The Sublime Catastrophe

Food - that was what was needed, he just couldn't decide what to eat where to go. There was that pub along the way that did decent food but something about the ambience, he just didn't like the ambience of the place.
Keep on walking then, down onto Rose Street where there was a wee Turkish takeaway tucked down an alleyway. He had been here before got quite a good pizza, it was quite good but nothing amazing. He looked at the menu on the wall. He turned suddenly and began walking back onto Rose Street, just keep walking, keep walking. He clasped his book in his hand, tucked inside its pages was a sheet of paper with the poem he had written. Keep walking. Keep walking. See the horror etched into every face. Eh? Stop being such a melodramatic wee shite. Everything was fine, people were fine, he was no misanthrope or nihilist or pessimist. Okay, the thoughts could become gloomy now and again but everything was alright ye just kept walking where was he going but? He knew where he was going, he had a destination in mind, he smiled as he clasped the book and thought of the piece of paper within, the wee poem he had written. He had a final destination, yeh, but he wasn't ready to go there just yet. Food, it was food that was required now. He passed a McDonalds and a Chinese Buffet place, walked down onto Prince's Street. There were no chippies around here, at least none what wis open. Hmmmm. Top of Leith Walk there was bound to be something. But he didn't want to veer off in that direction. No. He walked up over the North Bridge seeing the horror etched into every face, mibby he would jump off the bridge, no, he had just way too much energy and enthusiasm for life the now. He smiled. He had his wee poem. It would be delivered.
He stepped into the doorway of a chippy, looked at the menu behind the counter. Nut. Nothing took his fancy. Walking, walking again, some aimless ambling for a while until such times as he located a suitable establishment to effect the purchase of
What pish was he slavering now? He passed a teenage couple nuzzling against each other at a bus stop. The lassie's eyes were glazed with such serenity he thought christ I need some of that. A luscious lassie, a fine female specimen, that was all that was required folks. And food, sustenance, nourishment. That's all any of us really needed eh when you stripped it down, the inane machinations, tenacity and lunacy of the human race.
He passed a pie shop. He was after pizza really, he had a wee yen for pizza. There was a restaurant up here but he wasn't in the mood to sit in a restaurant alone, plus he felt like being more economical. It's not that he was mean really, just careful with money and averse to frivolity, decadence and self-indulgence. For the most part, anyway. But he also had moments of total whimsy which were great, especially if you entered into them sparingly.
After some hesitation he walked up Chamber Street, he could see a pizza place at the end of the road, in the distance, beckoning him.
When he reached it he went inside and it was empty, no-one there behind the counter. Where was the guy. Fresh pizza lay cooling on the counter, sliced and ready to eat. He was looking at the menu when the guy emerged from the back. He decided he didn't want anything and left. Back out on the street, keep walking, ye just keep walking. There was a wee place up here, he had been before with his girlfriend for a kebab. He used to have a girlfriend, he didnae now. Circumstances change.
Inside he ordered a spicy chicken pizza and took a seat. A can of coke as well. The guy brought him the pizza after 15 minutes or so and asked was it coke he wanting and he amended his order to a can of Lilt instead. He let the pizza sit for a minute, let the mother fucker cool off. The Lilt was good and refreshing. It was the first carbonated beverage he had ever tried, back when he was a wee laddie, and the taste had been, it was like drinking fire, it had made him greet. Come to think of it he had wept often as a wee laddie, a sensitive, tearful wee shite. So no much had changed then. Fuck sake, pitiful.
He consumed the pizza with trembling hands.
Two guys were sitting at a table nearby, apart from that the wee place was empty. He heard one of the guys saying that his ma had had a tough weekend, that it would have been her 25th wedding anniversary. He consumed his pizza and then went to enquire about the existence of restroom facilities within the premises; he was wanting to wash his hands. The boy directed him down some stairs. But when he got down there he discovered the male toilets to be locked, an out of order sign on the door. Fuck sake. What wis that cunt playing at, sending him here? Unless it was genuine absent-mindedness or even ignorance of the situation on the part of the guy. You had to give people the benefit of the doubt a lot of time, most of the time.
He went to pay for his pizza and beverage. The bill came to £5. He had thought it would be more, the guy had made a mistake. The guy gave him £15 change: £10 note and five coins. Except on closer inspection one of the coins was a 20 pence piece. So had the guy realised his mistake and was now tacitly trying to rectify it? Yeh, most likely that was it.
Back out onto the street. He walked around the corner to Teviot place and he was now becoming slightly nervous and excited because he was arriving at his destination. Would she be here but? Would she be working tonight?

After the excruciating, the fucking excruciating
It was just... awful it was just the worst thing he felt calm it just fucking awful
It was so awful and he felt calm he
He walked round the corner with his book, the piece of paper still inside because she, fucking, she didn't want it, she fucking didn't
It had been awful, just excruciating, her whole body language, facial expression, it had been of complete reluctance or something even worse, distaste.
He walked around the corner into the shop and effected the purchase of a half bottle of Buckfast wine, placed it in his back pocket, exited the shop and began to walk, headphones into the ears, some music, he walked and was aware of the rhythm of his breathing his steps
He didn't think, he was calm, he felt the surging horror and anguish and he drank the wine quickly to contain his
He was in the meadows, walking through the meadows, an abundance of bodies sitting or prone on the grass, everyone languishing in the agreeable weather
He just kept walking, round in a circle, back onto the streets, he guzzled the wine quickly
He was calm and content with life in general no he wasn't it was shite it was hopeless nothing ever worked out he was just scunnered with every cunt
His phone rang and it was Rorie, it was his friend Rorie, they would meet
"Where are ye?" Rorie wanted to know. He looked around him. He was sitting on a bench in front of a statue. Groups of tourists milling around. Parliament Square. He was somewhere called Parliament Square on the Royal Mile. He conveyed this information to Rorie. He could here Rorie conferring with his flatmate as to the whereabouts of Parliament Square.
"Rorie, it's where that football thing on the ground is that everyone spits on," he said. Rorie knew where was now and was about to board a taxi.
The wine was finished. He got up off the bench and walked around a little. He went to the shop and effected the purchase of a can of Heineken lager, returned to bench. Some Austrian tourists, middle aged ladies, came and talked to him. They liked him. Older women tended to like him, whether it was maternal instinct or what the fuck, they liked him, endearingly perturbed manboy that he was.
Here came a taxi. Someone emerged from the taxi, it was Rorie. He got up off the bench and walked towards him, smiling benignly.

He Remembered Her Fondly

His tenacity would yield results, this is what he reminded himself. He walked. He was aware of his breathing, the rhythm of his breathing, the rhythm of his steps. His tenacity would fucking yield results.

So he had written her a wee poem. Fuck sake. Pathetic, man. Just totally ridiculous and pretentious and desperate. So he thought he was a fuckin poet did he? Jesus. What a fuckin asshole. A completely effete asshole. A frivolous bastard.

Caramelised biscuits. Her hair was like caramel. He wanted to smell her hair but she would never allow it she would never ever fucking allow it in this lifetime.

He wis getting guy scunnered with every cunt. Events seemed to be conspiring to agitate him. Too much noise. Hysteria and banality, the prevalence of these extremes. People and their inane fucking machinations, his friends even, his relatives even, he was just getting guy scunnered with every cunt, fuckin, it was just

Plunge pool. There had to be some sort of plunge. A drastic vault into the nomadic void. I mean he was going to run away somewhere. He had to remain tenacious, his tenacity would yield results. Tenacity would yield motherfucking results for this tenacious motherfucker. He would run away, with her. But she wouldn't fuckin ever go with him, never ever, no in this fuckin reality.

She wasn't there. She was never ever fuckin there where had she got to. A bottle of Tyskie please. Could Ah just get a bottle of Tyskie please.
Take a seat, I'll bring it over.
It was an Australian lassie, she wis new, he had never seen her before, never ever had he fuckin seen her before. Such things are we brought to, it being known as the gradual imbibing of the Polish lager. He looked around at nothing in particular. He wasn't sure where to look. He wis wasntin a whisky. Naw he wisnae.
He wis just mental about her but she wisnae here.
Where was she but? He remembered her fondly.

It could never be denied that she had a swell pussy, I mean, that was just a fact and it couldnae be denied. It couldnae be denied by nae cunt. Fucking senseless trying to deny it. Don't be denied. I mean don't let it be denied. And don't let it be denied. Mmm, let's see what's this pish yer scribbling. You actually write this pish? he queried incredulously.

It was incredibly easy for men to become disheartened and demotivated in various circumstances, that was a sad given. And was he one of these men I mean was he going to succumb to apathy or else a kind of foul, caustic pessimism?

A luscious lassie. A fine female specimen. This is what was required now. One preferably no too daft, likes. The taut flesh of the thighs, hips. This is what he sought, the warmth from, for him to lay his heid against. He imagined the exquisite sigh he might emit in such a scenario.

He was convinced his vodka had been confiscated until he found it amidst the spare blankets and linen stowed beneath his bed and it occurred to him that he had placed it there whilst inebriated. Hidden it. Hidden was the word. So mystery solved! After about a month of mystification, paranoid speculation etcetera.
Ach it was a nice thing to be inebriated it just felt so ach it was shite it was just senseless and a waste, such a waste to stupefy the senses thus.

She is skinny and she wears skinny jeans, I have no idea how old she is. 30? Give or take. Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm...
He imagined smelling her hair, he imagined taking her from the rear, he imagined various things. He sipped his beer. He was alone in a room. He felt the pressure of his pinkie on the atlas he was leaning on as he wrote this inane pish yer reading now folks.
His question: how was it possible to enter into a mediation without a gaining idea? His answer: Easy as fuck likely, Ah don't know, who gies a fuck? He cackled euphorically, throatily.

The elderly Scottish man's voice issued from the dictation machine somewhat distorted. The young lady listened intently, her lips pursed in concentration. I could feel the humidity on my skin, I could smell the stagnancy of the humidity and the vegetation. An upper storey flat. Grey skies. The elderly man's electronic voice drifting over an empty city. A cool wind, complete desolation. Empty plastic bags drifting into puddles. An intensely melancholy piece of music played on an old piano. We taste the intensity of the jungle. The goose bumps on the young lady's flesh, an exquisite shiver.
The elderly man's cackling voice allows us to imagine him: bunnet; sunglasses; reddened, gnarled face; wild grin
His voice drifts over the city like an electronic wind. The young lady is all set to decode.
She is something of a young, wizened, beatific whore.

The dog is relaxed now. His ear was inside out so I flipped it over for him. His eyelid descends slowly over an upturned eyeball the wet red area showing.

Surreptitiously, that was how he had done it, he was a surreptitious bastard it had to be said. With great care and stealth the bottle was retrieved. He his it near his seat and then went ben the kitchen to pour himself a glass of orange pineapple juice. Returned ben the lounge, added some of the vodka carefully, quietly.

When she told him his face quickly became ashen and it was all he could think to tell her that this would take some getting used to, he repeated it a few times and he knew it wasn't the right thing to say but he couldn't help himself, he just kept repeating it, knowing it was wrong, it was fucking it was like an out of body experience man it was fucking wild.
And now he was on the bus. He felt remote, acutely anguished. He tried to put it out of his head but it would linger at the perimeter of his psyche and he would only think what is it I'm trying to forget and he would instantly remember because he was clinging to this drastic news, clinging to it, trying to resolve it, come to terms with it inside his own noggin. And now he was on the bus, inserting distance between himself and the, the, not the problem, the eh situation, he needed distance and time alone to think and he knew where he was going.

He ordered a bottle of Polish beer and she told him to sit, that she would bring it to him. And he did sit and she did bring it to him and he did imbibe it praise the lord. He loved her. Naw he didnae, he didnae fucking even ken her. But there was something. That ineffable feeling of such potent attraction it was like magnetisation. It was glorious and agonising he wanted to scream and ravish her and protect her so much he almost hated her.
Here she came walking past don't fucking look at her OK a wee glance... He sipped his Polish beer. Christ, such a self-indulgent shit of a man. Useless. Totally fucking hopeless.
Aw here she comes now now here she comes now now here she comes now now mmm mm mm she looks so good mmm mm mm she's made outta wood just look and see
Yeh man. Yeh okay. He didnae realise that in a few weeks he would think of her as a cunt. He didnae realise that in a few weeks time there would be another lassie from eastern Europe, a lassie with pale skin, a lassie whose arm he would wish to bite. He didnae realise much other than the obvious ie. reality is acutely astounding.

She had the wildness, the glint in her eye. The husky voice. The loud manner. Would he be equipped to handle her christ she seemed like she could be quite temperamental. She would seize upon any sign of apathy, weakness, indecisiveness, despondency.
His ex used to become angered if he couldn't decide which pasta sauce to select ot he opted to take a nap circa 7pm. But it was winter and he was feeling lethargic and listening to Dead C. If any of that amounted to an excuse at all. He suspected it didn't.
He enjoyed to listen to some exceptionally strange musics. Sometimes he took cannabis, not often.

The dog was exhausted, as evidenced by its occasional groans, deep breathing... The man also felt a wee bit exhausted but no enough to sleep yet. There was a comfort he felt in nocturnal solitude, scribbling away, as if he was reaching the end of something perhaps. The end of his tether. No, something like that but more of in a positive sense.
He had mixed his beverage strong as if he had something to forget. No he had nothing to forget and no too much to remember. He was just... here.

The gradual imbibing of the bevy, that was the thing, the gradual unfolding of the euphoria. No giddiness, no dizziness, no double vision or slurred speech, no reckless spontaneity or destructiveness, no black holes or erosion of the memory box.

His father in the next room, tucking into cornflakes. The clink of spoon against bowl. It was 12:40am, June the something 2010. It was 4th of June, he was almost certain. Some exquisitely strange musics ie. Vampire Belt. Meditative harshness.
A diet of inebriation and writing he had prescribed himself. Gradual, measured inebriation, none of yer crude stupefaction.

The dog was exhausted, folks. He need to rest his warm black body. This was also something the writer need to do. He [the writer] sought to cuddle him [the dog] except it wasnae a good idea; his weight would crush and disturb the dog from its euphoric slumber. The dog now licking its lips or clicking its teeth or something some saliva sound or -----

He was just... here... just here, man, and he was contemplating obtaining another beverage. It was definitely rather a good idea, for definite.
Memories seeping back: escalators, discount stores, train stations, ancient dreams, ancient mysteries and enigmas. Acutely and eternally fascinating for sure.

Father departs for bed, ascends the stairs to retreat to bed. The dog has been roused, will likely follow. He is panting now, vibrating the couch. Licking his lips, looking around, panting again with something like a grin on his face. The pressure of my pinkie on the atlas as I write, keep writing, keep on
There goes the dog. Ah, he has relocated himself to the floor. Innaresting manoeuvre. No doubt building up to making his way up the stairs to his basket or the bed my brother's bed. I am sleepy and consider whether another beverage is such a sage notion. Perhaps no. Perhaps aye.
Deep breath.
Vampire Belt is bloody fucking good.

Terms of Collision

sex, death and warm climes
the potent warmth of dust
distant echoes and yellow light
the nuances of a ritualised humiliation
had come to be known by him
him, a consenting participant

never before
has it been easier
to wield terms

of collision

His hair had began to feel like a warm, comfortable hat, he felt its weight and length keeping his ears snug. Sometimes his skin felt like a too tight jacket. The sky was all different colours today, different sections of sky bleeding into different shades. Cutting didn't help. Here was a dog, forlorn, forlornly swishing its tail. It looked at him beseechingly. I cannae help you pal, although I empathise with your anguish, complete tedium, boredom, the consensus of banality that weighs over us all. He walked on. Why did the dog think he could help it? Was it a look in his eye, a benign, carefree look in his eye? Now he understood how a woman might feel amusement or even contempt for a pleading, desperate lover. We are all alone, he decided happily.