I Am In Detention Today Because

I was hungover in homeroom. I puked all over that anorexic girl's wooly mammoth jumper and had to drag myself to the bathroom. I had a smoke afterward, dropped the butt in the cistern and had some sleepy, sloppy thoughts about Molly Ringwald. My pining echoed in the weird, outdoorsy acoustics of the bathroom and the hollow reverberations of the fittings and the silver taps and the smooth curve of the sink sounded like her voice. I had to leave Physics too when I got aroused by a Venn diagram that reminded me of Molly's breasts and how she applies lipstick with them in The Breakfast Club when she's stoned. I wish I could smoke a number and watch Tron. Someone blew my candles out. I'm stuck. There must be some mistake, an error... I don't think I'm meant to be in here.

1. The Smiths- Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want [File Removed]

2. Kate Bush- This Woman's Work

3. Ciccone Youth- Into The Groove(y)

4. Wendy Carlos- Theme From Tron

Photo taken from 'The Breakfast Club' (John Hughes) 1986. No copyright infringement intended.

So Blind You Can See Right Through Me

I stood there, naked. They didn't even notice. A tricklet of piss crept down my leg and rested on my ankle. My self-adulation swelled and popped. She stood there, a moonlight silhouette laughing. I could hear my hair grow as the thoughts in my head stumbled and tripped. She still stood there, a moonlight silhouette laughing. She was a beautiful mess. The muscles in my legs and arms cramped then relaxed, then cramped again sending me into fits of jolts and convulsions. Trees danced the polka in the distance as the moon held hands with the clouds as they raped the sky. She caught ablaze and it ended me. Filled with absinthian disdain. She was gone and it was final.

Lucky Dragons - Open Melody

The Urxed - Gardening After Dark

Goodnight, Missing Postman

'I ask that all in our room fall, supplicant to our lost king, our missing postman. Can you transform your skulls, slipping off colourful masks, hiding sloppy and rotting forms of luxury and small hours of youth and yawning months of failing, slumping, growing old and adopt contortions of mourning? Calmly and slowly: cry, sob and wail (and synonyms).

All post is now lost in a labyrinth or burning in thick woods. I ask that you do not try to talk right away but shush. Ruins of car by hospital. I ask for no flash photography. No attacks, bangs, blasts. No man to climb our buildings and jump. You fall. You hit a roof. It hurts.

Goodnight, missing postman, sir. A man of poor construction.

A lot of rain turning first to fog... soon much snow.

Out, out, transmission out.'

1. PiL- Radio 4

2. William Basinski- Variation IV

3. Mogwai- Punk Rock

Dance Till You Are Dead

Heads will roll. My eyes crystallized, I was seeing through a kaleidoscope. The speakers bounced and reverberated. The light bleached my skin and it peeled off. My bones broke and shattered. I wasn't numb, I felt everything. I watched him cry like a baby. I took off my shoes, my toes curled back onto themselves and my nails grew and snapped, the jagged edges jutting at my insteps. It all started when I lost my mother. My teeth shattered and my gums bled, it hurt when I spoke, so I shouted. This mutilation turned me into a masterpiece, an Adonis of the grotesque. Don't fight the power. Let it wash over you like acid and burn away your non-conformity. Let it ram its penis down your throat and choke you till you like it. Fuck you, I hate you all.

Arch M - 21st Union

Animal Collective - Daily Routine (Phaseone remix)

Re-word, Sentence, Page 54

‘But any need in a street, the warrens through which the very aim chances, resulted in lengthy sensuous confusions.’ More are saying that of the year but Victorian cathedrals that once transcended on any doubt or shadow, of a simple builder’s paraphrase of a god, arose, long ago, bent in smoke and fright. The improvisation of moments in time could not own any cruel direction, but it’s not actual, so it’s out, not in, of network. What belts, not from leather, were, long ago, about in forests? What be of intentions for whatever. Now of the flies, flowing back toward industrial excrement and to windowless, gothic states, drive existence from god’s zenith, fashioning some to-be suitable, apical locus and approaching rats climb the brick, shrugging, but in a derangement, as they escape mercy of –

David Bowie - I'm Afraid Of Americans

Michael Jackson - Billie Jean (Home Demo 1981)

Salem - Skullcrush

Crash And Burn

Don't go out. It'd be better to stay at home. Pretend to be asleep. Summer Hibernation. The Heat does you no good. Sun is not good for the soul. Sitting on you're own muttering under your breath to a bubblegum synthesizers. Take me back to prison, put me back into my cell. I don't like the freedom, i can't take it. Self-loathing is such an unattractive quality yet it remains a unavoidable one. Melt into a ductile metal like liquid ice cream floating around the bowl when you leave it out. The sun crawls back into its lunar hovel and strange prickly heat pinches at your skin. You pull on some crisp new clothes which soon dampen and heavy from your sweat. It's close. You find yourself sitting under Christmas tree lights crunching your third lolly-pop while drugged pensioners stumble around demanding house music, there wrinkled necks raised towards the sky, "We Own The Night". They jeer and squawk at you as you try to explain that there's no vodka in your lemonade. The situation holds no lucidity as you curl up and die. You crash through the night back into the day a charred frame of your former self. No phoenix rises from this fire. Your eyes melt back into your forehead. At least now your feeling something as you pick at your wounds. Look in the mirror and you see someone else. He hates his life. He is you, and you are dead.

Pandora's Box - It's All Coming Back To Me Now
Bow Wow Wow - I Want Candy
ABBA - Dancing Queen
Edwyn Collins - A Girl Like You
Bruce Springsteen & The E Street Band - Born To Run

Omelette and Tennis and Chores...

Small men in suits have stolen your time and driven you far from comfort in a haze of old indie, the worst kind of hip-hop and drum and bass. They lead you round farm towns with gab and diesel charm. The sun is closer to the earth than ever but you still can't see it. Of course there's no benefit or winner and only the office god can see why these 'beings of an alternate breed' don't go home at the end of the day, cheap hair wax dripping down their faces and sweat patches bigger than their egos, and hang themselves with the nearest snakeskin belt or pair of braces. Moisture seeps through your skin under your cheap trousers and borrowed tie and you still can't even glimpse the culprit. There's no way. Return to square one. Ultimate year long procrastination.

Animal Collective - Chores
Beastie Boys - Shadrach
Abecedarians - Benway's Carnival