Down The Lane - 11/19 September 2003 / part 2
Why do I get the crazy ones?
I fell in love with a drunken whore
and was bewitched by the evil bitch
I should have known better
but love is blind and I could not see
that she was a stupid, crazy, alcoholic slut
flaky, like flaky pastry
lots of layers but no substance
I saw all the layers one by one
lots of lies but not much truth
she wrecked my heart
she wrecked my soul
she wrecked my life
I wrecked her fucking car
but it wasn't her car, was it
it was his, she was still his
the puppeteer dangling her
on invisible strings she loves
I loved her, but didnt like her much
towards the end, when i finally knew
I should have turned the light off
closed the door, and walked away
I'm still licking my wounds
trying to repair the damage she caused
her cold-hearted cruelty nearly killed me
there's some queer cunts on that side of the river.
Having to invent myself all over again, things begin and things end, but she still haunts me. Need to pour some white sauce on me bit of skate. I'm a Lover not a Fighter. But I'm really fucking worried about them fucking fridges. Them there fucking fridges like, baby. Keith lent me a good book, but I can't remember what it was called or who it was by. It was a humerous historical fantasy type thing, there was a great bit in it where this female character was on about how she managed to manipulate this king-type guy into doing whatever she wanted him to. "Oh I just stuck my finger up his arse and sucked his cock," she says. Nowt else to say really is there except to contemplate the exquisite pleasure of being able to suck a cunt with yer digit in her anus (uranus?), but I know you don't do that at the moment, cripes, it's out of choice with you but unfortunately with me at the mo it's 'cos the wind's blowing in the wrong direction or summat, fucked if I know, or rather, not. Shame.
The landlord has just rang up and said "Paul, it's Steve, I've got an angry arse!", which means he's just put a barrel of Cross Buttock on, but I've got a cold/flu thing that's going around and it's knocking fuck out of me so Im not going anywhere tonight. There is a proper process.
Jingle bells, get back on his bike and rediscover the joys of cycling on a long chalk, brief, backs, knees and hips, bunged up. On This Killing Floor. I'm doing an art-work called Virus No1, it consists of lots of phlegm I've brought up, spat into a 25cl beer bottle, and I'm gonna paint a couple of small pieces of bread in acrylic, say one red, one yellow, chuck 'em in the bottle, cork it and see what happens. Oh, I've put a bit of wine in and might put some sugar or honey in, just for a bit of food, for what ever might grow or breed in there, I don't know. If anyone wants it before it starts increasing in price and becoming really valuable, they can have it for £500 and thats an absolute fucking bargain, pass the word around. I might do one with a Ship-in-a-bottle next, but that won't come cheap, at any price. Bit like chicken wine, it works out very expensive by the glass, and I'm not even talking about a full glass, I'm not even talking, I'm farting in semaphore and someone else is deciphering it, so there's never such a thing as 'me' or a 'full picture' or 'fact or fiction' or any old rubbish like that, it's all shite and it's a load of old bollocks and I mean old. Butt knew.... Yew no. A spit in the bottle. Fict or Faction? I Wander. You yell yellow, hell, hello. Spit, spot, spat. Mip, nop, map. My name is Lucifer, Please Take My Hand - Black Sabbath. Binzo, bonzo, banzaii, bleb. A column for nelson and the rest, no not till they cough, shout. All punk really was, was Black Sabbath speeded-up, you know. I wonder what Ronald Git is doing now, I couldn't give a fucking shite, could you? No, cos we've got Black Sabbath by hook or by crook, for good or for bad. Pish. Doc trout.
