i`ve been sober for days, dirt and headaches and solitude. health food like packets of lentils mixed with bland, dry nuts, and then trips to the supermarket on an evening for ruminations upon which milk to buy and how much to drink of it. raw cabbage has played a big part in my daily existence, and round, flat boxes of soft cheese have been lingering like stains on my fingers. quite rapidly, it has become my new assertion that health is over-rated.

when i haven`t been working, on my new and postive, shiny attitude towards being and existence, i have been reading. words about philosophy and subjects such as play or empathy have been working their way into a cavern of a mind, and as i have sat in a dimly lit room shivering to the breeze of an open window and looking at the stars through its cracks i have had feelings of tranquility and smallness, knowing that even though i am just a speck within the ages and their vastness, that no other speck has experienced the same perspective as this particular speck has or will, and because of this the view of a life becomes mine, just as each belongs to the other`s, and it make me feel whole and ready and tranquil, and i have no choice but to thank a life for just being.

when i reach to the stars, they are like pin pricks on an empty movie screen, motes of light in a pallid ocean. there is fire inside, or soul in stone. and when i reach to the stars i am the fetus in their womb.

and this room is a uterus.....

and at other time`s i`ll be walking, like wandering is a friend of mine; an old drunken poet, or the toothless smile of some benevolent madness. and then i`ll see the light shine on down to the sides of rusting buildings or through the lenses of taxi cab windows, the steam rise out and through kitchen windows like soft, warm fog, and i`ll be back in my place and under the sun in the streets, thinking about time and life and how it all equates to that breeze that licks my face from time to time.

and i`ll feel small but whole again..

significant.

i can swim in sands of metaphor for days at a time, lose myself to the euphoria of the mundane and feel sweet for weeks at a time. i can see a smile from a mile or two away and grin right back at it. see a soul through an eye, or the mouth of a window, stand back, jump out, and feel whole again.

i`ve been sober for days, dirt and headaches and solitude. health food like packets of lentils mixed with bland, dry nuts, and then trips to the supermarket on an evening for ruminations upon which milk to buy and how much to drink of it. raw cabbage has played a big part in my daily existence, and round, flat boxes of soft cheese have been lingering like stains on my fingers. quite rapidly, it has become my new assertion that life is under-rated.

The Night We All Fucked Each Other

Lesson 1:

Never take a boner out of the house with you. For nothing good can come of it:

Perhaps you'll get strange glares, or even requests for sexual liaisons, from the jaundiced-looking shop assistants who sell you your groceries at the local supermarket. Their solitary, vegetable-selling, lives slowly becoming too much for them, and their pale hands with the stench of cheap and eccentric masturbation fondling your peas and carrots at the checkout line like so much furtive temptation. Indeed children, your boner is like a go ahead, and those once backstair glances as you pass your cash over the till can be shot away like faded memories via bottle rocket to the stars, becoming as real as the warm licks of the sticky, pearly spunk of your supermarket lover on your face as you squeal like the piggy you are in desire. Having a boner is a huge responsibility. So be wary.

Maybe you'll be standing on a busy train when the shadow of your pants begins to inexplicably grow. Maybe some moustached woman with missing teeth and moles like pigs nipples shooting hair out of her wan face is stood before you, and as your boner jabs into the back of her whilst other, more civilised gentleman, stand oblivious with their evening newspapers and crossword puzzles, she becomes delirious and you see juice ooze down her stockings. And, as her bridge of missing teeth begins to chatter whilst she quivers, the warm and smoggish breath from her unsportsmanlike mouth causes the train's windows to become covered in condensation, allowing her to engrave obscenities in the window with her slug-like tongue - words such as 'pigshit', or 'fuck monkey', and 'cock paper' - and as the scene unfolds and she slams your hands into her arid, yet strangely viscid, vagina, you realise that you have your own sick on your arm and your boner's gone awry. It's too late, you think to yourself, but then she takes you anyway, mustached and bleeding from time to time, your flaccid cock bending against the walls of her man-eating pits to no avail, and all as her huge, resonant fanny-farts echo through the tunnels of the subway system like the belches of starving Ethiopians after a well deserved meal. The business men are beating off into their hands and their crossword puzzles, licking each others balls in civilised fashion, 'pleases', and 'thank you', sticky hand shakes to seal the deal. And all because you're a pervert who got a boner on the train. You should be ashamed of yourself.

But alas, last night, I learnt this lesson first hand in a nightclub. We were there to celebrate the closing down of a building that was scheduled to be knocked down. It was the second party I'd been to within the past few days to honour such an occasion, and as I arrived with Lola and Shelly and Devo, I knew that things were to be a little askew upon that particular evening, especially when I heard the sweet symphony of whimpering that hovered over the garden fence to the club. There were the distinct sounds of somebody getting fucked in the air, perhaps an interracial couple of Japanese and Gaijin, maybe it was native on native. Whatever it was though, I could smell the juices flowing, see the steam of their sweaty bodies rising up under the bright lights of the night heaters in the garden. I took a sip of my whisky and headed inside with the bottle, unknowing that there were free drinks inside, and that everybody was very, very, very drunk..

Upon entering the dancehall and bar I saw a man who looked remarkably like Konrad standing with his huge, shimmering cock in his hands. He was hanging around the edges of the room, holding his purple head and stroking its edges like it were some kind of battle axe. I was confused and didn't want to shake his hand, so I went to the bar for some free beer. Once there, the bar women removed their clothes and magically started to release beer from their sagging Russian nipples. I watched with displeasure as their breasts all but reached the dusty and bottle-cap covered floor, but I drank the beer anyway, and didn't complain that it was warm and tasted like milk.

These are only mere memories, and I can't remember the details completely. Perhaps it's a system of repression that my brain has put into action to save me from harming myself in some way. Maybe if I remembered all or too much, then I would not be able to live with myself. What I do remember happening next though is Lola running through the building in only her pink boots and then leaping into the fish pond where she proceeded to fuck a particularly expensive koi carp as she writhed in delight in the stagnant waters. Shelley was fucking a man in a chipmunk mask in the toilets, and Devo dancing naked on a table somewhere, occasionally setting fire to her nipples with the assistance of a box of matches from 'Club Fuckaboo'. Two rugby playing type gaijin girls were pouring gin on each other as they wrestled on the dance floor and sucking each others nipples through wet t-shirts. All the time, I avoided the advances of some gay guy from New York who seemed determined to suck my cock, and spent time fingering a trinity of makeup artists from Yokohama with delectable tits and sweet tasting vaginas..

Whilst the madness continued, with Lola still in the fish pond, the more prudish members of the party were being chased around by Konrad and his huge penis, girls melting against the walls as he shot hot sperm in their little faces. A father and child were running around in their birthdays suits and chanting nursery rhymes. I was admonished for using inappropriate language in the child's presence and apologised profusely - we're not animals after all. Fire dancers in the courtyard fucked each other up the asses to a tribal drum beat, beat, of course, by a man with his rock hard drum-beat phallus.

And, as the night progressed, it accumulated in a daisy chain of fucking on the dance floor and a huge simultaneous orgasm.

I awoke with a tattoo on my back.

Bee Bop. For the past few Sundays, my only escape from the world. Eyes of brightness and furtive glances over the tops of boxes and through the thin veils of tissue paper that hover about the office. Down by the wrapping section, whence I stand away from the computer screens and the glare of windows sheens. Round by the water-cooler where the air is cooler and the good times are a flowing: She is the one that saves me, who brings me home again. The only one who can slice that palpable silence in the air with her well-thought out cultural references and conversation strategies. The one who dare to be a voice amongst the silent. The one who can tell me which box is best suited to whichever product I may be happening to be shipping to whichever person on that particular day. The one who flirts with me on cigarette breaks and wears low-cut tops and has delectable boobies that would surely contain some kind of fine ambrosia one day. All for some lucky little fucker of child that gets to suckle upon them, should her days of sweet solitude ever end.

I am a sucker for wangers and I wish things could be different.

Bee Bop is the one who has a strange nervous laughter, one which makes her top lip curl up and ride against her teeth involuntarily. She is the one who makes strange comments about English rocks stars, like Chris fuckin' Martin, only to drive herself into aflutter and self-consciously wrap her little fingers around that soft, inviting hair like some well-meaning fat person may take to the lush rims of the chocolate cake-bowl: Slow and long and private, wanting of more than there is. Licking and licking and licking for a desire that never ends. All for just one more mouthful of that sweet, sweet, choco-cake.

Bee Bop is the one who likes to drop hints, ask me to do lunch next week. She's the one who wants to know what time I'll be finishing and what I had for breakfast this morning, where I like to hang on my days off, what time I'll be finishing today and what I have planned for after. I tell her that I'll probably go home and work on some writing, think about the meaning of life and stare at the tree which floats around the window. Drink perhaps or figure out a new way to get stoned. Listen to music without circular, repetitive patterns. Perhaps take a shower.

Bee Bop is the one who tells me to do something besides all that, like to go for a drink or to walk around endlessly in the nightlights. Or in the streets, where we can listen to the taxis hiss by in the rain as we walk past the bright, placid lights of convenience stores and then make jokes about the throngs in suits reading magazines, and the couples who dress the same ,or the old folks with their goddam shopping trolleys……

We are the ones who stand outside in the night air on our fifteen minute breaks. We are the ones who both feel that man-I'm-horny sense of longing. We are the ones who don't actually want to say anything to the other one of us because it might be a little creepy, or even presumptuous, to suggest such things to the other whom we work with, because it would probably just make things uncomfortable and a little eerie or strange the next Sunday.

At closing time, I am the one who waved to Bee Bop as the elevator doors closed, the one who received a sultry glance before that nervous lip-ride giggle after I stick my tongue out.

And now I'm the one who went home alone.