billycrash

Tue, 03 Jun 2008 20:31:57 GMT

Do you want to know, about the day I had back then? Do you want to know about Bernie and his queer philosophies? Are you interested in what happen in St Alban’s? Or shall I just jump back into the story of what happened after that day, when I returned home? (I had a good day that day, got stoned and pissed and out of my face and sat in the pub till the sun died) I have never really tried to tell my own story before, and it isn’t as smooth a process as I thought it would be…

You will have to let me know…

Is anybody out there even?

Tue, 03 Jun 2008 18:47:09 GMT

Okay, I just want to say that I know that this is going slowly and languidly, But I have to set you up properly for the zenith of this story, My life was ordinary in the terms of how I lived, the sun rose, I stole and fucked and consumed, the sun set and I slept the sleep of the comfortably numb.

In one week, one week, that had all begun to change.

I was a cunt, but a well educated cunt, I would really only read books so that I could feel superior to the woman I did regard as mine, those women whose knowledge matched or surpassed my own, I would silently, subtly subjugate. Star is another matter entirely…

Before my ‘criminal career’ there was college and university, and jobs in management.

Afterwards…full on rock and roll lifestyle…

What about before all of that? I’m not ready to go there yet.

My story is hard to swallow and could very well be, for all you know, simply made up from a large stock of movies, books and film knowledge, and an all 'round understanding of the various ‘-ology’s’ that science studies, I did say I was intelligent.

There is so much more out there that the human race doesn’t know about. It is better that we don’t, those things are meant to remain mysteries, to know and to see ruins everything.

Everything!

Mon, 02 Jun 2008 16:27:45 GMT

Howdy doo?

The sound of ten am birdsong is very distinctive. The birds, having already accomplished the dawns territorial calling; go about the business of birdie commerce with a cheery air most of the work weary would fail to accomplish. It is this birdsong which first brings me around, the sunshine is the second, and I can feel I am buried beneath the covers of my bed, yet I am unwilling to open my eyes just yet. I needed to first leave the dream I just had.

“Mew!” I hear, so I scrunch my eyes closed and I stretch and I do al those ‘Hmmm’s’ and ‘haa-aah’s’ and groany I’m a-wakey sounds and I yawn widely and satisfyingly and I open my eyes….want to hear a yukky bit? Good! Okay, when I opened my eyes I was on my back, so when I looked up, what did I see descending towards me?

The biggest, fattest, grossest spider ever in the whole world lowering itself towards me!

I screamed and as if the sound broke the web, it fell onto the back of my right hand and I screamed like a girly girl and catapulted it across the room. One of my cats (A big fat, semi feral tortoiseshell with lynx-like qualities) pounced upon the bed after the spider that he had apparently been biding his time for, sparing me as he passed a derisive ‘you pussy’ look, I laughed at that look and he jumped off after his quarry with a savages eyes and a rolling satisfied mew.

I sat up in bed and scrubbed my face with clammy palms. I heard a diminished ‘mew’ and knowing it wasn’t Bollox the tortoiseshell (for that is his name) for his sounds manly more of a ‘MUOW!’ than a meow, it had to be my puffy cat Poo-ying. There he sat in the threshold of the doorway with his tail and his paws all tucked up into his familiar ‘considering’ pose, he looked at me with glittering greenish-yellow eyes and opened his pink mouth to say

“Maaoow” And just under his regal chin I pictured this subtitle…

“Brekki!”

“Poo-ying…come gimme some love!” I patted the covers and smoothed a cat sized area into the duvet; he slowly squinted at me and licked at a forepaw. “Poo-ying...” I patted the covers again. While still regarding me, he used the moistened forepaw to swipe his head into a sleek smoothness; I made mouse squeak sounds at him…

“Maaoow! Maaoow rrll-oow” Said he (subtitles: breakfast, breakfast now...)

I began to feel better, amused by my kitties and their differing aspects, summer thundered through the sun-filled room and I felt clean and refreshed and new.

“Are you coming then poo-ying?” I asked as though I didn’t really care whether he did or not. This ruse didn’t work as he knows he is the favorite, and he simply sat there in the doorway with a bar of sunshine creeping towards him and his eyes opened wider as though he had raised his brows at me.

Am I boring you with the kittie shit? There is a reason for it and I only have a little more of this to go…okay? Kay…

The way to get a pet to come and give you love, is to go to another one of your pets for love…I called out for Bollox the torturing tortoiseshell, who leapt onto the bed with a smug mouthful of spider, and so in came poo-ying to see what Bollox had.

“Mew” poo-ying said to Bollox

“MOW” replied he in his deep little voice spitting out the spider and pawing at its twitching remains. Poo-ying took his turn purring cheerily at Bollox’s find as he batted at the spider.

I yawned again and stretched and I lit a cigarette from a packet that was underneath my pillow.

“What am I going to do today cats?” I got no reply or response from them; they seemed to be conferring about what to do with the spider. I sat and smoked and watched the cats chat in their patch of sunlight and I thought about how I was feeling and how I should have been feeling after a dream like the one I had escaped from.

The cats, having conferred themselves a conclusion, leapt from the bed, leaving me with the slowly dying spider, the thundering sunshine, and my own, private, cleaned out thoughts.

Type your cut contents here.

la belle indiffernence pt 3

Tue, 27 May 2008 18:17:55 GMT

So one summer night I was star gazing and coming up on some strong LS.D and I was lying in this kind of side garden thing, with bushes framing the border on my left and I took a huge puff on a joint and I got up and started to take a frothy piss onto the lilies that were growing along the wall of the house (Lilies are poisonous to cats, I like cats) and suddenly I caught a strange sight in the bushes I thought I could see a man in the bushes…no it was a man made of bushes.

Surely not? I stared and stared but the bush man didn’t move an inch. What a weird visual!

And that thought doubled the bush man!

from behind I heard the rustle as the second bush man formed, I staggered around and I faced in that direction, nothing at first, and then he rustled into being some more so that I could see him and he cackled at me, I turned back to the first bush man, and another rustled into being also, they giggled at me, their eyes were shiny bright flecks, I turned to face this new bush man and he rustled and moved his shape about and whispered to others who conferred in differing secret breezes. I turned to the first and he spoke words that floated out of his mouth in a secret code, I decided to try to talk to the one who came in third and spoke the most, and as I was turning to him, his bush throat opened up and a golden-green arrow of light shot past me and I screamed and whip my head around to follow it but it had disappeared! I heard this ‘phut’ sound and I whipped my head around again, and the bush men were gone and I wasn’t tripping anymore, at, all! My head in fact fucking ached! I needed to seek solace in star and knowing that she had a ‘my room’ a room in which she locked herself in and no-one was allowed in, at all except for me, as I was currently fucking her, I crept past the dying down, left over party folk, and into star’s ‘my room’.

She was sitting on the bed sketching (well, scribbling and hallucinating a picture) and looked up smiling to greet me, and her face fell when she saw the shaking wreck that I was.

I told her about the bush men, and her eye’s grew as wide a dinner plates and as shiny as an ainme kitten’s and she flapped her hands in excitement and wriggled impatiently for me to finish so that she could tell me what is was that had inflamed her so.

Barley had I finished and she had sprung off of the bed and to a bookshelf stuffed with the books in that same logical order that I adored.

she returned with books about an Earth spirit called the green man, and I gulped her booze and shivered at the pictures she showed me with mischievous delight at my folly.

“They granted you with a visit” said she all knowingly “you have met the green men!”

I got freaked by the idea and she ooed’ and ahhed’ over my fright and delighted in it until I got ‘old fucking stroppy pants geezer’ as she politely put it. Then she cooed me over into her book nook (the corner of the room had a leather (red) wing back chair in it, Nice, yes, but it had scribbles and ‘thoughts’ on it.) And it had a stack of books on either side, towers of book! She disappeared to find something to feed me with (chicken soup I presumed) she came back hours later, even more wrecked and awake and high than when she had staggered out of the room, and upon her return, she proudly brandished a cold home-made bowl of macaroni and cheese, and spice and herb, and some veggies, I barely looked dup from a book I had picked out to read, a book that helped burst a bubble, but that bubble turned out to be a kind of curse.

She demanded I take the proffered food with a wailing-cracked-partied-out ‘hhhhmmm!” and a stamp of a dirty foot.

I took it and I burlesqued for her with the bowl of food.

“Ah!” I said, twirling my leetle’ French moustache. “zis dish, it bursts wiz arom-ha!” my fingers they demonstrated the ‘bursting of flavor’ in what I still think of as in a French-y way.

“Ze vegetables?!” I rolled my eyes and I fopped “Divinely cut!”

She giggled and clapped and one pupil was massive and the other was tiny, and they played a game favorite to all L.S.D riddled pupil’s and that is: Big, small, big, small…etc and her hair frazzled without actually frazzling and picked up radio waves.

“But!” I said twirling my moustache “what is this most unusual garnish?”

I showed her the joint end garnish, and she stomped off to find booze.

I put the food down and I dipped back into the book and my gut roiled at the protagonist’s antics and the drugs in my system zinged and zanged in my brain and made my scalp tingle in disgust, in small localized bursts, at what I was reading,.

And this book was called

American Psycho.

I sat there in that chair and read and read and read, I passed out and I was woken again by star who had gone on missions for healthy food and had a tray laden with fruit and juices and newspapers, we ate and fucked and as she slept I read on lying on my side and bundled up in summer cool sheets.

I have to say, that the protagonist in that book, made me realize my own narcissism, and although I lacked his psychotic glee I could see what money could do to you what he fear of not fitting in could cause, I feared losing my mind, and was and am, probably halfway there and I was frightened by the idea that people walked the earth who were like that.

How I felt is pretty hard to describe, my whole head was screaming and juddering and I could hear a low bass sounding hum and a high pitched sighing and the content of the book scrambled around in my head aiming for a logic that was sadly lacking, the words screamed at me, but I couldn’t put it down, and I wet the pages with nervous sweating.

For two days, I camped in that bed and read, and when I was done, I slept for two days taking only pisses and soup and tea when I woke.

And on the fifth day. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do.

Now I had as a whole and as understanding, was something I saw as a sorry sort of semblance, I felt heavy and adrift I felt sickened by my own behaviour.

I wanted to go home, and home was a lie.

I snapped at Star and was rude to those around her; I threw tantrums that I couldn’t express.

I was asked to leave and I went like a wounded puppy, unable to un-stick my tongue and speak of the internal crisis I felt. Probably would have been passed off as a ‘bad come down’ anyhow.

I went home to the house that had more of me in it.

Okay. Your probably wondering where the sick bit comes in?

It’s harder to look back than you think it is, for someone with too many memories at least. So if you remember me telling you of my routine, here was the fifth day of that.

I was at home and one of my cats was clawing at the curtains and the others one licking his arse and I sat on the sofa staring at my notes on scams and I drew a blank.

I didn’t want to do this anymore or did I just think I didn’t? I had never ever, felt remorse or doubt or discontent before, ever! What the fuck was going on? I couldn’t get the picture of Patrick (the books protagonist) out of my mind… I pictured my face on his, and his glittering maniacal eyes.

I had read books before that one book, and they had never had as much, impact as this one had had of me.

So I was wondering if it wasn’t simply a fugue state brought on by the visuals I had had, and then the reading binge of a book best left for sober reading.

I had just flipped! But my heart wasn’t into this excuse.

I lay down on the sofa and the cats came and curled up and I lay and I thought about me, my getting older, all that shit that confuses all the young and scares the old. And that is an imp called change; he is death’s cousin, a polite and quiet invader.

Finally, I nodded off to sleep. I dreamt a dream that I still remember vividly now.

I was at first, still lying on my sofa and awake, my cats were gone off somewhere to do kitty things and a bar of sunlight shone onto my face and made me sweat.

I heard a whisper

“kisses” it said, and I jerked up into a sitting position “kisses” the voice implored. I heard this voice, not in my head or in the room, but just inside my ear!

“oh” the voice quavered.

“Hello?” I say, and I shake my head and think “weird dream, wake yourself up” and I ran my hands across my face and collect the sweat that threatens to sting my eyes, I hear a thump from the room above the lounge and I look up as if I could see through matter. THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! And a sound that is a sly, dragging sound. My heart rate shot upwards in a single beat and my whole body broke into a sweat and goose-pimples and there was the sound of a scream that cut off almost as soon as it had begun, and in my mind I pictured a beheading, there was the sound of something being dragged across the carpet at my feet and I jumped up in fright.

And there I was, still lying down on the couch!

“She’s Mary” The couch me said in a slow drawn voice.

“Kisses” replied the unknown voice. “kisses, oh!”

My ‘real’ body, the one that lay upon the sofa, started to kind of move, but lay still, I imagined that that is what we look like upon waking from a deeper than the deepest of dreams. I watched it do its invisible dance while the shuffling and thudding and whispering swirled around the room. The room began to dim and the real me twitched and spoke in a hiss “ssssshh-ad-ooow meee-en” and then the real me smiled and it looked evil and triumphant, the kind of smile a bad a guy in a movie has when it looks like the nice guy is going to finish last, but the good guy is really biding his time for the major kiss ass finale. So then the real I sat up and I fell backwards and onto my arse and I sat there looking up at me, looking down on me.

“ssssshh-ad-oow men” I said and leered at me.

I opened my mouth to speak back and the atmosphere felt heavy then, a heavy gravity that weighed on my voice. “What’s going on?” I asked myself and it came out deep and sounding electronic and it buzzed in my dream head as though I were a tuning fork.

The real I smiled and my eyes twinkled and I noticed that they were dilated black pits, even though the room was sun filled (deep down in lucid dreaming, you are there saying ‘it’s just a dream, I’m dreaming, and thinking!’) and I leant into me with a matey’ kind of posture, as though I could tell me secrets and I said “three-0ne-two-two-zero-huhhhh..” and I began to tilt backwards on the sofa, and the dream I stood up in confusion.

“What? What?” dream I asked in my newfound voice.

The real I hung in a limbo between falling and sitting up and my eyes rolled forward and the pupils were tiny, non existent. “Three-six-five-two-three-eleven-two” I couldn’t tell if I was looking me or not, the eyes were glassy green orbs.

The real I then shuddered and my head rolled forward and I kind of slumped forward and I made a dive to catch myself and the real I sat up straight and grabbed my wrists and the eyes were normal again.

“Don’t do this” real I said “don’t”

“Do what!” The dream I screamed.

The real me slumped backwards onto the sofa as though I slept.

I shook me, and got no responses, and I then realized I was dreaming lucidly and that I was probably waking and I sat beside me and I waited for that to happen.

And I waited, and waited. It got dark outside and I forgot I was dreaming and I got up to turn on the lamp.

That is when all the light on earth, turned to blackness…

La Belle indifference.

Sun, 18 May 2008 18:27:52 GMT

Okay, so I had this life where even my clothes were disposable, if I was on a bender and came down enough to realize that I was filthy and stinky would I go home? No I would go to a chemist or perfume shop and buy some decent smells, then I’d go to TopShop or some other capitalists rag store and I would buy new ‘threads’ and then I would go to the gym I was a member of and I would shower there and sweat out the crap in a sauna, then I would change into my new gear and I’d dump the old dirty, stinking shit in a bin or into the doorway of a charity shop I was passing. And I’d turn up my tunes on whatever fucking device was the latest, and into the pub I would swagger, coke, pub-grub, and lots of beer and maybe a feel of someone’s tit.

That was the cycle of my old life, the new one that I have been living in now for six years, began in a very unique way.

There once was this girl I knew, who called herself star, but really was a Mary.

She had kitten eyes and long dusty colored hair, and a tight sweet smelling, pussy (sorry mom) she was the kind of raver girl that always got parodied in media based comedy, and was amused by it rather than offend “It’s not… quite right” she would say in a regal way.

I loved the way her chin looked when she did that.

She lives in a house that is a tangible dream, a five bed-roomed-detached-house, with real fireplace and discreet distance from the road. But although that statement sounds a little bull-shitty, the monetary bit, the quality of her house isn’t the ‘tangible dream’ bit.

This is:

When you first walk in, your are greeted by a large, well lit hallway, with lanterns and a censer of incense that when breathed in great amounts blows your fucking head off! The stairway going upstairs…was on the right and was of natural wood, too cherry in tone to be cheap pine.

The Kitchen was dead ahead and was stupidly big (My favorite dinner still, is fried egg and chips, bread and butter and a cuppa) It was painted and tiled in a pine colored green with a dark stained wood, would have been dark in there, if not for a window wall, that wall scared me when I was fucked, I kept on imagining myself staggering drunk through the thing, even though it is thick as fuck.

The living room had an over hang that was meant to ‘define’ where the dining room was and she had color graded the room in autumnal colors, and the furniture was rick-rack and matching at the same time.

Everywhere there are sharis and wall hangings, posters in all sizes of atoms up close and human and animal skeletons and constellations, phrenology, astrology, even the ceilings had framed poster on it each and every picture frame was precisely and mathematically placed, each square inch was calculated, poster content, color and type! and each picture on the wall beneath those, was mapped into the theme and the link in subject to those upon the ceiling, then out of the room, they were all precisely branched like the tree of knowledge, (I have never seem anyone else in my life sparkle this way at something I say, to brighten up the way she did, when I ventured this comment) The whole entire house has the same shelf running around it and even has what she calls ‘struts’ so that the fucking thing can go upstairs and around the house up there, and the books upon it, all in size and color order, in the order that I see numbers in color! (Well one or two were off).

Basically if my Synaesthesic brain had off had lips, they would have dribbled in ordered desire! Her house was like that because years of working as a graphic artist from home and speeding and partying for days on end and obsessive collecting and arranging and remapping.

Ahhh! My speed freak girl and I.

So here at last is where the tale of my downfall really starts to crank up, it gets a bit sick, but I swear it’s true, if you’re eating while reading better finish it first.

Finished? Okay! So, the area that star’s house was in was upper-middle-class and you can imagine the icy reception this girl who is a tornado of color and energy got.

The houses are built polite enough distance apart, so that if one comes in a little after midnight and is a little ‘squiffy’ the drunken giggles of your wives’ and one-self is a mere tinkle of bird song to the happily sleeping neighbors.

Star’s neighbors got the dull roar of techno and tripheads.

The kids of the neighbors would throw rocks and shit at her and she would throw them right back at them with an always ‘just missed’ eerie grace. (I had to take a catapult off of her before she got wound up enough to use it) so when she had parties there, we often had to chase them out of the house as they would come in and grab some item on a dare.

Or run them off when they threw stones or hung around.

You get the picture right? People don’t like ‘different’ even sometimes, the different people. Star never sets foot at the local shops or market, not with the vibes she gets, no.

Star orders her food online, or a group of wrecked people go on adventures to shopping centers. And when they are there, where the piped in scent of fresh bread reminds them of what normal is, they discuss how to get it done without looking too fucked, and then they fall into chaos.

I couldn’t tell you how many people who lived at her house, actually live there, or who pays for the privilege or doesn’t and just sofa surfs, her house is chaotic and strange and in a constant flow of dirty and clean, because the waves of differing drugs come in like a tropical tide that washes away and warms at the same time.

La Belle indifference.

Sun, 18 May 2008 18:13:06 GMT

I was approached, one night at the student union by what you all know of a ‘geezer’ Jack the Ladd’ ‘a lillul bit whay!’’

He looked like a total chav was a smart fucking dude! You had to translate a lot of his accent but when you listened, you could see the man inside, the man who could have been had he not been born ‘can-cil haz’ and his governments promises of ‘regeneration’ not been not forthcoming. This ‘geezer’ was also a bit of a total cunt; he was smart, just that his routine and his friends habituated his personality. Then the dole sent him on a new deal computer course (a.k.a ‘raw deal’ in dolescum socialite circles) and he discovered that he had an aptitude for it “I couldn’t fucking believe how piss easy it was” he had said while we supped pints at the bar and a young looking band thrash metalled their way through a Britney Spears song, (I remember that because the singers voice sounded as though his balls had only half dropped.

Not being judgmental, but a little stereotypical I had asked him how come he was in the student union.

Turns out the government are paying him to go to college to study I.T further because this yellow shaded, gap toothed Stella drinking misogynist got distinctions and full credits on every fucking course he took, and he wanted to learn more!

Was this the life changing, pivotal point of ‘geezers’ life, where he became a soft spoken father of three? NAH! Fuck off! Hello class resentment my old friend! ‘geezer’ is pretty fucked off at the government and although, really, it isn’t the well do do’s fault, his successes cannot erase the old ‘lacking in’ and ‘wanting of’ that is the cement with which every little Beirut is built from. Intelligence notwithstanding, his roots in his culture, are deep. So ‘geezers’ master plan is to slowly overthrow the government by stealing its money! “It can be done!” he always declares, just that, “it can be done” and you know he’s a bit too stoned and is thinking of his ‘master plan’ and is thinking out loud so you nick his spliff when his eyes glaze over, and you continue to beat up Anna in tekken because you hate the fact that she can grind you in the Bollox and is a total slut with shitty costumes. Am I waffling? I was just reminiscing I guess.

So he was in the student union because he had a student card and was a student, and a devious fat fuck who didn’t know how to do the scams he was thinking of. I guess you are intelligent enough to get the rest right?

The money he paid me to write programs came from; you guessed it….you smart fucker you! Drugs, pirated DVD’s and “wink wink’s” and ‘say no more’s’’ and ‘never you fucking mind’s fuck off and get us’ a coffee”.

My career in chemicals came from him too, bound to happen. Some time soon, anyway, probably.

I can picture the face of the ‘job centre careers ‘councilor’ when she quite rightly, gets a 2.30pm interview that folds itself into the chair and blocks her view of everything! And when she politely looks up from her notes, she sees what looks like a bull mastiff chewing a wasp that it is allergic to, smiling benignly at her! And probably got more of a shock when the voice that came out of that face was a ‘London suburb, sandpaper’ sound, but was in its diction, rather eloquent, the owner of the voice very direct and sure of what he wanted to do.

I…when I look back at this picture he gave me when he told me his life story, I picture her pleased surprise and perhaps a renewed interest in her work, she was ‘happy to help’ probably so she didn’t have to pay for him to get fatter and drunker anymore and his receptive enthusiasm and taking of slight patronizing, with affirmative nods and positive responses and honest but forced small talk grinds his gut deep down, while deep in his eyes, a small wry smile twinkles like a distant but important undiscovered star.

la belle indiffernence pt 1

Sun, 18 May 2008 18:07:51 GMT

Okay, so you have read my first post and haven’t been offended and you are intrigued as to just ‘what the fuck he’s talking about’?

Okay. When I was twelve it was discovered I had a rare sense of perception, that made me different, I am a Synaesthesiac. (I will put up a link, rather than tell you as it saves me time, I’ll just add that I am color/number orientated and mirror touch sensitive.)

And it made me a little; well different when I was a kid, and then I suffered some brain damage when I was in my twenty-something’s.

Now come on, we have all seen some series, or read some book that alludes to what I am telling you, my true life is a capitalized formula. I am walking media, but hidden from view, and yes a pompous arse to boot.

I pretty much hit you in the face with what it is I see in my first post, and the event that occurred when I was twelve was perhaps the very beginning of one strange fucking life.

All the supernatural novels you’ve ever read? What about all those myths about sylphs and sprites and imps? Those things which are darker than midnight?

They are all half true.

I don’t know whether they are real (or their equivalents) because the mass mind made them so; we had our myths, and then our movies and they told us tales of great quests and adventures, they tell us of moralistic beasts and spiritual quests for revenge. And maybe they formed because we believed, half believed, and know of, but don’t believe?

And also, we dream who knows what dreams do when they are released?

Nor do I know if they already existed, I know that some of us are aware of them, and they, unfortunately for us are aware of us.

I am the ghost whisperer, with a cock! Imagine that! (I rarely watch television by the way, I hasten to add that)

Ok, I am a little stoned so bear with me, hey, don’t judge, it’s a crutch!

Well what do you want to know? I guess you would like me to get right into the story wouldn’t you? Get to all the scary bits first? All the weird shit I have spoken of.

The thing is, is where to start, I mean weird shit has always happened to me. What tale do I tell you? Do I start with my mother is and my father is, and this old lover, all that bullshit. Is it relevant?

Okay, I’ll do you a deal, I’ll start with the last time I was **ahem** working, so to speak and round it off with a flourish at the end, and then I will tell you some spooky tales, and I will, in between that go backwards in time.

My old job was an identity thief, plain and simple, I took your life and I made lives up from the ‘passed over’ children of poor families. Sorry about that.

I think I am paying for it now

I was a bit of a cunt, sorry ladies! But it is the only word that fits (did a bit too much you know, **sniff**.) I had money falling out of every orifice and pocket, I shagged women who went out partying wearing perfume, little dresses and dappy smiles, I’d roll from bar to club and to party, my Synaesthesic brain constantly calculating and reeling my damaged Temporal lobe sending mass electrical charges into my cranium, I’d tell myself “It’s the ecstasy rushing about” It wasn’t the surges of brain chemicals and weariness would cave me in and I’d what I thought was, hallucinate. Nope.

I’d get back to my house that was rented in some other poor saps name, and I’d crash and laze for four days while I recovered. Then when the fifth day came along I would drink a shit load of good coffee with the sometimes dollop of brandy (good brandy, paid for on your card) and I would get stoned on some really nice weed that I was growing in another house, in-of-course some other buggers name, and I would formulate scams and plans, and I would play my guitar and piano, and I would get the giggles and write songs about ripping you off, the things I bought the places I had been, I think you get the picture! And then if the scams were online scams I’d begin to write the formula for the program (I went to university, got grants but no loans, and became a career criminal, guess you paid for that too) and then I’d pay uni students to write the program’s.

How did I get into this?

Mon, 05 May 2008 02:41:23 GMT

Hello readers, my name is Billy Crash, an unfortunate name I know, but our own names never sound very right in another’s ears anyway.I was born and still live, right here in Luton town and have walked the earth for thirty-five years, I am unmarried and single, not by choice, but by happenstance and fate.
I went to Hart Hill junior school and Ashcroft high school, both of which I never fitted into, not as a misfit of class, or of intelligence, but because I was fundamentally different from all of the children I walked among the swings and bike sheds with.I’m not like you, or at least, most of you, I have seen and been through things that have ultimately changed the course of my life, my ka, my purpose.
You are probably now thinking that I am crazy, and you may be right, you may be saying to your self, that I am full of shit, and in that you are wrong, I am almost always right.

I do not have many friends, well one to be exact…his name I shan’t reveal without first getting permission, so I shall use the pseudonym Jack Green, he is a man of strange talents, a man who has benefited me greatly in moments of dire need, a man of fortuitous grace’s and opportunity. Basically a living walking commodity that is very much respected and misunderstood.

I guess I should describe myself, something I find hard to do as mirrors in my opinion, are shiny lies. I am only 5ft 5” smallish for a man I know but fuck it! I can’t make myself grow can I? My hair is a dark brown/blackish color, a color I have inherited from my predictably absent father, a man I have never known but none the less heard an incredible deal about. My face is one that is mutable, that is I am unnoticeable, I blend into the background, no matter what texture that it has. I am unremarkable to behold, and bear no grudge against this; it is a blessing that disguises me.

I have decided to tell you my story, as it continues on, it haunt’s me and barricades all reason, in a web of misunderstanding and ill grace and unrest.

I must have someone know what it is that I see I must spew forth the poison of my ever reaching future so that the boil of confusion and loneliness can be lanced.

You must understand, even in disbelief, and then shall my tale be told.

I shall be free in the anonymity of the web, these little electric letters a cathartic fuelled by wine and the spare time to indiscriminately divulge in secrets you would perhaps better not know, whether you believe what I say or not.

You know, I long for the security of a secular life… a soft faced wife with aqua eyes and becalming graces, a body that smells velveteen when I rest a weary work hardened cheek against its warm midnight invites. The comforting, lucid awareness of the beauty of a sleeping well adjusted child.

Regular Sunday dinners, always with gravy soaked Yorkshire pudding.

But these things are not mine, and in my opinion will never be.

And I am stilled and saddened and subjugated by my duties to you!

I am your unseen protector, a guardian of lies, a master of invisibility standing alone and aloft. Ultimately I am cumbersome in my own disgust of my solitude and standing, in my irrevocably unbelievable and pompous tales and attitude towards life.

I do not ask you to believe what I shall share with you.

I do not need you to believe….I only need to know that someone has possibly read my wine and Hennessey fuelled confessions, my gorge of lonely experience, my insomniacs ravings.

For if you see the things I have, your sleep will become stolen and never returned; an invaluable jewel stolen and hidden and never resold.

So what am I getting at and to? What plagues my dreams when sleep finally slips into me like a blue and liquid rapist?

What is it that haunts me like a beautiful and intelligent but ultimately spurned and psycho lover?

It is this; I have seen the things that squirm and blindly seek in the depths of twilight, I have scratched at the surface of the seedy underbelly of this town and found it rotting and fetid and irrevocably integrated into our own mode of being.

There are things that walk amongst us that you cannot often see, and when you do, you do not know you are seeing them.

They walk amongst us with a certain and often egotistical, knowledgeable stealth.

Reaching out and capturing with an insistent and invisible whisper.

They fracture all reason without you even knowing it.

They disguise themselves, they hide and they also flaunt themselves in our world, and we accept them without suspicion because we do not know their truths or their lies.

But I do.
This is what I share with you, my invisible reader, and my catharsis.
Alcohol is the liquid that loosens my lips and you are the mouths with which I kiss them with.
I am damaged, and I am ungrateful and bitter.
This is not what I wanted, but this is what I have…a tale that will never end, until that is, when I am dead.
So for now, I take my prescribed sedatives, and I will sleep the sleep of the chemically balanced.
And I will dream of the atrocities that have been and will be to come.And you shall sleep soundly until you know my tale a little more.
Then you shall share in the dread that I carry and bear for always.
My dear reader, my world is not yours, it is all yours dreams made tangible.
And for that I am sorry.

Billy.

I have to tell you this.