Ding Dong, dead witch pie « The Paperclip Script

Hi There,

My name is Mortesent McMillian-Groy and I am totally and uttery fictitious. I don’t exist. In fact I don’t know why I am starting this entry this way but I am.

End of the week, and nearer to the 27th September. I am going to buy the train tickets today or Monday, hoping that it won’t be too pricey.

My breathing is short today, not a good sign.

I’m a Twit, how about you?

does someone have a fridge/freezer they're willing to sell? 4 hours ago

@polly_em I was awake strangely enough. But I was up last night at 3am until about 5am as I had insomnia. Hoping for a calmer night tonight 5 hours ago

Mensa: http://wp.me/p4nAO-8T 6 hours ago

The absurdity of it all... An elegy to 21st Century insomnia.: http://wp.me/p5zzd-6g 17 hours ago

The absurdity of it all... An elegy to 21st Century insomnia. http://post.ly/ChaD 17 hours ago

#haiku: Insomnia has killed, My small flock of counting sheep, I can't count pork pies. #fb 19 hours ago

#haiku: I like you sometimes, I would like you even more, If you said hello. 22 hours ago

#haiku. I want to draw you, naked apart from your socks, will pay you five pounds. 22 hours ago

Twitter #haiku. Let us talk about, The future we must carve out, Silence will kill it. #fb 23 hours ago

A twitter #haiku. I am peaceful like, mountain goats sleeping, dreaming, of green shoots and rain. 23 hours ago

Cheesegreen – My poetry ‘Plog’

Mensa 16/11/2009

Chris

Owe 08/11/2009

I’m going to Make you an offer. You’re going to like It. Life isn’t very good At this sort of thing. So I’ll sell you my Soul. Posted by Wordmobi

Chris

Cyclone 04/11/2009

I walk a cyclone on a nylon lead They can be cared for really easily, Remember they will always need to feed In wind and rain and other weather fronts, Engulfing all that stands up in it’s way Trains and cars, People and wildlife too. The upkeep can be quite prohibitive If you have nowhere else to really live, The cyclone never sleeps, [...]

Chris

Rolling 31/10/2009

Roll your tongue over the slow earth, the live earth told in slow dreams. Letter over letter, lets roll over.

Chris

Pasta Sauce 31/10/2009

Hooray for pasta sauce, Only the stuff in a jar of course, The other stuff is poncy and grim And yes it’ll help you keep all slim, It’s not the same as the stuff in a jar This wonderful Italian ambrosiarr. Made in Norwich and bottled in Gwent? It’s the taste I love, and it’s left me spent. [...]

Chris

Poetry Addict 31/10/2009

Hi, I’m Chris, Response: Hi Chris And I am a poetry addict. I have been clean now for three months, My head is full of facts and figures, No stanzas or trochees or sestinas. No rhymes. Just statistics. At my worst, I rhymed everything I spoke. Trying to get a point across was a joke, I couldn’t stop thinking like Dr Seuss, And soon my [...]

Chris

Exmouth (after an argument) 31/10/2009

Why would you want to be In that weird little place by the sea. Why would you make the trek to a place that has no self respect? Why would you want to be seen In a place where better days have been Why would you make a home, In a place where they steal garden gnomes, Why would you take your gran To [...]

Chris

Wedding Ring 28/10/2009

Took off my ring, Yet it is imprinted on my skin, Punched and branded like Cattle. You saw me do it But chose not to say anything, Although it has been a long time coming. My finger is the only part of me, that is fine.

Chris

Services (Gordano) 28/10/2009

We’ve stopped, and our aching bodies function again, after three hours in hyperspace. Place your feet on martian aggregate. Bright white walls, candy coloured cuddly brand logos, shining in a radioactive post apocalyptic flicker. The foyer, home to sedated loney cheeseplants living next a faux-oasis in a stasis of activity. Baby changing facilities, s […]

Chris

Effy 28/10/2009

Effy smoked Like life was ending in an hour. But it would in ten years. She didn’t seem to care as nicotenel patches adorned her arm, flat limpets on a cragging saggy rock. One night, she spontaneously combusted, leaving a pair of charred feet. And a fag butt.

Chris