Dear Reader

this is not what you are meant to be doing you are meant to be doing something useful, why are you carrying on as I hit my keyboard keys like its my wife when you should be working.

The pretty young man with the coat under his arms, the pretty young woman with the coast under her legs, the entirety of land. Walt, where are your hands taking me?

Dear reader, if I thought you might elbow your way into the Random House office with lemon sherbet hidden inside your handbag of lemon sherbet, I would turn you around. Dear reader, its no, never. I know you reader.

"the seaside is where you belong, gentle soul yourself, the seaside is surely where you belong, where you can free the whales and harpoon the humans.  Some humans have no respect for the gentle souls. Avoid them at all costs. Who is the whale messiah anyway? Go have a meeting with him/her/it/ and bash your heads together, make sure your wailing from the same him-sheet.

You in the frown and two eyes:"

Last time I wrote something about the environment. I'm sick of the environment. It's old.

Nothing of use can be learnt here, but since we're friends now, I will leave you with some advice: Stop wearing shoes, there are already so many shoes. Stop listening to me, there are already so many others like me. Stop fitting in, there is nothing fitting in here.

Dear Patience

I imagine you are home alone listening to the rain fall. The rain that is making a waterfall.

I imagine you r crying.

I imagine that since I wrote that u were a bad girl that you think I am a bad boy too.

I imagine you are right.

Dear Patience, there are no friends for you in this world, u are an ectoplasm, you are an inorganic organ.

Dream, Patience, there are clouds for you. Here, tiens. Do not cry. There are whole oceans in red and violet waiting for you.

I imagine you know what to do by water Sir. Dear. Don't do it.

Dearest P, since we are the same species I will share something with you. I am not alone. I have never been alone. But you are crying and it makes me sad. I reflect Sir. I reflect Why.

I imagine you don't know that I love you.

I imagine that you don't know I have always felt this way.

Dear Mark, dear Luke, dear Rupert, Dear Poppy, Dear Anthony, Dear Healah, Dear Simon Marsham, dear Dearest of all dears Gizem: there are no nouns in black and white soup.  There are no e males in a mega drive. Here is my human heart. Hear the best. Hear the beat.

I am on a pine floor wearing blue shorts. No socks. Penny Cruz above.

Dear Patience. I am Forgiving you. You r weak, after all.

It's my time you're wasting. Not your own. Dear Sir.


Dear Reader #2
for Rupert Loydell

Go to the last line and laugh. Go to the penultimate line and pretend to laugh.

Lock yourself indoors. There is a storm brewing.

Dear reader, I'll crow bar the title in, I promise you one day everything will be alright. aain your not perfat this is not what you shold r shouldn't be doing you are ll in a mess again, you will find nohing here.

Dear reader, allow me to dance like a nymph inside your beautiful body, the sky is closing around the city and the city is full of smoke, by the East River there are bagpipes playing the Munich choirs. Brandenburg. The fall. Munich, sigh.

Caf 42 is closed. The choirs that play the white colour of the bagpipes, in white down spine. There is  a summer breeze around the sexual organs of beautiful creatures, plastic objects and the fog horns.

   Charlie Baylis 2014