Nightmare

This is an impromptu speech made by the God-like director Pier Paolo Pasolini at the end of a documentary about his life and career. This segment was set in the coastal settlement Sabaudia, central Italy.

He relates the modern consumerist culture in Italy to the lobotomy of the soul. This is long but please read / watch it, it's heart-breaking.

Thanks to my soul-kin Jack Frost Jinx for sharing this. Consumerism is subtle murder.


"Here we are in front of the structure, the shape, the profile of another city, immersed in a strange, grey, lagoon light, altough surrounded by a beatiful mediterranean maquis, it's sabaudia. How we made fun, we intellectuals, of the regime architecture, of cities like sabaudia, and yet looking at this city now we feel something completely unexpected: it's architecture has nothing unreal, ridiculous, the passing of time made it so that this architecture, lictoreal like, takes a quality, so to speak, inbetween metaphisical and realistics, metaphisical in a truly european way, that resembles the art of the chirico, and realistics because, seen from the distance, you feel that the cities are made, speaking in a somewhat rethorical way, to the measure of men, you really feel like there are families in there, proper families, human people, complete living beings, whole, full in their humbleness.

How do we explain such a thing? which seems miraculous, a ridiculous city, fascist, that seems so charming to us: we have to examine this fact, I mean, Sabaudia was built by the regime, there's no doubt about it, but in fact it has nothing fascist, if only some exterior traits, so I think that fascism, the fascist regime, in the end was nothing more than a bunch of criminal who took the power, and those empowered criminals in fact could do nothing, they were not able to leave a mark, not even scratch the surface, of the Italian reality, and so Sabaudia, even if it was built by the regime following certain rationalistic criteria, academically aesthetizing, doesn't found it's root in the regime that built it, it's rooted in that reality that fascist dominated with tiranny but couldn't touch, I mean it's the small-town, rustic, paleoindustrial etc. etc. reality that sprouted Sabaudia, not fascism.

But now it's the opposite, the regime is a democratic one, but one that has created that indoctrination, that homologation that fascism couldn't obtain. The power of today, which is the consumer civilization, instead realizes it perfectly, destroying all the specific reality, taking away reality to the different ways of being human that Italy storically produced in such differentiated ways. It's this indoctrination that is destroying Italy for real, I can say without a doubt that the truth is fascism is exactly this power of the consumistic civilization. And this thing happened so quickly that we didn't even noticed! it's kinda like a nightmare, that happened in the last five, six, seven, ten years, it's like a nightmare during which we have witnessed Italy crumbling all around us, disappearing.

Perhaps now we are awakening from this nightmare only to look around and find out that there's nothing we can do anymore.."

Dungeon

Sleaze is at it's best when flashy

I remember being 14, hiding away from my chaotic family in the attic watching late-night tv on a tiny portable television. Some weird sounding show called Old Grey Whistle Test came on and the opener was 'Sex Dwarf' by Soft Cell. I swear, that song impregnated my psyche like some queer, cum-soaked pestilence.. after seeing that blasphemous performance I was never the same again. That beautiful, macabre little queer bound in bondage tape and pvc was my hero.

They say you shouldn't look up to your idols; that when it comes down to it they're on the same level as you and will only ever let you down. But what about if your idol dwells in some paradisiacal s&m disco, 3,000 miles down in the very core of the earth, falling off his bar-stool on meth with the other master 1980s degenerates..? Marc Almond could never let me down. He was the patron and muse of my teenage lust. I saw him in a bank in Piccadilly a couple of years ago and I'd still sodomise him til his gold teeth shook out. And keep them for talismans. Grr.

P.s I was born this day in 1984. Wrong time, right place..

P.p.s I came down to London and scored better b than ever so all is well. Wish this drought wouldn't keep scaring the crap out of me (us) though.





Sleaze - can be very tragic
Sleaze - but I only see the magic
Sleaze - can be very flashy
Sleaze - it's at its best when trashy
Take it, shake it, fly with it
Do it, screw it till you're sick
Pull a trick, get a hit,
Love it till you're sick and tired of it
Sleaze
Sleaze (shake it)

Hanging round these back streets
Inner Soho after hours
Feeling very used and I'm feeling very tired
Someone threw a party (shake it)
Someone threw a fit (take it)
Baby let me mambo with you a little bit
Mambo (mambo)
Mambo (and all those little spanish hustles) Hey!

Did I tell you all my secrets (No)
About the things I did (I did?)
About people I went with
How they treated me like shit (that's right)
How you fell out of bed
And I had to drag you back in
Back into my life
Into my sleazy life
(Sleazy life)

Hey
Hey
(shake it, take it)

Did I ever tell you I loved you (never)
That we could be so good together
Hanging out on the street together
Selling our meat together
Sleaze Hey!
I love you
Sleaze

Don't forget to look up

Our guy is off the radar. Tonight we took 3 blues each and dyed our hair black with that dodgy Oriental dye, Bigen to pass the time. Apparently if you're unlucky, Bigen causes an extreme allergic reaction leading to welts and scalds on the scalp as well as hair loss. I'm willing to float through that possible danger like a kid tripping his tits off, jumping off a bridge because he's so damned sure he can fly. Ha ha. I think I could seriously consider sobriety if I had a steady supply of these vals. Would be a hell of a lot cheaper too.

The bOY looks seedy, gaunt, sexual these days. There's something dirty and jaded that's creeping like a shadow over his innocence. When I met him he was 19 and a virgin. Long blonde hair, transparent blue eyes that always looked surprised.. tall and pale with jutting hips and ribs. I wanted to screw him so bad, to be the first, to corrupt his unfathomable and oblivious beauty. He was nervous so we took a few sleepers and a few bumps of k.. it was dreamlike.. white sheets billowing over poreless flesh. A naive kid with a rock hard cock. I wanted to tear his flesh to get to the centre of his soul.. I don't remember much, just that it was as pure and transcendent as my first shot of diazapam, which came soon after.

I had to leave for work at some art shop in the morning and he was lying spreadeagled, passed out naked in stained sheets with his hair obscuring his face. I seared it into my brain, wishing for the millionth time that I owned a decent camera.




I'm watching the sun rise beyond a vase of dried out carnations and a stack of obsolete DVDs (the player was pawned long ago) and adding up the amount of money I've earned so far this year. It must be around the £15000 mark yet I have nothing to show for it but better cheekbones and forearms that scare small children.

What age are you supposed to grow up?? I have friends in their late 30s who are just like me. Feral,transgressive, bored. Something has to happen, it HAS to.

Shots and Shoots

Our dealer hasn't turned his phone on all day. I'm sweating out death in a filthy bed, waiting, wishing, begging for the Boy to appear with a couple of wraps. Last I heard he was throwing his phone against the bathroom wall but I don't want to hear the words that end all hope, "no joy, he hasn't got / his supplier was busted". So I haven't asked. I've been up waiting since 10am and finished the whole of Sick City in one go. It's a seedy, beautiful artefact which only makes me crave oblivion more, but the reality is never as glamourous as when it's spoken by a poet. Blue Vals and cannabis smudge the edges of sobriety but I'd feel the effects better if I had a shot too. We even have rum and food in the fridge but it's all on hold until we score. I can't eat, can't drink. Can bearly smoke a cigarette. I'm a void, a vacuum. A receptacle for opiates. Without my medicine I can't fuction.

The sun blazes through a gap in the heavy curtains. Screeching, interchangeable teenagers in psuedoemogothlite uniforms gather under my window, jolting me sporadically from my self-inflicted misery. Everything is drab, beyond hope, rotten to the core. The outside world is alien, some whitewashed megamall stuffed with single mothers pushing prams full of 'little miracles'. I'm no better. I watched 4 episodes of Wife Swap US in a methodone stupor waiting for my hit the other day. Trash TV serves a very important function, it kills time stone dead so before you know it 4 hours have passed and you're 4 hours closer to the godlike hit that will come on like bastardised soma and turn you human again. If it comes at all. Tonight isn't looking good.

I had a fetish shoot the other day but was so high I look like a mannequin in every shot. The photographer loved it though. He has an obsession with suffocating me almost to the the point of unconsciousness. I think he gets a hard-on for dead girls which suits me fine. He pays me more than enough to maintain my habits and... and the euphoria that hits just before you black out is the purest high I've ever felt.

The Boy just woke up on the floor of his music room, screaming from a nightmare. This is going to be a long night..

Misdirected

Pool

I keep having this weird dream. It's as if a tv set is playing in the background of my headspace somewhere; some nostalgic home movie in polaroid colours. I'm 14 or 15, I'm wearing my hair longer than I ever did. I'm more beautiful than I ever was. Space stretches forever in every direction.
There's a portly balding man standing beside me mopping his brow, he's showing me his plans for a big outdoor pool he wants to build in the park. He's desperate to impress me but I'm swinging upside down on a climbing frame, hair covering my face. I'm singing loudly.. Some 90s popsong about sex and drowning. He's trying to talk over me, trying to ask what I think of his plans. The man has beady eyes like an insect set in rolls of skin and he can't stop sweating. The sun is searing red through my closed eyelids and there's a joint burning down between my fingers.
Sometimes in the dream our perspectives shift. Something's wrong and I'm rotting, trapped in a congealed mass, the flesh sags off my frame so you can't tell where the bones are. The sun's too hot, my head is filling with blood. I'm afraid. I want to be submerged.. a big glittering expanse of water swallowing me whole.

When I wake up the dream keeps playing in the back of my mind, like another layer of reality. The popsong, the glittering water, the heat of the sun. The fat man watching me with hungry eyes. I don't know what it means.

I'm drifting..

Junk Sex

"was it white and sticky?/was it white and sticky?/was it was and sticky..?"
I'm alone in the Boy's messed up bed with pastel sheets and bloody pillows. I'm soaked through with sweat. My legs ache from chasing dealers in my dreams. How long have I been here? We were drifting, drifting.. I can't remember..

The bedside table is an apocalypse. Everything is soot blackened bloodstained and desperate. I'm checking my body for signs of a rattle. Not yet, nothing but a vague dread. The tail end of my buzz will carry me home if I hurry. Sunglasses, money, phone, phone... fuck, no battery.. oh fuck.. I'm sure I can feel a rattle starting. Hurry, hurry..

The Boy peers at me from the doorway and smiles shakily, totally spaced out, teeth stained with tanins from the wine we drank til 5am.
"Hey, you're up? I was just gonna wake you, J is on. Hey, you've bitten up your lips baby.. You were moaning in your sleep, what did you dream about..?" He cleans dried blood from my face with a corner of the pillowcase.

We score then walk to mine in the dirty morning light and get back into bed. Short story; we fix, we gouge. It's heaven. We curl up like children, letting love wash over, shotgunning a joint. I think; 'Sex has become so abstract that I fuck strangers to give him what he needs.' We rock each other to sleep.

Ghost of Love

Sometimes i feel like my whole life is a social experiment, a fiction. That once i've lived out my happy ending i'll go back and pick over these parts for their authenticity.

I'm turning up Imaginary Girl as the gear tops up my daydream, closing my eyes and drifting. The Boy nods off beside me, lost in his own paradise. This room is falling through space at a really unbelievable speed.

If only i could put down in words what i've seen, what i've learnt, before we crash.

Sway pretty girl.. It ain't real anyway..

I'm staggering home in the heartbreak hours, past endless pulled down shutters.

There's some kid perched on a low wall, ankles crossed. Long haired head dangling down down down between his knees like a wilted sprig. I drop a note into his lap, it reads;

"Desire whore mornings coming down in dirty sheets..? You look just like Sylvain Sylvain. I want to put a belt around your neck."

It's hard to just let them go in a place like this. All it takes is one more bottle to the face, one more bone broke by his best friend's brother and his violent expressions of lust. Real ale rugby boys beating the pretty out so they won't have his dick in their dreams. That's all it would take.

I'm 26 this month, does that make me a paedophile?

It's just, I feel like I have to save him.