Saturday, August 26

What fun! How groovy! It's been three days now and I've not worn a stitch of clothing. I'm like a real nudist, though of course I'm not one. I'm just liberated. I look at my reflection in that battered old mirror in the corner of the kitchen. I look real groovy. Natural. My hair's got real long and I really dig the look of my pubes. So much hair! If the girls back at Roedean could see me now! No more Dizzy Dot! It's Free Liberated Dot!

Still, it gets a bit boring in the cottage all by myself. I hope Bill and Sam get back soon from London. It might be swinging in the smoke and they're probably having a really wild time, but I'm getting a little bit fed up staying here with no one to talk to. At least, I've got all the LPs. And I really dig that Love LP Bill got me. Bill's a great brother. Got an ear for the hippest grooves. "Yeah! Love is the Strangest Thing!"

Sunday, August 27

It wasn't so warm today. Bloody Lake District! Never stays warm for long. But I'll be fucked if I'll get dressed again. And I was ever so daring today. George popped round and I didn't put any clothes on. Well, he's hip. He could see it was my choice, so he didn't say anything. And anyway he's a poof. Well, 'poof''s the wrong word. It's 'gay' now. So, he probably doesn't even fancy me anyway. And then when we'd got onto our third joint, along came PB and his old woman, Mary. And they took their clothes off, too! Even though it wasn't that hot really!

But we got ever so stoned.

When PB and Mary and George left, I felt a bit unwell really. I like shit, but I'm not really as hip to it as Bill and Sam. They're due back on Tuesday. I can't wait! Let's hope Bill's brings back some good LPs from Carnaby Street. I really like the Turtles. Real psychedelia. Perhaps he'll bring back some acid too. Then like that Byrds song, we'll be 'five miles high!'

Monday, August 28

No visitors today. Just me. And I was shivering a bit. But I promised myself not to put on a stitch of clothing till Sam and Bill came back. Not that there's anyone to check on me, if I did. This cottage is miles from anywhere. It's a wonder it's even got electricity. There are a few sheep, I suppose. But sheep aren't my scene. And even Bill, who's tried everything, now, I think, would draw the line at sheep. Anyway he'll be back tomorrow.

I tried writing a bit of poetry. Of course, I'm not a proper poet like Bill or Sam. They're going to be fucking famous when they're discovered.

Anyway, here it is:

'Twas on a groovy vase's side,
Where psychedelic art had dyed
The fucking flowers that blow;
Demurest of the tabby kind,
The huffish Dylan reclined,
Gazed on the lake below.

Of course, it's not finished yet. But it's about our cat, Dylan, who died last year back in Reigate. And Bill said you've always got to get the word 'fuck' into a poem somehow. That way people know you're serious about your art.

Tuesday, August 29

Bill phoned. He won't be here till tomorrow. He and Sam were invited to a party at Tom's. I hope they don't have too much of that heroin stuff he takes. I've heard that it really fucks you up. I mean, it's not a hallucinogenic, like shit or acid. It's real heavy stuff. The Velvet Underground take that kind of stuff. I don't like their music, though Bill says I ought to try and get into it. No! I've been listening to Crosby, Stills and Nash, and Joni Mitchell, and the Mamas and the Papas. California Dreaming! That's me!

I got through about a whole sixteenth of hash today. I best be careful. Even though I know Bill will bring plenty back. He said he might get a few tabs as well. That'd be really groovy!

I wrote some more poetry. I got bored writing about cats. I thought I'd write about what you feel when you've had a real good trip. Here it is:

For oft, when on my bed I lie
In vacant or in fucked up mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of being stoned;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And boogies with the daffodils.

I managed to get 'fuck' in again, but I'm not sure how to get the poem started. But I like the idea of daffodils. I really like this 'flower power' stuff, although the newspapers are just trivialising things. It's not all about flowers at all. It's also about getting high, getting laid and, erm, getting things done. I think.

Wednesday, August 30

Bill and Sam got here at last! But they didn't get here till nearly midnight. And I'd got through nearly all the dope waiting for them. Now, I can start wearing clothes again. But I'll wait till Sam and Bill do so first. It'd look bad if the chick gave in first. This stuff about Women's Lib. It's important. Chicks have got to show the way. And that means with free love too. And it's Sam who's been giving me that. And Bill's real hip about it. Even though him and Sam are the real lovers, and they share the same bed, like a real 'gay' couple. Bill knows I need a fuck. And Sam's a real good fucker. I'm pretty much fucked now. And I like how he fucks my arse too. That's really groovy. Though I hope he lets it recover before he fucks me there again.

While waiting for Bill and Sam, I wrote a bit more poetry. I scrapped that grotty one about daffodils. Well, you can't smoke them or anything can you?

Little Lamb who made you
Do you know who made you?
Gave you life and got you shorn
By the stream and over the lawn;
Gave you numbers on your coat,
Twenty Six is what they wrote;
Gave you such a groovy voice
Making all the grass rejoice!
Little Lamb who made you
Do you know who made you?

However, this poem sounds really feeble now the sheep have moved off to a different field. And I couldn't find a way to use the word 'fuck'. Or even less rude words like 'cunt' or 'shit'. And whoever heard of grass rejoicing? Rejoicing after smoking grass: yeah! It doesn't make sense the other way.

Thursday, August 31

I've still not got any clothes on. Neither Bill nor Sam have put on any yet either. And Sam's pretty well shagged out. He was fucking me for a couple of hours, and I really needed it, and then he had to go off and fuck Bill. It sounded funny, the two of them shagging each other in the other bedroom. I thought it'd be a kind of liberated thing to go into their bedroom and watch them to show I was like really hip about it. You know, your brother fucking someone who's just fucked you. But I sort of stood there, feeling really stupid, while Bill and Sam were just sort of grunting and groaning and pumping each other's cocks. I'm sure it's more fun to be doing it than watching it, but I actually got bored and went back to bed.

At least we've got more dope and stuff. We're doing a proper acid trip tomorrow, so I guess I'll stay nude till after that. That would be a kind of good time to put my clothes back on. When everyone's sort of come down. We smoked ever so much dope today. My head's sort of really sore. And I kind of regret letting Sam bugger me. My turds had all that funny spunk stuff on them. But it didn't stop him having another go at my arse today!

Sometimes, it's real weird seeing your brother and your brother's boyfriend (and your own lover) walking around starkers all the time. Suppose it's the same for them seeing me. God knows what Bill thinks of his sister now. My tits are a good size and I'm quite skinny. But not shaving under the arms still feels weird.

Actually, with the long hair and beards that Bill and Sam have got, like every guy who's hip, you can sometimes hardly recognise people. All you can see of Bill is two eyes and a nose and a lot of brown hair and beard. Sam always wears his glasses, which look odd on someone starkers. But he's got a good prick. It has to be with both a brother and a sister to service.

Sometimes I wish I had another boyfriend. Sam's great, but it's weird sharing him with your brother. And Sam and Bill did ever such a lot of fucking in London. It seems like they fucked everyone. Chicks. Guys. They went to a couple of orgies, and not just that one at Tom's. In fact, Sam says Bill even fucked a dog. I can't believe that. But Sam says it's important to Bill that he try everything out. It helps him write poetry. They fucked transvestites. They fucked two black chicks. They fucked this big Korean guy. They fucked underage kids. That one I don't like the sound of. But I guess everything goes these days!

I didn't write any poetry today. Too shagged and blitzed out. But I got to hear some of the LPs Bill brought back. Some pretty weird psychedelic shit. Electric Prunes. Jefferson Airplane. Mothers of Invention. Grateful Dead. Captain Beefheart's Magic Band. Where do they find these tripped out names?

Friday, September 1

Well, we had a good trip today. Strong stuff. Purple Hearts or something. We got really blitzed. Most of the time actually, we spent huddled up together, listening to the Rolling Stones over and over again. Though I managed to get them to put on 'White Rabbit' by Jefferson Airplane. "One pill makes you larger. The other makes you small." Groovy!

Both Bill and I tried to make Sam's cock get stiff, but it just refused to do anything. I tried tucking it inside me to see if it would come to life. But it didn't. A dead loss as far as sex is concerned. And even now, hours later, it's not happened. I left Bill and Sam in their bed. I've still not got any clothes on. Somehow, I don't feel the cold so much when I'm tripping. Although I didn't get much in the way of hallucinations. A bit of that funny perspective twisting stuff. And things tasting, smelling and looking weird. But nothing like that time I thought I'd turned into some kind of furry monster.

Bill was pretty funny really when he was tripping. He kept on repeating the same phrases over and over again. Sam says it's because Bill's been getting a bit freaked out with all the different types of sex and drugs and everything. But Sam's been doing the same shit and he's fine.

Sam showed me some of the new poems Bill's written. I don't really like them at all really. They're sort of just weird. I know there's a lot of 'fuck's and 'cunt's and the like, almost more than any other words, but it's all disjointed and everything. Sam's a bit lazy, but the poems he writes I like a lot more. Although he does like writing about fucking. I often wonder if he writes about fucking me. Or if it's Bill. Or if it's all those other people they were fucking in London.

One of Sam's poems goes:

Take, O take that cunt away
That so sweetly were forsworn;
And that arse, that open door,
Tunnel that do desire for more.

Another goes:

O lover mine, who are you fucking?
O, stay and feel; your boyfriend coming,
That can sing both high and low.

I don't know what they mean, but they sound good. And they've got four letter words in them, so they must be art. Bill's however go like this:

On the Twinkly Crunkly Clinky
I fucked a sumply dinky
And farted like a cunt-faced whore.

It doesn't quite have the poise, restraint or beauty of Bill's best poems.

Saturday, September 2

I put some clothes on today. But because I'm a liberated chick that doesn't give a fuck, I just put on a shirt, one of Bill's, which is far too big really, and nothing else. That way, I've got my pussy showing. No one could call me conventional. And Sam did the same thing, only with just a tee-shirt he'd got in London which has the words 'I Won't Go to Vietnam!' written on it. He got it in Carnaby Street. Apparently that President Johnson's been doing a lot of horrible things out there in Indochina. Sam says he hopes we don't get involved. It's the Americans' shit, and they should just wallow in it themselves.

Bill still hasn't put any clothes on. In fact, he's been pretty withdrawn and silent all day. He just sat on the sofa, the battered one with the spring through the leather, and strummed on this guitar he got in Shaftsbury Avenue. Unfortunately he only knows one or two tunes, and he doesn't play them very well. Sam and I spent the time smoking dope and fucking. He says he didn't fuck Bill last night. Bill just didn't feel like it.

Sam showed me another of Bill's poems. It's almost all crossings out and scribbles. There's a lot of 'fuck's, 'shit's and 'We're not gonna take any more of this shit, man!' But it didn't seem to be about anything.

Sam says Bill's depressed. I know Bill. He has weird moods. Up and down. Sam says what usually cheers Bill up is to do something he's not done before.

Sunday, September 3

Last night, after I'd written my diary, Sam joined me in bed. He said it just wasn't any fun with Bill. He was sort of muttering all the time. "Clinky. Clunky. Dinky. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." Just like these weird spaced-out poems of his. Even Sam thinks they're not very good. Although Sam's not as hip to the avant-garde as Bill. He's not as keen on Soft Machine or Pink Floyd. I think he prefers all that folky stuff, like Joan Baez, Bob Dylan (before he went electric) and even the Seekers. I suppose Bill's abstract poetry might be like abstract paintings. I don't like those much either.