21 December 2011




It’s no use carrying an umbrella if your shoes are leaking. I’m sick of the sight of umbrellas, they are unlucky and they look like bat wings, they are creepy. If I ever see another umbrella…

Someone must’ve spiked me with methedrine – the black stuff; I’m way too high, or is that low? I can never tell. That shit gives me crank bugs and the heebies. Another nightshift scheduled – my body aches and my mouth is dry.

I saw him, we danced real close, he has black eyes and the blackest smile. The drinks were on him – black wine from Corsica, he said. I’m halfway to Ash Wednesday – to my penultimate oblivion. The Black Forest was terrible – and no cake. I hooked an angel with my kite and cut him loose with the Devil’s scissors. I wrapped him up in a parcel and mailed him to the Church – they said it was a miracle he ever arrived considering the state of the Italian postal system.

You must send the boy away. If he goes to his father the old man will think him evil and wild, like his mother. His father has religion now and has become a terrible bore. He sits all day issuing sober soul orders; “Repent! Everyone is responsible for everything they do. The Lord God demands his supper!” His inquisition isn’t welcome around here; we’ll have to stone him one day. We’ll paste him into Rodney a la king. We’ll mail him to Church as pate for the Holy Father. All organisations are built on lies, but he has all the best ones.

Exile the boy and nurture the man - with regular beatings. Spare the rod and spoil the child, or spoil the rod and spare the child? It’s in our nature to nurture, so beat him relentlessly. Cut him with the devil’s scissors, make an end to his childish ways. Take him to Church and bury him - every church is a tombstone for the spirit of man.

My mind is my church; no altar, no preacher, no ceremony – just thought. The Church is theatre and religion is politics. The God venerated in church is completely at odds with the natural universe. Iconoclast is the answer; smash the idols, burn the churches, free the mind.

You don’t need an umbrella if you walk in eternal sunshine – right? Umbrellas are unlucky; a tall man in a sea of umbrellas could lose an eye or two. Flapping bat wing mushrooms. Tear them – shred them – why fear the rain? Next time I see an umbrella…


20 December 2011

and where is love?



No fear, no hate – just sorrow. We were walking in the sunlight cold. We were holding hands, but we weren’t together. We’d never been together. Down by the river to the drowning fields. Pronounced deadly on arrival – aborted in sensate focus – all is madness. It was a long time ago, but not too far to walk.

This is a fear planet – predicated on war and hatred where women drown their children and priests set themselves on fire; war, plague, famine, death - all orchestrated by madmen. No enemy, no friction; no friction, no heat; no heat, no life.

My mosquito enemies wake me – their buzzing a minor irritant – more bug juice is required – ease my nerves. Pour me a tall one, my muse has failed me – I’ll shoot the bitch. This is a war universe. No conflict, no passion; no passion, no life. My edge has withered – it no longer cuts cleanly. I have a bloody mouth and I enjoy the kill – if it’s clean. Pornography kills slowly, too slowly for my taste. I’ll have a tall one, with ice.

Some people just can’t get out of bed in the morning – no energy, no passion, no conflict, no life. The neighbours are spying on me, I know because I’ve been watching them - curtain twitching bastards. The main one is still young, but he shouldn’t get much older. I believe that cosmic processes are at work – I can feel them tremble. There’s an earthquake coming – a giant tsunami of shit heading in their direction. I burned entrails as an offering to my God – we shall see. No question asked goes unanswered. Most folks don’t know that. Me - I never did nothing – it was my neurosis that done it. I’m an innocent man, though that was never my intention.

This is a fear planet – a world of friction and heat, of hunger and pain. Where is the love in such a place? Is it hidden in the space in my brain? Is it lost in the layers of complexity of my mental nodes? Unpinned by the wonders of science the human spark flickers dim in the cortex, but bright enough to illuminate the race in filaments of hope too radical to comprehend. Love is wired into the brain pan, the co-operators built the world. The vagaries of intent are manifest in our every gesture. I wonder what you think. Do you wonder what I think you think? You can read me like a book, my pages are much like yours. Is that what makes us human? Is that where the love is?


17 December 2011



Abolish the word and sit in silence – what a farcical and mind numbing idea. Kill the words; cut them out with an assassin’s blade – though the ribs and into the heart. Incise them with a razor sharp scalpel deftly and surgically like cancer in the mind membrane. Maybe if you all stopped talking I could hear myself think. I could find the time to read my poison pen letters, anything for a laugh. It takes a poisoned mind to write a poisoned letter – imagine the words choking that poor fuckers head.

Human frailty; pride, envy, gluttony, lust, wrath, greed, sloth and above all stupidity, the cardinal sin. We are all victims, we are all susceptible, but we need not spread the contagion – we could always keep our mouths shut, or we could dare to be honest and fear no labour in our pursuit of ‘truth’ – whatever that is. Remember, one man’s meat is another man’s murder.

Give me ergot ‘cause my head aches, give me acid for my dreams;  I want to lose myself in my Las Vegas; I want to crash in Bangkok and wake up in Marrakesh. Strangle my intracranial interrupters with velvet chords and agonise my receptors into delirium. Cogito ergo sum-thing, at least I think so; What if I’m just the regurgitated remnant of some collective unconscious? What if I’m just a soggy burlap full of words with no particular meaning?

Image; Rodin’s ‘The Thinker’ in X-Ray.


9 December 2011



I don’t know why, something was just in the air I guess. The fragile thread of reason seemed to have unraveled freeing the ghostly minions of failure; they threw open my portfolio of disasters and scattered my pages around me like fallen tombstones in my graveyard of dreams.

It was like that scene in Dumbo when he got drunk and hallucinated pink elephants singing macabrely. Only instead of pink elephants it was my memories; every time I cried, or was struck, or was left alone, but worst of all – every time I was embarrassed – every time I behaved like an arsehole. Those memories gathered in procession around me trumpeting ‘arsehole’ and with every blast I shrank a little till they towered above me and I dwindled into insignificance. Embarrassment is a killer – I wonder how many people have actually died of embarrassment.

Selective memory is a godsend, but my selective mechanism failed me and all at once I just fell apart, my whole flimsy house of cards came tumbling down. I tore like a wet paper sack and all my secret secrets fell out onto the floor. There was no place left to hide them – no way to avert my gaze. I sat there in dread fascination as the whole farcical comedy of errors played out before my eyes and I puked from deep inside my soul. I cried until my eyes bled and still the show went on.

For a while there I lacked invention. I lost control. I had no understanding of magic - a punishable offense. But I got it back. You never truly have it until you have lost it. You never truly have it until you lose it and win it back. Some never do. It’s like writing. Writing is not an escape from reality, but an attempt to mold reality. In this respect we are all of us works of fiction – the reality is just too much to bear.


7 December 2011

The Sickness Of The World

The golden monkey perches on my shoulder at a jaunty angle and whispers sweet somethings into my shell; acerbic poison drips from his maggot tongue. He has a hard on full of malicious spunk for my ear. He knows the words that I dread and the words I long to hear – I’m a receptacle to the villainous bile he spurts across the frozen waste of my heart. He’s a long term vice, as addictive as smack, and harder to ditch; he’s part of my fabric – my DNA.

I’ve been on the outside so long it looks like the inside to me, but it’s cold, colder than hell. Far beneath my ice, in the filthy gloom, blacker than midnight, darker than the soul – I glory in the pain inflicted on the self. I count the strokes of my flagellation and the degrees of my abomination and cry foul, but – there’s a but in my throat.

I have always been the victim of my own machinations. I always gave in to the blunt and vicious side of my nature. I feed that hump monkey with my bitter delusions and confectionary lies. I’m not a victim, I’m a volunteer. The sickness of this world is fear; fear of disclosure, fear of truth. Creeping fear is my enemy, but my fear will set me free. Fear is the prime motivator, the scent of excitement, the stench of dread apprehension; take a little whiff and he’ll make your wildest dreams seem true.

My cloak of invincibility, my masquerade of masculinity, are driven by the shameful quirt of fear. The whole public edifice hangs on one tarnished nail – the threat of exposure, the disgrace of discovery. Fear is the touch of death, my most secret paramour. She has driven me to the contortions and exploits that map the surfaces of my life, but the hidden depths are his alone – she is Empress of the interior. My internal story is one of revolution, of my struggle against her tyranny. I’ve learned throughout the years that even tyrants fall, but the odds are stacked against it.

4 December 2011

The Sea of Souls


Fuck 'em - they are already dead in their minds - living out an argument long settled by history. Their future is in the past – how much more dead can you get? The dream died, but it died of natural causes – I don’t know when - they gave it no stone.

What’s the point in discussing it? These people can never change their perspectives. No, rhetoric is their game - they already know the answers to all their questions; logos, pathos, and ethos - these guys are sophists - their minds are not open. They seek to persuade – not to learn... It’s all about identity and reinforcement – you are what you believe you are. They are motivated not by the things they love, but by the things that they hate. Broken – everything is broken and the others broke it. The only solution is to break everything that’s left and start over again. They have problems, they have solutions, but they have no soul.

I might die if one of them said something original - it would be like a spear through my head. I don't think communication can be wasted time - everything is useful - I just find it so very predictable sometimes. Did I say it died? Did I say it never was? Did I fart in church? Well stick that in your collider scope and puff. I’m not a believer – I don’t believe in gods – I don’t believe in ideologies, but I believe in love. I believe in love; not in the abstract, but in living, breathing, fleshy, heartfelt, human, love. I believe in actions, not words. Love is natures call to action - love is the voice of my soul.

I wasn’t born with a soul, I carved one from experience. Our non-corporeal essence is a figment of fairy tales, the product of wishful thinking. We shall not survive ourselves, we are not immortal. The soul is a construct – an abstraction of our experience – it can’t be measured, it can’t be weighed. It is not real in any physical sense – the concept of an insubstantial substance is an oxymoron. The soul is an act of imagination. You need imagination and feeling to grow a soul in the garden of your mind. Without imagination and feeling you’ll never have soul.

Not everyone has a soul. Some were too cheap, too scared, or just too lazy to get themselves one and simply went for an off the peg identity; they pass their second hand clothes off as their own. Some had a soul and lost it. They did not tend their gardens and their souls were strangled by weeds, or they poisoned their flowers with bitter thoughts and their soul gardens shriveled and withered until they were deserts populated by ghosts.

Some people confuse their feelings with soul. Their emotions feel so tangible that they imagine they are real, but your psyche is an abstraction, a construct of your thoughts. Your soul is a metonym for consciousness. Let’s face facts - you are an organism, an animal, but you are, nonetheless, miraculous.

It’s time to set sail on the Sea of Souls, time to find those roots in the cosmic tree. It’s time to discover those constantly repeating and changing patterns in the yesternow. Flush your head clean of all thought and feel your way out of the sewer into the sunlight. Steer away from hysteria, dissociation, split personalities; away from mental illness, soul sickness. Harvest the energy that flows from music and leaks from books. Tap those axons and neurons that connect us to the stars - stop trying to be holy and learn to be whole.