There are some things I want to say and some things I need to say. There are some things I'll never manage to say and others I'll never try to say. The differences are immense. What follows is an introduction of sorts to a new series of posts which I have planned for Memoires. In its nothingness it explains a lot... maybe even why I needed a break from this place and maybe why I couldn't write here even if I had wanted to. Tonight, for the first time in months I wrote my way through the death of an evening. The words I wrote came out something like this...
I want to write of dark hair, strange perfumes, obsessions, orgasm and death. I need to write of these things. Of tragedy, and violence, and poverty and tremendously poor love and even poorer lovers. I need to write of the rooms I've killed myself in, and the people who've watched me die for entertainment because we'd sold the TV. I want to write of the pillows that I've wet with tears, the beds I've burnt with cigarettes and passion, the walls I've decorated with paint and blood. I need to write of why I'd be a terrible father and why I'd be a great father and why I'll never be a father. I want to write historical love letters and explain to beautiful people why sex made me vomit and it was ME and not them. I want to tell the world of the little shop owner and how he orders chocolate just for me, and how my French is good enough to get what I need and bad enough not to get the rest. I want to write of why I painted the bookcase orange, and then black and then pink all in the same day... Of why I loved my shoes this morning and hated them this afternoon. I need to write of why I say "I wouldn't change a thing" and then change them all the time with words. I want to report back the people who'll misunderstand that last sentence, who with all their two thousand years of collective stupidness will confer and declare my life a scam. I want to tell you of the young, almost beautiful Albanian beggar girl who sits out on the Rue des Augustins, and how every forty five minutes a man visits her, changes the baby over and empties her of money. Of how when he thinks no-one is looking he'll turn a good twist of whiskey down his throat, and how when he thinks no one is really, REALLY not looking he'll land a solid kick around the back of her ribs. I want to tell you of the automat video machine and how the perverts come early in the morning so as they can rent films without the annoyance of having to shop for porn with someone peeking over their shoulder. How that happened to me once and I ended up arriving back home with 'Finding Nemo' and wanking over a fish. I need to write of all those crazy things I do, stuff that makes me certifiably insane and then argue just why I'm not. I want to explain why I sometimes piss in the shower and why my computer is full of viruses, bad writing and watersports porn. I need to write of why I cry for London and how I have reoccurring nightmares of my mother dying and me never having got back to see her. I need to write about life. I want to talk about death. I want to draw words with wings and let them fly away...
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The Classifieds: Wants & Needs
Memoires of a Heroinhead Part 3... The Deaths Head Moth...
A new series of posts
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