Underneath your tattoos you’re still a mainstream cunt
South London. I lived there. Not in Bermondsey. In Camberwell. It has an art school. But I didn’t go there.
Fucking hipster dude.
Hashtag is a way function – it cannot be decrypted back.
15 months of learning to adapt to…life on an island…learning to survive, is there a way in or am I depleted? Devoid of thought?
For a moment he was distracted by something or someone on his phone. Social platform app addict. She looks at him but sees someone else. Last time they fucked she closed her eyes and saw someone else.
Slips the phone into his hip pocket and goes to the fridge to get a beer. But the interior has been cleared of shelves and all food and drinks products have vanished replaced by Lucky Pho’s lingerie hung from a wire clothes hanger. He closes the door and looks over at her, I presume we still have a bottle of vodka and ice cubes in the chiller.
She almost snorts out her reply, Go easy lover the ice cubes are for later.
The imagination slow to ignite. No words, no images captured. No images that could be turned into words and back into images.
Gravity is inversely proportional to the square of the distance between two objects.
2010 census put the population at 171. The place was classified as a village. In 1890 the number had been 621.
Diogenes Yamamoto arrived there when he was 43.8 years old which was the median male age.
Some nights my dad read Homer to me. A copy of The Odyssey we had borrowed from the Kings Park Public Library which I had been inducted into as a member at the age of five and was a year older when he told me one night as he was turning out the bedroom light that in Latin Odysseus was Ulysses. Why did he have two names? I fell asleep not dreaming of Odysseus but of Penelope.
Have you decided on a colour? asked the sales person.
Yeh we talked it over in bed last night. I like yellow and Lucky likes biege.
So what did you decide?
Baby, what did we decide?
Lucky had wandered off. Wondering what would turn that other guy on. Maybe he didn’t give a shit about colour.
Sing in me, Muse, and through me tell the story
Of that man skill in all ways contending
The wanderer, harried for years on end
After he plundered the stronghold
On the proud height of Troy
Book One: A Goddess Intervenes
The Odyssey – Homer
The value of fiat money is an act of faith.
An act of faith.
You can’t fake a fei.
…3% of all coins in circulation are fake
You can’t fake a fei
…the fei are an unfakeable record of the labour that went into their creation
If it so pleases you then worry not that it does please me for are we not dissimilar in many ways
The online service claims that his passport number is invalid. That he cannot proceed to the next stage.
Sailor, sailor are you travelling with or without documents?
The journey is done in two legs. On the first bus he pays the local rate. His face is known to the drivers. On the second part the driver asks to see his local residents pass. He doesn’t have one.
In order to acquire one he has to fill an application form and return it along with a passport photograph.
To get a passport photograph he would have to leave the island. Go to the photo booth on the mainland.
It was more cost effective to live in the city.
We love cities
We love the culture
The stranger in the doorway
In a half light she sat down in front of her tripod mounted camera. Applied a face full of white stage make up. Set the camera to time lapse. And began to wrap herself in shrinkwrap. Turned on the camera and lay down on the floor like a pupae in a chrysalis. In the morning she would be a butterfly or a moth. She wasn’t sure.
Shave off hair. But beneath there is still man skin. Her emotions bleeding into him. But on the surface he appears the same. He is unsure, uncertain who she is.
Once, before he abandoned city dwelling, he sat down on a sofa and took out his cock. Not once did he look at her. He fumbled with the flesh of the flaccid phallus attempting to make it erect. He picked up the can of beer from the table. It was becoming unpalatable. The taste not cold and fresh. He set it down and began to fumble again.
What the fuck are you doing? Lucky asked.
I am Diogenes, a poet and a philosopher. My namesake used to wank in the streets.
You’re not Diogenes, she laughed, You are but you’re no philosopher. A poet maybe.
He resumed the combination of beer drinking with his left hand and masturbating with his right.
Do you want me to undress, she asked. Visual stimuli might get it up.
No, no, he replied, I’m imagining you in black but I know you are wearing pink.
It was some lame comedy.
Rubbing sates the cock but not the belly, he mumbled in frustration.
Shall I write that down as the opening to a poem? asked Lucky.