Chiaroscuro

The pleasantries have evaporated, and once again I am twelve.

I am sprawled across the bed. My neck is heavy and my back is twisted. I am not ready to sink, so I hold my position.

I feel placeless and formless, like an amoeba.

I see an empty apartment with a broken light. Copper wires protrude out of the ground like tentacles. The light booms in from outside.

Chiaroscuro, that’s what they called it. The contrast between light and dark. My little cell.

Better than this, better than the heat in that stuffy room watching television. Miss Havisham and her cruel mind games a bit close to the bone.

And then the row over the wine. Those sulking eyes. Guilt tripping me about not going to Carryduff. Nothing to say anyway. It is absent, it has floated off somewhere and I cannot get it to return.

Same with them. Looking at the pictures, reading the comments. I have nothing to say. I am not who I was before. I cannot relate. Who are you, why should I bother?

I am not better than you, I am just not one of you.

I want to run off, to Dublin, to Cavan, to Galway. Somewhere else. A little room. Space. Not this echoey house where I hear every step, ever creak, every breath.

I forget every time and then I return and I remember. I remember everything. But I forgave did I not, in the ceremony? I forgave and I returned and we re-bonded. So what is wrong?

It is the absence that is hardest to deal with. The absence of the person I was before, when I was not watching. Now I am watching all the time. Watching and remembering. Remember? It haunts me every day. I remember, I remember.

And it is all back and they are all here. It is all back and they are all here. But I am not. I am floating. I am reading a script. Who are these people?

If she was here. Her skin beside me in the bed. Meditating like a goddess when I returned from the shower. That was real. Or was it? Am I just not making up another narrative?

A labyrinth of webs. I am creating the webs that I am stuck in. I strike out and strike out and only get more tangled. This town is dead for me now. I am no longer here. I was here once, but I am not here anymore.

But the other place, I want to be there even less. The routine, the paper work, the robots, the humdrum endless pointlessness. But what else would I be doing? Where else would I be? Where else can I go?

What would I do if it all vanished again? If the curtain was ripped and the void rose up all around me?

White space, nothingness. Nowhere to go, nothing to do. Back into the simulacrum.

If I saw it again I wouldn’t be lugging this about with me, this heaviness. I am a person in the world! Why can’t I remember, what it felt like to be back? To see the green. To be in that forest.

Why can't I bring it back with me to this place? Why can't I remember that I'm still there, dreaming this all up?

The Train (part 2)

 

That child spins around and around. I want to light a firework and shoot her out over the city, exploding into a million stars, falling down outside my window.

But this music is so soothing. I see myself swimming, indigo blue. No pressure, no time,  just motion.

Free-flowing aliveness pulsating through my body while I sit in front of this room, talking. Not knowing how or why just talking, about light and love and space and freedom. 


But it never works does it?, because freedom becomes routine which becomes boredom. I might as well be dead.

So much coffee spilt on this hallway, but nobody said anything.  They just walked on past the broken razor. I asked “how did I get here”?,  but she didn’t reply.

So I followed her through the wood which was yellow and coldand full of crows spiraling and circling in the sky like paper. I went deeper and deeper until I was covered with green rushes which led to a river. It was so still and peaceful. The sun had just risen and the mist was hanging over it like a painting. I breathed in the space.

A heron sat still motionless, balancing on the edge,  as if I had created him in my picture. I sat and waited.

She came out beating her drum and spinning her rattle.  Thousands of dancers appeared in veils beside the fire. It was dark and the stars were shining like my eyes. They went spinning round and round, floating on the smoke which came out from the forest.

The rattle sounded like it was speaking to me. Suddenly I heard the gong and woke up,  but she came out of the smoke towards me,  behind the veil.

She beckoned me over and I went back and remembered.  We were all gods skipping and floating and creating our reality. All was open and all was endless and all was free.

Spinning and spiraling, the smoke and I disappeared.  I couldn’t recognize my face. It was blank. There was nothing there.  I was empty and I was filled with everything.  It filled me up and I forgot about this room, and this drudgery, and these endless words that go on and on.  This person that I am possessed by. In this world, with all the faces, and the trains, and the dead people walking about like zombies in the dark morning while the ice glistens in the moonlight.

The Train

Fuck fuck fuck fuck I cant write where is my creative outlet I am drowning in this world endless routine and candles flickering in my dark room surrounded by these people who cant speak and stare out at me from the fridge that child spins around and around I want to light a firework and shoot her out the window over the city exploding into a million stars falling down outside my window but this music is so soothing I see myself swimming indigo blue no pressure no time just motion freeflowing aliveness pulsating through my body while I sit in front of this room talking not knowing how or why just  talking about light and love and space and freedom but it never works does it because freedom becomes routine which becomes boredom I might as well be dead. 


so much coffee spilt on this hallway but nobody said anything they just walked on past the broken razor and I asked how did I get here but she didn’t reply so I followed her through the wood which was yellow and cold and full of crows spiraling and circling in the sky like paper and I went deeper and deeper until I was covered with green rushes which led to a river which was so still and peaceful the sun had just risen and the mist was hanging over it like a painting and I breathed in the space a heron sat still motionless balancing on the edge as if I had created him in my picture and I sat and waited and she came out beating her drum and spinning her rattle thousands of dancers in veils beside the fire it was dark and the stars were shining like my eyes in the darkness and they went spinning round and round floating on the smoke which came out from the forest and the rattle sounded like it was speaking to me and suddenly I heard the gong and woke up but she came out of the smoke towards me behind the veil and she beckoned me over and I went back and remembered and we were all gods skipping and floating and creating our reality and all was open and all was endless and all was free.


Spinning and spiraling and the smoke and I disappeared and I couldn’t recognize my face it was blank there was nothing there I was empty and I was filled with everything and it filled me up and I forgot about this room and this drudgery and these endless words that go on and on and this person that I am possessed by in this world with all the faces and the trains and the dead people walking about like zombies in the dark morning while the ice glistens in the moonlight 

Cupcakes

”Weren’t those cupcakes delightful?”

”Simply divine” I replied.

I was sitting with a plump, middle-aged woman. She had a bright round face and grey hair which was tied back in a bun. She was wearing a pink cardigan and green wellington boots. On her head she wore a yellow bonnet. She smelt like bacon.

We were sitting around an antiquated white table which was placed in the middle of her garden.  We had just been having some supper and enjoying the evening sunshine. It had been delicious despite all the twitching and scratching. 

“Let’s go for a walk” she said, getting up briskly. I followed.

We walked around the garden until we came to a tree. There was a waiter standing underneath it holding silverware and a glass of red wine. His noise was pointed up to the sky.

“This is my butler, Maurice” she said. He suddenly opened his eyes and gave me a lecherous grin. 

“Maurice tells me that you are into…’skiing’?” She said, pausing and giving me a suggestive look.

Maurice began panting and clapping his hands. His tongue hung out of his mouth and saliva dripped down his chin.

“I used to be” I said, gravely.

Silence.

Suddenly she was right beside me. Her blue eyes bored into mine.

“But everyone tries it in the end. Don’t they? Did you like how it felt… inside?” She spat out the word ‘inside’ like it was acid. She leered at me.

She then squeezed my hand with her plump, jelly-like fingers.

There were a few more minutes of silence. The sun had just faded under the horizon and the sky was that vibrant pink that you see sometimes at funerals.

“I know, you see. Because I was watching.” She laughed again. A jangling, drawn out sound which made her sound like a woodpecker jumping up and down on a tree.

I looked behind, and Maurice had disappeared.  Two children were suddenly beside her, staring up at me with big white eyes, pointing.

Margarita and the Moon

Have you ever looked in the mirror?

I mean really, really looked?

And do you know who looks back at you? 'Obviously it's me!' you say. 'Don't be ridiculous'!

But who is 'you'?

Something that is here, right now. Something that exists in a 'world' which flickers.

A beautiful world, so fragmented. Why fragmented?

Because people think they exist!

We have the choice how to respond. We create our own existence. Only two emotions exist. Fear and love.

I stood there, looking at myself (like a demented old woman with cats) And 'When Under Ether' came on. There was a flash. I knew that it was going to come on at this point. It was part of the script.

I walked into the bathroom to have a piss, saying to myself not to listen to subliminal meditation CDs again. I had the vision of the crazy cat woman being escorted off the the loony bin.

And then I saw through the foggy glass a huge white ball. And I realised that tonight was the night of the full moon. So I got my fags, put on my dressing gown and went out for a smoke.

And there it was. Hanging over the field like an image from a dream. So bright, so glorious. And my conciousness was filled with it -  with its light, with its mystery. The wind then blew up around me and I inhaled it with the smoke.

It was so beautiful. So beautiful to be standing in this dark silence with the moon's white light raining down upon me.

I wanted to get lost in it - like Margarita in that book by Bulgakov. Margherita putting the lotion on her body and jumping out the window, leaving her depression behind in a nano-second. Flying over the city on her broomstick, looking down and laughing.

The power of laughing! Laughing at whatever is thrown up on your screen. Laughing with the others, because really, who wants to fight with their self?

That dream with all those people attacking me for no reason. The energy I used fighting those people! I couldn't understand - what had I done to deserve this? So I fought. And then I woke up, exhausted, and realised it had all just been a dream.

The people I was fighting only existed in my head! If only I'd realised that the only person I was fighting with was me!

I get it all now. I finally understand. Nearly a year and I realise the truth. And it's wonderful!

I remember W asked it what was the purpose of life. And she saw it all! Her life in all its glory - the people, the experiences that had made her who she was. The purpose of life ...

(drumroll please)...................................................

The purpose of life is simply - to live life!

And to have fun. Because it's all just an enormous joke!


Everything exists
Everything is true
And the earth is only a little dust under our feet

Masks

Fish jumping out of the river - salmon, going up to the sky.
It's lonely, like that village in Austria with the hill walkers and the river and the mountains with snow.

The water was refreshing and cold. That strange child's room with the doll looking out. The window with view and the goat with the bell walking around, lost.

But it all went, just like that woman who came to my mind earlier with the black hair and the glasses and the children, who always gave me a lift.

He's coming apparently. It doesn't interest me, after Shanghai and all the uproar about it, and then what.

Only so much reading before you go mad.

That little cottage by the foot of the mountains with the sea and the old man - was it Carlingford? Sitting by the fire and reading Gide and remembering the other farmhouse.

The one in Donegal with the woman and the stove and that goat that could open the gate. That picture in the hall of him when he was a boy, with the lovely teeth and the smile. But the model thing didn't really stick.

Remember N saw him with his yellow teeth and yellow skin? Well I guess that's what smoking does.

That creepy woman with the grey hair on the bus, standing over me, reading the advert. And her friend, with the long glossy hair and the lipstick who looked like a witch.

I saw her in forestside last week.She looked straight at me.

But Belfast isn't the same anymore, looking back. It's always looking back to when I was here before because its all gone. Maybe there's an alternative Belfast with yellow sunshine, and churches, and bells, and swifts.

I mean that group, alway pretending, always pretending.

The A--. spinning around and round. The forest, the dream with the singing and the dancing and the light. When the clock disappeared and she said "My ego has been completely shattered" on that morning train, in white, looking at all the people.

Coming back to W's on that sunny afternoon, nearly a year ago. And I had thought about them and their family and how sad it must be.

That little boy with the cheeky smile who ran and hugged me when I came back but I felt awkward because I didn't know the protocool. Following J about the sports hall. The boy with severe autism who used to cover his ears and scream. He would run up to you and clasp and look into your eyes, and laugh like he was possessed.

And that time I saw him in the graveyard with the old man and A, running out from behind a tombstone.

Brighton. That house with the music and the cooking and the screaming child. The bookcases with the faces looking out.

She was on fire all the time, every moment exaggerated. Brimming energy and happiness, despite the child, and the screaming. T. slinking about like a mouse and the chats in the kitchen that went on all night.

But yet I never cooked, or finished that monopoly game.

And now being back here, even if they are smiling.

 That room with the photos and all the memories, sitting in the conservatory as if it never went away.

Whitehead train station today with the sun beaming down and the gulls floating about. My eyes closed behind sunglasses.

Sitting on the steps of the School of Education it was so cold and bright in the evening sun. Those people in Dukes with the sunglasses laughing and I sat there and saw those days standing out with them smoking, and that 'Out Out' poem by Robert Frost came up on my phone.

And I thought about playing on the steps with R. when I was a child. The bouncer told us that story about how the stone was haunted and we freaked out and couldn't sleep.

But his house was weird anyway with the floor boards creaking and that picture on the shelf.  I stood on the tail of his cat and it screeched and yelled and I nearly died.

Remember the dream in that hotel in Perth with the taxi driver? "You're tripping mate".

The heat and the bike, cycling along the sea in the morning. The vantage point looking out over the bay and those markets with the lights, the insence and the tarot cards. The palm trees and the beach with the stars gazing up. The tropical smell floating through the warm night air.

Then that street in Singapore with the swells of coloured tapestry. And I was looking at the model of Ganesh and she said, "Don't go home, stay".

And I woke up, back where I had started.

Some Sentimental Tosh About The Moon

The sky is beautifully clear tonight. Dark blue and pink. The city lights spread out before the window, like the images in my head.

Days, trees bursting with green, bees floating, seagulls whirling like paper.

The distant hum of traffic in the background.

The world spins.

On Sunday morning I woke up in a dream, and realised I was dreaming.

I climbed out of my window, and jumped - because I knew I could fly. And I could! And the feeling of freedom, of immensity, the mystery was all-encompassing.

The world outside was the same, but orange and flickering, like I had walked into a painting.

And life was there, and life was a dream. The scene changed, and I walked through another, and another.

But part of me knew I was asleep, which made the colours all that more vibrant.

It all faded when I woke, like smoke on the wind.

But it spread out all around me in my bed as I heard the car disappearing down the hill. And I felt, a feeling of awe, I guess.

Awe at the fact that I'd been lucid dreaming.

Awe at the fact that it was another day, and I, Josh Hawthorne, was alive.

But we can't fly here. Here we stay still. Cut off from reality in our little boxes. Dreaming that we are characters in a play.

What are we really?

My back garden looks out onto a field. Sometimes, being unemployed and an insomniac, I go out in the middle of the night and I sit.

I look up at the sky. The silent field where the stars spread out like perfume.

And the moon oversees it all, painting it silver. And I look up and feel so small.

Who am I?

It's funny. So sentimental. How many crap writers have written about the moon?

So I go inside, and see what's on sky movies, and go to bed.

Because the gap can never be bridged - between ourselves and others, between our dreams and reality.

Reality is so boring, so humdrum, so normal, that we simply take it for granted. Pulling back the curtain's a bit too scary.

So let's block it out, and earn money, and work in jobs which we hate, and go out and get drunk at the weekend, and have sex, and talk shit about nothing.

Because if we tried to jump out the window in real life, we'd break our legs.

Sticky Tape

One minute I'm sitting on a chair on the red bricked patio reading Virginia Woolf''s first novel, The Voyage Out.

It's quite tiresome really, compared with the others. I don't really like the main character, Rachel. She's dull and I couldn't care less whether or not she gets together with the other guest. But I do like the descriptions of South America.

Suddenly there is a flash.

I see myself, sitting in the garden, reading.

I remember that I am a person, in the world.

Who am I ?

What is this?

In an instant it all seems so ridiculous. To be a person, sitting in the garden, reading a novel.

My mind goes quiet.

The words once again rear up in front of my eyes. I'm back into the story.

But what story am I back into?

Virginia Woolf's or mine?

Parking Lots

Mind must make up a story. But hard to focus with Adele playing and the coffee and the people sitting around.

Wasn't I meant to meet them for dinner? But I had been drinking champagne at the races. I was there with the French girl. Decked out in a silver chain, and white shoes, and a black shirt. I drunk, and smoked, and feigned interest. The horses ran round and round in the dust.

I couldn't face tallking to her, because what was she really, but a stranger?  Hanging on to Bob as we sped along the burnt road.

Stepped off the bike and there she was. Feeble with her walking stick in the middle of the desert. Dusk with the sea spread out around. The hotel pillars. The orange clouds.

What did we talk of?

Books.

Yes she was interested in books.

Came to me from nowhere in the conservatory this morning.

I think it was the butterfly floating around the roof that did it. It kept on humming and flapping and fidgeting, even though I had opened the window.

And then Gran said that about the cardboard on the glass, and Elizabeth sending her the butterflies "for the conservatory".

But it seemed funny to be sitting there.

And to think that a few months ago I was standing in front of the children.

...

S in my face shouting that I was picking on her. Crying and screaming and stomping and yelling, while I thought "This is not right, this is not right"

But they put so much effort into their work, and all they wanted was their teacher to acknowledge that they had. But the pile was so big.

That little dark office and that awful train.

Leaving it all just sitting there like I'd died.

I did care about them. Their little personalities. And some of  them were so good. Just to abandon them, to  abandon it all like that. And now to be here, drinking coffee. It just doesn't seem right somehow.

It was the Year 9's that did it. That girl shouting out " I don't fancy HIM".

Reading that damn book, just reading - because while I read, they were quiet. Losing track of how many names I'd written, sending out at random.

Malicious faces looking up at me, glowing like malevolent elves from some obscure horror film.

And then that office with all the paraphernalia on the walls

"Best teacher" - "Dear Miss C, thanks for making me love English".

Sitting there like a judge, this woman who I used to like, with her demands.

I was going to fail. She wanted this, and she wanted that and all I wanted was to sleep.

But no, this couldn't, this simply couldn't go on.
...

It was snowing outside and I was doing acrostics with my favourite class. They were so good, so proud to read out their little poems. After they read it they would wait and look up, slightly apprehensive...And I'd say "Brilliant! That was really lovely".

The room felt peaceful with the warm radiator, and the large windows, and the floating white flakes. They were all thinking of  Christmas, and presents, and warm fires.

Everything existed in that moment.

Something jars. An odd feeling. "Yes, you've won". Now I'm free.

But what did I lose?
...

The hearing impaired classroom assistant (tall, long black hair, wrinkled, slight lisp) came  to me after each Of Mice and Men lesson. Her mother was ill so she went to Australia. She was worried about Jacob, but he was lazy, and there was nothing she could do.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=94bdMSCdw20

The Daily Mail

Some people who experience extreme mood states find it useful to think of themselves as having an illness. Not all mental health patients accept the idea.

For example, Hitchcock and Sophia Loren opened a bottle of beer. As a result, their cars were clamped on their drives, seized, and destroyed.

This memory helped me to locate the lump and carefully extract it from my frame of vision. In the villa courtyard with the world's two biggest movie stars, I took the Intrabeam device and placed it into the breast.

Yet the truth is far, claims my boss. Left wing photos are equally irrelevant. Cutting back lollipop patrols, swimming pools and homes for the disabled, they find the female. Her baby boy is automatically given the title of Crown Prince.

A compelling theory is that anyone who disagrees is cheerfully overlooked, in the name of diversity. It could well be that this treatment becomes the gold standard.

Of course, there are multiple alternatives to regular soda, but many people experience periods of depression and also of elation and overactivity when attempting them. You'll find a similar sentiment among the leaders of most minority disappointments, and naturally it's ironic in Mexico.

Here, the sudden crackdown means that many companies have very convincing, pseudo-scientific websites. They court the legitimacy of a medical diagnosis to hide their problems, blaming young, single and 'jealous' women in personnel departments, whose hayfever is so bad they have to take time of work and avoid going anywhere green.

Its as if the Monarchy was a sexist boss with wandering hands.

Under The Ivy

Arriba arriba! Soy libra, Soy libra!

Scarlet lips gravitate to silver. The red-dressed harlot sits cross-legged, toes pointed. She sucks languidly on a cigarette.

Smoke billows and filters. Tentative fingers curl.

Glasses clink and conversations float. Laughter spreads out into the hazy evening sunshine. The roof tops sparkle silver.

A red rose sits in a glass vase.

Castanets click like gunshots while platformed shoes tap.

But wait!

A rabid baboon has climbed in through the slightly ajar window from a blue-hazed backdrop.

Terror proliferates.

People knock down tables, run, gnash and scream. The baboon grabs the chaunteuse with his black, human-like fingers, and snaps her neck.

A gong chimes in the square. The baboon squeezes into the silky red dress and sits demurely. He puts his moistened lips to the microphone.

A striking singing talent is revealed. The baboon's voice floats like nectar through the summer evening. Trees russle gently under a yellow sky. Drunken crowds cheer wildly.

Red roses flash against teeth.


...

A tiny Mexican lady creeps through the square underneath the tree-lined sky. Her face is yellow, like a faded portrait. A life caressed by sunshine on dusty June evenings.

She makes a clicking noise with her tongue as she shuffles along.

The evening sunlight beats down relentlessly on her fragile black shawl.

White-washed walls are covered by cracks while ivy creeps. Boys in white shorts play football on the street corner. 

The silence is solid, like in a dream.

A jolly caballero appears against the rustic wall. He starts playing an hypnotic tune on his fiddle. A skinny cat runs out from a crack.

Suddenly it is wearing cat boots and dancing on hind legs.

The old woman is drawn to the sound. She is like a snake curling out of a basket to a naked Indian in a white turban. She throws off her shawl.

Two rabid dogs start fighting over it, snarling and bearing their teeth in the dust, like baboons with purple anuses.

She runs along the cobbles with her arms spread wide. Her sagging breasts sway defiantly in the soft evening breeze.

"Arriba arriba!, Soy libra, Soy libra!"

She falls to the ground, dead. Colourful flowers cover her body.

Perfume circulates, tepid blue.

Burrows

Solid. Possessed. Everything clear.

Now no longer.

You come, flooding back. Through my pores. Fill me.You fucking bastard.

I need to get out. This room. Whirring round like that time.

Bomb.

I want to hit him. I want to shove my rusted scissors down his tonsil's gore blood.

Empty bathroom. Tick tock. Head hunched. Suck it up like black sunlit smog. Asphyxiate.

Fumes tick. Tock take it. Trash you. Slut. Breath in black. Let it circle.

John fucked Jim behind the bush in the drizzle and left him covered in cum. Twiddle de dee Twiddle de dum. Wrecked hole. Drip drip pierced. Wrecked 'um.

A dark room, legs. Tied up with rope. He's taken so many cocks that he can't feel any.

More drip drip. Seeping down leg. Pus filled sores, poor.

The lights come on, disfigured. Gnomes dressed in white coats roar with laughter. Air hangs.

Suspended drip drip.

Turn off that fucking. Tap tighter and tighter, still. Seeps through pouring. Out of the light, smashing. Down the table through. The kitchen shards fly.

Eyeball socket pinned against wall. Eye goo drips down revolting face . Yells like a newborn. A leprous lesbian fucks him mercilessly with a strap -on.  Fingers hang.

Shouldn't throw. Stones shouldn't forget. Forget what? Forget this fucking all. Consuming nothing.

Teachin's of peache's Rasta. Radio set bursts in. To flames blue. Sky turns purple.

He was just stoned. The three little birds had their necks broken.

Living in dream. A way it will all get better. Keep on kid.

The clearness lifts. He remembers who he is bright. Clothes hide nothing. It's all fucked. This coffee shop is fucked.

I want to drill a screwdriver deep into their heads. Slowly and painfully slide it in like. Enormous. Cock. Get high on the scream.

Your fucking coat is creased, get it sorted.

Crack heads crawl out of piss. Filled alleyways covered in cum and shit and bile. They're rancid. Skin reeks of rot. They start fucking it in deep. Take the disease. Feel it dancing underneath your skin like a ballerina.

Want to ride a bike straight into a stagnant canal. They could drag my body out after and it wouldn't be there. Discoloured haze.

Confusion hath fucked his master. Peace.

The Vegan Gathering

The walls are covered with the sewn-together corpses of rotting Meat-eaters. The Vegans lure them in with steaks and then bring out The Cows.

The Cows are trained to hate Meat-eaters. The Vegans keep them chained up to walls all day in front of enormous television screens. The screens show demented and dishevelled Meat-eaters, rolling around in the blood of dead animals until their skin is caked. These heinous orgies are endless.

Sometimes the Vegans even show The Cows movie footage of their mothers being systematically raped and murdered - old cows, young cows, the Meat-eaters don’t care. They fuck them violently and then turn them into mouth-watering hamburgers.

Of course the Meat-eaters in these videos are merely Vegans in disguise. But The Cows don’t know any better. They are driven mad by these images. Throw into the mix branding irons and starvation and you have a league of very pissed-off cows.

The Vegans then release them on to unsuspecting Meat-eaters. Their eyes glow red and steam shoots out of their flared-up nostrils. They trample the Meat-eaters to death and then play football with their corpses. The loud Moo-ing of the cows mixes with the screams of the Meat-eaters, and reverbates throughout the cavern.

The leader of the Vegans, aka Clap-trap, is sexually stimulated by the spectacle. She licks her lips and salivates while shoving vegetables into her bulbous vagina. She particularly likes the feel of aubergines and asparagus, but not carrots, as they are too phallic.

Clap-trap has summoned all of the Vegans of the land to her headquarters. They gather by candlelight on the darkest night of the year. Blood drips gently down from the Meat-eater tapestries hanging on the wall. They lap it up greedily and wait expectantly for the arrival of their leader.

A hushed silence falls as Clap-trap appears on the stage...but wait! It is only Clap-trap B, or ‘B’ as her close acquaintances refer to her.

“Fellow superior beings” begins B, “I am very honoured to introduce to you our Divine Leader, aka Clap-trap”. The Vegans start stamping their feet wildly and gnashing their death. They are wet with anticipation and wild with excitement.

Blue lights come on, revealing a pathway to the stage. The pathway is made up of male Meat-eaters who have been sown together by their genitalia. Their faces are arranged to face upwards where steaks hang tauntingly. The smell drives them wild but they can’t reach it. Most of them are nearly dead with starvation and madness.

A spotlight shows Clap-trap. She walks over the sewn-together Meat-eaters.

She stands at the podium. Vegans throughout the building start having orgasms. Some faint. It’s all too much.

“Fellow Superior Beings” , begins Clap-trap. “I am here to speak to you about the Meat-eaters. (The Vegans hiss and spit). “We already know that we are far superior to these ape-like beings (cheers, whistles) who cannot be spiritual, or show compassion, or love. We all know that the world would be a far better place without them (cheers, yells of joy), and thanks to me, Your Divine Superior Majesty, the time has eventually come. (the audience go wild and start rubbing their wet vaginas together)

Before I explain more I will invite our three Vegan Representatives, Natalie Portman, Pink and Alanis Morrisette on to the stage.” (The Vegans go wild and start bringing out vegetables and shoving them into their Vegan orifices).

(Enter Natalie Portman)

“Fellow superior beings – Do you know that Meat-eaters have had the cheek, the audacity, to actually say that they, yes THEY like my new film, Black Swan??” (The audience start booing and jumping up and down).

(Enter Alanis Morrisette)

“Fellow superior beings- do you know that if it wasn’t for Meat-eaters buying my one decent album, Jagged Little Pill, I would have become a has-been even sooner?” (The audience hiss like snakes)

(Enter Pink)

“Fellow superior beings – I am a BULL DYKE. I like dykes, and I like bulls, but do you know what I hate? Men and Meat-eaters!” (The Vegans laugh dementedly and start screaming)

Clap-trap returns. “Thank you, Vegan celebrities. It is wonderful to see you cashing in on the vegan-bandwagon. Like you, we are tired of these sub-human Meat-eaters who we are obviously much better than. (wild cheers) We do not have chips on our shoulders, we just know that we are superior. We know that we would sooner fuck an animal than a person, and we know that Meat-eaters were created without souls. To demonstrate this, I am now going to spit roast a baby...

Dwarves with Enormous Phalluses

A red light flickers. On and off, on and off. Over and over again into eternity.

What to do? Buckle my shoe. Honey bees float through.

Summer. A mentally disturbed obese woman swats them with her jaundiced toes. Buzz buzz. Buzz buzz.

The severe-looking librarian with the spectacles falls asleep in the corner of the hall, snuggled up to her book. She has a wet dream about being endlessly ravaged by dwarfs with enormous phalluses.

"We are gathered here today, daily beloved"

Ravens croak and float on the wind. She sits in a room, waiting. Nobody appears. She doesn't know how long she's been waiting. Maybe she's already dead.

A little girl in a white petticoat screams. The windows smash.

A blue bird is trapped in the garage. It can't see the glass and keeps banging its beak, over and over and over again.

The Shamanic healers gather underneath the yellow moon for an orgy. They are dressed up as clowns. They shove balloons into every orifice while a wolf howls from inside the tree.

Wouldn't it be awful to die in this wilderness?

I've been walking for ages but I still can't find the snake.

A huntsman spider sits on the toilet seat. Tropical storms rage outside as lightening flashes and rain masturbates furiously against the window, where the morn meets the dew.

Pay back God's things to God, and Caesar's to Caesar. The Whore of Babylon skips through the spring-time field with a large dragon. They ejacualte blood into the mouths of anyone who crosses their way. The Lord floats above the sky, rubbing his hands.

Young virgins tie themselves to trees with barbed wire, legs spread wide, waiting to be ravished.

A demented tranny with blue hair, pink lipstick  and seeping pus-filled sores dances through the forest singing Abba songs. Anifred and Agnetha bare their teeth, gnashing and snarling like dogs. A monkey hops alongs the pebbled beach as a tempest rages. The sky is red and the sun is falling.

The League is only open for elderly gentlemen with long, flowing beards. They gather on a cliff top on the darkest night of the year to sing hymns to Satan. The night is progressing as usual when Madness seeps in from On High and they all start throwing themselves off the cliff, to be dashed against the rocks below.

Their bodies smash into blood, bones and bile. Mermaids resting on the rocks nearby gather around for a feeding frenzy. Scarlet blood drips off their chins under the purple moonlight.

Brown Eyes and Lithium

Purple fills the room. Mustn't look, let's not make it too obvious.

Today's lesson was so boring that someone out on the street started screaming.

Cultural injection. Close my eyes and drift. Forgot where I was.  I was sold on Spain but Japan is calling me. I see myself walking through green mist on a blue morning. Water kisses. A golden temple looms on the left. Insence filters throughout cold marble. A monk sits motionless.

Back in the Ulster Hall the petite conductor whirls her stick like a harpy. A cacaphony of faces bubble under the river bed. It's like thinking you're just one pebble amongst millions and then realising you are the beach, and the sea as well. Where did that come from? Load of old shit.

Red faces browse shelves of books. Coffee floats.

Probably not the best idea, asking if he had gypsy connections. Note to self - think before speak. Banter got tiresome without the anti-depressants. Voices droned on in the background. Flower grew up her arm.

What to talk about though? "Pardon me, but I want you to ride me senseless in front of the slide robes."  Maybe I should take up smoking again.

Try not to look in that direction. What's underneath? Leg shakes frantically.

Wax-covered wine bottles on wooden tables. Faded programmes of long-forgotten acts hang off the wall. A labyrinth of dust, and books. Dream-like twenties swing vibrates out of the transistor.

Try to focus on words.

The old woman overseeing it all is pleasant but faded, peeling off the wall like one of the programmes. She goes out for a smoke and watches the traffic from a haze. Sadness settles like dust.

Ghostly jazz echoes.

The park is dismal, overcast and forgotten, apart from the pretend-punk couple, the beer and the radio.

I see myself in the middle of the grass. Frisbees hover under the sunshine. Summer of love. Pity he turned out to be such a cunt.

Nice to have a body beside you in the bed. Too caught up in my head now. No room. Brown eyes. Must stop harassing the Shaman. But what was the snake? Tired of it all.

Just close my eyes. Lose myself in the music. So detached right now. The movie unravels. Need some hard fucking. Lies. Need a body.

Eyes to get lost in

Hair to ruffle

Arms to spoon

Wake up with someone else. Remind you that the world doesn't exist in your head. Still, second chance. Motion propels ever onwards.

Billie Holiday sings sadly about the moon while Josh pontificates. Jesus Christ give that man some lithium, I think I'm picking up on a theme.

Bisexuals, Bulls, and Roy Orbison

Weak winter sunshine absorbed by a sponge. Busy weekend cafe. Low-level voices click against cutlery. Light gropes through. Yellow glow on checked tables. Prefer it quiet. Fades back to cloud.

Head buzzing a bit. Worth it though. That's what they say, isn't it? Abba spread out to fill the gap.

He loves Geology. It's a new subject.

Pink lips curl slightly. Hair is a raven. Timid girl floats behind her glasses like a bird. Clings to granny like a doll.

The hair and the blood and the breasts. Not wanting to be in your own skin. Puberty waits for no man.

Brief Bohemian Rhapsody interlude. Slight leap of joy inside when song begins. Then all  of a sudden the gong. Nothing really matters, anyone can see. Nothing really matters....too meeee.
Cafe reappears slowly.

That dream about the bull ring. Walked in a side entrance and realised. Running of the bulls a bit evil. Prove your manhood by getting gored. Still, why not apply? Spanish cafes, cobbles, churches, cathedrals. Muy tipico. Ya Ya, Dank.

Table relaxes now the awkward bird girl has left. Glasses steam up with tears as she sits beside the box. Smell of lillies.

...

Derek swayed gently behind his tenth pint. Foggy red-faced head. The sexuality question.

All on a scale, Kinsey, fluid, no one fully this or that. Ya da ya da ya da.

Curious as to why I thought him bisexual. Bit scrawny like but something about him. Don't want to be one of those queers that give us a bad name. Can't be friends with a straight without wanting a piece of their knob.

Always comes up one way or another. But, now there was surprise. I had no idea. Funny drunk face. Highly amused at being in a gay bar. Nice chest. Pretty brown eyes. Question - did the eyes become cute before or after the bi-ness? Maybe I am also a bi.

Couldn't breathe. Faces down on the table. Uncontrollable laughter worth twenty meditation sessions.

More coffee.

Cupping action. Barking up the wrong tree, obviously.

Sticky feet, boke. She had noticed my shoes. Well, nothing wrong with a splash of colour.

Peeling off his tight black boxers. What would it taste like? To put my tongue...

Lights flash. Strobe. All the drunk gays. So predictable. Hideous queens. He didn't get it. Just like a straight person who had got lost. Wonder what his boyfriend was like? Wonder who fucked who?

Burroughs, Beats. Hundreds of cafes in obscure European towns spread out before me.

Drunk hugging with strangers. Bearing life stories as they cleaned the glasses behind the bar. Lights came on. Drunk gays formed a procession out into the night. Straights into hell. Flames sparked and smoked in the corner. I think he preferred her. Maybe he wanted a menage a trois?

...

Love this Roy Orbison song. Makes me want to get up and jump around the room. Nice to go out and not feel like a tag-a-long.

A Sad Parody

You need to get off that mountain. You live down here now.

The ice blue and the sky pink. Moon hung over the high rise. But how did I get here, of all places? The city lights reborn. Yellow cranes. Wing lights flicker, expectant.

Tired of the dark. Breath became mist. Smoke floated through the dark. You could taste it crackling. Comforting somehow, to think of orange flames, gentle sofas and moving images.

That place, exactly the same. Recognised him from school. Had long hair back then. Best to pretend. £3.65 please.

Same boat as I. The mickey mouse course, a sad parody. Tease you with a glimpse and then rip it away again.

Thought I saw the old school librarian walking down the road at lunch. Similar legs.

Another plane. Follow it across the cityscape until it vanishes. Imagine all the people living in the little houses below. They always say you're running away from something. Prefer it if you rot.

Need to let go. That place. Dreamt that Year 8 had bought me a Christmas present, all nicely wrapped. Forgot to open it. Brown paper bag. Wonder who stands in front of them now? I still wake up and think I have to go in.
Can't step out of it any more. Swept along like a piece of wood. Even when I sit there, in front of the candles. Still have to return. Wonder is there a plan or is it all just blind groping? Don't hide your light under a bushel.

Love this song. Forgot how much. Dark, atmospheric, beautiful. Just perfect. Like floating through a dream.
Makes me want to go outside. Breath in the cold winter moonlight bouncing off the roof. So many stars.

Wrapped in cold late at night.

The Mulberry Bush

Altercation on the avenue. Police v Immigrant. They hunt in packs like hyenas. "Go home!" Eyes black. What gives you the right? Maggot in a petri dish.

Who was that on the door? Wasn't even going into shop. Faint trill of recognition. Past.

Hospital gave me a sore head. Yellow paint pealed off the building like a tumor. The smell. Human animal. Naked.

Bit more ordinary with the glasses on. Lights came on behind. City obscured by cloud. Cars, lights. Asleep in the rush hour.

Then the tears. The embrace of two swans on a frozen lake. A life shared. Corridors upon corridors. Expanse of memory. The black and white wedding photo on the mantelpiece.

Nurse! Nurse! Constant, soft like he wasn't sure who was speaking, or why. Blue eyes of life on a body of death. And then the scream. What was he seeing?

Terrifying for reality to be pulled out from beneath your feet like a carpet. The precipice
beckons. Closed over eye in the corner. Some sense of humour. Moments of existence culminate. In what?

Funny to be in this bright coffee shop. All these people. Lips moving. What are they talking about? Do they even know themselves? Some joke alright.

Laughter from down the hallway. Ever step outside. Watch from afar.

I woke up and saw a kestrel perched on the wire. In the kitchen it floated across the field. I see my reflection in the mirror as I write. Green shoes - purple t shirt. Ashtray sits. Buses go past in the darkness. Music jangles irritatingly. What to do?

Here we go round the mulberry bush, the mulberry bush, the mulberry bush. Here we go round the mulberry bush, early in the morning.

The Red King

Expanse of space. Body fell off and truth shone through.
But what to do? Still driving the vehicle. Limited or limitless according to perception. Question of distance.

Open eyes to look around. Trust.

Wind blows. Dark countryside. Down the chimney. Want to go out in it. Wander the country lanes like a spirit. White or black. Funny to see for the first time.

Cars drive past. Fade. Music filters. Neverending corridors. Windows fly open. Music soars on to the moment. White. Majestic. Green eyes glow. Creator exists in a mirror.

The others. Glad to get out. Why destroy? That thing. Middle of room. Greasy hair.

Alice and the red king. Awful to be a character in another person's dream.

Like lying on the water being carried by the waves. If you know that the rocks can't actually dash you into pieces then why fear them?

The Matrix

In the dream city, there was a dream person.

"Everyone thinks they know what's going on, but they don't know anything. Less of all, themselves."

Billie Holiday stares out from behind the fog. So much sadness.

But that old woman with those bright blue eyes. She came to me last night as I was drifting off to sleep. It was like she was alive. Maybe I'll find her some day.

The forest when we all sat around in that circle. It was so alive. The insects, the birds, the smell of the vegetation. The blue sky. I felt like a child. That was real.

But then all this madness. Bombarded with images, filled up with lies. What I'd like to know, is who decides what makes the news? The great cover up.

Cheryl Cole chats to Piers Morgan

Stern but sympathetic he gently probes her with questions about the break up of her marriage. She wipes a tear away, artfully, and the camera goes in for a close up.

We're all morons.

Keep us dumb, feed us lies constantly. Tranquilize ourselves with Eastenders and alcohol. "To view but a small portion, and think that all".

Dreams they can't control. Whole worlds spread out before us.

The guy with the dreads and the baby in the waiting room. Beautiful tatoos all over its head. Aeons of knowledge. The old ones returning. But how could we bear it?  They sink in all around us so that we don't even notice. This world would tear someone like that apart.

Slumped in front of a TV screen, why be alive?

Sometimes walking about the world she want to scream. You're all zombies! Can't you see how stuck you are in this insidious web? How has it got to this?

 Madness is collectively created and shared by millions. Go undercover. Can't watch the news with its hidden agenda. No, better to sit and let this music sweep over me.

Nectar. I want to swim in it, breathe it in . No TV, no newspapers- Just this.

But still, you feel powerless in front of all the rest. The great cover up, the great lie.

 Millions of others sharing this dreamscape. Preparing the way so the world, with its Camerons, and Cowells, and Coles, won't chew them into little pieces and spit them out.

They can't. Not when this music exists. Meet in the aether. Dreamgates. They can't take away the sunrise.

An orange ball rising slowly across the white field. The snow was so pure and crisp. I saw myself in a dream walking towards it.

Fear is their only weapon. Beauty and Love win out every time. Turn off the news. See how they try to fill you up with fear, make you suspicious, uneasy, untrusting. They can't take away the sunrise.

Slipping and sliding over the ice I trekked up through the forest, past the waterfall.