I want to see films of bleak environments like desolate Iceland and harsh Russian tundra.

I want to see films about change and class and discontent.

I want to see more films about space. There aren’t enough.

I want to see films with colour palettes of faded browns, deep turquoises, semolina yellows,
And subtle tones of grey.

I want to see films in different languages, un-subtitled, because they only make sense in their native tongue.

I want to see films that make me uncomfortable,
And angry,
And those that make me think about them for weeks afterwards.

I want to see films that make me see differently,
And ones that show me I’m not alone in my thoughts.

I want to see films with dialogue so natural it’s perfect,
And quiet films … with minutes between lines.

I want to see films with characters I loathe, and then fall in love with.

I want to see my future favourite ever film – but not just yet.

I want to see films that instil in me the urge to make films …

I want to see the film I keep thinking about making, but doesn’t yet exist.

Alix Land

My boy is sleeping safe in bed
Without a tumour in his head.

No hepatitis, septicaemia.
No lymphoma, no leukaemia.

His heart is strong, his breathing sure.
The marrow in his bones is pure.

No ADD, MS, ME,
CF, MD or HIV.

We drove him safely to his school,
And back again. He swam the pool

Untroubled, laughing, loving it.
No seizure, stroke or fatal fit.

No aircraft engine yet has failed.
No train come lethally derailed.

He moves from trampoline to tree
To bicycle, to skate and ski,

Unharmed, unruffled, innocent.
No injury. No accident.

He sleeps. We sleep. Another day
Is passed in ease. We made more hay.

No horror here, no sudden shark.
No plunge into the depthless dark.

No slip from sunshine into sorrow.
But there’s always tomorrow.
Always tomorrow.

Mike Reed

I'm going to write in italics
For the rest of my life.
It helps me put my own
Slant on things.

I worried I was pretty fat,
So I curled up
Small and started a fire.
I was a little lighter.

They told me I needed
To be an advocate for turf.
I felt very forlorn.

I went to the tobacconists.
It was closed,
So no cigar.

You think I'm bad?
Well, the internet's
Doubly selfish.
It's all meme meme
Meme meme meme.

Django Wylie

You know what pisses me off about Draw Something? PEOPLE. Stupid, lazy fucking people.

For those that don’t know (are you serious?), Draw Something is the latest app to make people drop their yoghurt. It’s basically Pictionary without the time limit – hang on a minute. How did they get away with that?! Maybe we should all take a popular board game, remove something fairly unimportant and make an app. It’s the modern day get-rich-quick scheme.

Anyway, back to the people. The fucking people. The people that think it’s ok to draw ‘table’ because ‘dandruff’ is too tricky. Just draw a Head and Shoulders bottle! We could earn 3 coins! I may take it a little too seriously. I tend to avoid (or delete) my best friends if they pick a one coiner, or draw something so ludicrously abstract I waste half an hour crying with rage, frantically pressing the shuffle letters button. They don’t deserve me.

I’m not gonna lie, I’ve become a master at this game. OK, a master of half this game. People come to me to help them guess because of the idiots I’m used to playing. But drawing is in my top 3 weakest skills (my girlfriend can tell you the others). But I try, I really try (go on, ask her). I look at my drawings before I send them and smile. I even draw them in a way that makes it easier to guess quickly so you don’t waste your precious time.

That’s all I ask from fellow players. Fucking DRAW something, don’t waste my time. Be considerate, it’s a team game.

That reminds me, I need to draw Shrek for my shrink.

Lewis Bish

The Hundred and One Dalmatians
Dodie Smith 1956

Pete Lewis

MDNA is Madonna’s twelfth studio album, and the first since 2008’s Hard Candy.

Anticipation has been high for MDNA, particularly after the singer’s widely praised performance at this year’s Super Bowl XLVI half time show, which scored a record audience of 114 million.

Lead single Give Me All Your Luvin’, featuring Nicki Minaj and M.I.A., became Madonna’s record-extending 38th top 10 single in the United States, whilst the music video for latest single Girl Gone Wild, a throwback to the singer’s Erotica days, has been banned on open view on YouTube due to sexually explicit content.

Needless to say, this has all generated a huge amount of publicity for the singer’s latest album. Early reviews of the record were glowing, with Billboard referring to it as ‘sheer brilliance’. So, does it live up to the hype? In short, yes. MDNA is an eclectic album, full of dance tracks practically made for summer, pop songs and reflective ballads.

Whilst perhaps not as strong as earlier albums, such as Ray of Light or Like A Virgin, MDNA is a solid album that reestablishes Madonna alongside her contemporaries.

Highlights include I’m Addicted, I Don’t Give A…, Love Spent and Masterpiece.

James Golunski

At
7ft
tall,
Bernard
was
the
tallest
man
in
the
North
East.
He
would
receive
free
drinks
wherever
he
went.
His
tipple
of
choice
was
“Turbo
Vimto”
an
insidious
blend
of
port
and
blue
WKD.
There
was
a
nasty
brush
with
gout.
Followed
by
an
amputation.




Now
he’s
of
average
height.


John Allison

The heir to the Tippex fortune spent his inheritance on jets, cars, women and parties – it wasn’t long before he’d wiped it out.

John Cherry

1998 – A man waits three minutes for an image to download. Half way through he clicks ‘back’.

2012 – A man waits three minutes for a 10 minute HD video to download halfway through he clicks ‘back’.

John Cherry

What’ll you do once you’ve finally concluded this book? Sigh, slam the thing shut and keep hold of the bookmark? So we’d perhaps optimistically hope... But what did Nick Zammuto do when he’d finally finished with the Books, a project he professes to have “loved” in the belly of the Barbican? Well, he went on to pen another zany opus under his very own “culturally ambiguous” patronymic Zammuto, that’s bloomin’ well what...

“Like most things I do, while I’m setting them up I have absolutely no idea what I’m getting into”, his voice caving in to a jejune chirrup of laughter. Never one to do things by halves, nor indeed by any fraction yet known to the human mind, he’s still learning.

However he concedes to losing his way somewhat following what sounds like a rather inimical breakup: “This record was like a do-or-die situation for me. And I felt as though maybe I should quit because, you know, it’s so hard on my family. But my wife and friends encouraged me 100%. To just go for it; to go and do something new.”

Although not entirely new – the rampaging bass lines of The Way Out slink through the ominous mechanical thunder of F U C-3PO; sample interlude Crabbing recalls the Books’ collagist approach; the self-professed ‘Grammar Stickler’ swoons through Auto-Tune on Too Late To Topologize, a searing denunciation of that dastardly Timbaland track perhaps – yet in scrapping the scraps of sound and opting to gallivant toward this unquanitified “something new”, Zammuto has galvanized his presence to inscribe a comprehensible future.

Dots and Dashes

Dalston Cross Shopping Hall,
Time stopped, our eyes met,
Whilst looting T-Mobile
For brand new handsets.

Your smile stopped my heartbeat,
In burning car light,
(A torched Fiat Punto
Had lit up the night)

Though Clyde to your Bonnie,
You ransacked my heart,
Crime brought us together,
Crime tore us apart

My Angel! My Seraph!
Of Pembury Estate,
Fallen from floor fourteen,
Council flat eight

Your kiss was Lambrini,
Mixed with Mac Lip Gloss,
Your Blackberry message
Alerted the cops

My wing-footed Venus!
My Angel! My Muse!
The law tried to take back
Your new Fila Shoes

Though riot vans chased you,
True love intervened,
I tackled a copper,
To let you run free

But love’s strong arm wilted,
‘Gainst riot batons,
Whilst the Pigs battered me,
You laughed and ran on

I languish in Penton
Ville, send me a sign,
Your Primarni pants, or
A mixtape of Grime

I picture you often,
True queen of my thoughts,
In dreams you kick shop fronts,
Outside JD Sports

Give show that you love me,
Imprisoned, I wait,
I shall send a bouquet,
To Pembury Estate.

Michael Hines

balloonist.







               failed





                                 a




                  He’s



        Farouk.



                 uncle


                      my

                  to

                 that

                      Tell

                        down.

                    come

               must

         up

              goes

                      What

John Allison

is the city where the streets meet the sky in a grey agreement. The fierce love I hold for this city overwhelms me.

The grey sky… to describe it as grey would be acceptable once. The second time it’s an amateur watercolour painted too heavy and layered, a sausage-and-mash of the harshest muddy blue and black, smokey tones that lose definition and blend blend blend until the sky emerges. The buildings like it, I can tell - by the way they their mirrored faces welcome the clouds and rain and reflect the light, inviting them into the traffic. The bright cranes are in direct conflict with the sky - mechanical giraffes gracefully mating across afternoon windows. How many more metaphors can this city take?

Already swelling up to the brim with foreign matter. Already weary with tomorrow, the daily congregation of salmon, filing upstream on escalators. Sardine situations. Close up underground polaroids of fragmented commuters, burnt onto my memory in the harsh tungsten lights.

I want to blend in with the stations and Tesco’s and five a.m. pigeons. It glows, with pride and council housing. Explodes at me with tree blossoms at the start of spring, with embankment glitter on a sunny evening, the air smelling like rough jazz and overwhelming caramel.

I look around and see little bits of love happening. Amazing people you would, but won’t get the chance to, as they’re leaving in a day or in a month or a moment - king-crossing on a slip of parallell universe, a sliver of acknowledgment of an hour in this lifetime that meant more - the comedown. London’s gracious payback for making you so high.


Ola Podgorska

Look at these buildings
these massive temples
with all the facade
and the intricate stonework
and ironmongery.

Maintenance will be required.
and you will be the ones who wipe
the soot and grime off
with raw hands
in the depths of winter.

We will keep you.


These people who live here
These people who live here.
These are people who go jogging at 9am.
These are people who put up signs
like no ball games.

These people have nothing to do
with being hungover on a bus.


May
It’s like waiting for an invisible guillotine
an empty forest
without me in it
to witness
the orchestrated fall

And so,
soundless
your absence
2am will never be the same


I miss you
sometimes
your arms
surpass
my ability
to comprehend
history

Ola Podgorska

Walking the forecourt hands dug in deep breathing black winter air like a firehorse. Glass door split. No petrol for me. Look up gun in my face. Never happen before. No T-I-M-E to think. Push by me and I watch a man on the run. “I only come for Rizla” what to do? I DO NOTHING WRONG. I panic. I run. I do 4 years.

Fourteen years later hand on the pump breathing sweet petrol air like a firehorse. Glass door split. No Rizla for me. No gun in my face. Happen before. Time to T-H-I-N-K. Pay at counter and watch man look at me. “I ONLY COME FOR RIZLA.” Get in my car and turn to my son. “You my firehorse, you never be afraid.” I drive. I cry. He’s 4 years old.

Marky B

Yesterday I found a moth.
Not just a moth. A giant moth.

A moth with wings like lengths of cloth.
Fat and soft as a mossy sloth.
A moth that made me go, ‘Oh, goth!’

It was a really big moth.
It was a behemoth.

Mike Reed

I am arrested,
no, lassoed,
brought-up long
by the sight of
a duck-egg blue
seahorse that’s
gone to extension
school, now racked
and loitering on a
sapling’s cage
outside a restaurant
promising ‘betta pitta’.

On further away inspection,
M. Pony de Mer turns
   out to be a
      camouflage
      giraffe,
      failing to
      find spring
   sustenance in the
trap he has sprung.

Operation Metaphor
sweeps one more
time to discover that
its colleagues in the
Simile Squad should
have been called out,
and now they are left
with a torn plastic
bag and a scene
of no purposeful
plurisignification.

Rishi Dastidar

Sweet, sticky golden rain
forms puddles of goo
on dense, creamy goodness
and drips down to soak
graham cracker crumbs
and quickly disappear
with the quick swipe of
my grateful tongue

Pamela Rudisill

I'D LIKE TO COMMEND
YOUR CATTLE CAR SKILLS -

the bus driver announces
over the loudspeaker,
momentarily excusing us
from pretending
to ignore our fellow
morning commuters,
whose bodies
and possessions
are all pressed against
our own bodies
and possessions.

Elizabeth Dingmann

I’m a hippopotamus
When I’m alone, just I.

But when there’s lots of us
We are hippopotami.

Mike Reed

Door bell.
Shake hands.
Coat off.

Push through.
Kitchen throng.
Warm wine.

Living room.
Background chatter.
Scan round.

Not him.
Not him.
Not him.

Eye contact.
Not you.
Not him.

But you.
Yes you.
And how.

And now.
Glide over.
Small talk.

Bigger claims.
Wider smiles.
Delicate touches.

Guiding hands.
Taxi called.
Coats retrieved.

Threshold crossed.
Eyes closed.
Forever started.

Rishi Dastidar

When she cries, she is forgiven.
When he cries, she believes in his love.
To be described as pure, is bingo.
Until a slip of a thing, she will seek discipline.
As a bride, she vows to breathe her past closed.
As a mother, she will be reborn.

Rebecca Hattersley

It’s too hot.
Everyone is busy
Blaming everyone else.
Saying they’ve tried their best
and done nothing at all.
And now it’s broken.

Denial is beautiful.

Anys Brown

I want to write a novel

I want to tell a long story
paced and moody
heavy in weight
bound by Rosa Parks spine

I want to write a pit bull of a book that
barks

that bites

I want to write a novel

but what
the hell do I know about writing novels?

novels are long
so long

James Dean is easy
James Dean is a shooting star

but Marlon’s gut
gets bigger and bigger
each marriage
a bigger crash than last

a short story can
shoot its girlfriend
shoot heroine

flood its lungs
no Noah to build no Ark

but a novel

a novel loses hair
a novel lives the death of punk
a novel sells butter on TV

I want to write a novel so bad

Celine Song

People on the Piccadilly Line were eating themselves.

At least, that was the rumour. He’d heard that as food had run out, they’d started hacking at their arms like salami – starting with the pinky, working towards the thumb, then up the wrist and beyond the elbow. Everyone giving up one limb if needed. To keep it democratic.

Barbaric. But that was the Piccadilly Line. Their battle with the western section of the District had begun only days after the thuds forced everyone under. He had little experience of both of those lines – a water raid at Finsbury; a revenge skirmish for a rape at Victoria – and was thankful for it. They had once found a young girl who told stories of Gloucester Road platforms covered in corpses piled high as the ceiling. He had somehow managed to convince everyone that they couldn’t just leave her – but soon discovered that she kept everyone not on watch awake with her nightmares. They’d had to ‘lose’ her within a week.

He stubbed the big toe on his right foot suddenly, and repressed the curse. Since the fuel had become scarce, sight had become a luxury. This was a particular problem on ventures towards the end of the line, like this one. These tubes were less-travelled, and in the south, sporadically flooded.

Slowly and carefully, he bent down, reached out and routed around for a second before locating the metal and placing his palm lightly against it. Yes, there it was – easier to detect this time – the hum, separated by small intervals, like a throb.

He straightened. After a pause, he turned and began to make his way back down the tunnel, the way he had come.

In his haste, he tripped and fell against the wall, broke his nose.

Joe Hedinger

Wife – What’s that woman got around her neck?

Husband – Where? What Woman?

Wife – Don’t Stare but there in the the grey to…

Husband – You mean the Hippie with the Beard

Wife – Oh, maybe I do need glasses…

Steve Humber

For a while I spent a few hours waiting for the black car like a child looking for his separated parent out the window on the Saturday morning of their time with them.

I muddied about a bit and tried best as I could to not let the thoughts of the black car interfere with my day and was absolutely unsuccessful.

Instead, I meandered and remembered my first lies and why.

I believe I was 6 and I stole a pen with a clock in it, which at that time was as shiny as the shiniest of things and I wanted it and she had it so I took it and when asked I denied it and then hid it badly. It fell off the top of the Hacker record player on which was also Madness.

I gave it back and for a WEEK was not very popular really.

I thought about the times I have waited at the window for a parent, partner, delivery driver, post person, friend and enemy, but never before a black car and yet here it was drawing noise from the gravel on the drive leading to the place where I imagined it to be for so long.

I walked from the window hurriedly and pretended I hadn’t seen it coming before it could see.

Alex Pilkington

Monmorn.
Monday.
Monnight.

Callum Copley

—Knock knock.
—Who’s there?
—It’s the police.
—It’s the police who?
—It’s the police. I’m afraid there’s been a terrible accident.

Nick Asbury

2000 was the future
when I was a kid.

2000 is a thread count
for my mum.

2000 has a Wikipedia entry.

In 2000 I moved to London.

Gisbourne, New Zealand was the first city to welcome the year 2000.

Kubrick didn’t live to the year 2000.

In the year 2000 the world was supposed to end.

Enigma 2000 has nothing to do
with the above prediction.

United Religions target
date was 2000.

2000 was official year of
culture and peace.

2000 was a leap year.

In 2000 Barbie represented educational excellence and new opportunities for girls.

Sydney hosted the Olympics
in the year 2000.

In 2000 Ken Livingstone becomes the first mayor of London.

Al Gore loses the presidential election in 2000.

I will never live to celebrate my 2000th birthday.

Oksana Valentelis

Benji
Fastest Dog in the West
Joe Camp 1978

Pete Lewis

Airport; A song plays.
It's 'The Green, Green Grass
of Home'...
A Yankee cover.

Adam Brooks

The Adventures of Tintin
Explorers on the Moon
Hergé 1954

Pete Lewis

Think
Why are pigs pink?
Are they of a delicate nature and blush easily,
Or is it just their favourite colour.
I think they are pretty
And I'm sure you'd agree,
They wouldn't look any good in Blue or Khaki.
Pigs are best pink.

Sausage

'Purge' by Sofi Oksanen:

It makes oneself want to do just that, entirely. Well, this was until I realised that purging wasn't in fact the 'art' of sticking one's fingers down one's throat. Who knew? No, it in fact means to 'purify', to 'cleanse'. Same thing, if you ask a slightly bohemian bulimia sufferer. Either way, purge still works for this one, that is, if applied with a loofah and concentrated in the general open-eye area.

Judging this book by it's cover, it wreaks of self loathing and bulimia! And the man in the background obviously isn't sticking around to see which one surfaces first. By the speed on him, my guess is the puke.

Rosie Parker

EXT. GREAT TITCHFIELD ST- DAY

A girl approaches an old lady and a chicken outside a coffee shop.

GIRL

Is that your chicken?

OLD LADY

Yes.

The lady puts the chicken on her shoulder and walks off.

Emily Cussins

Earth tumbles.
Inside his bubble, Spaceman sweats;
remembers his mother. Luna waves goodbye.
And he writhes like a new-born, adorably:
ballet-panics across the stage of the sky.
In the corner, his tin-can ticket -
back to Sunday lunch
and long endless summer,
and the smell of her sweat and “daddy” -
fades, to a dot, and is gone.

Joe Hedinger

‘Cool it’ by Bjorn Lomborg:

There was a story in the papers recently about a teenage boy who dug a tunnel in the sand. When he'd finished digging the tunnel, as any kid digging a tunnel would, he climbed in - only for the sand to collapse on him and leave him trapped without air for 15 minutes. Stupid, dumb kid is the first thing that springs to mind. The second?... stupid, dumb kid.


This could have relevance to the cover. It doesn't. Or does it? It doesn't. If you ask me, global warming doesn't exist - and if it did - what stupid idiots idea was it to write a book about it? Er, Hello... paper is trees Bjorn. Paper is trees!

Rosie Parker

Donuts

Light, bouncy, wheel-like form, soft buttery flesh, tongue-tingling sweetness, speedily morphing from solid-sticky-sponge to warm-liquid-goo, gliding down, throat coated in sugar film. Bringing warmth to the belly, a twinkle to the eyes. Their soft, delicate bodies, resting, dented between thumb and forefinger - a reminder that all the things we love are fragile. Hold them carefully. Savour the love.

Parusha Lewis

Looks young.
Iraq.
Looks old.

John Allison

EXT. PECKHAM - NIGHT

A man runs behind another
man on a bike.

RUNNING MAN

Hey, that's my bike!

BIKE MAN

No, it's my bike. All the
bikes in Peckham are my bikes.

Emily Cussins

Monday - "I want to be more Carlos Tevez than Dimitar Berbatov about this."

Tuesday - "There's too much nebulousnessness about it."

Wednesday - "I've never liked salt and vinegar, and I never understood people that do."

Thursday - "The client wants to know what time it is."

Friday - "I want to live in a commune. In Richmond. With separate kitchens and bathrooms."

Julie Seal

Monday - "Company names should never have a comma in them. Ever. Ever."

Tuesday - "There's not enough gravy in modern media" 

Wednesday - "There are riots in the streets of Athens." "Why? What's going on?" "Probably something to do with rollneck sweaters!" "Hahahahahah."

Thursday - "Oh my god I feel like I'm living in 2009."

Friday - "We are really looking forward to having you in the meeting. But unfortunately we're unable to have you in the meeting."

Julie Seal

Monday - "Erm, so budget cuts. I'm afraid we no longer need you. Sorry."

Tuesday - (nothing overheard)

Wednesday - (nothing overheard)

Thursday - (nothing overheard)

Friday - (nothing overheard)

Julie Seal

I
like
Brian.
Trouble
is,
I
prefer
his
wife.

John Allison

MC = main colour
CC = contrast colour
STS = stitches
K = knit
P = purl

With 4mm needles and DK yarn, cast on MC 24 STS.

Row 1:
MCK all STS.

Row 2:
MCP all STS.

Row 3:
MCK4, CCK1, MCK2, CCK1 repeat.

Row 4:
CCP2, MCP6, repeat.

Row 5:
MCK5, *CCK2, MCK6* repeat from * to * until last 3 STS, CCK2, MCK1.

Row 6:
CCP6, MCP2 repeat.

Row 7:
MCK1,CCK2, MCK1, CCK4 repeat.

Row 8:
CCP5, *MCP2, CCP6* from *to* until last 4 STS, MCP2, CCP1.

Row 9:
CCK1, *MCK2, CCK6* repeat from *to* until last 7 STS, MCK2, CCK5.

Row 10:
MCP2, CCP2, MMP6* repeat from *to* until last 6 STS, CCP2, MCP4.

Repeat rows 3 to 10, 4 more times.

MCK all STS.
MCP all STS.

Cast off. Block and dry.

Sara Noble

Potatoes 2.0

John Allison

Silent winter cloud.
Throwing off your cold blanket
I sleep with one sheet.

Sofie Khachik

A load of fuck all.

John Allison

Monday - "Instead of 'shiny' can we say 'clothy'?"

Tuesday - "I love that we can write the word burger without it seeming sexual."

Wednesday - "Sean Locke has got the most amazing new van."

Thursday - "Can we find a more friendly image of Polyester?"

Friday - "I like to image that holes lead to magical places, not blobs of shit or flesh."

Julie Seal

A big ditch in the desert.

John Allison

Mould

John Allison

Sure as eggs are eggs,
I will be sure to have mine
with sunny sides up.

Sofie Khachik

Monday - "Nooooo, Jenny's allergic to tofu!"

Tuesday - "The narrator isn't an entity." "But he says 'me'...". "That's an omnipresent 'me'".

Wednesday - "Is that a sausage windsurfing?"

Thursday - "The client wants it smaller than this but not as small as the next size down"

Friday - "I had six kittens this morning. One was breach."

Julie Seal

The story was born
On a tarmac lawn
Where six best friends
Spent their summer end

On holiday in Spain
Over the Mediterranean they came
They spoke of their hopes and dreams
And what little it all means

If only we could be childish
Children that can wish
And believe in magic
And never get sick

Then we could live in dreams
Where nothing is as it seems
And everything is what it’s not
And all our troubles forgot

In-between sleeping and waking
Imagination waking
Reality adieu
Ubuntu.

Rebecca Hanson

Iran-Iraq War '80 - '88
1,000,000 dead

Soviet War in Afghanistan '79 - '89
2,000,000 dead

Rwandan Genocide '94
1,000,000 dead

Srebrenica Massacre '95
38,000 dead

Yugoslav War '92 - '95
100,000 dead

East Timorese Genocide '75 - '99
80,000 dead

Eritrean-Ethiopian War '98 - '00
70,000 dead

Angolan Civil War '75 - '02
500,000 dead

Algerian Civil War '92 - '02
200,000 dead

Second Congolese War '98 - '03
5,400,000 dead

Second Sudanese Civil War '83 - '05
2,000,000 dead

Sri-Lankan Civil War '83 - '09
100,000 dead

Darfur Conflict '03 - '10
400,000 dead

Mexican Drug War '06 - present
35,784 dead

Columbian Civil War '64 - present
300,000 dead

Somali Civil War '91 - present
400,000 dead

Falun Gong Genocide '99 - present
162,000 dead

To be continued...

Parusha Lewis

Not a real man!
Not a real man.
You scream and lurch
a bad impression.
2000 pounds!
2000 pounds
of clumsy metal
on a mound of hamstrung meat.
We crushed within our hands:
The last children's entertainer
The last breakfast DJ
The last fat child.

Vivian Allen

Jim Morrison gets drunk.
Jim Morrison gets high.
Jim Morrison gets fat.
Jim Morrison has a bath.

John Allison