“It’s all crazy homo erotic… ”
Outlaws. Pirates of the Road… Bank robbing while finding the richest whitest people with value and kidnapping them, the Night of the Pencils.
A backroom. A good place for hostages.
If anybody back chats or starts big noting, like this guy did, punch the fucker in the mouth before hogtying and gagging them, then place whomever it is on a shelf like luggage.
It’s quite funny for us, somehow embarrassing for them, it makes them inanimate.
A long stretch of highway runs through the town we’re in. One of the longest in the country in fact.
Pencil Place has a strange agenda to it because of the politics amongst the towns folk.
It, Pencil Place that is, is a large mining town which outskirts CuddleTown.
A kind of place that quickly falls into society’s sinkhole.
One school, one shop, demountable houses and caravans cover dead yellow lawns and an unrecognisable anthem is broadcast through the radio, television, and speaker transmissions daily:
“We are the Bronc, and we like it now/
No one dares fuck with us or our cows/
Our children love us and we love them/
We know we’ve done good and we’ll get to Heaven.”
I’ve been in Pencil Place for two days, and for one and a half of those days I’ve spent in Pencil Place’s only shop with a jet black six shot revolver cocked in my hand/ head.
It’s an easy job, just come in and do it.
Amabel Hannah has been here for five days, doing steak outs and waiting for the right time. Steak outs generally pay better than the actual job ‘cause o the time consumption it takes.
“All that precision and patience, waiting and watching… Takes up all my time…”
Pencil Place is known around the country for the speed cameras coming in and running out on the highway, and unknown except amongst the townspeople themselves, lives a high level of incest that generates massive income for those involved.
Except the victims of course, the victims don’t benefit, only the sick.
I don’t know who is paying for this job and I don’t ask questions because I know Amabel knows and questions would just throw doubt on the situation. At this point we’re just playing the game of life, disassociating ourselves with nouns and whatnot.
Our job is to pick up these child rapist, put them in the van, using force if necessary, and driving them out to the Woods to be tied to trees. That’s the instructions.
The memo I received reads:
TOWN. STOP. PICK UP BIG CHIEFS. STOP. VAN BAN IN TREES. STOP. THE GROUND IS HUNGRY. STOP.
I don’t really ask too many details about the logistics of the job from Amabel, mainly because the less I know the better in case we get picked up.
She likes to create her own jobs from time to time. Kind of like a Community Service, where outside intervention can be helpful.
I know she feels good doing these side jobs, and I’m glad she brings me along to help her rid the filth.
Who wants to spoil all the Fun with stupid questions like Why, and What.
From outside the shop it looks empty, the shades are drawn, no light on dusk. We’re all inside in the backroom, Amabel Hannah and myself, the hogtied guy whose face is becoming masked with saliva from the nonstop, inaudible screaming through the gag. He’s one of the ‘Big Chiefs’ we’re after. He owns various houses, cars, a few boats, and is involved in numerous bank accounts all full because of the exploitation of his little nieces and nephews whose mother died five years prior.
There are two store clerks and a customer with us as well.
I’m slightly tapping a ball pin hammer on the railing to create a tense atmosphere. It’d be really annoying if it wasn’t me doing it.
The clerks and customer are just here for leverage, I don’t know who they are but in case shit goes down at least we have the ability to make empty threats.
The back room we reside in reminds me of a Nineteen Seventies take on a Nineteen Fifties highway diner.
Cow bells ring WARNING from outside.
Amabel Hannah pulls some keys out of her pocket.
“I’m going to get the van,” she looks at me and smiles, “I’ll be back.” She exits stage left through a door. It shuts behind her. The rest of us just sit in the room. Nobody has much to say, slightly bored because since the hogtying there’s been no threat of violence, the message understood and now all interest is lost.
Sitting around with these people feels like working a graveyard shift at the graveyard; having to fabricate my own conversations.
There’s a knock at the back door. I look under to see whose and how many feet are standing there. Only one, wearing Amabel Hannah’s fluffy Ugg Boots.
I open the back door at the same time the cow bells bang out the front.
Amabel stands with her hands on her hips and sighs, “Ready to go?”
I shrug a frog faced yeah.
“YOU DIRTY MOTHERFUCKERS… LET PHIL GO!”
The cavalry has arrived. They may be smart enough to manipulate and force small related children into perverse sexual acts but they aren’t smart enough to come around the back door.
Amabel steps toward the hogtied man on the shelf while looking toward the ‘hostages’ in the room.
“Excuse me.” ‘Hostages’ turn their heads toward her, all sitting still on the floor. She pulls a .45 revolver from her belt holster and shoots the guy three times in the stomach, BANGBANGBANG.
“Tell them,” she indicates with her thumb to the front doors noise, “that I did this, alright?” They all nod in wide eyed silence as Phil bleeds out. I give them a thumbs up. Amabel and I exit the building, get into her van and drive away…
Country town… trees close to road… fluorescent reflector poles slightly become illuminated from the pink hue of sunset… African tribal drumming music over the radio… In the back of the van a sheetless single mattress, water, papers stacked on one side… The van is blue… We talk about tattoos as another form of visual identification, if they’re visible… We talk about the logic of conversation… We talk about free will… The whole piece moves like pages flipping through a book… From beginning to end… Sometimes we start at the middle…
Three days later.
I don’t know if we’ve been sleeping in the van, or where the fuck we’ve been. Now we’re on a cliff side overlooking the ocean, watching the universe, in depth involvement from a far. We stand on the edge of the cliff. I roll my head toward Amabel swirled blue eyes, “Wanna jump?” she whispers.
Image vibrates very quickly then stops. I look down and see my feet, her face, then we jump. I awake when we’re suspended without gravity.
We really are on the cliff face in waking life, we haven’t jumped but the dream isn’t far from a memory. I sit up and look out. I open and close my eyes a few times before realising I’m alone inside a van.
Amabel is sitting outside sewing. She’s a genius of all trades.
No buying clothes or food or fuel, having underground points to collect all her needs so she can have a lifestyle free of money and bureaucracy, with no kind of detection from surveillance by having to make stops inside the world of the civilised.
She has no phone line, no address to be linked to, no place pending to be.
She trades vans, plates, and licences every three weeks for registration purposes.
She pulls it off very well and the cash pile she must be sitting on would make any industrial miners bank account look like two bob sitting on the sidewalk.
“When do you eat breakfast?” She sees I’ve woken and smirks a question.
“I’d say in about two hours of waking up.”
“Good answer. We can eat bananas at any point then… I’m planning on going south to Cuddletown. People to see, shit to do.”
“We all got shit to do… Lovely.” This is how I contribute to the conversation.
“Yeah, well, that’s good for we then. There’s some people I need you to go see. Wanna go?”
As she says this I thought I saw some dolphins jumping out from the ocean’s surface, but that could have been a trick of the eye. I look back and Amabel is wearing an indigo patterned dress.
“Sure. Who am I seein’?”
“A bunch of people doin’ a bunch of stuff.”
“Any reason or can I just babble complete shit to them?”
“You can do whatever you want.”
I was thinking this’d work out great, I can serve a function while drinking whiskey, writing and talking to people I’ve never met about things like parasites, extra terrestrials mechanics, the permit of age and the dumb foundedness of conglomerate corporations locking their bins of a night.
Amabel says goodbye to the universe, puts her stuff into the back of the van, climbs into the driver’s seat while I get into the passenger and we take off…
Turbulent… When you least expect it looking out the window a black rorschach pattern dances in front of your eyes… Consciousness completely evaporates… No Words No Thought… No Past No Future… Music jams as a disorient rhythm braces itself… A bug hits the wind screen… Obscene nuclear fall out reactions that I don’t even notice from underlying tones of racism… Black Sabbath plays through the speakers… I’m not great with detail, void that with difference…
“I know all the Fun.” Amabel drives along in oblong vision.
“Yep. Fun is fun.”
She swives the van snap wrist and fixes up again.
I’m on the side of the road. The first thing I notice about the place I’m in is the winding of the garbage trucks at such an early hour in the morning.
From a different aspect I feel a strange sense of misplaced arrogance.
Young man’s downfall.
Ten hours in the future I’ve done a day’s work.
Amabel dropped me at the city limits and I walk to town.
I can pick up the vibe of the place by walking through it and she can avoid any sort of detection.
The only people who pay attention to me are people who think I’m a freak or those I draw attention from. Generally one in the same.
Walking around a place is a great way to think and observe your surroundings, geographically and metaphysically. Creating mental maps to know ways in and out of circumstances, knowing what streets intersect where, how dense the parks are, what colour is most popular amongst the cars, where the police and fire stations are located, what liquor stores open earliest and close latest, knowing where the weekly brawls are and what instigates them, all this knowledge is essential for living and helpful in order to not be taken out.
Once you have all this information you can use the very tactful explanation of ‘I don’t know’, ‘I can’t explain’ and ‘I didn’t know I couldn’t do that’.
I’m trotting down Bicarb Street, heading South. I see a supermarket and walk inside for some chocolate. Standing in line, I’m like everybody else.
1950’s Rockabilly play through my head, the lyrics:
“The Philosophy Group, I wanna throw you at traffic/
The Velocity Group, I wanna throw you at traffic.”
There’s a man and a kid standing in the line in front of me.
The man is mumbling about something or other, the kid walks to the shelf and picks up a packet of Space Food bars.
“That’s not really space food” the man informs the kid.
I wonder what is the point of the name then and if the kid’s dreams aren’t shattered by this fault then I’ll feel like stabbing a pen through my eye.
Lines in shops are probably the only place where I feel like waiting is a chore, the only time where I feel like I’m wasting time waiting.
Once there, I turn into Cyanide Mode. On the way out I gave a guy with a cap some change.
Heading north, I come to an old woman’s house.
The rush has slowed. Welcome to the Freedom Dungeon.
Within the ID, Ego and SuperEgo, the Freedom Dungeon smiles coherently. It’s careful with what it says. The space knows it’s place, it knows how to appease. It’ll just safeguard all your realities for safe keeping.
Disguised in the same clothes, like a sheep.
You know that anxious feeling that runs on about on money, family, interactions, unknown pressures and pleasures.
The realisation of matter dissipates and all is clear for a moment.
That moment of clarity’s your the retreat to the Freedom Dungeon.
What Scientology tries to sell, the Freedom Dungeon can deliver.
One more day…
The Structure of Worry
“The manipulators feed for a profit, humanity suffers for the rest.”
Forest Blockaders are living in Mission Mode.
“How’s it going?”
Only talk to the police in situations of stand offs. You’ll find out a lot less and confuse everyone, including yourself. I talk to them quite a lot and I have no idea of what’s going on.
I’m friends with some of the people here.
They swing from trees by ropes and two hundred police officers stand around ready for action against forty people.
“Help me figure this shit out… please.”
One of the two officers I’m talking to looks at me sideways through UV protective taxable sunglasses and says “listen mate, move along alright or you’ll be charged with larceny and indicting a situation.”
“No I won’t.”
I stand there looking at ‘im. He turns facing straight ahead with his cop buddy who is also facing straight ahead. They both have their arms crossed with sunglasses on, so I cross my arms too and put my sunglasses on and turn facing straight ahead, to see what they’re looking at.
Nothing, it turns out.
“Mate, I’m going to get you to move on now.”
He’s still standing with his arms crossed. I turn and look at him, which is rude to do with sunglasses on. I pause for effect, to have a moment and then nod slightly. I assume the police officer thinks I’m retarded.
“Where should I go? I don’t want to go and hang out with a bunch of people in trees, they’re doing things and I’m havin’ such a wonderful time hanging out ‘ere with youse.”
I walk off with my arms folded to the side of the road, sit down and roll myself a cigarette. I sit facing them facing straight ahead.
I think about why they wanted to become cops and moving to America and how I know a few people there.
I look over to my left and see a Kangaroo standing there eating a mango. It’s pretty funny. Then I feel like I’m not going to piss these polices off in the way I want to so I decide to walk into the forest. I see a group of people sitting in trees, silent as sleeping bats.
In life I’ve found the most exciting way to walk through a dense area of small trees is by pretending to be a bear. EeeeRrrr. In a beer belly slobbish kinda way.
I then run into my friend under a boxwood in the field hitting rotten apples with an aluminium baseball bat while cursing down the sky.
It’s a game really, a you show me how crazy you can be and I’ll show you how crazy I can be sorta game.
Maybe all life is is just a funny primary school ‘show me yours I’ll show you mine’ play.
But oh, a fun play game, that brings the police over doesn’t it. You can see the sunglasses coming over the crest.
“I’m telling you too many movies these cunts these days.”
They march towards us as I stand apathetically.
The coppers are just bored with nothing to do, having a wander, trying to fuck with people. I do the same thing so I can see it in their body movement.
The officers are nearly at us when my friend, a six foot eight bearded Chinese ninja, rushes them. SWING! An aluminium bat to the cranium. One of the officers drops, the other stands shocked with an actual expression on his face, even the sunglasses can’t hide it.
My first initial thought is if I should take a bag of ice with me on the plane when we get the fuck out of here. My friend catches the second officer with an overhead blow. He turns to me and starts to giggle.
“This is fucking hilarious” he says pointing with the bat in his hand.
“What is?” I ask confused. I still have no idea what’s going on.
“This is what the pigs are trying to do now.”
He squats down near the first officer bleeding from the head on the ground. He reaches his hand into the coppers collar. I make funny faces with the sides of my mouth. He pulls the officers face mask off, revealing a hidden pig head.
“What the fuck” I scoff, and then laugh, and then return to being really confused.
My friend looks at me and smiles, “What do you think police officers are?”
“Individuals drawn toward an authoritive institution?”
“No no no no no, they’re pigs. Literal pigs. Why do you think pigs hold significance in religion and people’s eating habits? Pigs run the universe. Dude, fuckin’ Charles Manson.”
Oh, turns out Charles Manson and the Beatles were either on or onto something.
Out of the forest and into the city where I’m thinking everybody is a pig.
Pigs in helmets, Pigs in red,
Pigs in golden ivy.
Pigs on trains and planes in flames, while everyone watches idly.
Pigs in glass and Pigs in pot plants,
Pigs on cotton tips.
Pigs in velvet, Pigs underground,
Pigs on Lou Reed’s dirt death mound.
Pigs on the toilet, Pigs in my bed,
Pigs foreshadow the Shaolin’s head.
That’s enough about pigs.
Now to tomorrow, which is now today. It’s a work day. I’ve been finding myself at seven thirty am on my way to work, which is in daycare centres, listening to a lot of GG Allin. It makes the mornings quite strange. This particular morning however I decided to change it up and listen to Throbbing Gristle’s Persuassion, which contains a screaming sample and references to biscuit tins to keep your panties in, soiled panties, white panties, school panties, marlborough panties.
I step onto the bus to go to work, turns out I’m the only one on the bus so I can enjoy my Throbbing Gristle all by myself.
When the music and the bus ride is finished and I’m just about to start work it turns out that work was double booked so I say goodbye and leave.
My days activities are over by ten am.
[‘70’s British Accent]
“And we’re back, in transmission. Welcome to the Broadcast.
Let’s ironize the air. Let’s let the steel sound inside. Let it be inside.
Why not just let it be in you for a while?
Why not? Nobody’s gonna know,
it won’t feel alien like, or anything like that. You won’t even feel it watching you from the inside out. It will buy you lots of things. You like things, don’t you? Nobody will notice if it’s not you, you’ll still, see.
It’s not likely you’ll completely just stop. Nothing anything like that, and you can sleep when you’re dead, anyway.
Why not just take care of business. All the time. You could get a perm, that’d impress, people. You want to impress, those, people, don’t you? Well, just let us in.
We won’t scream. It’ll be pleasant, really. Do it. Honestly. Do it.”
International Conference of World Banking
Everybody’s talking, nobody’s conversing.
It’s all talk at the Walls until the walls have all the information.
“Look everybody we’re going bust. At this rate we will all be hanging from a tree in outback somewhere. You don’t want to see me hanging from a tree, it’s all MerBberHerHer and I hear you poo yourself when you die, buh, that’s disgusting.”
“What do we do? What do we do?”
“I cry when I cum, what about me?”
“Let’s all go to Dubai, we can make our money back.”
Dubai is full of vacuous pricks piteously picking at the asshole of society.
In Dubai, at a bar lined with shot glasses full of red liquid, three of the bankers sit along brainlessly.
“What’s in this?” one asks as the bartender sniffs at the glass. “Methylated spirits, LSD-6 and crushed baby bones. L’Chiam.”
Anti-aircraft fighter jets in straight liquid clouds crack through the sky. Grenades are throwing grenades at sheer insanity, “Dubai is shit,” one of the bankers spits at a map of Canada.
“This is all your fault you buddy bastards, you’re not even a real country anyway.” The streets of Dubai are lined with hung bankers, shitting themselves from trees.
International Conference of World Banking
The Walls are learning more and more, absorbing things like how to act in a business manner and use monetary jargon.
“We need to push the poor people out, and the blacks, it’s all their fault we’re losing out on all our money. We buy all the land and move them and their smelly families away and still we lose out on all our money. Fellow bankers, our duty to the human race is clear: KILL THE POOR.”
Chanting table banging, “One of us, one of us, groober grobble grobber grobble.”
9:10pm – The bankers are all drunk eating pills of multi-coloured uppers, downers, screamers, laughers, sticking needles in eyes and huffing on plastic bags smoking glue.
What’s the difference between a gay banker and a straight banker? Five drinks. They all choke down on unknown meats and poison.
From the corner of the room two of the Walls look at each other.
“What does a gay drug orgy have to do with eradicating the poor?”
“They’re bankers, you know about bankers don’t you?”
“No, I just got here; I walked in when the speech turned into imaginary ejaculation.”
“Well that tells you everything you need to know about bankers. They’re all a bunch of wankers, filling every crevis of society with cocaine stained pieces of paper.”
The next morning’s come down. Naked bankers under tables contorted in foetal positions inside each other with rusted needles and shit staining the walls, floor and somehow roof. Who has the dexterity to shit on the roof?
“Someone answer that fuckin’ phone.”
From under skylight, “Hello?”
“Yeah it’s the Pig, pink pig, how’d you go?”
Nudging hand on sleeping thigh, phone recipient to waking banker “shit, it’s Pig, pink pig”, “Oh shit.”
Into phone: “Yeah yeah Pig, it went great, just great… Yeeaahhhh, no… yeah.. What? No no no, listen it’s not like that… Frank?” Frank lays in the corner covered in mint leaves with fairy lights stapled to his body… “No, I haven’t seen Frank since nineteen eighty two.”
The Pig, pink pig: “I’m on the way.”
Benny Davis theme to drugged out bankers trying to put on pants and clean, two skills none of them possess. Done in reverse parody of stranger’s interaction.
The Pig, pink pig walks around a cement tower approaching the conference building singing songs to itself about horses and how good Denmark is.
The bankers have cleared out with the currency of rent and taxes of the world’s global financial crisis. They are heading in limousines and tuktuks to the Bunkers in Helsinki.
“What are we going to do?” Three bankers in a tuktuk, unbuttoned white shirt on crust stained seats. The tuktuk driver turns his head to them and stares while driving into oncoming traffic.
“I’ll tell you what we could do. We could go to the Waterpark.”
“No, we’re in serious trouble here.”
“But the Waterpark does sound like funnnn…”
Benny Davis theme to worried bankers running around like giddy school children.
“Let’s get ICECREAM!” What a way to spend tax dollars.
The Pig, pink pig arrives with Absolut bottles and bottles.
The conference room is empty.
“Did all those bankers fuck off?” The Pig, pink pig asks the empty room.
“Where’d you find those fuckin’ losers?” One of the Walls asks. “Look what they did to Roof. I know it’s slightly retarded, dinging that fuckin’ bell all the time but really, I don’t like my retarded friend used as a diarrhea target.”
The Pig, pink pig hands out the bottles of Absolut and they all drink up. Various flavours of strawberry and blue fill the taste buds of inanimate objects and swine.
A Jamaican stumbles through the door, mistaking all the littered bottled of alcohol out the front and the generally vibe of the joint as a local bar.
“One BayCan!” He is covered in a fine layer of lichen as he sways in the one spot like a drunk fresh off a boat.
The Pig, pink pig: “Are you asking for beer or bacon? ‘Cause I could become offended in this situation.”
“One BayCan Mun!”
The Pig, pink pig to the walls: “We may as well get this guy to start a passionfruit plantation for us.”
The Jamaican break dances all over Morocco behind blue green and red yellow turn taking lights, making one point seven million dollars annually from the passionfruit plantation.
Split seven ways with the Pig, pink pig and the four Walls and all the passionfruits themselves.
Who needs bankers when there’s natures loving glory.
Back to the Absolut bottles and bottles. Discussion amongst the team about what to do with the fleeing bankers. Possibilities of arson, larceny and blatant indiscretion of BoomBoomBoom.
“What if,” one of the Walls begins, “and hear me out here, what if we hire a private investigator right, maybe you know someone Pig, and we can find them and capture them. Right. And then we can make walk up and down large flights of stairs. Then, alright, we can collect their sweat, angst and frustration until they’ve paid us back. I know a guy who collects on sweat, angst and frustration; he works in the porn industry.”
The Pig, pink pig starts shaking it’s head in obscure obtainment, “This is getting quite absurd now. Then I realise if it’s getting absurd for me then Wall, you must be a genius.”
A barricade of bulldozers breaks down the forth wall.
“JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, it’s like a Boredoms concert.”
Those damn bankers, it must have been those damn bastards. Even I’m sick of them and their constant bullshit time consumption in abstenia.
What do you actually think about, that’s what I want to talk about.
I don’t wanna hear about how you got fucked up and fucked.
What about irritation? How much of your time does that take up?
What about siestas? How does your colouring in technique go?
How do you like your sleep?
We Are You
Inside the Blue Room, Russia 1946.
The military and KBG are investigating and infiltrating heavily into searching inside the mind. There’s mould on the roof and on one wall with a thick fogged sheet of glass.
Dr. Whilem, Dr. Scholtz, some nurses and a few volunteers stand behind the glass in a separate room, watching from the outside.
They are looking into the room where the tests are going to be conducted.
A door to the left of the Testing Room opens and five (5) test subjects are marched in at gunpoint.
“Where did they come from?” one of the volunteers asks either of the Doctors.
“About twenty miles west.” … “They were found in a camp, protesting and plotting against state regiment.” Both Doctors fill in the answer.
Inside the room – The five (5) test subjects stand around slightly awkward, bug eyed and curious. They cannot see the Doctors, nurses or volunteers watching them as they lay on the other side of a two way mirror, but on a subconscious level everybody knows when they’re being watched.
The eyes are like a camera, or G-d’s attention.
One (1) of the test subjects stands by the door where some boxes are stacked. She opens a box and understands food rationings.
“There’s enough food in there to last the five of them a month,” Dr. Whilem tells the conferants, “they will also be provided with books on many subjects, from abortion manoeuvres to tree sanctuary, and bedframes to sit on. A toilet, shower and soap are all provided as well in order for them to maintain hygiene.”
Dr. Whilem now stands on one side of the room, vertically opposed to Dr. Scholtz, so whenever either of them begin to talk to the patrons, they must turn a full one hundred and eighty degrees in order to see the speaker.
The listeners act just like the nucleus.
Everybody spins as Dr. Scholtz begins, “What we’ll be doing is monitoring their air intake. That’s our job. See these charts and dials here,” he points to the wall, everybody looks in unison, “that’s what we’ll be reading and filling out.” A nurse raises her hand. “Yes?”
“Why are we monitoring their air intake?”
Dr. Whilem now, everybody turns again. If the whole scene was sped up it’d look like ridiculous double/triple/quadruple takes.
“We are going to be releasing compressed derevitives of Mustard Gas through the vents and bends into the room that the test subjects occupy. In high doses the gas is lethal, but if moderated it can be tolerated by the nervous system. They know, the test subjects that is, about the gas and they’ve volunteered to be in the experiment in exchange for their freedom once the experiment is completed within the next fourteen to fifteen days.”
“What’s the point of the experiment?” one of the volunteers asks hesitantly.
“Sleep deprivation. Let’s see what happens when people don’t sleep.”
Separate work and play, switch back and forth between lives, there’s three lives now. Living side by side. Once conscious awareness leaves, the life leads on by itself. Remember the woman with ninety two schizophrenic personalities? She wondered how life just worked.
None of the personalities knew of the existence of the others. The side effect of childhood sexual abuse…
The Bakery of the Damned, or the Bakery of Doom, whatever apocalyptic D word you like really.
The Bakery is run by the Children of the Corn in the village by the beach.
The Bakery of the:
Deranged Delinquent Disembowelment Delirium
Death Defecation Distain Disease
Decay Darkness Diphthong Dire
Death Baby fucks the Corn God
“May I have some tea please…”
“What flavour would you like?”
“What flavours have you got?”
“There is Lipton tea, green tea, there is peppermint tea, there is…”
“I’ll have a peppermint tea please.”
I have never finished one of the Bakery’s teas before, they are too hot.
The pastries glisten shiny with flakes of blue. They could potentially be weapons under the Sun and nobody would know.
The Children of the Corn who run the Bakery are disguised as young women dressed in red and white aprons who always smile and giggle during late night interactions.
I know the staff are wearing costumes because their wigs and fake moustaches are put on horribly, they fall off all the time, sometimes nearly into my tea. Every time I go there they play these strange Brian Dennehy films where he’s trying to fuck his way to the Garden because apparently we all need a motherfucker.
When I lasted walked out of the Bakery I could see one of them with a thumb up anothers ass, licking shit from between spread legs.
I won’t be drinking the coffee there, I don’t know what they put in it.
That’s why I get the tea.
Since ’89 the diamond shines
on the sublime people who want the divine.
You love your words, they entwine the time,
to say you’re so, become future mime.
Exceed the functions of heart and spine.
Tis what’s written on the Bakery’s sign.
She took my eighteen dollars. That’s what I get for being too fucked up while walking. A woman in blue, out from behind a pot plant propositioning herself to me.
No No Yes Yes
In my top pocket rolling tobacco and money. She didn’t even jerk just casually slips her hand around my shoulder and u-turns. I know she has my money, that’s fine, but if I can just get a smartass call in….
She jumps on the back of a white scooter that is idling and is off.
What can I say but that was fuckin’ slick.
Slow motion in a surreal fashion. Red to Green to Light to Clear.
Cigarette smoke drifts in vision. A clear bottle with a white lid serving its function. It’s tied with a brown lock of hair.
The bottom lip pulled down, showing pink gums and soft flesh that links.
Worked into a state. A world so far away. The surrounds disappear. Complete.
Except the light. Blurred flashing lights that never stop even in sleep.
Witness through a camera of black and white static. Images lined in a red circle.
Purple motorbike, black motorbike, red motorbike, black motorbike, me in the Nowhere.
One hundred and ten kilometres an hour:
A single body standing on a single road, bitumen street under lights.
A car travels along trying to get to the House as fast as possible. A small child in the back thinks the overhead lights reflecting on the floor are snakes and the bin needs to be taken out.
The single body shifts weight from left to right, huffing and puffs the electrical storm cloud into the sky.
The Bakery in the distance.
The drawing of ingrained equality of treating people. Strangle identification.
The car sits steady, knowing of its strength and sure of itself.
The body hums low, knowing its power beyond situations.
The car is happy.
The body soon dead.
It happens in the middle of the street, you can see it coming.
A Wedding! and we’re invited.
The Pig, pink pig is well connected in many areas and has family bonds in heaps. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays are Wedding Days.
A concert set up with stage and piano. A man with a seagulls hairdo that protrudes from his forehead sings love ballads and gangsta rap verses.
Tables hold about ten guests and a lazy susan sits in the middle.
Guests move in and out, around three hundred at any given stage. Unless dinosaurs are there, they take up more space and can only hold about twenty or so.
As we walk in the door there is a pond to the left of us. Flowing in the middle, water turns upon itself like bubbles. There are no bubbles though, only magic.
The Pig, pink pig: “Put your head in, for luck.”
Walking into the Wedding our heads look like pools.
I sit at some tables with eight relatives I don’t know and can barely understand due to my lack of linguistical skills.
Ice vendors wander around with warm beer.
The drink of choice: Extra Stout with Ice.
Steve sits at a table, smiling and waving hello as we enter, with an old english pip and some kip for entertainment. While we’re eating, the wedding precession steps in step by step. People and guests throw flowers and fruit at them. The Bride gets silly string in her hair, the Groom gets hit in the leg with a tumbler glass. The more drinks that are consumed the more everybody wants to touch each other. From the distance a man stands, stares and aims a finger gun at my head. BANG!
The Pig, pink pig, Amabel Hannah and myself leave on motorbikes when everybody starts wrecking the place, dropkicking toilet doors, throwing up under tables, and I’m positive the bankers are there in disguise.
The next morning. The cleaner comes in with a high pressure hose to spray it all down. Severed lips are on the floor.
I’m glad we got the fuck out of there.
My hand vibrates as I lay on the pillow on my arm.
Unfocused 2:40, low battery.
It sounds different to how it’s spelt.
Lungs expand and contract, smoking will go soon.
Where’s the one when you want them.
Look up at the ceiling fan’s still.
The light should go off, but how would I see what it is I’m doing in the dark, like a mistakenly shocked deer in the headlights.
What insanity drips down from the craters of the Moon like (fuckin’) toxins in the liver.
I was surprised to find myself cradling my balls drifting, then I realise it’s the warmest place on the body, in between the legs. It’s warm, a nice place to be on anyone.
Now my knees vibrating under the on light.
A stone fell on the roof.