Back to Identity?And scrambled transmissions from Planet Cod.

I’m a fishmonger,
I’m a Butcher,
But I do more than sell dead creatures.

Comically attired,
Blood stained apron, doctor’s jacket and standard counters Hat,
Only my trainers, socks and boxers are open to personal preference.

I serve as a human shaped social hub,
Exchanging energy with whoever crosses my line of sight.

The old dears with no teeth,
Some on their last legs, puffing their last breath, will they return next week?

The expensively clothed students spending their allowance from mum and pops,
chucking more sterlings into one meal than would last me three days on the dinner table.

The rugged salt-of-the-Earth grunts,
Their smiles and grimaces more real,
Their glares more fierce…
Than their socialite counterparts…

The catwalk hoes,
Showing more flesh than clothes,
Soliciting their sex while they shop…

The designer hippies,
All show, no substance,
Making a statement of Image, not a statement of Belief in Peace and Harmony,
Sandals, Thai fishing trousers, flowered tiaras,
It’s a fucking Sham…

The Woot Woot party people,
Human shells working 9-5 jobs which prohibit any organic growth or expression,
Voluntary slaves selling 5 days of each week just to blow out on Friday night,
Escape into the chemical warmth of ecstasy,
The addictive cocoon of cocaine,
The Ketamine Coma…
They are the Living Dead.

There are of course,
Orchids in the nettles,
Butterflies amongst the vultures,
Keeping my mind’s eye Open,
It’s gaze wide, lucid, piercing,
I seek out these interesting Souls…

I try to connect,
Build bridges of communication while selling haddock fillets…

And always I flirt, but remain a gentleman,
Tricking lovely ladies into conversation,
Writing them poems in my head as I admire their natural curves and smiles,
Waving them goodbye, as I make a silent wish that they’ll come back…

When the coast is clear,
No colourful characters or exciting minxes to eye fuck,
I fill these white pages with the thoughts and observations of a Fox in Fishmonger clothing…
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Dearest Esmeralda,
How the mighty have fallen. The righteous stomped into submission by the dark forces which are running amok in this once great nation which day by day appears more like an open sewer. I watch these grunts like a wild fox watches the farmer, knowing that at any moment the tide may turn and the ignorance I perceive to be the guiding light of the grunt mentality will be replaced with a 12 bore shotgun. My days, like theirs, are numbered, but while I am un-caged, free to roam, observe, marvel in disgust and distrust at the uselessness of their lives and the senseless struggle of my own existence, I remain feral, untamed, a beast more than a modern man.

What drives them*** I often wonder, for they are bound by instincts foreign to those which fling me hither and thither, always pushing my nimble frame in direct opposition to the current of human evolution…Am I human or something else entirely***…It is true that I resemble, or can imitate, their customs, their style, but take a drop of my blood, send it for analysis to the Powers that Be and what will be uncovered will send shockwaves through the halls of Westminster, like a nuclear blast, for I am Dan, human by birth, but cat, fox, wolf, seahorse, badger, hamster and koala by NATURE, part of a drying breed hell-bent on adopting a stance of severe defiance…

They want me to dance the fandango while they whistle ‘Candle in the Wind’ by Elton John, they want me to aim for a studio flat on the second storey of a renovated slaughterhouse, they want me to say Sir, Yes, Sir when the call for attention is sounded out of large speaker attached to the top of a mini cooper driven by Chris Eubank…But I strut to the rhythm of one tune alone, ‘Man in the Mirror’ by Michael Jackson, I aim for the celestial realm of Venetian Gods and Neptunian Bitch-Goddesses, and when I next see Chris Eubank I will puncture his eardrums with Mayan Magic then replace him, as pilot of the fabled Mini Cooper, with a black tongued gazelle who will drive around these blood stained streets screaming the words of ‘Pass The Dutchy’…

Indeed, their chains and shackles restrain us all but it won’t be until they can read my mind that the Real Trouble will begin…When that point is reached on this perilous, relentless march, towards Total Control, Total Destruction of Soul, Total Eradication of the spirit once revered as the noblest of all; I will be done for, because there is no place in the New World for a man who sees only with his own eyes, hears only with his own ears, thinks only with his own mind, feels only with his own heart…I am not interested in Safety in Numbers when the Numbers are meaner, more cruel and dare I say, less decent, than I could ever stoop…The Lord says ‘Forgive them, for they know not what they do’ but on this count the Lord was mistaken for the Swine know exactly what they do…

I hope they are treating you well in the Tombs, Esmeralda, and look forward to your release…
Until then,
I remain,
Biggie Smalls in Clown Shoes…
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A rose bush in the desert

This job, for all its rich social contact, is beginning to curdle my brain. To be fair I could be earning my sterlings in more strenuous and decidedly less satisfying vocations so perhaps I should focus my mind’s eye more widely and indulge the scope of this critique of my growing feeling of stagnation to include my extra-curricular activities, this town, this country, and looking more broadly still, the Western Way of Life which is rigidly enforced here in the UK and similarly in that barren outpost at the bottom of the planet where I habitually escape, Australia.

If the sole aim of my existence is merely to survive, to cement myself in a comfortable, ongoing position which causes me little drama or adversity, I am a successful man. But Security and Routine are neither my aspirations nor enemies. Which makes little sense to my long suffering mother who deigns my reluctance to settle, to accept my Lot, to set down roots; as nothing more complicated than puerile rebellion. What she fails to grasp is that while like a Tree I possess a propensity to grow, to reach higher into the sky, adding branches and leafs to my trunk as I head for the stars, thus far, when it comes to marking an X on the Earth, calling it my own and laying down roots, I have behaved more like a ship; plunging my anchor not in the ground but into the watery depths of the marina, whence an Escape is always a possibility, even an inevitability…It is the society here, not the Earth, which lacks fertility. And without adequate nutrition, my soul loses health and vitality like a rose bush in the desert…

What is really missing from this situation is a demand for attention to the Now…Too much of the Now is borderline mechanical, requiring little thought or enterprise. And it is this Automation of Existence which grates against my ideals, my instincts, and my zeal to feel Alive. So as my mind lapses more into pondering the Past and creating dizzying flights of fantasy out of the future, I am growing restless and more aware, day by day, of this clouding of the sky of my Psyche, my essence…less light is coming in as the depths of the Beast that is Daniel cocoons itself from the tedium and banality of the Now…Greenhouse effect of the soul, internal temperature is rising. It will continue to do so until the latent fire within reaches such intensity that it will burn a path through the clouds, like a blowhole in the ice, erupting in a cataclysmic explosion of Daniel Lava…That kind of Show must be avoided…Something must be done before I reach that very definite point of no return.

Maybe it is this internal greenhouse effect, the build up of psychological energy and pure passion, suffocated beneath the thickening clouds of Now, which is responsible for the sporadic incidents of Spontaneous Combustion which fit as cozily into the annals of human history as a Right Wing Rabbi setting up a pork-pie stand in the heart of the Gaza Strip.

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Sainsbury’s, at 2pm on a Wednesday afternoon, is not the Right kind of scene for drunk and disorderly townie hags, yet here they are, hooting and whooping, cackling like witches in heat, bearing rotten cum-stained teeth with every hyena laugh.… “Don’t come to me you wenches!”, I whisper in my head…but alas, it’s too late…I just can’t help but stare when I see someone either naturally beautiful or brutally repulsive…extremes excite my senses.
“got tooth ache, darling…heeheeeheee…so we been down the pub” the crone wails across the counter at me, her breath putrid with the bitter aroma of stale lager and pork scratchings…
“I’ll have a bag of mussels, please…hahahhahahhahahahah’ she continues, blissfully unaffected by my complete reluctance to return her high spirits with anything but the steely gaze of a tiger shark mulling over whether to swim by or rip to shreds the bloated creature serving itself up for perusal.
“I guess it will numb the pain, the alcohol I mean…try single malt…se ya round” is as warm as I can be as I hand her the quickly wrapped bag of mussels. She leaves the counter and rejoins the human caravan…Screwing up her face in disgust, her friend notices the shellfish purchase…
“For fucks sake!…I can’t be doing with anything with eyes” she quips before roaring into more raucous laughter..
Eyes…Mussels with Eyes…If I was King these swine breeds would be put to the sword or sold to the Chinese as fuel.Hohoho!