moof

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The dead cannot speak

Sat upon the wall observing the dialectics of
people passing him on their way home, just to go out.
The desire to shout. Was it envy, but then this would mean there was a desire
to be like them, already brain dead and all he faced
when he got home was the cat (of whom he loved so much)
and organic cheese.

A feeling of desolation
came over as he boarded the tram on the way home.
At this time, human contact and people invading his zone
(nigger-tongue for space) was what he faced liveing on the line
where park and ride was in use, the desire for so long now
to be in his own empty space.

Placeing Sonic Youth (daydream nation) into his CD Walkman,
the Sony headphones were the ears. The music pumped into his mind
as he sat there wondering about nothing but everything at the same time,
his mind was on fire.

Getting off four stops before home, a short walk along
the River Don. There were warm winters sunshine,
walking through Attercliffe and through the old graveyard.
Here he sat for at least four songs. This was how he measured time.
then moved on “providence” had kicked into play on the Sonic Youth CD
that was playing. He reached the River Don and walked towards home.
Although he felt desolation, the moment was good and
thinking of how the packed tram would become desolated,
much like 17 years named, life at stages of his journey here.

The had a desire to spend time in silence for a period of six months,
not speaking or participating in the Plague Dogs of Humanity.
This desire had been with him for years and had increased
more over time. Conversations had become
fractured, ninety-nine percent of them meaningless, often-becoming arguments where
he felt he was being misrepresented and not understood to say the least.

Only becomeing placid when smoking crystal meth, although to pay for this
the rent was used. Of course, crime was ano other idea
to raise the dosh, but his last time in prison
where seeing a youth killed and another have his throat
slashed was a deterrent from going down this road.

Working out how shit worked and what people thought of him.
How the past was the omnipresent mother fucker. In your minds,
the had an argument (justification) for your actions. However,
he could not manage to place them into any context with those
who had offered to pataranise him through the darkest hours of babylon,the
moment was due, there would civil unrest.

His mind was distracted back to his walk as the CD played
the track: hyperstation, and he reached the vast complex of
the shopping complex. Should he? continue his walk past the manicured
grass at the side of the complex, which looked over the river down
to Salt and Pepper – two redundant cooling towers, across the
wasteland and then home.

Being nothing off much to get home for so,
he opted for the wasteland way home. The thoughts went back to the
previous conversation having with himself in his head. He crossed under the
footbridge and down the short road down towards the wasteland.
Now he had changed the CD to Roots Manuva (dub come save me)
as he continued his walk home. He loved the way
Mother earth had taken back what man had just left.
Perhaps the desolation he felt was the same as the desolation here.

All his life he been forced and told that being with people
was the right thing to do. He was different and he knew this.
How could he explain this? What was normal, what was real?
Fuck, he had been fucked up. Where could he find the explanation
to all his thoughts? If he talked them through with people
would they think him insane, was it normal to fear Christmas in September.

The only Christmas he had liked was when he was fucking a sheep.
It was good for him, but for her it was just sex. Again,
he had been abused in a sexual way. Since then Christmas had been fucked up.
The last one spent in a cold empty squat of a tower block where he had hoped
to share it with someone, instead he was alone. All year there had been an omnipresent
thought in his mind about Christmas and now it had returned.
The vast shopping complex was the only place he could go shopping for his weekly food.
Already the stores were getting ready for Christmas.

All these useless products being sold to people to give to people,
the over consumption of the privileged class. Next year they would be
informing him about climate change but for now it was christmas,
what was a little thing about
the extinction of man going to do to stop this.

He reached home, removed his hooded top and CD Walkman,
placed them in the homes he had created for them in
his space people call home however, this was not home,
just another stopping place. He had lived in 22 places.
Some he had made an effort to make home. However
here he had placed his effects he had collected over time.

While at the Squat much of the very little he had owned had been nicked.
All he had now had been replaced from The Vicarage he had moved into when
evicted from the tower block. He had been given a community care grant
and had bought himself some other bits such as bedding
and a proper Hi-fi of separates and spent the rest paying
off his dealer for his drugs and self printed propaganda.

He got home about 7.30 and watched Coronation Street.
He was only half into what he was watching, another weekend loomed.
He disliked Saturdays and even more so over the years.

They were cold and desolated. In the last week his sleep
had been little as he had awoken in cold sweats and fear
pumping through his body. Although he was tired it took
him over 3 hours to fall into a deep sleep. Even then,
he woke at four in the morning. His mind was on fire.
Fuck, this was crazy shit he thought.
At least he had something to look forward to this weekend – a long walk on Sunday.

He pottered about his home, he had seen News-Babylon at the weekend and
realised his mind simply could not cope with this. So by 6am he was out
his door walking up to Blackburn Meadows, a nature reserve along the canal.
It was a cold September morning and daylight was just wakening in the south,
for some reason he never left home without his CD player in the front pocket of
his hooded top.

He had chosen Leftfield (rhythm and stealth), the tunes and cold
kicked his mind into play. He walked up his road and then across the wasteland,
on to the canal. His mind was on fire, rhymes were sang along to the tunes
AGAINST THE GRAIN HE SHALL REMAIN
he sang along changing the words to fit into his perspective of life.

His walk became a little dance for a while, shit he thought it was good to be alive.
He knew this to be a contradiction as most of the time
he simply wished he could end his life.
For over a year now such thoughts had been running round his head.
He had debated with himself the rights and wrongs of doing such an act.
He had spoken to friends who simply for there own reasons did not hear his
cries for help (well at least that’s what he thought). In his mind he wanted
to come to peace with them so when he did kill himself he could move on in peace,
or were his friends simply too scared to talk them through.

He very much wanted to end his, life for him it had become pointless
consumption and a repeat of the same shit. There had been no progress moving on,
far too many people had their thoughts set against him and though
there was some people who told him different he could not trust them,
what was their agenda? Why did they wish to help? He had trusted
and opened up before only to be abused, let down and exploited
and finding himself in the same place.

He so wanted the same opportunities as every one else, and does
his own shit. He so wanted to spend time alone not speaking, going for
long walks, smoking his shit, playing his music, and taking photographs -
all he considered normal. In his mind was a raging fight how could he do this.
He knows he had to pay his rent. However paying his rent meant going without.
He simply could not cope with life when not stoned: He looked for arguments
to give him some feeling, something to do. He realised this and understood the
dialectics of what shit he was up to. He could work out shit for himself,
there was no need for him to hear this from other people and when they told
him he began to hate himself more.

Real Cool (how to make mushroom curry)

Doing his time while having too much space to think.
Meanwhile, he had dreamed a dream until dreaming was a boring
thing to do. The debts owed were what his was worth. Now sat
looking over the Earth from Ewden village now learning his real age,
his faced looked younger. The panorama of Morehall Reservoir
was his view, gazing into the deep blue water, singing Blue Water (Public Image Ltd) while sat on the edge,
upon two stones that had been placed together to make a seat.

He thought of the time he had seen his basterd of an uncle laying
in his coffin, waiting to meet his 6 foot by 4 foot.
Two days later he was being placed into a grave at City Road cemetry, Sheffield.

A mad vegan-fascist (a distant uncle) turned up in his string vest and tight shorts even though it was deep mid-winter.

Dragged to the wake, but at an age to get pissed. So that’s
what he did. His mother, the sister of the basterd uncle had
not seen one of her children so pissed. Next time he was to be in
this pub he was squatting a warehouse round the corner for his own
home and sometimes free parties, he called them Eat More Fruit
(the sound system was called The Big Ego Orchestra).
He and friends had painted the walls of the warehouse.
Now he passes where the warehouse stood, on his way to Morehall Reservoir.

He had now found his home, a hobby he liked more than politics.
The first proper walk on the Sunday following
the million-man march in London (Against War, Against Capitalism)
was just awesome. Now here he was on his own.
This time he walked through the pine forest of a
deep greyish darkness and soft earth under foot.
His eyes were wide open. He had just got back the
digital camera, although he had to leave
it at home as he’d taken some images the other day and
all the cards were full. He had taken images of his old school, Carbrook,
and Attercliffe graveyard.

For three days in total he had gone for walks.
Giro day was spent walking the south of the city and
meeting a 300-year-plus Beech in Abbeydale Woods.
There he sat with a long-term friend and just talked then the
Nokia 3810 vibrated his pocket he spoke towards the phone as he
pressed the reply button, hello and the short conversation took place with his gay psychiatrist

The gay shrink always attended the appointments in tight white shorts and a blue & white striped top, Psych-the-rapist was good at his job though,
next time he was going to take a stepladder to climb the beast.
Meantime his thoughts came back to where he was now, sat upon two
stones that had been placed together that made a people’s seat at the
side of Morehall Reservoir.

He smoked some of his CRYSTAL METH through a bong, his mind drifted
back into the deep blue water. He got out his Sony headphones and his CD Walkman.
He heard P.A.I.N., this is the Propaganda and Information Network, as it began to play.
He danced at the side of Morehall Reservoir for the first three songs.
You now know he measured time this way, thinking he had better be off.
He walked up the road a little then he took out his
Ordnance Survey Peak Distract Map (1961) and looked where he was.
He folded back the map and placed it into his green bag. He had made
up his mind to go up past Wigtwizzle and down round the top of Broomhead
reservoir and then back down to the bus stop. He had played 3rd Base (Cactus Cee/D)
and Dead Prez (a CD he had a mate burn for him) as he reached the bus stop.

He waited for a short while, or was it a long while, anyhow the bus had arrived
and he got on board. He sat there on a Friday night at about 7.30.
The children of the lumpen-proletariat that lived in the suburbs were going into town.
Cheap perfume, see-thru tops, tight jeans and men and
girls in g-strings. He looked at his map and made some notes on some scrap paper.

His third eye kicked into focus and he realized he was being watched or was it
urban-paranoia? He put on some Discharge
(free speech for the dumb) that worked, he was left alone.
He watched the urban metropolis become more and more as he came
into Sheffield City Centre. He had to get another bus home, the number sixty-nine
would be his best bet or the number ninety-three. As luck would have it the sixty-nine was
the first bus at the stop. It would be empty he thought as it was only going
to Rotherham, and it was. He sat at the front with no music on.

He got off on Sheffield Road and walked towards his home,
well at least that’s what it was called.
He cooked some food: a mushroom, spud and chickpea curry.

He placed the spuds to part boil and then sliced the mushrooms
onto the side. He then took all the spuds from the boiling water
and placed them into another pan of already smoking olive oil
with garlic and some tinned chopped toms. He stirred in the spuds
and took handfulls of organic chopped mushrooms, the life of the petit-bourgeoisie in Tinsley, then stirred them in.
He then added the organicchickpeas and a pint of cold water.

He then placed the small frying pan onto the heat and added
some nut oil and some olive oil, then adding some korma curry
paste and half a pint of filtered water, bringing it to a boil and then
taking it off the heat, leaving it on the side. He made a bong as the
cat sat up on his lap, he had smoked some of the bong and then
placed the organic fair-trade rice into the boiling water.

He put on Radio Four, as the tune for The Archers kicked
into the room, he was sat watching the wall,
now eating his food. He switched the Radio
off at nine as Friday radio was shit. He smoked a very large bong
and his mind drifted. He decided to listen to some music.
He switched on the D100 Compact Disc Player and
A1 Integrated Amplifier, both cambridge audio,
he bought them using some of the community care grant.

The community care grant was given to him in July, now it
was October. As Pink Floyd (wish you were here) kicked
into play he lazed upon his bed. The Desolation he was feeling
in the last weeks was still there. His mind drifted into the events of the week.
Fuck, he realised so much about The Plague Dogs of Humanity.
Have a cigar kicked into play as the
Cat he was living with jumped onto his chest.

He had called her Sensei, another cat suffering due their owner’s drug habits.
However they were both soul mates. She purred onto his chest and they both
lazed upon the bed. The end of the CD woke them and he said: “space!”, sensei jumped off.

He put radio 4 on for the 10 o’ Clock news and
fell asleep till at least one in the morning, he powered
down the Compact Disc Player and Integrated Amplifier,
along with the Technics Tuner he had picked up for 20 pounds
off the Monday markets and went to bed. He woke at 8am and powered up the
Hi-fi system and put radio 4 on as he cooked breakfast of mushrooms
and scrambled eggs with beans and toast, the rest of the day would be uploading:
pretentiousartist.com

He was meaningfully happy

Waking Monday morning from a dream where hate was the past, LOVE was a legend,
war was a myth; meanwhile Time was an ocean that stopped at the shore.
He had fallen into a deep sleep. He had walked a good 15 miles on Sunday.
He got home about 7.30pm, Feeling fucked, very stoned and knackered.
He understood all his days had gone and all his friends were only passing
through like his dreams. He woke from the dream about 8am which was late
for him, he was also full of a head cold.

He was due to see a mate but he was fucked.
Looking up the number on his Nokia phone, he dialed him from his landline.
They spoke for over an hour about the meaning of life and should they promote
Drop University Not Bombs for the times they found themselves in.
He pondered as he played Neil Young (Mr. Soul) He loved his music, Mr. Soul
was classic sixties music, thumping beat, awesome lead vocal.

He walked to the bathroom and placed the plug in
its hole that kept the water in the bath.
He turned on the hot tap and watched as the bath was
starting to full. He went back into the living space got
his bong and put some crystal meth in its bowl and went back to the bathroom,
he turned on the cold for a few moments and then got into a hot bath.
He laid back and lit the bong, inhaling the smoke and letting it through his mouth again.
Then just drifted there for over an hour. Now stoned, he played
more Neil Young (southern man), the tears came to the back of his eyes and
dropped down his face, sitting there with the headphones over his ears.

Lighting another bong and breathing in the smoke,
Bob Dylan (masters of war) came into life. Getting some tunes for
The War Against Capitalism action in a few days time.
Times were changing, Bob Dylan once sung (indeed they always are).

He watched on TV, riots across England, and had been
involved himself just a week ago as the North of Sheffield
said no to the working class being nothing but fodder for factory and battlefield.

He had agreed to do a projection of images on the
Town Hall of Sheffield, this is what the music was for.
Just three songs: Neil Young (southern man), Bob Dylan
(masters of war) along with Anti Flag (you’re gonna to die for your government).
The intro was going to be a speech lifted from Dead Prez. He was going to load
it down to a mini disk for the day. Hoping the music would reflect the
mood of those active in The War Against Capitalism project
and people just coming to make themselves seen and heard.
He had some Radical Dance Faction on CD, just in case there was a riot,
of which he planned to take with him.

Never (almost never) leaving home with out his Sony CD Walkman,
he would make sure he had leads to plug it through the sound system.
He got dressed and made sure his Fuji 1300 fine pix digital camera
had a card and enough power. He had to go to Magic and Sparkle for some
bread and cat food.

The feeling of desolation came over him again. Feeling
shit, he had no choice but to go out as the cat needed some food.
His head was banging and could not deal with music. He locked the
backdoor and walked through his backyard. He walked up his road and
down towards junction 34 of the M1, using the subway he made his way to
Magic and Sparkle taking the long path. Along the side of the
River Don, under the shadow of Salt and Pepper standing there looking
over the manicured grass, he took shit loads of images
but only one was of any use, which is at abstracturbanbucolic.com

He had spoken at length about being so pro-active in
The War Against Capitalism project, inside the brain
there were feelings about the plans for
World War Three, his thoughts turned to this:

“War is not simply the product of aggressive tendencies in human beings
nor the presence of evil in the world as the religious pacifist
and liberals believe. War is the product of capitalist
competition the working class are nothing but fodder for
factory and battlefield those who pay the most homage are the most oppressed?”.

Felling ill at ease working with people who he simply had no common
path or political thought with. The desire to express
the opposition and agreed a popular front was a means to do this.
Having been politically active for 17 years and had worked
with popular fronts before and to be honest it felt like banging
his head against a wall. He had decided to work with his mates under
No Fronts, No Egos, No Bullshit, No dogma.

He would not attend any more meetings or actions of The War Against Capitalism
project and instead work with mates doing their own thing.

Happy Christmas is over

Now taking a big step moving away, this happened
in his own time, under no pressure and now everyone says hello
and are happy that you have found your path. Looking at the clown
in the reflection it moved and the shadow moved with him, while the clown did likewise.

His beard was looking good he thought, and he had found his public image.
He had set his alarm on the Nokia Phone for 5.30am to get the October
Morning sunrise up at Morehall Reservoir. Planning to get the 6 o’clock tram
to Middlewood and the 6.50 bus that passed the gates of Morehall
to get there about 7.30am to walk both reservoirs and get some of the
images he wanted .

He placed the headphones over his ears and switched on the CD
player Sonic Youth (daydream nation) again! He drifted into the
movement of the tram and watched the demographics of the people
filling it at this time of morning on their way to work.
He just watched, as the music pumped his mind into a nice kind of oblivion.
He drifted into the world outside of the tram, he stood and played snakes
on his phone and had got to 345 as the bus arrived. He got on and sat near the back,
as the front was full of people going to work at Stocksbridge Steel Mill.
Sonic Youth played the last chord on his CD. He would listen to the polite
chatter of the Workers. He was asked by a bus driver on one of his early
morning walks where he was going, at that time it was just for pleasure now
he had an excuse, he was there to take some images.

He got off the bus and walked up the long road come drive that led you to the
Morehall Reservoir. This was his first early morning walk up here and fuck,
was it more fucking stunning. Reaching the top of the Reservoir at 8am.
He stood there just looking, his mind was a blank. He thought of his week,
it was a Friday of a very fucked up week with moments of sheer pleasure.
He was going to walk the right hand side and towards the sunshine.

He walked up the long road/drive, he had brought a carry bag and
started to fill it with conkers that had fallen off the horse chestnut trees,
stashing the bag to collect that on the way back having to pass
here again. Walking the un-kept path into a dark green forest of different trees the
prime once being pine and a few old oaks and birch, the whole woods were dark and
overgrown and somehow you had found Middle Earth, realising that being there was
just a fucking privilege.

Looking at the demographics of where he now stood, a
shiver ran down his spine he just stood there knowing it was a privilege to be here.
He had spent over an hour walking to his next stage of his four-stage walk.
He sat down and made himself a pipe of crystal meth and lit the pipe.
He got out his boiled eggs, buttered bread and had the first part of his food.

He drank some of the shop bought fresh orange. He shopped at
Magic and Sparkle for cat food but found he was giving some of their food a
go and liking it.

He was 17, so this is where 17-year-olds end up he thought?
He had become a little intolerant towards punks of
which he used to be one (was he fighting the hippy he always had been?)
and disliked a lot of Dance Music and got down to
Home Truths with J. Peel who is so fucking funny.

His thoughts drifted back to where he was, a voice said “morning”,
he looked up, there was a middle aged man. “Morning” he spoke,
that was the end of the conversation, what more was they to say?
He looked across down onto Morehall Reservoir from up the hill
he was sat upon and then looked over Broomhead Reservoir.

He thought back to a slogan: Everything You Know is Wrong.
He had worked this out sat at Liverpool Lime Street Station on
his way back to Sheffield. As always he had music,
he was playing some Bob Dylan on his tape deck. He began to walk at the
left hand side of Broomhead Reservoir he wanted to sit on the
Peoples chair made of two stones stacked together.
He reached the Peoples chair and sat there. This was his third stage of the walk.
He ate some more food and smoked another large pipe of meth.

Last time he was here on his own he was listening to P.A.I.N now
it was just the early morning chatter of Mother Earth and her creatures coming to life.
He just sat there and looked over Broomhead Reservoir, it was still and reflected the
colours of the trees upon the reservoir itself.

He sat there for over an hour doing nothing but sitting still and enjoying the moment.
He moved back onto the road and to stage four of his walk.

Stage four was going back into town and to download the images, having taken over 200
of them. Walking down the road that would lead him back onto the drive/road
he had come up on a few hours ago. Passing where the stashed bag lay, that
having planned to collect on the way back knowing he would have to pass here again.
Picking up the bag of conkers he walked down to the bus stop picking
more up on his way down, by the time he reached the bus stop at about
11.30am the bag was full. He put on Stalingrad (Patty we kind of missed
you on your birthday) and as the second track kicked into play, the bus arrived.

He got off the bus and Stalingrad was still playing as he got to the door of home.
He had his food and his space to think, now was the time to be himself (the public image).
He was well rehearsed to acting in this play for today. He logged on and waited for
his home directory to appear. Polite conversation, no my debts are what he was
worth, his voice spoke so cold and distant. The cat greeted him with Feed
Me coming from her mouth. He opened a tin of magic and sparkle cat food. He put
the food into her dish and placed it onto the floor, he opened his mail, another communique from Make The Middle Class History.

Play (Moby) kicked the living room to life, he made a large bong and lit.
He inhaled the smoke and then let it out. He did the same four times over.
He then just sat there very stoned. He drifted into Moby (play) his mind was smashed
in the most pleasant way. He had no clue how he was going to pay for this round of METH
as he had now lost his rent income. He did not wish to enter such
thoughts and soon forgot them.

Moby came to an end, he placed The Roots (things fall apart)
into the hungry hi-fi, the bass drifted into the room as
Act One (things fall apart) came into play. He just sat back upon the chair
and drifted into a sleep with the music being part of his dreams.
He woke at the end of the music. His neck hurt, he wanted a bath, he
lit some candles and some nag champa (incense). He put the plug into
its hole and turned on the hot tap, once the bath was half fill he turned off the tap.

Lighting the candle in the bathroom getting into the bath,
soaking for over an hour he then went to bed in the dark room
that was a light living space in the day and warm hide at night.
The cat got into her nightclothes and joined him at his side,
they were soon both sound asleep and they woke at 7am,
he got his walkman and played Leonard Cohen (songs of love and hate).
He read his collection of collectable anoraks, he had collected
all have them he was not sure if this was an urban myth
but he was told they was crap but somehow he could not get rid,
even on a morning that was as cold as a new razor blade upon naked skin.

Full Metal Jackoff

Around our nation’s capital there’s a motoway
6 lanes wide white concrete ringed around the city for those who
want inside get on get off ignore everything to the sides in your midst i
drive while homeboys in the back of the van make drugs wanna hide
something like a ccrack lab just put it in plain sight only stop to refuel
and unload more poison to tear more lives apart gang wars like never
before better lock your doors, buy some guns and prey for martial law

but if someone came for you one
night and dragged you away do you really think your neighbors would even care?

U R 3 2 D A U R T (end words)

Allright-greetings. What followd was a short
story written winter 2002 while living at Tinsley, Sheffield..
Ain’t sure where this fits in the world of writing, i.e. non-fiction or fiction?
As some events are based upon what happened to me at that time..
Others just the way my mind was thinking at the time..

Others based upon music playing at the time of writing..
All web sites are active.. It was just published at 19896.lowtech.org
and now finds it self published in its own right here..
It is re-published and worked following some fucked up years, one
being the Matilda Social Centre (2005-2006) one will never be doing meetings again,
there is a short being written named: Matilda – The Lies, The Bullshit, now shall we Make The Midlle Class History.
though the years following have been better than the dark days in Tinsley, Sheffield..
All has left my head in a mess but gained wisdom and deep understanding about shit we call life.

I came down off the ceiling in Rawmarsh towards the end of 2006, then moved to Broomhall, Sheffield where
i still live, commuting to Rotherham each day to re-write this and work on other ongoing projects. All characters are
based on real people some still living others now sadly no longer with us.. (we miss you Paul Wear) and the
breath taking crocodile tears of those who watched you cremated then got off their faces three days following
at Matilda, then they ponder the demise of this space. Read: The Lies, The Bullshit, now shall we Make The Midlle Class History
for more

Work has also started on another short story based upon day of The Triffids (part two, now ongoing) and i guess this is where
this came from.. I was working upon an outline for this long overdue project and this just flowed from my brain..
I spent six weeks of heavy skunk use, long walks and dark nights in the living room of Dundess road, Tinsley and a slate at the corner shop
(thanks basher) and this appeared..

With love and thanks to the following.. Andy a mate and brother. Heather for getting me off that ceiling, the love, the warmth
and space was just nice. J Baxter for helping me find current acommodation. Dave T for showing how you fight Babylon and how
a true anarchist should be. Hello to Dan Sumption, welcome to this world hold on tight and enjoy the ride

A fuck off to many people, and a big thank you to Deedah for his computer knowledge, To Tony G for The Cat Food