hownowbrownmisawa asked: Copseynatorrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr This is mattfox saying hi :)

Mattfoxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx how are things?

guardiansoftheuniverse asked: correct :) how are you? what are you doing in your life now-a-days?

I’m really well thank you. I’m studying French and Chinese at the university of Kent, I have a fabulous boyfriend who I’m going to marry one day and I’ve been travelling to India and China. So a lot ;) I’m also thinking of making a new blog; movie characters in classical paintings. http://imgur.com/5jY7l I made this last week. 

How are you? What’s new in your life? Are you at uni? :P

x 

We were infinite,

You, I and Johnny,

When we watched the world roll by,

Sitting in a peeling pick-up truck,

Which smelt of our damp hair, wet dog and good memories,

Almost cave-like was the atmosphere,

As we sped towards nowhere,

We were in a bubble of silence,

You, I and Johnny,

Easy to burst was our own little world,

The song to make up for a non-existent conversation,

Consisted of the rainstorm and spraying puddles,

Every drop splatters against the drowning windscreen,

Two wipers squeaked in endless irritancy,

Like a couple being awoken in the dead of night by a small child,

We were awed by the view,

You, I and Johnny,

Neon cornfields rolled below a dank dirty sky,

Greyer than our ashy cigarettes,

Who’s ghostly fumes warmed our pale faces and sodden moods,

Our home town gleamed in the distance,

Like a jewel submerged in the murky sea,

I couldn’t believe my eyes,

We were bored of silence,

You, I and Johnny,

So I broke it,

Burst our bubble,

“Let’s turn the radio on,” I croaked,

Oh how unoriginal yet so predictable,

It was as if no one had spoken in a century,

Yet I felt I had interrupted the deepest of conversations,

So we listened to the song,

You, I and Johnny,

Absorbing every syllable, word and letter,

Like never before,

We watched our hometown shrink to the speck of a star,

Our childhood was behind us in the city,

Where memories were tied to certain trees and lamp posts,

Like the dogs which were waiting for their masters,

Golden moments,

Almost as golden as the streetlights who guided us,

And the headlights of other vehicles,

Making their way across the vast stretch of road,

Where are they going?

Who are they?

We couldn’t help but wonder,

While the number plate in front was etched into our minds by the error of boredom,

The song seemed to fit with the moment perfectly,

“Remember the park?”

Said Johnny to you and I,

All three of us slipped into the same memory,

Of autumn leaves against a glum grey sky,

The same grey as the day we felt infinite,

We related to the leaves,

Transcending from juvenile summer to mature autumn,

We had fallen from innocence,

To the hard ground of reality and adulthood,

And to mark it we were leaving home,

To grow up with the rest of the world,

We were infinite that day,

You, I and Johnny,

Freedom lay before us,

Inevitable,

Conversations rolled in and out,

Like the tide on a beach,

Laughter erupted with fizzy beer cans,

And we sighed.

October did moodle down in depressing orange Hallow-dick

A bit of Stephen Fry and Laurie read my mother’s short January 22^nd of Novemberber

Is this some Kent thing? Oh how the feminists

Rawwwr and fist their proletarians against the moon. The full moon. The main moon. Against pubic shavings.

Purple muggle-fuckery.

As F-F-F-F-F-F-Frankie stuttered down the motorway, his kidneys began to disintegrate.

Medway never materialised and a Baldman arrived,

thus, Thee Philosophers ov Zimbabwe were exiled. Sausage rolls were advertised,

 and luminous jackets asked of postcodes. 

So, lo(l), did the intrepid adventurers arrive in the Temple of the Costa Café,
and More Murderers came with eyes aflame,
and prune juice in their drawers; stern looks galore
and what is more
one burnt her tongue on chocolate L

Wandering aimlessly in the Murderers’ Den

She flushed her way towards the magazines.

Calling out from the cover ov Nuts,

Keith Lemon implored her to purchase the Radio Times;

Thee telepathy ov Thee Lad Mag + C4 Syndicate

Drove her to insanity, and she left with the magazine in her hands.

Thus has been our life in the bush of ghosts – observing these wanderers

And projecting onto them notions of majesty beyond their wildest dreams.

The Pinkie and the Green flabbed their way out ov thee Den,

To EJ53 KFA. Such a life is not for them.

This is what a fun afternoon in Canterbury looks like,

You underwater tart blossom.

Where did the nanagedon come from? Pink and green and Turkish delight.

Garbage day.

I throttled the buttercup boy.

Live traffic, I can select photos from my phone. I never knew that.

Who would drink milk in here?

The grey and the rose.

Tk tk tk

Frankie chundered carbon tears.

And the cavalry came.

The trees screamed.

Time. For. Prose.

23.18pm. £3.39. £4.99 for exciting horrors: horrors beyond the imagination. They are here? Now? Early? OH MY GHNOOOOOOOOOD. No. Not them. Just more orange flares. Tracksuit bottoms, hoodies, juvenile trainers. These ‘ppl’ are the only company for the workers at this station. Two CDs of Jeremy Clarkson. Feminist Kryptonite.  Why are these green lines immolating these sentences? My grammar knows no flaws! The floor in this room. The SIR is lying to me of wet floors. This floor is drier than a walnut. Love’s secret domain is unavailable in this shop. “At least we’re not in Gillingham.” 

So we stumbled home in the milky October fog. And he told me to be quiet. And I did. The landing lights glowed through and down, like a sleeping God. Carpet and wood faded in navy. Squeaked. And I fell on his bed. And he fell in his bong water. Klimpt had fallen too. 

He offered me pizza. I offered him coy knowledge and smiles. We lay on his bed, his mouth full of promises. My eyes closed and peachy in slumbering joy. Every word was like a car driving past trees through a blue June day. Fireworks. Sundancing beneath the frozen foggy stars. “You have a beautiful mind,” he said. Joni Mitchell warbled about Christmas and taxi lies. The room was filled with cushiony darkness. My neck cradled by the cool pillow, every celestial shiver devoured, soon to be regurgitated by morning. He opened me like an orange. An owl called, lost.

I, person,

gazing into your celestial skies;

Azure. Blinking silver,

a million million wishes away.

Chances slimmer than an atom’s breath.

Emma Andrews,

Sat on the rim of her cloisonné settee,

And knitted green yarns around number 4’s broken windows

And number 20’s balding, coffee-stained affair with the cleaner,

(A delicious hard diamond of the Spring Road Estate)

Whilst she cooed over the potentials of dinner;

A fist-fight between Chicken and Shephard’s Pie -

Nigella and James playing in the back of her mind,

Who could never eat eye-to-eye. Whose turn

was it to win the familly-old debate?

Not the cat, who shimmied his way through

The grassy-downs of hither and yonder,

Thither and farther. Whiskers sprung like daisies

Through his feline demeanour as he took his

7 O’Clock evening prowl through the neighbour’s secrets.

(Ever so calm in Mrs Johnson’s rose bushes,

Whose prize-winning buds glistened like dewy pearls for all the birds to see).

Oh the love that comes hard over you and I,

The love that shrieks through midnight paper walls,

Grabbed us at 15 in silken dreams of streetlight fancy,

Whisked us away under the romantic June willow

Whose tears did ache for all the young lovers to sing

And throb in the musky cricket shed. What would they say

Under cakey breaths and hearded sermons? Byron smiles 

In whispered moony spleandor.

Valerie Dodson dripped like a tap as she waited,

Greying at the mouth and brain, for Emma.

Her army of knick-knacks ordered, perfected

Shine and prestige since 1952. That was when she

And Francis tied a knotted star round their dove hearts.

The oyster to her pearl. Now he is just a shell, washed up

On the shores of some care home in Suffolk. The briny dog

Can no longer howl. His gull perched between harbouring

Stones of malice and disillusionment.

When shall Emma come for me?

The linoleum heiress of red brick semi-fuckings,

Her tupperwear-heart clicking to the rhythm of

Needle-minded benevolence and a hundred thousand

Other useless monotonies. In the name of

The suburban bitch, the thankless daughter and the placated wife,

Amen.

I loved you between the peep show of elbows and champagne glasses,

as words wandered the crevices of the moment.