Hm, why is it people odd faced people always sit opposite me in the cafe. I mean this girl vaguely reminds of the moonfaced guy from Clive Barker’s ‘Nightbreed’ comics, her face tilts vaguely to the side and seems kinda’ moon shaped, when she concentrates, her bottom jaw juts out in a vaguely off putting way. However…and this is a big however…or well several of them, her skin is all but perfect, lightly dappled with freckles…but hm…it’s not that, thats the however, it’s the eyes, big wide anime things crystalline I suppose, have a vorpal edge of the kinda vacuous drag you in crack yer soul like a grizzly an suck out its essence as iffen it t’were marrow.

Course…Thats just my theory on the whole thing.

Rock back Joanie and make those whiskers sing.

Not sure what to write today so I’ll just do the usual swing back gibberish verse of emptying the forefront contents and back of my brain onto the keyboards and letting it mush and splosh between my fingers before I begin to type out someway halfway and almost there legible sentences that hopefully will mean something or may just ease the tension within the synapses long enough for me to think a straight thought let alone one of those fancy pants lateral ones that go on and on and on – forever, foreverever sorta thing – the sort that probably still listen to disco in some odd way, however, I think, we all do. Be it joyously, or in a dark horrid little room where other parts of us torture smaller more vulnerable parts of us that really have no choice in the matter, it’s like the ‘I dream of Genie’ theme song playing again and again and again in an elevator and the fat guy in front of you has farted but has sidled to the left as if in some fucked up belief that not standing where the fart is will exonerate him of blame and you’ll think it was the old spider web bitch standing beside you, who since she has seen the tattoo on your arm wants nay to do with you and probably a) blamed it on you already or b) was already thinking “I bet he’s gonna mumblemumble somehow the truth becomes incomprehensible amongst all the lies and all this becomes is just voices talking and talking towards nothing, few talk towards something, but we shout them down, blot them out and run away as fast as our little trotters will carry us. Long Pig. Thats all we are. Scuffling muffling back and forth within the muck, fuckin’ Idolatrists dragging us back to the sty with them, living in the past should remain a Tull song, not a fucking concept perpetuated by people clinging to invisible fucking forces in the sky…shush don’t speak…don’t speak…God Might Hear You….

Somewhere there’s a Spanish waiter greased up like a greasy Spanish waiter…telling someone “I’ve been working like a whore…” backed by half strung, back wound, off centre twangtwing out of tune guitar. But then, thats always the way. Two Quiche ana bottle of rum please. Hm. Theres something Wrong with that picture, possibly I should minus the quiche variable and +3 rum. Or something.

TapTaptapping that foot to Kraftwerk…it’s all I can do these days, anytime I try to dance in the cafe people cough in that disapproving way that people who disapprove tend to cough in, so we pause look at each other, offer those smile/shrug/nod/counter cough gestures and I stop, because well, somehow, someway, I just feel a lot more hollow without the cigarettes, gone is the scrunched up pop-eye look I used to have where my face folded and centered around that lil’ sliver of nicotine joy. Aw well…Bastards…only a few more days and I can have a cigar. Only a few more…though I might not have any finger tips left by then…

Hmmm

I’ve got to remember, it’s not always champagne, sometimes it’s real pain.

Or at least keep trying to remember.