yeah. I guess it’s about not wasting time. that’s either saving time in hope of increasing interest rates on deposits and bonds and shit or just using it to its full extent erratically, A-9 suited style, shades on, broken teeth squeezing barely burning straight cuts, yeah, straight cuts, it’s more than one, it’s two ’cause that’s how wild it can get

I guess it’s about not wasting time. and food. I haven’t eaten in 48 hours. had some beers, some shit sauv blanc yeah? blame it on me and some sailor jerry with shit coke. fruits. some fruits. nectarines and seedless grapes. roommate Vic keeps away from seedless fruits. I guess I’ll have to either earn more to afford better fruits or grow them myself. I guess it’s about not wasting time.


getting there

in spite of all the disruptions, severe delays, special offers, advanced settings, foot fetish wet dreams, open end worlds, misheard lyrics, misspelled names, mistaken selves, ranges, fixed limits, well-established checkpoints, insufficient credit on your fucking Oyster

of course all bitterness comes from what’s left when all the sweetness has gone sour. you need the sugar to keep it sweet, yeah? on addiction and its subsequent human tragedies. somehow, as I grow older and I am growing older every day, somehow it all makes sense once it’s unfolded, deconstructed to, well, those building blocks that can still be translated in speech, but when it comes to rebuilding the shit back again it’s bucket of Lego time boys and girls, mostly boys, I know nothing about girls except that some of them are pretty.

what’s left of the sun when all the clouds have scattered

what’s left of us when what the hell is going on


shitless. weather in london.vroooooom. is it electric? vroooom. everything’s electric, bro, I’m electric, my deepest secrets are shrouded in megawatts, UV neon light megawatts flickering next to the electric funeral of some far away star I won’t be able to point at in a hundred thousand years. vrooooom. the serpent kundalini unfolds its wings but it is heading the wrong way, towards the pinky toes. vroooom. dig that hole inĀ  the ground. electric signposts THIS IS THE HOLE COME AND SEE THE ONE WHO’S HIDING!!! now that I think of it, the peak of my self-confidence has been reached days after that spectacular threesome. me and the seagulls. edison and a couple of teslas. my ups, my downs and my in-betweens. vrooom!



loved her so much until I broke her to pieces

front wheel ball bearing crashed today as I was coming home

well, home. i rest my bones in a single bed black cotton sheets no pillow, yeah, sleeping bag for duvet, what the fuck is duvet anyway sounds like dover fucked calais’ throat whilst roaring scottish rebellious anthems


i took the wheel apart and the mini steel balls fell all over the floor. too much love has killed you, red pony. bleeding mini steel balls all over the british green carpet. terminator 2000. tomorrow, baby, you’ll recompose yourself from what we both were able to scrape overnight

and we’ll ride once more triumphantly into the sunset, samurai jack style, white skin burns red under candle tears

tomorrow begat tomorrow

all apologies

the gates are open, all I must do now is find them

London kicks you up and down, you’re a pinball, boing boing boing one more time around might win the jackpot, headache-migraine-what the fuck are you talking about? under the weather? you want me to scream and shout? walk footpaths together? run out of breath? love you to death?

whoop-whoop door bells ringtones sirens wailing planes taking off it’s half hour till work and half hour from work and eight and a half hours of work and half hour to get ready for work and six hours to rest for work and two hours to get ready to rest for work and two hours of talking about work and some more hours of worrying about work and few days to try to forget about work

Get a scooter! Mine is an Oxelo Town 9 from Decathlon, hand brake, front wheel suspension, black and white (mostly white), i call her the red pony not because she’s red but because I’d like her to be red, yeah? might as well paint her someday. paint her red! rode it for 5 months now. must have been riding some 500 miles already. I use it primarily for exploring the city and commuting. tricks and acrobatics only when necessary (crowds, hot chicks, stiff upper lip canary wharf preachers of the yes! 5 o’clock apocalypse etc) or when in a really playful mood.

Get a scooter! Get some music! Get some shades! Let’s get rolling!

more tips and tricks coming soon


Yep. When in London always look up and smell your way around. That’s what I mean. You may rely on your other senses but you’ll fuck it up eventually and then you’ll smell the sweet fragrance of I told you so rushing from my armpits straight up your bleeding nostrils.

This is how I fell with my red-pony scooter: it was raining and I took a glimpse of the bicycle girl next to me just to see if she’s pretty or not, I thought she was so I tried to do some nice smooth speed-cruising on the kerb but then the kerb ended abruptly so yeah, my red pony threw me down face flat on the pavement. Minor injuries, couldn’t chew properly for two days, still can’t cough due to punctured ribs but, hell, what I’m trying to say is no matter how much you ride or how skilled you think you are, you’ll end up face flat on the pavement. Minor injuries included.

cause the thing is, well, yeah, sure, it’s all fine as long as you’re focused on whatever the fuck you’re doing

keep focused





Brussels Wharf

London. when it can’t get any better it just gets worse. I’m talking about riding the scooter and the quality of the rolling surface,of course. London. wanna see the sights? get ready for a bumpy fucking ride. and then, when you think it can’t get any worse…

well it does, but just for a brief while, only to rise up again so high that you can actually feel God’s shaved balls on top of your balding asymmetrical head. London.

now that refugee Bog’s adjusted his adrenaline levels to a new high, converting sickness into bullshit and back to sickness again plus ( and this is highly relevant for the overall picture if there is any of course or any imaginary one which could fit all these puzzle pieces somehow, not necessarily together, because they’re only a few puzzle pieces, by picture I mean a comprehensive frame, a reality/alternality kind of matrix – this is highly relevant then) plus, I was saying, a breath of crisp morning summer breeze, somewhere in between soho fried chicken and billingsgate fish market, a breath of fresh meat in the air which only he can suck in with all his once forgotten thirst,

now that refugee Bog is back from Canada Water riding his pony-scooter in the sunset, until the end of time or well, until the frame breaks apart or fuck knows what else,

Ride my Scooter! a Self-Help Book for Drifters