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

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.