Seven Things We Can’t Be Fucked About This Week — All These Fucking Frozen Moments

“Not giv’n a shite since 1976, so you don’t gotta be fucked about it.”

 

indifferent

 

7. — Taking my seat on the 3:18 from London Waterloo-East to Tunbridge Wells and looking out the window as the train pulls out the station and seeing an elderly woman begging on the platform and for a moment considering what her life must have been like, what convolutions of the road led her to that pass, her childhood and obstacles that threw themselves in her way, the million things that might have influenced her for good or ill, with her tiny withered hand out and her eyes like opaque portholes. Fuck! Me brain splits in two.

6. — Passing by a shop window and catching out the corner of me eye a manikin with a enigmatic expression, and I don’t even turn to look at him full on, but he trails after me. Fuck! And I spend all day trying to reckon the significance of his look, I stare at me own self in the mirror and think what if I’d been born a showroom dummy, and sat up in a shop window forever watching the world go past?

5. — Kids playing kick the ball in the street down the block from me flat, who I pass by when I pop ‘round the shops, and the little waif stares me in the eye with her own big cavernous eye and it’s like I tumble into the big black iris of it, like it’s a dark tunnel into the center of reality, and there’s like an ancient wisdom in there, but something that can’t be expressed. Then when I walk back by with a paper bag full of milk and PG Tips and cream buns, she’s gone. Fuck! I spend the rest of the night staring out the window at the lamplit town and weeping silently to meself.

4. — She murmured something in the night, maybe she was talking to me, or maybe she was having a dream and she was talking to somebody in the dream. But I remember waking up, and seeing the streetlamp-cast shadow of the bureau on the wall, and the first light of what might have been dawn illuminating the window, in that in-between time when you’re not sure if it’s dawn or not, but there’s a subtle blue light filtering through, and I remember thinking that it might be important, what she’d said, but later on, when I woke up, I forgot what it was. Fuck! Years have passed, and now I can’t ask her.

3. — There was a night heron once, and as I crouched in my hide amongst the rushes at the creekside, I was drawn to his mournful cry, and when I located him he looked so lonesome in the green haze of the night vision goggles, standing in the rippling black shallows waiting for minnows to swim past, and all around us the reeling cosmos, a vast curtain of silver stars cascading over the edge of the world. Fuck!

2. — I saw a little potbelly pig who was friends with a dog, and they was nuzzling each other and lounging in a little basket together. Fuck! The look in that pig’s eyes, he looked like Buddha or something.

1. — Snowfall in the city, falling in long twinkling traces down past the streetlights, settling in soft and silent, covering the ground where everybody from the past now lies, hands clutched to bosoms and expressionless. Fuck!

 

About Old Sid Vicious

After successfully faking his death in 1979, Sid Vicious went into hiding in New York City. Unsuccessful in his efforts to discover the real killer of his girlfriend Nancy, he made his way to Los Angeles, where he kicked junk with the help of The Church of Synanon. He used his royalties from The Great Rock and Roll Swindle to purchase an estate in Honduras, where he erected several greenhouses. His subsequent propagation experiments involving the hybridization of rare orchids (he developed several hybrid species, including Cyrtopodium ritcheii and Spiranthes simon) have revolutionized horticulture. Those close to him report that he is dismissive of his stint as the Sex Pistols bassist, referring to it as, “that twilit era of my life when hubris very nearly got the better of me.” In the late nineties, he returned to Britain and took up residence in his childhood village of Tunbridge Wells, where he resides to this day. He is an amateur fishkeeper, specializing in marine aquaria, and an enthusiastic birder, having established an endowment for the preservation of the black-crowned night heron (Nycticorax nycticorax,) the doleful cry of which he is rumored to be an excellent mimic.
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1 Response to Seven Things We Can’t Be Fucked About This Week — All These Fucking Frozen Moments

  1. Gary says:

    I am seriously tired of hearing and using the graze fucked up. I’m looking for a respectful name for things in fucked, I am of the opinion that to be able to locate a thing in a useful manner it must be properly​ named and identified. What do you think?

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