This is like an online notebook, this stuff is not finished or often even started properly.

Merry Christmas

Hidden in curves of fabric that make them contorted fixtures of violence.  Screw faces on a Christmas night chanting old anglo saxons anthems and stamping there feet in harmony.  Standing at the urinal and talking about your hair and you hum to yourself in articulate self righteous murmurs that make you laugh as they pile into the cubicle imagining that your another person in another world, not swiping numbness particles off the creamy surfaces the same as them, not facing the day with the same dogged determination to stay stoned, the back of the classroom still sits there spitting at the broken mirror of random factors and christmas pours on despite them.  

Sean

Sean was born on Christmas morning. He was big and early and tore his mum up in the process. She was given stitches and told no penetrative sex for a month. She was a devout catholic and rejoiced for the first week with her little jesus.

Sean's Dad was a drunk and liked to come home in the early hours and fuck his wife angrily and clumsily in the dark. He let his balls hang boiling for seven nights, before returning home in a whiskey rage forcing her down with open palm slaps to stop her crying and burst the stitches with the violent stabbing of his cock as each stitch burst the bedsheet became wetter with crimson and Sean bounced on the edge of the bed to rhythm of his Father's sex, crying as he came.

Seans father rolled off and wiped his bloodied hand on his week old son's still soft head, he left that night and never came back. Sean's mother rejoiced less and left the house rarely. Sean never knew where his father was, or why his mother flinched when he held her eye, only that he was born on Christmas just like Jesus and that made him special somehow.




Sean tried to tell himself he wasn't bitter, when he made those comments about her and people asked him,

"still bitter?"

He would say no he just enjoyed the sensation of harsh words on his tongue. He told himself he wasnt bitter when he sat alone and almost sent her texts, some desperate, some disgusting, some drunk and dirty. He told himself he wasn't bitter when he tried to force her black bob mask on every girl he saw and masturbated to her however hard he tried not to, however guilty low and empty it made him feel. He remembered how he told his mates,

"she fucked like a demon"

And told himself he wasn't bitter, just lonely and angry as usual.

Sean told himself he wasn't bitter because he was alway out and always smiling and always feeling himself with free drinks. Sean was funny and people liked the way he said things. He had a sharp tongue and positioned himself above the socialising masses with ha ha moments and tales of all he'd seen and done, embellished with the glaze of good timing and the structure of a good story.

Sean wasn't bitter cause he got laid alot with different girls. That's what your meant to do when your young and good at getting people to look at you and stay staring, and it's what he wanted when he was with her anyway. Sean liked sex alot, like most happy people and rejoiced in his own filthy theories about how to predict a cunt's appearance by her fingers and her teeth, and how from licking out you can tell a girls diet.

Sean told himself he wasn't bitter and that he didn't hate the girls he fucked. They are more than notches, more than something to soothe the tension in his heart. To distract from the way the tension has more pull the longer he continues breathing, the way it makes him tap his foot and speak too fast the way it blesses him with black out moments of sweeping rage that takes over his torso and can only be exorcised by by the swift contracting of his arms and the abuse of his knuckles, the middle one swollen from this practice and the little one sunken and hanging back behind the rest.

Today.

Today.

Today I had some time to waste, and I saw you. You thought that I was the flab of the city hanging out of place at the junction of two streets. But I knew you were excess, that you were one clinging to narratives too scared to find your own. That you were one of the bulimic absorbers of culture vomitting into textbooks. That you were leading the search for programmed wisdom running with ordaned soothsayers after glimmering plans.

And it was at this moment that I thought of the last day of the squat. When the Lativian street kid turned to me, his companion sniffed up on meth and breaking apart the walls and plaster, searching with a hammer in torn up floor boards for some hallucinated treasure, and said "why shouldn't I believe such a shiny shiny plan" and picked up a hammer too.

Here I saw you and you looked like my friend or at least temporarily your wallet weighed the same. You were reading judgements from a castle built on speculation and you were all that someone holds dear, but nothing of importance.

You were a god wasting time wanking. You were gorgeous, yet ruined by your looks. You were hopeful of a future to be delivered in the post. You were ever present in history but always living out of context. You were the victor making all the nursey rhymes paste to billboards. You were a consumer with your finger on the shop alarm. You were a stranger listing un named enemies in groups and painting my world a nightmare with thick vague sweeps of a heriditary brush.

And you were part of me aswell, you are the lover into whom I pumped all my best lies. You are the reason I have no desire to visit the moon, but wander drunk through full up streets. You are the reason I write and know I will fail. You are the reason I am happy even when its sad and you are just a fucking monkey playing with it's thumbs.

Straight Down. Straight Down.

Straight Down, Straight Down

 

My emotions are disordered and at the whim of the seasons; a cloud of storms, a storm of clouds.  I lay them bare, naked on the pavement as my head nestles in the curb.  Spinning sirens, there’s been a fight. I’m the out-of-focus figure in the background convulsing as I cough city songs into my concrete pillow. 

 

It always ends like this, I run till I fall to the floor.  It’s easier from down here; the faces seem friendly and somehow I’m free.  No pressure, comatose and horizontal. The taste of puke in my mouth doesn’t bother me, none of it fucking bothers me.  I’ll roll down the street in my own filth, being kicked by empty accidentally-bearded men whose cheap quid shop trainers mean I feel their old bones against my ribs as they swing drunken roll over toe pokes. I’ve lost all interest and thrown my responsibility away. I’ll hide in confused chaos, and fuck anyone who tries to find me. 

 

I hang my tongue out and taste the poisoned rain, quench myself on the tears of broken housewives, clean myself in the phlegm of disapproving citizens, spitting in the face of fools as a source of nutrition. I barf in anger and vomit maliciously on the walls of violent abrasive cement churches, I write my name in piss and scream my head off in the graveyard.  The synthesised taste of cheap stolen supermarket scotch is dear to me and I collect spliff ends off the floor where the teens smoke, outside the pub where I lost myself.

 

In a home somewhere a lonely bed sits patiently, waiting for me to snap out of it, to be a man, and sort my life out. Let them sort their lives out, better still let them sort mine out, I know where I’m going; straight down, straight down. This is a rant and one I live with the conviction of a vicar. 

 

There was a time when things held importance, when I aspired to blah blah blah, when my veins ran young and rushed round my heart in anticipation of the future. A time when I listened to what people said, and even pretended to care.  But the truth was I always clung to the ladder with a weak grip and the more steps appeared the more I wanted to let go.  I’d break my back to feel again.  But now it’s all speeding; standing is a chore and breathing a luxury. I fold the pain and cramps under more consumption. I’m a hole. Stuff me till I’m gorged, till I burst, too selfish for suicide, too cowardly for revolt. I’m thoroughly unimportant, a public drowning. I’ve lived in the shadows, at least let me die in the spotlight.

 

This street is a line and we’re all shapes merging and morphing, fighting and fucking, a developing grotesque sketch like the pencil-drawn narratives and biro fantasies that adorned my school books, in the days when I knew some things, when some things went unchallenged. Here even time is compressed at my whim: 10 cans of cider and watch the day fly, too lazy for consistency even my character is liquid. I haven’t the memory required for a personality, I haven’t even gathered any stories or trinkets from the road, except scars and bruises which run so deep I’d rather stab you then crack a smile, crack my teeth, crack this crack till I crack.

A battered form of man challenging gravity to a duel in a midnight beating;

 

“starving hysterical naked”

 

I let the years ferment, long ago I lost the ties that hold my emotions in check. Bleeding, shattered I crumble under the bent green chipping metal of a bustop. I stare at myself with utter contempt, but the fluctuating chaos of my indifferent indecisive cold rotating thoughts quickly suppress any attempt at self-analysis.  Like the Elephant Man I scream at my own reflection, half caught in the windscreens and eyes of those in transit, people with somewhere to go, somewhere to be. 

 

I used to ride the bus and gaze at the montage of landscapes and moments; the circular routes were best, like a sundial the city rotates and each passing of the same point heralds a different perspective, a new tableau of urban living.  To ride the bus was a pleasure, another escape from the involvement required to commit a proper life, another place outside of it. 

 

At some point on the bus I realised I was dead, and that I had been for a long time.  I was a rotting corpse rolling round the back seats of the bus, sat straight from rigor mortis, a smile torn like a scar through my cheeks. It was when I turned my focus inside the bus that the pain really ached.  Without the divide of the window I saw it clearly, under a clinical light.  At first I laughed as pawns piled into the seats their pockets stuffed with tokens, rushing home to store them under mattress, where they grow cellulite and saggy breasts, loose teeth and hair to stress and bosses and with their last dying gasps extinguish the fragile flame of youth still flickering in their children’s eyes by recounting in bedtime stories, parables, tastes and values, dreams and shopping lists and insecurities. The dogmatic lie that slowly kills them on the school run, until your children are skeletons and demons, blood-sucking corpses re-animated by the black magic midnight voodoo of late free-market capitalism. It’s a dog eat dog world and we’re all dead men walking.

 

It made me vomit, a burning enveloping sensation that started in my head and spread through my body until I found myself standing on a bench in the centre of town bursting my lungs for someone to listen over the growing rumble of a suicide in motion. My broken urban patois made them ignore me, and my years under thumb made me irrelevant. My fists grew angry and I bounced from month to month from cell to cell, from pipe to pipe, from rock to rock until I stopped even muttering my thoughts.

 

 What use was it?  I am a madman ranting in a foreign tongue, coughing up chunks of blood in public. I’m essentially rude, the impolite excess flab of society forced to play the same character night after night naked on this public stage.  But fuck it I’m more intelligent that all you cunts. I know where I’m going straight down, straight down. 

 

 

  

K. Hole.

K hole.

 

I can’t remember if I’m in Birmingham or London. If I’m standing up conscious or slipping on the heavy steps of my old stone house.  My face is cold to the floor, my eyes baked and curdled in the hard light of the kitchen.  I must be lying down, but I can’t orientate myself. I panic momentarily feeling that I am pushed tight against an unimaginably large block of concrete.  This feeling passes and the sickness returns dragging me deep into the whirling pits.

I’m exceptionally aware of the liquids throbbing around my body and I become intensely scared that my veins may burst open at any moment and blood and valuable white cells may be ejected over the pristine rotating lino. I ghost sense a million small mouths gnawing there way from inside me teething on my flesh. Cannibalistic larvae ready to escape to puke out my insides, deflating me. Seeping like a popped blister slicking the suburban kitchen (yet to be paid for) in salty liquid, my skin will be baggy and my face misshapen as my skeleton rolls out and lies naked in the gore.

The panic is causing my teeth to chatter and my eyes to spin, all I can muster is sweat and what feels like tears dripping down my cheeks.  But even this scares me, what if I am to drown in my own sweat? Stuck to the ground and sobbing out of irises stretched large to fill my desperate eyes. 

Where are my friends? Where are my lovers, parents and relatives?

Why am I stiff and horizontal? Where has my intuitive command of my own self gone?

Years of conditioning and trained reactions muscle memory has been splurged on this smudged head rush. One nosespike and I’m all up and over. Lethargically flailing in a contorted pose of static.

I can see an old companion making out of focus movements and projecting smoke across the air above me. My fag urge clicks my fingers and lungs into unity and the habitual memory guides me back into reality one puff at a time, the straight drags me back into the now, and as my vision returns I focus on the cracked mirror at the centre of this party the ugly truth that given two minutes makes me accept another nosepike as it’s offered. Regretamine.