Bench Number 2

The river sweats. I want to jump in. Its blackness surrounds me. The
clothes I have on my back stink of council offices and the type of
benches that are nailed to the floor. The pavement is cold. Dogs bark
like they don't have anything better to do. I want home, I want warmth
crumpled into a paper bag. Exhale , catch the moment, exhale. My
stomach aches with cold and food would make all the difference. Lookup
at the skyscraper and there's a light on in a small box. They're
listening to the TV. Waves escape and fill my head with prime time
garbage. Like everything 's gonna be alright just buy this breakfast
cereal and everything's gonna be alright. Yeah. I want marmalade, I
want jam, I want chutney sweetness to fill up my gob and take me away
from this cold and hunger.

Stroll on through midnight. Past leafy glades that probably look
alright in the sunshine. This moment is dedicated to Tara
Palmer-Tomkinson because I rate her I really do. She came back didn't
she ? She said no like Nancy told her to, Saint Nancy the patron saint
of users. Yeah. The park is a bunch of disconnected shadows that move
with the wind and there is a considerable amount of breeze tonight. Sit
on a bench. Not that I planned to sleep here. Not that I thought ahead
and decided yeah that's where I'll sleep tonight, bench number 2. Just
happens that way. We're all different they keep telling me.

I don't want to wake up in an oil slick but the sun fries the grease in
my eyes and that's what it looks like. It's something like five and if
you don't move your ass gently along then have no doubt some fat ass
will do it with a metal rod. Gangs, Police, In house security they're
all the same to me OK except some wear ties. I want to use oh boy do I
want to score, pick up and run but what the hell, no cash. No slim Eva
Cassidy track going through my head like a middle class soundtrack to
my life, just Whitney going berserk in a tit tube. Paranoia. Sit
outside public toilet and puke just puke everywhere till there's less
than nothing left 'til my stomach lining is on the floor. I sit staring
at the puke. It doesn't smell, at least not to me. Imagine having
friends and going for a pizza, sitting there eating crusts filled with
crap and not once thinking of sticking needles in your arm imagine
that. No I can't. Paranoid schizoid, not that I find labels helpful.
Ten AM. Don't smell too good. Offy has a delivery and they try to keep
everything in the same place, load it at the same time but they sorta
forget about the in store security and I got this great big coat. So I
leave with a little something to keep me warm. Don't make it over the
bridge, there's this top bench under a tree where people can't see me.
Sorta. Screw top the bottle open and drink it down. Feel nothing. Just
drink and then a little warmth sorta seeps out, inside out. Fever.
Shake, Red skin. Fear, of course and we know fear, it's three bottles
till me next appointment. You can't live by mathematics but you can
live by Buckfast.