Sunday, 31 January 2010

Kim Gordon. Marijuana Nihilism

Stupefaction sought
Our terms of collision are unspecific. I

My dog snores peacefully
It's not easy
to be me
but it's not hard.

The volume of snoring whores was incredible I was so incredulous. A caustic sneer extinguished all optimism.

He would type this shite up on a computer. Publish it over the internet. That's what he'd do, kid.

Me gums is gonna bleed like fuck when I utilise this new toothbrush, lad.

When I hear my dog gnash his teeth as he sleeps I feel a potent yen to nuzzle against him.
His ears twitch in a moment of vigilism.

Kim Gordon. Marijuana Nihilism.

Ye get these patched of turbulence. Howling pockets of anguish. And then everything is grandiose and acceptance is sought.

Terms of Collision II

He had resolved to write a short story in the month of January 2010. The story was to be entitled 'Terms of Collision' which was a name that had occurred to him quite spontaneously one day whilst walking the dog.
Terms of Collision. Terms of Collision. One wee problem: he had absolutely no fucking idea what the story should be about.
Well, he had some ideas, but they were vague and muddled. The more he tried to summon them the more blurred and out of focus they became.
Terms of Collision. It was to be a fairly bleak, sparse, minimal piece of prose.

Terms of motherfucking shitey hell.

The device made a whirring sound like an electronic cicada. Was it configured properly?
He was writing a science-fiction novella entitled 'Configuration of the Pegadrift' about a vast, omnipresent, telepathic computer.
A load of implausible shite aye perhaps.

He did quite enjoy the sensation of stupefaction that could not be denied. The presence of other people tended to exhaust him. He loathed people. And yet he needed them near him.

The Men Who Understood Computers

They were the men who understood computers. They knew this about themselves. They were self aware in this regard.
I never understood computers. I had trouble configuring devices. I had trouble configuring a lot of things. Computers seemed almost to be allergic to my presence. I figured it only a matter of time before my calculator developed a virus.
Troubleshooting was always a convoluted, despairing affair. The unfathomable mysteries of technology, electricity.
One day they would develop the ultimate, pre-sentimental, telepathic, all encompassing device that would decode and replicate our desires in a vast feverish codex below a swollen thunder sky. Or so I postulated. But what did I know. I did not understand computers. The men who understood computers were at hand. They were standing by. They were meek and mild mannered. They had few complaints vis-a-vis life. Problems were eradicated. New interfaces were configured if necessary. They were intuitive, like the updated software they tinkered with during endless slow-motion Sunday afternoons.
In 2010 a wide array of content was available. More than any of us could comprehend or absorb with any degree of satisfaction or meaning.
Passwords were set. Virus scans initiated. Shortcuts memorized. Backups created.
I understood damn all.
I meditated to the drone of my refridgerator every night. A heady lull. Until it clicked off suddenly, leaving a trace of almost silent whirr.

Last Saturday of January 2010

I'm listening to the splendid second LP by Loose Fur. I have a tumbler of vodka w/ ginger ale. I am alone. All in all a fairly agreeable state of affairs.
How tenuous are we permitted to become?
Why are these fleeting pleasures... I mean... can they they no be prolonged?

A sublime beverage, lustrous musique, a pen and a paper. Jonny is quite content.
Now I will write a wee story!

Nuances of the Nightmare

It was a subtly nuanced nightmare and it had been on-going for 26 years.
There were times when he thought of himself as part of a tradition, mistook himself for part of a tradition.
Gazing out the window of the upper deck of the bus, gazing speculatively at female pedestrians.
Vain, self-aggrandizing notions flowing cooly behind his eyes.

The preposterous wee cunt had this wee box thing a wee plastic box that made all these weird whirring sounds man when ye pit batteries in the cunt.


See these frivolous bastards Ah tell ye still it doesnae pay to be a total humourless cunt neither, ye wind up alienating every cunt.

He glimpsed his silhoutte on the cold pavement and decided his new haircut mibby wasn't so disasterous.


He walked fast, the vacant sky high above him, he kept walking quickly, startled by the cold air.
He watched the lassies that walked past him. Some met his gaze. Some were beautiful. Others grotesque.
He was ready to flee. He wasn't sure about this. What was the etiquette for dates these days anyway? She had suggested meeting up, perhaps she ought to pay.
Maybe he could suggest this, brusquely co-erce her into buying both tickets. She would either of be appalled and leave or she may even acquiesce. He was indifferent anyway. He had nothing to lose.
Maybe she could pay for things, buy him things. In certain scenarios her insecurity and eagerness may prompt her to do other things he wanted. Heh heh heh heh heh.
No, he was kidding of course. His black sense of humour. Shared or comprehended by few.
Or was he kidding. Perhaps this weird jesting was a portal to his true nature, i.e. sociopathic, narcisisstic etc.
As he walked, he wrote a book in his head. This was an unfortunate tendency he had where he concocted what seemed like marvellous wee passages of prose during the act of bi-pedal locomotion i.e. walking.
The trouble was, was that he forgot the damn fucking things by the time he got hame!


"Keep your hands to yourself!" shrieked the precocious girl in hysterical glee.
It was a stiflingly hot day. The older girl had blonde hair, wore oversized sunshades and a petulant expression.
The simpering freak had flushed cheeks and he felt sweaty and ineffectual.
He had a mild headache and his clothes felt uncomfortable and he was unsure what to do with himself.
The blonde sipped her coke and scoffed quietly as the simpering freak sat on the grass and rested his head against her shin. Her body felt rigid and distant.
The precocious watched the freak with an expression of longing and hatred.


Something is blocking me.
Something is certainly wrong.

He breathed on her. Hot breath in her ear. Both ears. Glazed eyes gazing.

To live and shave in LA. Other subtle weirdness.

What's going on here? What's happening? What are you doing? And could somebody please tell me what's with all this fucking commotion.
He exploded in grey mirth and cackled deliriously.

Codes approximated.

Shag ass, smoke this, smoker.

He fancied himself as something of a debonair twit.

Deformed, decapitated. Smells.

Pens sapping ink. All my devices have leaked. I am not configured properly. I am a machine that has

A sense of well-being.

obsolete. Forgotten its original purpose.

So: all devices sapped.
I am leaking energy with twitches and grimaces. I am petty, bitter and haunted because my diet is incorrect.


It's more convenient to believe that.

Hierarchy. Repitition.

Be more tranquil.

Gormless grin. She marvelled at his jealous tendencies in nasty fascination, much to the

It was unpalatable.

Problems emerge.
This is a thing we can watch and discuss.

"Are you talking to yourself?" she queried in a biting, sarcastic tone.


His shoes weren't right.
Ach aw the shite contributed into a molasses of shite an here was the undisputed fact: his shoes were not right.
(emphasised with nasal elocution)

Terms of Collision

Memory of Friday night, an epic oddysey to Granton, lost, trying to seek a party, drunk, falling over on the ice, roaring my friend's name, an ecstatic consonant-less bellow to the grim Granton night so that he could locate me.

That malicious cunt of a boss saw fit to garnish my beverage with handwash when I wasn't looking. It wasn't too malicious really, just more of a juvenile jape, a prank lacking finesse.

So I punched him in the chuckies.


Languishing at the bus stop Jonson emitted a faint pump. He glanced around to see if any cunt had bore witness. An old guy leaning on a railing looked up to meet his glance. The auld yin looked at him like Ah clocked ye, ye dirty bastart.
A fine female specimen wandered past pushing a buggy. Who's this fine female specimen, Jonson wonder to hisself.
Careful hen, dinnae inhale that odious waft.
The thing was to act nonchelant as hell, son, don't incriminate yourself with furtive glances. With regard to public farting.
And admiring fine female specimens.
When the bus rolled up Jonsons carried out his standard assessment of the lower deck, scanning for fine female specimens. None observed, he ascended upstairs to the vacant upper deck. He took a seat and began writing this senseless pish yer reading now, boys and girls.
A folded newspaper lay on the adjacent seat. It had rather a convoluted headline. It seems some lonely AIDS sufferer had purposefully infected his wife with his sickness so that he might enjoy sexual relations with her again.
It seems some guileless whore of an administrative assistant has banned two weans from attending a school Christmas disco on account of they didnae possess a 100 percent perfect attendance record. But this was on account of the fact that their old man had been tallied and the poor wee cunts had to take time off to attend the funeral. Bereavments count the admin whore had stated sternly.

Some drivers dinnae even bother looking at the damn fucking thing and mibby I'd be the same who kin blame them. Ye pull over in these wild wee villages like Uphall, yer no wanting to question anybodd's intergrity. Especially if they are dishonest.
Then ye get these other cunts that scrutinise the damn fucking thing. Then again, mibby I'd be like them, a right officious cunt.
I'm talking about bus passes by the way.
I'm no at my ease on the upper deck of the bus on a Saturday night. Too many brutal rajes liable to no look too kindly on some cunt writing notes (i.e. me).
Blasting the auld bit Sonic Youth in the auld lugholes, braw man, braw.
The bus rumbles onwards over these atrocious roads.
Neds murmuring vaguely in the background. Scheming against yer hometown son, yer affable and humble narrator.
Failed plans, schemes, lost imperatives on this malignant December night. Uncertainty and meaninglessness.
Chrissake get a few tins down the auld mouthhole everything'll be alright.

Body High

His high was definitely fading, Pete realised glumly.
And still, under such regrettable circumstances this whore demanded carnal attention. Pete deftly tore open the packaging of a rubber and began a careful attempt to enwrap his semi-erect penis.
It was useless. Akin to trying to cling film a tape worm.
He chuckled exasperatedly.
The whore was watching him with fervent, glittering eyes.
So this was reality.
It didn't feel good, exactly. It lacked the light slow-motion mirth of a sitcom.
Reality was gloomy and desperate.
His high had faded. A sad swimming pool echo, a barely familiar semblance.

All things fade. Raymond Stanz understood this. He tried to ward off this knowledge by affecting the carefree jest of a flawed but likable sitcom character.


In infinite afternoon minutes
of wintry contemplation
structures reveal themselves in
glimpses of cohesive thought

There is an art to this:
writing on a trembling, speeding
Knees crammed against plastic
hungry and forlorn
w/ a keen sense of senselessness
I'll go home and gaze at Jennifer
on TV and maybe remember
fumbling sexual
encounters of a quiet, pained
As I gaze at prosaic and gorgeous
actresses in stupefying sitcoms
and giggle mindlessly
I left my novel at work
along with most of
my sensibilities and
I can't fucking write
on this cramped juddering bus
I chose to sit downstairs
near attractive women
Sit near them but
never look at them
Today I got sucked into the
political whirlpool of
drinking tea at work
and fuck explaining what that
even means
I must resemble an
insane hermit
scribbling in this fucking

The Supremely Dubious Journal of Jonathan Marks November 2009

The beautiful lassies circulating around Edinburgh make me want to chew my fist raw. I see them as I walk by the art college. I see them on the street when I'm vacated from the office by a fire alarm.

It was another shitey day at the office actually it wasnae too bad. But ye get this looming ominous feeling on Sunday nights, a sense of imminent collapse, a nameless foreboding. And then everything's fine, ye get these wee pockets of relief from the sad sickness and dreadful longing of existence.

I was vaguely on edge for the first half of the day, mainly due to the imminent proximity of other human beings which usually makes me morose, aye it's an awful thing to say mibby but it's true a lot of the time.
Ye ken what it's like. Or mibby ye don't, mibby yer one of these well-adjusted cunts.
The fire alarm went and the boss motioned for the boy nearest the door to nudge it shut.
But then it eventually occurred to us that we should evacuate. Outside we went, eight of us into the pristine November chill.
I gazed at a waitress from the restaurant from below our office with impaired longing.
I worked on until 6:30pm. It was very dark and cold when I left the office and walked briskly up to the art college to submit my application form for life model work. Ah christ, there's some bohemian princesses lurking around there that make ye grind yer teeth son, yer eyes tear up and ye just gaze forlornly.
I walked quickly back down to the bus stop to catch my bus home. A foxy blonde lass was loitering there and I held eye contact for a bold couple of seconds.
Then the bus for Glasgow rolled up and she boarded it and dang that was it, she was gone, carried out of my life forever son.

Monday, 4 January 2010

On the Train

"We like you cuz you're damaged," the older man informed the boy. The younger man remained silent, simply remained gazing at the boy with those unsavoury, damp, bloodshot eyes. The boy smiled his polite, effeminate smile.
The older man presented a naked lustful leer.
"Come sit closer," he suggested to the boy. The younger man continued to gaze and simper in a grotesquely exaggerated manner.

He tousled the boy's hair, inducing a feeling of calm. The younger man was on an upper bunk, gazing downwards intently. He drew his covers around him and whimpered softly.

"We like you cuz you're damaged," the older man reiterated. The boy offered a shy smile, his cheeks slightly flushed.


What fucking situation am I in now man no it's fine fine too much too much

Guess what
(guitars twang calmly, forlornly)

I thought I realised something earlier, something worthy of being written down I cannae mind now

All evil emanates from feminine hysteria.

That wisnae it. Or it might have been who knows man who knows, fuck it.

05:17am ya loco cunt and a massive pilfered beverage to contend with. Such have been the drastic whims of the Pegadrift.

Can ye objectively study psychological phenomonen such as pride, ego etc? I don't even know what I mean, I mean, I've been drinking

Yeh, ye realise things and ye forget to write them down. Important things! Shitey ruminations of no consequence more like but who can deny any cunt their own idiosyncratic quest for inane, delusional knowledge.

I thought I wrote something down earlier, I thought
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