Raw Confusion – Xmas 05

People peer from plastic tents and muse over sanctuary and reproduction in a whim lasting seventy years. The light of the sun and the muted, romantic whisper of the moon aren’t enough for most here. The gaping nakedness of a beating heart alludes naively yet intentionally to ruined survival and manipulated practicality. People talk of fashion: fashion depises poverty: poverty screams of despair. Circular motion pervades and infiltrates the deepest of natural endeavours. The summer is but harsh winter wearing inappropriate clothes on a deserted island where powerful seas adopted and digested an already disaffected life; several thousand years before. Truth was lost and lost was the innately bewildering objective.

I sit staring blankly through open windows at a coffee-shop in a back-street Vienesse heaven/haven which is merely pseudo-reverie. My mind does somersaults on four-walled trampolines within solitude’s distinct and colourless hell. I have been, I am and I will be; alive, until the end.

I won’t lie to you. I feel a little scared; every day. Frightened by my own existence. I’ve a hunch that the script has already been written. I’ve got evidence that this is not true. So what’s it going to be? Dive in or Slum out? What’s there to lose? Yeah. What’s there to lose? Nike. Psychology.

The gift of life can be like wearing a heavy woolen jumper in the tropical midday sun. People are scum: selfish, avaricious, arrogant, empire-building scum. Liars and murderers and rapists of the soul. Every now and then some disaster happens which receives global attention and they gasp and try to sympathize and say prayers to heal the wounds of the world and— momentarily— even a genuine spark of concern appears from the corrupt ashes of humanity; healing wounds with the pearl of unity. Before wound has made scar, consciousness has been freeze-dried like some buy-one-get-one-free microwave casserole, and the pearl of unity has evaporated with it. There is no light at the end of the tunnel. Prayers are a selfish betrayal of truth and justice. Forget about it.

I have no faith, no religion, no set rules, no plan for tomorrow and no epitaph for my headstone. There is no conventionally thought of god until otherwise proven. The same can never be said in reverse. Faith is unwarranted. I have only this moment and the faltering images which appear before me. My choices are in many ways devoid of option and my spirit is bound in nets and heavy chains. Survival is instinctive and suicide is curious. An innate fear of death is something unarguable for the individual. Broken by wind and divorced by rain, the end is coming and of that there is no doubt.

I once saw a tulip in a postcard from Holland. I wasn’t more than seven years old. The card was faded and charred at the edges and the drawing pin which attached it to the chipboard had grown rust from condensation which was fashioned by a woman who decided to take on traditional responsibility. Within the tarnished periphery stood a smiling long-blonde-haired portrait of hope. At not more than twenty, she wore unblemished fair skin, crimson cheeks and pig-tails, Heidi attire and perfectly symmetrical rose lips. The immaculate orange and red flora reinforced the sanguinity, and the windmill at the back of the picture came to life. I saw myself out there in the fields, a young man at ease with a world at ease: incapable of distrust and in love with love. The ground that they build the future on is hollow. It gives way under your feet and you fall before you can reach up and keep hold of your dreams. Now I think of her as a porn failure: naked and cracked-up in a backstreet Amsterdam whorehouse; suicidal.

My brothers, I love, I truly do. My brothers are few both in blood and in heart. Finding your way is an exploration through the jungle; or finding your way is a typecast in a pre-written script. I opt for the former and fall drunkenly outside the gates of hell. My mother I love and I would trade that love for her to mimic my longevity on this earth, however long or short that may be. My father I love and his wisdom upholds me in times of despair. My sisters I love. I have only one at heart and another one whom I may never know. That is my love story and it ends with a whistle. Whistle.

Karina: I adored her because I was desperate and remain so. She couldn’t have been anyone though. Click click. She taught me that love has barriers, that distance has meaning and that you can’t have what you want. She was an inverted Ferrari: sped away from sixty to zero in the space of an international phone-call. She gave great head and at the time I didn’t, but have learned well since.

Now we’re all dying, come forth and be reckoned, your time is this moment and your punctuality is too late. Be a man when death arrives. Not a modern man but a man of heart. A man who knows that his heart must stop beating. Don’t grasp onto organized religion as some kind of pacific saviour. That’s for frauds or people who don’t know any better; that’s for the people who can’t face the truth, the ones who destroyed this once pretty world. Go down not fighting but swimming: wading through the good times which they tried to take away but could never truly grasp. If god exists, it will love you.

Alcohol has given me confidence, hopelessness; rain, snow, thunder and sun. Stability has no antonym in this context as the word itself does not exist within me. I remember to forget and forget to remember, words slide away like a coffin headed towards the furnace. Relationships have been built on this commodity and the consumer has found himself overrun with desire and wealth of distraction. Reality was lost when they cut the cord. You are what you are and you can’t be who you want to be. Positive rhetoric to the man with no plan. We shall have substance poured on our graves from the sky and we won’t drink a drop because that was yesterday.

Sunsets. What is known and what is conjecture? What is the meaning of rain in July? What is really at the controls and why is it self-destructing? Why does the richest man never have enough? Why does the poorest man smile? Who does your god pray to in times of despair? What does the happiest man think when he’s down? What does the down-and-out think when he’s happy? Why does satisfaction reek of devastation? What’s the view like from an underground bunker? Who’s the chef?

So I’m lost again. So fuck. Care is an anagram of race. Israel is an anagram of Isreal. What’s happening? Food: necessary. A guy burning to death in a car: a shame. Would I miss the map of the world? Would I miss the perfect skies of rain and sun. Would I miss that strange ephemeral, passing eye-contact of a beautiful girl?
I know not of inner or outer peace. I’m unsure as to whether this feeling has been contrived before or after my birth but this is in no doubt my plight. The sun has set and the dark of night has cast an endemic wall of black distortion over a heart reliant on daylight. What is left of the future, I am also unaware. Crystals will form and crystals shall be destroyed.

Lucy says I can no longer be the man that I could have been and that every man who has some will want more and that shadows of rain-clouds of heartbeats of vanity are merely salutes to a craving for power and that no-one will protect the savior of all the souls and he’ll be hunted through the jungle by a hired assassin and that even if love were to dare conquer all well the war would just rise again to be waged with new strategies and that’s clear as the summer to see—-and nothing—- and no-one —-around here—- is free.

Tonight is quixotic. I felt something foreign. A man came across to my bunker and handed me an orange. The fruit looked glumly at me as I prepared to rid it of its protective coating. I stopped, aghast that I could kill such a colourful creature. I heard the faintest of laughs from somewhere behind the skin of the fruit and I realized it was already dead.

The slippery slope is not what I have slid down. Instead, I have fallen victim to a carefully positioned trapdoor which opened beneath my feet leaving me powerless to stop the ensuing descent, or even to cushion the fall. I know not why they have chosen this as my fate as my only crimes are those of apathy and disaffection. People gaze down into my cave from holes which shoot thin rays of light from the morning sky. They are optimistic that I can break out and be free but the distant echoes in their voices paint a conflicting picture of reality. I kneel with my palm rested on my forehead conjecturing as to what life outside was and is and if the light coming through the trapdoor is that of hope or despair; promise or impossibility. Night wanders through vacant buildings and tears bricks from the walls and smashes them gleefully without reason. Morning chants endless choruses of self-loathing and afternoon frantically tries to envelop pain with mind -altering sedatives dropped from overcast clouds of gloom. The evening rain is acidic and smolders my tongue. Tomorrow was yesterday and yesterday was forever.

Sail sweet angel, sail with the breeze, don’t ever mirror the late-summer leaves, locate your devil, locate his sun, and stay in the daylight till nightfall must come, reject all persuasion, reject all their lies, see through the clouds they have cast in our eyes, wait through the winter, wait by the the spring, turn and seek solace in bittersweet drinks, truth will come riding, riding up high, on a horse on a mountain where all men must die, So think of me sometimes, think of me there, in that dashing white armour and windswept despair.

Things have disintegrated through all seven layers of this leathery skin and have been absorbed into brittle seizing bones. Wrapped in a fire-blanket in a home without walls because they came and took them away but at the same time rid me of the guilt of my apparent sins. They told me that I was moving too slow and I retorted that cobwebs had appeared in my skies rendering me susceptible to idleness. But the charge was upheld and they disappeared and I lay face down in the rain and thought of the future. After some time I picked myself up all dirty and wet and hypothermic and began my walk to some place new. Some place new I thought. Always good for a while.

I shall be a slave to no religion but that of my own guilty, withering soul of reason. My liturgy is that of rising to the call of an alarm clock. You can be anything you want to be just not that which is on TV. And why would you want to be. Her suttee is unnecessary.

A pretty girl is a pretty girl. Bad taste is repugnant however expensive it may be, and regardless of the picture on the outside of the box. Insecurity has a vacational vision and arrogance is the over-dressed horse on which it rides. There can be no mistakes or excuses. You do what you do and the past is now irrelevant in that it cannot be changed. Great men have fallen in battle and great men have fallen in love. No man has ever stood the test of time. There is no immortality epidemic and both Jesus and Mohamed are a long time dead. Your brain is chipped and we are merely parasites feeding off our ailing imagination. Serendipity prefers dark eyes and light skin.

Being me is like being a leaf, falling through autumnal nature, getting caught in the wind, twisting and fluttering; it can even look graceful to occasional eyes. Then it lands on the ground and gets swept away.
Crash course lovers float hopelessly proud. What else was there to do but try to find a way out of this solitude. So don’t try now to hide it. Sit drinking wine: a supermarket saver wearing bargain filled crowns. An honest heartbeat is found in bargains. Sleep well tonight. No need to pit wits against paranoia’s claims. There’s nothing to dream about and little to gain.

Kyrgyzstan. That’s the place. 65% of people live under the poverty line. There must be some money to be made there. Oh money… how you look so puny with your clothes off—you fucking slut.

I’m vividly lost on a runaway train, optimistic, heavy smoking, heavy drinking, heavy rain. Do I care, did I ever, my dancing shoes bored holes, nothing at all to lose but life. Feelings of pleasure and pain, an experimental scientist, pilling again. I cared too much and I probably always did, this phony confidence of fellow mortals does me in. Well I’ll pay my dues and I’ve nothing of worth to tell. I’ll be drinking double whiskies in the third-class carriage to hell.

I won’t get out of bed today, the sky is more a black than grey, it’s Monday in the pleasantry asylum; or Monday–sound awake on Valium.

She made 3am phone calls from the front end of somewhere, telling me this would be a long hard road, that I was sure to fall from the back end of nowhere. She was the seed and the science for one or two weeks of Brighton summer—and she made sense. We lived unhappily together for a couple of years. Postcards are nice but I don’t dream of sharing comedowns with her; yet there was love. The truth, they call her.

Jesus, Moses, Mohammed, Coke, McDonalds, whatever else you care to mention. What’s the difference? They’re just phenomena, marketing propaganda and the sore end of a hemorrhoid. Some less evil than others, the first three a yawn to the birdwatcher. My empty rice-bowl smells like a wet dog though—and this is my trade; and my ride.

You should always be prepared for death. I am ready at every moment except for that when I sit on the seat of a toilet disposing of my insolence. I could never be one of those people who take a paper in, sit for half an hour and enjoy the experience. I feel vulnerable, ill at ease, off guard. I average it in under a minute and don’t intend on slowing with age. I have to admit I lie sometimes.

Nobody is making any fucking sense—myself included. Are these chips they’ve placed in us malfunctioning, or overloading with banal tripe. People come to the table armed with their selfish agendas, selfish smugness, selfish facades, selfish intentions and selfish hearts. There can surely be no hope for us as a race with this level of greed attached to our… … oh fuck it. I don’t drink that shit—but thank-you anyway.

Well on the first of the days yeah I’ll be drowning in fear, on the second and the third days I’ll be still pretty weird, by the fourth sunny day well the smoke will have cleared, on the evening of the fourth day I’ll be back on the beer, on the fifth sixth and seventh I’ll be chewing peoples ears, and then it’s back to the first day; back to the fear.

I judge success on firstly making it to a bed, then waking up at some point thereafter. It discomforts me if the sheet has come away from the corners and the mattress I lie on is bare and ridden with pointless floral patterns and other people’s bodily fluids. Success is waking up and looking around, knowing where you are, how and why you got there, and not being too horrified with the images towards which you view: to accept the destructive nature of negative imminence at a positive distance.

The soldier in me wants a fight. The stranger in me chases a room for the evening. The snake-charmer in me scans the bar in slow motion, alert to every movement and intention. The innovator in me orders a drink. The idiot in me spills it across a girl’s dress. The girl whom he sleeps with.

Of the present, I really don’t know. It’s 3.25 am. I sit drinking; to counteract the effects of drinking. I want a cute girl to knock on my door. I want to answer the door naked. Neither will happen unless I’m deeply mistaken.

If you’ve got nothing, there’s less chance of losing things: less chance of feeling aggrieved when they steal what isn’t there. Lame. Sometimes Joe.

It’s the year of our lord 2006. We know nothing other than the Torah. We worship the Torah. We have changed the name of the world to Israel. Objectives have been achieved. Some bearded-follower begins to hear voices in his head. Jesus of Israel the call him. He’s sectioned into an avariciously-owned hospital which cripples Mary and Joseph’s finances, forcing them to hand out promotional cards to well-cut grey suits, for the benefit of a nuclear-armed airline. On the same day, a darker-skinned fella is thrown into Jesus’ padded cell. The security guard, Gabriel, is an evil fuck who beats his mental patients when no-one is around. There is a point. It’s not the obvious one.


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