DAY 7 AWAITS

Day 6. It was as per. Usual wasn't the word. It was far from that. But it was as it always was... disorientation, distortion, distemper and... something indefinable. Sticky humidity. Sweaty palmistry. The quickening in the chestal membrane. Sane in the brain. Far too linear. Too much chronology, not enough psychology. It wouldn't get any easier, but it might get simpler. Time to look in the book for hooks. Lines to be taken for a walk along The Watchtower with Jaime, a witness of Jehovah with a letter of dismissal from Fort Campbell, Kentucky fried licks from Satan and a dopey look of irreverence in his eye.

Then the beep beep of intertextuality revealed an sms. Cheryl might go zebra later. The blacks and whites of trapped conventionality. A pantomime horse in pyjamas on double bass. A white rastafarian on public school grounds for prosecution. A Southend singer songwriter with curbed Essexist tendencies and a predilection for beetles and The Beatles. An epidemiologist from Braintree. Surgery hours only.

Hook line and sink. Of course, it's a disaster for our shareholders. He has lead an unprecedented response in the Mexican Gulf. The positive spin spun a web of deceit in his gall so apparent it made his ligaments cramp like hamstrings. Not enough muscular relaxant. Patchouli is no substitute. Tales of THC withdrawal from the river bank. The advertising standards in the industry aren't brilliant. That's code for: They lie. Greenpeace switched on the safety handles at the pumps. An irresponsible and childish act of political posturing and piracy. Pissing trillions of gallons of toxic black crap into an ocean is an act of maturity. It is only a calamity when the shareholders lose dividends. This is a given. Consensus manufacture for the masses.

I can stand it no more. Tired eyes. I take them out, wash them and pop them back in. Playing games with metaphor is akin to speaking if you are deaf to the deception of propaganda. The words faded colonial glory drift across, as 16-year-olds from Sao Paolo learn the language of cultural imperialism known as globalisation. I want not to listen. I switch off at the ear. I switch off at the temple. I wish not to ruminate. Act. Show. Do not tell. Do.

From out of the nebula there is a bridge standing under the man. At once the man is, and he is short. The left hand indicates size, the right sex. It is tempting to make the sign of the wanker, but this is too open to misinterpretation. Typical thumbs-up hearing fucker. These days British Sign Language raises its middle finger in recognition that they are not better, just aurally impaired. How do they live in a world of sound effects? Silence is... Noise annoys.

I think, therefore I scam. The philosophy of the tea leaf. Marketised time for the employed pays the rent, but not everybody has rent to pay. Opt outs are optional, but perfectly doable.

R.E.M. is strong. Mornings are woozy. The lack packs a punch drunk sleep in the eye that is hard to shake off first thing. I was trapped in a shared house of multiple occupational therapists, a close friend, a manic depressive, random members of Pink Fraud and Uriah Heap and a supergroup anxiety complex. Wakey wakey Boodah Bobbah. One of the heads aboard Gilbert The Narrowboat's door buddhas is missing. It imploded with enlightenment. Apparently high-functioning sociopaths embrace orientalism as a cover for their nefariousness. There are more of them than we think. Paranoid? Paranoia is a cinch compared to full-blown ideation persecution, sister. Two pints of IPA, a line of Carlos and a smidgen of BZP, please. What the fuck is passive aggressive anyway?

Jean Paul is my spirit guide out of the mist. He hangs around the rim of my consciousness like a Tangiers male prostitute in a Today Is A Good Day t-shirt and a copy of Huis Clos next to a lame stick of Wrigley's in the back pocket of jeans that one of his clients has given him in return for rendered servility and half an hour of lusty wrestling.

There goes the bell. Time out. Time to turn the page. Day 7 awaits. Magnificent. Lord knows I need the rest. The act of creation is knackering. I should have made a Genesis Device and let it do all the work.

No matter. Job done. Good night, God bless.