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WRITING

KEYS TO THE CITY

I: A New Career In A New Town

II: Dream Life

III: Paintings As Prayers

IV: Late Summer Evening

POETRY

Rose Crowned Evenings

Moments Of Pure Ashtray

The Personalised Circus

Berlin Undressing

Blind Children On Western Streets

Lucifer Says He Won't See Me

Say

Absentee Note

Boy

Christmas Curtains

Fountains

July

Swans On The Surface

Girl Smoking On Balcony

Stained Glass Window

Terrible Vision

The Insurance Was WILD

The Sea's Smile

Van Gogh's Lights

The Disappointed Prince

SHORT STORIES

Tectonic Plates

Turkish Pizza

Cuddle Parties

A Night At The Circus

The Catch

Chekhov In Kreuzberg

A Stolen Dress

Two Contract Killers Get Arrested

My Uncle Dick

Death In The Cafe

Performing To The Curtain

Getting Past The Curtain

OTHER

La Traviata

Babylon Berlin

Living With Samuel Beckett:

An Anti Essay

MUSIC

CONTACT

THE PERSONALISED CIRCUS

 

Extract from 'Keys To The City'

 

May 2015

 

 

O you and I, she says to me now, the eternal spirits of my hard nights, try not to be so hard on yourself. O how I was made to forget you for all this nonsense, to lose myself completely in hope of finding myself again…but then it changes, as it always must, and you’re outside the Chemist now, (my son, ,my brother, my friend, my lover), all three of those supposed people who reside and work there further ghosts for your indifferent and disconnected mind, outside the apotheke, the apocalypse, deciding how you’ll head to the grave; trains are leaving for Paris, Rome, Athens, New York. The clock strikes Midnight again, and you let the third pill decide, and it all changes, even though it surely couldn’t changed again so drastically, not in this short window of time, and yet anything is possible, and there is no control of thought, fool, beautiful boy, no purpose when you’re like this – you were by the platform, and now you’re on Oberbaum bridge, staring at the dark waves, such waves for such a city, and like I said, it’s changed, yet you do what you have long planned to do – to do everything you didn’t plan on. What the hell was that before? I don’t know, I’ve forgotten all about it. But what happened to your hands? Fell off my bike. Cracking open such beautiful cold bottles now, drinking beer, juice and water all at the same time, walking around like a defeated sage, frightening even the scaremongers and zombie tour guides – the exit’s there – but the street is out of the question, and the question’s answer no doubt on that very same street. What do you think of the devil sir, of nilhilsim, one of your followers, one of your disciples ask. Not much, for I am the devil, I am all nilhilsm and all darkness you say, or rather, proclaim, to yourself in your head as you wade through puddles of trash and dirt, or was that the person next to you who uttered those very same words which you mistook for your own, who stood by the bridge and imagined it and you as a pit, as a watering hole, as the secret labyrinth found in the mysterious windmills of dreams – this is the very talk that nullifies your soul, hence you taking your leave, your taking of the long way round, to the next entrance, bizarrely revisiting the apotheke, it seemingly closed, and the onlookers no longer interested in their role as onlookers, Bombardier Berlin, the huge sign says high up on the ceiling, Bombardier Berlin. Upon arrival at your next destination, there’s a scene, or many potent ready-made moments of documentation, impressions impersonated, the shy swaggering around, the assured long having lost what they found. A middle-aged lady sits opposite you and predicts a new war, one for the future, telling you to leave Germany soon. You contemplate having sex with her, and not with her, but with her, not her, her: these moments and possibilities are appetizing, these feelings and outcomes not: lower your eyes and look away, the fiddling of hands, the tripe discussed in the name of something, our usual what-nots, what was it, who are you, what did you say and what do you do. Now God loves you, but tomorrow he won’t, and that middle aged lady said ‘there’s another war coming’, and didn’t you tell all your friends about it, proud of the disconnection and the day’s long now trivial fear, all these fading affairs and worries leaving you and taking you with them – meet scarecrows, meet Cinderella’s, Marilyns, James Deans, Hendrix in drag – meet yourself in the noir-murk reflection of the club’s bathroom mirror as you sigh lustfully into the morning’s aching nowhere. By the great Breakfast Bar, everyone’s arguing over each other’s prices, but they can’t even argue properly, because they stayed up too late – and you finish your brain’s sentence, and sip yet more drink. The whole place and debate and breakfast: it leads nowhere. Non-participation as a concept is shattered, so you opt out. Powder is spilt all over your nervous system, make up applied, a new image artificially born here now in this residency, the show having long ended, must apparently now go on in spite of it all. Someone comes up to you and underneath the ironic disco ball tells you she’s a fan of your work, having confused you with someone else. You nod like an idiot and as you dance, she licks your ear, and in the point blank range light, she laughs like an old chum, like an old nun, the lights making her look green and rouged, like something out of Paris, or Hamburg in the twenties, you laughing to yourself as you try to decide which one, is it Paris or Hamburg!? Where are you going, you ask as she leaves gracefully. To catch a plane, she says, I’ve always wanted to, and then huge noise, like a delicate and low frequency pleasant siren takes over all matter, in your eyes, smoothing out in alignment with your body, splashing off with the slightest motion of your fingertips. Feline, perfumed and neurotic children skulk the rooms, each one looking for their own private personalised circus, or having found one, a never ending good enough reason to finally close the said circus down and close it soon. These are fragments: we move on from things we’re not interested in. We forget the most important moments, and eulogise the trivial images of our days, until finally, it becomes evident that it’s raining outside. Morning came and went. What you don’t understand is that it wasn’t supposed to matter and if we’re honest with ourselves, it never really has. If only you did understand this, then perhaps it would matter. You stare at your eyes again: no more golf left in the tank. Everything is fine. We’re coming back home, to El Dorado, to make heartfelt our spaghetti westerns. But it’s too late – no? This should have happened at high morning, not high noon, and the hours are surfacing to the depths. But since when did that make a difference? Come on. All your mornings are meaningless: it was only during morning as night and night as morning that you successfully managed to forget about the incoming days. Scientists take your temperature and hold your hand, you all striding out the door, holding hands in a line, how ridiculous you look! People start leaving, or raving, raving mad, it doesn’t matter which. The rain stops, but shelter is still required. Fortunes are revealed, not spent. The days are coming: bright horrible sunlight will illuminate your most prized hiding places and like an abandoned and isolated gazelle, you will be spotted in the middle of an open plane, waiting for the ambush from the trees that never comes. For the world will act accordingly, so you should not. And then finally, whoever that was stops speaking and I fall asleep like a tired infant on the sofa until eventually someone wakes me up, 90s kids cartoons blaring on the TV in front of me, and says, do you know where you are? And I say, no, where am I? And she tells me where, and I begin the journey back to the Apartment.