Saturday, 25 September 2010


He had lost his appetite, where that had went to he had no fucking clue. Where had that went and, as well as that, he kept getting waves of existential heebie jeebies. Other than that he was great.
Whining. Always fucking whining about his own problems. As if he didn't have an easy life.
It was amazing the extent to which people took things for granted. Like existence, for example. Sensory perception. Concepts, semblances, precedents, patterns, consensus. He kept forgetting what fucking planet he was on. He kept drifting off into slow motion reveries of silent horror.
His happy place was autumnal. A dark late afternoon, supremely peaceful and quiet.
It was mysterious how a natural reserve could build up between people. It was just the opposite of when a natural accord occurred between people. It never seemed to happen with him. He disliked mostly everyone.

The Hypnotic Spectacle

A mass, intricate pattern, too vast to be fully comprehended by any part immersed in it.
Resultantly chaos and banality occur, as does misery, despair, hope, longing...
chasms of emotion
well-being and memory

animal patterns & dim animal grins
fervent cruelty


Satan was ambling down 5th Avenue when he witnessed a feral boy punching a fearful, feeble looking boy.
"Cool," he murmured, a sound like ice and wind chimes.
His hooves clicked methodically on the sparkling November sidewalk. The wind sounded like a radio tuned in between stations. The sky was a vast stagnant grey.
Actually it was night time. And the setting was Edinburgh, not New York. The street was Prince's Street, not 5th Avenue.
God, how he missed New York. How he missed many things. Like his girlfriend, for example.
Still, there was no point in dwelling on ancient history. He may as well relish all the opportunities for gratuitous cruelty that the present offered.

Untitled Poem

As the phaser pedals cast
their spells he
fingered the beaver of the caustic


He was the last to leave the swimming pool. He climbed out and dried off. The sky outside was yellow. He wrote a note to let his teachers know he was the last to leave. Except his handwriting didn't look like his own. And this unnerved him.

Later he was in a field. It was a very cool night, cool and clear. He felt as if he had made a very big mistake but couldn't remember what that was. He danced around the field slowly, alone.

He ventured back to the swimming pool late the next morning. It was a typically autumnal day, quite windy. He stripped to his trunks and lowered himself into the water. He waded around, smiling serenely. He found himself thinking of a pretty lassie he knew. Next thing he knew he was semi-erect. He tried to think of other things. He felt as if someone had played a trick on him to stop his thoughts coming out properly. It was a sheer fucking drag. It wis a sheer fuckin drag so it wis. It wis a fuckin nonsense man.

He pulled his trunks down and did a jobby. He would come to regret this decision.

An investigation had been launched. The culprit was being sought. Auld tarts were eating their Weetabix in a dank, murky, alien dawn. Rage and punishment and hysteria were being incubated in preparation for being unleashed on certain hapless cunts.
Respectable eejits were forming mass circle jerks in bohemian suburban boredom centres. Beautifully ethereal whores were being used as cum dumps by studiously crass, balding, aggressive ignoramuses.

Celebrations of boredom, depravity, exploitation, desperation, seediness, brutality, injustice, despair

The solemn psuedo-mother guided the feckless washing machine idiot boy

They Who Had Deemed Him the Niggardly Simpleton

She had made a calamitous faux pas she realised abruptly, her cheeks flushing red, her eyes becoming vacant, her lips parting. Her sister gazed over at her.

The effete boy pisses himself under the stern gaze of his elder peers. Some birds flutter into the autumnal sky.

Quite unable to make sense of other people. Awoke in a fantastic whorehouse. Reluctant to store her condiments correctly.

An Angry Dilettante

"Are you singing to yourself?"
The question stopped him dead in his tracks; he was mortified.
"Check yo ego, nigga!"
An inappropriate response, it occurred to him later. As they sang to him. Those absent and fond lassies. Golden hair. Sad combs. Wide eyes and white faces.

It was merely a toast frae the lassies, the ones who had strived so hard...
She don't like me


-You dizzy ya cunt?
He looked sullen, violently morose actually.
-Is that cunt dizzy?
Other voices. He continued to look down, could not look up. Vertigo, existential vertigo, of the most intense variety. Not too palatable, lad.

-Aye, and you're no gay! You're no gay ya cunt!
Exaggerated sarcasm to imply scepticism. The bus sped onwards through the dark night. Knees against plastic, metal. Tension in the calves, flinching as he moved his leg. The awareness of his drunkenness, and his manic grin.

His quiet influence was observed, only he didn't want to acknowledge it, he was reluctant in this regard.

He felt rattled by the rush, man. It wisnae good, no. He shook his head, sighed a wee bit.

Her sagacity went unquestioned, her attitudes and motives were ancient, seemed ancient, and thus seemed time-tested to an unimaginable degree.

-Why have you disappear?
Her question to him. One that required pondering; there was no simple answer. Or else it was obvious but in a really vague, ineffable way, you understand what I mean? I hope you can grasp this.

He had a lassies grinding about on his lap and wouldn't have said he objected to this state of affairs too much. It was rather agreeable in fact, truth be confessed. Oh yeh man, he wis totally getting a semi like, no question about it for fuck sake. Yeh. At this rate he would be spunking in his briechs before too long ya radge.
The lassie grasped the corner of the wall for purchase, she had a blankly feral, erotic glimmer in her eyes he imagined. He groaned and she whimpered in response. It was fairly pathetic. He began to soften.
The music went quieter. Gas flares illuminating the November sky.

Women were perverse; they saw a guy enjoying himself they wanted to stifle him, to shut him down. Merriment was disallowed.

He had to sedate himself in order to engage in various activities.

She mistook glee for an out of body experience, rather frivolously he felt.

Torment, a familiar notion at 4pm. The quiet agony of overcast skies. Incinerators just out of earshot. Welcome home, son.

A vague ennui, no known cure.


He loved the way each moment gave way to the next one. No he didnae, that was a lie. It wasn't that he didn't love it, it was just irrelevant. Often he found it disgusting or terrifying, reality that is. It could be intoxicating and sublime as well though, for sure.
There was the infantile aspect to consider as well, about other people, his friends, how they could be so infantile. It was disappointing.
The sublime pulse of moments. He wasn't sure how to behave sometimes. All the moments-to-be, stacked up, no wonder he felt waves of horror and existential heeby jeebies.
And how did any of this come about? He didn't recall lending his approval to this set of circumstances.

Engaging with various things, that was the key. The quality of the light, the avoidance of human beings with their affectations and
Abstract concepts were preferable
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