Whimsical Musings of a Loon

The light is bright, the essence is full of promise, if but a slightly seedy one. On the busy train into Cardiff, two white-haired old ladies sit on the battered seats, their Dot Cotton house coats visible underneath their rain-macs. Tightly pursed lips, arms folded cross their robust darlek-shaped bodies, clutching their handbags as if their lives depended on it. There is a slight smell of odor de cooking-oil. "No discipline" utters one critically to the other, whilst staring directly ahead with a glare of a Terminator. "Dave says he needs to go back to the doctors for his pills". Replies the other, frowning. "They don't listen." "That'll be another bus trip." "We were brought up to listen." "John Lewis is nice." The mouths fasten shut and the two masses of old cotton-wooled hair bob up and down in complete un-agreement with each other. The train chugs along, a DJ tracked monotonous soundtrack. The light is yellow and...

A shiny chassis, you cannot tell, That all beneath is sick, unwell. Futile false that dares to flatter, It looks fine so does not matter. When too late, pretend they knew, That robots have feelings too.

Last week new photographs of the 9/11 attacks in New York were published for the first time. September 11th 2001 is a date forever etched in our minds, an infamous day where the world seemed to freeze in terror as sinister events unfolded; and yet there was a sense the world we lived in was poised to change, and not for the good. Historic events in contemporary times are often defined by the way they are recorded, the solitary photograph or short video clip has become the symbol of what occurred. The impact of 9/11 seemed so real and great, possibly because of the blanket media coverage that brought it all into our lives so vividly, swamping us. Never before had such an event been captured on so many live TV streams, photographed by so many people with access to cameras, commented on via the internet and mobile phones. A technological new century meant a technological new experience of world events. It meant a bombarding of footage, of images and the most chilling aspect of all - mobi...

Deviate outwards, of the sphere, Part inevitable, causes fear. Amble past, rows of glassy Rectangled puzzles, in their chassis. Time itself she cannot postpone, She knows that once, she'd have known. A forlorn object on the shop flaw: The old woman, in the TV store. Phosphorescent and shiny, they overwhelm, Her clockwork dark, in a cybernated realm.

Twenty four years ago this month, I was sat in the back living room of my childhood home watching the TV. It was early tea-time, just having got back from school. I was filling my ruddy pouches with ribena and crumpets. This scene wasn't a rarity, given how many hours I used to spend with my eyes attached to the screen by visual telebox adhesive, watching Australian soap operas, learning and mimicking the accents to annoy my siblings with. But what was about to happen in front of my eyes was one of my earliest and most vivid childhood memories, and one that has haunted me ever since. There came a sudden change in tone by the presenter, and the BBC kids' show Newsround - one of the main staples of my early televisual diet - appeared with breaking news. I can still hear the tinny, 1980s retro dot-dash-theme tune that sounded like it was created on a fisherprice keyboard accompanied with bongo drums. The Space Shuttle appeared on the screen. It was a familiar sight of sorts. For ...

Yuletide gaping void of lack, Causes recollecting back. Imagination, rampage wild, Transformed into, wretched child. Tis season jolly, bright and gay, But rotten, forgery, and cliche. Seeking Ghosts, threads entwined, Hidden in corners, of the mind. Intense stillness hangs around, Suspending body, quiet sound, Stinging cold, yet inside warm, Want tomorrow, yet feeling torn, For arrival fast, is such a boon, Yet means all is dead, far too soon. Bombarded with, seasonal finesse, Overwhelm draining, to excess. Suffocating spend, gorging glee, Leaves me polar, numb, empty. Cheer tarnished, excitement dent, Expectation greater, than event. Sudden dawning, sharp like knife, Innocence lost: lachrymose life. Despite all efforts, to re-create. Gasping for air, reluctant, too late, Like a drowning soul, struggling for breath, We cling to memories & fade to death.

On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent to me A cartridge in a sharpie. On the second day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Two Hounds of Loves, And a cartridge in a sharpie. On the third day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Three sharpie pens, Two Hounds of Loves, And a cartridge in a sharpie. On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Four Thora Hirds, Three sharpie pens, Two Hounds of Loves, And a cartridge in a sharpie. On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Five DOODLE-INGS! Four Thora Hirds, Three Sharpie pens, Two Hounds of Loves, And a cartridge in a sharpie. On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Six words a-playing, Five DOODLE-INGS! Four Thora Hirds, Three Sharpie pens, Two Hounds of Loves, And a cartridge in a sharpie. On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Seven Wainwrights singing, Six words a-playing, Five DOODLE-INGS! Four Thora Hirds, Three Sharpie pens, Two Hounds of Loves, And a cartridg...