Here's a fractional interlude to the Living and dying in Pete's series. Lack of inspiration drives this one. Apologies in advance for the lack of sense, but felt the need to spill something before returning to work after a month off.
------
I scrape into my pockets and turn out dusty clumps - look at them. All these dried up hours and minutes. Thousands of them piled up and I'm trying to recognise them - shape them into words.
------
All I’ve got are some Egon Scheile cunt folds in front of me. A spread, dirty pussy - all inviting in its swathed tight in damp-looking, careless underwear. Bold though. I've never seen such an indifferent, unkempt cunt in reality, but want my writing to smell of it - to give you the same discomfort and lip-twinging intrigue. I want to write bruised writing - stories which give you a tattoo you'll regret.
------
I'm sweeping in a taxi again, and again - expecting it to mould some bottom-drawer times into an image. Instead Beethoven helps the glass and metal, bastard uber-buildings smash out of the ground - stamping on centuries of grass and ground. Only in this city could a river be carved, architected at angles suiting a corporate feng shui. At least my mate Wolfgang makes me feel responsible for it all - names me the ‘mensch’ - mad angels flying behind my hurtling tunnel-taxi.
------
But, these are my fucking minutes. Not theirs. And, again I look at them, jumbled, messy and a bit buggered to be honest - not able to make my own sense of them. Christ - fucking Christ! What have they become? I can’t lose them in there - in their pockets, or can I? What have they frigging become?
