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

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.


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’


"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.