Attacking the world like Ghostface Killah.....

Attacking the world like Ghostface Killah.....

Hurtling down the motorway you keep checking your pulse. Shit, are you still alive? You take another hit. You watch some bitch-ass swing out of control, spinning across two lanes. Boom! If only you took the rocket launcher home from work today. You wonder why the fuck you’re still alive. “Hello nasty” buzzing from your stereo. It’s hard to believe in heaven when you’re on a 4 lane motorway behind an articulated lorry. “Intergalactic intergalactic, plan-et-ary intergalactic.” The rhythm assaulting your strict catholic history. Before you, hundreds of cars fight their way home. The world is a traffic jam. A pink sky opens up above the service station silhouetting hay bales, horses, oak trees and a large ominous factory. Attacking the world like Ghostface Killah isn’t possible for you Mojo. You want to be Raekwon but all you’ll ever be is a second rate Q-Tip. Damn brother, that’s hard to take. They died on French beaches for this grey 70 miles an hour motorized-stress-fuckathon. You smile at their sacrifice. I can nearly feel the bullets penetrate their skin. You frown then. Electrifying beats punctuate the night all the way home. Every second: an illegal manoeuvre. The sky means nothing when you never look at it. Why go home? Why not just pull over in a small village and fuck that shit up? Then you remember the girl. The girl, sitting nervously in a dimly lit restaurant, fingering the hem of her skirt. She is the horizon. You want to take her to KFC and point that freshly bitten chicken breast at her and laugh. “I don’t remember it tasting this good.” But then you remember again, her name. She would never go to KFC. You then imagine sitting in a fancy restaurant asking open questions and you being revealing about your inner-most thoughts. “I should’ve busted my granny out of hospital. All she wanted was a hot whiskey. That’s all she wanted. But then she died.” Then you’re bare, a child again. No longer a man. You think about your brother swinging from ropes and killing crocodiles. You hear your brother in your dreams.

Fuck me, the city is now here on the big television that is your windscreen. “Good TV, good TV,” you holler. You pull up into your house and notice a boy doing a wheelie on his bike. You laugh at his stupid helmet. “Stupid helmet,” you mutter. But nice wheelie, get on that shit. You run into your room and throw your blood splattered uniform in the washing machine. You look for your favourite shoes. You want to forget about the girl. But you can’t. Toothbrush, Mouthwash, a breath; your shit hair. You run to the bus. You try to remember her name but you’ve forgotten it now. You listen to the insane woman next to you on the bus scream “fuckin’ doctor cunts. Dog-eating motherfuckers” in your right ear. You try to romanticize about the girl you’re meeting as you pass the neon illuminated curry houses of Rusholme. You fear the crazy woman has pissed herself. You get up annoyed and get off at the next stop. You run into Boots and surreptitiously spray some expensive aftershave over yourself. You run to City Hall. She’s sitting on a bench near the statue of Oliver Heywood. You want to run away. But it’s too late. You walk over to her. She smiles. Keep it simple. “Oliver Heywood! Oliver Heywood is here baby. I wondered where the fuck he went!” You point at the statue of Oliver Heywood. You laugh, she doesn’t. But you don’t care anymore. Everything is going to be a-ok. You hold your flaws up like a trophy. You have made a break-through. You are untouchable now. Nothing matters any more. BEGIN.

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dedicated to TFY