(+22 rating, 6 votes)
ED SCISSORTONGUE
- It was 1999
- Bonfire Night
- When the red mist first enveloped his character traits
- He found himself with no control over his fists wailing on some dickhead's face from his council estate
- See many moons had passed since the hope of a 2 point 4 landlubber life style had been smashed into smithereens
- It was a year ago this very day that the intravenous sludge pumping had taken off at a wild speed
- He found himself a regular at the phone boxes
- Cherry Lambrini
- Bicarb from the corner shop
- Back to the mould covered wormhole mattress stained practice bakky packs full of flints and butts stinking
- Nuff guzzling drugs
- Vein deposit lumps clogging his mug stuck in the mud the AM doth greet him
- Spastic Max sat in a deluge of acid tabs
- Flame retardant trackie pants and garage raps sketching
- Seldom seen was he between A-to-B
- Missions to spaghetti junctions paints on the underpass
- Hanging off the highest bridge
- Rangoose quackathon
- Throwing breeze blocks through speeding windscreens passing
- He would climb electricity mains and cut the power from his home town and roam the streets reeling in the panic and cotch in cul-de-sac hedgerows watching single mothers sparking matches in the darkness of their living rooms
- His grief flourished like anthill communities
- Couplets from an undercurrent colour source beneath the grey concrete corridors and monoliths in-and-around the pissy stairwells and pissy lifts in which he found his peace
- Beneath the bread line
- Bread knives sliced at the smart price car crimes carnage his hair greyed
- Cracked enamel pegs inside a garbage pail kid cabbage patch tapping veins until the sun decayed
- He moved inland for better dope
- Cast away bastard face forgot the names of his school mates
- He moved inland like seagulls sacking off trawler ship cast off's for landfill luncheon
- The coastline haunted his thoughts and so he thought ever more about taking a saw to his neck side
- He had visions of blood dripping over the floor of his four-by-four foot box bedroom next life
- He'd open paperbacks but only paint the pages black and use a magnifying glass to spark a map of memories
- Words would get deleted quicker than a 100 metre dash
- Another night laden with some fear and loathing imagery
- You might have known him
- The man behind those ram raids
- The man behind the letter bombs sent out to several primary schools
- You might have known him as the dude who scampered down the side of your house and made off with your penny farthing bicycles
- He used to watch the freight trains
- He used to fish for carp and beat his catches to a rancid mush with heavy ended claw hammers
- He used to sneak into the cinema and sit in front rows and laugh his head off to the hammer horror matinees
- He used to talk to people and people used to talk him too
- That was way before the crack the whores the drugs the sniffing glue
- That was way before the days of simply nicking pissy booze and jumping queues of peeps shopping for shitty supermarket food
- See life wasn't ship shape life was shit mate
- Life was hookers tied to his bed frame with grip tape
- Blindfolded piss games
- Net curtains shit stained fist gape listening to Rick James' mixtapes
- He was his mother's only baby pains
- His mother's only labour day
- His mother's one and only angel saint
- His mother never thought she'd see her grave before the day that Max was raking cash and chasing pavements to the stock exchange
- His mind felt heavy cracked skull matter case fragile flesh with lead brick sat inside throbbing
- He felt his face change shape and time ebbing away the vital signs of life ankle deep inside a teak coffin
- Sitting in the fourth dimension he felt the raw depression of forty horsemen stretching his organs awful essence
- He was ever omnipresent as a portal peasant looking in the mirror clock a devil dressed in his reflection
- During thunderstorms he found peace with life
- He saw the rain as writing letters with Jesus Christ and with his fingers he'd scribe letters across the sky in the hope that constellations would free his mind
- But deep inside his rancid flat
- Light flicker movements mapped white face wrinkled grimace lager cans and bakky ash
- Lost in the soil fodder
- Spastic Max
- Six foot two six foot box six feet deep inside the cancer tank.
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