Some persons have accused that these writings are full of narrational gaps and sudden perplexing changes of topic brought abt by my total failure to appreciate that the reader does not share important vital background information which I posses. However it is my intention to continue regardless.

The unexploded bomb lay right under Jonesey’s pillow and he did not dare move and attempt to remove it. Instead he just had to lie there and wait for help.

While he waited certain scenes of his life flashed through his head – there was his first kiss with a ‘real’ woman, there was his car crash (tedious and teenage) and there was the time he planted a shard of lite-bulb in the street outside his bedroom window and a street-lamp had grown, pushing through the molten tarmac and twisting up to the sky, a strange 300w yellow to its colour and a deep ‘spook/shimmer’ to its glare

There are those that accuse me of being unable to use language in either of its symbolic or conceptual kinds of meaning and still others who believe that I cannot grasp or formulate the properties of objects in the abstract, that I cannot raise the question ‘why’ regarding real happenings nor can I deal with fictitious situations or comprehend their rationale. Nonetheless I must set down the events.

Towards the end of his life Jonesey got in a strange habit of being fearful just before he slept. He panicked as sleep came close to him, mistaking her warm embrace for the cold one of death. He hired a manservant to read his newspaper for him and cross out all references to physical extinction or the mortal nature of man. If a single word on this topic slipped thru the net he went through hours and hours of despondency and sobbing like child.

In his very last weeks Jonesey sewed money into the lining of his pyjamas lest he should sleep walk in the night and end up far from home. Pound coins he put in there and dollar bills, some Zloty and some Deutschmarks – never sure, of course, where he might end up if he walked.

I do not know if Jonesey saw this money as taxi-fare home or as cash to pay the dark ferryman what is painted on Heavy Metal album covers but in any case his pyjamas were found one-night in the Texas Home Base car-park and all of the money was gone.

I remember the frost, the cold. Cars crushed. Jonesey’s voice. People flying. And human kisses. That’s all.

Killing Of Frank

Killing Of Frank

a good bad life in eleven short parts

Frank lived in some Northern town which is called only by the title - Self Pity Capital of Europe.