The Inn

I’m at a gig with my girlfriend. Hawkwind, I think. I go to get a drink. The SU bar is busy, so I walk to another nearby bar, along a river. It’s further than I thought it would be. I get tired. I may be drunk. I go home and sleep. 
I wake up and go back to the bar. I need coffee or tea before going into work. I sit at a table for a long time, trying to decide. Next to me, a man in a white shirt whistles a tune that reveals his Naval past. 
I decide on coffee. My girlfriend comes in. She pays for the coffee. She’s been worried about me. She shows me CDs that she’s bought for her kids. 
I’m at home. It’s a huge converted warehouse building. Some kind of performance is happening. I need a break. I yell “pause” as if it is a hologram. It’s not. Real people walk off to get refreshed, while I go to check my front doors. I left them open. Open onto the dark side street where I live. I close them, but leave them unlocked. 
Back inside, I enter a new room. 

The Inn is here. A Christmas scene. George Clooney looks for his wife, in the aftermath of an outbreak of mass schizophrenia. He searches the area. The Inn has exploded, modern rebuilding surviving where the original structure is lost. He hears voices, sees people. He can’t be sure what is real. He tries to fly, rainbow chemtrails follow him. He crashes in a field. 
A hand on my forehead wakes me. A nurse. I am Clooney in the field. The nurse is gentle. He guides me down some steps, to where my girlfriend waits, in a wheelchair. 

She’s very thin. She can communicate, and add up, but part of her mind is gone. She remembers me. I’m so pleased to see her. 
I’m driving away from the Inn, my girlfriend in the back, off to start a new life. Behind us, a huge Santa head laughs in the sky. 


Mr Singh and the Alien Invasion 

I’m with Mr Singh. We pass a shop, and his Sikh friends go in. Girls, distant relatives are inside. He tells me how hard it is for him to find someone. I say that they could convert. Not as if circumcision is required to become a Sikh. 
We climb into a trench of antique furniture, awaiting repair. Mr S lifts a man in a wheelchair over obstacles, and asks for payment for the wheelchair, which has been bid upon in an auction. The trench leads to a shop. Mr S is being creepy. Stalker like. He says he will take care of me. He insists the bathroom door is left open while I pee. I tell him I have to meet my brother. In my head I’m hatching an escape plan. I won’t be long, I tell him. He agrees. I wonder how easy it will be to escape. 
Now I’m in the shop with Mr S and my wife and kids. The kids watch tv on screens in the mirrored walls. 
We have to leave very soon. Everything is about to get very expensive. I feel weird. Drugged. The kids are behaving strangely too. I’m hallucinating. Everyone is. They seem happy enough though. I step outside. The sky. Full of strange banks of clouds. Snow has fallen, like giant polystyrene couscous. I remember. My wife and Mr S and I are together. In a three way relationship. Once they left me. It hurt me very much. 
My wife comes to the shop doorway. Her eyes, worried that I will leave. Abandon her and the kids and make my escape to the hills. I feel bad. I remember that feeling of abandonment. 
I worry about invasion. I worry about inflation. 
I worry. 
I look at the sky. 

Opiate Constipation and Malaysian Nazi Gove

I’m in occupied Malaysia. I’m escorting a scared chicken on a leash to my boss’s house for breakfast. I clamber amongst the ruins of temples, now being reclaimed by the jungle. I carry the chicken beneath my arm. 
I arrive at a clearing. A small town. A shortcut on the Camino de Santiago that leads straight to Pluto. Occupying forces are garrisoned here. Gove is their leader. They dress like Germans in WW2. 
Squirrel, my friend’s dog, speeds by in a stolen officers car. I wish me and the chicken were riding with her. I wonder how she can steer and reach the pedals. She’s got such little legs. 
There’s a row of shops. We enter a music shop. A guy inside recognises me. He asks how it’s going with my new singer. I tell him auto tune is a great thing. I strum a bandoneon on the way out. Here, it is misnamed. 
Outside there’s a yellow car, shaped like a fish. Free for Pisceans to use. Me and the scared chicken ride to my bosses house. On arrival, I’m offered a choice of things for breakfast. First I choose frozen vegetables and sweet corn, and consider making a curry. I hate using other peoples kitchens though, and give up when I can’t find the tools I need. Instead I have a bowl of muesli, like I would at home. 
I sit on the toilet, discussing opiated constipation with my boss. At the door, a death metal band with diarrhoea wait desperately to come in.