Friday, 22 February 2013

Hero Worship Epilogue - Projections and Reflections

All these images and words have been culled from the recovered laptop of Stephanie Penny Tent.
With only the most logical conjectures and watertight conspiracies laid out ready in my head, I was ready. The power to produce documentation literally at my fingertips, and I choked.

Around my god this potential journalist was meek, mild mannered, no stubborn  Lois Lane archetype here. So very very Clark Kent. And now this farm boy’s scoop has left the United States, Kurt’s essence evaporated back up to Aphrodisia. But what would the fake know anyway?

What we know, ‘Kurt’ knows.
All we know being all we are.

    I should forgive myself for not asking ‘Kurt’ if Courtney Love killed him. This blonde facsimile that I’ve been hanging with, it’s allowed my perception of the original to shape it. Now it’s gone.

All the fans here in Los Angeles, the ones back home in Camden, and yes everyone around the world, all of us, we’re cast as one big bad director basing our abomination of a feature on the original best-seller.
    Lance – foolish Lance – he’s punched me and so I’m ready, I feel the heat around my face, my eyes filling up with the ruby red blaze of vengeance. Lasers that can shut this pathetic fucker up, they’re ready to pierce out from behind my eyesight. But I’m not under Rooenn’s influence anymore, so thoughts remain thoughts. Fiery actions aren’t taken but Lance daren’t run away.

Nope. The faker hangs around to act.

    ‘What the hell? Where’d Kurt go?’ he asks me all waterlogged and annoying. I glare at him, the stupid fucking dildo gingerly feeling his stupid actor hand. It’s broken in five places. He’s a fucking mess standing here in the mud in front of me. All his hopes on the Nirvana movie saving him from some shitty Disney cable show? They’re all still-born now.

    ‘Kurt’s gone back to Aphrodisia.’  I’m watching Lance all confused and starry eyed, lop-sided on this mucky green, the deluge just not letting up. Lance's hands play with some of his blonde chin hair.

    ‘And what’ll happen to him?’ Lance asks,

    ‘Doesn’t he know I still need him?’ The hard shower undresses his chin of each false golden strand, his actors glue redundant. Lance sways without a teleprompter.

There isn't enough evil in me to lie to him, to tell the fool that in all my symbiotic happenings that he's the most pathetic. He is the lowest. No, not enough darkness in me to do that. Thoughts remain thoughts. Still, I'm fortunate. I manage to squeeze out a little something. I offer Lance the most cryptic smile my bleeding cheeks can affect,

‘No Leonard Cohen After world, no sighing eternally.’ 

And he grins back at me all childlike, as if the crap I’ve spun actually makes sense.


    Lance the actor, ankle deep in the sludge, he’s wanting more. I display my row of brown gnashers singing more of Kurt’s lyrics:

    ‘Polly says her back hurts...She’s just as bored as me.'

    And I turn and limp away.

    Now let’s see, in sci-fi, a guy gets possessed and fights the foreign agent, right? But oh, young Zac Efron-alike here? Lance? He let ‘Cobain’ and Eros ride him like he’s a fucking Brighton donkey, whilst Rooenn was raping and killing Lissie meters away.

    ‘She caught me off my guard.
    It amazes me, the will of instinct.'

    ‘Wait!’ shouts Lance desperately, stumbling through the slosh after me, awkwardly stalking my big red trench-coat, my flowing cape-like manifest serving to impress him and protect me from the rain, ‘I don’t understand it! Not all of it.’ He says.

Lance wants an explanation for the last few weeks of his body-snatched life, this actor who would spill no blood for me. This infidel that doesn’t even know my name.

    I ignore the questions I have for him. I hold them deep in my gut. Lance won’t get the satisfaction of knowing that this little adventure is pockmarked with plot-holes. Was Lissie a minion working for Eros? My conscience would love to hear that. And hey, the giant’s tooth masquerading as a trailer – who brought it here?

What’s the name of the fucker who gave Eros a protective hub from the god-hex? Which of her servants now tops my shit list? But naturally, I don’t ask Lance about any of this. No, I just hold all my anxieties inside my belly. I’ll have to make-do with theories of my own. I’m not giving this human-trash any satisfaction.

    I gladly turn away from the idiot. I stretch down digging my hands into the mire. I ask Gaia to get me out of here, take me back to Camden I plead. With the soil sand and earth squeezing, closing in on me, I have the time. Take a few months, I told Gaia, ‘Draw me in and transport me back to London...slow-like’. What hurry am I in, y’know?

    And Miss World’s parting tunnel is a birth canal, womblike and quiet, a chamber for puzzle-solving. This is where my brain can sand down the sides of drunken recent past. Eros, Sid, Lissie and Lance, all of these pieces are mine for the re-cutting.

    Before the big showdown, before fate handed ‘Kurt’ a guitar to knock my teeth out with, there were two poets, so utterly pissed. And let’s not forget Sid Vicious all non-corporeal and black, his dark rectangle shape just waiting.
    ‘Kurt’ got the bed. No way I’d let god take the food-carton-ridden floor, though I’d cleared a clean patch of carpet for myself. Two of his shirts were now my pillows and ‘Kurt’d’ let me wear his deer-stalker hat to stop my fire fringe from brightening the space.

    ‘Kurt’ and all the dirty details of the area submerged into a blackness.

    Thom Yorke was yodeling through the stereo, half way through singing Creeps’ I-don’t-belong-here chorus. ‘Kurt’, was sobbing quietly, the way old women do. I’d been ignoring this nagging ordeal for about, well, for a shit load of a Radiohead compilation.

Every now and then my eyes would open themselves to the night, my enhanced vision spying ‘Kurt’ coiled up tight. My god facing the wall, whimpering.

    At some point, I had to get up and plonk myself on the bed’s edge, utterly determined to be straight with my friend the facsimile. The anguish being so much that my right foot dissolved a little, threatening to melt into a barely held together idea. I remember reaching out to nudge his attention toward me. That’s when Sid Vicious flamed out of his black rectangle stand-by mode.

Sid had become the solar flare that’d attacked me previously, ready to protect his master, and so I had to pull myself together and head back to my space on the floor, empathy for my grunge god replaced by the perversion of listening to his cry-fest. All this whilst my link to the world of shadow tightened python-like round my left ankle.

    'I’m not for real.’ said a voice piercing the perfect dark.

    ‘Huh?’ I said trying to sit up, my booze-broken equilibrium so skewered that laying back down, I felt immediately better.

    ‘I’m not Kurt Cobain, I’m an exaggeration.’ said Kurt.

    ‘You’re an over thinker,’ I think that’s what I said, eyes closing again,

    ‘You got the blonde hair, you play guitar with your left hand you're Kurt Co-‘

    ‘No,’ he insisted, ‘I’m just a collection of what people expect.‘

    ‘Kurt,’ I hissed, ‘I’m tired from your screaming and five’n a half thousand miles of trekking. I don’t care how long you’ve been away, repeat listens of Creep are gonna put you on a downer.’ 

    And with that I closed my mouth, fully resolved to drift off, back to sleep.

    ‘I’m not right, though’, said Kurt under his breath, ‘I’m not myself and -‘

    ‘AND,’ I butt in, ‘you know things that no one but you could EVER know. You and only you are Kurt Donald Cobain, so please, a break? Lemme. Fucking. Sleep.'

    But oh, for curiosity...What does a nineties rock musician, a rock god no-less listen to the most after resurrection? Since the suicidal gun blast we’ve witnessed The Strokes, The Libertines, OutKast, the rise and fall of myspace, the domination of ITunes. What does he think of Michael Jackson’s death?

I took the deerstalker off my head, the light of my hair spreading the room immediately. I made my empty apology.

    And we were downing Buds. ‘Kurt’ loved Budweiser almost as much as he loved Radioheads’ King of Limbs. He’d heard a Thom Yorke interview, Thom complaining that the public misses the humour in his lyrics. So ‘Kurt’d’ been ploughing through Radiohead’s entire canon, reckoning he couldn’t see how people missed Thom’s jokes. Tell your public one silly thing. And the next day it’s an arse tattoo. Tell ‘em you love The Melvins and Dwain Pullman has ‘I love the Melvins’ inked on his forehead.

    ‘You declare,’ I said pointing at him with new can in hand, ‘You declare that Courtney Love is the best fuck in the world and Jack Mohar-Smith adopts her as his fantasy sex goddess.

    Kurt snickered. I had to carry on, ‘To this day, Jack Mohar-Smith thinks of your widow’s celebrity skin when he jacks his wallpaper paste into his wife.’ 

    Kurt chuckled as he asked, ‘You can read thoughts?’  I grinned, shrugging my arsehole shrug, chest pumped up. I told him, ‘Superheroes always find themselves at the mercy of some mad scientist cos they give the game away. No interviews Lois, get me?’ 

    Of course I’m not psychic, I was just being creative.

    I was happy until that moment; I can still remember my little jump as my pet entered the trailer, ruining the fucking mood.

    Rooenn, the Terrorsmith, my grey concrete knight linked to me with the callous words I cannot delete from recent past. Rooenn, my forever-shadow. Still so vivid in my mind’s eye with its prowling, lugging Lissie behind him like the naked waste he’d made of her.

Her short blonde hair matted, her blood coagulating her short crop into slimy mucky dreads. She’d been tied up in jade colour strips of what used to be her jacket. This was ‘Kurt’s’ half dead groupie, moaning, delirious. Rooenn, the fucker.

On her chest he’d dipped his finger in the twin blood-wells he’d made out of her nipples. ‘Spider woz ere’ read the message on her chest. 
Rooenn, the artist...
Rooenn, the poet:
‘Can hope escape Smoke Filled Bowl?
    No. Chains lock. Keep the black whole.
    When dark holds, High-father, see! Terror breeds.
    Evil Ignite, ignite, ignite.
    Rooenn damned Terrorsmith has bite, will bite, must bite.’

    Jaws not built for speech locked and ground together as Rooenn mumbled through the refrain, muffled by hair and counterpointed by juddering incants of its fucked toy. There's precious little I wouldn’t do to erase those inhuman sounds. Kurt? ‘Kurt’ sipped his Bud noticing nothing and nobody.

    A wave of my hand and the Terrorsmith hissed exiting. The links of its chain ruffled over a milk carton whilst Lissie’s face and lower torso raked a biro, an empty can of beer and a used purple condom, trailing all the junk through the open door. I took a big gulp of my beer. I allowed myself to lie down on the grime and filth of the floor. Just for a moment I thought. Just a little snooze.