silva jaguar

there’s a psychotherapist computer named eliza or something who asks the same shitty questions you’re too uncomfortable asking yourself and the magic of this whole shit is that yeah! you answer back, it’s the century of the avatar, you fuck yourself every time she chokes on your methamphetamine crazed cock of yours, not huge, true, but more than enough to get the job done. it’s all in the head she says. so where did the pheromones stop talking, i wonder.

silva jaguar. that’s what Toby texted me, Toby’s  Jason the Second, it’s like a legacy carefully nurtured and passed along with the top-up sim card storing phone numbers of all the junkies out there – East London foreva! – and then it struck me: foreva is silva, the guy and his car, an X type – still a jaguar, silver, waiting for me on the other side of the East India station and I try to remember the last time I met Jason and whether it was on lake side or shop side.I wonder if this illiteracy is the driving force of how languages evolve. The new guy.

few minutes later I fly

my baby’s got an atom bomb twenty two megaton

yeah. it only takes a second to have it all figured out, innit?

slackline # London








we got locked in the park

at night

luckily enough, I had my instant fire with me

so we feasted with the pigeons we force fed the day before


instant fire just add water

instant fear just add weather

instant wear just add feather


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 in  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