thinking of howard (in my links) i rediscovered this from a while ago when under a different alias

144 ahead

folsom was coming in. jackson, in room of choice recognised floorboard undulation and nipped forgotten needle out of his arm. the patented l.s.d concoction (1) had had its usual side-effect of perceived self-mass reduction and he'd spent the last 20 mins trying to get ig I or II (2) to open the door, just open the fuckin door. folsom opened it.
fuckin wino's...jackson's studio was really an unused corridor lined with cork (mostly sheet with wine stoppers filling the grooves and corners). though an effective barrier the stench was gut turning and a lunatics voice from t.v looped incessantly whenever i was in here "oh, (slurp, mmm) now this one gives me a rancid vinegar kick with splashs from a syphilated skunk....".
therapy? yeah he says, though answer redundant due to attempt at crawling between my legs smacking his face into knee. never fuckin learns. at least i'm out now. white splattered clogs. did it go well? quite, we took out the cc's and no-one came by, sloppy but it'll stick (3). so are you still up for it? sure, but first we eat. jackson stood and locked the studio to muffled sirens and grating metal then off towards the kitchen. hot bath methinks, this'll take a while.

two hoovers egyptian walked across the way as i started the food prep. a continued flow of profanity and clatter of collision percolated from the kitchen as gigantic props tackled j. as he leapt from draws and cupboards. i soaked the ceiling in and thought about victor (4). caught the top of the table again, must be growing.. decide to walk round, and then again for the knife. cream'd, sharp and suit'd i reappeared to see how the adoy ramen were coming.
it wasn't.
jackson was knelt under the table flashing light from a cleaver into his face. longer than i thought. is today still good? certainly, definitetly, its devils eye day (5), wouldn't miss it. disarming him of the chopper to a motion of i'll sort the food, get your flights on (6), and any of that money left (7)? meal abandoned. disused policy.

i pillion'd folsom down to his scooter shop. how much?! bastards. it was just a wheel...well and an exhaust. so as not to affect the mission he tips the guy a cursed %age. a quick glance at the map (8) and guided by the worshipping dishes we make our way south. i let folsom ride flame and psyche into the cyclop of his tail light. wearing regulation speakerlined mazurka-jackets we race a locomoted insect with the arse-the-size-of-a-small-cuntwee. that's today's loop.
fools, crazy bastards, maniacs, cunt!, et al to the disappearing f1 scooters cutting a convoluted route compiled by the tipping of trucks by police agents (9). the sun was now setting as we neared the head. destination and arrival. first things first, j. pulled out his snakeskin travelcase harbouring steel perculator (circa '22), brewed up then poured the dense over snow. fuel’d.

compass checks and folsom's uncanny spatial awareness with me yelling left-abit's & right-abit's into swirls of flakes, we zero in. big changes since v's day, getting closer to the edge all the time. here? here. jackson out with a stilleto to goodfella away at the frozen surface. sun almost down and the halfmoon already in place and intensifying; looking like it'd been creditcard'd, and awkwardly as there were thousands of stars. behind us 2m crash into the sea. tidal repo agents. get on with it. bounce round keep warm, practice a few of my moves for flight thinking of v's work for b.l (10). j. hits tin. there it is, a box with the v.h.s crest. out.
inventory: a sav row emerald sharkskin zoot suit, a pair of bookbinders, a signed photo from when he was known as lee (11), and an engagement and a poison ring with a note attached 'read me'. reverse side a warning pertaining to the contents strength and properties (12). his enamel crest again was on the lid of the ring. it sparkled. it shone. magpie entraption. i know, i know. even as it happened jacksons hand was lashing out to control me but this nervous reaction was beyond me. read it! too late, i opened it!
it was opened and the contents swirled up and into folsam & jacksons agog'd mouths. they glance at each other mouths still open, frozen open, petrified open. the empty ring falls (with one snow flake inside), it clacks as it hits the wounded ground. it click clacks against the crest'd box on its way to dit-da into the hole, daa-dit-daa. in answer to this code we ream and reamed out the equivalent zero's and one's. combination time creases then tri-distraction/competition with the beckoning lighthouse (itself fighting back the t.r. agents).
revolving to answer both all quiddity lost brake drive entwining code and velocitas as the epicentre approached. malfunction.

*1 zenamide, v.h.s & sforzatrope lab product: administered intravenously to bemuse/horrify the h.i. virus into submission or self immolation.

*2 a couple of tortured robotniks to j's noise craft. baptism gig date set for cornish solar eclipse '99

*3 9/9/99 n. mandela bust redressed to represent a black&white minstrel, southbank, london

*4 victor herbert step, our uncle died 21/8/99. v. created an antidote for the markov 'a' virus. well really he coerced addiction to vacuum atmospheres which would eventually result in implosion of said atmosphere (leaving rather shocked terminal users), self interest though: he was using an overlooked megaframe to number crunch for some upcoming project and as the m.a. threatened to dissolve 4yrs worth he took action and groomed its behaviour. this counter-effect spread wide enough to be noticed, next thing a mysterious job interview came up where he was plied with tea&biscuits. soon afterwards he contracted a rare disease only ever seen before in young women and never in aging males. proof of responsibility has never been qualified. note: annoyingly this date is usually remembered for the plane carnage which included the 777 whose eye thought they were entering india but actually k2 became its final resting place. 235 souls lost and the dalai lama.)

*5 info on informaÿØÿà JFIF H H ÿí RPhoop 3.0 8BIM ÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿ è,,, read on ¡™š

*6 style of boot designed in collaboration with b.l. for optimum take-off (see datacide3) their mainfeature being the mahogany soles for magnified vibrational access with added feature of singed address/signatureprint.

*7 jackson's £.s.d windfall achieved from his expose of the white suits at totp's child kidnapping and porno ring

*8 the v.h.s legacy, it had taken us weeks to decipher the codes and cryptic messages but finally the time was at hand, we had the co-ordinates...of what was still a mystery, maybe perfect flight music, megaframe access, or the plans to his revolving house, we'll see...

*9 a conspiracy unveiled by the jackal: road carnage orchestrated to give the police credible presence and qualify their numbers

*10 v's groundbreaking work for butech lab. especially concerning procedures. he discovered that flight had occurred, intentionally or otherwise, in 1518 at strasbourg. many of those that had been thought to have 'danced themselves to death' had in fact taken-off. closer research and forensic/archealogical evidence prove that molecular changes occured initially from the lower chest cavity and radiated out to encompass the big toe and pineal gland last. this backed up v's earlier theories that these two most human of parts, intrinsically linked through laylines would be the last blast needed to complete a successful t-o. revert to *5

*11 the lost chapter of 'tao of jeet kune do' reveals lee's interests in physical alchemy and his research into chemical metamorphosis. the day of his 'death' he had digested a new formula that resulted in a disabling 'zombie' like effect (similar to that of the powders of haiti). later, in escaping from his tomb he recalls the act of 'swimming through the earth', lee had briefly enjoyed a type of half-flight during which he collided with a neighbouring deceased and due to the temporary shift in his metabolistic state absorbed some of her physical attributes. deciding to remain 'dead', he took the initials of his neighbour for his own and continued his research.

*12 victor's contribution to a pyramid closedtank development program. setup by mi5: a truth serum variant to be used on whales due to the sponsors suspicions that they were infact aliens; here to use the ocean as an omnicomputer (a theory disqualified by 101 research which suggests initial emigration was achieved by octopods). side effects of the drug included disorientation and chronic depression.

rev. butech report for datacide a longtime back
check mp3 area for soundtrack

Part 3

no more scraps. the cell is far behind. i think i hope.
a sign speaks but not in my language. the umbrella of darkness is lightening i must move. stupid sign can’t see me crawl. the sign sings.. i understand the arrow. follow the arrow anyway. no more glowing fruit just hard darkness.. and a dark strip i edge along, the heat melting its surface. the calloused scabs break and flow the smell of iron blending into the tar. it hits barrier. watch as the fool attempts to eat through the thicket.. a thorned bush.. a failed attempt. cut lip i feed on the liquid rust. precious drops left in dust trail as i reach the black arrow.
my head electric becomes thick.. a warning to the upcoming sun and the time that is dying on this arrow. my exit.
need to move my thing off this arrow. this arrow will kill.. i need to move the tornado away from the arrow and stop it making the sun restore.

to my feet i cripple-up.. i must preserve my lake the river that floods through me if it dries in this dirt we will all be done for. all. walk now or shuffle into the invisible shackle.. a ludicrous gait.. my arms swing and bring up dust devils. I must be careful. the sun is exposing itself but still too weak to interfere. I bring it’s creatures I awake a beast of a different language.. tapping the road.. the arrow.. i warn off time i am tired. slow.

the cabin opens.. a space shielded from motion.. clean. man laughed then spoke not what but how.. threw me bottom clothes and pointed to platform. much faster now. a fork appears I laugh or cry.. I know there are tears. transport veers wrong. idiot body cowers in the back pan as i try my electric stings. idiot body points direction.. cabin laughs. I should hold onto these resources.. fight off the suns evaporation of electric cloud. all electric clouds.

ex cabin man pulls me to look at time arrow split..i hold all in. he points. i point, he points again and fidgets and yells.. must be hard time standing on this arrow. i nod hard time hard time. he points to the platform and I climb on. we only take one arrow,

more distance more creatures more clouds more sun. fade.
does memory recognise fingers arms weight.. platform stops. cabin yells. nod to cabin. cabin yells more. many creatures about.. automatic behaviour they are probably dead.. they are lighted by fruit bulbs.. must be careful. cabin barks.
joining the crowd in all ways i join the crowd not just through the thrown rocks and wish for the constant of my cell just there beyond the carousel

Part 2

anti-vert leaves.. through the window i hear the queue.. a line of impatient men bark.. i spy through the only open orifice of the cell the wrinkled hags amongst them.. worn brown under encompassing black garb. some visited me or others like me. all day all night.
i came to recognise the old ladies hired help to either watch, berate or participate. at certain times each day it would be hoisted and hosed, hoist and hose. left alone for a while to feed from a bowl. sometimes there’d be some description of meat in the stew.
sometimes screams would come through the walls sometimes from within me. on these occasions i’d open eyes as wide as possible to pass through the walls to see creatures roam and clouds escape in whatever order or shape i chose. some times..

when the waist belt was returned to a locked position i re-entered the room to its hard walls dirt floor and stench. not all the jellyfish would swim down to the hole at the incline.. at the corner.. where my bowl would sit after the hoist and hose. marooned globules would attract ants who would heave away what they could. the left would attract dirt and straw to cover themselves to patiently await vanishing time.

moonlight would voyage the cells darkness. through the curtainless window opening with its corroding rail.
a searchlight through the filth. bringing to attention bounties of strangeness. once it found a special. a disc with two sockets.. too small to be a skull. a brightness of mother of pearl with a lip running its circumference. too far to touch it would disappear during the day but would return at night. what was visible was small but who knows how deep it went into the dirt. an alien that came up for air during the quite times.. a staff that pierced the entire earth.. a lost lightening bolt frozen in sympathy for me?
one day it vanished too.. absorbed into the mess like the jellyfish.. it never came back.

it was my turn.

if i was quiet if making myself small and silent if i could swing the weight of this chain that links my necklace if i could just create a pulley system if i did it when returning from the bowl it could..
it did.. now connected to a pin on the wall above the window. pulling on the chain to hoist myself into a hanging position.. choke and crash. again pull and crash. stuffing straw into the gap between my throat and steel.. another attempt. i made the window just in time before blacking out. u’d over the lip of the window.
wake.
understanding the strain or collapse had broken my lazy arm but also the necklace. it twitched for security it fell rusted inside the cell as i headlong out.. landing on bales that occasioned as seats for the waiting.

cracked voice (was that mine?). the laughter the fights the moans (was that mine?). no clouds or creatures. moon gone, replaced with the fizz of a neon sign and multicoloured bulbs strung out into distance. i crawl. my limbs have ceased and wasted. reaching the cover of the ditch under the fruit bulbs of escape... to peer out at
elephants cowering from the firebreathers explosions.
contortionists describing strange letters on a plinth above sodden gamblers violently slapping down cards and glasses of whiskey.
a dark figure moving within the centre of the panoptic carousel. a hand grappling within his groin as people laugh and slide on their plastic animals.

must make out. get lost. just move. thirsty there are no fountains lakes or puddles. hungry there are slithers of flesh gripping to a small bone.
i see stars and all is spinning and symmetrical. how long here? outside ditch has gone quiet and i have entered the eye of a storm. dust swirls in a hum of muddle. epicentre i try to control the mess of flow and counter-flow. I get caught up. myself from above a emaciated skeleton thing scratching slowly through dust.. all is awhirl around it. I feel my way in the darkness. that’s not me.. that cadaver down there.. my puppet controlled with electric strings. and watch how the stupid thing stops and looks around at the tornado of bulbs roads and posts.

crawl.

i'm really happy.. i just met thomas anderson outside the queen sq park near the october gallery and he was selling his books for £1!

walking past the little table a beautiful looking black woman with freckles yells at me
'do you have a pound?'
'for what?'
'buy one of this great guys books?'
he semi-blushes and continues chatting to the blonde girl on his otherside.
i stop to check and the blonde points out one that she says is the sexiest. i pick it up and then another as they finish chatting with the author and walk off with their autographed books.. i hand out £4 but he won't take it so it ends up being £2 and he asks if i want them autographed and while he does i ask him loads of questions while he just answers..
'i never know what to write when doing this..'
so i don't press any further with my questions, thank him and quickly head hope with G&T at the ready to read in my sunny window

i bought Wartime Bach and Fun and Games, the latter i just finished.. brilliant.. very tight prose and interesting subject matter (reminds me of a hetro cooper/acker if that is possible!). they seem to be cast offs as the print is at an angle (which i like) and he probably gets more selling them this way than through his publisher (FiveBooks btw and no ISBN curious?)

Your Own Beloved Sons seems quite famous.. and is the only thing i can find on the internet.. anyway what a delight.. i have a feeling this isn't the first time he has done this so if you're in the area have a look out for him

oh and by the way part 2 & 3 will come soon.. still haven't transferred it yet

Part 1

as if walking into a mirror – startled like seeing your own reflection when you haven’t prepared yourself.
a flash of a smile as if he was waiting at the gates, as if he knew i would come, as if crossing the framed exit was walking into a mirror.. or just the harpo scene.

he said he was vert but then denied it immediately. he said we should step-off together.
he took off his shirt (the same black sun etched over his spine, twice the size as here). his bone structure was rigid and invading his muscle fibre.. soon he would not move. until then he rolled and bounced off walls without the slightest flinch.
he opened the bottle with an eyesocket, then poured. i took off my tee and he laughed at my black dot and the malleablity of my flesh. he prodded and scrapped until I was raw and bleeding. he laughed at my yelps and pulled my hair to hear it again.

i am now naked and bleeding, alcohol invading my wounds from his spit. again rudely overturned again the fizz sting, contracting from his tongue and boney fingers. and now the world is closing in, his hands around my throat are closing it, there is hardly any light left the only visible sight is the mirror infront of us.. i look into his eyes.. i cum. Blackness.

awake and the sun has gone and he is in me once more, this time gentle like waves, the breathing of a sleeper. we are in a different room. bare except for the mattress i lay on and that bowl in the corner.
i am shackled by a necklace to the wall.
it is not him. this is heavy, fat and hairy with fat and hairy searching fingers. non-vert squats in a corner commenting in a language i don’t understand. the shackle is a pulley system.
i am hoisted to stand naked on tiptoes. a hose comes through the shoebox sized window. i am washed down. i look at the run-off, it is the colour of piss and full with bloodclots and jellyfish.

i am left. my toes begin to ache. the strain on my neck is great. the light from the window goes out. cold dark. ache out.

i wake. i am in a hospital bed. i am not in a hospital. the walls are mirrors. repeated i disappear into the distance, smaller smaller still. bandages on arms and a cast on one leg, an ominous stitched scar down my left flank. out.

i wake. i am in a hotel reception lobby. i am not in a hotel. the view is a trompe l'oeil. again a mirror. blood red lipstick tied to a swivel chair. the cast has gone and i am dressed in rags. the desk bell rings and rings again.. it rings every minute.. it rings 127 times before someone enters, it is anti-vert. smiling he cuts me free and kisses me for 2 rings. i breath as he tells me that i am home.. that i will never need again. i am set. i do not smile he slaps me so i smile. i am led to a new room that we will share. there is a large chest. you are mine i will help you to live.

well it is rather warm so after scribbling some stuff down i ventured to the park to finish Godlike
torture!
not the book but the bugs.. dry uncompromising grass AND bugs.. weird fly type things with wasp markings.. earwigs.. those jumping wolf spiders.. my skin was crawling.. horrid
as for the book.. in parts it is glorious.. he definetly can turn it on.. but overall i had the same feeling as Go Now.. it just didn't live upto VOIDOID which was fantastic and an all time fave. to me Go Now was a reworked/extended voidoid which wasn't necessary.. where as this is new territory (of sorts) so more enjoyable.. still beats most shit out there though.

now that the WC is over (well for england) if you're interested in football check onion bag.. some of it written by a guy i know who is soo funny he'd crack up the dead