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Peters Writing ( please help )Ok, i would like it if you could try to give me a good response on this, and not just read it then piss-off.
This will really help with something im doing for a personal project.
If anybody knows any good writing pete has done ( snippets of lyrics ) stories in the books of albion, other hidden gems, please post them up.
e.g - heres a short story i typed out from one of the books
Madame Fanny Perrier
Saw himself as a Poppy leaf - a troublesome one if he was, pouting with a very certain ease, his spangly legs scarred tight with steel and fashion - his glorious and local.
Issues don't concern him - he grinds away at the state on rare occsassions, but still with the lust of libertine he allows the free clenched hand of the market to fist him ceremoniously.
Smiling of course, - writing delightfully with his injury on the velvet wasteland of his glossy imagination.
This father ( an unemployed miner, who would sit at home with his helmet on, waiting for the pit to re-open ) threw him out on his fifteenth birthday, calling him an obscene little shitter.
Since that day he has gathered up the effect of his desperatly short-lived and poison livered youth, strapped them up in leather ropes and thrown them into a bath full of bubbling pink acid.
He has projects of course, this last splashed some of milk in the parlours of the trilby crowd - the self-styled dreamers down Pimlico way, selling schemes and futures to the little darlings, shuffling up the dark aisles, away from the silver screams, towards the dollars. " the clowns that they were ".
He said " Proffering their plastic crowns, throwing their paper around "
He came down, and down, and left that part of town, rode a stolen scooter back to death farm and layed another egg.
Performance poetry and inflatable porn.
I tried to talk him out of it, but he'd cut me off - answering only in French.
Hitched another free ride ( this time in the bosom of jade - that sophisticated mistress and pranced off to Paris, changing his name to Madame Fanny Perrier.
anybody got any more?
Walking around in the darker hours of the morning with three strangers, one who I have known my entire life. We happened upon a pond, a duckless pond if ever there was a need for one. A strange trickle of water mixed with the most vibrant light hit my eye but it did not produce a tear. Odd how such an experience does not produce tears of joy or sadness.One of the unknown strangers suggested we procure more alcohol but the source of this challenge remained hidden, but only for five minutes. A homeless lamb wandered into our wolves' den, slugging from a bottle of wine and carrying another 4 bottles in a plastic bag. Turns out he was much a fan of the whole Bilo back catalogue, and for the paltry price of three songs, he offered up a bottle of wine each to myself and my companions. Such is the value in never leaving one's abode without one's guitar.
I knew she wasn't English, 'cos she spoke it far too well
The grammar was goodly and the verbs as they should be, the slang was bang on the bell.
So as their language barrier clanged and banged, I couldn't hear, here nor see,
England, London and Bow(sp?) crumble into the sea
|enditall wrote: |
|Walking around in the darker hours of the morning with three strangers, one who I have known my entire life. We happened upon a pond, a duckless pond if ever there was a need for one. A strange trickle of water mixed with the most vibrant light hit my eye but it did not produce a tear. Odd how such an experience does not produce tears of joy or sadness.One of the unknown strangers suggested we procure more alcohol but the source of this challenge remained hidden, but only for five minutes. A homeless lamb wandered into our wolves' den, slugging from a bottle of wine and carrying another 4 bottles in a plastic bag. Turns out he was much a fan of the whole Bilo back catalogue, and for the paltry price of three songs, he offered up a bottle of wine each to myself and my companions. Such is the value in never leaving one's abode without one's guitar. |
I just made that all up by the way. Rubbish I tell you, rubbish.
Look for 'The Continuing Adventures of Spaniel O'Spaniel'
yeh i got that story , along with "ask a stupid question"
im just seeking more
"I see paint-crack walls stained with shite
Long long lock up days
Cold lonely nights
And I think to myself...what a wonderful world
I see men touching fists
Saying "watcha bruv"
Screams from below
Shit parcels from above
And I think to myself...
I see my true love
On a Rimmel advert"
From he's prison dairy January 29th 2006 Pentonville, published in The Guardian
Pete doherty did not recieve money for this article. The gaurdian is making a donation to the Prison Reform Trust. 11/02/06
In his passion, only a passion for life, he would, never hungrily, with deliberation, get the words wrong.
“I don’t”, - when he did.
“I will”, - when he clearly won’t.
The careers officer, a plumping cheerless soul and a superb liar in his own right surveyed the sorry specimen before him. This murky eyed bundle of hair and shabby blue shirt. Mr Egg breathed a sigh of despair.
“So Spaniel, What are your interests or hobbies?”
“My hobbies sir? Here: I am quiet and lonesome and full of heavy mercury, industrial melancholy. I have patience without insight, without care for coherence. I make music in my head and wish that I were dead.
”The careers officer, Mr Egg, nodded with false wisdom, discarded the Territorial Army brochures and gazed with intent at the top of Spaniel O’Spaniels head.
“Is there anything you want from life?”
(Dangerous question, Mr Egg)
“The answer to that, sir, is that I want death on the stairs.”
Laughter billowed out at a most unusual frequency, shocking the small office.
“When? When do you want death on the stairs?”
“When?” came a call back,
“The same time as all the fuckin' others – when all my domesticated heroes have died, when I have lied to all my loved ones, when I’ve become immune to my own instincts, when I’m so much in debt I smash up telephone boxes and little old people in order to keep up my periodical subscriptions, and Jack McNasty, North-West London’s most blood thirsty black-hearted loan shark runs away form me in pity and fear. When I lie between cold stone walls breathing gaseous fag ash, alone with the dust mites in this piteous vision. When the night is worlds away from the day.
”A pause. Mr Egg, the careers officer twirled his finger round a rubber plant leaf. Spaniel stands in crescendo:
“When I know for a fact the days in the sun were allusions, when I see the tears and tears in my proud fathers coat, when my saviour, my lord, the one who promise me life is drinking in with his soon to be wife. Then, sure and McFuckerty, its time for death on the stairs.”
Has anybody got that story he wrote where the protagonist shares his bathwater with his mum but he has a wank in the bath and his mum ends getting pregnant? Its really funny anyway.
haha sounds funny
Having to share bath water
In the north of England
Is a common occurrence
Between families on the
Breadline, also it can be danger-
After taking longer than I
Should, my mother asked for
The last time for me to get out
Of the bath, she was late for
I jumped out hoping she
Wouldn’t notice the sperm I’d
Tried to hide under a blanket
Of bubble bath, well, I was a
Six weeks later my mum
Announced she was with child
Which surprised my father ‘cos
The old man had not been
Near mother since late 71.
8 months later a baby
With a strawberry birthmark,
Six fingers on each hand, and an
Also bore and uncanny likeness
Of course this accidental
Inbreeding incident is the
Tory governments fault for
Killin’ my dads jib
As a minor, in 84. After that
We couldn’t afford to have to have
The water boiler on more than
Once a day.