Dan Robinski's Music

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Thursday, 17 April 2008

Introduction

Eddy is a real Count.

How about that?

His travel emails are presented

here in their original form

written on numerous internet

cafes' foreign language keyboards

Dan is not a real Baron.

The Saga of Count de Bosdari

oh im in morocco ive got a keyboard you are all in big trouble
this is not some boring stuff about what i saw on my holidays
look at me strutting down the web of fés like i know where im going
why am i grinning like a monstrous tourist, greeting these people who so clearly own their home and wear their lives
this cheeksome public schooled swag artist in a hand scrubbed shirt and waxed hiking boots from millets in lewisham where the people are well nice
what is his story
last night i am siting roundly with this ball of people, breaking the travel fast (48 hours since my last tuna sandwich on a bus full of complaining britishers folks and wow can they complain boo hoo we're on a bus and it's really sunny and bright and boo hoo) with the traditional drugs alcohol and salted greasy beef
so it breaks down like this: the red head king is superflous to this exchange so i send him to buy another coke off he goes leaving we three
i assume a supine position before Mme Magyar and M espangol and it's this: Mme Magyar has a squirrel in her knickers that is reciprocated by my corresponding chipmunk from way back no manure we even punctured our respective palms and drew a contract in flesh blood that we would drive each other up the wall
but ho, our saucy eddy comes up short for behold! all this sweaty way to morocco to find magyar and espangol very happy together. so many feelings.
in this moment i am trapped, i have two sides and boy, are they ever trying to kill each other, the righteous and the wretched, in the bright white light corner the alpha male and in the damp urinal corner the man maggot FIGHT
hold on be civilised, smoke some more kif breath
because every breath is unique, the first and the last and every one in between connected inseperably
what are you saying o mind of mine?
that there are only two choices?
[shout in loud scots accent] MY FANNY!
okay this woman before me looking at me with ants in her eyes, jigging her foot in time to an internal rhyme and im blushing yo
it is right here, sun set goldly, swallows storming unseen insect discoteques chateringly ah what a scene i've seen
i am a disc divided in two, bright and dim hemispheres eating each other, always beating their brother, ever dying into one another but there i go rising up the centre cos i am the sun thats just my thing
from up above i see myselves in one heaving mass racing round with joyousness and violences, every shadow wisp breath of me eating killing messing loving raving sleeping and the choices bloom omnidirectional, i have faces of reptiles and apes and dogs, there is a skull with no bone and this big pair of floating eyes with eyelashes like a peacock's swoon
the world leans through this english self towards itself in hungarian and spanish flavour coatings and reminds is hungarian she form how brightly is, how much is is drawn to is self, how wild is to see is self incarnate, bursting and great and everything
and now the choices, yes there is jealousy yes there is dissappointment yes there is fear you are all welcome and we are in this together and if one is free to choose then there is no competition nor prize to be one,
one continues, and you can quote me my darlings, to our spanish friend
"i am not a gay guy, but you are a really beautiful man and i would not be ashamed to share a bed for three tonight"
you know to speak as one wishes to speak is to open one's body from the sky down the spine a hit the balls with sunshine
well of course they said no - only emphatically from the spanish quarter, i add boastfully - what do you think this is, a frantic daydream on a air tight bus? the outcome is not the point, just this, this being right here. already my ego has assimilated this experience and is using it to colour the unthinkable brilliant void of the future - oop off it goes oh we're going to have such fun together can you imagine the possibilities ah
don't have a care for that my ego, my darling steed. just be here now.
and the rigteous word on my brain is you, my family, friends and audience are the fabric of this life, everything i am is aming in the soup of you and if i may be so bold as to talk nonsense and i rather think i may,
we are all of us synapses nodes and gatherings in the mind of the living god that is all life language experience and death at all times in all places because there is no other anywhere, there is no separation between lovers or strangers or mortal enemies, all are the flesh and mind of that being that is none other, knowing is self infinitely

I told you you were in trouble.

wake up on the blue roof when the cock cries dawn sit and read and smoke under the pattering tiles really it isnt a sin to enjoy life fix up a couple of pistachio chocolate yoghurts for later tuck in pipe and puff next to slumbering chum and barestep out into rain to the internet cave
this is the story of 8 days in the mountains with my friend the red and blue hungarian giant gargantua
it is the story of drugs and fussing and fighting not mountains if you want to know how ruddy spectacular the mountains are you can go and climb them yourself
we woke up the first day on a green and mostly flat bit of mountain and invented the dirham song which goes dirham dirham dirham DIRHAM DIRHAM DIRHAM dirhamdirhamdirham we did this because we were surrounded by sherpard children brandishing shepard weapons and demanding dirhams bonbons and stytlos in that order
we had an argument about the price of a tajine for lunch but that was small
who is your favourite in lord of the rings
sauron was too impersonal and saruman was a creep
what about kill bill
bill
thats shit you always go for the bad guy but bill has style
one of us decided to change paths up around the next mountain and just go directly up it which was exhausting and caused us to have to climb back down again like a right pair of charlies so one of us had a smoke
put the pipe back in your bag i dont want to have to stop every time you smoke
im carrying the lonely planet tent and water you can carry the pipe
this was a warning sign i never spot those
so now we are up a mountain unacclimatsed and knackered with no food and snow for water going up the correct path as night falls becomes an inky crawl through gravity
one of falls asleep right there on the path the other decides to make it to the top and sleep where the sun will rise in the morning
elephant size wind at top of 3500m mount in night time, wraps up in tent like a blanket thinks of noise
going down to the next ville we carry rocks in house extension project "darling i want an extension for the kids ok honey, c'mon lads lets build a house" type affair one of us has a smoke and goes to sleep
at the end of valley we spent the night in another ville, we just walk right up to the first man, houcein, and pop there we are sharing bread and tea down by the stone wall of his fallow field pantomiming under the stars and thinking can this little yoda of the valley really share his food like this with every passing punter and im not even supposed to eat bread
au matin there is a debate over levels of morning bath in river near ville nudity
one of decides that wearing shorts while entering and leaving the water will do and goes back clothed to the ville to see the other returning in just his sopping boxers, much to houceins amusement
crikey this is boring here is an argument
please drink from the water bottle without touching it like a good lad
im too proud to obey your directions sir (takes full lip swig with tongues)
when you do that i want to smash your face with the bottle, kick you into the river with your bag on your back and push you under
no dont do that
well carry your own fucking water then
yeh thats just like you give something good to the people, nice guy generous and like this you make all the people shut up and you can be a dictator, you give and then you just take what you want, give orders like you want, never receive, never really exchange like equals
this has been heard before
the world is talking
this is the stream pool with that shrek scottish accent
HEY YOU PANSY TEK A DIVE IN MA BATH, LETS SEE IF YE CAN RMEMBER TAE BREATH UNDER MA SHOCKING TERRIBLE CHILLY OATS
hurry on that cascade is clearly a big drinker the pebble is altogether less confrontational as it boasts
you know me i was floating free gaseously before your ancestors crawled on their bellies from the sea
ive been through you and more from the sea floor to the winds that roar yes im back because theres still shit i never saw
i bust up from the worlds skin crust with the force of dust down to waters, through solutions and fishy assimilations end up walking in all your sons and daughters
chanting pebble such determination to come so far through rock and pressure just to carry on through waters and plants and fish to get up and jive in human form with a voice that can say i am alive with a mind to shiver at the wonder every mineral in this bag of wet electric carbon is a super sperm
how far we come just to see ourselves
looking across the valley at another track that seems easier
you don't know a path until you are on it
says the path sagely
rounding down the next mountain we invent our entertain yourself extreme sport called run down the mountain under full backpack shrieking as the eagles do
the mind becomes big and smooth the legs canter down the mule track what is the mind but the sequenced echoes of the bodies experience and here they are racing in one effort not to shatter those hurtling hairy pistons
the valley is wafting the living breath of her green juice, entwined in the fulness of her soaring thighs wow what a woman this world is
down into the valley too weak to resist and here we are paying for a roof to kip on
watch things fall apart
a parisian couple roll in with city distance, vague reply to our greeting from monsieur
oh you are english, lets go
thankyou madame
one of us has a smoke while they go for a shower upon their return one of us pretends to sleep while the other goes in for the traditional provocative shithead routine
wow this is so interesting for me, here we are, the opposites having tea together, its so funny us with our back packs alone in the mountains, the lonely planet says dont go without a guide unless you are highly experienced well i thought we have a box of hash (should have learned to talk about football) and a compass that will do and here is you with guides and mules and a cook how much are you paying for this entourage and i bet it was through an agency in france
yes it was, 300 euros a week
yeah you see what i mean the two of us spend less than that in three weeks ok maybe we can die doing this but its the only way to be inside the place and actually be with the people, the guide is not a local person he is well groomed guy from one of the villages down there
we stayed with this man houcein last night and i understand his enthusiastic hospitality now, to see hundreds of pale faces troop by with their mobile privacy and soft white bread, he is proud of his life and he loves to show what he has to give but doesnt get the chance excuse my dog like french i know you hate to hear it mutliated so i hope i can annoy you so anyway what do you do in france
telecommunications
some scene shifting as the couple go and do something away from us, the guides in their expensive clothes and cats eye slick green watches do something unusual in that they linger around us, normally when one is paying to stay somewhere they leave you in peace
one of us starts laying into them, doing the whole hey im a simple working guy like you, lets talk about our lives but they arent simple people they live a comlicated life where they struggle to communicate in patois french with smooth parisians that gabble slang away in their higher tongue and all the while they work in a miasma of frustated feelings seeing themselves as materially inferior and trying to veneer that over with bling but also looking at these soft men going to flab and lofting their chins at their women who, by local values, are dressed like prostitutes.
the couple returns the coolies depart
one of us is restless and wants to go, conversation moves to stairway
you fuck yeah you have to make this cinema and fuck everything
whoa hey what
i just want to have a peaceful smokers time in the mountains and you fuck everything with your stupid show you fucking star talking about hash oh you are so fucking cool dickhead i dont want anything to do with your idiot shit
here was the opportunity for non violent communication - to put on the other persons shoes and resolve the conflict through acceptance of the situation.
but alas, there is a vicious paranoiasite clamped to the nape of the above ranter's neck, pumping panic into his nut with ghastly peristalsis the beast raises its gloopy maw and launches a gob of noxious funk directly into the face
here you take the stuff i dont want to carry it with your fucking behaviour
the fear is here
escalation
if you give me the puff im throwing it over the roof
go on do it you shit bitch i will love to see your fucking stupid face with nothing to smooooke fuck you
bag of puff exits stage left [wind effect]
look you wanker you didn't throw away the hash you love so much what a shit you are
jettisons hash, takes another piece from pocket look how it flies, empties dust from box over side. storms to sack, removes infamous grouse and takes two full mouth swigs of wishkey. has never done this before but is impressed at failure to splutter.
well done bravo you shit you have just fucked everything here i am in the atlas with nothing to smoke thankyou i never met anyone who could fuck up like this i dont have the words to say thankyou you shit idiot dickhead bitch i fucking hate you
that night one of us lies awake moaning
go and find it go and find it go and find it go and find it
thats ridiculous look how long the grass is
i dont care go and find it go and find it go and find it go and find it
in the morning one says to the other
im sorry, i should have seen the fear and defused it. i should have taken the puff, gone outside to chill and stash it in a field so we could have come back to the hotel and seen how stupid we are to have the fear in a place like this.
we decide to flip a coin elizabeth we stay to look for the gear tails we carry on
tails
pounds wont work here use a dirham hassan we stay tails we go
tails
fuck the monarchy ignoring us like that lets stay
we went down the valley to the area that could have received the manna, a rubbish tip leading onto marshy pasture
we begin poking through the rubbish as it falls apart, the grass as it puts it back together and the world ages this is totally stupid but that doesnt matter everything is so bright and
i was six years old
i trundled through the weeds taller than me engrossed
how the brown gold spider hugs the blade! what if she were to leap up onto my face arrgh
i see the yellow soft stem of the grass under the weight of its neighbours, my daddy's lawn never looks like that because we mow it grass likes to be cut then you can run about on it
the snugness of the rock in mud
a hundred breaths of air between the trees
im looking for a piece of hash in an overgrown sheep pitch surrounded by leafy chaos and i feel swallowed by the world concentrated with the futility of searching
the joy of seeing
we mosey on down to the souq, on the way we meet will smith from casablanca and the actor who isnt ben affleck in chasing amy from rabat. they are training as teachers, the deal goes that after 4 years teaching kids on the frontline they will be free to chose wherever they want to work in morroco. apart from being major hollywood stars, their being up in the mountains like this is akin to lads from london and manchester being posted to the inner grampians
in the souq we meet houcein and we buy a round of lunch. one of us entertains will with the i-pod while not mr affleck points out the local prostitute who has a very pure, innocent aura like she never met an idea that said her job is any different from selling prunes. she is wearing modern clothes, a reebok jumper tracksuit bottoms and pink sneakers, more modest than the european women we see. she chats with many men and you can see they are talking to her in a personal honest way. she is smiling and has good posture, so do all the other women who frequent this cafe in modern morroco, they wear stylish, practical clothes with a nod to conservatism and go around excitable but confident. between them and the lads exists an openess that is marked in contrast to the society i know, and here i see the television doing something interesting - they have seen dawsons creek enough to know what a mixed bunch of hip young people look like when they hang but when a couple are behind closed doors the tv shows a image of carnal extremity from traditional values that they dont even know where to begin and in any case the women retain the cultural sense of the value of their bodies and so suiters are rewarded with long walks home - three hours along a mule track romantic you decide - and rare kisses. i was reading an article on the bog in england that expressed the opinion that the removal of feelings of shame towards being licentious and free had destroyed the intimacy that comes when people hide down together behind their fears and reservations to feel another form of trust, when sex becomes free it turns into a showing off, an ego enforcing process. i have great respect for this way of life that is here now as a result of mtv being ploughed into the old muslim and older berber soil
but back to the drugs
will smith introduces us to friend who invites us to his house the next day to buy a piece the size of a finger, not today because we have to get back in time to see liverpool and ac milan.
a man passes me a joint to try, i refuse, explaining that i dont use tabacco
how often does one get the chance to cling atop a jeep as it races along the worlds first road crying "come on you scallies"
it was 4-3 to ingerland but we were in the house of abdul rahman, 70 and still fit to kick a goat. like all the old men here he has a beautiful head, carved from smooth dark wood stained with dignity, if i was a god i would be the god of old mens heads in the mountains and people would pray to me for a clean conscience when they were building houses by licking old men's heads anyway
the next day we go to score at our film stars mates house. he pulls out a piece of hash the size of a chewing gum tablet
uh do you have more
no no just this
bollocks. the situation had been entirely misread. the man passing the joint in the cafe had been the dealer, this teacher here had just invited me to his house for lunch and a session. i had said no to tobacco and that had malcomputed, causing the dealer not to close in on me.
gargantua and i scream for a while
our friend takes pity on us after we polish off the wishkey
something you here this we yeah that blarg
he explains
i pocket the dope now as big as a pea, which lasts for two more days of pipes
loads more stuff days nights mountains
and here we are, a week up a mountain, now just behind the summit of jebel toupkal, north africa's highest breast. the wind whips at her nipple, which is pert and rocky. we smoke the last of the pea through a pipe we made halfway up with a pen knife fanta bottle ceramic head and a czech bloke called bop and hold in the smoke for as long as possible at 4000 meters. we climb the last two meters, out from our smokers shelter over the top onto
north africas second highest nipple (they are never the same size and thats beautiful)
we sat and laughed and celebrated that once again, we had found the real local place, not the tourist rubbish place where they charge you double for the same stuff.
this is all true and more and i have the sardine tin to prove it
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of course marrakesh is the same as peckham,
people local and foreign milling about mooing barking hissing,
transport and roads and accidents,
junky folk and stangely assembled bodies with fizzing minds spread inside currents of waddling humans with bellys with legs and eyes that eat everything, ring any bells regent street,
and here i shave my head and don a convict stripe jellaba with sky blue turban
run around like a toddler shouting in three languages
as strange to the tourists as i am to the locals as i am to myself
all of us reacting, knowing ourselves in contrast, searching for the superior feeling, the logical progression to being other and one up
i smoked a haze up to the stars (im not puffing until after ive done my homework in the evening mum, i promise) and cried when i knew that all life is its gift to itself,
unwrapping itself with every tantalising yearning erotic slicing apart,
the world effervesing minds bubbling out from bursting into itself.
the world gives birth to the minds that behold it and thereby create it, for who would we be with nobody to see us and nothing to see
but of course i wake up the next day with tetchy stars in front of my eyes and carry on as before
drugs are only useful for showing me what i can do without them and the vision is so sweet that i keep going back for another peek and missing things as they are
the sun is hot
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so we made our escape from the cool pool of the blue room on the roof. a georgeous couple left the day before us, nearly a kilo of fine combustables stuffed into various orifices. the lady is an aggressivley stunning mediterranean lass, the kind of padding around, sunning unselfconsciously in bra and panties female that makes alot of males implode around their cocks. i noticed this after talking to her for some time about the gear she intended to insert - the other lads were all inspecting imaginary things on their feet or the ceiling and i was like dammit men, this woman wants a bit of conversation, am i the only one handling business? since when was i mature and confident? i look at my hands and see how like my father's they are, a little finer but the same model fingernail. wow, am i man? whoopee isnt it frightfully good to have a todger. she is a masters student in physics and we talk (ok, she talks, i ask questions and make intelligent noises) and about waves and particles and the thousand shades of grey that join them and give hours of debating fun. she talks about the idea that god could be expressed as an omnipotent particle or an omniscient wave or field, but not both, according to some quantum theologian (he probably has a beard). i contribute to the discussion masterfully by comparing the way in which one can know oneself or act - to keep oneself to oneself is to be like the particle, compact and capable of moving any which way it pleases, with intention. to give away oneself and ones secrets away is to be like the field, losing power to act with force but able to know oneself in comparason and relationship.
it is better to keep ones secrets, like the ball particle, she contends
it seems i am behaving like a field these days, i reply
fields are good for screwing in, she acknowledges
which takes balls, in the field in front of an olympic stadium, i quip.
there is a moment of silence and then everybody laughs in that 'we don't understand the english but we worked out you made a joke' way which is so much more cutting than an english speaker not just laughing because it wasnt funny
i finish rolling the joint which i am not going to smoke and pass it over. still a sucker.
in the hour before departing i regard the ounce of polm left unsmoked. well, if they can stash it in their bellies and bottoms so can i. but i will have one up on those killjoy customs grunts! i won't wrap it plastic, i'll cook it in butter and ease it down with a fresh local danone yoghurt!
this was a great and terrible idea. i dont really recall how i ended up in spain or how i lost gargantua, there was a windy ferry and people jabbering at me for no reason that i could discern as i took off my shoes and socks and rolled about on the floor. in spain i wobbled greenly on the side of a road trying to hitch a lift for six hours, i developed marvelous diarroea, you know the kind when one can spray a jet of poo accurately into a cup by just bending the knees slightly from a standing position. decide to call it squits and head for the bus station. in madrid i learn that the next bus to toulouse is in 38 hours. not much to report about two nights sleeping in a flower bed - a most recommended kip, i had a floral aroma in my nose for hours after waking - just that after so long not eating and shitting violently, i decided to treat myself with the money to a pineapple duck in a chinese restaurant. the music in there was a deadly mix of random film soundtrack greats and queen's poorer efforts, the pretty waitresses had an aura of total resentment towards my lonely, grubby backpacking appearance but no matter! each mouthful lasted for weeks of soft as cotton duck meat and days of crispy chewy caramelised skin. i love animals, dead or alive. i am filled with the realisation that i never want to eat a piece of ready to go crap from a plastic packet ever again. i may stuff myself like the pufferfish with his deadly liver at the first sign of trouble but only on wholesome fare that takes time to prepare, which may not give me space to think twice about eating houses in response to emotional upset but will definately improve my cooking.
yah ive bored you enough im going to go and be all mature and manly in appaling french.
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oh my blistering diarreoa i hate computers no sooner had my epic ´´ what i ate on my holidays´´ reached its binging peak than the sodding timer ran out without a five minute warning or anything so because im not putting myself through that again here is:
my holiday wank
the story of how i pleasured myself one fine morn in the sleepy Rif hills
i woke up into this world from a profound healing dream. i had a huge erection but went back to sleep.
in this dream i am lost amongst the fallen leaves and twigs of many puzzle trees, which grow confruision fruit in season. i am quite hopelessly lost and squirmingly delighted at the sight of so many problem plants levelled to leaf litter - reduced to this dry crumbling chaos i can romp through all their details and opinions, throw myself onto a drift of conclusions any which way and snuggle down
it is in such a state of purposeless repose that another body clambers on top of me and at the first grip of her hand i know who she is. we loved together in that summer of seventeen, she took me to my first techno party and i took my first pill, a blue superman (and then a red one and a blue one and a green one then two more red ones anyway). When we met we spent three whole days in the never cleaned living room of Baloo, lord of the pigeons, before we kissed. i wish i was always so well behaved.
she lies next to me, smooth and full and smelling natural, i draw back to see ourselves and damn we are so good looking, not yet eighteen, high on our hopes and basking in the rays of each other
i am talking, apologising, explaining and more than that, i am showing, giving of my heart and gut, not just to her but to you all o women of my life
her big confident jaw pulls back as her grin blossoms
you are a gift. you hurt the world when you lock yourself away
i try to tell more, trying to sound more like a conscious man, to put the world into words that are right, that others will nod at but she only increases the contact between us, responding with hums and there theres, a mother as she soothes the blurting upsets of her troubled prince.
i am lying on my back in the loam, stomach and throat exposed. she pulls herself over me, holding my hip and shoulder tightly.
i am so sorry
and i am, my guts are trying to clench in regret but the pulsing heat of her belly, transmitted through the perfect roll of softness at her waist, has penetrated my breathing and wont let it collpase
i was so hasty and self centered im sorry
i am wailing, trying in vain to kick my heels which are pinned to the forest floor by her muscular legs
not a lot has changed there
she smiles down at me, such a strong, happy face
you were young and thought that you could do anything, there was time for everything.things did not go as you idealised and you took it all personally, so you thought there was nothing for you. Experience and Innocence are not enemies, they just fight like all lovers do.
she is drawn onto me so tightly, our noses passing breathy and our legs clasped
i am in pulsing pieces the pads of my fingers glide over her body, swimming in appreciation and loss of sense of self as her raising hairs and redness reply through me. i am in such awe, lost in beholding rapture that i had no access in my teens, so full of myself and the imagined need to prove what a man i already was.
we sit up together and she bites my eyebrow hard, my eyes water and i lift her up, plonking her down on my boisterous sex. she just has time to chuckle deeply before god intervenes
...LAH HU AKBAR ALLAH HU AKBAR LA ILLAH HA ILALLAH...
you omnipotent bastard that was a cracking dream and now here i am with a erection fit to prop myself up with and about as horny as a mutant bull that is a ball of horns hopping around on a tumescent bovine knob aaargh.
i try lying on my penis but i press angrily into my belly.
i smoke a pipe, surveying the ghostly morning blue of our roof, the two other slumbering bodies, the three backpacks that appear to have been stamped on in order to empty them of their contents. i have another pipe but my morning arousal is unrepentant. just this once, i make clear to my unblinking eye. i snicker back up at myself
the toilet here is not an altogether unromantic setting, cut from a curioius angle in the deep hebrew blue that has graced this entire village since the 1930s. the sunken toilet also serves as the drain for the shower.
i return to that conjured place in my mind, that feeling of nudity in the damp leaves is the background to every recreated cherished memory of her patched back into the life of my nervous system
i stroke the hairs around my balls -this is very important ladies, stroke, dont grab- before returning to a slicker rhythm along my body
she is there in my mind more real than the tiles i am sprawled upon, i am losing myself joined in the flow of us, looking down the length of her and i am still awed to the floor at the imperceptibly fading radiance of our grinding bodies, the awe peaks and i realise-
i am a virgin
as clear as the moon
ok its not like ive had a lot of sex in my life, there are spanish people right here in this internet cafe who would scoff at my story but at least i finally know how to find a clitoris in a dark room (thankyou thankyou thankyou you know who you are)
there it is. i do not know what i am doing and i am not supposed to know. the more of an ´´idea´´ i have the more totally out of the situation i am. i am blind naked silly donkey throwing myself down a mountain with a cry of ´´catch meeeeeee´´ and that is all.
a powerless release and my wet heat spills onto my hand. as i lick the icing from my palm - something i picked up on Arrakis - i reflect on the similarity between the cow brain i ate in marrakesh and my seed, both of which emerge from the pan at great temperature and cool within seconds.
spunk from the balls, words from the brain ball, ejaculating out, praying to impregnate, leaving one exhausted.
i raise myself up, turn on the cold shower and collapse back to the floor.
as the faithful of chaoen finish fajr, i shiver my prayer:
having been as far from a virgin as i could be when i actually was,
may i always discover more and more my virginity with each passing love
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thankyou all for your rainbow of replies, i can be bothered to reply to each but its more fun to share.
to those who think i should be published, i blush mightily and say that this stuff is just warble i pick from my grubby cuffs and spank out under a timer, if you want to make pennies from my babble go ahead, i will write only for you. if you like my stuff, forward it to as many people in your address book as you think would appreciate it or (thankyou jago, i'm delighted someone out there understands me) pin it up in your toilet.
to those who expressed disgust at my morning activities (all female, curiously) i can only enjoin you to take a moment out from your busy day to sit quietly with your eyes closed (and, why not, your relevant hand in your knickers, it will do you some good) and visualise in turn EVERY SINGLE ONE of your past boyfriends biting their lip with a head full of you, getting a grip on themselves before finally disposing of their seed on a bit of tissue paper in the toilet (a worthy fate for my valiant lads? methinks not, i also eat my more alluring snot and my scabs, they are my babies and they belong to me). now be absolutely certain that the only reason why this image you have conjured up may not have actually happened is because, instead of you, the man in question was filling his head with pornograph elementals from the second dimension in the form of impoverished damsels (generally former soviet bloc with an english nom de photo) trying to make a better life for themselves. i am a man, i know these things, if you thought your beloved Jim was any different you are wrong. don't cry, it's ok to be wrong sometimes.
to those great men and women who liked my little tale and regaled me with like stories, you are my siblings, i love you and as far as i am concerned there is no such thing as too much information, dont hold back, the world is counting on the brilliance of your messy humanity to maintain equilibrium with the dark forces of politically correct beaurocrats seeking to sanitize, standardize, categorize and laminate our lives. hooray for rampaging genitals.
i have lots of news but it sounds stale when i put it down so just to say i've got a rocket in my pocket called auto-stop and i'm gonna pop it all the way to India inshallah. let's see, ive got me sleeping bag and mat, assorted toiletries, aside from the clothes i stand up in, a tshirt, pullover, jellaba and jacket and some socks, a pink towel called Nazim, a red Telepizza baseball cap called Carol, my late grandparents (of course they're late, they've been dead for ages bom bom sorry mum) copy of the importance of living by lin yutang - absolutely delicious, too rich to eat more than a chapter at a time but so varied in flavour that i dread the day i finish it - THE NOTEPAD, knife, torch, compass and a miraculously long lived bottle of wishkey. sigh. what a laden down tourist i have become, here's to me when i was just a shoeless jo with four blankets to my name (two for sleeping, two for wearing), dragging round me little handbag for toothbrush, chillum and dhammapada. however, the hidden money belt crammed with western lucre, debit card and passport to a first world country remains the same. hardcore.
Deathstar to you all, o precious context of this life
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i suffered miserably from scriveners gloom some days ago; real writers forge and reforge their work like swords until their brainbabes are fit to stand alone, finished. they don't show the first splurging of their boiling neurones to all and henry, but what am i do to? going over my words just once is the same as eating somebody else's cold vomit, to do it thrice or five hundred times would be like beating a donkey into puree with a pencil. so you will continue to receive my undigested smut until you are wise enough to change your email address.
i leave the home for now of the panther ul-Mightress and her cubs in a quaint little nationalist village with it's pretty posters of the shadow fiend Turkey poised to penetrate the clean white expanse of mother Europe. i have the privilege of being present for their sun cycle fiesta in honour of the living god Bladder, where the local animals all gather to celebrate the blessings of their lord, who gives them the power to transmutate beer into urine and a favoured group willies to spray it around with. there is a grand show on the sunday where a man is gouged to death by bulls while the animals in the arena gasp and crane their necks, sadly i lack the funs to observe this traditional entertainment but i am there to see his head being paraded through the main street. he gives me a resigned roll of the eyes but of course he can't talk since his tongue is completely blue and so swollen it holds his mouth open.
'you'd never see this in a mumin country', i comment on the nocturnal herd below, rubbing their jellified bulks against each other in the noisy air pumping out of the speakersect's vibrating spiracles, occasionally anointing themselves in the sacral beer, kissing, talking, fighting - often in that order. i am half standing up for my tribe, half being a provocative shithead again.
'yeah, they make orgy' sneers ul-Mighress, who is miffed because she had planned to make some funs by giving arabesque henna tatoos and the herd would clearly rather vomit on their shoes.i sigh wistfully,
'no, they are still very far from that level, give them time, give them time'
ul-Mightress grins around her porcelain teeth and returns to the subject. i love to talk all night with her, she is the only person with whom i can talk about the experiences we have in common, but when the discussion changes she quickly loses interest and stares out the window or grooms a cub which is frustrating because i love the sound of my own voice in so many topics and i hear the distant fear that i am actually a very boring person hissing in the trench of my guts. i cannot go into what we have in common here, only the moral for me of our stories in this chapter : the things we hide from in ourselves, refuse to accept or cover with personality revolutions, be they spiritual or secular, are the things that stab us in the back, flay our skins and start walking around dressed as us, causing all sorts of vexation.
four hitches and a night in a pine plantation later i come across a panda bear of my age, standing in a relaxed pose, hitching from the hip
'good day brother, where are you going?'
'Nice'
'nice, im going to italy'
'then we should join thumbs, would you take over, my paw is getting sore'
a dog soon stops for us, his bulbous ride singing a dastardly mating ragga. it is an entrepeneur type sales dog, a player in the catchy name game
'ok brothers, you've all seen a turbo incinerator lighter before, light your djinn in a gale, toast a marshmallow, fry a spoon of vetinary anaesthetic into an anhydrous kake in a sizzle BUT! have you ever seen such a useful tool with the words 'my grandpa went to hell and all i got was this lousy lighter' inscribed thereon?'
the dog waggles his eyebrows and snuffles wimply to say im sorry, i just wanted to write stuff on things that sell at festivals and now i cant stop the patter, its eating me alive. the panda nods in sympathy and tries to talk quickly in between festival dog's incessant waves of jabber. the dog guides his steed well out his way to drop us on a good river east. it leaves us with eyes brimming with look at you fine young creatures in your fresh adult coats, i am a bald hound with a mate and litter and a house of cards to keep business but my heart skips ahead of you. bon courage.
the panda ambles off to scent mark our new patch while i move a cluster of old people living in the ditch under last year's circus sign into a patch of leafy shade. i write the name of the next hive on our way and an impala reins in her little autopod
'i am sitting my anthropology finals tomorrow, heinously prepared, roll me one would you'
it passes a djinn membrane back to the panda
'i practised zen and the art of revision until, for me, there were no books and no subject. tomorrow i shall write the answer to the clouds in the clear blue sky on the underside of the desk and go forth into the world barechested, well contented with all about me'
it takes the djinn pod from the panda and the little ember ifrit, snoozing in a coil around the impala's neck, wakes up and snaps greedily at the flame offered it. the impala inhales the ifrit's fumey seed deeply and presses a hoof hard and sensuous on one of the autopod's nerve nipples so that it purrs it's cylindribles and accelerates along the asphalt river.
'im sorry we couldn't have gone further together' says the impala playfully, flicking us both with its bright eyes
'you know we would be only too happy to' grins the panda as he closes the autopod's passenger elytra and slings his sac over a shoulder
'then i'll see you behind the bikesheds outside paradise, cubs'
the panda has friends in this hive and we decide to stroll and talk jumbly into the core. we see each other look intently into a pile of discarded boxes for edible tree genitals and laugh together
'a recuperator too,eh?'
'a master gleaner of my herd'
the park approaches darkly
' your greeness, we come with things to nag about and cigarettes as yet unblagged and vials of wishingkey' i kneel in front of her and give a dram to the fringe of her little hairs. she inhales us deeply into her dream space, where the macros and their mates for hire cannot see us, nor any of the other predatory hive beasts. there before us are the moon and her twenty three legs that clench the trees and animals against the cool earth to stop them spinning off into space, dancing rabbits and philosophing salamanders, an errant gorrilla with strips of human skin fashioned into a ball, his only constant companion as he travels under the sun. the ball loves the gorilla and rolls all over it, popping into the sky at its command and diving back down to kiss its plateau forehead, the animals out in the hive love the ball's antics so much they throw funs at the feet of the gorilla, who seems unbothered by all the speedy creatures and their bouncing about. one of the rabbits grabs my paw and we throw each other around, we dance and drink and sing and talk of anais nin...
...and now i have really drunk too much, a crumpled sun against his travelling sac as the satellites swim around, the panda cuddling with a rabbit, amphibians chasing the gorilla and his ball, the ball chasing the gorilla, a dandelion playing guitar like he will die when the strings fall silent, and now i can't hold my head, all i see is the inside of my snout and its peaty smell.
the panda comes to drag me up, the moon has blinked away and the other animals melted. we stumble and spew around to the gardens of a college and fall down to sleep.
that morning i am awoken by a policeman who is beating my head with his truncheon
'get up you horrible little shit SMACK who do you think you are CRACK'
'ow stop fucking hitting me BAM ow what did i KAPOW ow jesus fuck what did i do'
the policeman stands on my belly,gives me another blow across the side of my face with his baton and leans in close, his putrid spittle stinging my eyes
'you know what you did you bastard,or should i say what you didn't do - you didn't drink three pints of water before going to sleep after a night on the brew, did you?'
damn, the hangover police have caught me red eyed
'get up NOW boy, you're coming with me'
we frogmarch into town, reciting the mantra 'plus jamais plus jamais'. arriving at a stimulant bar, i head for the toilet to rebalance my internal fluids (four liquid flushes and one long sausage spew) while the panda scores a couple of hits. sitting outside under the sun, the panda rubs a croissant into his gums while i jack up. the caffiend scourges through my blood cables, chasing away the turgid remains of the dead night and everything speeds up until the telepass where the panda bear hugs me and our ways part.
i get a lift in a cavernous megapede, it's abdomen ending in a great ovipositor that makes the creature twice the size of the next largest autopod swimming down the torrential tarmac. the rider is a tunis mumin, black bags under his eyes and an ifrit flaming ceaslessly outside his moustache. more than a thousand kills i pass with him and we become matey - its master has bungled it's funs so i pay for fodder along the way, i help navigate the final streams of roma and assist the megapade as it births it's cargovums. before parting, we ingest a caffiend and the gabble hits religion
'look at the males here, they are like nervous children being led around by big hens that make every decision for them, our god says, in his book, that the male must lead the pack. you know that the cows in india think that men are gods?'
this is the third time i have heard this coming from a mumin. the first time i replied well if god is not in a cow then why should god be in you? and now i am steaming caff so im going to go the whole hog,
'the religion of indian cows, zoocentric load of ayran facism though it may be, having kept the indigenous animals of india in manure sweeping servitude for millenia so that the invading cows can do yoga in peace, does not say that god is a man, it says that EVERYTHÝNG is god, there is nothing that is not god...
the poor mumin is trying to find somewhere to put his eyes, he is shaking his head and murmuring the lalala of his ritual to himself, damn i really shouldn't be doing this
...god is the only existence, every atom, rock, plant, human, insect and animal is god, god is the fabric of the universe and the only soul, there is no such thing as nothing because everything is god and god has no beginning or end, all beginnings and endings are contained in god.'
it is sweating and trying to blank me with a scowl. aided by the fiend, i become angry at myself for being so ardant in battling its idea with another bloody idea. it is said that truth has only one enemy - not lies, but convictions. to know that one may be absolutley wrong, duped and mislead is the only intellectual safety.
i give it enough funs to eat well until it can resolve its story with its master and it feverishly tries to start giving me everything within reach - a mug, a dictasect, a t-shirt and a shirt with two humans locked in combat - i accept the shirt. it gives me its den address and makes me promise to visit
'god willing' i say, hating myself because i really mean no.
italy does not like this hitcher. it takes two days to get from roma to the outskirts of napoli. i begin to feel a perverse pleasure in having an italian name but not being italian, a lucky escape, i comfort myself. i give in and decide to change course into town to take the overland worm to the sea. a billy goat is suckling its autopod from the proboscis of a diesel flower and he is happy to take me. there is a human leg dangling from one of the autopod's ommatidia
'for good luck and to ward off evil spirits'
'what about the spirit of the bloke who lost his leg?'
'good point, oh jesus, here he comes now, hopping down the river'
'give my leg back you fuckers, im not gonna die until i get my leg!'
the goat swerves to dodge the pogo phantom and i ask a mundane question
'well in general i am studying law'
'oh please, tell me you have an amazing plan and law is all part of your scheme'
'no, my dad just bullied me into it'
'well at least you get to write 'ten years in the iso cubes creep' in your exam'
'drokk yes, i am the law. and today in particular im going to buy some medidjinn'
i was relieved to leave morocco and its hazy aura, but i must accept my fate as a magnet for all things green, brown and flammable. yeah so you want me to describe napoli? sod off, they haven't taken anything down in seven centuries, everything has just been built on top of everything else like an urban alleyway sandwich, the grime on the cobbles is as old as the papacy. the medidjinn vendor is easy to find, a stubbly pig in a union jack vest and we head for the fountain off jesus square
the goat offers flame and the ifrit begins to shoot its spore. the goat huffs and chuffs and floats several hand above the ground
'so for me there can be no god and no soul, these are things to hum in the dark to allay the fear of death and more there is no death, no single event called death. constant dying is the requirement of life, the world and its animals are dying every instant and this is just life changing state. if it were not for this there could be no movement of thought or metabolism, the scientists who love to delve into such things say that matter and time cannot be proven, only movement, indeed anything that does not vibrate does not even exist, so a thing that dies in time is just a theory, only endless death or life if you prefer is real but i think that that is just an intellectual way of saying things happen'
'the slithy toves gyre and gimble in the wabe?' i interject, paddling backwards around the fountain, fuming at the nose
'precisely my dear mammal! every animal is a droplet of atoms, which are in turn just whirls of movement. when a drop of spray leaves the ocean it has a little adventure of its own but to say that it alone is alive and conscious while the vast body from which it only flickers for a breath is not is ridiculous! to call the return of the drop a trajedy and to hypothesize a soul that is of personal importance to something called god so that the events of its adventure should actually matter and its little life was not in vain is silly enough to tickle the bollocks off a bull'
and, standing beside a river in greece near a man who had been dead for some days, i saw what the goat meant.
'i don't mean to be rude, its just that you are quite decayed and i can't tell if you are a man or a woman' i said to the corpse
'no offence taken. now that i have time to lie here and think about it, i can remember when i was a man swimming into a woman and then i was both together, growing towards being a woman until my hormones commanded me to be male. then i left the woman who's blood the world came through to make me and after that, ooof, i was so busy running around, eating, shouting, fighting and chasing women - though i never had to run too fast there'
the corpse says with a nostalgic rictus
'well, one gets awfully caught up in being oneself. now im drifting off into the world again, so many people have come to visit me here'
the maggots move behind his skin for effect
'so im never lonely and they all take a piece of me away with them. there's not much left of me now and its clear, lying here, that this idea of me is just that, an idea, and quite a limited one. every part of me was alive before i was born and all my life, if i can call it mine, bits of me were constanly dropping off into the world and i had to replace them with fresh pieces of the world, just like my guests are doing with me now. now that i am a cadaver, every piece of me is on its way into the moving world. i was never a thing that was born and died, i was an eddy in a living river'
i cry happily for a while, which may have encouraged two lionesses to stop for me. they express some surprise and a little derision as i tell of my hotel and restaurant free mode of travelling. i see the crucifix embedded in the autopod's chitin and comment on the curious way that the lifestyle of jesus is viewed with almost universal contempt in countries that claim such high parentage for him
'yes but you don't want to end up crucified, do you?'
'of course! for little cubs hearing the story of jesus, the moral must be - don't live a humble life free of great attatchment for acheivement and possessions because if you do, they will nail you to a piece of wood!'
my hosts do not find this as amusing as i do.
i sleep two nights atop a scrap of high roman wall, the ramparts defending me from the noise of the traffic below. the toad who gave me a ride into this town took me and two of its friends to an authentic irish pub (there is a mechanically operated water wheel along one wall to prove this), run by a greek mouse and its english husband. i ask for a wishkey and am delighted to discover that an irish shot in greece is equal to about six in my homeland. we drink a toast to good conversation
'sex and death!'
'what else is there to talk about?'
i treat them to my impression of the people i ate at primary school being injected with growth hormones and they tell me all about neo-alexanderites worshipping the statue of the terrible one, and the cult of naked monks who only allow male donkeys in their holy grounds. i dont press them for information on that one.
each day i make the journey from my monument hotel to the megapede quarantine stable, where the beasts jugger off, sunk low on their trundles from the weight of their cargovums, to their birthing grounds. entering the stables cantina - i forgot to bring food with me - i see a table outside bearing a feast of recent leftovers - a plate of salad, half a bowl of chips and some good scraps of somebody's thigh. i stick my head inside the shop to make sure there is no animal about to return to its meal. seeing nobody, i turn and yikes! the deer working there has sprung from its lurk and begun clearing the table. i step gallantly in between the food and the threat and pantomime eating it to make the deer understand that we love each other and cannot be parted. it makes a gesture indicating that it intends to put all the food on one plate and clear the rest of the table. i relax and the cunning creature takes its chance to tip the food onto the disposable paper table cover and scoop it all up in one.
'don't you have babies to feed?' i squawk, baring my teeth and inflating my abdomen in rage. this intimidates the deer, which scuttles inside the cantine. i put all the food onto a plate, stack up the remaining plates and put the paper cover in the bin before moving to intently inspect a map on the wall in a 'i don't want to talk to anything' gesture.
the deer returns and looks me softly in the eye. it is holding a fresh sandwich, generous bread and i see chips and salad inside.
'no money' i muff through a stuffed gob, waving my salad dressing slicked digits at it.
'no money no money' it reassures me, flicking a hoof from its breast towards me - from me to you.
my pride flares up and i begin to refuse vehemently. this is stupid firstly because here i am eating leftovers with my fingers, the proffered sandwich has been made and must be eaten but stupid because all this bluff is really a cover for one of my biggest blocks: receiving. now i've stolen, wheedled and guilted many stuffs and on the flip side i had thought myself to be a great giver, i have given away the clothes from my back (i rummaged through bins in broad daylight for those threads mark you) several houses (ok they weren't actually my houses in the legal sense but they were my homes in the real sense), weeks wages to people up the creek with kids to feed and more blims to beasts in the street than i could puff in a month. but lo, here i am, face to face with real receiving, this is not like sharing tea with a berber in the mountains, this deer has a cafe to run and im a stray growling over the food some other animal paid for. the joy of giving is burning in its eyes and im shaking like a twelve year old when the matron with her stately bosom smiles 'let me give you a hand' upon finding him stroking himself in the changing rooms. i am washed again with that virginal sense of i really dont know what i am doing here, all this time i have been puffing like i am the great independent, dont need anything from anyone, i can supply everyanimal and not need a thing in return when it hits me bang in the balls, which hurts :
all this time, through all this 'giving', i have really been stealing from others by refusing whatever they have to give and so forcing them to feel indebted towards me or sorry for me that they now have something that was valuable to me.
dont worry, i will never change, its just that now i am aware and can joke about it.
i take the sandwich and gaze beautifically as the deer askes me how i like my coffee.
oh you poor things, ive forgotten myself and gone off raping your brains again, the sun has set and i probably owe the internetji a tenner by now. i am in istanbul, staying in the forest that formed the estate of a now collapsed mansion. i have bad dysentry from eating the mussels in the river but what doesn't kill you makes you shit blood until you cry. i managed to buy the worst tasting rehydration salts in the land, i think i would conserve my fluids better by sticking a tube up my bum and sipping.
shuffling down the road in my jellaba (trousers are totally impractical in this state), pausing every two hundred metres to spray a faeces smoothie into the gutter if there is no handy shop with a toilet, being stared at by the painfully trendy locals ('who is that georgeous man bending over in the road?' 'i dont know, jasmina, but he has eggy brimstone water frothing out of his anus' 'that's soo dreamy'), i lose myself in a miasma of auto commiseration. the seed of this came from a hasty email i sent to my father a couple of days ago, asking him to buy me a plane ticket home from india when i realised that the only way to get the necessary visas (which were themselves twice as expensive as anticipated) was through an internet company that routed the visa application through one's home country and charged a hundred quid for the service. this meant that i would be able to get to india, live on two thalis a day and then run out of money when the time came to return. throughout this travel, in answer to the standard question 'what do you do' i always reply that i am going to work with my father, who sells trees. each time i say this i fill up with a feeling of honest pride and a great calm, because i know that i am doing exactly what i naturally should be doing. saying this several times a day for two months, i came to take it for granted and lost the sense of how fragile this situation is, how far i have fallen from my family's graces, how little we have known about each other these six years since i left home. i am in absolutely no position to say 'buy me a ticket dad, you can just take the money out of my wages when i get back'. i have not been that sort of son since i was ten, how stupid to make him have to swallow something like that. this self pity grew into a mind gobbling terror, what am i doing alone in this country, sending pestcards of my travels like some great adventurer when really i need to ask my parents to get me home when the cash runs out (ah, no good at receiving but a dab hand at begging when i want something). what have i done, to have rebelled so much and run so hard and been party to so much bitterness and clenching of teeth? i had wanted to cross the world and do unconnected things in new places and that takes effort, but not as much as it would to go home and be a present part of my family. i know people who have turned their backs on their family and culture to reinvent themselves entirely and you would know them by their trail of broken promises. my eyes roll around at the fashion painted people - hell, i am squatting in their forest, eating their fruit, the only contribution to their economy i am making is here in the internet with the impossibly moody guy behind the counter. i should be staying in hotels, eating in restaurants, buying souvenirs, wearing shoes, that's what people are supposed to do in foreign countries. i realise that the bad vibes i feel towards these people, totally immersed as they are in their roles of being beautiful (actually most of them have a pinched arse _expression that could make the most angelic face hideous) socialites, come from the knowledge that i am not in with the game, not part of the tribe. the point is not to throw off the role of being a person in the world entirely, just not to be lost in it, not to take it seriously, as though if i do it really well i could be any better than that drunk sleeping on a piece of cardboard over there. there is a child in him that laughed and screamed and all the betweened and he is on the road back down into the ground, just like everyone else, regardless of what suit we have on. i gag on the lurching fear of having no family, being scuttled by an addiction worse than food (at least i'll never get scurvy) of falling out of the world of people, this once in an ever time show. you can find everything here, amongst us, and we won't be around for long. cast your genetic memory back to the time the first photosynthetic organisms randomly happened to fall together (darwin and i still have a lot of talking to do) and began polluting the world with noxious clouds of a new and lethal toxin, oxygen. how the anaerobic life of the day must have known their time was up as they heard tell of ecosystems erased, the foul molecule scalding metabolisms, burning through membranes and poisoning the living waters. and look what came as a result. are we not living under similar skies? petrol, the poison that gives life to the autopods and other machinanimals is welling up with a vengeance, it is coating the healing earth, sealing the oceans, changing the very air until we animals will have nowhere to hide and nothing to eat. some adamants may say that the tramp on the street is doing more for society by not feeding a motor car than any successful person of any occupation who brings however many litres of the old blood back the surface each day. i would disagree there, our days were always ending and we can only guess at how the chemicals that destroy us will become food for the lifeforms to come.
the huge and mortal truth breaks through my skull, leaves me slumped on the side of the road, i mess myself and it really doesn't matter, the night club goers can pick their way around me and my sludgey pants. ul-Mightress put it perfectly:
'buba, i had to go really far away from you to understand you. now that i do understand something of you, i know that i have the best gift in the world.'
yes its cheesy and i wholeheartedly second that cheese. i dont need to go into what it means to be part of a family, to be able to appreciate life with them. my family made me, they cleaned my bum and held my hand across the road and lost sleep when i was sick and slapped my arm away from things in shops and told me not to disturb the nice man and trampled over my nascent sexuality and generally fucked me in the skull over things that are so funny to look back on now and bought me a plane ticket to india and let me stay in their house when all i did was steal things and wank and smoke and i know myself through them.
and that is all i have to say about that.


This too shall pass.