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.