I have been in Rio for two months now.
I have lost my grasp on whatever went before.
I do not know where my heart ends and my cock begins.
I am lost, smiling dumb, in a forest of caramel lean legs and bouncing breasts
and lips and swinging hips and "I love your English accent, guy."

I have written half of the next book.
I have been given another rave review for the last piece of shit.
Last night I met a woman who reminded me of Angelina Jolie -
who, by the way, I have never found all that appealing -
and she told me about the time she lived in Huddersfield
doing drama with some local troupe.

She was so pretty.
I would have asked her to marry me.
Instead she asked me to give her a rim job.

I said to a musician friend:
I can't tell if I'm in heaven or in hell.
He replied:
Then isn't this the very definition of paradise?

I have surpassed my wildest dreams.
I have fucked every kind of beautiful woman
I have no right to fuck.
I have become depraved and without honour.
I am some Italian, hunting every scent of woman.
Like some Animal,
forgetting every humane thought that ever passed my way.
The sad thing is, this only seems to make me more attractive.



I spoke briefly to my brother. He said, in his Yorkshire accent,
It dunt seem real, does it?
And it doesn't.
I don't believe I am the same kid who hid with the boys on construction sites
to smoke cigs and drink cider and look at page 3 porn,
who threw stones through windows and fought skinheads and smackheads
and put words together like one more shattering window
like one more Morrissey
who somehow flew to the heat and the beauty and the imagination of the broken North
to become this:

what is this?

An erection, a tanned erection,
In the holy citadel
in the quietest hour
when the stars are out
and only you are watching.


Are you watching?

Half way through,
I wondered if I should write a different novel.
Drunk,
I called the publisher.
Where are you? some girl said,
three hours ahead.
I'm in the favela,
I lied,
and by pure chance, a firework expired.
Shit, she shrieked, and I laughed.
I put the drink to my lips,
and watched the seventeen year old girl with huge shining breasts
shower the sand from her chest.
I have no limits, anymore.
I have no limits.

I want to throw up.

A prostitute said:
marry me, and fuck me for free.

I considered it,
as a form of punishment.

And imagine what they'd say
on the construction sites
reading that story nestled somewhere
salaciously
after page three.



Fuck.

I do believe in God.

Do you understand?