Monday, 25 November 2013

Life in Under a Thousand Words.

I was born, a protracted labour, and a large child. Three years passed, and my parents split, and both vanished from my life. I was reared by my grandma, Nanny. When I was six, there was my mother and my step-dad. Well, she wasn't my mother by then, but he was a star in many, many ways, when he wasn't beating the shit out of me.

I grew up. I took to theiving, naughtiness of all sorts, pre-pubescent pseudo-buggery and pseudo-blows, all the stuff the average 70s kid knows well. The 80s. I survived. The bomb wasn't nice. We all were terrified of it as kids at school. Not the instant boil of our flesh off our bones, but the fact that we would not be able to say goodbye to our family. Yes, I lived in Cheltenham. GCHQ.

My folks split up again in the late 80s. I argued with them both, passionately, as only a 15 year old could. To no avail. They both became dust in my heart. They failed. I took up rock-climbing, and pushed myself to a dangerous level for my ability. I had a chaste homo-erotic relationship with my best friend for those two years. It was all bound to fall apart. It fell apart before women came on the scene.

I ended up with my wife for 19 and a 1/2 years. We're still married - both too scared to offend to formalise the split. Four years now. Three boys. It was a long time, that 19 odd years. I can't go back to it, but it was good, mostly. Of course it had to end. My business imploded and during a nervous breakdown I was careless enough (and so was my wife who phoned the fucking doctor) to end up with a diagnosis of manic-depression. It meant in the immediate that I could not work because I couldn't be insured, and I was not allowed to drive for 18 months.

I gave the business to my old friend, who recompensed me with a little helping out when I was destitute and homeless. I should have sold it for at least half a million. On paper. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. I met another woman, a fascinating, irritating, gorgeous headfuck of a woman. I'm still trying. I'm very trying.

Life is a flash in the pan. I lose sleep thinking about my boys, about my woman's daughter, and their futures. The world is dying. The first world is almost dead, apart from the rich gits creaming the skim till they get eaten by the hungry. I've had a good life. I'm 42. I've done everything I wanted to do.

Saturday, 23 November 2013

Come and See.

"And when he had opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, Come and see.
"And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him."

Revelation 6:7-8.
Well, at long last they have hunted me down, and I have my ATOS medical in a week and a half. I thought I would treat the prospect with something approaching equanimity, yet I have found that it has inspired a very concentrated anger. To try to be well, and to be judged on how not-well. To know that every positive that has taken hard work and effort counts against you. To be weighed in a skewed set of grocer's scales, where good is bad and bad is good. To be honest, it makes me want to embody destruction. On the other hand, if there is anyone who wants to give a very talented man a job, and doesn't care about knowing that he will probably only be functional for 50% of the year, and requires a full year's pay, then feel free to contact me.

Thursday, 7 November 2013

I've updated my poetry portfolio. About bloody time, but these have been bloody times. Yer tiz.

Friday, 27 September 2013

The Bomb

At precisely 7.00 am I awoke from a dream where I was in a bleak western farmyard with only two of my three children and my ex-wife and my ex-mother-in-law, when these sooty grey mushroom cloud H-bombs went off some 30-40 miles distant. We had no time for the flash, which wasn't in the dream, and I worked out within the dream we had 2 and 1/2 minutes before the sound, but didn't account for the supersonic blastwave which would have arrived about a minute, perhaps, afterwards.

All I had time for in the dream were these two things. One, wondering where my oldest boy was, and grieving his death alone; two, not being able to make my mind up to run for cover or get blasted.

Since none of of us would have water, the latter would be best.

I couldn't get back to sleep. I obsessed over the ramifications.

I had to go back down to my kids today. I didn't feel happy about it.

I dealt with my practicalities of supper etc, and they are all asleep in bed.

And then I was alone with three sleeping boys. My heart burst and I found myself sobbing on the telephone to my lover. It's been a shit day. Shit thricely. Shit octopussly. I want my schizt life in one piece.

Yeah I'm tough. But still cry like a boy.

Thursday, 8 August 2013

Zembla

Expedition Log.

Day One.

My name is Ekaterina Krasnaya Volkova. I am a post-graduate research scientist on expedition to south Novaya Zembla. I study mutations caused by nuclear testing on local flora and fauna. I am twenty year old. I am here alone now.

Other researcher ill. He evacuated three week ago. Much vodka. I am not sorry. He become big pain in the arse. Men. They cannot be alone. They hit bottle. They hit on me. I am not interested. I am still virgin, still Ekaterina. My work is husband for me. Why I write in English? I learn, I practise. I sound like Russian bride advertisment.

Day Two.

Internet down now six day. Yesterday, I see wolf again. To see wolf this north, this is interesting. Maybe he eat lemming? The old woman I not see for two week. I take her food and fuel maybe. She say she have son. Maybe not.

Protocol demand I not travel far from base vicinity. But no-one to inform but bear and wolf. I take the supplies, tomorrow, or day after.

Day Three.

This whole land, it is rape. This land is whole fifty megaton rape. Men and their toys. Tsar Bomba, Tsar Bomba, big bangs, boom, how clever, clap, clap. There whole landscape made glass. Animal all die. Many ill. Many give birth to monster. Nature, she come back.

Day Four.

I eat herring, rye, gherkin. Maybe I drink little vodka. Maybe I eat pasta, sauce, spinach? No. Climate wrong. At least night has come back. The sun, always the sun, it cooks head, burns eyes, makes ears ring. I need bath.

Day Five.

I go to old woman today. Fill snow-mobile with fuel. Load gun. Take supplies.

Day Eight.

I am back. I went to old woman. Saw polar bear. I fire gun to scare it. Old woman not at home. I went in. On bed was wolf. He lick me. He is gentle. I take off clothes. He enter me, small, like bone, then big inside, and locked. I cannot move. Later, he grow small again. I put on clothes.

Old woman come home. We eat. I stay three days. I fuck her son three night. Then I go. I think I am with child. But I have work still. This research. And I think am bride now.








Tuesday, 28 May 2013

Manic Depression

Does it even exist? Well, yes, in so far as some people are sometimes more up and down than the average. But surely that is just an anomaly of the bell-curve? Does it exist, given that with knowledge, self-discipline, wisdom, and experience one can divert the worst before it happens? Does it exist given that all the classic accounts date back from the 50s and 60s and society is utterly different now? Does it exist because sometimes I might want to strip off in public out of sheer exuberance or collapse weeping on the high st? Does it exist because doctors say so, or because it is a useful shorthand for a certain type of person? One who may do many amazing and outrageous things? I do not know anymore. I have always been different. 1 in a 100. It often feels that the diagnosis is purely for the 1 in 100, and as meaningless as that. It is helpful, because it describes familiar territory, but no more than that. I don't know many people who have tried to kill themselves, apart from 'manic-depressives'. I just don't know anymore.

Saturday, 13 April 2013

Considered Opinion on that Bitch who Killed My Country.

Some of us have lived through the Thatcher times. Some of us have not, but of those later people, some of them have assimilated C20 history to an extent that would make Gove come in his own prolapsed sphincter of a mouth, (if he was only such a flexible worker). I was born in 1971. Early enough to argue with schoolfriends about the Falklands. Early enough to argue with schoolfriends about the BOMB. Early enough to argue with schoolfriends about the Miners, the Working Class, the Unions, the Weak, the Dispossessed Poor... I was old enough, although I was perhaps a prodigy. It does not matter. The symbol of all of that has passed away, but her heritage has turned my country and people into a place I have not wanted to live in for two decades. It started earlier with Wilson, Callaghan, before Mrs T did the job. Monetarism came in tentatively with Labour. But she fucking finished the job, psychologically across the country. She was the evil psychotherapist that made every person I held dear sell out to a degree or twenty. That includes myself, you... how could it not? It is 'History'. I am glad she is dead. She was, in my book, evil. All the current crop are evil too. The living outrage is still alive. There will be a riot tomorrow, and a pious piece of shit on Wednesday. But the outrage has to be kept living beyond then. They will try to make you forget. They will try to make to not care. But even you, young people, born too young to remember... you have a sense of history. These moments only come around every twenty years... Get angry, and get angry now. Dx

Thursday, 21 March 2013

Art and Hell

All art today is just the meaningless raving of idiots in Hell. That is the true art of Hell: banal, loud,empty, strident, hollow. We cannot go backwards to religious fairytales: we cannot go forward unless into further meaninglessness, incoherence, or silence. If Hell is the absolute absence of god, then art and the religious impulse are one and the same. Capitalism is the economics of hell: no final reward to make sacrifice for. The cross is redundant as symbol or voting slip. Art cannot exist without 'god'. Art cannot exist under capitalism. Art is in Hell, where there precisely is no art, nor can there ever be.

Friday, 1 March 2013

Sunday, 17 February 2013

I Wish I Was a Bonobo

Right, fuckwit, write.

I thought I was doing so well the last three weeks. Now, a mere bloody 74 hours of isolation bar children, and I am going out of my tiny mind. I want to be strong, self-sufficient, and all the rest. I despise myself for wanting to be, because I am so self-evidently not. I hate this garden. I hate the swing I tried to hang myself from. This whole landscape is death and misery. I hate myself, this house, even my children when they remind me of what I was, and what I am now. I keep hoping that something will get better one day. I know it is childish, but whatever gets you through, eh? If I look hard at myself, rationally at myself, I see and realise that I am getting worse year by year. Why should I endure? My mind is fucked, and my body is following swiftly in its shadow. I make everyone unhappy, including myself. I want to change, but cannot see how to force that chink and break out. I find everything in the world stale and pointless: all suffering, all happiness. The sight of a new-born baby makes me cry. I'm back in No-Future-Land. So. All I can do is tell myself: "It will get better." I'm glad I'm a good liar.