Monday, 29 December 2008

What I Should've Said

"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.

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.

Saturday, 27 December 2008

Domination at the Glory Hole

"Violent narcissist seeks same" the personal ad read. She had also circled another one "Arrogant, self-hating narcissist seeks same."
The fat veiny erection slowly poked through the crudely carved glory hole. It looked like a blind, probing alien tentacle, she thought as she began sucking it zealously. Through the thin cubicle wall she could hear the satisfied moans of her anonymous punter.
It didnae take long before a jet of semen sprayed all over her cute, cringing face.
As slowly as it had emerged, the cock retreated now, wilting slightly.
The shy doofus cackled like a witch. He had been perving for the last half fucking hour, nervously tousling his long blonde hair, fondling his ridiculous genetalia.

As she sucked, she pondered the events that had led to this scenario. The viscious gleam in her uncle's eyes as he unbuckled his belt. Her mother's subsequent hysterical and stubborn denial of certain events.

The simpereing fool gazed at her, smiling self-consciously. She experienced a sensation akin to infinite loathing.

Beermare about India

The beach beside the
Taj Mahal is covered
with snow yet
we sunbathe there

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.


"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.


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.


"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.


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.


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

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.

Friday, 5 December 2008

Zombie Arcade (excerpt)


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.


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).

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.

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.
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