Thursday, 24 December 2009

The Kind of Man He Was

He was that kind of man, that classically perturbed kind, prone to all kinds of leering, grimacing, fervent madness, ravished turmoil, he was that kind of man, he accepted this readily, he had questions, he had questions to posit.
Such as.
How is it possible to enter into a meditation without any kind of gaining idea?
Will the perfect telepathic computer one day be invented, able to transmit vast amounts of information thus: (here he takes a deep breath, holds it, exhales slowly, blinking, something ineffable conveyed).
He was that kind of feverish lunatic, sick neurosis infesting his mind, all kinds of lingering resentment and paranoia. He was that kind of man, striding rapidly down the hard ice coated streets, collapsing on his ass, roaring into the indifferent, vastly benign night.
He located his friends and introduced chemicals to his body. Thus his introversion began. Thus his meditation began.
Weird speculations, tumbling revelations. He was that kind of man, kissed by despair, on the brink of an indefinite, infinite glory.

Saturday, 12 December 2009

Carnal Configurations Carried Out, Codified Gestures Observed

Egon frowned as April crawled over to and moved the folds of robe away from his groin enabling her to envelope his flaccid penis in her mouth. She began fellating him quickly and eagerly, her mechanically bobbing head a ludicrous spectacle.
With disgust Egon pushed her away and she crawled off, her head still bobbing zealously until it connected with the wall which she continued to headbutt chirping over and over:
"Yur sooo ca-ute!"
With violent weariness Egon went over to her and located the reset switch at the base of her spine.
Her next utterance froze him instantly.
"How come ya cain't do it!?"
This phrase had never been programmed into her memory store.
It was at that moment that it occurred to Egon Spengler that his mechanised sex slave was developing sentience.

"Whatzat?" queried Ray Stanz belligerently, sipping from a can of Budweiser.
"It's nothing," responded Spengler, noticably irked. Ray was gazing at the android with a speculative expression dressing his childish features.
"Any chance for a a wee swatch of her bush, naw?" Stanz asked, suddenly affecting a colloquial Scottish accent for no discernable reason.
Egon didn't respond.
The novelty doorbell sounded.
Egon answered the door.
Pete Venkman sttod there, dishevelled in the pristine swollen night, wearing a trucker cap and a few days worth of stubble on his face.
"Hey man, what's up?" He was slurring only slightly.
"Come in," Egon said icily.

Ray and Peter traded insults and playful jabs whilst Egon sat at his desk massaging his temples. He wore a quietly stunned, violently morose expression.
Presently Winston Zedmore emerged from the attic bedroom wearing a loud dressing gown and carrying a stale smelling bong and baggie of marijuana.
"Hey dudes," he muttered lethargically, unconvincingly. He seemed to be addressing them from behind a screen or from a distant dream reality.
Winston set down his drug paraphernalia on the weathered coffee table and sauntered over to April who sat deactivated and motionless on the couch. He located the switch at the base of her spine and then parted the folds of the gown around his lap. April automatically grasped his erect member and issued a compotent handjob. Ray and Pete gazed at this spectacle in solemn speculation. Egon studiously avoided looking at anything in particular.

With a sudden start, a seeming surge of resolve, Ray Stanz got up and went over to April's prone form. He seemed harried and furtive as, fully clothed, he awkwardly mounted her and behan humping her. After a minute he ceased, slumped, exhausted. Pete Venkman looked away in embarassment. Egon glared at Ray who seemed violently sheepish now. Winston exuded subdued mirth.

The Respective Exploits of the Major of the Tub of Crank and the Sergeant-at-Arms of the Tight Pants

"We are glum and stoic" declared the Major of the Tub of Crank. Then he fell over.
Meanwhile the Sergeant-at-Arms of the Tight Pants was revelling in some self-imposed solitude. He felt rather splendid as a result.
Suddenly a vulgar little tart burst into the room.
"Let's take this party downstairs," she shrieked.
"What party?" asked the Sergeant-at-Arms of the Tight Pants.
In response she immediately stripped nude and began prancing jerkily around the room. The Sergeant-at-Arms of the Tight Pants watched her, caressing his chin pensively.

Some frail peasants helped the Major of the Tub of Crank up. He embraced them awkwardly in thanks.
All of a sudden it got dark. The wind picked up. The Major of the Tub of Crank sensed that it might rain. It began to rain. The rain was teeming down. The Major felt it on his face. His penis was semi-erect.

The vulgar little tart had dropped to her knees and was zealously performing fellatio on the Sergeant-at-Arms of the Tight Pants. Her head bobbed back and forth like a metronome, the sight of which filled the Sergeant with a kind of insane delirious pleasure.


I remember the prickly, parched feel of sunburn on my skin.
I remember his accusatory glare. I remember it was January 19th 1953. I remember I had predicted this whole scene in a dream early in 1944. I was an absent-minded teenager birds flutter across a slate sky 1932 ice universe.
I remember the warmth of the bed where I would stay all day. I remember my father's voice on the telephone in the next room, rising and falling in pitch and volume as he paced anxiously. I remember the easels set up beneath an orange sky at dawn. I remember languishing in the hot water a feeling of utter weariness a silent lamentation this was 1972. It was an abstract ice universe.
I remember his tactile penetration. Him was a furtive universe. Aching eyes echo we murmur street blood. It was a spook universe Finland 1984. Lifted the telephone receiver. Ritualistic gestures of an esoteric sect.
I remember art mirth. I remember idiot glee. The patter of rainfall on the black pond. We named the dog 1993. Pilfered medicine. I brandished theories and jokes. A sunburned planet.
Graham was screaming stuttering and grinding anguish a pale leaking summer day car journey. It was 1997. The plump swelling of her tits. Furtive animalistic desires on a summer day. Fleeting morals in a grey multiverse. Grinning in the forest.
Leering in existence.

A Right Moronic Group of Wee Fucks

Here is the story I am writing here this is it ye are reading it. Shite, eh? Aye, so far mibby but we'll see how it goes, aye?
It's about a right moronic group of wee fucks. I'll just go ahead and list them and gie ye a wee description of each of them in turn, right?
Al- a sardonic, laconic, affable wee turd. Something sinister seeths beneath his benign demeanour. He is Austrlian.
Ray- a frivolous, fickle wee fag. Guileful, slightly pompous, effete.
Davie- a feckless, anxious man with artistic inclinations and sensibilities. Opinionated and cynical, at times to a caustic extent.
Jeremy- a pretentious, indolent, ridiculous diletantte. A keen sense of the absurd, much like his pal Davie. Naive and melancholy.

So these are the characters. What I've no figured out yet is the fuckin' plot man like how they all come to interact what's the script the scenario et cetera. How do they engage? What's the damn fuckin' story here boys? Nae cunt ken?

Al is clean shaven, works out daily, neatly trimmed hair, neat fitting clothes. Slightly garish, mundane mainstream fashion sense. Tanned skin. Blank seething enthusiasm. Monotonous self-loathing narcissitic psychopath.

Ray is an effete turd. His sister is a troubled whore. Ray is clean shaven, works out periodically, uses skin products. Garish mainstream fashion sense. Melancholy, aspirational in a fickle way.

Davie is simmering, brooding. Up-tight, self-deprecating. A keen sense of the absurd. Analytical, self-aware, measured. Vainglorious, stilted and bitter.

Jeremy is muddled, closed off, dishevelled, fairly idealistic. Artistic inclinations and sensibilites which are somehow thwarted. Bohemian affectations. Smeared eyes darting around laconically.

Cassette Fuck

A mystery that used to haunt Buddhists was whether or not a falling tree, absent of spectators, made any sound. Then tape recorders were invented and the enigma could finally be solved.
A tape recorder was left running near a bunch of precarious, weathered and brittle trees before a forecasted storm whilst. The Buddhists then absented themselves.
They collected the machine at dawn amidst splintered timbers. They ran back the tape and heard collapsing trees.
The next philosophical quandry proposed by one of the Buddhists was: is the tape recorder a sentient being? To this end a new experiment was proposed. One of the Buddhists would attempt to copulate with the machine.
The others watched solemnly as he disrobed and mashed his semi-erect penis against the grey plastic casing of the cheap device which had been procured at a local branch of Lidl.
After seven minutes the device was splattered with the flush faced man's semen and the findings were deemed inconclusive.

Dust Sound

is no other sound
skin debris & pubic
hair intermingle
on wood
policed by howling vacuums
dust sound
is skin sound
as our vacuums
Wasted fragrant signals
decoded from biro'd walls
by decaying european youths
snake cream jazz war
pentecostal thumb cunt
needless fruit seance
I sigh over dim mounds
with astral semen

The Electric Sadness of the Abstract Motherload

Bleary eyed men converged
in a small room
stalking the abstract motherload
in sweet pitiful silence
of the inherently flawed
fearless farting fathers
damp eyes beaming
jutted forward grinning
silent stares fixed
towards concrete night

We wait behind
reawaken smouldering sore
sighs slow in her fog
her mists waken us
oh pert pretty titties
oh slow sighing fathers of
cancelled grins
slow purple dawn
pert ghosts grinning and yawning
and grimacing with
the quiet hard-on which
murmurs bleak truths
in sweet pitiful silence
or semblances thereof

This furtive sect
of deflected sex
ends at concrete night
with timid black eyes
follow our bus
Amber lights pulsing
in savage electric winds
I cheated myself
of my 25th summer
Now winter dawns as
my dog's paw bleeds &
my mother cackles
at the TV drain
a vacuum of fog
muted bellows
shimmering soupy light
I recall the plight
of my cousins
and sisters
who each
in silence
waded to those lights
in infinite
concrete night
Oh yeh
my boner grows
& groans
my blisters
& seep
correct or

Another infinite dawn
to contend with
another blistering wave
of ennui amidst
chapels and smoke
& orange lights

My mother chuckles, relieved
at my failures
another dim kitchen
shadow opening soup cans
awaiting conclusions
like the pulse of:
the 21st century
a grimacing cripple
collide in a blend of dreamlike
autumnal fury
oh yeh
broken bleak plastic bastard
fog breaths in my fury
without trousers or hard-on
only a peaceful glint
of certain itch

Beware of the bleeding paw
of certain doom
arcade doom
sneakers & accolades
awaiting TV glory
or colour violence
in summer's electric pool
in summer's electric stream
in summer's American grin
in car
in mouth
in horse
in train
in cords of solidified dream ectoplasm
the infinite ludicrous machinations
of a hollow violent spectre
stalking grim dreamy sidewalks
fastened to choked concrete life
a sustenance without fury or flight
only plastic bowls nuzzled by melancholy
dogs. Only waves of semblances collecting robotic jizzum
on stifled shores. Only emerging cretins
with bleak saucer eyes
conducting their magic spells beneath ruined archways.
Only grass or wind have the right to breathe
all else must fuck until blue unless green
wait and scream
scream down at yer cereal
you serial, feral fuckwits
huff the honey jizz & fuck
her sweet ass
then collect
I needed a blowjob & received a parking ticket
I deserved a prize and was awarded despair
I crept through turmoil for the sake of brooding mechanical
semblances of animals
on turgid plains battered by howling, desolate
I needed to fuck but got drunk instead; the simmering
caustic, shimmering lights blurred
by the fervent pulse of mist
I needed to cry but giggled instead
& felt part of my soul detach and drift hellwards
my eyes weights or anchors in this mist
of heroless reality
I was sick & scared
so watched cartoons
& read books
until such times as I
required a new hard-on
or sought a new asshole
to placate
w/ stiff magic
& magic stiffness
& sticky joints
or other green chiming preperations
small billows of smoke
engulfed by the painted ceiling
where my hard-on is mused
by clear eyed death poets
for the alive gods of globule
sticky criteria
fired at an other eye
a cracked electric wintry eye
a bleak poet eye
besieged by wax grass
in mirror hallucinations so turgid

crippling criteria
stifling hysteria
crippled wolf grins
in perverse piss pants she died
clinging to buses without light
recorded smoke
in the abstract concrete night
on Spanish shores
in mystic doorways
in bleak hallways
of hospital taste
of medicine fuck
what the fuck
was I thinking
yet I decided
thick and stinking
sheep heap trash in our grinning hallways
furtive boners nudged to spurts of jizzum glory
timorous freaks simper, in trash
dream codex intercepted
sick and thinking
a pulsing alien heat
awakens glands and hard-ons
before majestic frivolty
before coded masturbation
signals stung armpits
& stifles wasp bitterness
in stifled cackles during
hallways of our dim new adulthood
we lit candles
in sumptuous stinking silence
of reverent & weird radio men
seeking abstract fragments
of the pulsating motherbrain
weird wires sick out foreskin brains

Semblance of the Melancholy Pillow Boy

He knows non-specific dread
His lips are asleep
same goes for his hair
His mind is a placid vile aqueduct
perfect for crafting ludicrous perversions
His eyes are heavy and molten
a glib nexus of dead need
His throat is a sublime sparkling
feminine death
aired under precious suns
known for a vile infinity.

Introducing the Laconic Psychotic

Ye see the laconic psychotic wiz a guy asinine beast although he fancied hiself as something rather special, regrettably. I say regrettably as I think mibby this is where much of his trouble stemmed fae, ye ken?
Silent seething psychosis under a hollow maroon sky the turmoil of the wind the anguish of existing...
Simmering slow motion psychosis underneath a mantra summer hallucinations of sexual humilation torture cruelty...
He was a fervent, shrewd, narcicisstic man, prone to solitary brooding and evading queries...
His name was Al.

Where is that damn fucking notebook christ I've thoughts to record.

"You actually wrote this pish?" he queried incredulously.

He was that kind of fastiduous, sad, temperamental man. Like a distant ferris wheel on a winter's night.

Prone to intense narcicissm. (sic) ;) or ;(

Tee hee hee hee.

His name was damn fucking factory.

Momentum momentum momentum momentum...

A dumb throbbing botanical hard-on.

The electric dismay of a glimpsed summer.

She tittered morosely.
A polarised existence meted out by stupefaction, precedents sought and followed. A parable of ruin warned in reverent tones by nihilists on a crutch of lumpen fatalism.
Cautious, stoic and glum.
A glimmer of mystic euphoria amidst thick black poetic horror and icy insect intelligence.
Cautionary drones murmur, obey precedents, semblances of sentient creatures. Meted out by icy machines below a marble sky.
Blistering turmoil. Seedy urban reveries.

"Butch, domineering women attract simpering, timorous pederasts," she explained in a patient, patronizing, precocious tone.

(sequence ENDS)

Blue red purple
Blue Red Purple
Sequence repeats
she MURMURS ro herself

sequence repeats
erotic black agony
thick black poetic horror
beneath black skies

swirling sequence
PLAY sky
murmurs her devastation
repeated codes repeat

one two three four
the machine spoke
silver dancing sky
one two
stammer in wind
musky brown despair
autumnal codes.
SEQUENCE repeats
one two three
Cautious whimsy:
Modern Poets vol. V

you whimsical son of a bitch
she warned her
& it got old so we stopped.

(sequence ENDS)

By the Ruined Palace

I was down there. I was with her there. We were down by the lake. I witnessed her in a moment of unguarded glee. I didn't like it. I wanted to crush it. I wanted to escape from it.
I wanted to escape from her in that moment.
Escape to where? Escape into water? Into what warmth?
I saw her there. From afar I was warm, she felt warm.

She was shorter than me. She needed something she thought I had. I think she was mistaken. I watched her mistakes silently.
I think I was misguided. She pretended to guide me.

It was the black choking depths of summer. Infinite potential for impairment.
I knew enough about impairment. I knew enough about prisons of the sky. I think you know what I mean. I don't think she knew what it means. I don't think that's even pertinent.

The wind is pertinent. Her small hands were pertinent. I held them and marvelled.
I was with her there. By the ruined palace.

The Inevitability of Friction

C. looks guy sick as if sweated below a million toiling suns or toiled below a thousand sweating sons or broke an infant winter kind of reverie.
Aye C. looks guy sick right enough. Pretend lines.
Utterly defaced for reasons beyond anyone's ken.
The potential swimming pool success of a swimming pool sun. The troughs of echoes.
Mild feminine yawn and chatters.
Paw at me decay.

A thousand flashing TV sons exposed suns exposed sons exposed suns exposed sons.

Ice cream yeh. Feminine yeh. Asinine paw. (unintelligble) despair. Calm despair. Yeh.

Lucy Dee yeh. Tentative yeh. Swimming pool yeh. Bikini reverie yeh. Japanese situation. Garden situation. Boredom situation.
The inevitability of friction.

Garage band envy. Lyric lightswitch envy. The seeping pools. Damp eyes blinking.
Tragi-comic stoicism. Valiant violence. Noble cruelty. An open pussy.

Somnambulent winter cruelty. Shards of despair.

A thousand million yawns and fucks. Miasma of sunrises. Broken seeping skies to infinity.
Bath stifle bath stifle bathe stifle bath stifle back back back stifle stifle wet wet yawn yawn yawn.
(Echo switch).
Process repeats. Faces thrusting towards me.

I held her by the wrists.

Faces of weathered whores through fogged bus window.

Are you talkin' tae yerself mate?
You actually write this pish? he muttered with caustic incredulity.

The Variabilty of Accounts

Kin ah touch it?
Aye, ye kin touch it.
Kin ah touch it?
Aye, ye kin touch it.
Kin ah touch it?
Aye, ye kin touch it.
Can I touch it?
Yes you can touch it.
Can I touch it?
Yes you can touch it.
May I touch it?
Yes you can touch it.
Shall I touch it?
Yes you should touch it.
(hysterical audience laugh-track)

Slow motion footage of turbines. Smattering of polite applause.

The Senseless Gibbering of a Simpering Freak

There is more to this essay than your ass but let's begin there, shall we?
Your ass is sublime. I want to lay my head down beside it just weep, tears of anguish and reverence. Yes honey, I revere your ass. I revere yr whole body. I think you looked mesmerising in that dress on Friday night. Oh honey how I longed to do atrocious things to you, nae, not atrocious, merely slightly sordid is all. Yeh baby, sordid things, I thought about those fantasies you told me about in the car, ah sweet christ honey, I thought about those sordid things whilst I was tucked up in bed, cosy, a mere man. Oh baby when you told me about being groped on a bus in Poland the dreadful thought flickered through my fervent mind that I should grasp yr thigh right there and then in the car oh christ I would have but one must adhere to decorum, one must observe certain principles of behaviour, especially when certain parties (ie: you) have inferred that they would not cheat on their boyfriend.
Oh honey, picture this: my fat excruciatingly hard cock lodged deep inside you I can imagine it vividly, I would lift yr legs and penetrate you deeply, with slow force. I can sense: tightness, deranged glee. I apologise honey, what an odious man I must seem to you but I feel it is important you comprehend the simmering truth.
I'd like to have a siesta with you, writes the odious, pitiful man. I'd like to snuggle against your warm ass, to spoon you, to oh baby I'd harbour a fierce, monstrous erection, but I would not act on my carnal impulses, I would be a model of restraint and decorum.
I'd like to take yr nipple in between my chapped lips and suckle on it like a pitiful babe lose in the sweet mountains. Does that make any sense? Does anything?
Dear honey I would clasp your tit with one hand and with the other I would pin both your hands behind your head as I fucked you ruthlessly and gently.
Oh my sweet christ I would like merely to lay beside you and bury my head under yr forearm and press urgently against you like a pitiful maniac.
I would bury my head in yr golden hair, angelic hair, and I would weep like some broken, lost fuck-up in the depths of turmoil which is what I secretly am. My god to lay beside you I would tremble as if cold or feverish, I would tremble with sheer carnal anticipation.
I'm rather a fan of siestas, are you? We could take one together, fully clothed of course, for I am a man of decorum above all else, I dare not defile you in reality no, unless, perhaps, if you requested it but no it doesn't bear thinking about no oh fuck I'd listen to you recite De Sade.
I can imagine what occurs to you. What a simpering freak! What a monstrous, odious and, above all, pitiful semblance of a man that is invoked here before you.
In some sweet parallel reality where you are single I imagine coming on various parts of your body: yr tits, yr ass, yr thigh, yr lips, face, even yr hair! Obscene, huh? Oh honey I would not commit such abject, unpalatable deeds without yr express permission. Which I am not asking for you to grant me, I am merely sharing some of the depraved thoughts that flash through my mind on this wintry, sunny Sunday morning, awful as they are, in the interests of truth and confession.
Your sincerely
The Sick Simpering Lunatic
In those days my recurring fantasy involved winning the lottery. I would spend long hours in reverie, contemplating the existence I would inhabit with such wealth.
I decided little would change, initially anyway, whilst I got over the gaping shock and acclimatized to my newfound financial status.
Gradually my secret wealth would become apparent through my increasingly erratic and decadent behaviour and gestures. I fantasised about attending parties, pockets stuffed with £20 notes whichI would spontaneously distribute at an arbitary point in the evening, I would flutter those motherfucking 20s like confetti, causing a frantic furore and general mystification.
I think I'd still live at home, initially anyway. I don't know why. Out of some sort of perversity?
And then I'd travel, travel like a motherfucker, all over the fucking planet, this pulsating disease of a planet.
But I'd travel in the manner of a budget-minded backpacker, accumulating raw adventures which I could easily bail myself out of. I'd explore the seething black erotic mysteries of the Latin American night.
I'd figure out which country I liked best and live there. I'd furnish my comfortable yet modest home with paintings and a massive collection of records and books or maybe none at all.
Or else I'd live in an expansive, slightly rundown mansion in South America. I began speculating about keeping a staff of servants and maids and the like. Then I began speculating about building an opulently furnished house in the garden for my staff of servants to live in. I began speculating about how many staff I would employ, how much I would pay them, what shifts they would work. My fantasy became weirdly logistical.
Then I began worrying about being blackmailed or maybe drunkenly impregnating one of the maids and being exploited by her family in tandem with a conspiracy of police and government officials.

As I walked the dog today a different fantasy drifted into my cavernous mind. I imagined myself a highly respected but somewhat reclusive author. I am being consulted by a Hollywood producer regarding a script. My expertise is sought.
In the course of this consultation I meet all the actors performing in the film, including Naomi Watts. When I meet Ms Watts I become bashful and quiet. It becomes obvious that I'm infatuated with her.
She finds my behaviour completely endearing. She is flattered and flirtatious.

I don't even play the fucking lottery.

The Brilliance of the Snow

After the brilliance of the snow I experienced a heavy purple blindness upon returning indoors and a tender ache behind my eyes. The room was a field of dim shapes for me to navigate by touch and sound.
I could just about make out the vague form of Ray laying on the bed. I made my way carefully over to him and nudged him to make space for me. I lay beside him and then my hand found his stiffening knob. I began to jerk it whilst he lay motionless, sucking his thumb.
Faster, he instructed me in a husky whisper, go faster. I did as instructed, quickening the repetitive motion of my wrist. Holding another man's cock felt strange, the contrast between the firmness of the muscle and the paunchity of the flesh.
Presently he came and then it was my turn. I guided his hand to my fierce erection and he grasped at it tentatively, giggling. He began to jerk my off and I echoed his instruction for increased pace. It felt sublime, I felt a vast carnal calm as if I had inhabited the gruesomely blissful secret to reality.
I groaned as I shot thick wads of semen across my stomach and Ray giggled again. We lay in silence for a while. Then Ray began talking about blowjobs. I didn't want to talk about blowjobs. I felt horrified, mortified. I buried my face in the pillow and howled silently. I could feel a burden of guilt settling over me slowly. I got up from the bed suddenly. Ray froze and stopped talking. I could sense him calculating desperately the best tactic to keep me trapped there longer. I made to leave.
Wait, he called out pitifully.
I need to go, I murmured and then I was gone, out into the excruciating glare of the pure white landscape.

The Simpering Fool

Carl Johnson's wife had an exceptionally tight box, an asset he insisted that she share with his friends. And so it was that he became a proud pimp or odious, unpalatable cuckold depending on how one regards the psychological imperative for his behaviour.
When Carl Johnson's father-in-law became aware of the situation, he was more exasperated than anything else. Not enraged, not horrified, not mortified or scandalised, merely scandalised. Like what the fuck is Johnson getting up to now? Johnson had a checkered history of undignified, eccentric behaviour and this was surely the supreme zenith of his crassness.
Carl Johnson's wife was co-operative, enthusiastic even. She received her husband's friends in their marital bed whilst her husband lingered in the doorway, listening intently to the noises of coitus, occasionally poking his head around the doorway for a tantalisingly gruesome and humiliating glimpse of his wife's defilement. He would sometimes murmur an obscene commentary to the sex act he was witnessing.

Conditions of Reality

As I plod purposefully around my house I contemplate schadenfreude: experienced, projected, absorbed, or deflected, or ignored. Or glimpsed.
There are tricks and cons before we burn ourselves out with hysteria and fray our wits with gruesome machinations.
There are semblances for us to lean on, collective visions for us to intercept.
It's rather special and promising man, so don't become glum.
Cackle and drink wine. Don't cut your hair. There are wee pockets of euphoria to enmesh us.

I realise I'm a bit standoffish or pretentious at times. I also realise I use fatalistic philosophy as a crutch.

Cold days, caustic sneers. Hope blotted out, hope dampened, promises soggy and weighed down, notions crumbling across the rug.
The psychic whiplash of dismay, malingering pessimists.
Manifestations of derangement.

The American grin is a tool to blot out malaise but it can also be utilised to invoke this.
Thoughts: I like the sound of the wind. Am I cold? Should I don another garment?
I decide yes.
A seemingly banal incident is rendered with mysterious, ineffable significance.

Burned Mind, Beginner's Mind

The mechanic's workshop was located under a turgid grey sky in which a few blackbirds swirled languidly.
The interior of the workshop was cool and gritty. Shelves were lined with tubs of engine oil and assorted mechanical fluids.
The mechanic and his assistant wore orange jumpsuits. The mechanic sipped hot coffee and watched calmly as his assistant tinkered tinkered with the underside of a fat, purple Japanese car that belonged to a middle-class hooker, a valued client.
Sometimes she payed with fellatio.
The mechanic would receive his blowjob first whilst his assistant looked on apprehensively. Then it was the turn of the assistant to get sucked off. The mechanic would spectate at a distance and murmur an obscene commentary.

Often after these sessions the mechanic would receive one of his periodic visions, during which he would go blind. The assistant would lead him to a small office with a window obscured by venetian slats. He would guide the mechanic to a desk where a massive ledger book lay open and secure a pen in the mechanic's grasp. The mechanic would then begin scribbling dementedly, a wild stream of thought, his eyes rolled back to their whites.
The visions were often prophecies that would prove false in time. They were inane and irrelevant, often ludicrous. The visions concerned his garbled theories about the universe, the pre-universe, the multi-verse, the Pegadrift, and the metaphysical Bukkake. The ledger was filled with dense, cryptic handwritten text.

Another client that visited the workshop was a self-taught Zen master. He would challenge the mechanic and his assitant to an ad-hoc fist fight whilst outside bleary light bled from the unified field. It was disgraceful and disgusting the mechanic realised as he watched his young assistant receive a string of punches issed with absolutely brutal force, rendering the assitant's cheeks and eyes and mouth a sordid, bloody mess.

The assitant requested time off to visit the mesemeric, Satanic city of Los Angeles. The mechanic denied him this request. The assistant squealed and protested a breach of his human rights. The assistant then requested that the mechanic sodomise him. The mechanic complied with this request.
"OK you moronic man-boy, bend yerself over that desk and prepare for a sharp pain," the mechanic murmured, unbuckling his belt.

One day the Zen master came to the workshop and defecated on the floor. He seemed satisfied with this deed, proud even. The mechanic and his assitant gazed at the shit speculatively.
"I'm never too hard," growled the Zen master. He watched as mechanic and assitant roiled in the turd like fevered animals.
"Bravo," he applauded dryly.
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