178. The End.

For now...

177. The Plug Is Pulled

“Having exceeded all budgeted

and approved recording costs

by millions of dollars it is

Mr Rose’s obligation to fund

and complete the album, not Geffen’s.”

- extract of letter sent from Geffen to Guns N Roses’ Management, February 2004.

176. Slash Makes A Valid Point

Back in the day Axl was obsessed with

the image of Christ on the Cross. No, wait

obsessed is the wrong word for it. He was jealous.

That’s it. Jealous of the attention.

He couldn’t see why, after touring his

ass off and seventeen gazillion albums sold

more people still knew who Jesus was.

He genuinely saw Christ as a competitor!

I was, like, dude, Motley Crue, sure.

Nirvana and Pearl Jam, yeah,

but some guy who died two thousand

years ago? Don’t sweat it, brother.

And, anyways, Jesus isn’t all that.

Yeah, he has a strong brand image

a fine line in merch and a loyal cross-territorial

fanbase, but he doesn’t have the chops we do.

What did he say to that? I don’t recall.

I don’t think he said anything.

But the next day on tour he had his PA

make arrangements to have a crucifix built.

Polished mahogany, red velvet foot-rest,

tour gold-leaf six inch nails - the works.

That’s pretty extreme dude, I said.

What are you going to use it for?

What do you think I’m gonna use it for?

I’m going to have myself crucified on stage.

I mean, if Jesus survived it, so can I. Now

shut up and go play your guitar somewhere.

And for a while I think he seriously thought about

having his feet and hands hammered to that cross.

Axl being Axl though, he soon moved on to the next

thing: Kaballah, Scientology, anal bleaching and so forth.

He forgot about his crucifix, left it in Cleveland or Cologne

or somewhere, but he didn’t forget about Christ.

In fact, Christ really bothered him, being so adored and all

and today I believe he still continues to walk in Christ’s shadow.

What do I mean by that? Well, it’s obvious. The guy so

desperately wants to be holy that it has crippled him creatively.

He’s martyr himself for a cause he’s lone since forgotten.

The only miracle he’ll perform will be getting that damn album done.

And we all know that the second coming of that gnarly

dude in the robes is far more likely, wouldn’t you say?

175. Past Life Regression

Sandalwood candles

burn, the sound of the

ocean, my breathing

deep and measured,

bare footed on the

rug, eyes closed, hands

splayed on the arm rest.

The present day slipping

away like layers of skin

or photos from a leather

bound family album;

a human onion unpeeled

by the hands of a loving soul

my mentor my spiritual beacon.

Months and months of daily

exercises bring us to this

stage of understanding,

acceptance and what she calls

“emotional maturity” as she

draws me deeper down into

these murky waters of the self.

A total calmness pervades -

a calmness like I’ve never felt

and I am totally at ease, completely

trusting of this beautiful person

whose only goal is to save my soul

and unlock the box I’ve buried

deep life a coffin of bitter memories.

Back we go, far back, through

the early LA years, the late Indiana

years, reversing the coming of age

of adolescence, of childhood, of

everything, back beyond the beginning

breaking through walls I’ve never

been able to get around – or over

accelerating now, the sound of the ocean,

the feel of the rug still there but now

my mind is flying, stripped of ego.

I am free; skin, bones, hair and teeth

disengage as I become fluid and I am

the rain, I am a thousand drops of rain

seeking a black tarn on a remote mountain.

I am a homesteader squinting from his

porch across the barren planes of Idaho

I am a Elizabethan courtier in a dual

with a rival in love, I am a Captain

of a ship without a map chasing horizons

I am a Sultan of the Ottoman empire

lavishly clothes in silk route fineries.

I am a catholic priest in the Avingon Papacy

I am a lowly horse-tender for the heroes

of the Byzantine Crusades, I am the first

king of Hungary, the second king of Denmark

I am Thorfin Ragnasson and I am coming

for your wives, your lives, your children

I am destructor of Chang’an, capital of the

Tang Dynasty, the man that you fear.

I am bearded author of a book they call

Beowulf, I am Islam’s most feared enforcer

I am smallpox carrier, I am Barbarian warrior

I am flood victim at the Temple of Luxor

my soul swept away on the tides of the Nile

and I am especially Roman leader with curled

hair, strong nose, fierce reputation – Emperor Rose.

174. In The Studio

“You know if they dropped

the fucking bomb on the planet

and just levelled the place

and you were, like, the only survivor

and you’d be walking along

and at first you’d just see basic destruction,

like collapsed houses and sparking electrical cables

and shit, but as you keep on walking

you’d see, like bodies, scattered here and there,

and maybe they don’t look superficially damaged

but they’re dead alright, and you keep walking

and you see smoking shoes lying in the street,

and bodies, all bald and burnt and shit,

like charred down one side or something,

and everything would be

quiet except for the low whistle of a warm

nuclear wind blowing in from the east,

and then you start seeing more bodies,

piles of them, flesh ripped from their bones,

their eyeballs incinerated in their sockets,

their hands twisted and distorted, skulls

grimacing, rictus, the strangely sweet smell

of burning flesh everywhere, the sky dashed

with red hues, everything dead and useless,

gone and hollow, and you just stand there,

grabbing at our face, screaming, screaming

screaming into a void of nothingness.

OK? Well, that’s exactly how I want your

drum fill to sound, bro.”

173. Axl And His Hairdresser

So.

I’ve been working on a new look.

I figure people need to see a new me.

A new ‘Axl.’

I’ve been working on some sketches.

Some ideas. Research.

I figure black people are kinda cool these days.

I figure that’s what the kids are into.

You know, like, the whole urban vibe?

The whole natty freedom fighter black power Bob Marley thing?

Right. So I’ve based my look on that.

And since you’ve been doing my since like forever,

I figure you’re the person for the job.

So are you ready to be blown away?

Are you ready for a whole new Axl idiom?

Are you ready to meet the future?

And are you ready to be a part of it?

OK. Cool. Here we go:

Cornrows.

I want motherfucking cornrows.

And you’re going to do them.

And they’re going to be awesome.

And you know in six months every suburban

white kid’s going to be rocking this shit.

You dig?

Dig. So

let’s do it.

172. Slash’s Lightbulb Moment

Fuck it.

I’ll just form Guns N’ Roses without that douchebag,

the drummer or that Keith Richards guitar guy.

Yeah, Izzy. Whatever.

I don’t need those guys.

Duff will be in, I know he will.

He’s been bored out of his skull since his pancreas exploded.

Duff’s cool, always was. A good guy to be around. A punk, you know?

I just need to find another douchebag singer.

Maybe someone from a grunge band who ain’t dead yet.

Maybe that dick from Stone Temple Pilots.

Yeah, and we’ll have a name that’s hard and soft, just like the Gunners.

Something like

Concrete Mittens or

Switchblades & Cotton Candy

or maybe Velvet Revolver.

Some shit like that.

We’ll do a record.

Tour the world.

Make a million.

Get the party started again, yo.

171. The One With The Hat

Oh, you're that guy.
The bassist? Yeah. Guitarist.

That's what I meant.

The one with the hat, right?
Sure. I remember you.

170. Slash's Last Ditch Attempt

Come on man.
I mean, just think about it.
The Chinese Democracy ain’t happening.
and the Gunners are a laughing stock
But it’s not too late to pull it back, Bill.
I think, the world’s waited long enough
don’t you?
Forget those guys and lets go back to the beginning:
the kick-ass days
the good old
bad old days.
Duff’s in. Izzy’s itching to play, I know he is.
And Adler’s in no fucking position to say no.
We’ll write the real sequel to Appetite.
We’ll eat those pussy-ass bands like
Green Day
My Chemical Romance
and The Strokes
for breakfast
Smacked out or clean
as a whistle -
we’ll do it any which you
want buddy,
it’s no sweat off my balls
I just want to rock.
So what do you say, buddy?


Um.
Who did you say you were again?

169. 5.03am, Slash And Axl Reunited At Last. Briefly.

- Wake up, dude it’s me….I’m here to get the band back together.
- What. What’s happening?
- Sorry to wake you good buddy, It’s me, Slash.
- How…I mean, did Rico let you in? I’ll fire his ass back to whatever fucking island dictatorship he came from. Who are you anyway? I don’t have any money. I never handle it…
- It’s me man, Slash.
- Do I know you?
- Of course you do. We formed the Gunners, man. We ruled the world in ’89!
- Are you the guy with the hat?
- Yes, the guy with the hat.
- And the snakes?
- Yes, the snakes. Dude, quit fooling around. It’s me, your old bro.
- And the cigarette dangling from his mouth?
- Yes! Look, it’s still there, see? Marlboro Red. And the hat. And look, I’ve even bought a bottle of Jack for us to share, just like old times, like when we lived in that shit-pit on the Strip, remember?
- I’m afraid this space is drink and drugs free. I’m going to have to call my security.
- There’s no need to do that, dude. I just want to talk about putting the band back together.
- The band is still together, dude. Haven’t you heard? Chinese Democracy is in the bag, bro. And it’s the greatest fucking rock ‘n’ roll album ever made.
- What, better than Toys In the Attic? Or Exile? How about Zep IV?
- Yup. Way fucking better. This motherfucker shits on old those dinosaurs from a great height.
- Better than Hanoi Rocks?
- Don’t even insult me by mentioning those mincing Fins in the same sentence as my band.
- Don’t forget it was my band too…
- Whatever.
- Whatever, indeed.
- That’s what I said.
- I love you, man.
- Well, I don’t love you.
- That’s because you’re incapable of love.
- I love myself.
- And therein lies the problem. Anyway, dude, what the fuck? Are you wearing a hairnet?

168. Dreams Of A Better, More Fulfilling Existenc

Axl is in the midst of a strange sexual fantasy.

He is dreaming about a girl with huge thighs.

She is naked except for a pair of hiking boots.

She is a big, strong, healthy-looking girl.

Her ass is big too; like a white medicine ball.

She’s not the type of girl he’d normally go for

yet he is completely turned on. He is in love.

He wants to climb a mountain with this girl.

He wants to bury his face in her big white ass.

He wants to lick her until his tongue is swollen,

distended and just hanging there like a dog’s.

He wants to feel her thighs around his head

He wants to be made deaf to the world by them.

He wants to sit down eat a packed lunch with her.

Maybe on a precipice overlooking a remote canyon.

He is experiencing new feelings and new emotions.

These waves of love and desire are alien to him.

He awakes, sweating and erect. He guiltily jerks off.

He has no idea what any of it means. Yet the girl with

the big ass and thighs stay with him all day, as does

the image of a nice quiet luncheon somewhere remote.

167. Books (Axl In Exile)

All the lights are out

save for a halogen lamp;

I sit in its cast circle

a halo searching for

an angel, cross-legged and

straight-backed I read Napoleon

Machiavelli, Sun Tzu

and a Bette Davies biog.

Devoid of drugs, love,

chaos or a schedule

I find solace in books

for the first time in my life.

Here for the first time is

a semblance of routine

a welcome discipline and

a wealth of knowledge

an insight into great minds to

remind I’m not alone

in my militant thinking, my

desire to lead from the front

written confirmation that my

strength is my weakness and my

weakness is my greatest asset

for it is that which makes us human.

Here, in the pages, I search for

answers but forget the questions

I keep a dictionary by my side

and learn a new word every day.

I trace the words with my finger

and I know my lips are moving

but there is no-one here

to see them, no-one to

break the silence that

for a few moments at least

seems finite, only for the

sun to then rise again

whereupon I will close my books

conclude my studies, my meditations

and step out from the circle

of light to stretch like a cat

then slowly pad my way to the boudoir

clicking the lamp off on the way.

166. Slash (Remember Him?) Speaks

Axl who?
Oh yeah.
That guy.
The redhead right?
That asshole owes me money
Do I miss him?
Are you fucking crazy?
I miss him like a hole
in the cock.

But…I guess we did have
some good times together
back there.

And, yeah. I guess I do
kinda miss those high times
we had.

And I guess it would be
cool to charter our own
jet again.

165. The Malibu Years Pts XXII – XXIX

XXII.

I’m thinking about entering this year’s Malibu Chili Cookoff

I’ve been working on my secret seasonings.

I’m thinking of entering it undercover.

I need to think of a false name.

Like maybe Steve or Andy.

XXIII.

Surfing is big here.

Bigger than in Indiana.

XXIV.

Golf is the last refuge of the living;

that bridge between life and death.

XXV.

Often when I’m sleeping I dream of the California State Highway.

I dream about how flat and smooth and silent it is.

I imagine its tarmac and asphalt top layer cracking open.

In my dream I pull over and get out of my car.

I step over to the crack and I peer into it.

It is deep, but not that deep.

Inside I see all my family and friends.

Ex-girlfriends too.

Everyone I’ve ever known is there.

They’re all smiling and having fun.

They wave and say “Come and join us, Bill. It’s great here in this crack in the highway!”

But I never do.

I always step back from the crack and turn towards my car.

Towards the open road.

Then I wake up feeling funny.

Out of sorts.

XXVI.

I don’t ‘do’ sun.

It turns my skin

pink and

tightens it

like a snare drum.

XXVII.

I heard they were going to offer me the keys

to the city but I guess they changed their minds.

XXVIII.

I can watch porn for up to ten

maybe twelve hours at a stretch

I have one of the biggest porno

collections in California.

And that’s not me showing off.

- that’s a fucking fact.

XXIX.

Like Steve or Andy,

I need to think of a false name.

I’m thinking of entering it undercover.

I’ve been working on my secret seasonings.

I’m thinking about entering this year’s Malibu Chili Cookoff.

164. Axl's Shit List

David Geffen
Bret Michaels
Nikki Sixx
Vince Neil (for killin’ Razzle)
CC Deville
that guy from Kerrang!
that guy from Hit Parader
Andy McCoy
Bin Laden
Kurt Cobain
Kurt Cobain’s bitch
Don Dokken
Johnny Thunders (for dyin’)
Craig Stenzer
fucking security guards at shows (for pushing kids around)
Erin Everley
Stephanie Seymour
Eddie Vedder
Tommy Hilfiger
Rodney Bingenheimer
Scott Asshole from Velvet Revolver
the rest of those Velvet Revolver guys
Pigeons Of Shit Metal
Puffy
Snoop
Jovi
50
fags, cops, feminists, lawyers, haters etc
Kip Winger
Kim Fowley
Lars Ulrich
the PC police/pigs
Reagan / Bush / Clinton / Bush / whatever
my band
God.

163. Driving, A Doppelganger

Driving -
just driving;
my first fresh air
in weeks.

A side-street somewhere
off La Cienega or
maybe Sepulveda,
late -

a vision
of a dude in
leathers, flame haired,
antsy.

Stricken
I swerve, do a
double-take,
adrenalised:

an apparition
of me in
Ray-Bans
by the road-side

his car
is broke and steaming
the hood up,
smoking.

He’s leaning
and I’m staring
bullets boring:
jaw tight

the night
thick with static,
ears humming,
temple flexing,

glancing up
I see his face
in the light:
it’s not me

just some
kid who looks
like me -
but damn

he looks
so similar my blood
runs cold;
I’m frozen

both looking away
in unison,
coughing nervously
popping a Xanax,

reaching for my
breath, waxy
in my throat,
driving on

taking the ramp
onto La Cienega or
maybe Sepulveda,
heart pounding

traffic monotone
and rhythmic
I keep it steady,
smoking,

damn though
it was like
looking back in
time

seeing myself:
young beautiful
hungry and
unbroken,

seeing that
fearless hustler kid
I used
to know

seeing something
I miss, realising
the past is a
foreign country;

accelerating impulsively
lurching recklessly
into the LA
night -

an anonymous
cavalcade passing
in quiet
succession

heading
in
both
directions.

162. Unpublished Interview

Unpublished transcript by Craig Stenzer for short-lived official website www.imaxlroseandyourenotaxlrose.com, circa 2003.

CS: Hello Axl.
AR: Word up. Do you want a drink? Hey, Rico – get this kid a drink!

CS: Thanks man. I wanted to start by asking how you’re doing?
AR: I’m tickety-boo, thanks for asking. Wait…didn’t you use to be in my band?

CS: Your band?
AR: Yeah, man. I’m sure you sat in on bass in some Gunners sessions in ‘94. Your name is Robbie right?

CS: No, it’s Craig.
AR: Awesome. I’m with you 100% hundred on that.

CS: So, Axl, who are your Top 5 influences?
AR: Mr Jim Beam. Mr. Jack Daniels. Myself. Charles Manson. Manhatma (sic) Ghandhi. In that order.

CS: What song would you like played at your funeral?
AR: No music, just one minute’s silence. Maybe longer. Like….one hour’s silence? And I want a solitary black rose thrown in my coffin and my ashes scattered over John Lennon’s grave. He was definitely my favourite Rolling Stone.

CS: You want to be buried and cremated?
AR: We’ll work something out. Geffen can foot the bill.

CS: How’s Slash doing these days?
AR: Who?

CS: But you’re still friends with Izzy, aren’t you?
AR: Whatever. He helps around the house sometimes.

CS: What would you say to people who accuse you of being a megalomaniac?
AR: I’ve never stolen anything in my life. Except maybe a few hearts, right?

CS: How did you react to the recent events of 9/11?
AR: I had a full-body massage. Played a little golf. I’m thinking of maybe incorporating the imagery into the live set. Some people might say that’s crass, but I’m not so sure…

CS: Some people might deem it a little insensitive?
AR: Awesome. I’m with you 100% on that.

CS: What about Osama bin Laden?
AR: Word is he’s a big Guns N’ Roses fan.

CS: Really?
AR: Yeah, I’d say so. Most people are so…you do the math. And if he’s not then Saddam is, so either way I figure we’ve got a couple of dictators in our fan-club. It’s funny.

CS: Funny how?
AR: Huh?

CS: People have suggested you’re a control freak though – just because of the way the band has turned out.
AR: How do you mean?

CS: Like, how you sacked all the members and then bought the sole ownership of the name Guns N’ Roses, then kinda disappeared?
AR: I did? Right on. That rules. I think if I wasn’t me I think that I’d think me was cool for doing that, you know? I mean, you’ve got to have balls to survive in this business and all I can say about them other cats is, they were all sac and no scrotum. And it’s not even how big they are anyway, but how they hang that’s important.

CS: And how…how do your balls hang?
AR: I know we’re in West Hollywood, but don’t be a faggot, man.

CS: Do you believe in God?
AR: I believe in a universal spirit force that possesses each of us individually and selects some of us to be a genius and some of us to be less fortunate. Like cripples and stuff. I
think this God wears black and rides a Harley. But the twist is - get this - he’s a chick. Yeah, a black chick. Like Oprah!

CS: You think God looks like Oprah Winfrey?
AR: What are you talking about? Are you drunk?

CS: So do you believe in the afterlife?
AR: Maybe, but I believe in rock ‘n’ roll more.

CS: What’s your favourite joke?
AR: President Clinton. That guy’s a fucking joke.

CS: Well, I mean…he’s not actually president right now.
AR: Sure, but they’re all assholes right? Him and Nixon.

CS: What are your goals for the future?
AR: World peace. The way I see it, there’s only me and Bono capable of achieving that goal, and the little Irish fella ain’t fronting. I mean, has anyone actually heard of U2 these days anyway?

CS: Why is the new album [Chinese Democracy] taking so long to record?
AR: I’m done.

(kicks over chair, leaves).

161. The Malibu Years Pts I - IX

I.
I got Spears
to the left of me
Hanks to the right
here I am.

II.
I bought a pineapple tree from a man called Paco but when I got it home I discovered it was some crappy ornamental thing made from plastic.
I wanted to go back down there and carve Paco up but decided against it and watched a DVD instead.

IIII.
Malibu in three words:
wildfires
mudslides
titty.

IV.
There’s no sunset like a Malibu sunset;
Maybe one day I’ll get up early enough to see it.

V.
Running on the beach one Sunday I trip over a Chihuahua that is snapping at my heels.
It takes everything within my power not to punt it like a football into the sea.
Apart from a handful of groupies, I guess I’ve just never been a dog lover.

VI.
I got a new license plate. It reads WAX7 R0SE
Then underneath, it says Malibu: A Way Of Life
I wanted to get one that says W.AXL ROSE
but apparently some guy in Fresno beat me to it.

VII.
Why don’t homeless
people just get a job?

VIII.
My new juicer is rad. It looks like a tank.
It is smooth and silent and it collects the fruit pits in a little tray.
I collect them and now and again I plant them in my sea-side garden.
Maybe one day I’ll squeeze the juice of oranges that I’ve grown myself.
Maybe one day I’ll branch out into the lucrative fresh fruit juice market.

IX.
Malibu is 91.91% white but
that’s not why I moved here.

160. The Empire Is Melting Like Ice Cream

Dreaming -
I awake
screaming

at images
of bodies
burning

of God-size
buildings
crumpling

of my
people
flying

or maybe
they’re
falling

yes,
they’re
falling

and flailing
and
bouncing

helpless
weightless
screaming

dust
clouds
spiralling

street map
city lines
looming

brown
sky line
darkening;

sweating
heart
pounding

reaching for
the Xanax
sipping

some water
slowly, then
gulping

tight
temples
throbbing

I turn
on the
TV

and see
my
country

bleeding
broken
already mourning

the loss
of an
irretrievable past

lamenting
grieving
wondering

how
and
why

and all
of a
sudden

the creation
of a
masterpiece

doesn’t
seem
that important.

The pressure
lifts,
the tension

in my
temples
like

an
ice-cream
headache

abates and
I can think
clearly

for the
first time
in years.

I treat
myself
to a

long
early morning
walk

and for
the first time
in a decade

America
looks beautiful
in turmoil;

So
clearly
vulnerable,

(its many
transgressions
laid bare)

I fall
in love
with LA

all
over
again.

159. Sculpture Of A Star

The rock star cast in marble
torso taut and biceps pumped
abdominals rippling, arms intact,
limbs not yet decapitated by time.

Genitalia ambiguously rounded
and unthreatening atop sturdy thighs;
hip confidently cocked like
Michelangelo’s boy David;

bare feet planted to a plinth
that announces nothing but
the presence of an Olympiad
demi-God of the modern arena.

(He himself prefers The Winged Victory that
he saw in the Louvre, Nike of Samothrace
headless, her back arched to the heavens,
wings poised dramatically, anticipating flight).

Byzantine in stature, his silence
speaks unwritten volumes -
an iconoclastic warning to
challengers, his form fills the room

and inspires gasps of awe, wonder
devotion and puzzlement, transcending
myth and concept to become a reality
in ways the real rock star never could.

158. People Who’ve Been In This Fucking Band

Well now.
Lemme see
there was…

Izzy Stradlin
Duff MacKagen
Slash and
Steven Adler

That bit is easy.
Then details get
kinda fuzzy…

Tracii Guns
Gilby Clarke
Dizzy Reed
Matt Sorum
Robin Finck
Tommy Stinson
(he was in The Replacements,
who pretty much ruled)
Ole Beich
Rob Gardner
Brian ‘Brain’ Mantia

Um...

Chris Pitman
Ron Thal
Richard Fortus
Josh Freese
that dude Buckethead
Ron ‘Bumblefoot’ Thal
Sebastian Bach, kinda
Paul Tobias
Frank Ferrer
Teddy ‘Zig Zag’ Andreadis
and some other guys

Oh and me, Axl
- it’s my fucking band.

I bought the rights.

157. Exit Buckethead

All this goes on without Axl.
I mean, the guy’s just not around.
He only shows up when he knows
he doesn’t have to deal with musicians
which is weird because he’s in a band
but whatever, I can be pretty wacky
myself, so, you know, people are people.

But then he shows up all pissed about
the “vibe” that my porn is having on
the album and he even tries to get
into the chicken coop. The dude crossed
a line, basically. Everyone in the camp
knew no-one goes in Bucket’s coop
so that was when things broke down.

Plus there was these puppies running
around the studio and one of them
took a dump in my coop and I was like
Ooh, I love the smell of dog poop, and
refused to let anyone come in the coop
to clean it up. It was my little world
and they – he - needed to respect that.

So Axl took me outside where it didn’t
smell of dog poop and had a word with
me, and I had had a few words back with
him, some of which may have included
“get” and “fucked” and not long after that
I packed up my straw and my porn and I
was, like, OK, thanks, my work here is done.

156. A Guitarist Called Buckethead

My mom’s a hen
my dad’s a rooster
I was raised in a
chicken coop;
consequently it’s
the only place
I feel comfortable.

So naturally when
you’re dealing with
the creative process
you gotta be at ease
you gotta be in your
comfort zone for
optimum creativity.

So I tell all this to
Tom Zutaut, who
they brought back
in to put the squeeze
on Axl and do
whatever it takes
to get the album done.

Zoot doesn’t laugh
he just makes some
notes, makes some
calls and two days
later I’m shredding in
a chicken coop happy
as a pig in a pig shed.

To his credit he did
a neat job of it: chicken
wire, chicken parts,
rubber chickens hanging
from the ceiling and a
DVD player for my porn.
Awesome. Just awesome.

155. 1998...1999....2000...2001

Not much
happens.

154. The Reclusive Years

Daylight becomes the enemy
the room becomes a womb

silence is the reward for a
decade’s toil in combat.

Koons and Rothko on the wall
magnums of Dom on immortal ice

the lighting tempered just so
the weft of the carpet just right.

Yet riches and trinkets mean nothing
to the man who wanted everything;

that silence craved is only found
between the hours of 4 and 5am

and even then the sirens fill the sky
sounds to remind of riots gone by

curtains tacked to the walls to
kill the encroaching light that

fights its way through gaps and cracks
turning corners; enemy of the night.

They laughed at Jacko, wept for The King
now hermetically-sealed he idly wonders

what the future might bring. Death
or glory – or maybe the madhouse

trussed up, whacked-out and terminally
neutered, babbling riddles of gold discs

so beautiful and the women – the women! –
oh man, you should have seen them

but I guess you had to be there.
Is this what my destiny holds?

A padded cell and a nurse looming large:
“It’s time for your medication, Mr Rose.”