7 Fuckers and Sinners in London

London is a lie. "It's the greatest fuckin' city in the world," they said. "You're so fuckin' lucky to live in London," they said. "London is the go-to city for anyone who wants to be someone, the hub of modern art and culture, the centre of humanity, the centre of the world," they said. London is a filthy poor mess of small alleys where human scum comes to try their luck. Like the rest of them, I ended up paying 30 quid to the prostitute residing in the rubbish bin next to mine.

When Magdalene married me I never planned to move from York. The accents make my stomach churn in excitement and the crude thick hands of the crude thick workers make me dizzy. When I heard we are moving to London, I rented a suit and pretended to be Prince Charles of fucking Wales for a day, but then I moved to London, and I never saw no Prince Charles of fucking Wales, and everyone looked better than me anyway.

If people were defined by the worst thing they ever did, we'd all be sinners and criminals. We all need to go rot in hell and prison and anything else Johnathan Edwards would want. So light yourself on fire, sinner, and make yourself an example!
But we overlook that. Who knew Gandhi treated his wife like scum?
Ah, doesn't matter! He wore a diaper and preached peace.

Then she left.

Screams and screams and pants and her head banging on the wall. Shut up, bitch or my wife will hear! Magdalene left me inside her as she walked out. She left me in London.
She left me homeless in London, inside a stranger from the an alley I used to call mine.

Dear Magdalene
I love you. I love how you hate my family, and how you hate yourself for not trying to love them like you love me.
I love the smell of your shampoo.
I love the way you sprinkle salt on your eggs in the morning.
and I love the way you make noises when you concentrate on something. Sucking noises. It's weird, but I love it.
I'm sorry sorry, you know I am.
I threw away the Simpsons for you. The melted ones too. I threw away the bad habits and the second thoughts and all the voices.
I threw away a part of me damnit, I threw away my posters and rotten shirts.
I even threw away the photos that make me squint at you and scream inside. I threw away the turtlenecks, and I threw away my phonebook, so I can't even phone no one.
It's true.
Love Malcolm

5&6 A Brief Glance into the Mind of a Regular Genius

 {Sorry for the long wait, here's a double chapter}


I'm not random. My train of thought is just faster than yours.

I always feared my life would be random; that it wouldn't make sense. However, the more I look at it, mine makes more sense than that of anyone else I know. Everything I did has lead to everything I do.. or everything I didn't do has lead to everything I don't do. My apartment is a mess because I don't clean it up. I'm a scoundrel and a shitdick because I fuck a bitch and don't call her back.

Magdalene left me on a Monday. Who leaves someone on a Monday? It's one of those days that never has any significance for anyone. No one gets married on a Monday, celebrates on a Monday, or cries on a Monday. Anyway, she said even she can't understand me anymore. She said my mind was deteriorating, and soon all that will be left would be a massive ball of dough, until all I could do was lie in my bed and stare at the walls. She said my mind is a crystal glass; beautiful to behold in absolute stillness, yet extremely fragile and will break from the slightest push.
I spent an hour cutting up all her belongings and nailing them to the door.
I called her seven times that night, only to cry into the receiver.

Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster, and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you. -Nietzche

When I was young, my idol was Frederic Nietzche. He made sense of everything. He bashed human nature until we are all merely aliens that slobber along, consuming and destroying everything we touch except ourselves.

She compared me to the psychopath in Silence of the Lambs.
That's just silly. That guy was truly insane. INSANE. I guess she just meant I'm unpredictable.

While high, I get a buzz above my eye balls. Like a bee that crawled in through my ear while I was asleep and that started panicking when it realised that it couldn't get out.

I also used to look up to Hugh Laurie. And Stephen Fry. Oh sweet, sweet Stephen. I would watch one episode of the Laurie and Fry show over and over again, studying their mannerisms and expressions, and then I'd play them all out to Magdalene. She would giggle like a little girl.
Then she told me Stephen Fry was gay, and my whole world broke down.
It was Stephen Fry.
And he was gay. I wasn't sure if my love for his mind was just that, or if it extended to something more. Love and sexuality are complex.

Insanity in individuals is something rare - but in groups, parties, nations and epochs, it is the rule.
I am the only sane one here.

When I was young I used to read the complete Oxford dictionary daily, and blot out each word I'd learnt.
Now my whole dictionary is black. However, I find it unnecessary to use overly elaborate words all the time.

My parents were originally from Yemen. I'm white though. I'm an undercover Arab.
I'm a Catholic poseur.

I'm the heart and soul of the next generation. Your children will be me. I am their Jesus.
Fuck GG Allin, he is nothing next to me. Though I refuse to shit on you.

I've been told time and time again to get up when I fall down. I don't want to get up anymore. I want to lie there, clinging to the fresh wet grass, and thrashing about like a fish on dry land. I want to see the stars by peripheral vision, and feel the rubbery soles of shoes stepping on my pained, red fingers. I want to feel the moisture seeping through my shirt on to my hot hard chest, and send jolts through my spine. I want to look up and see the blurred silhouettes of people I no longer care for, walking away from me. The view from down here is far better.
More than anything, I want to turn around and find my Magdalene next to me, telling me to calm down, because she'll take care of it.
Because she loves me.

4 Talk About a Revolution

Magdalene said that we went to the same primary school. I felt rotten that I'd forgotten, so I began kissing her instead, and told her "well, thank God you have tits now or I'd never have fucking noticed you before." She didn't say anything after that, and I fucked her until she couldn't keep quiet any longer.

I don't understand God. Fucking Christians.
And Muslims.
And Jews.

God is a human creation.
And he is bisexual.

Once I travelled back in time. I saw myself dying on a cold, wet cobblestone street. I was naked, my lips turning blue and my cock shrinking down into a shrivelled white embarrassment. I was laying as if I was about to be autopsied. I yelled at myself until I woke up and realised I was covered in bruises and bitemarks.

My grandfather used to have a small private chicken farm. Chickenery. I plucked them, one feather at a time. I didn't know that a chicken could feel. I wonder if it's the same as pulling hair off a human's head.
My mother said it was Magdalene's fault.

I corrupted Saint Magdalene.

Idea: A tall mysterious black man walks into an empty storeroom, where he sees broken glass and rotten eggs. He walks to the other side and discovers an array of old porn magazines, covered in real hairy beavers. The camera rolls back as he takes off his clothes and an en-shadowed woman appears and undresses. Camera fades to black.

Magdalene never wore t-shirts with good bands because the good bands didn't make any t-shirts. Fashion was a means of making money for the man, and god knows we hate the man.
I can still smell the musky sweet mixture of sweat, coconut shampoo, and cheap vanilla deodorant on her violet Analogs teeshirt, spotted with my come.

3 My Name is Malcolm

I'm trying to describe myself.
I am a dark haired caucasian/Arab born into Catholicism, practising Atheism, living in York.
My name is Malcolm.

At the beginning of the summer solstice all the hippies and gypsies in England go to Stonehenge, or near Stonehenge anyway. They stay up all night, their clothes disappearing as time goes by. The women have long dirty hair and different paints splattered across their faces, bare breasts, and unshaven legs. The men have straggly beards and skinny legs, but I prefer looking at the women.
At sunrise the leader will make love to the a "maiden fair" in front of a blazing fire.
Then we all run to the edge of the cliff.
And all I can feel is the wind against the still wet paint on my thighs and stomach, and the passion that flows through me.

I used to stare at Magdalene as she mowed her lawn, or hung up wet clothes to dry. She wore short shorts and loose shirts with well known punk bands on them.
Stupid ignorant little girl. The best bands are not popular.
A tingling sensation began at my toes and creeped into my things, my groin, my stomach, and my arms as I outlined her body with my eyes.

One day I thought she had died. She had just gone off to camp for five days.
I was disappointed at my lack of attention.

When I go to the grocery shop, all the colours in the world disappear. Everything is the shade of silver eyeshadow and snow. I love standing in the frozen foods aisles, sitting on the edges and feeling the ice against my fingers until someone chases me off. It feels like the world has ended and I'm the only one going to hell.