wot i rote, innit

I got overexcited in class and wrote a poem. I'm sad like that.

Words words words
Falling from my lips
Hanging on my tongue
Dancing from my fingers
A thousand stuttering
sibilant sarcastic
free-falling utterances
Making nonsense
Signifying nothing
Describing everything
A cascade of sounds
Tripping of tongue
Across chattering teeth
And the whisper of pen on paper.

landlords

My landlord* is an arsehole and won't be contacted. Jesus fuck, if he expects people to pay the rent he demands, he ought to make it possible for his fucking tenants to contact him so we can make sure everything is ok. What if this was a fucking emergency?

Actually, it is an emergency. He's got £600 of mine that I want back. Fucker. Anyone know how best to go about contacting him other than ringing up every Singh in London?

*The old landlord, not the one as of next weekend.

I just put the deposit down on a new flat - a very nice, big, quiet place, next to a park and with a communal garden. It's a decent walk to the shops, but I'd rather walk the dog somewhere green instead. I'm crazy like that.

Well, anyway. I'm moving next weekend. Probably the saturday, although it might be the sunday. or maybe the monday. We just don't know... because my dad's incapable of making a decision. But yes, my minions - who will help me move?

In further news, me and him and Kev and Al went to the Alternative Village Fete on the southbank, and it was good. I petted a duck and G won a book in the tombola. We drank apple juice and listened to the Bollywood Brass Band. And then we went to a wine bar and chilled out. Naturally I didn't charge my camera.