Echoes Reflections. Hey come with me we're going to build steam machines that harness the power of electricity, smashing atoms together at 99.99% of the speed of light, and all energy has to dissipate eventually and like a car rolling down a hill, you can't keep on rolling forever. I've got this steampunk world just hiding in my head waiting for documentaries. I want to see this town from a weather balloon. I want to heal myself with helium and feel premium like a deviant ceiling fate like a sealer can't shape. We use fake currencies and you could chase volcanoes or erupt abruptly in an uppercut and are terraformed, a terraformed formula, mad scientist coughing into beakers and somehow learning to juggle. Hey you don't have to act your age and your life is a speck of dust in the sunlight. Hey your life is nice so will you swap it with mine? Hey I'll come clean because I don't have many friends but the ones I do have are good to me. The mannequins revolt. Get a better education in the way the world works, the way the pain hurts and ebbs the way like a change of name and the girls are talking as I walk along beside them but the girls aren't talking to me. It's easy you gotta swallow your pride and come out fighting like lions with tire lions trying to break in or out of their surroundings. And it's not all doom and gloom. I mean I can't dress myself, cook regular meals or take the bins out but I can sing and shout about counselling. This is mental and the mannequins and their fatal espac faces, discracers. They will rule the world with a plastic fist. They will rise up and cast off the clothes of oppression. I for one welcome our new plastic overlords. Not a poem. She swiped left on life and wiped the tears from her eyes. She walked the thin line between genius and madness and came out the other side. Never mine and never no one else is either. This is not a poem about women. It's about how sometimes you smoke cigarettes inside and wipe stains from the wall. When you overfill a bin bag and it splits leaking shit on the kitchen floor. Me? I'll sweat the small stuff. The large stuff leaks like steam from my dirty veins, kind of like how kids cut themselves to relieve the pressure. And I bleed easily and bruise a lot and I can't sit still for more than five minutes. I don't conform to societal norms and my thoughts form a thunderstorm. Damned. One right I know it going slowly over the same sober homework. The broken noses of the stone statues in Marlow Community Garden. Big branches falling from trees hitting people, oops upside their head with a broken neck. I'm the kind of militant who goes for drive by book drops throwing no rest for the wicked out of open windows. When I was 14 I got hit in the face by a pencil case which is probably why I write things. I am a right royal nuisance. Like when I play football and I two foot attack or till the match is cancelled and I'm free for 15 minutes again. Your mind is a brain sponge. Your muscle you can move which improves with use and you're damned if you do and you're damned if you don't and I'll be damned if I don't do anything. Your body is a temple of doom that you're trapped inside of forever or at least until scientists perfect the human head transplant. Religion and science man I kind of care but if I'm not going to solve the problem I'm not going to let it consume me. I'll be consumed by holy fire, tired and highlighted with a markup hem. This is science bitch you needed Newton so Stephen Hawking's anicoic chain was strange dangers blaming the pain for the fame that we gain. Smashing arms together and shooting into space ten seconds to ignition and go go go. Einstein's theory of general relativity where MC squared equals energy and clever people build machines as the race for space time continues. Its chemistry jars of formaldehyde and hydrochloric acid reacting impassive and massive laboratories. Its physics and the laws of gravity pulling people together and pushing them apart like opposite ends of a magnet. Its biology and reproductive organs, females biting off heads and devouring the bodies of their former lovers. This is science bitch you never needed Newton. Don't flop. Don't stop the madness or your arrogant anguish and don't drop the bottle in the bottom of a coffin because you've got wings and you're not afraid to use them. You could see for miles and the city lights flare up and falter. Timpricks for angels dancing slowly on the cusp of a big black hole. Those beings of light that fight for the right to survive. Your lungs are a telescope and your thighs are signposts pointing north beyond the wall where boardhorses draw straws and sleep with minotors, sheathing swords on the back of a horse. Don't flop or drop your lances. Embrace the dance of the woodland fairy or blow your motion until your emotions are potent. So spells and potions to sell swords. Bring the bells of battle, blow horns to trumpets and learn to play the sitter. This isn't a joke, this is the word of God carved into stone tablets and buried underground for future men to discover. Worship full-siders, carved lions on burning pliers where the kings of old sold gold, where stories were told of the good and the bold. They tributes at the feet of the memory priests, the wrappers of carnitacca and the artists of spatter where words became weapons and blood is spilled to fill the ink pots. The English defencily is unwelcome here. There are a healthy collection of sunburned flesh-burning all the reds of the kullichart, these hateful racists making chaos and they forget that this is our town. And while we do welcome strangers, these strangers are dangerous and faceless and yet we get the same bad press, tired with the same bad brush, what the fuck are you talking about? Me? I have my friends and I don't think Neil is a hooligan. Amanda doesn't even eat meat. But you think day four is going to punch someone. You're more deluded than Tommy Robinson. Basically all I'm saying is love. Be nice to strangers, bait bread and break it and share it where it needs to be shared. And if you want to act divisive, go and find your own society. Muslims aren't the enemy you are. War. War is a funny when you think about it. I mean, you're basically stabbing your neighbour in the face with a bayonet because some guy you've never met thinks that their god is better than your god. Listen, I understand world war two because the Germans killed Jews in their tiny rooms and as a citizen of the world, you can't just stand back and ignore it. World War one was caused by inflation and the assassination of some archduke or maybe a pop group. World War three will be fraught with danger. World War four will be fought with sticks and stones. World War five will be fine because there will be no one left alive to fight it. Learn new skills. It's easy, so breathe deep and leap in, swim like a salmon or start storing your board dutch. You're so unfortunate. Listen, teach yourself the things you want to teach yourself. This thing called life is a wild animal. Don't back it into corners with chloroform. The days will get longer and the nights will get shorter like deporting the daughters of slaughter and you must teach yourself compassion. Learn new skills. Weal the blowtorch and swing the hammer. Ford rivers and come out singing again. Finally I found fireballs falling from the sky. If we're all gonna die, I'd like us to die as a hive mind, one combined shrine to the light of life to fight the night and burn brighter than the darkness inside us all. Fearless. My name's Dane and I run with scissors. I drink heavily and operate machinery, eat sporadically, skip breakfast and don't get enough protein. I run downstairs with a pen in my mouth, daring myself to fall down and land face first on the hardwood floor so the nib gets pushed through the back of my throat and into my brain, talk about being mightier than the sword. I tie my shoelaces in the middle of the road and don't look left and right before I walk before the traffic. I get into unusual romantic situations like a dog escaping from the yard. I have an aversion to fear, I'm allergic so I think about shit and start to pan it. Sometimes I have only myself to blame. Beacons. Hold up your hands and let the light in. Hold up your hands for a couple of grander, hold up for bands in an encampment. Open your eyes for the first time, see what you want to see and be who you want to be. Be sympathy beneath the Christmas tree because Christmas is common this side of Oxford, another new favourite festival. Send flares, some in gene-wearing demons with flowers in their hair, staring stony faced and silent as the lights go down. Burn beacons, bring meaning to people who need to feel feelings even when the seasons seem evil. Make new friends or turn enemies into edgy contemporaries. Use mental energy to break down barriers and build them back up again. Take the time you're owed and live it. Build your own little village so you can meet people in it. Be as alive as you can like a skeleton man. Be beckoned to beacons from beckons field. Be a field of dreams full of poetry. Buy my book. Hey please buy my book and tell your friends about it, read it, review it, have bad dreams and repeat it next time a new book comes out. I've got books for all ages, supernatural thrillers where angels are killers and deliverers from evil. Poetry books for ages 18 plus come to fuck things up and put them back together again. Literally fiction novels about social networking sites. Nonfiction books about social networking sites. Detective novels about murderers and social networking sites. Handbooks for lexecologists, journals, song lyrics, chords and albums too so far and more coming soon. Seriously please buy my books, I need the royalties to pay my rent. Books from publishers are self-released and sold on Amazon. A writer needs a reader like a teacher needs a student. Please people study me and learn things.