PROLOGUE TO

If you make my pussy purr again I will make you the godfather of my first born. Before I could stop myself, I said it.

Henry looked up from fondling some pieces of heavy alloy bits under my hood and grimaced. He wiped the spittle away from his lip and smiled outright as he said the words that so many have said to me in the past. It'll cost you, like any miracle maker like Henry would say.
Frumpy and dead my little green curse sat to be manipulated, exhausted and molested. It
Lay between us, like a road kill rabbit, the expert and the straw chewer me. Its engine bulk laid in the back, normally used for oppkoppi tents and beer now a haven for cruddy cogs and horror film plastic.
He said 'look here…
Click click click
He moved and rubbed something and it responded like a dead dude. Rattled like a deserted bird cage, no one home.
'No oil. Here for a while'
I said 'fix it damit I keep my promises'

Makes a difference now doesn't it from seeing him as a mere observer at a downtown strip joint to actually seeing how he makes his g string money.


Winter 2004 a whole year has gone by since we last spoke, building bridges and gods own cooler box et al happens. young black men help them selves to an array of electronic equipment known as my stuff that was a lonely Sunday morning with no insurance and a hell of explanations to tell to those I had borrowed from, in money and equipment again.

Po mo po mo pop mo he kept saying like a scratchy retrospective vinyl record, po mo po mo….call it what it is don't try to post mod postmodernism.

"15 goliath hairs form his arm, black and so unnaturally him, yet he prides himself on this adolescent accomplishment. He may have the longest arm hair amongst us but it still doesn't give the right to Bogart that joint that I so carefully made with hb pencil and fine tobacco mixer, as he tugs away mesmerizing on his black arm hair and his knowledge of jazz. I know I little more than he does, I have seen the way older ones rattle their scotch and flirt with furniture when jazz plays on the record player. I have seen it in the dim light of kiddie's pajamas and teenage frustration as I shout shut up go to bed.

Yet he still tokes and says jazz is the best to get stoned to. I say as I grab the joint, let's run off to the trees across the road and space out in real space instead of this place. I have done this before with beer and dope. The little space teenage has to drink and smoke is brittle little, the need to get out and into the moist ranks of indepentandet importance. Once we grated the streets of the happy suburb of lesser friend number two for four hours on a paint thinner trip. We stole a car and we cracked several windows, eventually we were brought to book by said Chinas dad, but as I saw it later that morning buried in a sleeping bag on the floor of the TV room, better than sitting around and talking about it.
This road has blood on it, the scuffling of young boys heads across the tarmac is an image that will stay. The little boots that shake anf shimmiy across its pavement will never no the sex and violence that happened here. Dimples was the girls name and she liked to dance all night to nirvana songs in a wine soaked 'yeah yeah yeah'.her friend was brown and brunette but she helped us nonetheless. In and amongst the rock and roll blues was inserted here.

God knows every time I see you I get so god damned violin playing anxious, as a sinister rnb riff creeps up on me, so do you and your sakin and bones, a skin of just bathed smell and wardrobe of Calvinistic inclination. The guilt, I can't help myself, the funk of me is strong in you, and soon will be.

Walking back from a sleazy jol in a dirty city, I see tsotsies, hammer in hand maybe too a sickle of communistisc proportion. I whitey am scared of you with that metal in your hand and stars in your eyes. I spoke with maddened glee as the first socialist thug of iron came down on my head. The only thing that's going to save you from the drum and bass world of your drunken white world is a black friend… your james brown record in a cd collection of motorhead and judas priest?

Summertime hello sweat, swimming flabby self and perfect them, it's the same as it's always been. Only this time they have more money and they are pop stars. I drink to your bling bling and your medically paid sick sick, I synch in your moms sink, I see you flee, a summer time ago, stone cold bush.

Every Sunday night before I go out and face a silly and unfulfilled world, I will type…to the tune of bad 80s and stimulating memories of a languid nineties.

Nick and his ousie
One day it was shared a story of how black and white came together the stories here are sublime, yet they resound in some sort of mmm and recollection especially around the drinks table.

Young 16 nick came home from school and thought he had kept an important stash of goods within a pile of personal underwear. Upon finding it missing that afternoon, he thought two things

Aliens this being the age of the x files and such and such
Mom for wine money of course, but wait she promised to stop

No
God put a smile the face of young and fertile Janice the maid…as she cleaned out the wash basket. R50…could get you home a lot faster in those days.
We'd like to say Janice was a race car driver, maybe a rocket scientist or maybe by now, a minister of parliament, but no here it was, a clear cut case of maid cutting her loses with a goldmine find….
So stood a 16 Nick against an xx maid with a r50 up in the air.
"Janice did you take my r50 from my jeans"
Screeaaach…..
No denial just the upliftment of clothes as she undressed in front of him tyoprove her ignorance. Stark naked she screamed no no no no…

BLACK MAMA BANG
PORN RIFF SCOTCH SMOKE
GIRL LOVE SMILE SEX

Sonic boom in the neighborhood as another car alarm goes off growling like restless goats on a Saturday night,whie motorcycle hell goes on down below. A dog yelps past me and into a side street as I blow rusted smoke through my stained mouth.

Choruses of frogs on the other side of the Apies River sing:

'Thought arrives like butterflies' read read read and learn…

Brink brink we're on the…of something new tonight, somewhere there's someone who is going the extra mile and thinking at the same time. Conceptual , continuity , un-clichéd, sparse of smut and on the road, in a little chip somewhere swishing and swaying in the world of lip synch and beer on tap, flows beyond the back tracks of civil society an assainsation of sophististicatrion , a stop to the good idea and the cult, a return of the white suits to the black boat.

Clink clink another drink smile
Its only you alone right now.


6.

To make a Tolstoy short…

WHO IS TO SAY THAT AT EACH MOMENT WHILE THE PEN MOVES HE IS TRULY HIMSELF?
At another he might simply be making things up.
How can he know for sure?
WHY SHOULD HE EVEN WANT TO KNOW FOR SURE?

Little bit of shame,
Another badly framed snot stained t shirt at some one else's extreme. Another scream down a phone line to someone who don't know me. Another type of damage control with another kind of girl, tonight.
One more splattering of a good night tooth brush. I wink at the mirror I don't talk back and I know better. Dad dog donderdag aand.little bit of shame another stompie plantation in the garden tonight.

CHECK IT OUT

Ignominy

Something about flies on a lion like poets round a bar, my next drink arrived. A little ghost of last year shunted me as it left the establishment. I gulped down the drink quickly. And said what next? He approached me as close as he could by moving his bar stool within my leaning range. As he did he said: delft.