Live Frogs

Reading Time: 6 minutes

Dear Mrs R,

Got the most amazing pure amphetamine, rock, one of my mates calls it ‘hurry – up’, am having a speed/vodka interface binge, am a total mess, am gonna become more of a mess but I’m fucked-up so can it make any difference? Need to cool it or I’m gonna snap and lose it and hurt somebody like some of my mates do, but it’s ok, I’ll get a grip. Up there for thinking, down there for dancing. I’m hot – wired and the fucking wheel is spinning but fuck it, you know I don’t care but I do care don’t I, I don’t know anymore. They go on about ‘It’s not over til the fat lady sings’, it’s from some stupid opera (opera winfield?) but I wish she would shut her fucking fat fucking gob ‘cos I’m fucking sick of hearing it. Jerry Garcia said ‘The 60’s aren’t over til the fat lady gets high’. It’s nearly 8a.m. and I’m as high as a fucking kite, there’s gonna be trouble. Where is that fucking stink of paella coming from? Have you washed your arse lately? Have you ever wished upon a star? Have you ever been in love with a bum-hole? The eye, a little star, blind boove. Boove hoof-movement, aye caramba. Managed the breakdown, breakdance, breakbeat. Picking up the pie, he says. Puking up the pieces. Want a slut, a nice slut, my slut. Where’s my dirty bitch, there must be one for me, she must be out there somewhere. Can’t wait to meet her. Offal, chunks, wood smoke, garbuthnot yakimoto plus 1. Eye marimba, get on the alki – phone youse straining thru trowel service sir. Blind limp, no sleep til the fat cunt implodes, spontaneous combustion, I shit ’em.

Who’s eating fucking paella, I can fucking smell it. Need so much to taste the taste of a nice cunt straight from the source, wet sauce. But who’s ever gonna want a crazy fucker like me? The paella smell was a combination of incense and ashtray, strange huh? Whizzing me fucking tits off, tingles etc, listening to Discharge tape – very conducive, supping vodka to take the edge off it, it all adds to the madness, going out on the piss soon. Yippee, I’m a fucking lunatic. Can you hear the sound of an enormous door slamming in the depths of hell? Pogues 1st album going on before I go out. Do what, Doo Wop. Where’s George Formby when you don’t need him? Great big dark hole inside, hurts, not as bad as it was. Would you like to toss the Welsh salad, without knowing the ingredients? Expanding and contracting. Stupid and drunk, no, I’ve taken too much speed for that, it keeps over-riding the drink and i blunder around like the last ugly, ungainly, thick turd on the shelf but I’m not, am I. If you don’t like it, fuck off. Pluck the monkey. Last one before the weekend, oopsy daisy, what, spillage. Spent more than a penny, hurting more or less. Oy, one eye, what was your fucking bath like, any cheese float? Glup gulp plug and all the rest of it, drinking vodka till I pass out. Nowt clout. Get off. Get on. What? Silly bits + bobs. Ramp, age; sorry but I’m dubious, click. Free echoes, of toast, by the fall, lips lisp. Don’t know anymore but never did in the first place, sofa trout. Repetition, first in last out. Laser beans, plugs + unplugged, gag me with a wad of jellyfish oh, titty bollocks.

Listening to Constipation In The Bunker, fucking amazing, fucking brilliant you cunt! Savage beauty. Crank up the intensity Mrs.R., I think I might have a job love. And gifts of ladies underwear, I was an idiot boy then, the other idiot boy is downstairs, unbelievable, belch belch, would 60 gallons be sufficient? And win a kewpie doll, hot air. When they ask you “And what did you do in What Katy Did Next when you weren’t playing the vacuum cleaner?” you can hold your hand up, palm outwards and say “No, stop, I’m dirty and the dust lore is. It. Was. I Am Constipation In The Bunker. It is/was/will be me.” And then you can unclench you buttocks and fart and someone will ask “more tea vicar?” and you can reply “No thank-you, just buns.” and belch in their faces. I thank-you. Cough. Luggage. Eat and finches. Oil it, boil it, don’t spoil it, then flush it down the toil-it. Blew loo, poo stinks Charles.

Got a nice letter from my friend in Edinburgh today, gave me a real boost and took some of the pain away for a while, that fucking bitch Ruth did a fucking good job on me, the lieing, cheating fucking evil cow.

Just seen Irwin the Zombie walking down the stairs, poor bastard, need to write a book about this house, lots to say about Peek-A-Boo Man but not yet, later. I’m off my fucking map. Can’t send you a post-card ‘cos I seem to have eaten my legs. Must have been angry. Ham shank. Bubbles. Double yer monkey explosion, solid reeking. Found some of yer letters from Hong Kong t’other day, they are really good. Beautiful, just like me! Ha ha, sporran, jock strap. Laffing at elf-mice as it all comes spewing out wordes, you know, flo. Take it all on board, chop it up, re-arrange and reconstruct it all then throw it all back in their faces. Wank the plank. Whack the plaque. Work the pork, silly little sausage. Whistle up a wind, pardon me. Whitby breezes you night. This is not my shit, wot. Fun quat. We’re all dirty beatniks really are we not. In our vests and pants, coagulating and things think. Do mice think? Mice-elf. Do things think? Do things! Do your (P)art. Prat prattle. In the valley, in the gap, in the ditch. Ditched! Oh! Well she…..Welshy. Shit pinks ‘n blues ‘n reds ‘n purples ‘n dip yer inks deep in the. Well? I’m a bakery but we all bread knead, the dough rises. On a good day, yes. Please. Me. Listening to The Birthday Party – nice and nasty. Dreaming in Dutch, Godverdamme! That’s swearing, oh dear me. Great swear word, god be damned! With the great gutteral Dutch G, like hoiking one up. Een kop van zeven kilos en drie gram verstantd, (A head of seven kilos and three grams of brains). Fingers down the throat of love, alcoholism, you turnip. Daddy’s dick is mothers comfort. Spew the bulk-head up. You pong, ping-pong. Fucking table-tennis, take to the fucking skies and worship Chesters gorilla, where’s she gone? Hands up. Will the real me please sit down. Don’t reach out, ouch, don’t touch. Another ship ready to dock, don’t let the veil drop. Nick Cave. ‘I reached out to turn one tap on to discover that I’d knocked my teeth out on the other.’ Wot sup pussy twat, winking or wide open? Glue gloves bell van here. Double Dutch flickers.

Frogs pawn porn, abadabadiss. 6.40a.m., just got in, the eyes of the heads in my mates fridge have all popped out. He reckons that they’re chasing the fucking cheese around all over, inside the fridge, but I don’t believe him ‘cos I reckon he’s a bit crazy myself and anyway he hasn’t got any fucking cheese. He was eating live frogs but kept vomiting ’em up and they were hopping around all over the place. Now there’s a thing. Odour of tush if you please.

Do you remember the bit off one of the tapes where Mr Simps says “Can you pass me your lighter please Paul,” and I say “What for?” and he says “Cos I want to set fire to my mothers tush.”? Bravo. Cod. Furry animals want a bod. A bed Doddy. D’ya ken? I am feeling angry and evil, no I’m not, yes I am, no I’m not. Shoot the cunts anyway or stick a fucking blade in their fucking ribs. Some cunt was being funny with the landlord the other night in the pub and I got sick of him carrying on so I told him to fuck off off or I’d shoot him and the silly little twat started going on about “Oh if you want guns then,” and about getting his hard mates and oh there’s 20 of us in there (other room) and I just thought ‘Gavin’ which in other words means ‘in your fucking dreams tosspot’ and watched till he fucked off. Turns out that just as I suspected there was only his girlfriend in the other room and she was embarrassed about him being such a turd. Hoopla. Cheers, big ears. Wot, pig ears? Don’t bother, my brother. Nothing is broken. Moo belch. I should have just shot him straight away but I’m not like that, it was the whizz making me nasty, we are all experiencing it. Time to stop. Took fucking loads tonight. Diminishing Returns. Busks of the pope.

Poor Mont’s dead and Reub too, shite. Too many dead. Let the dead bury the dead and we’ll stick all their heads in our own fridges. And the expression on his face as he opens the fridge door. That’s from the film. It’s all seriously wobbling and quite a few folks had a fucking tilt on today. The lurcher lurked. Away home and boil your head. Chundering chutney red pen. Not eating very much. Certainly not eating what I want to….. carpet-munching, beaver, my favourite dish off the list. Fancy a ride on my boat, ride it to Chicago and back twice Frank. Do you ever get off your boat? Off your boat. I’m off my fucking boat. Fucking fucking fuck, that’s swearing for the sake of it but it’s fucking good innit. Not gonna sleep now, even with all this fucking vodka inside me, will just have to power on through and think about Gen pushing it all to the edge, then a bit further to the edges edge etc, then further, see how far you can go and what happens, push it further and discover, over. Give the self a good talking to, out loud. Gibberish. Need a naughty girl so much, some lovely sexy slut with a heart of gold who wants to be my naughty girl and who wants her knickers pulling half way down and spanking on a regular basis. I filled that stupid bitches cunt so full of spunk so often that I can’t understand why or what or how and all the tomfoolery, any more, minge.

Ta ta – Uncle Whistler. (G.B.H.)

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