Tuesday, 30 July 2013

Grit Beneath My Fingernails

The fluorescent lights of the tube sank me into a deep stupor. Between the barrage of unnecessary information about un-required products beaming down at me from above the windows and the peculiar paint-splattered design of the vinyl floor, I lost all interest in existence beyond the world of my own thoughts. Looking around at the grey faces of the mundane people surrounding me I knew I was not alone in feeling this way. And like most men with nothing better to think about, my thoughts soon turned to sex. It only seemed natural.

All was not lost in the ether of this miserable train ride. A radiant little soul sat opposite me clutching a worn out copy of Edward Abbey's "Fire on the Mountain". I instantly warmed to her. Not only did I warm to her choice of novel, but also to the fact she was reading it from a paper page and not from an electronic screen. I looked at her dainty facial features framed with long, auburn hair - which looked as if it had been woven from silk - and I looked to see if I could catch her eye as they danced across the page. She was engrossed and clearly did not wish to be disturbed. I wanted to approach her, however, and discover which passage of the book she was currently absorbing and whether she was enjoying it as much as she should. It could be the start of a blossoming friendship. It would be a lot easier to approach her in a bar, to seduce her and to never speak again, but to try to start an innocent conversation, to start something meaningful that stretched beyond sex was terrifying to me. I had heard of guys complaining about being stuck in the friendship zone. It was some kind of relationship status that meant a guy would never get to sleep with a female friend, like sex was the only reason for the origin of the friendship and he would be gutted that it would never come to fruition. It must take one helluva cruel bastard to hate women so much that they deem their friendship not good enough for them. It's as though attractive women aren't worthy of friendship. I couldn't wrap my head around it, so my thoughts returned to the girl. There were probably plenty of secluded benches in the next station where we could slip away to unnoticed and screw. I pictured the pair of us hidden around some urine soaked corner, sat on a half-rusted bench, with her on my lap, my fly open and my hand working its way up her summery dress, grinding our hips in animalistic delight. We wouldn't know each other's names but we would share something vaguely intimate, something carnal and primitive yet entirely hollow, before going our separate ways. We’d each find our own methods to deal with the guilt and to try to forget how low, empty and cheap we would both feel. I knew I would find the nearest bar to sidle up to and sink into oblivion, whereas she may well cry herself to sleep. It was neither glorious nor romantic but it was easy and the simple satisfaction and thrill of it would make it easy to forget any stigma or negative emotion attached, and to jump at the opportunity to do it all again with some other stranger.

I looked at her elegantly crossed legs pointed towards me and I wondered if being with such a beautiful creature wouldn't prove too exciting for me to cope with; particularly being with someone who was not only physically beautiful but also possessed a soul that sparked my curiosity and intrigue. I thought of all the things I would try to occupy my mind with in order to keep myself from getting overly excited. I wanted the deed to last as long as possible. I thought about dead fish. I thought about the President of the U.S. and the faces he may pull when sat upon his porcelain throne. I thought about the smell of antiseptic and I thought about the feel of grit beneath my fingernails. It all seemed farcical. To spend so much time thinking about sex when you can't get it or it's not around, just to try your hardest to think about anything else when you're actually with someone. The things some men must think about when trying to keep themselves from coming in their pants. I knew I wasn't alone in this practice; everyone wants to last longer. Finding out these thoughts would be a quicker way into the workings of a male mind than any Rorschach test. To conjure up thoughts that can prevent ejaculation while maintaining an erection is an incredibly bizarre concept to manage, and would speak volumes of the individual's psyche.

I am just a coward though, and without any form of Dutch courage on my side, I watched the fair angel glide from the chair opposite, and with a farewell smile disappear from the train and out of my life forever. I was so wrapped up in my own thoughts that I hadn't even noticed the train had pulled into the station. I had no intention of following her, despite the smile it would just feel creepy. Instead I remained on the train, alone, gloomily aware that I had one less friend in the world. I looked at the other grey faces around me and I knew that this was where I belonged.

Monday, 8 July 2013

Locked Up and Broken

Locked up and broken and breaking out anyway. Breaking out into a madness and viral insanity that is plaguing the airwaves instead of any kind of wild jazz or blues or low down rock and roll. The kind that everybody needs without even realising it. No. Instead we're stuck with this artificial madness of one-upmanship and eternal nothingness. I hate it all. And yet I am stuck. Locked up and broken and breaking out anyway. Too lost to know where to break out into but I try anyway. Desperate in drunken madness. The kind that Kerouac and Bukowski taught me about but never really hung around to show me the way. And now they've all taken it away. The technos. The poliTICKS making you scratch beneath the skin. There are some itches that just can't be scratched and one day we will find our freedom from any suit with jelly in his back. So many of us right now may be locked up and broken, but the good news is we're breaking out anyway. But it's okay. Just like so many others I can crawl out from between my sheets and close the door behind me to face the blistering sun and sit in a bar until the brightness turns to night. That's the best time. Half-cut and surrounded by women and / or girls on their way out and in need of something. I can do nothing but ignore them. But so frequently with the right kind of nod or smile or even walk, one might approach and / or take a liking and let me take them home. Nothing really matters when you can take a girl from a bar and fill her with everything you have. There is no time to fall in love. Someone always gets hurt and there are enough people around right now to hurt you and / or fuck you over that there is no need wasting your time doing it to the people you remotely give a shit about. Besides, nobody wants to aim to be locked up and broken and if they are, then they probably are breaking out of it anyway. Oh to fuck somebody and let out all the loneliness and hope that the loneliness doesn't come back bigger, fatter, thicker and more venomous during the act. It's happened before, it'll happen again. The stars take on a brighter shine on those nights. The moon drags you closer and sings to a spiritual entity that can never be explained. Freedom in the evening. Starlight bullshit. It's all to be let go of. Forget everything and just exist until the sun returns to send us all back to work and to enslave us. The sun, guarded by its clouds, locks us up and breaks us. We're slaves to it as much as money and the whole world of crap just goes on ‘til we can't experience it anymore and have to pass it on to our kids or brothers, or even fathers and mothers if they managed to outlive us. Someone ain’t been living right if that happens though. And I type this all listening to recordings of Charles Bukowski speaking. His voice does nothing to match his words and his attitude. His battle-scarred face bears no reflection in his voice. It lacks edge or any of the ragged wounds you would expect. There is no growl. Perhaps I'm just a slave to the lack of my own imagination and originality for expecting it. I should let go of these things before I truly break. And goddammit I fear I could be breaking. If I ain't already broken.

But I know I'm better than all that anyway.

Sunday, 7 July 2013

And I am

the sun sets on another day
and i am drunk
the world rotates around great beauty
and i am drunk
a flower bursts open into flirtatious life
and i am drunk
a puffin flaps its wings in flight
and i am drunk
A barman rings the last orders
there is objection
while i am drunk.

The world rolls
the world goes
So much in life just happens
and it keeps on happening
and I am hungover.

I was once, once so very drunk.

Monday, 1 July 2013

A Little Altercation Down at the Bucket of Blood

In a haze of wine and whiskey
there was a new face in the Kid's bar.
With an eye for the ladies, and a gut full of drink
trouble was never really far.

He was dancing with the Kid's girl
down at the Bucket of Blood,
And the kid didn't take kindly to that,
down at the Bucket of Blood.

"Why don't you wanna share, mister?
There's enough to go around.
You can't keep 'em all to yourself, arsehole
Not when I'm in town."

"I don't keep notches on my bedposts
I keep them on my gun
And if you keep running your mouth off, stranger
you're bound to be the next one."

"I don't care about your notches
I don't care about your gun
And the thing you'll find with my mouth, mister,
is that it's always on the run."

The Kid squeezed the trigger hard
left a corpse face down in the mud.
But the Stranger had squeezed his faster.
And laid his claim on the Bucket of Blood.