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I wandered aimlessly, in and out of tunnels, wet feet and cold hands, dead from the waist up and down. I masturbated, waiting anxiously for the warmer weather, pretending to myself that I’d actually leave the house, finally tidy up the garden and grow some veg get permacultured the fuck up and stop pushing the buttons every day that made the lifeless numbers appear in an account, only to move again and fuck off like that lassie I was going out with a few years ago cannae even mind her name any more, just a wee nick on the upper right side of my heart, scar tissue and a vague memory of oral thrush. cunt. I forgot more than I learnt, hitting that ‘last half’ decay too early and covering it up with the odd surge in enthusiasm for a project destined to roll off the road before it had started. Hi, what’s your name, I asked, feeling fucking sick to the stomach her hair causing acid reflux and her waxy lips making me boke. I fucked like it was the last time, coz you never knew when it was, and shot too soon, covering her tits with a mediocre spray of cum, her face telling the whole story and me wanting to throw myself out the fucking window, again.

My sense of smell was a bit fucked, always seemed to be clogged and shit, but the stench of death came through tapping me on the shoulder like a mortal angel wired on low grade speed. She still had some youth and enthusiasm that seemed so alien to me it was like she was speaking in a foreign language. “It’s not going to work is it…” Came the words, like fists to my fucking heart, and I cried inside. Fuck it, I was tired anyway from the Hollywood and catalogue lifestyle I’d been leading for the past two to seven months time, so I took a walk a walk on the wildside like the old days hookers and wine, days filled with mutated rainbows and revelations. I woke up in my bed after a few days, and wondered what had happened. It was weird, that post bender over emphasised clarity of the mind that caused the mental spiders to start crawling over the brain. I knew I was cunted, set to pick up the shards and begin again, wondered vaguely about going to Ibiza for the summer or maybe Shetland, no shame in running away from shit I knew life was picking up speed like a snowball on a hill. She woke me up. I’d been dreaming. Sweating. She smiled and gave me a kiss, but I couldn’t help seeing the transparency of the whole situation and feeling scared. “It’s not going to work, is it…” I said.

I stared at the mirror, the mirror that was mostly black. I waited waited for the fruit to get ripe, the plums and shit that had been sat beside me for ages lonely plums staring into the mirror too we were all fucked but only I knew I think only I knew it knew we were fucked other folk pretended like there was hope, like back in the 90s like in our mid 20s. I wore black a lot back then black like the mirror now colours outside and the black was inside in my fucking body and it wouldnt couldnt come out couldnt get it out anyway. Time laughed at me but now I didnt have the balls to laugh back kind of new it was right to laugh at me at all of us, endless time like sat on a bench back in 1999 all millennium celebrations and if I had to pinpoint it put my finger on it that one moment then that was it or that was the start of it at least steady decline like the bottle of cheap wine drinking sugary schnapps shit vodka with flavour made it easier to down but worse hangover with the insulin spike stroke depletion or something felt rough as fuck anyway but laughed it off drank it off like my hair was wet for a while. That was it and now now just the fruit and the mirror. We were both fucking rotting away.

I went outside, like with a new jacket on maybe, and the rain came, again. The idea of a runaway venture to Spain, or maybe closer (undisclosed) became ever appealling, as was always, adventure and unknown tempted and the mundnity of the day to day ground me down, slowly. Money piled useless like dirty laundry, old notes staring at me as I deepened in depravity and masturbated, again, like it was all that was left. Sometimes it was. Waking up, i did the same stuff, and put off all that would take me forward, i wasn't sure it was where I wanted to go right now, and it seemed easier to stick the blinkers on rather than think about it over and over. I could move again, but there was no point, I knew the irratibility and unsatisfiable feelings i had were down to something else, like my whole life being a can of beans shaken up constantly. Mibbie I'd drink again, drive fast into a wall like I used to. I didn't like reality much these days, it bored me, and I needed something more than work, food and sleep. The fundamental aspects of life didn't seem to fuel the tank, and I hadn't reached that serene and calm state of being i seemed to be so fucking close to a couple of years ago.

He told me stuff about rainbows and shit, but it felt like he was making it up, or at least exaggerating. I sat on the iron fence and looked out towards black trees on a white background. I felt my face to see if I had glasses on, and just scratched my nose by mistake. Fuck life was stupid sometimes. We were all just ants running around pretending to be important. The odd boot coming down and crushing us wasn't a bad thing in my opinion, though most people thought I was eccentric these days, having turned into an old reclusive uncle type character. The phone went again and I let it ring.

Kicking off in the Dolphin Lounge

Mikey Blacks and Sir Emperor Si sat in the Dolphin Lounge. They were trying to dissociate themselves from the old cunt coughing quietly into their airspace, without moving from their seats, which had a view of the doors to the street and the toilet, the tv and the bar. They were’nt having much luck, their disapproving body-language no match for his stink, their silence no luck with his stare. With a sigh, Blacks resumed their conversation.

“So anyway, he’s got a hundred rugby ball twenties- “

“Ah know you, yer arse.” This was the old man, not Si, breaking in.

“What?”

“Ah fucken ken yer da, ya wee cunt.” It was that kind of bar.

“Whose?” asked Si. “Mine or his?”

“Youse.” pointing at Si with a hiccup, a dribble of spit. Drawing his head back and scrunching up his face, “He’s a cunt.” Hiccup.

“Oh really?”

“Aye?”

“You ken my faither?”

“Aye, Thomas fucken Wender.”

“An he’s a cunt?”

It was at times like this that Blacks longed for pub karaoke, the overloud sound drowning out this sort of shite. And it was at times like these that Si wished he could find fault with arguments like this, even ones not quite so cleverly constructed. Not being hard enough to bottle the old cunt, if you can call that hard, got up and walked out.

As they were walking down the street Mikey thought that that was Si’s problem, he was too sensitive, like a jellyfish, but not amnetal hard jellyfish like a fucken Portugueses Man of War or something, more some wee fellow washed up on the beach and starting to dry out in the sun. He imagined a big fuck-off jellyfish sucking the blood out of the old man, flailing, as Si was moaning about his da.

Meanwhile, a long time ago in a galaxy far far away, Karen Mong lay watching Eastenders. Her bong, a glass one, stood on the table. She added food colouring to the bongwater, which was currently blue, reflecting a pleasingly distorted way the faces of the actors.

Electric Bobby Smith had ‘enemigo’ tattooed across his back. He’d got the idea from one of the characters in ‘From Dusk Till Dawn 2’, had paused the video for hours and traced it out from the screen, then transferred it up, had it done across his shoulders. Where the actor in the film was a built Mexican, Bobby was white and fairly thin, not to say scrawny. Still, as he’d gone with the tattooists recommendations, it looked pretty good, as long as he didn’t have too many spots. He sat entranced by Albert Square as Karen slept.

Karen dreamt no dream, no meaningless sequence to fill the page. She was solid, her mother used to say, but she should eat more. Now she rarely ate at all and took little pleasure in it – if there had been only a little less of this pleasure, the dull crunch of the cornflakes, the blandness of the burger, she wouldn’t eat at all. A forgotten boyfriend had tried to ‘educate her palate’, or ‘make me eat shit’ as she had thought, confronted with badly fabricated gloop that he said was Chinese, Indian or look! Nepalese! that went through her as quickly as she was through with him. “I just don’t really dig any of that shit.” She’d said to Bobby, who’d murmured “Fair enough.” as he remembered her mother going quietly mental in the kitchen and thought he’d worked it out.

Blacks and Si had wandered into another bar and were dawdling by the jukebox, as Si phoned Electric Bobby Smith, who turned up without Karen, quiet, hushed, still aslepp. Never much liked this place but fuck, a pints a pint, or so he thought until he looked at the taps and bought some Czech lager in a bottle.

“Worst pint I ever fucken had,” he said, “tasted like an old man.”

“You finish it?” asked Si.

“Well, no all of it, but you have to make sure.” He smiled.

Karen awoke groggy, with just a few candles for company, moved the blanket and rolled slowly onto the floor, where she lay watching the dark ceiling for a minute or so. Then she stood and went to the window, out to the street and the orange light on wet pavements. “This is not the end.” She said softly to herself.

Almost at that moment, a black taxi door opened and Hannah Mong stepped through, looked at the black sky, the black streets, and a bsong went through her heart, which some also said was black, for she was home.

Mikey Blacks had fucked up. So bleeding obvious the cunts would see what he was up to thought Campbell hanging in the sky, electric head and fiery feet, was seriously considering if it were some kind of high-wire bluff I mean for Christ’s sake but it wasn’t.

He looked at the worn sofa, noticing a stain he wasn’t sure he’d noticed before, wondering if it was all that now remained of Blacks in this universe. He had an idea it had been Blacks one time pissing himself but to be honest that could have been a composite memory, lazy imagining or just actually wrong, after all Blacks didn’t often piss himself sort of thing you remember.

He slapped himself again and lost all interest.

The sun came up somewhere in there but it wasn’t black, just bright, not the end of days then yet, he yawned, wondered where Mikey was, fell asleep.

Mikey Blacks had fucked up. Jodie was in the Dolphin Lounge when she found out, when they all found out. All the skies went out, or something, she felt faint and everything went dull for a moment, then everything went right on like it always had, the air still grey, the floor still sticky. She put down her Bacardi Breezer. This called for something stronger.

She remembered when she’d first seen him, a summers day he really had been black against the sunlight, laughing at ajoke he’d made up, looking for a cats arse firework. She downed the vodka.

“Mikey Blacks, Mikey Blacks, Mikey Blacks,” smiled Johnny Two-Cunts. “I hated that cunt. Glad he’s gone. He is gone right?” He asked Susan Eyes Bright In Shit who shrugged her shoulders and looked out the window at what wasn’t there. “Yeah,” Two-Cunts carried on, looking towards feet at the end of his slouch, “should have fucked off a long time ago.” There was a song on the jukebox. Football on the television. Beer in the glass. “Fucking jumped up little fuck.” softly. He looks up, across the table, folds his arms, doesn’t say anything else, lights a cigarette.

Mikey Blacks was meant to bring the dawn, the light, a cure for the world’s pain, but as it turned out not even a kebab came back. Barely some blips on the Coventry telescopes, some curious radio waves from between the stars.

No rebirth, no Christ.

Please, reproduce without my permission, I’m not fuck all after all…. If I lie in a field and the clouds hang as they tend to, connected by invisible meridians to the phantom once was beer by my side then I can begin to realise that I have no real place, no purpose or goal and it had taken me ten twenty years to come to this dead end conclusion over and over again. I’d like to lift the lid on all the dark shit and let some light in, but it was just so tiring, and I’d only slept seven and a half hours last night, that’s all. Solitary confinement in a world too big by far for any of us, too busy trippin over shoelaces staring at the pavements and the walls, painting shit black and burning libraries. The whole race regressed slightly all the time, and made it harder for the future generations. New years resolutions, time to find some solutions. Two thousand and fuckin four eh!!! I was still waiting to wake up.

I looked up looked like I was on my back sitting up wide mouthed tripping and she smiled all melting shit angelic… I looked back with a twisted grin intended to be something else split down the middle not sure if there was even a difference between right and wrong and I’m alive again after so long buried alive. Fucked off with kicking the lid to my coffin, the grey skied smog started to clear and it was bright again, I was young again, alive again. It can carry you for a long time, even in amongst all the other shit, the blackness, can carry you away when you don’t want to be here, stopped me banging my head, and got rid of the indentation of the barrel off the side of my head. The shortest day was next week… next fucking week! And after that it was all spring again, open the windows and breathe.

The artist is sitting in front of a yellow wall, which has the word ‘YELLOW’ written on it, letters dwarfing the artists head, which darts, suggesting the intensity of the thoughts he is trying to explain. I begin tho dream as his head, his hands (which are also darting) and the monotone drawl (Polish, I think lazily, although I have no idea) become discrete, disconnected from each other, but partners in a dance, I marvel slightly at this, then lean into Morven and “I’m fucking cunted.”

She nods, and I can see her eyes brightened by the martians. So insignificant in the palm of the hand, the WHOLESOME SPACEWARD MIDFUCK. “What are they called?” she was on the phone. “Pink Martians.” I reply, beginning to count them again. “From California.” So I’d been told. I ate the left side of the martians head, the antenna and the eye.

The invisible red/green music is in everything forever; Morven ended up a Christian.

I’d brushed my teeth and took a piss like I’d done it before loads of times… I had… and I crept all stealth like not wanting to wake wanting to get out with my heavy heart and disappear like a cunt in the night. When you pressed that ejector seat button you felt like you were young again for a wee while at least take these chains offa me and all that shit slooping down stairs I’d slept on pissed on down stairs I’d fallen down and I was falling this time but silently the rope behind my back finally worn through after rubbing it against the arm of the chair for a few wasted years. I bumped into the doorframe as I walked outside and looked at it like it had just moved and obstructed me telling me to wait hold on take another look… are you sure… the words drifted through me, ‘Fuckin right I am,’ I said to myself and started the car all Cujo horror style like I was about to get attacked or killed or some shit… Fuck I probably was.

Years back now, all funny jokey n shit, flash plugged visions of an old me bitterness running through me like a current at all the cunts who’d fucked me once or even more. I still didn’t understand it, but I sometimes felt like I had a loose grip on it. That was enough.

Always folk breaking you, beating you when you’re down or half down, on your fucking knees and a boot came in from the side. There was no brief respite no break always cunts that had it in their heads that they were better than you and had to try and prove it somehow. The world knew that money talked but hey, we’re not some fucked up London corporate cunts swapping power for powder. It ain’t no big smoke city full of fucking dreams, just a commercial mirage fuelled on the stench of figures and clocks. Fuck you and all your macho bullshit ya prick, I told him and walked out took a walk like,  like it was my last day. It was.

Week and a half later and my instinct is to beg… beg for fucks sake… for my shitty job back, like I’m floating out there all alone, starting to drown, and grabbing for the life jacket. MAN OVERBOARD! I shout… And I’m stuck.

Mikey wasn’t too keen to go in. “I dunno man, shouldn’t we hang back?”

Fuck that bitch, step forward.

There’s an awesome sound as the world explodes again, failed to stop it all going dark!!! again!!! but the music is beautiful, it always is, the only love in the world as it all fires down to zero,all the clocks stop and voices go silent, but I’m still laughing baby!!! hey, the world fucks the devils arse, you know what I mean? but still, guess your families there, your friends, so it’s worth waking one more time, hello!!! all the birds are singing!!! well not really live in the city, old bird in the corner shop is smiling but that’s enough!!! well, its nice, not god and all his little angels showing you THE WAY, but then they did that already anyway, didn’t fucking work, just secrets and an odd tattoo, not ripped apart in hellfire anymore, walking up the street, all dark in the rain but still major-league bulletproof, message from Electric Bobby Smith, all the rabbits in the hutch, waiting up the road, it’s ok, it’s ok, it’s ok!!!

Not A Love Song

Fuck the future mate I’m with you, pass the fucking bottle.

Thor strove up the mountain in his regalia. The great vegan thor. Eating lentils and isolated pea protein with gusto. To take the hammer from the witch he braved the really cold rain. In the maelstrom storm he strove and strummed his magical sleep harp and entered the mouth of the lair of the whiteworm hexan. Skeletons and bones were littered to and fro. The devil dog hounds were slumbered by the music and he slit them in their sleep great vegan that he was.

A small vampire slipped an ambush that he caught with his shield. The thing of bones fought for a short time before a sword took it through.

Ahead was the throne room of the white witch of Normandi. She wasn't to be seen. But was surely around. The harp would do no good here.

Thor thundered, "Show yourself for your time is at haaaaannddd!" An arrow took him in the chest.

Damm, that sort of hurt. Oh my.
He charged in the appropiate direction with fortitude and a slight fart. To him it was there. And there to him it was. From him to her he saw the women of his nightmares. Diane Kelly all wrapped up and ready to go. A trollicking laugh. A flip of the tongue. He was as before and dead and never before and never again.

She needn't do anything but be. The onus was his and he couldn't. She was too perfect. For here was the only thing that ever could have mattered in this futile life.

He would change allegiance to the witch for this. If only. If only.

She'd never know how much he cared? If only. If only.

He didn't even want her in a sexual way despite the lips and breasts that looked like they knew silicon (but hadn't.) Nor the John Hopkins scholarship. Not even the laugh.

Mostly it was a Scottish thing along with the right place at the right time.
If not her then some other scottish girl in the greasy bowels of hickville West Virginia.

15 years later a true scotsgirl with red hair, the accent, and decent manners comes along. Tooooo late. Found another half scottish girl in the greasy bowels. Thor had no real motivation in life and so he became that of a killer. He turned to boxing. Life became what it actually was without all the fancy fake liar wrap. But that only works for so long. And then there was Rand but that only works for so long.

Will Power and Mr. Fear only work for so long. Where's the enjoyment? Where's the helping others? Never had I helped and still never. Thor took it by the throat jaw and squeezed. His heart broke and broke. And tears came as he lifted it from the ground. It was everything to him. It was a magical life that could have been. It was neverending motivation. It was everything. and everything.

He raised his head and howled and squeezed tighter. Then destroyed it with unnecessary gratitious violence.

And it disappears. This life. This thought. This forum. These people. This sad world of struggle. To avoid. Death. Eternal.

He had another protein shake. His nasty short piece would be better than average in the brutal realities.

He emmersed himself in silliness. He couldn't do it with silly reading of tired fiction stories. He did it at a dead discussion board. Somehow so much better than in microsoft word. At least it's accessible. It's out there. Because... because.

The witch's dead corpse lay in front of him. He stared at the huge breast and the perfect Liza Minneli like skin tone. He fell to his knees and cried. Over what could have been. He held it/her. Then he felt her breasts. Felt her all over. Just a body. Nothing special. Nothing special. Forget. Forget.

It wasn't her I loved. It was something else within me.

But I killed that within me.

I think because I was trying to not be arrogant.

I was trying to be "objective". I somehow, someway taught myself that I wasn't anything special.

And Although I really am not anything special when it comes to differential linear equations. And although I still don't understand Navier Stokes. I must believe. I must believe. But is it a lie? No. Because we all have that potential within us. Even though we see we are no better than others. That potential lies in all of us. Believe and maybe the sleeper shall awaken some day.

She was nothing. Just a corspe of another women. Like so many before and after. I hear the FBI/CIA has now developed software to monitor boards because that's more efficient than actual agents reading all this shit. I wonder if they have a file on "emp"? What a stupid fucking world.

Down the mountain went Thor. Damm! Even some sex would have been good. I'm really well hung. She would have loved it. Should have given me a chance. Should have been like all the others. Should have acted cool, drank a lot, did soft drugs. Listen to me. What am I? A fool is shakespeare quote.

Why did I come up this mountain? Of yes the hammer. Now where was that damm hammer?

-------------------------------------------------

Thor wandered to and fro looking for the hammer.

There it was. The mallet of the doodies. Unofrtunately it was laid out crassly in an art piece. It was positioned so that it was actually striking the head of a statue that was to represent Mike son of Doodie. This was generally in bad taste as the actual mallet of doodie didn't need a statue of Mike! Thor quickly removed it from it's sacrilegesishsh place.

Wow! The actual mallet. He cradled it. Turned it over and over examining every inch of the mallet that was used to kill the son of God. A mighty weapon indeed. Thor was so overcome by religious piety that he hardly noticed the two foot tall elves that had entered the room. When the elves saw that the witch of Normandi was dead they rejoiced around Thor as he cradled the mallet. But then they started talking, "Hey, who's going to feed us? We're stuck up on this mountain without any food. It's all his fault. Hey are you going to take care of us?"

Thor broke from his reverie and said with much melodrama "I have freed you from your slavery!"

"What free to starve?" yelled the elves, "what will we eat?"

"Show some personal responsiblity" quipped Thor with annoyance, "It's no wonder you were stuck up here in the first place with that attitude."

"What the fuck! Kick his ass!" And the elves of no personal responsibility attacked in a great horde.

Thor fled out into the rainy night with the horde of two foot tall elves close behind. They were fast little bastards but Thor was faster still. Finally they gave up as Thor gained ground. Lazy slavesthought Thor.

Thor stopped and had a pea protein shake with flaxseeds and OJ. Gave a tremendous belch and swung his great mallet menancingly in the thunder and ligthning of a black night of legend. The night the champion was born. The night the great Thor truly came unto himself in all his great fiscally responsible glory.

--------------------------------------

Thor traveled until finding a small crag to sleep into the late morning in a deep beautiful sleep. A sleep of a world that was young and innocent and full of endless hopes and dreams. The po runneth over. He awoke and it was exactly so. Past memories were distant and he was in the here and now with senses acute. Young again. Forever young. Forever forgetting as is necessary to make the now so much more NOW.

Yet dimly he remembered and that made it so much the more. The knowledge that IT was there. And would return in the appropiate time.

And so Thor awoke to a misty morning. But he laid without standing. And the day past so quick. A malaise crept over him as he lay there, and lay there, and lay and so the day went into evening and nothing was done. Nothing but yet more pea protein.

Thor brooded over this turn of events. How to turn it around? Thor stood and all was right. But the past was gone never to return. Thor was old and looking for youth. Thor paced, "where did it go?" He thought back to the commie pinko elves and that wild night. Now here he was and the po was somehow gone. Why? How? What's so deadly about laying around......???????

Thor moved but now it was night and he was stil tired. He was a thing of flesh and blood concerns and the magic that awaited just.... could..... not..... quite.... be..... realized......

Thor sat and brooded. "Never again." NEEEEEEVVVVVEEEERR!!!!!!" he shouted with barbarian gusto. He wasn't sleepy and got on the move in the late evening dark. He would always move and stand tall even as he slowly faltered. He would and go and go and go until death ripped him loose of this beautiful stark dream of sled slide.

Through the night he traveled while caressing his mallet. Again it rained and it was good. To woods he came and entered. Almost pitch black it was save the pixie dust. A small hut in the distance....

Thor went forward and knocked upon the door and it was opened by a comely young lassie. He gave fair greetings and she replied with exuberance that he enter. With slight misgiving he did so and found himself with not one but two young flowers of soft skin and pleasantries. They teased and were forward. And played. And one thing led to another. And the real fun began........ and ended in the usual fashion and then their faces were suddenly ugly. Flaws became apparent. Viciousness and evil traversed from line to another. Thor fumbled away in confusion and embarrassment. They pretended all was as before.

Thor's discomfort grew. He couldn't pretend. But he would not run into the night with his pants around his ankles and so the mighty mallet once again flew and sang songs of glory as it cut a something or rather across all that was base and unright. "MALLET SAY BAAAADDD!!!" he shouted. And that was that.

The evil witches almost had him but once again he was truimphant! Thor looked for a boon. Or maybe rainsacked. Not much. No pea protein, but his cup runneth over anyway.

Into the bedroom of the foul trollwitches he did go with great trepidation but with resolute to never let REAL LIFE pass while lying down.

There were strange things in there. A box in particular bekoned. A simple box. Yet you just couldn't help but zero in on it. Thor slowly came toward it. What was in it? He had a scary feeling of what he'd find......
Just to reach out towards it. What if it sprang open and grabbed his hand?

But to just stand there doing nothing was worse. Thor, the hero, the wielder of the mallet, was surfing the magic edge of the wave of life. He would not fall. He would move forward. He grabbed the box lid and ripped it open and sure enough. A live smiling head stared at him with a grimace like smile.

It was alive and Thor ran out of the room afraid to turn away lest it move quick. But once he turned he ran fast and didn't stop until the pain of sprinting became greater than his fear.

In the night again he was. He spun around looking for the head. Unless it was hovering above him he was fine. It had put the death of fear in him. Maybe he should go back and wipe his slate clean?

Now the night was alive. There was a meaningful decision to be made.


(I don't think I'm unhappy enough to write....)

This would hang over him forever. The greatest opponent in this life is fear. He would not let it defeat him. He would return to the witch's cabin.

He crept up in the raining night. The candle lights had not yet died. His fear was gone. He went through the front door but with prudence. The dead hags laid where they had been slayed. They looked good again except for the crushed parts. The door to the bedroom was closed. Had he closed it? No, he had not. A chill ran through him. He could not fight an unseen opponent. He turned and fled.

Thor approached again. This time he surveyed the cabin from all angles. There was no window in the bedroom. But perhaps the mallet could knock a hole through the wall? Destroying the whole cabin would seem like a good idea. Maybe wait till daylight.

Daylight came cold and brittle. Somehow today the birds did not sing. The land was still and dead. Thor felt exposed in the autumn forest. It was no good. He needed the element of surprise. Thor slowly wandered away. But he could be followed. He felt as if he was. He wandered farther. He only sipped the pea protein as his appetite had left him. The fear had him but he would beat it.

When the night came it would lose him. Then he would sneak back. Then it would be it that was exposed and fighting an unseen foe.

But though the night came, Thor still felt watched. He couldn't lose it. It watched him everywhere. That face in the box. A balding man with dropping eyelids and black piercing eyes.....

Thor must lose it. It was driving him crazy. Thor traveled for a month to the sea. At his destination Thor was haggard and weak. He would not sleep with it watching. He hardly ate. His strength was leaving......

That night he dove into the sea. On a moonless night he swam far from shore in the bitter cold water. Was it sill watching him? He swam and swam away from the shore. In the dark he lost his direction. By the time he reached the shore his store of energy was gone and he lay collapsed. He slept deeply.

The morning came and his first thought was that of horror. It had not been a dream, still the head watched him. Thor looked at what had come of him. His body was in tatters. The mallet was lost. Enough was enough. And this was more than enough. The mallet was lost. If only he could go back and face the fear to begin with. But he could never change time.

Thor resolutely began his journey back to the witches cabin. Fear went with him as did the head that watched. And he moved forward with anger towards it.

He had no mallet. He got a medium sized rock. He went in the cabin in broad daylight. The witches were smelling quite bad and not looking too good. The door was still closed. The fear was the same. But he was compelled. It was the door or death. He brought the rock up in one hand and pushed the door open. The room was the same as before. The box was now closed. He edged towards it. He got within 5 feet then prepared to obliterate the box with the rock. Halfway through the motion, the box lid flipped open. The head opened it's head and sucked everything into it.

Thor fell inside.

He had made a big mistake by coming back here.

Nothing could ever be as bad as this.

Thor forgot to live for himself. The great disease took him. In a zombiefied state he dragged through the dead sunlight. The night alive while he was stone. A life to come a go. The cold steel goes through flesh as does the blade of time. A life to pass him by unlived for untime. A dream, a spell, a sickness so great. Like burnt corpse fried in breading. So was this, this place of nothing. This place of never. How to get out? How to become?.......

Thor mentally swirled and saw a glimpse of someone.

You! Why hast thou forsaken me? he bellowed in despair.

quote:

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Because it is as you say. In everything. It is exactly just so. Writing, working, eating, and so on. All wrong. Completely wrong. Somehow so wrong. I used you wrong. And so you went as I have already gone.

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I saw the antichrist when I was young, when my brain was all like yoghurt just waiting for the cultural bacteria to set in, all jellied, yeah mate, bing bang, all separated but together, until he showed up in that blood red chair, (honestly, some velour shit with motherfucking frills, red as your head, pissed on that a few months later) all the carpet like airplanes, no friends when you’re on your knees, fuck, let me out, but the devil never laughs he sneers, points out your weaknesses, how you failed him, (shit, failed the devil...) shit, look down with pain, look up to see the fucking hammer come down, good night, that’s it, fugue state, hello London, fucked up, back together, fuck the devil, fuck the catalyst, made it backand brought the devil to the sunlight, clean! stronger! harder!

Of course, it’s all still major-league fucked up. But at least it’s not the eighties anymore.... 

Woke up fucked too fucked to sleep the church of my mind all early morning communion antichristal records being played backwards all ketchup blood n shit. My eyes slowly open like the curtain going back on a brave new world… me, I’m a dead piece of meat too cunted by far to fall on my feet lost all nine lives in the early nineties now I seem to land on my head, feet up every time… Today, the sun shines and I wonder, for a second, what month it is, or if Christmas has passed… I remember back in ’97 expensive beers and whiskeys all round broad grins teenage kicks and hidden tears all joviality living for the minute… until the minute passed and fizzed out turned into a year or a decade or a lifetime… The sun came up over the hills today blinded me dazzling shit like maybe I’d died maybe I had except the kitchen door was still fucked, hanging off on one hinge had been for the past fuck knows how long. I put the kettle on and had a strange feeling like maybe spring was coming maybe it was a bit warmer than yesterday and maybe it was… It felt like I’d been asleep for a long fucking time. I think I had.

Walking down the street down in sunshine not feeling the rain not feeling… Some mornings just woke up on you like like you’d been fucking the world all night and a calm stupor nice romantic reverie came over you laughing or wanting to laugh or at least smile at shit that you normally hated normally spat at. The guy the guy who fucked you off the other day who was being a fuck head rude prick didn’t seem all that bad and it washed over water off a duck. I went into work tripping over my thoughts and with a buzz like whiskey but clean a buzz I don’t know why don’t know how. The clock grinned a half eight at me and I gave it the finger told it jokingly to fuck off before the phone rang hadn’t even had time for a shite squirming in my seat as I explained that we didn’t really open till nine. I got the urge to call someone maybe someone I hadn’t seen for a while and realized I didn’t really know anyone any more not really not like when you’re young when I was young and all you do is hang out playing with energy and enthusiasm seeing the same folk every day just playing games and shit no such thing as boredom. I read one time it’s about when you get to your mid-late twenties and your priorities shift from youth to creating a home and a family only now it’s the twenty first century and cunts can’t handle that shit don’t want it ‘s why there’s so many broken families now… mibbie. It’s hard as fuck to let youth go, and it’s even harder not to turn out all twisted and bitter fucked up, just like your parents.

The phone rang and I found myself on the couch, nothing but muffled TV and spilt coffee at my side. I picked up feeling more anger and disgruntlement than excitement at being woken form my slumber.

It was Joe, a guy I used to work with, and still saw sometimes. I’d been doing nothing worth talking about, and he, in his opinion, had been doing loads of stuff worth talking about... It was one of those conversations like a clock with no hands and before long I made the excuse that I was cooking some food and had to go didn’t want to burn the eggs for fucks sake… I put the phone down and had an urge to smoke. Drawing the curtains I saw it was a fucked day already all blowing leaves and wet rain the day cunted before I even had a chance to make any choices. I took a piss, missing the pan sometimes, and cranked up the PC, hoping to break my writers block stick a fire up my arse and see if the words came out my fingers. Having not long finished a Brautigan book that I can’t remember the name of my hands were like dead wood like hermaphroditic organs in harmony with my dumb fuck cunt of a mouth which hadn’t uttered anything worth coming over for fucking years.

I started, “Sometimes it’s just so hard to get out of bed in the mornings…” And left it at that. 

“Kids on the street, it’s just not like when I was young younger…. Violence capital V aggression…”

She talked like she had a fertile cunt with roses growing out it all ex-jakie hard luck gone good story elocutely pronouncing and preaching to the next the future… All turned inside out mixing with fuck-wits ready lined pockets and mouths full of mid-priced claret and pretentious self absorbed shite, nothing other than younger versions of parents gone stale. TV for the living. Me, I had fucked it up so many times I’d lost my fingers from counting. Arthritic mind that was pre-fixed on porn and frustration. I turned the channel and was sure I saw the same cunted cunt on BBC2 sticking her fist up another lassies arse, all superficial moans and icy expression.

I played songs that made me feel like my girlfriend had just left me and tried turning the couch to face the wall if you can’t face it head on then turn your back to it. The front door became harder to cross under mental lockdown solitary confinement. I’d tried walking tall but all I did was fall… flat on my face with some cunts foot on my throat. That was the good thing about bevy, it made you invisible, at least to yourself, and gave you a dark corner to hide for a while. Wine stained crotch and empty pockets…

The doorbell went and I checked the peephole to see some suited up cunt with a clipboard and already I was more depressed than when I last checked. I wanted to shout something funny at him, toss some shite out the window at him. I started giggling for no reason and balanced on the edge of sanity till the suit fucked off.

I stopped drinking sometimes coz the days slipped through my fingers but now they just got caught in my teeth.

My body was full of hypothetic bullet holes all fucked worn out dilapidated I remembered days of energy and enthuse parks and beer and all the rest and realised how hard it was to be happy how hard it was for everyone either bitter or dead or something else. There was a photo in my head that didn’t exist maybe I’d burnt it without realising along with the words of my first novel all nineteen and aesthetic knowledge. I re-read it once and got half way through before getting sick being sick sick of everything and admitting it to myself, judgemental of someone who was me or at least used to be was once and I called myself a useless cunt and went on a binge for a week maybe and a half mixing whiskey with old bathroom cabinet pills and woke up in a white bed all angels revitalised and rejuvenated until the next time.

I looked at books and text that I couldn’t read pulled it closer to my bleary eyes pretended to be blind be deep be genius but the words reflected in my face like a mirror and the ice cracked leaving nothing but an empty space frustration and pain. Every night was cold and bleak when there was no fire when there was just goodnights and goodbyes the TV cunted and nobody caring everything ugly covered in dust… a bright dream through dark glasses all hidden depression shit empty souls and a stone heart… winding tighter and tighter in wait for sunlight and warmth in wait for spring.

It was a cheap, supermarket sauce, she was sure, although the raisins were undoubtedly his own addition, she could see him in the kitchen, congratulating himself on this daring, yet subtle touch, before turning his attention to the pineapple raita. It was the usual, she thought, taking a drink, (chardonnay for fucks sake), so tired, like that evening meal with her mother, watching her pocket the sachets of restaurant sugar, not even good sugar, no ingredient listing, small pointless picturejust Orwellian “SUGAR” as if to reinforce its reality, the small smile across her old yellow face beneath lowered eyelids, all these people, these weak people, their little methods for assuring themselves they had power after all, pissing on the glacier.

And now, she was here to engage with this poor fish, KY her beliefs and slip them up the devils arse, sometimes the strong really did have to eat the weak, because, after all, the world is a dead place, and all of us are soil, briefly animated by idiot, mechanical forces. She put down her chopsticks and smiled “So local area networks can be integrated along a wide area backbone....?”

I picked up a photo off the street on the pavement one time photo of a girl wearing a light blue scarf long flowing hair all butterfly shit fucking beautiful. It could have been the same on the floor on the number twenty-six bus all trodden on printed with grimy dust of a Reebok trainer only it wasn’t. I fell in love with that photo the image fantasy dream whatever it was and it helped me get through some times happily in the dark grasping for a light switch I knew I wouldn’t find. I pretended she was my girlfriend gave her a name a new name and for a while she existed in a way. It seems kind of weird to look back on it, a bit sad, like I was fucking lonely, back then. I knew I couldn’t be with her in the real world. Sometimes the photo was better only it’s not warm at night and the faint perfumed scent left it pretty quick being masked by my continual fingering. I couldn’t help thinking maybe I should’ve made more mistakes in my life. Then one day I got drunk on cheap wine and tossed it away all brave and untouchable until I woke up cold and gloomy a big cloud hanging over me and a hole in my pocket. A hole in my heart.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

She was pale with freckles, and light red hair with curls like miniature versions of the rings of Saturn.  I wondered if she'd ride my monster cock.  Probably not.

            "My name's Ede-

            I cut her off at the pass.

            "Listen, I'm flattered really, but I already have a girlfriend"  I said.

            My heart belonged to Cleo.

            I watched as the girl ran off--a few seconds later the bus pulled up.

            When I arrived at Cleo's door that night, I could hear heavy breathing, it was probably that damn Hank.  I entered the trailer.  Cleo let out one final magical scream, and slammed the phone down on the receiver in climax.

            "Hey Esq." she said without missing a beat.

            She took the case of the chocolate from my hands, and handed me a can of Shasta ginger ale. 

            "This is exactly what the doctor ordered" she said.

            I stood there drinking my soda, when the phone rang.  She motioned for me to be quiet, and mouthed-

            "H-A-N-K"

            and then went into the next room.

            Again I waited for a few minutes, and listened against the door.  God, where had I heard that voice? I glanced at the piles of books scattered around the room, and started thumbing through a copy of Erika Jong's "Fear of Flying".

            A while later, Cleo emerged from the bathroom, her mind spent in a kind of half spasm, a mental crescent moon if you will.

            "Why don't you run in my bedroom Esq., there's money on the dresser" she said.

            Slowly I walked into her lair.