Because of
my newly-acquired stance on ‘controlled using’ I was just quizzed by a member
of apology class upon whether I was a real drug addict.
It’s a good
question, as all drugs are to me is an aphrodisiac. I don’t take them to
unwind, or to relax, or to socialise…the sole reason I take them is for sexual
performance. Although in saying that, sex sober is like anything else sober…boring.
That’s what
my boy Ste Farnham said, before he passed…that life is just boring without
drugs.
I’m a sex
addict, not a drug addict. They just go together, that’s all.
My stance
on controlled usage sickens me, as a note to add. By this time I wanted total
abstinence. The fish hooks are out and embedded in my flesh. My ‘pleasured’
flesh.
Just heard
my boy Rick (not sure if he’s a stalker), rabbiting on about auras. Have you
ever seen an aura? Are you familiar with auras? Why not ask your shaman to
educate you about the ins and outs of auras?
Yes, I have
seen an aura. Do you wanna know how I seen it? I stared at a child through a raindrop
on refracted glass using magnification. Nothing to it.
It was
almost as impressive as the translucent fumes I spotted emanating from my bin
bag of trash one time after a handful of Supermen*. This was with the naked
eye. No parlour tricks.
Basically,
Rick, don’t be acting like you’re the only spiritual guru in apology. I been
around the block more times than Jennifer Lopez. But I do respect your mad frog
spawn sessions. And this is a guy, don’t you little munchkins forget, who, in
his deep psychosis, sees a hobo hawking bats out of a cage.
I remember
a ‘rag ‘n’ bone’ man from youth. Every Sunday morning, without fail, a
bare-chested gypsy with a wheel barrow would tour the back allotments shouting
at the top of his voice, “Any old iron!? Any old iron? Any any any old iron!?”
Or he might have just been asking for rag and bone, it’s hard to remember.
Ewt for
nowt, in his world. I wonder what he collected. Would he accept a used
dishcloth, or a pair of second-hand underpants? Or a nest of chicken bones? Surely
he had limits.
What did he
expect? Jewelry, vases, masks and diamonds?
I acted
like him several years ago, when I picked up a long sleeve of red clothing from
a wasteland and told myself it belonged to a murdered girl called Red Jacket,
who, because I remembered her from the grave, would protect me in the spirit realm
for ever and ever. When she materialised finally after I eventually burned the
damn thing out of drunken fear (which summoned the Devil, incidentally), she
told me to go and f**k myself. Now something
haunts me to the present day, but I’m not sure if it has anything to do with
that ruinous rag. Maybe it did belong to an unfortunate. Where would I get the
idea?
Horror
movies, perhaps. I watched enough of them when I was younger.
All my
spirits have gone wrong, the ones I wrote so lovingly about for years over the expanse
of this website. I wish they’d disappeared, but they haven’t, they are still
with me, only now they declare an obnoxious enmeshment of vengence, vehemence,
and vitriol. My fears were once that they might turn from loyalty to nemesis
and they have done. Word to the wise: Never trust a spirit.
Believe me,
my home is like an invisible party every morning I wake up and the lot of them
are nob heads. You would think that being a spirit gives you an edge, maybe of
invincibility and intellectuality, a professionally grand example of the higher
echelons of life-form, but, alas, no, they are mostly clingy, jealous, insecure,
and dickweed. I’d much rather be a human. I don’t know why God made them.
*Supermen
are a brand of old ecstasy tablets.
