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


Bukowski-ing, it’s a verb.

I take my fingers out of the sink hole and let the half chewed steak, rejected chicken and washing up liquid boiled vegetables drift into the palm of my hand, I’m like a fucked up prospector, a dung beetle of some kind, a bottom feeder for sure, but of what calibre? Theres an acute feeling, a tingle in the spine and the balls that you can’t escape when you make your money so intimately acquainted with the leftovers of those no good masticators…
The olympics have long since left my memory, exorcised and told to ‘do one’.  I’ve found a heightened pleasure in the ride home, down the empty wide streets ethereal at just past 2am my only company a compilation of film noir soundtracks, complete with hard talk from the best of them, as I cross the bridge to Brandenburger Tor the horns and piano reach a crescendo and I turn to watch as a lone figure on a bicycle piled high with bags full of pfand shoots past me through the fog in my mind, some time later I see another pfand man, the hero of my early Berlin adventures, Emmanuel (a whole book would not do the man justice) a serious character, carved from the pavement infected with so many 21st century diseases that he could be offered up as the century’s martyr, a modern day Homer no doubt, his genius trapped under layers of tightly knotted eccentricity, I leave a fiver in his pocket and head onwards…powered on by the salford eunuchs dangerous verse…
And this week they finally took Tacheles and I want to smash something, not because tacheles was so worthy of saving, it had become a craftshop, a tourist hole, a shops store mannequin for the squat scene but because no one did shit, no one said anything and I didn’t even know it was gonna happen, the black block pussies who’d rather batter an 18 year old kid and a 60 year old man with pepper spray, were in bed wanking over schiesse linke kultur hip hop, talking about nazis but too fucking prang to ever fight any.   
I was in their manor last night and there was no buzz even fisch was full to the brim with american yuppie crust punks and worse, cunts with long hair and stoner rock t shirts, what used to be a respectable tramps bar is now another crust punk infected scab.  Homogeny, homogeny and rhetoric reigns on the streets and in all parliaments of the world.  Today I’m gonna smash something, for no good reason.

I was looking for a job, then I got a job and heaven knows I’m miserable now.  It happened like this, with no meaning.  I tore down the poster from the kitchen wall, it was  bad poster, bad in many ways, bad in the way that people dress badly and that meals can be badly thrown together.  Once it was in the bin I replaced it with a poster for a tattoo shop called, No Pain No Brain tattoo.  Then I went on Craigslist and applied for a job putting up posters for a club night, some time later once I was drunk and loosing steadily at kicker I got a call from a  guy whose dreadlocks I could hear down the phone line, brushing against his bird like rib cage.  The rendezvous was arranged for 10 am (a force of habit when applying for jobs that goes against my otherwise terrible relationship with mornings).  We met at Henrich Heine Strasse, outside the Kit Kat club, a place open on Sundays between 10 am and 10 am, apparently there is a toilet in the middle and you can fuck anyone you touch.  I get the posters and head back home and realise I have no intention of doing the job.  Fuck it as my mum says, life’s a bitch and then you die, anon.
I try to pass the posters off to other layabouts but no one will take them.  I tuck them under the sofa I sleep on with my girlfriend and hope never to see them again, or even think of them.  I get drunk and sniff speed through a biro while a room of people chant “Machu Pichu”, later we set off a flare on the platform of the station.  Headaches all round.  
My life has been bought to it’s knees by the fever dream of dishwashing, textures, terrible, burnt and sticky.  Mashed potato, hard and crispy at the edges like on my mums shepherd’s pie, a symbol of my happy childhood turned against me, a twisted symbol, an emblem, a fist.  As I watch the African at work new limbs shoot from his torso, with one hand he peels garlic, with another he sprays plates and loads them into the jaws of the steaming machine and with a third and forth he deposits metal dishes into a pile which I clumsily shelf, my finger tips complaining about the heat.  I have not yet mutated like the African, I am bound by human form, his transgressions against god and darwin and the legal working week make him and invaluable part of the economy, a sweat drenched symbol of the protestant work ethic, blood shot eyes and palmers coco butter.  
So the job makes me mad.  My bitten nails burn with bbq sauce, I hate in deep breaths and never stop moving, I lose everything and become a temporary fan of Tom Waits.  My skin rots, the whole squat complains about the smell of my t shirt.  My jeans rub my groin till it’s sore.  I want to cry but have lost track of my tear ducts, I haven’t had the time to maintain my database of orifices.  FUBAR after two weeks.  
One morning while I’m half sleeping my phone rings.  It’s the guy about the posters, he hasn’t seen them around the town, he’s worried and so are the ‘artists’, it’s vital that the night of clicking techno goes ahead without obstruction.  I tell him I resigned at least a week before, I left my note in piss on the wall of an alley in Kreuzberg.  He’s confused, I tell him it’s ok - it’s confusing, trust me I was there when it happened.  He puts the phone down.  Sometime later, the phone rings again, he ask’s me to email someone explaining where and how the posters can be collected.  I roll over and grab my laptop.
I don’t why I do it, but I do.  I paste this poem into the body of the email and click send.

Too much
too little
or not enough
too fat
too thin
or nobody
laughter or
or immaculate
armies running through streets of blood
waving winebottles
bayoneting and fucking virgins
or an old guy in a cheap room
with a photograph of Marilyn Monroe
many old guys in cheap rooms without
any photographs at all
many old women rubbing rosaries
when they'd prefer to be rubbing cocks
there is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it in the slow movements of
the hands of a clock
there is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it blinking in neon signs
in Vegas, in Baltimore, in Munich
there are people so tired
so strafed
so mutilated by love or no
that buying a bargain can of tuna
in a supermarket
is their greatest moment
their greatest victory
we don't need new governments
new revolutions
we don't need new men
new women
we don't need new ways
good Columbian
water pipes
rubbers with corkscrew stems
watches that give you the date
people are not good to each other
one on one.
Marx be damned
the sin is not the totality of certain systems.
Christianity be damned
the sin is not the killing of a God.
people are just not good to each other.
we are afraid
we think that hatred means strength
we think that New York City is the greatest
city in America.
what we need is less brilliance
what we need is less instruction
what we need are less poets
what we need are less Bukowskies
what we need are less Billy Grahams
what we need is more
a typist
more finches
more green-eyed whores who don't eat your heart
like a vitamin pill
we don't think about the terror of one person
aching in one place
unspoken to
watering a plant
being without a telephone that will never
because there isn't one.
more haters than lovers
slices of doom like taffeta
people are not good to each other
people are not good to each other
people are not good to each other
and the beads swing and the clouds cloud
and the dogs piss upon the roses
and the killer beheads the child like taking a bite
out of an ice cream cone
and the ocean comes in and out
in and out
under the direction of a senseless moon
and people are not good to each other.

I forget to put Bukowski’s name on it.  I fall asleep. I wake up to an inbox full of emails, threats, there is talk of a crying intern and conversations with the police, of me being arrested and charged with the heinous crime of being pretentious, of immaturity and poetic theft: of being a fan of the kind of poems that always make me think of the Son Of Sam, of David B’s most poetic line 'don't think that because you haven't heard from me for a while that I went to sleep. No, rather, I am still here. Like a spirit roaming the night. thirsty, hungry, seldom stopping to rest; anxious to please Sam. I love my work. Now, the void has been filled'
I repented, my girlfriend and my friend delivered the posters.  Some monthes later, when I was working in a different restaurant with my fingers deep in rich people’s leftovers, I managed to blag press passes to Berlin Festival by promising to interview popstars.  I didn’t, I got as many free drinks as I could and then went home and slept.  Once again my inbox was flooded, once again I resorted to bukoswki-ing to clear the air.  It’s a wonderful feeling, like wagging school or getting stoned for breakfast or deliberatley being late.