Wednesday, June 29, 2005

Kew Gardens flowers

These photos were taken by me.
Please do not use them for commercial means
without my consent.
If you want to take a copy of them for personal
enjoyment or to use them for
your not-for-profit website please feel free,
but do credit me, and let me know at the email address
above and provide a link to this page if possible.
Matthew King.

Tuesday, June 28, 2005

Scroll (part six of nine)

One day in 1996 in Glasgow I wrote on the back of a Michelob Beer poster. I decided to fill it up from top to bottom with spontanaeous writing.

'Now as far as I can see Mister Hayes you have never worked in an office before; your only previous employment being that of a petrol pump attendant. Tell me what qualities you possess that would help you assimilate, stimulate and propagate excellent efficient team management profit coordination in this open plan, open mind, hitech modern office bio-neon environment.'
'I give good head. No sorry that was just um sorry slip of the tongue whoops sorry there I go again. Sorry I'm making a mess I'm all over the place Oh Jesus can I start from scratch?'
'Certainly Mister Hayes. Your qualities if you remember?'
'Yes qualities now. I can tease children just to the point where they don't quite cry and tell their mums.'
'Good, good ... and?'
'Er ... when I play football I spit. I'm a very good spitter. 45 degree angle good volume fast direct spit you know what I mean? ... anyway qualities, right, here I know I can beat people without leaving bruises, I tan without burning first, I love bitching backstabbing ganging up on people, kicking them when they're down; I feel that if you need underbrained yes-men with a mean streak who will follow management like the pied piper without any concern for the service provided or the conditions of the other staff, many who have had long dedicated careers before the new efficiency drive was instigated and new bosses brought in, then I am your man.'
'Excellent Mister Hayes. You don't seem to have a shred of common decency to your name. Finally, do you have any real friends who are so close that no matter what the pressure you would stand by and defend them to the end?'
'Fine, now if you'd just like to step round to my side of the desk ... that's it now kneel down and prove your quality.'

Monday, June 27, 2005

The Stag's Head

This pub was a home from home.
The landlord Bert sold up and moved back to Ireland
last year.
We all miss the place like hell.
London pubs are so shit, and the Stag's was so good.
Lock ins, great music, fires, the Thai food, the pool table.
The smoking back garden, the tables out front.
The friendly regulars, the insane St Patrick's nights.
All gone.
And now Richard Whitely's heart packed in.
Maybe Bert's has too.
I hope not, I like to think he has got a wee pub somehwere in
the country full of the all the Stag's posters, trinkets and other memorabilia which I know he
was shipping back to Ireland.
Maybe his heart will pack in whilst serving a pint,
but at least it'll be at home.
That bloody Bill Clinton poster, the making love with wild Irishmen article and all the rest.
As you drank and chatted and laughed,
you never thought the day would come when
the doors would close for the last time.
It was a death we denied, but had to eventually accept.
Now where is the music played, where do you go?
Where are yers all?
Is that it?

Jack be nimble

Scroll (part five of nine)

One day in 1996 in Glasgow I wrote on the back of a Michelob Beer poster. I decided to fill it up from top to bottom with spontanaeous writing.

Behold Isaac beloved son of some other twisted Old Testament nutcase. It is your destiny just as Noah, Moses and Abraham before you to hear the booming voice of God talking to you from the great bulbous fluffy clouds up above.

Friday, June 24, 2005

Scroll (part four of nine)

One day in 1996 in Glasgow I wrote on the back of a Michelob Beer poster. I decided to fill it up from top to bottom with spontanaeous writing.

Bah, Tiffin, and all that jolly old humbug. A spleen sandwich is too good for them I say. (Enraptured by the sights and sounds, an intrigue of nature's beauty qf Van the Man). Then this chap came over all queer don't you know, saying all sorts of odd chatter. He is manifestly quite mad. He said that he lives by the ticking of his watch and the high pitched drone of the mosquito. He said he follows the magic trails and pays respect to hidden stones and wells that only he knows of. I asked him how he knew where these things were. And he said that no map can ever be drawn to show them, you have to be there and allow yourself to be shown. Then it all went quiet. I didn't know quite what to say. So I walked close up to him and stared into his eyes. He didn't flinch. I struck a match and moved it closer and closer to his right eye. No tears were shed. Then he suddenly reached out as if to hug me, so I kneed him wham in the goolies. He bent over double. That got him I thought. Then came the shocker, he slowly straightened up. his hands clasped together as if he was holding something. Raised the up to my face and opened them up. Damned if his wedding tackle wasn't sitting in his palms. I broke out in a cold sweat; another deadly silence as his prick stared at me in a most accusatory manner. He closed his hands again, then quickly clapped and the illusion was gone. he started to laugh, and for the life of me I don't know why, I started to guffaw as well. After a couple of moments he bade me farewell and headed down the valley and into the woods. Queer fellow giving me a fright and all that, but I have heard of his sort before. Noone knows where they live. If you go looking for them there is no glimmer of a chance of finding them. Bloody darn shame that as well because it was only after I'd watched him disappear into the gloom, with a fair old spring in my spirits I admit, that I noticed that the blighter was away with my gold watch.

Wednesday, June 22, 2005

Scroll (part three of nine)

One day in 1996 in Glasgow I wrote on the back of a Michelob Beer poster. I decided to fill it up from top to bottom with spontanaeous writing.

She had what is known as 'Klieg eyes' (eye strain due to the excessive brilliancy of incandescent floodlighting lamps. qf Collins New English). She screwed her eyes up because merely shutting couldn't halt the painful glare. She put her head in her arms and folded down on her chest. At last the pain subsided. It was then that they started on her ears. But it wasn't unpleasant. Like a church organ but with all the notes playing at once. Dad would have hated this obscure Kist'o'whistles. Karen had asked for it. The Truth is Out There posters on her wall, her favourite song, Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft by the Carpenters, was never far from her tape player. she was basically a UFO nut. One of thousands if not millions around the Earth. 'This is it', she thought on the third second which had passed since she had abruptly awoken from her nights' slumber. Unfortunately others thought differently,'Acute brain haemorrage Mrs Macgregor, it's very rare in such young people, I'm so sorry but it would have happened instantly and Karen would not have felt any pain.'
A massive bear hug 'Oh its so good to see you Karen, but why did you ask for it at such a young age?' 'I missed you Dad.'

Monday, June 20, 2005

Scroll (part two of nine)

One day in 1996 in Glasgow I wrote on the back of a Michelob Beer poster. I decided to fill it up from top to bottom with spontanaeous writing.

No I said LARGE chips'n'cheese. And with that a genie the size of a pin head for all these hunners of centuries grew into the size of a man. Now he wasn't your average Ali Baba style genie. He actually looked alot more like Father Christmas. He peered down at the wee kiddie,"Aye ah know son", he said in a crap Glasgow accent,"but your parents can only afford small chips'n'cheese and you don't want to end up a fat fucker do ya?" The back of a hand swiped across Scots' face destroying the vision of Santa. (Scot named after Jason Donovan's character in Neighbours). The slap felt good. A sting quickly turning into a warm glow. Scot's now bowing his head looking ashamed and sorry. Dad's thinking 'you've gotta be cruel to be kind; I dinnae want a hooligan when he's a teenager.' Mum thinks 'Its a bit harsh but it seems to have made Scot see what's wrong with nagging and wingeing for more and more.' Wee Scot's saying in his glowing rattled skull,'Sorry Santa.'

Saturday, June 18, 2005

Scroll (part one of nine)

One day in 1996 in Glasgow I wrote on the back of a Michelob Beer poster. I decided to fill it up from top to bottom with spontanaeous writing. Here I present the first part of that experiment. Parts two to nine will follow shortly.


The tenth disciple said unto his parched flock in the city of Ayrab,'visit me only when your cause is just; repent before me like lying Judas beneath the altar of Behemoth and I may just find in my foul pink heart the slight sensation of tolerance and charity. If this occurs I will lay you before me like the singing swinging baboon that you are, and tattoo our lord's cross on your Butt ox for our great father to gaze upon with the righteous delight of an omnipotent being, supreme in his hovel called heaven.'

Is it coz I is a cunt?

I love to say “duh” or “huh” or “woah” or “easy”
or “heh” or “meh”.
Is it coz I is a cunt?
Damned straight it is.

Wednesday, June 15, 2005

She Unclasped Her Fist

She unclasped her fist. A pea size time capsule. Swallowed - think time zero. Now an unshakeable tension. 'I'm rising Daddio'. Pin prick pupils to a full planet saucer engulfing black hole. 'Oh Daddio I'm coming home'.


Read the rest of this superb future/past
micro scene post fi sci storey at the
hippest new fictional blog space

Setting Fire To Photographs


Monday, June 13, 2005

Deez Nuts

Cock and Ball,
Ball and Cock

My nuts are your nuts,
Your nuts are my nuts.

The spotty waiflike Victorian echo child
joins me on the station bench.
A dead South Hampstead, last stop before Euston.

He is a bored 17 year old of Irish descent
from another part of north west London.
He was going to Euston station and back
to relieve his sheer boredom.

We chat. The sun shines. I explain that I live on my own,
no girlfriend at present. The last one I had to leave because of
communication difficulties.
Plus she liked to play Enya tapes every night before we dropped off to sleep.

So this street urchin proceeds to tell me of his Psychology classes.
How his favourite lesson was when a gay man came into class who looked like a
tough muscle-bound body builder. The class were surprised when he told them of his sexuality.
The chimney sweep boy then told me how they learnt of phases we go through in psychological development: when boys of 17 can have homosexual feelings and be interested in men of my age.

I carried on chatting to this quietly spoken stray,
not able to make up my mind, whether
it was a quick dick sucking he was after on a lonely Saturday morn, or whether
we were just chewing the fat. The fact was this kid was bored and lonely. He seemed poor and deprived. He had a good head on his shoulders. Its likely people didn’t listen much to what he had to say. Plus he probably fancied the pants off me…..

As we were on the train, I got a missed call message on my phone.
It was from the Enya playing ex.
She must have picked up on our sensitive little tete a tete.

Sunday, June 12, 2005

don't be good

"ya, great seeing you, be good"

"Bye thanks"
"mmm, be good"

This "be good" phenomena is catching on round these parts of
the Western Hampstead north London young moneyed set.

Luckily no one I know has yet said it to me,
but I am waiting for it to spread to the overall subconscious
set of shite things people start to say without realizing it.

I mean I dealt, with "good, good" the other year without too much
distress. It was a fairly innocuous tic of a phrase.

I succumbed myself to the classic cliched goodbye of "all the best"
for quite a while.

But "be good" is just so goddamned nauseating isn't it?
To me "be good" is about money, its about going for three skiing holidays a year, taking some winter sun, some summer sun.
Poncing around in expensive shades.
Raising your voice outside a
horrendous bar full of like minded "be good"ers.
Yes the ubiquitous use of "be good" lets everyone listening in
know that these bastards are relaxed and friendly and think the best about their immorally financially enhanced fellows.
The point is that these fuckers, who will buy
the latest 60 gig I - Pod and then only be able to fill
a paltry 2 gig of it with witless Keane albums,
shouldn't be in charge of so much ready cash.
They don't know what to do with it.
They'll spend it on all the great financial institutions and
corporations that gave it to them in the first place.
It's all so unimaginative.
They're not setting up new foundations based on interesting ideas.
Outdoor pursuit centres for city kids, ecological skate parks.
No they'll drink in an overpriced bar, buy overpriced clothes and escape the dreadful city on endless fuel burning city breaks
and jollies wherever the next jet will fly them.
This cycle of money doesn't involve or unify or
create imaginative new ways of life or help in
joining communities. Creating a sense of solidarity.
No, it'll never happen while you remain in your private car,
in your jubilee line crush.
In your 02 centre fishtank, you avoid the real.
Is that what you mean when you tell your pals to "be good".
Be good, don't think, don't imagine, don't explore, don't talk to anyone in a tracksuit.


Next time I will examine why every
over-subserviant foreign lackey working in a local corner shop, kebab shop or barbers shop
feels the need to refer to any man that walks into the place as "Boss". This phenomena, I suggest, is part of the new London Apartheid system we've all been collectively forging in this hoax of a city.

Sunday, June 05, 2005

good god I'm off

back to mallorca I go for a few days,
see you all later my lovely readers......

I am a wanderin and waiting
my backs a gainst the wall
its a book that can't be opened
as their isn't any key
only you can set me free.
you never wanted me babe
and that's plain to see

thru yellow walls that shine like silver

Wednesday, June 01, 2005

books I've read this year (part one)

Weathercock by Glen Duncan

I picked this one up from the Library.
Seriously good disturbing paranormal, sexually morbid
British realism. For those that like desperately upsetting crashes from happiness to hell.

Empress Orchid by Anchee Min

Berlioz the poet recommended this to me.
The first half was good, but there is then a post coital comedown
I couldn't get past.

Texts of Taoism: v. 1 edited by James Legge
It has that I ching feel. Read it to understand yourself
through abstract parables about god knows what. Those chinese are
a weird bunch.

Authenticity by David Boyle
This started off promising, but it drifted into a justification
for caring capitalism. Snore.

Journey to Ixtlan by Carlos Castaneda
This is a nice book. Very escapist. I found it in the street, thrown out in a box of old books. A good find. Much better than his "wow I took loads of peyote" books.

The R Crumb Handbook by Robert Crumb and Pete Poplaski
Picked this one up from the library. Great stuff.
I haven't bothered with the biographiocal sections.
It's all about the comics.