i seize the days,but the nights seize me
i think i may be losing my mind,i blame rape number 4569,it was a very traumatic rape,i don't wanna talk about it,i do feel a bit nostalgic about those days when i could still fake being crazy,i am walking to wee andy's house,i'm hoping that he'll say something so sensible and dour and depressing i'll snap out of this and become a ribald tart again,oh shut up,you're not mad,you're merely withdrawing from benzosomething and lithium and spanish rum,she's right,"this is like watching a car crash" is what my sheffielder angel said to me last night whilst i was carving coastal poems in my arms with his endearing trustworthy kitchen knife,they are dreadful poems,wait,i'll roll up my sleeves and show you: "dear sea,why don't you wolf me down? i'm hopeless you know,grow a fucking heart and save me from all these kinky flemish fishmongers that you've spawned and never stop spawning,you churn them out,fucking admit it,i am terrified,sea,help me,swallow me",i'm not giving you more,it's too embarrassing,there's a seizure looming,there's a minging russian hobo snorting sand off a window-sill,could be me,maybe it is me,no it's not me,i'm talking to him:
"why are you snorting sand off this window-sill? does your mother live here?","i don't have a mother,i set my mother on fire in 1985,she was alcoholic and incestuous","oh my god! what a coincidence,my mother was alcoholic and incestuous too!!","did you set her on fire","i lack the guts","you don't need guts,you need petrol and matches" ,"hmm","shall i set her on fire for you?","i don't have her address","bummer","yes,but maybe you could set my sheffielder angel on fire?","sure","but i love him,don't fucking hurt him or i'll bloody well bludgeon you to death with these pugnacious fists" i raise my fists and shake them ominously threateningly,the hobo just sniggers,"you won't laugh so defiantly arrogantly when i bash your head in with these fists that have knocked down and out 25 stout mancunian beekeepers,34 sturdy liverpudlian nightnurses,13 bespectacled welsh sociologists,68 frail french bassists and 7 skinny glaswegian hairdressers,you shouldn't feel sorry for those 146 pervs..","147" the hobo snaps,i recount the pervs,he's right,"as i was
saying: you shouldn't feel sorry for those 147 pervs,if i hadn't knocked them down they would have brutally slaughtered me with wheelbarrows,scalpels,tomahawks,wires and combs respectively,and i promised wee andy that i'd stay alive till august","how can you slaughter someone with a comb?","i wouldn't be here if i knew that","you are strange" ,"that's rich coming from someone who snorts sand off random window-sills",the hobo hisses at me and then resumes snorting,i start running,i trip over a run over siamese cat,i scrape her flat fractured festering remains off the street,her head is undamaged,i take out my stanley knife and cut off her broken body,i stuff her lovely head in my handbag,i bury her body in the drab flemish park where i nearly got strangled last night,by a spiteful busker who claimed he was my father,pffff,what a pathetic cunt,my father's not a spiteful busker,my father sells austrian crack to underage illiterate bulgarian rentboys in milwaukee,or maybe he sells underage illiterate bulgarian rentboys to crack-addicted austrian businessmen in detroit,i'm not sure,all his postcards are blood-stained,and some are also puke-stained,i spend all my nights deciphering them,to be honest i just glare at them and then tear them up,but when there are pretty deers and slender squirrels on the front of the postcards then i stick them to my wall,i resume running,i've made it: i'm standing on wee andy's doorstep,i gently but urgently tap on his window,he opens the door,i give him the siamese cat's head,he drops it like it's hot,but it's dead cold,i pick it up,we go into the kitchen,wee andy resumes chopping up flemish cabbages,i spin the siamese cat's head on the kitchen table and resume recounting all the pervs that i should have knocked down. |
