On Buying A Gonzales Album From Rough Trade
Thursday 21 March 2002
I'm turning into a man. Oh Christ, no, not
lookswise, dumbass. I'm lookin' better than ever. Hundred qwid I splashed
on this hair, baby I'm worth it. Lookin' like a cherub. Smile to break
your heart and melt your knickers, sweetheart. Let me give you a kiss,
eh? You want it. Big suede belt I got, jeez ass, it looks perfection.
Wanna wrap it around your fist and use it like a man oughtta? Up top,
two types of smocking, hooker. Look down: this ass should be illegal,
yo! Smokin' a fag in front of a shop window, peering to look at my ass'
reflection, shoot! That tilt, it's so impudent. I get myself horny, bitch.
No, it ain't looks. It's rekkids. I don't give two shits for rekkids,
yo, so I tell myself, but nah, I'm shit-talking outta my sweet impudent
ass. I'm drowning in rekkids. I could spend a million years and a million
pounds on rekkids: I wanna make my tongue all pointy and poke it through
that little hole in the middle of every single rekkid I've ever heard.
Fuck girlstuffz. Mascara? I can't be assed to go to Boots, monz. Lemme
dribble some water down inside the dried-up tube, sweep the wand around,
that'll work. Concealer? Oh Christ, no: the queues at Space NK are far
too long. I'll dig around the bottom of the tub with a paperclip, sweep
that sweet paleness out onta my fingertip, hide my tiredness that way.
Fuck shopping - there's only one shop I wanna go to, disc-slipped, posters
clipped to the wall, 2 CD players with a little three-legged stool, collection
of weird magazines, NOISE. Today in my haste to get there I forgot to
eat. I love to eat. Screw eat! I wanted the discs. I wanted to be there.
I never look at others. There could be boytoys, lo-slung, tendrilled,
pale-skinned, fat-cocked; there could be sweetgirls, curious, pretty,
hairclippy, fishnetty, red-coated, big-titted - I wouldn't know. It's
not a fucking social club. Let's fucking focus, eh? Eyes to the discs:
Kitty-Yo; Ersatz Audio; International DeeJay Gigolos; Domino; choose a
label and rip your fucking heart out for it. Align to the brand. Know
your place. Aloof, eyes down, flickin' fingers: clack clack clack Taylor
Savvy clack clack clack Kreidler clack clack clack Gonzales clack clack
clack Adult . clack clack Solex clack Miss Kitten clack Max Turner clack
clack clack Soviet Fischerspooner The Faint clack clack clack CLACK. Confused?
Augment with Audiogalaxy. Snatch files from the hearts of others' computers;
rip them the fuck off; make them want you more; buy it!
Paying? I ain't no dilettante: I won't smile when I give the man my coinage.
I'm serious, homo; yes, I do want a free Cityslang sampler: thanks! Sneak
out through the skate shop: too cool to look around; frightened to find
fat skateboys; I got all I need right here, ta, in that cold hard square,
corners digging into my palms, folded inside the bag, silent, wordless,
clickless, beepless: circle of chaos, promise, noise. Dresses skirts and
frocks and tops: belts and berets, jewellery and socks: I'll leave them
to the other girls. Let them fight and push and elbow and cry in front
of mirrors. Fuck mirrors. Who needs mirrors? I got ears; shop windows
to admire my ass; rekkids to shake it to; a tall hairy man to rap me tonight.
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