No Personality

April 17th, 2012 by Liam James

Hi mum.
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Feeling a bit emo.

April 10th, 2012 by Liam James

Every musician likes to think their music has no genre.
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FAO David Starkey

August 16th, 2011 by Liam James

The UK riots should not be attributed to blurring racial stereotypes. They should be attributed to the fact that 76% of the UK's youth are utter cunts. The UK riots should not be attributed to blurring racial stereotypes. They should be attributed to the fact that 76% of the UK's youth are utter cunts.
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Unattended Luggage

July 29th, 2011 by Liam James

Stupid pinstripe bruise. Sellotape rip tack tick. Piston cactus stamp. You give me your four letters and neurones explode like a cancascent swamp or fireworks of burst poisoned gas ignited by stupid or flecked by baked pretzels. You can see the sparks in my eyes What the hell is wrong with me. Drip moth pupil. Pupane straight funk. Slathering spit of incest. Smotherpick. I'm tethered to a promise and prepped for a fall. There's a brute angel in my pills and a devil in my coffee, hot and sour hurricane in my throat and a cloud over my mind. Whiskey gives me sunshine and I cradle my thoughts like medicine. Tick. The frustration and rage of voluntary isolation. I'm doing it to myself. Tick. The emotional disconnection that I turn into ideas rather than vent in constructive, healthy conversation. Tick. The music I don't write. The art I don't produce. Tick. The water breaking. Braking. Stop reproducing, start producing. Tick. Tick.
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December 20th, 2010 by Liam James

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CSS Insults

October 18th, 2010 by Liam James

Div<div id="you"></div>
"You're a div."
Absolute Div<div id="you" style="position:absolute;"></div>
"You're an absolute div."
No Class or Style<div id="you" style="" class=""></div>
"You're a div with no class and no style."
Padding<div id="you" style="padding:50px;"></div>
"You've got fifty-pixel padding."
Padding and Margin<div id="you" style="padding:50px;margin-left:50px;"></div>
"You've got padding AND margin."
Bottom Padding<div id="you" style="padding-bottom:50px;"></div>
"You've got fifty-pixel bottom padding."
Floater<div id="you" style="float:right;"></div>
"You're a right floater."
Firefox<div id="you" class="ie6"></div>
"You look wrong in firefox."
Opacity<div id="you" style="opacity:0%;"></div>
"You're completely transparent. In certain browsers."
Invalid<div id="you" style="/
"You don't even validate."
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Liam’s Diary

August 26th, 2010 by Liam James

Dearest Diary. Once upon a time I was a boy, toying with my world and my heart and my mind. My diary was a giant moth in a blender- a shock of violent metaphor and beauty and nothing and emotion and everything, damn the details and damn the big picture, inhumane war prison of ice or burned plastic which imprisoned lost souls and launched charity missions and EU rescue teams. It was not really poetry Not really prose It ignited my spirit like dust up my nose and occasionally lapsed into something quite pretty And as the years wore through the writing (revealing grammatical errors, teenage angst and the odd pacing issue) it slowly uncovered a story, like a slew of varnished skittles in a drained wishing well. Things happened. There were mob bosses, trinities, deaths and romances, first loves, first kisses, first kills and first dances. There was a girl, a writer. She was very kind to me. I abstracted, but we couldn't collaborate. There was a girl, an artist. She was very kind to me. I coloured, but we clashed. There was a girl, a physicist. She was very kind to me. I forced, but we couldn't form a solution. There was a girl, a photograph. She was very kind to me. I just looked at her... Then some time ago I came back from the void, and avoiding eye contact since then I began to explore my horizons and butter my toast... but I guess my horizons are wider than most. I've been high and I've been low. I've been to Venus and Africa, the other side of Liam James or Elia Alariel or Assythment and all over whatever and whoever I've been, and I've been all over. But now that's all over. And every time there's a something or a someone or a one or a zero, my circuits short and a bullet or a music box triggers. My heartbeat slows and my circuit shows, and I inject a little something creative to make things interesting. And synthetic. A little rhythmic bubble-clunk of silvered crystal. I write a lot... Music, stories, poetry. I get bored. But the journal is an emotional polaroid- a scrapbook of bad things and good things and beauty and love. And I'm here with my pretty camera, shaking, clutching onto my remaining polaroids and wishing magic back. I'm hauling the sun across the sky and trying to make every day perfect, writing "world peace" on the marketing priorities board and bringing back dragons. I'm waging war on war and humidity and mind games and 9pm on weeknights where there's nothing to do but climb. And I'm here with my pretty camera, shaking, reading back journals from seven, eight years ago when I believed in a time where there would be dragons and world peace and writers and artists and physicists and photographs. Back when I had an army. Back when I played mind games. Back when I was a boy, and my world and my heart and my mind were just toys.
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Just Drive

August 15th, 2010 by Liam James

Parkour in the dark- jumping and running through comfortable backstreets, popping off bridges and over puddles, bouncing walls and climbing railings. I struggle with people, but the confidence of the urban sculpture is morphine. I feel invincible. I approach the car, entering like a thief. My shadow stays in Manchester... but I'm leaving. I have work to do. It's Saturday night, 2am. Prostitutes and stumbling men flutter like moths or fairies around broken streetlights, and they blindly bat against my windows as I weave past. The broken glass in the road glitters like ice crystal, confetti, lighting my path and guiding my journey past the bold young warriors, harpies, princesses and haggard old men of the city. Their eyes open like windows as I drive by, and their stories storm me with heart-headed javelins, sputnik shields.. vodka-scented warcries, perfume curses and journals, drunken rants and midnight texts of insecurity. Sacha is a girl in a blood red mini-dress, late twenties, no ring. Sits on her own by the side of the road, her two escorts arguing. Taxi, taxi, God she's cold. Bad night. Where was he? He said he'd be there, wasn't answering his phone. Perhaps he forgot. Perhaps he didn't care. Perhaps he was with someone else. She glances upwards into the flash of headlights. Not her taxi, not her man, just a man... with black eyes and a blond shock of hair driving past. Taxi, taxi, taxi... I hit a left turn through a red light and strafe through an empty lane. Long road out of the city, from one world into another. The love crumbles and the dark beetle inside stretches into Salford, chattering and scratching. Hobgoblins, lanky at the bus stop, stopped by the doppleganger of some... princess of the metropolis, her plastic crown illuminated with flashes of Blackpool-green, Blackpool-pink. She's making some kind of address to the State of Salford, her hips and single finger set and her mouth contorted with authority. I smile. Andy is a casualty of Deansgate. He sits alone on a wall with his head in his hands, trying to hold on. He'd been in a taxi, perhaps, but he just had to get out. God knows where he is now. Can't be sick anymore. God. Need to get home. Was that a taxi? No... I'm through Salford, the window down and my head lolls to the side. The wind blows smoke and chalk from my hair and the smile from my face. Prestwich. A young girl in white like a priest passes judgement on me as I pass her, stone eyes met by the abyss in mine. I can't get past you. I'll have to find another way. Another night. Taxi...
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Making a Kite

August 7th, 2010 by Liam James

At least it gets me out of the house.
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Magic is Everywhere

June 24th, 2010 by Liam James

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