I was raised a Christian, fairly hardline—I found Jack Chick tracts in my fathers old room—and I do still read the bible occasionally. Not because I believe in God. Because I don't, because I reckon that lecherous old drunkard passed away quite some time ago and is currently buried with a stake through the heart, wearing a rosary of garlic in an unmarked paupers grave in some barren potters field, far, far out of sight of any church or other place of worship. They don't bury suicides on consecrated ground, or so I've heard, and cirrhosis of the liver is a kind of suicide, or close enough at least.

But I do still read the bible on occasion, in times of trouble, or else when I've hit the liquor, whichever happens to come first. Because that shit is pure poetry. No use denying it, the ringing of this myth resonates through every cell of the Western organism like a microwave oven. Just give me a little Ecclesiastes; and afterwards I will hit the Revelations like a goddamn angry pimp, each finger clearly outlined in gold leaf upon the page.

“hell followed with him”, and it follows with me too. I'm good, I think, at what I do well. Which is causing trouble, raising hurricanes from the egg to the bird to the prey. I try, I'm trying to change, I really am, I swear to God, but, you know, could just as easily ask the bark to change the tree it covers—or the fire to throw up it's coal.

I will live forever and never die, or so I reckon, or calculate, by sexton and starlight and sliderule, cos, like the wandering jew I am cursed with immortality and serve some kinda twisted purpose in the mind of the divine or else (at least) (or maybe, quite probably, at most) his relatives: the otherwise heirs-apparent and assorted far flung second cousins and various descendants of dubious credentials and whatever other varied claimants of implausible and unlikely genealogy to the estate of the celestial realm exist. A good friend of mind once told me that “eating is cheating”, and I really do find myself forced to agree, given the slim-pickings, the limited options available. Vodka! It's what's for dinner. And ritalin, the two twin strings that keep this puppet upright, perhaps a blurry photocopy of a blurry photocopy of a bad facsimile of a hasty shaky sketch of a puppet, just a shadow cast by too many candles, a vague grey smear flickering scared and timid and uncertain on the wall of the living room.

When I was sixteen I tried to hang myself by my belt from a door frame, but I pussied out. It hurt! A lot! Bet you didn't know that Ma. Not unsurprisingly, considering I never mentioned it, to anyone, ever, until now. But not your fault. Or Dad's. I was born with a broken wire in my mind, a dry socket, an unfortunate accidental bad soldering of the neurological variety, some kinda loose mental connection that made me what I am. Bill Hicks sez you should “play from the fucking heart”, and I guess that's exactly what I am trying to do, with whatever few unbroken stings are left of it

Some people, idiots mostly, tell me I can write. They (generally when under the influence of psychotropic and extremely illegal drugs) say I that might have some talent. Well! You know! Thank god! I thought I was totally screwed there for a second. Buy my products. Given five minutes and a pirated copied of microsoft paint I'm sure I could come with some kind of numbered, limited edition, one thousand of a one-of-a-kind never to be re-released obscene digital prints or lead-based sharp cornered action fingers.

The marvellous James Vance travelling circus sideshow and shotgun blast spectacular, have you seen it?

Fuck this shit: I am a goddamn one man symphonic orchestra: I play every tiny violin there is at once. Time to twist my guts inside out, externalise this internal inquiry, get some fucking answers to this double blind placebo controlled randomised questionnaire because my answering machine messengers have always dripped dulcet soothing tones, I got my notes mathematically aligned, like so-many dead ducks in a row, like the entirely coincidental scattergraph of early onset dementia in irritating close friends and wealthy childless relatives.

Anyways. Anyways. Anyways, I wouldn't go out with me either. Got all these people, think I'm some kinda goddamn legend, the things I've done, the lies I've told, the half-truths I've managed to get believed and the deeds I've somewhat implausibly “apparently” achieved, at least accordingly to common rumor or monograph, but it, you know, it always stemmed and flowed and raved and ranted from the person shaped hole I have inside me, this endless sucking emptiness that exists just one sixth of inch beneath the surface of my skin.

If there was easy access to guns in this country I think I would have been dead ten years ago.

As it is, as it is I think I might just take out a metric fuck-load of life insurance and go provoke some half-sentient borderline psychopath into knifing me in the guts.

I'm kinda drunk. Might go pass out. Me and a bottle of vodka, I think we've had a worthwhile chat. A hunch, a hope, a sting, a scratch. If was a really a prophet, then trust me, all your sticks would already be snakes.