Sometimes my own mind makes me wince...

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Sometimes my thoughts are as bright and jagged as shards of glass in the centre of my mind. I smell the rain and dust and can almost touch the heat in the air. Mud as yellow as sun.

Storms, the air freckled with scattering birds, where the vault of the sky explodes with sound like a war veteran’s recurring nightmare.

I remember with intense visceral clarity, walking towards the pacific for the first time. It swells your thighs with a sexual pleasure of a kind no man or woman can ever give you. I conjure a Hispanic girl, hair so black it shines with a thousand imagined colours. Her dress clinging to her figure like ice water. She strolls on a beach with the tranquillity and beauty of someone who has never let the authority of another define her.

Other times I sit hunched with weak tea in a glass clutched in both hands, my sightless eyes staring through the steam at nothing. I imagine I’m an old man, the translucent skin on my hands as thin as parchment. I imagine it’s the false dawn in winter - bone white. Trees rattling and swaying against barns like skeletons at a line dance. The timbers in my house ache with the cold.

It’s easy to be righteous at the expense of another. Today I’m consumed with a self-important contempt levelled at the imperious self satisfied arrogance possessed by the ruling class.

I imagine our new Prime Minister. I listen to his voice but stick fingers in my ears at other’s descriptions. I prefer the preposterous overblown moving images of my mind. Today it’s out of control in a great way. BJ morphs from swaggering teenager in a slum, his countenance as bold as a slap, jeans so tight that his genitalia are cut to the smooth shape of a woman’s palm, walking as if he has an invisible beast on a chain, eyes permanently narrowed in adversarial readiness. Then he is a strutting sporting peacock, hands jutted into back pockets like a baseball pitcher arguing with an unpire in front of first base.

Then he is next to Jacob. They are in jail. Jacob is the boss con. The eyes never look directly at you but register your presence in the same flat, lidless fashion an iguana’s might. They sit together, masturbating to pass the jail time. But then in a moment, at the moment you feel the eyes on your back, they leap up! Attack dogs in a pen skittering on their own dried faeces as they lunge at the wire fence.

Then I see Boris consumed with blood and bluster. A scarlet face with the contained intensity of a steel pan left on a burner, a piano wire wrapped around his forehead.

His smile comes and goes erratically as though he fights to keep it in place.

Then I am face to face with him in an Oxford café. Self revelation hangs between us like a dirty flag. His and mine. He can’t justify that he has arrived. He can’t wriggle and contort his words so they can hide that this has always and only ever ever been about the nude dreams of a privileged boy in a dormitory, staring at the lamp lit figures of former alumni, former PMs who maybe even slept in this very bed and notched their initials on this very frame. And I can’t look him in the eye and say I did not also cup my small prick in my young teenage hand in a bunk bed in North London and look at the posters of Mick and Keith and Muddy and Marianne and Jimmy G and ask myself if, just maybe, I had the right to follow.

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