oblivion

dream of something insignificant. wake from a non existent life. look in the mirror. realise the dream was you. open the pill box. you're clean out of nine to fives. pop in a couple of atomics. no scars. pretty face. take the usual bus. arrive at the station. commute. no big deal. the sun eases into the sky slowly. a sprained vital sprocket in an undisturbed trajectory. lemon light. auto route auto head trash. into the dawn of the other world. vanishing point is way off. move from place to place. purchase a single. timetable check. morning death. commute no compute. some have a vague idea of destination. most will never arrive. still. life. still turn up. in coffin-blue suits. each shoulder the butt of a rifle. each hand a bayonet. each finger an arrow.

take out your beretta. line them up beneath the station clock. yawn. pace up and down. tell them what they are. industrial carnage. office slop. sheep with graffiti. tell them about yourself. tell them about insignificance. about the size of your hands. what you had for breakfast. make them listen. play god. disturb the trance. make them listen. when you tell them about the kiss coming in from the north. her rendezvous with circus boy. point out the travelling porn star sipping a milkshake in the corner of that cafe over there. shoot a heavy finger over in the direction of the tunnels. point out porcelain frank waiting to jump from the bridge. make them wonder about his deaf girlfriend in the tunnel below. fiddling with a knackered torch. wipe a mile long cloth over today's assumptions. puncture the bubble. invent the freak with skin disease wandering the platforms. point the gun at anybody who moves. feel how laughter is a beach ball nobody wants to pick up. walk five hundred paces one way and five hundred the other way. look down the line and see beneath the orange sodium lights sweat rising. evaporating. tell them to take off their clothes. take off your fuckin clothes. see white flesh subsiding into mutant chocolate chip cookie fat. we all own it. you can't hide it. feel the head fuck of the atomics kick in. tell them about the train coming in from the north. a ton of snow melting slowly in june. unhook ties with the muzzle of the beretta. tell them about the kiss. make them think of the kiss. how she's through with lying. point to a man whose hair has only just circumnavigated nineteen eighty five. admit to yourself you don't like his face. run the beretta through his toxic mullet. ask him what he had to lie about today.

he doesn't answer. so you tell him.

you lied today. that other planet you live with. live on. live off. you lied just to get a kiss. in the bathroom mirror this morning. you lied to yourself thinking you look good today. bullshit. you lied about the way you smell. squirting this and squirting that. you lie with your fingers that smell of white spirits you were using earlier to clean something up. you lied halfway through that orgasm last night didn't you. when you rolled over to sleep. you remind me of cars going over cliffs. playing dead. out of breath. you lie. you lied. you liar. it's tragic. go put your gravedigger's hat on and stand in the corner.

you push him back in line. tell him you'll speak to him later. but the kiss. our kiss. is done with lying. it's tragic. it was time to move on. she felt time was sucking the air out of her tin. she no longer saw her husband as the handsome teddy rock. she saw him as the late bus. the plane nosediving. the message in a bottle. she had to leave him. but she she knew he'd try to follow her. so she tore a strip off him. bandaged his mouth with it. he lay trussed up beneath the stairs of their two bed semi. ankles trying to break clothes line. eyes dim like 40 watt bulbs trying to make sense of his shortcomings. loosen the sky with a bullet. see who jumps highest.

she left the gas on. shut down the lights. took a balloon into town and applied her make up in a small mirror high above the rooftops. she pushed out her lips in the mirror of some young girl who danced in the street below her. sang of people's futures. you know i'm going to lose and gamblings for fools but that's the way i like it baby i don't want to live forever.

make each word a bullet. put the words on wheels run them up and down the line. look for someone starting to shake. listen to the wind. suit jackets lie like dark blue puddles on the grey platform. white bellies hang loose. cellulite. tattoos declare lost love girl's names black snarling panthers daggers tipped with blood needled in blackpool. drunk. dull ties with company logos snake through warehouse suit blue puddles. cast a wandering eye towards the mouth of the tunnel. introduce porcelian frank in a voice festooned with nails.

porcelian frank. a gambler. the kind that never wins. asteroid pilot. armchair fabulist. a no chance street dreamer out of time out of luck out of line with your insect legs and jellyfish brain brillo pad haircut and your burnt scoured face. a man of revolving ambitions. deep sea diver. tv star. jumping jack flash. the milky bar kid. do something else frankie. don't aim so high. be a runner bean rep. a burger and fries boy. roadsweep chimney sweep. vacant city street wanderer. nothing fits does it frank? nothing fits. i wish you could belong. i like you frank. i like you a lot. but i don't pick the jury. and only halfway handsome is not good enough. halfbaked ideas don't taste too good. it's early doors for you frank. come back as something else next time. come back as a skyscraper or a bingo hall. something people will cherish. jettison your future. unhook your life from your own private star. jump. jump. just fucking jump.

hear a bald man down the line mumble sad bastard. go towards him. see how he flings his marks and sparks cotton shirt down. his eyes are patio windows. easy to burgle and out of fashion. chest hair erupts in black spikes. oozing from laminated gloss white skin. poke him in his flabby tits with the butt of the beretta. ask him to explain. his lips move over yellow ten sugars with tea teeth. but he says nothing. point to a lacy red bra discarded on the floor. pick that up and pull it over it those tits. you're disgusting and i want to talk with you without interruptions. he pulls on the bra and fastens it with ease. you put your lips to his ear and whisper. there's more to life than hanging on.

you walk back down the line.

any questions about frank?

up and down the platform you move. like a cheese plant on a conveyer belt. examining guilt. embarrassment. credit card overspend. hangovers in bright morning light. expressions peel from wallpaper faces. they unhook belts and necklaces to place on the bundles before them. white shirt ice and black blouse lacy ponds. a stony-faced girl unhooking fear from her face asks you when you are going to stop playing this silly little game. look at the girl half naked. she feels victimised. she keeps her eye on you as she slips off her shoes. you wasn't going to do it with her. you wasn't going to let the rash loose on her. in another life and another universe none of this would matter. but the rash wants service and the time is near.

load a bullet into the glass windows of the cafe. out from the giant petri dish hanging on the wall steps the rash. he's big and he's fucking ugly. his origins lie in the cryogenic pill popping bionic everything's ironic anything goes supersonic loaded magazine rash of boy's culture page three radiator covers and he loves his mother with a vengeance. only she's not here. he can behave as badly as he likes. the rash seeps through the hole in the glass your bullet has created. dandruff and flakes of dry skin rip and hold the wind as it departs from his body. like confetti and feathers. his hair is straw with the ends dipped in suntan oil. factor five. happy house belearic beat feet dance and crumble like pastry. he's having it large.

the girl with the stony face is into jump up jungle and drum and bass. still. that doesn't stop the rash. nothing stops the rash having a good time. in another generation he'd be dancing to spandau ballet in white socks and stonewash. but he's hip and swinging the rash on the streets.

the girl looks lazily at you. her face says it all. please. not the rash.

the rash grins as he moves in closer. the edge of his smile is raked from ear to ear. his lucky days are constant. he's a good time boy in a polaroid world. it's the image that's important. the rash punches his dripping hands into the air. spins in commercial drug-fueled funk. his eyes as wide as the pacific ocean through a fish eye lens. vibrating loose flesh shakes off his brand new face. the rash moves within inches of the girl. i've got something for you he says his hands rubbing and flaking. starts to finger her hair. as if he was trying to pull a fish from an aquarium tank. he twists it up to reveal her ears. fine strands of her hair shine in the sun. all of a sudden he feels lost. he doesn't seem to know what to do. he stares at you as if he is trying to say something but the meaning gets lost and distorted in the dry folds of skin that leap from his face.

even for the way your feeling today. it's all too much. you can't bear to see the girl reduced to this. no one deserves to even see the rash. they should be washed or fried in an incinerator. you hand the girl the beretta and tell her to put a hole through the slimy bastard's head. she obliges. he disappears like a coin down a slot. you guide her gently back into line.

the porn star polishes the end of her winchester with the cuff of her tiger fur jacket. she smiles at you as if she's been there before with all kinds of rash. fingers her washing powder haircut and strokes her bare yellow legs. she sips at a bottle of low budget vodka. pull the porn star close and put your arms around her. kiss her. pull a megaphone from your pocket. pass it to the porn star who spits out gum before putting it to her lips. now she says.

hair is a very sexual thing. it's the last thing you should touch. she hands you back the megaphone.

invite silence. pace up and down the line.

i want to introduce you to circus boy. but before i do i want you to pick up your jewelry and stuff it down the throat of the person next to you.

that's it. eat it all up. if circus boy sees gold he'll have your head with a bullet.

i want him to feel comfortable. i want you to make him feel comfortable. he's had a few problems. put your hands together for circus boy.

circus boy is in the toilets talking to himself. in a long straw skirt with a sequined black top. his hands push and pull at the pads stuffed into his bra. a childish patter bubbles from his mouth. you walk up to him and put your arms around his bare shoulders. shhhhhhh you say quietly in his ear shhhhhh. circus boy turns to you and whispers in a desperate tone. i hate myself. the kiss is coming. i'm ugly and i hate myself. i don't want to play today. i don't feel normal enough.

it's important. do it for me. tell these people about yourself.

yeah but you're normal. circus boy has tears beginning where his electric blue eyeshadow meets his road tar mascara.

i am not normal. tell him a story. soothe him. calm him. a minute passes.

okay i'm coming says circus boy. how do i look? fabulous. guide him gently out of the toilets and you can't help thinking of what circus boy sang to you the first time you ever met.

i'm running wild downtown
but my heart is in nevada
building bridges. making roads. into you
but nothing
it seems
is ever
that new.

halfway here or halfway there depending which way you look at it. the kiss. her hot air balloon lips began to levitate her from the seat in the carriage. through an open window she squeezed and floated. her flame red hair streaking behind her like the tail of a monster kite. she took flight for a while. breathed in silver thin clouds and let the lemon spears of sun warm her skin before she re-entered the carriage of the train and began to prepare herself in earnest. she did look beautiful. absolutely.

you reach the platform. kiss the porn star and gently lower her rifle. circus boy takes to the stage.

when i was a boy. i wanted remote control racing cars that never ran out of batteries. i wanted a compass that always pointed in the direction i was heading. i wanted to click my fingers and drag god off the crapper. i wanted seven stars to juggle in a vacant lift shaft. i wanted sunglasses blacker than space so no one could see what i was thinking. i wanted to be a clever bastard. i wanted to eat picture postcards and spit them out in real green lumps. i wanted a mountain in my bedroom so i could disappear for a week and change the lightbulb while i was at it. all alone.

i wanted the next door neighbors to move out of the street. the street to move out of the town. the town to move to the moon, and i wanted the moon in my pocket where i could keep an eye on it. i wanted an anchor that weighed two ton to wrap around the ankles of the boy who trashed my bike. show him how to swim. i wanted that dog that bit my ankle in nineteen seventy six to eat its own head. i wanted a cricket bat to play tennis with. to be good at something that didn't involve something else. burst my party balloons at the age of six with a pitchfork. i wanted a shotgun for the apple tree. to destroy bus shelters and replace them with something worth waiting for. killer whales in my goldfish bowl. the hounds of the baskervilles on silver bastard chains. i wanted teeth that never came loose. a clock that went backwards. a full set of marbles that would roll to the ends of the earth from the ends of my fingers. a kite that would eat and change the shape of clouds. i wanted a coloring book with illustrations that would suspend the world outside my window. i wanted a mirror i could live with. i wanted to make weapons with stones from the last pair of socks malcolm lowry ever wore drunk. i wanted to make bin liners out of people who say yes then no then i don't know and then disappear forever. i wanted to give everything i had without being shortchanged. i wanted a smoking jacket of silk with the longest cigarettes. i wanted fashion dead.

i wanted the lonely to fuck the lonely. at least we would have something in common. i wanted a kingdom of mirrors to look in and everywhere i looked, there i'd be. a high voltage spark of absolute perfection. i wanted an escape route with a sign that didn't read sicko phantom. i wanted a road sign that read give way. i wanted you to go my way. but you didn't want me. did you? you with the black hair.

now look at me. a man who daren't even light his own cigarette. hiding behind wigs and skirts. i am circus boy but i'm out of tricks. my big top is empty. all i want is a kiss.

such a cool little kid. how come he looks so japanese?

your mother replies. i guess that's just the way he is.

my dad takes another hard look at me. slides a hand through his black waxed hair. says quietly through a smoke ring curling from his lips. i want nothing more to do with him. i see trouble. she strokes your head. how would you know?

he's as good as gold. never any trouble. see her staring at your dad. see something alien in her eyes. all you remember thinking was. what's so good about gold. what's so good about fucking gold dad?

you walk along the tracks and throw porcelian frank the megaphone. force everyone into position for the welcome of the kiss. frank's deaf girlfriend has given up trying to get the knackered torch to work and has entered the tunnel thinking the two approaching lights of the train from the north are two torches and begins to wander to her death as porcelian frank explains through the megaphone oblivion. the end of parties. and his first memories of being born.

you laze drunk in a armchair that feels like a throne. something's burning. the glitter of gold hangs nearby. all that noise. i love you. i love you. i love you. what part of her resurrection is that coming from. come. come how you fucker. a speaker explodes in your ear. parachutes caught in cobwebs. someone in a telephone state rips his ear from his head and throws it to the ground. swollen ankles belly gaining subsidence. dance around a tin bucket. exit blue launderette. feel the shake of midwive's heavy bangle. hot lava rolls from her gaping astonished mouth. i didn't want you. i didn't want you. no. no. no. sense the frequencies of people dying all around. stoned soft bleeps hitting the tarmac. a girl behind a curtain shouts piss off. lightweights drop dead smoking silk cut. an old woman humming like a twig caught in the spokes of her husband's dying wheel strokes his yellow marbled hand. i wish i'd met you forever i wish i'd met you forever i wish i'd met you forever jams the circuit board. plug sockets erupt and throw leaping white charged spears into the throat of a cocktail waitress who wanted to get off early. nevermind. yellow walls clock static. a small man nobody likes decked out in a tight corner with yellow wellies. fur round the tops. threatens to go home alone. no one takes any notice. no one takes any notice of you. these days. a coin falls to the floor. decibels bleed. have you had enough yet? have you had enough yet?

porcelian frank. flattened in the echo of the train leaving the tunnel.

as the kiss finally arrives. she steps from the cocoon of her former life. in her russian roulette billowing dress. limbs beneath the dress ready to embrace and to kill if necessary. her fingers are ten silver swords arcing delicate in a chandelier wind. flame red hair in curtain pole ringlets. she moves towards us. her feet are size six razor blades cutting through the undiminished ice that engulfs the station. she has no need to look around. she knows what she wants. what she is here for.