Friday, 2 November 2007

tape I

I sleep in the maid's quarters. Nothing special about this. I don't even pay a cent. I eat avocado mainly and walk the dog that acompanies my early rises. When we are in the park, other dogs smell him; he attacks the littlest. I meant to swim today but I didn't.

Days scar. Days weigh. I land and think between parrallels. This here now versus that over there. I wonder if my brothers are annihilating themselves? How sweet it would be to feel cohesion. Here I am saying I'm going to write when I am still imprisoned. I nearly broke through that mist at one point. Caught a glimpse. It was me in different forms. Now and again I trawl through like some dazed cow. I can't even deal with synonyms.

There was a bird cage with ten small kittens. Each one a string. Each one over the other. A man brings a chicken head. The blood trickles. He drops it in the cage. A head for ten small mouths. They scratch the shit out of eachother, using their back legs. The sound of little hells under wire.

The kid is a little brat who when seated at the table stands up on his chair and shouts like a small Mussolini. At six he has too much intelligence. He is racist already, disrespects the maid in her outfit. He dares not even look at me though he gets me silenced. I eat quietly, prompting idle conversation. "So do you like computers? What games do you play." He tells me of one where you buy slots at six dollars a pop. They build their own virtual worlds and compare it to others.
Mother's neck is so elegant I flip her hair to view it often. Mother's scent is of rose and milk. She smiles and leaves me displaced for a weekend. Her own mother is a bitch and doesn't want me even in the sitting room. She is Catholic. I speak only when spoken to. When I have the chance to jest I trapeze I say silly things. I imagine Im a medallion borne Venezuelan or a hitman going to Iquitos. She says noone will ever understand another one. I say that makes things better. She has a way of looking into your eyes that feels like every wall you ever made rumbles at the fault lines. Am I to run loose on this or weigh with the weighted.

Tape II

The night is blue.
I cannot sleep.
I enjoy a cigarette on the patio.
The night grows bluer and bluer. It is dawn. Or almost. Most of October has been grey. Now the fogs and sea winds have stopped the glints of sun will arise. The dawn is blue,
like it is when you come out of dodgy dive and walk through Dalston market.

Titman runs naked.

I let the dog sleep on my bed.
Perhaps by dint of dictating onto this machine and repeating what it says aloud, I shall end up articulating my cause. I've cleared my mind. At times some random grime tune comes into my head. No doubt soon I'll make a cup of tea. When I come back I'll be someone else.

I slide between the ditchwater water and the pick-ax. My memory falters in blips, all I ask for is a small bit of your attention, listen her - if the scope, I mean capacity to think is conditioned by a long list of conditions, how am I meant to dismember them? Is but my way of returning to the root but another form of entrapment influenced by my contemporary age? A sort of neo-ruralist endevour with snakes dripping from the 'ether'. And yet here I am impelled to search for root, for a sense of honesty. The same thing as always - to hit the bone. I want to know how far down I can reach, El Man would say. El Man that little lost guy on his bike, a ghost walker in London. Is it a sense of nothing and complete alienation I seek. I know very well that if El Man wasn't the way he is he'd be a Titan. He is a but a little Napolean hidden within. I am also aware that speaking so highly of him, I in turn, become a deciple and perhaps as wretched as he is. How can I define for you the thin line between magnanimaty and putridness.

Tape III

It takes almost a day or two for Synthos to get in sequence. For the escalations to descend. For cognitive switch boards to unhawl. Synthos swears to credence, to Celeste and to the mount of habits he adorns. I speak not from the belly - nor through my teeth - but through my claws. Directly swiggering scopes with cinders on my nose. This table is broken. This table lacks a leg.

We sat in the Chinese. She stayed silent. the words for her difficult. The whole moment pacified by a telenovela in the background - a latin american soap - of hiperboles and idiot tragedies and my own now surrounded by monotony. 'I can't stand this. I've lost my appetite.' When we walk again it was again in silence. 'Why the fuck are you following me? Didn't you tell me it was over.' She backtracks.Ok, she says, and walks away. What I hadn't noticed was that she had left her car infront of where I am staying. She came around the corner. To think there might have been something else to say. Her silence again so loud the neighbours should have seen it.

I beat the dog. You have a bad day, beat the dog. He spends his time whimpering, wishing he could smell bum, a bit of violence won't make a difference.

Turned out she misses some fat guy who illustrates and does well in the Lima circles. Always the same shit in the end. No tormented love blowing up your innards, love from Russia burning to be together thing. Funny thing is, the further the miles the closer we felt. Then I suddenly came, all bare, expecting assistance. Turned out shit's always the same. So what had become of that time when we would go out into the streets and laugh like a couple of kids. Never when I came back did we remake and unmake, just dull love we made. This girl, who became my password on all internet sites.

Titman drew from his pocket a couple of rhymes he had written. One was a finished verse, the other was work in progress. Let me spit you a verse he said. His arms as frantic as they were misplaced. Out of his back pocket he pulls out another scrap instead."Like a twitch in the back of ones head, desperation takes place as theres turbulence on the plane. A full weight of vengeful metal on cement. And to die like little green earthlings half awake".

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