the racket,the usual racket at two fucking am at three fucking am at four
fucking am,the whole bleeding night followed by a short bruised alcoholic
pause but by noon they rise again,them bloody junkies and stuttering
armenians;the bloody racket,and i want to rip my hair out,stuff it in my
mouth and choke on it,i'll never get used to the verbal abuse,the
skag-induced hysterical fits,the tireless junkie brawls,the sound of
breaking glass and vulgar music;i tried everything:life-threatening
cocktails of booze and sleeping pills,ear-deafening volumes of
post-rock,slitting my wrists,knocking myself unconscious with a milk
bottle,negotiating with these junkie bats which is time-consuming,dangerous
and totally useless;but my senses won't get dulled,and thus i remain
eternally edgy,spiteful and hopelessly romantic;cos one can't simply ignore
psychotic armenians trying to kick in yer door whilst yelling death threats
at you,it's a fucking ordeal and i'm failing to find it challenging or even
somewhat interesting;i've tried everything to get away from the racket
except walking out of this drab dank building and trying to find another
place,another racket. oh if only i had the money to buy myself some peace
and quiet,oh if only i had the guts to shoot myself to nothingness,oh if
only i had the genius to make shitloads of money,and why,oh why,do i dream
about a better life when i can't even get a picture in my head of the
supposedly better life;it's nothing like the plastic television
perfection,oh no,it's so vague,it's in liam's defiant glare,it's in
morrissey interviews,it's in jarvis's eccentricities,it's in nicky wire's
eyeliner,it's living by the sea surrounded by oasis b-sides,embroidered
cushions and stuffed seagulls,and a guest-room,no death threats,no rap
music,no hysterical teen mums and no junkie scum please.
i like it here though,i don't belong here,i don't belong anywhere,except
maybe in liam gallagher's arms sipping champagne and listening to the small
faces;and all these bloody junkies ever listen to is boisterous boastful
ludicrously superficial rap songs that say nothing to them about their
lives.
growing up in this here murky working class waste-land one either becomes a
rapist or a rape victim,unless you're morrissey...i decided to become
MORRISSEY.
if i ever stand still i get shot,that's my reality.if you stand still long
enough you get a medal,that's your reality.and you fret about
commas,paragraphs and ezra fucking pound and people as deluded and snobbish
as you mistake it for
experiment?controversy?revolution?evolution?literature?well sod the lot of
you,i don't write for my posterity,besides i will never marry and i am the
end of the twisted family line,i don't write,i spit and shit out words and
if they happen to land on yer smart clothes,and i'm sure they will,then i
shall die even more edgy,spiteful and still hopelessly romantic,and if i
ever catch you sleeping then i will tear that medal from yer posh jacket and
shove it into yer open mouth and you'll slowly choke to death and i will
stand by your bed GUFFAWING.
i'm a clown,i'm a whore,i'm a reprobate,i'm a thief,i'm a drunkard,i'm a
liar,i'm a star.
© Copyright Delphine Lecompte 2005
