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Monthly Archives: February 2009

ace hag kiddo

ace hag kiddo

hag

they tried to make me go to rehab and i had to go, go go,  i have had a strange two weeks, on killer killers, running the streets, the squats, the dirty rooms down town, behind the backs of the back handed, the deals,the breakdowns, the smack, oh that fucking smack, in the bath on the floor, its hyper reality, its all going down till you’re down and they don’t want to see your pale face your frail frame, your pins, your choke, your drool, your voice ever again. i had to run, and run i have to where and what, i don’t know, its throttle its wrap is so searingly sad seductive, my sweet prince, he lets me go then comes back again. one more try, just one more attempt at the cleansing, god willing it will all go well, if not, well just let me burn slowly smiling in hell

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sjhar

where are the vicious when we need them, not hiding under the door, on the other end of the line, the lack of sunshine in their eyes, their memories resume only after a couple of days. we’re like that aren’t we, us locals from lands scattered, lands seared, crisped burnt by their crap, our crap, an incessant need for greed. this bitterness perhaps its only available in rain. perchance in mist, but better in the one dimensional, this passage of writings this dreary, afternoon, shower, the way you can see behind the trees, behind the sleaze. oh m death shall come from my companions. i don’t know how long a human can last without food, but i know with drink, its pretty short. maybe a couple of hours. i’m sitting by the window, wrapped up in wool, whilst those demonic gnomes wait. wait to create a breath of reality. its boring here, yes, i’ll be honest. got back, left, came back. the city was madness this weekend, between lines of ecstcacy, coke, speed, just no smack. not htis weekend. i promised myself, she must come right, when the mothers wound is healed all is allowed and it was headed and the angels smiled and i was steered a little further away from complete present wound.  now the most perplexing, the agreement, the tacit, longing, rather than you should be angry, i say to myself, hold yourself as accountable as possible, prating with the world, against this sacrificial oxymoron of sense. i delight in sparing him, her, and they. whitle lights effect, my own success, the mattress, the chill outside there, neither i ate nor slept less, in my youth, in my virtue, now alas agone, i fear, the pursuit. i see them all around me on this one. pursuing out of boredom, out of guilt, out of filling up the time, the only reason, i guess i understand. i can’t stand the rain, i wish i ccould tear pages out of this journal, i wish i could tear the passion, make it unavailable, make it cease. you saw her turn your back on you. yeah, don’t they all at some point, even your closest. its hard to hold your most dear. its hard that fear, i repeat. trust to memory, strange influence, strange bar, strange is perhaps not as delightful as previously thought. i amn not well, oh well thats if anyone gives a fuck is quote from byron, so simple, just like the problem but never the solution, yes? no never my friends

debacle of the covers

debacle of the covers

 

i’ve been up all night but feeling AAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLLRight, though left wing stub in hurting bakc, thrwoing the dice back into his eyes must have put a right rank smile on his face. the morning is beautiful, the scar on the stomache gold and the mind feels fresh, feels bold. i’m going into the city today, got lots to do, lots to do little girl, get those wares sold, go sale those wares, for all your former i don’t cares; big story expected in the weekender on this little pop tart scented heart. little beet scared about it to tell ya the truth, i read it very late at night, cleared and crafted, written by the might pen of mr worsdale, but presss on motherfucker, press on gogo girl. i had no smokes last night but helped a scarab roll over his little body puffing as he gained breath back into those black winged beasts that fly around the outside light. 2 days clean but robbery is on the cards tonight, the criminal mind and artists are alike? no, yes my dear, i read it this m orning after no sleep just sweat, i’m an obdurated old bastard i tell you. man to land are on at burn, so taking a taxi down that side of the durban city, meet the boys, light up a couple, swing back a few, ya know ya know what i’m sayijng? so if i don’t harakiri myself before the end of the weekend these long weekends of mine, i tell you about it on the morrows, ethics and aesthetics are inddeed not the same, out ta hear

pocket change

pocket change

you know you miss her, you miss her picture

So its been a while since I’ve been able to commit words to paper or whatever this strange format is that sees me typing onto a screen, but the real live journal is always updated and one day it shall see itself in a format of old, called a book, where one can lie in bed at night, restless for the obscure visions that appear in the darkness of eyes that are resting. It’s been 10 days of sadness. What’s new? The truth is is that I am not a  just like the sadf at a DA ‘rally’. anyhoooo     a sad person no, I am not… Something happened thing jus happin  along the way though. The great gloom seeped in. I got tired My mother collapsed in the bathroom about 3 weeks ago. I found her thank god, yes you you cunt, me i did thanking you thankingme ; I had decided to make my ed up self back to my parent’s house that night. That night I was at the cocoons with cat, watching comedy and snorting whatever we could hustle. And we’re damn good at the hustle. But by midnight some strange compelling thrust made me leave that dirty chair, climb in my brother’s car and make the journey into the hills. My father was asleep. He doesn’t drink, not a sinner,  but had had one glass of red wine which caused a deep slumber and my mom in her selfless manner had crept to the guest bathroom to expel whatever was aching her without waking him. It was here where I found her. A shriveled up 45 kg woman, the woman who I would take my own life for, the woman who knows my secrets, the woman who can’t understand my self hatred, the woman who love me as if I was god herself, and maybe kids i am, who fuckin knowsor gives a fuc when i could be lakshmi in disuise/disgust. skmshed her to the hospital that night, Westville hospital, a ridiculously priced establishment that doesn’t offer you a cuppa tea, without slitting your throat. We had no money to pay the 2500 a day charge, but dear, dear friends of mine, came to our aid,  but the pain in her stomach grew more intense. our little family is having a hard time as are many i guess, my father can’t sell his wares; my mom has had no choice but to look on the bright side, as is her nature which gnerally pays for  nothin Me, well I have films to make and books to write. i problems. So we finally find out that my mom’s problem is cancer. That word, though most of you reading this will have heard it before in your family. Its part of our bodies, its life, we grow it, we tend it, and then we spend a fortune trying to rid ourselves of it. My mom found herself at greys hospital in pietermaritzburg, a provincial hospital where the toilets stink of piss, and even as I cut my lines of smack on the cistern cover was stuck in the rather bizarre situation of trying to block my nose from the rank and snorting  in  my relief at the same time. The point other than the demise of my goddess, my beautiful, liberal, kind, generous, and no I am not exaggerating, for my mother, for all who really know her, who are few, as she suffers from reclusive ness, an infliction I think I share myself which is why I participate so fondly with the narcs, in order to ingratiate myself with . Nodding off at my mom’s hospital bed, being escorted out of her room, having my dad take photos of me whilst I’m slurring my way thorough another boring fucking story I’m telling him about frogs under my bed, whilst he’s driving, finding me passed out on the stairs outside their house, with a cigarette burning on my throat, but too fucked to notice. Pawning my video camera and laptop, ok admittedly the money was to help with my mom’s hospital bills, but I did wrangle R700 to get me through the next day. It’s all so bleak. Today I woke up and thought fuck it, I’m going to the doctor I have no money, but he’ll just have to wait till till the end of the month, like my accountant and all the rest of the Samaritans that have helped, and I’m going to get a prescription for subutex, and I’m going to sell what ever else I can and I’m going to buy this outlandishly expensive cure for my even more outrageous habit and I’m going to try and get clean again. Because believe me my friends, when your own parents are begging you, especially your sick mom In her government hospital bed saying’ please Claire, I hate seeing you like this, I’m going to be fine, don’t do this to yourself. I want the Claire I know back.’ It breaks your fucking black heart, whatever I have left of it. And what happens, I get to my doctor and they’re closed for renovations until next week. With the new rulings in s.a because of the abuse of subutex, if you give a fuck you can read about it on the internet how for instance in France its becoming on of the most abused drugs and being sold on the ‘black’ market) anyway chemists are being incredibly vigilant in their dispensing there of, especially when you have new c=scripts from other gp’s) I don’t quite know why I am offloading all this and I’m sure by now you’re pretty bored, frustrated and angry with me, thinking why can’t she just get it together. The thing is I can. I’ve always been pro- choice when it comes to drugs. I hate the way a person’s drug use is used very conveniently when it comes to funding, support or whatever the situation is where someone is basically trying to fuck you over. I think I just want to state for my own personal record, the messed up events in shorted form least I forget, if I live past next week. Because to surmise, 1. I need a script to get subutex so I don’t have to go through withdrawals and I can finally stop this preposterous (how upper crust) cycle I find myself back in. 2. I need R20 000.00 to get this next short film off the page and onto the screen, script etc all is done, and the response from the locals has been overwhelming, there are obviously a lot of people in this town that want to see Durban as it really is from a certain cretinous level, this ensures, kids working on the project get paid and so do the drug dealers in order to use their territory (only for this reason promise) 3. please, even though I have lost any faith in a god of any form, shape or ideal, I ask you to ask your guy/gal to look after my beloved mother and 4. what good is a blog if you can’t be honest? I open myself and my stories to you in the hope that someone out there feels the same and that knowledge makes pulling the trigger, overloading the syringe or jumping out of the roma that much less a feasible option. Peace / power/ Claire angelique

 

my mom came back home this morning, my emaciated kimono drgaon, i’m glad she’s home, i’m glad if found the coolest book shop in the world, i’ m glad i’ m about to go to sleep i guess i i’m just glad, what a fleeting feeling