Luna is gorgeously brilliant because her mouth is hanging open wide and still she speaks although there is no movement but I can hear words coming out faster and faster by the second quicker and quicker until all I can hear is a buzzing that never ends which I’m unable to hang on to because its late and there is no more drink to drink or smokes to smoke and all I really want to be right now is listening to a girl called Luna is far away with her buzz voice because it softly makes sense although I can hear no words. Right now a salmon has just been caught by a bear in Alaska and nothing is making sense to that fish because he has never been out of water before and it is like a human being swung into the eternal sea that will die if it is left anyway. Fish are eaten because they have no feelings and cannot communicate any language neither can Luna because all I can hear is a long stretch of noise which is slowly converging into silence within the room me and Luna are sat in.
The sun shines and another day is beginning and another salmon fish has now been caught.
The feeling is heaviness and I feel so very slow because it all aches. It all ached for Freddie Mercury too who died and the blanket over him hurt him deeply down to his bones but bones cannot feel pain so why can we if we are made of bones and a layer of skin that keeps us together like a film wrap? Right now I know what you are looking for and I hate you for it but I’m looking for a story too but I never want this to end although I can feel how much you feel nothing about and I laugh because there are jokes and meanings in everything like the words of Shakespeare. Sometimes I wonder if Shakespeare is more alive now than he was when he was actually alive because he exists as different interpretations and opinions rather than skin and bones which are a much better way to exist because how could skin and bones ever be romantic?
Right now I exist as only opinions and interpretations so does that make me any different from Shakespeare? If I write and leave this piece of paper in the street someone will pick it up and read it even if it is rained on first and gets stuck to somebody’s shoe like a piece of pink bubblegum. You don’t know me as a face or a body because you don’t even know if I’m a boy or a girl or a man or woman or if my eyes are blue or whether I have autism or not which I don’t I just sound like I do when I write. Can you write this for me? After you know that someone called Luna has a slacked jaw and a way of talking that makes it sound like a dream character you can now remember she exists here on a page and nowhere else. That’s beautiful; it’s beautiful that I have never met a girl called Luna with a slacked jaw or a strange voice but on this page she can live forever and you can always come back one day and meet Luna because she is her, for you, whenever you should feel the need to visit her. One time I wanted one person and no one else and that person was a man who I could only see in my own mind so I made him and me and him get along fine now since he grew a moustache and he has a blue baseball cap and there is no one else outside of my head that I am able to meet when people look at me strange or just be people like they are supposed to be. My skin and bones don’t exist so let me be whatever you want me to me.
Before this goes on and on until I feel like I’ve had enough or my hand falls off haha just kidding I’ll take breaks in between when I want to I want to say now that Luna and other people you may meet without needing to be anywhere other than alive even if you are drunk under a bridge I will take you anywhere you want to go because the people here are not real and never will be unless a girl named Luna is born with a slacked jaw or a man with a moustache buys a blue cap or a salmon has been caught by a bear in Alaska has just happened. That’s it now your thinking and now the show must go on and the journey taken if you take my hand which is extended out to you but you can’t see it but isn’t that beautiful that my hand will always be there for you to take. For this to go on I can be anything anyone you want the possibilities end at the end of your imagination because to you I may be a blonde woman called Jan who has huge tits and a mole on the inside of her thigh but to you I might be Jack who has long grey hair and a denim jacket who shoots bears in Alaska for the summer it doesn’t matter because to you I am what I am.
This is like a road that is at a junction with separate meandering routes one could take not knowing which because I can’t remember my previous life nor the one before so all experience and lessons learnt are lessons forgotten. Coming here to learn something new has just been awarded because Shakespeare died on the date his was birthed. Maybe that was known to you already but now you know that Nietchze said that there were no such thing as a fact, only an interpretation but how can you interpret the statement that Shakespeare died on his birthday so perhaps that was said the minute after the horse got saved from a whipping. Where is this going where is this going you think I’m stalling for time don’t you? Think I don’t know or have nothing to say. Everything I want to write has been read and thus written so what am I left with other than my own mind so very much corrupt this is not a diary I hate you for thinking that it is. Memoir it is not and account it isn’t so let’s just call it writing shall we.
The most beautiful think I have ever thought is the thought that ahead of me is nothing but white material ready for me to create on. No no no not painting a picture with brushes and oils but painting with my pen and what I want to say because that will always be the prettiest picture in the world, the one you can picture in the mind and not see it how everyone else does because there are no such thing as facts, only interpretations.
Luna and the fish in Alaska are both gone but they were never really here anyway I suppose either than how I am painting them to you now and the one difference between the bear and me is that the bear in Alaska caught the fish because he was hungry and must people might say that I too was hungry but the only hunger I have is for internal material therefore Luna was not the food to my hunger but killing her was experience and therefore nutrition for what this is becoming. It’s all been done before and there’s nothing left to say so the story of Holden Caulfield is out of the question as is Sal Paradise but nevermind what about pyshopath killer? Fuck you Bret Easton Ellis haha maybe soon you’ll be food to my internal experience whatta story banned in seven countries plastic wrapped in Australia and an ex heroin addiction. Ok ok now that what I’m saying is clear to you you might now still not have description of me but you have a opinion of me because I killed a girl called Luna and there are no such thing as a fact, only interpretations but it’s ok it’s ok you’ll never really know if a girl called Luna died. Stories consist of ingredients and I hate Chuck Palahiuk because the son-of-a-bitch stole all my lines I hope now you’ve seen Goodwill Hunting to understand that.
Stories are born naked and new from the seed of experience and if now I told you about Luna and she wasn’t real wouldn’t you feel cheated? I feel cheated thinking about it and I fucking hate you writers who lie and cheat their reader Vladimir Nabokov because you never met a Lolita did you. And still international outcry and exile from your homeland just for cheating its just words! You never molested a nymphet so why why why was there outcry, none of it happened people! I WANT A FUCKING REFUND bullshit queue up now for your money back guarantee I promise I would never lie to you though so whatever happens you’ll have to understand it’s all in the name of painting a beautiful picture for you to interpret oh no not Nietchze again. I hope that this will be the most beautiful painting you could ever see.
Hemmingway maybe it was him who wrote that all it takes to write was to sit at a typewriter and bleed. And I’m fucking bleeding for you; all of you now give me an obscenity trial.
Luna is bleeding too but on my floor so it’s not the same and when I put her on the type writer the paper got ruined so I don’t think Hemmingway was right.
Back to the start is where I should go I suppose otherwise sporadic organisation will be the death of me I did have parents once. Dad and Mum are gone now though but I had to come from somewhere god I feel so lucky I won the race. Alaska bears got Mum and Dad and they were nothing but fish so that’s all you need to know night knife sex I guess you could call it incest.
-Look at him...not like the others
-Me and Mummy are going out and when we’re back you can watch everything because experience is knowledge, visual.
- LET THE BOY WATCH MUM how can he grow like we did like plants in the sun
Growing up fast with no way of stopping because sometimes it hurts and walls are always in front of you sometime they hurt and some you never forget like a book you read that got banned for thirty years. Miller in Paris. Miller in his paradise. If now I get down here what will be remembered forever then I won’t apologise because all I’ll be is a name to pages of writing based on a life once mundane turned insanitised and real. Saying I’ll return to the beginning didn’t last long but haha- metaphor and symbolism for growing up oh no it happens so fast. Luna wasn’t’ the first but she was the first in my book that I will write before I die lets hope Luna had the chance to write her book otherwise from now onwards Luna will be just a name in my book. Never existed anyway, only a character, who knows whose real and who’s not. Mother dead from alcohol. Father murdered by someone writing their own book I understand they are forgiven I think I love them more than mum and dad because maybe they too were seeking experience and maybe it was Ellis or Bateman, pffft bullshit. Autodidactic education more important than anything else don’t read to reach the last page but to let those who did something be remembered and they will be as long as you are alive and so long as it sticks in your memory what stays in your memory more than anything else? Child pornographic material plastered on a Mr. Brown’s bedroom wall. My own son made to perform fellatio on me, his brother and lover. Cutting off phalluses with hacksaws uh oh turn away now and try something less vulgaristic haha I’ve already won, I’m in your head now. Perfect timing to say nothing less than the End but not fair, story as yet untold, only one fish in Alaska caught.
Hunger and pain but full on dough probably bread found old dirty not good to eat but nothing else. Diary entry 1. Memories of empty home half the time. Other side of time the smell of alcohol and Mum please help Dad please help tears in my cupboard because it is the only place I can breathe, live the salmon who is safe until a giant paw strikes its claws into your flesh and drags you out unable to make a noise because the noise hurts the pain and the pain becomes noise. Hand scarred and too large to fight bitten down bloody nails struggle to find grip until Mommy bear’s claw strikes and makes your face leak more than it already is. Blue and red makes blured. Dragged out of safe place with smell of cleaning substance that comes in metal cans and glass bottles that charged my throat when parents found nothing to do anymore, no more words left to say to each other, the argument finally fallen and sex for days ‘fuck off’s’ to child because the bread hurts nothing left to come up into toilet. Cold takes over and hu8gs me up against me like the blanket of sky trying to collapse and swallow wide waiting too long and now we must eat. Forget it all I tried my best but scars internal external is there a difference between what is seen felt seen judged felt examined. Playing naked in coldbathwater dirt. What is this? Oh yeah the thing daddy wants to see move because haha look let’s make the shit do it again.
You heard of this before well I’m sorry this isn’t even for you oh no oh no not a cinema no awkward shuffle shuffle whoops excuse me lets go I want to leave get me out its too much I CANT FUCKING TAKE IT. Luna just being Luna still smells like Luna naked and on the floor while typewriter is finger punched mouth open wide only I can hear you Luna but now you can live for a thousand years thank me later. Twenty seven aged but number one on my list after all the rest, you tasted delicious. Better than bread I’ve found success and a better life something better to eat and someone to love not you mum not you dad know by the claws and the fucking for days. Older now and hungry thirsty better prepared for the worst yet to come and school was like how school is if you look far enough into the history of anyone, troubled and tumultuous a young man once described it as before his history came to an abrupt end and became immortalised in here. Right now. Sitting there empty and bruised no I don’t like lawyers no I don’t like doctors no I don’t like you, I don’t want this I don’t want to be here let me just be alone. Young blood raging on the inside wood thrown onto eternal belly fire I will bring you all down aisled in precision looking nice for the parents fuck you. Beyond the gloss and material surface, underneath the foil and cling film, reveal the bones and muscle which would be impossible see the grit and dirt sprayed over us embedded in ideas yet to come I link it back to you mum, dad and institution.
Out dark and hungry no longer able to find shelter in the river away from the claws and shouts and cuts and screams and fell-at-io I find alone at a river a man named. What shall he be called? Dictation subliminal this is the way you are controlled spoon fed to your imagination, if I must then. I find alone at a river a man named Polly. Only a girl aha but this is my story I am allowed to mould it the way I chose. A man aged seven named Polly with three legs and a penis on his forehead, erect.
‘Do you come here often’ nonsense. The penis swung softly from side to side when he turned to look away from the glowing moon and into my eyes black and blue hungry.
The most beautiful eyes I have ever seen on either side of the throbbing penis that grew and grew each time he stole a look at that moon. More beauty revealed each time a glance is stolen and stashed, balls raised, curtains up, show now on.