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forgetting to remember

forgetting to remember


… remember that story before the glass slips brain slips..its happening again, liquid distraction, thank you, fuck you bless you for that delivery… Autumn is heroin. For me its the epitome of my most prominent memories with the drug. The mist, the light, the leaves, the wind, the chill in the bones so easily solved. Belushi ‘don’t take shit from anyone’ echoes off old pages of music magazines, which brings me back to that room, and the dealer outside the window throwing rocks up at us and belushi was on the laptop screen and there their bottlenecks and my spoon and a heater and so much warmth in the quasi designed starkness but that was on the other side of town, and its saturated grey and autumn again and the walk in cupboard where I preferred to shoot up in, and their being no more need for vitamin c because we’re in Thai town now and the fuzz of the beachfront and the otheryou telling me about hiv and the otherme that floods apartments and hotel rooms and petrol stations and perceptions and knocks on your door at 3am with 3 friends with 3 bags and 3 beating hearts that need a room and a space to just, won’t be a second bro, thank you so much dude you won’t believe what just happened tho, there’s always cops, there’s transport nightmares, puking on corners, fuck it excuses there’s then another excuse for the abuse and you just ignore the vibe, push the other three aside, hit his toilets and hide.
Mattress basing, how low can you sink, i’ve taken plain rides to the other sides in a 3 minute black out rat poison motherfucking track tracing the cold changes the veins, won’t shoot in my neck again then again then again, fuck it there it is. John stewart has been on the whole day, sabc 2 don’t cut it round here can’t remember anything they’ve said, zean knocks at the door: are you dead?
Tantrem’s all in a rage, I just jumped the psych ward 4 mins down the road 2 weeks after cannes, keep forgetting second chances again.
Again blood on the hotel carpets I’m told I must pay floor getting kicked off another ‘chance’ I haven’t paid for, fuck them all just fuck them all, this run is too easy, got money don’t have money I don’t even have to pay for.
Oding on the 8th floor, oding on the first floor, oding on the ground floor oding on the second floor the third floor the sixth floor the 19th floor, oding oding, the floor the floor always the floor, getting fucked on the floor, getting off the floor, finding powder on the floor bags in the corner, under the sink, the toilet lids, the basin hids, the mirror, the three bloody ties behind the bathroom door, you can taste yourself in your mouth before your jaw breaks and you get off the floor and dont answer the door, another lame metaphor
cape ivs call it spikkie, old timers call it neds, white dudes downtown jack black jack dudes won’t use needles, they smoke hold your hand in instead. We’re being thrown out again, so we’re back in his mansion again, no fun anymore, weezles creep up for more, graffitti jokes, french blokes, russian blokes pull out vodca hidden in cases, I recognise this guy’s face’s from berlin, he saw me tap dancing outside the mandela hotel, can’t hide this shit no more, no more reason why, peters high, thomas on my arm, the gates remain open, i’m not used to this heroin, too slimy too dark, its not tar there’s no road there’s no bridge, I wake up on a ledge in a pool looking for more works On the sand for sunrise, at war with the mystics, thinking back to my durban beachfront, berea centre, esplanade rides shooting up by myself arms fucked under my shirt, nerves shot, hands numb smiling inside. I used to rule the world comes on, no one notices the coldplay till its too late, it’s too late we all get it, we got it, we’re gettimg it forgetting it refusing to remember it but there’s so much more to tell, vuse passes me a half a gram for real, I got 3 meetings and a script to sell, fireworks.

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give me oil in my lamp keep me burning

The rain was like iron bullets on the apartment’s factory type window, except larger with black aluminium frames and loose locks. If your final steps are these windows then take a few back and remember the open plan micro loft room with its high white walls, the torn poster of nevermind the buzzcocks on your right to your left – a web of wire as a headboard filled with black hearts and silver and scarves and long leather gloves in front of a queen sized white bed covered with the flag of Swaziland and King Cetshwayo. A side of kitchen, a black belt in the sink, a couple of signs of other dilly dallying of the spirit cleaning out in jik and water, a shower and basin to the left, out we go. Let’s face it – it’s an empty gallery. The lifts, the new ones then the old ones, then the fire escape – a double wide metal door swings far too buoyantly open, the sliding door pass, the night staff at reception,  a slightly guilty look, two lazy guards watching your movements in twelve different areas on a large flatscreen, a ridiculously ostentatious swing out front door – 4 metres long pushing you to the pavement, Pata Pata the restaurant, Chalk Café – the Bioscope independent Cinema, fluorescents on every corner. More Security and then straight back to your vehicle, if you’re lucky and a keen observer or modern cultural anthropologist a dusty black kid on a skateboard might whizz past you…and then fall over….or there might be a party of some sorts or an arty opening…or closing night spilling out onto the streets…. . However if your name was Eric or Max or whathitsname and especially if you were a Nigerian Eric or Max or whatshisname you would not taking this little trip through the grand entrance up the stairs through the doors to the empty gallery that protects the door  to Main Street Life’s real inner sanctum.And it would most certainly not be at any kind of reasonable hour whereby  the residents and businesses would still be abusing each other….and the mood was gay….No your entrance and its timing would be very different.

 

Click, push, giggle, slam, click, turn, push open. The mood immediately is serious. This shit is serious. Its 2am, I’ve been waiting since 8pm when he told me the long drawn out story when he would be getting off, then stuck in Sandton at 10, countless smokes, positions sculptured by sheets, lame movie…lame lame lame movie and why now on a Friday night. I can still hear the last of the arseholes from the Monster Munch party on the roof. Rabid and hysterical fucked on a mixture of cheap vodka hidden inside Russian Bear bottles – thighs slapped into fake leather leggings and stamina…my fucking god, whats the fucking time now? 1am, ‘ dude listen I’m sorry but this is fucking ridiculous, its cool I’ call someone else (but he knows I wont), you know.

–          Give me 20 mammie, the rain is very hard here.

Whatever, I have to wait. I check the syringes on the kitchen counter, search for rogue cotton balls with a trace of gear, bump that, I hate reusing anyway..i hate been that desperate, but its not even like that, its just. Well you don’t even get a rush so ….whats the time?

Max’s number lights up on the cell. ‘ are you hear?’

–          How much you got?. ‘I told you I wanted three grams, I got 700, I’ll give you the two on Monday, promise’

–          No mammi, the rain is too hard. 900, otherwise I can’t come out all that way

‘yeah yeah I got 9, just hurry’

I don’t got nine. I got five. I’ll sort it out when he gets here.

 

It’s the same black golf that pulls up around the side street from the Main Street hotel/apartment whatever the fuck they want to call it, nightly around 3am. I’ve seen him lurking earlier, maybe at around 6am, or after a serious night he can be here by 8am, before most of the Main liners are up..save one or three of the respectable lot of working people who somehow got swayed into thinking that the building was actually cool and reflective of their coolness and hipness and we made it ness…the ones who got sidetracked…who couldn’t leave their old real life living on the breadline in the middle of the shitty city centre soul and move to the suburbs to bathe in the bliss of clean white commercial and successful south Africa. I wonder sometimes who are the real rebels? Those that stayed and deluded themsel ves or those who moved and excluded themselves?

Dish dash, down the stairs, Elo is at the ATM, he needs a few packets of sunshine as well, I’ll drop a few lines into my spoon and speedball, I decide on whimsy. The side door bangs behind me. Fuck it, its raining to fuckery outside. Slimslamming the rest of the rogues tucked up safely in their cells, I dart into his car, already trembling with andrenaline. Nothing I mean nothing feels the way those 10 minutes before you slide that blunt eye into tarnished skin, hit the red and change your personality forever. The chest heaves violently you can hardly talk, string words together, don’t ask me any fucking questions. Let me concentrate. Let me make sure there’s no cotton on the tip,  make certain the exact spot of the last exact hit. Don’t interrupt me. The people who have witnessed these strange demonstrations of power plays within my little tomb know all this. They sit silently on my bed or at the metal table stolen from the back courtyard of an old dump of a building that will soon house popular tartlets and deluded designers, film makers,  more and more wannabees – a perfect combination of modern day horrors wrapped and packaged without any sense of infinity. They’ll sit on the uncomfortable black plastic chair and either cut up white lines on a Modest Mouse cd or sort through really shite weed bought from Rasta at the shebeen all the while stealing sad glimpses of me at the kitchen counter preparing my respite from the pains of my head heart and body and then when the bathrobe belt falls effortlessly to the floor and the syringe hits the bloody muck in the sink and I take that first breath of buzz, I’ll look at them and finally engage.

There’s rumours rumours everywhere. People glance and people stare. Doors stay locked whilst tongues still cry we’re here for you when you’re ready lies.

Its insane but you start off with a little piece of nothing, you add some black, some definitive articles, you get a job, a to do list, you creep forward ever so slightly, you’re happy you think, the scars have faded, the eyes remain blood shot but those around you those who’ve know you think you’re doing well. It’s the best you’ve looked in a long time I was told by a dear friend. Fat I thought. No I mean it. That’s the thing its always well meant, aint it. It’s a maroon cover of concern of feelings that jump and sliver into new resolutions. You lift your chin a little higher, you write you think much better, you strive a little harder and then one day kinda out of the blue there’s a shift in your mind, its so gloriously delicate its almost invisible, it’s a quiet thought that multiplies into a philosophy that you’ve always known will keep you safe, will keep you sane. Its an intangible desire to disappear to separate yourself from the scurvy of waking up falling asleep aspiration ambition empathy conversation other people and life. It’s a silly desperate perfect answer. It’s a slight shifty satisfying waster.  It undoes all you’ve done. It unravels all that has been wound. It sedates and delivers you to spaces explored by few, it comforts, it condemns you, it frightens and repels you. Its width height girth knows no boundaries, there are no asylums, no scrapes, no tears,  no sex, no day , no night it is an infinite suggestion that defies religion science and sense. If you’ve pandered to its whispers if you’ve braved the backlash the withdrawals the despising looks and whimpers of others, if you’ve thrown away all your respect your cares your loves your titles your works your awards your future then you are rewarded by access into its loom into a numb cavernous dimension which sets you apart for ever from everyone else. They say its seductive, its more than seduction. Seduction is sickness, its flesh its desire its tangible its renumerated, it’s a currency – but this this my friends and foes this is myth this is fantasy this is more and better and cleverer and distinct and insatiably pure and it bellows achingly loud it devours and feeds you with every delusion vision and vice you have ever known and all that  you will never know until you try it.

Have you ever been beaten raped or reprimanded so badly that you have purposely and momentarily lifted your mind from the situation and swam som ewhere else? Have you ever wittingly divorced the truth from the untrue under duress? That’s the place where we succumb we sink, and we sink whilst inhaling the last breath of every shamed warrior and we die detached and disposed. And most of all we die.

Its half past noon exactly. I’ve been up all night up all day, agitated beyond belief. The kind of mania that comes from rereading books I’ve reread betrothed to arguments I’ve argued to pointlessness, to routine to too many hours too many minutes too many fucking days too many fucking pointless hysterics and the blood is now dripping off my arm onto the bed, onto the sheets, the pillow my long sleeve white cotton shirt, the music the tv the radio the extras all seem to be well rehearsed, me I’m sliding I know there’s no romance in this stupid entanglement of a tattooed guy to my right and a large girl stuck between the pillows at the back. He stares at me and mutters something about turtles and water and rain and I stare into the sun and recognise for a second that he actually wants to fuck and that’s like the most hilarious proposal I could think of right now, besides, Mac 2 Durban division will be at the petrol station in like 10minutes and I’ve got to get out of here the thing is we’re short on sthe plastic supplies the needles are useless we’re like samurais with toothpicks and the phone starts ringing and I answer it and I feel myself agreeing and I see myself driving to the pharmacy at mid fucking day the worst time of the day to go anticipating long ques and those disapproving glances from the pharmacists who all know I collect my suboxone every third day and they know that THAT aisle should be off limits to me but right now or just then I don’t care. I just need a perfectly slick affair with the tools of my trade and not have to indulge my double life to keep the peace, to keep the sanity of everyone around me except myself. So I leave with tattooed boy by my side ranting on about teepees and piranhas and he puts in a tape of bob marley and I groan and I listen and try to concentrate on the road until we hook up with mac 2 and its fast and its on the side of the road as the station is hot with pigs and we pull into a lane and scuffle to fix with the last ok needle and then everything’s fine…again.

We were really close to having it on I think, when I think of zean. I mean I always wanted to you know. He’s fit, cute, intent. He’s straight like the ramones. He’s a razor blade in thought and a slug in speech. He cared most of all and I guess when you’re short of warmth a flame is better than a fire. He’s gone now like they all do. They just disappear. That’s the problem with reality it doesn’t last.

Claire Angelique, Standard Bank Young Artist of the Year for Film 2010, screens her Jhb premiere of her new feature film PALACE OF BONE on FRIDAY 5 AUGUST 7PM at the BIOSCOPE INDEPENDENT CINEMA, 6 FOX STREET (MAIN STREET LIFE)  which showed to rave reviews at the recent National Arts Festival, Grahamstown 2011.

PALACE of BONE, is the documentation over a couple of months of the strangely unstable day to day life of Faith – a scarred but brazen and quirky twenty five year old.

Filmed entirely on cellular phones by her devoted best friend, the enigmatic Po, (who is rarely seen in front of the camera except in reflections, turning her back to Mecca…), we are allowed a voyeuristic peek into their friend’s squats, downtown bars and are privy to bedroom confessions. That is all until we realise that the ominous sequence of Faith’s actions due to likely severe psychological problems have forced Faith to escape the city and take to the hills.   

What we as an audience get to experience is Po’s last days with her comrade in the Palace of Bone; a euphemism for both the backstreets, backrooms and backdoors of the city of Durban and the cache of queer insights and outlooks of Faith, a girl who feels she is bigger than her world and thus has some rather unorthodox answers to curb her frustration.

The film ends with us only sort of certain that Faith was last seen on August 15 2008, smoking a joint beside rusty train tracks north of Botha’s Hill. What we are certain of is that there are six dead bodies in Durban harbour….

The film will be introduced by Claire Angelique who will be available to answer questions after the screening

”After the intensity and catharsis of  My Black Little Heart, her new film Palace of Bone is a step away from savagely personal. In fact it’s anything but autobiographical. Still, Angelique’s trademark dark, beautiful imagery pervades, as do the thematic obsessions with the underbelly and the underdog.’‘  – Cue

“To be assaulted by a South African film made by a young Durban girl which is totally original and unique and which is made with a total respect and understanding of film language is very rare, She is one the best that we have in South Africa, and her talent should not be ignored.”

-Trevor Steele Taylor, film curator National Arts Festival, Grahamstown

‘’Claire Angelique’s extraordinary Palace of Bone will undoubtedly create a far-reaching impact. Although it is an unconventional film, it is rooted in mainstream popular culture. In particular reality television and the technological devices that have engendered a culture of (self) documentation. Angelique enjoys blurring the lines between fact and fiction, so the reality/documentary mode suits her aesthetic well…. In a way Palace of Bone is a twisted whodunit. But there are so many levels of meaning in this fascinating mockumentary.’’ Mary Corrigall – The Sunday Independent

TRAILOR:

http://www.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D1BPDoGZeSZg&h=_AQB45sHy

CLIP FROM PALACE OF BONE

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xGvrECdo0TU

FACEBOOK EVENT PAGE

https://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=214609325256299

THE BIOSCOPE CINEMA BOOKING PAGE

http://www.thebioscope.co.za/

 

 

 

http://www.thebioscope.co.za/2011/05/03/standard-bank-young-artist-winner-claire-angelique-presents-her-film-my-black-little-heart/

FILM MAKER IN ATTENDANCE….WITH RUM….FOR Q&A SESSION POST SCREENING

https://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=198147733560556

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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.

What a wicked wicked week of bad spells and uptight rushes of ill luck, i’ve been interested in codeine extraction for a couple of months trying various means of dissolving it from mostly paracetemol or asprin. Its a strange buzz that keeps you awake and sleep walking bestif you can’t get anything better, totally functional but left. Tourniquets are my Daphne in spite and calamity, three times my teeth have fallen ou tand twice i remedied the situation, alas today the little bugger is nowhere to find and i am rushin around like a pike, listening to loud music, no internet connection, shooting on upwards and forgetting the point and the film erupted in my head about an hour ago, i got the link i needed like a 1960’s tableau, frame, the girl in the car the girl that wants to be a star

my right arm is fuckin killing me, absent and lame yet still the inner gets hardened and harder to break, pointing weapons of mass destruction at my body like some extremist,i’m a soldier packin

what worse after coming out of a hospice shop 900 rands poorer without spending a cent, the philospophical approach is that someone needed it more than me, what bull, i need my passage and i need it funded. The shoot secret is about to come out and i’m stuck with a pink mixture in the fridge,no more weed, a looming music column, lost pearlies,no connection to the outside world, a stolen diary, 5 less friends on the run and sick need to commisserate. Come my friends and countrymen lets dance the last dance of the night, creep from the dawn and make pretend everythings all right

there is snothing i fear more than water especially water under the bridge, it comes from a place where old animosities and senses that wrong from right curdle and grow with incessant force in order to pacify those whose extreme moments are seen as extraction and jolly nevermind the small detail that we are in the grip of a war. I choose sides as i choose my drinks and visitors from afar eithe exhalt or humiliate me into a fever i know no respite from cept for angry moods, irritational opposition and the small malady of sitting with whiskeyed tea praising the mediocre. Give me something or someone in this world who can ally themselves with me completely. Religeon, profit profiteering politics my left hand have all become hindrances where they should be leftists. For gods fuckin sake, we no longer think. Have you my readers ever felt that you are alone in your thoughts for me i am screaming. And those classics i love and those writers and retainers and those years that pour from the pages when you read the foreword or biographies only make sense when you;re living it and it s not fun and its not only the longely and its not comforting but a reminder that njo matter the generation we are aligned and maybe someday somewhere we will be abject from these defintions divided thankfully and ultimately fuck it i don’t know what to say anymore. I m disgusted and i;m rewarded by all this is ours right now. Who the fuck knows what were on about. This civilisation is dead and gladly i or we to gallows go.  Enough enough, my fucked right hand and my fucked left  brain walks gladly an dsadly into this night

i won't look in

i won't look in

I was a try hard, try harding, starling, darling little boy with the fringe in the dirty pool with red worms under his fingernails. And I know I loved yesterday but I’ve forgotten it already and the sun is in my lashes and tresses. And I’ve just retired to the bathroom and turned all the taps on to drown out the sound that surrounds me. Water is a strange substance I tell you, it can cleanse, it can change, it can vibrate next to bare skin and cause shivers. It alienates, it moves. Its funny I tellyou. More should have been written about water. Last night I couldn’t get my fingers to type. All strange sparrows were falling from the nails. Misspelt words like the misspelt sentences that had spewed from this tongue earlier on. I vaguely remember. Something something. I lost money at the shops, I lied to the pharmacist, I produced tears, I tried to correct the wrongs but that badness inside stopped the action. have i mentioned that i am a bad bad man. a bad girl that deserves centuries of damnation, hell and brimstone, show me fire.  I spoke to dragonman’s best beloved, I heard from Caterpillar. I tried to forget the fake stones I had stolen, that had been left all magical like in a packet next to the drive. I tried to get to bed, but the duvet was soiled, the pillows under my feet and the light of the mushroom farm in my retina. I am a retina. I am the all believing, seething nightmare I’m running from. For twenty minutes peace I would sell my mother to the wolves, I would cut a straight line on my forehead, let the thoughts pour out. I was in the city briefly yesterday, just in time for a couple of lines, a talk by the bar, a very important meeting with the foreign nationals, not the ones that were thrown from the window. These are west Africans I am dreaming about. Then back to the meadows, the hills, my little pocket of insanity. Wondering around the night like an insomniatic beast, roaming the outside of your window, I won’t look in. no I won’t no matter how hard the sorrow the seether the stretcher, the men in white coats, and those in green that cut the grass before the snakes can find you, no matter how hard the pace, the last breath, the times of monsters and miracles tries to strangle me, no I won’t look in.
Did I tell you I fell in love. Summer romance with a sweetheart, yes a sweet heart. One of those untainted undoctored lads, that see the chaos and hold, mould then betray it. I don’t know what he wants with me, must only be trouble. I cannot think of another way for us to carry on. Ay my pirates, we shall see where that penny lane changes. but to you my love, think of me often and pretend that i can look after you. pretend that i am the one, the two the shade and the glade. i will stop this ranting, i will stop the longing the wanting. its a phase they say, my phase has lasted days and days, but i will try once again for you, if you promise to remain black and blue.
I am snorting white lines on an unreleased tracks of the velvet underground cd, do you feel the irony, snorting some sense of serenity, some stench of brevity. Mr lou reed start talking to the media, I’ll find you on the purple mountain, castrate you and drink the juice of the time. I wish I lived in a time. What a time I would have. I told you I spend my life in toilets. And the orange of the light, and the sheer oppression of this heat makes the boogie man creep out in the early morning. I must sleep, i must gain a sense of perspective, I must tell that boy that I love him and I only wanted a kiss once he had gone.