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

Friday

Friday and the wood is already well slicked with spilled beer
Rocking from heel to toe
Leaning on a stout
I can hear someone talking about a guy I went to school with
My best friend
Trailing off into the toliet
Coked up and wanting more
I can hear the deadly shuffle of drinkers to the bar
And the glasses and serving faces
Rotating
And the backs of the regulars necks
Glow with nostalgia
Of course it’s sweat
I shake my drink so the head comes back
And take a swig
It’s only 4 o’clock.

The Fixing Spot

The Fixing Spot.

Soho’s bricks reek of sex. It sits besides them, mortared and coated in fucking. The old whore houses have turned chain pubs and stand tall in gallant smut. London’s most famous quarter haunted by the ghosts of buggery, in which signs proclaim “this world is rotting, I love you too”.

I’m waiting for the time to pass, for something to occur for a moment to snap me out of my miserable stupor, a blow to the face or to the heart. Interaction is key to this desire and I hold this thought at the fore of my mind as I allow a thousand faces to skip my eye-line. Stuck amongst the motion, a solid face that brick-walls any smiles. I crack teeth on the pavement with my solid stare. A lifetime of city aggravation rushes through my veins and traces spirals in my iris. I move down the street, rushing towards the place where you get it fixed.

I stand in line to be served and quartered, liquidated and redistributed in the coin sodden pockets of investment bankers. Stripped naked and spread tight over billboards, drawn between tube trains that rip the soul from the heart of me – they bring this city to its knees. So I stand in the queue for fixing smiling at the pretty girls who smoulder in the lamplight and risk rotting in the queue. The beautiful are ugly by the time they reach the fixing spot.

I should perhaps explain the rules and customs of the fixing spot if only to give my thoughts some context. The fix comes in different shapes and sizes, but the many varieties are united by a holy quality. The fix will brush the cobwebs from your skeleton for a limited and make tangible some fantasy for a time. Every man has his favourite fix and every woman hers. There are fixes designed for kids, mass market fixes, cult fixes, fair-trade fixes and an endless list of fixes waiting to be wanted. The fix is the wonder of our age.

Lining the high streets and high roads the fixing spots are squeezed and stacked in hectic order. So filled to the brim that the they are forced in front of each other like too many teeth crowding a mouth like a graveyard. The fixing spots fill the pavement with obstructive signs and gaudy colours that make my eyes throb with desire and have transformed these landscapes into poxy sores.

I collect my fix from the fixing spot (the only one I can afford this late in the month) and walk away. I hold it in my pocket kneading it with my fingers. Excitement through my tendons my face contorts in twisted smile, my gleeful nature brings resentful glances from those still searching for their fix still queuing or saving or waiting for the bus to some cheaper area where they can afford to fix themselves.

When my fix is finished I find my self riding the train and stealing glances at pornographic photos of expensive fixes above the heads of other passengers. My eyes drift down to the faces of my fellow hurtling voyagers framed by the small windows of the train, static yet surrounded by cascading metal light and shapes mechanical moans and groans.

Eventually I bore of teasing myself and head home. A small space I keep my trappings in, complete with a blank wall onto which I stare and project my dreams and aspiration. Lay them out in satisfying tetris blocks. I smoke cigarettes until the hours pass and envelope my thoughts in the comfy tunnel of subjective self interest. One day soon I’ll see my own dreams as the thread they are, one day I’ll be so scared shitless of my own insignificance that I’ll gesticulate frantically and cause some pain. Then of course there is death.

I dream of the fix and rotate my memories and dreams through the stage in my mind pausing to let each have its fluctuating moment in the spotlight until I drain it of all use and move on.

The next day I wake to a new idea. Today I will make a change to my routine I will try a new fix. Whether this is my decision is my own or the subconscious regurgitation of a seed planted in my cognitive function by the living advert I inhabit in my waking hours doesn’t bother me, the decision has been made and this makes me happy.

So I stand in the heat looking at the back of an old lady’s neck ripple as waves of sweat roll down her spine thinking about my fix thinking about how she’ll have it before me. Thinking about how easy it would be to push in front of her to steal her place shake my own sweat on her. Then I think only of the fix as my vision blurs I think only of the fix as the forehead itches I shuffle in the queue too scared to take what I want I stand in line and wait my turn I think only of the fix.

I fail to obtain the fix I desire for reason that I will keep to myself at least for the moment. So I stand in a second rate queue waiting for a fix I require but don’t desire and smoke in double pace with the suns heat peeling my skin. Straining my irises to breaking point in attempt to see the place where I will be satisfied but the fixing spot is out of sight.

Again I’m pushed tight and cosy against the backs of strangers again I’m invited to intrude on their space, as we all shuffle inch by inch towards our shared goal in selfish unity, a paradigm of the fixing spot, through our shared taste we are divided, and I hate the hand that receives the fix before me above all else.

I wait. With my heart in my pocket spit dried on my lips the evening wind brings me down to the gutter where I cough city songs and wait my turn think of the fix and stare at the stars. I recognise a man ahead of me in the queue or maybe I don’t. Maybe I recognise the look on his face or the spark in his eye or that eager twitch that brings his hand out of his pocket then back in again. Basking in impatience.

Libertate



the bacon was blue and wrapped in a thoroughly British manner around the
body of christ the copper
the hi-visi warden of suburban sin
he knocked twice requesting sanctuary
hounded by swarming tendons
a feverous mass of inconsistencies that know
this long century has bought his statistics to a halt
dots have been dragged out
run off his anointed clipboard
some lost in continents uprooted by gunfire
others just discarded and proved irrelevant

the warden peered over the pulpit
he found this place to be empty
as holy as a carpark at midnight
kids crackling plastic in their own private ritual
he put this puncture to aside and tried to get on with the day
but it was useless
he was all loaded and enthralled by picking at his scabs
which they told him was ok

‘no pleasure purer than to scratch an itch’

GANGSTER.



"The gangster is the man of the city, with the city's language and knowledge, with it's queer and dishonest skills and its terrible daring, carrying his life in his hands like a placard, like a club." - 'The Gangster as Tragic Hero'. Robert Warshow 1948.

El Topo.

Start chipping away at things and you’ll find nothing but that grey fuzz that inhabits the font of your head aching on a rainy day. Dragging the colour out of the sad pupils who alot themselves but ten minutes an hour to let the light in. In this basement the details have become compacted in the shadows intricate details play about with logic and patterns. Some say a man formed sounds at will with the battering of raw flesh in his mouth. Another claimed he fucked a girl and some time later she burst with blood and out slicked a son. I didn’t believe him, told him it was the milkmans look at the sad look in his eyes that son’s too clever to be one of yours and he hit me around the face buzzed my nose set my mind back a second so I staggered out the bar spitting teeth indignantly at all those fools without the eyes to see my elegance. Drunk again friends? And knee deep in time so thick as sludge or treacle tied about my throat like a heavy tie I’m yet to own. It’s so pathetic to say I don’t want a job, but I like my leisure and words. Can’t I power something by talking? Fuck. People like that word. People like to say it like they smoke a cigarette, with no attention at all.

Rock and Roll and Heroin and other Religions

I met a guy leaning over the bar in The Prince. We were battling elbows for the space to order beer when I noticed it. Inked across his forearm as badly as my own, 'L.A.M.F'. I held by elbow in check, no longer jabbing at his trying to slide it off the bar with the pools of slipped lager.

'Your a Johnny Thunders fan?'

He turns his face to me and retorts in pure yam yam, undiluted black country hills smothering his words with more success than the Saturday night in full swing around us. The words therefore being irrelevent I caught his eye with my finger and led it down to the ankle of my jeans which I rolled up revealing my own dotty green tribute to the crown of junkies the king of new york punk that brooklyn guinea all sneer and doped up calm, Johnny Thunders.

'snap mate'

He says that not me. He sez it rather. He invites me outside for a fag with a flick on the packet that sends a straight poking out. Outside we lean against the old red bricks that once made up a side of the neighbouring building, a poundland with a carpark on top where we did our first attempts at skateboarding, graffiti, spliff rolling and for some fucking. Gone now. They left one wall standing I suppose beacause over the years every brick had been garnished with a name scratched by key or knife. The competition was to get yours highest away from the piss and scratchouts. Some names were lonely from their height clearly attained by two people, one hanging the other by the feet risking life and limb for a local bit of honour. My name was mid way up, I'd stacked chairs and crates. I was glad they had left the wall, it felt too sentimental for developers intent on building appartments next to the local. Fuck it, word was in the right corners and I often wander into right corners, whatever they tried to built would be torched and good riddance. Local hands against gentrification and I'm grinning as he leans in and offer me a lighter for the cigarette.

'yeah mate been a Thunders devotee a long time now, funny actually see I was born to be junkie, old man would like to say I was born to be a rockstar but thats the problem'

He's a chainsmoker and it's never wise to stop the flow of smoke and stories at this point. Kills everything.

'see my old mans a proper old rock and roller says his prayers to Gene Vincent and all that, but he comes from a small town in Scotland where 80% percent of the population are on skag, like proper on it everyday. He never touched my stuff the old man, my old dear well she's a different story way he tells it he had to drag here down here and played her Chuck Berry until her soul was clean, no joke thats the words he uses. Like when I say rock and roll is a religion to the man it ain't a turn of phrase, I've seen the man on his knees praying to a cut out of Elvis.'

He bares his teeth this time. Smiling is such a primal human interaction, showing eating holes it's almost the quintessental human sign of peace, our jaws locked but clear to see. I wonder how it got so that people feel they have to smile when they don't want to, when something so honest got perverted then it comes to me, it happened when everything else happened. At some point, at some point when I wasn't there.

'anyway I raised with the old original rock and rollers as the gods of olympus, there was a guitar in the house but my dad couldn't play and I couldn't be arsed to learn I'd much rather read the books, look at the photos taking in the girls and clothes, mimicking the way they held their fags and swung their limbs. When I was a proper little kid I'd sit at me dads feet listening to these stories about all this old singers like they were parables and you know I was learning and it was alot more interesting than what they taught me at school, there was a sense of danger of mystery my dad never touched but was eager to share with me.'

He takes another cigarette out and throws the empty packet to the ground, he grips the cigarette with authority between his teeth and speaks through the leaking smoke.

'well then I found punk didn't I. And it was everything. It was all the stuff my dad showed me turned up a notch, fuck the skill fuck the passion fuck your parents, this was the shit for me the women, the danger, the threads and the pinnacle of it all it seemed to me, the junk'

'so I left home got bad tats'

slaps his arm.

'wore tight jeans, the same pair for months on end, deliberatley burnt with fags and drenched in spilt whiskey. I chased the ghost of punk. Ended up spending a lot of time in squats, a few stints on the street and taking alot of skag. One night it all got to me. I was holed up in my room fixing, a photo of Richard Hell my only company in the empty room tacked as he was above the fireplace. So by this time I didn't have much right, but I had a load of good gear, china white it was and I thought fuck I'm going to go out in style. I only had one record left, a Thunders tune 'can't put your arms around a memory' so I started fixing up a lethal dose of the china white. Just before I shot It I layed out on the floor, I put sunglasses on. Lit a tab, then played the record. I let the music play for a moment then I got ready to fix'

He actually looks pretty sad, and considering he's standing in front of me talking and just about breathing betweent he creaking of his lungs it actually feels like he's about to describe death to me.

He's out of fags and without the stick to gesture with he suddenly shrinks, that and then serious turn the conversation's taken weighs me and him both to the spot.

'so its all set for my big punk ending. And I stick myself, but just before I push it the record skips,then skips again and screeches to a stop. Suddenly all I can hear is the awful thump techno through the walls from the neighbours mixing with the bad R&B of the girl upstairs and I'm lying their with an unpumped needle hanging out my arm'

he smiles again, this one says I should get it. And suddenly I worry I've been taken on a wild goose chase. Lost in one of those stories that turns out to have two heads and big fuck off hole where it's heart should be.

But he gives me the compliment of making sense.

'so you see I knew then it was all bullshit, all of it bullshit'

chuckles. Cracks his knuckles.

'it's all bullshit. Just music ennit, just music and clothes. Drugs ain't anything. Anyone can take drugs. Thunders weren't great cause of drugs he was great cause he could talk through a fretboard, when Johnny played it was like he was singing'

I agree with his sentiment, although he's stolen the words from Morrissey about Thunders playing that is, the drugs bit is just true.

silence. I ask him if he's carved his name on a brick. He says he hasn't and I give him a foot up and the lend of my leatherman and he scratches JIM into a midway brick the LAMF into the brick adjacent hesitating then adding another line to the bottom of the F. We share a laugh and he buys me a Guiness, The Prince is getting more pricey and they've done the inside out all posh.

Snowball

Snowball

It popped like a snowball on one of the angles of his pretty face
at the top of the stairs at the regular reggae night we've all throbbed at for years
I told him to prop up the flap
and we stumbled down the stairs after the figure
shaking glass from our cuffs and smearing blood on the bannisters and hinges propelling ourselves forward
he got away
some people said too much to the police and we pinched them and coughed near them
some said too little and they didnt even keep the receipt
all i kept saying was it popped like a snowball
you didnt even blink
still pretty now they tied the flap back in place
all riled up and angry sleepless and buzzing
running our fingers through our hair
cracking our knuckles
flicking bitten finger stubs
in a rhythmic march through the days
not seeing him
thinking you see him everywhere
talking redrum in the sunny park
we don't know him
you don't know him
but he swims in the same pond
and things like this just keep on happening around here.

Pissing In The Wind. Election Season.

In the bin behind the supermarket I found my best friends cheek
The freedom and sanity of a talented actor
The moral backbone of an artist
The spacious arteries of our youth
All crushed and mashed
Under the weight of the pound.

Foreshadowing all of this was of course our hope
That they toyed with like a clit
Rising us to a crescendo over hurdles wet with ink
After they came
We were paraded in the media aisle
Defined by our outlines
Corners missed off descriptions
They stuffed us with numbers and factual symbols %
And flung us about like puppets until we all tore at the seams
Our stuffing made their beds soft and comfy
We slept on the see saw tossing and turning
As we dip in and out of shadows.

One Night In Limehouse

It’s 3am in Limehouse. I’m locked in a box of lines on a floor of smoke crashing into a corridor of sniffing static holes. Buzzing my hypersensitive fingers tips off rocking my dilated pupils vast and empty to absorb it all. Locked behind large blue peeling doors. Felt up for metal steel shaped in violence. Its 4am in Limehouse. The only weapon I’m packing is my mind. But that’s my problem. Blocked by the base in the bassline of the middle of the whirling pits spitting snare cracks at the shadows in the alcoves. A few moments return to me its 1am in Limehouse, 6am in Limehouse. What time is it in New York? Or in the eyes of the skeleton with the Berlin haircut. The Bangkok sofas the mirrors smudged in Columbia the international appeal of Amsterdams crystal content. Its 5am in Limehouse and I’m locked in a box of lines on a floor of smoke and sugar. I ejaculate urine golden showers on the metal steel wall. Orgasming as I notices its light outside. I’m all the people cramming the basement by the police station in Limehouse at 2am. Rocking and crashing all my tendons and muscles… tearing all my movements with the contorted clan in the drug ditch. Shadows in the alcoves sweating chemistry and spitting snare cracks like bullets from a mic from a speaker. I’m an MC’s voicebox soaring on base drums. I am alone at midnight in Limehouse…and I am everyone when the morning comes. And as I empty myself onto commuter carriages I realize that I’m no one. That I am you and me and that we are everyone. That I was never in Limehouse at 3am that I arrived at 2am and left with my girlfriend at 1am because she felt ill…. but I was touching Vinyl as the crowd dimmed at 5am and I was a face in the middle of the darkness muttering complaints as I span drum and bass to my distaste. At some point I became the anonymous everyone one night in Limehouse.

Birmingham Arcade.

He said he had the little one over for the weekend. He had argued with the girl he was shagging at the moment and she had fucked off. Stupid bitch was good with the kid as well, what the fuck was he meant to do with a three year old?

He has his way of distracting her all sorted though. He tells Sean as he wipes his card across the CD case gathering the shards of cheng into little mounds breaking them with the edge while he watches the back of his little girls neck bob in front of the television.

He racks up the line and Sean watches him clear it with his nostril no note needed. Good shit man. Sort us two G’s son. Sean takes two small wraps out his pocket and puts them in the wretched man’s hand they rest in the creases of his leather palm the slight coke dusting visible in this cracks on his red skin.

He takes a fold of twenties and tens from the zip pocket of his tracksuit bottoms and counts out a hundred quid. There you go son, a ton he says folding the notes.

He continues to explain his ingenious plan for entertaining his daughter while mashing out another bump. He’d been in the garages at the front of the flats earlier in the week and found an old light pistol. A pink one made of cheap Chinese plastic like you used to use to Time Crisis on when you were a teenager down at the arcades, not one of the ones you got at home, the big ones that you only got on the proper machines. So it was just lying in there rotting with the porn and broken bikes.

He took it in the house cleaned the dirt out of the cracks with a toothbrush. The wire coming out of it was all fucked looked like a rat had been at it but he fixed it up with some parcel tape. He tucked the wire around the TV so that it looked like it was attached to it and taped that down too. Look proper like a home arcade, except it don’t do anything but look. But here comes the part he’s most proud of, the punch line to the joke Sean can see it in his face his gums are drawing back to let it out, his teeth rattling in anticipation.

So I told her to shoot Pakis.

‘BANG! Daddy I got one’

As if the punctuate the point.

She turns and smiles as an Asian News reporter sits on the screen, his face torn back to reveal naked bone from the bullet which has split his smile in two. Who says computer games aren’t educating our kids eh? Terry laughs again and puts his head to his knee where the CD case balances two creamy stripes, Sean watches Terry his head bent over like some religious nutcase speaking into the ground making short work of the two zips, Terry was a cunt and a good customer, they tend to go hand in hand.

Sean finally speaks.

I’ll let myself out, give me a bell Terry always good to see you mate.

He shut the door on the flat and welcomed the cold night shoving his hands in his pockets.


The Day I Went Sane With The Help Of Acid.

I begin my rambling justification the moment I flip over the pillow to avoid the spit, and turn the music on. It coagulates as I try and avoid any awareness of time by keeping the curtains drawn and all the clocks turned over. As my mind wakes up I become slowly aware of myself, of the naked limbs, dried lips of the same face blotched by sleep. My lungs burst with stagnant air, coughing at the morning as if it is some rude opinion uttered in a place of politeness.

I report to myself that I may have woken up insane. So un repulsed and accepting of the gaudy physics that I eye up through the damp and blurry fog of the iris, that I must have twisted my top off and finally come to terms with my condition, with it’s restrictions of perspective and it’s unbreakable position as a floater in the cosmic soup. I reach quickly for the side table, hastily for it is urgent you understand, and take out that stash I’ve kept wrapped fresh in cling film in the small tin, and bosh two acid for breakfast.

As assured I am now that the day is to be obscured and squeezed somewhat that I will function on the autistic spectrum and find gallant fun in some well timed symmetry or comedic gust of wind, I get out of the bed and make coffee.

The coffee brings my body some warmth and awakens my ligaments. The house is empty, empty because I’ve been thrust on living alone, and because I tend to evoke the desire to leave on those who share any communal space with me.

I decide to get naked and make breakfast. I spatter bare chest with burning comets of oil, watching the bacon turn brittle and good. I ate the bacon sandwich standing naked in the middle of my open plan kitchen, in my flat now in Shoreditch and empty because I can afford to be alone.

A peek out the window a pack of straight leg toucans float by on fixed wheel bikes and all the hats and tough edges of the city begin to shimmer, so I must shut the blinds and get straight to the vital task.

I make my way to the sofa. I sit down on it sinking into the pillows and feeling the first body touching euphoria take hold of my skin and begin to pummel me into jelly.

The screens scatters pixels and a face appears upon it, it is a drab early morning new reader someone’s exploded in Westminster the colour of the blood has sent all the MP’s puking into the thames, a shot from a helicopter hovers over the belt of London smudged now with the colour of tax payers money regurgitated by their lawful representatives.

I’m not a taxpayer and the whole country is in ruins, a band of absurdist’s have taken control of the government and intend to impose a new rule once a minute, closing the gap between actions until at least 30% percent of any action is at least 10% illegal.

Next they haven’t got enough body bags, and they’ve been encouraged to smuggle more in disguised as bin bags so as not to provoke unnecessary negative chakra’s in the native population, chakras are very important in this part of the world and so it is vital that this bin bags undergo the their transformation into corpse holders in secret, so the government has taken the move to turn all the lights off for 30 minutes this morning so that the operation can be carried out.

The people of Haiti don’t suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder, a prominent western nodder has declared. But the west is faced with an insurmountable challenge in this department, the images of Haiti’s misfortune have given rise to an inflammation of the condition in the western sphere and so Haiti has rushed to send it’s best witchdoctors and psychoanalysts by banana boat and paper aeroplane west bound, international aid as ever held together by the Haitian zombie core.

I switch off the telly, best not to let it waste all it’s energy I’ve a long life ahead of me and I’ll have need of it yet. By this stage my hands have become blotted in the ink from the paper and I turn it over absorbing yet more wonderfully spun yarns.

The Chinese have been examining the map, and it appears the Feng Shui is all out, according to their latest findings it appears that China’s energy map has been made all F.U.B.A.R, they have however declared that the Chinese people have called for this to be amended, Tibet is to be re-positioned to this end, and the west has thanked China for its continuing commitment to the world’s spiritual and aesthetic harmony.

I eat some toast, the butter making it melt on my tongue like well cooked meat falling off the bone. My eyes are blocked out now, the iris stranded from the connections which make the swerving come to order.

The Zulu’s have bought back circumcision after 200 years, they do it later than most, and you must stand naked in seclusion for a month afterwards to let the demons drop from your bellend, they are vile creatures which if released near the smell of other men can cause aids. The practice is effective, the 80 dead from it testify to this in the late night séances held by market researchers in the employ of the monarch to ensure he is giving his people, ‘what they really want’.

I decide the time has come for me to be clothed again, and so I tumble into my bed where I am sure I left them, as I crawl under the duvet I find the leg of a woman and reach around her, finding to my surprise the breasts and face of a woman, I recall somewhat that last night I may have met this girl whose face seems familiar, she stirs and It becomes imperative that I flee.

I find some clothes that belong to someone in the living room and begin to focus on my hand. My knuckles seem to have gone wrong, I feel a bone thorn pushing it’s way from inside them and quickly search for gloves knowing in my heart of hearts that this is the only viable answer.

The acid has really taken hold of me and I am invigorated with a passion for some song I recall falling in love with before I had girls to waste my energy’s on. So I raid my CD rack tossing albums left and right, ending them with a satisfying splinter, the insolent cases that dare not to contain the song which whispers in my head soon form a funeral pyre and at last I find the arrangement of symbols and colours that reminds me of that melody, needless to say by the time I’ve inserted the CD and the song starts to play I’ve lost myself gazing out the window.

The buildings are encroaching on the sky in a way I find offensive, why do they seek to frame the blueness with that sandy London brick? Why do the chimney’s seek more power through contortions of steel spiking up and articulating into discs that hang begging something of the sky, perhaps to steal some of its magic? Of it’s endless spontaneity and effortless charm and self-confidence?

After an hour or so with silent but flammable discourse with myself on the multiplicity of reasons why the sky has chosen to be favourable today when I most needed it , I discover that my left hand has stumbled upon a large ball of blue tack and is kneading it into a variety of orbs and spheres, I flick one of these out the window and immediately feel guilty, perhaps I should conceal it’s loss from the other’s and especially from her in the bed.

Her in the bed. I decide that it is wise to stay cool and play it down, so I return to bed and kiss her neck, knowing that she’s on to me, and anyway it’s my afternoon and I decide to sleep it off, after all I must keep these secrets to myself, let no one else know of the rocky sea’s for if I was to share this experience, I would surely return to madness?

Clocks and that.

I can’t help but feel that time is an assault on my functions, on my ability to deal with situations. Instead of me learning and progressing and advancing my ability to survive and interact it seems to be chipping away at my sensibilities, leaving chips and notches and knee jerk emotional reactions that have a habit of physically manifesting themselves given sufficient intensity.

If I am nothing more than a collections of reactions that normalize themselves and change according to the tides of culture, then why is it a negative progression formed not out of the opening up of new options of new opportunities, but of the closing off of my senses and the denunciation of my internal desires. I’m nothing but a tight knot getting tighter and friction burning myself apart.

I try to placate the threads with pretty but flawed faces onto whom I project some romantic function, some poetic logic for love these interactions last a few weeks or days before I tire of my own pretence and resentment creeps into my tone and I patronise them from my place of arrogance. And I feel pity in a way that makes me feel guilty, makes me aware of how arrogant I am of how I’ve very rarely hated but often felt embarrassed, disgusted or overwhelmed by how sickening and low the human form can be, and in this I recognise the roots of fascistic thought buried deep underneath a left wing liberal logic a system of control to tame the beast of violent gut reaction from tearing me apart from caring, apart from trying to better anyone’s lot but my own.

And it is the dynamic that is weathered by time, eroded by events the sediments of liberal sentimentality slowed peeled away the rotten core of selfish arrogance creeping into the lights, its urges breaking through the gaps and the momentary lapses draw a new picture on my face one that makes them ask,

‘whats going on inside?’

Why am I changing? As if I should be still an eternal self I should still be hopeful with a childs glee. Should still be as excited by chasing the waft of cunt, that I now know can only lead to another desperate search that comes up empty handed yet find myself imprisoned in someone elses net, my own threads even more tightly knotted and the pull of someone’s else’s threads with their own frustrated tempo doing nothing but breaking through my threads and causing little puffs of smoke to follow me around like dark clouds raining emotional complexity on the still mundane and every day.

Why should I ask at all? And not just take what is left so open and empty? Not bend the will I know will flex, not merely ride the wave of speculation indulge the fear and project myself a new illusion with the incantations I know so well. Not stop hampering my own want for others need? Sometimes I find it hard to tell what I care about, what I feel? What is more than the barks of a trained dog?

I must accept there Is a jump of logic. A gap of understanding between me and others, for if I am right about anything then it is that others are wrong. If they are wrong then someone, some omnipotent class a level above me must see my flaws? My mistakes and misinterpretations, the lazy overcomplicated proofs I use to guide my actions, and which I manage to pass off as solid alibis in the face of bad questions, and blind eyes.

They must see the way I over elaborate fumbling until it becomes almost an art, the way I side step all the emotional questions so charged from the time they’ve been unanswered. The way I wrap myself in a cloud verbs and gesture wildly with bottles and try to paint my life in ink.

I find my own flaws and spread them thin over the streets I walk through, to try and muddy them under well rehearsed narratives that function like adverts for my own, until the subtle beating of my heart is another truth to be uncovered and I feel gaudy under the weight all the things I feel, and so I tell them want they want to hear, better than they knew and all I feel is pity as I spit onto their eyes.