told you I was trying to sell it to pay off your outstanding debts. You know why?
SO you could afford to take me out. Anywhere. So you could buy games and food and travel with out worrying for a month. But you persist, and you make me cry. I would will and am doing anything, everything I can to make it easier for you to be able to feel you are treating me right. Stop throwing it in my face.




I WISH YOU WERE HERE