Archive for the ‘UV Ray’ Category

I’d always been attracted to a kind of decay. Like a once decadent building now in a state of ruin, a glimmer of its majesty still apparent; or an aging photograph of an actress or pin up girl from a bygone age. Only when just a fragment remains of something that was once completely beautiful do we feel its absence. I loved the feeling that drugs gave me. I only stopped because my body couldn’t take it any more. I wasn’t in the business of destroying myself. If I had my time over I’d do it all again. But now I’m like one of those bombed out buildings. The plaster is falling from the walls, the grand, sweeping staircase has rotted away and there are only ghosts of the past inside me. I am flesh and bone. I am broken nose and broken teeth. I am broken spirit.

I got in the Toyota and closed the door. Turned the key.

My heart is beating / I am alive / But I don’t call this living… no no no no no no…

Radio on.

Stars were still visible in the early morning sky but fading now. Everything was grey and lifeless. The streets were still wet from the previous night’s storm. There was nothing but the sound of the engine ticking over and tiny flashes here and there in my peripheral vision as automated street lights began switching themselves off.

Of course, I am nothing but a conglomerate of failures, neuroses and other assorted psychological glitches that ensure life in the everyday world is nigh on impossible for me. But I have always worn nice ties. My whole attire, in fact, has always been something of an aesthetic that has convinced others I’m something I am not. I wear my clothes like a suit of armour. Most people do. The 20th Century saw the birth of the media created society. Every era since, every decade, the media has provided the aesthetics and the soundtrack. And whole generations suck it up, adopting whatever the TV shoves in front of them as a lifestyle choice. When they look back at us in history from the safety of their fully homogenised societies, they will see the first socially engineered humans in our infancy. They will marvel at the chaos still present amongst us. But being born of machines in factories, they will never know or understand our beauty. They will never know the humanity in the spilling of blood or the salt in tears. Scientists talk of overcoming death when they haven’t even overcome themselves. Yeah, well anyone can make plans.

It’s all fine until they get hit by something bigger than themselves. Some people are full of shit until they get punched in the mouth.

I knocked it into gear and pulled out of the parking bay.

Angelina, now there was a girl who had a nice pussy. I mean that girl had a really nice pussy. As I drove away I glanced up at her flat window. I saw her, only half-dressed in her underwear, reach up and pull the curtains to. That was the last I saw of her.

The headboard of the bed in Angelina’s 5th floor apartment was against the window and it was pissing down outside. There was only a low red light immersing the room in a rich, sensual glow. The rain beat heavily against the window; it was so severe it splashed against the glass and washed down in unending waves. I had my head between Angelina’s thighs and she raised her upper body up on her elbows, silhouetted against the city lights. As I glided the tip of my tongue along her labia to her clitoris she said, “oh yes, I’m going to fucking come in your
mouth, I’m going to come all over you.”

She tasted good. She tasted good and she felt good when I slid my cock inside her. Her orgasm wasn’t real, of course. It was a little show performed just for me. And I left her place £400.00 lighter. But what the fuck did I care? I am not a sensitive man. I’m not a sensual lover. I throw a woman around, bend her into positions that I like to look at for my own visual edification as I fuck them. And what’s more, they love it that way.

Turned onto Broad Street. It all looked so beautiful, so sparse and serene at this time in the morning, no one around. The streets all tinted with blue, reflected in the wet pavements.

Love is nothing more than an ideology anyway.  It’s a concept; something that doesn’t actually exist in the material universe, just like hate. All we have is the manifestation of our feelings in how we react. Women wear jewels and make-up, or tattoo their bodies to pretty themselves up because they themselves are bloodless. Angelina’s naked skin was as white and pure as cocaine.

I like hurting people. When I got in the ring I didn’t see the face of my opponent – he’s just a man like me, so I never thought about him. When the bell rang and I looked over at the opposing corner I only saw the face of evil, I saw the face of everyone and everything that has ever hurt me in my life. And I pulverised it. In the ring I was just facing my demons and conquering them – just as every man should, whatever his walk of life. It’s just unfortunate for anyone who faced me that they had to represent that. But that’s just the way it is, and that’s just the way I fought. Without fighting I’d have been a dead man long ago, rotting in an alleyway somewhere. I hardly ever lost a fight. Ronnie Keldo runs the unlicensed fight game in this city. Mostly it was all rigged. But I was never about taking falls for anyone. Although some heavies would come knocking on my door, telling me this was the way it was gonna go down, I made my money the hard way, the right way.

As I drove I leaned over and looked in the glove box. I was all out. I needed some Marlboro’s.

You gotta remember I am a fuck-up. All those years I wanted to be a fighter, a champion. And then I became one and it didn’t feel like anything. There is a void inside me. I thought I could fill it with drink. Then it was drugs. Women. Smashing up cars. Smashing up people. Smashing up myself. But none of it filled the void. It was still there and it still is. But I’d still rather be me than some douche bag in a cheap suit walking around with a blue-tooth headset stuck to his ear. How the fuck could anyone end up like that? But I’ll tell you, I’m really not any different to anyone else. No matter what front the rest of them present to the world.

That is why the media creates monsters out of certain people, icons of evil like Charles Manson or Adolf Hitler, so we can all point  our fingers. But in truth, the same demons lurk within us all. If enough shit happens to us we can crack and this simmering energy that is beyond any dichotomies of good and evil comes spilling out of us. There is no way of stopping it. We just choose the targets of our hatred.

But what do I know? I’m just an old, retired, washed-up fighter now. Maybe I really did take too many blows to the head, as they say?  I’d ended up driving a fifteen year old Toyota with a bumper hanging off and working on a factory production line. When I was a kid my mother died. I was only three and one time I remember standing staring down at her grave as my father knelt and planted some flowers. I didn’t understand any of it. But now I look back and realise what a lonely, forlorn, sad image the two of us must have looked to anyone with a heart.  It was from these beginnings that I’d amounted to very little. Capable of inflicting pain on others but of feeling nothing. Mine was a life spent so far down in the dust I could never feel the sun on my skin.

I pulled into a petrol station on Bristol Street and parked on the forecourt. The main doors were still locked so I had to go to the little security window. The assistant was reading The Big Nowhere by James Ellroy. He put the book down; spine upwards with the pages spread. He passed me the pack of cigarettes under the flap and took my money without a word.

I got back in the car and lit one up. I could still taste Angelina’s cunt on my fingers. And to me, that’s about as close to love as you can get.

It was light now and the city was sparking into life like clockwork. In the distance I could hear the clatter of a train pulling out of the station.


[Fragile As We Are]+[UV Ray]

Posted: January 18, 2011 in Anti-Art, Anti-Fame, UV Ray

The sunset doesn’t matter anymore.

I’m tired of wearing my guts on the outside. Getting them ripped open by fish-hooks. When we boil ourselves down to the bones and sinew, we are not much. Nothing but pieces of meat clinging to the skeletal frame. Everything gets forgotten, everything fades away. Everything turns to dust. Even bones and even love. I twist things around in my mind until the reflection becomes deformed beyond recognition. It makes things easier to deal with. It helps me disconnect. I exist in a hall of mirrors, my life grotesque, distorted. I am unable to face my true image, the shell I have become.

    I have this antique camera. It has seen so many things. So many beautiful things and so many beautiful places. In its time it must have travelled the globe. I stare at the photo I’d taken of Monica putting on her red lipstick in the bathroom mirror. It is a voyeuristic black & white shot taken with subterfuge through the slightly ajar door. It was made all the more beautiful because she wasn’t aware of my gaze. The light came through the frosted bathroom window and illuminated her pale skin. A film still from a silent movie. I keep it between the pages of one of my notebooks now. Of all the things the camera has seen, none could be more beautiful than this portrait of Monica. The flawlessness of her youth preserved, frozen in time.

Finding Monica in the world was like finding a missing part of myself. I have some CDs she recorded for me. I play them often at night. When I play them it’s like having a small part of her with me again. As if I am evoking some essence of her, for those brief moments it’s like having her in the room with me again. Of course, it is just me wishing my life away. And although she is no longer with me whole worlds gravitate between us. Our minds sail oceans, seeking each other just as lips seek lips and flesh seeks the comfort of flesh. When I look to the west, I know she is there, just over the horizon.

Life ebbs away like a figure sculpted in ice. That is how we all ebb away. We just melt away. Our lives and loves forgotten in time.  There is no greater sadness than the fact that none of us have a choice, fragile as we are. We cling to tenuous threads of existence.

Despite vast skies and a million different cities glittering between Monica and I; in a thousand years, when great new empires have risen and fallen, mountains crumbled, and both of us long dissolved, these moments will remain desire unfulfilled.

The sunset doesn’t matter anymore because Monica is not here to share it with me.  She sees the sunset on a different shore. Stars shine above in other hemispheres.

But I still hear the ghost of her soft voice. She ever so gently asks: “what are you doing?”

“Writing,” I tell her. “Always only ever writing.”

“Ah, are you writing about all the snow we had in November?”

“No, my dear, I’m writing something blue.”

[The Writer]+[UV Ray]

Posted: November 22, 2010 in Anti-Art, Anti-Fame, UV Ray

It was a lonely life really. It only occurred to Geoff sometimes. Never at all when he was sat at his desk writing. This morning it occurred to him because it was cold in his kitchen and the rustling of the cling film as he wrapped the bacon back up and returned it to the fridge seemed so stark in the cold silence. The windows were frosted up, it was still quite dark and the light bulb had blown out when he flipped the switch. He suddenly saw an image of himself, as if watching himself on a television screen. Some character that a viewer, within the context of that scene alone, would perceive as sad and forlorn.

     He didn’t really feel lonely in his own company, though he realised he didn’t live a conventional life. The loneliness he referred to was the fact that ultimately even amidst millions; everyone is alone. It was just that certain random instances in life seemed to symbolically encapsulate the concept. Everyone has cataracts like frosted windows blocking the outside world from view. You know, rather than put their foot on the brake they’d mow you down in their cars on a supermarket car park and not give two shits. They’d feign remorse to get themselves off the hook. But in actuality they don’t give a fuck. This is the disparity between human nature and a politically correct society that forces us all to gloss over our less palatable traits. It’s a false society. Nothing but a fermenting bottle of piss waiting to explode over every one of us. Of course, people justify to themselves their every action. You were in their way or something. But as soon as the mental patient stops taking his medication the shit hits the fan. You can’t keep a lid on it indefinitely. Politics is just the bitter pill that one day the mental patients in this great fraternity will stop taking. It will be like a cleansing of sorts. What this world needs is a good cleansing. There are just too many people. What was it the Futurist Manifesto said: war is the world’s only hygiene? Yeah, those boys had it right.

     Geoff laughed. The only thing this sad and sorry scene needed was a little pet dog peering lovingly up at him to compound the impression that he hadn’t had a close human relationship in the last two years. He picked up his biro and wrote a little B on the back of his hand to remind him to buy some light bulbs from Wilko’s later that day. Christ only knew he could barely afford them.

      While he waited for the bacon to grill he wedged the fridge door open with an empty carton of milk and sat at the pine table, straining to read the newspaper by the light emitted from it. It was all ineffectual stuff that held little interest for him. Some woman killed in a minor earth tremor on the Italian Riviera. The rising cost of fuel; pensioners pegging it from cold in their own homes: an absolute national disgrace, the report claimed. Yesterday some twat overturned his petrol-tanker and spilled its load all over the M6, causing a 20 mile tailback.  It was all cat-stuck-up-a-tree shite. Who gives a fuck? What this country needed was a good war on its shores. Give us some real news to chew on. Conscription rather than constipation. That would put the steel back in the veins of the nation. A few of these foreigners would shit themselves; they’d soon fuck off back to their own neck of the woods pronto if war broke out. War would soon free up their constipation. But thinking about it, maybe he was wrong? More probably they’d just shit all over the place and we’d be left to clean up the mess.

    See, Geoff wasn’t one of those dirty tree-hugger types with matted hair and rings through their fucking eyebrows who go dancing about streams singing to the river gods; the same types who open a window to let a fly out of the house. All that peace and love and karma re-incarnation shit. He didn’t have the patience to wait around for an hour until his fucking grandfather or whoever it was supposed to be finally decided to vacate the premises. He kept a length of elastic with a knot tied in the end. The little bastards know better than to come around Geoff’s place looking to lay their fucking eggs on his butter dish.

   He folded the paper and slapped it back down on the table. He was waiting for a call from his publishers regarding his latest book. How much longer was it going to take them? Why did it take them so long? Jesus Christ. He’d be starving, dead in the gutter before they got their skates on. These editors. No cunting wonder literature was dying a death; if he could he’d strangle every last man jack of them. Line them up and neck them like geese; donate them to the old-cunts home for their Christmas dinner. Geoff was forty-seven. Wouldn’t be long before he was in an old-cunts home himself… prematurely at this rate.

He grabbed a fork out the sink and flipped the bacon over. He switched on the radio. They were playing that God-awful flibbertigibbet Cheryl Cole. Music was another thing that had gone right down the shitter these days. He turned the dial back to off.

7am and he poured himself gin in a jam jar.

The last of the bread had gone a bit mouldy, but Geoff reckoned it’d be alright toasted. He pinched off a few spots of green from the slice, sniffed it and tossed it under the grill.

He was standing with the fork still in his hand when there was a knock at the door. If this was the fuckers from television licensing hounding him again he’d stick it straight through the cunt with no questions asked.

Employee number 714967. He stopped work on the production line and raised his hand, indicating to his line manager that he wanted to go for a piss. It was right hand for toilet leave, left hand for some other problem. In the designated area he removed his white paper suit and hair net. It was all marked down in the manager’s book. As he walked out into the corridor and down the long staircase with its black plastic banister and metal rails a recorded voice on the in-house radio that constantly echoed throughout the distribution centre told him: “we take pride in what we do. Every hour of every day – we put our customers first!”

     After he’d taken his slash the urinal flushed automatically and an electronic voice gently reminded him: “now wash your hands.” A printed sign taped on the mirrors above the ceramic basins read, STOP SPITTING AND BLOWING YOUR NOSES IN THE WASH BASINS – REMEMBER IT IS ONE OF YOUR COLLEAGUES THAT HAS TO CLEAN IT UP!

He squeezed one of his nostrils and with all his might blew a big green glob into the sink. Have some of that, you bastards. He laughed to himself as he trudged back up the stairs. Blondie’s Atomic was interspersed with the serene female monotone issuing more brainwashing dogma:

“We want to be the very best in every little task we undertake. We aim for 100% customer satisfaction and never deviate from this goal. That’s what makes us the number one choice for pharmaceuticals by customers all around the world.”

The voice was calm and methodical, with a hypnotic timbre and rhythm to it.

“What is the meaning of success? Our success is achieved through service to others. Every day in every way.”

Jesus H. Christ, he’d love to smash the speakers. On the wall there was a brightly decorated performance chart entitled Our Team Wheel of Fortune. It mapped out a long line starting from zero in the left hand corner of the graph, forming a steep upward sweep and peeking at a 94% success rate pinnacle. 714967 looked over his shoulder along the deserted corridor, took out a black marker pen from his breast pocket and continued the line into a jagged plummet right the way back down to 16%.

Through the window he saw one of his fellow workers, a curly haired man he’d never seen before, sitting on the bench in green over-alls having a cigarette outside in the neatly manicured garden. Their eyes met briefly through the glass as the man looked up at the window and they both nodded acknowledgement. The colleague bore the same look of utter resignation that everybody else in the place possessed. Maybe that was the cunt whose job it was to clean the mucus up out the sinks? All these pills churned off the production line. Pain killers this, pain killers that. But there was no cure for the real cancer in society. The cancer of endless drudgery for millions of us. Work is the cancer that eats away at a man’s soul until there is not an ounce of his own individual self left. We are absorbed into the morass of society, assimilated into it as a mass entity. People are not necessarily so bad. Their lives are just shit. That does something to you in the end. It’s the rats in a cage syndrome. Cram too many together and they will turn on each other.

“You are now entering a sterile environment.”

He got back to his station, set the lever and began again. The line manager shot him a glance over the rims of his glasses as he keenly logged the information down in the book. It was a look that suggested his piss had taken an unacceptable length of time. Well fuck that for a game of soldiers. Time is all any of us have. And there was no way he’d ever sell his soul to any company ethos. The manager was simply attempting to telegraph a warning that also conveyed a subtle but intentional message that he should be grateful; grateful for a line manager that didn’t vocally admonish him for taking such advantages. Someone who understood and quietly supported him. It was all bullshit. It was all a little game. Work was the line manager’s whole life. That overly fastidious little bastard aimed to be the very best he could be. Every fucking second, every fucking minute of every fucking day, 100% customer satisfaction was his singular, one life’s goal, complete with a piece of shit gold plated watch at the end. The fucking imbecile.

    Nobody in their little white hair nets looked up from the line as he settled back in.  How could they all just sit there so devoid of thought? Everything plodded on systematically. Everyone nothing more than components of the whole machine; unfeeling, unthinking, blind systematic churning homogeny.   

    Plastic cartons arrived on the conveyor belt to his left. Pills arrived on the belt on his right. Pink pills in white cartons. Blue pills in orange cartons. Twenty-four fucking pills per carton each.

On and on. This was no life. These are rough waters we sail, Captain Ahab. He felt like ringing someone’s neck. He’d stop on the way home later and get a bottle of Rum, get blasted out of his brains tonight. There was no other solution.