Interlocked Fingers Unlocking

All day, or most of it in bed - on account of the cold. Heating turned right down to preserve the franklins, so I can go out in old clothes and not eat...and try to impress someone. The mind thrives when the stomach shrinks, but I look pale and my eyes are red. Tomorrow there's work, and the following three days after that, so I have to eat or I suffer pangs and feel sick. However I'm enjoying the silence; besides tomorrow we'll be laughing at work, laughing at other people and lastly ourselves. I might be delivered from the cold cycle and the fear that my paintings are mediocre sans humour - Pavel ~

Itchy Teeth

I have a sudden, almost violent urge to proclaim temporary insanity and grab the duffle coated moomin by her vinegar tits and dance a merry dance with her. In a scissor motion, I cross my arms like two Wilkinsons and gesture lewdly at my loins, same as Stone Cold. What do you want! I taught a Spaniard the meaning of popping a sprog from a faff, and blushed scarlet in the process. Head bursting with spiders, take aim me lads!

Sick and tired of people wasting my time, coming in from the cold. Want a giant mallet made of jelly that I can liberally belabour them about their cloth ears and tell them to make some purchases. If they were any slower...the image of a giant iron spoon mixing a bowl of molasses and treacle.

And yet.

See Me Now?

Sweaty teeth.

Dry hands.

Clammy toes.

Rancid gums.

Moist loins.

Rain outside.

Nivenesque Dressing Gown.

Need I say more?

Dead Again

There you go, on bony feet behind the temple, under and over the leaves. A conflagration of thorns like Herzog, hands like lumps of living ice tucked into the deep mouths of pocket, turning about, clenching keys or coins, or both. Looking at fingers red raw, a law unto yourself. Thinking of demons sitting on the shelf, an incubus made of iron sitting on my chest or a horse's breath from a coin.

Two dogs, alike only in appearance and density of destiny. I wanted to be them. I loathe myself. 

Alive Again

Peaceful in the throes of a cold afternoon. Bladderfull, piss like Lucozade the last few days, ants in the bladder marching. Heavy chest, an abrupt call to the tax office - life's minutae. The creases in the Malay's trouser legs, he walked like robocop, he smiled at me. I wondered what it would be like to try and talk to the people in the restaurant - wondering if they'd ever smoked like I have, felt the heavy green curtain come across their perception of things. It's not something you want with you forever. It has it's place but that's that and Amen to't. Lost too much time in speculation that has lead, like the ants in my bladder to an insignificant conclusion and the pressing touch of mortality. At least you can be sure it's your lungs filling with tar and liquid; destructive. I am too prone to demolish things in my haste. Sure I killed some airspace last night waving my hands to some swinging soul. Oversized silver coins in my pocket and wine like petrol.

And then the prospect of moving - silence and clever conversation, witty repartees, the desire to be better within oneself. More at peace dare I say it. It could happen. 

Club Vs Knife

He returned to that moment, stood at the window as they were packing away the carnival. Tarpaulin over coloured lightbulbs, the jutting limbs of iron and springs. A possible frost over the grass, where he would sit with her a year later, watching the stars change. The gloomy church with the cyclopean steeple; the remembrance of a vital day.

Edward is Sadness
Edward is Fatalism
Edward is Doubtful

He was assured of change and it didn't affect him. Infact he relished the thought of being proven right again. If his pain was a construct - it was built sturdily. But for now there was her, a tin of tobacco and some green - twice smoked. Once Geraldine came up and sat with us. Then the unfolding afternoon; Gypsy music; Lee Dorsey; Dylan. Later I would tell someone how unbearable it was to hear it again - Because I fucked her I said to a stranger. As if fucking were that simple. It never is. My private share of cynicism; private belief. The little death - disassociate your brain from your dick. My hand has never let me down.
Watched a short film of Bukowski kicking his fiancee in a fit of rage. You cunt how dare you sit next to me and say those things. You sit here and you say we're gonna get married and you're gonna live with other people - how dare you; fuck you!


And I'm thinking to myself, if I carry on like this that's how I'm going to end up.

ACRIMONY

Shit in one hand and collect wishes in the other. See which hand gets full first.

TwothousandandgreatTwo

There's the male organ and the dick it's attached to.
There's the tug of the spine that makes the muscle jerk.
Manifold worries and uncertainty.
The skunk that delivereth us unto the moment.
The crushing stress.
The stressful crush.
Drum & bass.
Drills, sparks and chains.
The word amazing.
The backlit proscenium arch of the window at four thirty a.m.
Two, maybe three kids whose heads are begging to be stomped on so their eyes burst like boiled eggs.

I want my joie de vivre back :(

Bookish

My great fear - if I will admit to it is that I'm running round the inside of my own head, and nothing's changing. Reading to expand my brain, my intellect and my vocabulary instead makes me bitter and distracted. Habits, defeats, cycles, clean teeth, the sexy Italian waitress chewing gum, nonchalant and maybe even dismissive. Her eyes looked Egyptian, fish like. Run away run away, Ed your anger will make you sick.

Failure

Reading a book on failure I realise I sit in the category neatly summarised by Confucius: Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in getting up every time we do. The defeat that puts faith in future victory, that defers it for a later time. So where's the fucking victory then? Am I to suppose; am I to hope - to fall back on optimism? Deep down, maybe I am a piece of shit. Despite being utterly annoyed at Valerie Solanas for saying it, maybe she was right. Men deep down know they are pieces of shit. It's tiresome to be told by someone else though.
Instead I'll opt for empty rhetoric that might serve to kill this bastard hour, lead me to another hour that is linked to the next and so on. Disgust at the mother laughing at the Creed show because it's upsetting for a Sunday. Cunt. I don't have a dream of redemption for myself; you remain a cunt and I'll never see you again. I'm a piece of shit and you'll never see me again.