MENTALLY FUKED, SPIRTUALLY DANCING /Me1

MENTALLY FUKED, SPIRTUALLY DANCING



MENTALLY FUKED, SPIRTUALLY DANCING

He realsiese. He sits up in bed and feels the intense beauty of the piss-warm piss warm sheets, green grass, a

yellow flower. “Nicholas …” he muses. And he feels as if he were a one year old smiling at an adult bringing

the adult into tranquillity. Everyone is always so worried about wot he can’t do, his brooding silences, his fits.

But he can smile inside like the sun bursting away all that grey muggy muggyness of the muggy grey day.

Muggy muggy grey day go away! He feels the beauty of wild flowers by the road side- how it can make him

want to sing, the power of a thick black line painting it over an old newspapaer. The smell of a pinewood fire,

the touch of dry soil wihch dries his hands and makes them soft and clean. The whirring noise of a bicycle

wheel spinning . He understood the magic of his own name N i c h o l a s.

in the bathroom mirror he gazes and where others see his twisted features and deformed body he sees the beauty

of things inside. He wants to see the beauty inside himself so he goes into the bathroom and looks inside

himself in the mirror. He wants to share this with everyone. So he breaks the mirror. Now there are aare lots of

nicholases. He can give a piece to everyone!

His mother comes rushing in from the kitchen in blind panic and sees him standing there in his wet pyjamas

and bare feet. Furiously she scoops him up away from the puddle of smashed mirror. “ What am I gonna do

with you?” she demands in desperation. He’s heavy and she grasps desperately for the bathroom cabinet. They

loose their balance and go tumbling to the ground along with the cabinet and all its insides flying everywhere.

Nicholas laughs at all this pantomime. But his mother his furious.

“NICHOLAS, I love Nicholas” he stutters. And he smiles up at her. But she is glaring down with so much

hate and anger in her eyes. He puts on his smile, the magic one that has all the power and love to spread across

the sky. But she is glaring back with so much hate. So he closes his eyes tight and concentrates on love energy.

then he peaks out of one eye… To her annoyance his mother can’t help the slightest twinge of a smile. “Yes!”

he tells himself. Now he’s smiling with more confidence. And reluctantly she can feel herself giving in to this

stupid helpless smile. “NICHOLAS, I love Nicholas” he begins singing like someone who’s drunk. Slowly she

feels her smile broaden and Nicholas sees her face as the sun coming out on a bleak grey morning. He’s smiling

too and she smiles some more. He takes her face and like a dog he’s liking it.. it’s the biggest way he knows

how to say ‘I love you’ “Stop it!” still trying to look angry. But she’s laughing now and they are rocking back

and forward singing “NICHOLAS, I love Nicholas” as a shaft of sun bathes them.

stutters.” he thouks to hinmself. And while others curse and scorns him spit and riducule. Pity and tloerate him

he can see what no one else ccan. NICHOAS he stubling says . “I love nicholas, I love me”

MENTALLY FUKED, SPIRTUALLY DANCING

He realsiese. He sits up in bed and feels the intense beauty of the pwarm piss warm sheets., green grass and a

yellow flower. “Nicholas …” he mused. And he felt it as if he were a one year old somiing at na adult bringing

the adult into tranquilty. Everyone woz always os worried wot he couldnt do. His brooding silences, his fits. But

he could smile inside lide the sun bursting away all that grey muggy muggyness of the grey day. He felyt hte

beary of wild fowers by the road side, the power of a thick black line painting it over na old newspapaer. The

smill of a pinewood fire, the touch of dry soil wihch dries his hands and makes them soft and clean. The souncd

of a bicylce Wheel spinning . He understood the magic of his won name N i c h o l a s. in the bathroom mirror

he gazes and where otherw wee his twisted features nad deformed body he sees inside NICHOLAS” he thouks

to hinmself. And while others curse and scorns him spit and riducule. Pity and tloerate him he can see what no

one else ccan. NICHOAS he stubling says . “I love nicholas, I love me”

When Harold woz small his family were always fighting and he grew up spitting and smarling his way thru life

as the only way he knew, how to survive. But onw day he came home and his sister was in a good mood and in

even his mum woz in a good mood and his dad was in a good mood

“hi Harry” said his sister. He’d never been called harry in hgis life by any one…. It felt so good. Goot and all

warm inside themselves delicious feeling he’d ever had, he wanted to smile but he never smiled- especially in

front of his sister so he just looked and growled “ fuck off” Hre realised he’d blown his big chance in life and

from that day on he growled all the more. No one ever dared called him harry – not his work colleagues hot his

wife not his children and that made him feel sad….On days when he felt extra sad he’d disguise it by being

extra grumpy. Till 1 day he woz in gis ususal restaurant long week but the rush had gone and the restaurant woz

calm and he noticed a tranqility in the day and he thought bak over his life and remembered that day so long

now nad for some reason instead of feeling his susual better andry self he felt food and a smile broke over his

face like someone waking from a deep sleep. “ Wether people r nice 2 me of not I’ll still be nie 2 them, “ he

thought. 2” from now on I’ll b happy …wotever else people call me. Ill be happy to myself. And Ill be happy to

everyonme “ he got up , smiled at the people in the restarant and walked oout a a new jperson

19.12.05



Mr Jones

Mr Jones was so Mr Jonesy it wasn’t true … except that it was. That woz wot its said on his birthday

certificate.- I mean not the ‘mr’ bit of course. But it’s hardly surprising coz his dad woz Mr Jones. And his dad

before that. And his dad’s dad’s dad’s dad. Infact as far back as u can go in recorded history. He hadn’t married-

well I spose now he never will… not when u’r in the late states of terminal cancer. At 33.

“That’s too early for anyone to die,” moaned Mr Jones who felt cheated about dying so young. But recently

he’d got to appreciate that the world over many boys never make it to be a man. Never get to be ‘mr’ anything.

And when the thought like that he realised actually how lucky he was to have reached 33… how every day had

been a gift… corney? … maybe, but he didn’t give a fucking shit… “ I’ve lived 33 years – not been tortured .

lived a relatively quiet peaceful boring life. While some boys – still boys . have to go out intl yhe firlds and

work . Some have to carry a gun and kell or be killed… i0ve eached 33 . sure, I’d love to reach 40-But I’ve still

had more than those poor buggers whe r child soldiers. He suddenly felt the wold crazy stupid desire to got on

the next flight out and go into the fields , off to their governments into the UN and tell everyone ot let all

children everywhere be allowed to grow to 33 and die of cancer. He smiled . He’d learned a lot seince becoming

terminally ill. Perhaps coming face to face with death does that. He closed his eyes and saw in front of him one

of the boy soldiers… the boy’s face was petrified as it looked down the barrel of some rifle. Mr Homes reached

out mentally … “I’m here, “ thought Mr Jones to the boy… “I’m here, take my hand.” Mr Jones died that

afternoon . The nurse was surprised to see his hand outstretched and a smile on his face.

Ont in the firlds in the grass lay a boy shot straight thru the heart. He was known as ‘covy’ which means ‘the

cowardly one’. His commandant was surprised to see his hand outstretched and a smile on his face



Mr Jones and Son

Mr Jones was so Mr Jonesy it wasn’t true … except that it was. That woz wot its said on his birthday certificate.

I mean not the ‘mr’ bit of course. But it’s hardly surprising coz his dad woz Mr Jones. And his dad before that.

And his dad’s dad’s dad’s dad. Infact as far back as u can go in recorded history. He hadn’t married- well I

spose now he never will… not when u’r in the late states of terminal cancer. At 33. He would have liked a kid

… somehow he’d have preferred a boy. Who would one day be Mr Jones too, of course. But not one of those

rough tough ‘hey. I got a black eye but u should’ve seen the other kid’ type boys. The quiet boy who other boys

would laughed at and shrug off as he himself had been laughed at and shrugged off when at school. 33!

“That’s too early for anyone to die,” moaned Mr Jones who felt cheated about dying so young.

But recently he’d got to appreciate that the world over many boys never make it to be a man. Never get to be

‘mr’ anything. And now he thought like that he realised actually how lucky he was to have reached 33 at all…

how every day had been a gift. Corny? Maybe, but he didn’t give a fucking shit… “I’ve lived 33 years – never

been tortured, lived a relatively quiet, peaceful, boring life. While some boys – still boys, have to go out in the

fields and work. Some have to carry a gun and ‘kill-or- be-killed’… I’ve reached 33. Sure, I’d love to reach 40.

But I’ve still had more than those poor buggers who r child soldiers.” He suddenly felt this wild crazy stupid

desire to get on the next flight out and go into the fields, off to their governments, into the UN and tell everyone

to let all children everywhere be allowed to grow to 33 and die of cancer. He smiled. He’d learned a lot since

becoming terminally ill. Perhaps coming face to face with death does that. He closed his eyes and saw in front

of him one of the boy soldiers… the boy’s face was petrified- just the sort that would have been laughed at and

shrugged off by the other boy shoulders. The boy was looking down the barrel of some rifle. Mr Jones reached

out mentally … “I’m here, “ thought Mr Jones to the boy… “I’m here, take my hand.”

Mr Jones died that afternoon . The nurse was surprised to see his hand outstretched and a smile on his face.

Out in the fields in the grass somewhere far off lay a boy soldier shot straight thru the heart. He was known

as ‘covy’ which means ‘the cowardly one’. His commandant was surprised to see his hand outstretched and a

smile on his face



Suddenly everything looked fuckin beautiful. Morning time and I’d popped round the corner still with the early

morning nip in the air and the world and each and every one of the hustle bustle of the morning was just so

fuckin beautiful. I wanted to draw everyone from the smart waiter boss to the sloppy bag lady over her hit to the

gay business couple to the everyone everywhere and write a poem a million stories all at once and let it be

known that we are all fuckin beautiful and to enjoy this very moment on this beautiful morning and feel the love

and love all around. The woman next to me looked over suspiciously I smiled a drunken-on- love smile She

looked confused and surprised but smiled back a who-is- this-nut? smile but her smile hung on her lips and

somehow I knew that all those sketches and poems and stories had just been read and she had understood each

and everyone in her own way and thru her we had all understood and I went into the morning with a smile in

my heart. Beautiful fuckin world ….I love us all

(these the morning after the nite B4)