letter from god to man

Hey There, how, how’s it going?
Long time no see.
I know I haven’t been around much lately
But…it didn’t seem like you wanted me to be
The last time I sent down a message you nailed it to the cross
So I figured I’d just leave you to it, let you be your own boss

But I’ve been keeping an eye on you, I have, and it’s amazing how you’ve grown.
With your technological advances and the problems you’ve overthrown,
And all the beautiful art you’ve created with such grace and such finesse,
But I admit there are a few things I’m afraid have impressed me less.

So I’m writing to apologize for all the horrors committed in my name,
Although that was never what I intended, I feel I should take my share of the blame.
All the good I tried to do was corrupted when all the religion got into full swing,
What I thought were quite clear messages were taken to unusual extremes.
My teachings taken out of context to meet the agendas of others,
Interpretations taken to many different ways and hidden meanings discovered

Religion became a tool, for the weak to control the strong
With all these new morals and ethics, survival of the fittest was gone
No longer could the biggest man simply take whatever he needed
‘cause damnation was the price if certain rules were not heeded

Some of the deeds committed in my name just made me wonder were I went wrong.
Back at the start when I created this, the foundation seemed so strong.
See all the elements were already here, long before I began, I just kind of put it all together
I didn’t really think out a long-term plan.

I made the sun an appropriate distance and laid the stars across the sky
So you could navigate the globe or simply watch the sun rise
I covered the earth with plants and fruits,
Some for sustenance and some for beauty
I made the sun shine and the clouds rain so their maintenance wasn’t your duty
I tried to give each creature its own attributes without making them enveloped
I gave you all you all your own space to grow and in your own way space to develop

I didn’t know such development would cause rifts and jealousy
Cause you to war against each other and leave marks on this planet indelibly
You see, I wasn’t really the creater, I was just the curator of nature
I want to get something straight with homosexuals right now: I don’t hate ya
I was a simple being that happened to be the first to wield such powers
I just laid the ground, it was You that built the towers

It was You that invented bombs, and the fear that comes with them
And it was You that invented money, and the corrupt economic systems
You invented terms like just-war and terms like friendly fire
And it was You that didn’t know when to stop digging deeper, when to stop building higher
It was You that exhausted the resources I carefully laid out on this earth,
And it was You that even saw these problems coming but accredited them little worth
It was You that used my teachings for your own personal gain
And it was You that committed such tragedies, even though they were in my name

So I apologize for any mistakes I made, and when my words misconstrued
But this apology’s to mother nature, cause I created you

the last post

The sea spits me out -
I do not belong here.
I have tried to sink myself
like a sorry ship
and dissolve inside of you like
a stow-away looking for love.

The waves
go steady
beating drums on the beating hard
a beaten body, I can take no more
on the hand
the face, the heart.
but I'll stay floating with the hope that someday
you'll come back for me.

The message has been sent
in a fragile bottle
bound to burst on the first person to find it
emptying the second class mermaids
on the trail of sorrow
looking for my sailor
to come and take me home.

To drown to drown
salty apocalypse in the sweetest sense
I follow you to the darkness, my dear
to vast unknown
where the good men go
so alas with a kiss -
I die.

(c) amelia j smith 12/07

I'm staring at a door. It is my door. The door to my new flat. It is grey, metallic, stylish and industrial. The flat is a loft. There is much glass in its complex fenestrations. Some of it is made from hemp. Not too long ago, before the conversion, it clanged with machines that conveniently masked the sweaty weeping of slaves. Ah who knows, they probably loved it. I'm rambling here but it is a Sunday. I am very hazy. It is 2pm and I'm not long up. And the point is, I'm staring at the door because I am locked out.

Perelman says there are five types of being locked out - the act of God, the act of a landlord or girlfriend, `I thought you had the keys', `I thought I had the keys', and psychotically, deliberately shutting the door when you know you don't have the keys.

But as I stare dumbly at my door, I couldn't give a fly's tit how I've been locked out (went for milk, forgot the keys) - I'm just furious. After some light cursing and a couple of kicks, I opt for ruining a Visa card. I'm twisted in a weird hunch against the jamb, attempting keyhole surgery with my flat spastic tool, my tongue slewing through a cretinous wince, when a neighbour emerges on to the landing.

She's about 34, smart and professional. Plain as dust, but will do for a nightcap. `Can I help?' she says. I ask hopelessly about master keys. `I'm sorry, do you live here?' Oh gawd, she doesn't remember. `Yes, we met last weekend. I was being sick into the tree pot on the lower gangway.' No recognition. `I was with a crying woman.' Still no flicker. Dammit, she's one of only two people I've met here (the other is Paul, aka DJ Cattle Prod, who shared some lethal new-wave skunk with me the day I moved in).

I press on, wondering if I might gain access to the fire escape via her flat and climb in through my window - but I'm not surprised when she heads down the stairs. When I call: `Can I use your phone?' at the top of her gitty little parting, she informs me there's a phone box in the square. I find it next to the Vaclav Havel café (no-profit food, radical conversation, all furnishings from skips - oh wake up, you dreamy fucks and tell me you won't be a Starbucks by Y2K!).

There's plenty of time to slag off the area you have just moved into if you're waiting for a Sunday locksmith. Time goes viscous and gummy. The only thing you can do is take out a notebook and write down rubbish like `time goes viscous and gummy'.

It's like exercise-bike time. Each minute contains about 500 seconds. It is also related to missed connection time on trains. Except that when you travel by train, deep down you actually want to be stuck for hours on an island of concrete in Rugby - probably because you are married.

The locksmith arrives after 90 minutes. On the phone, he assured me he was a Banham expert but he gives the lock a rather ESN look. `They're real buggers,' he says. He then says he can either drill through the lock - full replacement cost £120 - or he can `have a go with this': a strip of plastic from a washing-up liquid bottle. My sleeping Anne Robinson yaps into life.

I tell him he secured the job on the strength of being an expert and had better do something bloody special with the plastic or he isn't getting paid. As the cocky locky tries to snake around the anti break-in chicanes in the woodwork, I ask him what there is to stop him performing this service for a thief.

`Nothing,' he says brightly, then explains: `If there's any trouble, I'm miles away by that point.' Which is wrong, because at the top of the stairs behind him appear two rozzers. `Problem, sir?'

I explain I've locked myself out. They look sceptical in an unintelligent way. They ask locko if he has verified that I live here. He says no. They say another occupant of this pad stack has reported a stranger trying to break in. Right. So gruel-lips opposite won't lend me her phone to call a locksmith but she will use it to grass me up. I make a mental note that she'll be getting 20 pizzas she didn't order delivered at four in the morning. Just then Cattle Prod appears. `Hey jumpstick!' I greet him hopefully. Roz 1 asks him if he knows me. He eyes us warily, makes a fuzzy calculation, and says: `No way, man.' Cheers, you scabid little slacker - I hope your decks blow up inyour balls.

But just when it seems to have gone the full pear, my door opens. Or rather is opened - from the inside - by a bird in T-shirt and pants. I'd forgotten about her. She'd spent the night on the bathroom floor, you see. Ill. She's looking bleary but in a slightly Kim Basinger way. What she says, though, is not so clever: `… sorry she only just got the door… very sick … something she ate … the big one with the dove on it … Tris said it could have been smacky …' And the looks all round become significantly more significant.

Then there is one of those split seconds during which three things happen. The cops suddenly lose interest, locko starts to charge me a call-out fee even though he's done nothing, and I decide that this is yet another woman, all gorgeous and pointless in her pants, who in the end just will not do.

And that is when I am seized by Perelman's fifth wave of madness. I reach for the stainless steel handle of the door and knowingly, deliberately, firmly pull it shut.

WATCH THIS

oh my

if you start digging for dirt your fingernails will always end up black.

Who said that? I said that.

I'm back here, back to show the world how annoyingly vague and boring I can be.I've been back at uni and essays and talking about morality untill my little red lips get all chapped. One of my dear friends picked up their troubles and flew to america without telling me , can you tell where this is going?

I might jump on a plane myself and flee the country as less and less seems appealing here. Besides the beauty of scotland, ofcourse.

LOST NEEDS FOUND

hello lovely people of the internet

PLEASE HELP ME

I've lost all of my writing!

If I've ever sent you anything, please please please send it over this way, I need your help people

I'M LOOKING FOR THE FOLLOWING -

- ANYTHING from my book, elevator beat

- ANYTHING that isn't birds, twindle, apples or mr sunshine.

I AM IN LOVE.