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.