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Monthly Archives: March 2010

What weekends hold are more day break outs, filmed the wrong way round, rough seas, labial interchanges to take up the long drive from the bluff, a bull mounted on a giant lilo filled with hot air the way my veins feel, this yukky damn taste in the mouth that beer nor merlot, nor dave and benny’s generous offer of a polystyrene cup of crackling will remove,

I steal a bottle of good old brown sherry devour it at some toilet at the engen on the corner of the esplanande, in between hits of muck and lumps on wrists and all the signs are there, the energy is at its lowest and the dawn that fucking bitch comes far too quickly.

This film is fucked I say it again fucked, its hand to mouth, mouth to tooth  tooth to nail to nailed to nailed it that feeling just won’t come, and the andrenal shots to the heart to write this lenient padlocked feeling is making me break out oh continuous day – pink tablets do not work, nor white ones, nor toffee liquids in toffee bottles prescribed by toffee tossers and those dreams last night found me wandering his house again, when do I get the chance to visit I ask, when do we fuck the whole world over in our own remorseful joyous way,  they say may, may oh may, what day of may may I ask, another lie, more lice more dreams, more people from the scenes passing on, more him holding my hand admiring the scars, showing me his this disgusting melodrama we’ve conconcted separately and it takes three words he writes me three little words, lest you forget. He wrote them last week he wrote them I know not why.

But fuck him, I will try.

Well I will tell you something mister, miser of my past kingdowm, you have all but ruined me like you ruined her and alan could not understand why we were fucking everyone over, he looked me in the eye and said you are being carried away Claire, carried away at will and I am sorry but I can’t come with you….but more telling nor do I want to. You see they’ll n ever know what we shared in Shoreditch in the ditch I’m sure, they’ll never know how hard his fingers felt, how he mocked me and told me I was out of my ‘cotton picking mind’. Dropping the soap in an empty bath, shooting me up and staining my shirt. No they’ll never know till they find out.

But who cares, I laugh, who really cares, when the city streets are lined with sweat and proposition and though a thousand miles away they beckon me, I know I’m there. Its not easy to forget your past forever. But it is just for today. And though blue lines are hardening, skin is tightening and my wound now flaunts himself in paris, I take to the backroads, the harbour, the bottle the strangled neck to see if there is one last flight in sight.   Soemtimes it only costs a couple of g’s.

Insperatus clarity….body and mind for 3 seconds applaud the deep electricity that can ooze out of a few items pawned, a few more untruths redone, packaged up in bright new shiny paper, heres your present back and thank you very much. The gale nearly killed us all, the momentary confusion of dirty and litter and trains and planes to nowhere and back and I find myself at the wheel driving us back to the hills.

We have plenty of attack left its just not for us to use, I lie here sordid and tired, slothick steam and tangled bedsheets, the birds are driving me nuts, so are the dogs, so is the day, so another photograph to be taken, antoher tooth to be chipped, another coffee spilt on the floor, another letter another word, another reasoning, another I’m fine really I’m just in a weird space at the moment and I just grabbed my knife, the one he bought me at that little market off the square in the east end and ripped our paradise apart, stepped through and back into this world, this crummy city where debts are huge and transport scare, where friends are anewed but their tolerance diminished.

I meet with them for a brewsky as he always says and I can’t tell him the truth. I can’t tell him that I’ve left this part of our world years ago and only have my memory of it to prove. Their hurtful comments besiege me in seconds, what to believe the H on my arm or the fact in my face.

Its funny you know she wanted to phone me, apparently for good luck and all with the palace but tides as they turn jezebel like she the worst of that frayed soppy bunch makes me feel like the fucking guilty friend why because my concentration on matters of pop culture are about as limitless as my knowledge of Leigh Hunt and if vivien died in 1967 then I’m a few years short of infamy

I must remember to stop trusting people, its all a rather witty and pointless run of comedy that only lands up in tears. And fear I’ve lost the ability to feel sees me creep deeper and deeper away. No don’t tell me that the strike is almost over and you never know   you never know. I know and I know I know.

Hera are you listening, don’t forget your newest arrival, she comes with bags packed, eyes pointed backwards and a steely determination to sparkle at all costs.

7 things have happened since I last wrote which scare me. One is the film, two is the hurt in his eyes, three is the confusion in the others, four is the removal of the tumour, five is the death of a friend, six is the giving up of another and seven is the betrayal.

I thought this was a free country. I wish the country would just implode, fall apart, descend into violence crash burn anything to get me out of here, to get me out of this sullen adolescent headspace, oh come mighty warriors, wherefore waterloo, karl marx, Buckingham palace, fog isolates the continent and the stench permits me to take another step backwards.

A total stranger to the fairy tale, I wish I wish upon a star for them not knowing what or who I are. Anachronism is thevils disciple and the head and heart two lonely friends at odds with the night.

But as they say the prison is of ones own making so how do I build my own, how do I construct a safe house from this conjecture I’ve created, I’m good at chaos, oh so lovely at finding and nurturing the blighted maggot but ask me to draw you a pretty picture and I sigh and roll over and die

I’m defrayed in all sense of the word, if only barabara Hepworth could build me again, now theres a demi god of applause.

Fo rhymes with go and so I know too much for my own good. It’s the dinner conversataion that really gets me going, or mostly the lack thereof, both…dinner and conversation. For who can eat at times like this. Don’t you just want to sit back and think, think of all this cloudless world has to forget, think of all those past mistakes those hated day breaks, that inferior neutral space where all is sacrosanct and easy and that fear is my master my beloved de quince knew the ropes, he had the guts and glory thing all worked out whilst here we sit and defend and make do and invite the vitriol with arms open wide for hope that it will quench the future imperfect deliver us from evil and clarify the script.

I don’t know what to do this time I panic and resort to old invisible friends, scrupulous or not, the rush is lost all too quickly and the day lingers on.