Ich leave real quick das Berlin Nacht
Ich rausum mach aus Berlin nacht
Ich rausum mach das Berlin nacht
Ic-raus-Mach-Schnell aus das Berlin nicht
Ich-aus Schnell mach sas Berlin nacht
Ich Mach Schnell pack und aus das Berlin nacht
Ich raus schnell mach von Berlin nacht
The child's four-fingered bruises on my hip
Meant I had been one day possessed

Right through Berlin Nacht
Right on to Berlin Tag
The sunlit Berlin day
By Tonsillitis size train station Zoo
Could only in one way fail to impress
This on drinks door I did lay
I had been one day possessed...



Unfinished, unedited essay. Excuse the drips.

Sound your voice ... I forget where I read that, but it's a phrase I enjoyed like the phrase everybody is howling now, I thought and then typed it and then retyped it and retype it again here. Music and prose combined I also thought make the drumbeat of a sentence and the word drumbeat is inspired by a James Wood essay. The Fun Stuff: Homage to Keith Moon is about how The Who man inspired Wood to play drums.

The essay is autobiographical. Wood says that on hearing The Who as a kid he tried imitating Moon on a friend's older brother's drumkit. Moon spoke to boys, I guess, in those days anyway. 1974 I was born. My first Moon memory was in about 1982. He played the paedophile Uncle Ernie in Tommy, a film I watched during my first flu and had a nightmare about where I was kind of blind, deaf and dumb and in loads of debt. But he amused me, Moon. I saw The Who at Isle of Wight, my dad said and he talked with my mom about Moon's antics and I laughed at the smashing up of the drumkits and the Rolls Royces' driven into swimming pools and the TV sets thrown out of hotel windows. Cliche I know. At 16 I'd eventually throw my old TV set out of my bedroom window as homage to Keith Richards and Moon. And I'd eventually sit up and down on a piano keyboard and break the strings accidentally but not as a homage to Moon. Back to earlier years though, my dad said: Animal's based on Keith Moon. Animal was my fave Muppet, the mad drummer with the mad eyes. And Moon had mad eyes, I felt. But they seemed friendly, the white of his eyes did like a cow's but Moon had a wild glint I thought I understood. I don't know.

Woods compares Moon's drumming to his ideal sentence. It's rebellious, a jazzy but tight but a splurge of a style, writes Wood. I paraphrase. It's the kind of sentence Wood himself wants to write, having published a novel, only he's too chickenshit.

He says:

(hjhdjfhbfj)

This inspired me to look for this Moon kind of sentence in DHL, Bellow and DFW. So by my pillow I stacked two book piles. All paperbacks. So there's The Rainbow, Twilight in Italy, Apocalypse, Herzog, Him with his Foot in his Mouth, It All Adds Up, Infinite Jest, A Supposedly Fun Thing, Brief Interviews. In each I dip. Flicking thru the pages, stopping on paragraphs I think chunky enough, I spent a weekend searching for these Moonlike sentences.

Here's what I found.

pg 214 Herzog
pg 156 or 7 - pg 120 - DHL essays
Forget what in DFW.



[Paul Morley:] "What did you want to be when you were seventeen?"
[Grace Jones:] "Not bored."
[Paul Morley:] "And what was the first thing you did to alter that situation of being bored?"
[Grace Jones:] "I floated on a cloud."
[Paul Morley:] "Like we all do I suppose?"
[Grace Jones:] "Not all of us."
[Paul Morley:] "And then what happened?"
[Grace Jones:] "The lucky ones."
[Paul Morley:] "And then what happened? You fell off the cloud?"
[Grace Jones:] "I don’t think I ever came down from that cloud. It was wonderful."

Oh the action

Jones
Miss Grace Jones

[Jean-Paul Goude:] "There was nothing that indicated that Grace could be a star except her deep conviction."

Jones
Miss Grace Jones

[Grace Jones:] "I think that too much vanity in a man irritates me, and in a woman, oh God..."

Jones
Miss Grace Jones

[Paul Morley:] "What things make you blush?"
[Grace Jones:] "Being adored and worshipped, one of the things that makes me blush."

Jones
Miss Grace Jones

[Jean-Paul Goude:] "Grace really has this thing in the back of her head. She really lets herself carry and when it feels good she just fits into things. She doesn’t analyze too much."

Jones
Miss Grace Jones

"I first met Grace at the Russian Tea Room in New York. That was about 1978. She was like the disco queen of that period."

Jones
Miss Grace Jones...





For a long time I used to ...



Laura and Tommy were lovers
He wanted to give her everything
Flowers, presents, and most of all, a wedding ring.

He saw a sign for a stock car race, a thousand dollar prize it read, he couldnt get Laura on the phone, so to her mother, Tommy said

Tell Laura I love her,
Tell Laura I need her
Tell Laura I may be late,
I've something to do, that can not wait.

He drove his car to the racing ground
He was the youngest driver there
The crowd roared as they started the race
from the track they drove at a deadly pace

No one knows what happend that day, how his car over turned in flames, but as they pulled him from the twisted wreck, with his dying breath, they heard him say...

Tell Laura I love her,
Tell Laura I need her
Tell Laura not to cry
my love for her, will never die

Now in the chapel Laura prays, for her Tommy who passed away
it was just for Laura he lived and died
alone in the chapel she could hear him cry

Tell Laura I love her,
Tell Laura I need her
Tell Laura not to cry
my love for her will never die

Tell Laura I love her,
Tell Laura I need her...


Searching for the pefect tunes.... First heard this on headphones at about 2am on a Friday in the dark lying in bed and the rich sound of the synth thrummed down into some deep-seeming part of me and then the piano melody begins and I wanted it to go on for a longer time than the minute or so it plays on the tune.




Zombie soundtrack without zombies. And I would just like to remember some words of St. Francis of Assisi which I think are really just particularly apt at the moment. Where there is discord, may we bring harmony. Where there is error, may we bring truth. Where there is doubt, may we bring faith. And where there is despair, may we bring hope...




This creates weird memories that I can't see, just an orange glow of my parents in their youth.




This made me think: Fuck youth ... Getting wrinkled and old is to be celebrated. All my heroes are wrinkled and old - or rather they have greying hair.





The maze is not for you....
Today was dark when I woke. Yesterday too. The day before was grey vapour, in the room, when I woke, dusk hour. The sun goes down between 4 and 4:30 and my body is in this groove where I fall asleep about 8am. Kip my dad would call it. Sleep. So I did too. He also taught me, when you bite into say a plain or chocolate Hobnob, you suck the crumbs from the biscuit before you dunk. That way the oats or other bits don't fall into your tea. He also taught me that when you urinate, to stop your penis dribbling afterwards into your pants, you press into your testicles and that pumps out the excess that'd trickle out later and sting, it did, it stung before I didn't shake it and press my things. Yeah. It is 10:18pm. I've not left my bedsit. I've spoken to nobody. Your voice is my voice are the only words I typed online. And I kind of teach myself to think without thinking.
Society of Spectacle

the American Beserk
Saul Bellow ... that frying jazz

Turning it over, considering, like a madman
Henry put forth a book.
No harm resulted from this.
Neither the menstruating     stars (nor man) was moved
at once.
Bare dogs drew closer for a second look

and performed their friendly operations there.
Refreshed, the bark rejoiced.
Seasons went and came.
Leaves fell, but only a few.
Something remarkable about this
unshedding bulky bole-proud blue-green moist

thing made by savage & thoughtful
surviving Henry
began to strike the passers from despair
so that sore on their shoulders old men hoisted
six-foot sons and polished women called
small girls to dream awhile toward the flashing & bursting
  tree!

Berryman ... Dream Song 75
"He says life while I say exist..."

A maggot-in-the-dirt novel ... in which I remember things I did and then type about them.


The voice in my head. Sometimes, it speaks slowly. Sometimes fast. The voice never stops flowing like the word brain is flowing thru my brain so I type brain. My human brain with human thoughts. One hundred days in sodom thoughts. My name is Mark Corrigan. My name isn't Mark Corrigan but my brain said it, so yeah. 

The voice in my head. Sometimes, it speaks slowly. Sometimes fast. The voice never stops flowing like the word brain is flowing thru my brain so I type brain and yes ... where-what now? 

The voice in my head said this shit above. But that's kind of the point without being the point, which is bullshit I guess cos I'm typing this shit and so I admit its shitiness which makes it even shitter.



Hello ... Hello


Turn art into gum disease ... gum disease into art
 
When art cures gum disease I wish. Copied cropped pasted from Contemplating a Self Portrait as a Pharmacist, a Damien Hirst sculpture of glass, steel, wood, oil on canvas, lab coat, various artist's materials, tables, mirror, shoes, ashtray, lighter, cigarettes, ceramic jug, bowls, mug and toilet roll ... 1998.
a memory ... or a great ape - click here to buy a book


Memory, late-August 2016, some men's bullshit magazine, picked up in the barbers, flipped thru, reading the copy but not the art of a NOKIA advert selling me, asking me to buy again, my phone.

Back then, the ad begins. Did you think about life much? I think you did. I remember. You in bed, it was like an ash-pit, which you typed, all those spliffs, cigs. Or not cigs, too expensive. It was rollups.

The second paragraph I'm sure says: How did we end up in this room for seven years? It's a coverted attic, kind of a garret maybe. Poet's are known to live in garrets. I'm not a poet. I feel like a poet though.

And the next line of this NOKIA page I read before my haircut says: Remember the night we ... yeah. You asked: What is the model of your mobile phone?

Then it goes something like: I didn't know. I didn't care what model. It didn't say on the handset so you undid the plastic cover and the battery said BL-5CB. Then you went online. The model of mobile was the NOKIA 105. You told me: It cost £20 from Fone Spot in Rusholme. After you paid and walked out the shop the man who sold it laughed loudly and I thought: At you or me?

I defo remember the last line cos it locked in my brain like a bone in a throat I thought when getting my haircut, the barber shaving a number five, an almost crewcut. It says, the last line: Perhaps it says something about the empty spaces in your life, the model, about what you forget and it's filled by a _____ ringtone.

Having a bath that night, the water cool, I asked: Why that omission? Cos the sound? I'm not here.
Leonard Knight 1931 ... 2014



William backslash Emily I typed before a dot-dot-dot and more names, Jim and Sam, which I also separated with a backslash, then Cormac and Lydia, which I separated with a third back of the slash, which sounds urgh, back of the yeah and more three dots, always three dots, six, nine, a tic.

The sound and sight of yes and other words above seems natural/okay-but-not-okay, to me.

And more bullshit or not bullshit is I don't know you and you don't know me and I only know the bones of who I am. But that's alright, will do: three I's and two yous, one bones ... thinking about books/letters/nonfiction.
The title of this collection of words is Deleted.

An artist whose work I've seen online asks: Is playing GTA a valid enough experience from which you can make art?

Yes, I thought. It was a hot day. Stood outside Vinewood Medical Centre I lit a rollup and gazed at nothing, at the shadows on the tarmac on the road. Sunbeams warmed my face, tightened the skin, the cheeks as I inhaled smoke as I exhaled smoke as I inhaled smoke. I exhaled smoke. I thought about the documentary I'd watched the night before about the porn film known as Animal Farm. Haunted, I thought. Ben Dover, I thought. Once I'd flicked my cig at a litter bin I climbed onto my bicycle. I pedalled down Power Street then Occupation Avenue into Downtown where I locked my bike to the railings outside MAZE, which is a bank in my world. A woman was using the left cashpoint, a man the right. As I waited, rooting in my front jeans' pocket for my cashcard, a man on a disability scooter called the man using the cashpoint. Oi, he said and smiled. What's that plastic thing you've put on the slot? I smiled at the floor.

Memory as a library I thought as the ATM slot sucked in my MAZE card. I pressed the 1 key, the 8 key twice and the 2 key. I pressed the button for Cash, pressed 300. My heartbeat was fastening. A drop of sweat trickled down my forehead as my fingers grasped the wad of notes that came out of the mouth of the ATM as it bleeped. It was a hot day.

From Games Podium I purchased a PS3. From Cash Converter I got a 20 inch high-definition TV.

With the console under my right arm, the telly under my left, I stuggled to the Downtown Cab Company taxi rank where a Middle Eastern-looking man sat at the steering wheel of a parked AUDI Something. Our eyes met. Can you take us to Rockford please, I said and as I hefted the TV onto the backseat the man said: Watch, it's leather!

Sat behind him, as we talked about the sunshine, I observed the black hairs on his neck. There was an old pink scar and I wondered what'd produced the inch-wide slit.

Turn left onto Peaceful Street please mate, I said and three or four seconds after he did I gestured with a hand over his shoulder and droning words came from my lips for him to park by the oak tree. Yeah. I picked up the PS3, put it on the pavement outside my house, same with the TV and it took me two lugs up the four stairs between the doorstep and my room and I was breathless and sweating down my back. I went downstairs into the taxi and he parked outside the MAZE in Downtown where I unlocked and pedalled my bike to my Rockford ashpit.

Yeah. Life. I live in Eclipse Towers. I got a PS3, a new TV. After plonking/putting the set on a rickety table, and after connecting the wires, I plugged them in and loaded the console with GTA V. It's a disc. It whirred in the machine. It whirred for 25 minutes. I remember seeing on the screen the numbers 16/21 and I went down the CO-OP supermarket, got tobacco. I think I got a carton of humous, a box of breadsticks. When I came back the TV screen still said 16/21.


I died and respawned on Mount Chiliad



For the next three months, from now till December, I want to spend my time climbing the rocks of, the crags of Mount Chiliad while thinking about UFOs and signs.




P-wharp



The Fart - 21:36 - 10/08/2016 ... Gonna edit this. But yeah: If I had a hundred wishes that could magically happen, one of my more frivolous ones would to be able to break-wind for like twenty minutes per rip. Imagine. To fart for anything over ten seconds is my idea of bliss. To release a gust from your arse for half a minute would feel, would feel. It would almost, on the odd occasion, when you've wanked a plenty, it would almost feel as enjoyable as ejaculation. Just now, watching the OLYMPIC men's all-around gymnastics final on the laptop, I dropped one. As a Chinese man with a flat-top hair somersaulted over a high bars, my gut squelched and with a move down it went toward my backside when the air gave like a little rip, a coda, before silence and then it came like a P-WHARP elongatedly and the sound opened as the pressure increased and the noise I think was the wind squeezing thru the crinkles around the hole of my anus and the displacement of gas from bladder to the room's atmosphere, the lightness it put inside my body, felt good. It piped out trumpeting into almost a crescendo I felt that moment but in hindsight to describe the sound and the soul of the fart the best words would be: It whimpered. It stunk of last night's turkey slices, a gamey pong I've noticed rise thru my skin and maybe there was a tang in the odour when taking a piss. But yeah. I love to fart, trumping I called it as a kid. It's weird though how I feel embarrassed when farting in front of women. But anyway, write this, something to do. I farted. It felt good but not as good as ejaculating. I wanted to fart more but couldn't. The End.

I'm not asking anyone to buy or read ... Just enjoy uploading pics of it

To howl and flow is the way, my way, where I want to go/be ...




howling, maggots, pointlessness

like a caged beast born of caged beasts born of caged beasts born of caged beasts born in a cage and dead in a cage, born and then dead, born in a cage and then dead in a cage, in a word like a beast, in one of their words, like such a beast, and that I seek, like such a beast, with my little strength, such a beast, with nothing of its species left but fear and fury, no, the fury is past, nothing but fear, nothing of all its due but fear centupled, fear of its shadow, no, blind from birth, of sound then, if you like, we'll have that, one must have something, it's a pity, but there it is, fear of sound, fear of sounds, the sounds of beast... SB.
Click the Like, thumbs-up ... Express your disingenuousness

When I published Breaking Glass in Your Tomb Again, I forget where I was but a voice came to me. It was my voice but not my voice. It had a slight Birmingham accent and it said: You’re a maggot in the dirt now mate. And I interpreted it, this brain noise. And it meant like I was now a kind of poet of splatter: jism, dirt, flow, blood. I’m unsure what that means. But it sounds okay. I sold nine copies of my novel. It was inspired by worm of worms like Shem Penman and Murphy and Molloy, the highstyle in the bible, SHXPR.
Howl



"I know, this is shit but ... Be cool unto the impression you make on peoples, Jah said pretentiously and that is a thought I copied and mucked round with and pasted from a book about bumming - or bummin: whatever sounds gooder - and in which I read the word contenant whose meaning I dunno without opening the Oxford Dictionary that's bottom of the pile on the bed." - A man on a downer in my head.


HOWL



More attack, more neurosis - Einsamkeit durch technik.




Below is an email I sent a good friend who's not replied to a small handful of messages I've sent lately.

Neurosis - vorsprung durch technik.

"Just knocked - you might be at work.... How come you ignore though lately? That's a hypothetical question. I should get used to it by now... my bad. I suck energy or something like that."

Feeling kind of bummed (less when stangers ignore you, more when the small number of friends you have do) it's nothing to be ashamed of. Seems to be the zeitgeist in my world/room... the desert I chose to live in.

What do you do though? Celebrate.

The sound and the fury.



There is a theory we think about in my house (bedsit) and it's based around people who in social-media profiles call themselves writers. They are not writers perhaps. On the front of a can of beans it says HP Baked Beans. But that's beans, baked beans, on the supermarket shelf. Whereas the code of a writer or poet or artist is different, in my house, in my bedsit. I am unable to explain it further. Or in other words (and these're the most liberating I utter - say/type/think a lot): I dunno.





Feels weird talking to people thru machines, machines thru people. Feels cool to call things art even when things are not art ... David Ooze 1922 - 1997.



This is how online neurosis works - seed to tree.

Neurosis might be the wrong word - it's just brain-thoughts. And if it is neurosis, that's okay. It's a writer's fuel I think. I want to be a writer. I just edited this to say - I am.

Megan Boyle is too, or she was. She uploaded a YouTube film of her walking round this maze in a wood. Cos of where she puts the camera (on the ground it seems) she occasionally walks in and out of shot.

Four minutes I watched before skipping to when she steps into view at twelve minutes sixteen seconds. Then I paused and positioned it, replayed and typed: 12:16 - Enter Boyle (to sound of woodpecker pecking, I think.)

In the seconds I was writing the comment, I knew the word pecking was superfluous. But I like the rhythm and repetition, which kind of suits the sound of a woodpecker's beak on a treetrunk. It was a split-second decision, unedited (a Boylean word), just unplanned chitchat.

(The sound's either a woodpecker, I thought, or a road-drill. I wasn't a hundred percent sure.)

When I'd pressed Post, however, I thought people might think I'd unintentionally added the surplus word pecking or they might see it as a pretentious thing to write, seeing that's what woodpeckers do - they peck. Maybe I thought that cos in April 2016 I published a novel on a literary press that targets the type of readers who buys a Megan Boyle book, known for her understated tone without surplusage.

I just predicted that the word pecking would be picked up on.

And it was ... Twelve or so hours passed and Megan Boyle replied: It was a woodpecker, I think.

That of course mirrors my comment - but without the word pecking. No major thing, I know. Maybe if I had deleted the word pecking Megan Boyle would have replied as she did. But I wanted to reply to Megan Boyle, to say if you were in the wood the sound of a woodpecker would be unmistakable. Though it's likely she didn't register the pecking, I thought. But anyway, I was unsure why she typed I think and I couldn't find the right words in the right order without sounding like an arse. It's as if Megan Boyle's comment combines sincerity, an unthinking sincerity with a nod to my word choice. And cos I want to be a writer, word choice is important to me. Not many things are important to me (the UK's sovereignty for instance) but word choice is, a voicey unpolished prose style is too.

Five minutes later, anyway, I replied.

Like joggers joggin, I typed ... the tone of which might be dickish but I wanted to convey my okayness with using a superfluity. And (although when typing my original post I didn't think yeah, I enjoy alliteration so let's do some alliteration) the reason why I put a woodpecker pecking is perhaps cos I like alliteration in speech. I also like it in the style of Joyce and Shakespeare. But I think reading Nabokov's prose put me off it - alliteration. But despite disliking it in most prose, I can't help speaking or typing alliteratively. It's just how the music in my brain sometimes beats, my zombie soundtrack. And I also think the missing G in joggin might scrape the ear of an unknown reader - but that's how it sounded in the instant I typed the reply.

One of my favourite sounds is a woodpecker pecking. I've not heard that deep but like hollow vibration for around twenty years. I remember it as a kid, with my dad up Bluebell Wood. Hark at that Peppy, he said. A woodpecker, pecking a tree!

Phew... Yeah. I'm unsure if what I've tried explaining is neurosis. I can't help how my feelings translate the world. This thing with Megan Boyle was only ten minutes of brain-time. The thoughts that pass thru the mind, however, when communicating to strangers on social media ... it's confusing - as it is in real life. And this is the kind of thing you'd explain to a mate and they'd think what-the-fuck are you on about? So I've blogged about it.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz... I know.

The metaphysical impossibility of neurosis in the bones of someone who is not you...


Coiled inside ... Uncoiled outside, whatever that means.
I told a guy I wear my Michael Jackson shoes when I'm in a confident mood. I told a guy I wear my black adidas boxing referee shoes when my mood ebbs. They thought I was serious. Otherwise this is an advert for scaz tales ... Prose Home Movie

Buy the film about my life, Prose Home Movie ... click

And more DeLillo:






More art project about zombies, which're terrorists ... more Godzilla in all cities everywhere. Not just Kyoto or New York or Mexico.


Godzilla in all cities everywhere - not just Kyoto or Mexico


Do not try, says Arturo Belano but in which book I forget. I went out on my bike today. I stopped at this concrete space, this concrete forecourt with concrete benches and concrete steps. It was a Manchester University building in Hulme. I got off my bike. A group of women were lying on the grass. Three times I had eye-contact from one dark-haired woman. But she was too far to see my face. I sat in the sun with a black coffee and a cig. I had got the coffee from a restaurant: Kim by the Sea. But as I sat in the blazing sunbeams I felt these piles in my arse, throbbing pains. I just googled: Haemorrhoids: swollen blood vessels in or around the anus and rectum. The stabs inside, as if a needle pricked into me, the stabs distracted my reading Godzilla in Mexico. It's a poem by Arturo Belano. Everyone reads Belano I thought. You steal from his poems. Everyone reads DFW. You steal from him too. At first I studied at Spielberg Film School and then I went to Bono Film School and then I went to Jagger Film School and then I went to Warhol and Burroughs Film School and then I went to Finnegans Film School and then I went to Kraftwerk Film School and then I went to Cormac Film School and then I went to Keith Haring Film School and then I went to the many Arts in the many Deserts Film School. I didn’t get a qualification from any of the film schools. But I tried. Currently I am enrolled in Belano Film School and also enrolled in DFW Film School. But all I wanted today was to sit in the sun reading Godzilla, thinking about the throwback UFO scenes in Fargo, the TV series. But there were zombie pains in my arse.

So many film schools ... so little learnt in a way.

Prose Home Movie ... soundtrack - click each title to listen.

Aphex Twin - 4

The Groupies - Primitive

Happy Mondays - Performance

Dvořák - American Lento

Suicide - Ghost Rider

Hazlewood and Sinatra - Friday's Child

Queen/Bowie - Under Pressure

The Church of John Coltrane - Psalm

La Düsseldorf - La Düsseldorf 

Kanye West - Wolves - Early Version

Ralph Vaughan Williams - I Got Me Flowers

Monks - I Hate You

Jagger - Memo From Turner

Miles Davis - On The Corner

David Bowie - Chant Of The Ever Circling Skeletal Family

Lee Perry - Super Ape

Finnegans Wake




Keith Haring Film School

Fear crowds, fear public spaces ...










DeLillo


Just typing ... like a Krautrocker

This is on my aging remembering mind, just stuff, shit, fog, weed, mist, laptop, words in head, energy in fingers, Facebook, unedited in the 1970s, memories, recall the what now would seem weird but it isn't, type it as you howl it, post online before it disappears, before you delete thru fears of seeming pretentious and strange, add words, change words, make it you, to pun on Pound, Ezra, the mad poet, in his cage, you in your cage, I thought, you in your cage I thought. You're not Ezra Pound. I never thought I was Ezra Pound ... When I was young I had a tail. They called it a tail so I called it a tail. It was my tail. It was my dick, my thing, my wisdom of the snake. But at four years old it was my tail. I weed from it. And I think they called taking a pee a tinkle, but anyway. I was small enough to bath in my Nan Feldspar's kitchen sink. My cousins, X and Whatever, were also in the sink, my aunt Zelda washing us with a gritty bar of soap and a scrubbing brush I recoiled from, the bristles, metal maybe, maybe not. I said ouch. The reason I recall this is cos my aunt Z pointed at my thing and said: That's your tail. Maybe she didn't point at it but the word tail connects to the memory where my aunt Z might've also pointed at my cousin X's thing and she said: That's your tuppence. And we laughed. Zelda dried us, dressed us. And we had a glass of orange squash that tasted bitter. We liked sugar. I liked sugar. They liked sugar. Sugar was good. Everyone liked sugar. My aunt Z liked sugar. My Nan Feldspar liked sugar. My Granddad Feldspar liked sugar. We watched TV. There was an advert, a cartoon man wearing a top-hat shaped like a cigarette and the butt flowed with smoke and with a creepy yellow grin he was offering kids cigs but then Superman swooped down and said blah-blah Nick O'Teen! But I sided with Nick O'Teen. I was on Nick O'Teen's side. Superman was muscly and dull. Nick O'Teen was skinny and. And it was around then I thought I could predict things, events. It was cos an old lady lived over the road from the Feldspar's. Mrs Finch. She had white hair and like a crumpled, hollow face. Someone rang the Feldspar's doorbell and I heard a voice saying Mrs Finch is in hospital. I was on the settee. Chairman Mao was talking on TV. I thought: Mr's Finch is going to die. Days later I was on the settee when the doorbell rang and my nan answered it. When she returned to the living-room she said: Mrs Finch has died. And in the evening's in bed I thought about that. I thought I'm not going to die.

So Peppy, you've published your first novel Prose Home Movie on Dostoyevsky Wannabe ... how do you feel?

I can't describe feelings very accurately. I find feelings say like an interconnected maze. That sounds a bit over the top and meaningless I know. But when I feel something I kind of realise I feel that cos I feel something about something else. Plus I can't find the right words to match them apart from basic ones like happy, sad, apathetic. 

You must've felt something seeing the electronic copy of your first novel Prose Home Movie for sale on Amazon ... no?

Well yes. I was excited. But then the most intense feeling that began to build was mild disappointment. Disappointment cos I felt disappointment. It's like when you're watching a sunset on a Moroccan beach with a person you love and you feel sad cos you know that doom is eventual. Doom happened a year later. And besides, what's a novel on Amazon? It's no big thing.

How did it come about Prose Home Movie?

I'd been writing for a few years, just this eternal bullshit thing that changed as I read different writers. Then around 2009 I found myself living alone in a room with lots of books. The people who used to telephone me daily had stopped telephoning me daily. And I went online looking for interesting writers. I was and still am pretty bog-standard in my reading tastes. Since my teens I read Joyce and Beckett and Shakespeare. But from 2009 I found writers like Cormac, Pynchon, Carver, DFW, Lydia Davis and Tao Lin. Reading Mr Lin's Shoplifting and Yates was a big moment. I thought: This guy writes amazingly about his life. He doesn't use big words. There's no philosophy. But his protagonists seem to lead a very seductive lifestyle. Mine is far from seductive. I mean I used to think I should write about my life but then I thought there is no way I'd get published. But then fiction changed. The internet changed. Plus a book called My Struggle was published and I thought: Oh fuck it. But it was more after reading Mr Lin's prose I thought: You've put up with so much shit over the years, now's the time to start writing and blogging about it. 

And what then?

It's a longish boringish story. But finally I saw a small English website called Dostoyevsky Wannabe. I sent a draft of two stories that I was in the process of mashing together. And they said: We like it. I'm sure they only read about 20 pages, which is fine. I mean, I wouldn't read me if I was not me. I just like writing it. 


Why do you like writing it?

Just, it's the best feeling, sat in a room, editing a chunk of prose that you keep going over in your head, tweaking the syntax. You'll edit a paragraph. And then the day after you read it and it sounds shite. So you change it. It took me ages to get it how I wanted, the style. And even now I'm not totally satisfied. But it's all about teaching yourself to write. I need literature. These past five years have gone from having a full and hectic life to having a graveyard of a life, which is how some might see me. But I need solitude. I get unhappy in small crowds. And I love reading. So doing prose about my life and transforming it into fiction, it's fun. But I find the idea of people reading it, very slightly like someone seeing the gusset of underwear I've worn for a month. I like to reveal secrets in fiction. That's my idea of fun. To not shout about them, but to include the secrets in a subtle way. I say subtle but yeah.

What've your friends and family said about your first novel Prose Home Movie on Dostoyevsky Wannabe?

I've not told them. I told my aunty at Christmas that I was due to publish a novel and she said something about money and bestseller. I didn't have the personality to explain that it is a maggot in the dirt kind of novel. So they're not gonna be appreciating the voice or the flow or the psychobilly references. 

As a kind of self-published writer are you going to do any marketing for your first novel Prose Home Movie on Dostoyevsky Wannabe?

Err ... Well I'm happy to do this interview. And I'm happy to post the occasional Tweet saying Prose 99p but I'm lost with marketing. I got a roll of white stickers that I might scribble Prose Home Movie on and then post them around Manchester. Maybe Chris Killen will see it and then google it and then buy it and then read it and enjoy it and then tell everyone on Twitter. But I'm joking of course. Hope is futile in the Ooze universe. The Ooze family blood is not fizzy. Instead it tends to coagulate like it does in lots of melancholics. But yeah, I talk shit. I wish I had a marketing-stunt kind of brain or personality but I don't. I don't inspire like. I rarely share other people's work on social media. A stupid decision I made a couple of months ago was to not RT or Fav or press like. I don't know if I've stuck to that decision. But this whole Press-Like and share content culture messes with my head. I don't know. All I know is that I am in this room today and I'll be in this room tomorrow.

Where now?

I dunno but I was speaking to a mate and we said how some people would've killed themselves with the shit we've been through. We were laughing about it, not sobbing. Most things are worth having a laugh about I think. I'd like to explore that kind of thing. More about shit-filled life. I said in my novel my memory specialises in shit. And I just wanna mash together things I remember (people) and then add some art and music, what I pretentiously call my zombie music. But I mean the fact I'm talking to you now at 1am on a Sunday morning about a novel that maybe four people will read shows you what a hole I'm in and I need to get out. But I like it in my hole. I got my Joyce and Beckett books. I got smoke. I got opiate pills. I got a laptop. And I've hundreds of memories I'm itching to type about. But I am slow. I relate to the wolf and the sloth.

If you're an underdog ... glad you're here






My art project, about underdogs.


Repetition, repetition, repetition: The same dinner, the same tea over and over and over ... is a chicken breast or three legs spiced with chilli and sea salt and paprika and black pepper and then it's roasted with a splash of water, a handful of cashew nuts, a handful of Californian raisins, a sweet potato and sweet onion, both spiced too and plated with rocket lettuce, cherry plum tomatoes,  some kind of blue cheese and maybe a wholemeal bap or a New York Bakery Company bagel. The squeeze of mayo is a statement of art I thought.

In fact everything is art I thought, which is a kind of banality but that's okay, that's cool I felt.

Repetition in the kitchen art drama

In no order here're 126 references from Prose Home Movie, a novel published by Dostoyevsky Wannabe.



A zombie movie without zombies




The Lark Ascending ... Les Battersby ... Pepsi ... A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man ... Lynx Deodorant ... Harold Shipman ... Sergio Aguero ... Nico ... Adbusters ... Pizza Hut ... UKIP ... Teddy Boys ... Murray Gell-Mann ... Hollin Brown Knoll ... Ford Cortina ... Under Pressure ... American Air ... Hudson River ...  The Beach Boys ... Classic FM ... Larry Clark ... Little Death Machine ... Mick Jagger ... George Romero ... Stella Artois ... Station to Station ... Camel Lights ... George W Bush ... DeLorean ... Morrissey ... Windows 10 ... Barry Norman ... Collins Concise Encyclopedia ... Primal Scream ... The Wire ... Falstaff ... Tesco ... Miami Vice ... Ask FM ... Chiquita ... Daniel Day-Lewis ... Buxton Spa Water ... Dennis the Menace ... The Groupies ... Dolmio ... CK ... British Leyland ... King James Bible ... Bret Anderson ... Jim’ll Fix It ... Mr Kipling ... Javier Bardem ... Thersites ... EastEnders ... Top Gear ... John Barnes ... Abbey Road ... John Lydon ... The Orb ... The Road ... Guinness ... Samuel Johnson ... Fixing a Hole ... Ocado ... GTA San Andreas ... Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia ... John Coltrane ... Woody Allen ... Nescafé ... Goya ... Blue Lines ... William Shakespeare ... Dunlop Green Flash ... William Faulkner ... William Blake ... The Face ... Jeffrey Dahmer ... Wolfsbane ... Umbro ... Razzle ... The Adventures of Augie March ... Mick Jones ... The Great Rock 'n' Roll Swindle ... The Black Crowes ... Charles Dickens ... Waterloo Sunset ... NHS ... Nokia ... Marc Almond ... Rizla ... Frank Kermode ... Charles Manson ... Peter Ackroyd ... Mark E Smith ... The Age of Innocence ... Twitter ... Wonderwall ... Lee Hazlewood ... Marilyn Monroe ... Homes Under the Hammer ... Ray Charles ... The Residents ... Human Centipede ... Adidas Gazelles ... Performance ... Grateful Dead ... Calpol ... TVC 15 ... Van Gogh ... Fred Perry ... Newport Pagnell ... The Guardian ... Moleskine ... Monty Python ... Cancer Research ... Daily Star ... The Tempest ... Eggheads ... Volvo ... D.I.S.C.O. ... Sega Games ... Rick Grimes ... Polaroid ... Reservoir Dogs ... Smooth Operator ... Golden Virginia.

Before reference 127, I got bored copying and pasting.



His producers are they not his consumers?
Click to enlarge ... Prose Home Movie


I did things and things were done to me and I remembered the things then I wrote about them ... Prose Home Movie - Soonish.
In the Villa of Ormen



Bye was our last word to each other, I said it and he said it and I put the phone handset on the settee where I never sat but where he had sat on the approximately dozen Saturdays and or Sundays he had visited this room.
Alejandro Zambra ... chilling.



I opened MICROSOFT Word 2000.


There was a perfect moment with my ma in the sun and another a perfect moment with my old man in the sun, I typed.


On the south bank of the Thames he and I sat on a public lawn.


Pointing at The Gherkin he said: Look there’s still a bit to build on top.


The Globe in view, I took a photo of him and then because the sun had sunk behind a building that shaded our spot we moved to another lawn where we sat in the evening that glowed and my old man said: That’s always a drawback for me with like how Barb has her grandkids and they try and snub me out.


Yeah, I said. Sorry I’ve not made you a granddad, yet.


No worries mate.


It’s just, I said.


Further up in the silence of the riverbank by Waterloo Bridge was this bookstall where I found a book with the words that kept me going and they said: I was alive because I was not in my room.


That weekend too my face felt like dead but we attended Tracey Emin’s Love Is What You Want and there was a movie installation of a yellow Labrador retriever and a voiceover kind of had the dog talking I forget what, just I laughed vigorously and Mr O seemed not startled but my voice echoed thru the empty gallery.


People’s fave subject is themselves, I typed.
Unschooled art done in such a way that makes it something. I dunno. But like the Polish guy sat on a beer crate outside Morrisons in Chorlton, he crouches with a violin while badly (or not badly) but off key he plays your Jingle Bells and Silent Night and I gave him 20 pence cos it made me feel: Man, to make art like this guy like in that film My Son, My Son What Have Ye Done? where Brad Macallam hears this crackly old blues tune and he says something I forget but it refers to the kind of raw blood in the heart of this tune. I wish I knew what Brad Macallam says now cos it's important.





And I am a self-promotion bad art machine and I am a self-promotion bad prose machine and I am a self-promotion bad poetry machine and I am also a self-promotion Facebook machine and I am a self-promotion Twitter machine and I am a self-promotion Blogger machine and I am a self-promotion Google Plus machine and I am a self-promotion Delicious bookmarks machine and yeah I am a director of a zombie movie machine and I am a man in a room machine and I am a man on a laptop machine and I am a bereavement cos my mom and dad died machine and I am a brother machine and I am a niece machine and I am a kind of friend machine and I am an ex-boyfriend machine and I am now a recluse machine and I am an SEO machine and I am a Subutex taking machine and I am a Golden Virginia smoking machine and I am a skunk smoking machine and I am a Finnegans Wake reading machine and I am a Shakespeare reading machine and I am an Asda shopping machine and I am an Asda own-brand coffee buying and coffee drinking machine and I am an Asda red tea buying and red tea drinking machine and I am a buying the £2.50 packet of Tesco chicken machine and I am a teetotal machine and I am a shocked about the attacks in Paris machine and I am now a bored machine and I am a Kraftwerk is god machine and I want to be a Bernhardian style machine that goes on and on and on ...



I am a click this image to see Hoo Hill image machine ...

My ma had died and my girlfriend had dumped me and after a night of sleepless howling I looked at the Gabo Marquez portrait where a book’s splayed open on his head and seeing all that life in his eyes inspired me to buy a train ticket from Manchester to somewhere faraway and St Pancras next morning I remember the frost in the air while I stood apart from the crowd but still they looked at the dirty trenchcoat, the scuffed trainers, the smoke curling round my face.

I forget most of it though, just ...

Perhaps they’re watching on CCTV, I thought outside the London station.

It was cos I rummaged in my boxers to secure an eighth of marijuana strapped to my scrotum via a cock-ring and so going thru those security detectors that x-ray under your clothing my heartbeat was going pretty fast.

Things fade then till Gard Du Nord and its metallic screeches and whistles and shouts, piston noises, shit, movement, plastic casters scraping on marble as I rubbed the creases under my eyes trying to get used to the rush of people, a glass canopy letting in sunbeams and there were petrol fumes, chocolate fumes, coffee and garbage.

I found a place to change sterling into Euros and the cashier sat there cool, a slit between his top teeth.

Now was about 1pm.

On the Gare de Something eight Latino women glided by like a shoal I thought of mermaids but none registered my swerving into an HSBC doorway and then a stubbly man bumped into me and for some reason we talked and for some reason we laughed and may have been cos I mentioned Proust and he preferred Henry Miller.

When I got to the Jardins De Paris it was kind of faceless I felt and once I‘d checked in and got to my room I lay on the bed watching CNN with a spliff and I slept for three hours then woke in the dark and went back to the streets with my brain still kind of clogged from chemicals and herb and sunlight deprivation.

The night sky though had a cluster: I remember.

From Place de la Nation to the Left Bank’s crannies I strolled thru knots of people who seemed to know each other and tears flowed down my cheeks as I halted in a square where lanterns swayed on ropes lamppost to lamppost and a woman in polka-dots looked with the iciest glaze thru my eyes now swollen and raw.

An alleyway had stencils of Nick Drake and Warhol and I thought about Debord then while sat on a terrace having a crepe with honey and I read Death on Credit for a while as the crowds thinned and when I strolled again a half-moon appeared above Notre Dame.

Gargoyles hung in the shadows above.

Leaning by a slab of stone I watched the Seine and it shimmered but I was too tired to enjoy so I traipsed timidly but quickly, fearing kind of I know not what, the homeless man who jumped out yelling at me, he was mad, I was lost.

With a map, though, I found the hotel.

That's it.

Next day I was on the street by noon and chilling on a terrace with coffee, wading thru pages of Death on Credit until the brain fug cleared and I walked and I walked and I passed two policemen with truncheons and a bridge covered with thousands of padlocks left by people in love and the smokestacks stood behind me and the Notre towers stood before me and soon I found the gardens of the Musée d'Histoire Naturelle where I studied for a moment the Buffon statue and the dove upon its palm.

The plinth said: Style is the man.

And then thinking about that, I perched across the street from the Great Mosque, four women in hijabs seeing my face lift to the minaret that glowed even in the overcast and I set off again, no direction in mind, but with a skunk in my fingers I found the Arènes de Lutèce amphitheatre on whose grass-covered stand a longhaired man sat blowing a flute, doing a folk tune.

Sunlight came thru a break in the cloud.

I unbuttoned my trenchcoat and went in Shakespeare and Co and inside I squeezed between the browsing bodies and I saw a Thomas Bernhard and a Roberto Bolaño and up the wooden staircase a library itched inside my nose from all the dust and I wanted to but did not steal.

Nighttime came.

And it was a Sunday.

But you forget 99.97 per cent of everything.

The city seemed even lonelier, though, or I did when wandering the Left Bank with the smokes circling my head and there were arm-in-arm couples and a woman yanked the leash of a tartan-jacketed poodle that wanted a pee and a teenager scraped a skateboard along a concrete bench and like cocooned in doorways were men inside sleeping-bags.

I found a bistro, affluent me, the Au Beaujolais on rue Gregoire de Tour.

Among five or six diners an oldish man and an oldish woman watched me wriggle out of my trenchcoat and when I had ordered I think a steak we exchanged eye-contact and face movements but I went out then for a rollup and on my return the woman smiled and I kind of smiled and opened Death on Credit and it wasn’t long before the man looked over with a sneer under his lips and as I ate my sirloin with pepper-sauce they talked and they were from Swansea and my granddad I said was a Welsh coalminer and the guy said he worked in the steel industry.

Then in a raspy accent he said: But what’re you doing here?

Err, I said.

He’s relaxing, said the woman.

Crowfeet are ingrained in my face, I’m living too late.

Saying that would have summed it up: all the shite, my shite, their shite.

While they chatted about a Marge and some famous rabbit stew, a fly whizzed back and forth and it landed for a second on a breadbasket and then whizzed over our heads again before exploring the base of an upturned wine glass where it stopped to clean its wings with its hind legs and then typically, or thankfully, I went to the bog to build a spliff and returned to see the Welsh couple and the dung-fly had disappeared.

Mm, I thought. No edgy goodbyes.

So I wandered back in the night myself with you could say ghosts inside me.

For three hours I drifted in Left Bank solitude thinking of words like labyrinthine and mazy and Jorge Luis Borges and outside a Saint Germain café I sipped mint-tea as coppery skinned women strode by and I tried catching eyes but there was nothing out there just heads and trunks and legs and arms and hands carrying designer boutique bags and as drivers revved at traffic lights I listened invisibly to the third table to my left, an American woman sounding like she’d inhaled helium but louder than any scooter any horn or engine.

Again I was drawn to Notre Dame, the cobbles on the quay, to water.

Flowing and rippling the Seine was streaked with silver and yellow and black reflections and I walked the riverbank and it was just her and the night and I blinked my eyes at a bridge whose arches mirrored on the surface.

A man dangled from a noose in my mind.

But what now?

Did I think, Jump?

What I know is I imagined one dead poet advising another dead poet to free himself of another dead poet's influence and I kept mulling on the word reduction and I said it (or rather: reduce, reduce, reduce) over and over and I needed to write about my life and apply a kind of zero-bone style and I rambled with the wounds and the ghosts and the desert bones within and I needed to get them out somehow and drift alone with my blues and my crimes and my gum diseases and my rooms and especially my crappy jobs and especially my undead and all I remember is a kind of skeleton of mist floating over the river and that cluster no moon shone indifferently above.

The rest is flowage.