Monday, 29 September 2008


With the ‘Johnny’ installation, you appear to have come full moon. It is redolent of your early ‘pissoir’ exhibition.

Yes, screen. Perhaps you might inform people so. I commenced in commerce-looking-at with the recreation of a shatyanyellow pass from twentieth century. They named them ‘toilets’ at that time. I resounds strangely for us. Who would say, I will free the bilge in the toilets? It is boominlaffta to ponder that. Hownever, I journey off the lines. A full moon, you might suggest and I return that as veracity. Nonethoughless, the decay and fecalness of the age is gallopinghorsesofjoy to my organs.

And how did you create the hotbanger bags?

We first lit jonathonpiece and shaped with static gloves. I concentrated then with more erection than in previous pip-sessions. I visualized and it became existent. We hitsticked it into the makerbox and they latexed instantly.

And the filling? Some have said you have filled with your own chilcram?

No, screen. It was the pharms.

You visited them?

Yes, time in them. Disembodied bulges linked to crudey tubes, same for three hundred years. Only three left now in the entire. They furnished a galleon of jim-jam. I filled the ‘condoms’, as the then-people named them, at the station with full and frank assistance of my man-wives, before hanging in the fibre woods for packs to come review.

And would you say you’re happy with it?

I would respond, if permitted, but your pose is indiscrete and doggly.

(The lights dim. The fibre wood dissolves to a memory as recounted to the screen)


The line-cook flipped over twelve patties in a row, side-stepping along the griddle. Reaching up, she plucked pickles and tomatoes and lay them on the toasted buns. Johnny watched her from his seat near the pass. Her ass shifted like a hefty shopping bag. Some piece of meat, he thought, tearing his club sandwich.

She flipped the burgers again after two minutes and laid cheese on every other patty. I got to have this girl, Johnny thought, doodling on his napkin. This one is tight. He threw his bacon to the damp dog at his feet, jabbed a tooth pick in his gums, spat on his fingers and slicked his eyebrows. He threw out an arm for the waitress. ‘Give me some of them burgers, will ya?’ he said, sweating.

Monday, 22 September 2008

Chapter Four

I woke up from a dream in warm water with the magazine soppy over my wrinkled penis. I had been eating lunch with Jeffrey Archer. He salted potatoes and told me his ‘golden rules’. ‘No distractions’, he barked, continuing to salt the potatoes. He ignored my questions on ideas, character and setting, vigorously salting.
‘Jeffrey,’ I said, reaching across the table to touch his hand. ‘There has to be more to it than that. Tell me what I need to do and I’ll do it.’
‘No distractions!’ he shouted and slammed the salt shaker down on the table.

Tuesday, 16 September 2008

Lavender Hair

Bluey’s bodybuilder friend jiggled effeminately to the music, sliding up and down the blonde door-frame, while we rooted around the air-conditioned larder for wide-necked jars to accommodate the pool balls pinched from the games room. Daniel played mixologist, creating ‘dry pussies’, a hard, sour blend of vodka, Pernod, pickling juice and thin balsamic. We used the fourth round to fill the pickled onion jars rammed with stripes. The solids were scattered among the honey, chutney and jam jars in the heaving larder. We laughed hard, and I began to choke, when Vanessa walked in, her lavender hair flowing.