Rag N Bone

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.