Ulysses V - Masters of Spiritualism, a visual comparative monologue

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Trans-generational but somehow postmodernist winos and homeless chaps. Faces made of croissants are the epitome of cool: a) recycling; and b) resident parasites. A new collection of premium vagabonds every three weeks. Bob, you are a master of spiritualism but a morally weakened judge of all beer can recycling. Any knowledge of pagan rituals will never help your case. Your views are clearly too progressive for mainstream (meaning me and my cleaner) acceptance. Garrulo, garrulous young fella. Turned up to a date wearing a Batman tee. The potential date was me. “No offense, mate, but I ain’t gay.” Where’s is that fucking Joker when you need it. “But I thought you like m…” You thought wrong, boy. The only chap I’ve ever had strong feelings of the kind “Well, I wouldn’t mind with you” is Genesis. “It’s clear to me”, said man with a sad trout smile, “that you are at the heart of a VERY, confused and mixed-up urban nebula where only rodents and pigeons have not been denied yet the virtue of rational thinking.” Perhaps I should have mated with ‘im. Tuesday, 13th June 2043. Local newspaper-no-more The Amargus reports on the modern legitimization of abusive behavior. Think they are right, regardless of their current digital-only face of affairs. “You fucking cunt, go home!”, fucking cunt of a chimp screams outside the Council’s frigid chambers coz he thinks Scarface is too fucking black. Needless to fucking say, pan paniscus racist shows no regret in court and is sentenced to a tenth of a life in one of them notorious violating cubicles run by Her Majesty Da Blue Cervix. “Everything down here”, says now the modest carrier of a Frankenstein pair of jeans, “is so bold and cool.” That makes no sense, you gorgeous hummingbird. It’s been stipulated before and I won’t lie about it. Bitterness is at the core of all my public thinking. Extended silence. All writing funding cut. No one can deny –at least no one that has ever felt happy working behind a bar while the manager was busy flirting with young barmaids in the cellar- that these last five years of intense public observational study have had a profound effect on me. My innate happy hippie and always hoping nature has been deformed by long periods of double espressos and why-not-six-pints urban analysis. “Apotheosis!”, and don’t ask me why, shout the holes in my stomach. “Man, you are living like a fucking garden pea!” In any case, I refuse to listen to any cavity that carries my name. Only my grave, if I can afford one, of course, will be honoured with that privilege. Speaking of parasitic holes and life beyond-not a sepulchre, in the summer of 1997 I visited Titian’s burial place in the chapel of the crucifix in the Basilica di Santa blah, blah, blah in Venice. Scratch that. False recollections, like granting myself the nerves of the chicks’ composure. Ludicrous, made to make us laugh unintentionally. Give ‘im a lollypop. Keep his mouth shut. Fucking fool. Top clown in the mental institution failed to educate us. He’s still around and has not yet been able to acknowledge the major triumph of the century: Us. And WE, who so bloody well got rid of every single modern buffoon long ways back. Fuck Charlie Rivel. Knock, knock. Who is it? Marcel Marceu. Come in, mate. More seats

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at the back. First comic pieces on in ten minutes. Intercourse, disease and death. That’s all we can foresee. Sex, gonorrhea and Coop Funeral Services. Gonzalez’s lack of enthusiasm reflects his ambition to piss over your faces once his obliteration is signed off by those who genuinely despise him. Radioactive decay is the process by which the cock of an unstable, but always accidental, Radio 4 listener intents no longer to control its blood vessels thus allowing come and urine run the show temporarily. Been credited with showing nothing, niente, but a deathless face. Time for facial things to change. Behind a dream are the lies a man cannot refute. Meanwhile, the chap from eos-solutions.com suggests that you seek independent advice to avoid a visit by a field collector. You are another account number: 0011867735/004056559864. The highest value of my life currency is my disdain for third-party digits. The poet appeals to the drunk’s conscience. Do not open the door, Oliver. Them big baldy fellas are gonna take your Roland synthesizer, your frog aquarium and my son’s Call of Duty Deluxe. Paradigm shift: I will not convince you and your children will demand a court hearing. Bills debts but pimps I don’t crave. Any sign of stress, all must be said, is upon deprivation and obnoxious enforcement. The builder artist digging a trench is a form of self-imposed seclusion, that is to say, it’s one fucking mistake set on top, underneath and in between the legs of another Don’t Let Them Hear Ya Singing the Ballad of the Jolly Fabricator of the Fishing Song: <<I don’t see nothing wrong with fishing on Sunday at all.>> O, here we go. Churchill rallies the people with his strongest weapon: a bottle of whisky. Mr. Gonzalez still claims that any allegations of alcohol abuse’s post-pissed violence by Mr. Gonzalez are entirely honest but false. The first, middle and last part of this semi-articulated rant concerns daily matters and is of no interest here, there or anywhere. I greet you all and wish you too good wealth. Here’s an sincere synthesis of what scholars call the primitive soul & rationale of modern apes in a suit. So yes, please allow me to free myself from the constraints of modern society and let me chimp rule in the class-room. I am a hooligan and I am ordering you to take me seriously. I am a hooligan and ain’t no fucking arsehole. I am a self-evident fact whose mum always had quite a precise idea of what he missing-front-tooth boy ought to be like one day or nine days a week for the rest of his volatile life as one more living paradigm. Fair to say, though, that my writing model would never ever be fucking modified in any practical way if instead of showing, as in here, my most prolific if not instinctive, cunt face, I chose to punctuate in a conventional fashion so we all can enjoy the heterosexual pleasures found in the workings of the television’s remote control. It takes just a little more of imagination (add also to this equation a three-meal-course at Térre-a-Tierra, four bottles of pink Champagne and an impromptu vomitation session on your lover’s Indonesian carpet) to fart out the texts of a writer whose practice is solely based on the right balance of his neuro chemical bank statements. In a world of continuous speculation, spurs Eliot, times remains a perpetual possibility plus me the witness of a fucking irritating abstraction. I bid for progress, at least in this shared toilet. Such is the wicked nature of my daily enquiries as an ordinary, me, mortal nobody. I’m gentrifying my insubstantial life by having embellished with latte stains every tombstone I've sketched over the last ten years.

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I am faced with a problem that is both bold and revealing in nature. How to be productive in society while coming to terms with a pretty obvious, indeed, lack of enthusiasm in general. Whatever I’ve been doing, delivering or pissing away bore witness to a fake conception of moral doing drawn by a third party. We dwell on false ethics to recover from mediocrity. The beat of the heart reveals our worst enemy, an implacable stupidity that other mammals know from birth how to erase by avoiding smiling all the fucking time. One feels tempted, by either mindlessness or egotism, to deliver mass-produced ridiculous ideas with only one goal in mind: “Knock, Knock!” “Who is it?” “It’s me, Lucifer. Come to tell ya how fucking unimpressed we are with you. Don’t you go thinking, sunshine, that they want you p there either.” “Maaaaaaaaan, that’s fucked up. Thought it was looking like I was striving to improve my white middle-class etiquette.” “You must be fucking kidding me, Mr. Gonzalez!” Nobel Peace Prize winner Santos, report The Times a la Victorian Sponge, arrived to Legoland yesterday for his first state visit. He offered Elizabeth a pen made from a bullet. The Hanoverian monarch gave ‘im in return a jewellery box made by her nephew. On the menu, roasted Windsor estate pheasant with pickled cabbage and a 4% Brexiteer inflation rise. Fucking muppets fucking doing a Foucault. Sick bastards ain’t nothing but a mirror of society, of a society that still favours class division and blue collar fucks. “Now, listen to me carefully, children. There is only one thing you need to know… before we go somewhere private and… and I put you all over the edge… literally. In the beginning, and later on at extra time, God created me and my pheasant bitches.” We got us a motto here: The Royal Society of the Roasted Galliforme – Serving 4 Nothing, Thinking of Nichts. You’re wasting my time, anyway. Everything you do has no purpose other than that of self-indulgencing yerself the fuck out coz you got a big cock and you always wanted a pair of big tits. Like a legion of 1920s cars parading in the city of the rainbow and the righteous lentils on a Sunday afternoon. Mate, do us all a favour and take that old shit relique back to the garage. There ain’t no mo’ warm horseshit on the road and it ain’t ok either hanging women in public. Four wheels (vanity, futility, dullness and arrogance) clearly without a constructive plan or function, like opening your front door to the 2nd SS Panzer Division coz you fucking thought it woz unusual. It ain’t the first time… says the conspirator against the impertinents. “Some trees”, wrote the imbecility exterminator on his 21st year, “suffer from clinical concentration. My first reaction: I AM DREAMING the lives of the maniacs in the making. Mother, where have you gone? I am old, I am tired, I am considering joining the German Secret Service. Mother, your love was never indiscriminate, but your writings were frequently at the core of my love for a wet pen that still refuses to write a shit.” Time to restrict myself to describing any thoughts that, varying in size and smell, could accidentally help me remember who or what I was before I equipped myself with the latest in semisolid rational judgement. Having a efficient discharging arse for brains can be positively correlated with a disdain for any future events. The future is just a matter of seconds. Time, an idyllic graveyard. Time, the water boiling. Time, being grateful to Boris intervening to protect us from causing more damage with our writings &/or eco creative

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enterprises. Is there anybody out there, outside Budgens, combating middle class infantilism? “Yes”, says the puritan soul. “Other nations like The Bat and Ball and some perishing colonies like Bristol, Glasgow, Marseille and Cadiz. They all tremble when facing both the blank page and the eggie canvas.” JOB OPPORTUNITY: Want to become part of one of the city’s leading culture magazines? Just email your CV and a little bit of yourself (question mark. “Hi there, my name is Jonathan and I was sporadically thinking about setting your headquarters on fire whilst wanking off my latest afternoon on the piss”). Please, send all your details to yourself at info@lifeisfuckingpointless&I’mafraidIonlyhavemeselftoblameforcozallIhavelearntovertheyearsain’tmorestimulatingthanwhatgoesthroughMirsPrimrose’sheadwhensheiswaitingcoldandsemideadforthevillagespublictransportoutsidethemarket.co.uk. Mrs Primrose, got a secret to tell ya, a very personal one: Damn, I fucking love your views on the Arts Council Milking Ways. Mr. Bus Driver, one more competent craftman to add to the equation in a past life, ain’t afraid to report back in public about my moral disorientation. Love to tell him I am currently working on something solid other than a two-meter deep trench in Lancing. But surely being an accidental proletariat will pave my way to heaven. Know the TRUTH, and then fictionalize it with some wheels on paper. A cunt goes a grabs a pen but not a keyboard. Sit the fuck down on your Captain Nemo’s chair and lay for us the written LIE. And for me, please allow me to enjoy for once this bloody phoetusccino. Foam, one brown sugar and culture –the prolific face of a nation drunk but no pissed with international politics. Fuck me, now I sound like The Guardian Online. The libertarian tone is pretty obvious. Would love, though, to offer any beardy reader in his late 30s a different form of aesthetic writing, all available, if bothered, to have in or take away and served with brown toast, jam and a first aid kit. I’m obviously the word aesthetic in that precise sense that any unqualified builder would pompously used to invoice the hierarchy after three pints of John Smith and two lines of coke. “Hi there, I enclose with this email, my missus and two unwanted Siamese twins a copy of my invoice and a brief version of my new folk ballad the Aesthetics of Modern Digging in Trench Warfare & the Perception of Life Under Newly Classified Type of Steroids.” Mary Baker Eddy:
For hope deferred, ingratitude, disdain!
Wait, and love more for every hate,
And fear no ill,
Since God is good,
And loss is gain (*).
For hope deferred, I have never,
Directly or indirectly,
Identified my shit life with
Any of my writings, let alone fucks,
Delivered under the influence
Of mathematics

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Inversely, I have tried to
Ignore the traditional concept
of bank arithmetics when measuring the quality of my paper word. Signing on helped, made me a reliable public library flee. Here the reader might observe the augmenting progression of a nobody with a sympathy for the sex life of chapters printed in an old fashion posture: “Dear Mr. Gonzalez, thank you for your manuscript. I’m afraid our publishing…” “You must always remain dissatisfied”, say the cock to the creative mind. The basis for self-reconstruction ain’t here, in Facebook.” “At the end of the wall,” wrote Cendrars, “no more straw.” Now you may cal yourself a writer and a water-colourist. “Do you have a NIN?”, asks the bank regulator? “Marital status?” “Two baths a week”, answers I. Eventually, when the artisto is ready to count how many true friends he has whilst conceptualising himself into a grateful starving pigeon, Bank Regulator suggests him to avoid any wanking maneuvers when begging sterlings. In the absence of any creative gesture, el artisto continues with his struggle on that perverting line the bourgeois called “the surface” in the late 1800s. To rise smoothly to the surface, show your bare arse, look miserable, and either pretend in public that you are a feminist, an tight chair socialist and an academico. Damn right, anything but the indiscriminate use of violence. Breathing utensils of the wild mammal: Lungs, diaphragm, the rib cage, solitude, passive acceptance of it, an infantry hat, preferably Vietcong’s, moisturized finger tips, resistance (look zealous to your children, especially to the prodigal fucker), cannon powder, analog analysis, falling asleep at the wheel, the remission of all your sins, including work and any honest go at political veganism, the division of looted money, the Phoenician alphabet, the devotion of your entire life to verifying your own stupidity by leaving behind everything but your masturbatory speculations (In the beginning Osiris created the right hand and anal exploration), Absolute magazine, go and burn it, burn them all, including any self-made millionaires occupying your laptop’s screen, Police Constable Marcus Tyson, working class values and resentment, anything that’s ever had a semblance of a political lunch, vertical gardens hanging from tall buildings in the very cosmopolitan mind that never fought a fuck, manufactured ideologies that suit the subtle mind of a 4G bitch, burn them all, I say, and burn me too the those who never laughed or indeed laughed at Fatty, and all those who remained silent… Breathing utensils of the tamed jackal: Dick exposure at the book collectors store, Big Dan of Lancing summoning the Divine Mensacap to show off his badly groomed bonobo face, Voltaire’s tongue, known for its resistance to frost, floods and tsunamis, clown’s laughter, friend’s betrayal and parent’s early separation, clown’s laughter, government’s brown envelopes targeting your lack of moral integrity and/or indifference towards a society you never asked to be part of, clown’s laughter… You doing, mate? You realized everything is flying into fucking pieces? Your household, marriage and poor attempt to parenting, your job and financial stability, health, health insurance, health examination, toilet and bed health, TV health, media health, Netscape health, four-wheeled health, behind and beyond the bar health… and hell, and the fucking chronic pain subsides, coz

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you think we are still alive, but you know we are more of a primate appliance than a utensil, but it helps, and do not think about summits, and keep your socks dry if you ever dare to release yourself from work, suffering and personal effects while allowing at the same time your youngest chimpanzee siblings own your current conscious experience of time, being, texting inoculations and monthly payment settlements, and do never prevent them from taking your Rickenbacker, you fool, for ever pissing in the dark over your death’s curfew (is there actually any difference between your world and that of a pitted black olive?) And then again you are missing the interconnecting link, the small tape plate where the olive sits still staring and laughing at you: “I am the centre of your ridiculous existence.” Dead end. “I’m sorry, chimp I’m afraid we cannot offer you anything for your cogitations. They are seriously dated. Try the pawn shop in Jefferson Street. I highly recommend their CDs For Sale area. They are selling Classic FM compilations at 50p a piece.” Haydn. Taken me nearly half a lifetime to realize breathing on the Fast-Food World Bank would be soothing paradise if those who think they count were forced to confess they got to enjoy Haydn’s symphonies either too late in life (“Knock, knock!” “Who’s is it?” “It’s me, Darwin. Coming to collect you.”) or already too fucking ugly to be youthful again. Those who can sit still in the toilet can detect with ease the futility of that type of late intellectual development. “Dear, dear. Don’t you come telling mama that you just been wasting your fucking time.” “I know, I know, mama. But what can I do? Laurence, the bank manager, insists I should embrace the delights of modern life! Like I always said, do not bother the man in the baby that just wants to sleep. No need for milk and Classic FM no mo’, mama. Leave it as it is.” From shit we come, as detritus we return. Would like to think that, with my erratic behavior, I will one day consecrate as the laziest but purest re-evaluation of modern ape’s life choices. Remember, next time you thinking about which model of Vanquis card will see you through the winter I will be laying cozy in my cot facing a riddle worth solving: What side of my nappy ain’t wet yet. Husserl put it this way: All these fucking necessary questions demand answers based on rational apeing. Cest le Deluge, mon ami, and Michael Gove is riding yer black stallion. When the bank’s monthly statements pretend they are the local preacher, one shows this urge to leave his condescend cowboy behind to let them red numbers dictate from then on who or what one should follow next. “Mister Laurence, gonna tell ya now what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna give ya my most sincere smile, shake hand with ya and leave yer office pretending that none of this repressing and humiliating shit you lot have been throwing at us over the last 200 years was ever real. Then I’m gonna buy me a bottle of fine damn white rum, get my stringless guitar out and sing loud and clear the Lifeless Ballad of a Conformist Morose. Anyway, pointless to push the rant further. By dint of my newly self-proclaimed authority in the field of observational street morosity, I undoubtedly have succeeded in accumulating passive enemies all around the mediochre Intelligentzia world. I should justify this but can’t be arsed. Anything but a lubricated finger in the hole. For rational thinking, whether delivered by a fine neurons collectors or an olive seeking culinary attention, is an error-free competence specific of those who can stand still

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whilst mastering the art of scrutinizing urbanitos’ etiquette. Fact, a third pint in a row is may render null any hypothesis as a starting point for further investigation into the behavior of any father who is far too old to have traditional Maori marks covering both his arms. “Let me tell ya something, George. The reduction to all things to a look that clearly does not represent one (it abandon him/her some decades ago, perhaps after getting their first P45 on the post) is telling us, dearest spectator, that you’ve never felt comfortable with the size of your erectile fella.” In Britain, my friends, there is only one thing more hostile than being a Republican –being a foreigner and an advocate of those who ain’t elected by birth. Needless to say, that’s another traditional issue dealing with dick failure. “You either like us or leave us.” Leave you for whom? “But gentleman, my cock’s never been like this before, so large and antipathetic! I can solemnly now guarantee you that, previous to all this self-governing cocky non-sense of its, IT had been a firm believer in any form of despotism delivered by the sovereign state! You and this lovely land of you turned my primitive genitalia into a wise pair of balls. God, I was so happy and relaxed with my Ceausescus, my Jaruzelskis and Zhivkovs! But you’ve given me books, cognition and Richard Bradson, and there was where everything started to go wrong and go kindof smart arguing for me. In ten words: Ain’t my fault, my beloved Guardians of the Tolerant Queenship.” “Listen, you bastard Bulgie. You are a clear example of another lethal alien force gathering momentum in our English rose garden. You better get the fuck out of ‘ere before we…” here we go again. Can’t help it. Award-winning comedy with the UK’s top laugh headliners. Join us for a matinee of motherfucking ad-lib laughter. Bring your daughters and your administrative deputies. Who does shopping in Sainsbury’s? Who does shopping in Sainsbury’s that can piss me off? Who shops there when I’ve just been charged £3.50 for a dreadful double expresso at the paris Bistro? Who does shopping in Sainsbury’s that can objectively piss me off when I’m jerking off over the nicotine-stained pages of a poor copy of The Soft Machine that cost exactly half of the price of this fucking tasteless double compresso I’m actually hiding one of my hole-on-the-toad third-hand winter coats since those who are about to do the Big Cosmic Shopping will not even try to comprehend I have always felt comfortable with reading and writing in public in my adoptive language of the Cucumber Sandwich & Bring Back Our Waters and will also stare at me like if I woz about to drop a petulant homophobic H-bomb in the streets of the land where people forgot to moisture their finger tips before Capitulation (no one told me when I was a kiddie that Burroughs and Duchamp shared same bed in mummy’s womb) coz I, the man in Read With No Reading Rights, at 33a The Berghof’s Glory Days Avenue, am pointing the way to them as best as I wold like to think: Tesco, Tesco, Tesco!, up and above, Trolley Station!, you, the ugliest personification of revolution, come and get this delicious jam donut paper bag and do shine the wisdom of the Special 1, me, enormous and invigorating like any wrongly paid occupation, such as such and such and such and such we get up and patrol the streets when it is indeed our filthy mouth the bend line in need of some policing, from the early hours at the gentleman’s club to the wet eves on medieval rest-rooms where our tiny tiny sleezy prick’s

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speech will remain embedded in the pages of white-bricked magazines, dearest nemesis, coz you
may bring your admin. deputy too, you may also let the puritanical out, let the putative in my bed, any synthesis of ethical coitus will def help, young women, old pigs, shall remain 4 ever vulnerable, said Hume who expects the life of the Old Fart be of no greater importance to Washington DC than that of the Canadian cyanobacteria, Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, don’t turn your back on me, I want to prove myself, be the bitch slapped in the face by the egomaniac’s counter-narrative (what da fuck you on about, pal?), be the peaceful sheep grazing on the mountains while the world collapses in Twitter, be the roar amplified by unwanted lyrics, I am the unmistakable face of laughing muscle soreness and fatigue by the river bank, I am I, a bold irreducible complexity that refuses to evolve to so annoy any potential sentient intelligence planning to fuck me up with artificial white clouds, I am I, would you find me a new home?, I’m so fucking tired of sleeping rough amid Iberian dream breakers (in the past it was us, writers, who were photographed in the jungle, now it’s the pub’s fat cat that is getting all the camera’s eye and bubbles), Bubble, the one you get fooled by (“All our bio-products are designed to be universally televised”), the two that won’t hold themselves erect, the three, masters of the likely workings of my ailing mind, and last but not lust, the ephemeral molecular survivors, the triumphant ten: bacon sandwich stamina, endurance, scruples (of the midnight kind), careless beyond comprehension, face transparency (in order to make way for your brand new unblemished baboon countenance you must first down with conjectural indifference layer after layer of your past facial mock-up), an accountable professionalism when displaying enthusiasm for the absurdities of life in Planet Attenborough, bring the brickie that many regarded as a man of genius, laughing till you piss all over the collector's face, whatever it is he/she/it collects (debts, children, health, love, ozone, coats, croquettes, Marinettis, etc.), sitting patiently underground waiting for Bergman, & being thoughtful enough to leave no sign behind that might confirm I was ever here, but meanwhile the decrepit caballero in No. 1, 2, 3 and Ten (aired raid sirens blare) @ 2 Terminus Street, B'ton, sets foot outside the front door, so eager always, HESHEIT, to unlock the secrets of the universe, i.e. The Book of the Soul According to a Random Hawaiian Pizza, do not question Domino's wisdom, begs No. 2, here's a man who's proud of his Anglo-Mason root, but let's not forget the transience of mediocrity, TSSSSSHHHHH!, what the philosopher urgently needs is a much larger boat, cosmological maritime trade, they wanna call it, all ready her for long-term mental security and growth, I'm afraid to confess, SHE, keeps herself clear of germs, but just forty minutes from where we live another girl from a less wealthier heritage is also preparing for a philosophical sailing commitments, how she would survive, we shall never know, presumably not very enthusiastic abouts what she will be going in for, the lost of youth, the fetid smell of false hopes, the struggle, complete corruption, sleepless nights, the act of murder, a Fascist state, the banker triumphs, while the gardener does nothing, sometimes wagging his finger, wondering perhaps, whether he's still among those of this or that other kind, does he give a fuck?, debatable, for most of us, don't want to renegotiate most of us, but someone else, don't give a fuck, either, so let Miller's

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hummingbird stand still for you tonight, “Allow? Is that God out there?”, “If you disagree with our decision, you can ask for a statement of treason in which we shall shit out our celestial resolution in more detail”, repetitious, malicious, where are THY, Lucrecius?, hereby, will be hard to believe the syphilitic ape could at one point only write more than what we'd been told, niente, fucking matters, anymás, see my soul leading the Santa Campaña Partisana on our way to exterminate the remains of the SS-Das Reich HSBC Division, do not feel pity for them for we are fighting for our potato soup homeland, let's not fool ourselves, we must wage war against the i-Phone militia without mercy, the 0-9 digits are a threat to our way of life, another insidious and superficial temptation financially intertwined with the Dyson's, The Costa's and the Volvo's, some of which will find one day their zenith in the simplification of all things material, beings & overrated Japanese cuisine to a monetary value, and that, dearest creationists, taken on its own, implies a freeing of breathing from da regular channels: the nostrils and the Stock Exchange... Let the author's irritation being the corroborated fact that she can't but project visions of a literary globe loosely united by fake Californian tits. Abominable nature, says she.


                                                                                                         The End.








(*) Mary Baker Eddy, Mother’s Evening Prayer.
 

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                       ULYSSES IV – An Existence Without Existents and Tits, a visual comparative monologue


Any unethical act begins with someone’s brief experience of unhappiness. “I’m really sick of this! Dragging me up and down the road like that! Thought you just wanted a tea, fuck’s sake.” Police X-Factor, comma, Sussex Policing cuffing and hooding an 11-year-old disabled girl in celebration of the Queen’s 90th birthday. If I keep my website running I will never be asked again to leave Farmxit. WARNING! THIS IS A FARM… I mean, THIS IS A FARM WATCH AREA. Ask Sussex Police Serving Sussex if you don’t believe me. So get the fuck out of my Farmxit!! 4 da Cynics there woz no other life but that lived in virtue and in agreement with nature’s bars. Simple life free from all possessions and from every single demand those snails who never buy a fucking round make. Diogenes and Dr. Fox are the archetypal cynic wasters. Needless to say, it’s bloody difficult to eradicate any endemic tendency to be a professional cynic. Genuinely thinking, it’s twenty times faster to buy scratch cards on the dole’s queue. Two lesbians in a black 4 x 4 laughing as loud as your misogynist eardrums can take. What’s all that about? Let me tell ya what’s going on: human rights. March for England this weekend. I don’t oppose Fascism, I don’t want to. Makes things more interesting. Could be worse. Could be Mick Jagger playing cricket for the countryside alliance… in your back garden. Imagine that, my man. The Apocalypse on a Sunday Afternoon. All plastic tits and you are the last celibate alive in the planet. Napoleon had hemorrhoids. It’s all to do with pretty low levels of oxygen down there. It’s like the wind is deleting all the fucking epidermis’s data. Delete, delete, delete. I got an audience, so I go and draw a portrait of the Duke of Cuntbridge. What kind of shit is this? Result: smoking when pregnant causes bad drawing. And then some early mod version of a homo neanderthalensis at the pub uses the word “nigger” and I temporarily emigrate to the Dorset. I start to sing I Pagliacci. Mr. Lion is standing right behind me smoking one of his golden pipes. I’d like to shake hands with him and tell him how much I appreciate seeing his rainbow-coloured Jaguar parked outside Infinite Foods. Young eunuch waiter calls me darling after a brief look at my shoes. If only he knew they have more holes than the ladies’ door. Love feeling the contact of my wet socks with the pavement. Think I am becoming a mobile chesnut. Fucking Van Morrison on the speakers. Go back to the KKK pub for the final solution of the day. Fat ginger pub’s cat is taking a sunbath by the front door. He is a film star. The ooposite sex is gonna love ‘im. “What’s his name? What’s his name? He’s sooooo cute!! How old is him?” “48, and is staring at your tits. Talk to me, sweetie. I too have social media needs!” No replies. I might as well do a Bergson and shout loud over the ridiculous hair follicle of the mod clientele that the concept of nothingness is fucking equivalent to the idea of being crossed out as a gigolo feline. “Gentlemen, I am feeling rejected like a motherfucker in this city of you where even the most useless cats get more tit attention! Gonna fucking join the Foreign Legion!” “You already there, pal. Your strong accent can fucking prove it.” I leave the pub thinking that perhaps celibacy, as paradoxical as it might sound, might be the cure for my tit obsession. In other words, how long will it take for my brand new non-masturbatory way of living to eradicate this fucking awful tit
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fixation? Brighton and Hove City Council – Investors in People? You serious! Can only see beardy-tattoed white socks and average buskers about to be released into the jungle from the subterranean cells of the Church of the Seven Mighty Wet Farts. I was once in a Stephen Hawking’s documentary. Couple of casting shitheads were looking for pensive lookalikes. I was sitting right here, on this same spot at the Tit Pub, when them camera nubiles approached me. “Excuse me sir, would you like to be part of a…” “Of course, why not. Where’s the fucking release form?” Twenty minutes later. “It’s OK, sir. You don’t need to put your ciggie out. Can you pretend you thinking about something deep?” “Deep like what?” Deep like the secret behind any 10-piece Bob the Builder puzzle. That’s me after two stouts on a sunny afternoon when any word spoken appears to be made out from my sweaty genital area. “Is this meditative cock face good enough, guys?” Why am I so drunk? Bank Manager don’t deserve it. People are staring at me with a Country Life look. “You! So early and already sooooo wasted!” Wish I could sell them little Syrian babies. Bet they don’t know it’s quite normal being ginger in Syria. “What the fuck do we all know, anyway?”, says the incriminating mind. 2 + 2 = 4 and I slept with your mum. She didn’t enjoy it. Clearly thought the chicken drumsticks I prepared for her have more shape and length to offer. It’s freemasons’ meeting night at Sussex Lodge in two hours. Someone oughtta tell them that wearing cheap imitation shoes leads you to hell. Dandruff ain’t either an ethical response or a divine interpretation. I was once important, you know? I was an 8th degree Rosicrucian. Still, I don’t fully comprehend why a shoe in my left shoe is an imperative. I want a Japanese girlfriend. They seem to stare less. Perhaps it’s an optical illusion, but so it is carrying a ridiculously expensive camera on your chest. Fernand Pelloutier wrote once that we are what fucking politicians ain’t: full-time rebels. “Time is unredeemable”, said a pointing nose in Burnt Norton. Time equals a perpetual abstraction in a relative dimension traced by hand, equals a fast-motion journey scripted with fuckups and Chris Martin’s broken dreams. Neo-classicism: “I ain’t loyal to baby grownups. Some of them look like shit.” A drunk bastard yelling at you when the storm is over. Far from being popular, our bodies are temporarily sacrificed to alien divinities. “So why don’t you do self-portraits?” “Nah, every painting is a self-portrait in itself, or some shit like that.” I frequently hear them voices. Chain-smoking makes them less tit-tit and more rational to my over developed sense of hearing-whatever-the-fuck-I-don’t-want-to-hear as they travel their way in through my tympanic membrane and I am rating female nipples according to the size and shape of the same pair of breasts that house them. Depravado, depraved. No-one can deny that life could be more relaxing in a nippleless cosmos. According to Murdoch’s The New York Times, hipsterism is “irrevocably” losing cohesion. Gonna grow me a beard now. My dad used to tell me and my brothers when we was lost pigeons in an autocracy of gratuitous shit that if we were gonna grow a beard it shouldda be coz we wanted and not coz we was being fucking lazy. Think I will pick the latter. The Brexits are five minutes away from facing on the green pitch Chernenko, Chernobyl and Chechenian fuckers holding 1980s daggers with their rotten teeth. But the voices are still in my head. They tellin’ me not to start a fucking sentence
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with the fucking conjunction “But…” I do whatever the fuck I want and this newly acclaimed hairy chin and cheeks of mine are the fucking final testament of it. Freedom, self-government and self-determination. The freedom of the whore, as painted by Mishima. She knows I’ll be leaving in the morning and a new battle against dozen of midlife crisis hippies buying shit at the Cyber Candy Shop will be forced upon me. Sometimes I’m inclined to write with my bare bum pointing at the female warrior of the celestial equator. And sometimes all I can see is nothing but the children of the Grateful Dead working the easy hour from 9 to 5 at Caffe Tandy in Brains Street whilst their digitalized media laptop faces adopt half of the colours of the rainbow if, and only if, them babies have not yet realized that growing organic turnips in a console is another type of zero-hour contract that no pretty mademoiselle out there will ever find sexually arousing. The 17th hour and the 25th minute: Eventually, I manage to have a decent mammal conversation in the drinking room. “Tell ya what, Louise. That Mark is such a fucking greedy cunt. Fucking hate his fucking pub.” “Is that why you are always drinking here?” “You seen what they fucking done now? They put a fucking suggestions box by the main door. Well, you fucking arsehole, I got one for ya: Why don’t you tattoo on your fucking forehead ‘Cunt at your service’?” “Shut your gob, Gonzalez. You are wasted again.” “Seriously, Louise. What a fucking…” CUNT, some 18th century writers refer to it as “the monosyllable”. In Middle English cunt, “female genitalia”; in Old Norse, kunta; and in Middle Low German kunte. Kinta Kunte, me and the pub’s manager. Although there’s also a suggested link with Latin cunens “wedge”. According to some farmer guy, any linguistic mind could find more than 500 synonyms of the very word in English slang and literature. Here’s some for ya, you fucking cunt of a pub manager: Botany Bay, coffee-shop, goatmilker, Itching Jenny, Low Countries, nature’s tufted treasure, prick-skinner, tickle-toby and end of the sentimental journey. Cacophonous drunkard. Free-raging non-masculine chaps are taking over our tables at the Cunty Dorsetbillie’s. Exercise your demons, she said. I went and raped her. Seemed to like it and asked for more. Little kiddie pooing in a potty in the corner did not look pissed off with us. Probably thought it’d keep her gob shut for once. “Now be a good boy and empty your tommy-tommy for mum in the special chair.” “Why don’t you leave me the fuck alone, you miserable tart?” “When I’m older I wanna go to Oxford uni to do a major in Logic so I can learn how to communicate with this greedy bunch of positivist cunts”, thought the toddler shit machine as he was launching his third smelly brownie. Shaggy tits was feeling ever so proud as the rape scene was wearing off. That did not mean the sentimental journey was over yet. Dan the Ripper had taken ketamine that evening and was proven to be quite a successful linguistic maverick. His head, like that of all those witnessing that night the tickle-toby violation scene, being impregnated with the semantic seeds of the lonely lunatic, sounded like this: “Intending to contribute to a --?— understanding of --?—CUNT. Theresa May comes as a surprise to those --?—who remember --?—CUNT. The status of the --?—object is taken for granted. Sexual feelings are more likely to --?--. A nice lad who understood the sensuous --?—of her CUNT. When he wore out he was replaced by --?--. The sufferings of the compulsive
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shopper Jump The Gun are more present in this --?--. Libraries, the stable where our minds are free to --?—and where we can also meet CUNTS like --?--. I’ve always been inspired by CUNTS like you, CUNT.” Smoking causes no fatal CUNT cancer. “Stop organizing my life. I have no phone, but you may email me if necessary.” It’s so progressive here! I’m really lagging. Help yourself to my beer. I’m going to Southern Computers to buy me a type-writer. No, not an old one. An electric one will do. I used to have a type-writer-type. Loved typing shit like “Ever noticed traffic wardens ain’t allowed to have tattoos.” Brighton magazine, June 1994 issue. Gigs, clubs, comedy, funerals, music, shopping, arts, eating out, arts and gardening, arts and drinking in winter like some homeless polar bear rejecting any hibernating protocol, arts and barbers, and then some fine digestion after a full tray of greasy motherfucker pork chops for all them vegan velociraptors. SS Heinrich Comet. “Mate, let’s eat properly. It’s our last day in the planet!” Captain Scott applauds. Hitler too. Boris Johnson’s envy. Trump is a bald cunt. Bet you never guessed it. Festival can be tits too. Everywhere and at any time, mate. Blissfields, Bestival, Beestival, Wild Boar Life Festival, Camp Testical, Together the People Who Will Never Give a Shit Festival, in June, July, August and the best of what’s on in Happy Beardy Automata Land. I know why you are staring at me in disgust. It’s 11.17 am on a Tuesday morning and I’m already pissed. “Old man, don’t you have anything better to do?” But I ain’t gonna fulfill her bedroom’s sadistic fantasies. No Pedro, I ain’t gonna clean no fucking potty-potty after intercoursing momentaneously my way into her bed. Together the Troll Men Incestival, curated and produced by a group of Lancing-based business frogs and limping Buddhists who are passionate about croquettes and great entertainment. It’s probably best if I go to the office. Won’t be able to concentrate surrounded by all those 1990s unpacked boxes though. Is that Ben Elton? Man’s talk. We haven’t heard that in the public house in ages. Never done anything I’m ashamed of… but being Elton’s alter-ego in the library. So far today we’ve learnt that we must let ourselves be fucked by the Ladyboys of Bank-Cock. Of course, will feel like there is no connection. Heard last night on Mexican national TV that Angela Merkel does Air B N& B. Can you imagine that? Paying 10,000 Euros a night to masturbate in her bed. And what about sniffing her underwear? “Fucking knew it. She’s a lad!” Did you know that Anthony Hopkins makes music too? He tried to do some Mozart shit last year. “Isn’t that the same guy who refuses to read any letters that ain’t addressed to Sir Anthony whatever?” “No, that’s that baldy actor? What’s his face? That twat from Gandhi. Ben something.” Yeah, filming in a vault, drinking from a skull. That kind of shit and thunders coming out from the nostrils whilst dinosaurs struggle to know who they are. It does twist yin and yan, ying and yang, chick and jap a little bit. I ain’t got a fart to fart no mo’. There was once a French prick, an IT guy that loved singing the same tune over and over. I started to despise him. I wanted to smash his head up. Who the fuck are these people? I know how to take care of my receding hairline: Books. Books, what’s the fuzz about? Brighton Books. 01273 693845. For 40 million years, this pathetic city has witnessed an awe inspiring but totally brainless burst of shallow 1980s pop. Join us for a crowd surfing fantasia. Get your surfing board out and meet us
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at the beheading of liberal morons. In the name of God the Merciful, the Compassionate: This is all it is. A button only. Don’t forget us in your prayers. Boooooooooooommmmmmm!! In those casual days, there were none but a few hipsters at the church. On one occasion, I blamed Whitesocked Phillip for the apparent decay of humankind. “You, above and below all, should bloody well know that a pair of Levi’s 501 is worth half a dozen human souls.” I said, “You, above and below all, ain’t competition at all for a local organic egg!” And there thou have not. And Gore Vidal stares back at the tit, at that big juicy hill in no-man’s land, to tell us a period joke whilst hipster-hipster dad realizes that he, the incompetent nipple’s rapist, may not be after all the eloquent circus ring master that we all had hoped for. Please, recite after me: “The nice thing about being now –this being the very period joke- is being right, (comma), and the bad thing about being then is being wrong, not to mention being forgotten… “ by the very mother who so parsimoniously offered us a sore nipple, coz surely all fathers love sucking from that which may guarantee eternal youth to our man in immaculate white socks, tight black jeans and a beard for all seasons. “Told ya, We got the old Gillette out and we finally won a fucking war.” April 1991, on a muddy trench somewhere near Verdun. We shall not surrender… to abstract concepts that instinctively accept no refutation. Art for art’s sake. Fuck off. Art for I will never be able to acknowledge my lack of ambition. As I stare from my suicide bench at The Queen’s Head at both P Constable This and P Constable That performing outside in their mid-afternoon cop TV show, my heart opens up for the last time: “let those who cain’t jump take a leak in yer studio, Gonzalez.” When I am older I want to grow standard ovations in my coffin. She said she saw two pigeons eating a puke on Thursday. Now I am at the Santander branch in North Street transferring dosh from two different toilet accounts. They all are ghostly or speculative notions. Should buy gold like Alex suggested. Young cashier seems to agree: “What a lovely day outside, Mr. Gonzalez. You been abroad recently? You have a wonderful tan.” “Nah, just been working outside. But listen, young lady. Ain’t no room for folly moods today. We just left Germany and the UK ain’t no more a composite made up of England, Wales and the Financial District.” “Do you want a receipt, Mr. Gonzalez?” Three badly drawn lions are playing Iceland on Saturday. I will limit myself to two lousy references: one being Vardy on attack and the other me buying a boat to sail to Alaska and claim for my illustrious surname a few rocks in the Bering Sea. Heard the Alaskan giant crab fetches $35in the greedy gut of modern culinary speculation. Would suggest that you put yourself literally and fictionally in my place in order to criticize me, bitch. Shelley, Prometheus unbound. “Leave man, even a leprous child is left, who follows a sick beast to some warm cleft of rocks, through which the might of healing spring is poured.” You wanted to become a sniper some time ago. “What ya think it’d be the Brexit’s soundtrack? Think about something pop, obviously. “I don’t know any fucking pop songs, but I guess it would be something like ‘I am in a new level’” Those fucking pigs always play their car’s siren just at the wrong time. I’m talking about a specific type of alcoholic that hasn’t been categorized yet. Is it about remote controls or something? They are mostly imitating police officers as they sing rap.
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‘You got the guns, I got the pants!’ Never fuck with the Iberians, they will take your gold and rape your Cuban daughters. George was born into a noble and rich family. He was a small guy (is his grave in Palestine?) In Greek is Georgius, the “maker”. He slaughtered a crocodile in exchange for the town’s conversion to neo-liberalism. In one story, I heard, he asks a princess to throw her sanitary towel to the beast. But why did he convert too to HSBC? And how he died? Was he ever married? Why do girls always hold hands? Why do they refuse to hold mines? Do I look like an Armenian caiman about to suck the red fluids of a Sainsbury’s Local’s Tampax? Taking me close to half a century to realize that them gals will only hold hands with me if some humble guru pothead manages first to inflate the actual value of my constant look of desperation. “At Cunt-Fire Convention, we believe that there is a desire for a vital new space” –how about a barber and sandwich shop where you pay with dirty toilet tissue that, alternatively, you may wrap around your head to prevent any more fucking dull commercial ideas from dominating your loser’s existence. “We are creating environments where members can facilitate personal and social change, free of the restrictions associated with fucking dosh accumulation. In an idyllic location at Bitch Inn, musician, writer and visual partist Brian Eno will be doing something, perhaps sing Goering’s favorite aviation tunes.” Drinking feels animalistic. It’s something caveman would do. You do it whenever there’s a victory. You do it with your cock and elbows. From bad to worse. End of days. Like Boris Johnson charging for sucking my ex’s tits. I never win, and that’s the first prick stance in any honest syllogism. Adonais: An Elegy by Shelley Upon the Death Of Keats. Here lieth two pals whose names were writ on crack heroine: British First. Dead man syndrome. Linguistics, political thought, microbiology, technology, software programming, Marxism, logical thought, logical sex, psychoanalysis, psycho-anal-ISIS, writing, tagging, pubbing… I, Caligula, insist upon the fact that any chit-chat implies a valid attempt to put into question the intellectual capacity of great apes at 2AM. Sir Roger Carr, Chairman of AGM: “You can be feminine and be an engineer.” 2.8 billion of weapon sales were licensed by Prince Phillip’s government. Strict ethical guidelines were encouraged. And all that because it’s a new style of music festival including live acts, storytelling, cash point intercourse, networking, campfire, air raids, civilian deaths, displaced people &/or hipsters, starving children, detentions, torture and executions. Line-up is provisional and subject to change. Brian Eno and Brian Ferry: “As you imagine, things are not simple.” But apes surely are. Focus, focus, no time for glory. “We provide bespoke saucy loans. Get in touch with Sebastian, our branch manager, and see what he can do for you.” Quarrels and fuck-ups cannot be wished out of existence.. Little Jenny goes downstairs to check out her new room. Her dad just been selected for the new manager post available at KT13 0ZW. Little Polly stumbles and falls the fuck down. Daddy acts as a potential witness. Little Polly cries loud. Daddy makes no fuzzzzzzzzzzzz coz life is complex and plenty of more falls to come. Mummy makes no fuzzzzzzzzz either. “Mummy, why aren’t you upset? My baby sister just broke her lip!!” “Coz your daddy is a cunt and is having an affair with untie Liz. Would you believe it! With my own fucking sister!” Any temporary &/or sexual
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gratification dissipates by an exchange of insults. Poisoning the other half of the rotten orange used to be considered a wise alternative. Many of you, hairy apes of a dubious nature, would own a large variety of homemade recipes which could be tried out in readiness for the next bedroom vendetta. Sexual communism is a fuck trait not found anywhere except among the howler monkeys. I wish I could include some pics in this poem. Fucking Internet is useless. Poetry and Jack Doobee-Doobee too. Fear, violence and social control. Facebook, ten Budweisers and the opening of another Sainsbury’s Local in your bedroom. Oh yeah, in that very cubicle where the insignificant man in you shagged untie Liz. You gotta be honest from time to fuck. Briefly, we all are fucking bold howlers living in large political units called football federations, fed with tedious arbitrary solutions delivered by the Amazon’s sales department. Let me tell you something, young man: A monkey is only brave when he stands up against the state’s invisible aggression with his cock out and demands, drunk or not, respect, stability and a free account in Netflix plus the right to be part of the Icelandic national team. Tools of the main heart: Any law to be flawless if, and only if, any regulation of drinking hours can be added to any regulation of paid working hours. All the shit we work for –let’s include here condoms, Tampax, download porn and Amstels, must not be sold to us at some increasingly high cost. All of life’s essentials should not be funded with our wages. Shit, no more fucking rain, please! Get the olives out, Pedro! Smiling back at you was my finest hour. Did not get intimidated by your tight leopard-skin panties. Any red lipstick conveniently applied fails not to open up my public charming mannerisms. For that cannibalistic smile of you I’d even listen to Peter Frampton’s classic hits. Passive Aggressive, PassGrass ain’t working today. He was a regular at Madness’ Xmas party. Me too, when I thought I was someone coz untie Liz proved me with over rated screams that there was a fully functioning Tescos in her bedroom. The tools of the main heart were def. flawed. (singing): “Laptop this, laptop that. When will you show us your pretty ass?” “The problem with Muslims these days is that they are the most divided molecular compound in the whole damned universe.” It’s the emotions that carry away the words, says T. There’s a song that goes: “Sticky situation, it’s a sticky situation.” There’s an elegy that goes: “Dear Mr. Gonzalez, we recognize that financial difficulty can often arise from external factors such as unemployment, a loss in work hours, a relation breakdown or living the life of the living dead. From the first time we speak to our bad, bad boys, we take the time to understand their finances and apathy and agree an affordable payment plan based on the hours you spend watching shit in YouTube. Please, contact us on 01737 666 666 to discuss the repayment options available to you.Yours sincerely, Ezra Pound, Collections Director.” “And wild desire falls like black lightning. O bewildered heart, though every branch have back what last year lost, she, Gonzalez, who moved here amid the cyclamen, moves only now a clinging tenuous ghost.” Pound was born in Idaho in 1880 something. During the Fourth World War he made a series of Fascist broadcasts over Radio Nazi Olive, for which he was tried in the Confederate States and subsequently committed to a mental asylum. He died in the City of the Pissing Smelly Waters in 1972. “He
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who is now vacant dust was once the slave of one passion:” Four little wheels. Coz it’s obvious that when Gonzalez ain’t concerned with his white socks, he loves to turn his attention to the glamorous barmaids that he’s found in the pubs around him. He has undoubtedly brought more character, more socialist misogynist thinking, and above all more skateboard’s lateral cognition into his vagabond’s creditor paintings than into his professional existence as an unqualified builder . Credit Solutions LTD., in conjunction with HSBC Debt Collecting Department, are the fortunate possessors of one of Gonzalez’s most successful studies of middle-class hippie hoping hipsterism so cynically but painfully reproduced in Existence Without Existents and Tits.” O man, why are you always so fucking bitter?? I recently saw Her Modesty the Queen Bitch being greeted by the Prince of the Welsh as she arrived for the final orgy of her 90th birthday celebrations at the Amex Stadium. That’s how fucking bitter I am. Spielberg included a scene of Her Modesty the Queen Bitch breaking wind in his dreadful adaptation of Donald Duck’s The BFG because he thought Elizabeth would bloody love it. That’s how fucking bitter I am. What about my farts, Steven? Why do I never count? I’m getting closed to extinction by oblivion here. Hop on, hop off, Old Steine. Hop on, hop off, Palace Pier. Hop on, hop off, Santander branch in London Road. Hop on, hop off, Tramp’s, Terminus Street. There was a time when no one knew our names either, claims the genius behind the new Stella Artois’ ad campaign. When you are as old as me your name is the last thing you wanna remember. Only professional immaturity and the smell of the left-wing Fisherman’s shoes can keep you sane. On Sunday, from the pulpit, I sometimes smell for my congregation Jesus’s Nikes whilst ordering prayers for the eternal glory of our Lady of the Giggling Hysteria. Man, we leaving the continent! What the fuck are we gonna do now? We gonna be left with nothing but a K2 of cucumber sandwiches and three old farts demanding that the Kingdom remain unchanged for two hundred years.
Theresa May: For God’s Sake, acknowledge the classics, Manuel!
Manuel listens, blinking sleepily. He wishes he had met Teresa when she was in her early twenties. Bet she was a juicy bombon. Choco truffles in strong pink underwear. He’d have made her happy 4eva. But now he’s leaving the country to plant his weather forecast olives somewhere else.
Theresa May: Please, don’t leave me! My own people made me do it. Promise you that I will let you grow chickpeas and Picassos in my…
Speechless rage. The writer’s about to break some balls. He’s 48, single but no longer living with himself. He’s to spend the best part of the year mixing concrete cement with sharp sand. He too wishes he had met May in a Victorian opium harem. Shortly after 11.30pm, Gonzalez and Theresa had sex in a crack house in Islington. She panicked: “I see no way out, Gonzalez! No flipping escape! You get your hairy cock in… and I get all the hairy Latinos out!”
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The old tramp has prepared a farewell speech to deliver at the Eurotunnel. “Dear Nazis and Communists: This fucking idiot who’s leaving for good is the result of years of his own research, daily idiocy and cheese and onion dried bread sandwiches. When I was on the dole and living in Kemptown, I used to feed myself with Happy Shopper’s noodles and foreign literature borrowed from the public library. Did not take me long to realized that my laborious methods as well as preoccupation with developing the perfect bum state of mind would ultimately buy me some real time before Theresa had completed her PHD on providing homoxenoxylophonic opinions about the people of the Funny Accent Land. There ain’t neither sincerity nor regret on my departure. I don’t give a solemn fuck about happy endings. We shall not triumph in the end.” “That could very well be”, says the old fart who clearly understands why I went to the trouble of telling these fucking morons the truth. TRUTH: noun, the freaky quality of being true. Eg. Henry Kissinger ordered the dropping of 3.7 million tons of bombs in Indofuckingchina. TRUTH, noun that which is in accordance with reality. Eg. Her Modesty the Queen has a personal net worth of $550 million, $10 billion worth of real estate and an annual government freebie of $12.9 million. Why give these figures in dollars? John 17:17 – “Make them holy by your truth; teach them your word, which is truth!” Twice a year I cross naked the Thames in my sleep. Do not know why, I’d rather walk through Hyde Park on an autumn day. I’m glad to hear no one of you is having sex in cold and putrid waters in your dreams. In mines I’m always starving and looking for the next blonde chick that might fancy a swim fuck. We be pervy swans on da stretches of the Thames, like those the Crown has been claiming ownership for nearly a thousand years. Swam meat was considered a delicacy in the 12th century. Anyway, them dreams of mine always end with me wearing a Richard Ashcroft tee at a gallery opening. Took me sometime to understand why funded public art can never work. It’s all in your dreams, wrote Freud before he was killed by his doctor with three morphine doses. Although, to be fair, he only sold some 300 copies of the Interpretation of Wet River Dreams in its first six years. Fucking loser. Anyone who’s willing to mix wet t-shirts orgies with the factual recreation of the wettest of all dreams (that being the bombing by Ho Chi Minh’s aviation of Balmoral Castle), deserves to be put to sleep with heroine. Fucking losers. Audience bored. Hand over the MDMA, you bloody lot! But with their genitalia currently exposed, they give up nothing but recycled JB Sports bags. Their lives are packed with little insignificant stories that only the Chief Editor at the Bus Travel magazine would consider censor before publication. I, who was already born fucked, cannot deny that all my life memories deserve to sink back in a 1920s widow’s armchair. Demons are a product of our implacable resilience. “WE DELIVER: We can deliver on delicious Roman pizzas and fucking soul-destroying faces to your home or office.” “If I had a tattoo in my leg I’d have to wear shorts in winter”, said him, the soul-destroying Deliveroo guy shaking his head like a fat pig watching on national TV the decline of the farming industry. “God, why are you always so fucking bitter?” Mate, that interrogation will surely justify my propensity to eat pork chops. Like that until the end of the days of the raising and breeding of resentful baconised animalia. As I’m
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writing these lines, I can see my shadow’s right hand squeezing Porky Pig’s left metatarsophalangeal joints. Disgusting, I now sound like Will Self. All Indian men expect their Indian partners to cook for them at least two meals a day. That’s the last time I let the Looney Tune’s pig say something… in front of the tellie. Our City Ambassadors look too like pigs these days. They ain’t fit to join the Police. And our cops ain’t fit to join those responsible for all the civilian casualties in Irak. And those responsible for the death in the land of the Tigris and the Euphrates ain’t fit either to fight Allah is Great. And Allah could perhaps be Great ain’t fit enough to bear three openings in a row in any of the city’s public art galleries. Sweet mujahidin of mine, I rather tattoo both my legs’ calves! “Gosh, you are always so fucking bitter, Latino!!” The brilliance of man is made up of all those drinking sessions in the past that refrained him from thinking he had genius. Believe it or not, drinking is a sanctifying art. Let’s build a holy shrine in our public houses. Don’t be afraid, you will never end up pissed and looking like Saint Teresa of Calcutta. “There’s something beautiful”, said she, “in seeing the poor accept their lot. To suffer is like Christ’s passion. The world gains much from their suffering.” C’mon Calcutta, join us in the WC! Satisfied at length by the last exclamation, I get up and leave The Quadrant in search of a new endeavour that will not jeopardize my dipsomaniac sainthood. Why do I write? Why fucking bother? Who and where am I? Who’s Georges Perec? Why did he write? What was all the fuzz about? What was his face up to? Do we both still need protection? And if so, from what? From the Ethical Writing Rooms of Brighton? Are you fucking serious? “No Unauthorised Access. 1045 volts. Importante: This writer should be periodically inspected and a report on his alcoholic and mental conditions obtained as prescribed in the IEE Writing Regulation BNP 7671.” I write because I love going to the shop periodically to buy expensive writing, but in my case no writing, pens and notepads. I write because I love dating the first page of any newly purchased notepad half a minute before I’ve already made up my mind and go for the non-writing-situation-today-mate coz I rather drink a beer and wait for some red lipstick to ask me if I’m a writer and I will lift my Uni Pin Fine Line and stare at Lipstick with that type of majestic smile of the author who bloody well knows that only 50,000 words separates him from giving birth and papers to some sort of Brief Interviews With Hideous Men. “So, no darling, I’m definitely not a writer –just doing my shopping list. You are ever so welcome to give us a hand with this masterpiece. ‘Ere, grab this red pen.” Yeah, what the fuck do I write for? Writing is a fucking waste of time. It’s bloody poisonous and like the father of Je suis né once suggested from his desk at the pinball bazaar in the Parisian Left Bank: You’re better off grabbing a sledge-hammer and do what weekend gardeners do to liberate themselves from the fucking inferno of the conjoined words. Also, there’s certainly more pleasure in allowing other slaves do it for ya. You are just too fucking arrogant to understand you’ve always lacked self-discipline and creative talent. Vamos Manuel, have another roll-up and leave it for today. Simon Webster hair, that’s a prolific writer for you. Cyber Candy Brighton, that’s another fucking good sssledge-hammeree too. Bik Chief, The T-Chest, Vegetarian Shoes, Toby Tiger, The Chilies Shop, and little ginger,
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walking down Bond Street all jolly, he, or she, but still unaffected by the results of the second round of voting for the new conservative cunt PM, they all are good writers too. Years in the Making, Happy Shopper’s noodles and self-imposed barriers that kept the writer from realizing his greatest dream: the dating of the first blank page in a Ryman’s notepad for customized Bik Chief poets. Oh you, ugly monsters. I have tried my worst to demonstrate that all I’ve getting from you is the spelling out of the economy of my intellectual immaturity. One must always question wonderbras and the nature of the audience. The time for fair poetry is never a rockabilly revival. Avoid the simulacrum A tit is a tit, and a four-nipple pair of breasts glorifying the comeback of the mod scene in the village says a lot about you as an accidental member of a passive audience. Fuck classical idealism. God or Darwin gave us the don of amnesia so we could spend 2/3 of our salary on badly cut psychobilly 45s. It is advisable to permanently think that arthritis can also invite itself in your cerebral cortex. No more lub in your central nervous system. Shit, I really need to grow up. How many times over the last decade have I heard that? And how can one correlate the number of fucks he/she has ever had right after having heard that he/she needs to grow up in inches. All living organisms who own a mirror survive on a diet of Christian copulating sessions. Fact. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck me, you fucking infantile. Any given moment, however far off, I will formalize my junior cognitos by accepting that I am a qualified kid if your insults in bed lead us two to the safest place of all: The Durex Chambers. Although morally absent, I can promise ya that I will be constantly present and hence fully functioning for the sake of any amount of seminal liquid I will objectively be capable to correlate for the Journal of Idiosyncratic Sexual Behaviour Among Great Sapiens Apes. “Perhaps, it’d make us good if we clear first certain misunderstandings”, said she “All right then”, said I. “Even if I said in passing that you are a fucking arsehole and that it would benefit us greatly if you stopped playing with your Luke Skywalker light saber when I’m trying to have an adult conversation with you, that does not mean that I don’t want us to…” Deconstructing George Lucas’s corporative cock manners. Confusion. Shall I leave? Shall I pretend I’m too busy writing? Shall I go Elephant Man and request a sympathy vote? Can I be a poet? Do I give a shit? How does one (number 1) model oneself after one (number 1, 2 & all) has been fairly scrutinized and the audience, directly or not, is expecting him or her to buy them a round? May as well call it Infections of the Growth Generative System, one manifestation of which is the ever popular Colles’ Law, i.e. A daddy with a syphilitic political mind and no serious cock may father a fetus showing similar political views. In this case, miscarriage in first pregnancy is a fact; but as daddy carries on shagging with the same mademoiselle, baby with a syphilitic cuntservative mind is finally born and can suck from mummy’s tit coz she’s just got clean thanks to the 9 ½ lives of the woman who can put up with any shit and order sempiternum rerum, order always prevails. Le Corbusier’s The Modulor. Let’s build council states following as an architectural model the golden mean of the human dick. Let’s harmonize poverty and drinking needs. “Authority intervenes here,” says the man, “adopting a principle and dimension which
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imply a certain order of things: a choice which might be regarded as an arbitrary decision.” Intelligent Cock Police Brigade or how to explain citizens the dangers of mentioning the wrong kind of disease. “Surely they don’t want wise penises in council estates?” “When theorizing about desperate bricks on the dole looking for casual sex one must not praise the use of widespread opinions”, says to our school kids Police Senior Officer Roberts three weeks and two days before he is suspended after anonymous allegations of racist and offensive behavior in a public setting. I feel sorry for Roberts, he could have been someone too. A teenage Goth in a green city, for example, a reliable picture of a pathetic attempt to self-harm any ridiculous feelings of being inadequate and misrepresented in society. Happy end, Roberts joins the Orange League in Lewes. He is a liberal now and I won’t comment on that. “You all never understood what a moth has to put up with on a daily basis”, said Roberts on his farewell speech. Met many moth-goths in Viking territory over the years, me. It’d be fair to say that a large majority of them came across as too stupid to comprehend that the image behind their laptop wasn’t that of a fully functioning electric bulb but that of a 14-year-old girl wearing black lipstick. They were all passive paedophiles in the making who I’d personally sentence to two years in an army barrack with no access to the Internet or to any Scandinavian death metal albums. I consider myself a decent drunk catholic. Belting people at midnight felt usually right. “On your knees, Roberts! The Honorable Legion of the Lifelong Hypo-Hypochondriacs are running the state now. It will be our job to tell you from now on what you must eat, for our freezers are packed with all the poison a man should try whenever our kids are fast asleep.” “Don’t listen to them”, suggests he, a highly moral being, a pitted green olive with the moral standards of a Scandinavian paella tapa. “Do not listen to them, I repeat”, says he, the man who thinks Japanese males cannot run properly; says he, the man, who stated the land of the overrated sushi is an archipelago made of some 7000 islands and 126 million beings that cannot run proper proper. Consider this: seventy of those unorthodox runners will kill themselves everyday… presumably due to poor performance in either the workplace or the racetrack. Fucking wise arse. Discover more exciting facts at markandspenser.com. Between 2013 and 1014 female suicide rates in England increased by 14%. How come, they usually do good at the Olympic trials? That makes no bloody sense. Anyway, you may download the 2016 Suicide Statistics Report from www.samaritans4japanrunners.org. One might reasonably hypothesized that running before killing oneself can be classified as a fucking waste of time.. Listen sunshine, if you running style ain’t good enough you can always join the Home Office to let them drive you around in one of their black armored Mercedes. Saw Jeffrey Archer talking some shit about his private art collection on BBC iPlayer this afternoon. Tell ya what, that cunt could run the fuck out of us. Reckon we should send him as an special envoy to Fukushima’s exclusion zone to teach that lot a few athletic tricks. That’s the thing about being found guilty by the Crown of perverting the course of justice when you are a peer. Once you leave Belmarsh Prison a million of new opportunities will lie ahead so you can take a grip on your life once again. “Ok guys, lemme
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show you how to sprint. First, don’t fuck up and focus on posture core and willingness to engage in fast perverted sexual practices. Second, note the absence of peers on the track? What’s that telling you? A) they don’t like Asian runners; b) they don’t give a shit for they are about to pervert the trials of modern justice and get away with it; or c) you are a free man running comically in a free but comic world where in order to preserve your freedom you must elect every now and then the elite coz them fuckers know by birth how to handle your liberties and rights, your gas bill and the professional league of sexual promiscuity you are about to join in. When Irish Murdoch was asked what would be the first thing she’d do if she were living in a free land she left the room and went to the toilet. She died in a nursing home on February 8, 1999, precisely 56 years after the Japanese 100m sprinters evacuated Guadalcanal leaving that tropical island in Yankee hands; and precisely five years before McDonalds opened its first fucking restaurant in Ho Chi Minh. The son-in-law of Vietnam’s prime minister was the first manager of that beef house. Oh man, we all are at it. Ephemeral, late 16th century, from Greek ephemeros, meaning lasting for a short time, summing like that red liquid that lubricates the moral principles governing a person’s &/or a nation’s conduct. February 8th, 1952: Princess Ellie proclaims herself Queen and Head of the Commonwealth & Defender of the Faith. There’s nothing to stop me from imagining things, situations, financial debts, women that are neither real nor abstract. I can allow myself to dream for awhile even if I don’t have anything in particular to aspire to. Niccolo Machiavelli’s door must remain open. Setting aside any annoying scruple, I shall fight to death for any personal ambition that will save my fucking boring life. All men are prone to evil; me, to a bed and a pillow. Trying to come up with something that might resemble freedom from anything that continues to taste like some cheap turd cooked at the Mossad’s headquarters has no use for me. Seen many good soldiers fall on Western Road; Fluoxetine and the Clintons being the main cause of their decline. Unless you are one of those fortunate arseholes with a zen-like face prone to theoretical thinking one minute and 37 seconds after you have consumed you first cup of green tea, you will find that the right to behave, speak, think or fuck as you please is a lottery ticket on a pissed blind man’s hand. We all are fucked and that face of disapproval of you put us all on our way to the great commuting fallacy. Freedom fighters as a residual species are inclined to… Motorola ringing. “Allo. Who’s that?” It’s Theresa May, calling from her daddy’s parish in Oxfordshire. We met in 1981. I was about to fail for the third time in four years a math exam at school and, to my embarrassment, she’d just been appointed extra-curricular teacher to help those pupils who only stay on track when the situation involved hairy hormones chasing bouncing spheroids.
-Theresa: How you coping, Olive?
-Gonzalez: Pretty well, thank you fucking much. Bought myself a farm in Teresilla’s and now I spend my time growing dreams of grandeur 24/7.
-Theresa: Oh dear, I’m sorry this happened… It must be so difficult for you. After all, nobody wants to return to the borders of the past, said she at Stormont Castle during her first visit to


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Northern Ireland as PM. “Swettie,” said Gonzalez, “I reckon we must approach it in the context of imposed self-annihilation. It’s indeed a fucking uncertain period for me.” Twenty seconds and two bacon rolls later separate Theresa from authorizing a nuclear attack on Tortilla lands. Evil to do good. Goodies to do evil. Free Willy, the killer whale. It is stimulating to laugh at people who love too much too precariously. I am pretty well aware of what’s behind any “I will buy you a ring” tacky situation: far too many missing sessions at Miss Barner-Smith’s, accredited member of the British Association for Psychotherapy, counseling in a safe, televised by confidential but judgemental 2 x 2 sqr m room, blah, blah, blah… Same could be said about the way monkeys approach freedom, freedom as in “I do whatever the fuck I want coz my loving divorced parents told me so and I am hooked to lay in bed late every fucking night asking myself how the fuck did I let TV License Detective Inspector catch me watching Sky Sports’ Liverpool 3 – Lokomotiv of Belgrade 2 last Tuesday. “Excuse me, sir. When was the last time you purchase our valid license powering the right for your TV to self-determine its modus operandi? It costs £145.50 for a colour TV fuck. Failure to get one can lead to prosecution and a fine of up to £1000, plus that nauseous feeling of acknowledging your life’s being run by non-consensual legal costs. You fill me?” “But it was only a fucking football game, sir!”, replied the Cunt of Montecristo right after having being liberated by his ex girlfriend (she married a TV executive during her lover’s incarceration)… Love…! Partners…! REAL people…! Freedom and TV penalties… Prone to condescension, Gulliver travels no more coz any previous sagacious thinking he ever done usally degenerated into an inflatable banana with the rationale of a cup of babyccino. You fill me? “Would you like a copy of today’s The Argus, gentleman?” “No really. But I tell you what, young lady. I would kill for five fucking minutes of public privacy.” Microwaved Chicago Pizza addict giving copies of our micro local paper would like to admit that she ain’t no longer that pretty jewel of the crown her adorable divorced parents once claimed she was at one point of the biggest lie of all. She’s actually just like us –a fucking bore, a misanthrope by accident who’d hate your guts because a general feeling of abomination has polluted every single pore of her skin. She cannot spell her name anymore. She ain’t a sentient being no mo’. She does all her loving online. “I’ve become part of a subspecies”, confesses she. And the German deaf composer loses all respect for Bonaparte and screams: “He is nothing more than a fucking ordinary being!!”
The only way to understand a catholic is by becoming one, preferably before birth. A head start always helps. Let shame and guilt proliferate in a perfect balance with your neo-liberal-but-always-a-hippie soul. “Make no mistake”, said Bush Jnr. to a packed audience of cowards and white-collar scoundrels, “in our free world almost nothing definitive has been made concerning the eradication of the Roman Catholic League of Serial Killers on the Loose. Do not misunderestimated Him, the baby Jesus of the Vaticano was a full-time mischief-maker. Let’s bomb with napalm and Jacklondons all the Jesuit universities. Celibacy ain’t the cure for


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masturbation.” There are four conditions associated with chills, fever and general weakness. Inherited Catholicism and over-exposure to press briefings by the White-Socked House haven’t been categorized yet. One still wonders… why Japanese girls are taller than their male counterparts.


                                                                                                                                      August 2016