Murderous pages of words running up and down on my typewriter. Messing up words. Forgetting worlets. Disrupting thoughts of other things. Leading your mind into other cycles then excepted. Making the moon rotate in other circles then before. Melting the Pluto to fourteen cups of water that goes into circulation around our solar system. Insects starting to eat on the remainings of the last performance done in Carlisle for this time. Defrosting raw meat laying in the cellar of Chiswick street 5. Fish string/line. Fishing hooks. The small red chairs looking on. The summer warming the wind of forever to a comfortable temperature. The moon being half and in balance. The clouds having moved somewhere else on the globe. The birds sleeping in some nice nest on the top of a house other then this. Rats now crawling around in the parks of Carlisle. The ghosts of the Roman soldiers walking through Carlisle every night. Patrolling the streets. Rebuilding the wall. Fighting of the spirits of the dead people of today. The bamboo laying in the piles in the sculpture yard. The potatoes that had touched the sky untouched by every animal. Today the tower seemed to have the sun on top of it. The cubes were growing out of his head. Small cubical they were. The same colour as the skin. They were like pouring out of the skin of the man’s face. They changed the face of the man. The cubes built up on his forehead. On his cheeks. Everyone else of us around the table wondered what was happening. Did he not wanna pay for his last pint? The cubes were soon covering his eyes. Scared himself, he started walking around in circles on the pub. We continued with our pints quickly. He fell over a shaved guy in England football team shirt. ‘What d fuck…?’ He uttered when he just had hit out cubing friend. Our friend fell onto the pool table while the group of football shirts were walking backwards on a perfectly stright line out of the pub. Getting up from the pool table our friend had now more cubes in his face. A few of the red pool balls were now stuck between some of the cubes on his left side of his face. ‘What d fuck should we do about dis fucking fripping cubed? No aint ever done any rubbing fucking shit shti shit shit like diz b4re. Maybe hes just trendy or sometin, has been to Londin, eehj.’ The cubes seemed to make it more difficult for our friend to breath. The cubes seemed to cover up his nostrils. England was scoring against Sweden on the screen. There were no football shirts in the pub anymore so no one bothered apart from a small one legged women in an enormous artificial beard died blue and yellow sitting in the corner.

She was now cursing David Beckham with everything from nuclear weapons, Sellafield, shrimps, pink toilet paper, performance art, tuna, noodles, Carlisle’s first transsexual mayor, Volvo cars, sheep, milk, Saddam Hussein, roman roads, Celtic helmets and hip hop bling. Lampard got his ass harassed by Norwegian Spruce, rubbish virgin trains, Tony Blair’s middle finger, the smallest of the Egyptian pyramids and a brown banana. Moving our attention on our friend with the cubicle face had put in the necessary twenty p into the juke box that started to play the Ghostbusters theme song which he sang along with in the full force though the cubes made his voice slightly different from what it normally was on one of those Boardroom karaoke’s. The bar staff seemed to like it. They got up behind him taking on the role of the chorus singers. The disco ball were turned on and started to turn in the roof. A man coming out of the toilet started his portable smoking machine that started filling the pub with smoke in all the rainbow’s colours. Lady G on the chair burped, Stephen S coughed because he had a crisp stuck in his nose.