271 pages

Lloyd’s cranial teat fluttered a little as he browsed for a notebook. Adjacent to him the shop assistant arranged already neatly arranged books on a shelf. He assumed he must be a thief and promptly purchased a notebook – this notebook – to replace the shoddy page moulting predecessor.
He was lost. He had just emptied the old notebook of content and chucked it in a bin. He had felt like a criminal relieving a purse of its paper and coin. He kicked himself along, transparent and scuffed like a traffic flattened diet coke bottle. Onward into the unfamiliar streets, pouring himself down tenement lined slopes until he struck some memory, some previous location of self in dead chronologies. He slipped into deteriorated strips of paved celluloid he had once starred in with a walk on part. And there he found himself criminalising his thought in the book shop. Later on deep into a fuelled and substantive mourning:

A bubonic hatred. The ghost of so many pavements and viewed from the wheeled metal containments, vaguely reflected in the screens. The scene seen on the screen, himself, at points of periphery, at the paedophile edges of a park.

One’s scissors, one’s knifes, in a fight. One cutting, one stabbing, three blades biting one another. Not that you would know. Insulated fantastically. Comfortable and so such. He’s stoned see, seeing like Cagney see. He’d met Marjory training blades, sharpening cocks to go up against each other, so that nobody reads and so and so. And such. Scissor cutting up a slit, knife in castration act. And death wank and other.

Lloyd drew a line under last nights discussion with Marjory Wana. A line under the excrement in the woods, the excrement piled high in secret, in bags that can be squeezed. And a line under the hand-cuffs in cots and the general miasma of semi-mystic sophisms.