(This was written using the 'Cut-Up Technique' used to devasting effect throughout his career by William S. Burroughs)
We were getting ready to leave but the metallic din from my agitated housemates had started to drain down all my shoes and wallet, already ‘Metal Machine Music’ playing by L. Reed, glass of red wine and nearly enough pretensions for close to two days as
I really dunno what’s the matter with me now.
Been aurally violated, smashed and so in this way I spend the next 48 hours believing the different harmonic capabilities of a lethargic stupor as I mourn the subtle nuances of power tools and realise that money is tight but time is tighter.
Only impatient shouts permeate through before being spat out into the world moping and whining. Left eye still puffed up and sore from the time I had gotten so drunk that I’d stumbled around trying to beat the queue to the Union and feeling pretty fucked-off from that couple yet again. I’d been listening to a whole flask of gin whispers.
Sometimes other such avant-garde white noise sunk deep into a depressive malaise only shattered by a claw hammer. You wouldn’t flippantly waste precious time with this orchestra of pneumatic drills, 4 more months of student living, steel on steel. Check mirror reflection. Other night’s debauchery – characters and visions gestating.
Unable to take out my contact lens that refuses to freeze into settlement. I have been frantically clawing at my red raw half-baked lunacies based on some plastic film that had long since acquiesced to mass technologies and the alternative internet landscape.
I stagger down the stairs to a psychological destruction of humanity which is about to play out. There’s one of the great works, an example of who is supposedly out tonight but provides me with an escape route from this bad fucking idea to seek out career, a nice office job, taking on now without a fuck, and need to have started a pension plan, et cetera, et cetera, for future action looking quite promising just thinking about it all.
Predictable thing for me to go and do tonight is to get through, other than my head I will be curled up in foetal despair, with ideas and themes to get out, and for quite some time I stood there, my mind all flowing liquidity. Eye in search of that elusive piece of narrative or plot structure, fallen to the carpet just to spite me.
Virtual Coma Theory is about how to join the others, I’m unsure how tonight’s ‘cyber universe’ will precipitate this girl I’ve been making slow progress on. If tackled precisely it could be the state I’m in right now, it would be contemporary fiction in its finest chance meeting. Truth is, I’ve been months with the predictable horrors of forcing the groundwork here where the prospects and responsibilities for my own future would be frustrating and yet utterly fucking bored.
Ah well, in the meantime, distracted with ambitions of ‘writering’, a feeling that will come tomorrow, tugging my hair as the chaotic maelstrom of white noise coagulates with the hangover fog to batter and erode my senses and pride just like before.
