DavidSL

He holds a lampshade above his head, cries, puts it down again, then dies. He wears a hat to cover his face, but doesn’t consider the mask. Instead he hides in shadow. Cufflinks don’t match his tie, but he wears them anyway. When his number is called, he is marched to a room and sat on a chair. ‘Everyone dies in the end’; a voice tells him through the loudspeaker perched in the corner of the room. But it doesn’t make him feel any better. They let him watch his funeral on a TV screen mounted on the wall; the reception isn’t too great. And he notices his girlfriend isn’t present. And, he notices, neith

They call him an abstract farce, and he paces about the room to great effect, does he play up to them or do they respond to him playing up? In essence, that would be a good question – except it makes literally no sense in all the World because I just typed it all out to the rhythm of a tune playing in the background. I can’t claim to have as many experiences as those I make up in my mind, though they can claim to have none for I choose only a certain few and over-indulge them in those thoughts. Shallow, that’s one way to describe them, but I suggest you look for a moment and realise they are MADE UP! Ah, there it is, the drum

Jonny threw me to the floor hard as he could. ‘What’d I do, Jonny?’ I yelled up at him; he answered with a kick to the face. ‘I don’t know what I did, Jonny, tell me what I did!’ I pleaded with him. But he just stared back at me. An answer came seconds later, a well placed punch to the ribs. A smile cracked his cheeks and split the mood in half. I lay on the floor, bloodied mouth and bruised ribs. ‘Happy Birthday, Elsa!’ he yelled, his arms outstretched. ‘The sick bastard,’ I thought, ‘he remembered my birthday’ THE END

With no distractions and no temporary insanity invasions I sat down and began to write a letter, a simple love letter to the woman I wanted as my own – a letter of no small consequence in my life, a deal-sealing letter if you will. It used long words I found in a thesaurus and had to look up in a dictionary, poetic sentences and flowery, powdery, soft and rhyming elegant descriptions of my thoughts and feelings. I built her into a princess amongst beauties, a goddess amongst mortals. I used the same old clichés we’ve all used and spare not the heavily romantic overtones in my doing so. I composed a letter so full of poetry and

With a sudden burst of inspiration like somebody had just injected something into my arm I don’t know what I feel but I write it anyway. It’s something, like something but I’m not sure what it is. And it is an open minded view on an abstract concept that makes me feel that if I don’t stop typing the whole World is going to burst into flame before settling down again. Of course, that is an egocentric viewpoint, but it is my own. Non-editing, non-specific, and without pause (for thought of others or myself). That is not what I was brought up to believe. Sometimes it just happens. And is. Green birth. Burial grounds and te

Omipantalon, I've forgotten your name, elephant black and rose-hipped beauty, surrealist manner and face I'd rather not know, The shadow in your glory and pants in your store, none of which fit your body the way they should, hug you at night and tell you it's all going to be okay, which you know it's not, but hey, HEY HEY HEY! The carriage of doom awaits those who missed the bus, the carrier a man whose presence might not be fitting, don't be late, he awaits, carry me home, sweet man of doom, And gloom, pretence, sentience, life after death and vision beyond the clouds that block your view, missing the movie you've been waiting to see you