Free List of the Lost by Morrissey Page A

lying next to you, mi amigo, truth in my heart, no legs stronger or finer, it’s all in my favor and stirring with manhood … or somethinghood.” Nails cannot be stopped.
    â€œBut where is Harri now? In repose, repose, repose? In turmoil? In nothing? Human roadkill? In nothingness? Why were we not reason enough for him to stay? Are we really so bad?” Justy offers the sweet and the sour.
    â€œI’d say … yes,” pipes in Nails, “death a dark falling … someone said … Harri just so … one last heave, journey to go.”
    â€œLet me press that to my heart!”
    â€œWeep yourself clean, my man!”
    â€œGreat sweeping thoughts I can barely grasp … just all day … I see his face in his final hour … and where was I when he needed someone? I was matter-of-fact, somewhere else, and useless …”
    â€œYou mustn’t keep asking yourself how you’re feeling. There isn’t a lesson to be learned from every single thing you do!”
    â€œThen why do them? Why do anything?”
    â€œAnd if I should stop asking myself how I feel then I shan’t apply this lesson, because if I apply what you’ve just said then I’m asking how –”
    â€œOooh shut up , tool you …”
    â€œOh sweet mother, tool you? That’s tough.”
    â€œl have a small head. It can’t contain much. It will grow on you as it grew on me.”
    â€œNow. Your leg is touching my leg, which is all very nice, but I think of you more as a friend.”
    â€œAh yes! Sorry! God forbid a leg touches another leg and the entire foundation of rigid sexual mores crash to shuddering, shamed failure!”
    â€œHe’d walk across the field … towards me … with that strong stride and stupid with smiles, and I’d be happy just to hear whatever the hell would stream out of him on that day, on any day … that open face, that knowing grin … that grin I’d known all of my life … before we’d even met. I grew up on tales of his exploits, I knew his body like I knew my own.”
    At this stage it hardly mattered who was saying what, since all were in a whiskey-soaked lecturer’s tub-thumping tirade.
    â€œEverything’s a question! Everything’s a question! Isn’t it?”
    â€œI press that to my heart,” said Ezra.
    â€œWeep yourself clean!” shouts Nails.
    â€œI’d drink poison for our man!”

    â€œWell, let’s see if you’ll drink poison for this one,” cut in the un-expected monotone of Mr Rims, suddenly appearing in the locker-room with a champion-styled candidate. “ He’ll behead, blow up, strangle … whatever you need to get that June cup.”
    â€œYes, but can he run?” wised-in Nails.
    â€œDon’t try to be witty, it doesn’t suit you and it doesn’t work and it’s upsetting. I give you … Dibbs, and you’ll take Dibbs because you want him and you need him, and that’s that, so shut up.”
    Like a ghost ungone, the shell-backed Rims had appeared unexpectedly as if getting his own back in his search for the last word. As a reluctant pallbearer, he had noticed earlier the three Boston tearabouts flee the scene of sobs and dart like buffos of a new age across to the southerly gates leading to nowhere logical other than Ledger’s. From here, Rims underwent the bone-splitting agony of deserting Dick Cavett slowness in order to track the tracksters down with trap-tackle and force them face-to-face with the dog on a chain known as Dibbs. Dead and reborn numerous times, the boys now listened to Rims as life moved until whatever is meant to happen next happens next. Arranged like cut flowers, Dibbs was good at pulling faces whilst looking like nothing worth taking seriously (but what were the rest if not saddened and searching youth?). A non-verbal entity, Dibbs struggled with all of the certainty of someone