God fucks me up the ass, each and every day

Lapsed and broken. They tune out and drop. Those others, commune with the masses, even if... bs bs bs bs. Easier. For all involved. Thats what they say, what they reckon, whats in the handbooks. I am an elitist, a galtonist by association. STERILZE THEM. Or me. Rule or submit. Submit or submerge, in shit. The quagmire of our "humanity". It calls to me in the night, this society of my making, my own fascism, born of frustration, like so much post-traumatic Germany. I hate that it can feel so cut and dried. Dried out. I spiel, and withdraw, my own inadequacies drawn out in torrents of mass polarization. You and me, them and us..... Fuck us both.

Do Muse's muse?

Not in the intended spirit of things, but I have been negligent of late, imposed responsibility of the work variety. Same all over.

They sting, constraints placed upon us, sodden rope friction burning the wrists of one and all, the throbbing ruby red reminder of the yoke of ages. My wrists burn, and call to me like sirens, what if?
Indeed.

The darker recesses are exposed by water damage, weathered hearts, blasted by elements indifferent to solitary tears. I am meladramatos.... out of time, past, now.
The mess builds too, the horrible, pained distraction of a meandering mind, grasping, thumbless, at straws.

Here I am Lord. Bowing, cowed golden calves are we, hands outstretched, screaming for judgement and hoping for none. Without a thought I believe in nothing, with a singular it floods me, shades of grey and immobility.

What makes a good man?

What makes a great one?

In deed, in name.

I name them all, the dead ones, long fallen superheroes, my imagination smiles, laughs even and I feel the derogatory tone, cringing. Have I raised myself so high, that pride forces mockery in all but the most pious of company? I am no Godsman, no more. His notion amuses me like those poster heroes of old, bearded and wielding the elements, the furious weapons of a fledgling romance. Sanity forbids me to entertain the slightest notion and I lose the childlike swaddling, the cotton in my ears. Denying a child is just that, denying a child.

It is not misuse, it does not negate the proper. But was and is it proper? Or just propriety.
To believe is to grow wings, high soaring chosen child, free from things tainted, ashen and grimed. The bestial, the bottom feeders, fear laden and bound to flesh. Bound to flesh as I, with imaginings born of hunger. To see with open eyes though, opened as a man's can be, is freedom as reality is. Dealt with and moving ever onward.

The scoffing of intellectuals rings in the chambers of aural faculty. And the brave ones, standing up empty handed and admitting to the same are liken to those biblical indifferents, cast down with measured menace by both sides of the coin.

Resolution is further away than any apocalypse, geophysical or theophysical. Its a cause both so solemn and laughable. To dream though, when a dream is not a sign. That our minds are our minds, and we can reconnect. Maybe I can stop whining. Maybe.

Apollo guide me. I sing to the muses, and wonder.

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Part 3

A dream, at least I think. Twins play tug-of-war. I see with eyes that aren’t mine. The child I was, broken. the man I am dead. Shape shifting bodies and faces, all those that loved all those that didn’t. winter laughter, summer tears. Long forgotten hidden fears, face the dark, the shifting tides. You hold the key, you dwell inside. His blood was on my hands, thick, almost black in colour, like dipping your fingers into warm oil. I was afraid but I didn’t stop. Put away childish things, tear up and throw away your half thought out dreams, you belong to me. I cant look in the mirror, men with beards have something to hide they say. I have nothing to hide, not anymore, nothing to hide except myself…..

“hey, are you ok?”. Fractured broken sounds seeping in. “yeah” I offered, “thanks”. My eyes could barely open but I knew I was outside, the water of the canal swirling slowly around my feet, its rhythm broken by the presence of my dirty shoes. “let me help you up” . I stood, lifted by the unseen hand. The hangover yet to fully kick in, now I was just groggy. Susceptible to suggestion. who was this pervert I thought to myself, this lone stranger lifting up someone who quite obviously wished to die or kill someone in his own vomit? Fuck it some people can be nice, I suppose. “would you like a cigarette”, the voice rang in my ears, almost internal. He lit my smoke. “pull yourself together, I have to go. As you know my friend, there is much to be done.” And like that nothing, I didn’t even get a glimpse, my eyes covered in that seeping green crap, extra strength this time. Strange, strange. “whats your name” I called out, but alas to no avail. These things happen, not to me but these things happen. Im sure he wanted to molest me in some way, ha, impotence strikes again! Back to life again, need coffee, more nicotine and if possible alcohol. I figured if I hung out at the shop street/quay street junction I could do some humiliating jig to earn the price of a bottle of something. Not high tourist season, but then the cure for everything in this country is liquor. They’re not gonna deny me a drop. Shit, they’ll throw it at me, beats talking about your problems. To the bat cave. Im guessing it was around six, the streets were so lively, the pubs starting to crawl. Popping out one door and in the next, phones blaring, meet me in soandso, yeah buyin some for bills after, pick me up a bottle will ya, good man, good girl, I love it when you talk dirty, your fault, my buzz, your round, my suppressed rage itching to get out. They come and go, shifting personalities like shadows on an overcast summers eve. I think I hate them, not who they are really, I mean I don’t know any of them personally. But what they have let themselves become. They are Slaves to their own jealousies and lusts, greed and internal hungers drive them, they lie afraid of the dangers of thought. Me me memememe. Its so hard to care anymore. Its depressing, life turned into death, waking, walking, fucking corpses. Show me your blackened souls. I understand, they remind me of myself. I am weakness fuelled by unfulfilled desire, directionless anger. So yeah, fuck me too. I need a drink. Yeah so I flailed my arms and/or legs around in some unforgivable fashion and harassed the tourists for money, threatening to corrupt their daughters usually works. Theres a certain charm to threats that come from someone seemingly incapable of carrying them out. Like when your little brother says “il kick your ass” punctuated by some ridiculous, obviously made up on the spot kind of insult, poo-brain, or something of that variety. I mean, you laugh don’t you. Its funny. Anyway, they gave me money. Even though, to my mind at least, I was more than capable of corrupting their daughters, wives, hand luggage and cocker spaniels. “Its miller time” said Arthur miller, upon completion of each of his works, and so it was. I counted, poorly. It’s a toss up, cider of the flagon range or more buckfast. I figured later on id hit a few of the bars popular with American tourists of the camera waving assortment, and tell a few stories about my run ins with leprechauns . which reminds me, they’re assholes. Lucky charms my bollocks, although if marinated correctly they make an excellent entrée. Good for parties. Although you have to shave them well, hairy little buggers. Anyway, I digress. Where the hell was I, oh yeah cider or bucky, fizzy head buzz or intensive care unit? Well, I could use a shave, intensive care it is. I want to be chatty for the tourists now don’t I? Again, to the bat cave. Otherwise known as the vineyard, its my headquarters of a sort. One bottle of b, twenty smokes, some diversionary tactics and a pocketed nagon of jameson later and I was on my way. Whiskey first, I wanted to savour it with what operational taste buds I had left. A sip to start, it burns in the best way imaginable. Its like body heat, kissing a lover, food for the soul. I dipped my tired body in this fountain of youth and memories become flames. It coats, protects from the cold, money well spent. On to the bar with my other bottle concealed, nicely. It was early enough that I wouldn’t be stopped. Not that I cared really, I wanted to connect with these abstractions of humanity, to learn and to teach, to listen and to speak. Futility, none wished for my offerings. I passed the doorways of numerous bars, heard the squeal of the garbled instruments within, the idealised speeches about this great nation and thought for a second I was in boston. Armchair republicans who still send their money in support of a disgusting mutation, a cause romanticised just enough to suit their soft boiled brains. Low lie the fields of blood, buy your fucking freedom with thirty pieces of silver and leave me alone. The hell with it, I’d probably just strangle them all and urinate on their store bought teeth. I don’t do small talk anyway, not anymore. Keep on walking, looking for the darkest corner. Snap, click and im there again, the land of fortified wine. A sparked up cigarette and im alone with my thoughts. The stranger returns for a second, there is still work to be done, apparently. I scream into the wind. My voice is lost in countless, unceasing garbling, the miscommunications of the lost and afraid. I take another slug. Settling into a dark corner all I could do was sling my coat over my knees and try to keep acceptably warm. I look through the arch, through squinted eyes I see a dog dragging something/nothing. This semi-translucent amorphous blob, reaches out, takes form and screams. The dog looks into my eyes, and smiles. I feel his words cut into me. We shall meet again. Shaking, I unscrew the lid once more and swallow as much of the drink as I can. I close my eyes, I feel my heart trying to force its way from my chest. The voices of the lonely and the pleas of the forgotten fill my head. Every voice is mine, and they have always been there. Have they damned themselves, had I damned myself…..Winter laughter, summer tears. Long forgotten hidden fears; face the dark, the shifting tides. You hold the key, you dwell inside.

Part2

I clasped my hands together behind my head and lay back on the grass, the city was moving now. People going every which way and I didn’t care for them. They live out their ridiculous lives unsatisfied, because they can never have enough of anything. People are essentially greedy, like children. They are ravenous and insatiable, they would devour the world if they only had the strength. Perhaps im being a tad cynical, perhaps. Try asking some bastard in an overpriced suit for twenty damn cents.
The bread wasn’t exactly the banquet I had hoped for but then it would do for now, besides, what self respecting drunk imbibes on a full stomach? I slipped the brown paper bag out of my inside pocket unceremoniously and twisted the top till I heard that familiar click. I watched them watch me, pity mixed with disgust. Insults, for I am lord of all I survey, I am my own master. I kneel only to the weather and on occasion the big guy with the knife. Cap off and slug, its syrupy goodness coats my raw insides. I am warm again and I don’t feel the sun.
swig, swig and perception changes.
I light another cigarette and pull hard. Fuck that’s good. Everywhere people skipping to their stupid fucking jobs on a day like this. On a day where things can make sense if you let them, on a day where the more you close your eyes to the outside world, the clearer you can see. Another drink, another drag. Everything starts to speed up, ever so slightly. I could be ranting, maybe that’s why they are looking at me, fuckers, il kill them, il. No. calm. It’s the caffeine, it’s the booze. Its always the booze. Ha, another time for the long explanations my friends, another time. Now its time to wander.
I have to keep a low profile. There are other not so worldly wise maniacs around who would vomit bile on me just to get a taste of my stowed away, unholy monk semen filled, magical drink. I skulk and the day time is not my friend. Times like this you pray for rain, pray for divine intervention, anything, anything to make them go away.
I walk the canals slowly, looking for a place to sit, unhindered by intertwined lovers or debating socialists that flood from the college for their pretentious coffees. The lovers kiss and keep one eye open to eye up passers by, maybe to see if others are looking at them, their show of passionate public affection just an attention seeking device. One big look at what I have, look at who I have, wouldn’t you like to be in this situation. Kids. Anyway the other half of the time they can smell the pheromones floating off someone else and open an eye to look at their crotches. Isn’t love wonderful children, lets all play a little game shall we. You all line up against a wall, and il tell you all the things you secretly know about yourself but are afraid to admit. Then il tell everyone else. For the grand finale I will rip out your hearts(ladies) and penises(gentlemen) and trample them into the ground as a grand sacrifice to cupid, the obsolete god of hallmark cards and manipulative, calculated sentiment. Think for yourselves you idiots.
Bucky talking, I apologise, I always get preachy on buckfast. Preachy, preachy, preachy. Why will no one buy my fuckin coconuts. I swear if you could see yourselves. Ah, I spy a hungry dog. He shall be my friend.
“hello boy, what your name?” I ask condescendingly and in a cutesy voice.
“I am he that shall not be named, I am the darkness that dwells within retarded sheep” he replies in one of those movie voice over tones.
“well then” I say, “will you buy my coconuts?”.
“remove yourself from my path at once mortal” he bellowed, Im not really sure if id recognize someone bellowing again but his voice had a kind of swooshy resonance to it, anyway I digress, so yeah “remove yourself from my path at once mortal, or I shall be forced to urinate on you, thus claiming you as mine own and damning to you to a life of country and western song writing”.
Needless to say I moved. I mean some things aren’t worth the risk. Though as a demonstration of my dissatisfaction, I urinated on him as he walked away, “ha, your ass is mine now you molester of inanimate objects, go read the tv guide!” I screamed. My buckfast is running out and it is only, nintenelevn… twelve. Midday. Sunshine at its strongest, light at its most severe. I try to steal a hat from an old lady by claiming to be her long lost and subsequently hatless brother, shes havin none of it, apparently they didn’t have parents in her days, she was raised by some fruit in the south pacific. Still good taste in hats, damn fruit did a fine job. Still by the little canals, watching the ducks fight over things that fall off me. I see others in need of my help, but now I must relax. It is easy to let the caffeine take control, the wine lowers your inhibitions, but the caffeine gives your exploits that extra boost. This is fuckin gummiberry juice. No but I must relax, relinquish my loose hold on reality and let my mind wander.
There is evil afoot, quite possibly me, but nonetheless I must prepare. I must repair. The seems of society are loosening and I hold the only needle. If only I knew where to get some fuckin thread…….

---

Part 1 (title???)

Its an oldy guys I know, let me have it.........

Part 1

Galway has been everything to me, a place to drink, a place to sleep on others couches, a place to get in trouble with the law. i will never forget those magnificent sunsets by the Spanish arch, keeping myself warm with the body of a not long dead hobo, drinking what appeared to be the liquor that had finally burst his swollen and blackened liver. his body was getting colder, noticeably so, but the constant flow of urine easing its way out of his now unconstricted bowels was enough to stave off the cold for at least a few hours. then id simply wander the streets, fighting some crime, commiting some crimes and the universe was balanced again. all was right with the world as the alcohol soaked city, still reeking from last nights take away and speckled lightly with rizzla papers bagan to wake up.
theres nothing quite like it, you trudge determinedly through shop street, stopping to harrass some small children on there way to school, hepling yourself to the unguarded contents of the early morning delivery vans. a quick fumble in your pockets and not only have you aroused the local preverts but found enough loose change to procure some precious tobacco. aaahhh tobacco, if it twernt for all those greedy englishmen, those rapists of the high seas i could never feel your sweet caress on my lips at seven in the morning. the first light at first light, the first draw, that crackle of rocket fuel and arsenic. the warm nurturing smoke flowing gently down your throat tickling you, awakening your senses. and then the sexual rush of the smoke pushing back through your lips, like your cheeky toungue at your first stolen french kiss. my clothes are wet, and they smell of last night and the great outdoors of galway, the murky water stagnating in the canals, the condoms discarded by the whoremongering sailors floating at the docks.
i am dirty and im sobering up.
i trundle on, avoiding the cars on a street normally pedestrianised, these guys own the fuckin place this time of the mornin, and they let you know it. i step in front of a big fuck off truck with my hand facing outwards. the trucker blows his own horn, must have gotten that rib operation i suggest to noone in particular. i need somewhere to sit for a while so i do a full circle, from shop street down towards augustine and then back through flood to the spanish arch. i always like to shake it up, in the country side you can never tell one field from another, one hedgrow from the next. here it becomes so familiar, so much like home that often i concider demanding cups of coffee from the inhabitants of each building with a fuck you this is my home sign hung prominently and ever so suggestively around my neck. no benches as such so i sit on those fucking stone things, they are wet perpetually and surrounded by empty bottles of linden village, four of them mine. what they dont know though, is that i have a fuckin secret weapon, not a secret weapon i use for fucking as such but many have been overheard commenting on there amazing performance afterwards, all men. sex for them is always good, half those assholes could be blindfolded and fuck each other all night.
anyway yeah, i have buckfast. what a build up, i know you guessed already cos its so cliche right now, oh dear god thay shall scoff, huh, buckfast. my my thats original thay shall say, guffawing all the while, then i shall crack them on the side of their upturned noses and have a little chortle of mine own. whoever they are.
anyway yeah, im saving it for after breakfast. at this stage i realise my cigarrette has burned out and cursing myself i light another, more thoughtfully this time and smoke like a philosopher, beard stroking like a pro. anyone passing now could mistake me for a poet, a wise soul so enraptured by the dawn and the beauty of the waters edge that i sit in silence, breathing it in and crying for some long lost love, some wench that died at sea. perhaps a mermaid i saw once on the disney channel and thought of ripping her shells off. never know these days. most guys would wank over cadavers if they thought theyd get away with it, damn communists, stealin our women. anyway where was i, oh yeah. so i smoke for a while and this old guy comes over to feed the ducks or whatever. he does it every mornin around this time. ive watched him. sometimes up close sometimes from afar, but ive been watchin. eyin up that fuck off bag of bread hes holdin. the guy must have one of those wives that bakes incessantly because she hasnt had sex in thirty years judgin by the amount of bread hes got in that bag.
so i saunter up to him, "how are you this fine morning sir" i offer, he must be a mute or smell the dead guy off me cause hes not answerin. "bread is it?" i say, again nothing, im gettin pissed off so i just come out with it. "is it gluten free?".
"um no i dont think so" he sheepishly relpies. hallefuckinlujah its a miracle, limp dick lazarus has risen again. praise jebus or allah, or a bizarre phenomenon during which the subject goes into a state bearing all the hallmarks of death, including the stench, but yet is meerly in a temporary coma. praise whatever you want, praise your shoes.
"im sure your aware that ducks react very badly to regular, common or garden bread. they may look perfectly fine, in fact often bear no symtoms at all. yet it drives them slowly insane to the extent that they begin to eat their own feet, thus rendering them immobile in the water" i say this with such authority and smelliness that im sure he just wants to wet himself. probably out of solidarity, nice gentleman really.
" i, i had no idea, i mean i just assumed, i mean theyre ducks".
"fine observation sir, most commendible, but even if you are the slightebit unsure, i as saint malodorous, patron saint and sworn protector of all water fowl, must confiscate the bag. for the good of ducks, now and forever amen". with those words a duck, not just any duck now, clearly the chieftain of that particular tribe, landed on my head. i discovered later that there was actually the remnants of a sardine there but it worked to such astounding effect that all the old man could do was hand over the bag. breakfast was served.