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


this is what refugee Bog just whispered in my head: never build a home where your hideout lies


refugee punk

it’s only at night that I start riding from the inside. eyes closed, hands off handlebars, sliding, everflowingstreamofconsciousness and notsoconsciousnessafterall, midnight demons lurking in the shadows of the underground, they’re my demons, I’ve fought them a while ago on some other battlefield. blood lust. smell of fresh meat. taste of dead meat. disgust.

the city lies silent the city lies afar, I’m not even there – nothing is any more as it is but as it could be if I really really tried, if I really really gave a fuck but no, I can’t be bothered, I descend as night urges us all to descend deep beneath our pretty selves into the sewers of our shitty selves. that’s where dreams come from. slam! says the door. sorry! says refugee Bog. ka-boom! goes it all.

refugee punk



there’s also stuff I remember. showering. pressing the snooze button. pressing the snooze button again. walking. riding. muscle memory helps a lot when you’re in trouble. for me, it’s near misses all the time. twice a day roommate Vic brings about his peripheral vision. eyes out of focus, he can feel when he’s being watched and when he strikes back, the eye contact hits both him and the target, that sudden stare into the void of the other freezing one’s blood flow for an instant. glimpse of eternity.

it’s not spatial though, I see it more as a time shift, a quick leap forwards and back to the present. it takes practice, of course, and you just can’t reap immediate benefits of it straight away, not that it’s worth it anyway, immediate benefits are after all just a waste of time

die another day. time rentals kensington. glimpse of eternity. peace pagoda. thames flow. anywhere-fried-chicken. when in london, always look up.


passwords I can’t remember. two coffees please! pin incorrect try again. hmmm. refugee Bog stares through me at some decent looking 40 year olds having their lunch break in a fucking petrol station right next to oblivion.  pin incorrect try again! the machine is definitely broken or something, must be this prehistoric land I’m visiting every now and then, I look in the waitress’s eyes she looks back with a smirk on her face: it’s you, pretty boy, it’s all in your head! pfff! she does the pffff straight in my face. eyes glimmering. all eyes glimmering. not that she had more eyes, I mean all our eyes, 6 of them, refugee Bog’s blurred see through ones, her mocking ones and mine. mine were covered by shades. third attempt was a success. coffees were alright.



it’s e13

yeah. it’s e13 scumbag, not e14.

a slow process of re-adjusting to reality. some reality. or another. how many different realities can you escape from? mouse in the house. refugee Bog was blind, his eyes were burnt by the sun in the failed attempt of becoming a photographer overnight. he now can see. sailing the scooter to work on a, well, horrible day to start the week with, refugee Bog is dreaming of Confucius is dreaming of a dreaming. circular. flow. go. loop. beyond. deconstruction stage done with, go find some balance. start with proper balance. slack-line. warehouse parkour. motion. go find balance in motion. like a fucking airplane , not a single flap of the wings to keep it going.

weather is shit but fuck, you do enjoy the sun when you get it.

refugee punk