I.

One night at the Troubadour I spotted this extraordinary girl.

So I asked who she was.

‘A professional,’

That was my introduction that on a scale of one to ten

there were women who were fifteens—beautiful, bright, witty, and

oh, by the way, they worked.

Once I became aware,

I saw these women everywhere.

And I came to learn that most of them were connected to Alex



II.

She had a printer engrave a calling card

that featured a bird of paradise

borrowed from a Tiffany silver pattern

and,
under it,

Alex’s Aviary,

Beautiful and Exotic birds.



A few were women you’d see lunching at Le Dôme:

pampered arm pieces with expensive tastes

and a hint of a delicious but remote sexuality.

Many more were fresh-faced, athletic, tanned, freckled

the quintessential California girl

That you’d take for sorority queens or future BMW owners.





III.

The mechanism of Alex’s sudden notoriety is byzantine,

as these things always are.

One of her girls took up with a rotter,

the couple had a fight,

he went to the police,

the police had an undercover detective visit

(who just happened to be an attractive woman)

and ask to work for her,

she all but embraced her

—and by April of 1988 the district attorney had enough evidence

to charge her with two counts of pandering

and one of pimping.

For Alex, who is fifty-six

and has a heart condition and diabetes,

the stakes may be high.

A conviction carries the guarantee of incarceration.

For the forces of law and order,

the stakes may be higher.

Alex has let it be known that she will subpoena

every cop she’s ever met to testify at her trial.

And the revelations this might produce

—perhaps that Alex compromised policemen

by making girls available to them,

—perhaps that Alex had a deal with the police to provide information

in exchange for their blind eye to her activities

—could be hugely embarrassing to the police and the district attorney.

For Alex’s socially correct clients and friends,

for the socially correct wives of her clients and friends

and for a handful of movie and television executives

who have no idea they are dating or

married to former Alex girls,

the stakes are highest of all.



IV.

Alex’s black book is said to be a catalogue of
Le Tout Los Angeles.

In her head are the ****** secrets

of many of the city’s most important men,

to say nothing of visiting businessmen and Arab princes.

If she decides to warble,

either at her trial or in a book,

her song will shatter more than glass.





V.

A decade ago, I went to lunch at Ma Maison,

There were supposed to have been ten people there,

but only four came.

One of them was a short woman

who called me a few days later and invited me to lunch.

When I arrived, the table was set for two.

I didn’t know who Alex was or what she did,

but she knew the important facts of my situation:

I was getting divorced from a very wealthy man

and doing the legal work myself

to avail lawyers who wanted to get a big settlement for me.


Occasionally, she said, I get a call for a tall, dark-haired,

slender, flat-chested woman

—and I don’t have any.

It wouldn’t be a frequent thing.

There’d be weekends away, sometimes in Palm Springs,

sometimes in Europe.

The men will be elegant,

you’ll have your own room

—there would be no outward signs of impropriety.

And you’d get $10,000 to $20,000 for a weekend.





VI.

The tall, slender, flat-chested brunette

didn’t think it was right for her.

Alex handed her a business card

and suggested that she think about it.

To her surprise, she did

—for an entire week.

This was 1978, and $20,000 then

was like $40,000 now,

I knew it was hooking,

but Alex had never mentioned ***.



Our whole conversation seemed to be about something else.



VII.

I was born in Manila

to a Spanish-Filipina mother and German father,

and when I was twelve

a Japanese soldier came into our house

with his bayonet pointed at us,

ready to do us in.

He locked us in and set the house on fire.

I haven’t been scared by much since that.



My mother always struck me as goofy,

so I jumped on a bus and ran away,

I got off in Oakland,

saw a help-wanted sign on a parish house,

and went in.

I got $200 a month for taking care of four priests.

I spent all the money on pastries for the parish house.

But I didn’t care.

It felt safe.

And the priests sparked my interest in the domestic arts

—in linen, in crystal.



A new priest arrived.

He was unpleasant,

so on a vacation in Los Angeles I took a pedestrian job,

still a teenager,

married a scientist.

We separated eight years later,

he took our two sons to another state

threatened to keep them if I didn’t agree to a divorce.

Keep them I said and hung up.

It’s not that I don’t have a maternal instinct

—though I don’t,

I just hate to be manipulated.



My second husband,

an alcoholic,

had Frank Sinatra blue eyes, and possibly

—I never knew for sure—

had a big career in the underworld

as a contract killer.

Years before we got serious,

he was going out with a famous L.A. ******,

She and her friends were so elegant

that I started spending time with them in beauty salons.

They were so fancy,

so smart

—and they knew incredible people,

like the millionaire who sat in his suite all day

just writing $5,000 checks to girls.



VIII.

I was a florist.

We got to talking.

She was a madam from England

who wanted to sell her book and go home.

I bought it for $5,000.

My husband thought it was cute.

Now you’re getting your feet wet.

Three months later,

he died.

After eleven years of marriage,

just like that.

And of the names in the book

it turned out

that half of the men were also dead.

When I began the men were old and the women were ugly.



IX.

It was like a lunch party you or I would give,

Great food Alex had cooked herself.

Major giggles with old pals.

And then,

instead of chocolate After Eight,

she served three women After Three



This man has seen a bit of life

beyond Los Angeles,

so I asked him how Alex’s stable

compared with that of Madam Claude,

the legendary Parisian procuress.

Oh, these aren’t at all like Claude’s girls,

A Claude girl was perfectly dressed and multilingual

—you could take her to the opera

and she’d understand it.





He told me that when she was 40

she looked at herself in the mirror

and said

Disgusting.

People over 40

should not have ***.

But She Was Clear That She Never Liked It

even when she was young.

Besides, she saw all the street business

go to the tall,

beautiful girls.

She thought that she never had a chance

competing against them.

Instead,

she would take their money by managing them.





X.

Going to a ****** was not looked down upon then.

It was before the pill;

Girls weren’t giving it away.

Claude specialized in

failed models and actresses,

ones who just missed the cut.

But just because they failed

in those impossible professions

didn’t mean they weren’t beautiful,

fabulous.



Like Avis

in those days,

those girls tried harder.

Her place was off the Champs,

just above a branch of the Rothschild bank, where I had an account.

Once I met her,

I was constantly making withdrawals and heading upstairs.





XI.

We took the lift

and Claude greeted us at the door.

My impression was that of the director

of an haute couture house,

very subdued,

beige and gray, very little makeup.

She took us into a lounge and made us drinks,

Whiskey,

Cognac.

There was no maid.

We made small talk for 15 minutes.

How was the weekend?

What’s the weather like in Deauville?

Then she made the segue. ‘I understand you’d like to see some jeunes filles?’

She always used ‘jeunes filles.’

This was Claude’s polite way of saying 18 to 25.

She left and soon returned

with two very tall

jeunes filles,

One was blonde.

This is Eva from Austria.

She’s here studying painting.

And a brunette,

very different,

but also very fine.

This is Claudia from Germany.

She’s a dancer.

She took the girls back into the apartment and returned by herself.

I gave my English guest first choice.

He picked the blonde.

And wasn’t disappointed.

Each bedroom had its own bidet.

There was some nice

polite conversation, and then



It was slightly formal,

but it was high-quality.

He paid Claude

200 francs,

not to the girls

In 1965, 200 francs was about $40.

Pretty girls on Rue Saint-Denis

could be had for 40 francs

so you can see the premium.

Still, it wasn’t out of reach for mere mortals.

You didn’t have to be J. Paul Getty.





XII.

A lot of them

were models at

Christian Dior

or other couture houses.

She liked Scandinavians.

That was the look then

—cold, tall, perfect.

It was cheap for the quality.

They all used her.

The best people wanted

the best women.

Elementary supply and demand.



XIII.

She had a camp number tattooed on her wrist. I saw it.

She showed it to me and Rubi.

She was proud she had survived.

We talked about the camp for hours.

It was even more fascinating than the girls.



She was Jewish

I’m certain of that.

She was horrified at the Jewish collaborators

at the camp who herded

their fellow Jews

into the gas chambers.

That was the greatest betrayal in her life.



XIV.

She was this sad,

lonely little woman.

Later, Patrick told me who she was.

I was bowled over.

It was like meeting Al Capone.

I met two of the girls

who worked for her.

One was what you would expect

Tall

Blonde

Model.

But the other looked like a Rat

Then one night

she came out

all dressed up,

I didn’t even recognize her.

She was even better than the first girl.

Claude liked to transform women like that.

That was her art.

It was very odd,

my cousin told me.

There was not much furniture

and an awful lot of telephones.

“Allô oui,”



XV.

I had so many lunches

with Claude at Ma Maison

She was vicious.

One day,

Margaux Hemingway,

at the height of her beauty, walked by.

Une bonne

—the French for maid

was how Claude cut her dead.

She reduced

the entire world

to rich men wanting *** and

poor women wanting money.

She’d love to page through Vogue and see someone

and say,

When I met her

she was called

Marlene

and she had a hideous nose

and now she’s a princess.

Or she’d see someone and say

Let’s see if she kisses me or not.

It was like

I made her,

and I can destroy her.

She was obsessed

with “fixing” people

—with Saint Laurent clothes,

with Cartier watches,

with Winston jewels,

with Vuitton luggage,

with plastic surgeons.



XVI.

Her prison number was

888

which was good luck in China

but not in California.

‘Ocho ocho ocho,’ she liked to repeat

Even in jail, she was always working,

always recruiting stunning women.

She had a beautiful Mexican cellmate

and gave her Robert Evans’s number

as the first person she should call

when she was released.



XVII.

Never have *** on the first date.



XVIII.

There will always be prostitution,

The prostitution of misery.

And the prostitution of bourgeois luxury.

They will both go on forever.



“Allô oui,”



It was so exciting to hear a millionaire

or a head of state ask,

in a little boy’s voice,

for the one thing

that only you could provide

It's not how beautiful you are, it's how you relate

--it's mostly dialogue.



She was tiny, blond, perfectly coiffed and Chanel-clad.

The French Woman: The Arab Prince, the Japanese Diplomat, the Greek Tycoon, the C.I.A. Bureau Chief — She Possessed Them All!



XIX.

She was like a slave driver in the American South

Once she took a *******,

the makeover put the girl in debt,

because Claude paid all the bills to

Dior,

Vuitton,

to the hairdressers,

to the doctors,

and the girls had to work to pay them off.

It was ****** indentured servitude.



My Swans.



It reached the point

where if you walked into a room

in London

or Rome

as much as Paris

because the girls were transportable,

and saw a girl who was

better-dressed,

better-looking,

and more distinguished than the others

you presumed

it was a girl from Claude.

It was, without doubt,

the finest *** operation ever run in the history of mankind.



**.

The girl had to be

exactly what was needed

so I had to teach her everything she didn’t know.

I played a little the role of Pygmalion.

There were basic things that absolutely had to be done.

It consisted

at the start

of the physical aspect

“surgical intervention”

to give this way of being

that was different from other girls.

Often they had to be transformed

into dream creatures

because at the start

they were not at all



Often I had to teach them how to dress.

Often they needed help

to repair

what nature had given them

which was not so beautiful.

At first they had to be tall,

with pretty gestures,

good manners.

I had lots of noses done,

chins,

teeth,

*******.

There was a lot to do.



Eight times out of ten

I had to teach them how to behave in society.

There were official dinners, suppers, weekends,

and they needed to have conversation.

I insisted they learn to speak English,

read

certain books.

I interrogated them on what they read.

It wasn’t easy.

Each time something wasn’t working,

I was obliged to say so.



You were very demanding?

I was ferocious.



It’s difficult

to teach a girl how to walk into Maxim’s

without looking

ill at ease

when they’ve never been there,

to go into an airport,

to go to the Ritz,

or the Crillon

or the Dorchester.

To find yourself

in front of a king,

three princes,

four ministers,

and five ambassadors at an official dinner.

There were the wives of those people!

Day after day

one had to explain,

explain again,

start again.

It took about two years.

There would always be a man

who would then say of her,

‘But she’s absolutely exceptional. What is that girl doing here?’ ”





XXI.

A New York publisher who visited

the Palace Hotel

in Saint Moritz

in the early seventies told me,

I met a whole bunch of them there.

They were lovely.

The johns wanted everyone to know who they were.

I remember it being said

Giovanni’s Madame Claude girl is going to be there.

You asked them where they came from and they all said

Neuilly.

Claude liked girls from good families.

More to the point she had invented their backgrounds.



I have known,

because of what I did,

some exceptional and fascinating men.

I’ve known some exceptional women too,

but that was less interesting

because I made them myself.



Ah, this question of the handbag.

You would be amazed by how much dust accumulates.

Or how often women’s shoe heels are scuffed.





XXII.

She would examine their teeth and finally she would make them undress.



That was a difficult moment

When they arrived they were very shy,

a bit frightened.

At the beginning when I take a look,

it’s a question of seeing if the silhouette

and the gestures are pretty.

Then there was a disagreeable moment.

I said,

I’m sorry about this unpleasantness,

but I have to ask you to get undressed,

because I can’t talk about you unless I see you.

Believe me, I was embarrassed,

just as they were,

but it had to be done,

not out of voyeurism, not at all

—I don’t like les dames horizontales.



It was very funny

because there were always two reactions.

A young girl,

very sure of herself,

very beautiful,

très bien,

would say

Yes,

Get up, and get undressed.

There was nothing to hide, everything was perfect.



There were those who

would start timidly

to take off their dress

and I would say

I knew already.

The rest is not sadism, but nearly.

I knew what I was going to find.

I would say,

Maybe you should take off your bra,

and I knew it wasn’t going to be

beautiful.

Because otherwise she would have taken it off easily.

No problem.

There were damages that could be mended.

There were some ******* that could be redone,

some not

Sometimes it can be deceptive,

you know,

you see a pretty girl,

a pretty face,

all elegant and slim,

well dressed,

and when you see her naked

it is a catastrophe.



I could judge their physical qualities,

I could judge if she was pretty, intelligent, and cultivated,

but I didn’t know how she was in bed.

So I had some boys,

good friends,

who told me exactly.

I would ring them up and say,

There’s a new one.

And afterwards they’d ring back and say,

Not bad,

Could be better, or

Nulle.



Or,

on the contrary,

She’s perfect.

And I would sometimes have to tell the girls

what they didn’t know.

A pleasant assignment?

No.

They paid.



XXIII.

Often at the beginning

they had an ami de coeur

in other words,

oh,

a journalist, a photographer, a type like that,

someone in the cinema,

an actor, not very well known.

As time went by

It became difficult

because they didn’t have a lot of time for him.

The fact of physically changing,

becoming prettier,

changing mentally to live with millionaires,

produced a certain imbalance

between them

and the little boyfriend

who had not evolved

and had stayed in his milieu.

At the end of a certain time

she would say,

I’m so much better than him. Why am I with this boy?

And they would break up by themselves.



Remember,

this was instant elevation.

For most of them it was a dream existence,

provided they liked the ***,

and those that didn’t never lasted long.

A lot of the clients were young,

and didn’t treat them like tarts but like someone from their own class.

They would buy you presents,

take you on trips.



XXIV.

For me, *** was something very accessoire

I think after a certain age

there are certain spectacles one should not give to others

Now I have a penchant for solitude.

Love, it’s a complete destroyer,

It’s impossible,

a horror,

l’angoisse.

It’s the only time in my life I was jealous.

I’m not a jealous person, but I was épouvantable.

He was jealous too.

We broke plates over each other’s heads;

we became jealous about each other’s pasts.

I said one day

It’s finished.

Sometimes I look at myself in the mirror and say:

Break my legs,

give me scarlet fever,

an attack of TB, but never that.

Not that.



XXV.

I called her into my office

Let us not exaggerate,

I sent her away.

She came back looking for employment,

but was fired again, this time for drugs.

She made menacing phone calls.

Then she arrived at the Rue de Boulainvilliers with a gun.

She shot three bullets

I was dressed in the fashion of Courrèges at this moment

He did very padded things.

I had a padded dress with a little jacket on top.

The bullet

—merci, Monsieur Courrèges

—stuck in the padding.

I was thrown forward onto the telephone.

I had one thought which went through my head:

I will die like Kennedy.

I turned round and put my hand up in a reflex.

The second bullet went through my hand.

I have two dead fingers.

It’s most useful for removing bottle tops.

In the corridor I was saved from the third bullet

because she was very tall

and I am quite petite, so it passed over my head.



XXVI.

There were men

who could decapitate,

****, and bomb their rivals

who would be frightened of me.

I would ask them how was the girl,

and they’d say

Not bad

and then

But I’m not complaining.

I was a little sadistic to them sometimes.

Some women have known powerful men because they’re their lover.

But I’ve known them all.

I had them all

here.



She will take many state secrets with her.



XXVI.

I don’t like ugly people

probably because when I was young

I wasn’t beautiful at all.

I was ugly and I suffered for it,

although not to the point of obsession.

Now that I’m an old woman,

I’m not so bad.

And that’s why

I’ve always been surrounded by people

Who

were

beautiful.

And the best way to have beautiful people around me

was to make them.

I made them very pretty.





XXVII.

I wouldn’t call what Alex gives you

‘advice,’

She spares you Nothing.

She makes a list of what she wants done,

and she really gets into it

I mean, she wants you to get your arms waxed.

She gives you names of people who do good facials.

She tells you what to buy at Neiman Marcus.

She’s put off by anything flashy,

and if you don’t dress conservatively, she’s got no problem telling you,

in front of an audience,

You look like a cheap *****!

I used to wear what I wanted when I went out

then change in the car into a frumpy sweater

when I went to give her the money she’d always go,

Oh, you look beautiful!



Marry your boyfriend,

It’s better than going to prison.

When you go out with her,

she’ll buy you a present; she’s incredibly generous that way.

And she’ll always tell you to save money and get out.

It’s frustrating to her when girls call at the end of the month

and say they need rent money.

She wants to see you do well.





We had a schedule, with cards that indicated a client’s name,

what he liked,

the names of the girls he’d seen,

and how long he’d been with them.

And I only hired girls who had another career

—if my clients had a choice between drop-dead-gorgeous

and beautiful-and-interesting,

they’d tend to take beautiful-and-interesting.

These men wanted to talk.

If they spent two hours with a girl,

they usually spent only five or ten minutes in bed.



I get the feeling that in Los Angeles, men are more concerned with looks.



XXVIII.

That was my big idea

Not to expand the book by aggressive marketing

but to make sure that nobody

mistook my girls for run-of-the-mill hookers.

And I kept my roster fresh.

This was not a business where you peddle your ***,

get exploited,

and then are cast off.

I screen clients. I’ve never sent girls to weirdos.

I let the men know:

no violence,

no costumes,

no fudge-packing.

And I talked to my girls. I’d tell them:

Two and a half years and you’re burned out.

Save your money.

This is like a hangar

—you come in, refuel, and take off.

It’s not a vacation, it’s not a goof.

This buys the singing lessons,

the dancing lessons,

the glossies.

This is to help you pay for what your parents couldn’t provide.

It’s an honorable way station—a lot of stars did this.



XXIX.

To say someone was a Claude girl is an honour, not a slur.



Une femme terrible.

She despised men and women alike.

Men were wallets. Women were holes.



By the 80s,

if you were a brunette,

the sky was the limit.

The Saudis

They’d call for half a dozen of Alex’s finest,

ignore them all evening while they

chatted,

ate,

and played cards,

and then, around midnight,

take the women inside for a fast few minutes of ***.



They’d order women up like pizza.



Since my second husband died,

I only met one man who was right for me,

He was a sheikh.

I visited him in Europe

twenty-eight times

in the five years I knew him

and I never slept with him.

He’d say

I think you fly all the way here just to tease me,

but he introduced me

by phone

to all his powerful friends.

When I was in Los Angeles, he called me twice a day.

That’s why I never went out

he would have been disappointed.



***.

Listen to me

This is a woman’s business.

When a woman does it, it’s fun

there’s a giggle in it

when a man’s involved,

he’s ******,

he’s a ****.

He may know how to keep girls in line,

and he may make money,

but he doesn’t know what I do.

I tell guys: You’re getting a nice girl.

She’s young,

She’s pleasant,

She can do things

she can certainly make love.

She’s not a rocket scientist, but she’s everything else.



The world’s richest and most powerful men, the announcer teased.

An income “in the millions,” said the arresting officer.

Pina Colapinto

A petite call girl,

who once slid between the sheets of royalty,

a green-eyed blonde helped the police get the indictment.

They really dolled her up

She looks great.

Never!

What I told her was: ‘Wash that ******.’





XXXI.

Madam Alex died at 7 p.m.

Saturday at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center,

where she had been in intensive care after recent open heart surgery

We all held her hand when they took her off the life support

This was the passing of a legend.

Because she was the mother superior of prostitution.

She was one of the richest women on earth.

The world came to her.

She never had to leave the house.

She was like Hugh Hefner in that way.


It's like losing a friend

In all the years we played cat and mouse,

she never once tried to corrupt me.

We had a lot of fun.


To those who knew her

she was as constant

as she was colorful

always ready with a good tidbit of gossip

and a gourmet lunch for two.

She entertained, even after her conviction on pandering charges,

from the comfy depths of her blue four-poster bed at her home near Doheny Drive,

surrounded by knickknacks and meowing cats,

which she fed fresh shrimp from blue china plates.



XXXII.

She stole my business,

my books,

my girls,

my guys.

I had a good run.

My creatures.

Make Mommy happy

Oh! He is the most enchanting cat that I have ever known.



She was, how can I say it,

classy.

When she first hired me

she thought I was too young to take her case.

I was 43.

I'm going to give you some gray hairs by the time this is over.

She was right.





XXXIII.

I was fond of Heidi

But she has a streak that is so vindictive.



If there is pure evil, it is Madame Alex.





XXXIV.

I was born and raised in L.A.

My dad was a famous pediatrician.

When he died, they donated a bench to him at the Griffith Park Observatory.



I think that Heidi wanted to try her wings

pretty early,

and I think that she met some people

who sort of took all her potential

and gave it a sharp turn



She knew nothing.

She was like a little parrot who repeated what she was supposed to say.



Alex and I had a very intense relationship;

I was kind of like the daughter she loved and hated,

so she was abusive and loving at the same time.



Look, I know Madam Alex was great at what she did

but it's like this:

What took her years to build,

I built in one.

The high end is the high end,

and no one has a higher end than me.

In this business, no one steals clients.

There's just better service.



XXXV.

You were not allowed to have long hair

You were not allowed to be too pretty

You were not allowed to wear too much makeup or be too glamorous

Because someone would fall in love with you and take you away.

And then she loses the business



XXXVI.

I was pursued because

come on

in our lifetime,

we will never see another girl of my age

who lived the way I did,

who did what I did so quickly,

I made so many enemies.

Some people had been in this line of business

for their whole lives, 30 or 40 years,

and I came in and cornered the market.

Men don't like that.

Women don't like that.

No one liked it.



I had this spiritual awakening watching an Oprah Winfrey video.

I was doing this 500-hour drug class

and one day the teacher showed us this video,

called something like Make It Happen.

Usually in class I would bring a notebook

and write a letter to my brother or my journal,

but all of a sudden this grabbed my attention

and I understood everything she said.

It hit me and it changed me a lot.

It made me feel,

Accept yourself for who you are.

I saw a deeper meaning in it

but who knows, I might have just been getting my period that day!



XXXVII.

Hello, Gina!

You movie star!

Yes you are!

Gina G!

Hello my friend,

Hello my friend,

Hello my movie star,

Ruby! Ruby Boobie!

Braaawk!

Except so many women say,

Come on, Heidi

you gotta do the brothel for us; don't let us down.

It would be kind of fun opening up an exclusive resort,

and I'll make it really nice,

like the Beverly Hills Hotel

It'll feel private; you'll have your own bungalow.

The only problem out here is the climate—it's so brutal.

Charles Manson was captured a half hour from Pahrump.



I said, Joe! What are you doing?

You gotta get, like,

a garter belt and encase it in something

and write,

This belonged to Suzette Whatever,

who entertained the Flying Tigers during World War II.

Get, like, some weird tools and write,

These were the first abortion tools in the brothel,

you know what I mean?

Just make some **** up!

So I came out here to do some research

And then I realized,

What am I doing?

I'm Heidi Fleiss. I don't need anyone.

I can do this.

When I was doing my research, in three months

I saw land go from 30 thousand an acre

to 50 thousand an acre,

and then it was going for 70K!

It's urban sprawl

—we're only one hour from Las Vegas.

Out here the casinos are only going to get bigger,

prostitution is legal, it's only getting better.





XXXVIII.

The truth is

deep down inside,

I just can't do business with him

He's the type of guy who buys Cup o' Noodles soup for three cents

and makes his hookers buy it back from him for $5.

It's not my style at all.

Who wants to be 75 and facing federal charges?

It was different at my age when I

at least...come on, I lived really well.

I was 22,

25 at the time?

It was fun then, but now I wouldn't want

to deal with all that *******

—the girls and blah blah blah.

But the money was really good.



I would've told someone they were out of their ******* mind

if they'd said in five years I'd be living with all these animals like this.

It's hard-core; how I live;

It's totally a nonfunctional atmosphere for me

It's hard to get anything done because

It’s so time-consuming.

I feel like they're good luck though....

I do feel that if I ever get rid of them,

I will be jinxed and cursed the rest of my life

and nothing I do will ever work again.



Guys kind of are a hindrance to me

Certainly I have no problem getting laid or anything.

But a man is not a priority in my life.

I mean, it's crazy, but I really have fun with my parrots.



XXXIX.

I started a babysitting circle when I wasn't much older than 9

And soon all the parents in the neighborhood

wanted me to watch over their children.

Even then I had an innate business sense.

I started farming out my friends

to meet the demand.

My mother showered me with love and my father,

a pediatrician,

would ask me at the dinner table,

What did you learn today?

I ran my neighborhood.

I just pick up a hustle really easily,

I was a waitress and I met an older guy who looked like Santa Claus.



Alex was a 5' 3" bald-headed Filipina

in a transparent muu muu.

We hit it off.

I didn't know at the time that I was there to pay off the guy's gambling debt.

It's in and out,

over and out.

Do you think some big-time producer

or actor is going to go to the clubs and hustle?



Columbia Pictures executive says:

I haven’t done anything that should cause any concern.

Jeez, it's like the Nixon enemies list.

I hope I'm on it.

If I'm not, it means I must not be big enough

for people to gossip about me.



That's right ladies and gentlemen.

I am an alleged madam and that is a $25 *****!

If you live out here,

you've got to hate people.

You've got to be pretty antisocial

How you gonna come out here with only 86 people?

That's Fred.

He's digging to China.

You look good.

Yeah, you too.

It's coming along here.

Yeah, it is.

I wanted to buy that lot there, but I guess it's gone?

That's mine, man! That's all me.

Really?

I thought there was a lot between us.

No. We're neighbors.



He's a cute guy

He's entertaining.

See, I kind of did do something shady to him.

I thought my property went all the way back

and butted up against his.

But there was one lot between us right there.

He said he was buying it,

but I saw the 'For Sale' sign still up there,

So I went and called the broker and said,

I'm an all-cash buyer.

So I really bought it out from under him.

But he's got plenty of room, and I need the space for my parrots.

Pahrump will always be Pahrump, but Crystal is going to be nice

All you need are four or five fancy houses and it'll flush everyone out

and it'll be a nice area.

They're all kind of weird here, but these people will go.

Like this guy here,

someone needs to **** him.

I was just saying to my dad that these parrots are born to a really ******-up world

He goes, Heidi, no, no; the world is a beautiful garden.

It's just, people are destroying it.

I’m looking into green building options

I don't want anything polluting,

I want a huge auditorium,

but it'll be like a jungle where my birds can really fly!

Where they can really do what they're supposed to do.

There were over 300 birds in there!

That lady,

She ran the exotic-birds department for the Tropicana Hotel,

which is a huge job.

She called me once at 3:30 in the morning

Come over here and help me feed this baby!

Some baby parrot.

And I ran over there in my pajamas

—I knew there was something else wrong

and she was like

Get me my oxygen!

Get me this, get me that.

I called my dad; he was like,

I don't know, honey, you better call the paramedics.

They ended up getting a helicopter.

And they were taking her away

in the wind with her IV and blood and everything

and she goes, Heidi, you take care of my birds.

And she dies the next day.

She was just a super-duper person.



XL.

I relate to the lifestyle she had before,

Now, I'm just a citizen.

I'm clean,

I'm sober,

I'm married,

I work at Wal-Mart.

I'm proud to say I know her. I look into her eyes

and we relate.





I got out in 2000,

so I've been sending her money for seven years

She was…whatever.

Girlfriend?

Yeah, maybe.

But ***, I tried like two times,

and I'm just not gay.

She gets out in about eight or nine months

and I told her I would get her a house.

But nowhere near me.

I didn't touch her,

but I'd be, like...

a funny story:

I told her,

Don't you ever ******* think

about contacting me in the real world.

I'm not a lesbian.

Then about two years ago, I got an e-mail from her,

or she called me and said, 'Google my name.'

So I Googled her name,

and she has this huge company.

Huge!

She won, like, Woman of the Year awards.

So I called her and I go,

Not bad.

She goes, 'Well, I did all that because you called me a loser.'

I go, '****, I should've called you more names

you probably would've found the cure for cancer by now.



XLI.

No person shall be employed by the licensee

who has ever been convicted of

a felony involving moral turpitude

But I qualify,

I mean, big deal, so I'm a convicted felon.

Being in the *** industry, you can't be so squeaky-clean.

You've got to be hustling.

Nighttime is really enchanting here

It's like a whole 'nother world out here, it really is

I’m so far removed from my social life and old surroundings.

Who was it, Oscar Wilde, I think, who said

people can adjust to anything.

I was perfectly adjusted in the penitentiary,

and I was perfectly adjusted to living in a château in France.



We had done those drug addiction shows together

Dr. Drew.

Afterward we were friendly

and he'd call me every now and then.

He'd act like he had his stuff together.

But it was all a lie.

Everything is a lie.

I brought him to a Humane Society event at Paramount Studios last year.

He was just such a mess.

So out of it.

He stole money from my purse.

He's such a drug addict because he's so afraid of being fat.

He liked horse ****, though. He did like horse ****.

This one woman that would have *** with a horse on the internet,

He told me that’s his favorite actress.

Better than Meryl Streep.



XLII.

The cops could see

why these women were taking over trade.

Girls with these looks charged upwards of $500 an hour.

The Russians had undercut them with a bargain rate of $150 an hour.

One thing they are not is lazy.

In the USSR

they grew up with no religion, no morality.

Prostitution is not considered a bad thing.

In fact, it’s considered a great way to make money.

That’s why it’s exploding here.

What we saw was just a tip of the iceberg.

These girls didn’t come over here expecting to be nannies.

They knew exactly what they wanted and what they were getting into.

The madam who organized this raid

was making $4 million a year,

laundered through Russian-owned banks in New York City

These are brutal people.

They are all backstabbers.

They’re entrepreneurs.

They’re looking at $10,000 a month for turning tricks.

For them, that’s the American dream.



XLIII.

If you’re not into something,

don’t be into it

But,

if you want to take some whipped cream,

put it between your toes,

have your dog licking it up and,

at the same time,

have your girlfriend poke you in the eye,

then that’s fine.

That’s a little weird but we shouldn’t judge.



She was my best friend then

and I consider her one of my best friends now,

because when I was going through Riker’s

and everyone abandoned me,

including my boyfriend,

I was hysterical,

crying,

and she was the one that was there.

And, when somebody needed to step up to the plate,

that’s who did, and I have an immense amount of

loyalty, respect, and love for her.

And if she’s going to prison for eight years

—that’s what she’s sentenced for

—I’ll go there,

and I’ll go there every week,

for eight years.

That’s the type of person I am.

There was once a girl with a fear of mirrors.
A fear so frightening,
it followed her round wherever she went.
Zombie films were fine
and spiders didn't bother her,
she would have happily seen a ghost
and the dark was her best friend.
But the mirror haunted her.
"Look at yourself..."
it would whisper,
"Fat,
ugly,
baby face,
crooked teeth..."
Even in bed,
when night veiled it's reflection,
it spoke.
The duvet over her head wasn't much of a shield,
the voice taunting her,
ringing in her ears,
until she woke up,
a sticky, writhing mass in the middle of the matress.
"Good Morning."
The day time was no better.
Shop windows acted as put-me-up mirrors,
cutlery in cafes the same.
There was a solution to walking in the day time,
head down,
head down,
head down,
don't make eye contact,
head down,
but a rogue puddle could stop her in her tracks.
Her watercolour reflection swam menacingly on it's surface,
the voice rising dreamily from it like a mermaid speaking under water.
But she'd take a whole city of puddles
if she could avoid the carnival of horrors that was shopping for clothes.
There,
no matter where she stepped,
mirrors of all shapes and sizes would spring from corners,
the reflections getting redder
and uglier
and sweatier
and more pathetic
each time she span into a new one,
pretty,
thin,
popular girls preened themselves in the corner of her eyes,
friends with the mirrors.
She could hear the voice speaking to them,
but it's words were kind and friendly.
Looking down made no difference as mirrors adorned the floors,
up the same,
the ceiling a funfair nightmare of crazy mirrors,
the whole shop a kaleidoscope of her disgusting,
repulsive,
loathsome face.
She couldn't even cry.
The fear was so great,
that she couldn't risk seeing a reflection in one of the tears.
Even her sorrows mocked her.
The only way was to bottle it up,
to smile,
act like nothing was wrong,
look in her bag when her friends were looking in the mirror,
close her eyes at the hairdressers,
throw a sheet over her own, hateful mirror.
Throw a sheet over herself.
Nobody could hurt her if she didn't let them in.
One day,
the girl smashed the mirror in her room.
She grabbed a shoe and struck it with such force,
that the awful face before her splintered
and crashed to the floor in a thousand pieces.
When she looked down,
hundreds of dark eyes blinked back at her.
It's shell still remained hanging on the wall,
a black rectangle that looked like it could be a portal to another world.
She could still see herself in it.
She shut her eyes and squeezed them hard,
but the mirrors were behind her eyelids,
printed onto her brain,
painted onto her pupils.
The mirror was inside her.
The girl was now a looking glass of self-loathing.
The voice whispered inside her head.
"Just look at yourself.
Look at yourself,
look at yourself,
look at yourself,
LOOK."
She realised she would never be able to escape the mirrors.
She realised that she would smash herself into nothing but broken glass if she didn't just
look.
So she did.
As each day went by,
with every new mirror that crept up on her,
she looked inside it,
looked at herself.
The first time sweat beaded and dripped down her neck
and her hands shook.
She thought she would faint,
thought she was going to run,
thought she wouldn't do it,
but she did.
She looked.
She kept looking for a long time,
scrutinsing her every feature until she realised,
it wasn't that bad.
She looked,
until eventually,
as time passed by,
she managed to smile.
Until eventually,
whenever she closed her eyes,
the mirrors on her lids nodded "You'll be okay.".
Until eventually,
the fear wasn't so scary anymore.
Until,
eventually,
she let herself cry.
And she wanted to see herself in the tears.
There was a once a girl who liked mirrors.

Sat at the hairdressers
Hearing the gossip
Relaxes a woman and her senses.

Nothing outside the door of the salon
matters.
Just the head massage, and gossip.

The world has stopped as her locks
are chopped.
If only a closed door could keep the world at bay.

But, the door will open,
the world will flood in
and with it, for next time, more gossip!

People often say now I understand
When they hear that I'm from Paree
Not Gay Paree silly, but redneck
In the heart of Tennessee

I am the newest style of hairdressers
Here to lay out all the facts
I no longer work on the tops of heads
But straight out of the pits

It all happened when I got bored
With the every day to day
Trimming of the head left me feeling dead
That's when it hit me..."Underarm Braid"

That right there was my life saver
That right there was my turn around
If it didn't make me world famous
At least it did on this side of town

Now people come from as far as Nashville
To have their underarms done
I even gave a left and right pit Mohawk
To the Governor's daughter and son

What? Did you think I only braided?
There's so much more that I can do
Just ask the Punk Rock Chick's that wait in line
To have their armpits colored blue

My older clientele have let there hair grow out
Since it is they learned
I'm now specializing in for both women and men
Their favorite sets and perms

So feel the freedom of the pits
That hippie chicks have long since known
Here at Michael's Salon Of Pits
We'll do something special with that growth

Hairdressers, scissors,

razor blades and carotids --


yet, it does go well.

jak sie nie ma co sie lubi, to sie lubi, co sie ma / if you don't have what you'd like, you like, what you have.

my maternal uncle (brother
of my grandmother)
used to collect beer bottles...
now i wish
    i didn't start to collect
cigarette packets...
           i know, pretty much as
"nerdy" as collecting postage
stamps (you should see
my grandfather's collection...
pretty impressive...
     i think he owns a yuri
gagarin special edition) -
anyway...
    it came as a shock when
i was buying tobacco
  at the supermarket once
upon a time (2 months ago) -
the packaging, the packaging!
it's so ugly!
     you sure i'm in a supermarket
and not in a russian gulag?
marmite lungs,
   coughing blood,
black and white all over
areas, all over...
           they really know how
to put people out their jobs
when trying to
           redesign packaging,
don't they?
luckily though... luckily!
i'm in possession of the last
of the last...
   an empty packet of
   *benson & hedges (gold)...
that's a keeper...
    i'm not giving this one
up...
   i'll use whenever i have ten
remaining in
that ugly packaging,
      and take it into town,
and turn into a peacock...
look'e 'ere... see,
     original packaging,
dating from the year 2016...
     but like with anything
you drink... esp. the whiskeys...
it's nice to read an anecdote
printed on the bottle...
  the benson & hedges packet?
nothing like it is now...
  in the old days
you know:
   (a) sourced from premium
                  golden virginia tobaccos
  (b) consistently rich & smooth
          taste
(c) as approved by apache chief
    naked-****-pointing-at-the-moon
   & his distant half-cousin
the sioux chief hairdressing-wind;
  but there's also
(d) the british american
                         tobacco group
   and there's also and address
  so you can send them fan mail
(e) old bond street, london.
  smoking used to be fun,
well, it still is... if you managed to keep
one of these of packets
          of cigarettes...
now i wish i still had a packet
of yella' camels...
                 or the red marlboros,
oh well.

Washington needs to wash Obama out of its hair
he's doing more damage the longer he is there
the hair strands are in need of new management
for under Obama they've received much torment

an improvement to the locks will be extra nice
as Washington gets rid of the Obama device
the Congress and Senate can do the shampooing job
which will see the Pres quickly given the fob

Washington will have a lustrous sheen to the tress
when the hairdressers get onto the mess
now is the time to employ good methodology
by washing Washington's hair with ousting technology

.i'll cook myself some food, wipe my *** with toilet paper, equate that to writing something the waiting blank of pixel online... refrain from leaving comments... and call it a night... ****...i'll even think about cooking tomorrow's dinner, Bolognese pasta... the internet used to be so much fun, roughly 2 years ago... **** it, forget it... it's not coming back... the party is dead... hello sunshine! hello new t.v.! as was originally intended: internet shopping... and internet banking... the ******* retards doing here, imitating homeless people, begging via donations on Patreon?! you wanna know this side of the "coin-flip"? get these bums off the net... let the software companies enforce the hardware companies... who, or who doesn't get access to phone / internet access... better still: go down the route of envelope and postage stamp!

what the **** do i
"have" to stay up at night?
i have a choice between
family guy and bill maher...
us little obedient serfs...
i don't need to stay up
at night for this *******...
i have a cauliflower's worth
of acne building up on my ***
(right ****-cheek)...
i'm taking naproxen,
because the headache is getting
to me...
i need this new-internet like
i might require
******* hemorrhoids...
          thanks... i'll just start
treating this medium akin
to channels... whatever...
the ones were you do on-cable
gambling... and the striptease...
that isn't really a striptease...
                 like:
you want a scene...
where a guy lights some scented candles,
reclines
in an armchair...
and then jerks off
while watching...
sadomasochism **** from
2017?
yeah... that bad...
             i'm quiet liking
that cauliflower sized acne head
popping up from my ****-cheek...
giving me the suspense(d) impression
that i have three...
it's just about how
there was impromptu when
Rapunzel went to the hairdressers...
there's a beard in there,
right?
god... i can or rather... can't
in faking of attempting to
tell a good joke...
always ending up with a bad one...
but the serious point being...
i've lost the reason to stay up
during the night...
the internet died a slow death...
what? clips of bill maher and some
family guy?
   that's it?!
         i didn't fight the transition
period, all of "us" became
disheartened pejoratives...
      i didn't fight, because i already
knew that whatever fight was
to be engaged...
we were never fighting Nazis...
at least fighting Nazis would have been
something...
like... fighting on an equally
level headed playing field...
           the whole
punch a **** would have been fun...
but fighting this fight?!
this wasn't a fight...
this was war via procrastination...
you won... whoever "you" is...
i'm tired of fighting...
i used to spend the wee hours
the the night engaging myself
in the blank space before me...
writing...
          now?!
         i can't be bothered...
  whatever... it's yours...
take your soundbites and...
whatever you dare to claim
as not being copyright infringement...
your little Metallica soundtrack...
and *******!
                     i'm through...
i'll still post...
                    but let me tell you...
i'll certainly take more pleasure
from taking a ****,
than writing the subsequent *******!
enjoy the new t.v.
            sure as ****,
i know i won't... bye bye.

I was born in a city and time where and when
things were described by their name in the name
of realism and truth, uncoloured nouns of honesty
depicting society as it was fearing nothing
while no one took offence, as none was intended

in the atmosphere of autocriticism and self-
deprecating humour. In the countryside village
peasants called my father the Greek, as there were
no aliens other than us and the English man
who lived down the valley. Black skins

only existed on TV, and Africa was far more distant
than maps ever suggested. Our Ghanaian origins
were a mesmerising fable to the curious ears
of those willing to imagine exotic airs, indefinite
populations they had never seen. Italians

were used to migrate abroad in search of dreams,
though no one came to dream in Rome until, they did.
First strange faces appeared for myths to become
realities integrating slowly fast-forwarding thirty years
to see, Filipinos housekeepers, cheaper butlers,

Rumanians and Moldavians caregivers to our elders,
Chinese empires beginning with restaurants and shops,
Selling almost anything one could ever think of affordable
to all, now expanding to own bars creating jobs,
employers of impoverished locals and new arrivals.

Bangladeshis taking over once-was Italian grocery cash
and carries working hard, a 24/7 policy just for some.
Those who don’t are found selling umbrellas on the road
a minute before the storm, or taking polaroid pictures
of tourists at night when the gypsies come out

of nomad camps to sell, unscented roses to lovers
unnaturally blue for the day is reserved, to picking
pockets on public transports everybody knows,
signs are put up for those who don’t. Lebanese
hairdressers hiring young Italian girls, eat in Turkish

kebab fast-foods buying halal ingredients in Iraqi stores.
Only blacks in Rome own nothing but their shoes
and reputation. Those from North African countries often deal
on sidewalks for drug addicts playing instruments
sitting next to dogs on Tiber bridges as they beg

for one more dose. Though Egyptians mainly deal
with chefs, closed in restaurant kitchens learning
pizza-making skills, while Pakistanis make excellent
dishwashers. Turning back to blacks Nigerians,
Senegalese, Malians and many more improvise

themselves as clandestine street vendors
of jewels and fake bags, the latter secretly supplied
by Italian mafia-like wannabes. Often spotted running
away from police, packing goods in white sheets, held
on their backs as they flee, leaving fallen merchandise

behind them. Finally some remain unseen, straight
from heart of darkness and surroundings they stay
strictly on TV, passing from satiric sketches of the past
to NGO adverts crying out, for help against famine,
poverty and sickness, calling for action two euros a day

via sms to keep, consciousness clean, as we close
our eyes not to see, pretend we do not know, hiding
behind words we call, politically correct not to face, take
distance from reality and truth, disguise inconvenience
and uncomfort with ridiculously embellished, jargon.

Some exceptions obviously exist, as many manage
to live outside the box, though alas and do not blame me
for speaking the truth, they remain to date exceptions
dear to my heart, as are all the characters of this portrait,
scattered pieces of humanity, pieces of me.

i'd really like to punch Roger Boyes in the face... that kind of therapy talk akin to Fight Club... i'd really love to punch Roger Boyes' smile off...  can't stress how much i'd like to punch his face, simply to add the mascara of plum with that grin of his... i'll say it one more time for the therapeutic reasons, akin to 1916 and northern irish zombies; god, i'd love to punch that man into a Picasso.

why... the pristine supposed involvement of
Colonel Kentucky in Syria...
leave them to it! your opinions are just invests in war,
look at you, cooked-up in a semi-detached
in Warwickshire... i'm sure the select journalists
ageing have moved from the column to
the opinion section, because they are *proper
bulldog bred to choke a Belgian waffle
and *****-up a moth for a tartan pattern;
******* in the Caribbean - pilot features added
to the wingspan about what i wouldn't integrate into
even if Dickens or Shakespeare was an ice cream moment
of melting into a society... honey pooh...
you want the community experience?
abolish the strategy for urban areas and Greek-likened
free-city states... you want a community?
move to a village... no immigration will change
that demographic, village life means village life,
and villagers... and your neighbour's breakfast
on your table given the gossip at the hairdressers...
get a prim and the low-down;
that English, functioning atheism:
left hand (a-, the indefinite article) - and right hand
(the-, the definite article) - Kula Shaker'***** -
but i'd really love to punch Roger rather than Gandhi...
for Aleppo... i guess it's fun and morally pristine
to serve a comment along with oysters away
from the tabloid section of Loners of the newspaper,
a poet best dissects a newspaper -
did Cromwell ask for aid? Charles got the Chaplin
chop - Russia assured everyone, the support
of the Armstrong - because Colonel Kentucky and
every other entrepreneur of capitalism was not
part of bookmarking the last few pages of the Syrian
civil war... is that because no English civilians
knew the reality of war that Syrians concerned themselves
with? hence the punch for the journalist...
how about infiltrating a far-right perspective to counter
the spread of Jihad in Europe? being an island will
hardly help, as pseudo-****** said: now the channel
tunnel... let the tanks roll in.
England is under this fake impression that America
cares two-shots of whiskey three shakes of the dice
about its opinion... it doesn't...
America is pro-Israel.. England is quasi-pro but by
majority not wishing the Palestinians to experience
a 2000 year old Exodus... so here come the balaclavas
with black & white or red & white Houndstooth patterns.
still... i'd love to punch that Roger into a tombstone-flat-face.
leave them to it! it's a civil war! none of us
were ever Syrian civilians... we were civilians elsewhere...
in the green mint-fresh rolling hill countryside...
this isn't your son's Special Ops first-person shooter
on a computer screen... **** me... let the gym meat-heads
pump the iron... you a covert disciple of the diminishing
English high-street franchise... you know
that when a franchise begins to become turned FLAWED
it invests in adverts - capitalism's exposure comes
with advertisement, when a company is on the fault
line of bankruptcy or making profit, if decides on
an advertisement project, a crusade - to rekindle
public trust, i.e. naive handshakes all round.

That short wispy haired lady
Fighting her way against the wind
Up the London Road
Is my Mother.
Lips pursed she is returning
From the hairdressers, the post office
And has yet to pick up steak and kidney
For the pie she will make
For the boy who is coming home
For her son who will soon be there
For the man who loves the pie
For her child who loves her.
Her lips are pursed in determination
Against all the obstacles
Real and imagined that stalk her.
Lately that climb past the church
Made her puff.
Tiredness, her weakened heart
Struggling to keep up.
Perhaps the thought of another winter
Another wet and windy struggle
Up and down the village
Up and down the London Road.
Discretely her body decided
To give up.
No more struggling
No more tiredness
No more puffing and halting
For my shy timid Mother.
No more making tea
No more cleaning
No more washing
No more worrying
For my Mum.
Her three sons
Middle aged and modern
Stand miserably with their Father
Standing in suits in the municipal crematorium.
Rain and wind, my Mothers enemies
Howl and lash outside
Lost without their old victim
Inside aging relatives
Exchange scared glances
Wondering who is next.

Come talk to me over the chattering mouths
Of customers and acquaintances.
We can drink coffee in the beer garden,
Agitating the tobacco leaves far too often
And using friendship as therapy.

You’ll sit with your sunglasses framed in your hair.
An old scar is a teardrop, as we claim compensation
For the damage done in our years apart.
Come walk with me through old graveyards,
As the living take to existence.

Teenagers catcall and chase each other in the park,
They shelve their hair in the wind
And religiously practice apathy.
We link arms past the tree hollow full of syringes,
Knowing there is nothing left to surprise us.

These streets are turning into a gamble;
Bookmakers, cash converters and hairdressers
Train feet towards the old clock tower.
Only the sprawl of supermarket isles
Keeps ignorance well-fed in this town.

Come listen to these old songs with me.
The poet is dead, but the melody lives,
And it is still wonderful to be alive.
Come with me past the crooked spire;
The devil left long ago.

the memory starts clearly aged ten. kept in the fitted cabinet, second drawer down, mother’s scissors. i guess they were around before in a more muzzy state in  mind.

she may have kept my fringe tidy  when i was not taken off to the barber in the village. he used a plank across the arms of the chair to seat me. i was small then.



she said that hers were special, hairdressers’ scissors. we were never to cut paper with them, yet we did. once i saw her cutting greaseproof; different rules apply.



we  had only one pair. just one pair that i remember. i felt that mum gave them great importance, transfered this feeling.

i wish i had kept them, even with the damage.  the incident was one afternoon .



a lamp needed moving,  plug removing and my brother put it off for various reasons. we heard the noise, the bang , we saw the feathers.

those days many people had budgies, ours was blue usually. i think green was a different price?

so mum cut the electric wire with her special scissors to remove the plug, still plugged in. a hole then  in the blade. mother put to bed, we probably took her tea. the budgerigar tidied and settled we all moved forward with experience.



i wonder still if this is why i collect scissors here.



sbm.

Where was I now, oh I remember, I had outstayed my welcome at Shotton,
"There have been too many complaints, the local farmer had had enough."
"Enough of what" I frowned, surely he couldn't mean me! "Anyway, I have had enough of this place, we are moving South, to a place called Sunbury on Thames, he smiled. "Your mum has your Christmas present, be extra good or you won't get any present at all." The weeks seemed to drag by, Dad had been ill and things had been delayed. Things were moving at last. Dad had bought a double fronted shop, It had been a ladies hairdressers., called Georgina's, it was done out in attractive pink tiles. My brother Jim grinned. "We'r in the pink, at last."  My dad's machines took up a lot of room, we had a sewing machine, a stitching machine , a blake stitching machine , a finishing machine, a cutter ,a skiver, a stretcher, a work bench with two pivot's, and a shelf below with a complete set of iron lasts, from tiny toddlers size up to the largest Policeman's boot. That's a little joke, nearly.  "When we get busy you will have to help, I'll show you how to make shoes, you can start by doing repairs, there is a lot to learn, I expect you to dig in." He frowned. "I can't believe I said that."

she said that hers were special, hairdressers’ scissors. we were never to cut paper with them, yet we did.

look….

We walked down
Deacon Way
(had to get her away
from her home

and her old man
and his Bible bashing)
it was after school
and tea

and the sky was blue
but becoming grey
she tied her long
blonde hair

into a pony tail
with a red ribbon
but what will
my father say

when he finds
that I’ve gone out?
Fay said
say you needed the air

say the nuns said
you had to appreciate
the evening air
that God made

I said
he knows the nuns
will not have
said that

he keeps in touch
what they say
and how
I am behaving

at school
she said
and how do you
behave at school?

I asked
I do my best to be good
she said
but they are so picky

you have not said
your Pater Noster
with due reference
or you have said

the Ave too quickly  
who's the Pater Noster?
I asked
the Lord's Prayer

she said
and the Ave
is the Hail Mary
I see

I said
although I didn't see
we came back
to the New Kent Road

and stood
by the hairdressers
on the corner
where now?

she asked
I ought to get back
Father will be looking
over the balcony for me

how about a bag of chips?
I said
Father says chips
are bad for you

make you fat
she said
but they're good
fill you up

if you're hungry
I said
best not
she said

I must go back
he'll get so angry
ok
I said

so we crossed the road
and walked down
Meadow Row
she looked anxious

I looked at her
sideways on
her blue eyes
blonde hair

and that look
in her features
of sad despair.

Fay was on the bus
I was on
we both got off
at the cinema

in New Kent Road
how was school today?
I asked
as we walked along

to the Zebra crossing
passing the fish shop
the hairdressers
O you know

how school is
she said
some days
you don't mind it

some days
you hate it
today I hated it
why was that?

I asked
we stood
on the edge
of the pavement

at the crossing
Sister Agnes poked me
in the back
with her

steel hard finger
because I had forgotten
the capital of Peru
Fay said

as if it mattered
as if the Peruvian people
would lose
any sleep over that

we crossed the road
to Meadow Row
it's all part
of the brain-washing process

I said
I try to empty
my brain of it
as soon as I can

after school
she laughed
and put her fingers
to her mouth

I shouldn't laugh
my daddy says
laughter is how
the Devil gets in

and those
who make people laugh
are the Devil's helpers
we walked down

Meadow Row
pass
the bombed out houses
on the left

the empty windows
the boarded up
doorways
I guess your old man

is a bit of a sourpuss
I said
sourpuss?
she said frowning

I liked it
when she frowned
her blonde eyebrows
seemed to meet

in the middle
and the lines appeared
on her forehead
a grouch

I said
she laughed again
stop it
I shouldn't laugh

at least not
at my daddy's expense
it won’t cost him
nothing

I said
I joke for free
we passed
the public house

there was a piano playing
and some woman
was singing
Fay looked at me seriously

I mustn't be seen
beyond here
with you
Daddy says

you are a bad influence
Fay said
am I?
Daddy says you are

she said
do you think I am?
I asked
no I don't

she said
that's ok then
I said
we paused

by the fresh fish shop
and looked
at each other
don't forget

to find out
the capital of Peru
I said
I know now

she said
Sister Agnes poked
Lima into my back
that's one way

to impress knowledge
on a kid
I said
she rubbed

her shoulder
yes
I shall call this
my Lima shoulder

she said smiling
see you around
I said
(although

she only lived
in the flat upstairs)
and she leaned in
and kissed my cheek

and went off ahead
over Rockingham Street
up towards the flat
I touched

my 12 year old cheek
maybe
I said
I’ll not wash

that bit
for a whole week.

**** it...
   when was the last time i managed
my hair and my beard?
god almighty...
    it has been since... no way...
late March!  
    that's what?
    April, May, June, July...
     something had to be done -
for the past 3 weeks (if not longer)
i've been walking around
the town, looking like some demented
old testament prophet...
untidy hair -
     a beard so long that you
couldn't see my neck...
             final straw, with this heat...
and in all my life -
   i've only been satisfied with one
barber...
   well... to be honest, he was my first,
i've been to queer hairdressers -
but then hairdressers know
jackshit about a man's needs when
it comes to ****** hair...
     you could say that i lost my
        virginity to Cemil Uston...
my third time today...
    god... you sit in the chair, eyes closed,
chilling, feeling a tingling sensation
on the back of your neck
  when he finishes off the hair
with a straight razor, electric shivers
translated from the metal, running
from the neck to your feet...
      i'd take that to a ******* any day
of the week...
     and to my surprise, my Turkish barber
moved up in the world...
    from a ****** cubicle with only
two chairs, to a much larger studio...
   no television - given that he already
employed an understudy -
    and the wall lined with those artsy
bricks you see in renovated industrial estate
condos...
     i had to congratulate him...
   and i did...
                  because there are no better
barbers in the world, other than the Turks...
and when he finished,
   i smiled and said: no comment -
   it's perfect... i feel human again,
            unlike some ravenous animal...
gave him 20 quid and thought about
all those schmucks paying in the excess of
£100 for some west london hairdresser...
notably women: who always seem to leave
such places: unsatisfied -
   mostly, getting home, crying,
   and then wanting to shave their heads,
because... an atypical high street in London
is not a Parisian catwalk...
          sometimes i love being a man,
just a bit too much...
        but only because of Turkish barbers...
no one beats them:
   ******* have this no nonsense
anti-machismo attitude toward their trade,
a man is no more a man
with a pair of boxing gloves,
   if he doesn't know a good barber...

but of course the second part of
the day was waiting for me...
   a confrontation with my neighbor -
   he says that i should have informed
him about making a barbeque -
because he was drying his washing...
   immediately i started shaking...
- WHAT?!
      WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?
- you should inform me whether you're
going to be making a barbeque,
because of my washing, the smoke
   would get in them...
- OH YOU ******, NO!
         NEXT TIME YOU'LL BE WANTING
TO KNOW WHETHER IT'S OK
FOR ME TO TAKE A ****,
   GIVEN THAT YOU'RE TELLING
WHEN I CAN EAT!
                  *******!
YOU'RE A MADMAN!
- i'm the madman? you're the one
howling through the window at night...
- touche, m'ah fwend.

     some people... just don't get it...
writing poetry and sometimes breaking
into a spontaneous howling in the night
is one thing... sure... it's mad...
but... telling someone when they can
do a barbeque - because of someone's
drying their clothes?
              i'm mad?
                 - because you can't really make
an argument...
    when the barbeque stove is
about 10 meters away from the washing line...
i really live next to some ******
neighbors...
   he's in his 50s, she's in her late 40s...
both are overweight...
     and they had a baby about a year
ago...
    the kid doesn't walk... for starters...
cries in pain for most of the night,
and the day...
      the man has lost his senses!
             if he were 30 / 20 younger -
maybe his sanity would be intact...
   but how can you, suddenly turn,
and dictate when your neighbor decides
to cook meat on a barbeque
in his own garden?
                   first it was:
i shouldn't smoke outside my own
window...
   now it's: you should inform us
when you're going to cook food...

     i sometimes wish, pieces of human
excrement like that, could on be shut up
with silence and a *******...
    but pieces of human excrement
sometimes can and will break your cool...
there's no other expression
other than to tell them to *******.

Hairdressers daughter,
Momma wanted her to make farther without a father
Couldn't even manage an alama matar
From the far South, no clue how to keep her legs closed, nor her **** mouth
These blackhole guys with their cast oil lies, let her keep the disguise
That she don't know better
The 'basic' girl, she fits it to the letter
But she's actually pretty clever
Just miserable, intent on making things intense for the individuals who fall for her ******* lust, their faces change fast when they see the red plus
She hits them with 'whats that mean for us? How this gonna go down?"
They give her money to get out of town, they choke
Little do they know it's all a joke, one gift store test puts her with the best of all con artists, its a high for her, but she still don't feel
Until one day it all got real
That equation on a stick that helped her get rich, she couldn't go through with it
Came back and latched hard. 9 whole months,
Had to become a hairdresser, took out her phone, clicked on 'mom' and called her
"You're gonna have a granddaughter"

Cities are *****, grimy places
Full of people with interesting faces.

There's dark hair, blonde hair, red hair, white hair and grey ;  imagine all the colours of a rainbow and then add a few.

There's fair skin, dark skin, olive skin and mellow tones too.

There's small eyes, wide eyes, blue eyes, green eyes, grey eyes and brown; some have 20:20 vision, some hide behind glasses, some wear contact lenses to enhance their sight, some have a world of darkness behind their eyes.

There's large noses, small noses, wide noses, button noses, some hold glasses upon their face, some are cumbersome, some full of grace.

There's clear skin, wrinkled skin, acne skin, damaged skin, translucent skin, soft skin, dry skin, sunkissed skin, sunburnt skin.

There's big ears, small ears, pierced ears, cauliflower ears, ears with rings in to make them wide; some people wear hearing aids to enhance what they hear, some live in total silence.

Some people are tall, some are short, some are able to walk, some need assistance every day to be able to walk even a small way.

There are cyclists and runners on every street, roller skaters, walkers your most likely to meet; add in football, cricket and rugby players too, basketball, rounders, netball, tennis and golf, squash, badminton, swimming and diving, there's such diversity in all that we do.

Libraries and Museums open their doors, sshh be quiet, though it's free to explore.

Shops, coffee shops, hairdressers a plenty, though some of the bigger spaces remain empty; cost of rent is exceedingly high and don't even think about the option to buy.

There's leisure parks to walk and have fun with your dogs, parks with swings and roundabouts for your children who are  young.

Some Cities have rivers, some have canals built to let barges through.

Some Cities have harbours, marinas too, look over the Ocean at a sea that's blue.

All Cities have Universities to provide education to those from home or from far and wide.

Spoilt for choice of courses to attend there's professions of course, doctors, dentists, lawyers and nurses, accountants and vets. There's media, dance, English language and literature, geography, history and maths. There's IT, cookery and drama and how to handle a camera. There's business and entertainment, wedding planning and Latin. Any subject of your choice can be found somewhere around.

You can find comedy clubs, poetry readings, chess clubs, scout clubs, lego groups, cookery classes, sewing classes, reading groups, right outside your door, if you took the chance to look around your neighbourhood and the  time to explore.

Don't write off the City though it may look ***** and grimy in places, it is as you can see, full of interesting people and places.

"OK GUYS...TAKE 5!"

coffee break
Snow White & the Seven Dwarfs
play strip poker

Snow White smirks
removes her hairband & an earring
7 naked little men

Goldilocks & The Three Bears
nipping outside for a ***
take a long( ahhhhhh )slow drag

B.B. Wolf and de Pigs
have a quick one
down at their local

Sleeping Beauty
cuddles up to Cinderella
who needs fellas?

Rapunzel
1.30 app. at hairdressers
she gets a bob

Rumpelstiltskin
does his Ali impression
"What's my name...what's my name!"

Wicked Witch
gets another facelift
from Doc Mirror

the Magic Mirror
picks the winner
the 2.30 at the Curragh

the Little Tin Soldier & his ballerina
jiving to Jordan's
THERE AIN'T NOBODY HERE BUT US CHICKENS!

the Little Mermaid
has a foot massage
"Oh me legs are killing me!"

the Ugly Duckling
sitting by himself
in a corner of the canteen

the siren goes
"Ok...ok...places...please!"
they idle back to their respective pages

the book opens
the illustrations smile
at the reader's eyes

Call me basic white as I sip my iced coffee
and feel free to laugh at my obviously fake spray tan
this orange could never be natural anyways
I watch the hairdressers roll their eyes every time
I ask for black
It's my natural color, I promise them but they doubt me anyways
I became a guessing game for my co-workers
my ethnicity a puzzle with missing piece
I know Spanish but I'm not Hispanic
You look Arabic but that side of the world was never familiar to me
I say I am Native
Native American on my dad's side
Half my blood flows with that of my mutilated ancestors
Yet you see my white, coffee sipping lips and doubt
My skin in the winter is snow
but my nick name is at summer camp was snooki
my tan unbelievably orange
yet you wonder why red-skin is an insult
I am native and proud of my heritage
the only questions I get are about scholarships I never received
You say that I am lucky
and that I must be receiving so many benefits
I resist the urge to punch you in the face
I have received nothing from your people
and I never will

the naiveness made concise with
such exclamations as:
London is lost!
   begs the question of why,
under the Greek authority,
a city-state was allowed
to be resurrected...
               thankfully there is no
one worth a mention
from the Greco-Byzantine legacy...
Ancient Greek thinkers
still have to compete with
Ottoman barbers, period...
   ****** english hairdressers
still have a straight-razor phobia,
which the galant Turks utilise...
romance, romance, etc. etc...
******* still use a straight razor
to finish the hairline sculpture...
Cyrillic, back from the dead
of first techno impressions,
e.g. CUL8ER...
a ******* Yiddish pogrom...
playing staccato with rubick cube's
worth of sledge to the hammer
via the suckle to the grave:
******* rhetoric...
           the cruelty of nature,
and man's inhibition of it,
blind seeking both god,
five blindmen and an elephant...
came the conjuring of
leeches, automated thinking,
perpetuation of motion and
kept magnetism...
Michael Faraday,
prime ultra-Promethean archetype...
at first, the forbidden fruit...
to transcend death ad
  custodiri sino....
        in the latter day saint rubric of
pyramidical tutorship...
     glut of the gloated gangrene
snore of a voice,  where one
entertained a harp...
   LONDON is no more lost than
it's real...
   the paradigm of the ancient
Greco city-state fission...
which, counter to the said exposure...
is akin to ratz, scuttling  
           toward roles of enhaling
helium balloons...
so why ex use those *******
with a terrible, inhibited palette of tastes...
inhibiting...
apparently the question
mark resides with omnivores,
and the joke herbivores...
with missing volf...
******* pristine ballerinas
with lovers name Dmitri....
over a st. Petersburg pretty,
i'd still rather marry a poor Roma;
less straitjacket patience,
more to the point.

she says they are nice pyjamas

comforting while

although she prefers air to circulate her lower parts

the winter nights require warmer wear



i agreed that pjs are the thing

and avoided talking about any

parts

at all



bought a few things at 40p

and left

for the hairdressers

"OK GUYS...TAKE 5!"

coffee break
Snow White & the Seven Dwarfs
play strip poker

Snow White smirks
removes her hairband & an earring
7 naked little men

Goldilocks & The Three Bears
nipping outside for a ***
take a long( ahhhhhh )slow drag

B.B. Wolf and de Pigs
have a quick one
down at their local

Sleeping Beauty
cuddles up to Cinderella
who needs fellas?

Rapunzel
1.30 app. at hairdressers
she gets a bob

Rumpelstiltskin
does his Ali impression
"What's my name...what's my name!"

Wicked Witch
gets another facelift
from Doc Mirror

the Magic Mirror
picks the winner
the 2.30 at the Curragh

the Little Tin Soldier & his ballerina
jiving to Jordan's
THERE AIN'T NOBODY HERE BUT US CHICKENS!

the Little Mermaid
has a foot massage
"Oh me legs are killing me!"

the Ugly Duckling
sitting by himself
in a corner of the canteen

the siren goes
"Ok...ok...places...please!"
they idle back to their respective pages

the book opens
the illustrations smile
at the reader's eyes

From buying my first guitar
To watching strippers in the corner bar
So much can happen
In a street not that well known
A name change now The Broadway
Even this cannot change its sodden ways
Rileys now a place to lose weight
Some games I had when I'd lost my stake
The dive bars now a place to skin up
A Caribean twist with a Guinness to sup
Installing the refit to the Clipso hairdressers
To having a row with the fella who worked there
As to most it will always be the Harlequin cut through
But to us kids in the 90s it was a place of scandel and curfew

JJB

When Elvis met Jimi
At the Lonely Waiter
Bringing him drinks
The purple was buzzing
The post was all broken
Returning to sender
Not really an option
The watch was watching
An’ time was almost saying
Excuse me while I kiss
You heartbreaking hotel
What an experience
Amongst the cutlery
An’ the crystal glintings tray
Ahead of Dr John
Reflecting on its surface
In his darker glasses
While Saint Joan
Was making passes
At the other jester
Behind the painted mirror
In the opposite corner
On the other inside
Of stained glass shades
Wrapped around
Equally coloured eyes
Like a matching pair
Of angels on fire
Hoping to light her fire
Before the wine poured in
And the flame was decanted
And she couldn’t get higher
This side of her fire
Where Neil Young never
Gets any longer older
His name is a blessing
Going with his territory
Where pearl sang the blues
She borrowed from Picasso
Before the gold rush happened
And all the haircuts
Vanished 'neath waves vanity
Where the longer is stronger
And ever so fashionable
In a Samson kind of way
Before the hairdressers
Kicked the windows in
The opposite direction
To Frank Sinatra’s hat
And that red red robin
Just kept bobbing along
In such an old fashioned
Very new kind of song
Stuck in the groove
Of fortified reverends
Heading for the exit strategy
And life on the fast track
So easily overtaken
By their Elvis impersonation
That leave the building
Very incognito ergo
It’s how they managed
Just like Rene Descartes
Used to sometimes play
In his laconic kind of way
Before he found that lost
Frank Sinatra hat
The Panama number
With a cute red band
And its jaunty angle
The geometry of stardom
He thought for a moment
Of being ahead an’ a hat of his time
An’ the stained-glass shades
Were so very existential
Tiffany’s lamps were jealous
As John and Paul used to sing
And that very lonely waiter
Only had that lonely tray
Eleanor Rigby refused used to say
Get father Mackenzie out of here
It’s his last chance to be Elvis
He’s innocent of everything
While this is still a building
The Apocalypse left a message
On his answering machine
Screaming get out of here
Architecture’s a threat to survival
There’s a whole lot of shaking
Going on everywhere upstairs
An the basement’s not much safer
Now’s a good time
To write your last letter
An’ send it to your lover
Saying that long goodbye
In the fastest time ever
(Someone cancelled the long player)
And nobody can be trusted
Not even your favourite ******
When the wind stops whispering
An’ you can’t make the distance
Say goodbye to your record collection.

i cycle into central London:
do one round: round Hyde Park...
buy a bottle of cerveza...
find a spot... fall into a serpent's
position: limbless pretend:
flat on my stomach...
i'm in the middle of London...
i'll smoke a cigarette...
read about 5 pages from a book...
watch the crows
make art... crows...
pigeons... seagulls...
         two girls will sit about 20 metres
from: 30 minutes apart...
i'll be eyeing them up...
they won't be... doing anything
than waiting for me to approach them...
i could: god, i could...
but... i'm so lazy looking out
for madmen which: humour me...
and all those other: degrades...
i'll sober up on m'ah ******* bicycle
like the good trooper...
oddly enough the older women
pay me compliments:
you could have any girl blah blah...
honey-bear... do i look bothered:
butchered about... not getting any?
do i, have to: get any?
why is it so ******* important to
get laid?
do i: have to?
am i a ******* barnacle... am i...
a monopod... how do you describe
the advent of curbing man's vanity
with Darwinism: like...
man's vanity... or god's presence...
taking a cut from...
postcards from Saturn... no?
when i rather visit a ******* for clarity:
i know that a psychiatrists or a priest
will not do...
i like the *** of well-worn leather chair
imitation...
i don't like lies... fake nuns...
but i'll cycle through the sq. mile...
stop off for a black coffee and some breath
under the shadow of st. paul's
cathedral...
on todays menu...
french fries... Louisiana style prep. of chicken
wings...
a corn cob... some pseudo-guacamole...
and a pineapple fetish for a... salsa...
i drink... but i also like to lasso a decent menu...
i'm the complete man:
a hypocrite... a conundrum... a paradox...
i'm the evil fiend: drunk...
but also... the most responsive commuter
on a bicycle...
however much i'd love to **** myself:
yes... alone... with a knife... not hanging...
ritually... best at night...
with an eye on the moon...
but never... forcing... traffic homicide...
it's not even a question:
a society of sociopaths...
i like to see them spar over crumbs...
they're so adventurous in their solipsism...
i pity the spare parts...
daughters of hairdressers and plumbers...
i'd pretend to choke without a decent
haircut or... pipes that work...
but it's their children: esp. the females...
call it a stanza of the only hell:
limbless...
hands... feet... cut off: eyes gauged out...
lying bare naked... torsos in a cave...
reproductive spare parts...

i cycle into central London with a heavy
heart...
i'm poo'et... my vater ist ein dachdecker...
if my father was a Loord...
i'd feel... less of this crushing guilt suppose
i merely write...
so much for writing...
i'd love to live a month inside my own head...
i write for reasons somehow not: merely...
****** prompting / prompted?

all "things" concerning the... supposed:
crown...
let the crowning advents of supposed
cream of the crop...
i'll buy into time...
whatever i have left of it...
             hier: jetzt...
             wie von...     tot...
                                 beste sein rätsel.

When a morning at the hairdressers
is a weight off your mind.

a purple robe below the ear lobes
and a white paper collar made me
look like an archbishop,
which is better than an archcriminal
although that's probably debatable.

Writers, professors, journalists and hairdressers,
students, athletes, baristas and deadbeats,
no one knows it all.

The theory of mind has not been kind
to anyone who dares to search
for an appropriate belief they can get behind.

Horace was right to say, I say this
and if I may, I will retreat,
we can discuss, but do not necessarily have to meet
each other halfway.

Down the line I'd like to be
firm in my two cents. (even if cents are soon to be abolished)
I'll keep them in my pocket, polished, and
if someone wants to throw me more,
I'll happily inspect their core.

If they don't bend, my pocket grows,
if they do, they'll fly into the fountain's lows,
where no one has to ever see
those coins again, especially not me.