Wall Of Filth

 I’m having a recent spate of urges to peer into the local sexy boutique retail outlet, where they offer XXX DVDs for sale. I know I keep repeating this familiar line over and over across the months and maybe years that I’ve been here spilling my guts out, but I guess I am still feeling the force of their potency still, even after all this time of struggling to defeat these addictive thoughts. I thought I would write about it, rather than investigate the ‘wall of filth’ which lurks none-too-innocently beyond the threshold of its open door.

Once I step foot in there and make eye contact with that ‘wall of filth’, I’m without a weapon in the Lion’s Den, unclothed and vulnerable. I’m aware that all the actresses are lining up in the jacket sleeve artworks to ensnare me in with a particular expression of lip-sticked seduction. What I’m currently & fondly reminiscing over are hairstyles. I’m quite fascinated by female barnets at the moment, it may be a bit of a lame fetish trait coming through. I feel like I’m in just the mood for staring at ladies hair all day, while they are having sex with men of course. Seriously! Does that sound weird to you? I can’t believe the amount of gravitas a steamy woman’s hairstyle can exert over a submissive gentleman. To me, it’s like staring at a treasure from a distant planet. I know a friend who’s attracted to feet. To each their own I suppose. It’s apples and pears isn’t it?

It wouldn’t be so bad if it were just a dose of legal slap ‘n’ tickle purchased from the boutique, but my dealer’s on the phone as well, a phone I’d be quite wise to throw away, if I had any sense about me. He wants to sell me a bag of poisonous white powder which will shut off my cognitive functions for several days and turn me into a fapping monkey for just the small princely sum of £240. And I, in my incomparable buffoonery, might just indulge in two of them to make sure the job gets done. It’s hard to accept the overwhelming reality that I may be addicted to poison.

He could be selling me anything. Sometimes it feels like there might be a smidgen of cocaine involved. Hopefully not ketamine or anything that might make me ‘soft’. Sorry to talk dirty here on the hotspot. Forgive me. Other names its goes by are ‘killer’ and ‘wipe out’. It has to be said, there’s something about attempting to self-terminate your own life while engaging in risqué behaviours which I find rather comfortable. It’s like watching the end of the world burn away to cinders, embers and smithereens while rutting in an orgy safe on the other side of the moon, until the flames reach you the next day and ensure that you meet your demise too, as well as everyone else, who’ve you’ve decided to atomise for pleasure along the ill-fated one-way journey.

I think that I mentally opt out of the rat race and the war and simply give up with ‘la femme’ because it’s easier. I choose to ‘end myself.’

Finally. Hedonistically. Unceremoniously.

It’s delightful in a way, when the substances first begin to take hold. You place your life in the care of the woman in charge and hope for the best, enjoying her version of bossy sexuality or whichever of her fancies takes your pick. The problems arise when the toxins run out and you return to being sober, knowing that a world of loveless, joyless abject misery awaits you. This is the reason that, unlike any other time, when I usually rush headlong into the madness, I am deliberating it for a change.

It’s bonkers I know. That’s why I’m stepping back and trying to explain the chaos. My favourite bible quote says it all really: I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do. There are no truer words spoken to sum up my life. I always burn down the dance floor and all the revellers on it which represent real human beings and retire to the garden for a fondle with just me and the Devil in blood-drenched moonlight. Then he steals my night club and kidnaps me in a white Transit van to laugh at my solitary woe for weeks to come, until I develop the strength from somewhere to lift myself up for another rebuild. And what’s the first thing I want to do, as soon as I am able to again? You got it. Blowout once more. It’s a tormenting cycle. Try to die. Live trying to die. Repeat. Where does it end?

Hopefully it ends with Brittany. Or Romany. I’m not sure of her name. She hasn’t chose it yet. I’m not sure of her whereabouts. I just know she’s a girl who embodies hope and joy. She’s new to my life, but she’s like a key to unlock the mysteries of the kosmos. She can allow me to stand in the face of all those slutty hairstyles in the boutique and not relinquish my position of abstinence and cleanliness and righteousness. She can be leaned upon in such times as these so that I don’t rush in there like a madman who is afraid his wallet is going to suddenly disappear, purchase 3 titles for £50 (that’s fifteen scenes), run to the supermarket for a disc player, dash to my mates for his spare television, and do that mad porn set up at home in a hurry while trying not to ejaculate in my underpants under immense anticipation. That’s who I am without her. That guy. He can barely wait before two minutes are up until he’s grabbing hold of his crotch and operating the remote control. ZOOM button please. LOOP button please. REPEAT MONEY SHOT button please. The plastic covers from the DVD cases lie in ribbons, torn apart with scissors or a knife, on the kitchen counter tops where they were hurriedly opened.

I find the cases to purchased DVDs quite incriminating, once I own them. Not to mention embarrassing. There’s no way I would leave them out with the regular Hollywood movies, would you? I’m not aware of anyone who does that. Most commonly, people have a hidey place for them. Mine used to be a shoebox in the attic, when I had an attic. Now I tend to bin them as soon as they are unpackaged, and just keep the silver discs. For a while I would keep the paper sleeves to look at the pictures occasionally, with half a mind to making an erotic collage with them. Why, I have no idea. Some kind of raunchy art project. I had the even stranger idea of posting them through somebody’s letterbox who I didn’t like, namely my neighbours. Because, quite frankly, that jacket artwork is offensive. It’s basically just a bunch of women with their mouths stuffed.

Well then, that’s me all talked about it. If not for Brittany/Romany, I’d be at home already, on my third or fourth line of poison, possibly snorting the last, you don’t get many in a bag for £240, the ecstasy is over in no time, chugging my junk disgustingly. As it is, in her divine presence, I’ve deleted my dealer’s number. To be honest I’m struggling, all those painted dolls are ganging up on us, and the thought of igniting the dance floor won’t leave, but I’m going to try and hold on. Thanks for listening. It’s not easy admitting that you’re a porn perv and all the rest of it online. But that’s not the worst of it. That ‘nurse’ I mentioned the other day is on the prowl with her entrancing satanic mantra, which gives me rushes of blood like something akin to injectable Viagra, and leaves me almost breathless in horny exhilaration. I hate admitting this most of all. It should be my loving appreciation of my saviour which leaves me short of oxygen, not an alluring temptress, but alas, that’s just the way it is.

I hope she doesn’t storm in during a flurry of hellfire and pour drugs into me, then eat me alive nakedly in a horror mockery of The Last Supper, separating me from my love until dark days never end. For, if that were to happen, if I were to let that happen, I would be snagged in a lusty embrace with her for the foreseeable, able only to want more sex and drugs, which obviously spell doom.

I could be spending my time in better ways than that. Like clutching Romany, or Brittany, or whatever her name is (love is like that, I heard, you forget their names in the morning). Talking to you simultaneously. Now, doesn’t that sound better?

Witchy Beast

I remember getting picked up on a hot date when I was in hospital receiving treatment for attempted suicide. As if tablets can sort that ailment. I almost jumped off a massive bridge onto concrete unto my death. All the revellers from nearby streets had come out to watch it happen. Couldn’t go through with it in the end, as I thought they were going to preserve my brains and bring me back in a dungeon during the afterlife, for laughs. Nothing in a mortal lifespan jitters me up, but as soon as you mention eternity I start experiencing the heebie-jeebies. I’ve been known to run around the local park half-naked carrying homemade weapons in daylight for fear of nothing but God’s word. Should see me when the Chinese terrorists come out to play. I start climbing trees to escape the approved mental health practitioners.

I’d started seeing a female nurse who worked there, in that laid-back low secure ozzy. I say ‘seeing’, but all’s I really mean by that is that we’d committed the deed of sex once or twice during my stay. It was nothing monumental, the earth didn’t shatter or anything, but I will have you know that I was on strong meds, which don’t exactly help you to sink battleships, if you know what I mean. I did my best with a semi wild hard on. Bit of cooking in the kitchen, nice segment of occupational therapy, then a bit of nookie with my main nurse in the bedroom later. Wham, bam, and thank you madam. It was my sectioning nurse, to be precise. I cried when she gave me 6 months detention. Perhaps this was her way of saying sorry.

We got caught during one of our lewd encounters. Her ‘striking off’ made the local newspaper, but that’s another story. I felt like a young innocent boy who had survived a sexual predator, one of my fantasies. There were no pictures of us, not that any of us would have been bothered. We were adults, making the best of a boring situation. The ozzy was a lame rig to be sat around in all day, doing nothing. ‘Being in’ with a friendly nurse with benefits was a distinct privilege.

Little did I know, however, that she would soon become a wicked overseer to my life who would start to dominate me in my private affairs and make me commit heinous acts against my will. For my role play with this woman I still seek the forgiveness of Jesus Christ, King of the Latter Day Saints.

There was torture in the hospital, at times, or so it felt like, when I was strung out on drugs from my leave excursions. I’d take the day off, away at home, for 8 hours or so, and ingest some legal highs or amphetamine, if I was lucky enough to get hold of some (sometimes my special nurse would supply the goods). I’d watch XXX material all day, then come back to a madhouse in the evening, when the residents and other ‘guests’ would be screaming the place down. I thought the Eternal Illumnati, or government-sanctioned ghosts, or council black ops in ‘invisible’ and ‘porous’ suits, were running riot and amok over the whole godless show. There wasn’t a single spot of blood anywhere but it sounded as if there should be.

Like anyone afraid for their safety in a nuthouse, I started to relay genuine fear to the staff. This was in the early days, when I had no idea why I’d been targeted. Thoughts of pain and agony were nowhere near my mind usually, my thing was nudity, but these hairy-scary nights in that hospital when it seemed to turn into a death camp really had me all exposed and in a hissy fit. My nurse used to take me aside in private and ask me what was going on. I had no idea she was ‘in on it’ until she couldn’t wipe the smirk from her face. I was practically bricking it, thinking that a brutal communist regime had taken over, and she was in fits of giggles. It was only then that I started to have my suspicions about her. With her sectioning me too, of course.

The woman, at this present time, is something of a witch. Sometimes, she frightens me. When I am catatonic and frail with no electricity, and she knows this, she plays at the keyhole with a knife, saying she is going to come in and stab me. I sure do know how to pick em’, don’t I!? We never really ‘loved’ each other, we only had ‘weird’ emotions for each other. Her being the dominatrix of sorts, and me being the submissive, who did everything she said, including obeying some very disturbing instructions in relation to some fapping sessions, which are best not discussed. I don’t want the hotspot to become a toxic junction of debauchery, but a beacon of hope and joy, so I won’t go into what kind of debased activities she enticed me along into, but they play on my mind, and even come between me and my precious promise of Heaven a wee bit, if I let them dally. Got to remain a good man from now on.

I keep smashing her strongholds, but she keeps getting them back in with my redoubts, I call three months away from her breaking a stronghold. She kicks my ass around the shop floor when I consume powerful stimulants, thus losing my inhibitions, and my life comes undone through my own choices. In a drug-fuelled fugue, I get confused, and actually wonder if I do in fact want to be with her, at any cost (and the costs are fantastically exorbitant). I slip into the folds and creases of her like raindrops into the feathers of a crow. Corny, I know. There’s no language to describe it though. In exchange for ten years’ worth of lustful devotion, she takes my love and my joy for herself. My star sign is a Libra so I’m aware that I’m an exchange system, but one used so unfairly???

One of the very first pieces of moving XXX footage I ever saw, I instinctively described the female actress as a Devil Woman. It’s as if I knew that a life of bondage was headed my way via soon-to-be online motion picture. She was just giving me eyes and smiling throughout the whole graphic scene, as if I were the one she was actually making out with, not the stud in the video, he was merely a prop for her to get thru to me. Then I became aware of the ‘live portal’ and we were all giving each other the mince pie contact for hours and hours on end. Sometimes the ‘stars’ got mean (were they ever not) and insisted I look away (which I could not). They exemplified tremendous control over me at all of most times, until Angels stepped in and saved me from some very tricky situations. But I always returned to the danger, because my loins couldn’t cease physically responding to the material. It was so titillating to a young naïve man.

And ‘my nurse’ batters all porn stars with her cruel, personalised, delivered, hand-signed erotica.

She was more or less impossible to resist. I am still in the habit of refraining to this present day. You know what they say, the war is only ever half won. Because a dreaded relapse returns you instantly back into Ground Zero of the Wolf’s den. So, I’m not one to count chickens. I haven’t won anything yet. Because it’s hardly ever over, is it? But I do know that I have walked the wild side more than my fair share of enough, and now I would like to share it with Christ. I really mean that much. Enough is enough is already too much. Demons annoy me, whereas Angels and Cherubs and Heavenly beings fill me with delight. So too Christ and The Lord. They are the only way.

So yeah, she’s a kind of Luciferous beast, but on that date I mentioned she was rather quite approachable and nice.

She drove me to Southport and parked us up on a dark beach in the evening, when nobody was about. There she extracted a bottle of whiskey from her jacket and gave me a generous shot to get my juices flowing. It was like a little ritual between the two of us, all there under the darkening, lowering sky with the waves lapping to us alone as we swigged from 12 years aged or so, maybe Glenfiddich or Johnie Walker, galeforce wind in thru the open window, radio off, her soft hand on mine; it would have been memorable if we were real lovers and not apostles of sick desire, in an age when we both could of being anything to one another or even others. Rather than be a bone fide item though, she would always later confess that I was nothing but ‘sh*gged and blagged’. Does that hurt? Not really. I see women as objects a lot, so it would hardly be surprisingly if I didn’t perceive myself as one on occasion. Well, perhaps a bit, because I could have loved her. I could have loved anyone though. I still could, I suppose. Still can.

It was the best thing she ever done for me, apart from buy me the odd takeaway. She also once put some monies away towards a washing machine for me. A hundred pounds, to be exact. The Hotpoint that got away. I spent it on that white powdery extract we obtain from the cocoa leaf.

So that’s it. To ‘my’ special nurse, take all my weird emotions with you and go away! I don’t mean these kisses xxx they are sh*ggy and blaggy!

Upon Being Taken Away

I’ve just caught a glimpse of a chubby woman writing insanely neatly into a notepad at a desk in the library. Seriously, little insights like that into the female persona stoke the soul. It’s so fulfilling to see a fully developed woman sat down in comfort just chilling out and taking the time to write. I say ‘chubby’ because build or size or shape has got nothing to do with it. She could have had 5 chins and a kebab but it wouldn’t affect the story she was masterfully narrating, if indeed it was a story she was writing. I imagined her penning about a wartime child survivor stuck in a room, like Anne Frank.

She’d be about nine years old with her hair in a bun, dressed in black and white like a nun. When I think of conflicted children, I always picture them as emaciated but clean, clad in Newcastle United colours, hanging around near bomb shelters. I often look at photos of kids from bygone yore in the ‘olden days’, as my gran used to call them. Their personalities inspire me. Their jolly-heartedness is uplifting. I love everything about children (apart from their snotty noses), and especially so children from the distant past, when they had to rely on their intellectual wits to pass the time instead of spending the whole summer holed up over a PlayStation.

Maybe the chunky chic wasn’t writing anything about a child in a room.

But I’m in the mood for doing so. If only I was capable. My higher power, Stephen King, I feel can write about anything. He’s writing about O.A.P kidnappers and poetry prizes at the moment, in his latest novel. I love the way he transports me into a different world. One of my goals is to do the same on this blog, but I know for a fact that I fall short by a long way. I’d love to swing you (yes you) away for a departure from the mundane, for a vacation away from the ordinary, to reinvigorate you with the possibilities of the kosmos, with tales of the stars, with fables and parables from the dominions and terrorities hiding just over your horizons. I long to sweep you off your feet and take you there. We’ll stop at the fairground on the way, and eat salted caramel candy floss, dressed in piped chocolate and sherbet.

I currently listening to some GREAT music at the moment, which is having a similar effect on me. It’s taking me away to somewhere pleasant. I wish I had the wordplay and the vision to do so with my readers using language, I’d take them somewhere beautiful Lord and remain them there so, balanced in perfect harmony between one satisfaction and the next gratification, until they grew sound and sleepy with entertainment overload. It’s difficult to find a subject worthy of such praise though, apart from big dippers and carousels and boat rides in the sun and BBQs on the beach and all the rest of it. Where would you like me to take you, as soon as I feel like I am skilled enough? Answers on postcards if you feel up to it.

The thing I like about my higher power is, he takes us nowhere other than halfway up east of the ordinary. His detective, Holly, speaks wonders when she’s simply sat in her car having a smoke. Why can’t I write about someone having a smoke, and cancel all your reservations while I’m doing it, to whisk you away somewhere on the wings of a dragon into fantasy? While being totally saturated in normalcy? I can’t. I can’t write about natural people doing natural things. I have to include attack helicoptors with precision-guided anti-tank missiles, or terrible prehistoric alligators with ridiculous bite forces.

My life is a trip, it’s always been this way. I’m so different from the also-ran that they don’t even call me Johny Ethnic anymore. It’s got nothing to do with being bi-racial, after I inherited a blood gene type from an African father and an English mother. I call black people Dark Heartlanders, because I remember being a primate deep in my biological repressed memories overseas. There are no such evils as vast and as somber under this blanket of firm sky as those which occur on the main continent, aka Darklands Afrikaans. Mein homeland, mein ballpark, mein district, mein locality, mein precinct, mein turf.

Many folks just have done with it and label me a f**king disgusting mongoloid black tw*t, which I don’t mind at all. I see the funny side of racist insults. I racially insult others for a bit of a laff sometimes. You should see what I shout at them, it’s quite unrepeatable, so fair is fair. It’s good to unleash some bitter and twisted rage off one’s chest from time to time.

Pleasing to know however, is that I have the white blood of my mother coursing thru my veins. So I’ll always belong in both camps, according to me (explains my ex-fondness for interracial),even though none of them are any much interested in me enough to question how I am or give me some spending monie pennies. The government keeps paying me benefits, I suppose, which I should be thankful of. But it also keeps detracting my liberty when the time suits them, i.e when I get ahead of myself and become a dangerous dissident with loads of love and peace in his heart which can strike out at the kingdom of darkness, instead of ascerbic acidity, which only adds to it.

I truly believe (and know from past experience) that harbouring LOVE inside the heart chambers can get an edgy nonconformist locked up up and away.

When he tiptoes around hatred and other negative emotions, he tends to unpeel himself layer by layer, and has to be very careful about not depleting his entire repertoire of positivity in one fell swoop. Once that Devil has a pipeline to extract goodness, like a porn or drug addiction, he’ll go to town on it every time. Even when I go to the effort of deleting dealer’s numbers from my phone, they have a habit of magically reappearing. This is dark arts, I put to you, and must be dealt with quickly and efficiently. So good luck with that, if you are currently up against it, and any other endeavours also too. Peace out. 

The Bohemian Network

People always ask me, “Where did your fiction begin?” The answer is quite alarming, as some rumours abound that I written my first book while locked in a pitch black cubby hole. This miraculous feat attracted the attention of the authorities, and almost got me into a special academy for gifted children, which stern opposition halted. I can barely remember the event myself. I’m sure there was a thin slant of light coming through from the living room. But my single parent maintains that I not only written a complete book, but coloured in some pictures while I was there, all in utter darkness. Apparently she stared into a candle that night and declared me as an Angel of God, because she had never seen anything like it. And before you know it I’m in programs like MK Ultra and suchlike for my trouble, with a line through my name rather than under it.

I thought my family were making up these outright porky pies, until one evening three years ago, on a nutty wing of a mental hospital, when I started drawing in the dark for no other reason than I was bored. There wasn’t a scrap of light, not even from the window, and to make matters even worse I was using my weak left hand. I just started scribbling and fell asleep whilst doing it. I’d had a stressful hour or two of harassment from electronic voices (microwave hearing, Jesuit wavelengths, schizo tracks, demonic chatter, spooky vibes, perpetrator radio), or call them whatever you will. See if I care about their labels, as it’s all sheer satanic madness to me. I wasn’t in the mood for any more of their hateful regurgitation. Accompanying the verbal recording from Hell was an hallucination of some ugly villain next to me on my bed who apart from very much not belonging there also desperately wished to stab me up with some special tactile-based futuristic weaponry. How someone who wasn’t there could physically assault me was ranking as an almost supernatural occurrence. I have never been able to tell the difference between the ghostly realm and technology. In the past I had let sprites like this one hurt me and simply gritted my teeth through it. During this time I developed some kraft from somewhere and started talking him out of it. When he realised I wasn’t going to roll over and let him inflict pain into my pores by chatting bubbles over his makeshift plan, he started crying. Crying, because he couldn’t hurt me! All a lot of the menticidal affliction takes is a strong enough voice to talk back over it but that is hard to do when weakened and afraid. Their atrocious parlour tricks work best when logic is absent due to fear.

I was angry, cogent and eloquent upon this occasion, so I outdone my hallucination and its pain game. Anyway, I woke up in the morning with a picture of a werewolf in my left hand. I had sketched it in the dark shortly before drifting off to sleep. This led me back to that book as a child. I had to destroy the picture because it was very valuable in the wrong hands in case the hospital authorities got hold of it. They were always transporting me to different institutions just to get a peeps into my belongings, as I regularly hid my creative endeavours from the prying nurses. I was always writing and drawing a bunch in hospital. I even made an album in their make-do music studio. It was uplifting/progressive electronica. I’ve since moved onto dark synthwave.

And like I was saying, I’m always seeing my ideas and thought patterns in the movies and other people’s books. I believe my creative process is hooked up into a collective consciousness around the bohemian network of the globe. I pride myself on being a worthy contributor. There’s no shame in it whatsoever, apart from the fact that criminals are making an attractive living from my creations. I once met a man at a book signing who said he visualizes a Hollywood script in his mind in three minutes and the powers that be go off and rip thirty minutes of real movie time from it. I’m not sure how it works to be exact.

It doesn’t end there. I see popular products like soft drinks and alcohol brands named after characters from my stories and suchlike. They name chocolate bars after random words in my daily diaries. My local supermarket is like one giant homage to me. You should see it. My head is nearly exploding. The numbers of the sprees which define my relapses are very sentimental to some people.

It’s just the way I like it. Talk more tomorrow hopefully.

Eternal & Snickering, When The Moon Is Phat

Hello. Weird day here. Aren’t they all? This spinnin’ blue rock gets more bizarre with every revolution. I’ve got a story to tell, but I don’t know how to tell it. I don’t know whether to tell my testimony as an autobiography, or as a piece of fiction, or as a mixture of both. I read a book called Lunar Park (2005), by a fella named Bret Easton Ellis some years ago. It influenced my writing immensely, as it let me know that anything is possible. I can bend the truth, I can make stuff up, I can swear that the make believe is real, etc. etc. Basically, like a young man named Charles Wrench once said, “I am the Creator of Worlds, so I decide the rules.”

I amplify lies, mix them with God’s Honour, interweave it all through with lashings of legend and myth, and away we go, alive with decent ingredients for a tale on the bounce. As Chopper Reid so famously stated, “Never let the truth get in the way of a good yarn.” He was so right. He also said that he was sat in a cell, unable to spell. This was after his bestseller.

I think that the results are special when you mix autobiography with fiction. I have to be careful here, because I don’t want to give away my own tried and tested tricks of the trade. Yeah, I like it. Metafiction is used to describe books which have self-awareness, like Clive Barker’s Mister B. Gone (2007). Love that too. There’s a technique called Breaking The Fourth Wall, and that’s when a character in the story talks directly to the reader and lets them know they are in an imaginary world of fiction. As if the reader doesn’t already know that. Interesting, but stupid, if you like. But I do dig such stuff, it has to be said.

Lunar Park, without me being acutely aware of it, was pulling out similar stunts. I tried to reflect a uniform sentiment when I was writing my prison novel, The Violent Arsonist (2007). It’s not as if I had the intention to bamboozle the reader, but I genuinely didn’t have much of an idea what was going on within the plot myself. This is because much of the prose in the book was centred on dreams, and we all know about dream logic. One moment, you’re sat in a café with a polar bear, the next you’re doing the waltz with the in-laws. Nothing much makes any sense now, does it? I wanted a story which exhibited the same traits. Why? Why not? Just did.

I’ve learned that for me personally, it’s not a book or a movie ‘making sense’ that appeals the most to me. I am just keen to take away with me a lasting impression which stokes my chakras. This may be a touching teary goodbye scene, or a penultimate combat scene, or a suicide or a bike crash or an animal attack. Anything poignant, really, and memorable. Making sense has got little to do with it. If you want sense and logic, watch a cooking show, or read a gardening manual. This was my motivation for The Violent Arsonist, which is about a criminal who is unable to rise up from bed, and is described, in no uncertain terms, as one, “Seriously f**ked–up novella.” And proud to be, at the time of writing. What? I was young and bold. Not quite fearless, but nonetheless brave.

I was abstinent from drink and drugs when penning that mad party, yet it’s by far the zaniest thing I’ve ever produced. It just goes to show that a sober mind is not necessarily the sanest mind. I wasn’t sipping hooch, I wasn’t blazing weed, and I wasn’t on meds. I think all of these dark materials, along with the dream logic, would have sent it over the edge. Wasted, in a lucid dream, and writing about it? Nah.

Now I’ve got a piece of fiction lined up called The Museless, but it’s starting off with characters I don’t even like, so I might scrap it and start something else. I have a girl called Romany who embodies Joy in my life so I might get into the habit of scribbling something about her. She’s a buoyantly afloat girl who sees the brightest lining to every situation. The Museless was jostling into gear with demons and devils but that’s not what I want in my life right now, more bad characters and more bad novel arcs. Life is too short to be depressed by one’s Own Shining. I call it the Shining like Stephen King calls it the Shining. It’s simple mental acuity which is capable of monstrous atrocity or trembling beauty. It’s defined by its effulgent creativity. In this modern age of terrorism, a person’s Shining may put them on a supremely dangerous and endangered list. It will make you a target. Mine certainly has. I think King gets away with it because he is a Gatekeeper, but who secretly knows what he goes through.

As one of my more understanding psychiatrists whispered to me one time, as he was hunched down over a table in a corner after a lengthy tribunal, “They pick on the bright ones.” If I was in India, I have heard, I would be esteemed for being a voice hearer, and elevated in society. Here in the West, I am frowned upon immensely. I read a top notch book from India which my doctor gave to me. He was called Dr Paul for short because nobody could ever pronounce his especially long surname, he believed in spirits and had poems published online. One was called the Lonely Planet. Anyway, this book he gifted to me was about one woman’s ordeal as she survived some floods in her village and held her own against the devil who visited her every night and ravaged her body and mind as she could hear the wind and the rain dripping down the metal sheeting of her shanty settlement, an undercurrent to her own yappy torment. It’s as if my doctor knew how my future was about to be laid out, and was giving me a forewarning of how to yield with the eternal footman’s snickering ways. The woman in the booklet both fears and yearns for the visitant; she describes him as a whirlwind which undoes all her crops, and a hammer which smashes apart her youth. I, on the other hand, and simply growing hoarse with repeated instructs directed at his going away.

Please God, take that madman way. He was passed onto me from a quack’s Indian book. Joking. It was a great book. I actually had a visitation myself, through analysing an illustration inside the book with several specific ‘scrying’ devices, including a torchlight and a magnifying glass if you must know. To scry is to more or less meddle with the preternatural. I started getting sightings of a Chinese girl with a Bradford accent who would appear down the man-sized crack next to the wall and my bed late at night, most notably 3am. This time of the day is known as The Animal Hour, or The Witching Hour, or simply 3am. Her head would be cranked at an obtuse angle, but rather than be terrifying to me she would come across as funny and amusing, mainly because she was pretty with a humorous voice. I still hear her to this day now and again, laughing boisterously across the pub, or repeating something hilarious a bartender may have said. We don’t get along like we used to because I denounced all spiritual activity in my home, and burned several artefacts, but I do still find the infectious shrill of her laugh a strength and a comfort in these lawless estates I stomp around in. At least someone else is seeing the fun side to things, like, you know, is what I think anyway.

So long then. I’m off to welcome back my many, many visitants into my pungent Golgotha. For 3am, of course. I’ll write about it one time. Stay tuned, you’ll be the first to know all about it. 

Your Fear Has Won Hard Many Chances

Yeah, hi there all, I’m just becoming aware of myself as a fearfully and wonderfully made creation. I don’t mean to blow my own trumpet, but nobody else will big me up in this way. I have to give myself a boost and a boast for reasons of self-encouragement. Sometimes, now and again, someone will say I’m looking great, but it’s not enough. I need to feel understood and respected, and for that, internal self-talk is required. I need to turn inwards, for expert advice, you know. Nobody else will ever do this as well as I can do it for myself. I would have made a good hype man for a bodybuilder. You know what a hype man is, don’t you? A hype man chats positive reaffirming gobbledegook to a person in the gym working out, in order to motivate him and keep him gong and make sure his head stays ballooned with much macho egotistical confidence.

For example, you’re in the gym working out, and I’m your hype man spotting you. I say, “Keep it going, baby, you the original number one around here. You’re so dense that lights bends around you. That light is nowhere near touching you, baby. You too dense and big and thick and wide for it. You solid, bro, you super solid…”

Stuff like that all day. Fanning bare smoke up his arse like. It’s what hype men do.

I don’t train at the moment, but I am a hype man to myself at all times. Not in a sweaty working out environment, but in everyday natural settings in groups and at home. No one out there can help you, when things get tough. I should know this, because state-sponsored terrorists have tried to kill me off with multiple assassins placed in my home over the years. All I had were Angels and God to protect me. Plus my own wits. We’re talking 12 hour standoffs to begin with, then two weeks of living with the killers under my bed. It sounds absurd and I don’t expect you to believe me. My so-called mates were nowhere to be seen. My family went missing too. When you’re looking down the barrel of death, there’s no friendly nurse who mysteriously wanders out and holds your hand. You’re entirely facing your maker on your lonesome. I knuckled down with my bible and prayed for another chance. I’ve been on my last chance three or four times over now. And I’ve had it up to my back teeth with assassins. If the powers that be are not trying to kill me off they’re having me detained in institutions to break my resolve. Their crude ‘medicinal’ injections, under that lame of an excuse they call the Mental Health Act, I’m suspiciously half-convinced contained wood polish last time. Since they gave that to me I’ve developed obesity pain which was never there before. I’ve gone past caring about what they put me through now, or what they take away from me next. I’ve decided that I’m clinging tight hold to my JOY and that’s that, their modern warfare tactics end right here. I’ve rolled over and gave everything away in the past: My home, my contacts, my freedom, my sanity. Now I’m fighting back for Joy. Joy is embodied as a woman with a name and that name is Romany. I doth do battle for Romany. I’ve lost so many other things. Not Romany, though. Please not so oh none Romany.

Once you survive a few hits on your life, you start to believe you are invincible, and then a stronger more measured attempt on your life occurs and you are filled with doubt. When you stray from God, you get worried about your divine protection, but when you are solid In Christ, there really are no worries, He Will Provide. It all depends upon your state of mind.

I’ve just had a wee conversation with a nice lady at the photocopier, who said she fully believes in the end of times. She reckons that we are in the final days. With this war that I am fighting in my head, I feel well biased enough to side with her. Things are ominous, dude. It’s taking all of my strength reserves some days to shuffle through the portentous anxiety shoved in my face by invisible energies. At times I feel like running around in circles while pulling out my hair and screaming. There are things JUST THERE, and they WON’T GO AWAY. But I don’t wanna complain. I have two arms and two legs and breath in my chest. I have a roof over my head and all the rest of it. Richard Dawking once stated that, “We are not here to be comfortable.” But man, this hard!? Why so tough. But also, at the same time, “Why so serious?”

Think kismet. Think God-incidence. Think zef side. Think synchronicity. Think faith. Think love. Think Joy. Think Heaven.

I think these concepts sound corny when all you want is some stiff illegal drugs and a fire-breathing whore, but in the morning there’ll only be one thing you’ll regret. The dark side of life. The hedonism. The hangover, the comedown, the hooker. And you might lose everything in the spin dry, such as your house, your marriage and your kids. Then where will you be? Bound to that wide path of fake counterfeit pleasure for all time, when you could have stayed with love and freedom for the princely sum of nothing but a little willpower. Now you ain’t no numpty, so you know it might be hurting for all eternity unless the universe throws you another rope, right. But all I’m saying is, how many ropes have you had by now? How many more will you be expecting, by the way? Pardon me, but I reckon that somewhere out there someone’s counting.

A Complaining Bomb

Since I’ve redefined myself as a super soldier, my horrendously harassed life has become a little easier to cope with. I’m trying to no longer see myself as a target of futuristic stalking, which is helplessly depressing, but as a warrior showing these sad wrong’uns how living life is done. Thank goodness all this menticidal warfare is in my head, or otherwise I would lash out at these indescribable cretins and kill one of them off for good, as they so deserve. If one of them had the cohonies to knock on my front door and fight me in person, instead of picking apart my brain all day via cowardly microwave hearing methods, I think I might detach his head at the neck with my bare hands. Just remember, these obscene lowlife gangstalkers hate life and each other, so take all their loathing and dissatisfaction out on their victims. They cannot bear to be away from a Targeted Individual’s mind for any length. It’s like being out of shelter for them on a stormy day or something. They cannot THINK unless they are harassing someone. And the evil they do is directly relatable to the self-disgust they feel for themselves. That’s why they are after our JOY, because our feelings of happiness, when connected to their own brainwaves, distinctly unsettle them, just as their negative emotions of bondage and pain disrupt our biorhythms. Why they connect themselves to us, I have no idea. Perhaps it’s because they cannot stand to live alone, knowing they are putrid and vile inside. They need a human radio on.

Someone once said, “If all of mankind were able to sit in a room alone in peace, the world would be a better place.” Can you sit in a room on your own, doing nothing, maybe a bit of TV or a newspaper? If you can, fair play, take a bow. If you are unable, you are most probably an evil menace to has to interfere with sombody else’s livelihood to pass time. In recovery, we learn to sit with our emotions. It’s very hard. We want a drink, or a smoke, or to pace up and down, or to go out and rape Caroline from three doors down.

The energies I perceive around me, tormenting me consistently from morning until sundown every day without fail, I feel by now I am getting used to. I mean, you never do, but it just gets easier. Some days it gets harder, it all depends. They had me half believing that they were the Eternal Illuminati, invisible, porous, and all powerful. But listening very carefully to them over a number of years, I’ve just about gotten diddly done that they are not worth anywhere near my equal. This is not to say that I have any exceptional breed of greatness about me. It’s just to conclude that they are boring, repetitive, petty, small and unwanted. They no longer scare me, they just annoy me. I’m not getting angry because I have come up against a greater foe, but because they are stupid and will not go away. They cling to every thought in my head like babies to Mother’s apron strings, and it’s thoroughly maddening. They fidget and tamper with me, like toddlers obsessed with a noisy toy, and take turns to step in for one another when I lose interest in each of them. Their obsession in my life drives me mad. I see through their cynical criticism, designed to hurt and bring me down. I know there’s only one way to be sitting in a pub, and that I can’t be doing it wrongly. Sometimes I go for long stretches waxing creative philosophy in my head. They have no idea of how to keep up with me and so instead simply resort to racial slurs. Then they have the nerve to repeat over and over that they are ‘better than me’ at everything, because I am nothing more than a stupid negro who doesn’t know anything about nothing, or nothing about anything, depending upon which you prefer. The fact that I am black and smarter than they are chews them up big time, I reckon. Their uppity ‘we-can-never-be-caught’ snobbery cannot take being outdone by a monkey. They cannot believe what I know and what I tell them and how I respond to them. Not like Eternal Illumnati, but like complete wasteful rags of filth who don’t deserve to breathe the same air as other humans. I mean I can’t be sure, but their reactions are so infuriated lately that I have to remind myself that it is they who are harassing me, not the other way around. I’m starting to feel guilty, talking of them this way. Considering they are stood behind my computer at this very moment, huffing and puffing! Backlash on it’s way…I might be getting punished by a numpty ghoul tonight! Is it a ghoul from the darkside, or a black op who can’t sit still? Seriously can’t tell the difference.

You know what, if I went out of my way and met an attractive girl, or if something else nice and cheery were to happen to me, I think my oppressors would curl up and cry.

As it is, I’m happy that my life matters and that I am fighting for a beautiful purpose such as Joy.

Siberia, Sober

I was in the pub the other day, and I consumed 5 bottles of non-alcoholic beverages. Since putting the booze down, it’s been my go-to thing. Never have I been so disappointed, however. It looked like a beer, it tasted like a beer, it cost the same as a beer…and I was in a pub, which is all about beer. Except that I wasn’t pissed. I was bloated though, it was terribly gassy, so much so that I felt quite ill. I had severe acid reflux later that evening.

What happened? I had a mini blowout without substances. That’s me off that shite now, it’s bollocks, honestly. I’d rather sip blackcurrant soda waters. The coffee in the pub is awful too, I call it steamboat fuel. I’m just sober and natural and high on life. Don’t get me wrong, the real thing (alcohol), has been calling my name over and over. I almost had an encounter with a beautiful pint of Kronenbourg. It looked me up and down and demanded I buy it for leisurely comfort. The first step in AA is admitting that we are powerless over alcohol. When you readily accept this into your heart, it can be quite weakening. How can a pint of beer be more powerful than me and all that I stand for? That’s impossible. With sex and cocaine, I have no problem relenting my position, but I’m not having a seedy pint of lager getting one over on me like that.

I thought of nature, and the cosmos, and my higher power, and how I used to have friends and a job and a family and a social network, and I summoned all my love into one healthy bundle, and I told that beautiful pint of Kronenbourg to sling its hook. Well not quite. I didn’t have to go that far. But you know what I mean.

And it’s the same with pathetic scumbags who won’t leave your life alone. You just simply ignore them. They start to panic when they are ignored, and cling to any portion of your attention desperately. The truth is, despite not being massively important government assassins and weapons of war, they are tiny insignificant criminal wannabes who crave attention because nobody loves them. My hatred of them used to be monumental. Now I actually feel a bit of pity for them. They hate each other and life itself because the devil they serve has banned them from joy. They are not allowed to smile or laugh. That’s why they cannot bear me joking to myself all the time. I must drive them equally crazy as they drive me. The only time they feel any emotion is when they have me crying on my bed at home, unable to venture outside. I promise, I am never letting the toerags seeing me down again. The less said about them the better. They don’t deserve any limelight here at the hotspot.

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HER [SIB]ERIA IS wipe out

Sorry, I’m just referring to a teacher I used to know. She was my first crush. I thought I’d fallen in love with her. Every sunset on the horizon reminded me of her smile. She was all that mattered in life. She said that I inspired her to be a writer, because of my dazzling fiction, which was based on her. I written about us on a bus out of control, it was called Tragic Unity, and later went on to become the Hollywood blockbuster Speed (1994). This is not the first time I have seen my work ripped off by Hollywood. They read the chip implant in my brain and steal all of my best ideas. They don’t even try to hide this, it’s the perfect crime. Tom Cruise even thanks me for them in a downloaded sound file. He says thanks buddy, keep up the good work. They reward me by not cancelling my security benefits.

Anyway, this teacher writes about a mental hospital in the fabric of her created reality, called Siberia. It’s a futuristic hospital. Straight up there are similarities between my work because my first novel was about a mental hospital too. Mine was called Jazat. Yeah, she has a better title, so what. But she puts me right in there, in her hospital, under a different name, but it’s me, I recognise myself in a myriad of forms. I can’t believe what I’m reading, it’s a signed copy from a private bash at Waterstones. Her main character even has the same name as my girl at the time. Her hospital is new age and ethical, they are trying freshly sanctioned schemes to engage criminals in compassion, mainly by showing them re-enactions of their crimes and administering special empathic drugs.

Loads of strange psychic events happen when I’m reading my special teacher’s book, too strange too mention like, they’re like a million to one chancey. One thing she relates her creativity to is bubble gum. She told me this in person before starting the book. She says that writing is like chewing bubble gum. Conrad Williams says that writing is like drinking water. I call it ‘wrangling’. Some call it ‘going. Anyway, I’m right at the end of her novel and bubble gum comes into my mind for some reason. I remember her quote. Then, two lines later, one of her characters is chewing bubble gum. Then I see a vision of her, an implanted vision, in my head, of her blowing a bubble. Via the chip implant.

Later she starts taking me to her hospital in modulated dream technology, deep in Siberia, where I meet several of her other ‘fav’ pupils from school, and various other randomers immersed in the detritus of my memory. I once read up that to fight invasive mind control methods like chip implants, the only defence is to turn to God and love in order to avoid becoming brimmed with hatred, which is the purpose of it. But how could I use my teacher’s grade-A fondness if she was one of the controllers of the evil program wreaking havoc in my grey matter?

I complained to her literary agent, implying her in remote neural monitoring and cyber harassment, but she just simply had me locked up because of my long steeped history in madness. Nobody believes a word I say. So, no wonder, when I start dishing the dirt back out to where it belongs and emanates from, it comes back to stick. Now I really am locked up in a real institution, going to her make believe institution in my dreams, and still rereading her stupid dumb bestseller book about me.

Her evil is Siberia. Her Siberia is wipe out. And her first crushy face is lodged all over my chip implant. They do say nothing can hurt you like love can. All the people I used to love are now my enemies, in this WAR ON JOY currently going on in my life. In Christ, it’s perfectly acceptable to show love towards your enemies. That’s what he advocated.

Today, instead of being an embittered old croak without pleasure in my life, hating all around me and wishing harm outward, I will be a shining exemplary beacon of love and friendliness to all I encompass. Please bless this vision, Lord, and help it to be true.

THIS IS HOW I WANT TO BE. IN CHRIST. WITH MY MAIDEN (ANGEL).

 

 

Priceless Intellectual Property

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Out Of It - Where Did You Come From?

So it’s once more into the fray then, in this 3^rd World War battle for the human mind. I could think of other things I’d rather be doing. I’m taking it all in my stride to be perfectly honest. I know who I am, I know what I own, and I know what they want from me. It may sound naïve, but I’ve never been aware of info like this. I’m starting to begin to accept how important we all are in this melodrama. They’ve spent millions keeping you from the truth.

I remember opening up the bible and being reduced to tears by the first psalm I read. I started seeing childlike images of a cartoonish nature behind the fading, smeary text. My tears were making the words drool and slip and slide off the page, revealing colourful depictions underneath. It was all very life affirming. I believe that revelations like this are scarce and mighty, and that somebody out there didn’t ever want me reading the bible for this reason. They call it the Living Word and I trust in that. Once, when I was reading it while homeless on the streets of Liverpool, I could hear a man deep in my subconscious roaring out the print with me. I wouldn’t say he was God but I’d be surprised if he didn’t think he was. He was a character in my schizo circle who would then become known as The Father. He has several brothers. Sometime the other year I counted all the personalities in my schizo circle, and the full house totalled 30-odd. I hereby trust none of them at all wholeheartedly and remain standing alone. I know a girlfriend who also concurs that all of her angels shat on her as well. That’s just life. Those evil spirits are forever mimicking pleasant presences. But you work them out eventually. They’d con you for all time if able.

I’ve seen evil spirits in their natural form. They look like big black and hairy caricatures of comic sketches resembling oversized creatures with silly expressions. They like to assimilate themselves into people close and familiar to you. They love to look like your partner or your best friend, even when everyone knows that they’re not. I got told, by an evil spirit incidentally, that my interracial pornography use attracted so many into my life. Apparently, sex between members of different races is like a red rag to a bull to them, they can’t ignore it. Good job I haven’t watched it in over a year then. I swear, I’ve seen enough tits n arse to last me ten lifetimes.

Imagine if you’re an evil spirit and you’ve been summoned by the dark manager back to Earth for a simple assignment of possession. You think to yourself wow, what could this be, is it a mass ritual of carnage on an Indian burial site? No, it’s just a man tossing off in a council flat to Barely Legal 18. He’s looping the money shot and sticking his tongue out for some mad reason. Plus he keeps swapping his hands and speeding up. And he keeps looking around the room, as if he’s expectant of company. Maybe his other half is due back from the salon or something. Perhaps she can catch him mid-whack and nip his disgusting habit in the bud, because he’s a filthy fapper who can’t stop playing with itself and doesn’t wash its own hands before he stops to raid the fridge.

I remember many times when I was in the shameful habit of self-abuse, lost in deep dark torrents of XXX material. I’d be out of it on Class As, in a sexual euphoric cloud of delinquency, watching hardcore this and hardcore that over and over again, in a proper trance like, slobbering and everything, when I’d take a glance upwards and notice someone in the room with me. Instead of reacting with shock and horror, I’d simply look away from them and turn back to my restricted exploits on screen. I didn’t care about my perps getting ‘extremely’ close to me. My condition was so out of it that I made it fantastically easy for them. One perp in particular said he was going to appear from behind the settee and pull my underpants down. He said the last bloke he did this to killed himself inside 45 minutes. I told him that I wasn’t settling for that happy-crappy, my underpants were already down, and I was ringing the police. He had no idea that I never get the police involved, because all they ever comment on is my medication. He didn’t appear from behind the settee to try and pull my already-down underpants down, but he did smash one of my mirrors when I was sleeping. I left him some flowers one morning, as a joke.

Yeah, mid-wank, in a trance from drugs…some very weird things happen indeed. I once looked up and saw a giant rat hanging upside down from a chair looking straight at me in fascination. Then it waddled over to me and pissed down my bell end. Serioiusly. Truthfully. Honestly. No lies here. And that’s nothing, compared to other stuff what happens in that state, all alone in the apartment, which is swarming with hateful perps and their booby traps. I am more often than not too frozen with panic to react.

My perps, when I am wiped-out on harmful brain-numbing poisons, simply open the front door and pile animals into my home. No shit. It’s dark, and too late to do anything about it by the time I realise what is going on. It’s the way the animals move, all stealthy and creepy, above the periphery of my f**ked up lowered eyes. I often have strange creatures engineered in laboratories surrounding me in my own darkened home. I’m off my nut listening to female satanic mantra, chugging my bishop sinfully, so what chance do I have with all of my attention distracted. My brains are all blown out everywhere with hundreds of pounds worth of nasty narcotics, albeit terminating my brain chemistry. Things slither all over me and even lay eggs and stuff in my mouth. Parasites in my stomach have audible conversations with one and other.

Then, when they admit me to hospital for ‘neglect’, all they do is inject me with wood polish against my will and tell me I have an overactive imagination. And why the hell can I hear moans and groans of pain all around the building? Isn’t this supposed to be a safe environment? Sounds of torment follow me around, and everyone looks terrified that a goon squad might jump out from around the corner with a machete and start cutting everyone’s ears off. Honestly, ever since I watched that movie Hostel (2005), about a network of torturers, I’ve never felt safe anywhere I go. Thanks for that one, Eli. But in hospital!? Anywhere, mate, anywhere.

I was in a general ward one time when they were all making calls (the nurses and staff) selling me on to other hate breeds around the region. My net worth shot up to £3million. This was for the purposes of pain infliction. Apparently I am very popular and sought after because of my appallingly low pain threshold. I can’t state it to the rooftops high enough that I am surrounded knees deep in sado masochists who wish me great harm around my lawless neighbourhood. All the authorities are in on it and only Christ and his angel ilk are keeping me afloat. If you feel like you are on a hopeless plain then keep in touch for help and support. I live day to day on the edge of my survival wits but am happy and proud to be a soldier who is hard at work fighting for tomorrow’s children not to be unwitting victims of horrible mind control, which is a genuine threat to all humanity.

What if I give up and the next soldier, my replacement, is not as strong as I am, then what chance will he have? I’ve been up against the invisible soldier and the porous soldier, all with his incredible array of weaponry, and I am still here engaged in glorious combat with him and his numbered foes. I’ve held my own against half a dozen assassins in my home, and still sleep next to the window with no curtains bathed in candlelight, with nothing to hide.

I am unashamed, and ready for the oncoming battle. Of the mind. Here’s to it, Amigos.

When Harry Doesn't Want You To Meet Sally

So this is it then, eh, what being free and liberated is all about, being able to speak one’s mind across all the platforms? Having a safe soapbox from which to vent, only to understand, that once you have cleared your throat, there’s very little to say. Just as I start to cherish this public podium, I realise that my words have all but dried up. I think there may have been one or two attempts to have it removed. I even got it into my head that this site might be protected from such attacks. The truth is that I don’t know what’s going on. I just keep turning up and running out of things to say.

One thing I can comment on is the discussion we’re just had in SMART recovery group. We were talking about our thoughts and how they influence our decision making process. The woman sat next to me rather surprisingly stated that our thoughts are not our own. Well whose are they then? Someone replied. I chuckled wryly. Come on then, if they’re not your own, somebody quipped in. Then where the bloody hell do they come from? Mental health, the lady answered. She thought that thoughts ringing around in your head which do not originate from you come from mental health. As if mental health is a general ‘thought policing’ board which meets daily in the town square and assigns clouds of unwanted cognitions into people’s heads.

One guy, a paranoid schizophrenic and proud of it, said that he controls the voices in his head with benefits. Vodka and cannabis, to be precise. I would have thought that that would make them worse. He said his day begins with a glass of vodka on his bedside cabinet. Before his feet have touched the floor he’s rolling his first spliff. He maintains that every single morning starts like this one, and always has done, apart from when he went two weeks clean several years ago. Something to do with the birth of a daughter long ago cast off into the care of social services or something. Keep at it. You’ll get there.

Some of the groups I attend have a strange chemistry. I’m becoming increasingly aware that there may be one or two ‘community based operatives’ in them. Their primary function is to talk over me, or to keep me quiet. I can’t prove any of this of course, but certain people in the fellowships I attend around the town seem to be either butting in ahead of me or interrupting me when I open my mouth. There’s not a lot to be done about this, I can’t go letting allegations fly out at them, so I kind of simply sit back calmly and try and pick my moments and just get on with it. It just lets me know for certain that my input is valuable. You never know who might be down in the dumps one weeknight evening and in need of lifting up spiritually. I’m not saying that I’m the best mood bender in the west, but we never do truly see or understand our own power, do we? Maybe other people do see and understand it, and take great lengths trying to stop it.

As if I haven’t got enough problems, without Harry trying his damnedest to prevent me from speaking to Sally. It’s a peculiar sensation, when you first become aware that this strange phenomenon may be happening to you: People keeping you from people. It’s hard to gage the correctly measured response. It’s also hard to accept. Why the hell would Harry suddenly appear in the high street and start rabbiting on about codswallop for five minutes, practically holding me hostage, knowing I am far too polite to wave him away. Well, because I was about to bump into Sally, that’s why. Nah, you think, stuff like that doesn’t happen, surely…

What bad can occur from two people simply ‘meeting’ each other? Well, I’m fairly certain I’ve cracked the answer to this one. Do you want to know what it is? It’s JOY, between those two people. Nothing more, nothing less. They merely like being with each other. Hard to believe, I know, that others would wish to spoil this, but I have it on first-hand experience that this is indeed the case.

The Chinese Terrorists and Russian Spies and all the low-level perps who follow me around on foot all day have my JOY on their wish list. Their mind control operations create a negative reaction for every happy thought I have. Only since becoming aware of the WAR ON JOY have I began to feel it so abundantly for the first few times in my life, and also really been aware and present of it, like you know. I’ve been sat there p*ssing myself to daft YouTube videos, more noticeably the Rocky fights, lol! They try and tell me differently, saying it’s not real joy, but they’d urinate on my head and tell me it was raining if they could get away with it. But enough about them already, because they’re too depressing!

I’d just like to give thanks for having the opportunity to spill my guts here. The way my life is at the moment, it’s over and back on from one minute to the next. I’m either totally down and out or raging to go. I’m prepared to mount a challenge for my joy, and keep it very precious and valued and close to my heart. I’m aware that once you lose your ability to feel joy, life is almost not worth living. I’ve been very close to it on occasion more than once over the period of the last few months. Finding it, giving it up, being entrusted with it once more…this time I hope and pray that I will never throw anything so cherished away ever again.

They call me ‘The Angel Maker’ in certain circles. This is because, when, in times of great crisis and despair, I always make a little girl or two to symbolize my holy aspirations for fairness and justice. I just need a real human face to embody the sentiment of my love, is all. I take these faces from some very remarkable places, including flyers and posters from years and years ago. I enflesh them in my mind and embody them in my psyche until wouldn’t you know it they become almost semi-real in my subconscious.

Would you believe me if I told you that the terrorists and spies clone these girls from their appearance in my mind into physical bodies and have them fight me on the streets of England, as sworn enemies? That is the level of degeneracy which I am up against. They take my allies, and make them hate me too. From my mind to the world. But every now and again, like last night for example, I get a nice message in a dream. From my angels. Who tell me to keep going…AND NEVER GIVE UP!

Last House On The Left

When I’m not flying, when I’m not soaring, when I’m not buzzing…which can’t be all the time, obviously…life is just about hanging in. I wish I was constantly a barrel of laughs. I wish I could get dosed off pregabalin 24/7, and drink until the cows come home. But that would be perpetual drug misuse. Not only is that illegal, it’s wrong too. At the moment, soberness is like a natural high. I’m sat in the boozer as is per usual but I’m supping blackcurrant and soda water with ice instead of alcohol. Do I fancy a pint? Erm, kind of…4 or 5 maybe, with a couple of smokes. But once the first one is in then its open flood gates, and in the morning I’ll be huffing and puffing having an asthma attack in an A&E doorway. Who knows? I might enter ‘blackout’ mode and start climbing into other people’s houses uninvited. Hey, it’s all happened before.

It was one starless and blurry evening when I got my sister’s house mixed up. I went round the back, like I normally did, let myself in through the patio, like I normally did, and sat on the sofa watching the TV, like I normally did. Except nobody welcomed me, because it wasn’t my family, and it wasn’t my family’s house.

They were all next door. I’d entered the wrong house. This was the Phillips residence, and they swiftly informed the law. I was so out of it that I didn’t know who I was with or what I was doing or saying. The scene, in retrospective, feels like a weird Mad Hatter’s tea party aboard an alien spacecraft. There were no drugs involved on that occasion – and that would be odd, wouldn’t it, a time when yours truly had decided NOT to blast his own brains out? Who needs drugs with whisky anyway? That wouldn’t have been fair to anyone concerned.

Fortunately, I didn’t get arrested, proceeding rather back on next door into the correct family household, where my sister was being prostituted in her bedroom by a meth abuser. I could hear them groaning and moaning in sensual pleasure. The kids were out. Everywhere was a mess. The television was broken and lying on its side on the floor. No wonder I had wandered into the wrong house, because the wrong house was a far sight better than this dumpster.

I could hardly interrupt them, but I thought it was likely they had heard me come in. After all, the stiff jamb on the back door had cracked loudly like usual. I plopped down on the springless settee and inhaled a large breath of funky stale cannabis air. There was half a doobie in the ashtray so I lit it up, unlike me, and started to toke away. When in Rome, I thought. My spirits had been ambushed by too much booze so I gathered that a little relaxation with weed wouldn’t hurt me too much. I was just feeling at my wit’s end. Something in me knew it shouldn’t be drinking neat spirits and I was paying for it. Probably now, with a tad of psychoactive influence, I would start mildly hallucinating as well. My sister’s house wasn’t the place for that. It was covered in an ultraprecise flimsy layer of dusty grime.

My phone rang then. It was my probation worker. He wanted to know if I was available on Tuesday to complete a safety assessment with a lady called Helen Flanagan. Of course I’d be there, I told him. That is, if my bubbling excitement could hold out.

I tried the hi-fi player, one of only several things unbusted in the house. It would probably be porned down Cash Generators within the week, for more meth, by one of those horny gangbangers upstairs beneath the sheets. A decent tune cackled into focus through the static. It reminded me of the millennium at Wigan Pier, when life was all about ecstasy tablets, pulling girls, and computer bugs. A simpler time, methinks of it. Bit of few quid in the back burner, bellyful of Hooch, and a fondle behind the bins at three am. What could be easier? One weekend after the other. Ticking them off the calendar. Until we arrive here…

In a kinda of limbo land really, because the need still exists to get high. And strangely, it doesn’t. I don’t know what I want actually. Just a pub lunch and a good book to read perhaps. I’m thankful I was able to write something today, and give praise upon high that I am able to keep active and motivated and my float above water.

From here on in I just want to keep going without feeling desperate or fed up. I keep trusting In Christ. I maintain an attitude of ignoring negativity. I pray to God for a bolt of humour to raise my spirits and give me a right good ole giggle up, if possible. The other day I was storming around laffing at practically anything. Everything looked funny to me. I know it will again if I drink. But I don’t want to drink. Hopefully I won’t. but hey, it’s not the end of the world if I do.

Lefty Loosey: Righty Tighty

There is a fairly ominous omen intent on wining me off from my battle station, which is this blog. I fear, that if I take my eye off the ball, I may be permanently isolated away from social encounters and unable to be capable of willing the brave guts and efforts it sometimes takes to make strides forward by going public and typing posts like this. I face a lot of antagonism when I try to express myself lately. The best nugget of advice I received recently was, ‘Never Let The Bast*rds See You Down.’ I believe it. Always try and cheer yourself up with something funny. Humour is a blessing, one of our greatest strengths.

This is remarkably easy to do for me if I say ‘Sod it’ and start to get drunk. Then I just tip back can after can into my gob and start singing half-naked on the lawn. Job’s a Damned Good’un and there’s not a lot of anything in particular anyone can ever do about it. Apart from police riot vans, that is, and doctors on the doorstep at barmy o’clock. The problem is, there are always consequences, like aching hangovers full of shame and regret. It’s a escape route, but it’s not thee escape route.

I enjoy the challenge of saying sober because once I start it’ll speedily become an entrenched long-lasting life behaviour. I must stop drinking non-alcoholic beverages too, because the five I had yesterday gave me chronic gas reflex bordering on projectile vomiting. Someone talk me out of writing a letter of complaint to the stinking rotten brewery responsible because I’m already half-inclined to verbalizing my disgust, as if they don’t know already what they’re lining up in the fridges behind the bars inside the pubs and clubs of this country. Tastes like carbonated liposuction.

And of course, with a bevvy, in then steps the common old house fag, 40 on a bad day, which simply adores any old drink in the right hand to burn down alongside with. I can’t be fully ‘In Christ’ if I am dying in a hospice with lung cancer, can I? Well maybe I can be, but it won’t be for long. First things first, just stay the hell alive chum. Keep breathing, for one, and we’ll sort out everything else later. Got it? Okay.

Today was a day I could quite have easily remained in Cloud Nine of The Cosy Corner and weighed up my sorrows in two heavy hands, if not slightly wetted by a tear or two. I would have been there all day though, and where would it have led? Imagine weeping with the prospect of facing the morning, unable to stand to two feet and go out into the sweeping breeze to surmise any challenges, not even an easy one for starters such as purchasing a pint of milk for coffee? The world is sometimes itching to treat you like a doormat.

One day, unholy of unholies, this possibility might not be far off. Wow! Whatever would I do then, without this small breadth of text styling to extoll my higher virtues? Whatever happens, come snow rain or shine, I should be here. I didn’t know how magnificent life could be, you know, until I thought that magnificent was normal. Then I was threatened with having no platform, and much worse besides, in which to vent my wraths, furies, heartaches, joys, successes and thrills. It’s not just this blog up for grabs, it’s my ability to write in its entirety. Every couple of months my head keeps falling off, and I lose the plot. At the moment I’m currently re-screwing it back on. Hopefully a lot more tightly than ever before.