"Is there only one fucking till on?" the customer demanded, squirming with impatience. He was a short, balding, mustached freak. I sauntered over to the tannoy and called out for checkout staff.
"It's meant to be a fucking supermarket and it's more like a fucking Paki shop. It's no your fault like..."
"We can't get the staff," I explained.
He laughed. "Aye, well, gie me a job."
"You can't use offensive language if you work here. You need to be infinitely patient and polite with difficult customers. Which is challenging at times of course..."
The customer behind him, a cool, blonde 40ish year old eyed me with ravenous desire.
Of course, the last part of dialogue in this scenario did not really occur. Instead I remained silent and meek as I am all too fucking wont to do. The miserable, luckless proles that wander around Broxburn tend to repel and intimidate me. Elitist coward that I am.
Monday 29 December 2008
End Times
A cautious, castrated priest frolics hesitantly in a damaged nirvana, beneath a petroleum sun. A petro-chemical, gay sun, which glimmers over ruined London. Everything is sick and blank, even if it is billious. Extremists fire assault weapons from crumbling balconies into a cruel sky. Drugged hookers fellate self-hating, arrogant narcissists. Neurotic elderly ladies assault perplexed infants as craven junkies finger bemused Asian teenagers.
An Unlikely Fragment of Infinity
The manchild lived in a dilapidated garage not so far from the coast. Seagulls drifted through the bleak grey sky above him. In his abundant free time he occupied himself with drawing sketches with a lassie he was infatuated with. She worked in a petrol station a few miles up the road.
He was too imperfect to render an accurate likeness of the Buddha as pictured on the Times travel supplement dated December 13th 2008.
The Buddha was an affluent little cunt. In time he became a real benevolent bastard. He didn't give a shit. No, it wasn't that. He was just chill as fuck. He'd do shit like meditate in front walls and shit. For years on end. Or so it's claimed. Who knows. Who the fuck cares?
The manchild sketched feverishly under a dim low energy lightbulb, conscientous of his grandmother's electricity bill. His grandmother popped in on occassion, to check up on him. She wasn't overly concerned; she could see he was safe here. He took good care of himself. He was a philanthropic soul. And spiritually affluent, one might say. Even if it was in a dim, inarticulate way. Maybe that's the best kinda way.
On the 16th of December 2008 he penned a review of the David Lynch film Inland Empire. In its entiritey, the review read:
"What the fucking hell was all that about?"
He submitted his review to various film magazines to no avail. The film had been out for a wee while. A reputable film mag would be unlikely to print a dated review. So that was the reason his review went unpublished, he decided.
An excursion to the petrol station was in order he decided one day when he was feeling particularly horny. He grasped his dick and gave it a few jerks for luck and then ventured out into the wind. He hobbled up the road, yelping and shrieking, drawing concerned stares from other pedestrians. He was gloriously oblivious. The wind rippled through his shaggy hair. He grinned and screamed, a tall fool of a man.
He kicked open the door of the petrol station, tweaking his tender nipples furiously. He then learned from the old man on duty that the lassie he liked had recently died from an electric shock.
"Fuck's sake...that'll be that then," he murmured morosely and then rushed outside and launched himself into the freezing cold ocean.
He was thankfully rescued by a perverted fisherman who unfortunately took it upon himself to fondle manchilkd mercilessly for as long as 45 minutes. This incident rendered manboy utterly perturbed and curiously aroused. He vented this arousal by bumming a heron, an act he was never brough tto justice for. To this day he is still at large and is thought to operate under the alias Charles Tex Watkins. And before you ask, no, he was never affiliated with the Manson family! OK, so maybe he was. So what? No-one's perfect.
I'd like to take this opportunity to apologize to everyone who read this. Please accept my sincere condolonces.
He was too imperfect to render an accurate likeness of the Buddha as pictured on the Times travel supplement dated December 13th 2008.
The Buddha was an affluent little cunt. In time he became a real benevolent bastard. He didn't give a shit. No, it wasn't that. He was just chill as fuck. He'd do shit like meditate in front walls and shit. For years on end. Or so it's claimed. Who knows. Who the fuck cares?
The manchild sketched feverishly under a dim low energy lightbulb, conscientous of his grandmother's electricity bill. His grandmother popped in on occassion, to check up on him. She wasn't overly concerned; she could see he was safe here. He took good care of himself. He was a philanthropic soul. And spiritually affluent, one might say. Even if it was in a dim, inarticulate way. Maybe that's the best kinda way.
On the 16th of December 2008 he penned a review of the David Lynch film Inland Empire. In its entiritey, the review read:
"What the fucking hell was all that about?"
He submitted his review to various film magazines to no avail. The film had been out for a wee while. A reputable film mag would be unlikely to print a dated review. So that was the reason his review went unpublished, he decided.
An excursion to the petrol station was in order he decided one day when he was feeling particularly horny. He grasped his dick and gave it a few jerks for luck and then ventured out into the wind. He hobbled up the road, yelping and shrieking, drawing concerned stares from other pedestrians. He was gloriously oblivious. The wind rippled through his shaggy hair. He grinned and screamed, a tall fool of a man.
He kicked open the door of the petrol station, tweaking his tender nipples furiously. He then learned from the old man on duty that the lassie he liked had recently died from an electric shock.
"Fuck's sake...that'll be that then," he murmured morosely and then rushed outside and launched himself into the freezing cold ocean.
He was thankfully rescued by a perverted fisherman who unfortunately took it upon himself to fondle manchilkd mercilessly for as long as 45 minutes. This incident rendered manboy utterly perturbed and curiously aroused. He vented this arousal by bumming a heron, an act he was never brough tto justice for. To this day he is still at large and is thought to operate under the alias Charles Tex Watkins. And before you ask, no, he was never affiliated with the Manson family! OK, so maybe he was. So what? No-one's perfect.
I'd like to take this opportunity to apologize to everyone who read this. Please accept my sincere condolonces.
Saturday 27 December 2008
Beermare about India
The beach beside the
Taj Mahal is covered
with snow yet
we sunbathe there
anyway
That seems to be about all
we do.
I am scolded
for inadvertently seeing
my cousin undress
and Murray consults his father
regarding something or other.
There is another beach
below the same petroleum sun
Taj Mahal is covered
with snow yet
we sunbathe there
anyway
That seems to be about all
we do.
I am scolded
for inadvertently seeing
my cousin undress
and Murray consults his father
regarding something or other.
There is another beach
below the same petroleum sun
Monday 8 December 2008
Will there be medicine in the afterlife?
"Get undressed," he instructed her in a firm tone. She obliged and stood before him, shivering. He was breathing deeply. He took a step towards her and sound of the sole of his shoe clicking on the wooden floor resounded through the vacant, bare room. She recoiled slightly and he halted. Why was she so timid? He wanted to heal her, to protect her, to cherish her. At least that's what he told himself.
His cock was exceedingly stiff by this point, achingly stiff. He pressed his fingers against it through the material of his trousers and groaned slightly. The lassie watched him cautiously. A quivering field of femininity.
"You look so sexy," he murmured in a husky voice and her shivering intensified. He felt dirty, like an insect trying to find its way in to something beautiful. Looking for an opening. He reached forward and slid his hand between her legs. Her cunt quickly became moist and he guided his thumb up inside of her. He took her hand and pressed it against his crotch. His briefs were damp with pre-ejaculate.
With a feeling of mindless animal purposefulness he placed his hands on her shoulders and forced her down on to her knees. Then he undid his belt and pulled his trousers and briefs to his thighs, allowing his cock to flip out and up. She regarded his penis cautiously before tentatively accepting it into the moist heaven of her mouth.
His eyes rolled back to the whites and he allowed himself a more sustained groan this time, exulting in the carnal pleasure he was suddenly in the midst of.
Her head bobbed back and forth for a few excruciatingly blissful minutes. At the critical moment, he pulled back, removing his pulsating cock from between her wet lips and unleashed a thick arch of semen across her cringing face.
Her face was plastered in the fucking stuff. She remained perfectly still and allowed it to trickle over her eyelids and lips. Disgusted with himself, he about-turned and marched out of the room, his shoes clicking on the wooden floor. Bewildered and shaken, she smeared the cum off of her face with a trembling hand. It splattered on the floor and she stared at it for a long time, feeling an incredible sense of numbness.
His cock was exceedingly stiff by this point, achingly stiff. He pressed his fingers against it through the material of his trousers and groaned slightly. The lassie watched him cautiously. A quivering field of femininity.
"You look so sexy," he murmured in a husky voice and her shivering intensified. He felt dirty, like an insect trying to find its way in to something beautiful. Looking for an opening. He reached forward and slid his hand between her legs. Her cunt quickly became moist and he guided his thumb up inside of her. He took her hand and pressed it against his crotch. His briefs were damp with pre-ejaculate.
With a feeling of mindless animal purposefulness he placed his hands on her shoulders and forced her down on to her knees. Then he undid his belt and pulled his trousers and briefs to his thighs, allowing his cock to flip out and up. She regarded his penis cautiously before tentatively accepting it into the moist heaven of her mouth.
His eyes rolled back to the whites and he allowed himself a more sustained groan this time, exulting in the carnal pleasure he was suddenly in the midst of.
Her head bobbed back and forth for a few excruciatingly blissful minutes. At the critical moment, he pulled back, removing his pulsating cock from between her wet lips and unleashed a thick arch of semen across her cringing face.
Her face was plastered in the fucking stuff. She remained perfectly still and allowed it to trickle over her eyelids and lips. Disgusted with himself, he about-turned and marched out of the room, his shoes clicking on the wooden floor. Bewildered and shaken, she smeared the cum off of her face with a trembling hand. It splattered on the floor and she stared at it for a long time, feeling an incredible sense of numbness.
----------
"I long to embrace you," he murmured.
"Huh?" she asked.
"Nothing," he replied quickly and busied himself with some menial task.
After work he offered her a lift home but she declined on the grounds that she was going to visit her boyfriend. I'll wager you let him put his hands all over you, you depraved little slut he thought to himself and then smashed his fist against the wall.
The nurse wanted to know how come he broke his hand.
"Punching a wall," he explained casually.
"Uh-huh," she nodded cautiously. She hesitated a moment and then descended to her knees. She unzipped him and began engaging in oral intercourse. Just kidding. Jesus Christ. Calm down.
He was visualizing her flushed cheeks. Imagining her panting, moaning softly. Goddamn. It was maddening. He wanted to spurt his stuff on her grimacing face.
He yearned to cover her pert wee tits in odious goo. He stood on the escalator in a stylised pose as it slowly carried him skyward. A loosely rolled joint, unlit, dangled between his chapped lips.
"Huh?" she asked.
"Nothing," he replied quickly and busied himself with some menial task.
After work he offered her a lift home but she declined on the grounds that she was going to visit her boyfriend. I'll wager you let him put his hands all over you, you depraved little slut he thought to himself and then smashed his fist against the wall.
The nurse wanted to know how come he broke his hand.
"Punching a wall," he explained casually.
"Uh-huh," she nodded cautiously. She hesitated a moment and then descended to her knees. She unzipped him and began engaging in oral intercourse. Just kidding. Jesus Christ. Calm down.
He was visualizing her flushed cheeks. Imagining her panting, moaning softly. Goddamn. It was maddening. He wanted to spurt his stuff on her grimacing face.
He yearned to cover her pert wee tits in odious goo. He stood on the escalator in a stylised pose as it slowly carried him skyward. A loosely rolled joint, unlit, dangled between his chapped lips.
Narcissus
Like most artists, the kid was in love with himself. He would gaze admiringly at his reflected image at any given opportunity. Then he stepped things up a notch. He employed somebody to follow him around with a video camera. He would lie in bed at night and watch an edit of the day's footage dubbed with a soundtrack of rapturous applause. He would masturbate to this video and then descend into a deep, vacant sleep.
Untitled
"She's a right show off, this one," the elderly gentleman with the camera murmured in a husky voice. The lassie pranced around precariously, nude save for a set of heels. The elderly gent had his flies open and his genitalia exposed.
Viewed through the night vision lens, the lassie's eyes beamed and skin took on a luminous green hue. She looked like a sexy green alien, the gent decided, squeezing his balls. He desired to sex her up, ravenous-style.
Two other gentlemen had appeared on the scene, seedy, shifty looking blighters. Quiet, bespectacled, brooding perverts. What had drawn them to this poorly lit supermarket car park? the gent pondered. And yet he was excited as very bad things were about to happen.
"Come on down here, babe!" he screamed suddenly. The lass obligated with this command and knelt before the elderly gentleman, who had a demented leer cracked across his wrinkled face by this point. He reached into his pocket and recovered a silver coin which he flicked in the air. The coin glinted in the casually cruel moonlight.
"Heads you lose, tails I win!" he screamed. He caught it and studied it closely, grinning perversely. "You just keep on losing, babe!" he shrieked.
And with that, he pissed all over her face.
Her face was drenched, warm urine trickled over her eyelids and lips. The spray refracted, splashing on the gent's trouser leg. The two other dudes were jacking off frantically.
The lass began sobbing, tears mixing with piss Jesus Christ this is sick what am I writing this stuff for what am I some kind of creep?
Here's what happened next: there was an explosion and everybody died! They all died! YES!
Just kidding. Nobody died. They all lived. They lived long, miserable, meandering lives, devoid of any kind of gratification or meaning.
Viewed through the night vision lens, the lassie's eyes beamed and skin took on a luminous green hue. She looked like a sexy green alien, the gent decided, squeezing his balls. He desired to sex her up, ravenous-style.
Two other gentlemen had appeared on the scene, seedy, shifty looking blighters. Quiet, bespectacled, brooding perverts. What had drawn them to this poorly lit supermarket car park? the gent pondered. And yet he was excited as very bad things were about to happen.
"Come on down here, babe!" he screamed suddenly. The lass obligated with this command and knelt before the elderly gentleman, who had a demented leer cracked across his wrinkled face by this point. He reached into his pocket and recovered a silver coin which he flicked in the air. The coin glinted in the casually cruel moonlight.
"Heads you lose, tails I win!" he screamed. He caught it and studied it closely, grinning perversely. "You just keep on losing, babe!" he shrieked.
And with that, he pissed all over her face.
Her face was drenched, warm urine trickled over her eyelids and lips. The spray refracted, splashing on the gent's trouser leg. The two other dudes were jacking off frantically.
The lass began sobbing, tears mixing with piss Jesus Christ this is sick what am I writing this stuff for what am I some kind of creep?
Here's what happened next: there was an explosion and everybody died! They all died! YES!
Just kidding. Nobody died. They all lived. They lived long, miserable, meandering lives, devoid of any kind of gratification or meaning.
Untitled
Janine kept shrieking, clutching at her nephew and becoming partially animated but in her own flimsy, inebriated way. Sometimes the nephew grimaced and he was drinking rapidly.
John was intent on watching a Roy Orbison DVD at high volume whilst Marie was insistent that we all play Trivial Pursuit but no-one could hear the questions. The vague frustration that everybody felt was beginning to articulate itself in dim, idiotic ways. It was intense, unbearable.
One of John's sons hid the TV remote as a frivilous jest. But I was concerned this frivolity would not bode well in the tense atmosphere we now found ourselves in. An atmosphere that teemed with unspoken resentments that were clunking toward the surface.
The brightness of the room pulsed from the flickering Xmas lights. Cards were perched along the mantlepiece, staid, obligatory gestures now. Before long they would be gathered together and binned.
After a while, everyone had drunk enough to reach a sort of stupified equilibrium and any tension seemed resolved or else extinguished by wine or ale. I sunk into the couch and examined photos of my friend's ex-girlfriend's breasts, which he proudly exhibited on his camera phone.
John was intent on watching a Roy Orbison DVD at high volume whilst Marie was insistent that we all play Trivial Pursuit but no-one could hear the questions. The vague frustration that everybody felt was beginning to articulate itself in dim, idiotic ways. It was intense, unbearable.
One of John's sons hid the TV remote as a frivilous jest. But I was concerned this frivolity would not bode well in the tense atmosphere we now found ourselves in. An atmosphere that teemed with unspoken resentments that were clunking toward the surface.
The brightness of the room pulsed from the flickering Xmas lights. Cards were perched along the mantlepiece, staid, obligatory gestures now. Before long they would be gathered together and binned.
After a while, everyone had drunk enough to reach a sort of stupified equilibrium and any tension seemed resolved or else extinguished by wine or ale. I sunk into the couch and examined photos of my friend's ex-girlfriend's breasts, which he proudly exhibited on his camera phone.
Blindfold
Slipping her hand under
the grey fabric
of the other girl's
cotton sweater she
stroked her weeping
nipples delicately,
teased them and knew
that they must be deliciously
chafed by the grey
cotton sweater.
Her blonde hair
was unwashed
& her eyes
were damp
& her lips
were full and dripping.
After the brief doze they
could just relax &
read old novels &
unfurl purple
blindfolds.
the grey fabric
of the other girl's
cotton sweater she
stroked her weeping
nipples delicately,
teased them and knew
that they must be deliciously
chafed by the grey
cotton sweater.
Her blonde hair
was unwashed
& her eyes
were damp
& her lips
were full and dripping.
After the brief doze they
could just relax &
read old novels &
unfurl purple
blindfolds.
Saturday 6 December 2008
1984, Haircut
Jonson sat by the window in the hairdressers. He didn't know where to look. He looked out the window at cars drifting past. He looked in the wall length mirror at the hairdresser, her assistant, and an old lady getting some sort of paste applied to her hair. There was no-one else in the room. The assistant brought him coffee. A young blonde thing. But not really his type. Seemed a tad vacuous.
Jonson was growing impatient. He had been sat waiting 20 minutes. The hairdresser reassured him that she would be ready for him soon and he affected to seem relaxed and genial. But he was hungover and here was his Saturday being hoovered up sitting around listening to the inane conversations of these three females. He imagined bringing out an assault rifle and slaughtering them. Jesus, where did that come from? Relax. Keep it together, Jonson.
He was studying the blonde assistant in the mirror. He glanced at her bosom. She wore a low-cut top. He imagined forcing her down to the floor and - stop it. Sip yr coffee, Jonson. Ah, it's hot. It's good. Good coffee.
The women were discussing fish soup now. They were discussing it in skeptical tones. Jonson decided to interject. "I had fish soup before. Cullen Skink. It was nice."
The women were silent. Jonson pretended to be fascinated by a set of scissors laying nearby.
Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip.
Jonson was growing impatient. He had been sat waiting 20 minutes. The hairdresser reassured him that she would be ready for him soon and he affected to seem relaxed and genial. But he was hungover and here was his Saturday being hoovered up sitting around listening to the inane conversations of these three females. He imagined bringing out an assault rifle and slaughtering them. Jesus, where did that come from? Relax. Keep it together, Jonson.
He was studying the blonde assistant in the mirror. He glanced at her bosom. She wore a low-cut top. He imagined forcing her down to the floor and - stop it. Sip yr coffee, Jonson. Ah, it's hot. It's good. Good coffee.
The women were discussing fish soup now. They were discussing it in skeptical tones. Jonson decided to interject. "I had fish soup before. Cullen Skink. It was nice."
The women were silent. Jonson pretended to be fascinated by a set of scissors laying nearby.
Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip.
Friday 5 December 2008
Zombie Arcade (excerpt)
Prelude
The arcade was full of mutated post-fallout zombies playing 80s style coin-op machines. They played with fierce concentration or else loitered around beside the machines looking wistful in a blank sort of way. The arcade pulsed with lurid colours and shrill video game sound effects. The zombies were dressed in human attire: lumberjack shirts, woolly cardigans and other types of clothes human beings may be wont to don. Here is another important fact about these zombies: they were capable of running extremely fast! Like, crazily fast. Shit's insane.
I
Josephine about-turned and blasted away the pursuing coin-op zombies with her sub-machine gun (which she had purchased in America). This feat accomplished, she inserted the barrel of the gun into her mouth and began stimulating fellatio or else perhaps performing an unorthodox weapons maintenance technique. Some mutant kids sprawled out on the sidewalk began whooping and hollering in celebration of this spectacle. Josephine flipped them the bird with supreme nonchalance.
"Drop doon and get yer eagle on, girl!" one of them squealed like that fag he was.
Post-fallout America was a magical place. Sure, there were coin-op arcade zombies that could sprint and there were effeminate mutant kids loitering on cracked, irradiated sidewalks. There were ruined gardens and toxic water supplies. But there was also a sense of liberty that was definitely absent before. It could be sensed in many ways, like masturbating in a deserted airport terminal at dawn, for example.
But the whole scene was eerie as hell. Which wasn't necessarily a bad thing. If you're into eeriness coupled with liberty. Which some heads are.
"How come yer wearin' pink shoes?" one of the kids asked Josephine.
"Cuz I'm a lesbian," she answered, sardonically.
"Gay bastart," muttered the kid. Josephine shot him in the shin. The kid shrieked and tweaked his nipples, which were exposed thru two convienantly cut holes in his tie-dye shirt.
In one town she rolled into, Josephine discovered a zombie punk band had formed and were playing a gig in a ruined arcade. Mutated boys and girls writhed around in bizarre, discomfittingdance routines. The band had named themselves the Mindless and seemed to be playing a semi-improvised squall. Josephine lingered at the back of the arcade, smoking.
Suddenly amongst the audience she spotted another survivor. A tall dude with boyish good looks and an impudent manner. She danced over to him, nae, pranced over to him and tried to lull him with some seductive moves. He seemed excited and perturbed but was ultimately shy and evasive. Undetterred, Joephine grabbed his crotch and stroked his member until it was good and firm. The dude grinned laconically. Josephine slowly fell to her knees and then unzipped the dude and took his pulsating member in the moist heaven of her mouth. The mutant kids formed a circle around them and, holding hands, skipped around them gleefully. The zombie rockers also seemed affected by this carnal spectacle as they took the music up a notch, whacking guitars against fizzling amplifiers. Josephine's head bobbed back and forth until she sensed she had reached the critical moment at which point she removed the dude's cock from her mouth and aimed it ceiling-ward. The dude groaned as he sprayed a thick jettison of semen in slow motion and it fell like confetti on the dancing mutant kids. The dude was grinning idiotically as he flashed a peace sign at no-on in particular. (Fade out)
Cut to an abandoned hospital ward. The dude is splayed out on a bed as Josephine bounces around on his rigid cock. The dude's eyes are rolled back to their whites and his jaw is locked, his mouth set in a feral grin. The ward is bathed in a spooky, irridescent light. Everything feels terminal. Once they've finished their deranged post-fallout sex, the pair shoot up some painkillers Josephine found in a cabinet and fall into a narcotic doze.
They awoke in an alien twilight. Consciousness seemed to creep up on them and then slowly ooze over them. They decided to roll on to the next town. The dude had a military jeep he had found amidst rubble, two skeletons propped up in the driver and passenger seats.
The drive was fairly uneventful. Josephine confessed to being bi-curious which prompted the dude to lapse into a contemplative silence.
The arcade was full of mutated post-fallout zombies playing 80s style coin-op machines. They played with fierce concentration or else loitered around beside the machines looking wistful in a blank sort of way. The arcade pulsed with lurid colours and shrill video game sound effects. The zombies were dressed in human attire: lumberjack shirts, woolly cardigans and other types of clothes human beings may be wont to don. Here is another important fact about these zombies: they were capable of running extremely fast! Like, crazily fast. Shit's insane.
I
Josephine about-turned and blasted away the pursuing coin-op zombies with her sub-machine gun (which she had purchased in America). This feat accomplished, she inserted the barrel of the gun into her mouth and began stimulating fellatio or else perhaps performing an unorthodox weapons maintenance technique. Some mutant kids sprawled out on the sidewalk began whooping and hollering in celebration of this spectacle. Josephine flipped them the bird with supreme nonchalance.
"Drop doon and get yer eagle on, girl!" one of them squealed like that fag he was.
Post-fallout America was a magical place. Sure, there were coin-op arcade zombies that could sprint and there were effeminate mutant kids loitering on cracked, irradiated sidewalks. There were ruined gardens and toxic water supplies. But there was also a sense of liberty that was definitely absent before. It could be sensed in many ways, like masturbating in a deserted airport terminal at dawn, for example.
But the whole scene was eerie as hell. Which wasn't necessarily a bad thing. If you're into eeriness coupled with liberty. Which some heads are.
"How come yer wearin' pink shoes?" one of the kids asked Josephine.
"Cuz I'm a lesbian," she answered, sardonically.
"Gay bastart," muttered the kid. Josephine shot him in the shin. The kid shrieked and tweaked his nipples, which were exposed thru two convienantly cut holes in his tie-dye shirt.
In one town she rolled into, Josephine discovered a zombie punk band had formed and were playing a gig in a ruined arcade. Mutated boys and girls writhed around in bizarre, discomfittingdance routines. The band had named themselves the Mindless and seemed to be playing a semi-improvised squall. Josephine lingered at the back of the arcade, smoking.
Suddenly amongst the audience she spotted another survivor. A tall dude with boyish good looks and an impudent manner. She danced over to him, nae, pranced over to him and tried to lull him with some seductive moves. He seemed excited and perturbed but was ultimately shy and evasive. Undetterred, Joephine grabbed his crotch and stroked his member until it was good and firm. The dude grinned laconically. Josephine slowly fell to her knees and then unzipped the dude and took his pulsating member in the moist heaven of her mouth. The mutant kids formed a circle around them and, holding hands, skipped around them gleefully. The zombie rockers also seemed affected by this carnal spectacle as they took the music up a notch, whacking guitars against fizzling amplifiers. Josephine's head bobbed back and forth until she sensed she had reached the critical moment at which point she removed the dude's cock from her mouth and aimed it ceiling-ward. The dude groaned as he sprayed a thick jettison of semen in slow motion and it fell like confetti on the dancing mutant kids. The dude was grinning idiotically as he flashed a peace sign at no-on in particular. (Fade out)
Cut to an abandoned hospital ward. The dude is splayed out on a bed as Josephine bounces around on his rigid cock. The dude's eyes are rolled back to their whites and his jaw is locked, his mouth set in a feral grin. The ward is bathed in a spooky, irridescent light. Everything feels terminal. Once they've finished their deranged post-fallout sex, the pair shoot up some painkillers Josephine found in a cabinet and fall into a narcotic doze.
They awoke in an alien twilight. Consciousness seemed to creep up on them and then slowly ooze over them. They decided to roll on to the next town. The dude had a military jeep he had found amidst rubble, two skeletons propped up in the driver and passenger seats.
The drive was fairly uneventful. Josephine confessed to being bi-curious which prompted the dude to lapse into a contemplative silence.
Ghostbusters II
He drove to the show alone and went to the bar and ordered a beer and stood near the back nursing the beer and watching the band. And he imagined the gorgeous lead singer was his girlfriend. There was something about her messy blonde hair, plaid shirt, and laconic demeanour that got him completely riled up. This fantasy caused his eyes to crease with merriment.
After the show he drove home and punched holes in his bedroom wall (whilst sobbing).
After the show he drove home and punched holes in his bedroom wall (whilst sobbing).
Gazing out the window whilst wearing girl jeans
The pseudo bohemian pot-smoker stood at the window of the upper floor apartment and gazed out into the mist. He itched his crotch thru the denim of his girl jeans.
"They fit better, dog," he would explain to his incredulous friends. This did not extinguish their mirth any. He didn't care. Yes he did. No he didn't. He did and he didn't. It was complicated. Deep down he knew it didn't matter.
"They fit better, dog," he would explain to his incredulous friends. This did not extinguish their mirth any. He didn't care. Yes he did. No he didn't. He did and he didn't. It was complicated. Deep down he knew it didn't matter.
A Fantastic Scenario
It wasn't such a bad life, Don reflected as he sauntered along the snow covered pavement. He wore a heavy coat, for it was windy, quite windy.
He had finished the night's work and was now heading home. As he walked he listened to 80s shoegaze pop on an archaic walkman. He also played movies in his head, fantastical films where he played a noble, heroic protagonist. This entertained him and made the trek home that much shorter.
When he got home he phoned Wendy.
"How come you didn't stay in New York?" she asked suddenly. Don clutched the mouthpiece of the phone in both hands and said nothing.
"I had a dream about you," she continued. "A sexual one. It was nice." Her voice was warm.
She misses my cock, Don decided.
It wasn't such a bad life. A blonde, doe-eyed luscious wee lassie wouldn't go amiss. 17 years old or 19 years old or else even 40 years old. He saw them all the time on the city streets. He wanted to fuck them. He imagined clasping their breasts and taking them with astonishing force. Or else other times he just fantasized about cuddling them. A few tentative, gentle kisses maybe. Some subtle dry-humping. Was it possible to engage in dry-humping in a subtle manner? He intended to find out.
There was the luscious wee lassie at work. Except she was really wee, even for a 17 year old. And she was brunette.
The other night he had somehow accidentally collided with her. That is if you believe accidents like that are really accidents. He somehow didn't. Their knees had bumped together and they had both apologised simultaneously. He had imagined he had heard a shade of excitement in her voice. But presumably it was nothig more than imagination or else psychological projection. He had visualised her bare knee beneath her trousers. Pale, small, soft. He hoped it hadn't bruised. Although part of him sort of hoped it had. He imagined coming on the bruise. Jesus Christ.
His friend Valdez threw a party on Saturday night and it was there that Don found his archetypal doe-eyed blonde. Christ, she was perfect, impossibly gorgeous. Musta been around 18 years of age. Maybe 17, but a fully grown 17, unlike that frolicsomne wee wench at work. She wore a pretty polka dot dress. Don yearned to empty his satchels across it. He was an egregious bastard. But he was also a tender bastard. He yearned for affection as well.
With some manuevering he managed to end up in on eof the upstairs bedrooms with the lass. They lay on bed together, Don on top, his head nestled on her pert, firm funbags. One thing lead to another and then he found himself frantically dry-humping her. His groin felt heavy and he felt almost nauseas with delirious lust. He stopped thrusting abruptly as he felt the inner leg of his jeans splatter with ejaculate which quickly became cold and sticky. The lass began sobbing quietly. Don felt deflated, sleepy, and slightly unethical. It wasn't a bad life. It was confusing as hell sometimes though.
Important disclaimer: the characters and events in the preceeding story are entirely fictional and, for the most part, are not based on any actual experiences of the author.
He had finished the night's work and was now heading home. As he walked he listened to 80s shoegaze pop on an archaic walkman. He also played movies in his head, fantastical films where he played a noble, heroic protagonist. This entertained him and made the trek home that much shorter.
When he got home he phoned Wendy.
"How come you didn't stay in New York?" she asked suddenly. Don clutched the mouthpiece of the phone in both hands and said nothing.
"I had a dream about you," she continued. "A sexual one. It was nice." Her voice was warm.
She misses my cock, Don decided.
It wasn't such a bad life. A blonde, doe-eyed luscious wee lassie wouldn't go amiss. 17 years old or 19 years old or else even 40 years old. He saw them all the time on the city streets. He wanted to fuck them. He imagined clasping their breasts and taking them with astonishing force. Or else other times he just fantasized about cuddling them. A few tentative, gentle kisses maybe. Some subtle dry-humping. Was it possible to engage in dry-humping in a subtle manner? He intended to find out.
There was the luscious wee lassie at work. Except she was really wee, even for a 17 year old. And she was brunette.
The other night he had somehow accidentally collided with her. That is if you believe accidents like that are really accidents. He somehow didn't. Their knees had bumped together and they had both apologised simultaneously. He had imagined he had heard a shade of excitement in her voice. But presumably it was nothig more than imagination or else psychological projection. He had visualised her bare knee beneath her trousers. Pale, small, soft. He hoped it hadn't bruised. Although part of him sort of hoped it had. He imagined coming on the bruise. Jesus Christ.
His friend Valdez threw a party on Saturday night and it was there that Don found his archetypal doe-eyed blonde. Christ, she was perfect, impossibly gorgeous. Musta been around 18 years of age. Maybe 17, but a fully grown 17, unlike that frolicsomne wee wench at work. She wore a pretty polka dot dress. Don yearned to empty his satchels across it. He was an egregious bastard. But he was also a tender bastard. He yearned for affection as well.
With some manuevering he managed to end up in on eof the upstairs bedrooms with the lass. They lay on bed together, Don on top, his head nestled on her pert, firm funbags. One thing lead to another and then he found himself frantically dry-humping her. His groin felt heavy and he felt almost nauseas with delirious lust. He stopped thrusting abruptly as he felt the inner leg of his jeans splatter with ejaculate which quickly became cold and sticky. The lass began sobbing quietly. Don felt deflated, sleepy, and slightly unethical. It wasn't a bad life. It was confusing as hell sometimes though.
Important disclaimer: the characters and events in the preceeding story are entirely fictional and, for the most part, are not based on any actual experiences of the author.
Sunday 16 November 2008
At 23:16 it wasn't coming. So I thought don't panic. It may come later. It may not even come tonight. That doesn't matter. There's no rush. And then I found that in the act of transcribing these thoughts, it had come.
Time zips by. Boredom is unfathomable. Thoughts flow from my scribbling fingers, easily. Consciousness is a fascinating thing. What else is there?
At 23:22 on A Wednesday evening, nothing. Or at any other time, for that matter.
Those are some words that just came out of my mind, for all of you to ponder. Of course that's just a flash of something infinitely vaster, deeper. Inscrutable, ineffable. This is where art and music works and writing falls shorts.
Trying to conjure up some thoughts and ideas. Not much doing. Could try composing something about a certain luscious wee lassie. That tends to keep me amused. I've had coffee for mental energy. On to wine now to take the edge off the caffeine induced tension I seem to be predisposed to. Wine will relax me and the thoughts will flow freely through me. I will transcribe them in a hypnotised state. I will be able to shut all the other shite out and just focus!
That is if the fuckin' dug shuts up man nippin' ma fuckin' heid. Scratchin' the flair for reasons beyond anyone's ken. He's hyped up after having been for a walk wi' ma da. Pacin' aboot, restless as fuck. There, he's sat doon now.
So anyway. The luscious wee lassie. Mibby I could craft sone sort of soppy tale about her. Some sentimental shite. Channel the longing I seem to have regrettably developed for her.
Man I'd like to drink some wine with this wee chick in a like cosy setting. Now I'm imagining tricklin' wine doon her supple young breasts, or thighs. Lapping it off. Christ, I'm a sick old dog.
The mind needs something to preoccupy it. For some reason, unrealistic scenarios, ie fantasies, seem to come into play a bit too often. Ah mang.
I'm fairly lonely but I'm not exactly unhappy about this state of affairs. I live in my own head a lot of the time. I ruminate, meditate. Contemplate. It's all empty. Ma heid's empty. Fulla shite.
I want tae kiss the luscious wee lassie tenderly. I imagine dropping her off after work, leaning in a for a fleeting hesitant kiss. Christ, man. Then she'd be out the car, disappear into the house with an excited smile. And I'd drive off, roaring with joy, grinning like a fool. That's what life's all about these short lived euphorias. You find them where you can. And if you cannae find them, you ruminate on them, write about them even. I want to press my nose against her head, against her black hair. I want to cuddle her and explore her body in a blissful wine delerium.
Time zips by. Boredom is unfathomable. Thoughts flow from my scribbling fingers, easily. Consciousness is a fascinating thing. What else is there?
At 23:22 on A Wednesday evening, nothing. Or at any other time, for that matter.
Those are some words that just came out of my mind, for all of you to ponder. Of course that's just a flash of something infinitely vaster, deeper. Inscrutable, ineffable. This is where art and music works and writing falls shorts.
Trying to conjure up some thoughts and ideas. Not much doing. Could try composing something about a certain luscious wee lassie. That tends to keep me amused. I've had coffee for mental energy. On to wine now to take the edge off the caffeine induced tension I seem to be predisposed to. Wine will relax me and the thoughts will flow freely through me. I will transcribe them in a hypnotised state. I will be able to shut all the other shite out and just focus!
That is if the fuckin' dug shuts up man nippin' ma fuckin' heid. Scratchin' the flair for reasons beyond anyone's ken. He's hyped up after having been for a walk wi' ma da. Pacin' aboot, restless as fuck. There, he's sat doon now.
So anyway. The luscious wee lassie. Mibby I could craft sone sort of soppy tale about her. Some sentimental shite. Channel the longing I seem to have regrettably developed for her.
Man I'd like to drink some wine with this wee chick in a like cosy setting. Now I'm imagining tricklin' wine doon her supple young breasts, or thighs. Lapping it off. Christ, I'm a sick old dog.
The mind needs something to preoccupy it. For some reason, unrealistic scenarios, ie fantasies, seem to come into play a bit too often. Ah mang.
I'm fairly lonely but I'm not exactly unhappy about this state of affairs. I live in my own head a lot of the time. I ruminate, meditate. Contemplate. It's all empty. Ma heid's empty. Fulla shite.
I want tae kiss the luscious wee lassie tenderly. I imagine dropping her off after work, leaning in a for a fleeting hesitant kiss. Christ, man. Then she'd be out the car, disappear into the house with an excited smile. And I'd drive off, roaring with joy, grinning like a fool. That's what life's all about these short lived euphorias. You find them where you can. And if you cannae find them, you ruminate on them, write about them even. I want to press my nose against her head, against her black hair. I want to cuddle her and explore her body in a blissful wine delerium.
Coat
The room was cluttered with electronic devices, none of which worked or else they weren't configured properly, or something. God knows. He didn't understand it and he definitely couldn't recommend it. He kept checking his email, every half hour or so, and the the inbox kept showing up empty.
At some point he lifted his pack of cigarettes and put on a coat. He ventured out into the wintry afternoon with the intention of ambling around and smoking.
He was a tender bastard at heart. He wanted a soft naive face to caress, slender shoulders to embrace. He didn't want much else. He didn't care for much else. Everything else seemed inane in comparison.
The sun was dipping, the sky dimming, objects slipping into imperceptibility. Walking in the woods over a mush of leaves, the smouldering glow of his cigarette tip hovered before him.
At some point he lifted his pack of cigarettes and put on a coat. He ventured out into the wintry afternoon with the intention of ambling around and smoking.
He was a tender bastard at heart. He wanted a soft naive face to caress, slender shoulders to embrace. He didn't want much else. He didn't care for much else. Everything else seemed inane in comparison.
The sun was dipping, the sky dimming, objects slipping into imperceptibility. Walking in the woods over a mush of leaves, the smouldering glow of his cigarette tip hovered before him.
Untitled
I wasn't wanting it to happen. I was hoping it wasn't going to happen. It was impending, or at least it seemed impending. And I was morose. They sensed I was this way. In this mood. And yet they still felt compelled to ask me why I was so quite. I just shrugged. Murmured something. I can't remember what.
He studied her face like it was a cryptic crossword clue. She was standing by the door, he was on the couch.
He sat down before the typewriter, set his glass down beside it and lit a cigarette. His fingers began pecking at the the keys. His face wore a ponderous expression. He finished the paragraph and extracted the sheet of paper. He stood and read over the words, sipping his drink. Suddenly, he crumpled the page and threw it onto the carpet with supreme disdain.
He studied her face like it was a cryptic crossword clue. She was standing by the door, he was on the couch.
He sat down before the typewriter, set his glass down beside it and lit a cigarette. His fingers began pecking at the the keys. His face wore a ponderous expression. He finished the paragraph and extracted the sheet of paper. He stood and read over the words, sipping his drink. Suddenly, he crumpled the page and threw it onto the carpet with supreme disdain.
Poem for Emmi
I held you on the couch
Felt yr ribs shake when
you laughed
Today in the bar, I hold
my fingers
to my nose
to once again recall
the poignant stench
of yr cunt
Felt yr ribs shake when
you laughed
Today in the bar, I hold
my fingers
to my nose
to once again recall
the poignant stench
of yr cunt
Thursday 23 October 2008
Drawn
"Ah telt her, dinnae pull yer knickers aw the way doon, leave them just above yer knees...
"Ah'd get her tae walk aboot the livin' room wearin' jist her high heels an' suspenders...
"The bird ah wis wi the other night, she ripped her shirt aff an' her bra anaw wi it...
"Ah wis gutted man, spoiled ma hale night... Ah couldnae tell her tae pit her bra back oan, ah didnae want tae seem too weird.
"Ah like tae take wan strap oaf a t atime, get wan tit oot..."
His eyes had a glimmer in them now.
"Ah'd get her tae walk aboot the livin' room wearin' jist her high heels an' suspenders...
"The bird ah wis wi the other night, she ripped her shirt aff an' her bra anaw wi it...
"Ah wis gutted man, spoiled ma hale night... Ah couldnae tell her tae pit her bra back oan, ah didnae want tae seem too weird.
"Ah like tae take wan strap oaf a t atime, get wan tit oot..."
His eyes had a glimmer in them now.
Ma heid wisnae sare anymare but ah felt a wee bit sick. Shouldnae huv taen them painkillers after aw that booze and a near enough empty stomach anaw. I got decisively to ma feet.
"Well, it was nice meeting you... Louise." I waited for a moment. I had the impression she was angry. Why would she be angry?
The streets were glistening, slick with a rain that had thankfully ceased falling.
That lassie, Louise. Nice enough lassie. Seemed a wee bit dim, like. We had aw been at Sear's house. Louise had been regaling us with some mundane anecdote about HMV at Livingston centre. Except she'd meant H & M, no HMV. She'd got the two muddled up. And Sear, he'd said "Aye, wan's only a place that sell's clathes and the other sells CDs and that..." He spoke really slowly with a really exagerrated broad Scottish accent. He was pretty pished. And oor pal Murray says "What's with the accent?" lookin' around at us all, raisin' his eyebrows, all incredulous and amused.
We were all snickerin' at that. I keep thinkin' aboot it, walking doon the street tae work say, and ah chortle tae masel, ah hae a wee chortle.
I was given to the impression that the wee Louise lassie might possibly have a wee fancy for me. Then again, that could be just a figment of ma inherently narcissitic imagination. She wisnae bad lookin', as ah says a wee bit daft though, in both her demeanour and appearance ah mean like her facial expressions and mannerisms etc. Ah dinnae want tae come across as an elitist cunt.
Also, what would a lassie like her see in a dude like me, an eccentric cunt who fancies himself as a writer or artist or some fucking thing, a cunt who is intae like Burroughs and all that bohemian avant-garde pish.
Burroughs was a radge cunt, like. Ah wis intae him in a big way in ma teenage years, read maist of his works including the notoriously avant-garde cut-up novels, where he applied the technique of slicing up the pages of the manuscript anf then reassmbling the pages in such an arbitary fashion that any narrative or semantic cohesion was rednered completely defunct.
Ah wisnae so much inta all they other beatnik cunts. Apart fae a little known fellow by the name of D. A. Levy, a poet fae Cleveland, USA. Cunt wis intae like zen and pish like that and it shows, it definitely shows in his poetry.
Ah play in this noise rock band, we're called Playground Meltdown. Ah play guitar. Noise music. It's like a contemporary equivalent tae the likes of punk and that in the 70s. Punk got co-opted by corporate pimps, real souless faggots. Punk became conservative and staid, pish bands that aw sounded the same.
Same thing's happenin' wi' noise now.
"Well, it was nice meeting you... Louise." I waited for a moment. I had the impression she was angry. Why would she be angry?
The streets were glistening, slick with a rain that had thankfully ceased falling.
That lassie, Louise. Nice enough lassie. Seemed a wee bit dim, like. We had aw been at Sear's house. Louise had been regaling us with some mundane anecdote about HMV at Livingston centre. Except she'd meant H & M, no HMV. She'd got the two muddled up. And Sear, he'd said "Aye, wan's only a place that sell's clathes and the other sells CDs and that..." He spoke really slowly with a really exagerrated broad Scottish accent. He was pretty pished. And oor pal Murray says "What's with the accent?" lookin' around at us all, raisin' his eyebrows, all incredulous and amused.
We were all snickerin' at that. I keep thinkin' aboot it, walking doon the street tae work say, and ah chortle tae masel, ah hae a wee chortle.
I was given to the impression that the wee Louise lassie might possibly have a wee fancy for me. Then again, that could be just a figment of ma inherently narcissitic imagination. She wisnae bad lookin', as ah says a wee bit daft though, in both her demeanour and appearance ah mean like her facial expressions and mannerisms etc. Ah dinnae want tae come across as an elitist cunt.
Also, what would a lassie like her see in a dude like me, an eccentric cunt who fancies himself as a writer or artist or some fucking thing, a cunt who is intae like Burroughs and all that bohemian avant-garde pish.
Burroughs was a radge cunt, like. Ah wis intae him in a big way in ma teenage years, read maist of his works including the notoriously avant-garde cut-up novels, where he applied the technique of slicing up the pages of the manuscript anf then reassmbling the pages in such an arbitary fashion that any narrative or semantic cohesion was rednered completely defunct.
Ah wisnae so much inta all they other beatnik cunts. Apart fae a little known fellow by the name of D. A. Levy, a poet fae Cleveland, USA. Cunt wis intae like zen and pish like that and it shows, it definitely shows in his poetry.
Ah play in this noise rock band, we're called Playground Meltdown. Ah play guitar. Noise music. It's like a contemporary equivalent tae the likes of punk and that in the 70s. Punk got co-opted by corporate pimps, real souless faggots. Punk became conservative and staid, pish bands that aw sounded the same.
Same thing's happenin' wi' noise now.
The so called artiste lay in his room, on his bed. The walls of the room were bare; wallpaper had been stripped to reveal faded blue and green paint. Abstract splotches. The so called artiste dug it. All his possessions had been removed to facilitate the wallpaper stripping process. Afterwards he had not returned much to the room. A few books, the TV, games console. Just a few inane distractions.
It was his stereo he missed the most. Listening to CDs on the games console via the crappy wee TV was unsatisfying. And he couldn't listen to his records at all.
Besides that, he had other problems. Like what the fuck was he doing with his life? for example. Dossing around, reading books. Sleeping during the day. Sitting up late and writing, or else drinking. A perpetual malcontent. Yet fairly easily satisfied, all in all.
There was the wee lassie at work. The wan he'd taking a liking to. It was absurd. She was a whole seven years his junior. Plus sometimes she struck him as a tad daft. Aw here we go, the elitist cunt again. The supposed artiste.
His room was imbued with a minimalism that he sorta dug. He had been writing a lot more recently. Maybe hucklin' oot aw that clutter had cleared his heid a bit. Plus there was the fact of him being hugely influenced by James Kelman, an author he'd recently discovered.
The wee lassie: she dug him. But to what extent? He hoped to the extent that she yearned for a bloody good ravishing from him, the frolicsome wee wench that she wis!
Nah, he wanted to protect her, keep her warm. None of that depraved carnal shit. That simply wasn't wholesome, baby. It wisnae spiritual. And that was the level he affected to vibrate on.
Still, if he were to find himself in a situation where she was on her knees, fellating him, gazing up at him doe-eyed, well, he wouldn't object!. Definitely not. On the contrary, he'd positively encourage such behaviour! He'd encourage her in a husky voice, thick with lust, whilst gently slapping the back of her heid. Gowd dammit, that wid be braw!
Still, no point meditating on these unlikely occurences, much less writing aboot them.
It was his stereo he missed the most. Listening to CDs on the games console via the crappy wee TV was unsatisfying. And he couldn't listen to his records at all.
Besides that, he had other problems. Like what the fuck was he doing with his life? for example. Dossing around, reading books. Sleeping during the day. Sitting up late and writing, or else drinking. A perpetual malcontent. Yet fairly easily satisfied, all in all.
There was the wee lassie at work. The wan he'd taking a liking to. It was absurd. She was a whole seven years his junior. Plus sometimes she struck him as a tad daft. Aw here we go, the elitist cunt again. The supposed artiste.
His room was imbued with a minimalism that he sorta dug. He had been writing a lot more recently. Maybe hucklin' oot aw that clutter had cleared his heid a bit. Plus there was the fact of him being hugely influenced by James Kelman, an author he'd recently discovered.
The wee lassie: she dug him. But to what extent? He hoped to the extent that she yearned for a bloody good ravishing from him, the frolicsome wee wench that she wis!
Nah, he wanted to protect her, keep her warm. None of that depraved carnal shit. That simply wasn't wholesome, baby. It wisnae spiritual. And that was the level he affected to vibrate on.
Still, if he were to find himself in a situation where she was on her knees, fellating him, gazing up at him doe-eyed, well, he wouldn't object!. Definitely not. On the contrary, he'd positively encourage such behaviour! He'd encourage her in a husky voice, thick with lust, whilst gently slapping the back of her heid. Gowd dammit, that wid be braw!
Still, no point meditating on these unlikely occurences, much less writing aboot them.
He paused for a moment when he lifted the spoon. Something felt amiss. It was the weight of the thing; it didn't feel quite heavy enough. Like a hollow decoy. It was reminiscent of an odd sensation he'd had a few days ago when he lifted a teaspoon from a kitchen drawer. It had seemed small. But only slightly. Subtly scaled down.
He was carrying the last of the tills up the stairs to the cash office when all of a sudden he felt himself becoming coy, furtive almost. No, not furtive... Calculating. And he felt as if part of himself detested another part of himself. But he couldn't resist asking her what he was going to ask her.
A male colleague walked alongside him, providing inane conversation. She was slightly behind the two of them. He was going to have to time his question well. Wait for an opening. Also it was crucial that he not appear in any way eager or opportunistic. They all stopped by the clocking machine and he uttered the words.
"Would ye like a lift home?"
She conceded to a lift home. Conceded? Is that the right word? Acquiesced? Whatever, she accepted the invitation is what I'm trying to convey. Overall, he was pleased with how it had went. He had issued the invitation with supreme nonchalance. His male colleague hadn't made any untoward jokes or comments. Why would he? Well, the protagonist in this tale always feared the worst.
She went into the changing room. He dumped the till in the cash office safe. When he came out she was waiting by the clocking machine. I'm just going to retrieve my wallet he explained to her. He went into the changing room to retrieve said wallet from his locker. She was waiting by the clocking machine. Waiting for him. It was as if they were going on a date or something. He felt a surge of excitement. He sensed she felt the same way. Slightly nervous. Slightly thrilled. Maybe he was just projecting his own emotional state onto her.
He dropped her off at her hoose without incident. Throughout the short car journey an awkward first date vibe had prevailed. Inane chatter. Nervous pauses. The whole thing was pretty exciting. God, is this how I get my kicks now? he thought to himself, incredulous, amused. That was the key to existence, he felt. If ever something felt in any way tragic, depressing or existentially upsetting the trick was to extract oneself from said situation and view it comically. He would imagine himself an incourrigble, quirky character in a sitcom. Findning himself in these amusing situations at the whims of the universe. It beat the hell ouot of self-pity.
He was carrying the last of the tills up the stairs to the cash office when all of a sudden he felt himself becoming coy, furtive almost. No, not furtive... Calculating. And he felt as if part of himself detested another part of himself. But he couldn't resist asking her what he was going to ask her.
A male colleague walked alongside him, providing inane conversation. She was slightly behind the two of them. He was going to have to time his question well. Wait for an opening. Also it was crucial that he not appear in any way eager or opportunistic. They all stopped by the clocking machine and he uttered the words.
"Would ye like a lift home?"
She conceded to a lift home. Conceded? Is that the right word? Acquiesced? Whatever, she accepted the invitation is what I'm trying to convey. Overall, he was pleased with how it had went. He had issued the invitation with supreme nonchalance. His male colleague hadn't made any untoward jokes or comments. Why would he? Well, the protagonist in this tale always feared the worst.
She went into the changing room. He dumped the till in the cash office safe. When he came out she was waiting by the clocking machine. I'm just going to retrieve my wallet he explained to her. He went into the changing room to retrieve said wallet from his locker. She was waiting by the clocking machine. Waiting for him. It was as if they were going on a date or something. He felt a surge of excitement. He sensed she felt the same way. Slightly nervous. Slightly thrilled. Maybe he was just projecting his own emotional state onto her.
He dropped her off at her hoose without incident. Throughout the short car journey an awkward first date vibe had prevailed. Inane chatter. Nervous pauses. The whole thing was pretty exciting. God, is this how I get my kicks now? he thought to himself, incredulous, amused. That was the key to existence, he felt. If ever something felt in any way tragic, depressing or existentially upsetting the trick was to extract oneself from said situation and view it comically. He would imagine himself an incourrigble, quirky character in a sitcom. Findning himself in these amusing situations at the whims of the universe. It beat the hell ouot of self-pity.
The book of poetry fell down, off the shelf, and he couldn't quite bring himself to lift it and place it back on there. Instead he felt a deep-seated revulsion for the human race and its myriad forms of cultural artistic expression. Not to mention non-artistic and other forms of expression, whatever the hell they might be. To hell with all of it.
He thought about earlier. Getting drunk. Falling asleep at 9pm, on a friend's couch. Coming home with a headache, preparing a cheese sandwich. Went to sit down on the comfortable chair, his favourite chair. A brown thing. The chair was covered in assorted bric-a-brac, rendering it uninhabitable. Figures. He stood on the cool tiled kitchen flair, munching away. Head splitting. Fuck it. Bedtime. 4am and he was workin' the morn at noon! And again the next day. Some fuckin' weekend! He'd done fuck all but get pissed. Well, semi-pissed. Not even a fully-fledged drunk. Well fuck that, he was too old for that now. He was too sensible for that shite.
And he recalled the words of his xenophobic pal, discussing how he was being investigated by the government for tax evasion. "Ah'll land up in the gaol. Am no a paki and am no Polish. Am white, I'll get done for it. Broxburn, born and bred for 25 year. Am no a nigger and am no a Pole. Cuz am white ah'll get done."
He thought about earlier. Getting drunk. Falling asleep at 9pm, on a friend's couch. Coming home with a headache, preparing a cheese sandwich. Went to sit down on the comfortable chair, his favourite chair. A brown thing. The chair was covered in assorted bric-a-brac, rendering it uninhabitable. Figures. He stood on the cool tiled kitchen flair, munching away. Head splitting. Fuck it. Bedtime. 4am and he was workin' the morn at noon! And again the next day. Some fuckin' weekend! He'd done fuck all but get pissed. Well, semi-pissed. Not even a fully-fledged drunk. Well fuck that, he was too old for that now. He was too sensible for that shite.
And he recalled the words of his xenophobic pal, discussing how he was being investigated by the government for tax evasion. "Ah'll land up in the gaol. Am no a paki and am no Polish. Am white, I'll get done for it. Broxburn, born and bred for 25 year. Am no a nigger and am no a Pole. Cuz am white ah'll get done."
Lee Jones rode the elevator to the ground floor. He left the offices and started towards the far side of the car park. It was a clear, crisp wintry day. Once he got to this car he realised with a pang of annoyance that his key's weren't in his pocket. They had been. What the hell had he done with them?
"Fuck!" he screamed. Some birds fluttered skyward. A bewildered old lady turned to look at him.
Oh wait. They were in his coat pocket. He exhaled deeply and then forced himself to chuckle. He grinned sheepishly at the old woman. What the fuck was she doing wandering around the car park anyway?
He got behind the wheel and began driving to the beach. A cassette lay in the open mouth of the tape deck. He nudged it in. Throbbing Gristle. He turned the sound up, began nodding his head emphatically. He punched the roof of the car and yelped. His eyes rolled back to their whites, he bared his teeth in a demented grin. Shit, he had to get it together. He inhaled. Held it. Exhaled deeply.
Lee lay in bed composing poetry. His dog writhed about on the carpeted floor, apparently satisfying various itches. Lee regarded the dog with some fondness. He began composing a poem for the dog. Very tender stuff. Heartfelt. He grinned, drooling all over the A4 slice of paper. A single tear rolled down his cheek. Once he was finished he tore off the sheet and went over to crouch beside dog. He placed the poem on the creature's back and then clapped the dog, stroking the piece of paper along its fur. He tried to wrap the paper around dog's head as a sort of makeshift shawl but dog became perturbed and wandered off. Lee sighed and climbed back into bed.
One of these fucking days he'd get his shit together. He just knew it. He fucking felt it. But until then... There was just this inanity. Scribbling shite poetry. Awkwardly cuddling dog. Becoming exasperated. Contemplating philosophy. Breathing.
He felt good.
"Fuck!" he screamed. Some birds fluttered skyward. A bewildered old lady turned to look at him.
Oh wait. They were in his coat pocket. He exhaled deeply and then forced himself to chuckle. He grinned sheepishly at the old woman. What the fuck was she doing wandering around the car park anyway?
He got behind the wheel and began driving to the beach. A cassette lay in the open mouth of the tape deck. He nudged it in. Throbbing Gristle. He turned the sound up, began nodding his head emphatically. He punched the roof of the car and yelped. His eyes rolled back to their whites, he bared his teeth in a demented grin. Shit, he had to get it together. He inhaled. Held it. Exhaled deeply.
Lee lay in bed composing poetry. His dog writhed about on the carpeted floor, apparently satisfying various itches. Lee regarded the dog with some fondness. He began composing a poem for the dog. Very tender stuff. Heartfelt. He grinned, drooling all over the A4 slice of paper. A single tear rolled down his cheek. Once he was finished he tore off the sheet and went over to crouch beside dog. He placed the poem on the creature's back and then clapped the dog, stroking the piece of paper along its fur. He tried to wrap the paper around dog's head as a sort of makeshift shawl but dog became perturbed and wandered off. Lee sighed and climbed back into bed.
One of these fucking days he'd get his shit together. He just knew it. He fucking felt it. But until then... There was just this inanity. Scribbling shite poetry. Awkwardly cuddling dog. Becoming exasperated. Contemplating philosophy. Breathing.
He felt good.
Saturday 20 September 2008
El Paso
A magazine flutters open in the wind. In the middle of the page is a reproduction of some sort of abstract painting. Chaotic oily blue swirls. It looks quite beautiful in the sunlight beside the swimming pool. A constant stream of cars surge past. Hotels tower above. The kid considers clipping out this image and pasting it to something. A guitar, perhaps. Beyond that, beyond this single moment, he has no idea what to do. His eyes are damp, his lips cracked and dry. They still smell of medicine, he tastes them hesitantly with his tongue. Traffic surges past in a heady roar and he tastes the medicine on his lip again, reassured by the the smell. He shudders in the breeze and turns to walk back inside to the hotel lobby.
Elderly American tourists regard him benignly. He nods benovelently at them. The elevator drags him skyward. On the sixth floor he finds his room. He enters and stands by the window which is admitting a musty square of sunlight. Some Mexican kids drift by on skateboards on the street below. He watches them for a second and then looks over to the horizon. The sun has begun to descend. Before long the sky will be streaked with beautiful streaks of muted colours. The kid experiences a twang of cosmic peace and euphoria. It will be short-lived though.
Elderly American tourists regard him benignly. He nods benovelently at them. The elevator drags him skyward. On the sixth floor he finds his room. He enters and stands by the window which is admitting a musty square of sunlight. Some Mexican kids drift by on skateboards on the street below. He watches them for a second and then looks over to the horizon. The sun has begun to descend. Before long the sky will be streaked with beautiful streaks of muted colours. The kid experiences a twang of cosmic peace and euphoria. It will be short-lived though.
Monday 18 August 2008
THE WALK
I'm lying on the bed. My limbs tingle with fatigue. The room is illuminated by the throbbing glow of the electronically twinkling Christmas lights. The house is silent. The phone is unplugged.
Pale wintry light filters in through the window when I awaken. I feel I have slept a while. I exhale deeply, feeling rested. I get up and trudge downstairs in my underwear to prepare coffee. Before I do this I reconnect the phone. As I sit in the armchair by the window, sipping hot coffee, it rings. I continue to sip my coffee, ignoring its shrill notification.
After two cups of coffee, I wrap up in a heavy coat and head outside to embark on a stroll. I have a cassette player to listen to, an old Sony Walkman. It is scuffed but functioning.
As I stroll, I contemplate the facts of my existence. I am 43 years old. I still live in my grandfather's home. He died five years ago, aged 95. I am a freelance copy-editor, working from home. I resist direct contact with other human beings as much as possible. I want to impart this information now, instead of relaying it gradually or incidentally.
I walk alone along by the canal. A shriveled, bewildered old woman is feeding a few swans with bread, muttering to herself incoherently. I have seen this woman before and am somehow fond of her. I recall a time when I was 26 and I thought I should do or be something more. Since then I've the vague notion that I somehow missed my opening.
My breath rises before me in white wisps. I pass a deserted playground, its metallic surfaces glinting in the sharp wintry light. The day is quiet and still. And cold.
I am of a fairly neurotic disposition. I dislike brushing my teeth. Showering unnerves me. Neither of these traits should be attributed to laziness or some sort of willful hygienic neglect. Although I come across as lethargic and preoccupied, when I apply myself to something I am thorough.
My feet crunch the frosted grass as urine coloured sunshine spills over dead grey buildings. I walk quickly. I use walking to exhaust myself, a therapeutic exercise I have learned. Oftentimes physical and mental levels of energy are intertwined. If I sit for too long I become restless and agitated. I walk each morning, fuelled by coffee. I mull over prospective literary ideas.
My aspiration, you see, is to become a writer. I've been at it, on and off, since my late teenage years. I've had a few things published, articles and stories here and there in mostly small publications. Still, I indulge the fantasy of publishing a novel one day.
I suppose I don't have the mental wherewithal to see it through. A certain type of mental agility and tenacity that I lack. Sometimes I think my best pieces of writing are my brief, fleeting journal entries. Spontaneity seems to be my muse.
I've had my fair share of pussy in my time. I haven't really had much of late though admittedly. Partly this is due to a slight resignation on my part. A loss in interest as well as a decline in self-confidence. I rely on occasional masturbation, abetted by vivid, complex fantasies, to satisfy my carnal urges.
For a time I was engaged to be married, but that didn't pan out. She changed her mind. She found herself someone else. No, she didn't. Yes she did. I've always felt different from 'normal' people. Too quiet. Too withdrawn. At worst I make people suspicious, at best, uncomfortable. I don't mind too much; I have a rich inner life, the kind that too many lack these days, or so it seems to me.
I know what I must do now; I must exist solely to write. Other things have passed me by. This is all that I have left.
A pretty girl lives along the street. Sometimes whilst masturbating, I imagine her kneeling down, nude, eagerly performing a blowjob on your humble narrator. Then I ejaculate and am horrified by such depraved machinations. Then, a few days later, I repeat these proceedings.
Other times my fantasies involve reluctance on the part of the girl whilst I brutally force sexual acts upon her. Post-ejaculation a hopeless numbness overcomes me, rendering me totally lethargic.
I have an extensive record collection which I rarely listen to anymore. The promise and earnest urgency of my youthful music tastes seems irrelevant at this stage in the game. I prefer the ambient sounds of a small suburb at dusk.
10:05am is a good time to write, 'specially post-coffee. There's been some rain today, the sky is overcast. The telephone ringing is like a banshee wailing. Tempted to go some place where I'm not obliged to leave the thing connected.
It's not such a bad life, I reflect. Save for the occasional bought of crushing melancholy. Beautiful girls on the street; you make me want to sob into your golden hair.
I reflect on a key moment during my formative adolescent years. The day in high school when me pants wis drenched wi' pish. It was harrowing, kid. A part of me closed off that day, possibly for good.
Gazing out the blank window, I apply some cheap fragrance for no apparent reason. Why this overwhelming sense of vague urgency? And these unnamable anxieties, where do they emit from?
My uncle was a homosexual, my auntie is an embittered spinster, my father is pussy-whipped by my domineering mother. I can only conclude that they had a flawed model on which to base relationships.
I walk to the library, browse the books, smile at the Chinese librarian. All the while filled with a fragile awe, as when regarding slowly tumbling leaves.
Pale wintry light filters in through the window when I awaken. I feel I have slept a while. I exhale deeply, feeling rested. I get up and trudge downstairs in my underwear to prepare coffee. Before I do this I reconnect the phone. As I sit in the armchair by the window, sipping hot coffee, it rings. I continue to sip my coffee, ignoring its shrill notification.
After two cups of coffee, I wrap up in a heavy coat and head outside to embark on a stroll. I have a cassette player to listen to, an old Sony Walkman. It is scuffed but functioning.
As I stroll, I contemplate the facts of my existence. I am 43 years old. I still live in my grandfather's home. He died five years ago, aged 95. I am a freelance copy-editor, working from home. I resist direct contact with other human beings as much as possible. I want to impart this information now, instead of relaying it gradually or incidentally.
I walk alone along by the canal. A shriveled, bewildered old woman is feeding a few swans with bread, muttering to herself incoherently. I have seen this woman before and am somehow fond of her. I recall a time when I was 26 and I thought I should do or be something more. Since then I've the vague notion that I somehow missed my opening.
My breath rises before me in white wisps. I pass a deserted playground, its metallic surfaces glinting in the sharp wintry light. The day is quiet and still. And cold.
I am of a fairly neurotic disposition. I dislike brushing my teeth. Showering unnerves me. Neither of these traits should be attributed to laziness or some sort of willful hygienic neglect. Although I come across as lethargic and preoccupied, when I apply myself to something I am thorough.
My feet crunch the frosted grass as urine coloured sunshine spills over dead grey buildings. I walk quickly. I use walking to exhaust myself, a therapeutic exercise I have learned. Oftentimes physical and mental levels of energy are intertwined. If I sit for too long I become restless and agitated. I walk each morning, fuelled by coffee. I mull over prospective literary ideas.
My aspiration, you see, is to become a writer. I've been at it, on and off, since my late teenage years. I've had a few things published, articles and stories here and there in mostly small publications. Still, I indulge the fantasy of publishing a novel one day.
I suppose I don't have the mental wherewithal to see it through. A certain type of mental agility and tenacity that I lack. Sometimes I think my best pieces of writing are my brief, fleeting journal entries. Spontaneity seems to be my muse.
I've had my fair share of pussy in my time. I haven't really had much of late though admittedly. Partly this is due to a slight resignation on my part. A loss in interest as well as a decline in self-confidence. I rely on occasional masturbation, abetted by vivid, complex fantasies, to satisfy my carnal urges.
For a time I was engaged to be married, but that didn't pan out. She changed her mind. She found herself someone else. No, she didn't. Yes she did. I've always felt different from 'normal' people. Too quiet. Too withdrawn. At worst I make people suspicious, at best, uncomfortable. I don't mind too much; I have a rich inner life, the kind that too many lack these days, or so it seems to me.
I know what I must do now; I must exist solely to write. Other things have passed me by. This is all that I have left.
A pretty girl lives along the street. Sometimes whilst masturbating, I imagine her kneeling down, nude, eagerly performing a blowjob on your humble narrator. Then I ejaculate and am horrified by such depraved machinations. Then, a few days later, I repeat these proceedings.
Other times my fantasies involve reluctance on the part of the girl whilst I brutally force sexual acts upon her. Post-ejaculation a hopeless numbness overcomes me, rendering me totally lethargic.
I have an extensive record collection which I rarely listen to anymore. The promise and earnest urgency of my youthful music tastes seems irrelevant at this stage in the game. I prefer the ambient sounds of a small suburb at dusk.
10:05am is a good time to write, 'specially post-coffee. There's been some rain today, the sky is overcast. The telephone ringing is like a banshee wailing. Tempted to go some place where I'm not obliged to leave the thing connected.
It's not such a bad life, I reflect. Save for the occasional bought of crushing melancholy. Beautiful girls on the street; you make me want to sob into your golden hair.
I reflect on a key moment during my formative adolescent years. The day in high school when me pants wis drenched wi' pish. It was harrowing, kid. A part of me closed off that day, possibly for good.
Gazing out the blank window, I apply some cheap fragrance for no apparent reason. Why this overwhelming sense of vague urgency? And these unnamable anxieties, where do they emit from?
My uncle was a homosexual, my auntie is an embittered spinster, my father is pussy-whipped by my domineering mother. I can only conclude that they had a flawed model on which to base relationships.
I walk to the library, browse the books, smile at the Chinese librarian. All the while filled with a fragile awe, as when regarding slowly tumbling leaves.
Thursday 14 August 2008
Jonson Jones opened the back door to allow his dog to exit the house. The dog had been scratching at the door persistently for the past five minutes. The door now open, the dog scampered out and Jones poked his head out into the night air. It being a mild, calm night, Jones decided to join his pooch outside. He fetched his glass of wine and sat himself on the bench beside his house. His dog wandered over to him and allowed itself to be stroked with gentle fondness. Jones sat like that for a while, listening to the hushed roar of midnight silence. He enjoyed this respite from feeling weird, from being bogged down in bright light and human emotion. He enjoyed the dark and his mute animal companion. Well, mute that is except for occasional coarse, territorial barking.
Presently he heard his neighbours' back door opening. He could just about discern the vague shape of his neighbour emerging silently onto her back doorstep. She stood there for a minute and Jones had the impression that she was watching him although he couldn't be certain she noticed him at all sitting so still in the dark like that. But evidently she did because she spoke to him, commenting on the fine nocturnal weather. Jones murmured his agreement. She opened the wooden gate in the fence that segregated their respective gardens and sat down beside him without speaking. Jones heard her swallow in the silence. What a peaceful sound, a comforting, reassuring sound. He grasped his knee and tried desperately to think of something to say. Then he sipped his wine and relaxed and asked his neighbour if she would care for a sip from his glass. Indeed I would she told him with a hint of playfulness in her tone that made Jones feel almost nauseous with excitement. He wanted her to stroke his dog, he wanted to stroke her knee. He longed to embrace her delicate frame and kiss her lips and feel her breath hot and heavy in his ear. He took a long sip of wine and allowed himself to feel giddy and irresponsible. His dog lay at their feet and sky was tinged with violet and distant streetlights were an acidic amber colour.
Presently he heard his neighbours' back door opening. He could just about discern the vague shape of his neighbour emerging silently onto her back doorstep. She stood there for a minute and Jones had the impression that she was watching him although he couldn't be certain she noticed him at all sitting so still in the dark like that. But evidently she did because she spoke to him, commenting on the fine nocturnal weather. Jones murmured his agreement. She opened the wooden gate in the fence that segregated their respective gardens and sat down beside him without speaking. Jones heard her swallow in the silence. What a peaceful sound, a comforting, reassuring sound. He grasped his knee and tried desperately to think of something to say. Then he sipped his wine and relaxed and asked his neighbour if she would care for a sip from his glass. Indeed I would she told him with a hint of playfulness in her tone that made Jones feel almost nauseous with excitement. He wanted her to stroke his dog, he wanted to stroke her knee. He longed to embrace her delicate frame and kiss her lips and feel her breath hot and heavy in his ear. He took a long sip of wine and allowed himself to feel giddy and irresponsible. His dog lay at their feet and sky was tinged with violet and distant streetlights were an acidic amber colour.
Wires jutted out of rolled-up posters. Jan realised these guitar strings and felt out of his depth. No, you're not out of your depth, he told himself. He looked at Luna and wondered if she would take off her clothes. She was preoccupied with changing over a battery in a fuzz pedal.
Luna was much given to solitary pursuits. Mainly playing guitar and other art projects. Aged 19, she had already prepared installations, guitar based, for several of the city's hippest art spaces and cafes. Jan interested her as he affected to be a poet. He was aloof, preoccupied, nervy, all the classic traits of said profession. His poems also happened to suck but that was besides the point. He was gorgeous - he looked bored, dreamy, angelic.
She was gorgeous he reflected. He felt surges of tenderness, excitement, fear. He watched her carefully light an incense stick and he wanted to take her small hand and kiss and lick it. Sad, slow whisps of silver smoke trailed upward to the ceiling. Minute billows destined for consumption by the greedy heavens. Please don't rain, he prayed. Allow nothing to extinguish this moment.
She put on a John Cale CD, one of his more abstract conceptual pieces. Jan had to sit down and hold onto something as he felt the room go into a wild and dreamy orbit.
Luna was much given to solitary pursuits. Mainly playing guitar and other art projects. Aged 19, she had already prepared installations, guitar based, for several of the city's hippest art spaces and cafes. Jan interested her as he affected to be a poet. He was aloof, preoccupied, nervy, all the classic traits of said profession. His poems also happened to suck but that was besides the point. He was gorgeous - he looked bored, dreamy, angelic.
She was gorgeous he reflected. He felt surges of tenderness, excitement, fear. He watched her carefully light an incense stick and he wanted to take her small hand and kiss and lick it. Sad, slow whisps of silver smoke trailed upward to the ceiling. Minute billows destined for consumption by the greedy heavens. Please don't rain, he prayed. Allow nothing to extinguish this moment.
She put on a John Cale CD, one of his more abstract conceptual pieces. Jan had to sit down and hold onto something as he felt the room go into a wild and dreamy orbit.
BLOCK
The phone rang. It was Frieda, with an invitation to escort her to a roller disco.
"I'm not a roller disco kinda guy," Jock replied gruffly, and dropped the phone back into its cradle.
Outside it was cloudy. Jock made coffee. Halfway through drinking it, he remembered he was 'caffeine sensitive.'
"Fuck it," he said and finished the mug off. Then he screamed and shattered the mug on the tiled floor.
Frieda phoned again. She was 'concerned' about him, quote-unquote.
"Concern yourself with something more mysterious," he advised her.
Because there was no mystery anymore. The visions had dried up. He hadn't felt the sober chill of a winter sunrise yet; he slept all day and barely wrote anything.
"Dammit, Frieda, come back to me," he murmured to himself. It was midnight, pouring with rain. He stood staring at the phone, aghast. The four walls of the rooms were obscene in their oppressiveness. He had sat staring at a fresh slice of paper all day, clasping a biro. Poised, agitated. Trying to channel a feeling or some sort of vision. Nothing.
Nothing. Just blackness. An insurmountable feeling of lethargy and hopelessness. He tried to wrack his brain. Somewhere in there the writing lay dormant, waiting to be excavated from his subconsciousness.
He didn't know what he should write. What should he write, dammit? He didn't know. What did writers write? Writers were... clever... He wasn't clever, dammit. Here he was affecting to be a writer and he wasn't even smart enough to defend himself.
Intellectual warfare. It was...
The phone rang.
"Frieda?" he asked, hopefully.
"No," a blunt male voice answered. Jock began sobbing and shrieking hysterically. He knocked himself over the skull with the receiver a few times and then smashed it against the wall. The he administered the same treatment to the cradle of the phone, rendering it a mess of cracked and splintered plastic. A surge of euphoric catharsis overwhelmed him and he collapsed, exhausted and calm. His tears twinkled under the single bare lightbulb. The doorbell rang.
He composed himself and slowly opened the door, red-eyed and sniffling. Frieda stood there, shy and beautiful as ever. He wanted to lay his trembling hands on her but found he couldn't. He couldn't bring himself to spoil such an untainted vision of sheer beauty. She coughed and smiled slightly.
"I'm not a roller disco kinda guy," Jock replied gruffly, and dropped the phone back into its cradle.
Outside it was cloudy. Jock made coffee. Halfway through drinking it, he remembered he was 'caffeine sensitive.'
"Fuck it," he said and finished the mug off. Then he screamed and shattered the mug on the tiled floor.
Frieda phoned again. She was 'concerned' about him, quote-unquote.
"Concern yourself with something more mysterious," he advised her.
Because there was no mystery anymore. The visions had dried up. He hadn't felt the sober chill of a winter sunrise yet; he slept all day and barely wrote anything.
"Dammit, Frieda, come back to me," he murmured to himself. It was midnight, pouring with rain. He stood staring at the phone, aghast. The four walls of the rooms were obscene in their oppressiveness. He had sat staring at a fresh slice of paper all day, clasping a biro. Poised, agitated. Trying to channel a feeling or some sort of vision. Nothing.
Nothing. Just blackness. An insurmountable feeling of lethargy and hopelessness. He tried to wrack his brain. Somewhere in there the writing lay dormant, waiting to be excavated from his subconsciousness.
He didn't know what he should write. What should he write, dammit? He didn't know. What did writers write? Writers were... clever... He wasn't clever, dammit. Here he was affecting to be a writer and he wasn't even smart enough to defend himself.
Intellectual warfare. It was...
The phone rang.
"Frieda?" he asked, hopefully.
"No," a blunt male voice answered. Jock began sobbing and shrieking hysterically. He knocked himself over the skull with the receiver a few times and then smashed it against the wall. The he administered the same treatment to the cradle of the phone, rendering it a mess of cracked and splintered plastic. A surge of euphoric catharsis overwhelmed him and he collapsed, exhausted and calm. His tears twinkled under the single bare lightbulb. The doorbell rang.
He composed himself and slowly opened the door, red-eyed and sniffling. Frieda stood there, shy and beautiful as ever. He wanted to lay his trembling hands on her but found he couldn't. He couldn't bring himself to spoil such an untainted vision of sheer beauty. She coughed and smiled slightly.
The amateur gardener stood examining his plants on a mild summer's eve. He was smiling tenderly and then he had a far-off look in his eye. The garden swelled with dignity and promised beauty.
Suddenly, a small fox came trotting into the garden and attacked the gardener. But the gardener remembered not to panic. He remembered all was just dream. He remembered and he grinned. The little fox savaged him ineffectually and the gardener, he just giggled. A shrill, effeminate giggle. The fox was growing at a hallucinatory rate, becoming increasingly menacing. It drew blood as its teeth sank into the gardener's tender, aged flesh. The gardener continued to giggle with an added note of urgent hysteria. The giggles screamed and the screams transformed into the sudden silence of a corpse. The tender wee fox cub retreated into some foliage to pick at bones. It would be another warm, lonely summer.
Suddenly, a small fox came trotting into the garden and attacked the gardener. But the gardener remembered not to panic. He remembered all was just dream. He remembered and he grinned. The little fox savaged him ineffectually and the gardener, he just giggled. A shrill, effeminate giggle. The fox was growing at a hallucinatory rate, becoming increasingly menacing. It drew blood as its teeth sank into the gardener's tender, aged flesh. The gardener continued to giggle with an added note of urgent hysteria. The giggles screamed and the screams transformed into the sudden silence of a corpse. The tender wee fox cub retreated into some foliage to pick at bones. It would be another warm, lonely summer.
With his shy four year old daughter, Billy decided to visit the pet shop. He pulled over and parked and together they went into the small building which lay between a hairdresser and a health food store.
Belinda was captivated by the hamsters. Billy watched her with fondness and recalled his own wretched youth, when he had owned a pet hamster named Mr Dink. That poor bastard had escaped and chewed through the goddamn electricity cable.
A sombre, preoccupied middle-age lady appeared and asked if they required assistance. Billy explained that they were just looking. The woman nodded and returned to the storeroom. Belinda continued to study the hamsters scurry around in their cages. She kept a light grip of her father's trouser leg, hesitant to move too close to the cage. Such a shy wee lassie, Billy thought with tenderness.
It was sunny outside. He yawned and itched his testicles. Then he set his mind to the problem of what to have for lunch. Tuna, he decided. Yeah... tuna...
Belinda was captivated by the hamsters. Billy watched her with fondness and recalled his own wretched youth, when he had owned a pet hamster named Mr Dink. That poor bastard had escaped and chewed through the goddamn electricity cable.
A sombre, preoccupied middle-age lady appeared and asked if they required assistance. Billy explained that they were just looking. The woman nodded and returned to the storeroom. Belinda continued to study the hamsters scurry around in their cages. She kept a light grip of her father's trouser leg, hesitant to move too close to the cage. Such a shy wee lassie, Billy thought with tenderness.
It was sunny outside. He yawned and itched his testicles. Then he set his mind to the problem of what to have for lunch. Tuna, he decided. Yeah... tuna...
Jock lay in bed, doodling on his testicles with a biro. He had pulled the skin taut in order to facilitate this inane task. All of a sudden, his sister entered the room and demanded to know what he was doing.
"Surely it is plain to see," he told her in a shrill voice. Maddened tears began to stream down his cheeks and bared his teeth in a hysterical grin.
"I love you, Jock," his sister told him and began weeping also.
It was at that moment that armed police crashed in through the window and confiscated the offending biro pen!
Jock's first instinct was to protest but his sister silenced him with a stern stare. Then she hissed - sssssss - like a snake. The sound was so overloaded with eroticism that one of the officers dropped his assault rifle and began groping his crotch and grinding his hips. An obscene spectacle if ever I saw one.
"You utter jobby!" shrieked Jock's sister, indignant now. The offending officer turned bright red and then committed suicide. A wave of cheers and applause.
"I'll help you bury him," Jock offered to the other officers. His [Jock's] testicles were still exposed, perhaps inappropriately. At that moment the telephone rang. Jock's sister rushed off to answer it then reappeared a minute later. She asked if she could be excused; her pimp had been on the phone with a lucrative contract for her. Jock told her it was fine and chuckled sheepishly to the officers, saying "pretty crazy line of work for someone her age to be in, eh?" He seemed embarrassed.
The officers seemed beguiled and titillated. Jock said: "wait here, I need to check something outside." Then Jock vacated the house and locked the door, trapping the police inside, and set fire to the building. Only one of the officers survived the fire. And he was scarred beyond recognition.
FIN
"Surely it is plain to see," he told her in a shrill voice. Maddened tears began to stream down his cheeks and bared his teeth in a hysterical grin.
"I love you, Jock," his sister told him and began weeping also.
It was at that moment that armed police crashed in through the window and confiscated the offending biro pen!
Jock's first instinct was to protest but his sister silenced him with a stern stare. Then she hissed - sssssss - like a snake. The sound was so overloaded with eroticism that one of the officers dropped his assault rifle and began groping his crotch and grinding his hips. An obscene spectacle if ever I saw one.
"You utter jobby!" shrieked Jock's sister, indignant now. The offending officer turned bright red and then committed suicide. A wave of cheers and applause.
"I'll help you bury him," Jock offered to the other officers. His [Jock's] testicles were still exposed, perhaps inappropriately. At that moment the telephone rang. Jock's sister rushed off to answer it then reappeared a minute later. She asked if she could be excused; her pimp had been on the phone with a lucrative contract for her. Jock told her it was fine and chuckled sheepishly to the officers, saying "pretty crazy line of work for someone her age to be in, eh?" He seemed embarrassed.
The officers seemed beguiled and titillated. Jock said: "wait here, I need to check something outside." Then Jock vacated the house and locked the door, trapping the police inside, and set fire to the building. Only one of the officers survived the fire. And he was scarred beyond recognition.
FIN
"I must confess... I've developed feelings of tenderness towards you," he whispered into the ear of the frolicsome wench, a cynical gleam in his eye. She gasped and said "...the light oot, Jock." This rendered-uh him beguiled-uh. He realised a whole word had been omitted. An impressive feat to be sure.
"Jock, make sure that light gets pit oot!" she reiterated, more firmly.
"Damn, girl," he murmured, his voice husky, shaken.
Jock and Joanne were standing at the tobacco counter of the supermarket in which they worked when this encounter took place. The same supermarket which at that very moment spontaneously imploded due to supernatural forces!
FIN
"Jock, make sure that light gets pit oot!" she reiterated, more firmly.
"Damn, girl," he murmured, his voice husky, shaken.
Jock and Joanne were standing at the tobacco counter of the supermarket in which they worked when this encounter took place. The same supermarket which at that very moment spontaneously imploded due to supernatural forces!
FIN
Tuesday 4 March 2008
HAIR
i want to smell her fucking hair she
seems so detached i
want to press my face into her
hair and sob
seems so detached i
want to press my face into her
hair and sob
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