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.

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.