Junglist

  The Japanese know about perfection, about breaking down a movement and then recreating it into a ritual where every action has meaning, has power. About how all things have an innate beauty, how each movement becomes in and of itself a beautiful thing if done correctly. How perfection is attained through the simple things, the simple actions and the simple thoughts

  I sit in front of my stash, my resin. My fingertips brown from rolling it between them. Know deep in my being that I want to make another piece of perfection and, through the creation of another small piece of perfection, become perfected in the making. I pull out the Golden Virginia, sitting cross-legged, calm myself, slow my breathing, slow my heartbeat. Feel my heart slow and in the slowing become one with my blood, become my blood. Just another corpuscle flowing through my veins, bouncing around within my arteries. Put the skins in my hand, fold halfway, nod my head to the beat. Tongue smooth and divine, lick along the folded edge. Tear, feel the wet paper pull apart in my fingers. The light dim as I lick another gummed edge and place it onto my rizla, extending it. Know my place in the whole structure of the universe, within things seen and unseen, known and unknown. Let it lie there in front of me. Lighter held at the ready as I contemplate the paper waiting to be filled, white now, just empty. Waiting. Thumb rolls along the steel wheel, spinning it, spark, igniting the gas, the fluid. Flame. Prometheus chained to a rock for giving flame to humanity. Golden orange, glowing, illuminating my face, my eyes, my skin. Hold the lump above it, warm it, feel it go soft and malleable. Crumble it, break it down into its component parts, into smaller lumps, granules. Brown resin-stained fingers rubbing the resin. Rub it, light it, warm it, rub it. Every action smooth and slow, a ritual in the little things. Place it within the envelope: it falls like snow, light and weightless. I look into it and become part of it, falling into that brown heaven. That soft pungent smell rising to my nostrils. Inhale deep and pungent, sensi. Feel how it slows down my world, my life. Coat the inside of that envelope with my brown perfection. Pull out the tobacco and line it sparingly. Don’t use Silk Cut. Burns the fuck out of my throat. All cigarette tobacco is harsh. Bends reality to its own making. Bends reality to a design that I haven’t drawn, so I repudiate it. I don’t smoke if it’s been rolled with Silk Cut, Marlboro Lights or any other cigarette. It’s an invasion of my perfection. Pull the tobacco out strand by strand, feel it soft and moist in my fingers. Just like pussy. Pussy smells like hash to me, dark and moist. Soft and juicy. Pull the half-finished joint to me, pull it close, hold it, roll it, using just the tips. Once, twice, three times. Hold it between forefinger and middle finger and let my thumb roll it upwards. Tongue out, supplication, slide it sensuously along the gummed edge. Fingers rolling it closed, sliding along it, wrapping it tight. Tear the card, pull it between thumb and forefinger, slide it in, feel it hold. A nice long roach. Wrap the end and wait. It lies there in front of me, my perfection. Each movement smooth oiled, done without thought. Done instinctively as if breathing. I contemplate it, feel the release. Know my perfection is attained through this one act. Leave it there as I stand, push up my lighter and dance, illuminating myself with my lighter, the flashes sharp and bright. Feet stepping high, mouthing the words.

  — We’re not gonna die, we’re gonna’ get outta here.

  Turn around and see my perfection, pick it up and light it. Swift effortless motions, dragging it in deep into my lungs, feel it rushing, rushing, that languid effortless underwater feel coming over me, encompassing me, taking me back to the womb all warm and secure, another larger heartbeat in synchronisation with mine, dreaming of a world unknown and unseen.

  — I don’t want to die. You’re not gonna leave me are you Ash?

  — Not while I’m smoking Mary.

  Perfection. Just call me perfection.

  JAP’S EYE

  A Shock for Mr Meth

  — What do you mean you went for an AIDS test?

  I’m sitting in Biggie’s kitchen, the smell of food wafting around. Q’s hunting around opening cupboards and generally acting like a nigga as he hunts for sustenance. Right now I’m in shock, shit’s happening that’s out of control, teetering on the brink of Armageddon, AIDS tests, shit, we’re young, immortal. So now you have to wear an overcoat but if it means living another day I’m all for it.

  — I went for an AIDS test. Shit was worrying me.

  Biggie’s small, maybe 5’5”, possibly 5’6”, with his cute face and laughing eyes. A tight taut body, with large hands and long workman fingers, heavily calloused. He’s sitting slumped in a chair, his hands making shapes in the air as he talks, wandering on into territory only his mind can see. A wide mouth with thick lips that we tease him about. A mouth that is set in a cocky grin as he fields our questions about the intimate details of his bodily functions.

  — He’s an adult, he can make his own decisions.

  Q sticking in his two cents’ worth. I’m just trying to work shit out and people keep jumping down my throat.

  — Fuck that!

  — Fuck you!

  — No, fuck you! That’s some serious shit you jumping into.

  — I know what I’m doing. I just want to be sure.

  — Sure that your dick wouldn’t fall off in your hand.

  — Seriously.

  — Never seriously. No not seriously

  — I just wanted to make sure that when I put it in bare a girl knows it’s clean. ‘Cause I ain’t wearin’ no overcoat.

  — This is your life we’re talking about and you just go for an AIDS test so you can stick it in bare.

  — Yeah! you don’t get that feeling with it on. You know when you wiggle and she can feel it. Telling you not to move out. You don’t get that with a condom. But since you running scared you ain’t gonna know.

  — It ain’t me that’s having the AIDS test.

  — Your next girl, give it to her without a condom and she’ll tell you the difference.

  — Yeah and you can get an AIDS test every time you get a new girl.

  — Naw it ain’t shit. Just a swab and piss into two jars.

  — Swab?

  — Yeah! They just push a cotton bud up your dick.

  — Up your Jap’s eye. Nah, I ain’t havin’ that.

  — When it’s been up there a while it…

  — Fuck that. Ain’t nobody puttin’ nothing up my dick.

  — No really, it ain’t nothing. You don’t feel a thing.

  I feel sick already, go to cross my legs to keep my eyes from watering. I can already feel the intrusion of that cotton bud up my own dick. My imagination’s always too vivid for my own good. I catch myself watching programmes and putting myself into the character’s place and feeling their pain, their anguish. It just becomes a bit too much after a while and especially when it’s my friend. I don’t want to see him die, or even talking about his own mortality. Makes me question my own. Will I live to a ripe old age, have grandchildren, get married, all those socially acceptable things, or will I try it bare, get a girl pregnant and catch AIDS in the process?

  — You’re making me uncomfortable just thinking about it.

  — But…

  I cut Biggie short. I don’t want him slipping into one of his monologues about the wonders of a full STD test. Trying to get everyone he knows to take one as well. Well not this boy.

  — No, just leave it I ain’t going for that.

  — So who’s the lucky girl that all this is for?

  — What girl?

  — Oh, so you doing all his just for your peace of mind?

  — Yeah.

  — Ah-huh.

  — Why don’t no one believe me? Q, you believe me?

  — Eh! Leave me out of it. You lost me. Hey where’s your bread?

  — It’s always for a girl. Remember Yasmina, you were gonna go Muslim for her. I still don’t know how you got anything out of her. Rode all the way to Croydon for a piece of that pussy. Ethel in college, you got into photography for her.

  — Eh, I
ain’t that bad. What about you and Jelica?

  — What about us?

  —Didn’t see you for a good long time. Boning up on your philosophy!

  — Just boning.

  Q’s snappy with the comeback and I can see him grinning from ear to ear. Happy.

  — Shit, you two think you’re comedians. Weren’t me standing round with a branch sticking out of my knob.

  — How many times I gotta tell you...

  — No more times. You wanna be doing that then fine. But don’t be coming and telling me about like I want to know.

  — Biggie. I found your bread but where’s your jam?

  — There ain’t no jam, and don’t bother going looking for no drink either, mum ain’t gone shopping.

  — You mean you don’t buy your own shopping?

  Q’s incredulous since his mum’s been making him buy his own food since he started working and now that he’s at uni he’s still doing it.

  — Fuck off, just ‘cause you’re a student now and scamming like a fucker.

  — Scamming what? Free up with the freeness. The government ain’t done shit for me so I’m out to get mine. The grant don’t cover shit. Student loans, overdrafts, I’m in debt up to my eyeballs — of course I’m gonna get some more money out of the government. You trying to say you ain’t scamming?

  — Sure I am, but I ain’t using cash to buy food. I got garms to buy, records to purchase. Buying food — that’s what mums are for.

  — That’s cold.

  — Fuck you.

  — No fuck you.

  — Fuck off.

  — No, you fuckin’ fuck off and flying fuck back to fuckin’ Africa.

  — You been saving that up for a long time.

  — Yeah.

  — Yeah what?

  — What nothing.

  I pause to catch my breath then look across at Q happily munching away on a jam sandwich. I’m always left wondering how he manages to reconcile the amount of food that he eats to his disciplined lifestyle policy. His mouth opens and in slides another huge chunk of food. He smiles at me and winks and I just break down into gales of laughter. Biggie looks at me as if I’ve suddenly grown horns, but I can’t stop and for an instant I think my sides are going to split — but then I hold them together, arms wrapped tight around my sides and the laughter starts to subside.

  — What you bought lately?

  — Nothing much, this and that.

  — HMMMMMMM!!

  — Don’t be HMMMMing at my collection, just come out wid it.

  — When did you get into Van Halen?

  — Don’t go getting all righteous on me, ain’t me with the Led Zeppelin in my room.

  — A person’s gotta have range. Be able to like a lot of things.

  — So what are you packing me into a tight box for?

  — You ever been up a girl’s virgin passage?

  We both look at Q, who has finished his sandwich and is sitting back looking at us.

  — Yeah?

  — What virgin passage?

  — Her forbidden tunnel.

  — You mean her dirtbox. No way, not me. Not this kid. I ain’t going nowhere near that. I ain’t going near no nasty, crusty, bacteria-infested place, when there’s a lovely nice piece of muff just waiting for me.

  — What brought this on?

  — Just wondering.

  I look at Q. He’s into that evasive mode when he ducks questions by saying nothing’s the matter and being all quiet and solemn, just letting the conversation take its course while he watches from the sides.

  — It’s Emily isn’t it. She’s into anal sex.

  Q stares at me hard and I see his eyes hardening as they pierce me. The old looks-could-kill slips to mind, but Biggie’s already scenting blood and diving in.

  — Emily, who’s Emily?

  — A girl. Listen, I just wanted to know whether you’ve ever done it that’s all. Nothing more, nothing less.

  — Nah, there’s got to be more otherwise you wouldn’t have asked. You get all your info from books. You’re looking for some advice. Here’s some for free. Don’t do it, son, you’ll get shit clogged in your Jap’s eye. It ain’t worth it.

  — Just leave it alone. When I’m ready to tell you I will.

  — Just leave it, Biggie.

  I butt in ‘cause I know how Q feels — when someone’s riding you hard, eager to get information out of you that you’re not yet willing to give. And they don’t care, they’re just out to sate their desire for gossip, information that they can take and spread to as many willing listeners as possible. We all look around. It’s uncomfortable, but we’re friends, we’ll get over it. It’s just a matter of how long. You slip into zones in conversations when you just react and adapt to how other people are feeling and you move into a place where you become linked with them and their thoughts and feelings are mirrored by your own. That’s how I feel now, my moods locked into Q’s and I hate when it happens — makes me too vulnerable — so I kick the conversation into another place, kick it out of its melancholic state back into territory that I’m familiar with.

  — Me I just use old rubber johnny. He’s my best friend.

  — Sex without a condom, there is no finer act.

  Biggie comes in with the info looking at Q as he does so. Then away getting back into the swing of things.

  — Pretend to put it on and then whip it in bare, she’ll notice the difference. I swear — AIDS test honour.

  — Not me I ain’t getting no girl pregnant, I ain’t ready for that sort of responsibility.

  — Just say it weren’t you. Deny everything.

  — Am I the only 90s man here. In touch with my emotions, my feminine side.

  — Fuck all-o-dat. Total and utter fuckrees. Give ‘em a good seven inches, go muff diving a lot, lick her out, and they forget all that touchy, touchy, feely, feely bullshit.

  — That’s just cold-blooded.

  — It’s what they want. Just give ‘em what they want.

  Radical shift of conversation direction initiated by myself.

  — You got any blow?

  — Nope. Free up with the freeness! Don’t pay, won’t pay. Why pay for something when I can get it free from someone else?

  — Shit we’re gonna have to stop on the way to Ministry so I can get some gear. I am definitely not going to the Ministry minus herb.

  — You want to lay off that shit, it’ll fuck you up.

  Q’s back in the game, it seems fresh and eager to run with the ball.

  — Don’t feed me that government propaganda, sensi is good all the way around. Anyway don’t knock what you haven’t tried.

  — I’d rather eat pork.

  — Don’t even think I’m going to go near that road.

  — What road?

  — Any road in which I gotta be in the front seat of a car driven by you, Q.

  — Fuck off. You haven’t even got a licence.

  — What do you need a licence for? I know how to drive safely and under the speed limit. I ain’t trying to be no fucking Nigel Mansell.

  — I don’t even drive and I agree with that.

  — You don’t know shit.

  — You can’t drive, Q, face it.

  — Face what? I ain’t sleeping with you.

  — But you can’t drive, Q. Really you cannot drive. I get scared being in the same car with you.

  — What don’t you like? Tell me, spell it out. Tell me why you think my driving is bad.

  — You ride the kerb all the time.

  — You go too fast.

  — Drive too close to parked cars.

  — You can’t park for shit.

  — You’re always trying to knock down some pedestrian.

  — Blatant use of the horn, when it’s not necessary.

  Biggie pauses and I stop for a second to think about any more allegations about Q’s driving technique, this short pause turns into a gap into which Q can jump and give his defence, when what
we want is to deny him space and just take him to the wall just like Daytona.

  — For one, both of you don’t drive. Two, you ain’t got a licence so both of you ain’t saying shit. All your doing is pissing me off. I’m the one who drives both of you around town. I don’t see you getting scared when I have to drive you off to Dalston or out to fucking Wembley. Both of you are fine then, aren’t you? All the both of you do is bitch and moan. Well fuck both of you x amount of times sideways.

  — Fornicate.

  — What?

  — Find another word. All you keep saying is fuck this, fuck that, fuckin’ fuck fuck fuck. You’re destroying my love of swearing.

  — Listen to you, Mr Swear-every-other-word-except-whenmy-mother’s-in-the-room. Read my lips: Fuck You.

  — No. Fornicate you. There ain’t that many swear words out there and to keep using the same ones is a denial of my verbal rights. You know when…

  — No. Not another trip down memory lane.

  — Cunt!

  — Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it’s another useless story from Meth.

  — Anyway, a girl I knew, she thought she was a bit of an intellectual, she said to me…

  — Get to it, get to it.

  — Do you want to step outside?

  — Only if it’ll stop this story.

  — She said to me that swearing was the sign of having a small vocabulary.

  — Is that it?

  — Thank you for that. Thank you. You have made my day.

  — Makes me feel all warm and cuddly inside.

  — Both of you. Bite the big one.

  — What big one?

  — Don’t let me take it out.

  — Listen to him, take IT out. Nothing there, mate.

  — Bastard.

  — Cunt.

  — Wankmeister.

  — Arselicker.

  — Thank you, gratefully appreciated.

  — Anytime, anytime.

  — Met this girl.

  — I knew it. Took a fucking AIDS test for a piece of puss.