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Bakunin posting (awaiting a new wireless adaptor for my desktop at the moment).

Another piece done and up on www.crimemagazine.com, this time a biography of notorious Wild West gunslinger John Wesley Hardin:

http://www.crimemagazine.com/john-wesley-hardin-–-gunslinger

Nice chap, Mr Hardin. He once had a room-mate who snored loudly which irked Hardin a little. So much that Hardin got out of bed, picked up a six-shooter and and head-jobbed the poor devil in his sleep.
 
Another couple of pieces commissioned for Crime Magazine, one on Billy the Kid and another on the Shankill Butchers. I've also picked up a juicy commission for an article on mercenaries and their place in military history that I'm working on at the moment. I've also had an idea for an article on the first Private Military Company (in the sense that we know them today) as a result of the research that I'm doing on the mercenary article.
 
can i put my novalisation of spun up on here? i say novalisation its true to the film but also completaly differant in the way that the film completaly missed the amount of other shit you gotta take to manage the habit, and i tried to set it in UK.

its really fuckin long the first chapter and i stopped bothering about a page into chaptor 2 coz i just got bored.
 
Currently dickering with a different true crime publication about a possible article on legendary Texas Ranger Frank Hamer. Hamer was instrumental in the ambush of Bonnie and Clyde, was wounded 17 times in gunfights, left for dead four times and had 53 notches on his gun. He was also far more than merely a fast draw artist and had his own very individual (and very far-sighted) means of hunting fugitives by sparing no effort to learn as much as he could about who they were even down to which brand of cigarettes they smoked. That enabled him, to an extent, to predict and/or second guess their actions and deal with them on a rather more intelligent level than simply going after them guns blazing. Not that having 53 notches on his gun suggests he was exactly afraid of a fight where and when fights were necessary.
 
i cant put what i wanted to put it uses up the amount of words

so i gotta chop one chapter into 3 odd posts, more like 5 actually... andits gonna take about a week to edit the typo's lol
 
Bit of feedback would be good, this isn't new. Written when i was badly alcoholic, obviously it's self-indulgent, sorry for myself bollocks(not written for others) but I'm determined to get over my fear of writing/being read. But it won't stay on here for long.

Masochistic from the start,
so full of hate unable to think straight
“he who has nothing” “nobody” (“Samples”)
A forced destiny, the bachelors curse.

I feel trapped, lost in a body, the remnant of a recluse's hobby
I'm a fucking parody
a hopeless entity
prognosis
therapy, heresy
first courage, laid to waste, lazily lost luxury
what was i thinking ?
blinkered and swaying
i shouldn't of been drinking
but I've an obsession it's a primordial urge
expressed through this purged prime audio surge,
now another splurged an unrehearsed verse, from the depressed nerd.

Followed a white star and was struck by white lightning
Now somebody tampered with my hermetically sealed conscience
and out flooded regret and madness,
need to set priorities, stay away from the authorities
Deny hesitance n banish alcohol from my presence
be philosophical and know to separate the alco from the holism
symptom after symptom
in a stupor, self loathing, manifesting stupidity
Brainstorming, spewing Vasopressin fuelling my cynicism dribbling distorted wisdom
Exasperated desperation, the fallacy of wisdom
ancient hung up's have become hangovers
moebius moebius loneliness loneliness
it's not a peaceful process
i'm pre the quantum threshold, impatiently waiting
The floundering scallywag wants to be recognised
hoping for retribution and an inna revolution.
this is a heed this warning forboder, Conclusion

A Dejected member of society, a disrespected loner searching for sobriety
Fuck social anxiety, a bottle in front of me or a frontal lobotomy
Whats the difference? hence the monotony
pain and indecision engraved on my soul
natural unconscious metaphors abound around us, just a slip of the tongue
shows soles get trampled on repeatedly
Crying myself awake, silence myself asleep
More of the same cyclical auroboros
Sleep dream, wake weep, sleep dream, wake weep, repeatedly trying to find my soul in
Sociologies mirror, It’s me looking back at me, from the amoeba to me bah

imma hectic reckless sceptic
Disconnected masochistic, socialist broke manic depressive
an ensemble of sombre emotive motions
i'm hesitant, my incessant reluctance to rectify lost sentiments
Centres me, Casually distorting the ordinary
creating a cacophony of pain and misery
Personally personality perception perplexes me
the puzzle of life’s premise, the lost mystery
Socially Detrimental ill mannered malnourishment
Concluding the illusion of happiness eluding me and my confusion, subduing my movement.
 
Picked up another paid job for a militaria magazine on the history of the Fairbairn-Sykes Commando dagger and it's interest to modern collectors. Currently working on another proposal to a history mag on the ill-fated 'Exercise Tiger' prior to the D Day landings.

Also found a couple of interesting writing competitions that I think might well be worth going for as well.
 
I'm moving house*(well, micro-flat bedsitland style) and in the chaos I accidentally threw out the wrong bag with the trash, now I've lost two notebooks and a folder which contained over ten years of writing from my childhood and teenage years! :(

After the obligatory mourning period it actually inspired me to start writing again, but the first shock was awful, like losing a part of me...

The strange thing is that I still remember in great detail a lot of the short stories and poems and keep recalling huge chunks of text ( :D )that I feel tempted to write down again- But the past is the past, I suppose... and it'll be wrong trying to recreate it now that my headspace is that of a grown-up (um, occasionally at least), it'll just end in tears... Sometimes I read out loud to myself the lines from a story or poem though... Glad that it's not all gone, my memory will keep those few fragments alive for a while (I hope)

Not very relevant for the thread, I know... I just had to share my sorrow (it's difficult to express how difficult it was to accept that those texts were lost forever- yes, it's probably egoism and not all of it was any good, but it meant a lot to me to still have it, if only to remember parts of my personal history)

OK- on with the thread, nothing more to see here, let's move on now...
*cries*
 
When I found a notebook full of my teenage writings a couple of years back I burnt it.

Not only was the actual writing a load of atrocious crap, it recalled a very unpleasant time in my life which I'm better off not thinking about at all.
 
Disjecta Membra said:
Bit of feedback would be good, this isn't new. Written when i was badly alcoholic, obviously it's self-indulgent, sorry for myself bollocks(not written for others) but I'm determined to get over my fear of writing/being read. But it won't stay on here for long.

Masochistic from the start,
so full of hate unable to think straight
“he who has nothing” “nobody” (“Samples”)
A forced destiny, the bachelors curse.

I feel trapped, lost in a body, the remnant of a recluse's hobby
I'm a fucking parody
a hopeless entity
prognosis
therapy, heresy
first courage, laid to waste, lazily lost luxury
what was i thinking ?
blinkered and swaying
i shouldn't of been drinking
but I've an obsession it's a primordial urge
expressed through this purged prime audio surge,
now another splurged an unrehearsed verse, from the depressed nerd.

Followed a white star and was struck by white lightning
Now somebody tampered with my hermetically sealed conscience
and out flooded regret and madness,
need to set priorities, stay away from the authorities
Deny hesitance n banish alcohol from my presence
be philosophical and know to separate the alco from the holism
symptom after symptom
in a stupor, self loathing, manifesting stupidity
Brainstorming, spewing Vasopressin fuelling my cynicism dribbling distorted wisdom
Exasperated desperation, the fallacy of wisdom
ancient hung up's have become hangovers
moebius moebius loneliness loneliness
it's not a peaceful process
i'm pre the quantum threshold, impatiently waiting
The floundering scallywag wants to be recognised
hoping for retribution and an inna revolution.
this is a heed this warning forboder, Conclusion

A Dejected member of society, a disrespected loner searching for sobriety
Fuck social anxiety, a bottle in front of me or a frontal lobotomy
Whats the difference? hence the monotony
pain and indecision engraved on my soul
natural unconscious metaphors abound around us, just a slip of the tongue
shows soles get trampled on repeatedly
Crying myself awake, silence myself asleep
More of the same cyclical auroboros
Sleep dream, wake weep, sleep dream, wake weep, repeatedly trying to find my soul in
Sociologies mirror, It’s me looking back at me, from the amoeba to me bah

imma hectic reckless sceptic
Disconnected masochistic, socialist broke manic depressive
an ensemble of sombre emotive motions
i'm hesitant, my incessant reluctance to rectify lost sentiments
Centres me, Casually distorting the ordinary
creating a cacophony of pain and misery
Personally personality perception perplexes me
the puzzle of life’s premise, the lost mystery
Socially Detrimental ill mannered malnourishment
Concluding the illusion of happiness eluding me and my confusion, subduing my movement.
Click to expand...

I loved this line heaps, luv --> "Sleep dream, wake weep, sleep dream, wake weep, repeatedly trying to find my soul in"
 
Is one allowed to say 'roll' model rather than 'role' model ?
I can't figure out if it's a typo within the first 10 pages of a book, or they are just being snarky showing off using unusual wording (which they have done elsewhere). It's bugging me enough to ask!
 
slightlytouched said:
Is one allowed to say 'roll' model rather than 'role' model ?
I can't figure out if it's a typo within the first 10 pages of a book, or they are just being snarky showing off using unusual wording (which they have done elsewhere). It's bugging me enough to ask!
Click to expand...

its a typo. Role and roll have completely different meanings and the phrase 'roll model' isn't in use anywhere
 
maya said:
I'm moving house*(well, micro-flat bedsitland style) and in the chaos I accidentally threw out the wrong bag with the trash, now I've lost two notebooks and a folder which contained over ten years of writing from my childhood and teenage years! :(

After the obligatory mourning period it actually inspired me to start writing again, but the first shock was awful, like losing a part of me...

The strange thing is that I still remember in great detail a lot of the short stories and poems and keep recalling huge chunks of text ( :D )that I feel tempted to write down again- But the past is the past, I suppose... and it'll be wrong trying to recreate it now that my headspace is that of a grown-up (um, occasionally at least), it'll just end in tears... Sometimes I read out loud to myself the lines from a story or poem though... Glad that it's not all gone, my memory will keep those few fragments alive for a while (I hope)

Not very relevant for the thread, I know... I just had to share my sorrow (it's difficult to express how difficult it was to accept that those texts were lost forever- yes, it's probably egoism and not all of it was any good, but it meant a lot to me to still have it, if only to remember parts of my personal history)

OK- on with the thread, nothing more to see here, let's move on now...
*cries*
Click to expand...
Oh I feel that pain. I have 'lost' some artworks that I was actually proud of. I can't believe I knowingly threw them away, and it irks me that I don't know how/when they left me!
 
Woodlouse on my bogroll

Three ply, soft bum-caresser

Tucked in a roll


Woodlouse on my bogroll


Wavy little bits and nasty armour

Blue/black greyscale sheen

Colonized my shitrag


mid-crap and reaching

I recoil


There’s a woodlouse on my bogroll


Blow on it

No shifting, wind irrelevant to it


Spine of book, nudge.

It won’t move.


Locked door

Rapidly drying rear


Might have to touch it


The woodlouse on my bogroll


Decorum wars with disgust

I pincer finger it gently to lift



The small life kicking’s in my tips

Window, bath or floor?

What if it touches my feet?



Floor.

Scurry well my friend.

You nearly ended up in my wipage
 
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