Monday, 7 July 2014

Throwaway literature, part two

"Carefully, he draped the heavy cloth over the mirror on the dresser. 'Not tonight, Elaine', he whispered, 'not tonight', as a single tear rolled down his now emaciated face."

Always There With You, a novel about a woman who is having an affair with her husband's reflection.


"my head
is filled
with wool."

my head is filled with wool., an anthology of variations of one single poem which consists of the single line 'my head is filled with wool' repeated approximately 300 times throughout the book with different punctuation, typefaces and accents.


"You there! With the playful trousers! How many times have you walked past a naked refrigerator on the street and wished you could just shake its delicious hand?"
"I had tits and gravy for breakfast!" 

Poo poo poo, Russsell Brand's latest attempt at engaging with the general public.


"I had a bubble bath around midnight. It was surprisingly shit. And I usually love bubble baths."

Life-changing, a first-person account of a series of (not very) unusual experiences.


Thursday, 3 July 2014

More bad writing

A mist rises above the city. 

The day is in its nineteenth hour, and it is tired of all the shit you've been giving it.

The sky is situated in a general upward area, and the ground, unsurprisingly, remains where it is.

From somewhere far away, behind the clouds, a sound begins to build. 

A low drone floats our way, like static, bypassing the conscious mind, barely leaving a trace. 

It reverberates. It vibrates. Then suddenly, it concentrates.

A quick series of nine syndrum beats punches you gingerly in the face, a weedy, yet somehow piercing attack on the nation’s collective eardrum. 

dum dum   -   dum dum dum – dadadada

To the melody of the EastEnders theme tune, united we chant our anthem, because no! we cannot resist:

Everyone you love is dead.
Everyone you love
and you ever have cared for
Everyone you love is dead
might as well give up
and shoot yourself in the head.

Birds land on the tops of makeshift market stalls, perching among small puddles of yesterday’s rain, collected with care as if they were liquid antiques, staying there indefinitely, like mould on a five-year-old cheese.

Ruffling their feathers reluctantly, the flying vagrants bring the drug deal to a close. Tweety only wanted an eighth today.

Business is slow.
And so the wind blows.

"dude, are you there?"