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.