things what I writ

loyalty conversion pause tactic

me 23
me 23 by Tim Caynes

time for a break. ooh. better than I thought. I actually did collaborative teaming without punching anyone and began to understand something. we’re doing it all wrong. we need to do it different. and it starts with whatever we find out tomorrow about how we change everything to make it happen but I know for sure there’s one significant piece missing from where I’m sitting. I’ve got no idea who you are, what you want, how you want it and what I need to do to get it to you. ok, that’s four significant pieces. and there’s probably four more somewhere I’ve just forgotten about because I’ve drunk another bottle of Chantelle and Laurence’s rioja and watched Serenity and I’ve lost the will to remember stuff. I can totally see how altering our evaluation of customer requirements and aligning ourselves behind addressing those needs might move things along that ladder and into our unique zone of loyalty, but I’m not quite sure exactly what I’ll do about it when I get back to my desk on wednesday and have to design a widget for an email campaign that can’t reference external stylesheets or use javascript but I’ll probably think of something. perhaps I’ll just redirect the inbound chats to me and ask somebody directly: what’s your best imaginable supplier going to do to address your needs? go on. tell. me. I. need. to. know. I’ve thought of a couple of things myself, but really, I just made them up. blimey, that’s a big spreadsheet. Andy?

off message off radar

copywriters ban headlines in self-depreciation overload. social obscurity for the tagless. man discovers self, world proclaims genius, nothing happens. ban this link hell insists twitcher. dolt blasts banality, refuses license. basket welder delivers pig to a horse. I recognize you. purple Ford Fiesta.

savaged by the otter of me too you stand at the lip of backslap, peering into the slackness, and you’re plucked breathless back to the upstairs bathroom, watching drivel collapse under it’s own weight and slither down the drain of man-mental. close. and now you’re logged on, finish that presentation on end-to-end flows. idiot.

tubeway army pencil sharpener

window 4
window 4 by Tim Caynes

trolling under the cavities of entropy was our saturday afternoon pastime. 3 hours cradling nescafe in fingerless gloves and lumberjack shirts you are to me the antithesis of life and death and the magic of my own experiences that you can not possibly fathom. surrounded by each other we were passing though arrogance by not saying anything to anybody and our light was not so much hidden but willfully pointing inward if you can’t work me out you need to take a look at my shoes they came from london you know you see right anyway whatever. after that we’d go up to jarrolds and get our 2 for the price of one, enigmatic to fault under the rouched ceilings flicking scones across the table when ladies our mum’s age weren’t looking. we never got thrown out. still polite.

don’t look at me. I’m not what you think I am. in 25 years I’ll be installing photo printer drivers but I don’t know that yet. all I have is everything you’ll never have. I’m walking home alone through graffiti tunnel but is that now or then. the same floorboard creaks in the same place, but now it’s me not waking them up which it was but the other way around except I’d crashed the mini and thought I should probably tell them if they do the same I’ll probably do the same. I won’t be awake, but I’ll be alive which they won’t be. denied.

I misspelled an email alias today. is that how you spell misspelled? that looks wrong. I’ve got buckle boots. I’m playing bomb jack. never made it.

lighter but stronger

tattoo 1
tattoo 1 by Tim Caynes

through the smoke of distributed publishing frameworks emerges an inline style. it wasn’t me guv. honest. well, ok, it was. you try sticking it in an edm and see how it flies. don’t get me started on portals. there’s one sheet. it’s over there. if you just made a copy of it and put it over there, then, well, I can’t help you, and by the way, I did mention this is an edm, so even if you put it over there is matters not a weasel’s chuff. and while we’re on the subject, I know that you are intimately connected to everything and are the lord god almighty of stuff but in this case it’s mine. hands off.

in my mind I project the issues off the axis and drop them, mindbomb-like, onto spurious experiences, and I’m imagining we protract ourselves by a single abstract definition only to find that I won’t work in Germany. or in an email. so at the moment where I realise there is no Island, I’m already climbing out to the desert to seek my clone, only to find that he’s altered the background class attributes and I’m now fabulous, instead of offset by 4. which is nice. except I have to kill him, etc.

get em out by Friday. I told the board we’d be able to transport humans through this before the end of January and I’ve just updated the mockup. things to note: I changed everything. imagine that. hang on. I’ve been sympathetically and tastefully modernised. my traditional interior has been transformed into a green monkey sanctuary which is approached by a spangle {color:orange}

bono platitude attack crampon

container 5
container 1 by Tim Caynes

there is life in that body, you’re just not using it. you can walk the length of this street and not trip over a sponge but behind you there is a contrail of wheelbarrows collecting pointlessness and dumping it in the allotment of middle age. really, I would, but you don’t know that. as for that one who precedes herself, there is surely a slabbering hoard of shed dwellers trotting shuffle-clad to peggy lee and assessing her age by how many times they think about it today, hopelessly treading the life mud of clack magnets through the polished hallways of sky sports, their tip tap tip tap on the brylcreemed keyboard of beelzebub sending clag missles to their watery island caravans.

today I shall forego a punishment in order to visit the post office. while I am there I will shuffle behind a see-through woman buying one second-class stamp and smile witheringly at somebody who treads on my foot reaching for the manilla envelopes. I’ll push my package through a grinder and they’ll tell they’re not packages but enormous letters which cost four times as much and I’ll nod and wither and shuffle back to the car while an asbo from mildenhall stumbles out of somerfield with a banana and twenty lights straight into the betting shop. not really. but anyway, it will be thirty minutes of my life that I might as well just have given to charity or something, which, if you work it out by the hour, is about ten quid, or what I’ll spend in the post office.

I bet you’re thinking the grand prix stuff was funny but this is just stupid.

yeah so rubbish whatever

look at that. blimey. you don’t expect me to really remember because its too late now and you would be lucky anyway. I just about pulled my finger from the wall socket when the birds started wailing at the window and I had to sweep them off with a broom. it was still dark but then it is now all the time and just look at that its a good job I’m not recycling. today everything is labelled happy twee and so I’m waking up slowly thankyou I probably shouldn’t have looked at that but as its at the end of list its sticking out like some broken appendage and I’m expecting some uncomfortable treatment because I did it before and they do it all the time so why couldn’t I etc. but you see its more complicated I know you do it all night but where is everybody else in the house? you see here we’re still extracting trumpets from wall cavities and posting factors on the wall of doubt until the whole thing collapses under its own weight and we prostrate ourselves at the altar of Trevor Eve.

WHEN: too late.

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