and on the sabbath he showered

sure, hey, of course i was around over the weekend. had a bed, some clean clothes, a good meal, the lot. went to see arthur at the weekend. arthur is the dog i talked about. not sure what his real name is but i call him arthur. there's a man who lives in erdington, just north of the city, or maybe east. i take care of his dog for him. and help myself to whatever is in the fridge. the arrangement works out fine for all 3 of us. looking around the place i've built a picture of his life which is as close to reality as anybody could get. i don't break in. no. he leaves the keys under the old flower pot round the back of his two bed house. goes to visit his mother every saturday morning. i go in 15 minutes later. having watched the house from across the road since early. walked through the night to get there. no luck with big luce friday night, she went off with tom the badger just 'fore ya came old boy, i got told by owen the celt! the lock on the back door jammed a little this weekend. cold hands. did the first thing that came to mind. urinated over them nice and long, till i felt that tingle of life in the tips of my fingers. tried it again. home sweet home. the dog barked at me, and i rubbed my wet steaming hands into his thick nape. he's not a pure breed by any measure. grey coat with a brownish underbelly. a snout like a warthog. he's short and stout. not much exercise. i would take him for a walk but what would the neighbours say? so i take off my clothes, lay them on a garbage bag on the kitchen floor and switch on the kettle. run up to the bathroom, turn on the shower, it takes a little time to warm up, eventually does, i turn it off, run downstairs, jam the front door with a chair in case arthur's owner makes a u-turn for something or the other. kitchen, teabags, sugar (fucking bastard has none), too risky to use the milk, a sip, two sips, the smell of piss still on my hands, suddenly realise its cold, switch on the heating from above the knives drawer, wash my hands in the sink, leave them there till the water gets warm, back upstairs, oh my oh my fucking my there is nothing better than a hot shower. the water at my feet flows in spirals of assorted dirt like ants heading to a party in the ground, the brown cake that has kept me warm these last few days breaking off and forming a silted ganges at my feet, my hair silently exclaiming freedom, free at last free at last, god almighty i'm so fucking fond of a wank in the shower, free at last free yourself into the darkness of the gutters oh milk of my scrotum, find eggs in the sewer and come back grown and alive. he's left out a white towel for me this time, so i won't use it. he's trying to trick me, spot the brown spots and figure out the reality of my existence. the house has warmed, the radiators are buzzing, i stand in front of the one in the bedroom, gazing at myself in the full length mirror on the inside of the wardrobe. still got it! belly is falling a bit, i could do with some work on my chest but my shoulders and thighs have benefited from these past 3 years of life on the outside. my dick seems bigger too since last weekend. big luce missed out on some sweetness, and she'll never know it. what's tom the badger got that i don't! how old is he, 42? she must have been on something going off with a petri dish of germs like him. bet he didn't wear a jimmy hat either; fuck em, hope their children are as ugly as my sewer offspring, amphibian horns and everything, like those moles with a dozen noses. fuck em. rumour is she's got warts anyway. but there's food in the kitchen. plenty of things to watch on the tv. watched the news, last part of a game of footie between one team and another team, read yesterday's paper; the guy reads the daily mail. made a few farts on his couch. arthur barked at the first one. but to smell your own fart in its pure form is a luxury only those with a roof over their head and four walls only ever get to experience. so i farted and farted. ahh. the life. i thought about using the telephone to call my sister early sunday morning, after some bed-sleep. but for the 10th weekend in a row, didn't want to risk it. i have searched up and down this place for some bills, to see if he gets them itemalised or whatever, you know, with all the phone calls written down, but there aren't any; maybe next week i'll call, find out how mum is doing after the operation, ask for some money for some new guitar strings, see if jack got the job, how her pregnancy is coming along, just her voice, for a taste of home. i spent the morning crying. arthur humping my leg for his own comfort. made the bed, turned the channel on the tv back to its original 865 (the poker channel), thought about how sad this man must be, but caught a glimpse of him and his mother framed in silver on the table in the corridor and thought at least he has people, kissed the mutt goodbye, keys under the pot, remembered the chair on the front door, back in, arthur stays silent this time, remove the chair, dog, kiss, silver frame, a biscuit from the kitchen, spot a tea stain by the sink, leave it, keys, pot, fence, the street, back.

the little things

to each man his own universe. and to each universe a man, on his own. it doesn't have as much of a ring to it as it first did when it crept into my head; rattling the little bell that hangs from just a little above the door: upside-down it sorta looks a little like a light bulb. ownership is separation. is that what i'm trying to say? is that what i was trying to think? the monk from yesterday would think ownership is love, but would say god is love, and so it is that we think ourselves gods to that which we own. i did my mate(let's call him willy)'s big issue peddling today. i needed a little cash and after a little talk he became convinced he needed a little rest. go up to wolves and see your parents willy. how long has it been? your old lady must miss you. no, i'm not saying they'll take you back in, but a day with your little one, and some of your mom's cooking. that would be nice for a little rest, yeah? the boy hates me but there is trust. so, 20 magazines, 50/50 split on the money, goodbye, see you tonight by the place. and so the hordes drive at me, past me, bumping and cursing and pulling their children closer and saying good morning, nah mate, no thanks. and each lonely individual looks at you with a different face. but the angelic demon underneath is the same. once you get past the masks of pity, of rage and disgust, the smiling faces on the faces of the strangely dressed teenagers, the indifferent pursed lips on the faces of the ashamed businessmen, and you exchange your thank yous and sorrys and you scream out yet another sales pitch, do a little jig on your toes for the waif girl in a teenyweeny red dress, bow, as if exiting a stage, as she flies by, turn to the next man who's lighting a cigarette but failing, and you offer him a match but he refuses, knowing he'll have to pay more for that match than he would have bargained for. if in the split second they look at you and you look back, your eyes meet; you sense the loneliness. and you sense it with every morsel of life that makes you, you. a quick chill that burns your skin and eyes and leaves suddenly, drawing the window shut behind it. but you feel too the wind blowing in your baggy trousers and inflating them for just a moment, like a balloon. and your pockets rise with them, empty, penniless. so the next prospect comes along, and you accost him, more vigourously, holding the damn sleeved "last one" so close to his face the muscles round his nose tighten suddenly into some momentary attempt at anger. and you wonder if everybody else is just like you. waiting for nothing but the next meal, the next fuck, and the next moment of blissful sleep. and every other act, a necessary evil. a universe outside to which we venture, but always in our bubbles. in our own universes. £17 wasn't a bad haul. willy came back with a black and blue eye, old man don't like it too much when i pop round. i'd say sorry, invite him out to the park for a drink and some bread, but with pockets heavy and the ship steady, once again i'm back in my own world. the next meal found, perhaps a fuck off big luce who's always round the park on a friday night (note to self: must remember clinic, free condoms), and with the sky so clear and the wind dropping, some sleep, sound and sailing away beyond the bells and the light bulbs, to the deep green valleys and tall conquered mountains of dreams. good night.

some warmth, and a game of fives

spent some time in a church today. must have been in that place for 5 hours at least. saint michael on moor street, same road the train station is on. haven't been on a train in what feels like years. but it's actually only been months. april this year. took one up to edinburgh. when you smell like piss and shit most of the time, spending 5 hours in a train toilet skipping tickets isn't all that bad. it was a clear spring night when that old industrial leviathan pulled into edinburgh. thought i'd never see my backpack again after the conductor chased me through the station screaming wild obscenities through his nose as if i'd stolen his silly red uniform. lucky the train arrived real late, about 11, no police in the steel palace of edinburgh waverley. came back in the morning, feeling some natural heat for the first time in months, and found my old green and black companion slumped in a corner of the lostandfound. an abandoned crippled dog, no legs, just waiting for the comfort of his master's weary back. o, the sun, the sun. the earth so vast, at least half of it bathing in apollo's gift. and there i was, seeking shelter from the knife-edged cold of haunted birmingham. in a fucking church. the man in the robe, monk or brother (not sure the difference), smiling kindly at me. his mouth twitching so his upper lip rose to his nostrils. each time the smile breaking into a grimace for about half a second. he could smell all the places he guessed i had been, all the holes he was sure i had filled. and he hated the stench of the vulgar luxuries that had been stolen from him by his empty vows. his semi-earnest wish to see me saved fed him with blind persistence though. through his mind, a path, my path, riddled with needles and brown spoons and worn rubber bands, torn condoms, dead girlfriends who had wasted their final breath in a haze of toxic smoke, friends and family who had tried to take me into their hearts and homes yet failed miserably, their plans collapsing into a half-hearted sigh of pity and relief. and at the end of the path he offered me the hand of jesus. in my mind i saw a zombie with a gash in each hand and foot, maggots filling the pink gap in his side. in the corner of my eye, the coffee machine. he fetched me 5 cups in all. some biscuits, a paper bowl of carrot soup. heaven, like food you are, food you are heaven, heavenly gifts, we thank thee, oh and what other drivel, but oh food, warm food. and a roof, and a padded chair, some comfort. i have been there before, and i will go again so long as there is soup and coffee and biscuits. and they will save me again and again. poor brother, monk. there is a nun there i hunger for, but she knows my game so she keeps away. i have spent entire nights with her by my favourite spot on the canal, down near moseley. torn off her habit with my teeth, and by each stroke shifting the mud beneath her pale hairy buttocks, until she screams jehovah! backwards in some ancient sacred tongue. but all the time she was sound asleep in her tiny beige room in the convent up in selly oak. and my hand would always fill in for a hole, but never fill the hole (<- sorry for the cheap trick). so brother, monk, farewell, until again i come to gulp another dose of salvation. i've changed him, he must have thought. the cold night air is so much more acceptable than its daytime harbinger. you expect it. there is no hunger for the sun when the moon so blatantly insists on making a content madman of us all. the whole lot. the handsome families buying each other things i will only ever possess in a newspaper i will later use for a bed. the teenagers seeking refuge from their angst in their parents' pockets. the old woman selling the myth of dark, brooding germany in a tall beer glass: the entire frankfurt christmas market all but a gruesome orgy of usury and consensual mind-rape. victoria square, your fat whore of a patron standing proudly above her satire of an empire, in bronze gone green as if the garbage man keeps forgetting to haul her away to the dump. the library, so grey and ugly. but what a warm welcome these silent perverts and sad librarians offer in their scurrying eyes when hours have been spent in the company of the iciest statue in this whole town. o brother, o monk, a train to anywhere but here.

an introduction. hello

so, here i am. the library cold and humid as usual. its birmingham, england. and late november is dull, the dullest month of all. the pagan festivals of october have passed. i watched the indians in bright orange and red make the most of what remains of ancient diwali. that was some time a little over a month ago. i thought of anjuli, the girl i defiled as a teenager in the public toilet at handsworth park. every indian i saw on diwali seemed to have the same lamenting eyes she had, huge and uninvolved with the outside. then came halloween. the teenage girls in the witch and demon and vampire outfits, snow white legs bare, part hidden behind the black fishnets, the wind lashing, the whispering rain tempting me to grab one and show her the delights of the street. that was on broad street, the centre of all the devil's acceptable works in this city; there are other places. some smiled at me, but always with disgust. to the rest i was invisible; they either chose this blindness or the alcohol chose it for them. i robbed a packet of celebrations chocolates from the sainsbury's on broad street. i felt young again. i remembered jack, my older brother, the two of us trick-or-treating many many years in the past. the caramel-filled ones went down well with the cider i had from the previous night. a week later i found myself in any empty, warm garage in the south of town, edgbaston. the house seemed empty as well but i didn't want to risk being found. so i lay some cardboard in a corner and had an early night. the fireworks telling my sleeping mind secrets of a world parallel to my own. its a wealthy area. i had a friend from there once. but what friends i had, have all forgotten me by now. the family setting is both comforting and upsetting. but that night, the sound of the fireworks made that neighbourhood feel like home. i have a dog. but he's not really mine. i'll explain later. i have an old hiking bag full of clothes. its torn in places but it serves its many purposes well; i like to think it makes me look respectable, that my shabby appearance is due to my many years of traveling, not desperation and bare bones poverty. i like to think that the bag gives people space in their mind's eye to see me as more than i am. a homeless man who has lost almost everything. i have a library card. an hour on the computers every day. and access to all the many worlds that i never took interest in as a boy. and i have a woman. she lives in paris. it's no lie. and sometimes she writes me by email, but more often i write to her, long laments and groanful longing letters that must sicken her to the stomach. and i have my guitar. this is me, and soon you'll learn more.