Mind dump R

Mind dump R

Your faith crushes me. I wish I’d never had a daughter or a son. And all the while I rue that you in turn must know expectation’s unwelcome stay.

Never fear the loss of a heart, for somewhere it beats still. And always will.

20,000 roubles’ worth of weight. A small bundle, nonetheless. The scratching, clawing, biting connotations and associations, boxed, biding their time.

So much weight swings freely from your fingers.

Not just someone I had known a while, in passing train. But someone who had grown with me, slowly, subtly, simply.

You remind me of so many others; I think I cannot see you: you are a fiction, a phantasm. But what the truth is that I cannot see, will not see. No matter when we had met I know that nothing would have changed.

I step back a little, uncertain because…. And distance gives me a clear view but discomfort. You do not need cajoling to enter the sea, you are already so far out, treading languidly. They stream through time: ‘remember me? And me? And me?’ Perhaps I would rather not. For why else would I forget? Miss opportunity, hug the wall? But even before battle, especially then they pass by, curious. As curious they never were the first times we met.

I like the corridor too much.

With freedom comes such restlessness I cannot contain. Were I to explode into a myriad of consciousnesses each exploring every different facet of what is; beyond even what we might know by our senses unbound.

The word ‘terrible’. It takes over your world, casts a shadow on all, even as it steals the light from all around.

I look: I am still who I was.

He is the right type. A wayfarer. A journeyman.

A little knowledge goes a wrong way. My God, I spread it thin.

When recriminations bite and slurs drown us in internecine antipathy.

I know how circumstance and the orbit of the Earth combine: alchemy; a game of neverending chess.

And while those lucent eyes and pretty face could still a man, Medusa-like, it is the you inside who will wreak havoc – joyous, playful, beautiful havoc.

It is not the inviting, but the acceptance that is the key.

Do you know the disconnect? The frayed shadows on the edges of all around you? Can you tell how colours talk to each other? They do, chattering like tourists in an empty autumn’s park: rain-swept, leafy, fenced.

I never came back to you because things changed. Because of how things changed. I should never have come back at all.

They tug playfully at each other as they run, not to keep warm, just because they have excess energy. And sometimes a tug becomes a snag becomes a ---(?). Half-unravelled, it stands out until its end droops, slowly filling with moisture.

Can you tell how busy the air is? Always full of traffic. Traffic control always directing cargo to its destination through the massed ranks of sounds and smells and sights that zoom around incessantly, never swerving and always colliding yet somehow still reaching their goal. “We made it through, chief!”, with nary a swagger.

“Are you happy?”
“When I don’t think about it, yes.”

She hovers around me incessantly shuffling, snorting. Shuffle, drop, shuffle, drop, shuffle…her wizened limbs move as muted sounds tearing the tissue paper of my frightened fragile peace.

Already I know what must be done. Already. So soon.

Obligation is a dagger pressed against my throat. Patient.

It knows I must fall upon it; the question is when. And it is only I who know compulsion.

Outside they are racing in brightly-coloured carriages. The day is warm and new. Ageless. But I am circled by beige, mute deceit, and now can but wait to see if new avenues of escape await me when I am led outside.

Peoples’ perceptions play upon my skin, moulding it, forming it, colouring it.

I feel nothing. The tie is severed and I am free. Free to float as I wish, where I would. Would I could, but where I would is nowhere to be found. Separation. So calm. So quiet. The jangling, clanging world into which I fall is not of my design. Nor yours.

And I seek to bury myself, close my ears. Compassion sneers and kicks me, pointedly, in the ribs. I care not about my grime-covered swill-filled state and so I cower, try to dodge the second kick that will not come.

For Hermes (or whatever)

It’s 2.57am and I’m a tad pissed – only about 10 bottles of blue and red and clear stuff but with my pitiful ability to resist alcohol (1 pint of stella and I’m yours…1 and a half and I’m anyone’s) that’s a fuckin shitload. Especially as it’s the most I’ve been pissed in fuckin yonks. That’s a long time to the Americans who think that British is anything other than a trite Americanism to make up for their feeble-mindedness. British was always a fiction: say it to a Scot or a Welshman or an Irishman and duck before the words are out of your mouth. Britain was always a fiction and a hated one at that – just like The EU and unity. My arse!

Anyway. I’m pissed to such a degree that the Pragmatist (go do a f-g psychometric test you c-ts, {that’s a term of endearment, a friend of mine greets me with the phrase “ X- you c-t, how ya doin?”, but that’s the (hybrid) English for ya – we got no sensibilities.
F- me! (see? I’m not so pissed as to not self-censor?!) (and I know enough to know enough if you’ve got the brain to get that far…, have you?) I can spell ‘sensibilities when arse-faced. Even when ratted, I do my orthography proud, save when I deliberately do not do so. I must be anal. But no turds please, not appreciated, you see.

So I’ll expound upon the night in my inebriate state and then get my skiddy arse (or is that skinny arse?) to bed. To await the dawn chorus.

Met up with Pav, who didn’t have anyone to go out with, so I agreed to be her buddy for the night. (No, she’s not a hottie, fellas, but she’s a nice person and we wuz only goin clubbin’ anyroad, so…).

She was late (typical woman – “I’ll be 2 minutes!”. My arse. I’m waiting in a taxi wasting money on a no-good toerag (definition of a taxi driver) because you have to spray yourself with shit and make yourself look good (as you see it) just so you feel good, even though you’re not on the pull! C’mon! If we’re going out to ‘dance’ – Pav’s a pretty good dancer, I’d suck among a ton of cadavers – who gives a f-k?

GRRRRRRR!

So we enter Yates’ in Leeds. Full of losers. Oh! Just like every other pub up and down the country. Now either we’re all losers (me included) or there’s at least one other person who’s of ‘substance’. But how the f-do you spot them? No f-g idea. Answers on a postcard to…! Yeah, exactly!

The music’s the cheesy crap ‘hits’ – i.e. the shite the shite DJ wants to play in order to keep his job – appeal to the lowest common denominator – as people always do – of the 80’s and the crap that I hate. Occasionally there’s something with a hook or a beat and it gets me going for up to 30 seconds, but the scenery is dull, dull, dull. You can look at these people and see blocks of wood. Well, if you want to make them interesting that is. Otherwise they’re just dullards.

I’ve actually worn a suit for the first time in 16 months and it doesn’t go down well among the poorly-dressed River Island and Top Man/Shop and Next crew who seem to inhabit this part of Leeds. And it with all those designer shops…. Well! I’m glad I’ve never been to any of them! But I do wonder about the lingerie shops…;P

And on to the ‘club’. AKA shithole. ‘It’s got good music’. Yeah. Do you call Slade, Wizzard, Abba (which I actually like) and a plethora of other dull, trite, been played for 3 months and the last 30 years incessantly and will be played for ever more, shite good music?!!!!!!!!!!

I can stand cheesy music, yeah. Some of it. Some of it I actually like.

But this bollocks is gonna play merry Hell with my tinnitus (yeah – bollocks!) and it is goddamn awful. Am I the only poor bastard on the face of the Planet who attracts the only 1 (or in this case 2) worse dancers than me in a 10 mile radius and has the f-g tossers career drunkenly (but sober) all over, round and through me. When I’m standing f-g still? Wankers! And they’re there, trying to impress the old has-been, if had-been-anythings who promenade among this dingy hole that’s called a ‘niteclub’. Yeah. Kudos, geezer. Now f-off, cause I’m getting arsy at being your wall. Next time I’ll step aside and hope you break your f-g neck! C-t!

But after an hour I persuade Pav, we can go to the other room. It’s pretty empty, but at least there’s something that has a rhythm and doesn’t involve stuffed animals, people with dodgy clothes or Swedes. Not that I can dance, but f- it, I can appreciate its mindless 1.2.3.4, better than “So here it is..FUCK OFF!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

And there is the delightful “Call on Me” by Eric Prydz (with the ridiculously pretty Laura More aka Muncey – did someone say ‘stalker?!!’ which is darned good.

And there’s the quite cute girl (probably less than half my age – Miserere!) who’s ‘givin it large’ but the lads who half try it on, don’t see how far they can get and I continually grimace and mutter and watch the old bird (who’s still got a body on her) pull the young bloke, who doesn’t have a clue but does have sideburns and think about all the lads who try it on with Miss cute and large and fail to close a deal that’s all but closed for them and just dance in my spastic manner and see my younger self being a little jealous of them for having the bottle to at least fail.

Spark. I think. The spark of potential I possessed and that died long before I realised it. Ah bollocks, I don’t give a toss. And Pav can’t handle the pace, even though she’s got 13 years on me so I just do my thing and play a few false games and don’t give a shit.

And even on the return to the cheesy music room when we separate and I swivel on broken glass and she’s chatted up by a bloke in a suit (he’s on a winner – she likes smart blokes) nothing happens that’s new. That I didn’t see the first and last time (but one) that I was in a club. And I’m glad that I still have hair and can do this for a little while longer, cause one day I’ll succumb to the external pressures and have to go to a rave (never been to one) or something, just so I can hear this music I like (among others) and not have to make spastic shapes alone.

And Pav wants some balloons. So I pull some away and I’m covered in a liquid, all over my nice Italian suit that I wore to Rob and Sharon’s wedding, that smells of rubber and I want to be pissed off at the dry-cleaning bill and I am, but these things don’t mean so much any more and the suit, symbolic though it is can go to Hell for all I care if…other things.

And the taxi costs a f-g fortune. I’d walk, but my ‘companion’ is a lazy-arse (overall) who could really do with a one extra mile a day walk (let alone the 3 that I’d do, uncomplainingly and with pleasure – because that’s what walking is. More so when you’ve had to regain the facility.). And that was a not atypical Saturday night in Leeds, England.

But at least I got to strut my stuff and Pav got her balloons and the taxi was really cheap.

Booze. It makes the top of my head go numb and occasionally I get irritable cause things don’t speed up enough.

3.47. And that’s the shite. Adumbrated..

If you get me pissed off, I’ll just think “f- it!” and bite. Give you what you want. Because….

I have to move again. I know it. There is no peace in war. You understand that, don’t you? But I’ll not feel sorry for you. Sorry because you know so much? So much that’s good. Why would anyone feel sorry for you? For one like you? Royalty rags do nothing less than match the expectations and your happy to let illusions protect you from the harsh light of the stupid reality that is another grey day in the hive, the matrix.

I've had my day, it was tangerine when I wanted lime.
I've been in court and judged I've served my time.

Today I've just become you. I think. But that realisation is more than a redundant axiom that I bring out on birthdays and all those occasions, when I can't choose my companion, to blind you with.