Little Ron

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Oh Bugger!,

Not really mate, something’s happened, I’ve cracked it, thank fuck for that, last years shite is last years shite. Had a fuck of a X-mass and new year, blew me fucking brains out, had everything but sex – laughter, tears, violence, bodies and anti-bodies, the ghost of beautiful, sleek, black Ronnie (used to call him Little Ron), lithe and lean, found him in the market place when I had my stall, he was tiny, tired, scared and starving and had a seagulls white feather stuck to one of his whiskers. I’m crying for him. Managed to get hold of him by putting a bowl of food out and put him in cat basket under the stall. Talked gently and lovingly to him and soothed him, his eyes were so fucked he wouldn’t have lasted much longer, he’d been seen, living rough, for a few days, bless him. He relaxed and slept and slept and slept, took him home and introduced him to the other two – Cap and cobweb, and they knew what state he was in and he ate and slept and ate and slept. Then when he pulled round he turned out to be a lovely, amazing cat, real hard little cunt. And he grew and I loved him ‘cos he was mine. SWEET DREAMS RONNIE. I will never forget you sun-beam.

Had drugs, alcohol, friends, knobheads, drama, trauma, crisis, loans, fridges, armed guards, wigs, ponds, pigs, wands, crush, crash, wallop, etc etc, but it had to be a good one after last years dumb, dismal, heartbreaking disaster. Like I say, had everything but sex but have made lots of changes and there are women on the horizon I can feel it. My hair’s long enough so I’ve started tieing it back again and wow, great googly moogly, the first night I went out, all these admiring looks and complements, but I’m So self-conscious, three days later it’s got better and better; gorgeous girl (23?), tall and slim, long wavy fair hair looked twice, man, phew. We are so fragile, eh Gary? Stopped the medication and the vodka, it was the right time and it’s working. One of the side-effects of the tablets is to suppress sexuality (doesn’t work with a dirty bastard of an old goat like me obviously) so when you stop taking ’em it all comes flooding back. Some lucky lady is going to get the most exciting surprise of her life! Soon I hope. One of my really hard mates shocked me the other day, we were talking and discussing the incident with Moira in the pub ‘cos he was there and he said, “You really fucking scared me when you kicked off, you fucking lunatic!” Respect.

Have you had a fucking Doris on your boat? Ha, ha, ha. Slang. I fucking love it. Isn’t life good. You iron? Your’e hooves. Yoo poo? Win E. No, not doves no more. Drugs not dregs. Eh Up. Snatch. I want the sort of prim and proper, demur dirty bitch who will enjoy me enjoy watching the wet patch on her knickers spread as she pisses herself, then fuck each other stupid for 12 hours! Coming off it all I had no sleep pattern, was out of my skull in a strange place, it was all jam n’ cream scones and butter mints etc, no it fkn wasn’t, don’t believe a word he fucking well says, he’s a lying twat. OH NO I’M NOT. He tried to put words into my mouth but I bit the cunts fingers off. The strange place was limbo, you know, limbo-land, I’ve been there lots of times but it’s still a shock to realize that you’re back there, hurting, suffering it, and realizing that you need to do something drastic to get out of there, or do nothing, or keep on doing what you’re doing. Caravan – If I Could Do It All Over Again, I’d Do It All Over You. “I’ve had enough / in the jar,” – Ian Craven (W.K.D.N. 1985).

Had to chuck Virus No.1 out ‘cos it was getting out of hand, oh well, thrown away another fucking fortune, it doesn’t really matter. Walt Disney. I’m going to have to kill Peek – A – Boo – Man ‘cos he’s starting to really get on my tits and I can’t get off my tits enough to ignore the little cunt. On me giraffe, me omni-giraffe. I’m a head-case. When Moira came back to have a verbal go at me in the pub that night I said, (I can’t remember what she was saying) – “I couldn’t give a fucking shite, I’m a fucking head-case, Mick knows I’m a fucking head-case, I don’t fucking care,” I was fucking shaking and trembling with the rage, anger and adrenalin that was coursing through my body. Y’see the problem is that when our ship malfunctioned and we got clagged-up on this fucking planet none of us thought that it would take this fucking long for us to be fucking rescued! I’m shunned ‘cos no-one can cope with me, I’m too intense. 12:34pm, 14.1.04 – had about ½ gram of billy with cup of tea. 9:23 and am on my second vodka, gave in to it all ‘cos I couldn’t cope with my sense of loneliness and sexual frustration on my own anymore. Forgot to mention about billy, it’s best stuff for years, factory stamped batch! Would like to say more but can’t for obvious reasons, ssshh, say nowt. Does what it all does and fucking well spaces you out at the same time. Here for my birthday, good job too ‘cos doesn’t look like skunk or Charlie is gonna turn up on time, oh shite, fucking birthday-cake again. 15:15pm – had about 2 grams of billy (magic) and the vodka’s ‘n’ orange sideways affect and no cake, then some cake, and then no cake again, but whole fantasy, cor, ‘cos no cake there in the first place, but for fantasy cake, and the cake of the cake which wasn’t there anyway in the first place. But as you so very rightly said, all those years ago, 19 now, I believe; “We don’t want any more cake, we want the fucking knife…” but the fear of cake is still here and out there, lots of different cake, scary, only one knife. “Hands up who wants fucking cake?”

08:23am 15.1.04, washed down about a gram of billy with vodka and orange, sprinkling in a bit of ‘solid’ (bog-standard but above the average of what this fucking country’s flooded with) in every roll-ee. Got a Hendrix fetish on at the mo, just borrowed a box-set I’ve never heard before off (****), and whittled it down to a couple of tapes. Phew ‘n’ fuck it, we know the guy was a fucking genius but didn’t live long enough to fulfill his potential, shite the fucking bed for fucks sake, he left enough fucking clues along the way and we will spend several lifetimes picking the fucking cunts up.

Amphetamine in it’s purest glory of ‘What – ho – roger – bottoms – up – you – what – fucking – rough – voyage or what – captain. Nah… you just come here…whatever or whoever you fucking well are… anytime you want… I’m here if u want a go… please… lacking sport… you know… never mind… I’ll fucking loaf ya… anytime of day or night… surprise me please… I beg you… sorry… you’ve got the wrong bloke mate… I’m just a piece – loving – non – understanding – dalek – cybermen – empathizing, hypocritical sister.’ Bollocks. Hendrix pushed and pushed at this fucking blues envelope, I think that’s what killed him in the end. Well, fuck it, for good or for bad I’m following thru, following him thru, the gent, and if any cunt can (I’m totally fucking crackers!), it’s me you know, hello, it’s me. Who the fucking hell am I? I don’t need any answers on any postcards please, thank you.

My curtains are closed and I’m laid back on my bed (alone) freaking ‘n’ smoking ‘n’ joking with Hendrix. He’s doing Gloria now. Meanwhile back on planet bollocks it’s totally light outside and the gulls are giving it fucking rock as usual and I couldn’t give a fucking flying fuck (yes I could). Hey Baby, you be my voodoo chile in the land of the new rising sun? No, I need to chart my course thru this loneliness and frustration, gotta get thru babe! Jimi didn’t, but I will. COME ON YOU CUNT, BLOW ME AWAY! Till there’s nothing left after, but my temple balls. Fucking – billy – fucking – whizzed! Wot ho!I shall try to never mention her name ever again in these letters, but it still hurts like fuck (a bit on and a bit off, now and again).

Crystal sputum in it (the ashtray), shining and bubbling with glory, great for putting fags out into but a bit scary when pulled and stretched, an alien being, inter-globular, viscous (fish) ‘n’ the thing, fillet ‘o’ fish, and all the rest of it, I’ve forgotten what I was on about and who gives a flying fuck anyway. No question, Mark. Need a woman, here, now, but not just any woman. Crape hair. Billowing thru the curtains in the glint of it, a/the diamond moon, once in a while. I’m so lonely and frustrated and trying to contain it all whilst speeding off me fucking tits (given as a present for me birthday, cunt wouldn’t let me pay for it, I’m not complaining like). Bing Bong Bang. Higgins. Gonna go see Mary now, 9:28am. Ta-ta. Tar.

You eaten rabid fish? Smells like it in yer bucket. Full stop, comma, gob. Full stop. Basically what happened was this. I fed a piece of tube up his ‘arris and then fed 3 ½ metres of barbed wire up it into him, then I did the same to her with the other end of the barbed wire so they were back to back with about a foot of barbed wire between ’em, connecting ’em so to speak. Then it was time for ’em to start to hop like a frog or rather a toad. Then jumping. And finally running away from each other as fast as they can. Jesus – fucking – H – bastard. Cunting – fucking – H – bastard Christ, you should have seen the fucking mess! Oh well, you can’t make an omlette without breaking eggs. Didn’t need to use me gun (much). Finally finished foes sphincters forever. Vanquished. Vaseline (ha-ha)… No. Carnage.

Got in Sat. night (31st) and fucking totally fucking cracked up. Greetin’ like a bairn. Howlin’, weeping and wailing and crying uncontrollably. I’m so lonely and it hurts so much and I’m sick of it, I’ve had enough and I don’t know how much more of this I can fucking take. Gonna lock meself away and turn me phone off for a few days I think.

No, I don’t think, don’t think properly and this is the big problem. It’s like I’m locked out of myself, locked out of my own mind. Or half-in and half-out horrible. Hubbard, gubbard, flubbered! Robert Pete Williams. I Got The Blues So Bad I Can Hardly Walk. I.G.T.B.S.B. I Can Hardly Talk. I’m As Blue As A Man Can Be. Louise is the sweetest gal I know. Jib yer rock of your altar. Monkey talk. Heads or tails. Of glory, or scum, pond-life, with beards or beard-wigs. Or? Ore oar. ROARR. Paddle. Ephemeral nightie. Why hide all the lacy gussets? Torture to think about. She will come eventually, but
how much longer do I have to wait. Not a question ‘cos theory and practice clash, mix, and are separated out again and the answer will occur in action, unspoken gem. Low ease. 4 get. Hume-ite. Get it. Stick Broken. Mended. Good as new. Better. Up another level. A Big One. This time. Aches and pains of transition. Fumes. Spectral scars no-one else can see. Haunted eyes. Shock. Therapy. Boast. Breakdown. Up. I got up feeling down. I woke up feeling down. The ghost of your goolies. Reading ‘Bad Wisdom’ by Bill Drummond and Mark Manning.

Blizzards of lizards. Fackin’ Ada! Lisps. Lists. Invisibility. Strange weirdness. Icy folicles. Eyes lorries. A chink in the darkness, (of light). Off light. Heavy flashes oscillating.

-Willie Whistle? x

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