Milano - Torino, Back and Forth Across the Atlantic

Paris Pt2

He travels with his leather jacket again, the first time since the end of last winter, and he’d forgotten how much fun it was. Its smell reminds him of everything he likes best about his situation; hitting the airport, through the glass doors, zipped up to the neck, at six in the morning, a bleary line at the bar past customs and the smell of cheap brioches and fresh coffee floating over at nose level, hunger aches, familiar. Sitting in the airport’s plastic bucket chair, the thick jacket squeaking, thoughts of his fuckless summer are replaced by memories of his fuckless winter.
This time when he travels he feels distinctly separate from the real thing. All my heroes were punks – he says to himself, the older he gets the funnier this sounds. If he isn’t the real thing, then what is he – he feels as though he is drifting badly. A hopeless ad man, treating clients badly, pah, depressed, hurrying back through the wet city, full of arabs, soup restaurant - glistening heads just below eyeline, bread and lemon and chilli on the tables, to the hotel – if he isn’t the real thing…
He sits on the bed in the hotel room with the window open, his jacket off, there is a slight chill coming in – the room had been hot and humid when he opened the door – the cold air feels like a fever, he feels tired, it is raining, he listens to the music outside coming from somebody’s party in a flat on the other side of the street, people laughing, he imagines them walking upstairs and downstairs, looking for a fuck.
If he isn’t the real thing, and down from the lago he had forgotten he wasn’t, what is left for him other than to make himself an approximate version of it, the autonomous product, some object, for the kids, for all the punks to live by. He wonders, despondently, to travel as the real thing, back and forth across the Atlantic... The product would be a crystallization of a relationship with the real thing. He sighs – the economy of now can go fuck itself, he’s laughing, sitting on the bed.

-LPM

Paris' Leather Jacket

-LPM

No title

-JPD

Buy a black car, drive it

They stop at a small town. Jean meets a girl, Juliette (Dita Parlo), and they are married, while hardly knowing each other. So the barge moves on. It is not an easy transition for the married couple. In Paris they go ashore and the wife flirts with another man. There is a fight and she runs away, then the husband goes in search of her.

-LPM (after Guardian)

Morganti Fragment: down from the Lago

When he’d first come into town, drifted round the periphery, on the coat-tails of all the others from the lago who didn’t know any better, thinking the big city meant seeing the same people they saw up on the lake but in a more expensive bar with shitter food, bars with small dogs in them and stink of gelled heads, first years: drifted round the periphery, like a bobbing head, trading in sex, not other things, leaving the acrid taste of a white chick’s sincere chest tribal tattoo in his mouth. He stared at her and he could get off. The next morning, the bar, the coffee bar with coffee cups piled up next to Africans and bus drivers like the long comic reality of an American movie, chocolate brioche exploding on his fingers, walking out in the piss cold to see the sunrise properly, and the land steam.

-LPM

Triple Breakfast

-JPD

Postcard Poem

City's chartered streets

Lost in strangeness

And to our plans.

-RV

Three Poems

They'll never know

They'll never understand

Peter my only kiss

On that rickety bed

Sweating

Arms around buttocks

Etcetera



-

Whispering about me in corners

Stealing my own stuff

Mummy's boy artist

Waiting for nothing



-

On the Sofa

Densly packed dreams

Cushty leather

Cash in hand

-AP

Milan Milan Milan

-LPM

Double Portrait: AC/Vilebrequin (race weight)

- LPM

Double Pink

-LPM

Cycling Socks

-LPM

Rhinoceros morning

-LPM

Each night each night more vulgar than the last

I have four sheets of err paper in front of me. Fuckers are trading in cheap sentimentality and against it too hehe, err heh yeahh well we were glorious thinking back, bastards! We did it the way nobody else could have – and that’s testament to our youth and the instant generosity of it heh- BASTARDS! - same usual shit uhuh, ha-ha.

I go to bed each night - haha yeh I go to bed each night.

Getting tarted up and going out on the town. No- there is another death that’s been renounced; walking away with nothing but just the usual casual - that it ends there for tears and aspirations etc. Yeah I'll go to bed

-LPM

This joke which ended

Well, he's lucky it's my birthday - otherwise I would have fucked him as well.

It was one of those things which sound as if they come from behind a wall -

in one of those picture-frame places with a yard and a fence and where no one wants to repeat things, full of men. She had the mouth of a trooper, fists like a docker and a prisoner's arse. Maybe it was a line from a film, or just not a joke or something. People were pissing themselves and sliding about on the floor -

She was in so much trouble they even grabbed her hair - do you know that fat lesbian even accused the parents of not doing a proper job. (She laughed when she heard that, she was picturing them). She said That girl of yours needs - So what. Everyone was normal and boring and bored and funny and that was fine, no one minded flying plant pots or spastics or being scared shitless of getting caught. Laughter. These are the best days of your life!

Before she was on the bus she turned around and said with a look in her eye, 'Shut your fat fucking gob. It better not be' - and that was the first time someone spoke that way. Not the swearing. It was like a crack in the sky in her face. God! she seemed lovely after that

jpd

Whoah Captain Morganti

Do they have any idea what it is to glide between vision, darkness, I mean completely without vision in the fog -3 degrees headlights picking lines out sliding diagonally rather than cycling? Whoah. Frozen jacket, high contrast lenses. Whoah. Captain bawdy Morganti does, does well Sometimes he looks at the earthquakes and feels like a dinosaur: I don’t know, I’m getting old? He twists my ear. I had a dream last night… I woke up from it. Can you imagine how I felt. I don’t want to repeat myself (heh) but remember those fucking grey cement floors, shithead? I thought I’d never know passion again and I was right. Heh I make decisions, let’s not make a big deal over why they listen, I’m a little far gone personally I’m actually in the airport, in the waiting room, the bedroom not mine heh, the grey floor, the particular light of one morning in particular, the folding of a new season back on the memories of the last time it smelt like this, the drunk morning waking up, the silences, the moments you live for (hah, yes), the cold the big duvet smell.

Swaddling to the shitter silently splattering the walls popping pimples and driving a sports car the next day, this one, this one I'll repeat to the young and unformed.

-LPM