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

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.