PU** by II0IID

PUNK

an art novel Koﬁ Boamah

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'Standing on the balcony, with his elbow leaning on the night, Riton waited.' — Jean Genet, Funeral Rites Cutting Fragments of Forever... ...the Teacher's Whiskey dripped off the top lip as if Christ dangling off the wooden Cross, the quench near, but so far after the liquid then drizzled against the dirty wooden floors: footprints of previous hobos, casual psychosis against a backdrop of the Eastender's theme tune, the sounds of hard piano keys against the London rain drops, the oily remnants of memories pulsating to a drum-like beat... ...with the Whiskey now perfectly wasted to an array of belligerent cunts and fucks, emanating out of a mouth soon going into the night, legs and feet against ashen concrete, time on a precipice... jumping the Tube's barriers, the correct 7

assumption held that Fat Charlie wouldn't notice, too busy eating pieces of Kebab meat doused in Garlic sauce that he probably bought from the Turks outside the station, and then waiting up close to the mind the gap sign, still hearing the drum-like beat, and the flowers of the mind sitting subconsciously sighing in the gush of wind of the then oncoming train...

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...Leandro is sat as if de ja vu: the same clothes on, protruding stomach wafting in its tight expanse of space called a London Tube seat, stuffed in with his hands holding a bottle of beer quite tightly, eyes with only a flicker of light in them... the whites in them only slightly visible, instead more visible are the pupils soon peering downwards at his bottle, as I take a seat next to him... I can hear all the exfoliations of the creak of bones of an old man sat holding a wooden walking stick that is soon enlisted in the throes of antics only able to be deemed other... as it's only this that personifies much that occurs: that 8

pursuit towards always neat organisations of thoughts that would rather sit in dust, asunder in fire, drowning in the cold waters... —I'd love sum Whiskey, said Leandro from the end of his nose, eyes still against beer bottle in hand... all neat maybe, nah maybe bits of ice too... —You not get the flat sorted then? I asked with the reflection gazing at this other person also known as: Paib, Franco, K., and even Rubens in a few places more deep East, as Romford, where I'd got involved with a few Pyramid schemes gone wrong with a dude I only knew as Big Ron... he was a pathological lier (aint they all? con men), though deception mostly enjoys an audience, raison d'être: lies over meals in multiple cafes discussing money schemes that lead to a tidy bit of mess in the deep Eastern hemisphere of London... —That flat down near Mare Street? —Yeah that one? —Nah, they probably give it to sum Indian fella or something, I'm still at the Hostel but they're trying to kick me out because of Mindy... ...I alleviate the desire to pursue the conversation over the voice mentioning our arrival to Holloway Road, mind the gap and all that... where else I have started to notice a man at the end of the carriage now standing in front of a blonde woman with a heaving rack that is sat reading the days newspaper... THE SAME AS YESTERDAY BUT JUST TODAY... the man is wearing one trainer so I'm pretty certain he's up for it, as they say, I'm certain he's about to give us an anecdote to take away, one befitting of the spirit of London of

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course, shattered bottles in the wind stepped on by yuppies feigning interest in something or another... this geezer looks wired but is soon giving us what seems to be the usual spiel, that on another day could elicit a different response... —I'm trying to get maself a place to stay tonight, as this geezer... and he had started pointing at himself at this point, when mentioning this geezer (him), the one trainer bandit, as if we all needed help in ascertaining who he was, did he know who he was? Perhaps that was the root problem, identity...ring, ring, who is it? Marx on the phone, something about alienation and all that... but he continues... —I know you don't care about this geezer! with more pointing, he's also getting louder, the decibels careening into the rather busying carriage that is heading towards Kings Cross with a vengeance... though it all seems rather ordinary however, in a way he ought to up his game, as the lady with the large rack is barely threatened at all Mister One Shoe, she's not even remotely worried mentally or physically... perhaps another collect call from Marx, maybe he's on the other end of the line with a few words of encouragement to jerk us into some form of being that isn't reading Newspaper utterly devoid of News... —But I am a PERSON, and this is mine... and by now he has pulled out a nine inch Penis and is waving it like a gun, the lady reading the Newspaper has now re-adjusted her stance to one more panicked: the ruffles in his phallus could

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have equated to a feared feeling of what he could do with it, what it all could possibly mean? stood waving it with one shoe on, and a facial expression only to be deemed strained: arched eyebrows, TEETH and GUMS sifting the spectacle with a menace... —Put that away! —That's dangerous! another yelled from the other side of the carriage, though no one moved, just Mister One Shoe aka Penis Finagler... although I'd not felt he truly had dipped his feet into the water yet, not truly, as I'd seen much worse, I can assure you... the ordained Priesthood of obscure antics knows no bounds, it's merciless in its pursuit towards some sweet melancholy, some disturbed sensibility only governed by acts sat way over the edge... maybe this was sensed as he soon dropped his black plastic bag and ventured on with eyes jutting all over the carriage, devouring, kicking the old man's stick up into the air... —I have a right to 'appiness, I have a right to 'appiness... and by now Mister One Shoe is sat with his bare naked bottom against the greasy floor that had torn pages of the day's Newspaper up against his crack, a tattoo that read: I AM LOST, with a perky pair of breasts underneath these words... sure, I thought Mister One Shoe, but where's the panache, where's the flowers of madness? as the Lady has by now arrested her fright and delved back into page five, perhaps News on Palestine and Israel, and is not even remotely uncomfortable anymore... though I think he knows this, as he looks around the carriage,

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even at the Old Man walking to pick up his walking stick... —I am not 'appy! Mister One Shoe soon yells into the carriage with, two fingers twiddling inside his all too bare naked butthole... I'm not 'appy... and I think this does the trick, in the eyes of the lady as her face is taken over by a look of disgust, scrunched up nose, lips all sandwiched into the middle of her face, her hands covering her breasts... —'ark at this chap... said Leandro with a nonchalant nod towards the happenings but not nearly much excitement, not nearly much frisson at all in his voice, probably as we'd seen much of this before, although it was in the realms of the stuff, the very expression of disillusionment though it needed more, I thought, as soon enough a corpulent black Man, clearly more offended than us, then lifted Mister One Shoe up and dropped him onto the mind the gap sign at Kings Cross as soon as the doors jutted open... the Lady is then back to reading the Newspaper, the Performance Art piece distilled into the past... the loud clatter of the closing doors... an Italian man starting to discuss opinions on Big Ben... ..the disappearing starts early......the inexhaustible shake down, the distance between all these bodies... so many bodies... moving about after getting on at Piccadilly Circus with the sounds of all that hope, so loud, so rancid, so fervent... there's something malicious about all this commerce, especially in the Whiskley-less

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hue of sobriety, some menacing underlay as if watching Sesame Street's Big Bird serial killing... a big fluffy bird now tail gating, moving through hot Californian nights burying Hamburgers, maybe in a bright Chevy too, driving along in between a Murder or two, which will seem latent to the rather strange appeal of less humans, less people speaking of surface life shit: a sweater being sold out, always the haunted pursuit of something brand new... bludgeoned death via small talk whilst hurtling towards Green Park... the second act tonight in Mister One Shoe's repertoire occurring someplace else... though I could eat something, I thought, as I all I had in that room, that dingy den, was a questionable ham, pickle and cheese Sandwich half left on the window sill, that wouldn't really facilitate much but a little longer on the bog, a late night jaunt into the vestige of the communal loo... and you accept this as part and parcel of the life we lead, as if Joe Pesci in those Gangster flicks talking to a fellow Gangster, of course, about our lives: stolen salami, the big we in the sky, little deaths, money... now there's a thought... MEANWHILE ONE Spread Eagled Over Syringes Next to Flowers Pussy Lips Wet With Mature Cheddar Cheese Old Routines Of Associates Outside A William Hill Re-enacted Shabby Fingers Caressing A Pair of Sagging Breasts in Wine-Red Bra 14

Rumours of Old Gamblers Out of Touch Foils At 3am Treated Like Gold Pots Petty Criminals Known For Lock Picking, Selling Used Dildos Stories of Violence Proustian in Their Affect Affectations of Remorse Dim Light Bulbs Against Kidnapped Bodies Grandiose Sexual Fantasies Involving Diapers A Girl On Labernum Waiting, Wearing Mismatched Socks Junky Lips Emitting Words Akin To Poems Pickpockets Commencing Their Day A Destitute Pair Of Teeth Smirking After A Score Of B A Two Hour Conversation Of Public Toilets A Piss Stenched Bench Housing A Can Of Half Drunk Beer A Sticky Porno Magazine Discarded In A Soho Backstreet Residue Filled Old Spoons With More Stories Than Passing Commuters Combined A Lone Wiggly Tooth Treated Like A Diamond Ring A Scratchy Radio Transmission of A Pirate Radio Station Chump Change Repeatedly Yelled Outside Crack Den At Queensbridge Road

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NOTHING to be GAINED HERE ...the problem with Isobel is that she is too much woman, the glare of her thighs too clear, just too obvious, she needs dimming; a light touch 15

on the contrast, easy on the breaks Isobel... I still had oily lips from the Burger I flummoxed down in zero point four seconds whilst I walked through busy West London Streets to the edge of Soho where Amirah had been staying for a while, or since she had decided on a boyfriend from Somerset... an Accontant called Bob or Rob, or he could even be a Robert, who really knows..? the supple breasts of memory clearly need a retouch... I mumbled... however I'm somewhat sure I'm dead, just not sure how dead... there's levels, collisions that suggest, they do suggest, but there's honest doubt to whether waking hours are at all dissimilar to those had behind closed eyes... though you often weigh it up and try not to pull back the foreskin of reality... the pieces of skin on the precipice of dismantling so much, but sheltering from some harshness wanting to be avoided... say here with Bob, or Rob, it's rather difficult to accept that his little joy is more often than not on the tip of a strange dick for what will be a rain check, in this case, but sometimes as little as eighty, ninety, hundred and fifty if she see's the fella coming... INCOMING MUG at 2 O'Clock ignoring subtle clues of debauchedness: O I thought you knew it was (guess how much is in the wallet time)... anyway, we're all victims to our desires, our vices alluding us, and mostly prevailing... the Ballad of Bob is actually quite ordinary, but just more blatant, less agile, more sturdy like a piece of concrete writing... the lady you love disguises her love for all things oriented towards serial dick-taking as a need for money,

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and he, sometimes in the very next room, takes it, and just takes it, until... I supposed heading there a little more quickly before the rain fell totally from the black expanse of the sky... perhaps another call to Marx..? yep I hear you Karl, but what with all the patheticness it's a bit hard to gauge how your reasonable suggestions will really work... I hear you Karl, but the logistics are all off...

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ROWS OF TEETH ...the idea of Amirah was pretty inky by that time, the anticipation is more than the sum total but it's always disregarded, this idea, in the hue of desire... the veracity of want is more messy, as it lurks in crevices frequently adorning images in the mind... so it was not great timing to bump into Bum Chin Larry... he'd spent a few years at Bellmarsh so he had the minerals, the taste for a solid scuff, though he was in a jovial mood, smiling and asking how long it had been... it's always too soon, but you say too long, you always seem to automatically to say too long, it's been too long Ol' Hitler, Hitly, hasn't it, we need to keep in touch, perhaps Oven Bake... ... 'Money is a suicide note.' Martin Amis, Money ...and lo and behold Bum Chin Larry has these preordained money schemes, loadsa them, all sitting in neat rows next to the other Cellmates packed in like Sardines sleeping right next to where they shit and piss, puffing tobacco with 18

cartoonish tokes... Bum Chin Larry I know I know we ought to gather loot but have you stopped to... and he stopped these words propelling into his wet dreams... Nah Franco (he knew me as Franco from a girl living in Greenwich), what we'll do is get rid of the Umbilical cords as quickly as we get 'em in, all we need is Harry (and it's always Harry isn't it, that modulated link between someone and some schema dripping in the anxiety of Prison Time, Newspaper cuttings of weird Criminals with this bonce on full display)... and Harry is up for letting us into the Hospital if we cut him in on it... he continued, quite persuasively I do have to admit: the tenderness of haphazard hand and arm gesticulations always promotes endorphins, enthusiasms that can't be easily denied... ...and so I'd soon enough agreed, via a Holier spudding (wet fist against wet fist), that we were doing it, as Bum Chin Larry commented after confirming time, place, small expenditures... ...ethics is all ropey in the reality of hard pockets, it's a little more elusive than those yuppy pricks, I thought, back on track towards Amirah's flat, but really thinking about Isobel... Isobel, Isobel, Isobel... though it's all buying and selling, by the time that can drink reaches your bottom lip it's pretty much an ornament of so many deceits that it's not at all absurd to think of Umbilical cords as just something Voodoo Ebgie from Clapton needs, and therefore has a right to have... sure sure we may call Marx again and ask about the ethical pursuit of work, and the allegiance to forms of justice, but that's all hearsay in the heart

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of our minds, although I do reckon this Utopia place, LucDocs, that Isobel seems to mention from time to time may be real, it may exist, it's just the flagrance of darkness is often all logical and hopefully just a few hours spent at Homerton Hospital, before retrieving a wad of hard currency from Voodoo Ebgie... the thought of the end before the beginning... Bum Chin Larry how you always create an allure around such residual fuzz... ...as I entered the dark entrance of Amirah's a quaint reverie arrived: one doused in butt sex; an erection and a gun is a strange attractor it can be said, it's swift in its pursuit to claim what it wants... the sounds of Peter Andre and East 17 murmured whilst I rang Amirah's doorbell... and visions of Kingsmead Courtney being cornered after, apparently selling a few grams of weed and cutting out Big Tyrone, who heard about this and appeared out of the clear blue sky from out of the hotboxing weed smoke naked with an erection and a gun... Big Tyrone you wouldn't..? you wouldn't lavish that on some geezer that just owes you a few hundred quid, no Tyrone, the fear emanates from a variety of places, not just the waving glock (where did he get that from, I thought sat in Hackney rather quiet)... but the underbelly is not such a knock-off occurrence of underbelly sometimes, it's the real underbelly where violent things happen over CD players playing Mysterious Girl... it was a bit too difficult to bandy around Kingsmead Courtney after this, what with all the lack of eye contact (me or him..?) and what is he to do..? call po po... Karl there's a

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call for you about alienation and dark thoughts being trapped into a Criminal system, can you take this..? .....dial tone... ...I'd started hum singing, I realised, when Amirah opened the door... ooh ooh woooh mysterious girl, I wanna get close to yoooou... ...I handed her the bags of weed, two benners, and hoped she'd go along with this idealistic IOU... though I would have preferred hard currency, perhaps to furnish a few more sordid fantasy's, usually involving Mother and Son... of which I'm certain Freud would have had a field day with; the Oedipus complex is all concrete, and unavoidable, though we mask this don't we... though before I can explain the position of the ol' wallet she introduces another man, not Bob, and more olive skinned toned (very her complexion) that is sat on the couch watching the idiot box as if I'm not even there... Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man... —...this is Garner, and Amirah now comes across shy, playing with her collar bone and the strap of her violet bra that reminds me that otherwise she is quite naked, albeit the very see throughy lingerie, but it's all pastural still: Mother naked after a long bath soon toiling in the bedroom, until she mentions that Garner is her Brother... —...actual blood brother? —...well yeah, sure, he's just staying with me and Bob until he can get himself sorted out, but he's big and strong, starts Amirah whilst bending over and rubbing his right leg before fuzzying his gelled

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black hair... it seemed all sordid as we all are aint we? But I do like sordid a little more soft around the edges in this regards, as I was pretty overwhelmed by Amirah's casual declaration that she and Garner, can't help, and she repeated the words; can't help, especially slowly, even as a fellow misfit that I'd thought I'd known for years Amirah you're really at the edge here, you're really doing this thing called other... a few descriptions of their inabilities to stop themselves from feverishly fucking, mostly, she added before we got down to it, because their Dad was such a prick for failing to provide money that they assumed he had from God knows where... though it's difficult to judge inside a warm cunt, and so you wrestle with the idea, foreclose certain decisions to act, promise to baptize yourself with Whiskey at a later date... it was all so murky, I thought, as the jizz hit Amirah's top lip... philosophical jizz... and I hear Bob chatting to Garner about a re-run of Cheers... did he know too..? ...she was a little put out by not receiving money, hard notes, just as she bent to pick up a few tenners off the dresser drawer, TEETH exposed, and then soon tucked back into mouth, as I once lent her a grand, so she quickly accepted a round of play, but more than that was off bounds, she said with one eye on Garner sat on the couch still staring at the T.V.... quietly adding that she did like my dick... admiration can come in a myriad of forms, I thought on the Street full of puddles... the light scent of wetness protruding

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the air, the Neon lights yelling, the Soho Sex Shops Open Signs tucking into eyelids, the conversations had outside Bars masquerading something or another, the NIGHT... Opulence Granted Before Dawn

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...it could possibly be that people smell you out, they can sense the dissonance, the lack of acceptance of the ordinary... the messy drape of a shirt or the eyes... the eyes are a dead giveaway: the squalor of a smirk resting inside a face with pupils dilated, yellowy white and perpetually gazing towards something else... on the look out for that next hit, that next occurrence that is supposed to render everything through that perspective, that kaleidoscope yet to be viewed... and then there's the dream-like meditations manifest in small ways, along with the obvious, but a quick two punch attack at a conversation is only enlivened when it meanders onto the subject of robbing a bank, though this is often just a front for a joke, though the idea has gravitas, pull... the ol' stick up game and getaway to Monaco is sometimes alluring, but then again the drug deals on rain drenched streets... the adlibs from angry girlfriend's of Drug Dealers outside betting shops... the cold war thoughts of a neighbour's activities... the gripping depths of a fight outside a Pub on Roman Road... the rustle of wind between hands dealing in a drug exchange on a dark street corner... the nestle of camaraderie only brought about by poverty, talk 25

of benefit money... the beauty of the decaying Mango seen a few days in a row in altered states of natural life next to a few magazines... the smell of swear words spoken from the back of the throat... doing things a little bit Irish; morning teas, late night coffees, orange juices... suckling at the teat of substance...

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Voices Coming From Outside Towards ...they're there, all wafting in the illusion of being outside of the body, but the thought persists that they seem to get in all too easily... I can hear the drum-beat still, but I could have assumed a few swigs of Jack stolen from a Petrol Station could do away with that, fed the slowdown in a sense, but like a radio transmitter without an off switch they go on, and I want to give in, but I go on, walking towards Mare Street in the foggy black with who I come to know as Amber; short, stocky cat wearing a tight purple number and coming on about scoring either B or at least some decent white down near Queensbridge Road... promising this to be the case even at silly am... the bottle of Jack alluding to a charming wallet is nothing more than the loot of a man on edge darling, it's not how it all seems... ...so we continue walking along with the previous hours really quite shaky... dishevelled drags at the the toke of memory reveal very little... but you keep an eye out for certain cues; revelations, damage... these blackouts are rather 26

measured by damage to alleviation-of-pain ratio... which is a strong ratio as ratios come; it delivers the vital statistics by way of physical evidence: hands, legs, feet, head, eyes, torso — mostly intact, so it's mostly all mental and in the soul I quickly reckon, if that's a thing to believe, though I actually have a thing for belief in the soul: it signifies another element within a person that I often feels comes out, seeps out of pores... ...there doesn't seem much else to go by, I thought just as we arrived to Mare Street where Amber had been speaking quite long windedly about a junky called Berger, or was that Beagrie... names are all so elusive in the drunk haze, especially feeling dry bits of blood against skin around neck up towards left ear lobe... and claret is just such a form fitting composition: it's decisive in its lyricism... I hope I got the better of 'em, I mumbled... —...and so if we get the Ket from Eddie, we can also score a little Betty White too for only a few more readies, might even be able to get a couple a E thrown in, Eddie can't get rid of a big bag he got from Big Eared Sam, you know Big Eared Sam, right? —...reckon I've seen him about probably... I said with the onus on regaining consciousness, clear thought, but generally failing: could I even make out the haphazard gaze of what's in front of these eyes..? these eyes soaked in Jack, swelling in days gone by... it's all so murky, deficient of an ability to gain... a Priest walks by... ...the bus scoops us into its bosom, the

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floating red specter appears and takes us: pulling us along noises of builders heading towards their sites, conversations wanting: this, that, the other but definitely wanting something... this hyperexternalized desire is just so squalid... — ...what's that you say..? asked Amber to a silence, bringing me back to where we are, I thought, her hands rolling a ciggy with chipped peach nails, acoustic eyes... a hangover is always acoustic; some bad Guitar band droning on about that Girlfriend that got diddled by another fella, or worse them being unwantedly diddled by another fella, a Priest, as it's always a shaggy haired geezer with a pointless degree or HND (have no degree) or another and just too much time on his hands... it's always this and if it isn't exactly this it's refractions of the same thing... though I guess it's all sociology: society's development of species in relation to this Govermental headlock they have us in... quite tight and severe... and I could have spoken this or thought this, but what is the difference at six am in the morning where the darkness is still flagrant, and for some it's much worse, drunkards staggar along the pavements with surprised looks on their faces: Drunk Dave (there's always a Drunk Dave) why are you so surprised..? my guy it's all cut and dry: pour a little Whiskey out next time for the Death of God... I'm gonna have to pick this up, it's an important one, Nietzsche is on the line... ...Amber is still bandied around the idea of gathering drugs, quietly sizing up the

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situation, eyes peering when I'm not looking, which, unbeknown to her, I can see in the reflection in the Bus's window, her bouncy long breasts in the Purple number, the words PENG and SICKO written in blurry purple cursive on her naked right wrist in the same purview as all these commuters heading somewhere... someplace, smelling of death... midnight black briefcases held upright, women applying their make-up on the go, a pair of delinquents walking fast through the high street... and they're clear to see: curved brim Nike caps, tracksuits, old Reeboks... the life, the exile of homogeneity, the cool air of escape... very much facilitated by violence: warm threats spoken over bacon, eggs and beans... IS IS OR CAN IT BE, THAT IS THE QUESTION..?

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TODAY IT CAN BE... ... in the justle of the moving Bus her junky water bottle is brought out of her bag which is held open on her small lap... the glamour of it all... unzipped I can see inside, where she is rifling now: laced burgundy knickers, check, a few unopened white letters, check, a large clump of foil, check, an orange packaged condom, check, red lipstick, check, a Barclay's bank card, which she examines, and has the name R J Patel written on it, check, a bottle of baby oil, check, a small bogey green handled pen knife, check... a punk's loot... all she needs is her Daddy issues, and obscure sense of self and she's pretty much ready 30

go; Butch Cassidy walking off into the Sun, that guy that claps both feet together singing in the rain... — ...what'd you say, Daddy what..? —...don't mind me Amber, just riffing like those Jazz bands, you know..? — ...a little Ket would go nice with that riff, don't you think..? her eyes look all chewy and wet, childish in their innocence but still capable of using that knife, I don't deny that, I thought, she has a general air of sketchiness that needs to be put slightly under surveillance, though flippancy is fine, I then accept, mostly because there is really nothing to be gained here... well not in the material sense, as opposed to the Soul... she might be peering at that... the... naked... soul... decaying... like the body? a shop window with a display of blue as if the sky behind glass... ...a Jew prowls the edge of the curb... ...a lone purple plastic bag blows in the wind...

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...wooosh... ...wooosh... ...wooosh... ...the abstracted constellations, propped up by words sprinkled with desire, deceit, lust, boredoms... I'm sure Amber is eyeing an escape... 31

the sweet funk of getting high, lost in the languid web... ...the whole shabang really... and Amber had just finished explaining something I'd not really heard for the thoughts on Isobel and our first meet: pissing into the porcelain sink, I'm soon eye funking a woman, Isobel, Persian looking: dark hair as midnight, dark olive sun kissed skin with lips opening and closing forming only perceptible words as: ...ain't that a lovely Dick... drunk responses laden with amber lights, I hadn't run a red as of yet, because she was responding whilst entering into the stool and latching the door, the drum-beat sound of the lock like that in my head, dah dum... dah dum... I'd continued to speak through the stool's door, seeing underneath to her feet in polished black hi heels, and the slight edge of knickers around her sweet ankles... —...I'd reckon it's quite nice to not have to piss in silence... —...I wouldn't want that, I think I said, though memories distort: they move about all tectonic, especially stood outside that stool holding a half vanquished pint of Beer... but she soon unlatched the lock and waddled out of the stool pulling down her bright orange dress over her bare thonged bottom... washing her hands in the sink, but being very careful not to touch anything, I noticed that much, a noted possible hygeine freak, and then I opened the door for her, whilst we spoke about a Transgendered woman that had been drunk and raving about discrimination,

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Isobel was on her side, of course, but before we could continue talking squarely about all of this, she vanished into the dark consortium of people... I awoke on a lamppost on Kingsland Road outside a Kebab Shop with only remnants of what could have occurred, Sherlock instigations, though what can it be..? the taste of it all..? Isobel how you entered the stool of this life, and dunked into the waters... —...are you listening..? asked Amber with an inquisitive prodding of this body's left arm... this body that came to be... though I wasn't listening at all... I was in deep thought of how it was so strange how Isobel then just popped up at a random squat just off Tottenham, thank fuckin' God for Morly on that one, I remember thinking, perhaps a long walk to this squalid assortment of rooms, as if in Journey to The End of the Night, wouldn't be so wasted after all... as she remembered who I was right off... the geezer from that toilet I spoke to once... she had spent a few years bothering about graduating from Cambridge, but came to a realisation that it didn't really matter to her, didn't matter at all, and soon arrived to London, more particularly the London squatter scene, after a few months in India, reading Ginsberg's Indian Journals, walking through Varanasi, avoiding leering Indian men, circumventing ideas adorned with tragedy... she mentioned wanting to write Poetry quite early into this conversation at the squat surrounded by Chomsky-lite's, Plath's without the plateau of talent, but Poetically explained that our very being's are our Poems...

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our very lives actual pieces of Performance Artistry, that she soon explained had been fueled by a woman called Sabrano Candela who had arrived to a squat near Uxbridge detailing five years spent in the outer regions of Brazil performing a piece where she would, every morning, go into the busy streets on all fours, sometimes naked, sometimes barely clothed, barking like a dog in order to remind of our neglected Animal Spirit... Isobel was wearing baggy clothes, as if to hide her goodies, her sweetness... the neck is always naked and so so telling; it's all graceful, I noted, thin and soft skinned... ...it's soon our stop, where we stumble off into the rising sun, that is too bright, too hope filling, for Amber to mention that she was going into a passing off-licence to retrieve something, stood outside I made no fuss at all: a packet of chews, sanity, a sandwich, it's all the same really, commerce... but I was soon confronted with Amber running out of the off-licence, closely followed by an Indian shop-keeper swearing: ...you peoples are the scum of society, you troublemakers you... O Indian shop-keeper are you not correct, I thought, jogging alongside Amber, but where's the appreciation, where's the galore of idealistic realisations of our services..? what would you speak about without the faded glamour of a junky stealing a pack of chewing gums, a bottle of Teacher's Whiskey and a can drink..? ...we soon reach the bottom steps of this abode that castigates any sort of concrete sanity:

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Tundae the security man is still sat awake half peering down at us on the steps, half watching Jerry Springer... Tundae seems to get worked up around all the episodes particularly related to sex change revelations; he is usually in throes of hysterics seeping through the thin walls, where he wooops and professes the madness of it all... oh no you wouldn't... ...Amber is holding the Teacher's Whiskey... she is worried, but trying not to show it whilst rubbing her skin with baby oil she has retrieved from her punk's loot, rubbing skin I'm quite certain is intermeshed with strange jizz too; she hasn't slept in two days, she said, and the come down from Ket can be pretty nausea inducing, though more is better than less; less is very much less, so a reduction in high is just not on for her... she needs a hug but what can really be done..? I thought as we walked into the destitute building, where the sounds of Whitney Houston come through thin walls with peeling wallpapers, gold and cream, hanging on for dear life and reverberating, slightly less loudly than Jerry Springer, but very much loud enough at this time of morning, I thought... wonderings simmer around ideas of why Ogbina would be awake so early, though with the asbo and curfew I quickly assumed it was probably that... an asbo cat catches the early warm, or is forced to anyway... Amber is totally comfortable: already casually taking off her black coat and mumbling something or another... Tundae bangs on the wall and shouts: QUIETEN DOWN THAT WHITNEY... 37

...we walk up the dusty stairs; the carpet hasn't been cleaned in years, I reckoned, ten, fifteen, who knows, it had so many stories woven into it's material we wouldn't be able to keep up in a century of trying... a ginger Cat waltzes by through Amber's short legs just as we reach the tip of the stairs and audible sounds of squirming can be heard, most definitely as Amber looks with squinted eyes, but doesn't say anything: delinquents have that sort of grace, in comparison to the civilian, that'd be panicked, worried, whereas instead it's strange for us, but nothing to take your knickers off for, nothing that dispels the ol' same piss, different toilet myth... but it is mounting, this sound, as we walk the dark hallway, when Fernanda's door swings open and she starts for the loo on the end of the hallway, right next to my room... ... ...though Fernanda hears us walking up behind her and stops before reaching the desolute community loo, though doesn't acknowledge her own door, which is very much ajar and very telling: on her bed is a man I knew as Salem, stripped naked, muzzled with a hot pink dildo hanging out of his hairy butthole, and his face turning towards Amber and me stood close to the door, looking at Fernanda, and then looking at Salem, and then looking back at Fernanda, and then looking at Amber... I think this cycle of eyes on bodies continues for quite a while in sounds only to be deemed absurd: Salem is shouting: She is doing this to me, against Islam, she is doing all this to me, can somebody help me, please... Fernanda

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walks back towards us, and wordlessly closes the door shut, politely standing closer to the wall to allow us to pass... ...we exchange no more words, and soon Amber enters the room after I slump down on the edge of the bed and watch her plop the stolen Teacher's Whiskey on a dusty shelf that I hadn't even noticed before... speckles of dust sift into the dawn light, next to a few brown coins that must have been put there by the previous tenant, Long Face Sandy... ...we can still hear muffled bits of Salem's Arabic sounding voice, that Amber doesn't remotely comment on, the Whitney is latent, and quickly becomes Toni Braxton's Unbreak My Heart... the shabbiness of the room alludes to a feeling that we know eachother, and the room could be right: the old Sandwich, the debris of Whiskey now mottled into the room's smell, the illusion of respite of the large bed with garish green Duvet covers hanging off it... o we know eachother alright, and not just by way of possible acquaintances, such as Big Eared Sam, but by way of lifestyle... we know we understand eachother by way of an agreement to the machinery of the everyday happenings: the need to CUT UP the straight-jacket visits to the loo, the boredom or survival, and the need to factor in the mysterious fabric of other... o other why are you so other, and succulent... ...even in pain the thought persists that other will be waiting there with flowers after a hangover, close enough like a fluffy cloud in the

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sky that can be touched... 26th Floor of The Block ...I met Bum Chin Larry after Amber had fallen asleep, we had spent about two hours mostly fucking with her asking how we would score some Ket... I ignored her incessant persuasions with grunts whilst she straddled and started to, at one point, mention a time that she enjoyed sucking two cocks at once in a random flat (always is) in Mile End, adding that there is always something to do in a situation as that, as opposed to the lonesome appeal of fucking one person at a time, I thought, no that'd not be busy enough... we were going to go for another round, another session, she squelled at the touch of a few slaps and suggested a rim job too, but it just weren't on, as we had only that orange condom that had been nestled in her handbag that we used, along with that lonesome blue packaged Durex that sat on the kitchen counter that I wondered of... ...as if... relief after use of possible off date condoms... dishevelled dreams, hesitant bareback confrontations... ...the noir passage of obscure pregnancy... ...the dry humour of tragedy, though not necessarily in the thick of it, no that's not enjoyable until it becomes an anecdote to share... we fell asleep, which was great, being that we both were crying out for a kip; time spent behind closed eyes, though with the

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sounds of Toni Braxton on repeat, and Salem, O Salem when will you just stop your bellyaching! And it woke me up in a stir that did little for Amber, snoring naked on the other side of the pillow like old buddies... so I didn't wake her, and I got myself together, as best I could, picked up the stolen bottle of Teacher's Whiskey, that had a quench still within it, and headed out into the ghastly afternoon light... where Bum Chin Larry had been waiting for ages, he said, less jovially than the night before, before he mentioned that he had forgotten something at his flat, and that we'd need to go and get this in order to sort out our Umbilical plan... a baby following along towards the Tower Block where he lived with Lucinda, and her seventeen year old sister Maranda... apparently Maranda annoyed him no end, and he spent as much time away from the flat as he possibly could, hence the impromptu meet up in Soho the previous night... he explained all this with the conclusion that everything would be fine if we could get the Umbis (he had started to refer to the sacred Umbilical Cords as just Umbis)... another birth, another death... said Bum Chin Larry with a slight gristle in his voice that spoke of an agitation, I suggested inside this cranium, and one I assumed had been brought about by something that happened after we had finished up speaking in Soho, and he had got into something he didn't want to initially mention when I prodded around, curious... ...you didn't get home early last night

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didya..? ...with no real answer, we soon reached the Estate, The Tower Block entrance... catching the lift up to his, hands fidgeting against the dirty silver buttons, washed off piss on the other side of this small space that encounters much too much: why not save the piss for a wall..? though the graffiti on the bottom of the door is strong, definitely strong, bouncy round coloured letters with a juicy S, reading: SHITFACED... though it's pleasant, it's culture, I thought... ...Bum Chin Larry walks fast ahead towards his door, opening it with the key, and holding it open for me to enter... we walk into the living room and it all seems less than abnormal, two women in relative states of undress, the girl assumed to be Maranda is sat on the edge of the sofa only wearing a pair of blue denim hot pants and a sunshine yellow bra, though Lucinda has on a long t-shirt and seemingly nothing else, although they're both wearing red bandana's tied up on their heads... I stood at the doorway whilst Bum Chin Larry started to get angry, the arch between each eyebrow was trying to join and he had started to riff about: the two women doing something, then the state of the flat, and why a lone plum, half eaten I noticed, had sat there since the previous evening... Maranda nor Lucinda respond very much, mostly just commenting that they were in the middle of speaking... probably about men, though not necessarily in a D.H. Lawrence manner, more Hunter S., I

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thought, way more lucidly with descriptions, even diagrams if they could manage... cock lengths, positional plays, gold digging turned virtuous... there were sheets of white paper with bits of squiggles strewn across the coffee table along with a light brown Teddybear that had the words Maranda stitched into the embroidery in red lettering... ...Bum Chin Larry opened the drawn curtains, upsetting the cozy darkness cultivated within the room, before exiting the living room into a bedroom to soon arrive back to the doorway, where I stood, and coaxed me towards the door... Lucinda yells that she would cook tea around seven and he replied that he'd be back around eight before slamming closed the door... he couldn't contain his irritations: for the food Lucinda would cook, mainly: she can't put anything decent on can she..? he asked rhetorically gesticulating... all she wants to do is talk with this bravava, this act she puts up... and it seemed noble for Bum Chin Larry to be complaining about food, what with all the skint thing, which is quite an issue, I thought walking along the gray skied street's hearing Bum Chin Larry complain of Lucinda and Maranda...o Maranda really got it in the neck walking back on the way towards Homerton Hospital... ...we moved through the Hospital where sick people were stacked like Lemons: bitter against the afternoon light, the bright Hospital glare complaining of: flu, gout, broken limbs, stupidity on ladders, accidents handling genitals in

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showers, wise tells lived out: perhaps it's not such a great idea to swing your dick at a Rottweiler whilst drunk, I said, overhearing a man say something to this affect... a girl holding her pussy with both hands sat bogled eyed wincing whilst a man (assumed as her Father) spoke about being more careful on that bike next time... ol' accidental virginity taken on those pesky bikes... ...Bum Chin Larry moved swiftly, we signed in to visit a guy Harry had told him to, called Francois Leve... where even Bum Chin Larry had a few jokes for the secretary; something about being scared of Hospitals and Doctors, which she replied to by insinuating that it was definitely weird working in a Hospital... all these sick people, all the time, she sighed... Marx is that you..? is that you Karl..? anyway, we walked purposeful, which was fortunate being that I knew little of what we were really doing: the logistics sorta well yea, I thought, but not as lucidly as I'd want to... a rigamarole; I'm in the deep recesses of darkness though physically the bright obese Hospital light is switched on, as we had tucked into a room just off a stairwell marked Staff... he hands a Nurse's uniform over, all light bogey green and starts peeling off... with no underwear it's quite the sight, penis dangling into the green trousers... what's with the no underwear dude..? that's collusion, conspiracy, the Government has us thinking we need underwear... and by now I'm upset I even asked, as he's going on along this absurd rant that would be suitable in the direction of climate change, immigration, Hospital funding...

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but underwear is Bum Chin Larry's bag isn't it..? ...we soon leave this room, and head up a flight of stairs... Harry is waiting for us outside a door with black material over the windows... he's pacing so I know it's him... he describes the room where the discarded Umbilical Cords are stored in forensic detail, and we quickly gather what needs to be done... the room is quite away down a hall beyond the blackened windowed doors, and has an assortment of problems attached to gaining entrance, mostly by way of Maureen, a Nurse Harry nearly starts spitting about in explanation... she's always in someone's face about this and about that, she's going on about anything, mostly because her fella got off with a younger model, a lass from Essex apparently... Bum Chin Larry interrupted: ...Harry we need to sort this out... ...soon enough we're down the hallway, Harry's gone off to act like he's doing his job properly; handing over the wrong medicines, vegetarian meals with beef in them, Halal meals with pork inside... it's all the same really, especially in a damn Hospital: the place of forced acceptance that we're merely skin, bones, bodies... ...a crying baby is being carried out of a room by two Nurses, a rotund black woman with a sweet face that is smiling at this goey naked baby, and a skinny blonde lady that looks emaciated with cheek bones up next to her ears, large puddles as cheeks... the room Harry spoke of is bright, we stupidly don't take notice of much, and quickly find the loot, the Cords are all straddled in a Silver bin marked: Hospital Waste next to a box

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of gloves... Bum Chin Larry pulls out a black bag and dives in before I do likewise... we fill two black bags with the Umbis and start to wonder about filling a third... should we, both of us suggest in a hesitant manner; arms against hips, then brought towards face, as if for a wan... I decide that we should head off, and if Voodoo Egbie needs more we'll see if we can make another trip... Bum Chin Larry is more ravenous and dives back in to fill both bags to the brim... their heaving with the stuff now as we move suspiciously through the hallway, with the aim, of course, to allude suspicion, but the cats out the bag really... we look the way we are... sketchy fucks with bags of loot... and we make it down the flight of stairs, but we're then overhearing shouting from an Arab sounding voice: STOP, STOP THEM, THEY GOT STUFF... it sounded like Salem had escaped Fernanda's grasps and was now the security man too, like a low budget Vaudeville... ...and so we leg it, quickly getting out of the Hospital where a few guards are chasing us... Bum Chin Larry running bowlegged holding this black bag of Umbilical Cords sweating, and me right next to him thinking about all that Prison time I want to avoid... an elderly lady wearing a dark grey jacket stands to the edge of the curb staring at all the antics as we run past... and it's a sight to see: two men, one bowlegged, running haphazardly through Hackney Streets now being chased by an Arab security guard and two male Nurses... we drop a few Umbilical Cords; they hit the ground

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louder than I would imagine such things would, they scatter across the street outside a Secondary School with a few children stood around with amused smiles... one of the male nurses, the corpulent one, stopped before reaching the children, and the Arab guard stopped right at the gate of the School; huffing and puffing with his two hands on each knee, bent over, the last guard has a bit more bite to him: he looks like he's doing this for justice... all this injustices in the world is wrapped up in two geezers running off with Umbilical Cords... though arriving to the tip of the Cemetery he stopped and starts yelling swear words and shaking his white fist at us... ...Bum Chin Larry is on the moon, he's pacing at the edge of the park, as I sat on a bench, watching him act as if we're the Krays... settling into the warm funk of gain: o it's so gainey, and juicy, I do admit, but have some perspective Bum Chin Larry won't you..? spare a thought for actual ambition... though we gather up our loot and make our way back to Bum Chin Larry's... shooting the shit about what we'd do with the hard cash...

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BEWARE OF DOG (IT BITES) ...we re-entered Bum Chin Larry's flat still in cahoots, still in the wild glamour of getting away with mischief... and were soon confronted by a scene I was forced to act embarrassed to witness, though how could I not enjoy such a scene as this..? if it were any other way I would 48

have pulled a beer from the fridge, beer we could now afford, and enjoy the spectacle in totality... but for Bum Chin Larry it was that part of the film when things become lopsided, and so soon after the high, so soon after of the taste satisfaction... it would have to be this way isn't it..? it would have to be that we walk in to see Maranda sandwiched between two black men screaming: GIMME MORE! GIMME MORE DICK! Give you more Maranda, I thought, isn't two enough... surely you're at peak fill Maramda, peak fill... even in these strange pornographic times: it screams of how these things are too readily available to really be able to resist... why should a seventeen year old girl, and let's be honest seventeen is very much still girl territory, why should she know about the double penetration..? the ol' DP..? which was made so much more vivid, amazed when in the subsequent brawl, and you should assume a brawl with Bum Chin Larry, he's no Bob, I knew that much, but when one of these lads soon being pummeled releases his cock and then pulls off a condom that is thrown onto the Teddybear I saw earlier, the words Maranda now drizzling with cockjuice but no jizz... not a drip of semen... so they'd clearly been in the early stages of a longish session, their jissom was still awaiting within their nutsacks... let me out... let me out... ...though Bum Chin Larry is having none of it, and starts at the larger one, and I headlock the smaller one, glad that Bum Chin Larry instinctually went off, and didn't think tactical or

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remotely strategic... which can be important; a thought towards gaining a footing is always vital in violence, though it's sort of like Ginsberg's first thought best thought, but instead it's first punch best punch... or more simply who dares wins really... as Bum Chin Larry would be Oscar ridden at this point, smacking an unplugged iron against one of the naked geezer's head's... the other lad I held in a headlock had wriggled out of it and run out the front door butt naked... it was one for the books this one: Bum Chin Larry, the Umbilical Cords, the iron, the wincing naked fella still with condom on, and Maranda yelling: YOU'VE GOT NO RIGHT... well sis, I think you're way off there, even in destitution Bum Chin Larry's benefits pay for this roof that you choose to adorn with your sordid activitae... I'VE GOT RIGHTS... Maranda I may have to call Karl here... yep, I'm on the line... so this version of alienation has been filed and quickly rejected as a complete and utter nonsense... I had a hunch Karl... I had a hunch... ...the commotion soon filet's into another naked soul running into the labyrinthine design that is the tower block... Ballard would be so proud... ...Bum Chin Larry, bar a bloody nose, is revved up and enthused, but as angry as can be imagined, swearing and close to the edge of relinquishing a hand onto Maranda, the drumbeat is all heavy over Maranda's yelling, now stood in the doorway still butt naked, strangely only noticed at this point, and complaining of being old enough to know what she should do in life... Bum

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Chin Larry then demands she get out; telling her to leave the flat, before following her into a bedroom and deciding that if she went out it'd probably mean she just continued getting DP'ed in one of the lad's flat's or worse, on the stairs yells Bum Chin Larry... he pushes her into the bedroom and locks the door from the outside... she, on the inside, screaming and yelling... it would seem the cue to leave but where's the fun in that..? of course you ought to act as if you're put out, a little Sartre-esque as if a character in Nausea, Roquentin: kind of perturbed with a hard boiled sweet in the mouth, but beyond that you've got to stick around these times, where angels denounce saints, and the taint of existence spreads its legs... ...Bum Chin Larry soon sat on the sofa, kicking the Teddybear condom jizzom against the floor, and I'm already sat on the chair against the balcony window, ready to delve into the waters: I should leave, I said firmly and comfortably sat on the chair... though to illicit the idea that all was calm now would be a complete fallacy, an invention in a sense... as Maranda is still yelling, and Bum Chin Larry now has an ever more drizzly bloody nose, the claret is pouring down his face on to his Bum Chin accentuating his face, which on another body would be full of tears, but not Bum Chin Larry, he's all metal, I thought... ...we soon start chatting about getting the loot to Voodoo Egbie and he assures me that he'll sort it before walking out of the living room to gather a few Stella's... Maranda is still screaming

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about undertaking even more conniving female deeds things now: ... of not being at all sorry for setting up the aforementioned DP, declaring that she'd fuck a friend of Bum Chin Larry's called Dockie The Plug, and calling him a Pig... I thought Bum Chin Larry handled the situation with aplomb, fatally puzzled it was really a simple non-decision, I confide to him before I head back to Manor House, the den, the assortment of melancholy... a complete non-decision in the thick of East London living...

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Washed Out Jeans (Scum Manifesto) ...I didn't expect to be confronted by Amber... it seemed a non-thought really: we had a decent few shags, drunk a little and that seemed that... but I arrived, with Salem's voice still penetrating through the absurdly thin walls, to see Amber sat wearing an old pair of my faded blue jeans though no top; her naked breasts hung in the dim-light... with the riffled sounds of Jerry Springer still on, but a different episode: Malani has something to reveal, and Tundae is uhhing and ahhing along, whilst eating a Kebab from the Turks, that kept their meat in the back alley, where I'd walked down once to see fat rats walking besides these large slabs of meat... that night I guessed that the rats didn't fancy Kebab as I watched them climb a drain, the king rat taking the lead... disappearing into a bunch of bags; some black, some green... ...I go into my mind and try to retrieve 54

some words, which are quickly made worse by Amber... —...a girl called Isobel came round but I told her where to get off... —...you what..? ...though by now Amber has her hands tucked behind her breasts, and an expression on her face I could only describe as guilty innocence... muted lips clasped and eyes at the edge of her nose, looking away... I'm pretty sure she's aware she is out of line, but she has decided to act as if I couldn't surely know this... you can't be certain about an overreaction; you've got to pinpoint its exegesis, its depths... though you've got to be quick or it'll come off weak and over diluted; a mild Curry ordered Hot... a cumless shag... a reluctant orgasm... —...I'll have you know who this place is..? well it's a start, I measured, it's not the best of starts I thought, as it's a bit cryptic; the sentence is off and I'd rather have said: who this place belongs to, but the height of happenings is sometimes squandered on abstract forms of what should occur: you always think of the punch line late or worse in the shower when the water is dripping off your balls where some line or another just floats in, and you know you missed the deadline for that one... so I picked up the pace, trying to move towards a resolution I, admittedly, had yet to fathom... a punk's instinct is very much bond: it's as much as they're worth in actuality; the wet lips of what occurs naked, without prodding, without much thought is really what it's all about, beneath the

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veneer of flowery antics lies the true nature, or the essence of what it is this soul within is getting at... of course Reverend Nietzsche wrote a lot about this; this notion of man being secretly lured and urged onward by our savage nature, or desire for cruelty and our superstitious fear of the savage beast... it seemed fitting to draw closer towards the juicy portion that erupts inside and slightly frightens... ...I started throwing things around, anything to hand really, Iron up against the door to a loud thud, her bag against the wall and then menaced around her sat on the bed, before she stood up and started at apologizing: saying that she didn't mean it, and so on and so forth whilst taking off the Jeans and then her knickers and inviting anything I could think of to happen to her... which is all murky waters: a bad porn film with low budget actors going at it for the sake of what..? where are we going Amber? and more in the Gauguin sort of way he professed in that famous painting: where are we going..? ... and it was too difficult to deflect all the lurid suggestions: ...I kinda don't mind if you wanna piss on me... o or you could even... started Amber before I just capitulated and gave in: falling into the trap, the very much orchestrated woven web... that was practically entrapment really, entrapment soon feigning resistance within the warm pussy walls, as it is difficult to be angry in the thick of spread thighs... I'm sure Oscar has an aphroism for this... though translated to a woman... ol' Wilde was, of course, a secret huge fan of the

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cock, cock as muse... and of the cock, Amber is soon working hard at it, really collecting her paycheck if it were paid-for-play: concentrating to ride-on with a consternation in her facial expression over pleas of: I'm gonna be a good girl from now on... O Isobel, what did she say..? The Preamble Of Occasion ...it was difficult to bump into Fernanda in the hallway, what with all the rape and torture, but the loo is communal, so it will occur, and she spoke first, fortunately: I know all the rapey thing is... you know..? I really didn't know much, so it seemed fitting to ask, seemed fitting to know something just in case the boydem came around and started asking questions, we'd all need an alibi, a communal story we can dip into if they start to ask difficult questions under the gaze of anything being said being able to be used against us in a court of law and all that... no alibis are about as political as I got... —...well he once you know did it to me, before I knew him... —...really, I said... —...well yes, when I arrived from São Paulo and I was working around Hackney Downs for that Galleria (I loved how Fernanda pronounced Galleria, it sounded like a fiesta of tongue against wet mouth) and he would just lurk around the Galleria, until one day he followed me here and... —...and... (she had paused and had started to scratch the tips of her dark curly hair) 58

—...yeh, maybe because I wear (her mispronunciations are rather cute, albeit the rape and torturing she could be quite the catch, I thought) the dress, I wear dress this day and he follow but I walk around the back, you know the Turkish Kebab here... (and I knew all too well that Turkish Kebab shop, and so I nodded) well I was around there going to see Claudia, you know..? that Italian girl that went Crazy... —...o that Claudia, I said as I remembered a few manic episodes had about a month or two before... —...I was walking there (and she repeated this three times, so I started to question the validity, as repetition often appears when kids are in the thick of telling fibs; it's the first to commence in tall tales) ...he came up behind, and it's so quick, he's big with this big dick that is already what you say... —...erect, I say to help her out... erect... —...yes big erect, and he doesn't even take off this (she pulls at her pristine white t-shirt) ... but pushes me up against the wall (the wall with the Kebab meat comes to mind) and he is really strong and you know he... —...and... (I wanted more explanation, mostly because I couldn't see Fernanda in this way, she was either just making up another story or this pitiful thing happened — though I was edging towards the former, mostly because as she spoke I remembered a time we walked back from lower Clapton, for monetary reasons, and she tazered a drunk man that she said had been staring at her, but I hadn't seen that at all... the tazered man was just written off as something that needed to be

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done...) —...and he was really fucking me you know, the big inside, and this surprised me, because so fast you know..? (and I assumed she, referring to his erect dick, couldn't believe someone could get it up so quickly and so conveniently just as she was in the alley heading to Claudia's — some of these stories of this variety, unbeknown to many, and told of by an abuse care worker a few years before, culminate in the physical attempt but a dismal flaccid dick...) —...he fucked the shit out of me man, really blasted me, quick time and ran off... —...and so what happened next... —...I tracked him down coming out that Mosque down past Kingsland Road and yeah...(the and yeah sounded a little murky; how did she get him to his bed strapped up to it..? though she needed the loo, so she slid past and closed the door before I walked back into the room where Amber laid out on the bed, I failed to mention that I had known of Salem from a friend called Akbar that lived near Homerton... that I knew he had apparently been preparing to become an Imam, though it all seemed so complicated)...

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Dazed Days Dazing ...I thought I was laid out on the bed, as if it were Friday morning, as I thought I'd heard Rodney, the cockney Postman, saying something or another while posting a few letters... though I am sat on the top deck of a bus awakening by a waft of smell: brute... where eyes now peer out into the scene of moving vehicles, bicycles swerving small 60

clumps of traffic on the opposite side of the road forming and disbanding... I can't really piece together what could have occurred, though I try and see to it that it comes back to me, the vast expanse of memories consort the chemical imbalances in this brain and cause no true reckonings: I'm not even sure of the number of the Bus initially... I come around, though the fuzz seems so washed up in the current now: like wires strewn across the place, time slick and oily, hard to place... a swollen fist, negates the idea that nothing happened, something definitely happened, but I can't make it out... the bus stops at an Amber light... words seem sprinkled around the brain: quite absent of meaning, and just floating in an abyss... I think: w h e r e am I..? I w o n d e r....

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Nocturnal Outlays Governing ...the problem with Isobel is mostly her ability to maintain an elusiveness, I thought decked out on the bed, with Amber quietly playing with the tool she had claimed ownership of, no Isobel seems to move through life cat-like with feint disclosures of a bed used here and a project undertaken there... I once thought I'd 62

find her around Peckham, arriving there in a hurry one evening at the tube station, to then realize I had no idea where she could be beside a squat Edgy Steve lived in... I checked, but knew as much she'd have nothing to do with Edgy Steve and the rest of 'em guys, I said to myself: they're way too chav for a refined woman as Isobel, way too common for her graces... they'd not appreciate her coyed silence when asked of the last time she had a good shag, mostly because in reality everything is a bit deeper with someone as Isobel, a bit more fatal... the odds don't equate to the evens, moreso Isobel knows about their silent stares of willful demands, she knows beyond the fatty heart's of her admirers, and it's obvious there's plenty of those, a few sentences alluding to a having a restraining order on some stalker is cut and dry in that regards... cut and dry... ...her hair smelling of Rosemary; I can barely get much sleep over all this, though Fernanda's affair is not helping either... I'm pretty sure the previous night featured her doing an array of things that call to question her assertions: hearing her shouting; I'll RIDE THIS UNTIL YOU LEARN, is all dubious... it's difficult to ascertain who exactly is being punished in this situation, even over Salem's constant yelling, as he must be quite fed, perhaps in lieu of UN laws of torture Fernanda is abiding to feeding her victim, as he definitely is still there, we can hear him pretty much every hour on the hour, but it goes on and continues in Beckettian fashion, mostly because change is hard, change needs the

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piquancy of dynamism: the foil on the heat allowing the crack to bubble into anything useful, a hit... and so it becomes contemptridden to expect an alternative to what has been occurring, even torture, which Tundae knows about, but ignored Amber when she mentioned it the day before yesterday... O we can't tell people what to do can we..? he said with one eye firmly on the Television screen, which is a contradiction needed to just be accepted, because Tundae, if I remember correctly, once said that he had been placed there not to protect us from society but to protect society from us... you people, he added with a point of a sticky finger... O Tundae how aphrophristic of you, how Oscar Wildian of you to reduce such affairs down to such drivel and silliness: how lucky are you... suffuse to say that Tundae saw very little in the glare of Amber's words, which were apt, not Isobel apt, of course, but apt nonetheless: Death don't just 'appen when that soil hits your head, you know..? it can 'appen anytime... walking out towards Finsbury Park I was unsure how to react to what Amber had said, it was all shrewd and wrapped in a calm... ...the sound of a fight had broken out where Jerry played fake peace keeper... oh no you wouldn't...

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Dreaming Outwardly ...it's funny, I thought drunk and heading towards Amirah's, that of all the billions of words 64

heard... phrases placed into neat assembly lines.. there are certain charming assemblages of words that have never been placed together: ...put that naked wet pussy away missy... (I'm sure I've never heard this said...) ...the flower just kept growing out of his dick (certain, in this case...) ...and in the usual designated space for breasts there sat two fists (what a line never uttered, never heard...) ...it's because there's too much pasta in that butt crack (a hundred on this one...) ...making tentative stares at the sausage the Imam wet his lips (not heard this, but I'm sure it happens, I thought getting off the 38, having not paid, and moving towards Amirah's with the idea that Amber had to deal with just appearing with such demands... no Amirah would level this thing out; take the edge off... even though it would cost; eighty quid is expenditure in the luster of skintness, it's a juicy amount, I muttered with one hand knocking on her door... she soon appeared naked this time, with Garner in the same position he was before, but now sat with just his black boxers on — they'd probably just had a round of sibling fucking, I assumed, but I didn't want to mention this, not before I had a quick round... it would feel too awkward in the light of that I accepted... wincing at the irony of it all... and then thinking about the possible detritus of at least four or five other dick-juices on Amirah's tongue... it's tricky as Amber's hot pocket is very much open

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and awaiting, but what of the desire for other..? o other how you rear your head...) —...I'm gonna leave the door open okay... said Amirah walking from the door... I already had placed the cash on the bedside dresser and surely looked bemused... what's with the audience... —...audience..? it's just my bro... —...the philosophising needed was too urgent, I thought, before mentioning that this is just not right... though the drink was still thick in the system, and hard to denounce the already ascending dick... and it often works autonomously, so I complain a bit more, but it all eventually ends in doing the twenty minute deed in fact with the door wide open and Garner sat staring at the Television... more re-runs of Cheers... though Garner rarely laughs; eyes definitely draped over the moving images but no eruptions of affinity... I guess Tundae could teach him a thing or two about interaction, I thought, whilst looking over at him and jizzing on his sister... he's been here too, I reckoned lifting up boxers, and then trousers...

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...o my sister doesn't much like jizz in her armpit crevices (...I'm certain I'd never heard this said too...) OILY MEMOS THAT ARE PEAK FILL ...I see Edgy Eddie outside the building pacing up and down, though I walk further into the fog towards the Tube Station, before he 68

shouts out for me; I heard Paib or it could've been Franco too, I quickly forget... I yell out that I needed to get somewhere, and Edgy Eddie looks all snarling by this: hunched over with hands in tracksuit pockets mumbling something through gritted teeth... so I took note of this on the way down the stairs, mostly because Edgy Eddie often lives up to his name: he once bottled a Spanish geezer called Jesus outside a chip shop off Haggerston for no particular reason, which ranks him in a sense: provides him with a little sauce for your chips, now smeared with an acceptance that it's best to keep an eye out for Edgy Eddie... he could pull a fast one quite easily, I murmur with one eye on Fat Charlie stood close to the Disabled barrier reading a newspaper... and it's not at all busy enough to blend into some crowd, and so I go and speak to him... he usually doesn't mind a bit of crack, which I imagined I could use to get him to move to the office or something or another to then jump the barriers in peace... today he's in a dull mood, I thought, more than usual he's eyes look baggy beneath, and his frump mouthed region is all switched to max... he barely has anything to say, just a few tid bits about Norwich losing on the weekend... wherefore we cannot speak therefore one must be silent... and I always thought to call Karl on Fat Charlie's behalf, but, surprisingly, it's Wittgsy on the other end of the line... I knew I'd hear from the ol' Wittgsy... I soon mention needing a tube map and Fat Charlie drags himself into the office at once, when I then jump the barriers and head further into the noise... 69

Flagrant Reminders ...and it has to be Round The Block Sue that is sat in the room, the four destitute walls, going on about this and that, whilst Amber is away for one reason or another... it has to be Round The Block Sue doesn't it..? and she's going on about being upended by this guy in a Merc onetime and another potential mug in an Armani suit down near Chelsea... sometimes the immoral thought comes on all shirty, all aggressive... I confront the situation roundly by mentioning the implausability for a scene Round The Block Sue seems content to describe as true, and not a fiction at all... and it saddens that the Man is so squalid in their ways, so tactless, that a below average woman as Round The Block Sue can assume that anywhere from alleyway to High Street she could lure practically any Man... how did we depreciate into this sandstorm of palava, this utter shitness..? because it's not on, really... ...the Man needs to take a stand somehow or at least create the illusion that a little class is not a pair of knickers to be thrown away... a little realignment of coda, an adjustment of appreciation for the idea that just because there's a protruding bit of skin and bone hanging off the waist that value is not particularly governed by much... as Round The Block Sue has never had to work on her personality, which is searingly obvious forced to overhear all these words tumble out into the ozone layer of no-where... I can barely stomach this, I mumble... as she's off an

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tangent about a Moroccan man suggestively charming her with a holiday abrooad, she said and so very heavy on the word abrooad... I'd reckon I could at least go Mallorca if I pushed for that... it's just sad that Round The Block Sue is devoid of knowledge of anything cultural: she has previously mentioned not knowing anything about film, not knowing anything at all about books having admittedly never read one before, knowing completely nothing of even small cultural events... surely on your way round the block you could pick up a local, at least... I accept a national could pull her into some strange direction of too much knowledge, granted, I do accept this sat upright against the headrest... where I soon sigh that there is no give to facilitate a desire to know anything much for Round The Block Sue mostly for the eternal return of Man, the reduced tales of our shitty ways... ...I ought to get some money together, I thought instead, soon ignoring Round The Block Sue still droning on... I could perhaps stick up a Job Centre or another, or a Fast Food Joint... pull up with a shank asking for the readies, and a meaty sandwich to go, extra on the Pickle Bossman, easy on the Mayo... and Ali could hand them over, the readies, he could, but the ratios, again, are whacked... they're distorted by the random: anything can really happen... it's all so much more live than we can possibly imagine; at this very moment more than seven billion happenings are occurring... just let that settle down the throat... seven billion different things and I am sat

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overhearing Round The Block Sue drone on about her benefits and a guy called Destitute Dan... o man o man, why must we submit to the allure of that shag in a random public loo with these Round The Block Sue's... of course not every erection is virtuous, but a little more, please just a little more... The Toast Is Burning ...I am stood over Tundae's shoulder watching Ronda go off on a chap called Sandy: they're causing havoc on eachother's facial regions and shouting a myriad of disses to eachother... Jerry is at the corner of the screen then announcing the arrival of another guest... O Ronda you needa to show this fella what's right... I say, before Tundae shakes his head and mentions that things will definitely get worse... it's not looking good for this Ronda at all, not at all, said Tundae as Amber spoke at the doorway explaining what I only hear later: that she is staying at some squat just opened down near Bethnal Green... with her heading off I soon sat beside Tundae to continue watching as it all went completely mad... Jerry is walking off as if he's not the instigator of it all... and Tundae hip with all the I told you so's is full of it... you're right Tundae, I should have known Ronda would get it in the neck... someone always does: I'm sure Aesop has a fable for this...

Forms Of Declarations ...I hadn't heard from Bum Chin Larry since we got away with the Umbilicals, I thought in the dusky light... I had escaped the afternoon teardropped-sun by way of Industrial Vodka that Round The Block Sue had scored one way or another: though I had to sit through further statements of nothingness... though drink levels things, drink is a real leveller, it soon promotes a numbing, still Salem seemed awfully loud however: really going at it with all the needs for help, and Allah this and Allah that... I'm sorry Allah is just not involved Salem: and he couldn't be: he is far too busy with all the competition with the rest... making sure Zeus isn't winning and scores are kept high... fending off advances from start-up Voodoo spirits or Prometheus... Medusa... ...I did accept that Bum Chin Larry had alot to deal with, what with all buggering of Maranda, though Amber had been constantly ardent about seeing to it that Bum Chin Larry paid up... how else we get more Ket in..? the wiry disclose of addiction is clandestine in its marinating: moving through blood soaked veins to the heart of the matter... the folds of skin moving about the dark room gathering evidence and ways to sort things out with ol' Bum Chin... before the door went... the knocks were quiet and I started yelling for Salem to give it a rest: Allah is not working tonight! though I am soon entrenched in Persian skin, and perfumed

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smelling collusions to another world... Isobel said that she had stopped by a while back, and had been shouted out by a woman (Amber, I thought) and that she thought it best to leave... I told her that she shouldn't have... she sat a the end of the bed and started drifting into sentences about this Island, LucDocs, and it seemed material... according to her it had been built on various principles related to Communism, Socialist ideals, small segments of Chomsky's philosophies, and most interestingly Anarchist regimes... there was no money in this space, and they grew food; vegetables, fruit... ...the excitement that simmered around Isobel pressed against this chest, all tight and jittery whilst she casually spoke on... there didn't seem much wrong with the world at all, I thought, even sat in this broken down room, microwave door hanging open with a little brown tape on the edge... this could easily have been heaven, I thought... until I heard Edgy Eddie's voice in the hallway going on about something to do with the other chippy around the corner, down near the Finsbury bus garage... saying he'd do someone in if they'd messed about with his saveloy money... it seemed like being sat in Heaven when lo and behold someone on the other side drops in: I'm sure I weren't supposed to see you ol' Osama Bin, easy on the Laden, I would've thought you were with your seventy two virgins? as the door swung open and Edgy Eddie is walking in behind Amber, who is quickly stiff-necked and and just as edgy... the situation is all edgy, really... cold water shower

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with dodgy benefits form disabling the purchase of shower gel or soap... Fernanda, at times, would leave shower gel around, but she quickly cool to that, and all those organic rather sweet smelling gels and products were soon kept where Salem still lay, cyclically yelling, still going at it... ...and Isobel's conversation of LucDocs was interrupted... she had seized up but didn't much move, she sat against the bed with her eyes a little wider... the dim light escorting the feeling of destitution up a few knots... especially so when Amber started to probe and prod: asking, quite directly, if we'd been at it, if I'd given a solid round... I said no, but wasn't sure why I had to do this, why I had dislodge from what I wanted, or thought I needed: Isobel hair looked just washed and dried and she had a slight smell of weed too... green is such a juicy smell on her, I thought... it all seemed too much, and I wanted to break the fourth wall and put a stop to this masquerade... this culmination of emotions, and bodies all with too much prerogative: Edgy Eddie was upset too, and he had started to egg Amber on, —...and he owes after that night too, I aint forgotten, mos def... Edgy Eddie is pacing near the microwave now and producing a recoil or even a reverie of how I might have put him at an even edgier edge... I couldn't ascertain how this came about, I thought, but it looked quite conclusive in the room... and Amber is looking like a Francis Bacon painting come to life: disfigured features twirling into the intense flavours of anger... I ventured around the idea of doing something, but

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what exactly? perplexed I thought I was stood watching on, as if I weren't me at all, as if the skin and bones that reflect the person I am, that seemed more a reflection in the eyes of others then a sure shot thing, a thing able to be concretely touched and handled... I want to go into my mind, but it's a bit cloudy in here, unkempt for welcomings: unwashed salad, easy on the feta, heavy on the Whiskeys... ...and Amber seems totally erupt in descent; a female Francis Bacon Pope screaming into the dimly-lit room... it's a very inventive thing, anger: it's able to unnerve the usual furore of what is expected into new realms, new passages of play... inanimate objects spring to life: irons, cups, plates... and it offers new altars to pray to, new forms of composing actions... often they're incongruent to things that should occur, these actions, but they definitely implore in ways so spontaneous... as by now Amber and Isobel are wrestling on the edge of the bed... it's hard to jump into action, at this point, as I could only think of suggesting baby oil: the erotics of violence can be neatly tasty... but with a few strands of Isobel's gorgeous hair thrown against a half empty of cup of Ribena, I'd decided it wasn't going to help the whole situation with Isobel to allow this to happen... though Amber did, I had to accept, look strangely passionate at this point... all the TEETH and EYES... plus Edgy Eddie too... Edgie Eddie is like a noose; you'd rather not be confronted with a noose on an ordinary day... a special occasion would be fine on this account,

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but an ordinary day is just no great feeling... bad business in a badly filmed Gangster flick; the camera jutting too far, the soundman holding the boom soundly appearing at the edge of the screen, the main character going into business with a few scratchy foreigners that will end in eventual death...

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NON SEQUITERS WISDOMS?

POTENTIAL

...it was upsetting to see Isobel run out of the room and away... I was close to running with her, but I thought it best to allow the situation to play out... losing hair is never good, I tutted... though things seemed to fold into the usual quite quickly: Amber was on the end of the bed asking about Bum Chin Larry and the Umbis and Edgy Eddie had gone off... it was as if nothing had happened... so be it... I walked out into the hallway, where Fernanda's door was open, slightly ajar... the sounds of heavy breath quickly turning into Salem calling out: mentioning that Fernanda had gone out and that I could untie him and be done with all this... behind the slightly ajar door, I listened momentarily, to then enter... as usual he is tied up, naked on his stomach with slices of bacon quenched into his hairy buttcheeks and the muzzle a few inches away from his face... I wasn't sure how he got this off, but it was off and he was staring and speaking: —...you wouldn't assume that all this could be 80

justified, started Salem as if the final scene in a movie where the main guy smokes a cigarette, or cigar and sighs out sentences: it seemed spoken like he had lines... —...but it didn't start off bad for me, it started off quite well, growing up in Tehran where there were trees, and small trips to packed markets, you know what's the word (he had started to close his eyes to remember this) the world was somewhere else, it wasn't where we were... life was just the way you'd expect things to continue forever... catching an Uncle sneaking a few sips of Brandy that he bought from the known secret shop, o we all knew these things existed, I should say, vices were simply just tidbits in people's lives, not their whole lives, not the nature of the modern life, which is so much more rancid and dark... (his nakedness seemed only a small remnant of the situation, no by this time I was quite taken by Salem, the whole rape thing seemed awfully political at this time point) ...though it's not as if reflect the hue of dense agitation, or the imposition that is forced on us by Allah for putting us here, no we don't necessarily ask to be here, but something needs to be done, and I wanted to be in this world, I wanted to see things, and achieve, and so on, which is why I started painting, these little paintings, just figures and colours, sometimes using pastels, and sometimes using oils to illustrate the conflict in our hearts, and the conflict that is so entrenched in our modern society, where people go to and fro without a

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word of a thought about why: what is the point of this is never something people think about, they move about the world just hell for leather... (by now I should have been completely disinterested, but stood there listening I realised I wasn't at all: Salem had an oration that was languid and slow, especially monotone but passive in its feeling it permeated: the realisation that I had heard is voice for so long, just in a different capacity seemed strange...) ...it's like Dostoevsky's Grand Inquisitor, but without a noted mood of thoughtfulness, just broken down characters (and at this point I happened to cough, not to bring an end to his words, it was genuine, though he soon started to speak more quickly now...) ...I can't go another day in the prison Fernanda has ensnared me in, I can't, and I just ask you to please, please let me go... —...Salem you have to understand that it's not for me to decide Salem... —...the foils of the canvas of life are begging for a hand, begging... (and at this point I realised that standing there any longer would perhaps force me to untie him, and for that I just couldn't do it... it was not remotely my place, I thought...) —...it's just not my place, I whispered whilst walking out and closing the door, it's just no my place...

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ERUPTIONS OF DOODLES doodling on the canvas of life Salem's words came to me the next 82

evening different hue attentively

over his yelling, which took on a like the radio, I would tune in more

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porkchops there

tuning the radio to hear words no, please don't put those Allah wouldn't want this

you have little mercy are you not bored with all the nihilistic madness? where did the night go... ...and so I would doodle on old naughty magazines that were left, and sip bits of Teacher's... drench into the darkness of the room... you've got to keep an integrity for other ...the fabric of death a sensation quite otherworldly... BUM CHIN RESURGENCE

LARRY'S

BOWLEGGED

...it was noted that I had to do something, even Amber's constant complaining in this regard had reached its peak... at peak fill I moved to Bum Chin Larry's flat... catching the same life, and seeing the same grafitti with a few added extras: WHERE WOULD WE BE WITHOUT PUSSY? 84

was scrawled right up against the juicy letters in red writing that was quite arresting... the author has a recipe for sure, I'd call Nietzsche but I'm sure he would agree on it as an aphrorism... I moved through towards the door and knocked a series of times with a bit of loudness, though not too much: I weren't too sure I wanted to rely on violence in this situation... mostly because it's all proportions violence, it's a case of having to distill things down sometimes: what is there to gain? which is not the best way to go about a potential violent situation, I knew, stood outside Bum Chin Larry's, but I applied reason and just thought it best to go with this as a way first... but with no answer I didn't really know what else to do... Edgie Eddie had told me that the Bum Chin had looked awfully plush the last time he saw him; noting a new sovereign ring and a fresh fade... so I was saw Voodoo Egbie had come good... but why cut out your buddy? is that not dismantling all we are? is that not the thief's code? the ol' steal and share is really all it is... otherwise we become one of them: those big wigs in those big shiny cars that think they've got it sussed when in reality you're round there apartments in Canary Wharf or the new Stratford giving their missus a good roughing up, a good handling that she refrains to mention to ol' slick back hair... ...I knocked a few more times... ...dun... ...dun... ...dun.. ...dun.. 85

...dun... and was not frustrated because I'd seen the curtains twitching and an audible sound of Maranda... she couldn't be getting DP'ed again, so I quickly assumed it was monsieur Bum Chin... by now I'd decided that I had to up to ante... there was no give in the whole quiet knocking and suggestions of forgetting to call me... no that wouldn't work... it was to late and I had to act... I started at the door with a kick... after two or three, lo and behold Bum Chin Larry is at the door; zoot in mouth, eyes squinted with Maranda standing a little close behind, and looking strangely less clothed then I would have assumed she would be: the hallway was dark, but I could make out a grass green bra and not much else... her bogly eyes were peering through the half opened door... ...the smoke swirled up into the air, and he didn't say anything... me neither... it was pretty difficult to know exactly what to do, even for him, I thought... we'd perhaps need a few instructions a few more bits of information to keep us abreast of what to do... —...so you're just gonna betray me like that..? —...c'mon, I'd not think it's best to look at things like that, do you..? by now it was too obviously my play: I had to pick up the rook or the pawn and place it down as clearly I was being played, and so underestimated... I had settled on a hammer, that I had in my hoodie front pocket, and reached inside for it... Bum Chin Larry is quick, he's no one's mug, and he lurches, but misses as I swerve out the way... I knock one against the back of his knees, play fair and try and floor him, I thought,

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and it does a decent job... though I take a few to the face, I'm then able to grasp the hammer's handle and knock a heavy one against his right shoulder... he's against the floor now, laughing... —...looks like you want your money don't it? —...well I do, I stuttered whilst breathing all heavy and that metaly taste of breath is simmering around: like running a mile... though I think it could go on, the whole violence thing, it settles into Bum Chin Larry standing up and walking back into the flat to then hand me a wad of cash... the readies look all messed up and crumpled when I take them... it seemed all cut and dry: eye for an eye and all that, but it wasn't so bad, a few bruises; a definite black eye, but at least I had something to show for it... Bum Chin Larry mentions that Voodoo Egbie might need some livers, but I can't chance it, so I shrug and walk off back down the lift... WHERE WOULD WE BE WITHOUT PUSSY? looking at the red word's scribed like Solomon's...

MEANWHILE TWO Two Dogs Going At It Outside Florist The Violence of Serene Thoughts of Pain in Hindsight Raindow Bespeckled On City Street Where A Fight Breaks Out Shivering

The Violins of The Sounds of

Epiphanies of Psychotic Breakdowns The Black Dog The Quiet Librarian Who Often Dreams Of BDSM Thoughts In Neon Lights Or Reflected In Them (xxx) Two People Splitting An Ice Cream on Cold Street Guy

Wolf Cry Outside Lidl By A ChubbyBack

Sugar Lipped Kisses Outside Pembury Estate Disconnected Allure Of Pain 89

...arriving back, Amber must have left to the squat for the night, I thought, before reading a note on the fridge: Im goving out amm coming back tomorrow, as Veronica wants to go Plaistow to see that girl Beryl. I've gone with Sue and that xxxx ...the badly spelt message and the crumpled readies were put on the counter, up next to the dodgy microwave that was on its last legs: the buttons were all touchy... and it I didn't know if I wanted to nurse this Whiskey with something else... I soon laid against the bed, staring into the ceiling, wondering whether Isobel would... no, that's just not the best the thought to have, I mused, and it was definitely a state of musing... though I soon had decided on a session with Amirah who was on her way, probably upset to have time away from her brother... compromise... she soon arrived; walking in with a smirk and asking where I got the money and what that sound was... it could be anything: Toni Braxton, Salem, Jerry Springer, another ad-hoc nutter, and so said nothing, and soon she sat against the bed to then start at the whole thing that is secretly at the crux of existence: animalistic pursuit of skin on skin... and we had been into a good one, I thought: Amirah had always been an artist in this sense... 90

...though, it would occur again wouldn't it? Nietzsche is that you on the line? Freidrich the eternal return... I hear you... but I didn't know I'd see Amber again... again... couldn't happen again, I thought... but it commenced that Amber flew right off the handle, dragging Amirah up by the hair with her stood tilting head in Amber's right hand... a little oil? well, it'd be silly to allow the situation to continue in this way, and I soon was able to get the situation into some order: Amirah got dressed, and I Amber was just going on in the same manner, but she had started at this man in the mirror... ...by the time Amirah has gone Amber is at the end of her tether: throwing punches and making a mockery of the previous atmosphere... the sweet taste of debauched fuck... maybe I underestimated her, as she pulled at her knife from her hand bag, which she soon starts to stab around for skin, flesh, bones... the Whiskey means thoughts into actions don't befit much lucidity, and she soon hits hand, finger... blood pouring off bone... ...finger hung off hand like a yo-yo... ....pain ...distortion ...anger ...intense sensations ...revenges stepping on baked bean cans ...the milk long spilt, but continuing to spill... ...lurid mishaps ...the pain soon becomes all tasty and

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juicy... ...but something has to give... ...which soon means I arrive to Homerton Hospital... ...long queues wincing in pain ...Amber is pleading by now, crying with snot nose tears because I've said she has to go... she keeps crying whilst explaining that she'd do anything... that I could do anything to her... suggesting, again, watersports... that'd she never close her legs, if that is what it would take... the pain dripped into dysmorphia but soon sequenced into a sweet melancholic taste...

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Pain Seems Sweet ...they bandage up the hand and I soon head back to the room... where arriving to Manor House, I decide to take the Tube into the City... ...Fat Charlie is notably absent... in his place is a chubby Indian ticket inspector that I ask about Fat Charlie... he looks at a brown haired woman walk through barriers in a short silence... before explaining that some people can't take the difficult of just getting on with life, he said... just working and getting on... I can't work out what this meant, so I tell him that I owe Fat Charlie money (which I don't) and the ticket inspector soon said: ...he took his own life a few days back in Norwich... ...birds scattered on puddles with violet petals... ...the muted scent of fast food... ...the transient nature of things illustrated in 94

the arrangement of two car crashed vehicles at the side of a back street road... ...a store selling Persian rugs watched over by a man with leather collar up, cigarette in mouth ...a rosary chain hung off an eldery lady's neck... ...the sky sifting into the ground with wetness caressing against skin... ...the sounds of Jazz (a saxophone) simmering out of a passing car... ...the hue of the rain drenched streets took on a brand of grey souped up in animated feelings: simultaneous tears and laughter... and slight pain at the just bandaged finger... I just continued to walk in the rain, drinking a bottle of Whiskey... still heavy on the Whiskeys... the night took me... though I soon arrive back here to the room, now deciding that I'll spend the night drawing, lost in the doodle of it all, perhaps in defiance of the finger that is broken but I can't let it break my spirit though on the floor as I step in I come to find this LucDocs manifesto, perhaps left here by Isobel... maybe Van Gogh might call, chat about severed minds, severed bodies, flowers... ...xxx...

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Doctor Benway

6.0221515

Franco Boamah 26

male 17 Manor House, Hostel, E5 5HL

rope around neck hung off light bulb restricted air and severed blood ties to head — death seems quick, no sign of struggle — lesions around neck at minimum — hand has bloody finger, bandaged badly — dick is erect at point of death, and is rather large too, in its erect form. priapism.

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