The glans hits the fan

Oh, Charlie Brooker.  How I love to read you every Monday morning with my cup of tea. 

A million things to do today. 

Dry hair
Do washing up.
Make shopping list.
Go to bellydance.
Meet Kate for coffee.
Do shopping.
Cook.
Attempt to watch "The Godfather" like I've been promising for the last three months.
Write a poem about "The Night", which went off last night on a prolonged Castanedian musing on the magic of small lizards and dreams.
Maybe email all those people who I should have emailed, particularly Tim and Lil in York, who sent me an email about 5 months ago, to which I still haven't replied.  Sorry everyone.  I royally suck.

Maybe if I didn't mess about on the internet so much I'd get some of this stuff done...

Twonnet 1

So, these past two weeks I've been twittering.  In iambic pentameter.  I made a sonnet.  Here it is:

Popcorn slips sequins between my teeth
Budweiser fizzes an ocean rustle.
Will insomnia let me slip beneath
The tide of sleep, and no longer bustle
About, and throw from corners of my head
Images and half-thought shadows that in
Early morning hours fade out to red,
Sun-sick swollen eyelids, force-fed with sin.
4.30am the crows were screaming
Fighting for plums in the nectar-sagged trees.
Sleepless hunger makes toast for the eating,
The rain calls refreshment and sleep for me.
Just got caught in a downpour on my
bike,whilst exercising my old SLR.


Yesterday it seems I was convinced that "SLR" and "my" rhyme.

Anyway, it's all good practice.  Right.  Time to dry my hair.