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Tag Archives: fish

THE WILD DUCK

Remember the night the city burned down. We were trapped in back streets charred, under the influence, faking smiles, the dude in the blue beanie had been sitting in the doorway of the Edgars store since early this morning, he had no ears but rapt attention. There was a group of us, five if I remember correctly, five of us who entered through the makeshift cinema at the Point and took advantage of the confusion. Breaking into modern day refurbished, city ‘rejuvenated ‘projects, mansions of cool, déclassé and worthlessness rolled into a corporate structure. We stole whilst we waded through the waters the foam of the fire fighters. Shannon screamed directions whilst we each took a room, looting and laughing, but that all ended years ago. we have had to grow up. No longer are we guaranteed good press for our sins. Straight and secular is the answer. No life for no lifers or something similar to the Nazi refrain. I’ve sunk all my senses into the new project, battling malaise, inertia, no home cept the lonely depths of mornings sans sunlight. In a room without curtains, they watch me, I’ve seen them. Sometimes I perform for their pleasure, boredom has that great a grip. And eruptions are no longer skin deep. They say    the body holds memories I say slay the body, pray to Harlequin for the rent and pull the tooth. The toothless are wonders that defy the well dressed charlatans that parade the inner city sanctum. I profess the unconscious call at my own demise. They want the film, they don’t want the film. I can make the film, I cannot make films. Reflections in the pink wine of an afternoon and my animas a rare bird stuck in her majesty’s jail. We lose our friends as we lose our memories regain them, have a tequila, figure the morning out. Drench it in sherry and good tidings, good mornings, good nights. The good fight. I listen to symphony I can’t listen to these imbeciles who carry some strange sense of entitlement of good grace, good manners, deportment, ethics…ha, who really knew the little fish girl, who swam with her before she sunk to those gorgeous grips where icy waves became sacred shrouds and failing that superficial glance of heaven fell in love with the oceans dark deep seductive force. Gravity will always win, you have to go down to get up. Fresh eyes are tired, me feels when stationed in their back room, begging infantile demands for that’s what makes a director in their world…a dumb distorted place…it wasn’t what we were looking for they lied, they cannot see so how can they even attempt to pry..and I’ll tell you why because of press because of awards and prowess and like the big independent screen available to all and sundry who care to pay the price they’ll provide shelter…temporarily but then what…oh more mortgage to the soul, more filters, more sanity..yes we are frozen beyond their clutches and I’ll defy god dammit I’ll demand a little bit more..the kid, the tramp the wanderer, the gypsy..taciturn eyes, garters down, petticoats up, more beef than brawn, more nuptials shredded via shredded paper, the age of letters is dead. So in this manic mania we steal, we fight. Temper tantrums, Oedipus and Faust come knocking at the door whilst skin must be clean, the plague on the pavements swept up and the age of wooden sculptures burnt by the fires of the homeless, the weak, the powerful, the cold, the icy cold that will not let up and will not let us sleep this sweet and airy night

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i wish my name wass peckerfish the blood in my hand drain

Cramps the. It’s a 30 second game, wanna play? Windole and a small intravenous whole, Ethel my dearest. I’m untraceable that’s why I ate my cell phone. The public was burnt out and the termites had settled in for the night. 50 apple seeds in my cider, hardwiring the pharmacy, my mother lent me her false teeth. I struggle to be a nutritional foundation.

I sat on the sand cried because there were a hundred copies of me walking around. I couldn’t decide who I like more, the girl with the freckles or the girl with the backpack with the stolen laptop.

Listless this fire in a teacup. The sea is at war with itself. I had a dream, I fuckin hate dreams that I had to take a guitar test a guitar with 49 strings, sweating and remembering the sequence3 11.13.17. 41 fuck I’m losing my forehead.

I’m gonna start a fundraiser for AIDS. Projector girl on the wall, 3 scripts running along the eyelashes and not even batting for a six.

Somebody stop my luna tape.

Transvestites are dished out in tiny mini skirts, little lies and little lisps and lips are curled, my disinfectant makes me smell but I can still shine sunshine.

It must feel good to hold all the power doesn’t it brother? It must feel nice to grind and pierce a wobbling heart into the gravel – bruise and graze and stab the motherfucker let it bleed all over the chest expose the ribs break them snap them off, stick them in your ears and pretend you cant hear me, darn it must feel good. Not la la long in the misery or self pity pythons, running through the punctured veins crouching in the stomach, hiding out waiting to spring and choke the breath, they and your notes on my door this morning were just downright hurtful. Treasures were smiling round the corners at me last night, waiting to ensnare anyone who walks out of the line, this damn queue, the next step comes slowly for brain is now so damn dumbed out. Throw it away in the trash dear for this period at least, this late afternoon snooze, I don’t sleep during the day, I don’t sleep, I fear the night monsters stalking the rooms of my mind, they say a chill in the air is indicative of the spirits well my spirits do not live in this room, they’re in my skin, the ghosts are all inside and refuse to leave. I am giving them one last chance them BANG BOOM, colt 45 city central.

I write right to left.

Fly over one Sunday stay on the slanted path. Forgive the genies in their bottles, they won’t come out just because the joys of white snow, blue juice and brown powder are all evidence in the trial. Have a bit of faith you monkey.  Their graffiti spilled on the walls of my room, their tempers enraged their figures swollen with pus and drink, abscessed arms, hardened elbows, dirty fingers and pinned eyes, wonder this mess, our place in time, my legs are filled with fleas and romeo wants to go home again.

We left, we sat back seated arguing silently, staring out of the windows, vacant and pretty and though he has left me now I miss his curls, his shame, his body shape, his fucked up sense of direction and speed, proportion, contortion, distortion.

I align myself to the sanity of locked bathroom stalls. That is when I’m not thinking of poisoning her dog

This is today

Blood splattered dirty hobo ballet dancer dances around the empty lot then stops when she realizes that the camera is watching here. She looks around. And then drunkenly walks up to the lens.

–          hey what you people doing here

–          this is private property

–          no its not

she thinks a while

–          why do you have blood all over you?

–          Because my boyfriend Jackie told me not to wash for 3 months, he thinks its sexy.

He made the whites whiter.

Sitting and now writing almost in form with wild animals beyond my contol. I’m pissed and immobile – paralysis, down the garden gate I wish to be led but no one offers this time, no wine no well fine, no time no phone no home

Body bloated as dead mind blank and fools shushed the occupants have joined the fray and here I sit yet fa fa away

Theres a party round the corner, won’t you please please come

Bring your own cup and saucer and your own chewing gum and what is your best friends name?

We were the outcasts we were, the lost banditos of the scene and how I would pass out and do and dribble down bar stools, how I would be fed gin and whiskey and be made to speak up and then carried to the car door then to bed, then to wake in forgotten abandoned apartments. Those there the days my friends, we thought they’d never end. Good times, good fires, beachfront hotels, burnt fingers, those bleached white walls dirtied and tarnished with cracked fumes stolen sony playstations, songs from garage bands in Knysna, lost and belittled, tagged and stoked with good and b ad fortune. Yes we played we faired like fairies, live in the lovely present, live right now, don’t think stupid child, hush about the disease of tomorrow for it sits not well in this form. Fear saturation, never fear the best that works in the middle east, never. My dearest poppish fiend, her sweet silent waters lap all too closely on this barren shore. The bard and last living stand no chance, stoned and dethroned, the maker of this day wired inspired, feeling that begets the violence of the past that satiates the foreign devils that coat the voice that brittle discord that keeps the tamed sniper from the firing the last shot, the shot to kill shoot to get well, shoot or get ill, shoot the bastard the sinister slip of four seconds in the middle of the bursting of the head in the middle of the day in the middle of the night.