Copied from my Notebook #4

-Do you trust those birds that barely ever land?

-What?

-You know, like sparrows or whatever, never land, just float around in upstreams.

-Gliders DO land.

-No birds, feathers.

-Nah, I don't trust them.

Copied from my Notebook #2

This is gently baking:

He tries to solve it and I just react to it -- tell me what the craic is and that will very quickly become the drake's bill, which is one pound and fifty pence madam -- I'm a man -- sir, sorry, sir.
"He's changed in the last few weeks, what we're going through -- he's thinking things -- do you mulch the grass still?"
Tell me what the craic is and I will try to to prevent its development into a fault line.

Copied from my Notebook #1

I am currently considering employment. The desirable location is London -- but there is the cost of living to sit with, not just that, but, the initial accreditation of work. The application form is formulaic. The repetition of name and address inspires pseudonym desires and represses neat handwriting.
I write from the top of a shopping tower, the cafe atop the Suburb Mall of Bristol. The cafe is a square dollop above the place. It is bordered by limply planted boxes and a roof covered in pebbles. The mineral water is gently sparkling, every patron is here is gently baking.

Purnell/Parnell

I am eating from a plate of slate, and in doing so I am accepting the Japanese and British elements of the dish. As soon as each element leaves the black surface, I embrace it. Here there is expense, yet, the expense is small figure to the tongue's taste buds. The eye's taste buds, they are a little closer to the head's City, but still they interrogate the colour on slate with minor knowledge of cost. Head burns smooth as it deregulates, and the burns are soothed by superb taste, tongue basting moments. Beautiful in opposition.

Scalper

Scalper is selling me a ticket again, he touts the ticket with his hands, and my leery ticket dirt is all over my money as I hand it to him. The scalper is the palpitation of live music, the dealer in humdrum heroin tunes and tight-sweet polo music. I leave Scalper behind and enter into the musician's performance space. He's added a 'y' at the end, but he's missed out the 'y' at the beginning and end. I'm sharded, but he's only the support act, bring on the real quiff. Major deal, Debussy appeal, get him off, Scalper, give me a refund. Scalper slips away, once sold, tickets are not refundable, neither are Ticketmaster's, neither are Quiff.com's.

World Heritage City #1

Bath breathes fine air,
Cocaine rugby player caught.
Pay to get into the abbey and
Discover section with Jamaican guitarist.

Prose #3

Once, when I was dealing with a young woman in Brixton, I came to the conclusion that these days were numbered, there were the 1s, these were slow- winders, nothing to do, plenty to worry about. There were 2s, these moved, but barely, sometimes they would bend into a 3, 3s were quick and jaunty, they were the days to exist within. Finally, there were the 4s, the 4s were Jemel days – she was the nights.

Jemel was probably born with an olive in her mouth, the olive oil flowing out from there as she grew older, she was 46 now and the oil was still moving throughout her. She fried onions in her sweat because it was a worthy substitute for Extra Virgin.

Prose #2

I was sat in a cafe, drinking full fat milk, low calorie sweetener, coffee. A mother and daughter entered. The mother was dressed all in black with a shine diamond ring on her ring finger. She carried a large yellow Selfridges bag. The daughter was between eight and ten. They both ordered late, independently of each other, the mother paid for both of them. The mother sat across from me. The daughter departed with the bag. She returned in new, casual clothes and sat opposite her mother. The offspring began to complain about the size of her milk coffee, the mother was stubborn, with reason. There was plenty for her to slurp on. I completed eye contact with the mother. This occurred several times intermittently. I looked again, this time from behind my coffee mug. The mother reacted, she hastily departed, calling her daughter after her.

Garaa Garaa

Garaa garaa,
Persuade her,
Garaa garaa,
Take her down,
Garraa Garaa,
Pull her under,
Garaa garaa,
Marry her quick,
Garaa garaa,
Impreg pregnate,
Garaa garaa
List of ambitions,
Garaa garaa,
Tear 'em up.

Prose #1

He entered as she exited, simultaneiously swarmed by flyerers. He ignored the hand-papers and headed for the baskets, he'd forgotten his Honeycard, no points today. She grinned as the sinewing carrier bag burned her hand. The bag was lactose intolerant, carb-low and GM empty. He browsed through the frozen section as she entered her flat.

Spratt Rintel

I am Spratt Rintel. I'm currently working on peacocks and tortoises with Abe. I want to volunteer in museums. I want to write. Get in my ear and tell.