The alarm wasn’t supposed to go off yet. Rubbish, all of it, it would have been the electric shorting out, the damned cheapskates, it’s the leaky toilet from number 6 but they won’t fix it. “It won’t fix itself will it?!” I said, but they don’t listen. No one does what they should. No one cares. That’s what’s wrong with all this, all these bittercold hearts, all of them new world jollies, cramping the have nots, boxing them up into hovel blocks, take away their shrunken up lives and worlds all sucked up in a vicious gale where what’s left after’s spat out, this ungracious heave and there, there’s your man, there’s your salt of the earth right there, groveling sod on a liars packet, money with wings gone flown out one hand and into another’s and what drink, grub or worse from it, bare touches real pain but then what does I have yet to find, no matter where I’m pushed to look. I didn’t set it, I don’t set things, they set things, they set things and set things up and set me up, they think they could be anything after all this, the gall of it, the bloody cheek, help me would you, could you, will you? Got a degree? Not at my university, love, no, I didn’t give you your degree, you didn’t come to my class and pass, but you think it’s good enough to help me on my way in the world, all 25 years of you? Sorry, but I don’t believe you can, love, I don’t believe you would, love and I doubt you ever could love.  My mental health, is not mine, it’s yours, of the mad, it’s their chimera, it’s of those who gleefully craft the pain and walk away, murderous thievery. My mental health is a slow demolition, requiring daily attention, a chipping away to eventual collapse, dipped in corrosives, these scabbed ears are dustbins filled with screaming families, parents, kids, or drunk, drugged yaryars and fops whom I would have lovingly shot and dumped in a pit of piss and shit with little concern, guilt, worry, care. Have I exceeded my rations of pleasure? Was it pleasure when it failed to remain forever and in its grip, cared and cared not for, till it doesn’t matter, till it's all drained and covered in muck, slung to the swine which rolls upon my old, dark bones and not a single kiss remains, not one token of love to sustain, there’s not enough paint inside or burning light to bring the memories to life, just an abstract taint, the others’ frantic desire to finally kill it all, every cell of recollected form, every soul so born, so dwindled a shrivel thing who greedy waits to feed upon these fragile thoughts I held as once rare treasures, gifts from the old love, lost to rank disgust, contemptible ghouls; can’t even exercise the patience to wait, before they stoop to feed. They are everywhere, keeping me from my destiny to be. They will not have me, they will not take me for they do not true know me and who can cure what it cannot see or know to see, they have no light in their eyes, they have nothing but the night.Now there is this awful day ahead, there are the walls, there are the screams and the busying of busy bodies, committed to a drudgery I’d thought had died, way back in the 1950’s. But no, it survived like ancient bacteria, it clung on like fresh shit with old, dumb greasy fingers and thick set modular beasts snuck in, these burglars, they effortlessly ooze dead space, they came to disappoint me in my dreams, left the window open again, so the rain could piss down my curtains and the wind would keep me nice and cold, so utterly defeated and drained I could cry if I could remember how to. And tell me now, who the fuck would miss all that? They all need smashing up and put into a bottomless pit, the shitbags, the bloody buggers, bloody shitbags, they need to be gone and nothing less or else will suffice. It is that I would no longer want anything, want to be anyone, want to go anywhere. That I should seize up completely, the mechanics of the fable spirit wind and grind down to a cogent silence, it is a slight upon the soul, a gross insult unforgivable that births a rotten duel for liars, doomed upon the dawn count, the sodden mist pales and hails fresh ghosts for Death and satisfaction for neither. It is that which lies before me. I can’t forget what they did, what they stole, what they used, abused and deceived, where the seams of their dress bulged and bust out a sorry flabbery, that they’d scurrilously scoop it up and back in, by far too late, for adequate was the nakedness revealed to tally up the whole as rot. Of this, there is no denial, it embarrasses as it persists, it clambers at its gross display, vainly hoping no one was there to see but they were, it delights in thinking all else be dumb, that the world is as flat as they wish you’d think it. They want the little things of the mind, they can’t seem to fly with all that weight under wing. They will all be shot and tossed into a bottomless pit I grew for them. Eggs, bread, I’m sick of eating other people’s ideas of food it is not food it is a warped criminal act, only Satan could devour cooked, shelled babies, only the darkest of breakfasts would throw up dead beasts and a sarcasm of beans, or solitary tomato among the carrion, balance for an unbalanced, balanced diet for demons. Out of spite, of protest now do I desecrate my plate and guts with all manner of sinewy delights, I transubstantiate the sacrifices of animals slaughtered into the maniac who runs the abattoir, him and the others, I would gobble up and defecate freely up a wall, their stodgy remains can dance down any gutter going for all I care. Ah! And there she is. Looking from my window, I get allotted a portion of street below to spy upon, not much, more than I’ve earned perhaps, more than a brick wall or endless night, more so when she glimmers past and this deluded old heart wakes up for a few private minutes of peer and pry. She must be foreign, middle East or something, long black hair and eyes to drive a man mad with it. I think she’s married to the Turkish barber on Garrand St, Omar, that’s it, Omar. Or he’s Moroccan. Lucky bastard. Bet she’s a decent cook too. Bet she’d bring those fucking eggs to life. Lucky bastard, that Omar. All spoiled today, by the fattest arse yet on legs to sully my eyes, blocking an otherwise tantalizing gander of Her Majesty, for majestic she is, en route to Omar’s, lucky bastard. I don’t know what it is about English women, prone to obese tendencies, must be something in the words, the language, seems to flip flop out onto the floor with some gobs, turns otherwise innocent adjectives into slurry. I bet Her Majesty lets loose veritable birds of paradise with that mouth and those lips of hers, or sultry serpents sliding up the legs, some stocking wrapped foot under the restaurant table. I haven’t felt anything sexy go up my legs for years, not that I’m concerned, these things can’t go on forever and ever and associated, cobbled together fantasies ultimately collapse, like drunks at a bus stop.  It’s not that which turns me on, it’s not her arse, tits, how it all moves together like an exotic musical, it’s her aura, her, how do I word it? It’s her…mystique. Yes, mystique! A lady, more than a brash Anglo Saxon dufferette, but a real woman, with all the music and all that mystique! Lucky Omar.I guess I’m not lucky that way, at least not much interested in it, nor would I expect any other to show me interest, the world of phantom dalliance has fled for pastures newer, fresher, less smelly and with decent gnashers, working eyesight, working cock, working at some bar or a gym, anywhere but my sofa, it’s collection of stains, the biscuit stuffed down one side of it, the barely lit paintings gathering dust, losing purpose, beer cans and fag ends, moldy books and spilled inks, typewriters arranged here and there, waiting a good fingering to new dimensions, sounds to put the ear to, shave off the whispering mock, I’m more useless with it each day, what s day is these days I do not know, less and less for me, nowhere to go to you see, nowhere to simply sit and be away from the people, those people, lovely for some no doubt, people. I have my engagements at time with them, they with me, often for very different reasons, or none at all, but less of them does me fine considering most of them are wankers. Can’t be helped, it’s all relative, very rare to find someone you don’t end up hating, someone full of shit, they’re everywhere and so inevitably, I lock my door and go to bed. That I might write of my pointless days or give a crap about these mangled thoughts thrown up on me like a tub of turds, is so insignificant, foolishly hopeful that some fellow toothless beauty might run her ladder torn tights up my trembling slacks, that we’d not talk but just be and if she can’t do that then she can fuck off. I’ve had enough of this. Even if the alarm had gone off like it was supposed to, it would have only delayed the inevitable dullness of each and every rain drop dripping miserably down my lonely window.  Lucky Omar.

Lucky Omar

Lucky Omar.

Lucky Omar.

MisterCat

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Lucky Omar

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Alexander Sinclair

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