March 27 2018

I got your letter yesterday. It had been chewed, but most of it was legible.

Yes, I heard about that scene. Apparently, this character also keeps a purple-assed baboon on a lead, sometimes whipping the animal through a crowded café. [1]

So now you know why it went from a white to a red house. Some economists are saying it will cost a trillion dollars. Until they’re blue in the face “there is no problem”, they say. Have you tried stealing a bear’s honey? They can crush a skull easier than you can crush a gobstopper. These new weapons are everywhere and everyone has access to one. No-one knows who’s responsible anymore.

It’ll be arousing if the button does get pressed. Imagine how suddenly alive you’ll feel knowing the world is about to end. What will you do? I guess the baboon will be okay. They’ll probably fire a dart into the beast’s neck. For humane reasons, I suppose.

Can we only watch the show unfold?



[1] The Letters of William S. Burroughs 1945 – 1959, Ed. Oliver Harris. Picador, London. 1993. p. 273



Dear Bill,

I do not plan to come to N.Y. I am going up to the border for a new tourist card, and will return the same day. If Jack wants to talk to me he will have to come to Mexico City or at least to the border[1].

It’s such an agreeable air down here in the heat. No-one cares for the lame seeking fame and why would they? The humans here are loose and dance with no consideration for being presentable. Save your ink for another time.

Some visions have been put to paper. Some may be put onto canvas. It is the extension from surface to space which is an obstacle I’ve yet to overcome. Too many boxes, and there’s nothing within. Maybe I should get a pussy to keep me company? I’ve seen them play for hours with empty packages. Crude.

The new space is a relief from the last cell, but still a few steps are to be taken until the mould breaks. Maybe Putin will destroy everything before I get to the border…sometimes I hope so, but he’s too clever for that. He knows where the mouse is.

I have some difficult writing ahead. Do not jerk-off to hastily posted online comments .







[1] The Letters of William S. Burroughs 1945-59. (Ed, Oliver Harris). Picador. London. 1994

Proper Moral T

When I was home I fell into a disgusting state of stagnation and excess, said Burroughs. I looked up and that was all. Sweat and smell arose from my hopes.

Did you know the imagination leaves the gifted amongst us hopelessly adrift? You say there are no creatives except those with original ideas. Who on earth can claim the original idea from which all sprang? I don’t think it was my neighbour. He growls at moving the bins.

Was it God? If he existed he never had an original idea because he never wrote His own story. Sometimes it pays to pay attention to the heap of clothes in the doorway. There’s originality in the brutality purist sense.

Very few people have empathy or any real courage to create something nowadays. It’s all status and property: a tomb one works for day in, die out. Never upset the rhythm or you’ll never own your own crypt.

A cross word is all it takes with Lichtenstein to get you in the cell. There’s no lawyer, only the Judge – and their book is full of morals no-one else has heard of. You’d get better legal advice from the heap of clothes.



Trying to Cope with Divorce

I’m 40 years old and instigated a divorce which my wife agreed to.

I made the most terrible decision of my life. Not with this divorce, but continuing to engage in completely selfish behaviour. I drank a lot. I smoked a lot, stayed out, and completely overlooked that someone actually cared for me in a way I found surprising.

Last summer was when the coffin lid slammed shut. It didn’t feel real. Neither did the previous year’s tragedy that openly tore a huge, weird, numbing hole between my wife and her family, and me. I never recovered from feeling so helpless and after my wife and I split, it seemed the right thing to do. A few months later it felt the wrong thing to do. We got back together, but it seems I made a promise that I immediately forgot about. Not because I was an idiot, but I made the right and wrong decision to pursue postgraduate study.

I was excited at the start of the academic year, but this gradually crumbled to a feeling of complete exposure. I hadn’t healed or addressed any of my issues that caused excessive consuming of anything to distract me from confronting the arsehole I was/am…

It was hard when I glimpsed a sympathy card addressed to my wife in which it stated she could get her bedroom back. That really hurt and brought to the surface just how fucking rotten I’d been. I just didn’t have it in me to be the supportive person, because I’d struggled to support myself for years. I was tired, broken, and had no self-esteem at all.

It’s been 8 months since we formally agreed to divorce. She’s moved on very well and I’m genuinely happy for her. My journey is rather different.

To sum it up, simply reading the word ‘Durham’ today brought me to yet another gut-wrenching episode of tears and devastation. Why ‘Durham’? Because her father would say something funny about it (Pink Panther). It’s these tiny little things that bring my world crashing down every fucking day.

Yes, I do really wish for the impossible and to go back in time.

Yes, I do really wish I had sought help earlier.

Yes, I do really wish I hadn’t fucked this up so fucking much.

Yes, I do believe we could be what we tried.

Yes, I do believe this divorce will help.

Yes, I do.


The Day I Killed my Wife

The Morning

Somehow you hauled yourself out of the bed we shared.

I stalled trying to help you overcome the dread.

Somehow you wanted to enjoy the day.

I stalled thinking I could show you the way.


The Afternoon

We walked through the park

Did I hold your hand?

As the sun shone and songs were sung,

Kids and mums,

Laughing, with dads with friends,

Everyone belonged.


You didn’t notice as I looked at your face,

And saw the pain;

I froze not offering you grace.

You drifted along,

And I tried to sing a song,

Feeling entirely out of place.

Why did I not hold your hand?


I offered a smile,

But felt so distraught,

As you walked a thousand miles

Through the quicksand

My quixotic refusal to offer you my hand.

You wanted to go

And I felt so low

Because still I didn’t hold your hand.


The Evening

Swaddled in clothes, numb;

Shattered gaze, stunned by his laziness;

A heartless response.


Broken down,

Struck by his refusal to share,

His abnormal gaze

Gives away his heartless response.


Slumped alone

Her heart broken, down to the bone, cut

His heartless response.


Sat alone,

Bile rising,

My heartless response.


Unable to move,

Upstairs she lies alone;

How am I a man, a man?

So heartless in my response.


Still sitting alone,

Paralyzed by his heartless response,

He picks up the phone

To plead to an end

To his heartless response.



If you have addiction issues and an unhealthy negative view of yourself, for god sake go and get help and don’t do what I did and throw away something so precious. Talk openly and honestly about how afraid you feel. Do it now before it’s too late. Call the GP, talk to the Samaritans, Mind, anyone.




Day to Regret

A deep lungful of absurdity exhales,

As memories wail,

With each sigh aloud;

As raindrops explode atop curled leaves

Turning away from sharp slices of a Northern breeze

Snapping the blue cheeks of those no longer found.


Anticipating the precipitation, falling,

Ending the waiting, stalling,

Hoping the train hasn’t left the station,

Departing without knowing the destination, falling,

The anticipation



Hallo Joyce!

Have we met?

I’m not sure!

My memory isn’t like a computer, but I do remember some things said long ago,

stretched out on my bed, alone,

memories projecting inside my head,

with familiar voices saying You Are STU-PID…

yes, I guess, I often digress, my god am I really a mess?!

A collection of images and words observed and heard,

laughing for curating, writing, wanting, wandering and wondering…… just what IS going on?

What IS going on?