PISSOIR CONFESSIONALS PART 3

 It is silent, there is no one where I am. All is white light silence and smears of colour merging into visions on journeys, then faces drift back into view. And the expensive spread of high class shopping mall, broad, pedestrianised. Tasteful christmas lights wink around objects I’ll never afford. Potted and be-ribboned christmas trees guard entrances to classy bars I’ll never enter. Swing out past the huge bronze statue of the walker, the wanderer, the man who walks the street. Standing fifteen feet high huge stride spanning the square, hard jaw defiantly forward, and loose shouldered swinging arms ending in angry curled fists. He glances shifty eyed behind him, and keeps his face fixed on the unending road ahead, at one and the same time. People scuttle past, without looking, or duck through his long legs late at night when they’ve had a few.From Dato Street to Station Road. We’re heading for the train station as cool as ice, collecting a strange parcel, waiting to check out the Madrid train, or just slipping across the tracks, scrambling over the rails to the far-side of town. Tonight we’re heading for The Cavern Of Dead Machines.
Through an archway, we activate a security light, illuminating the big iron doors, giant padlock hanging open. The Cavern Of Dead Machines was little more than a lock-up, the sort of place used by petty criminals trading hot goods in the back room. And it served as a reputable shooting gallery, courtesy of its proximity to the Cop Shop. Tonight it was the centre of a raging existential storm, hosting the reception party for the Doc’s successful lecture tour. His lecture The pursuit of the mystic experience through the use of self-induced altered states of consciousness had been a huge hit across the country, this was the last date, and a suitable homecoming for a local hero.   The bar was in a partitioned off office-type area, the barman pulled bottled beers and spirits from a big green filing cabinet and sold them at three times the price on the label. The main room was a clutter of broken pinball machines, ageing cigarette machines that dispensed nothing, myriad lights flashing spastically behind shattered coloured panes of glass. The place was brimming, people were slouching over machines, humming and tapping their feet to the discordant jingles of the constantly spinning reels of the rotted fruit machines.   The Bigman intercepted me by the door “I’m off in about ten minutes” He told me, “I’m going to be away for sometime, I got my shamanistic calling and I’m renouncing technology. I am walking.” I understood the serenity in his face, leaving behind the detritus, moving out into smashed-machinery future. “Good luck!” I called after him as he threaded his way through the crowds, I wondered idly if I’d ever see him again.  Just behind me I could sense the three wise women – Mimi, Mary-Jane and Sonja were gathered around a table, they were plotting and ignoring me. I turned slightly to watch them out of the corner of my eye. They were sat with three Hippie Chicks I’d never noticed before. The Hippie Chicks were sharing a bottle of ginseng and guaraná flavoured vodka and a spliff, Mimi, Mary-Jane and Sonja were elucidating their favourite organic methods for producing nutrient-enriched vodka. “Round about the cauldron go; In the poisoned entrails throw. Toad, that under cold stone Days and nights has thirty-one Sweltered venom sleeping got, Boil thou first i’ the charmed pot. Fillet of a fenny snake, In the cauldron boil and bake; Eye of newt and toe of frog, Wool of bat and tongue of dog, Adder’s fork and blind-worm’s sting, Lizard’s leg and owlet’s wing, For a brew of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble. Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf, Witches’ mummy, maw and gulf Of the ravin’d salt-sea shark, Root of hemlock digg’d i’ the dark, Liver of steel to withstand this tipple” They were cackling uncontrollably, “Gall of goat, and slips of yew Silver’d in the moon’s eclipse, nose, lips, Finger of birth-strangled babe Ditch-delivered in drag, Make the gruel thick and slab :Add thereto a tiger’s chaudron, For the ingredients of our cauldron. Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble. Cool it with a baboon’s blood, Then the charm is firm and good”.  The 3 hippie chicks pretend not to be listening, Jocasta-Jane turns to Tamsin and says “Which part of your body is really you? Like which part do you really LIVE from?” Tamsin puffs the joint, takes a big swig of vodka and pretends to think. “I live from my eyes, what I see is what I experience. My eyes are my essential ME-ness.” She passes the joint and Jocasta-Jane asks Nigella the same question. Nigella twiddles pensively with her love beads and says quietly “I really don’t know. What about you?” Jocasta-Jane jumps to it, after all she asked the question in the first place and has been rehearsing the correct answer for days. “My heart is where I live, I am my own great big sloppy golden heart” She pronounces, pleased with herself  “And stop bogarting that spliff” She snaps at Nigella “Cunt!” replies Nigella suddenly, handing over the joint “That’s where I live from, I am my clit!”
I look around, feeling adrift in this bar, surrounded by people who I don’t know, or who are intent on ignoring me. Dolly as usual was nowhere to be seen, the Wye twins were rolling their eyes in their heads and projecting heavy depression vibes onto anybody close enough to psychically jive.
A good-looking marketing assistant from an international publishers mounted the stage.”Once named as Camberwell’s very own acid guru  and branded nationally by the media as a menace to society, he’s become the darling of the daytime TV circuit and is well known across the south eastern television network as the psychedelic agony aunt.
Now returning from his successful nation wide tour and promotion of his by-now infamous treatise on the validity of the drug-induced state of spiritual illumination.
Ladies and gentlemen please be upstanding for the irrepressible..”
Somebody behind me muttered ‘irresponsible more like !’
“Doctor Gordon Tripp………..” rapturous applause
Sudden silence as the Doc drew hard on a roll-up and began to speak.”The purpose of this lecture serves two purposes, in essence, two diverse strands which are balanced over a third strand …” I slipped into the shadows, dreaming of somewhere else. The stream, the deep narrow stream in midsummer, a small stone bridge arches high casting a clean solid reflection on to the rippling water. The banks rising gently in a smooth rich green of mosses and grasses. I’m lying on my back, sunlight flittering over my eyelids. I’m not sleeping. My pushbike and sleeping bag abandoned, my rucksack thrown aside. I’ve been in the water, my bare feet glisten sunlit spectrums. I’m not moving, I’m not sleeping. Shiftless, itching for action. A cold sweat sweeps over me. I open my eyes wider but the world whites out, bleaching into ice-cream colour walls. A cold, soft and vanilla reality slips and tumbles through the jittering, skittering jerks of my vision. Words without meaning, substance without solidity. The burgeoning tempo of my chemical madness.

The lecture reached a conclusion and faded into a standing ovation, the Doc swept to the bar.

Gordon was surrounded by young good-looking adoring fans, girls from outta town, literary groupies. He was signing copies of his new book, released to co-incide with the lecture tour, he was generally pressing the soft willing young flesh and feeling pretty good. I pushed my way towards him and thrust the Xerox of my document into his hands. “I wanted you to be the first to read…” “Fine, fine” he said “We should meet up for a game of chess soon…” and turned back to his new-found acolytes. I suspected he’d been taking drugs, he knew I never played chess, he must have thought I was someone else.  I wasn’t having much fun.   And then I saw the Marquessa sprawled over a dry ice machine that was chugging out black smoky carbon monoxide onto the used tissue and bodily fluids crap covered floor. She beckoned me out through the back door.  Together we watched the slicing tip slip inside too far now slacken and draw.

I vomit unself-consciously in uncomprehending  joy at Frankie and the Princessa’s place. Up three flights of stairs, ring three bells in the right order, and a solid woody door opens onto a dusty light-starved dark corridor, winding off to a distant bare red light bulb. Stumbling through red lamp into sun-drenched salon. Bleached out pink curtains swelled in the hot afternoon breeze, wafting me out on to the long balcony. I watched the glaring auras of the tower blocks in the distance shimmer rhythmically in the heat. Far off behind me I heard the Princessa hiss to nobody in particular, “Close the doors love, there’s an awful draught coming from that balcony” Her examining eyes were fixed on a vein. She was enthroned in a huge baroque chair, warming her reptile blood by the television. Frankie, as usual, was cooking with the Marquessa in the kitchen. Cooking up something good for those beautiful Madrid days, when the veins seemed to raise themselves up from the skin, taut and ready for the needles slicing tip.   And I drifted, literally, back through the swelling pink curtains onto the balcony again. I slipped down into myself and became a gull wheeling on my own horizon. A bird sweeping over smoky Madrid’s evening, the huge open valley sky, orange layered deepening and coolly slashed by blue, mauve and grey. In long striped seconds another sunset mystery unfolded itself before my eyes. The sun set, slipping down behind the purple horizon, sucking colour and light down away in the wake of its fall. I was bowling down from the higher ground and through darkness. I see the sky lit up and the earth spread out below me in a web of street lights and neon. Plunging out of the darkness of an eight hour journey from Nowhere-In-Particular. I was soaring and fluttering through narrow ill-lit streets, past aggressively bright over-priced bars and finally settling on a ledge over-looking the Puerta Del Sol. We’d stomped for six hours one late night, up and down and across and through the back alleys, looking for sleeping pills.  “The time has come for you initiation into Nothingness” warbled the TV, the Princessa belched, then vomited gracefully over the side of her throne into a gilded bucket specially reserved for the purpose. She picked up a small rattling bag and tucked it into her waistband. We glided out into a corridor of identical doors.I’m shaking rattling banging at a door, and plunge through so suddenly that I fall down half a flight of stairs. As I tumbled into The Courtyard Of Forgotten Memories I realise the value of the knee and elbow pads that I have been inexplicably wearing all night.
I stand up and push my way through an open door into the Courtyard itself.
The windows were lighted faintly and up on the roof a monk stoking a glowing ball of fire, a huge cauldron of flames, swinging dangerously from a ten foot high tripod. I am enchanted, I climb the spiral staircases. The monk, tonsured and be-cassocked and wearing a walkman urges me on, calling out my name, echoing down the stairwell. “Bella Bella” I recognise the voice of Jah Ben Magic. Jah Ben Magic could have been anybody, could have dressed like and passed for anybody. Tall, blond, blue-eyed, skin like a teenager, the body of an adolescent god. Too ordinary looking for the loose, laid-back cool, fluid aura and deep soul magnetism that was the swarming love rush sex dance merchant that was known as Jah Ben Magic. He taught me a thing or two.
His voice rang through the spiral darkness, where staircases lead to corridors lead to doors and on to more doors, out onto the roof of the flaming tower.Jah Ben Magic, the gorgeous and de-frocked monk clasped me to him in delight, as I had never been held before, as if I were enveloped in glowing blue light. As if skin were a permeable layer of atoms slipped over the brilliance of the spirit’s inner light. He muttered my name over and over, whispering into my hair. Oh, we coulda gouched out forever …He sold me on the sacred words..

…shamanic like a bedlamb to the slaughter.   I woke into one drug-stained day, Ra-Hoor-Khuit has taken his place in the east at the equinox of the gods, Drop in drug up drag out. I say every day a feast in your hearts. Dress yourselves in fine apparel, eat rich foods and drink sweet wines, take your fill and will of love as you will. When, where and with whom you will. Hanging out in Hyde Park, my memory became impaired. The good old daze, stoned in the sunny afternoon, dressed insanely on toppling clogs loud tranny radio swinging a half empty bourbon bottle drugs kill boredom tattooed across my tits. Love, death, resurrection, re-arrest. Lead limbed and slow motion living in television. “Your drugs, Sir!” Through my nose, throat, vein from mind control, pulling on a cigarette, psychologically. I am weightless soaring energy from all my chakras. The equinox of the gods, did you hear that dog fly through the spaceship and out the other side? Must be something to do with the speakers. My number is eleven as are all their numbers who are of us. I did all this for you darling!  Drop in Drug up Drag out. Blinding! Lurking clandestinely in some secret assignation, there is love and lover, there is the dove and the seer, choose ye well. “Your drugs madam!” Louis Lewin single stop frame image William Burroughs rising in the pan Aldous Huxley water pouring from a perforated bucket Allen Ginsberg dogshit Kathy Acker torture insane Tim Leary corpulent genitals Lydia Lunch distortion Carlos Castenada desire Patti Smith love disorientation. I say do you want to fuck me? why not? My ecstasy is in yours, my joy is your joy, my ecstasy is in you. Take this and eat, it is a brown pill. I woke into one drug after another with sharp pains, strange modifications in the reproductive instinct, Drip on Drug up Drag, not stoned snatches at reality. “Your drugs darling!”. Ur. I am glowing spikes of light, water pouring from a perforated bucket. The word of sin is restriction and they don’t like people like us, copulating in public. In public? Yes please! Reality slips out on a distant wing and I am the centre, a beatific smile still calmness that freezes frantic reality with her icy blue stare. Each one of us has a universe of her own as soon as it includes all possibilities, all possible experience. Do you want to fuck me? Blowjob in a shop doorway. Do you want to fuck me? Standing up shag against Karl Marx tomb. Do you want to fuck me? On all fours outside the Nat West building. Do you want to fuck me? Security cameras a go-go. Do you want to fuck me? I’d love to! All I can give, I desire all of you.  Then I woke up, shaking with numb cold, alcohol sick and shame. Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law. Lurking clandestinely the passed out in wakeful sleep, pressed behind thick, heavy and unable. Duty consists in determining to experience the right event from one moment of consciousness to another. “Your drugs, Sir!” felt tipped across my tits.   This cake has voodoo properties and I did all this for you darling! Drop in Drug up Drag out. The ass called love a lopped off cock encrusted with bloodstones. Do you want to fuck me? Why not! Straight back to finish off the grass, a cup of coffee and all night oral sex. My number is nine and sixty, divide, multiply and understand. My memory became impaired, shaking with numb cold, alcohol sick and shame, in and out of view pink lumpy vomit cascading onto somebody’s magnetic acoustic field and death ray type floral sofa. Acoustic oscillations in the head, visual impairment disorientation hot commandments chaos, Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law, love is the law, love under will. Water pouring from a perforated bucket.
How was it for you? Functional, competent, functional. We are not the chosen.
Suddenly caught up, grasped gently, held and sweeping away forever in a black painted converted ambulance did I really say that I really did love you for a moment back there? In the Crown and Castle, New Orleans Hackney stylee, beat poet drugout, we could have danced Mardi Gras on the Dalston Waste, and chanted mantras in Clissold Park. The secret glory for them that love me, as you suddenly became so beautiful. Full on the lips, snogged stupid in the sex-sweat streets heaving, I am glowing spikes of light energy, devilish finger tips persuading a nipple. The chosen priest and his apostle is the priest-prince the great beast and the woman they call the scarlet woman are all power given. I lost my hat in the street, and later riding hot cock on a swivel chair I threw away my stockings, and on a derelict bed of lust lashed to the ceiling I finally gave away my knickers, the total possibilities of every kind, she bends in ecstasy to kiss torture desire love disorientation, the law of Thelema…  And the promise of something special that slunk away damply with grass-stained knees and the acute sensation of having follied with somebody’s emotions in determining to experience the right event.  Then I woke up, early morning arousal with Jah Ben Magic, waking into a polymorphic sensual feast, curious curious curiouser, swirling water, a lambent flame of blue, all touching, all penetrant, my hands on the lovely hard earth, take you fill of love. the law of Thelema. e. reality contracts into the contact of lips, and slips out on a distant wing and I am the centre, a beatific smile that insanely loud tranny bourbon bottle drug boredom on my tits and freezes frantic reality with her blue light stare. I am glowing spikes of light, water pouring from a perforated bucket. I am weightless beatific smile, a gorgeous ceiling you’ve got!  full on the lips, merging into genitals, a sensation of transformation, desire love disorientation torture, blood under my fingernails, mute flakes of memory, instruction from a master theorion and his appointed assistants. The ass called love a well-charred heart, bathing my whole body in a sweet smelling perfume of sweat. How was it for you? Like being bourne aloft to nirvana on a pink cloud, the fluttering of angels wings shimmering over my skin. Raw power. The decay of the sense of sin. Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law, there is no law beyond do what thou wilt.
Then I woke up, the vague memory of having pissed myself in public again.

Morning pink tingeing, bleeding up and out, pushing aside by gasping orange, gleaming as above so below, a virgin blue horizon. Orange red pink slipping out into mauve cloud bruising, the dawn sears from the east, pulling the earth to a breathless halt, pause gentle lemon-coloured sunrays seep up into a fiery distance. Daylight is reborn is a pastel gush, expunging night hard orange blood red mauve and darkness. Dolly came to me through the changing smears of the vision, riding a writhing snake, he held a vagina pink conch shell in one hand and a battered pine cone in the other. He settled in front of my sight and held out his arms in an invitation to embrace. “I’m starting on a metaphysical level with this one” he said.

A systematic disordering of the social identity, based on a wholly random experimentation with bodily fluids. We sat in a bathroom, waiting. Stinging aching to piss, pour out pale yellow slightly acid fluid. From ceiling to floor on every surface gleamed dark smoked mirror tiles, I could watch myself piss from all angles, stretching off into reflected infinity. Urine is a clear liquid of straw colour. I could watch myself piss. A profound concentration on elucidating the core basic pleasure of pissing.
“When you’re ready, when you get the urge, let it go” You whispered “It has all the usual body fluid taboos, and all the pleasures”.
The lavatory, a vessel for holding urine prior to its disposal, was at one end of a long mirror lined bathroom, raised up on a low dias. And I couldn’t urine clear liquid light amber colour piss. A sanitary fitting, a stage and a throne, with me the uncrowned queen of piss.
For the life of me I couldn’t piss, a white odourless tasteless uric acid crystalline product of protein metabolism. Black clouds subside, conveying urine from the kidneys to the bladder. Not what urine is/does/looks/smells or tastes like, it comes in dribbles, but the sensation of urination, what is the sensation of urination? A fluid of body temperature.
You sat and watched me, scrutinising my eyes or my crotch, waiting for a dribbling response. A tube or duct that conveys urine from a kidney to the bladder, and spurts. That which constitutes the central edict of the Excessive Behaviour Programme, try it and see.
If my life depended upon it I couldn’t piss while you were watching me. In uncontrollable organs and structures that secrete and pass urine.
The gold bath taps were running full blast, pouring hot foamy water into a huge aquamarine tub, diuretic causing increase urine or urination. It comes in dribbles. Urine dandelion chamber pot. I listened to the sound of running water. Is the pleasure purely physical? And spurts. Urine dandelion chamber pot po urinal to urinate to wet oneself to wet ones bed urine urinate.
I concentrated on the sound of running water conveying urine. Is the pleasure sexual? And in uncontrollable spurts of urination, lacking control of ones urinary functions.
And the first dribbles dropped rushing gushing quickly into a steady acrid stream. Incontinent. A watery solution of waste substances is excreted by the kidneys, the urine flows down the ureters into the bladder, from which it is voided by the act of urination. And it comes in uncontrollable, urine is discharged from the bladder, passing urine, relax the canal that conveys urine from the bladder to the urinary tract.  I was pissing and you were delighted, watching. Thrusting your fingers into the warm golden fountain, resembling urine, urinose, chemical analysis of urine. A stream of piss, steaming off the porcelain. A Pissoir a reservoir for urine, as formerly found on the streets of Paris, Margate and other European cities. Rattling, pouring sound of a jet of urine, like rain on a plastic corrugated roof. Urine has a somewhat aromatic odour, when the urine has been allowed to cool to room temperature the odour may be that of newly mown hay. At blood temperature it can resemble the odour of violets. The ammoniac stench of corruptible human waste, stinging the nostrils, dense like a poisoned fog, tart rotting lemon tinge clawing at my throat. Urine of horses or camels, stale. The pleasure is in the blood temperature. Scatology, excrement, obscene language, damp on my leather boots, damp, forever damp with urine.
Pleasure is in body temperature.

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  1. Pingback: Thee Twisted Times Ov Bella Basura | Thee Twisted Times Ov Bella Basura

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