Never Too Late!

Never Too Late!
any resemblance to anyone real or imaginary is mere bad luck
we are all lying in the gutter, but some of us are trying to get up


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.