A big beautiful car. Dark green and full of muscle. Chrome and dark walnut trim. Alloy wheels. Cream handmade leather seats. A car anyone from a senator to a pimp would drive, if only either of them had the class. It, the car that is, was powering along, damn fast, with the top down in the rain. It had music playing but god knows how the driver could have heard. It drove out of town to the hills above and on a bit, to the sea. The engine roared and the car picked up the pace a little. It wasn’t a European car, it certainly wasn’t designed to deal with sharp curves, at speed, in the rain. But that was OK, instead it fired through the railing and out into the air, above a quiet little beach were dog walkers would occasionally meet and copulate.

It hung fat and heavy in the air, engine screaming before it nose piled into the thick wet sand. The wind shield cracked and one of the front tires rolled away down the beach. It wouldn’t be discovered til morning that the driver, a young black woman, pregnant, was dead, although it wouldn’t stretch the imagination to think of her so now, in the moments after the crash. Her child, an unnamed, unborn boy, died with her. The car did not burn up, as they so often feel impelled to do in such situations. As such, when the wreck was found it will surprise you to learn that it was charred and unidentifiable. There were foot prints in the sand for a while but the rising tide made them nearly invisible. But fuck it, the real questions lay in what the hell the woman was doing in such a vehicle, where the hell did she get her hands on such a fine piece of motor engineering. But then, she wasn’t important, so who gives a fuck anyway.

Tommy thought that if he could only get his parents to divorce, then maybe everything would be ok. Pete Hoffman’s parents had split, his dad roaring off in their beat up old station wagon. Now in place of one gruff business dad, with a dirt collard shirt and a loud voice, Pete had a string of cool new dads. One had a motorbike and smoked marijuana cigarettes on the Hoffman’s back porch. Another drove a firetruck red convertible, with a two foot CB antenna.

Pete said you could tell a lot about a dad from his means of transportation. If he had a car or a truck, with enough seats to carry a family, it meant he’d be sweaty and quiet, and wouldn’t kid around while he waited for your mom to get ready for their date. If he drove something fast, with only a couple of seats, he’d probably bring candy and chat with you about TV shows and comic books. The best example of this last kind of dad was the motorcycle guy, who’d once given Pete sixteen dollars just to buy cigarettes from the drug store a couple of blocks over.

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Fucking. It’s all I could see through all the smoke. Fucking. A mound of flesh and limbs writhing and surging with ecstasy. It was the smell that burnt my nostrils. Out of the haze I could make out a huge rock of hash, maybe a few meters high. Once in a while a scrawny ginger one would break from the pack and hack large chunks off the rock, grind them in a pepper shaker, and rejoin the group again. Kevy looked at me from the stage. He was playing his Steve Vai solo to a backing track for probably the 30th time now. He looked like a human tea bag in his vest, the self proclaimed hob goblin of rock scraped in his chest. I blacked out….

‘Any and all extraneous, superfluous or suspicious nipples will be kept private and confidential’.

The sign reassured me a little. Still, I was nervous. This would be my first full body massage. Next to me in the tiny lobby, sat an old lady with one of those permanently slanted, shaky heads. Across from us, filling a seat meant for two, a stout business man fiddled with his tom bowler. He caught me looking, and smiled lasciviously. I smiled back, though not with the mouth he could see. A bell mounted above the door rang softly.

Miss Bloom?’

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His story was made up in 1995 by a crack team of liars. All that great old-timey soap opera, all those gallant deeds and winsome lasses, global pandemics and military conflicts, dark ages, renaissances, and imperial allegiances. All faked photos and tall tales; and what a dream, so black as to occlude your entire life.

Ah, what times we didn’t have. What actualised rationality. Imagine all the sheeple, living free from herds. Imagine feeling real.

Mere echoes of the lost unpast remain. Movie titles – ‘the land before time’; aesthetics -the whirligig foamtopia of Mallets Mallet, Klaus Nomi’s pantomimed historia; sweet diaries agape - American Psycho.

Butter me slippery, it seems that only I remember, here in my invisible Zeppelin, afloat the tufty castles of the air, my vision quenched in Lady Sutra’s delirium, my skin tattooed mnemonic of the wake time. Now down I come, face burnt by pavement and the mocking quim cleave of a sergeants klosh.

They drag me, Romans, to the iron prison. They hook my smock and drench me till I float. They stance me on the wood in hooded veil. They paste me with their hoofey glugs of scat. Their wolfen cleave my mandible like chum. Then last as l’ectric joost slugs to the crisp, I cry ‘Tis ‘nuff, I love the lie’.

I couldn’t believe it when Suze finally agreed to a date. I’d fruitlessly pursued her for months, often at speed, gifting her with hampers of apples, pairs and juicy mangos. I’d done everything bar quit my narcoleptics to convince the picky cunt I’d be a catch. I’d scrawled her name countless times in dogs blood on the white washed walls of her isolated cottege, dedicated endless requests of romantic Police tracks on adult alternative radio, even once paid a dubious French company to name a star after her dad (RIP).

Finally the dear wee girl relented and our destined soul fusion began. I bundled her into the boot of my Nissan Micra, kicking at the face and knees to make room beside the delectable Fortnum and Mason picnic hamper (delish). We drove together to the pounding whack of Aphex Twin’s acid avant-garde industrial anthem ‘Come to Daddy’. I didn’t much like modern music, but she’d insisted. Mid journey I drovepood in a plastic M&S carryall, avoiding the unnecessary delay stop of a number two break, like a clever astronaut woman.

Her love mumbles from the boot began to wreck my head so I kangarooed the junket, shit kicking my reluctant bride to contemplative silence. What strange new beauties would her broken form assume, there in the remorseless cramp of the boot? I could hardly wait to look.

We decided to splash out on a fancy motel, and I carried her playfully struggling form across the threshold. I hate to admit it, but I can be mushily romantic at times! While I shaved my wrong and powdered my nose, Suze prettied herself in the bedroom. We wanted our first night together to be something neither us could forget. I’d bought her a secret present, and strapped it on, admiring my sleek L shaped form in the bathroom mirror.

I returned to the bedroom, swinging the double headed catspaw like an intimidating rubber dilettante. ‘I wish you were me’, I told her, jibbling above her cloth sack. As I swung that twin tongued tummy tingler it seemed to change, seemed to become the cobra we both wanted it to be.

Later, I buried us, placing a gentling kiss on her writhing plastinated head, and nailing our coffin bucket closed from inside. As dark closed in, my hands felt about, enjoying the confinement. It seemed I hadn’t cleaned our home sufficiently, some detritus from the forest remained. I scooped it up, counting the wet fat fronds of humus. Five leaves left.

You sweat in the boiler room of the Panopticon, cramped concrete basement roofed with a great fisheye lens, a crystal cornea inflecting itchy movements to the battys high above.
You huddle in a clutch of knees and hands, milking salt on the slick grill of metallic floor. You miss your life, hunting in the woods about the technium, nestling with a favored wench on folds of ermine, in the rosé light from dying oak combustions.

Woe Gideon, that blessed fools betrayal. Damned for the lust of gelded clockwork houris, the butter soft fingers of spayed tope fish! Felch be his name forever.

You void your bladder, and the sticky fetid pant of man piss sets you gag twitch on the ground like salty worm. The food hatch snaps rust jaw above your head, and stumble to a stand, brave fingers quirking through the bladed dark. In quick, withdraw! Portculis drop, safe gel hunks curdled in your razored grip. Throb of leaky cuts and mouth bare crumbed with questionable meats. Collapse you once l’amore, in hingey embryo surrender, muck mouthed tongue prod harsh at rotting tooths. They creak to laugh.

hot damn this was like having my head dunked into joy,
take this image and run with it, and some money and buy this little brilliance, this unsurpassed sample of heavens elevator music and smile, smile like a Cheshire cat manufacturer whose just replaced his entire work force with a machine.

Like finding an old sock, that still fits perfectly at last a little something from my youth, to yours.

if you don’t know this band, you are not alone, such a treasure as this is usually well hidden, under the ocean, in a rusting hulk, called the french music industry.

the hoopty-doopty swingsong songs are fairly inoffensive, but it is when the record, as a whole, is viewed together, at sunrise, in the pyranees, when you are high on peyote and the whole world is breaking you over that horizon, the whole light and damnation of the truth rushing towards you, when this album is half heard through the walls of a tumbledown farm house and the wind picks up and calls it to you and you are there, in that moment, then you know you have witnessed genius, that this album is for all time, that it signifies more than just the actual, rude music of its etching, and is truely a record of rural france, of dawn everywhere and that it has always been as such.

Motown takes on the social issues of the day and wins! well, drugs, racism, violence and the war in Vietnam are no longer a problem- they’re the main inspirations for Hollywood. this is often sited as one of the best albums of all time and i’d say it was really up there. like it matters what the hell i said. still its really really good. insightful, ground breaking and often, well, erotic. What’s Going On, Mercy mercy me etc are all fucking brilliant. laters