The sly and manky crash (I am the last to hear the broadcast)

The sly and manky crash (I am the last to hear the broadcast)

It was certainly P.M when I awoke although to say I awoke is to say I slept in the first place and to my memory it was more of an awake dream sleep. The ones where I dream I am nervously trying to get to sleep in the very place I lay and everything is the same as me being awake laying there and so I wake up exhausted as if I never slept in the first place. It was the afternoon bleeding into the evening, when the clouds are eager for the night and the sun is just not capable of opening its curtains. I thought about cutting my hair, about shaving or dressing well or making some sort of effort to change something but I just couldn’t and the cars outside were going places and the wind was moving things and constantly updating and changing time and I just remained apologetically as the statue I am or was or will always be. I am not ready I thought and turned back to the foam on the floor but then again I thought no I am ready and even if I’m not I have to be, a waiting world is a dead or dying planet I am sure.

My shoes slipped on and I spilled out of the front door descending the stairs like I meant something when in truth I meant nothing but meaningless vulnerability and that type of self-pity which makes you want to tell strangers of the imminent coming of your own personal apocalypse or at the very least alert them of the ridiculousness of it all. By the time I had entered the town centre, well I don’t know what but it felt ghostly and forbidden, maybe it was I that needed informing and alerting and suddenly the tables turned, switched like a stiff blade and it was definitely I that needed to be told and not the strangers, where were the strangers I thought as I looked around me, where are they I need them and I suppose in either scenario they need me. The taxi rank was a sure bet for a little light or sound. The cars were going by faceless I couldn’t even get a good glimpse at the number plates to see if I recognised them from my childhood or someone’s parent hadn’t remembered me and stopped to tell me about it.

No fucker at the taxi rank, not a lamb in sight and the wind was updating and the buildings about me of all different eras of architecture seemed to wince and moan, protesting the ages of the other buildings around them... too old/ too young, glum, dull, beautiful or ancient. I was none of these things and did not fit in but at least I thought aloud, at least I had witnessed something. To be a witness is to learn and to learn is to progress and I contemplated returning already to the nest that I can sweat in just to write that particular thought down but it passed and I crossed the road in search of a pub that I remembered being somewhere around there but it had gone and instead there was a roundabout which confused me to say the least as I navigated its infinite curve repeatedly until I was dizzy and had to climb its raised and floral centre just to sit and hide a while.

Inside the somewhat sanctum of the roundabouts thin decorative bushes I played a scene over and over in the pocket cinema that folds up just behind my eyes, but this time it was more like a flick book and my thumbs were aching and I pushed them lightly at my eyelids before pushing harder and after pushing lightly and then again harder I entered the scene. A small room no more than 10 foot by 12 foot - the centre piece a sculpture but I couldn’t really make it out or maybe it was a featureless sculpture vague and plain anyway, it had shape and form but was colourless or perhaps transparent but not made of either Perspex or glass, the window opposite me was a good 3 and a half feet long and it seemed a moon or the moon was captured in it but it had a face an evil face much like a pumpkin but the features were more intricate than a hollowed out pumpkin and the eyes and brows and teeth and all those lines were of different colour. It neither bobbed nor wobbled and for a moment I basked in it and thought it could be the sun that finally opened its curtains and become my friend. In my translation of its being I assumed it was evil too and in these moments where the hours could be anyone’s guess I reasoned my money would be best spent betting on its being the moon, but in the flickering of the small pages something stuck and I turned around in the vision as if on a slowly spinning plate and to my horror the face I called moon was actually the light fitting behind me reflecting back at me in the window. Fuck I thought, here I am again battling with perspective and nothing seems to sit still in my mind, memory or imagination, everything changes so quickly that I am unable to grasp any of it, the reach with no grip like some leafless branch pointing in the wrong direction.

My thumbs retracted from the craters of my eyes and the fuzz of retinal play took its moment to fizz away and there I was in the middle of the roundabout humming and it had begun to rain. I was hot enough to feel the rain a relief, droplets soothed the pores of my skin and at the very least the flora about me would be sufficiently quenched, one nil. I unfolded myself and stood up brittle and ran down the slight bank and on to the tarmac and then still running, leapt up on to the pavement and started back home. I had found something, reassured some sense of urgency and accommodated for a minute a memory. There is nothing quite like this. Nothing warms you more than the past. The future will always be cold whether you try and heat it with present day perfection or not.

I got back to the room and lay heavy breathing on my side. I had nothing else to think nothing else to do and it felt new and exciting and I kicked off the mud from my shoes and kicked off my shoes and slept soundly for the first time since the second day before. It was in this dream that I became accepted into a gang, I had thrown a rock at the face of a very ugly woman and they had come at me with shards of mirror for to cut my throat with and I had stopped them, calmed them down and slowly become one of them. They too stole goods to survive and they took me on a mission across the hills in a bus but it ended there and then and ever since I have missed them. For a long time after these nights and evenings described I repeated a similar pattern. The hours may’ve differed and the exact locations but the same longing to raise the alarm or explain to the strangers versus the same paranoia burning that I had been forgotten or had gone missing around the time the broadcast was being made about the war, weather, disease, invasion or the death of mankind or some other catastrophe. In theory I prayed although my prayer was explicit, channelling antagonistic through the small gimlet of hope I had for something higher than myself, goading and teasing the distant god of my early childhood era and then a second layer of prayer that if this god did exist it would not curse me for calling it a golem and then a separate layer of laughter at the prospect of it forgiving me when I didn’t really believe in it anyway.

It was all too much and that was when I turned to travel to persuade myself out of it. I believed that I could enhance my chances of happiness by running and to this day I still do. I packed a bag of jumpers and trousers, books and the homemade weapons that I hid about my bed and set off to a country and I won’t say which country because it ruins it all if you know how easily I cum. I had a prescription and a bag and a hat which thought it was a soviet spy and all that was truly missing was love or a dog or companions which could act as both or a sense of being able to look after myself at the very least. Cold certainly grew on me, my body heat the perfect habitat for bitterness to thrive and my lack of the local language helped me enormously to make friends who could take me for something I was not and dismiss anything evil I told them because they could not understand it and even if they could understand some of it I said it so fast and with such a thick accent they would just pass on it. Coach journeys lasting as long as 32 hours across industrial wastescapes, through black skeletal forests into desolate service stations with nothing but pork fat to consume blocks of which felt like soap in the mouth and all the sighs the screams the shrieks the sorcery and the sermons they all melted on my tongue under the bad taste of it.

I was treated as a smuggler or a spy at every check point ousted from my seat into small sterile rooms for inspection as armed police made me remove my clothes and expose the ivory field of skin wrapped around a cage I call body. They combed my luggage for clues and found nothing but cigar tins full of dead insect’s pens paper photographs and books. I had a prescription I said I had a prescription and it certainly alters your mind as I found out after drinking and coming on to them and laying placing a pillow across my face stacking bricks a top the pillow to smother myself and oh baby I was minutes away but they toppled off and my friend ran up and scorned me and wouldn’t leave me to sleep alone.

I returned unbuckled but thin though not emaciated to my scant potential, the ringing of the familiar bells and the bastards at the back of the bus reigned once more in the hollow belly of my day to day existence. They and many more like them would come to carve my days into sizeable chunks of unpalatable truths. I washed thrice weekly, ate once daily and trapped myself in that sweat lodge of a room, writing my fears out spontaneous and smoking my fingers to a deathly jaundice yellow. The curtains would remain closed for some time, the traffic outside still going places, the weather goading me with its constant changing and updating of time. What can stand still? I thought, as I pushed my cock into the neck of a bottle and pissed with a strong desire for overspill. I was a prisoner to my own tight belt neurosis, each and every hair on my body despised me for not shaving them off and freeing them of the constant stream of useless wonder and anxiety.

I looked up at the strip light above me, its white intensity piercing my eyelids even as I screwed them shut and shut they remained tightly shut and in those swelling darker realms I promised myself and my body and my brain and all the flesh that would come to flake off of me or grow a new, I promised them all that I would keep those terrapin mouths tightly shut and never again open them and so you see that is where the story ends, the sly and manky crash into an opaque world, a world from which I would never return, and gladly so, for I have seen it all before I am sure and what has not crossed my path is not worth knowing. Not now, not ever, no never ever, and somewhere echoing in the rafters of my brain I dance and I sing …

“Suffer long lifers or be thy slave, this little piggy came blind and brave”

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