Sid Vicious' Spit
S.P.O.T.S tour . . . someday in seventy something . . .
i'm with scouse. He's pierced his own lip with a safety pin & now itz fucking green
lost our jobs 3 days ago, been travelling following the unofficial/unreleased/unpublicised 'schedule'
& they never fucking play ANYWHERE due to SOCIETAL CONTROL & i'm pissed off/tired/spotty/dirty & scouse has caught lice some fucking where . . .
& we get to the peak district, in winter. Me: dirty ramones T, arseless jeans, plastic beach sandals.
SCOUSE: a filthy raincoat, pvc pants, old docker's boots minus laces. We beg a while. Get moved on
by the LAW. Try to rent a fucking tv in a town we dont even live in – get on the spotted for public indecency-
no underwear is a fucking crime up here. Itz minus 5.
meet some other kids. They have gin. The gig is gonna happen – OK.
Pistols play for all of 22 minutes before the plug is pulled midway through BELSEN.
A minute for each audience member – nice. It is no fucking FUN.
The last time I ate was a sausage roll a day ago. If i could throw up, I'd probably eat my own vomit – waste not, want not. I am so FUCKING COLD. We wait around outside. True disciples. Total fucking angelic faced wasters with no future AT ALL. Johnny doesnt even speak. Johnny is a big fucking STAR now. The cunt. Steve only speaks to himself. Paul cant even fucking speak. SID comes crashing out. Leather jacker over bare chest breathing Breaker fumes. Like, who gets fucking pissed on Breakers? But he's tall. Way taller than I thought & prettier than I thought. Scouse pushes me forward. Sid almost walks straight through me – he smells fucking bad. Like decomposition. I say: Say Sid, can i get your autograph? I say this because I'm a bona fide cocksucker who is malnourished & blue with cold.
He says: Sure fuckface.
I say: Oh, hang on, no fucking pen but . . .
He says: OK try this.
And he spits in my face.
Scouse says: fuck, that's great.
A girl. (I think itz a girl) tries to lick it. I push her away, sloppy seconds bitch.
They are gone, into the night. All i have is Sid's saliva freezing on my face. I am a long way from home. Infected. Hauling around the DNA of Sid Vicious. If Scouse tries to lick me one more time; i swear to god i'll carve him up with this Stanley knife.
In the motorway services cafe, we eat 32 sugar cubes between us.
Scouse steals 3 mars bars & a biro from the stationary shop. Better fucking late than never.
Tomorrow we are going to see the Clash. Joe Strummer is OK, but the rest are fucking tosspots.
America didnt deserve Sid Vicious. But he deserved America.
In England's dreaming, I never rise to the surface. I am a bloated dead white groper fish.
I get home 8 days later. My old man tries to take a strap to me. I pick up an iron bar.
This is the end beautiful friend. Of everything.
I get disappointed at the Stranglers gig. Fucking frauds. Course there's no fucking Rainbow at the Rainbow we aint dumbfucks Hugh . . .
But Peaches was OK. & the Frenchy is kinda cute. Got that Delon thing going on . . .
I leave when Ten Pole Tudor comes on. Biggest wank job around . . .
Sid is dead, they tell me. I say: itz for the best – Cooper-Clarke agrees. Johnny dont care. Ronnie is still in Rio . . . I am pretty vacant. 4 SURE!!! $$$$$$$
WASTED
WASTED
WASTED
WASTED
WASTED
Ever had the feeling you've been had?
Hah ha ha!
Reaching out across the bleached white veldt to infect the flickering screen with a moment of insanity, Teri Louise Kelly’s short story/poetry anthology ‘Punktuation’ is a literary oil slick drifting slowly toward the burning shore. Having already deconstructed her “art form” with a veritable glossary of bastardisations, incestuous syntax and gob-spitting grammar, the maniacal Ms Kelly continually has her execution stayed. There is no way of telling fact from fiction, poetry from toilet door graffiti, she claims, and in ‘Punktuation’ she drifts (seemingly aimlessly) from subject matter to subject matter as casually as a rent boy wandering Piccadilly Circus looking for a buyer. There are many reasons why generations to come will admire and appreciate her decadent candour, today however she still has rent to pay, demons to slay and dependency issues to address. She is, much like her hero Brendan Behan, a drinker with writing problems. Those problems become obvious to even the most deranged reader the moment he, she or it, decides they feel lucky and steps into ‘Punktuation’ class with Fraulein Kelly. Which is all well and good in context . . . if there was one, or even a sub one. Punk is dead, it ended at Winterland, the ethos survives, although wholly diluted and incorporated, punk is not beat, never was, thus endeth the lesson. All of which brings us nicely around to the e-revolution, the one that won't be televised as the president gets his dick sucked. It's revolution and evolution, publishing anarchy and blogging blasphemy, every man, woman, child, android and canine will soon be a published writer, many will be published writers and publishers, the wolf is not merely amongst the sheep but is already tearing the flock to pieces - the shepherd having long since fled to Alcatraz. The son of Simian has returned to the planet of sound with a vengeance. Ms Kelly of course, erstwhile as she undoubtedly is, really doesn't give a flying fuck about any of it - another dreary re-make of planet of the apes or not . . . she of the juice being wired for both sound and vision, as distorted and blurred as they are. Deep in the fray she regularly hunts down avenues of opportunism, some say that there's nothing she wouldn't sell in pursuit of infamy, and most usually those saying such place the emphasis squarely on the word nothing. She has as well, the distinguished honour have having chatted to the great gonzo himself via e-mail before he took himself off to Papa-land with a double bang. Then there's the poetry . . . "Punktuation isn't a book, it's a back-alley street brawl, with breaks for poetry." she can't be god she's fingered other girls quite openly in public urinals writes her name on scarred arms bills herself as the quick fix to dr fix never prays consumes hunts and gathers trinkets made from pubic hair you won't find it in revelations they edited that bit out the good fathers & their bad seeds generation AD1329 And so? So what? Does any of it matter? Will she take the same creek road to redemption? Probably not, this isn't even a blog, it's an advertisment, flagrant and fragrant, another tack in the carpet along the hall of miss adventure, the kind of ride reserved for the severely destabilised and fully dependent. There's no gravity here my friend, no need to grab a chair, just let go. On a long enough timeline everyone's chance of survival drops to zero - good advice, think about the big fat nought at the end of everything, when there is no other permutation that can be run . . . once you've gone you can never return. Unless you're a space ape or Howard Hughes. The game's afoot, and make no mistake, she's playing for keeps. They blew up the chicken man in philly last nite, blew up his house too . . . feathers every damned where, all along the boardwalk, looked just like the morning after mardi gras, she said, as she punktuated. PUNKTUATION AVAILABLE @ ALL GOOD (& SOME NOT SO GOOD) E-OUTLETS NOW
