Archive for October, 2013
little electric fingertips of love. No more the forgotten verses. Forbidden dances. The sky done crack and we can’t stop laughing.
suddenly stricken with a terrible sympathy
for the people behind the bar.
the rhythmic pounding of tables sends their eyes skittering. Always waiting for that helpless moment when shit kicks off.
And what do we do? we drink till we can’t see straight and egg them on.
You find yourself in synch with the blinking lights; crossing lanes with a rare kind of precision. Pistons and feet in fiendish conjunction.
Couldn’t quite make it out – the light destroyed all vision;
only fragments of millimetre wave to make sense with.
On the second floor of the Mitchell library, in the male toilets outside the special collection room, above the urinals, there is a hole. He couldn’t help but notice. Couldn’t help but put his hand up into this cavity, like it was the most natural thing in the world. As natural as the fact that such a dark hole was in need of a secret.
But when he put his hand into the recess and felt about there was only lack.
Nothing. Just chipboard and wooden struts.
Long after he finished pissing he stood there, staring into that void. Just couldn’t fathom this absence. Eventually there was nothing to do but walk away
but even then this absence stayed, felt as if a cavity had opened up inside him, swallowing something vital.
The next day he came back.
So I’m writing this novella where psychogeography, glasgow, biography and (excuse the cliche) cyberspace are blended into a heady brew of literature. Or something. As I go I will be posting rough extracts on EITHER/OR/BORED for your viewing pleasure.
This black foul liquid which passes for substinance wouldn’t past muster in an Orwellian horrorshow. Churns like a polluted ocean guts and organ meat, sickly grey slivers of liver swimming in gravy so thin even coco chanal would vomit into her jimmy choo handbag at the sight.
This was a mistake.
Chlorine catches in the back of the throat and strips away vital mucal linings and now i’m sure to catch whichever infection passes for a fashion statement around here. I drain the cup and try to repress my gag reflex.
Outside doesn’t fill me with joy. The grey-sheet sky all the more unwell in the failing daylight. The kind of drizzle which turns skin semi-permeable, puffy like a corpse left face down in a puddle too long; has such a large surface area that it bleeds through layers of clothing and turns them against you. An agent proveceur of autumnal inclinations.
The healthy glow from betting shops contrasts with those shuttered cafes, newsagents and indian takeaways that are just beginning to stir in this early night. On Maryhill Road you will find four such establishments within 5 minutes walk of each other – feeding off the povertystricken minds trying to get by on brew and desperate for those neurotransmitters that light up reward centres like puggy machines. Everybody needs some kind of fix, some salve, a rush, no matter how fleeting and illconsidered.
There’s nothing to be said.
I’ve seen your kinds of words before,
cross-eyed and fathom-struck.
Never reach the surface right,
guess the pressure must trouble them greatly,
a-fussin’ and a-frettin’,
a-squeezin’ and a-worryin’.
When they leave your lips can barely tell
what they really mean;
shape twisted and crushed
into subtle semblances of desire