Urban Night (Extract)

Prior to exhibiting the paintings during the next exhibition on the 30th May 2014 at Xarolla Windmill, Zurrieq, I shall be publishing extracts I wrote back in 2011.  Entitled "Time for Wreckage", this was a series of loose writings centered around a doomed, sexist, male figure who is existing in a bleak postmodern city.

The moon shines through the kitchen window.  It’s 3 am in the morning and I’m sipping tea feeling bored and empty. 

A redhead is alone in the park across the window.  I guess she lives in my block.  I can tell off her face she’s a slut.  A very dirty slut.  She looks like a transvestite in those clothes and her new haircut.  A very sexy one I must say.  She’s sitting there alone, smoking and talking to herself. Or maybe to the moon.  How I wish I could go down there, feeling cool and cocky and introduce myself and take her hand in mine and tell her that we are heading for a disaster and that we are (not) going to live happily ever after. 


I can still smell her perfume.  Cheap perfume.  School girl perfume. The kind that reminds me of cheap soap bars produced locally.  The kind that her hair used to smell of.  Yummy.  I miss her.  I’m not drunk enough.  Would you come and drink with me? We can just coke up later, and turn into posters and fuck so that we can produce star babies.

You like the idea?

(I know you do)

Bring your sexy friend along, I’m sure she can handle some good stuff.

“Have you seen her lately?”

“No”

“Has she got married?”

“Maybe”

“Where is she living?”

“I dunno, maybe in this very block, maybe in Berlin, maybe in South Africa.”

“I miss her”

“I miss her too”

“She had a lovely tummy”

“So do you”

“I got a beer belly”

“So do I”

“So what?”

“Sexy time?”

I forgot to sterilize the sheets, down in the deep fryer we go.  She doesn’t seem to mind, her  blonde hair all sticky and tangled, her brown eyes in ecstasy.

Her tits are two pills, which I swallow immediately, leaving nothing for her.  I laugh in her face as she fades away.  I’m not gonna fade away.  I’m gonna burn out with one big bang.

Urban Sundays (Extract)

Prior to exhibiting the paintings during the next exhibition on the 30th May 2014 at Xarolla Windmill, Zurrieq, I shall be publishing extracts I wrote back in 2011.  Entitled "Time for Wreckage", this was a series of loose writings centered around a doomed, sexist, male figure who is existing in a bleak postmodern city.

I seldom go out.  I hate the buses, people, window shopping, children, couples, mummies, buggies, trains, traffic, pervs, cafes…but once in a while I have to go out.  Today is one of them sunny days.  I go out and quickly disappear in the industrial areas of the city, and since it is Sunday it is a ghost town.  I reach a pond of dirty filthy water, which I and children of my generation used to call “The Sea”.  The Sea my ass.  It was just a huge reservoir tank, with some fat orange goldfish living off the slime from the bottom of the tank.  Some of the children, the chavvy ones mostly, used to swim in the Sea and most of them would drown, only to be seen in the form of nails, hair and maybe a bone or two which frequently came out of our water tap. 

Nowadays we have drunk too much of the Sea, and there is no water left in there.  Not one single drop.  I sit down on the edge, enjoying the sun.

“Oi basterd, outta fuckin sun”

It was an orange goldfish.

Damn, I guess I'm going crazy.

“Oi basterd, outta fuckin sun”

Are you gonna shut up? Are you?  My Doc Martens glimmer in the sun.

“Oi basterd, outta fuckin sun”

“Want Oral Sex?”

Glup, Glup, Glup, The fish speaks to me but I cannot understand.  Her lips move slowly, out of synchronization.  It’s really funny and sad at the same time.

Now I hope you understand why I hate going out.

Traffic Jam (Extract)

Prior to exhibiting the paintings during the next exhibition on the 30th May 2014 at Xarolla Windmill, Zurrieq, I shall be publishing extracts I wrote back in 2011.  Entitled "Time for Wreckage", this was a series of loose writings centered around a doomed, sexist, male figure who is existing in a bleak postmodern city.

"Stop telling me how beautiful the countryside is.  I don’t understand that kind of beauty.  I am an urban junkie and I need to smell the old hippies smoking over prized dope on doorways, deeply inhale the smell of diesel and paraffin , see the shabby lit shop windows in the empty city centre at night, go bar hopping, blast myself in nightclubs and eat salty junk food at 5 in the morning in the car, forcing tasty uncooked plastic textured food in the stomach. 

I guess our generation has, by now, built up immunity against plastic food.  As a child, I always wondered whether Happy Meal burgers and toys were made out of some all-purpose material, suitable for both toys and food.  In my teens, I tried to be conscious and eat healthy food out of dirty farmer’s hands, but nowadays I concluded that being healthy means being boring.  

This afternoon, I took a bus ride during the rush hour cos I had nothing better to do.  The main roads built next to 1950’s industrial estates are killers at this time, with factory workers crawling out of side roads in their Jap cars. And, of course, the main roads would get blocked.  

Buses and traffic jams are excellent examples to explain democracy.  On buses everybody pays the same fare and given the same amount of space.  The driver, whether drunk or not, would take us to our destination.

Traffic jams are more democratic.  Everybody has to stop, move inch by inch.  Everybody in his own car which expresses his own personality....and sometimes one or two bully boys bypass the jam by passing over the pavement.

In the middle of this metal mayhem, I see a dreadlock girl walking with a hippie boy.  Dread boy dread girl discovering a concrete jungle.  In a main road with grey crash barriers, grey walls from exhaust, dirty black tarmac and torn monochrome posters, a colourful flowery dress, yellow pants and tie and dye shirt surely leave an impact.  It was like a divine intervention from some dope-smoking Jah, telling us that the end is near and we should follow these kids out of Babylon.

They walked on, deeply lost in their conversation, I’m sure they are happy and all they care about is their next joint.  As the bus starts moving slowly, I look back to see if they slipped into a side road, into an abandoned factory, force a garage open, be lucky and find an old mattress throw recklessly in a parking area…but they keep on going straight, always straight, they are making it on purpose, they are making all us workers jealous.  Wait, I don’t work anymore, I quit going to my dead end job last week.  No notice, no nothing.

I don’t know how anyone can complain about unemployment.  Even Jesus gave up his boring job when he felt like, so why shouldn’t I?

When you quit work, you suddenly start taking interest in life.  Getting up late and look forward for the day, look forward to do interesting stuff, meet new people, read weird books, watch art films while downing cheap whisky and go out for the night. No one is gonna complain about my badly exploited red eyes or my lack of interest in middle aged clients looking to remodel their living room."