RAT STAR.

We write this story of reflection. We devise these pages, we develop this intercourse. We paint this model with the master's touch. Paint her luminous smoking soul in colours of fire, in love and blood, with raspberry nipples and a rose tattoo.

I should be reading a play in the back garden of the church today. (I'm glad I'm not)

I could be making love to a beautiful woman in a grassy knoll tomorrow (I wish, wish, wish) I would be digging graves and washing defrosted chickens if I hadn't had the catastrophic impulse to have been unfaithful to my wife. (It's already been and laid me on) There I was, surprised to find myself on the sharp end of such a dickhead karmic storyline. I was... well, I needn't be indelicate, shagging the mistress of perpetual cancer, literally inches away, (on the other side of the door) from where I was sent to stand on the naughty mat at Thorpe Edge junior school. Yes, I know, this soap opera moment blew (no pun intended) a big hole in the fabric of the "me and universe" my ego thought it was constructing, but please don't fail to disgust yourself with careful enquiry into the veracity of my claim to have been innocent. I wasn't, I was THAT stupid. It's unbelievable. Doesn't mean to say I have to swallow battery acid every time my mind takes me back to the disco-land of that inordinate and infernal contradiction with which I am constipated though. But why can't you say it, you said it once, why can't you say it again? "I don't love you", it's easy to write it down and throw it off the monkey bridge in a Molotov cocktail moment smashing like a rupture, into a flame of constance. 

Rat star is the name of my new band. Do you like it? We're a back to front band of brothers. ratStar, RATsTAR. And the first R should, I think, be backwards, to allude to the fact that we're half Russian. 

Egg sandwich for lunch. Recorded jabberwocky and betjeman's slough. We love Syd Barrett, we do, O, Syd Barrett, we love you. 

Fairies, fairies, fairies. 

17/07/2016