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...