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.