A Night on the Town

I lean down to place the cool glass between my feet. Somewhere in front of me a band is playing, fretting they're half hour upon the stage. Twisted egos vying for adulation, falling short, shrugged off like the unwanted lustful attention of a drunk slapper. My bead necklace hangs floorwards, first cajoled by the forces of the earth, then rapidly coerced. The beads dig into my neck uncomfortably pulling me towards to the black glacial surface at my feet. I pass out, into the narrow but infinitely deep pool. Its depth and darkness is total but I can feel the cold walls on either side of me covered by the faces of clocks, as I sink like a drowned Alice. I wake up angry, another day behind me. Flowers of red have bloomed across my neck and my heart has hardened a little more against the words I speak in boredom. I close down. I want to go home until I've found something to say to these confident souls.

SEXY SNAKE MENACE

Photographs I Took of Projected Photographs My Husband Took in the Past when on Holiday with a Beautiful ex-Girlfriend

Mother F**king

This one time I upset my mother worse than ever before. I had written a story for a 'creative writing' exam about her, sometime during the purgatory years of high school. It contained waffling teenage prose about Bob Dylan's "Jokerman" and bottles and bottles of white wine she consumed during the witching hour, her irreconcilable issues with her father and mother which have burdened her since birth, her catholic school upbringing where the nuns would rap children across the knuckles for answering and not answering a question and where children would urinate involuntarily in fear. All this I scribbled across my lined A4 page hurriedly before my time ran out. Ah my newly acquired adolescent bitterness! Somewhere I wrote she'd "grown fat with domesticity". It was a stupid story, but my teacher thought it was marvelous and put it in the school magazine where my mother and everyone within our microcosm found it. She was horrified. She must've wondered why she endured the pain of childbirth and the tedium of child-raising only to have this girl-child spit back at her. I felt terrible, there were feeble attempts to deny it was about her, and eventually it was pushed under the rug. I'm waiting for Time to make it funny. When the day comes I will laugh until I'm sick.

The Time I saw Sutcliffe Jugend...

My ears were torn apart and bleeding, but the sound rumbling through my chest like an earth quake was visceral and immediately disorientating. Layers of frequencies ranged from long piercing pins to blunt clawing growls, accompanied by a fascistic personality barking like a tommy guns' rattle. I'm not sure what his incendiary ranting was about. It was like a deranged rally where the point is the rage and rant itself, nevermind the ideology. It was music for the deaf. I recognized snatches of it but never a coherent stream. I also saw Sonic Youth play Daydream Nation who were...oddly comforting, like nostalgia.