Peripheral Vision

Its eyes are doing the goldfish again, neatly splatting against the front of its glasses just as another memory bursts through. Fast approaching my limits in view of such like, I roll another cigarette. Eyeballs bugged. Spliced.
Fish fingers for tea, courtesy of the Captain's table. The disturbed child blinks, shaking its toy like another useless weapon having a tantrum after doing its sums and finding that the answer is infinite and unreachable
it was all about them all the time
it was all about them all the time
it was all about them all the time
it was all about them all the time
it was all about
but what if and ahhh. But
NOTHING.

The senile old lady in our neighbourhood emerges miserably in remote view, her eyes pitying red pools filled full at the sight of the local children, preferably around the age of eleven to fifteen. And dressed in primary colours.

And then I remember an old, odd story told me by a friend about the man who broke into her house when she was eight while staying at her aunt's in Wiltshire. Around three o'clock in the morning, she wakes up after hearing a loud bang. Like the sound. Of a heavy. Object. The sort of sound it would make if it were to dully hit the thick rugs covering the sitting room floor. Something to do with ........... a vague sensation ................. lightly flicking over her pubis ............. as if....................... ( cue the sound of dribbling piss ). The moonlight flits across the spine of the banister as she slips silently down the stair-rodded steps into the hallway. Turning the corner into the room there is revealed a shadowy apparation of a man built like a brick shitter holding what appears to be her well endowed aunt's most highly expansive Panasonic television. A sly yellow slides warmly down her inner leg, pit pattering on the parquet flooring, all reassuring. The man, startled and somewhat sheepish, catches sight of my friend staring at him like something off the cover of a particularly bad horror novel: white nightie attired, hair slightly standing on end (minus yellow trail of piss). He lowers the object of desire onto the floor. Moonwalk reverses back into the kitchen and deftly legs it out of the window he broke in. She had to keep interrupting the story she was laughing so much. This was when people didn't need television or have mirrors where eyes used to be, when it was how things were that mattered not how you 'represented' them. Understanding was easier to create somehow. FCUK how they appear to other people. Perhaps I should also make clear at this point I'm referring to the imagination: you know, that thing that isn't dangling from the end of your nose. I make the fishfingers into a cute little bonfire surrounding the witchy mashed potato so that they can cunningly hide from the peas. Godflish eyes not play. Leave to freeze over until doomsday.
I reach for the next can.

After hiring a car we went to the other side of the island which took about 45mins cos I was speeding...I am writing this backdated .. - The Cocteau Twins - pearly semen whoops drops has cum on the radio !£$@ Sorry, keep forgetting the necessity of garden pathing when in polite conversation. Dead end nerves. I had to walk them off after driving for about 2 hours or so until we got lost and hungry. You wouldn't eat in a restaurant/buy anything off those dodgy spanish speaking natives. They were staring at us like we look weird? As ferk. The familiar Macdonalds. I go to the khasi and find this scrawled in kohl pencil on the door:
Paras mis ninas
amigos come nosotr(i?)asson
dificileo de encontrar
dificiles de entendere
impossible de olividar os hiero
This is !@SIGNIFICANT** but there is no explaining why. Not to those for whom talking is in and listening is so passe. The problem with communication is there is too much of it. But then again I am certifiably insane and the fella who came up with this idea threw himself out of a window several years ago.
After loading up on beer we sped back to the hotel. Madness lies in the reading (Brewster, 2000) Or thereabouts.

I 💙💙💙 European eels. You know, the ones that, according to the experts, breed in the Sargasso See. They are not like the others. Do not filter. Slippery pulse chi level. Get in touch. They are talking about the Gai: he had a 12 footer stuck right up somewhere or other. Banal worms' eye seeks validity.

Last night I had a dream about Barry Manilow - he was dressed as a Full Woman (with pink lipstick). I had to whip him after he sang a song about coming off cocaine, just like Bowie. "The sun comes up. The blinds go down. I sink this pain. Into this sound." In a deep voice. Too drunk to carry on. Martin Luther eat your heart out. He probably did anyway.

Just walking the dog and mumbling to herself, though wherever she goes the green monkey tags along. Obviously there is no explanation for this. One night after an ever increasing bout of imaginative faith leaping or maybe out of self-indulgence, she decides on a different route for a change. The chittering monkey gives the V's, playfully apeing a peaceful hippy smoking a joint, flips his fingers over and belligerently gives the piss sign. He has a way of jumping that cannot be contained within an order of meaning. For the dogs, desire must be firmly wedded to the pure elevation and detachment of the bark instinct. When the spirit of play dies, murder is sure to follow. Bollocks.

Realising she's just said all this aloud on the bus at rush hour, Krip bounces off onto the pavement, strangulating Nigger the dog in the process."Wish I had a fucking lead to put you on, cunt", she mutters. As usual the monkey doesn't listen to a thing she says and suddenly bounds onto her head, pulling at her eyelids and farting loudly. Everyone around her pretends they haven't heard or seen anything. This really happened to her, though with different spirits plus mixer.

manchester radio

X is wearing that ridiculous alice hairband today, the one that conveys a horrid naivety that appalls those with a taste for irony. I think that's why I like her. Or maybe not; I've kind of given up trying to work out the answer. On her face is slapped an expression even she couldn't begin to explain, so god help the rest of us. Maybe she has missed a lecture. I stumble swearing over something outside her door - she's left her Doc Martens outside again, as though she expects them to be fucking cleaned or something. Everyone but Y hates her. No skin off her nose, fortunately.

Look, don't bother trying to hide her, she's not there. Somebody else could and has done it better. X unconcerned slaps on the favoured paleface: it so current right now. This is followed by the very latest permanent, which she has died a rather sick mix of salt and pepper colours that were laughable even in the eighties. The outdatedness adds to her already considerable old ladyness, generously adding to the nightmare of her personality what seems to be her own personal take on some sort of karmic cluelessness. Same applies to the pair of orange leggings that are too baggy around the arse and look like pyjamas. She can't even reach the gate at the end of the scrappy front garden without encouraging a vague sense of hatred. Even the neighbourhood cats turn away, disgusted.
This girl was reported dead in jest one monday during maths class by two morons called Robert and Mick. She had a daughter of six.

The compulsory twink associated with their little 'scene' looks around for scraps of paper on the floor, embarrassed. The house was empty. Never mind a little bit of hate, knowing it's all a game really isn't helping. I go to the bathroom and remove the strips of dope from the cigarettes before I sell the stupid pseudo cynical bastard his pathetic attempts at rebellion.