Just a thought.

The Ballad of Arthur Mutil and Saville Blanchette

She smelt of cinema and chocolate and glamorous facades as she handed out penny dreadfuls during the interval in her pristine white uniform, its precise lines like knife-edges.

Her majestic sapphire eyes were like an endless night sky to the purveyor, all inky blue and stained by the stars. Each flickering glimmer falling was sealed in every teardrop that leaked down her tiny button nose.

Her wine red heart, in the heat of the evening had spilt as much waste-making wonder as a bottle of the stuff. Her dreams extinguished like the fires her future heartbreakers lit as honest, gentle boy scouts.

Her name was Saville Blanchette. She had coffee stained teeth, and a rather rude laugh.
There was a vacancy where her smile should have been.

 Watching from a booth that had fallen into noticeable disrepair was one Arthur Mutil, his shoddy suit all threadbare and tawdry tweed, and his face a molded grimace thanks to his penchant for chewing liquorices. He was spellbound by the theatrics of the enchanting woman as she sashayed and shuffled through the aisles, emanating glamour and seducing his mind as she went. His eyes lingered far from the screen, Not that he could have watched the film if he tried, as he was silhouetted by a halo of cigarette smoke so thick that his eyes watered.

 No pretence at anything but pennies had he, watching her extravagance tainted by disrepair, thinning cares and question marks.  Like a candle burning at both ends, he knew she was fading, the grains of sand slipping through her hourglass physique.

He shook his head in disdain and self-depreciation, Drawing hard on his abrasive habit. His penchant for daydream ambition and rickety acclaim were wholly suppressed by an ever declining state of affairs, and the insatiable hunger for sense of belonging, food, and his most simple desire of all, to feel love.

He flipped his last halfpence and whispered to himself; in his telegram polite tone:

 ‘Heads – flowers for the lady, tails – bread for the morning’

 He caught the well-worn coin in his left hand and planted it on his wrist, before instinctively slackening his grip. For his finger was stained by a stolen wedding ring. An object he could seldom bring himself to acknowledge.

 ‘Tails.’

He muttered to himself, knowingly disappointed.

The midnight breeze revitalised him after the smoky humidity of the picture house. Still Saville’s shadow dancing in the flickering light, against the backdrop of cheap velvet and gas lamps held his imagination to ransom. She left him quite absent-minded as he sank into the night.

The moonlight seemed to frame his isolation, just as the sunshine did his decay.

Arthur stepped out of the miniscule night bakery; with its shabby pastel peel paintjob, and familiar drab keystone floor that was cold under his toes. A loaf of stale bread in a crumpled brown bag under his arm, he set off pacing the shadows of London in twilight; his quarter-tipped heels clopping like horseshoes as he went. The fortune he felt for acquiring such meagre food was nothing short of tragic.

He looked up at the faceless trinkets that bore just enough light for him to catch his own countenance, as it stared back at him from the crest of Grandfather Thames. There was not quite enough light however, to dry the waves of tragedy and seas of sadness that swam in his thoughts. Both of which surfaced as mental pockmarks on his psyche, and the protruding wickedness in the curl of his lip. He had no need for mere possessions,
the only bags he had were those under his eyes.

And yet here tonight in the half-light he had another chance; here was his life and face erased, every wrinkle or regret appeased and cleansed until all that remained was a blank canvas. This was thanks no end to the unceasing mirror estuary and the anonymous smog of the blackened city.

He flicked his dog-end into the river after it had burnt down to his fingers; men in deep thought waste tobacco.

‘Another chance’ he muttered to himself, with the first evidence of a smile he had cracked from beneath his mask of malice for countless years.

‘Another chance, indeed.’

He crept into the underbelly of Holborn’s haunted alleyways, and gingerly crossed onwards through dank, dirty and dimly lit Snow Hill, each a broken tooth in the rotting black mouth of the East End. Avoiding the sin stained fellows of the night with whom he had dangerously engaged with prior, now no longer would he linger.

As the gentle click of the lock closed behind him, he found his footsteps sounded softer since his last visit, silenced by the heady scent of a past love neglected, of wood-rot and the cushioning of several centimetres of sawdust on the floor.

Arthur gazed out of his weatherworn window with a sangler that he had the peace of mind to smoke, rather than thoughtlessly burn his fingers with.

He drew on the monoxides and nicotine with relish,

And then closed his eyes.

‘Is there really another one for me, another heart to match mine and to share my times with, and to make merry with under the skyscrapers?’


Floating on an Opel Sea, Selling it my money.

The embers of moonlight filled the woods with a hallowed light, illuminating our fragile minds and serenading our thoughts with its cleansing aura, I looked over to Hambomalo who had just made a pig’s ear of smoking a cigarette and was now wrestling with a lighter, his practicality forfeited in exchange for a free pass to wander down the newly discovered avenues of his mind, avenues tentatively inhabited by chance and euphoria. The polka dots on my button down danced to the tune of my illustrative imagination. The flowing pictures and flashes of light and prose that tomorrow never knew collided with an earthy existence that costs but a pittance to escape from, like a room with a lock of webs, with a spidery key. It slips and dashes down through a loophole to tumble-town, wherein pleasures in measures are found and subtly toned down to our dismay; and in such we retrieve our to our joy, the sultry seduction of hedonistic ecstasy, There was luxury embedded in velvet skin worn by the sense of touch like a glove, but even this was temporarily neglected because of the enormously pretty distraction of the sweet sound of a shutter flash that whispered like Hollywood strings, and she promised things money could not buy and sold her wings so that we could fly.
Rubbing my eyes, I checked my pocket-watch but the miraculous and wonderful thing was that the hands of the clock would not cease their endless waving, like a pleasant greeting in the afternoon, or the morning or evening! Because to tell the time was a tall order when we felt like little children.
So we picked up the key, which had found its way into a tumbler of Middleton 25 year old in some way or another, or another, or another!
The spidery key crawled along the shining silver of the webbed lock, and sprung at the slightest quiver of resistance and poured out every emotion of the room, a confined space laden with reflection and loaded with forgotten memories, like an empty gun.
The kindly assistant with an overbearing grin and an under accommodating lift pulled open the intricate laced iron inners of the gate and guided us through into a dimly lit bar, with whiskey on the walls and a colour scheme of brazen burgundy, mahogany and ashtrays. The aging leather clad fellow waved us off as we went, crooked smile and sallow skin as he slipped away, returning to his humble chamber of transportation.
Unbridled by possessions and undaunted by discovery we explored forwards onto the beach, spellbound at once by the endless flow of the sea its bottomless mystery cleansing away any shady notion or unsavoury thought. The stones beneath our toes melted our woes.  Our faces were painted pictures of happiness, framed by wayfarers and clubmasters in some effort to disguise the dilated pupils that we were the masters to. I for one could scarcely look at this world that was so beautiful in the eye, without something to dilute its purity. This purity was a tragedy in itself because so few ever are lucky enough to witness it, in the eye of the storm. The upside down sky let us walk on the sea, and watch the boats as they flew along the aqua dreamtown. 

The spindled spines of razored tongues

Remorse at the loss of their manhood chums

Bitterly restrained and I’m feeling sick

Of this nervous smiling clown playing silly tricks

Or a wicked puppet-master plying sneaky trades

He offers her his hearts, builds her castles of bricks

She changes his suit black and gives him a spade

Control is not the word as he relaxes in chains

Second best is not what I am, you are estranged

Deluded and deranged I fucking hate your little games

And yes you have many nicknames

None of them fond, I’d drown you in a pond

Curling wicked in your lips

I hate your vice-like grip

You’re the captain of his ship

Is this really it?

What’s the point?

Of making an appointment

To pity a fucker and give him his ointment

Seeping rage and it comes away black
I’ll meet you tomorrow and plan the attack
I’m taking back the kingdom I’m taking back the throne
You don’t deserve it, abdicated and on your own

A measly sum of parts

Is what is left of you?

Half the person I met when clouds were new

Stained with regret and troubles pray tell;

But the tear-ducts have all but dried up

There’s no water in the wells

Perhaps there could be a point where you self-redeem

But it’s a safer bet that the regret will be lost behind smoke screens

To lay the entire fault with the circus master

Would be the same to say every sunny day has to end in disaster

Because the blame lays with twinned remorse

You think yourself the fair one
but you’re a fucking horse

Or was whore the phrase that pays?

When I pick up the pieces

You’re fucking playing away

And as I’ve fixed him

And put back what was left

You’re still out straying

And this runt is left bereft

I fucking hate you

You’re a filth war-mongering manipulator

I fucking hate you

From the dregs of my belly I’ll screech ‘I HATE HER’

I fucking hate you

Coming in satin a caricature of elegance

I FUCKING HATE YOU

Could you need any more evidence?

I FUCKING HATE YOU

That I know all about your negligence?

I FUCKING HATE YOU?

How can you wrongly possess such arrogance?

I FUCKING HATE YOU

Close your mouth knave you have no relevance!

I FUCKING HATE YOU

Unceasing your ‘nursery rhyme’ excellence!

I FUCKING HATE YOU

Treat him like a bomb you have that special resonance!

I FUCKING HATE YOU

No more I’ve snapped fuck you I’m breaking the reliance!

I FUCKING HATE YOU

I miss that shirt.

imagine a penny that could buy you everything

pave every wave

swim on every whim

if cobbled collars

on shirts made of stone

painted flower colours

just to make you feel at home

the scent of heaven

cooked with sugared shells

with vacancies for seven

and the rest will go to hell

silk overcoats

are not antidotes

to doting fathers

and careless mothers

downing lagers

then having another

I’m only really putting this here so I don’t lose it.

She smelt of cinema and chocolate and glamorous facades as she sold penny dreadfuls in her pristine white shirt, against the backdrop of the filth-laden boozer. Her smile of pearly whites beckoned sailors to her siren voice at their own folly, as each tooth was an iceberg for sinking ships. Her wine red heart, in the heat of the evening had spilt as much waste-making wonder as a bottle of the stuff. Her dreams extinguished like the fires her many heartbreakers lit as kind, honest boy scouts.

Her eyes may well reflect the sad waves of the Atlantic, but at that moment she didn’t feel worth a drop.

 Watching her business from a corner was Arthur in his shoddy suit all threadbare and tawdry tweed, his face moulded into a grimace, owing to his overpowering chewing liquorice and his features silhouetted by a halo of cigarette smoke. No pretence at anything but mardies had he, watching her extravagance tainted by disrepair, thinning cares and question marks.

Like a candle at both ends, he knew she was burning her burlesque physique, and he shook his head in disdain and self-depreciation, toking hard on his abrasive habit. Daydream penchants for ambition and coveted globes were wholly suppressed by his rumblies and miscarriages of luck; he flogged his last tuppence for bread.

Bitterly he crossed into the night, the moonlight framing his isolation, just as the sunlight did his decay. Looking up at the faceless trinkets bearing enough light for him to catch his own countenance, as it stared back at him from the crest of grandfather Thames, but there was not quite enough light to do away with the shadows that doggedly follow him. So in the dark they fester and stain his good name further, by curling the wickedness of the protruding smirk arresting his lips. He had no need for mere possessions, the only bags he had were those under his eyes.

And yet here tonight in this half-light he had another chance; here was his life and face re-moulded into a blank canvas, thanks to the endless flow of the mirror estuary and the anonymous smog of the blackened city.
He flicked his dog-end into the river after it had burnt down to his fingers; tobacco is wasted by men in deep thought.
‘Another chance’ he muttered to himself with the first evidence of a smile he had wrestled into view for countless years.

‘Another chance, indeed.’

He strolled off into Holborn’s haunted alleyways and darted through petty side-streets, each a broken tooth in the rotting black mouth of the East End. Avoiding the hollowed wayside men with whom he had dangerously crossed paths in the past.
As the gentle click of the lock whispered behind him, he found his footsteps softened, soundproofed by the heady scent of neglected daydreams, of damp rot, and several inches of sawdust on the floor.
As he gazed out of his window with a paper-lick this time he had the peace of mind to smoke rather than hold it as an ornament of his own wilful destruction, he drew on dioxides and nicotine with relish.

‘Is there really another one for me,
 for another heart to match and to share my times with, to make merry with under the skyscrapers?’

Seen fragments of your facets in broken wine bottles
teardrops fill us up, and conquer our thoughts

In crimson thick liquid you write out your titles

Lying with you has never felt so honest
pretty little pictures framed with your content
smiling all the while waiting for emotions you have lent


a poor substitute
gin for water
peace for slaughter
safety for danger
lovers for strangers
anger for hatred
kisses for bloodshed
there’s colour in sorrows
where yesterday meets tomorrow
and they kiss at midnight
give me a day, and I’ll go away
yesterday smiled through wrinkles
but today holds sway
and looks nothing like may
except in every single way
as we meet at high-noon
it’ll be over soon
we’re standing half-way
growing old in a day
and through the daydream haze
promises made
rarely kept
and newspapers wept
crying out, all about
their self-made prophecy
tabloid heresy
its simple to choose
love just to lose
forget what you’ve gained
when you feel so ashamed
a heavy heart
is not a start
but doesn’t mean you’re finished
now don’t feel diminished
it’s a gentleman’s way
to mutter and sway

When he feels disaffected
by old wounds re-elected
Advancing on the same old scars
cut by the stars
his pearly strains
the most valuable pain
but for now that’s fine
as the clock strikes nine
and the daylight we danced through today
slowly fades away, we promise to stay
recycling our wares
tap-dance up the stairs
flee to our fortress
a kingdom of allures
sending for captains and scholars and workmen
to assume their positions
so you can stand proud, away from the crowd
and the shriek of fire, the howling of winds
saving yourself at the cost
of corrupting their sins
they’ll never win
their diamonds under your heel
bring you new appeal
to harvest their ways
they’ll do what I say
their comfort the cut of steel
felt in their face
but we enjoyed the chase
that’s what you thought
it wasn’t your fault
it’s just what you’re taught
undistinguished through the ages
and as their fires go out
extinguished the bout
and hallowed remains left to pay
don’t have a bone or a bag
a penny or a plan
because we are the children plain
our childhood slain
spare some coppers please mate?
won’t someone donate
to keep us at bay
and hunger in a way
satiate until their second date
stealing today from tomorrow
and taking the colour from our sorrow
but to sob here
tiny infant tears
bottled up by
fists in the sky
faceless pain
daddy please abstain
nearly eleven, quarter to
I suppose he’s coming for you
framed in decay, his face a blank page
secrets you’ve kept
as midnight wept
hiding the scars
that make who we are
eating gourmet
expecting no change
the second men
who gave life when
babies would wail
and finish their ale
silence the tots
put them in their cots
children who are free to do as they please
drink smoke and hail, the pleasure of disease
mother midnight breaks
time’s like a snake
creeping up on you
its hands broke in two
different paths
but no one laughs
as they capture another day
its midnight now
and no one’s about
except the mother of no survivors
no dancing today – breathing decay
isn’t this a lot like yesterday?
they all do what they may
but isn’t it strange
how habits repeat
and never cease
through every age
no dancing today – breathing decay
isn’t this a lot like yesterday?

I can’t be bothered to do anything.

I wake up past 1 in the afternoon everyday and just wallow in my own squalor and stagnant thoughts.

I’ve been consuming (that’s the word, not reading) way too many books lately, and haven’t returned the ones I owe shitty sixth form, and that balding (or good as bald) little dwarf of an english teacher can piss off ringing my house and leaving messages.

Sadbloodycase.


the fruit’s all rotten folks.

 

Seriously getting quite disturbed now.

I have had a recurring dream during the last month, something like 7-8 times since the start of June. 

Basically I wake up in this really quaint looking village full of farmers and such, and people wearing those olde English country-folk sort of checked suits, or golfers suits idk how to describe em.

Then I go into shops and all that is in there is really strange material and these golfer suits everywhere, Newsagents, Grocery shops etc.
There weren’t any branded places or supermarkets but it wasn’t in the past i’m quite sure it was the present day.

So I kept going and the people were friendly but quite poor and smiled abrasively if that makes sense? it was false and I felt really uneasy.

I kept going and wound up at somewhere that I think was a Tailors, and for whatever reason I was beckoned inside by some old woman with really bright eyes, the kind of eyes that stare through you but all you can see is your own being reflected back in the mirror.

So I went in and there were all of the aforementioned Country Gent sorta suits were in there, but there were all these weird striped clown-esque suits

They made me one up, I didn’t actually want it cos it had coal in the pockets (I know, what the fook?) and other strange things on it that weren’t on the other suits (this little mouse trinket for one) then they laid it out on the floor and tried to make me buy it, I left and then they started chasing me real horrorshow negative village styley, with pitchforks but no torches?

Anyway, they grabbed me and I woke up.


Sorry to bore you all with this, didn’t want to forget it more than I wanted to really blog it, have a good day and enjoy the sunshine!

Confused Guavas.

 

(via rejectednewyorkercartoons)


Wow, just wow.

Spat my coffee all over myself cos of this!