america is not the world
zoë smekens
tender sticks and morrissey quotes
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?contoversy?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.oh i wonder why chafik enjoys my company,honestly it baffles me,surely there are nicer tits and better patter in town,yet here he is again,quite literally boring my pants off,i never listen to a word he says,instead i study his gorgeous features,i could put this marvellous creature in a cage and look at him for weeks on end,my moroccan gem,everyone should have one,it would make us all endlessly better,i don't even want to hurt him,i don't even want him to hurt me;i just want to straddle him and feel his mighty
circumsized cock slowly slide into my insanely throbbing CUNT.
