17th October 2008

So on wednesday I woke early, donned my camo pants and para-boots in preparation to attend my scheduled disciplinary hearing at Dystopia Cafe, clearly possessing little interest in what might transpire there - my intentions, will, desires and designs already fixed on terrains way beyond the insidious bureaucratic skullfuckery about to be, inevitably, metered out; got escorted round to the shop - The Nerve Centaur of the entire 'co-operative' and admitted, accompanied by my cafe representative; guied into a spare and anonymous-looking room and asked to sit. The three 'prosecutors' then produced sheaths of prepared notes and proceeded to gaffer tape my entire body in revised policy, to the end that I was granted a new skin,whose control cyphers I would obey completely, should I not want to run the risk of infection. I sat there, on a one-legged stool, lest a fall asleep, smothered in bureaucracy as the three of them took turns to assail me with news of my character dysfunction, ticker-tape spooling from their pursed, beak-like mouths, etched with the precise error code of my failings, which largely comprised a bunch of personal grievances held by a recent chef acquisition that they found on an internet auction site. This new chef model has already been proven to take itself excessively seriously (i.e. at all) and having instantly found my character to be too ingrained with contradictions and irony, has dismissed me as worthy of attempting to get to know, and has thus withdrawn any leniancy, kindness, empathy, with which it may have been initially programmed. However, I know that this anaemic, adenoidal prima donna is hopelessly unhappy, having alloted itself the Victim's position in life's Role Matrix, and while I'm no practicioner of schadenfreud, it does occur to me that the new Chef Model may well experience an increased production of alpha waves were it not a Screeching Ego Cunt of a specimen whose sole capacity appears to be the projection of her self-dissatisfaction onto those she deems uncomfortably self-assured; itself perhaps the crudest equation going.

So, upon having been trounced, lambasted and rottweiler-ed, I tumbled out onto the pavement, crackling with negative energy. My primary impulse; set fire to the various premises owned by the co-operative, my secondary impulse, go locate a piano and play it. The latter having been achieved, Bacchus phoned and explained that we'd be participating in an anti-arms demo and to meet him for coffee imminently. Met Bacchus, who was mid-comedown from a week of strip-club coke-bunny bacchanalia, he necked a flaggon, I mainlined coffee, and as I expressed my apprehension at participating in the impending protest - it being my first such event - he curled out the word 'Bollocks' and my fate was set. Ultimately, had a fucking fantastic afternoon, managing to collectively create genuine obstruction and cause major disruption to the traffic flow of the entire city, whilst avoiding getting sidled into a police cordon and/or arrested. Most of the roads were closed at one point. And ye, were it a simmering pleasure to see the quaintly myopic middle-class hippie mekons of the lanes all wonderstruck at the sudden manifestation of an immense fleet of riot police vans, and five hundred chanting protestors decked out in black hoods, red masks, blasting out digital hardcore from shoulder-mounted speakers. At the mouth of the pier, as the police turned their batons onto a sixteen-year-old boy who had, a rumour announced, thrown a stone (the riot police were, as you'd suspect, coated in kevlar, visors, armed with pepper spray, batons et al. The boy sported little muscle and a red sweatshirt.), tourists emerging from the amusements within were inadvertently drafted into the assembled cordon, creating the illusion of our numbers having doubled. Still, at this stage, having been marching for many hours, and the central thread of the deomo having dispersed, we excused ourselves for food and ultimately wound our way to the radical social centre in town, where as the protestors drifted in in clusters, food was dispensed, the energy of the protest tangible, thick in the air, as we, collectively elevated into a lawless and exquisite space, exhanged debriefings, 'war stories' and absurdly mused on ways in which we might eventually penetrate the walls of the munitions factory. Bacchus, in tweeds and cut-up on coke and ale, careening around, his wire-tapped spine lending a cockeyed amble to his gait, later expalined to me that he'd been the one to trigger fireworks outside the factory at previous protest. Having never before participated in such a thing - the extent of public dissent in the village that nurtured me (atrociously) through my adolescence amounting to 'Please don't shut our post offisce. Please?' - I rank it perhaps the first oaccion in which I've genuinely felt a sense of selfless community, in which everyone came together to exact an end beyond their own personal interests. Any other scene, community, with whose fringes I've flirted, i've found any potential energy to be instantly dissipated, all character impotized as soon as thier members number plural. It has to be truly confrontational I feel for a genuine and progressive - and tacit - bond to manifest, and what a luxurious, invigorating jewel this fucker is.

In my pursuit of freelance work in which I work alone and designate the working hours, I've uncovered a position advertising for as writer of obituaries, for a website based in San Francisco. I submitted my sample obituary and a hastily-assembled, and likely utterly incoherent, resume, mailed them off and awaited a response. i was hired. Essentially, the organization would provide biographical data of Bay Area recent stiffs, and the writer would assemble an obituary around this, in the required tone. When the first commission for Nick Hudson's obituary met my inbox, I dismissed it as coincidence, but after having written my own obituary seventeen times in week, each addressing a different set of character attributes, all of which corresponded very closely to my own, across various states of being, my suspicion became paranoia, to the extent that I even reported my own death to the local newspapers, thinking it was so, and subsequently volunteered a self-penned obituary explaining that Nick was driven to suicide through being forced to perpetually redraft his own obituary for a magazine somewhere in America, which he believed was established entirely to collate and compile obituaries for Nick Hudson, all written by Nick Hudson, until the genuine death of Nick Hudson had been attained. i began to suspect that this may have been the higher powers behind the riot police of the earlier demonstration, and discreetly contacted other protestors to pry as to similar persecutions perhaps having been encountered by them. Naturally, each systematized breakdown procedure would be tailored to the psychological frailties of the specific protestor. Still, apparently, nobody else has suffered any such affront. This being so, i elected to continue dismissing it as coincidence at all costs, and have since submitted fourteen further obituaries for Nick Hudson and am indeed earning substantially for this endeavour.

October 14th 2008

Lying in bed just prior to firing up the laptop and beginning to write this, the anvil-weighted reconciliation hit me - that I'm probably by now, utterly constitutionally-disinclined towards emotion. I suspect I may have inadvertently intellectualised my route out of emotion. Having been consistently devastated to a whithering and impossibly painful degree by LOVE, or my interpretation of 'the bearing of a feeling of love for someone', the last instance being exceptionally bludgeoning, my reckoning is, decanted all of my capacity for emotional connectivity into a generalised and decompartmentalised sadness, whose stoicism flashes through with the occasional rearing of anger, the basest, perhaps purest emotion (aside from an impossibly de-politicized love. Classical love remains just that: the deomain of bardic scholarship). Aware that a fundamental component in my grand thesis and life objective has been for a long time the decompartmentalisation of separateness, as metered out by received wisdoms, my current hypothesis is that i may have achieved this to some disturbing level of accomplishment. Cool. So, when an employer has delivered a scud of a denunciation, trashed your character, made ruinous assertions as to your motives for remaining alive, and concludes the assault with: and how do you feel about that? In recent months I've been prone to consider the question. In such circumstances my initial responses are more intellectual: rather than feel anything specific or clearly delineable, I THINK you're a dickhead who relevance in a social Dawrinist sense is negligble. Existing in a plural dimensonality prohibits me from FEELING anything about this, Boss. Sorry if I've deprogrammed myself so wholly that I'm capable of contexualising your affront within the monotheistic system of control you inhabit, even sorrier if work is your only context. And again, sorry for not feeling anything other than the routine boredom that graces me like a veil upon entering the work premises, and which itself has become so routinely, that I'm bored of its particular brand of boredom. Etc. So yes. through a combination of active and positive deprogammatic procedures (either/or is moribund, clearly) and systematically annihilative romantic encounters, I truly believe I've been rendered spare of emotionality - or perhaps I've manifested a new internal language of emotionality so armed with refractive irony, red herrings and evasive tactics that its cyphers are incommunicable to those still trapped in the paradigm of hand-wringing sentamentalism, me-culture, victim bullshit, faux-empathy and shrink-baiting. Perhaps having encounter pretty much most conceivable formulae of disappointment in encounters with other reputedly 'emotionally mature' creatures, my final roll call of response is one of desolate, arid, sardonic, bleakbleakbleak laughter at the absurdity of their, and our, self-importance. Even when masturbating, the erotic is now divorced from emotion; where once I saw titillation in denial, in a the slick nylon of a football shirt brushing past my skin in the school changing rooms, I now see hollow emptiness, as I know that the contents of the football shirt are now professionally impersonating their fathers, down to the very molecules of his biography, being too scared and shamed into idiocy by the status quo of averageness, to prise himself into any more fluid realm. Now, when wanking, it's purely over the physical, the act of fucking, mechanical, relentless, without care or compassion, a flickering eclipse, twelve frames a second of occupied negative space, twelve frames a second of unoccupied, gaping daylight. And yet even now, I know, through the bluster and the polemicizing, that, The Kiss, yeah, that act, would satisfy me more than anything else, and render fucking an indulgence. The tenderest transmission - The Kiss - is also the harshest, way more intimate than the act of vain fucking, breathing one's spirit and love into the orifice from which a creature's entire repertoire of audible expression emits: anguish, joy, laughter, perhaps the only thing I've ever allowed from my deepest marrow to stifle a laugh, is a kiss. The intervention of some boy's lips on my own, whilst otherwise in the throes of hilarious caustic trills, is amongst the most permissable things imaginable on this desert of no hope. But none of this makes me particularly conducive to a relationship. And again, the motives of so many for entering into a relationship are a dependence upon the archetype - coupling is what has always occured, either to present a convincing argument (he's COMPLETLY heterosexual!) for one's aspiring presidency of the universe, or merely to ensure a regular fuck without the ritual humiliation of wooing and courtship becoming ritual. I suspect the only circumstance in which I may be complimentary to a romantic relationship would be as collaboration in activating change on a mutually internal and external basis. We will never, collectively like to concede that at best, we are currency. To me, as a creature that for whatever grotesque reasons, wishes to remain alive a little longer, it seems laughter is the only honourably legitimate response to such realizations (literally, to make real), and when the vital essence in that whooping cackle of mine desiccates like all else, to infinitely timeless space dust, then so will my lanky, twitching corpus. the act of typing this even reckons my physicality next to that of a preying mantis. And perhaps the young I'm eating is literature, in this vengeance text.

One of my central projects this year, is to compile an encyclopaedia comprising a paragraph for every conceivable circumstance, and thus, in my old age, when weariness transmutes into apathy, have an available compendium of everything that may have occured throughout my life, with the sole task needed to complete my written autobiography being to select and correctly juxtapose the paragraphs, and omit only those paragraphs detailing events that didn't happen to me. This Encylopaedia Biographica, could readily be transferable to the text of any sentient creature. I should register a patent. Naturally, the circumstances portrayed would be outlined in the driest, most clinical text, so as to ensure little-to-no authorial slur on events, merely the empirical data. Dependent upon the presumed renaissance of my emotionality, years down the line, as I recognize a tirelessly lonesome fate for the central character in my autobiographical text, I may just interpolate some emotional responses to the empirical data, as footnotes to the outlined circumstances. Either way, I may also write accompanying volumes drawn from the same encylcopaedia, titled: Aspirational Autobiography, Internal Autobiography, etc, and may even write the autobiographies of people I've never met, and who therefore can be presumed to exist. Perhaps in a year, once it's compiled, I may construct a series of unrelated, contradictory chapters, each spanning a year, and opt to live out the circumstances detailed in these chapters, radically altering the course of my life, annually, by pure action, steadfastly refusing any external intervention but that depicted, to interrupt my pursuit of these depicted ciecumstances. I don't see how a project with no communicable measure of success, can fail. Surely the perfect rationale on which to act.

Basement

October 13th 2008

Nearely succumbed to a full-blown mania yesterday. Woke angrier than ever, twisted, aching, very nearly insane. I've often sought as a wholly creative act - i.e. indistinct from my daily endeavours - to foist myself at the edge of that precipice, and the view from the edge of the crags is for sure, intoxicating, fluid and freeing. So long as you remain on the edge. Yesterday, the hyper-lucidity almost blurred into a mangled, spun chaos. When these pockets of micro-lunacy occur, they usually elicit a palmful of insight-souvenirs. On this occasion, whilst embroiled in a pitch dark internal rage as to why we enslave ourselves to the mind-hoovering, strength-sapping virus of WORK, my mind took to leapfrogging conceptual hurdles more athletically than usual. So we enslave ourselves, and if we through whatever means managed to abolish work and live a more communistic, equilateral life, we would then have to eradicate GOD. And then the cynical weight of my heart ass-kicked through the tautly-drawn veneer of idealism, announcing that, once these had been abolished, we would doubtless, as a species, erect another deleterious ringmaster at whose feet we'd miserably genuflect. And so we'd perpetuate this pattern, as one balloon bursts another is being inflated, each painted with the face of a different bullwhip-wielding demagogue. Perhaps it's borne of consciousness-guilt - the collective need to suppress our potential happiness for fear of appearing 'smug' to the 'inferior' species, all the while blind to the suspicion that these species seem at least to enjoy some form of equilibrium between their needs and desires. Probably not. It's obviously the residual greed innate to each of us having glimpsed Eden the first time we saw a flower, a billowing cumulus, the first and blue-est sky - we want more of it, and dependent upon the nature of privilege bestowed upon the family into which we're born, we'll either be equipped to chase this ephemera, this vapour cloud, and this reflection to its fruition, alchemised into paper and copper currency, or we'll settle for the role of ensuring those that are equipped, attain exactly thos phantoms, through engaging in acts of work or worship. Both roles are pitiable and tragic - as I know it would merely take a minor perceptual readjustment to reframe what we see into being the most vital, revelatory, exciting, every time - but when this intangible self-empowerment can be so readily shortchanged by the collective manifestation of false idols, this isn't gonna happen. Still, why would I want to smother myself in fine silks when I can stare and see infinite tapestries of a rarer kind in the ocean, indefinitely? Through our forsaken diligence and rigour, I guess we've earned these totems of failure. And yet it does seem unduly masochistic to suggest that we desire these addictions. I then realized, or rather posited, that as is true of crowd psychology - several organism governed towards a single goal congeal into a single organism - I realized, posited, that just as we inflate these balloons, once they're of sufficient size, they sever the string that connects them to our eager, childish hands, and they drift into the etheric dimension, to wield autonomy - we may induce them, but with enough enthusiasm, these fetishes actually become entities, complete and extant from our reins. We create Golems. They terrorize our citadels. We lament their destructive wake. Daemon of the week. So the two overriding ones, being so inextricably entangled with our greed - GOD and WORK - will prove and are proving to be the hardest Golems to annihilate. Meanwhile, we have the fragmentary obstacles to infinite wealth and the sainthood - the kaleidoscopic prejudices - sexuality, gender, age, race, intelligence, physicality, all judged via subtle or bombastic shades of fascism (he might be Aryan but he has no limbs and is likely gay - whatever now Your Highness?) that occupy our concerns the way we'd stare at the blemish on the teacher's chin instead of at the eyes from which her reprimand so fiercely emanated. Again, slavery is abolished, women get the vote, homosexuality is decriminalized, the age of consent is lowered (but not abolished?!) euqla-rights for potential employees are drafted in, a whole new lexicon is developed with which to discuss and address the deformed and disfigured, and then... out rolls the new Jew. This time he's from the middle east and has a nuclear arsenal tucked in his intestine with which to wreak Jihadism and the whiplash screed of The Prophet on our lily white derrieres. Soon he'll be assimilated into this sick nexus of empathic hand-wringing and superficially indiscrimatory platitudes, and The Hate Factory will shit out a new micro-Golem, with a whole new mask, and a whole new bag of reasons as to why we should blast it with radiation and eliminate its presence from the histories we teach our white-middle-class-middlingly-intelligent children. All hail the renegades.

Anyway, above is loosely contained the guts of how I nearly went insane yesterday. It's not as though it's a diatribe I'd not considered previously, but in this incarnation, it birthed with such weight and ferocity, tumbling over itself like folds of cement, that I was forced to flee the cafe briefly and seclude myself amongst the recycling enclosure, hidden, hyperventilating, feeling as though I'd just torn off another layer of skin, that i was in some way an inch more intimate with the white-hot, biliois source of all of this incendiary suffering and miserable graft to which we're all so cyncially self-consigned.

It's my birthday in precisely a month's time. I.e. the 27th annual celebration of my mother having conveyed my physical self unto the world outlined above. Thank fuck I was and am graced with the capacity to birth any number of alternative and better worlds. I guess we all are. I feel like every day yields the birth of a new incarnation, angle, refraction of myself and by extension 'the world' (which I'd evidently rather term 'The Infinite Multiverse' but won't, for now.) so i should be celebrating every day. And once I've nailbombed a few stray Golems, then perhaps I might. Happy Birthday Everyone.

October 12th 2008

I have a vegan friend who, so distraught at the notion that committing suicide might contravene his veganism, actually went ahead, shotgunned his head to herbivorous chunks, and was even shunned by the devil. His betrayal of his beliefs was deemed so thorny and yet inevitable that he was transmogrified into an abbatoir lorry and forced for eternity to drive himself around a Moebeus Strip hewn of a tapeworm. I tried to contact him as to how he felt about this, and despite being as extra-dimensionally multiversal as anyone could hope for at this juncture in my life, he was just that bit removed from my perceptive field. So, I sent a pigeon. And quickly learned that a true vegan, after having contracted pubic lice, would retain them forever, unless he shaved from head-to-toe, which even then was tantamount to deforestation, forcing the lice into vagrancy and indirectly promoting squatting, or at worse, merely delaying the inevitable - they would die anyway. I have another vegan friend who upon having contracted the lice, meticulously plucked them off with felt-tipped tweezers and housed them in a self-built sanctuary which he'd had feng-shui-ed, and was, I gather, based on one of Christopher Wren's earlier works, only marginally scaled down. For the housewarming I turned up with a hamper stuffed to the gills with veal, foie gras, which I'd left unrefrigerated to fester in the hamper for a month prior to the party. Fortunately, my vegan friend saw the humour, even as I slammed his head facedown into the hamper, for him to emerge pasted in maggots and half-decomposed unethical sweetmeats. It was a good party. The pubic lice proved surprisingly good dancers, even within their perspex palace - albeit one escaped and burrowed into the microscopic grooves in the skin just above my navel. As I slept that night, it occured to me that to have contracted even a single pubic louse from a dear friend was not dissimilar to having quenched our thirst on the same can of coke and regarding it a kiss. So, having fantasised over my vegan friend for many years - I had to force-believe he were carnivorous for the ejaculate not to be utterly translucent - I masturbated over the thought of us having shared a pubic louse. The next morning, hurried to the pharmacy, bought a tonne of insecticide, ran home, poured it into a tin of creosote, mixed them, and coated myself utterly in this elixir homebrew, plonked myself on the lawn to dry, turning at intervals so as to dry both sides equally. Upon being satisfied that I'd killed the louse and stopped time with the application of the creosote - the passage of time, naturally, being marked only by interruption to a void, friction, entropy, et al - I shaved my head, rammed the hair in the freezer, with the intention of having it made into a wig once my hairline started receding in old age, and paid a visit to the vegan friend from whom I'd obtained the louse. He was lounging in the garden on a wicker chaise-longue, and bare;y registered my approach until I lit my fingertips and ran screaming, flaming, at him, screeching 'Look what you've done, you hideous mekon bastard.'. I convinced him that the only way to reverse my predicament - although by then already, the flames were eating through the creosote, and my skin - was to eat his dog. Months later, after extensive and experimental cosmetic surgery, in which time I grew back skin, he paid a visit to the hospital, his dog's name-tag hung around his neck like a cheap aluminium requiem, and apologized for having caused so much torment by refusing to have sex with me back then when we were sixteen. I absolved him of blame as he knelt before the hospital bed and fellated me, the dog-tag flapping against my scrotum, as I lay back, contented, awaiting delivery of my wig.

I love autumn. It owns a very specific light. The light, diaphanous diffuse, as weightless as the blink of a butterfly wing, ebbs through my basement window with grace, contrary to the way that summer light pants and penetrates. I can coexist with autumn light quite happily. Particularly in the morning, the light seems to be expressly visible, present, beyond merely illuminating obstacles, objects. I've noticed upon casually photographing the crescent garden beyond my window, that in the autumn mornings, 'light' dwells more in the realm of the noun than the verb. It doesn't just light; there it is: tangible light. A character in its own right rather than an assisting function. Breathe it in.

October 11th 2008

Absence Note:

Note so I've moved house, spent time off of work due to diahorrea and gross fatigue, enjoyed a visit from my mother, incurred disciplinary proceedings for the mentioned illness, engaged in casual photography at the local skate park and generally been designing my new room as though it were a curatorship rather than a residency. Bureaucratically, I'm off-the-radar, AWOL, MIA, and intend to be more so once I've quit my job and made life adjustments to the tune of my busking daily in the pavilion gardens, doing occasional tax-exempt work as a bedrock. So long as I can afford the rent and some basic foodstuufs then I'll be absolutely fine. All the resources I need for the creation and perpetuation of my art are already freely available; imminently I'll be initiating a series of beach recordings, wherein I assemble concentric circles of musicians - percussion, reeds, vocalists - around a single mic suspended in the centre, and hit record as they/we launch into a performance, partially-prescribed whilst allowing for improvisation, all the while the lap of the surf pealing out at the fringe of the sound architecture, like a serviette mopping at the grub of falsity, and naturally, all of the character of that exquisite environment will be embedded in the sonic data captured on the recording. I also intend to photograph elements of the event, vast tableaux of 'live painting', human assemblages, with 'props', composed friezes of instruments, plants, heavily chiaroscuro, all flares, candles, and reflective materials, potentially projections also. I now know enough people capable of summoning for free the required resources for the staging of this kind of activity to be very feasible. Fucking fantastic.

Meanwhile, I bought a tiny electric orange harmonium, still a reed organ, but one whereby the player is relieved of pedal duty by a wondroud electric fan, whose sound alone is already very dear to me. I have yet to record anything of this kitsch acquisition, but meanwhile, it's just a comfort knowing that I have something resembling an organic keyboard instrument (i.e. closer to a piano than my synthesizer or Casiotone toaster) squatted in a corner.

I haven't taken heroin for a good few weeks now, having replaced its compelling and cosy cocoon drift with an actual cocoon, fashioned of material scavenged from a thousand-and-three wasp nests, at gross disadvantage to the incumbent wasps, but hey, the world's fucked beyond care anyway, and survivalism is now a pragmatist's daily privilege. I built a gigantic breathing hyde in my new chamber, adhereing the brittle, papery sheaths of wasp-nest to each other with my own mucus and spit, true to biological tradition, and painted the whole construction, which resmebles a giant, tapering penis of inconsistent diameter along its length, various shades of menstrual red, with tiny swastikas, etched with a razor-blade, along the 'foreskin'. I sleep inide this, standing, and its mulch flaps 'breathe' in synch with my body's own rhythm, a duet most conducive to gentle, immersive sleep, and from which I rise early, rested, conditioned to celebrate the day, something I used to only achieve via the ingestion of many, many drugs - transubtoxification - I'd take such a vast and diverse array of drugs, that I'd chemically replace the majority of my body's cells, and actually become more Drug than Human. Once, in a backroom in Soho, a limbless transvestite offered a charismatic sum of cash in exchange for the chance to insulfate the dandruff off my pubic hair, and even more money if s/he could mainline bile from my liver for an evening. I explained I wasn't aptly prepared for a transfusion, embraced the honeyd freak dearly and in sympathy, shaved off all of my headhair, tied him to a stool and fed it to him'her, whilst spitting in his/her mouth, as tenner notes tumbled from her/his cleavage and into my crotch. Later I realized that i'd acuqiesced to a transfusion after all, if only one weakly analogous to the 'fucking-of-the-little-man' by the corporate high-powers, and yet to this day, in the sense of both the anecdote and the analogy, I'm still unsure as to who was fucking who and whether I actually care or not. As long as there's a fundamental tension between parties of superficially oppositional stances, then the world will revolve, evolution will occur, and stasis will be averted, however close a siblingship their passions, desires, anxieties and delusions may share at root, such is the hydra-headed mindfuck that is homo civilis. I was lying in bed yesterday, vaguely delirious in a feverish convalescence, attempting to masturbate over a picture of a beautifully-torso-ed boy, probably eighteen, who self-identifies as straight/curious, and as often happens in the retreat to the subconscious terrain of the wank fantasy, I got distracted, it being a liquid plane - wanking is such a lubricant portal into a realm of hypnagogic contemplation. I got distracted, Into thinking, 'yeah, the notion of this kid being only accustomed to fucking rather than being fucked, him being straight, etc, is hysterically erotic, and yet...' the meditation continued 'would i find him so attractive if he were a creature of identical shape and form whose primary impulse and only recognizable human capacity was to fuck?' I.e. if i were incapable of projecting any 'brooding, wounded, hetero-male intensity' onto that blank canvas face, of assuming the rumblings of a basic subconsious fraught with human attrbutes, behind that harshly angelic face, then would I find his physicality whatsoever erotic? It would likely be akin to retard sex or bestiality and we know that these subtle refractions of our arbitrarily-finessed selves carry their frames with very different characteristics to the wholly-self-reflexive 'functional' human being, whose self-inflated notion of his bearing a specific sexual leaning can and often does dictate how he'll carry himself, how he'll present his core character (i.e. his perception/created incarnation of himself). I found the boy attractive because I was able to freely interpret from a single photo, a sense of confused intelligence, enthusiasm, health, strength, frailty, intensity of thought, disappointment, desire, hopelessness, isolation (he photographed himself, probably in his bedroom as his parents, unaware of his suspected-gay-leanings, furiously wandered their thickshit minds through The Daily Mail, only a room away), male awkwardness, absurdism, and any number of further paradoxical attributes. And I say interpret. Each of those listed attributes likely reflects more on my make-up than anything else, though were I to have directly confessed such, I would have emphasized the terms 'hopelessness', 'absurdism', and 'enthusiasm'. The boy may well a) not exist b) actually be a retard or c) be merely a shaved animal, in which case, I'm either, stupid, deluded, morally-repugnant, or any number of these, and if he's neither of these things, and actually just a boy who's just realized he wants to fuck with other boys, then I'm still those things, but such is the idiotically sublime nature of wanking.

I'd like each of you, upon having read the above paragraph, to unbutton your pants, lie down, and using your full capacity for projection, masturbate whilst thinking of me. Thank you.

Umber Park, October, Toby

Umber Park, October

Tryst-tych

September 22nd 2008

It is a little proven fact that at the height of Beatlemania, John Lennon had no legs.

I got a parcel through the letterbox this morning, the sender purporting to be one 'R. Goodfellow' - given I never, ever, ever receive mail at this house, it seemed pretty puzzling and curious to intercept such a bulky dispatch on the morning of my last day in this particulay abode. I opened it - a book, bound in parchment, or it may have been synthetic rubber, whose pages, predominantly blank, smelled of juniper berries and mothballs. The few pages that were inscribed with text detailed a story whose details I pastiche, bowdlerise and expectorate below:

Two boys, self-proclaimed brothers in every sense but genetically, co-habit for months, sharing a bed, sharing physical decline through drugs, alcoholicm, insomnia, act out an impulse one evening to brand each other on the inner forearm, as an infernal totem of their fraternity. Both wounds are deep, gelatinous and quickly septic, requiring severe medical attention; the elder brother's wound heals convex, the younger's concave. Later, the boys drift apart, and the elder brother grows increasingly frustrated at the emotionally reckless, dispassionate and cruel antics of the younger, sensing his generosity across all avenues has been underappreciated, his loyalty unreciprocated. During a guitar jam with the younger brother, the elder's spirit cracks, his mild-mannered extrior shatters, and he cudgels the younger repeatedly across the head with the body of his black bass guitar, until his skull actually fissures in two like a cantaloupe dropped from a multi-storey car park in Nelson, Lancashire. The elder brother discards the bass, reaches into the younger's skull with tense fingertips, and cleaves the fissured skull apart, a hemisphere in each hand, coconut shells dripping cranial viscera, though not in excess. Scooping out the meagre contents, the act nostalgically connoting Halloween's past, he stuffs the remaining body parts, compactly, inside the hemispheres, gaffer tapes them together, and paints the entire travel bag black, using filthy, chemical emulsion, to ensure that, if the boy isn't at this point dead, he'll slowly expire through being enclosed in a bone sack of toxic vapours. The elder brother, sated, unscrews the rear of the bass amp, deposits the black boy pumpkin inside the amp, being careful not to dislodge any sensitive components, screws the rear back on, plugs in the bloodied bass, presses record on the frugal but adequate tape recorder (in-built-mic) and sluices out a slow, deep, assaultive seires of drones on the bass, all tritones, intense sustain and searing harmonics, Sabbath in the Tundra. The amp melts, the elder brother gathers the hissing lump of hardened, cooled components, cabinet and corpse in his arms, all melded together the through intense sonic fusion, dumps the mass in the wheelie bin outside, launches it down the street into the path of an oncoming combined harvester, whose whirring rotor bed swallows the mass, alongside various dogs, pedestrians, bicycles - what in the hell was it doing harvesting the suburbs anyhows? - eventually chuffing the combined contents into an adjacent trailer being pulled by a tractor. In a few weeks, this tawdry broth of urban decay will have formed the cereal basis of a number of well-marketed, big-selling breakfast foods. Meanwhile, the elder brother, who avoids such foods, owing to his lactose intolerance, retires to his comfortable bedsit, and sleeps for ten ten days. He is woken by a rabid and unrelenting itching across his branding wound. Peeling back his sweat-choked sleeve, he sees the wound is throbbing, microscopic white lines extending in webs from the centre, like a chart of Rome's road networs, seething, pulsating, a tiny white, inscetoid hand visible, probing beneath the head of skin of the wound. The hand eventually punctures the skin of the wound, needle talons affixed to fingers of super-abundant knuckles, and a tiny, translucent white figure crawl excruciatingly from the wound, teeth like razors, a larval, calceous, mewling avatar of the dead brother. It crawls into the lap of the foaming, frothing, petrified elder brother, and begins to masturbate his hopelessly engorged cock. Upon ejaculating, the avatar, coated in semen, apologises for being such an abysmal creature, and dissolving amidst the shower of ejaculate, kneels, marries its hands in prayer, and explodes. The elder brother resets his life to ground zero and blossoms anew unto the world.

I read this, nauseated, faintly aroused, and decided to, once happily settled into my new pad, pay Robin Goodfellow a visit and enquire as to the implications of his dispatch.

As I walked back from the supermarket last night, laptop stuffed with reverb pockets, I passed an obese girl on whose T-shirt were printed the following slogan - 'Happiness is really great'. At my cynical snort, she flashed a bloated white tit, like that of a drowned hag, and spat at me. I bottled the expectorate and emptied it into a carton of juice belonging to one of my soon-to-be-ex-housemates, just prior to wanking into the bottle of hair dye ont top of the ironing board.

I learned from a billboard this morning the very definition of avant-garde - 'someone whose vocabulary exceeds that of the default predictive text lexicon.'

Had an exorcistic shit-sreeching one-man guitar war last night, attacking the instrument as a soundboard, with drumsticks, bowing with the plectrum, then layering several heavily-reverberated versions of the same recording across each other with incremental delay bewteen each, then sequenced it to loop on the playlist as I scaled the heights to slumber, its fuzzy, sonorous missives ironing out the malaise in my brainwaves, and the physical symptoms manifested by association.... Woke purged, brighter...

September 20th 2008

Ok, I got abducted, formed a choir, assassinated the umpire of a bogus temple and returned pretty much unscathed. I'm tired, ill, restless, angry, and yet shockingly serene. As on tuesday I wave 'fuck off' to my limbo stasis, and its attendant domestic agony, and shuffle off to my new abode - the basement lair of an ancient, crescent mansion, soundproofed, epic dimensions, where I might freely activate my cultural designs upon the world....thus, I'll be importing the choir I've established, housing them in the myriad indented cupbiards along my walls, doping them up on largactile, so as they will remain permanently available - if I need a counter-tenor for example, I'll just knock loudly on the correspondent cupboard door, feed the manuscript paper through the slats, and conduct by flashing a torch in a morse code fashion. Once the desired performance has been achieved, I reward the somnambulist chorister with more largactile, and they trouble me not, until the next instance in which they're needed. As i write this, my intestines lie bundled in my lap, like pulsing, bloody dreadlocks; I'm trying to isolate the root of my persistent allergies, by excavating as holistically as possible into the corporeal folds of my malaise. Thus far, I've plucked forth a half-dissolved condom, a handful of white feathers, which had attempted to molecularly fuse with the lining of my colon, a lock of bleached blonde hair, a hemlock seed, a heavily graffitied copy of a hotel Gideon's Bible, and the blueprints to a new supermarket currently being built along London Road - the interior of which, having broken in the other night, is known to boast impeccable and cavernous acoustic qualities....I'll be heading down there at midnight on the solstice tomorrow, with my laptop and microphone, to improvise some gloomy keening, and exploit this glorious state of echo before the consumer virus guts the building completely. Then, once I've modelled the acoustic character using four-dimensional wireframe software, I'll be enabled, at will, to recreate the space, in matter, in spacetime, indefinitely, forever....for of course, contained within in any sonic data, albeit, especially in the molecules of echo, lies the precise map of a three-dimensional space. Any intuitively meticulous sonic mage can thus manifest pockets of spacetime through the unpacking of the characteristics of this echo, and any such pocket, inaccessible to most dumb creatures, is of fundamental usefulness to any shapeshifting revisionist self-engineer....

I'm bored to the point of zen inertia by the relentless regularity with which I encounter the arrogantly neurotic, the paranoiac would-be-lovers, whose gaze has been skullfucked with such abiding cynicism that any affection or generosity directed their way is interpreted as possessing an 'ulterior motive' or 'sinister undertones' - altruism as the chief anti-commodity - fucking lazy idiots - and fuck, it's so infuriating at times (and by extension, furtherly infuriating because I wouldn't want to dispossess these Cassandra Complex atttributes) being apparently such an astute cartographer of social interaction; the puppeteer, the psychopomp, the satellite, the ferryman, Funes, to the extent that even in a participatory context, there's the dual perspective of observer and obeserved. Perhaps hence I write, perform AND self-record.

I spent four futile and expensive hours in London recently, and for that I am grateful. It could have been much longer and expensive. Fortunately, the boy rock god I was attempting to woo, got too pissed too quickly, and fled, urine mapping tributaries on his skinny, hairless legs, blood cresting on the rims of his nostrils, as the punters laughed, his exit a dismal circus. Still, I wanted him so badly, a beautiful guy, not unplesant, and rich with enthusiasm. So, yesterday, in a bid to gain his attention, i discovered online, via a netowrking community site, where he'd likely be that evening, dressed up as him - facial prosthetics et al - and got an impossibly handsome friend of mine to dress as myself. We then trained it into London, tubed it to the club where this boy would likely show. We waited. Eventually, a few free brandies into our night, he showed, a flourish of posturing neon queers encircling him, all coquetteish and fey; they headed for the bar. 'He' and 'I' headed to the bar also, and began to make out in full view of 'him'. His gaze affixed to our performance, his crotch visibly entering discomfort, as he saw a realtime mirage rendering of what-could/should-be, acted out in what must have been an utterly disorienting and disturbing (not least because of the inevitable arousal - gay narcissism anyone?) manner. After 'He' withdrew his enormous, tumescent cock from 'my' ass, I groaned sepulchurally, and 'we' both walked briskly from the club, escorted by an underground police unit/off-duty speed peddler.
Within years, I'd received a text from the boy in whoe interest I'd staged this whole debacle. Having witness the intensity of sex, and the evident romantic blissitude a partnership with myself might offer, he acquiesced that he wanted nothing more than to shack up with me, forever and beyond, and yet, that night, following us from the club, he'd been offered a rogue-cut wrap of speed, spazzed out in the road, and been smashed to stupid, mewling pieces by a Night Bus. By then, however, I'd returned to Brighton, and having invited my friend and accomplice back for drinks at my yard, and within minutes, naturally, we were fucking, an ecstatic and filthy sprawl, heightened, obviously, by the fact that, throughout, I insisted he continue wearing the facial prosthetic of myself. I ejaculated with such geiser force that i had to set fire to the duvet. His latex visage melded by fire to his face, I watched myself melt, freaked out, and wrapped him in the burning duvet, rolled him out into the street and took pot shots, sniping at his rolling, flaming, screaming self, from my bedroom window, with the sawn-off my dad got me when I turned twenty-six, having explained that the greatest popular music legends die by their own hand at twenty-seven, and that he wanted me to be adequately equipped.

15th September 2008

Bacchus and I, having left The Tavern a good few hours after it officially closed, stoked on ale and high on crack, trolled around Gayville, in pursuit of the latest available open bar, settling on a grotesque - though no more so than any other squalid dive in this zone - little cubicle, whose denizen boasted the social grace of a bulldozer in a confetti palace, within seconds of arriving, I'd been groped, manhandled, buggered, mugged, bought drinks, sold a boy prositute (who it later turned out was dead) , whored myself, and exchanged numbers with at least six handsome raptors whose sole goal in life, at that moment, was to fuck me senseless. We left the bar having secured a handful of addresses, scored some booze, some dope, headed around to one of them, to encounter zero response, despite protracted yelling, phoning, battering at the door. I pissed through the letter box, and screamed 'Sex' as Bacchus smoked a joint on the doorstep. The Scandinavian giant fled to the station to serve coffee - her job - on as much booze as she'd had little sleep, and us remaining two fled to the park, where sandpaper-eyed vagrants eyes us pityingly, insisting that we share on their cider. After stealing some food from the continental food market, setting up stalls in the lanes, we secluded ourselves, upon scrounging free coffee from the Scandinavian giant, on a sloped concourse on the street below the station and kicked into a series of homeless routines handplucked from the heart of Artaud, dadaist street theatre of the most brutally ridiculous kind. At one point, as a middle-aged hag dressed as a coffee table squandered past, I hollered, in my most middle-class tenor 'Heroin for bread, heroin for bread'. Her pace quickened. At the next punter I politely intoned that although technically we were the homeless ones, they looked professionally sad, and invited them to join is un a mainline of smack. When they vigorously shook their head, I stood and blurted with compelling conviction - they halted - 'Bob Dylan, electric or acoustic', to which they replied 'I'm aware of his work' and stalked off. Bacchus pissed all over his coat and I poured coffee in my hair, allowing the chocolate of the mocha to streak my face like some scat Niagra. We'd already, in the park, dropped a woodrose seed, and as the LSA grabbed thte reins of our perception, all orthodoxy was rendered obsolete, and any impulsive action deemed legitimate, the social schism wrought by this obelisk of values, offering an alluring taste of immortality, or at least apparent immunity, as all manner of anthropoligcal hijinks were proffered. And the beauty, hell yes, the beauty of feeling, let alone suddenly being, one of the lowest cretins in town, below the radar of wealth, power, bureaucracy, family, utterly freed by desolation, emptiness, irresponsibility, as we found ourselves draped-up a war memorial, wasted, insomniac, the sunday sun blasting at our crazy-eyed, stinking stoop, a particualr bliss surfaced, again, that taste of immunity. And upon savouring thatb taste, against the memorial, for an hour or two, we stood, sated, hugged farewell and retired to our respective stables, content in that, in adopting these poses, very plausibly, we'd actually never patronised a soul, and through our steady-eyed conviction, had in fact participated in something beautiful, and hidden, occult, beyond the crease of our less investigative brothers. I slept for thirty-seven hours, dreaming of flesh, of feathers, of bestial chasms, of flame, of suture, of branding, of verse, and on the fifth day of violence, I seized upon a knoll, drank bitter tea, ate buttered toast, love filled an empty bowl....

14th September 2008

Returned from London at midnight, having achieved less than none of what I intended, but somehow not really giving a fuck, as I'd actually escaped Brighton for a few hours, sufficiently to have been reminded how urgently I wanted to return there. I called in at The Tavern, where some pageant of patriotism was occuring, every negotiable surface veneered in Union Jack colours, as 'Jerusalem' bellowed from the televisions, and staples of English cuisine were tossed around on silver terrines. My initial response was to sweep my hair back into a paedophiliac side-parting and goosestep around the pub, right-arm aloft, a a fixed, concrete gaze, as though to not blink connoted fascism in its unwieldingness. Then, bored, sat, drank, smoked a few lengths of crack and danced spasmodically to tenuously homo eighties pop hits, trying to discoordinate my limbs from eahc other with such apparent independence that they resembled each possessed by a different sprite. The Archangel evanglised on the necessity of fluid rotator cuffs, The Governess boasted of her newly plum locks, EJ and La-wa talked of their impending wedding, a conjunction only occuring for bureaucratic reasons, sad in its satire on the rumoured sublimeness of marriage, and inspiring in its ruthless pragmatism. The Mighty Lord Bacchus arrived, a phalanx of communists, anarchists, and Scandinavian giants in tow. Soon, the Tavern resembled a sociological zoo of misfits, flunkers, sexual deviants, tax exiles, drug whores, and panting reptiles, each as desperate to commit themselves to a night of formal annihilation. Outside, there danced a flotilla of freaks amidst a stonehenge of burning oil drums - an inverted cat, mewling to its insides, its organs borne to the street with pride, a child, open wounds across its arms, its hair bleached with petroleum vapour, a skeletal dog dragging a crazed Irish physicist along in his golden wheelchair, a Parisian hooker, skin glazed with dried effluent, pokes her head through a manhole, the wheelchair narrowly missing her shit-plaited locks, her eyes fixed on a middle-distance, an object not of this earth, and thus impelling her to perpetual pusuit; a woman, tanned, lithe, leathery, tells the whole bar of how, in opposition to her doubts as to her husband's fidelity, she had him grafted to her cheek ten years ago. Suddenly, absolutely certain of his faith and dedication to her, wholly, exclusively, all the frisson between them dissolved, the tension of uncertainty having been eradicated. Subsequently the divorce involved a surigcal severance on top of the legislatory one, the husband dying in the process through blood loss. The surviving ex-wife, bottled all of the available blood and uses it to dye her hair each week.

13th September 2008

A horse-drawn funeral cortege, all white, whithered feathers bursting from their manes, blinkers constricting their awareness of the modern i.e. exterior world. Behind them, a sequence of stretch hearses, beads on a string. I didn't know with to tip my hat or drop my pants. Death is madness is an absence of lucidity, where there was one before. What others might term my madness is a deeply lucid procilivity towards exploration, investigation, the unfolding of established orders, a violation of recieved wisdom, a paradox of the most ghastly degree. And for all the despondency, melancholy this insistent hyper-awareness invites, at least they are my own; I've never succumbed to therapy, medication (of the un-self-prescribed variety), never plugged into a collectively empiricised gentleman's club of clinical disorder, and its impotizing panaceas.

I continued towards the station, boarded the train. I adore train travel, perhaps even above the anticipation of arriving somewhere exciting. Before I lost my wealth, I'd spend a month of each year, sleeping on a train, if only to bolster my energy for the impending months - something of the rhythmic hum of transit induces the most seductive, intoxicating sleep. I'd spend the days tripping about, usually coastal Britain, then, always, by nightfall, I'd be on a train, grabbing a the most exquisite twelve hours of perfect sleep.
London was as hideously paranoid as ever, saturated with vainglorious cunts, manic, gabbling, having collectively tapped into a rhythm of life way beyond the capacity of any natural heartbeat. Delays having situated my arrival directly in the middle of 'rush-hour', I was immediately co-erced into a hyper-condensed melange of sweating commuters on the wheeled cannisters that patrol the underground. A City agents underam seeping stinking fluid onto my hair, his arm aloft to the support rails, as the train lurches grumbling between stations. Such hopeless disarray - peeling paint, safety stickers daubed with obscene graffiti, an aisle bereft of smiles, warmth or interaction. I read my Pasolini collected poems, and its transcendence glimmered like a portal into the anithesis of this grubby, tangible, present realm. And that privilege, the rare twinkling jewel of a suspicion that I may be witness to a gilded seam of life unglimpsed by those around me - and not in a conceited, exclusive way, it's always there, waiting to be tracked down and accessed, but only out of desire - instantly dragged my memory corpus back to the less rancid parts of my adolescence, namely, squatted up a tree, reading Rimbaud, nourished to new depths by the blaze of the verse, titilated by the anarchism of his homosexuality, and, it being the height of summer, assured of the work's transifugred vitality by the correspondence of its exoticism with the everyday realness of the rays transmitted by that ineffable solar eye, beaming wisdom, hope, value into my soul. All of my deities and allies have shared this state of absurd wonderment under the universal judgement of the sun, beneath the solar canopy we are as one, howveer mundane our incompatibilities, if we gaze too hard we'll go blind, if we careen too close, or if it plummets, bored at our tinfoil insolence, we'll incinerate and be so much scatted carbon dust, compatible as water with thirst. For me the tube is myopia writ in crusted, clanking metal, and we are at best moles, consumed by our amphetamine inertia.

12th September 2008

So I've decided to take my podium mobile, thus I'm writing this in the embracing confines of the pub local to my bunker. I heard police sirens at half-ten this morning along our street, and figuring the agents of control may just be after confiscating my laptop and/or myself, I grabbed both and fled through the back door, leapt the garden wall and hurdling all subsequent walls in the terrace ended up falling into the beer garden of this fine and samizdat hostelry. Here I'm as duskily anonymous as any other scar-flecked and be-cowelled punter, tapping insectoid at greasy keys, wishing his seafood platter were a typewriter, and that the CCTV cameras pointed only to those behind the monitors, the panopticon spectacles of the dead agents of control, skulking above shop facades like empty kebab wrappers lurk under bus shelters as orphans of the wind.

One of my dearest and closest friends recently returned from Thailand under enormously pressurized circumstances. They'd been hanging around Bangkok, as a bourgeoise dreg, extending charity to local whores i.e. paying them handsomely for the mere privilege of spending an hour in their company, talking, drinking; he doesn't need to pay for sex, being possessed of both sets of genitalia, and having the libido of a senatorial desk lamp. So he'd take them off the streets, embroider themselves into the shadows of a bar not patrolled by their pimp, fumble briskly through a lazy Thai/English montage of gestures and basic phonemes, slip them a Titan wage and dissolve into the sulphur night. Essentially, a baron, a pimp, a bounder and a tycoon each gained awareness of this rape of etiquette and had him pursued at rapier-point out of South-east Asia, by a caravan of mafia goons. These marauders, void of ethics, and barely entertained by the notion of skin, cornered him in a black and tapering peninsular, chased him through the yacht club into a cubicle in which a quadraplegic teenage boy was extracting a giant tapeworm from his rancid colon by his teeth, drugged my friend....he next awoke on the plane headed for Gatwick, with no awareness of his lower body, his gaze towards this portion of his form paralysed by the suspicion that it might not even be there upon checking.

In light of his grand-guignol suspicions, the actuality proved, by contrast, vaguely fortuitous. They hadn't seized his legs. He had however been prey to a drugged hijacking of his internal organs. When I greeted him at his Kensignton apartment, I knew instantly, his ribcage had been completely flushed of contents. He expounded on a teasingly phantom memory of having had some kind of suction appliance introduced to his lower abdomen via his arsehole, and indeed having been checked in as hand luggage on the flight, by a yellow yakuza. Even he saw amusement in the idea that his reduced body weight should have validated his body as hand luggage. He still had the tag around his neck when I found him, albeit scribbled with his own address, rather than that of the organ heister. After chamomile and soothing talk, I turned out the lights, stripped him, asked him to kneel with his arse elevated, shoved a lit torch up through his crack and delighted into a wonderful play of beams through his diaphanous skin, upon the walls, as his body wall, now divested of contents, freely admitted light. I left the torch inside, shoved a four pack of batteries into his mouth, which he swallowed with water, gagged him with his own hand, using a brace of very long rusted nails, kissed him on the cheek and assured him I'd be back within a week to assess his progress, and that meanwhile I'd alert the President of the Universe to his ordeal. I then called my grandmother using his phone and updated her as to my musical goings-on. I should have an album out fairly soon. She smiled meekly, still disappointed that I'd professed to her so precociously my atheism. All she wanted were for I to wed the Vicar's daughter. Instead I'd seduced the Vicar's son - five years my junior, gotten him fixated on fisting, and released him into the world of London's grimiest fetish clubs.

9th September 2008

I hit Gayville last night. In a big way. Got absolutely shitfaced with the baritone jock from The Happy Paillsades and his Lady MacBeth hen stripper of a spouse, then after a couple of arms full of speed, got alured into pursuing the same old queeny hedonist venues, the routinely map of diabolically trashy, tawrdry crumholes; I counted at least seven fingers up my arse at one point, each belonging to a different probing queen, exploratory, meercat, utterly without dignity or body empathy. Their relentless and black fingernails tearing away at the membranes of my colon as I stand at the bar, salubrious and straight-faced. Apparently they all believed I were sixteen and heterosexual, naturally a combination to win over the closeted pederasts in their rohypnol skins and gutter-trawling minds. Jim, a local lecturer, squat, rotund, had me size up the girth of his dick, producing it in the club, slamming it into my hand, using mer as a carriage, a wedding trail for his enormous but wilting member, all pocked with black mottled patches and lumps, veins like tributaries off of the natural order of things. I bit his hand, kissed his brylcreemed nipples and slit him from his collarbone to his perenium with my cocaine fingernail. After rearranging his organs, I wtached him age in reverse, his heart pounding in his scrotum, his lungs wrapped around his head like the ears of a dachshund; hissing, he shrunk to a toddler, I tickled his appendix with my tongue, and as he depleted to a zygote, I scooped him from the floor, deposited him in the drink of some odious wanker standing next to me, who upon downing the genetic code of a known sex criminal, imploded to a cask of brown cancer and had to be swept up by security and left out back to reconfigure into something beautiful.

Apparently, in my club, simultaenously to the above horror, the advent of The Pheremonla Chamber went excellently - I've allocated a room inside the megalithically huge converted warehouse, to be in a state of constant darkness. Customers, clients, punters, whatever, are admitted to the chamber on the basis that they will be drawn, in pitch darkness, pheremonally towards someone, and without even seeing them, feel their way into this person's space, and engage in a long, luscious kiss, remaining with this person all night, exploring, roving, with hands, tongue, dick, in absolute darkness. Upon closing time, they'll leave by different doors, and only ever within the confines of the chamber, will they interact, so blindly, so intuitively, with such intensive intimacy. The first night went spectacularly, with around seventy-percent of clients breaking down into a lovestruck hysterical malaise, returning home, maliciously beating their domestic partners, instigating divorce proceedings, and slaughtering any children the spousal unit might have bore in the throes of their superficial and loveless fucking. Thus, they'd be in attendance every week, nothing as guaranteed and allure as the deepest, most visceral sensuality to twin the marrows of a nervous creature and ensure attendance at every juncture where this marriage may occur.

6th September 2008

Since the inception of The Bunker, i.e. since I gave up using the kitchen, moved a fridge into my room and adopted the toilets of the BP garage across the road as my bathroom, I've experienced a peculiar and forceful internalising - I exist solely either at work or within The Bunker, everything else is phantasmal, fleeting, The insomnia eats me up, last night, lying in bed awake for four hours, I navigated myself into a serene space of motorik contemplation, systems rotating rolodex around my hyperactive brain, the quetiapine wedging me in this booth between tirelessness and gross fatigue, and still the melodies fanfare their geometries without relent. I'm a headcase. It's high time this boy wrote a symphony, Herr Doktor.

Adolescent, prima-donna self-indulgent, ego-stricken, playpen-umbilicus, middle-class angst-ridden, foot-stomping, indignantly-snorting, solipsistic, rabid bitch-hound, dragged its clumsy, kickboxing hooves around the ballpool, blinded by itself, charmless, and without humility, it still believes it can transcend the human, hence, it cripples and whithers with every faulty jolt of scuppered idealism.

I will always observe my impulses foremost, as these at least, however injurious in th short-term, are true and tangibly my own. I will not deviate from the flare of these beacons for any creature. For most this is beyond idle reckoning; a given, but a few will come to learn and reconcile that my trajectory is singular - if I choose to carve off my arm one afternoon, there is an inarguably legitimate reason for me to do so - the rationale exists on my plane.

I found a kilogram of heroin in the dumb waiter at work today - the counter staff had mistaken it for half-digested falafel - I hid it in the recycling bins until I'd closed the kitchen down and everyone except me had vacated the premises. I found twenty-three envelopes in the office, stuffed a palm of brown in each envelope, sealed them, crammed them into my rucksack, and left, having pocketed the majority for myself. En route home, I deposited envelopes through various letterboxes - taking a circuitous route, so as to create an irregularity were they to be mapped by the police, whome I phoned anonymously from a public box upon completing my circuit. Tomorrow morning, the headline of the local rag will read : Santa Claus is Coming to Brown - the police had apparently raided all of the houses whose addresses I gave, save for one, a chiselled, mercenary ex-fuckwit called Robin Goodfellow, who it is thought necked his whole provision of H in one sitting. His was the last deposit made, and likely the heaviest dose. Having used my copy of The Argus as a cone in which to smoke my designated does of smack, I trawled round to his yard, hammered on the door, and was admitted to the house by a stern-faced unhydrated harridan in sweatpants and a string vest, bath pearls dangling from her blue-rinse headlocks like eyes of sputum on a lilac tree. She extended a weathered, three-fingered-claw, I grasped it non-commitally, and we had disingenuous, lazy sex on the stairwell. I fisted her sugar puff cunt without removing my knuckle duster, spat on her one good tit, threw a two-euro coin at her and waddled, trousers-round-my-ankles through to the kitchen, where I found a beautiful, gleaming boy whom I presumed to be Robin. He mirrored my every movement, except in his reflection each reposing was deft, fluid, as though his body were composed of a single, co-ordinated muscle, divine elegance, super-divine geometry. I pulled off my boots, kicked off my trousers. He resembled a boy made of light, an effervescent, shifting leonine creature, all smiles, radiance and warmth. His navel, a smooth, gagging clitoris, swallowed my arm with genteel ease, and enraptured in a New Warmth, I kissed him on the lips, tasted the residual heroin on his tongue, which penetrated my mouth, elongating inside my head, extending down my throat, into my abdomen, whose sack of rancid organs it tickled with the delicacy of a pin-prick. I ejaculated over his legs, which closed over mine, we fused, skin putrifying to a silicon mousse, our flesh bonding to a resin; up to my shoulder in his navel, our legs entwined and gelled into an erect mass, our mouths dissolving into one, he swallowed me into him, and once under the diaphanous waterfall of his skin, I could make out vague features of the kitchen through the most taut patches; I condensed inside of him, until a mere essence, the energy of his being was that of pure white heat orgasm, and I, assimilated into him, was an element in this perpetual orgasmic reactor; an intimacy to which I'd never before yielded. While inside of him, I loved him more beyond any comprehensible notion of the term, and together, we'd commit to the most inane and ballbreaking chores, without so much as tiring, wilting, or doubting, and this energy kept us alive indefinitely. Every time he came into a young boy's body, a little of me trickled out, embedded in the algebra of his semen, and I knew, as a densely-codified meme, I would be born in their minds and souls, replicated gradually, a viral takeover of their identities, systematically eradicating any semblance of their former character map, infecting them with the same fetishes, intensities of appetite, and hunger for collective species annihilation as myself; and the more boys he fucked, and the younger they were, the more readily I'd be disseminated, to the extent that when they reached their mid-twenties, I'd have latitudinally fathered an entire generation of Darwinianarchists, Enigmaterialists, and other such lowlife fucking scum-pockets, that the pseuds, the squares, the commuters, the cyber-evaneglists, the stockbrokers, the docile lovers, would be instantly usurped and rendered so much redundant gelatinous chunks. And for this seismic political insurrection, I'd have sacrificed only the whollest and absolutest love that even the pinnacle of deities could ever have imagined.

After I left Robin's, I folded the tissue on which he'd written his phone number, into three and jammed it in my jeans pocket. The effects of the heroin began to wane, so I punched myself around the head a couple of times, collapsed by a dustbin, and lights out.

5th September 2008

The Human Storm:

Some days are born with heart palpitations, paranoia, the inability to offer a frothy word to a dear and close friend, icicles, exile, remote planes, collapsing synaptic rope bridges, heaving collars, absence of will, television static, the all-plundering magma of regret, holy desolation, symphonies of sighing, migraine, insomnia, as though the body might be discreetly sheathing itself in clay in preparation for a blindside dispatch, life narrowing down the base of a funnel, the physical antithesis of an explosion, mute purgatory, when the heart's an echo of a bruise, sometimes a pose is hoisted, sometimes I suspect I no longer care about saving myself, and to be that reckless with the essence of our momentum can only be fucking dangerous. So rather than embrace this pose, musick's going to elevate and exalt me yet again. And this time, we'll be gilded, light as a leaf, the knowing and jewelled diaspora, stateless, super-spinal, exquisitely loved; I'm holding out my hand to warmth every day, will some molecualr engineer replace the chill of idiots with the effervescent candle dusk of lovers.

To the avid listener life is its own satire. Being intelligent can terminally crush a creature void of mass; compressed air is the most terrible pregnant explosion.

Listen.

Cataclysm Report Over,

Out.

4th September 2008

Thoughts on Lativa having visited its meagre shores yesterday with Uncle Patch: familiarly exotic, a much shorter flight than one might have imagined, a dialect very much mirroring commonplace tourist Brightonian, and a strident penchant for Edwardian funeral dress. Succinctly - a great little island. I recommend especially visiting Latvia's capital - and eldest city - Italy, a delightful haven of tomduggery, skullfuckery and lambastardry (which of course boasts the etymology for the brand pharmoceutical anger management pill, Lambastadrine.) Most vexing was the restaurant who's feng-shui consultant had concluded that the ambient navel of the premises should be landmarked by a gigantic aquarium, in which not only were the fish teasingly-expensive and decked in hideous nu-rave fusilage, but were also crammed to a suffocating density within the confines of the tank, each fish being granted approximately five square inches of space in which to conduct themselves, irrespective of their individual dimensions. So we took a sweepstake, a stiff-list on a few between courses - many of whom comprised the fish we bet would die during the proceeding course.

We also encountered a fairground ride in which a dual-ended pivoting arm, enormous, rotates along an axis, hoisting the passengers to ludicrous altitudes with momentous G-force at play, spinning them upside down in constrictive cradle pods. Before the punters are admitted tot he pods, their fillings, jewellry and gold teeth are extracted, often without analgesic. Once inside the pod, and aloft in extremis, the arm will retract to a horizontal resting point (in either direction), erupt in a blzae of hail flame, and catapult the contents, as a squealing, disenfranchised inferno towards the sea. Each punter having already signed an insidiously-worded disclaimer prior to boarding death's white hot catapult, the operators remain in business and in blissful absolution.

Jacques Brel, the Gallic Frank Sinatra of Death came into the cafe for some vegan tap water earlier. I shunned him like a dead chansonnier.

Saw the two principle songwriters of The Happy Pallisades, a local duo, rehearsing their new compositions in the rear smoking garden of The Tavern earlier. A certain Morricone, Spector, Dick Dale kinda vibe to it. I've at least always adored surf-informed chamber pop.

As I kicked a girl to death in the streets whilst waiting for the launderette to finish my washing, she gurgled that I were a 'flagrant misogynist'. I stopped kicking her (she was dead), propped her head up against a wheelie bin, whispered 'Porphyria, I love thee' into her congealed and swollen ear, and explained, I couldn't possibly be a misogynist, because I just hated HER. The incidental of her being female bored me. As I went on, her expression suggested positive engagement with my rhetoric, so I explained that one person's misogynist is another's pinnacle of sadism, another's classist is another's justification for projected self-loathing, etc, and that amidst this dualist relativising, there lies molecularly a simple notion - dispense with adjectives and discrimination is defunct. When 'yesterday' can no longer discriminate against 'forgotten' as 'bruised' can no further discriminate against 'blessed' then genuine and holistic ontological progress will be affirmed as a species collective. As I stuffed the thesaurus in her limp, stiffening mouth, and lit the corner of the page whose first definition were 'adjective', she was consumed by enlightenment to a sturdy, azure ash, and became anointed the totem of a brilliant and emergent epoch of man. And woman. The launderette had, I gather, closed, midway through this enterprise, so, not wishing for 'closed' to discriminate against 'bilocation', I self-loathingly projected myself into the building and handed myself my clean and pressed laundry, passed myself a gratuity, patted myself on the head and sped away in my company Saab towards an adjective-free future space, rich in semantic equilibirum, where men are executed for not smiling at all times.

'I never used to tet paranoid on green'
'Oh, there's always room for paranoia in my book!'
'Really, I'd like to read it. Is it by Kafka?'.

Today's opiate cosiness, blanket winds, and spasmodic, chilling weather instantly resituated me in my first autumn away from home, at university in Wales, lonesome realm of Pot Noodles and Kid A, long before the advents of friendship, and reconciliation of my core impulses. I'm writing a song whose first stanza opens with 'About this time of year/I get nostalgic for the fear/of being alone.'

3rd August 2008

So I got myself submitted to the morgue as a dead person, had the toxicology report mailed to my house, figuring my bovine housemates wouldn't open it, my assumption here affirmed by the fact that while I holidayed in june, the gas and electricity got cut off. The exmanier found exaggerated traces of quetiapine, codeine, psuedo-ephedrine, thorazine, and a prodigious quanitity of alcohol. The autopsy was worthwhile too, the scalpel being very tenderly administered, like the tongue of a great lover. My liver looked exactly as I supected - stagnant, black, bloated - and I was pleased to finally get a notion of the spleen's appearance (something I couldn't responsibly divulge here). Whilst making incisions along my breastplate, around midway through the procedure, the examiner, with his left hand, delicately reached between my legs and cupped my genitals, assessing some quality, then enclosed my flaccid, blueing penis in his fist. It sprang, engorged, his hand bolted, I sat up, surgical implements flying scattershot across the cold, marble floor. The examiner cowered, back against the wall. Snatching for needle and thread, I clambered off of the trolley, holding my remaining organs inside of me, retrieved my liver, stuffed it back inside the body wall, stripped the examiner of his coat and belt, secured the belt around my torso, threw the labcoat over me, broke into a neat canter out of the morgue, and went for fish and chips in the pavilion gardens, listening to a delightful busker, peddling brisk spirals of saxophone melody, firing shapes across the barlines, with hazy osmosis and huge polymetric assurance. The sun crept through the pre-autumnal canopy of bronzed, whithering greens, leaves all larval curls, desiccated veins, tiny, brittle kayaks. I listened to around three of his mesmerising exercises, twisted the appendix from the warm folds of my colon, threw it into his busker's cap, and ambled home to write this. Upon writing this, summoning all my waning knowledge of embroidery, I rearranged my organs so that my heart would pump blood directly to my liver before any other organ, hoping this would destagnate the sagging black lump, sewed the lips of his incision together, applied some gaffer tape, made a cup of tea and practices my claw hammer technique on the broken nylon string guitar that EJ gave me, significantly easier to finger-pick than the steel-string dreadnought I got for my birthday two years ago. Though the both have their mutually lovely qualities.

Before admitting myself to the morgue, I received a knock on the door from a guy who claimed to be unable to distinguish anything from anything else. Asking why he figured I'd be able to assist in this quandary he retorted: what makes you think I ned assistance? It's an amazing state. While you opened your door to someone clearly insane, I just shot my load into a fifteen year old schoolgirl with her father's full approval. While you offered your assistance, I just got swallowed by a beautiful, enormous sea monster, in whose bowels I found jewels of such exquisite size and gleam encrusted. While you tried to eject me from your doorstep for gratituitously babbling like a twat, I felt the hand of God anoint me the patron saint of medieval ornithologists. And while you asked to hear my credentials in ornithology, I morphed into a flagstone, upon which you tripped and stubbed your toe, causing you nto fall, undoing all your fine posthumous embroidery, and causing your organs to tumble into the recycling bins, just as the council trucks geared up to collect the contents. As you negotiated the pre-autumnal breeze through the bereft cavity of your ribcage, I saw galleons marching between towers of fine china, their wings glossied with vaseline, as misogynists crowed in exile and tearooms across the country closed due to drought, and as you stuffed your ribcage with feathers from the pillow I just vomited, I stole your bike, folded it into an origami junk and sailed across the sky singing of bruschettas and dereliction in a haiku I stole from your paragraph.

I smiled politely, closed the door, sewed the feathers inside, attached a drawstring to my back, obliged one of my housemates to pull it, and upon doing so, in a robotic, unwinding tone, arched forward and issued the word 'Mum-my'.

2nd September 2008

Woke at ten, cancelled all of my appointments, slept on til three, took a despondent lope down the street, deposited myself on an abandoned sofa, pricking my elbow on a protruding spring, contracted tetanus, as my jaw stiffened and my veins lazily pumped toxins into my deleterious organs, my eyes fixed on a corpulent, glistening mass of flesh in the middle of the street - The Boy-Faced Seal-Boy I'd dreamed of mere hours before. A standard, nondescript seal, albeit with the head of a young boy, flax-haired, coquetteish and confused. Smiling, his moist eyes creased, cheeks blushed with a youthfulness yet to encounter the poisons in whose marriage I thrust my ravening, crippled being with such rigour. I smiled back, a non-too-seismic arousal kicking in around my groin. A flipper arched, a coy flick of the tail, he sneezed, and a taxi obliterated it into a mottled paste, instantly to be scraped up by a lackey from the kebab emporium opposite the sofa. Later that night - and I keep forgetting to eat, my unorthodox and irregular sleeping 'patterns' veiling from me recognition of the need to ingest solid matter - stomach heaving with void, eyes like white-hot pinheads, I dragged my shitkicking paramilitary boots on, my ex-US army jacket, pulled on the garish reversible dyke cap I've been using of late to concentrate the intensity of my facial features, and ordered a kebab with all the dressings and sauces available, at enormous extra fee. Got home, unwrapped the meal, stripped off, draped the minced tendons of doner meat over my supine torso, smeared the amalgam of probable roadkill dressings over my crotch, deep into my pubic thatch, had a languid wank, rolled over to sleep, content that I'd not even contemplated gettingh smashed up on alcohol for the first night in seventeen years. Life is gruelling, exotic and murderous. As I pulled the duvet over my marinated, lanky slag of a body, I gazed up through my ceiling to the Lord Divine, winked and whispered, 'Thanks, you've been a great audience'..

1st September 2008

Spent an hour in a merchant cubicle watching bottleg Dylan DVDs, dreadfully fatigued, shot with insomnia, played a few numbers on a guitar called Betty with a ragged band of Romany travellers before succumbing to the ritualised appetites of excess and slamming, broken into bed about five in the morning.

31st August 2008

Ok, so I died back there. So desperate was I to escape from the mindless churn of work's grind that I protestingly abstained from relieving myself of piss to such an extent that three days in, my irises flooded with a rancid yellow ammoniac dye, my kidneys heaved and wretched and quivered, my skin pustuled into a doughy, porridge veneer, and as general fatigue toppled me, my body handed in the keys and whacked out. They found me with my head in the dishwasher, having just completed cleaning it upon dying. But that's all absolutely fine, because I've found a new narrator to guide you through this panopticon of oubliettes. His name's Nick, I found him the pub last night at the after-show party - I played a gig last night, highly successfully. One can generally gauge a character by the nature of the stories they spin within the first five minutes of conversation, we all have them, the definitives. His was especially uninteresting - a few years back, after five months of solitude and speed addiction, he wrapped up work on an unauthorized autobiography and proceeded to sue himself for libel. I figured he'd be ideal to take over from me, being a) alive and b) interested in suspending his life and living exclusively through the medium of his own unauthorized memoir. Apparently, he'd won the libel case and been awarded three-hundred-thousand for damages, and had spent the last three years dealing in bad drugs and his own drooping, abused arse to earn the money with which to afford himself this damages payload. I fucked him myself right there in the pub, shot a wad, tainted with soluble low-grade explosives, right into his vile, stinking hole and sat back, awaiting detonation. When his eyes burned up from behind, all halloumi moons, I stapled his nipples together, stole his ideas and wrote a haiku on a beermat, alluding to the awkward situation I'd manifested. He burned to death before even reaching the age of thirty. But that doesn't make him a bad person.

Advertising gurus have it easy. Being cultivated into a condition where literacy is deemed superior to illiteracy, from a tiny age, we're compelled to read every sequence of juxtaposed letters presented to us, in the pursuit of this superior state, to such an extent that when literacy has been attained, it's almost instinctively embedded that everything that can be read, should be read - aside from literature, which nobody anymore patronises than they do masturbate over Tarkovsky's desolate cinema - hence the maniacal proliferation of advertising, particularly in musical, rapt, neat slogans. We're doomed to be sold ourselves unless we rear a generation liberated from literacy. Aside from Bulgrakov. He requires literacy. He's an author.

So I'm going to present a production of a dismal, low-grade Ibsen play cast entirely with the mentally retarded, but only those stymied with such an affliction that their symptoms kick into pause when they take to the stage to deliver a line. I've started auditioning with very specific demands in mind - I'm hunting out the most deliriously crippled, club-footed, spasticated, dribbling, incoherent morons across the country - fine, abundant, you might say, but they each have to possess the very rare, fleeting capacity to deliver high-brow Scandinavian dramatic works with great passion, empathy, clarity of enunciation, grandeur and conviction. I can net retards in any pub in town - but to snare one that can render theatre's driest texts captivating, takes some rigorous persistence. So far I've found two, and I killed them both. Boringly.

August 28th 2008

Puck - Captain of our fairy band,
Helena is here at hand,
And the youth, mistook by me,
Pleading for a lover’s fee.
Shall we their fond pageant see?
Lord, what fools these mortals be!

'Arbeit macht frei.' - A Life's Work? Or that ungainly sacrifice so many of us make five days out of seven, eight hours out of twenty-four. I've resigned from the realm of the sleeping in order to maximise the potential of my day. I rest now for brief, intensive periods, the same way morning commuters knock back caffeine shots en route to The City. Atrocity makes you free. The crest of ecstasy only glimpsed at the apex of the most intense experiences, the iron maiden, the hot needle through the cheek, the form ballet, persistence of its insertion, the glorious symmetry as it pervades the next cheek and re-enters the world, using this augmentation as a device on which to support one's head as one watches the news, reporting that a million and three illegal immigrants have been found to be closeted high-powered participants in state control, possibly Jewish, possibly amphibian, but definitely more than the bellowing Slavic labourers they appear to be on cursory interaction. The cheeks contract around the needle as anxious brow is furrowed upon acknowledgement of this revelation. Yes, come over here, steal our wives, our jobs, probably piggy-back our wi-fi with solely their slightly dumb smiles, but more than that, ladies and gentlemen, they steal our freedom. Our new work is annihilate all forms of governemtn and re-educate those each with a finger twitching at a red button, that the only sustainable, honest governance is self-governance, the discipline of the hot needle through the cheek, the form, the ballet, persistence of its insertion, the glorious symmetry of this prose alone is perceived by certain parties - politically mobilized - to be 'dangerous' or 'toxic' hence my next trick is to labour the latent anarchism of the free text with immeasurable weight, invoking Thor's Hammer, juggling thunderclaps and bowling with the darkest, densest cumuli, directing these ethereal colossi as though boots in a cupboard or automobiles in a pile-up at a junction whose traffic lights have been possessed by Puck himself. Puck is alive and well and living in Kansas, one day he'll erupt in each of you, and you'll arrive at your offices, marinated in your own piss, hair aflame, proceed to extract your fingernails with pliers whilst participating in a conference call with The Barclay Brothers. Every secretary's fantasy ideal is for her superior to lay her out on the desk and to shit toxic waste in her mouth, for her kidneys to be injected with liposuction waste as he hollers, spittle-flying, 'I LOVE YOU'. All she's ever wanted. Love conquers some. Bloody, indiscriminate, rampaging, cudgel-wielding conquest of everyone between yourself and death, conquers all. But this is a life's work, and who's to say life works at all when most murderers don't even possess the decent courtly grace to whisper 'I love you' as they saw through the last sinew of their prey's neck?

August 27th 2008

Chatting to a dear and avuncular friend whose interests lie somewhere spectacularly in the vicinity of extreme S'n'M, tonight, I've learned of a splendid new technique, practice, transaction, whatever, known in the argot of this trade as 'Rockerfellering'. Essentiall, this factors the carving off of one's fist, the freezing of said fist, and the subsequent employment of said fist as a rather potent anal stimulator. The beauty being, it has to be an autoerotic practice - in Rockerfellering 'circles' the substitution of a rogue, exotic or phantom fist for one's own is severely frowned upon, not least maroonly obvious. It's a commitment at worst.

Walking to work on tuesday, I found a smashed ujp drunk tramp, leaned up against a wheelie bin, obviously fucked up on booze. I always carry a razor blade around with me, useful for so many things - severing plastic tgies from garments, levering accumulated dirt from narrow grooves in the dishwasher at work - I took the blade to the vagrant's face, gently sliced through his lips, carved them off piece by piece, then repeated the operation on his eyelids. I then opened the half-empty bottle of Gulag 19 vodka cradled on his lap, stuffed soluble codeine into his mouth, doused his head in vodka, and happy that his whole form was adequately anaesthetized, loped onto work, and made it on time.

I received a further letter from michael Alig. Within its ebullient folds he details amongst other things his desire to mount a fairly provocative performance art action at the expense of the slimy bespoke goons peddling impeccably soulless show apartments bordering Central Park. Rather than detail precisely his intentions, I'll refer the honrouable reader to an idea of my own. I'm gonna secure a night at a notable local theatre, and gather a troupe of inside fellow hoaxers to mount a a shambolically awful, trite, underrehearsed staging of a minor classic play - something respected by the genteel, sub-bourgeoise musical theatre cocksucking lapsed angels. Perhaps a lesser-known Ibsen, something to compel a seam of the most cluelessly middle-class, hetero, beige, home improvement-fixated, towards attendance. Midway through the performance, and we're really gonna stretch the tiresomeness of this - missed cues, fluffled lines, collapsing scenography, rogue and faulty lighting - the auditorium is violated by the intrusion of middle-eastern attired banditi, who wrestle select audience members to the ground at 'gunpoint', coinciding with the release of an 'biological' agent in gaseous form, as the director/maitr'd frenziedly instructs everyone to lie on the floor and cover their heads with their cheap coats. Fake a terrorist action. Manipulate the audience into being bored shitless of a play they really should, according to the prescribed etiquette of their kind, respect, and upon breaching a previously agreed threshold of yawns and bored shuffling, initiate Act II.

I'm absolutely exhausted today, only just woke at two pm after having crashed out on a high dose of codeine at three this morning. I'd forgotten how codeine compounds the effects of alcohol, and given Bacchus factored in my evening, and Jesus, occasionally a night with Bacchus feels awkardly like I'm interacting with a future incarnation of myself, the evangelical bug-eyes, the wholly expressive physicality - we each employ our entire body to articulate, or lend further nuance to every syllable, and when talking to others, lean intrusively into their space, as though hypodermically insisting our point, sandblasting our missionary zeal into their moons of docile consternation. I intend at some point to abstract Bacchus into novel form, so as he exists purely as a sequnce of words, sentences, paragraphs, available for consultation at any wanting juncture, rather like the time I spent a fortnight sleeping discreetly in a British copyright library, hoping to assimilate the entire collected works of the library, to upload every logged cypher into my consciousness, in my quest to become universally encylcopaediac. I Though I was never accosted by the door attendants, I failed to assimilate little more than a trifling cold and the characteristic chill of uncarpeted marble upon one's cheek. Still, by day, I did autistically bulldoze my way throuigh the collected works of Genet, and related hubris - my particular bent at this period in my autodidactism was early-twentieth-century highbrow French porn, a grounding whose molecules I'd subsequently reconfigure according to my own fixations, programming and narrative interests in a sequence of pieces presenting intensified and sustained sexual violence, usually featuring myself as the passive protagonist, though on occasion inserting a fantasised incarnation of a famous dead person, Rimbaud, James Dean, Jim Morrisson and having them annihilate a boy into an ecstatic puddle of formless flesh, through the abominable administering of knives, penus, fist, teeth, nails, and any other available implement as manifested in the envrionment I'd previously created - a school, a windmill, a cellar, a woodland shack. My intention with this sequence of stories being to render this sexual violence, through repetition and sustained intensity, meaningless, devoid of ecstasy, emptied of transcendence, just words.

I met a guy on thursday, who revealed through gentle probing, that his sole objective in remaining alive - against all manner of indications that he really should self-murder, not least of which my own suggestion that he's professionally charmless and stinks of a thousand dead guy's piss - was to save up the cash so as he might have the image of his younger, happier self tattooed across his existing face, in a Dorian-Grey-like literalised wish-fulfilment bid, his rationale being this might engender the immortality of a long-exhausted vital spark. I told him this was a plan destined to succeed, bought him a drink, donkey punched him in the face, set fire to myself and ran from the pub.