am currently deprogrammed,

a human pyramid collapsed under its own idiocy in the crowd at the bloc party gig in truro on thursday, breaking my fifth metatarsalin the process, so given that my house is of the tall and narrow build, i am stationed on the bottom floor sofa for the forseeable future, sharing sleeping quarters with the dog.

Being once again cast in the role of an invalid, it takes a bit of effort to prevent diving into the welcoming embrace of despondency and inertia. Given that, its probably not best that my reading material for the last week has been Kafka, the trial.

If ever a book is likely to conform the inescapable curiosity that 'the man' has secured our fate, and that we're all destined to march placcidly to our preordained execution for a crime we're not aware of having committed, it is this one. Alongside the solemn tiding's of kafka, i brushed up on my frankly abysmal art history and read Gombrich's comprehensive, if impersonal, standard 'the story of art'. although admittedly i skipped the chapters on cave paintings in a race to the rennaissance.

sadly these two wheren't in it.

From my woebegone chamber i havent just consumed highbrow material though i've watched the frankly shit haiwaain shirted crime capers of Ocean's eleven and twelve on consecutive nights. I've also prescribed daily doses of Malcom Tucker's bile and venom in the form of the thick of it boxset, as well as making a valiant effort to immerse myself in the shady world of the baltimore drug barons and narcotics squad in the wire. Its taken about 4 episodes to now truly be able to track the narrative through the dialogue, given that a) it has brought home to me how unbelievably white i am and

b) conversation is conducted at breakneck speed, something not often encountered in cornwall where speech tempo is set at a meandering 6O bpm. Alongside this i can just about withstand the journey from the sofa to the kettle, giving rise to numerous cups of drained coffee growing amongst the detritus around where i'm sleeping. I have listened to extortionate, maybe even lethal quantities of fleetwood mac this week.

The man denied an entry through the door to the law by the doorkeeper, his hope never diminishes, his light at the end of the tunnel is not extinguished until all his reserves are used up until he has exhausted all his physical stamina, obscure as Kafka is if i persist i'm sure i'll find that lesson useful.

out of the chaos will inevitably rise order which will dissipate into further chaos, until, visible upon the horizon through my rose-tinted binoculars, i shall hobble across the finishing line into the fracture clinic and have my cast removed.

24/5

A relentless injection of

Objectivity, Into hotel lobbies, airport lounges, Chinese takeaways

The restless consumer of

Headlines sits eyes drowned in the pool.

Words chase each other along the static plasma

across a famine stricken country, through the local triviality;

past the dour grey suits trying to wriggle free from an answer,

headlines take laps of the length of this screen.

The gravitas of the anchors shown

with the weight of their apathy

Neutered in their pastel blue suit, sweating under the lights,

Boredom greets you in the guise of concern,

The water sits to the left, a reminder they’re human

You wish, you could look away, but you can’t.

In every anodyne cell the world talks to no one.

Fastened to be ignored upon a faux-substance panelled wall

The place where eyes are idly hung between shifts

They’re hooked.

and drip-fed Water-Cooler topics, To wash it down, days condensed into managable chunks, remove the bones, and homogenise it.

The five-minute hate concludes

Until that’s a wrap and

the return

of a fresh packet of intransitive angles.

They return, stapled smiles,

I have not moved

yet have travelled so far,

My own grand tour

courtesy of bbc news 24