Lost Folks Week

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Dear Mrs R,

I’ve lost it, it was here just a minute ago but now I’ve lost it, it’s lost, gone. I can’t remember what it was now but it was important, very important, I think it was important but I can’t remember. I can’t remember what it was but I lost it, it’s gone. Anyhow, it’s lost. I think I remember having it over there, maybe I think I could have put it down, possibly, over there. Then I might have come back over here, after having maybe put it down over there, possibly. Then if I maybe went back over there and found it wasn’t there, that might be about right, but if I can’t remember what it was and Iv’e forgotten what I did with it, how do I know what happened? If I could think and remember what it was, that would be half-way to remembering how and where it got lost wouldn’t it? Maybe not. Echoes of the thing keep appearing and disappearing. Was it a big blue fish? Was it fried? Was it a sunset? Was it the ocean? Was it a cloud? Was it a bucket full of vomit? Would you like a tissue? Are you there? That’s it, I remember what it was I lost, it was you, I mean me, I keep losing me and forgetting who and what I am or was and then finding me again in some of the strangest places, when I stop looking for what I forgot that I lost. Or somehow vomit my lost self, me, out into a bucket of sick and fag – butts perhaps? Would I like a tissue? I would if I could wipe all this shite out of my mind with it, surely I can’t still love the fucking stupid bitch can I? I don’t think so, feels more like anger and hatred. Just gonna roll a little spliff then maybe a few extracts from my diary for a laugh, except these are not a laugh, anything but, but it was real. I have looked into my mirror on the wall and not recognised myself, not known who the fuck I was. Hello further. Cough.

18.4.03 – Feel bit better. Still sat here waiting for Life or Death or Madness or You.

19.4.03 – Not too good today, this is starting to get serious, I can’t get her out of my head. She pulled me into her life then pushed me out again.

21.4.03 – Woke up in floods of tears. How long is it gonna take to get over this. I’m starting to lose my mind. In tears again, I can’t handle this but I don’t know what to do. I still miss her, I can’t help it and I can’t cope with it.

22.4.03 – Scarborough County Court, 10:00am. Went bankrupt.

24.4.03 – Lying cow. Fucking selfish bitch. I’m such a fucking stupid cunt. I hate what is happening to me so much and I hate being here. Getting ready to cut my arm again. Shite. Cut my arm.

25.4.03 – Trying to cope with being suicidal. Can’t stop crying, don’t know how Iv’e got thru the last 3 weeks, don’t know how I’m getting thru each day. Alcohol and willpower… Really lost it, wrote suicide note. Music on too loud, pissed on vodka, brandishing stick of Dutch Elm, shouting, hitting the wall, passed out.

26.4.03 – Tried to get myself admitted to hospital but failed. Gonna cut my flesh in a different place / different pattern later ‘cos I want to. I just want to die. Help Me. I’m a “Shit Shop”. Vodka.

27.4.03 – Keith phoned emergency doctor for me ‘cos he was worried about me. Went to hospital, saw psychiatrist, got some diazepam. This is all really terrifying stuff.

28.4.03 – Still feel physically ill when thinking of anything that reminds me of her. Managed to eat tonight. Did the cut again, fucking loads of blood, made lots of prints on paper. Enjoyed it, didn’t
hurt that much. Litre vodka.

29.4.03 – Sent her a postcard of Whitby telling her I still missed her, had imprints of my blood collaged on the front. Saw Dr. Lonsdale. Got more diazepam.

Woah there, that’s quite enough of that, you get the gist.

The speed / vodka thing transmogrified into Folk Week and everything fell together nicely in that magical Whitby way. Fridges everywhere and whistlers whistling. I’d just got myself back into singing and playing and was ready to enjoy it all. Started using The Black Horse as the ‘office’ again. Best beer in town and the consensus is that we had the best atmosphere and the best music. Spent more time there than I did at home, one night some of us passed out on the benches in the back room about 7am and they went out for breakfast but couldn’t wake me, I ended up walking back here at 10:30a.m.

A guy called Jerry who plays slide guitar put out enough of the right energy and we managed to get a Black Horse Blues Band together. We did 21st & 22nd in the yard next to the pub and it meant that the landlord had the front and back rooms full and up to 100 people in the yard. Happy landlord. I sang a bit and played banjo and guitar, Jerry played slide, Andy played his tea-chest bass and sang and contributed his own unique showmanship (he was also dressed as a pirate), plus two guys who’s names I can’t remember thru the alcoholic haze who just turned up and swapped double bass and guitar around and both sang. On Thurs this guy came out of the crowd and asked if he could sing a song with us and ended up doing half – dozen or so, bit of rockabilly, Pick a bale of cotten etc, then fucked off with his guitar to his next port of call. George joined us on Friday and it was even better, he played guitar and sang a few and Andy and I played a bit of kazoo trumpet too. On both nights when it was too late to play in the yard we moved into the back room, locked the doors and carried on giving it fucking rock. Played everything from Blue Suede Shoes to Tequila, Friday started with Sweet Dreams Baby by Roy Orbison appearing out of the ether in a funky blues style, Andy started singing it over the top of a warm-up blues rhythm, I joined in and with that we were off. Magic moments. Fri descended into a beautiful drunken mess of course but not without style, grace or wit and the cops turned up just as we were finishing about 12:15am because the silly cunts didn’t know it was 12:00 closing.

There were some great guest ales on in the pub but it was so busy that no sooner did you get used to one then it was finished ‘cos we’d supped it all. One called Cross Buttocks, two fucking barrels of that in one night just ‘went’. There is a party there tonight for Kev, one of the barmen and after that I’m gonna cool it for a few days until the weekend ‘cos it’s been very little sleep and lots and lots of boozing. Still having vivid dreams and one morning about 8am when I tried to get some sleep everything was wobbling like fuck and it was like I was asleep and awake at the same time. It was a strange, hallucinatory state with lots of things flashing and I could see the room again as if in a delirium and kept dreaming that I was falling out of bed and hitting the floor. I kept bracing myself and realising I was still on the bed, everything was rocking like being at sea.

I am going for psycho – therapy soon to try and sort this shit out over Ruth and other head – fuck crap. Wibble. Will be painful but I need to go thru it and cope with the sore bits inside. Im sick of hurting but will be stronger than ever when I get out of this one. So much for taking it easy, I’ve just started on the vodka again ‘cos Im hurting so much inside. Everythings gonna fucking explode, I can feel it, but I don’t care. Had a good time at the party but it was another 5a.m. job and crashed at the pub again. In one of the guest rooms this time though, the manageress and I were up last, talking, and we got that pissed we both just crashed on the same bed after drinking orgasms all night (vodka, kahlua, and baileys). We’re just friends but it was so good to be able to cuddle someone and sleep next to someone that it made me realise what I’m missing and I need vodka to take the pain away ‘cos this is the worst thing I’ve ever been thru. Coming off the heroin and methadone was a piece of piss compared to going thru this shite. We had a surprise party for the 11 year old daughter of the landlords fiance this afternoon and I got offered a jam tart as they were preparing the food and Charlotte said “No you want a mucky tart don’t you!” That says it all. I am reminded of a phrase by Burroughs ‘torn apart by disembodied lusts’. I need to fuck some horny bitch right up the arse and make her cum till she can’t cum anymore.

spliff tickle

cum fancy

sniff pickle

strawberry nancy

slice nylons

nice pylons

Something that is 900 years old. Happy Birthday to you. “Cod and chips twice please, flower” – “Salt and vinegar, honey?” Lips still lisping lists. Fourth write fifth. Glass gussetts tucking split pods, chuck. Flying blue transparency, itching. Basically I’m a sex starved idiot with a chocolate cock. But the Roses Are Blooming in Picardy. Prehensile textures digest the door-knob and project the door-knocker. Floods of flowery gussetts on my tongue-pen, I wish. Listening to Bedrock remix of Cowgirl by Underworld. A favorite of mine, heard it many times and always hear something new unfurling as it’s layers unfold. The apostraphe. Putting on Bentley’s Gonna Sort You Out by Bentley Rhythm Ace next after I’ve got washed and changed then Im off out on the piss again. Talking to myself, it’s not funny and it’s not clever. Knock me down with a feather you hair-brained beast. Oh, oh, oh, eating my own phlegm oh, Mrs Diddgeries washer, what did it do. My? head is fucked, Jean Spout-up Hans Arp or a pharmacy in the dwelling. my abode.

Things are getting lonely and desperate again. Started looking at my scarred arm again and thinking of doing some more, oh shite, where is she, whoever she is, why isn’t she here, I can’t take much more of this, I’m so fucking lonely and so fucking fucked-up and no – one knows how bad I feel inside, I need, oh fuck it all, I’ve had enough, John Cales version of Heartbreak Hotel, loneliness, suicide + desperation. Fuck it, I wish I could but there’s something stopping me as ever. In the words of Monte Cazzazza “It’s worth staying alive out of spite”. But spite for what, life I suppose, but when it’s this painful, what is life and whats the fucking point. It hurts to think that that bitch is so happy without me in her life, the fucking evil lieing cow-bag, It hurts, it hurts, it just hurts so much inside.

Nearly kicked off twice in the pub tonight, one guy was o.k., just a silly falling-out but the twat nearly got banjoed and if I’d hit him with it I’d have killed the silly cunt. Always safe with a banjo on my knee, weighs a ton, could wipe out a roomful with it, oh shit. Can’t go on like this, something has got to give.

Really need to stop boozing and going out and carrying-on like this but I can’t ‘cos I get so lonely in this little room and the fucking walls start fucking closing in on me and I have to get out. Was talking to this woman tonight, she was pissed-up and had been in the pub but when I told her I was 40, she didn’t believe me, she said I was 18, bless her, she was a little bit older than me and told me she couldn’t offer sex but fed me friends fish, chips’n mushy peas off her fingers (nice) so i saw her up the road to where she was staying but regret leaving her ‘cos she wanted me to stay and lick her fingers! Oh fuck this fucking stupid life and stop me going out and being nice and evil at the same time and wanting to hurt some twat – arsed – bastard ‘cos thats not me, is it. Got the fridge ready for his head though. Been listening to the Pogues a lot “and he was a miserable bollocks and a bitches – bastard – whore, and it’s lend me ten pounds and I’ll buy you a drink and mother wake me early in the morning.” Oh shit, shit, shit, I’ve had enough of this fucking loneliness crap and this little room I call home, wish I’d twatted the stupid bastard now, at least I might have had some company in my cell ‘cos there’s no-one else in this little cell of mine again tonight but it’s ok, no it isn’t, ‘cos it’s friday tomorrow (today) and it’s another crazy Whitby weekend and I can whistle, no I can’t, yes I can. Had enough of me.

What are you supposed to do when you’ve had enough of yourself and you can’t take it anymore of your stupid little shitty self and can’t go around Whitby whistling at this time of morning but can’t take anymore of your stupid little fucking shitty little room? W.W.

There’s no minge. Fuck me. Sick and tired of….

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