Monday, August 7, 2006


I've been drunk for a long time now.

I thought I was out, but it was a lie.

Time for some honesty.


I just did it. It was a sunny day and I was sick of feeling so damn self absorbed and sad. Always sad, why the fuck? I had the Complicated One, beautiful and open, but my conscience told me no so I tried to drink it away. And four, five, six, count them all on four hands but nothing to stop me turning and gazing at the forest and dreaming of its embrace. That forest may well be the end of the line, I thought, and that's depressing somedays.

But then I thought I had found an Angel. And so on that sunny day I just went right up and did it. Hi, you don't know me but...

The Angel laughed and it began.


I was actually crying last week when I tilted my head back and looked up high, standing in the middle of a park on my own screaming, THANKYOU. THANKYOU THANKYOU THANKYOU. That's how I felt, I felt the Universe had taken pity on me and had decided enough was enough and here, these things are for you.

But the Universe won't be finished with me until all I can see above me is the cold, dark timber of my eternal rotting prison.

Fuck it.

Fuck it to Hell.


The Angel and I jumped on a plane. I'm frightened, she said, this is scary and I don't think I'm ready to jump.

I just opened the door. Took off my parachute and opened the door.

Then I jumped. That's what I do.

What a fucking rush man.

Yesterday I thought I had managed to land on my feet. Today I'm not so sure.

On Saturday Night, the Angel's wings turned dark and I realised she was a Demon. And I was too busy, talking myself into seeing her dark as light, too busy hoping. Wishing. Just for something, anything.

You see, I'm not looking for someone to love me. I have that. I'm looking for someone who lets me be in love with them. And who decides to jump out that door with me and feeeeeeel.

People love me, but I only love people who can't love me.



I thought I was done with Bukowski, the minute I put the book down. Running With The Hunted. But he's inside me now, deeper than ever, and I'm starting to get scared.

I thought: It would be nice to have my funeral, because there are so many of my friends that haven't met each other.

I thought: Well, you are throwing a house warming party soon...

I thought: Yeah, but people actually turn up to a funeral.

I'm drinking again, but today I'm normally sober.


The Demon-Angel passed me a bottle of Tequila in the backyard of a wild house party. We took turns necking it and each other until I lifted the bottle one last time and the scorpion that resided in its depths fell into my mouth. Hey! She said, I wanted some of that. It was still in my mouth so I pulled it out and snapped it in half. I gave her the sting. I gave her the sting.

I could feel myself losing self control, getting wobbly and slurring my words so I said, I gots to go. Well at least help me find my friend, she said, wait for him and you can walk me to a taxi. But I needed to go. Needed. So I climbed out some window and started to stagger down the street. MAT. COME BACK. I heard the cry, but I just kept on walking. Made my way to the gutter outside my second home until my Little Sister inside noticed me and put me in a taxi.

When I awoke I got the scoop in an electronic kick in the face.

You're too passionate about me. I'm too volatile around that. You said if I told you to stop, you'd stop. So stop. My heart can't do this. I'm frightened.

So I showered, walked to the pub...and stopped.


The forest is but a voice now, and an occasional soft word. It's a memory of something intangible, another Queen of Hearts in the deck of cards that is my crazy fucking past.

I still dream of it every night. Every single damn night.


Everyday I get a text or a kind word from a multitude of friends, and that should be enough, and most days it is.

I get: When I die, I hope to be reincarnated as you. From a friend I wish I saw more, knew better.

I get: You know what you are? You're great. From the same friend.

I get all sorts of messages, dirty invitations, people that love me, where the Hell are you messages.

But it's all disconnected in a world between worlds and I still can't find where exactly I fit. Or why these people would love someone they hardly see. I'm the ideal of a passionate, restless, wild spirit. But maybe I'm just another thirty something, with another hard luck story. Or ten.


I compose a love letter to my princess. My forest. A real love letter, not garlands and memories, but an honesty letter, with real reasons, sincere and open but distant all the same. Respecting the distance. Despising it though I am.

I compose it but realise it's not the time. Right now it's time for solitude and clarity and the fresh air that can blow everything that is false from me and leave me standing, a naked soul, an empty vessel.

Fill it fucko.


I watch Batman Begins. And the line says: It's not who you are underneath which defines you, but what you do. I've always tried to make people see what lies underneath me, but now it's time to just do.

Oh and Universe? Bring it on you cunt.


  1. I like this very much; especially the Batman part.


  2. Seeing honesty is in the air I have written some truth for you.

    Love to you.

  3. ps: you may be a thirty something with another hard luck story, but I enjoy reading your stories more than any others.

    You’re a writer.

  4. ps: you may be a thirty something with another hard luck story, but I enjoy reading your stories more than any others.

    You’re a writer.

  5. Hello Hell! Haven't heard mcuh from you my black wiggle mate. I figured you were keeping busy over in Iraq or Israel or Washington DC poisoning the souls of mankind.

    Kudos on a good job there by the way. Keep up the solid evil spreading.

    Turns out you're flitting around with an angel-demon.

    Hope the self-destruction is going well. I've come out of my emotional coma if you care to dump any woes on me. I'll show you mine if you show me yours.