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rescued hat and bogart

by concentrate @ 13. Nov. 2008. - 20:12:34

you may find yourself,
some day creeping,
spider-like
over
steep roof tiles,
trying to
evenly distribute
wieght.

you may find yourself,
climbing across rooftops,
fortified by good sweet beer
and frustration.
breathing slow,
one step
at a time

you may imagine yourself,
adventuring,
swinging from chandeliers,
holding a rose between your teeth.

you may
some day
meet bogart,
in the street,
wearing no trenchcoat,
no hat,
smelling of whiskey
and cigarettes,
on his way
to the taxidermists,

you may, creep, climb, drunk

and save your private madness
as the form appears,
and fits




 
 

[9/17/2008 6:06:12 PM] tryhardtobekind says:

by concentrate @ 15. Oct. 2008. - 15:38:32

i do not want
to spar in vacant spaces
and rented minutes
climbing all the expected stairs
wary
weary
.
your disbelief
will not shrink me
i can still raise
the green gigantic skies
resume the legend of my disguises
.
you will see
my flesh has more stories
more surprises
will fly to you
.
come near
across sheer cavernous inches of air
.
i will hold you
through all your shifts of structure
while your bones
turn from caved rock
back to marrow
.
you can not approach love like a biologist
take off you rubber gloves
and labcoat
before i'm run away

untitled

by concentrate @ 05. Oct. 2008. - 17:55:38

Mine is a migrant mind, an irresponsible hobo mind, roaming from idea to idea, with no place to stop. Streams and rivulets flood the ears and cannot be collected, causing a constant ringing. The ideas build up at such a rate that the majority of them must go unrealised. I try to discard what I can but unrealised ideas deposit a residue that is thick, glutinous, viscid, a sort of cerebral plaque that can leave you feeling heavy, turgid.

Some days I felt so full up I wanted to scream. Writing was not enough. I wanted to accost pedestrians in the street and extract entire histories from them in one gulp, trace their genealogy, the etymology of their names, find out their ontogenies, phylogenies, chronologies, their heraldries, their future legacies, to make chronicles and annals of all the bafflement and shame they had known to date. I wanted to fill every empty building I saw with art and encyclopaedias, to execute meaningless poster campaigns, to rip up the pavements and smash the facades of every city on earth. I wanted to take photographs, grow vegetables, to journey by sea, preening the waves, valiant and venturesome as Beowulf himself. I wanted to make a sacrifice, an offering to the Walpurgisnacht, to make a Witches Sabbath, to rub a broomstick covered with solanaceous herbs between my thighs. Hemlock, Belladonna, Wolfsbane, Dock. I wanted to travel through time, to perform a miracle for mankind, to resurrect Jesus Christ in my own image. Not to do so seemed iniquitous, depraved.

I would sit in a caf tormented by grandiloquent thoughts until something distracted me, usually a vision, some incongruous glimpse of street life that to me seemed to be a miracle. I carried my notebook everywhere, writing down all the things I saw. On good days I would enter into what I called ‘The Dream’. This was a state in which everything I perceived was noteworthy, a state in which I felt like some sort of vessel or conduit for a torrent of words set off by visual stimuli that I had only to describe. It was as if finally I had reached an affirmative moment in which all I had to do was say ‘Yes’ and the prose would come automatically. I could write pages and pages this way, whole notebooks describing what I saw in the most florid terms. These notes were the raw material for the short pieces I was self-publishing on the internet at the time. In typing them up I would make them more or less sensical, reading and revising them over and over, obsessing over every passage, making minute adjustments and additions with each reread. However, I felt frustrated. They didn’t represent the writing I longed to author.

pillow

by concentrate @ 21. Sep. 2008. - 12:30:47

wearing cotton clothes
you comforted,
stroking my cheek.

i pressed my ear to your chest and listened:

distant bells ringing
the siren of a passing ambulance
the wind.

you only moved
when i moved.

i turned on you
cajoled you
head-butted you

still you remained
soft
serene. reliable

i heard, held within you

my heartbeat
an aeroplane passing
the rosy wadding of clouds

you drank my tears
heard my laughter

held my head in your arms as i slept

i never thanked you
lost as i was
in dreams

still you remained
soft
serene. reliable

fashion statement

by concentrate @ 20. Sep. 2008. - 08:31:10

dear shoreditch,

i look at the
beautiful people
shine glazed eyes
that don't return
and bouffant
haircuts

shoreditch,
you are wearing tight jeans

shoreditch
i look at your t-shirt

it is pink
and i want to smoke

you crowd around
disguises
and picnic tables
looking
like raw
bright
groins

look, look, but don't look

look, i prefer you
to other londons

but should a man visit
Toni & Guy ?
its not a very
relaxing disdain

white arms and belly

by concentrate @ 03. Sep. 2008. - 18:43:59

covered by one blanket
they leapt into each others eyes
and shut them firmly
trembling in the air
where the blind world beats
repeating the same incantation
of rapture

with the wisdom of grass
she hesitates

her right hand
beautiful as a command
rests in the air

the lines descend
into the valley of the palm
striving forward
under the skin
where memory and blood
flow in mineshafts wells
and chambers

she hesitates
remains in the position
which the sculptors taught her

the horizon of five fingers
a garland of possibilities
a nest of tenderness
where the weight of his sleeping head
should rest

the shadow of her cheek
a pearl under his tongue
hair at his shoulder
where the weight of her sleeping head
should rest

title-4339325

by concentrate @ 20. Jun. 2008. - 07:03:26

kolya and masha

by concentrate @ 21. Mar. 2008. - 14:04:56

o serene Motherhood
of the baby blink
as you coo coo coo
and cluck and fluff
the warm thing
and o
so tenderly
wipe
the tender turds and
sing a little song
to kolya
Free Image Hosting at <a href=www.ImageShack.us" />

QuickPost Quickpost this image to Myspace, Digg, Facebook, and others!

austria august 2005

by concentrate @ 19. Mar. 2008. - 01:16:30

CHAPTER 6

"What am I doing here?", he wandered.
"Here, quite alone, in this square, amongst the white austrians with
their blond looks and clean streets."

He saw twenty paces away an independent looking woman in a pink
tee-shirt with blond hair and a devilish smile, laughing in german with
her friends. Her eyes had met his for a moment - blue, or perhaps green
- with a force she could never be aware of. They expressed a sort of
female arrogance which had an immediate sexual power over him.

A lot hadn´t happened here. Despite arriving laden with wine and full of
stories he hadn´t managed to spend much time with Julia or Salma. He
hadn´t seen much of them at all, both of them being pre-occupied with
new lovers. He hadn´t gone out dancing yet. He hadn´t had much money to
spend. He hadn´t met a great deal of people. Hadn´t wanted to.

The last 2 days had been entirely consumed by writing and playing the
guitar, snoozing, smoking a bit of weed, walking around a bit, a couple
of exhibitions, and two dinner dates. Hardly arduous, bliss in fact, but
enough of that for now.

It wasn´t frustration he felt, more of a mild bewilderment, a fuzzled
wonder, a gentle boredom fused with a sense of patient trepidation.
Before now he had wanted to linger here a while longer, to enjoy this
void in his usually intense existence, use the empty space to hone down
ideas, to refine his new armoury of experiences and concepts. But now he
felt like a stopped clock. Life was no longer ticking. Everything had
softened, mellowed.

" In Vienna it is possible to live a very comfortable, cushioned
existence. ", he thought.

This was evidenced by the sheer number of shops selling cushions.

Certainly he looked forward to moving on, towards Amsterdam, via Koln.
Towards friends met in far off places. Towards Twiggy, via Winke.
Finally towards home, England, towards his family, his oldest friends
and loves, his muses, his work, his life. The prospect of Home was both
Terrifying and Fabulous. This excitement jutted out into the future,
casting a pointed shadow over the present. In this dim light even on a
sunny day Vienna seemed a lack-lustre mono-culture, lacking drama,
lacking heroism, riven with middle-class self-conciousness, populated by
bland couples holding hands, looking into the windows of interior design
shops, longing for expensive lifestyles bejeweled with the extraneous
trappings of a 9-5 existence.

He had walked about utterly unimpressed by the imposing neo-classical
facades, untempted by the dazzling array of pastries on offer at
numerous bakeries, untouched by the wares on offer, excited only by the
thought of finding a companion, a friend, perhaps a lover. He needed to
speak, to expound with passion upon the most important subjects. He
longed for the warm intensity held in the arms of another hot human
being, for a mouth to kiss. But today he felt demeaned by the prospect
of having to approach someone, here, in broad daylight, in this square,
amongst these huge, inert buildings; of having to convince someone of
his worthiness, with no other pretext than - "I am alone. I need a
friend. I want to speak".

From a distance he observed a baby, still too young to walk, crawling
towards him, intent on its own pudgy little hands making progress over
the gray paving slabs. The child arrived at his feet, and, with tiny
hands grasping his trousers, climbed up to a wobbly standing position,
stared directly into his eyes and with a grave expression proclaimed:

" Ba Ba Ba Ba Ba Ba Ba Ba Ba Ba !"

before crawling off.

"Well, if he can approach me and say that, how hard can it be....."

Suddenly his heart was beating, he felt a burst of confidence. He looked
across the square, but the girl in pink with the wicked grin was already
walking away.....

NO SLEEP TIL MOSCOW july 2005

by concentrate @ 02. Mar. 2008. - 20:56:10

1.

THE DRIVER GESTICULATES TO THE TICKET COLLECTOR, HIS HANDS LEAVING THE STEERING WHEEL, HIS EYES LEAVING THE ROAD. HE SEEMS ANIMATED, BUT IN A DECIDEDLY EUROPEAN, QUIETLY SPOKEN WAY. THESE TWO MEN ARE HAIRY, LIKE ME, BUT THE BODIES ARE BIGGER AND STOCKIER.

OUTSIDE IT'S WARM - 25 DEGREES C, BUT NOT VERY HUMID. I'M VERY VERY TIRED BUT VERY VERY HAPPY, LAUGHING TO MYSELF, INTO MY ARM - WHICH I'M LEANING ON - FEELING LIKE I'M IN DISGUISE, LIKE, FINALLY - AFTER MONTHS OF STICKING OUT LIKE SORE THUMB IN ASIA- I BLEND IN TO THE CROWD! A SECRET JOY ENJOYED AMONGST PASSENGERS OBLIVIOUS TO ME, LEADING THEIR EVERY DAY MOSCOW LIVES.........

2.

THE METRO IS BIG! AND OLD! WITH THIS COOL LEATHER UPHOLSTERY AND BIG WINDOWS AND A GLORIOUS ROAR LIKE A DRAGON OR HUMUNGOUS BURROWING WORM. AND ITS DEEP. YOU GO DOWN ABOUT A MILE OF ESCALATORS TO GET ONTO THE PLATFORM, WHICH IS WIDE AND LINED WITH COLUMNS AND SMOOTH MARBLE. I GOT ON AT THE END OF THE LINE AND THE TRAIN GETS BUSIER WITH EVERY STOP WE MAKE. THE PEOPLE ARE PRETTY SEXY IN A CASUAL CITY WAY. LOTS OF CUTE GIRLS AND BOYS. THE LIGHTS FLASH ON AND OFF, AND I AM IN RUSSIA, HEAD FULL OF THOUGHTS, EYES WIDE, BEARD THICK, RIGHT ON TOP OF IT.

YESTERDAY AFTERNOON I WAS STANDING ON THE GREAT WALL OF CHINA, LAST NIGHT I WAS DRINKING VODKA REDBULLS IN A BAR IN BEIJING, I GOT TO THE AIRPORT AT 5 AM, THE MORNING AFTER THE SECOND SLEEPLESS NIGHT, AND ALL THE MEMORIES SEEM TO HAVE RECEEDED INTO A TUNNEL. AS IF VIEWED FROM A TRAIN, THEY GET SMALLER AS IT PULLS AWAY, A TRAIN OF THOUGHT, A CONSTANT UNINTERUPTED DREAMLESS 60 HOUR TRAIN OF CONSCIOUSNESS.......

3

I'M IN THIS LITTLE CHURCH, ALL COVERED IN INCREDIBLE PAINTINGS, ITS SMALL, ABOUT 10 WORSHIPPERS STAND, ALONG WITH ME, FACING A WALL OF ICONS, BEFORE WHICH STAND 2 PRIESTS, ALSO FACING THE WALL, AND A CHOIR OF ABOUT 6 PEOPLE, HIDDEN IN A LITTLE CUBICLE, SINGING UP A BEAUTIFUL CHORUS. AN INCREDIBLE SOUND, AN INCREDIBLE LIGHT, AND A GOODLY RELIGIOUS EXSTACY COMING ON AND CAUSING LITTLE TEARS TO WELL UP BEHIND MY EYES AND RUN DOWN THE INSIDES OF MY CHEEKS.

ALL THE IMPOSSIBLY BEAUTIFUL RUSSIANS ARE CROSSING THEMSELVES AND BOWING AND KISSING A LITTLE PORTRAIT OF JESUS AT THE FRONT.

AFTER CHANTING A CANTICLE ONE OF THE GREEN-ROBED PRIESTS DUCKS INTO A LITTLE DOOR HIDDEN IN THE WALL WE'RE ALL FACING. THE HIDDEN SINGERS SING THEIR SECRET SONGS, AND OUT COMES THE PRIEST AGAIN, THROUGH ANOTHER DOOR, SWINGING A GOLDEN CHALICE OF INCENSE THIS WAY AND THAT, GIVING OFF HEAVENLY SCENTS THAT RISE UP INTO THE HOLY DOME THAT MUST HAVE BEEN PAINTED BY ANGELS. ALL THE LITTLE DOORS AND MINITURE PAINTINGS BEGIN TO SHRINK AND THE INS AND OUTS OF THE PRIEST BECOMES THE INS AND OUTS OF LITTLE FIGURES IN AN INGENIOUSLY CRAFTED MECHANICAL CUCKOO CLOCK. THE INCENSE IS SWINGING, AND I SEE THAT IT IS THE PENDULUM. THE CLOCK TICKS AND EVERYONE CROSSES THEMSELVES AND BOWS STIFFLY FORWARDS INTO SMOKE AND DIMNESS. IN A SWOON, I AM MOVED. I BOW, AND THE TEARS WELLING IN MY EYES ARE LIQUID GOLD THAT RUNS INTO CLAY MOULDS THAT ARE CRUCIFIXES IN NEGATIVE. THE GOLDEN CRUCIFIXES ARE EVERYWHERE, GLEAMING LIKE TEARS.

THE SINGING IS SO BEAUTIFUL AND EVERYONE IS FACING THE WALL, LIKE WHEN YOU WERE BAD AT SCHOOL AND YOU HAD TO STAND IN THE CORNER. THE PENDULUM REVERSES AND TIME IS GOING BACKWARDS. THE HOLY SPIRIT IS PASSING THROUGH ME AND AND LETTING THE TEACHER FORGIVE ME FOR BEING BAD. I'M ALL THE WAY BACK IN PRIMARY SCHOOL NOW, WITH A LITTLE BODY AND WAYWARD HAIR AND GOOFY GLASSES, IN THE SCHOOL HALL, SINGING HYMNS. THE SAME ROOM WHERE WE HAD TO EAT SCHOOL DINNERS, THE SAME ROOM IN WHICH WE FLICKED PEAS AT EACHOTHER AND TOLD CRUEL JOKES ABOUT SPASTICS. I'M BACK IN THAT ROOM BUT ITS BEEN PAINTED WITH INCREDIBLY DELICATE PICTURES OF CHRIST INLAID WITH GOLD LEAF THAT MELTS INTO TEARS THAT DON'T COME OUT OF YOUR EYES BUT YOU FEEL THEM JUST THE SAME. YOU FEEL THEM RUN DOWN INTO YOUR THROAT.

"LEAD US NOT INTO TEMPTATION, BUT DELIVER US FROM EVIL"

I THINK I HAVE A HALO NOW, I'M THE BABY JESUS, IN THE CRIB, THE IMMACULATE CONCEPTION, A STAR LED THESE PEOPLE HERE - THEY ARE WISE MEN FROM THE EAST.

THE MONOTONE CHANTS CONTINUE. THEN THE CHOIR KICKS IN IN INCREDIBLE HARMONY, THE PRIEST GOES INTO HIS DOORS, THE PEOPLE CROSS THEMSELVES AND HE COMES OUT WITH MORE INCENSE. I REALISE I SHOULD LEAVE BEFORE I DISSAPPEAR COMPLETELY OR BECOME AN EMBRYO. SO I WALK OUT, BACKWARDS, AND SIT ON A BENCH OUTSIDE THE CHAPEL, TO WRITE THIS......

moscow underground

way back

by concentrate @ 02. Mar. 2008. - 02:23:32

It was a long time ago
way back in 2008
in the country they used to call UK,
in a town they used to call London,
in a place they used to call
Hackney.

We used to go down to Kwodja's place
in fancy dress
and just get stupid.

It was a big group.
We all had cool names:
Hernandez,
Morski,
Shahan,
Djanan,
Dila,
Ilaria,
Bass,
Baird,
Assman,
Poon,
Cassidy,
Musker,
Miggi,
Jules,
Noda,
Kwodja,
Planetman,
Chan,
Castro,
Cruz,
Amos,
Ram,
lydie, magda,
others,
more,

always someone new
and usually some
mad gypsy shit
playing

trying to dance to
janky 9/8 beats
that didn't really make
sense.

Noda would have a bottle
hid down the front of his trousers

Jamaican overproof rum
you'd keep nipping
until your stomach burned,
until
you started sweating
alcohol.

people from all over the London world
got down in the London way.

like when this
venezuelan
indian
chica
indian eyes,
red skin, venezuelan hips.

played with 2 Ghanan Tribesman.
she could bang on
a ukelele like nobodies business.

See her
Indian Feather Tribal Headress
rest in her thick hair-O

and in the first song
she gets the Audience to
BREATHE.

She just says

BREATHE IN

and we breathe in.

BREATHE OUT

and we breath out.

Then those black boys start
beating the
drums
and she strums.
sings.

everyone around has
got on
a stupid hat
and weird shit
SELLOTAPED TO THEIR FACE.

Really?
yes.

everyone in the
room had something sellotaped
on. Eleanor would
keep costumes and
fake moustaches and
sellotape and
wotnot in the bar.

They'd come
up

with some mad decorations too
- like nailing a load of
teddy bears to the
ceiling or something.

random stuff
strewn everywhere
to pick up and wear and play with and move.

it was a pretty good set up -
no neighbours around to complain about the noise.

just a
back st
door
down
a dodgy alley
thats
impossible
to find.

remember?

the big room
upstairs and
Kwodj shouting something
like

'EVERYBODY FUCK OFF!'

and nobody
taking a blind
bit of notice.

keep nipping and falling
forwards backwards into
sofas or girls or both.

or maybe
on occasion

especially if you
smoked to much weed

you'd get a sad drunk on

and sit
and feel slightly
disgusted
by all these people having
a really good time
around you
and you had
a dry mouth
and needed a
drink of water or

something else.
something missing.

ADMIT IT

that could
happen too.

occasionally
you'd see through
the fun
into the
cold desperate eyes of
monkeys
grabbing at things to drag back to the cave.

fuck knows why.
who cares?
they're just
dark moments
of reflection
sandwiched betwixt swollen
glorious moments of
closed eyed dancing
to mad beats beaten out
by real life hands

a beat
beat on real animal skins
beat on by calloused hands.

Did you ever
shake
Noda's hand?

his fingers
are inch-thick
and hard.

like shaking a
very
thick slice of
over sliced

stale bread.

He had that special
cuban
way of drumming
and smiling

at the same time.

One time
down at Kwodjas
when Noda played
I got covered
in sponge cake
by a girl
in a pink nightie.

dreamy.

Only thing is
the cake was
that cheapshit
chemical sponge and
it left me
smelling
a bit milky.

smelling a bit
like when a dog eats a
whole knob of butter then
pukes it back up.

and it was greasy shit too -
you couldn't
just rinse it off.

the whole rest of the night i could smell myself.
eee.
those were the days.

the ice cream man cometh

by concentrate @ 26. Feb. 2008. - 16:48:59

i heard the ice cream man today. from somewhere in the blue distance his music drifted through my window like a portent of spring. yes, sound the klaxons! the ice cream man took a trip in his ice cream van today. i heard him. perhaps it was only a speculative trip, perhaps only to warm the sprockets of his ice cream van, which must have been gathering rust for some months now, perhaps just to see if it would start after so long in the garage. i doubt if every child in the neighbourhood ran to mother to beg for enough spare change for a mr. whippy, but still, the ding dong sing song ice cream music did drift and i'm sure the sun heard it and thought of lollies and cones and those see through containers of white ice cream with a gob stopper in the bottom. i certainly did. i thought of the sharp pain in the side of the head when you eat too much at once. the smooth texture of a small plastic spoon. i thought of the sticky drip that climbs down your fingers. i thought of chewing on the wooden stick long after its finished. i remembered with glee the disappointing foamy texture of stale wafer. i considered the perfection of the little cardboard circle they put in the top of a walls cornetto. i saw in my minds eye a young flaxon haired girl pucker her lips and bite slowly into a magnum, whilst the smell of engine smoke curls up into the cue. we stand and wait, not quite being able to see through the happy window until we reach the front. look! a strange looking man wearing a white jacket and asking if you'd like a flake in it.

FK's

by concentrate @ 20. Feb. 2008. - 17:49:07

anyone remember zoe taylor?

she was the first girl i properly snogged. it was around christmas under the mistletoe in the entrance to the prefab classroom where mr. kirk used to teach us '8 a day'.

all these kids were standing around COUNTING cos there was some sort of contest to see who could kiss the longest. we went for it and i remember Z saying it had to be 'FK's' (French Kisses). i had no idea what FK's was but went for it anyway. we made it up to a count of 100 with the tongues going in and out. it felt strange but i liked it. then i saw her 2 more times. we went to the cinema round by waitrose and saw something with michael j fox in it.

as usual she had her friend chloe with her which made me really nervous. chloe used to sharpen her nails and fucking SCRATCH me! we sat in the back row of the cinema and i was shitting it about putting my arm round zoe and it took me forever to pluck up the courage. finally i managed it and can't remember much of the film cos we were eating each others face off!

then another time i went around to see her at chloes house and we got down on the top bunk of the bunk beds whilst chloe fucking dug her nails into my leg! kind of kinky when you think about it. all i really remember is a mess of hairspray and saliva and 'walk like an egyptian' blasting on the hi-fi

They snap their teeth on your cigarette
Foreign types with the hookah pipes say
Ay oh whey oh, ay oh whey oh
Walk like an Egyptian.....

then summer holidays came and i was too shy to call her.

x

hcekarraM

by concentrate @ 11. Feb. 2008. - 21:56:50

11.02.08

1.

At Marble Arch my fake printed ticket saved me 17 English Pounds on the journey to Luton airport. The driver had tattoed arms and a friendly face. With genuine gratitude and relief I thanked him and took a seat. We turned past the Odeon cinema and I was headed for Marrakech with a swollen blue bag. During the long draw waiting for the 341 at Manor House I had decided to write it all down. Everything, now, as it happens. The sore throat. The cold that I thought might bite my nose clean off. The time: 02.41am. The twitching sleepiness creeping into my eyelids. And this bus, now speeding through Marble Arch past the Danibus Hotel, now passing Regents Park, now stopping and opening its doors. A dark skinned aboriginal girl gets on, with pockmarked skin hanging loosely about her cheeks. I look out at London and wonder why the fuck I live here. Why not somewhere warmer, where I wouldn't be able to read all the signage.

"Chicken Cottage" - who needs it?

The bus drives past the Finchley Squat and I remember why I am here. Certainly all the synchronicities point to the fact that i should be here, now, in this 2008, with all these creative forces gathering at my feet, with this network, these webbed toes.

And the steam rises and there is garlic in my breath and the driver with the tattoed arms is eating minstrels and riding one handed through the freezing cold in a flimsy white shirt with the windows wide and I think the cold might just bite my nose off yet.

2.

Luton Airport.

Shopping Lift:

1 x FlowerBomb perfume for M
1 x Rasberry Muffin from Starbucks
1 x Lonely Planet Morocco guidebook from WH Smiths
1 x Peach and Passionfruit Smoothie

3.

11.14am, Djemma el-Fna, Marrakech

I am drinking muddy coffee on a blue plastic table under the hottest sun I've seen in some time. A sun that puts creases in cross-eyed faces, that itches the trigger finger that creeps towards the shutter release of camera aparatus and wishes to take a picture. My eyes are rotating in my head attentive as a cats ears.

And the cats slink through the market place, as bedraggled as a cat should be. There's a smell of woodsmoke and dust and I see humour in these people's eyes. A humour that lets cats be cats. A blue plastic humour that's nicely worn and soft and dusty. The slightly cross-eyed populace sports a variety of limps and hunches.

Marrakech. The charm is immediate. Here Kerouac came, and others. Here cats roam. Mangy, happy cats with black berber hair. And the tiles all gaudy with kaleidoscopic blue designs attach to the crumbling plaster medina and I'm glad to be here.

title-3630196

by concentrate @ 25. Jan. 2008. - 11:18:25

plexus, henry miller

by concentrate @ 16. Jan. 2008. - 21:12:27

The cow-bells which I carried under my ribs began clanking wildly; in the belfry above it was as if all the stars in the heavens had come together to make a celestial bonfire. There was no weight to my body, none whatever.

.

by concentrate @ 05. Nov. 2007. - 01:41:45

1.

It was night. Jarvan Tarant was still in the office. He’d been at the office all day but hadn’t got much done. The Blue Nightingale case had hit a dead end and his uncompleted tax return loomed like a painful unpopped pimple on his desk, accumulating circular coffee cup stains and fallen ash. He sat back in his ergonomically designed chair, put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it. Silk Cut. The cheap smoke rasped at the back of his throat pointlessly. He blew a smoke ring at his laptop and thought about his life. He was 42, virtually penniless, and horny as hell. Being a private detective hadn’t proved as profitable or glamorous as he’d anticipated. Assignments were few and far between, a lot of his clients defaulted on payments, and oftentimes they were ungrateful about the can of worms he’d opened for them. He was sick of the life. Sick of chasing dud leads and searching for clues where there were none to be found. Sick of all the betrayal and the double-crossing and the lies. Sick of his pulpy, ugly face in the mirror. He felt disappointed. 10 years in the life and only one or two high speed car chases. He hadn’t had to shoot his gun in over 2 years. It was dirty, repetitive work and he felt like giving it up and going back to the Post Office. He leant forward and stubbed the cigarette out on the table top, exhaling smoke with a long disgusted sigh. He rubbed his eyes with his fists and decided to call it a night. He stood up and walked towards the door, grabbed his jacket - hung from a nail rudely hammered into the flimsy partition walls of his office - opened the door, stepped outside and had walked halfway down the hall before he heard the phone ringing in the office. He looked at his watch. 2.33 in the morning. Who the fuck called him at this hour?

‘Tarant?’
‘This is he.’
‘It’s The Chameleon, you know who I am?’
‘No, who are you?’
‘I’m the shape-shifting motherfucker who’s gonna pay you.’
‘What for?’
‘I need to find a girl.’
‘I don’t deal tricks mister, this is a reputable company.’
‘Not that sort of girl, her name’s Pinky, she’s a dominatrix, and I need to locate her.’
‘You got any more than that?’
‘Some pictures and a telephone number.’
‘Come by my office tomorrow at noon and we’ll discuss it. Bring the pictures and my fee.’
‘How much?’
‘300 per day, I’ll need a week in advance.’
‘Okay.’

Half an hour later Jarvan Tarant was sucking on a bottle of beer in a snooker club close to his apartment. It was the only local place that was open past 3. He was still horny as hell. He thought about Pinky, wondering what she looked like, if she ever got horny. Did she wear pink? It was a mystery to him. He looked around the bar at the Turkish men playing pool. They all wore cheap polyester slacks and moustaches. Some music played. Jarvan Tarant decided to dance. He closed his eyes and moved instinctively to the beat of the music. His head tilted sideways. He swayed and rotated with his feet firmly rooted to the spot. He felt better, almost ready to sleep. Maybe this would be the case he had been waiting for. The song ended, he finished his beer, and went home.

2.

In the morning Jarvan Tarant liked to read. He was slowly working his way through Miller, Buk, Fante, Kerouac, Buddhadasa, Nabokov, Dost, Genet, Castaneda, and Hunter S. He liked any combination of hard hitting, fiercely individual, slightly pornographic, surreal, or esoteric. He had a fondness for some of the more flowery stuff too. J. Winterson, DHL, A. Nin and the poetry of Ted Hughes. His small apartment was littered with tattered volumes and overdue library books. He sat in bed reading Our Lady of the Flowers and eating from a bag of mixed nuts and raisons.

At times it would rain. I would hear the patter of the drops on the zinc roofing. Then my sad well-being, my morose delectation, would be aggravated by a further sorrow. I would open the door a crack, and the sight of the wet garden and the pelted vegetables would grieve me. I would remain for hours squatting in my cell, roosting on my wooden seat, my body and soul prey to the odor and darkness; I would feel mysteriously moved, because it was there that the most secret part of human beings came to reveal itself, as in a confessional. Empty confessionals had the same sweetness for me. Back issues of fashion magazines lay about there, illustrated with engravings in which the women of 1910 always had a muff, a parasol, and a dress with a bustle. It took me a long time to learn to exploit the spell of these nether powers, who drew me to them by the feet, who flapped their black wings about me, fluttering them like the eyelashes of a vamp, and dug their branchlike fingers into my eyes.

He looked at his cheap wristwatch, picking with the fingernail of his left index finger at a small piece of almond that had lodged itself between his primary molar and cuspid tooth. It was 11.30. Time to get up.

3.

‘You’re late,’ said The Chameleon.
‘I’ll work through my lunch break.’

Jarvan Tarant fumbled for his keys in his jacket. The pockets had worn through and consequently all his personal effects jostled for room in the depths of the lining. Jarvan’s fingers felt for his keys while he looked at The Chameleon’s face.

He was a short, fat-lipped, rotund man in his 70’s with a down-turned mouth and protruberant eyes that were slightly too far apart and pointed in different directions. His skin seemed thin, almost transparant, and beneath its wrinkled surface could be seen a fluctuating network of chromatophores – specialised cells that can rapidly relocate many different coloured pigments. From each cheek two tiny horn-like projections emerged. The Chameleon seemed distracted, impatient. His protruberant eyes twitched in their sockets as he licked his lips nervously.

‘Come in, sit down,’ said Jarvan Tarant, ‘what can I do for you?’
‘I need you to find Pinky. She’s got something of mine.’
‘Where’s the last place you saw her?’
‘She used to work here,’ said The Chameleon, flipping a business card across the table as his face turned from red to blue to green.

Jarvan picked it up and looked at it.

PREYING MANTIS
mind control, electrics, cock and ball torture,
leg worship, and humiliation
07815 649943

‘So she’s a dominatrix?’
‘She’s a contemporary dancer, the dominatrix thing is just to pay the rent. I was going to help her open up a new theatre down town.’
‘And she’s disappeared?’
‘Without a trace, I’ve had my people search all over town for her and they came up blank, I heard you were making good ground on The Blue Nightingale case and…’

The Chameleon abruptly stopped talking and eyed a large fly that was buzzing around the office and had landed on a sticky patch of spilt coffee on the desk. In the blink of an eye his tongue jerked rapidly out of his mouth and its strangely muscular tip suctioned onto the fly, pulling it into his gaping jaws, which snapped shut, crushing the insect with a little squelching sound.

He pulled a brown envelope out of his pocket and passed it to Jarvan Tarant.

‘Here’s the money and the photographs. I’ll call you tomorrow to see how you’re doing.’

4.

Jarvan Tarant sat in his ergonomically designed chair smoking a cigarette and looking at the business card. 1500 pounds in cash and a handful of large glossy photographs lay on the table - studio shots of a young woman wearing a pink spandex leotard and sky-blue legwarmers. There were various poses that seemed designed to demonstrate how supple and energetic the young woman in them was. She had shiny long auburn hair and beautifully arched feet. In every picture Pinky bent her lips into the same smile. It was a smile in which girlish innocence was fighting a losing battle with wanton sexuality. She looked about 19. Her youthful perfection was offset by a slightly crooked nose that gave her an approachable, friendly look. In one of the pictures she was holding a Chihuahua.

‘Pinky…’ Jarvan frowned, dialling the number for Preying Mantis.

A gruff woman answered the phone.
‘Allo?’
She sounded eastern European.
‘I’m looking for Pinky,’ said Jarvan.
‘Pinky don’t work for us no more. You wanna see Mistress Alexia?’
‘You know where I can find Pinky?’
‘I told you, I haven’t seen her, she quit, Alexia is working here now, you wanna come today around 3 for ball torture?’
‘Er, okay, I’ll come at 3. Where to?’
‘Come to the industrial estate off Hermitage Road and call this number at 2.45. Bring 300 pounds. She will torture you but no fucking okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘Good. What’s your name?’
‘Tarant.’
‘Good.’

The gruff woman hung up the phone and Jarvan sat back in his ergonomically designed chair. It was around 1 and he still hadn’t eaten. He thought about The Chameleon’s tongue-act earlier. He didn’t feel hungry so he decided to go for a beer instead.

Half way out the door the phone rang.

‘Hello?’
‘Jarvan its Abnar, how’s it going with the Nightingale Case? You got any leads?’
‘A couple, I’m waiting for Ernesto to get back to me with that spray. You got something for me?’
‘Maybe, but it’ll cost you’
‘How much?’
‘A grand’
‘How do I know its good?’
‘Its good Jarvan, you can trust me, come and meet me at 3’
‘I can’t do 3, how about I meet you tonight at 6, at the Turkish place?’
‘Okay, sure, I’ll see you there, bring the money, you’re going to like what I’ve got’
‘Fine.’

5.

It was about 3.20 by the time Jarvan got to Hermitage Road. He went into the phone box on the corner and dialled the number.

‘Tarant?’
‘I am he.’
‘Wait there.’

A big man in a black suit came around the corner and knocked on the door of the telephone box, speaking to Jarvan through the glass.

‘You Tarant?’
‘I am he.’
‘You got the money?’
‘Yes.’
‘Give it to me.’
Jarvan counted out 300 pounds and passed it to the man through the door of the telephone box.
‘Come.’

Jarvan followed the man a little way down the street and through the entrance to a gated industrial complex. They came to the door of one of the units and the big man pressed a buzzer.

‘You seen any Chihuahua’s lately?’ asked Jarvan.
‘Wha?’
‘Chihuahua’s.’
From the dumb look on the big man’s face Jarvan could tell he hadn’t seen a Chihuahua in a while.
‘Pinky, you remember Pinky?’
Jarvan pulled one of the pictures of Pinky out of his jacket lining and showed it to the big man. The big man frowned and nodded his head.
‘Pinky? I don’t know.’

The door made a clicking sound and the big man pushed it open.

‘Go upstairs, number 5.’

Jarvan passed through the door and up the stairs into a long white hallway. He could hear classical music playing – Balakirev’s Octet, Opus 3. Suddenly it got louder as a door opened. A tall black woman appeared in the hallway, about 6 foot, wearing a dressing gown. Her hair was all natural – an afro. Jarvan looked at her.

‘Step inside,’ said Alexia.

6.

It was a large, high-windowed studio, part of a converted factory, overlooking a railway track, furnished in one corner with a nook of leather Chesterfield’s encircled by an array of well kept house plants. Several large abstract artworks adorned the walls, including one by de Kooning and what looked like a Hans Hoffman. In the centre of the room a crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting a low light over the surroundings. All the way along the far wall the brickwork had been exposed and an array of chains and straps hung down from heavy bolts embedded in the mortar. A gynaecologist’s chair - upholstered with red PVC and customised with unidentifiable electrical apparatus – skulked next to a pair of rough looking wooden stocks and some sort of gym horse with a saddle on it. On the floor was a basket containing what must have been 30 or so different types of whips, ticklers, ropes, cords, clamps and slings, and next to that stood a large ornate Chinese vase full of freshly cut stinging nettles.

Jarvan swallowed nervously.

‘Alexia…’
‘THAT’S MISTRESS ALEXIA TO YOU, SHIT-BAG’
‘Excuse me, Mistress Alexia… I… ’

Alexia’s face was like an African mask: cold, expressionless, wooden. Her dressing gown hung open and her tits were falling out of her brassiere like liquid chocolate. He could see the outline of her bush pressing against a pair of shiny rubber panties. Her skin was oily, smooth. Just above the bush a strap-on dildo of some girth prodded at the opening in her bath robe.

‘I… I’m looking for…’
‘SHUT THE FUCK UP, SHIT-BAG. SHOW ME YOUR BALLS.’
‘What?’
‘YOU HEARD ME, SHIT-BAG, YOUR BALL BAG, SHOW IT TO ME.’

Jarvan Tarant thought about it for a moment. He was still horny as hell. Maybe a bit of ball torture would take the edge off. Then again maybe it would only make matters worse.

‘Listen, I’m an old friend of Pinky’s, we go way back, do you know where she is?’
Alexia frowned, ‘Pinky?’

It was obvious she knew the name but she wasn’t sure if she should talk. She looked at him for a moment, trying to decide whether to trust him. Jarvan tore his eyes away from her latex cock and tried to look into her eyes with an expression of authenticity and warmth.

‘Yeah, Pinky. Do you know where she is?’

Tarant passed her the photograph – the one with the Chihuahua.
Alexia took the photograph and stared at it blankly. She looked back at Jarvan. He held her gaze, willing her to talk.

‘Oh… her, yeah, she used to come here and do a lot of weird stuff for the customers, you know, specialist shit. A couple of guys got sick seeing her. They’d come around here asking for her 2 or 3 times a week. She had quite a reputation. Then she just disappeared. She quit I guess, maybe the life was getting her down. It can do that to a girl.’
‘The life is getting us all down Alexia, its getting weirder and weirder earning a living. You know anything about The Chameleon?’
‘That squamate? Everyone knows about him, especially Pinky. When she split he was pissed. He was one of the sick ones, he thought she was a victim, that he was going to save her. A lot of guys come through here thinking like that but not many of them have a hemipenis and a six foot tongue.’
‘A hemipenis?’
‘Look it up cleverdick. The fucked up thing is that she seemed to actually like that freaky lizard man’

welcome to america

by concentrate @ 23. Oct. 2007. - 10:06:16

dream

by concentrate @ 04. Oct. 2007. - 00:48:59

When I lie beside you, and you look at me - I mean really look at me – when all boundaries and barriers have dissolved and I can really see you, in your eyes, I honestly love you completely.

Your gaze can touch me like hands and I can feel you holding me there, as if our eyes had a secret language of their own.

In my dream I would lie with you in the long morning. We would gaze into each others eyes and speak the language of silence, of nature, grow roots into the bed sheets, learn telepathy, reach out and whisper touches that speak of only one thought.

At noon we would get up and go to fly a kite, and end up playing hide and seek, running and rushing in the hush of parkland, bodiless, headless, in the woods, where I would find you and steal a hundred whirling kisses in the bracken, softer and more fecund than lush black peat, and we would laugh, and I would see you there: giggling in the cradle of your eyes, deep with reflections of that beauteous sky and all the trees and creeping tendrils of the forest.

journey to the end of the night

by concentrate @ 21. Sep. 2007. - 09:32:07

'Its true,' I said, trying to be conciliatory. 'All in all, you're right. But the fact is we're all sitting in a big galley, pulling at the oars with all our might. You can't tell me different!...Sitting on nails and pulling like mad. And what do we get for it? Nothing! Thrashings and misery, hard words and hard knocks. We're workers, they say. Work they call it. Thats the crummiest part of the whole business. We're down in the fold, heaving and panting, smelling and sweating our balls off, and meanwhile! Up on deck in the fresh air, what do you see?! Our masters having a fine time with beautiful pink and perfumed women on their laps. They send for us, we're brought up on deck. They put on their top hats and give us a big spiel as follows: "You no-good swine! We're at war! Those stinkers in Country No. 2! We're going to board them and cut their livers out. Lets go! Lets go! We've got everything we need on board! All together now! Lets hear you shout so the deck trembles: 'Long live Country No. 1' So you'll be heard for miles around. The man who shouts the loudest will get a medal and a lollipop! Lets go! And if there's anybody that doesn't want to be killed at sea, he can go and get killed on land, its even quicker!"'

'That's the way it is exactly,' said Arthur, suddenly willing to listen to reason.

But just then, who should come marching past the cafe where we're sitting, but a regiment with the colonel up front on his horse, looking nice and friendly, a fine figure of a man! Enthusiasm lifted me to my feet.

'I'll just go see if that's the way it is' I sing out to Arthur, and off I go to enlist, at the double.

'Ferdinand!' he yells back. 'Don't be a cunt!' I suppose he was nettled by the effect my heroism was having on people around us.

Celine

title-2999334

by concentrate @ 18. Sep. 2007. - 11:46:30

title-2999308

by concentrate @ 18. Sep. 2007. - 11:39:08

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=10rTPSSmOFw

title-2955873

by concentrate @ 10. Sep. 2007. - 12:47:11

carol berge wrote these in the 1960'