My friend M__

M__ could be Charlie Manson, or he could be a benign Gandalf after fifteen years on methadone. We used to play chess, but I'm not gonna publish anyone's photo on here without asking first.

The touch of psychosis in the early dawn
He stirs and wakes and moves a pawn

He has his own church, but it’s starting to crumble. Pieces of masonry are starting to fall from ceilings. It’s an old chapel by the canal, which was already old when they turned it into some sort of workshop, and now it’s M__’s chapel. His eyes glint at you from under bushy curling eyebrows like Nietschzean moustachios, one pointing up and one pointing down. When I first met M__, for a few weeks I had this conviction he could read my thoughts.