TEXT MESSAGE 2

i send HPPY XM out my phone.

i

wonder 

where 

the proof is?

not in my fucking pudding!

i rage some,

almost

with

all the old enthusiasm/like

when

i

said/shouted/sneered ALFRESCO TOSSERS at couples drinking 

outside 

a 

friday 

night 

sunny 

london 

pub/phones and fags in happy summer hands(then

i am trapped on the corner by traffic/eyes burn me)thats

the

old enthusiasm.

MAYBE i see the dark going grey/MAYBE

but

not anywhere near quick enough no . . . 

HPY XM i send.

HNY i send too.

i

wonder 

where 

the proof is.

THE ELEVEN DAYS OF BRIAN NINE; DAY EIGHT

My last trip to the hospital today before the old green needle.  The lasers doing their same similar work while I watched the screen, waiting for The Tortelli’s theme music to come on.  Pa Tortelli got well pissed again in front of the footy and slapped Ma Tortelli round the face because she got a speeding ticket.  How I laughed as the lasers cut cancer from my legs.  Sissy Tortelli was pregnant and too scared to say anything even though she was well nearly showing.  So primitive!  I laughed some more; it was well twisted in that hairy flat, with all their rank shaving.

            They took me to see Brian Nine (b) after the lasers, over in the New Wing.  He was hanging up in his grow pod all smooth and glistening, glossy like expensive candy or the pictures in Brenda’s.  He was coming on fine they said, all anomalies being cut out as the lasers built him up.

            I went home at faster miles an hour and we Brian’s played football in the evening out in the foyer with the Stan’s who lived above us.  We always beat the Stan’s with our fine kicking feet.  I was in goal.  We won, three nil.  Have that Stan’s!

            In The Tortelli’s in the evening Johnny ‘Eggplant’ O’Bergine came and banged on the door all loud and angry, his face well red and called Pa Tortelli a ‘useless honky mother’ and Pa Tortelli called him an ‘eggfuckingplant’ and Tortelli Jr. went for him with a shiny bat well wound up.  Johnny backed off and Sissy told them she was pregnant and cried all over Ma Tortelli who looked well mortified at the news.  We laughed ourselves utterly ragged and ran about the flat shouting ‘honky mother’ and ‘eggfuckingplant’.

THE ELEVEN DAYS OF BRIAN NINE; DAY SEVEN

The Wendies came round tonight and we well had sex.  We started off slowly enough with some face gobbing and hectors pecking but soon enough we were all showing wonderful form.  All scratching each other, red stripes everywhere.  Wendy Nine scratched my legs while she knelt there and gobbed my jim dog well proper.  Big brown eyes were swinging all about as eleven tom cats were soon well keen for eleven frantic jim dogs and their dangling do jiggers.  I scratched Wendy’s bum-bum and little mary  while all around us happy hampton wicks swung and plunged playing with golden doughnuts exposed and plugged.  There was heaving form everywhere, and much righteous scratching and it was well stinky and noisy.  Heaving backs and red prayer bones and soft bouncing norks filled the flat, straining and gasping discussing Uganda intensely.  We were way beyond bustle pinching, Wendy was a right bart after her dogging around; she was well lickerish and I thoroughly made her with my best night baseball.  It was like reading eleven eight pagers at once and soon I was cornificating to the max with red raw stripes livid over everyone’s wet sweaty flesh.

            Later, well knackered and with the windows open, we had some wine and watched The Tortelli’s.  Ma Tortelli had got bail from her shouting mother and Pa Tortelli was all sober and well sorry and they had primitive and brief sex under heavy blankets.  

TEAM GIN; DOING STRANGE THINGS TO BE NORMAL

phrase appears! 

when i crawl up off the carpet/cripsy craters from forgotten fags

and

go out to the kitchen again/soul plays loud out there.

i

re-up

on fuel/cold fusion

for

Team Gin and their quest for virtual stars.

phrase is; i do strange things to be normal/i think it

smashing hard ice into freezing frost.

fill

a

glass

till

there

is

no

more room at all 

and fuel for Team Gin takes seconds 

to reach the bottom/tonic fights for space with razored lime slices.

cold fusion!

sometimes a glass just cracks . . .

Team Gin go scream at the shopping channels/talk a thousand miles

of

heated indignation 

about apocalypse Costner 

about sanctimonious MacCartney 

about Spielberg who wont grow up

about that guy/you know/THAT guy/did THAT thing . . . 

when

Team Gin

should

be

winning

virtual stars with smart weapon choices/should lay the claymores further apart on the forgotten fag carpet/should CREATE

real

sense

out

of

the delirium/should record the hot steam

and

sell

it on to vendors.

  

Team Gin is night/when it is day

the phrase! is still there/a truth with teeth just right

for

these

wounds. 

do strange things to be normal

like 

doing something you dont understand 

for 

someone you love . . . 

THE ELEVEN DAYS OF BRIAN NINE; DAY SIX

We took the Wendies to the zoo for the afternoon and walked about in a crowd looking at the sad animals staring sadly back as we drank Seigfreid Max Shakes all macho.  The Wendies drank their Black and Whites and we all well laughed at them poor beasts scratching themselves against the bits of tree in their pens.

            We made up with the Wendies; she was all our Lady-Queens again and we her Man-Kings.  It was well average and pleasant under the yellow glow from the dome, diffused and right hazy. 

I told Wendy Nine by the monkey pen with eleven running monkeys in it, next to the lion pen with its eleven haggard lions, all about when there had been poxy bleep pollution back on the mainland.  I told her about the bleep laws passed and of the new silence I had read of in Brenda’s.

‘Bleep, bleep, bleep.’  I said over and over loads so she could feel what it must have been like with well loads of bleeping coming out of every poxy thing.  Nowadays naff all bleeps.

She smiled and listened looking at the eleven shoddy lions rub themselves vainly on the concrete of their pen and sipped her Black and White while I gulped my Max, exploding in a thousand directions while staying right where I was, just more so; concentrated and well in the zoo.  I stared at her big brown eyes blabbing with my gob all sorts of stuffage from Brenda’s.  Like the info laws, when people were well bogged down with useless and abundant info so much so that laws were passed to well limit said info.  I scratched my legs and she scratched her bum bum.  I imagined the red stripes there all livid.

The Wendies said they would come round tomorrow night for a stinky orgy.

            We parted at the garage, the Wendies going up to the Train and us Brian’s testing our blood in the machine by the garage.  We were AOK.  We raced our scooters at faster miles an hour back to the flat, no one gaining or losing any ground despite us all leaning way forward like Jehu, son of Nimshi, all cocky and full of Max.

            We had dinner and wine at the flat while we scratched ourselves then watched The Tortelli’s on the screen.  Johnny ‘Eggplant’ O’Bergine called the Bobbie Pigs on Pa Tortelli because of all that fence lark and Pa Tortelli was taken away in some tiny van thing and locked up overnight while Ma Tortelli went well mental pulling her hair out trying to raise the bail.

THE ELEVEN DAYS OF BRIAN NINE; DAY FIVE

My full name is Brian Nine (a).  Everyone has a letter after their name but only those who are still (a)’s really ever bring it up it.  Some older people if they are an (a) or a (b) mention it as that is well rare nowadays.  Rare as teenage (w).  I don’t mention it much. 

I live with Brian’s One to Eight and Brian’s Ten and Eleven in our well massive flat.  I am the only (a) but I don’t mention it much.  It only means I have not died.  I am still an original Brian Nine.  At twenty that is not that unusual but unusual  enough to feel slightly well smug.  Most of the other Brian’s are (c)’s or (d)’s except Brian Seven who is an (f).  People used to die of Oblomovism, but that nowadays is as rare as a thirty year old (b).   

I remember Brian Three (b) saying one day we should have a race just to the garage instead of all the way over to the hospital, as the winner is always the one who starts off first.  He was looking all thinky and I wasn’t so Ludlam’s dog that day so I said okay and, starting at the same time, side by side facing the door, we raced to the garage on our running legs.  Starting when Brian Seven yelled ‘go’ well loud in our ears, his gob all contorted.  We ran down to the garage side by side and sat on our rad scooters at the same moment.  He was a bit moody after that; he normally won if we raced properly on the streets as he always got the garage first, because he was always closer to the door.  We are well similar. 

He got his notice and Brian Three (b) became Brian Three (c).  Of course I was still an (a).

            They worked on my legs again in the hospital the lasers caning the fresh cancers and building new itches while I watched Pa Tortelli build a new well ickle shed and moan on and on and on about missing work.  Then he knocked down Johnny ‘Eggplant’ O’Bergine’s fence, all spiteful, and went and got well pissed in front of the footy on his screen, all Jimmy Woodser.

            After, full of new itches well burning, I walked around the hospital graveyard and the yard manager, Stevie One, helped me to find a nice place to bury myself.  We settled on a spot much like any other; it was available.  ‘Yeah, alright.’  I said, as we moseyed back inside.

            I watched the Tortelli’s in the evening.  Tortelli Jr. was suspended for pinching off in the back seat of a teacher’s car.  Well foul ickle bastard.

            I stayed in the flat for most of the  rest of the day, well ten o’clock scholar like most of my brothers, watching the screen and missing the Wendies a bit.  Either that or racing around all reckless on our scooters or doing some footy or going to some café for some Seigfreid Max.  Well huge cafés floors and floors up with misty views out under the dome where we can get all caned and higher our buzzes.  Good cafes though, always choice, we don’t want to get lumbered with some poxy Nixon Shake that barely touches you in your deep insides.

            But today is was mostly screen time laid about all ten o clock scholar and Ludlam’s dog without even a little look see in the pages of Brenda’s.

THE ELEVEN DAYS OF BRIAN NINE; DAY FOUR

I got up well early, no ten o clock scholar today and gave my legs a good heavy scratching in the shower.  I went down to our garage and got on my rad scooter, putting my bum-bum way back on the seat and leaning all forwards.  I took off at faster miles an hour heading for the ring road.  The traffic was all light on the ring road because it was well early and I pushed the scooter up to faster hundred miles an hour.  Well exhilarating; like a Seigfried Max Shake shot gunned right in my gob. 

I parked up my rad scooter and walked out onto the boardwalk that went over to well near the edge of the dome.  You can stand there all still and see it arc up over the city until it is lost in the way high mist.  There was a convention of  Elevens all cluttering up the boardwalk with banana oil and slow walking.  I stood to one side to let them pass, all alone.

I gazed out at the Pacific Ocean.  Watching it heave beyond the pitted surface of the dome, all water all moving.  Way back if you were well spawny enough you could see old rain run down the scarred surface and see it splashing and sploshing all over the big sea.  That was well long time ago, back when people still shaved every now and again and some lived over back on the mainland.  I watched the sea thinking about the well strange ideas people had of living in the glossy pages of Brenda’s.  Minimal scratching, rain and shaving, primitive cancer facilities and low speeds of piddle miles and hour for their lame cars. 

I got back on my rad scooter and headed for a café I knew well where you could see the ocean.  I ordered a Seigfried Max Supersize Shake, the one with everything in it, and started necking it alone at a window, a right Jimmy Woodser.  The stimulants flooded my body with potent exhilaration and womb relaxation.  It felt great to be me, sitting and gulping, getting well nutted on the Max Shake.  The oblivion of the cool white nurse shutting me down, the twin extremes of boy and girl taking me two ways twice, the black and white minstrels keeping me sitting upright in the plastic chair looking at the ocean heave while the rainy day woman took any edges well off, effortless and smoothly blended.  I well prefer the Max Shake giving it all to you at once, giving it and taking it and moving it, shaking your max all about, feeding a caned buzz.  Wendies prefer the Seigfried Black and White Ladysize for a well mild hum.  Not me Brians.  I gazed at the ocean, thinking it was well Pacific, my tight powerful hands treated to the way wicked textures on the Shake, taking it up and down and up and down again for my gob to suck, with the heaving big sea out there, making me feel five ways fine.  I sat there well rushing, buzzing off my top elders.  My brain a white roar I nearly didn’t itch at all as I soothed and grew, expanded and shut down, frozen at faster miles an hour.  I had a shot of White Nurse straight to quell the well wicked conflict in my body.  Then I checked my blood levels in the machine by the door.  I was AOK. 

I headed back to the flat at faster hundred miles an hour and collapsed on the sofa, grogged out and lazy as Ludlam’s dog, just in time for the Tortelli’s theme music.  The Tortelli’s neighbour, Johnny ‘Eggplant’ O’Bergine had knocked the Tortelli’s garden shed down with his rubbish car and well lame driving and Papa Tortelli got his owl out and dragged his trencherman’s big mary outside and they all had a small row in the garden.  And then what they had was a power cut, with Johnny’s teeth standing out in the darkness.  Things used to be well rubbish with their extreme shades of skin and different hair and crap power.   

BALLAD OF BAMBI AND HER

after work fri pm.

been an ok day/been breathing again

but am alone now

and it goes like this;

breath away teary jag over the blog desk posting my efforts for routine.

breath away teary jag over the writing desk

falling fast

and

failing to write anything new again.

tangled up tight in barbed wire

i’m wobbling and wandering the rooms/the cold bare bathroom of stains/the clutter kitchen of dull dishes dark as the sun falls.

i’m trying to tidy thru terror tunnels and

black blinkers and

a

hot

waterful.

my tidying and dinner preparation is no good at all.

(i have a beautiful home/i cling to this)

cold hands sweat on the tile desk looking thru the battered white blinds hoping for the hatchback bringing Bambi.

the street

stays suspiciously silent/one old man

we used to joke about

out there.

this is not going good/it goes like this;

these hot jags/this burning

thats

behind my thin face

and buried deep inside my baby heart-

its all free now/comes out in hot jags

of

future panic of EVERYTHING

and

existential fear of EVERYTHING.

of

life/the way it is/the way it was/the way its going to be.

of

the cloud thats Past/the black fog thats Here.

of

chemical imbalance untreated

and

the WORK to do.

of

the select life experience of a stoned stubborn shut-in.

of

the negative traps i fight every exhausting Groundhog Day.

of

late realisation of real things i forgot i wanted.

of

love/life/loss that real adults take in one sad stride.

of

destructive heat of 1000 feelings blast me into volcano.

of

scalding barbed wire suit worn in the tinted tunnels i wander.

(i have a beautiful home/i cling to this)

so its not going well/its going like this;

reading the too true words i wrote/reading between my own lines/reading the obvious statements . . .

NOW

i can hear the screams/NOW its all I hear.

THEN

it was recording truth with no thought for my ownself AT ALL.

so its not going well is it?  when the scotch doesn’t work

and

the tv is only moving colours that don’t engage/when i cant read

and

cant write

and

i fight negative traps all and every Groundhog Day/only to

find

them

waiting

30 seconds after waking/monsters of hot knots tied tight

in

my

angry guts

30

seconds after waking.

monsters take my dinner and deny me breakfast.

i DO have a beautiful home (i cling to this/repeat this and read

over and over

the tatty printed email that calms my nerves).

it goes like this;

i text babble thru tears/actually my frightened fingers

text

babble

by themselves/cancel it - i sent it . . . it doesn’t matter.

i only need a dr now.

BUT

i have moments of clarity/ACTUAL ones

not

only

5 drinks in/because scotch doesn’t work anymore.

so clarity

like

a diamond/like i am a man/like i can see

and

i KNOW

and

i FEEL

and

become so OK and HUMAN SAD with the knowledge

the knowledge

the knowledge

the knowledge . . . that/AAAAH . . . shit.

its not going well/its going like this;

(i have a beautiful home and everything is ok/i cling to this

among all the words I CANT hear

on the tv

and

out innocents mouths).

Bambi drives up.  i go out there.  i plan to cry on her

out here

in

the suspiciously silent street

(i haven’t lost her/i haven’t lost anybody/i cling to this)

and

i feel the burn inside my face

and

1000 emotions flood out my torn muscle

and

i’m sniffing like a cut knee kid

and

my arms are reaching

and

shes out the car/opening the boot

and

and

and

she holds up an Early Leaning Centre shop toy in bright plastic.

a till and basket and shopping to buy.

an

unsure smile on her face.

its going bad/its going like this;

i say WHAT? and the tears are gone and

i

know

she

was

hoping for a better reaction.

(i cling to the things inside the brackets/i have a beautiful home tho its cold

and

my

legs

feel

broken

all the time)

well, in the kitchen i lay it out.

i have one hot jag

and

i

burn

our dinner/we’re both drinking/drinking for dinner tonight.

i lay it out.

i lay it out.

and Bambi lays out home truths/on the new cat scratched sofa

she

says

YOU WANT ME TO SLAP YOU?

i

say

YES.

Bambi slaps me 6 times.

(i have a beautiful home/Bambi loves me/she says

this

100

times.

i believe her and i cling to these things)

burnt dinner left on the coffee table

and

spilt in the kitchen i say LETS GET YOU MORE BENSONS.

(i haven’t lost her/she said she always here for me/don’t romanticise it she said/i nearly laughed/cant say that to a poet i say/i cling to these things

and

remember

EVERYTHING

she

says

to me)

now its going better/we’re drunk and it continues like this;

now i don’t drive

but

Bambi throws me the keys/i cant even get them in the ignition.

her

exasperation

is

comical.

i drive till I need to do a 3 point turn/then get out.

(Bambi said theres nowhere else she’d rather be/i cling to this/i have a beautiful home/i cling to this and i haven’t lost her/no one has died/live your life/haven’t lost her/aways here for me/i cling

to

these

things)

Bambi is driving up the shop dancing/shes on wine 2/i had

fat

chunk

of

gin.

Bambi drives up to the shop layby/doesn’t turn/bumps up the kerb

and crawls

over

the wide path parking the nose an inch from the shop.

hilarious its hilarious/i cling to this and go in for fags and wine and whatever.

NICE PARKING says the kid behind the counter.

WATCHED YOU ON THE TV.

the tv

is filled with hatchback dark in B&W.

(hilarious its hilarious and i cling to this)

i don’t drive but i drive back in first gear booze laughing.

its

easy

swinging

the

wheel.

(so she made me feel real/she still does/i had real feelings/still do/just repressed them to migraines/i cling to this on the knife edge

i

walk

in

the struggle fog
of

Groundhog day)

Bambi tells me home truths.

i lay it all out.

the tunnel is wider/glass less black.

Bambi is a bad checkout girl when we play shop.

Bambi throws all my M&S shopping around the room.

Bambi tells me home truths.

we

get

drunker.

we

play

music.

we

get

melancholy.

(i have a beautiful home)

i sleep some

and

 

Bambi helped

but still

my

Groundhog day goes on.

I USED TO BE A GAS GIANT

jupiter doesnt know i am watching him.
back aches over
the telescope/warm night/clouds cleared after
i lost patio chess.


i am humble slow/drinking tea
in october english garden.


pleiades was pretty/a surprise/a sudden
spread of silver points


but jupiter has kings dignity
immovable in
the
big
big 
black.


hes silent/his moons 
arranged by an artist.


he is black and white sci-fi/small storm
on
his
low belt.


i used to be as big as him
but
now
i'm
very
small.

THE ELEVEN DAYS OF BRIAN NINE; DAY THREE

I was reading Brenda’s again, the past all there in words and glossy pictures.  Reading it stretched out on my bed scratching the fresh itches on my legs, the book resting on my little mary.  The doctor had made me another appointment for the day after tomorrow to cut new cancers from my legs, sure they will be back.  Only one more after that, he said, before day ten when Brian Nine (b) will be ready and I get the old green needle.  Brian One put his head round the door scratching his back.  ‘Wendies are here, Brian.’

‘OK Brian.’  I put the book down and moseyed on out to the lounge.

In the expanse of our well massive lounge the Wendies were sitting on the sofa’s drinking tea, all ten o’clock scholars.  Everyone’s lounge is well massive nowadays. Especially the family homes down by South Point.  But then nowadays everyone is eleven people. 

I sat down next to Wendy Nine.  She is a (c).  She was scratching her arse, leaning forward in her seat scrubbing away at her bum-bum.  Everyone was talking about the Tortelli’s last night and how hairy and rushed they were, how they can’t believe how people used to live in the old mainland cities, all ickle.  Wendies are our girlfriend.

We talked about the Tortelli’s and then we watched the Tortelli’s.  Tortelli Jr. was complaining to Mama Tortelli, all stroppy faced and narky, about how he can never get in the bathroom because Sissy Tortelli was always in there, doing some rubbish.  Our bathroom is well massive; we can all shower in there at once if we need to, if we are all well dirty at once.  Sometimes we take the Wendies in there too, showing our form and getting action on with her tom cat and there is still plenty of room.  We laughed at the way the Tortelli’s waste their time like that, standing in a well small hallway taking the owl and getting righteous, their buzz constantly caned.  Their bathroom is way smaller than my rad scooter.  How we laughed.

I told them about getting my red card notice for the green needle.  

Then we sat at the table for dinner and Brian’s Five and Six served some dinner and opened wine.  Everything was way fine, all munching down well happy until Wendy Six knocked the open wine over, well gesturing and splashed and sploshed it right into Brian Six’s dinner.  He had been to work and was a bit tired and well narked so he got straight away snappy at her.

‘Clumsy fucking women.  I just fucking cooked this bastard dinner.’  He stormed off to the kitchen to try and save his meal, his buzz in shreddy tatters.

The Wendies started weeping at his sudden outburst, dabbing at their face tears and still scratching at their little mary’s and backs and arms and norks.

‘You bloody bastard bastards are always shouting at us.’  Said a couple of Wendies, all blurty.

‘Yeah, it’s not our fault.’  Said more Wendies.

‘It’s only wine, Christ, would you Brian’s get a grip!’  Another clump of Wendies, all spitfire.

They had all got together on one side of the table, bunching up, cluster fucking, consoling Wendy Six.  We Brian’s were all together on the opposite side of the table, uncomfortable and itchy, buzz’s on the wane.

‘We’re not always shouting at you Wendies.’  We said.

‘It is only wine.  He’ll get more food.  He’s been to work today.  Take it easy.’  We said.

‘Yeah, lets be calm.’  We said.   

But it was too late to be calm, what with the owl all taken.  The Wendies were standing now getting ready to wag their fingers all well angry ready to give us some Larry Dooley.  I hate it when they wag their fingers; there are so many digits to waggle and then they give us all Larry Dooley.  We stood too.  Brian Six came back in.

‘Dinners fucked.  Thanks a fucking lot.  Fucking hell Wendies!’

‘I suppose you are going to bring up the Robin’s now!’  The Wendies said getting way spitfire, looking for the lavender to lay us out in.

‘Bring up the Robin’s?’  We said all confused. 

Last year the Wendies had left before the gospel with some well lame Robin’s.  We walked right in on them having a massive stinky orgy in their flat, totally unsuspecting.  We were all meant to be going out to play some footy; we were all kitted up and feeling well rad with our kicking feet.  We think they did it on purpose; wanting to be caught to make a point then fake some Jimmie Brits.  We don’t like the Robin’s; all oblomovism, full of utter banana oil. 

‘We knew you would throw that in our face’s.  You always do.  As soon as something upsets you all.  Brian bastards!’  The Wendies were waggling their fingers in our faces.  Some of them still having a weep round their eyes, the rest scratching their various areas well itchy.  We were scratching too.  Always with the scratching. 

‘You brought it up, you fucking stupid mares!’  Some of us shouted back at the wagging fingers.  We had way got them back by discussing Uganda well hardcore with the Vickies.  They don’t know that though.  Way not.  We didn’t want to get caught; we wanted our stinky orgy to run its course.  Those Vickies discuss Uganda like low down B Girls!

‘It always the same with you lot!  Don’t think we don’t know about you and the Vickies.’  Some Wendies screamed at us.

‘Yeah, double standard pricks!’  The rest shouted all wagging fingers and scratching.  Our dinners were all getting well cold.

‘What?  What Vickies?’  We Brian’s managed, rubbishly, buzzes caned.

‘Yeah, like you don’t fucking know.  We know what you did.’  They were no Wendies weeping anymore but still plenty of scratching.  They looked angry enough to lay us out in lavender; maybe they were having a visitor.

‘Well you did it first.  Cheating bloody strumpets!’  We Brian’s stood our ground.

‘Strumpets?  Fuck you Brian’s.  We are leaving.’

‘Yeah, well, OK then.’

The Wendies stormed out giving us all evil looks and downwards sneers.  Condemned by twenty-two volatile eyes blazing in well similar heads.

We all sat back down with our cold dinners.  ‘Shit it!’ Said Brian Six.  His buzz happily dispatched.

I said; ‘The Tortelli’s will be on again soon,’ thinking of the theme music.

In The Tortelli’s Tortelli Jr. had a row with his girlfriend Jenny Popalopados.  He was late for their date at some ickle cinema because he couldn’t get in the bathroom back in the poxy small house.  Their bathroom is way smaller than our rad scooters!  How to live like that?  They had a big row in a well narrow street while old-fashioned rain ran down silly old bricks like weepy tears.  They worked it out and they got all huggy.  Just the two of them and with no mutual scratching at all.  We didn’t laugh much as the theme played out at the end.  Some us looked a bit weepy in the eyes. 

THE ELEVEN DAYS OF BRIAN NINE; DAY TWO

Brian Three and me got our rad scooters out of the garage.  There are eleven rad scooters in there.  And we raced away towards the hospital at faster hundred miles an hour.  Well fast, we love it!  Whole convoy’s of Barry’s and Gary’s, of Mary’s and Jill’s tearing down the huge roads with us weaving in and out, throttles well open, driving like Jehu, son of Nimshi. 

Brian Three had recurring head issues, always cracking his claret jug, dripping red muck down his chin-chin.  He was just in front because he got out of the garage first and when we got to the hospital he was still just in front.  Brian Three is a (c).

We parked up in the garage under the hospital and walked up to the main entrance, me leaning down to scratch at my ankles and shins, up my thighs and behind my prayer bones, all well itchy.  Brian Three was having a right good scratch at his scalp and his face.  He had a righteous marrow issue last month.  They grew him new shins, fitted them in an afternoon while he watched the screen.  Now it was his head. 

At reception we queued briefly with the itching hoards milling about then Brian Three moseyed off over to the Head Wing holding his pink medical card and scratching his head savagely.  The receptionist, Linda Seven, gave me back my pink card and, scratching her norks vigorously, said; ‘If you could take a seat Mr. Nine, the doctor will be with you shortly.’

‘Oh,’ I said, confused.  ‘Not the Leg Wing today?’  I was scratching my legs.

‘Not just yet, Mr. Nine, if you could just take a seat.  Help yourself to some tea.’

I didn’t want tea.  I like wine and Seigfried Shakes.  I looked for a seat over by the window.  It was well busy; it always is but everything is moving fast, well smoothly run in here.  I sat between eleven little kid’s and the tea machine.  The boy’s were scratching themselves all over. 

‘Mummy, Mummy, Mummy why does it itch so bad Mummy?’  They all said, getting well frantic with their ickle arms.

‘Come on, Daniels, please sit still.  Everybody itches.’  She was gently scratching her elbow.  She turned to the woman next to her.

‘He’s an (h), you know.’

‘I know, I know,’ said the woman next to her who was scratching each palm with the fingers of the other hand and rubbing her sides with her elbows.   

‘My Bob was (k) before he was fifteen.  He’s a (q) now you know.’ 

I felt well smug; I was an (a) with only some leg trouble.  Well recurring leg trouble but what trouble doesn’t recur?   

Grandpa Tortelli in The Tortelli’s found out he had cancer and everyone went all weepy.  Fearsome of the happy dispatch.  He lasted a year with the same cancer.  The same cancer!  A year treating the same guff…and then he was gone to rest in Abraham’s bosom.  How we laughed; it was well harsh.  Things used to be so primitive. 

‘Mr. Nine?’

‘Yes,’ I said and got up, itching doctors and nurses and patients streaming around me.

‘Mr. Brian Nine?’ 

‘Yes.’  I gave him my pink card.

‘Brine Nine (a), eh?’  He said and smiled.

The two women on the seats shut up and looked up at me.  I smiled at them well smug.  I was an (a).  Nowadays that was just a little bit special at my age, twenty.  The kids were still scratching themselves ragged, little faces screwed up in frustration.

‘Please come with me, Brian.’  I followed him through the scratching throng to his office.  The glow of the sun was diffused as always by the dome; a soft yellow coming through the window looking out over the hospital gardens.

‘Now Brian, as an (a), a long serving (a) by today’s standard, you must have thought about this day, eh?’  He sat back a big smile on his face.  ‘We started growing a new Nine this morning.  I meant to tell you yesterday but it was my anniversary and I had a world of presents to get.’

‘That’s OK.  A new Nine?  Wicked.’

‘We will do your legs again today anyway, their isn’t much else wrong with you but we might as well replace you with a (b).  Not fair you Brian’s not getting your upgrades like everyone else, eh?  How’s the scratching?’  They always ask about the scratching.  And tell you not too.  ‘Try not to scratch too much.  Show me your legs.’

I hitch up my trousers legs and we can both see the red lines of too much scratching up my shins and across my prayer bones.  The doctor was scratching his neck and shaking his head.  He wrote briefly on my pink card and on his green one.  He filed the green one and gave me my pink one back along with a red one.  I looked at the red one.

‘Just official notice.’  The doctor said shaking his head noncommittally.  ‘OK?’

‘Yes.’  I said.  The red card said ‘ten days notice’ with the date and the doctor’s signature.  I got up.  ‘The Leg Wing?’

‘Yes off you go, might as well cut them out a couple more times, eh?  Then the old green needle.’

‘Thank you doctor.’

‘Goodbye Brian Nine.’

I went to the Leg Wing where I lay down and the doctor there turned the lasers on and let them get busy cutting the cancers out of my legs.  The Tortelli’s was on the screen, theme music fading out.  Mama Tortelli was well fretting about getting back from the factory in time to see her kids got a decent meal before she had to go and work again in some ickle cocktail bar at night.  It was way harder for her now Grandpa Tortelli was blown across the creek.  She was turning into a right crepe hanger all moans and angry pulling faces.  Pa Tortelli was well useless, just a fat trencherman and a right Jimmie Woodser.  How I laughed.

When I got back out and down in the parking garage I found Brian Three’s rad scooter gone.  I got on my rad scooter, the itching in my legs a new fire well bad and headed off down the road staying in the middle lanes, all sedate.  There was a convoy of eleven racing in the outside lane all fixed in formation, all similar faces squinting in the wind.  No one overtaking anyone and no one losing any ground at the back either.  I went home at two hundred miles an hour and got in in time to see The Tortelli’s theme music playing out. 

Tortelli Jr. had to go get a job after school to help Mama Tortelli pay all the poxy bills.  A job after school…everyday…shit…who can be doing with that?  The Tortelli’s have well little time for themselves, all rushing and moods.  Everyone loves The Tortelli’s, they hardly ever scratch and everyone is well hirsute.

THE ELEVEN DAYS OF BRIAN NINE; DAY ONE

This morning I was over in the hospital having the cancers removed from my legs.  They well itched.  Now I was at home flicking through Brenda’s History Of Civilization crashed out on the bed, a proper ten o clock scholar.  Scratching.  I was reading about Freud and the discovery of the self and all that lark.  It well amazed me that everybody used to be just one person.  Nowadays everybody is eleven people.  I am Brian Nine. 

I am not working today.  I only work one day out of eleven; who can do more?  I read in my Brenda’s that some people used to have to work two jobs.  Jesus; two Jobs is well poxy!  No time to yourself.  That would well cane me.

The hospital is always well busy.  People in for allsorts.  Cancers and lesions and tumas and anomalies are all rife nowadays but trivial.  Easily treated.  Everyone visits the hospital all the time; nowadays it’s well easy to fit in around work.  Sometimes every two or three days people have these anomalies cut out by the lasers leaving well fierce itching.  Yesterday I was in the hospital having poxy cancer removed from my legs.  I have to go back tomorrow, to get it done again. 

There is always The Tortelli’s on the screen in the hospital.  Everyone likes watching The Tortelli’s while the lasers do their work.  Nowadays this soap-u-drama is well popular all well weird variety and extremes.

I like reading The History Of Civilization, flicking through the glossy pages crashed out lazy as Ludlam’s dog in the flat.  It amazes me how small families used to be.  Well tiny in well ickle houses.  As small as the families on The Tortelli’s.  Just two parents.  Sometimes one!  Nowadays if we go out with our parents there will be thirty-three of us.  If the Wendy’s come too there will be forty-four of us.  If the Wendy’s parents come to there are sixty-six of us.  Consequently everything is built well bigger nowadays. 

The pictures in Brenda’s of the old cities are well hilarious.  The restaurants and cinema’s and buses so tiny; virtually antisocial.  Our flat is larger than these restaurants in the glossy pages in Brenda’s, tiny outlets in red and yellow; the colour of old style infected sores.  Well twisted.  Our kitchen is way bigger than the entire house the Totelli’s scuffle around in all poxy.

Brian One put his head round the door, scratching the small of his back twice the time.  ‘Brian, dinner is ready.’

‘OK, Brian.’  I said.

‘Reading Brenda’s, Brian?’

‘Yes, Brian.’

‘Wicked.’

‘Yes, wicked.’

‘Dinner is ready, Brian.’

‘Ok, Brian.’

I closed the book and got up and moseyed into the kitchen where Brian’s Five and Six were cooking eleven dinners at the massive stove with little pinnys on.  Although cloned we are not all identical; just well similar.  I sat at the massive dining table with all my well similar brothers, all ten of them, all busy scratching somewhere or other, waiting for The Tortelli’s theme music.

UNPUBLISHED SYMPHONY

accidentally another epic is written.

10

pages or more

one

drunk 

night/loneliness was fuel then/i had scotch and an ignored TV.

i 

had

fire

and burning purpose.

i call it Writer

and

imagine

it

will right the world.

the glass cracks when i pack the ice in/no room left

for

razor

thin

citrus slice or carbonated mixer/try anyway/watch the meniscus burst from 2 inches away.

(these days i wake with ice anxiety filling

the

trays in the sink

before

breakfast

every morning/ice there for the pm and evening.)

so wrote an epic/called it Writer.

wrote a pome about it/called it Unpublished Symphony.

neither

are

finished

cos

i am busy lining up small lamps to light the small drinks

and

moving

dead

speakers into different dusty corners/alone/drunk/deep in creating/deep

in

a

mistake/writers cocoon walls full of cracks he wont see.

  

to recap;

writer in a dark room low lamps dusty books opens up vacuum to

friendly air.

(please be friendly air/pains living but i am exhausted now) 

Unpublished Symphony and Writer -

theyre

made

up

of

boots like these/its England! - inside everyone’s head theyre living an imported sitcom.

writer –

he

lives . . . elsewhere/land of boots and ice and drink and true-lie pens.

writer trying to live here for now/has professional help/doesnt

want 

to 

say 

goodbye to anything/anyone

at

all.