You could describe the last months with reductionist name-calling

But things are going to change whether my attitude or actions are ambiguous to it or not

Today I take breaths to fill the world with life.

M a s sH y s t e r i a


Mass hysteria gurgles with laughter.

Growing fat,

it laps and licks the nectar of our fears, 

but the sweetest fruit bears the most potent poison. 

It’s insides are rotten, fed on gluttony and misinformation, 

it becomes grotesque.

Terrified onlookers weep in dismay

and cry out in confusion.  

“Was it not us in the West that championed ourselves as the keepers of law and order…

Why is this happening to us…?”

We don’t understand…

It was a ******* virus…

Why is it over here…

Please, answer us?” 

Mass hysteria tosses and turns its ugly head

and shrieks in a cacophony of voices,

“Toilet paper, we are running out of toilet paper!”.

@alexandersrage @thephatdribbling_page

Written by Jordan Labarr & Seb Lloyd


God’s $$$

IMG_1540 (1)

but what about the value of monetary pleasure?

The irreplaceable individual,

Have you seen how low stocks are?

the way the most vulnerable in society are treated.

In times like these we must act with haste,

Or we risk a recession of humanity.

A time like this,

reflects those at the top,

and humanity; Well,

what about the recession?



Jordan Labarr





Tender tendon string, lined with sweat beads from hot open palms, poring springs of sensory hand weaving roots 

Wrapping thumbs and fingers of warm bodies like woven silk in cotton sheets;

Salt flats , Heaven for a goddess

Exception to a rule, a paradigm shift; 

His eyes in a crowd, like staring up at dancing clouds of a million raindrops afraid to be a world of light

Hiding in strangers  




I want to write something for my friend

I want to write a little something for my friend

Something comprehensive rising from all the time we’ve gone and spent

A final singularity of grillings underwent, but questions still remain

With more willingness I look forward to more we ascertain;

I used to think you always knew the way,

And my confidence in you meant potential felt as easy as hopping on the train

but now I know I pointed too and guided just the same

From my point of view I never knew how much anger masked the pain,

Some of your stubbornness has almost gone and driven me insane

And god knows how many times I must have left you waiting in the rain, but I can’t wait to be back at vicarage and laughing all the same.

I believe in you

The roots are deep

There’s love in view

You’re the glue.

Your time has come and you’re coming through

You’re growing stronger still, we’re a team, an ever stronger will

A love no one can take, no one can kill

A glass so full I know it’ll spill

To a colder beat, a biting chill, a rising sun, it gives me chills

The thrills of life; the things I’ve thought of

I see you instil in a son or a daughter.

Her hair flows, it flows like water, at the alter

Your hands won’t falter, carrying her weight up on your shoulders.

Sitting on settees, with cups of tea, with the TV like a magic carpet

As the atlas sky holds up a blue, that dots her eyes with jet streams like uncrossed T’s.

A pupil of her potential to seize her exhaustion like supplicated knees,

On searches for alternatives to unforgotten dreams,

Digging up resilience like Tony’s Time Teams.

I haven’t ran up enough mountains to not be breathless at the peak of your esteem

Belonging to the present can still make you currently mad at its stream

Wear your heart on your sleeve and bare your flaws on your chest and love might just drive you insane at its best

Obsessed with what seemed the easiest test

Sometimes you suffer when you talk to you

Become a hanging mist over a beautiful view

I can be the lighthouse that’s beacon guides you through

I can be the lighthouse that’s beacon guides you through

An important day, a choice to take a better way, another pillar planted come what may.

Continue reading “I want to write something for my friend”

3 Nails

When you are full of thoughts that you cannot suppress

Pick a simple pattern from which you cannot digress

Thoughts of the future, the past; long narrow corridors that undermine the art

On the walls of these halls so squalid and dark

They are questions to be answered, there to pick apart

We’re all part of a history rewritten to the convenience of a few,

Adapted by survivors of the wars that passed this knowledge to you

Reading epic stories about men who could part the sea for their people

In shock & awe, we must write our sequel

As we attempt to invade the media

As our own personal promoters in a haze of hysteria

We dig a little deeper, but history seems to repeat like a beat to the same meter

As we feed our greedy hearts with digestible justice, enough sex, a beautiful dress

A cocky mess of a man laid out on his bed

Hoping with our tongues in our cheeks on our letters that may never be read

Billions of words bottled up and thrown into the sea in our heads

Chanting in the street the few not left unsaid;

Our thoughts float like boats down paths marked by high vis wrapped cones,

As our bodies are stoned by those who have lost hope in our dream encrusted boats

But as long as you still float, don’t lose hope,

You could be picked up near the coast when, damaged, filling and sinking almost

You write a letter that lengthens, which floats in a bottle

You swear you will never return home for the fear you will sink to the bottom

Until a gentle wind comes to salvage the broken battered beams of your boat and its holy sail

If someone opened the bottle, they wouldn’t find a letter, inscribed with perfect detail

Instead they would read the words of artists, preaching pastors, farmers, martyrs;

Mothers and fathers of future teachers,

Words of extraordinary seekers of a country for as many speakers and believers

Who are demanding new meters from the drum beaters

Here to become leaders, who are poor feeders & not for the needless because its time to write our sequel,

You don’t have ages, life is just a turning of pages and your fingers will turn them

You are the thinkers and the barbarians that will burn them

It’s simple, this is your time.




Why do people feel powerless in 2019

Is it immigration, Brexit or Harvey Weinstein

Where are the Replicants and Rick Deckard fighting

Drugs, money, careless sex

Instagram and Netflix

Tell me friends, where do you get your kicks

We fight with knives and soon we’ll be back to sticks

Was the 20th century really all for this.


The Art of Work

Pick the fig
Fathom the loss
Reconnect the dots
Push the boat
Ride the current
A slave to nature
Feel the heat
Bathe in the fountain
Feed the litter
Paint the sitter

Cut the fruit
Empower the moment
Gather your family
Focus your presence
Count the gifts
Work in community
Mill the soul
Thankful for good health
Build yourself
Elevate the whole

Plant the seed
Grow the tree
Proceed; reach the next plateau and breath
What is done will be
Look to see
Come and cross the river with me
Earn the progression,
Without practise you will never be free

Win or learn or lose
Head and heart must both decree but will not exist harmoniously
Listen to experience and
Intuition will guide us too eternity

Inspired by The Art of Work by Maynard James Keenan



A Love can feel senseless, uncensored but essentially sensual, salival, moist and obscured from view

Overshadowed by morning hourglasses tapping on the glass, keeping a steady mast, before the blubbering is over fast

Love in the past, shameful body Love, all but the heart, a cheap craft, a dinghy, drift wood, careless fatherhood slides to sound the bell

More Love than I could sell, too many chapters to begin to tell of Love in the mind but a cell for the body, a drug for the sully, mischievous bully

Kicking and singing out Love for a dummy, the stupid and cunning, euphoric and coming again, the Love we spend

Selling and bartering, soaring so suddenly hardening, the shock and ever darkening, pleading, bargaining, marketing the entrance of a Love to a parting; but not lasting long enough to realise the rule of lust that tethers us

To never be Loveless.




Woke up

What day ?


Breakfast ?


Tomorrow ?


Clothed, wool, Cotten, leather


Weather ?


Out, where ?

Bank ? Pay ?


Later ?





Woke up

What day



Clothed, linen, Cotten, leather


Out, where

A break ?


Stimulant ?



Train, walk, voices, footsteps, home, almost, voices, footsteps, stop, fear, voices, footsteps, fear fear fear fear fear



Masked Ball


Your knees are dirty from praying for a flood
Is there food in your beard; music in your ears
White nuts in your hands; your bedroom stinks of sex
They’re for the squirrels
The deep breaths and dirty laundry
Picking blackberries and buying Morley’s
Are you disgusted with life?
Or infatuated with its fragility
Fascinated by the inevitability of its end
Why are you bitter?
I drink too much liquor
I drink too much
I kiss you too much
Or too little, what’s the difference
What’s the reason; you hold the door open for me
It’s none of your business
It’s part of the story, it’s a priori
But you’re not my priority
It wasn’t your christening
He’s your baptism, your fire
Food for thought when you retire
Just food, then thought, or sleep
You just think you think
But you would rather die than do so
Sleeping on your back, watching as the walls get mouldy
It’s raining Amelia, Cecilia, Ophelia
It’s raining
I would rather die than think
That’s why I forgot your name, and your birthday
Our wedding day
It’ll be better in another life
Sleeping on my back, watching as the walls of my pillow fort fall
It should be your church, waiting for the virgin born at a Sunday mass masked ball
She’s your prophet, hanging on the cross
Walking on the river Jordan and standing at the altar
Just to take a picture of your reflection in the water


Lose Yourself

Lose yourself
In the rum of the night
Flaming eyes in tequila drops
Iron sand in salty shots
Run to your mothers
Mothers of runners
Father your yacht is only big enough for one
And the sun, sea and the sky
But they might come in handy
I get so lonely
Asking the walls if it’s alright
Why they can’t sleep at night?
The screaming is terrifying, the dust pointed to me
Through this conduit you may address the jury
In the rooms and the halls
Behind closed doors
Tearing bodies open with my teeth and my claws
When blood comes, the taste of truth is subtle on the tongue
Call your daughter, it’s your mother
Calling for your brother asking for your father
He’s run
Asking for guidance
Asking where to find her

Passed by the poker
Quickened hands of planned chaos
A board, a banker, a stoker and a soul to accompany the flames as they falter
Monopolised now this mayhem revolts her
Father he showed me I can be beautiful
He took of my clothes
He said I made him weep, because I looked like a flower
He gets worried I will lose my petals
Or shrivel up and never look the same again
When he touched me again I was just a stem
He was my petals now
We were paper thin, unfettered fragility
But he tore me open
Now where do I go to hide




Diary extract after visiting the forbidden city


There is a large amount of suffering on show constantly in all the Chinese cities we have visited. It is made more obvious when shockingly contrasted by the western interpretations that dominate the prevalent culture throughout the cities. They are societies orientated to serve the tiny majority of the population who can afford to live with affluence in the face of a supposedly communist one-party state. It is abandonment of their own people to serve an ideal that can never be achieved, particularly with censorship and education gradually being brought to those who will want to make serious change to such a glaring compromise on their own values and people to try and ‘fit in’.

Walking from the forbidden city and seeing men with amputated limbs and scarring burns on their entire bodies, singing pop songs to try and earn sympathy from the swathes of visitors, was truly horrifying. I had no money and was blocked from showing any signs of appreciation for their lives by the language barrier. I could only look on. What I know now is that suffering is measurable on the privilege of the people who walk past those in grating physical and emotional pain, and do nothing. If every visitor who walked from the forbidden city had burns as severe as the men on the street, their suffering would only be measurable via their social position. Just in a glance, the relatable nature of  those around them would give those men enough gratification to know that they still stood together with their fellow citizens. Instead, they are looked on like a rusty bike in the street. The inevitable result of a dysfunctional society. The waste left behind once its task was complete. Within my own mindset, the previous events and future events that I know have happened and that I hope will happen, are mapped on an emotionally subsiding timeline based on my own fluctuating levels of hope and anticipation. To sit on that street and sing for just acknowledgment and empathy into that mic is the action they commit to because the next moment is reliant upon it.

Years of privilege and potential for experimentation with the advantage I’ve been given has made the lapse of time a treadmill that I am constantly trying to speed up and reverse. To really suffer is to cling to the present moment, not because you can, but because you have no other choice. Here the fine line we walk is revealed. Euphoria is only possible in the present moment, when the lapse of time seems to subside and you feel almost invincible. To know true wisdom and the benefits of mindful reflection lies not only in living harmony and solace in the present moment, but suffering also. That way an acceptance of the short, fragile, turbulence of life can be met with a wholesome resilience. A will to embody your life experiences moment by moment and in doing so experience every shining light, and every dark chasm, in the windmills of your mind.