If I was a real man I’d have a gun. I’d powder my nostrils with kif and royal jelly and bed every whore who gave me the glad eye. Don’t ever let me outta here – I’m a serial disaster waiting to happen. I’m cooking up some of that good shit and I’m gonna lay it on thick and fearless. I’ll puke on your lap if you feed me enough. Always bite the hand that feeds – it’s expected of you.
I got a cut rate education gleaned from the pages of stolen books. I was an autodidactic musical hall visionary, but the charm of show business has since worn thin. The antidote to glamour is working for a living. Mind numbing boredom scoops your insides out and fills the spaces left behind with dust. I’m not complaining, don’t get me wrong. I get high – I get low – repeat (ad infinitum). The crest of the wave, the laxative slump, that tremor deep in the gut has me distended and extended beyond human limitations. I’m a regular chameleon, a hybrid human, a spaced out chimera.
Is my face on straight? Do I look faulty? The phoney me – the painted smile – the plastic teeth of synthetic man. The weight of me, the shape of me, everything is fragmented and broken. Here in the marginal regions of sensory deprivation words don’t come easy – if they come at all. Words are relayed by proxy here – laid out in some secret cipher known to no-one, but understood by all: “There is no asylum here, no sanctuary, and no sanctity”. There is room for one and one alone – it’s never an easy fit – you have to allow for shrinkage of the soul.