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....