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.

Sunday, 1 November 2009

1971, Chimes

As I placed stone on peel
I felt trickling:
a vision
the notes - melting slowly
like ice sculptures
in my mind's eye

chimes, cameras, and other whirlpools
or the stains of 1971
as I write with peel curled
under lamp.


Heavy wings of joy for autumnal
we are all diplomatic semblances
making misty, caustic allusions

the gorgeous garden of night -
brilliance of the snow,
quietness of the frost
she asked me
did I like dancehall reggae?
He had developed
something of a caustic cackle, a
pterodactyl cackle

scientists receiving blow-jobs
the codifications of despair &
grey cardigans
hello bikini
configurations of explosions
configurations of dancehall reggae
cocks inserted into assholes on these
cold wintry nights
these bleak autumnal dawns
it's windy & I'm hungover
grimace at the motionless silhouttes
of trees.


Children are frolicking on a Spanish beach. Sound of waves and quiet noise of breeze. Gradually the children absent themselves. The sky darkens suddenly, a drastic violent dusk the colour of spilled ink.

The empty wine bottles and the remote control make my thighs ache, as do all things cumbersome and prosaic and my shirt is a crystalline secret in the brilliance of the strange Spanish night.
I recall the eerie gleam of her eyes.

I am a secret vessel... coca-cola meditation and the Buddhists have the monopoly on feeling placid.
I eat food and sweat, my skin smells of medicine and the ocean.

A faint chill... a vague restlessness...
A vague yen for warmth
for some sort of warmth

beautiful grinding tedium of autumn
a diminished autumn

clocks falling off of walls in reverse
constantly startled

the world grinds on in all its tedium; everything
is at odds with everything else

Friday, 30 October 2009


The day the machines climbed out of the ocean the citizens were prepared to some extent.
Elected diplomats waited along coastlines all over the planet with patient, expectant expressions (which seemed almost studied, like affectations for the camera crews).
The machines, although spindly and timorous, were efficient. They moved like insects.
The diplomats called out to them on drizzly beaches. News presenters fainted owing to the gruesome strangeness of what was occurring.
The machines did not have human language. They were wet but not rusty. Brine streamed off them as they emerged in the orange dawn.
The diplomats were shabbily dressed and feckless. The politicians were absent.

Some of the machines towered high into the blank sky like animated scaffolding. They were especially gruesome as they seemed on the verge of collapse.
The machines were sentient. No-one knew where they had come from. Seemingly from the darkest depths of the ocean. What had they been doing there and what had activated them?
April O’Neil was dispatched on the scene wearing her idiosyncratic yellow jumpsuit. A coastal breeze tousled her wavy hair and her cheeks were vaguely flushed. Her eyes glimmered in the alien dawn.

Some of the machines were small two piece structures that glinted in the weak sunlight as they rolled along the shore as if compelled by invisible magnets.

One of the fibrous tubes rolled towards Peter Venkman, the cameraman for one of the cable TV crews. He danced away from it effetely feeling a sharp pang of revulsion. He felt revulsion for many things in his life.
He felt revulsion at the fact he was in debt and drank cheap lager. He felt revulsion that he was ostracised from society for his idiosyncratic religious convictions.
Venkman believed that the universe was created and governed by a gigantic omnipresent sloth that floated through the farthest reaches of space.
The sloth wished for mankind to sleep often and relax.
Venkman’s views had rendered him an object of ridicule and left him nigh-on unemployable.

The machines had been lurking in the deepest reaches of the ocean, in areas unexplored by humans. They had resided here for several millennia in accordance with the obscure plans of the giant benevolent sloth who beamed ecstatic peace across the galaxy.

The obese director milled around with his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. He was shabbily dressed in sweat pants and oversized running shoes which buckled under his weight.
Venkman watched him with quiet indolence.
‘Yo Pete, getta tracking shot of that gigantic alien scaffolding ascending from the ocean!’ the director bellowed.

After several weeks of inactivity on the part of the oceanic machines the camera crews packed up and departed. The crowds dispersed.
All that was left were the diplomats, shabby and dishevelled, bearded and forlorn, wandering the desolate beaches and gazing speculatively at the machines which were locked into some sort of abstract ritual or sequence, the significance of which might never be apparent to the human spectators.
The diplomats warmed themselves by constantly smouldering bonfires over which they also cooked fish, heated coffee, and lit cigarettes.
The governments of the Earth had mysteriously absented themselves.
Myriad religious denominations performed idiosyncratic ceremonies.

The machines had started to rust and the sky darkened. A bleak wind drifted sand over the barren shores.
It was suddenly very cold. The embers of fires pulsed in the gathering dusk. The machines creaked and the wind howled and the diplomats sighed. They itched their beards.
It was the end of autumn.

Sunday, 18 October 2009

Never Forget Death

Does the fact of death unsettle you, or are you like me, do you view it as a relief or a lingering escape plan.
I can understand the thought that one dies can instill a sense of hopelessness or melancholy at times or even a futile urgency.
Ye get these wee pockets of euphoria, sure, but for me life is all too often like a long meandering avant-garde film that ye sit through under the impression that it is an important film and there is some sort of ineffable, inherent value in sitting through it.

Burned Minds

In Sear's backyard we gathered around a crudely built fire and drank Tequila and sent picture messages of our semi-erect penises to various women we knew.
When I got home at 3am I showered but my hair still smells of burning today.

Monday, 12 October 2009

The Disaffected Raj

Man Ah cannae be fuckin bothered wi the human race like. Ahm no bein funny like.
It's a right fuckin pain in the arse man, so it is, still at least I have the freedom and luxury to complain Ah mean it's no as if Ahm livin under military rule or in extreme poverty or some shite like that so count the auld blessings eh you count the auld fuckin blessings don't ye eh?
Ahm huvin a wee spell of bad luck the now but whit ye dae is ye count the auld blessings things'll pick up soon more than likely an in the meantime ye just act sober an responsible, respectable, ye dinnae behave like a puerile wee shite, nah, ye dinnae dae that likes. Cuz there's nae fuckin need for it, nane at all. Doesnay get ye anywhere man, aw it likely does is alienate ye fae cunts, ye need tae get along wi other cunts man, make allowances for them and that they're yer brothers make allowances for yer brothers. And sisters. Ooh aye yeh yer sisters oooh honey aw baby yeh baby ye just aw yeh hell yeh baby murmurin murmurin tae yerself pantin like a dug oh man oh geezus, the auld cock, it stiffens, ye need tae find a luscious lassie tae insert it intae. Aw man.
So Ahm a horny auld goat, nought wrong wi that is there? As long as ye dinnae become possessed wi cravings for the flesh man that could get unhealthy yeh.
Ah live in ma own wee melancholy world. Relish the solitude, so Ah dae. No like these needy cunts that need tae huv cunts aroond them the whole time. Fuck that man. No way kin Ah be arsed wi that. Ah kin be a bit quiet/standoffish so some cunts dinnae like me. Fair enough ma, ah dinnae really like some cunts. But Ah like maist cunts man Ahm an affable sort of chap truth be telt, when Ahm comfortable wi ma surroundings an who Ahm wi cuz the thing is man sometimes Ah get guy nervous, guy self-conscious, certain scenarios Ahm talkin aboot social situations that trigger this or even when Ahm alone sometimes Ah get anxious morose depressed et cetera.
Ah want tae use and abuse yon luscious wee lassie that's the sick truth ay the matter the savage fuckin truth, baby.

The Dubious Journal of Jonathan Marks - 12/10/09

The main man, Carver, gazing at me studiously or else accusatory, I cannot tell which. Is the ambiguity of his expression studied? A studied ambiguity?
There was the pale, pasty disco zombie last night, with her cancelled out eyes and minimal, jerky dancing. Her was haunting, kid.
And then my harrowing encounter with the luscious wee lassie. I oozed copious quantities of desperation like an odious ectoplasm. It was disgusting, some real shameful shit.
This morning Joe gave me some tattie scones which I politely accepted despite the fact that I'm no fond of said comestible.
Last night I wore a kilt for the first time ever and performed a handstand in the middle of the road. Puerile asshole that I am.
I was eager to copulate with a luscious young lassie. Walking home from the pub we encountered some teenagers carrying their uncomfortable shoes. I removed my slip-ons and mimicked them in a demonstration of solidarity.
P noticed my 'I <3 New York' badge and wondered where I got it. Intuitively told her my mother gave me it which isn't strictly true.
It is 4:06am and I am wide awake. The two large mugs of tea I just consumed may be a contributing factor to this state of affairs.
I have no money and I like GX-Jupitter Larsen.

Clocks, dogs, the colour grey, electricity
Fridge drones
American horses

People who are exceptionally self-effacing are merely setting a low bar for themselves as a defence. That was today's epiphany.

The puerile, asinine boy had a malevolent grin constantly flickering across his face, eyes that evoked cruelty and mischief.
The phone just rang.
My dad got up to answer it, poked his head thru my door to see what I was doing with the light on at this ungodly hour.
'Ah, writing the novel,' he commented sardonically. I think. It was hard to gauge his tone.
The novel's still a long ways off dad. This is merely the dubious journal.
My parents are discussing my habit of staying up late writing and sleeping all day. An unpalatable habit it seems they regard it as. Ach well. SORRY FOR BEING SUCH A DISAPPOINTMENT, OKAY! he screamed, his eyes welling up with tears of indignant fury.
I hear me dog grooming itself, making various sounds. Exhaling deeply, it sounds as if he is sighing. Perhaps he is bored or has contracted my insomnia. I wouldn't mind more tea, he whispered meekly. No, that's just self-indulgent, really. I'm no that self-indulgent! Psshhhhhh.
4:24am. I wonder who was on the blower? They hung up after a couple rings. One of my drunken friends more than likely.

Sunday, 11 October 2009

The Drastic Whims of April O'Neil

As I made my way home I lifted my hand as if checking the time when in fact I was reading the words scrawled there in black biro ink. They read: The Drastic Whims of April O’Neil.

April O’Neil sat in repose on the maroon couch. She had cut a hole in the crotch of her idiosyncratic yellow jumpsuit to facilitate the manipulation of the lips of her vagina with deft fingers.
Egon Spengler stood at the window of the shack looking out into the garden. He seemed sad or puzzled. He was pensive, April decided as her fingers swirled amongst the moistness of her sex. She gasped.
Egon flinched at the sound. Then the telephone rang and Egon flinched at that sound too. He knew who was calling. They both knew.

They both knew it would be Professor Baxter. April and Egon were no longer on good terms with Baxter after he had infected April with AIDS. Egon lifted the receiver, his jaw clenched, and April continued to masturbate languorously.
“Professor Egon Spengler? This is Doctor ----------. I’m phoning with some rather sad news. News of your colleague, Winston Zeddemore. The news is this: he has stepped in dogshit and has gone blind as a direct result. Now I know this must be rather shocking and furthermore...”
Egon had stopped listening. He had completely zoned out. He was being gradually whisked away into a reverie, a blue reverie of swimming pool ambience, echoes and such.
All of a sudden he dropped the receiver. He looked utterly beguiled. April looked at him inquisitively, continuing to tease her clitoris. Egon abruptly unzipped his trousers and revealed a massive throbbing erection. Trousers round his ankles, he waddled over to where April sat and inserted his penis into her mouth. She coughed and spluttered indignantly.
“Egon! What the hell do you think you’re doing?! Cut that out!” she screamed. Egon assumed a furtive manner. He seemed to be wracked with shame and self-loathing. He went and stood at the window again and gazed out over the garden. The dusk sat on top of it like a gigantic turd.

Presently Janine Melnitz came to the door. She had the dress and mannerisms of a shrewd lesbian. Egon let her into the shack and she stood looking around, blinking under the single fluorescent tube light. She glanced caustically at April O’Neil who gazed at her indolently. Eventually, Janine spoke.
“Something’s gone awry. We seem to have forgotten our mission.” Egon looked deeply saddened for a moment. Then he strode purposefully towards Janine and backhanded her with absolutely breathtaking force. Janine winced and April cackled maliciously. Egon pissed his trousers and grinned crudely.

Winston Zeddemore came to visit the shack later that night. He wore dark sunglasses and tapped his way in with a white stick. He wore his regulation jumpsuit and a sombre expression. From the smell of him it quickly became evident that he had defecated in his regulation jumpsuit. He appeared to be comfortable with this state of affairs. He held a book under his arm. He held it up and requested that April read to him from it. It was a book about occurrences of coastal Satanism in the city of Los Angeles. April read to him in a cooing and lulling voice and a puerile grin spread over Winston’s face and he curled up in a ball at April’s feet whilst Egon watched, severely perturbed.

Egon stepped outside to inhale the fresh evening air. He noticed Janine Melnitz loitering around. She had left the shack hours ago. Egon had presumed that she had gone home. Evidently she had been milling around the garden. Egon marched over to where she stood near the pond. He tore open her blouse and began mauling her tits with fevered animal abandon. She stood perfectly still during this molestation. She seemed violently perturbed. Then he spun her round, pressed her firmly against the garage and tugged her skirt up over her hips. He worked his stiffening penis into her from behind and began thrusting and gyrating his hips in broad pantomime movements.
“Awww yeh honey!” he moaned as she wept quietly.

Back inside the shack April O’Neil was performing an act of fellatio on young Winston Zeddemore. He grinned beatifically as her head bobbed to and fro like a metronome, enveloping his thick black hard-on between her moist lips. He murmured obscene pledges to her whilst she serviced him. He snapped his fingers and uttered a puerile cackle.

Towards the climax of the rape of Janine Melnitz by the warped scientist Egon Spengler, the actor Bill Murray stumbled into the garden clutching a flask of whisky and wearing an oversized coat. He took a long swig as he surveyed the scene. Then he concealed the flask in an inner pocket of his coat and sauntered over to the coupled bodies of Egon and Janine. He undid his trousers and let them fall to his knees. Then he proceeded to sodomise Egon Spengler who was still in the act of forced copulation with Janine Melnitz. This caused Egon to howl that, under other circumstances, could be described as comical.

April O’Neil emerged from the shack, her mascara streaked, her face contorted into a mask of mild misery.
“Who are you?! I know you! Who are you?! I know you! Who are you?!” she screamed over and over at Bill Murray.
Bill pulled his blood streaked cock from out of Egon Spengler’s ass and made a bid to placate April.
“Listen lady, calm down!” he told her. “I have my identification with me.” He removed the flask from his pocket and held it up mysteriously. “I’m working for the US government. Investigating incidents of coastal Satanism in the city of Los Angeles. I’m here to investigate and prevent any potential satanic activity.” He was swaying slightly and his eyes had trouble focussing.
At that moment Winston Zeddemore emerged from the shack and removed his sunglasses. His eyes were glowing white. The walls of the shack were coated in a film of ectoplasm. Suddenly two bolts of white hot energy zapped out of Winston’s eyes and hit Bill Murray in the neck, rendering him decapitated.
“For fuck sake, Winston,” muttered Egon and chuckled ruefully. Winston emitted a bestial cackle and began trundling slowly towards April O’Neil. All of a sudden it became very misty and all movement seemed to occurring in slow motion. Egon experienced a jolt of gruesome déjà-vu and felt hapless and terrified. Janine Melnitz was repeatedly head-butting the wall of the garage, rendering her head a bloody mess. April O’Neil had unzipped her idiosyncratic yellow jumpsuit to reveal a set of plump, pert breasts. She massaged them firmly as she watched Zeddemore’s solemn advance.

Wednesday, 7 October 2009


He stood on the hill, the man, the raj, listening, listening for the familiar tinkle o’ ri dug’s collar.
Where hud the damn fucking thing goat tae now?
Last he’d seen it it had sped off man in pursuit, galloping, galloping in pursuit o’ ri wee bunny rabbits man.
An auld wifey appeared at the summit, hobbling along, placid, clutching a wee white stick. Her own dug appeared beside her, pantin’, grinnin’, lollin’ its tongue. Inane beast.
‘Ye’ve no seen another black lab huv ye?’ the raj queried.
‘No, son, no, have ye lost one aye?’ she asked sympathetically.
‘He’s round about here somewhere... away efter ri rabbits...’
‘She’s the same,’ the wifey said, indicating her own mutt. ‘I just leave her to it, wait, and she comes when she’s ready.’
‘Aye that’s what I usually dae anaw nae doubt he’ll show up in a minute.’ He grinned ruefully and so did the wifey. She bid him farewell and ambled onwards, summoning her own mutt.
Where was the damn fucking thing but? Fucks sake man.
‘Texan! Texan! Here boy!’ the raj yelled then attempted an ineffectual whistle. Fuckin’ dug.
It wisnae that but it was close to the road, the hill was close to the road and that damn stupit animal was likely to run out and get tallied by a car man the stupit wee bastart.
There was a rustlin’ sound fae amongst the bushes and then a wee bunny rabbit appeared whoosh, sprintin’, fast as fuck, whoosh man ohya cunt ye there he goes and here came ri dug.
‘Mere you ya daft cunt ye!’ He managed to intercept the thing and it halted and allowed itself to be leashed, its tongue lollin’, its eyes gleaming, panting away, panting away. Inane beast.
He led it down the hill, or it led him rather, chugging at the lead, choking itself, sending the raj skitin’ on the dew damp gress.
‘Fuck sake easy boy, easy son, take it easy.’
At the foot of the hill was a busy road and the raj led the dug to the pedestrian crossing. The dug halted obediently beside him whilst he pressed the button, it leaned against his leg as they waited. A big lorry sped past and the dug jumped back slightly as if it goat a wee fright and the raj chuckled.
‘Alright son, yer alright,’ he murmured soothingly, petting ri dug’s heid. The cars slowed down as the traffic lights shifted to red. But ri green man hudnae appeared yet. He ay felt guy self-conscious at this bit for some reason, guy self-conscious. The motorists watchin’ him, scrutinisin’ him, wondering who had interrupted their transit, it was he, yer hometown son, ri self-styled raj just oot exercisin’ the dug nae bother man.
Here wis the green man noo wi’ ri beep beep beep the encouragin’ glimmer o’ ri green man he walked across still self-conscious man, still self-conscious as fuck, the dug traversin’ in front of him near enough trippin’ him up fuck sake man he was still self-conscious.
It was all go, get the fuckin’ beast across, the motorists glarin’ at him, c’mon son on ye go nearly there here go up ri kerb, made it.
The traffic resumed its transit and the raj and the dug walked along the pavement, ri dug still chuggin’ away and making those damn gaggin’ chokin’ noises.
‘Mon son, easy, heel boy, heel. Heel, ya zealous cunt.’ Ri dug wisnae fur listenin’, it persisted wi’ its annoyin’ fuckin’ habit.
They passed some teenagers, the dug strainin’ at its lead tae go and sniff at them.
‘Alright lads,’ the raj greeted them.
‘Alright big yin.’
He managed to pull ri dug away and onward they walked until the dug stopped again and hunkered doon to expel a big fat shite fae its arse fuck sake man fucking mortified. The raj looked around furtively tae check nae cunt hud seen it. The deed done, the raj tugged the dug onwards.
Except a couple ay cunts hud seen it, standin’ up the way a bit, two cunts wi’ blue plastic carry-oot bags, two jakey cunts sippin’ wine and mutterin’ tae each other.
‘Here, I hope yer gonnae pick that up.’ It was wan of the jakeys. He wis grinnin’ but it wis a malevolent grin, it wis a grin that oor man ri self-styled raj hometown son didnae much care for no sir he didnae like it wan bit, it wis an ominous grin is what it wis.
‘He didnae shite on the pavement,’ the raj protested, continuing to walk no too hurriedly just walkin’ on no bothered his arse no worried like.
‘Am no carin’, ma kids play up and doon here,’ the jakey replied. Kids, fuckin’ kids ya jakey cunt ye yer no fit tae be a faither standin’ tipplin’ on the street ya jakey cunt. The raj kept walkin.
‘Where do ye live I’ll come and pit it on yer doorstep,’ the jakey continued. His pal looked worried. His pal was a sound cunt the raj decided, but he was a dickhead man a fuckin’ wanker.
Still, he wisnae wantin’ any bother so he just walked on, lettin’ oot an indignant cackle in response. He walked on, rounded a bend, roond the corner intae ri housin’ scheme, the dug still chuggin’ away. A wee glance ower ri shoulder tae confirm nae sight ay the jakey cunts thank fuck no that he wis bothered his arse like he’d fuckin’ gie them a doin’ if they fuckin’ startit anything the jakey bastarts. Fuckin’ rap them aboot ri heid wi’ ri dug’s leash man, heh, he guffawed to himself.
Close enough to ri’ hoose now he crouched down and as he unleashed ri dug he telt it ‘Go see yer ma, go and see ma,’ and the dug scrambled onwards, straight towards ri hoose tae go and see the missis the dug would go straight tae the hoose where it wis guaranteed a treat.

Tuesday, 29 September 2009

It was a sunny afternoon in autumn. I decided to go out for an amble in a bid to ward off suicidal thoughts. Exercise would elevate my endorphin levels and prevent me from entertaining these thoughts.
If this sounds overly casual it's because it is. I experience these thoughts often enough to adopt a dismissive attitude towards them.
I walked through fields, past hills and derelict factories smothered in a feint drizzle.

At the entrance to the woods I was confronted by a gang of youths. They regarded me with cruel, feral faces.
One of them stepped forward and issued a denigration in crude slang. I muttered a sardonic reply, the content of which was not comprehensible to these youths but the tone of which they recognised as hostile.
Physical confrontation was imminent.
All of a sudden I noticed a familiar female figure standing off to one side, watching impassively. She was tall and full-figured with long blonde hair. She was dressed in athletic attire.
I felt unnerved and thus lacked confidence in my chances of victory in this skirmish. The youth's eyes flickered with violence and his tongue flecked over his lips. Most unsavoury.
Nevertheless some hidden depth of sheer anger afforded me the strength and stamina to beat him quite literally lifeless. I was perplexed by my victory. The other youths fled.
The female approached me and spoke.
"You felt certain you would lose and were hoping I might rescue you. Now you are confused and discombobulated, such is your low self-esteem. You feel semi-compelled to rape me but lack the demeanour to do so. Come with me."
I followed her into the woods.
"Go, go on, open it!" Rick squealed with delight.
Naomi's slender hands broke apart the wrapping paper that covered the box. She lifted the lid off to reveal... a penis.
"Isn't it grotesque?" tittered Rick. It was plastic. It was semi-flaccid. Rick lifted it out of the box gingerly.
"Observe," he instructed her. He squeezed the thing lightly, causing it to emit a spray of thick white paste. He squealed again. "Well, do you like it?"
Naomi appeared to be completely horrified. She groaned quietly, a sound of absolute despair. She slowly brought her hands up to cover her face. Rick watched her with an inane leer frozen on his idiotic, gleeful face.

The Stylisation and Codefication of Melancholy

The Crew finished shooting the commercial on a broad tree-lined street in an American city. The ravishing blonde actress smiled coyly at the camera and blinked languidly. She was advertising a brand of hair dye. The sky was purple.

"Cut," the director called calmly. He was an obese, balding, pony-tailed man.
The actress' smile slowly faded. A slight breeze had picked up, rustling dead leaves by the side of the kerb.
The cameras were shut off and packed away. The actress, who was named Window, repaired to the trailer to change her clothing. The director waited a few minutes. He smoked half a cigarette and made clumsy small talk with the key grip. Then he awkwardly discarded the cigarette and extinguished it with his tennis shoe. He ambled over to the trailer.

An ambulance came screaming up the street, its blue lights pulsing.
It shuddered to a halt. The time was 4pm. The back door of the ambulance swung open.

The actress sensed the presence of the director behind her as she unclasped her bra. He came closer. He smelled of cigarette smoke. She felt him clasp a hand over her tit. She was debilitated by feelings of repulsion.

The siren had been shut off but the light continued to pulse. From the back of the ambulance four men emerged. They did not resemble paramedics. They wore tennis attire and had the perturbed, eccentric demeanour of mental health patients.
They carried assault rifles.

The director's attempted molestation of the actress was thwarted as both parties were distracted by the erratic crackle of gunfire. They moved to the window of the trailer to watch crew members being executed by what looked like manic tennis players. They key grip collapsed on the sidewalk, his thighs riddled with bullet holes. He screamed and gibbered. His eyes gleamed with anguish.

Upon executing six crew members and injuring seven, the tennis players ceased firing. They bundled into the back of the ambulance which duly sped off and which was duly replaced by another ambulance, this one containing authentic paramedics.


The Sex Workers emerged from their craft into an alien heat. The dust was stifling. They were all uniformly decked out in tennis attire, sweatbands gripping their foreheads.
"We are glum and stoic," they declared in unison. Their demeanour thus stated they could commence their exploration.
Their mission was to discover alien lifeforms and then determine whether or not it was possible to fuck them.
The Sex Workers were a forlorn bunch of misfits from various regions of the planet Earth. They had been active since 2764, over ten years of drifting through space to copulate with myriad exotic lifeforms.

Transmission Complete Despite Scanning Difficulties

Part One: A Trio of Technicians

Tennis Attire. This is what they wore.

They would cackle insanely at intermittent intervals.

They ate spiders.

They wore dark sunglasses.

They collided with each other, jostled aggressively as they paced about the small laboratory.

They guzzled cheap generic brand energy drinks and scoffed microwaved fast food.

They punched each other.

They cackled insanely.

They forced each other to eat spiders.

They fucking molested each other.

They wept inconsolably.

It was very dark outside.


They slammed each other against radiators and guffawed.

They groped each other and punched each other, giggling frantically.

The machinery was constructed out of dead leaves.
It made weird, rustling, whirring sounds.
Distinctly autumnal noises.


I dream of Satan on an autumn afternoon.

Death of Gibbering Man at the Hands of Perturbed Whore

It is a melancholy phenomenon to observe a party ebb away, carnal promises unfulfilled, falling asleep on the floor pre-dawn.
It seems I inspired contempt in certain people. Or was it just my imagination?
Goddamn, son, I need a woman. Aw honey.

The man lay gibbering on the couch.
A perturbed whore materialised.
She killed the man then prepared a chicken sandwich. When his dead lips refused to admit said comestible she ate the goddamn thing herself, the crazy sumbitch that she was. Her reasoning was that she could not pass the sandwich through the dead man's lips and his dead teeth refused to chew anyway. Her defence was accepted and her consumption of the sandwich deemed appropriate.

Self-conscious hipsters arm-wrestled and acted in a willfully neurotic way. They wore woolen hats and were self-effacing. "Aw honey!" they moaned ironically and snickered at each other.


The dog entangled his paw with the cable from the internet router today, displacing the device, sending it crashing to the rug. Perhaps his actions were intentional. Perhaps he was trying to say c'mon get up off your ass quit faffing about on the internet desperately trying to scrape a win against inferior players at online scrabble turn that damned fucking machine OFF and get UP off your lazy ass and take me out for a walk, motherfucker.
To which I'd reply, Thanks very much for those few kind words.
1. After finishing his shift at the factory, Billy walked home. There he ate a tuna mayonnaise sandwich. His hunger satiated, his thoughts fell to satiating his need for stimulation and entertainment. He stood in the kitchen a while and mulled over this. The dog padded through and gazed at him indolently.

He took some typed pages out into the street and scattered them in the wind. An old lady walking past with her dog asked him what he was doing. He told her. She smiled Sadly.

2. The man who could be described as tall, indolent and timid stood at the cusp of the skateboard park, watching with wet eyes. He idly kicked an empty soda can and fastidiously avoided meeting anyone's gaze. He aimed to affect an aloof demeanour. But the kids skating past would evaluate him as being perturbed and effete.

Dispatch from a lonely insomniac

A vague but potent yen to write something when I see the beautifully eerie colour of the sky at 2.22am.

guileless, feckless, hapless (the)
mystic poetry, magic, South American
dust, wind, skate bowls

The Green Couch (a fog settles at dusk)

The green couch had been donated to him by his neighbour and it contained a stirring smell. A smell that whisked him back to a potent adolescence where he'd dry-humped neighbour's daughter on said couch.

"Goddamit how old is she?"
Smug moderation.
Circling around, collapsing, slowly rebuilding.
Vivid memories: maroon: legs beneath sheets

We are all veering gradually towards implosion


He lay down on the bed and a familiar sound occurred. It was a sound inside his head. It was a sound in slow motion. It was a sound that resembled his mother's voice. But in slow motion, eerily fragmented. Like an echo inside some impossible pipeline.
It was eerie but, in a way, eerily soothing. He let it drift over him, the familiar spell of codified stupefaction.
He drifted off into perturbing dreams, any memories of which evaporated quickly upon awakening. He prepared a bowl of breakfast cereal and opened the door to allow the dog outside to frolic in the dew damp garden.
As he devoured his breakfast he witnessed the grotesque spectacle of the dog straining to expel a thick turd.

Guileless Gibbering

Solitary tippling= the best kinda tippling in this author's ridiculous opinion.
Conversation becomes imaginary and beautifully abstract as opposed to brutally concrete and wearying, prone to misinterpretation and guileless gibbering.
Aw honey, stupefaction is our objective Jonathan told his imaginary lover. He wished he had some weed.
Damn, this port is tasty. Aw honey yeh. Yeh baby.
If you've just joined us, welcome, welcome to the mindless inane ramblings of a morose surrealist (sans the surrealist leanings).

Speak poet.
Speak butcher.
Speak, wind.

It did: it made a whirring sound like a frenzied CPU. Guffaw.
Guff-- aw... aw honey ah hell yeh! kick him honey!

Tuesday, 22 September 2009

Surrealist Turned Sprinter


The whole surrealism gig wasn't really panning out for Vincent Moore. Ink on cushions. Early mornings spent reading or else contemplating sink fuzz. Scribbling inane shite in his notebook with a self-satisfied, vainglorious half-smile. The dog slumbers peacefully, the dishes are washed. What kind of man was he? This is what he often asked himself.
A girl walks past with her own wee dog, a girl he'd dearly like to make love to, he decides.
If he ever spoke to her on this bright wintry morning he'd surely blurt out some feeble boasts.

What would impress her?
The idea occurred to him quite spontaneously.
An athlete.
A runner.
A sprinter.
A fucking, a...

He trailed downwards (upwards?) into a reverie.
No more vague gestures. No more books hung on washing lines.
The dog slumbers in its basket.

A pair of tennis sneakers were the closest thing he had to suitable running shoes. He donned green canvas shorts and a grey t-shirt. He appreciated the absurdity of...

You can meet me on a virtual reality scrabble board. Here are the details. We'll take it from there. If you manage to beat me.
There's a tradition waiting for ye he told himself in between examining his chest.
And now I'm -
The dog is outside barking.
Why did you do that?
As I say we'll see, see how it pans out and -
Maybe you can come over to my house and my mother will cook us cheese pasta.

It was brisk, a brisk morning. Enough with these pseudo-romantic reveries already. He rubbed his hands together. Time to sprint.
He walked to the dew damp park. Sunlight glistened on the grass.
The chime ebbs away, gracefully. The time slips away, a weight of melancholy.
OK enough surrealist shite. He rubbed his hands together. A hot bath. No. A sprint.
Birds chirped and tweeted. As they are wont to do.
And what do you think about
And what do you know about
Was there a tradition here he was engaging with or entering into or else was he
He was essentially a meek man. A meek, humble man. His downfall perhaps.
Shifting boxes in the attic. Yellow.

A wasp snarled past. A pedestrian ambled past.
Savage humour.
What did ye say ya cunt?
Nothing I was just murmuring to myself incomprehensibly. He cackled hysterically. Below mesmeric skies.
No-one else thought the potato resembled a heart but this didn't faze him beneath sweet suicidal skies.

I don't know, all these mind melds. Eternal loathings, disaffections.
Grinding tedium. Coffee angst, whimsical ennui.
He tittered ruefully and abruptly began to sprint.

A moment later he stopped. He felt ridiculous. Keep going, he told himself.

The signal was disintegrating. The picture was distorting, fading. Press releases leaning on leather poufs. Oh god, keep going, coffee angst.

What the fuck do you think you're doing, the imaginary shrill faggot demanded to know. Vincent silenced him with a swift sock to the mouth. He blew smoke from the pretend gun barrel of his finger.

The woman with the dog. He accosted her and whispered to her. Only kidding. This is what he wanted to do.

Whilst tweaking his nipples his neighbour came to the window, tapped the glass, and shrieked.

and then shrieked speak these words.

Is that a command or a description?

I don't know, All these games I just... I'd like to... I'd love to...

The silence of the devout.
The coy irreverent cackle of the misty eyed freak.
My thoughts are too loud. How do I go about turning the volume down exactly?
A flowing script, a freezer.
A fucking, a -
A severed sentence. An abandoned thought.
A few sips of hot coffee.


Thoughts connecting, falling into place. Thoughts absorbed by his mind. Falling snow. Breathlessness.
The sky was the colour of those ink capsules Vincent used to have for his fountain pen when he was in school.
Snow wasn't falling.
Safety sought.

He was a fatalist and it was problematic. He used fatalism as a crutch for his laziness and indolence.
Sprint to the supermarket he commanded himself. It was a sunny day but it wasn't exactly warm.

Embarrassment was preventing him from becoming a sprinter. He was so damn self-conscious, it was
The doorbell sounded. He went and opened the door. Nothing, no-one there. Fucking kids, infants fooling around. Trying to befuddle him for the purposes of their own glee. He heard them squealing and shrieking distantly. He imagined pinning them down and shitting on them.
Awful thoughts, cancel these awful thoughts

"You sad little navel-gazer," an imaginary spectre chided him.

Auburn, somber. Autumn dusk glint. Night street machinery. The pegadrift, glimpsed. The supreme form.

Sometimes he got unduly perturbed. Sometimes his nose bled. Sometimes he sucked viral blood fingers.
Fatigue was problematic: Captain Beefheart mathematics. Hearty gravy gurgle.
As you can see his surrealist impulses still bleed through. Which is ultimately why he failed as a sprinter. He showed up to a race wearing a scuba diving outfit, po-faced and pensive.
"Hello slaves," he announced and promptly shat himself. The stench was distinctly unpalatable.
Door hinges and madness.
A sun induced migraine, sinister ennui.
These were prosaic yet vile images he had to contend with. He was happy to be apart. Perversely.

It was good to note the rapid movement of the clock from the complacent comfort of the couch as he scribbled his asinine shite on a spiritually insignificant Friday night. The tender ache of his flesh was, for once, comforting rather than disconcerting.
This couch was severely comfortable, he decided.

Configuration of the Pegadrift (excerpt)

His doctor had instructed him to visit this website. A government website set up to facilitate the self-diagnosis of mental and emotional disturbances.
He drove over to his brother’s house. His brother had a computer. It was a sunny afternoon at the end of autumn. A cold wind stirred dead leaves on the pavement. A young girl drifting past on a tricycle stared at him intently.
He rang his brother’s doorbell and immediately heard the dog barking from within. A minute later the door opened and his brother stood there, gaunt, registering him with blank, washed out eyes. He stepped aside to let him in. The dog swished its tail and sniffed at his knees, its eyes gleaming with enthusiasm.

He sat down at the computer whilst his brother went to make coffee. He logged onto the internet and immediately looked up his favourite amateur pornographic website, scanning for the latest updates. He then opened another window. The computer made a sound like rustling leaves. His brother was in the doorway, staring at him blankly.

He glanced out the window. A light rain had begun to ascend. He witnessed the grotesque spectacle of the dog squatting on the grass, straining to expel a thick turd.

It was getting dark as he drove back to his flat. A huge moon hung low in the sky. A computer printout lay on the empty passenger seat. According to the test results he was suffering from a condition named Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy. The words were like melting ice or vapour trails hanging in the expanse of his mind. The infinite grey-blue expanse that registered such phenomenon as maroon leaves under a violet sky, a dog swishing its tail, and other cryptic fragments of infinity. He drove in silence, the radio turned off, quietly perturbed by what he was witnessing.

His girlfriend was waiting for him at the flat.
“And?” she inquired. He wordlessly proffered the slice of paper, the diagnosis. She held it and her pale eyes scanned the printed words. He retrieved a beer from the fridge and took a long swig. She pursed her lips and exhaled and then set the piece of paper down on the dining room table.
“Well?” he asked.
Her eyes were cast downward, toward the piece of paper.

Little was known about the syndrome the printout explained. Symptoms included delusions of grandeur, listlessness, rage, lethargy, episodes of severe confusion, chronic daydreaming. He suffered from at least four of these he and his girlfriend agreed. Then they were silent a while, digesting this information, like computers overloaded with data.


The next morning he caught a train south. The printed report had recommended avoiding caffeine.
“You do have a tendency to shriek intermittently after drinking coffee,” his girlfriend had observed. He had nodded solemnly.
As the train hurtled south he watched the mute, barren countryside race past outside the window. Then he turned to regard his fellow passengers, glum, stoic ignoramuses.

After a few hours train journey he caught a cab from the station to the specialist practice he had been referred to. He waited for 25 minutes in a waiting room with walls painted yellow. There was a selection of experimental psychology journals for the perusal of patients. A thin, agitated looking man was pushed past on a wheelchair by an obese, smooth skinned, bespectacled middle aged man.
His name was called and he walked up a narrow corridor lit by fluorescent tubes. A few canvases hung on the wall, abstract expressionistic pieces.
The specialist greeted him warmly. He quickly decided that the specialist had the appearance and mannerisms of a pederast.
“How can I help you?” the specialist asked somberly.
Jonathan reached into his coat pocket and removed the printout of the diagnosis. The specialist donned spectacles and scanned the printout intently for a minute.

Through the window he glimpsed skeletal woodland in the distance.

Jonathan took the train home that evening. He sat in an empty carriage rocking back and forth slightly, occasionally murmuring to himself. The sky was dim and swollen.

He was back in his flat, in his kitchen, staring at a glass of red wine. His girlfriend stood behind him, lightly pinching various parts of his body; his neck, his shoulder, his hip, his scrotum.
He had a new printout. It was in the living room, behind the clock on the mantelpiece.
“You need to take the test,” he told her suddenly. Her hand ceased pinching him.

They drove to his brother’s on Saturday morning. The streets were still damp from dawn rainfall. They parked the car. A gaunt youth drifted past on a skateboard looking preoccupied and purposeful.
He rang his brother’s doorbell. Silence.
Where was his brother? Where was the dog?

“We need to find a computer,” he stated.
She averted her eyes. “I’m not sure if I want to take the test.”
He looked up at the sky and frowned.

They drove out to the beach. A few gulls drifted listlessly across the blank sky. Old couples ambled around in brightly coloured raincoats which rippled in the breeze. Dogs galloped across the wet sand, chasing Frisbees. The words Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy flashed across the sky in purple neon letters. Jonathan twitched and asked Indigo if she’d seen that.
“Seen what?”

They bought coffees from a fast food van and then walked out to the surf to stare at the meaningless horizon.

Whilst walking back Jonathan stopped suddenly. He discarded his coffee cup, unbuckled his belt, and yanked his trousers and briefs to his ankles. He then squatted over the sand and strained to expel a thick turd. Indigo watched, stunned into mute horror. After he finished, she said
“What the fuck, Jonathan?”
Jonathan seemed very flustered. “Sorry…I…I got…I’m sorry, I was confused…”
Indigo began to sob quietly.

When they got back to the flat a familiar looking black Labrador was pacing around outside. They got closer and realized it was his brother’s dog. It looked at them, seemingly puzzled. They took him inside, filled a bowl with water for him and then fed him some biscuits. He swished his tail and then plodded around the flat, his feet clicking on the laminated floor.

Jonathan led Indigo into the bedroom and fucked her forcefully. He grunted as he ejaculated on her buttock. They then lay side by side as afternoon began to dim.

Later that evening Jonathan received a phone call from an old friend who seemed exceptionally depressed. Jonathan wasn’t sure what to say to him and hung up suddenly in mid-conversation. He pondered for a moment and then disconnected the phone. He placed the phone in a cupboard and then closed the door.
He went to check what the dog was doing. The dog was asleep on the couch. He went to check what Indigo was doing. Indigo was asleep on the bed. He lay beside her. He began to feel restless. He got up and went through to the couch. He lay down beside the dog. The dog groaned and shifted slightly to accommodate him. He put his arm around the dog and nuzzled his head against the dog's ribs. Then his cock got stiff. The dog must have sensed something awry for it lifted itself up and jumped over Jonathan and plodded away into another room. Jonathan fell asleep.

He awoke at dawn with a severe headache. He lay massaging his temple for a while. Then he got up and found some aspirin and took four. He went through to the bedroom and dozed for a while beside Indigo.

When they awoke his head was fine and he felt refreshed. He cooked scrambled eggs and made coffee. Indigo played with the dog and fussed over him.
"We still need to find a computer terminal," he reminded her. She said nothing. "So you can take the test." She said nothing.

Attempts to locate his brother proved fruitless.
Attempts to find a computer proved fruitless. Indigo remained untested for potential mental disturbances. They cared for the dog and treated it well. Took it for walks along the beach. Bought it food.
On Monday afternoon, Jonathan's boss phoned to check how he was doing.
"I'm still fucking sick!" Jonathan screamed and walloped the receiver against the wall. He then petted the dog who seemed perturbed by his behaviour. He petted the dog and made reassuring noises, noises that could have been construed as senile gibbering.

Another place they liked to go walking was a nearby hill by some derelict factories. The hill afforded them a good view of the distant city, a decrepit cement dream by day, a sinister gleaming by night. One evening they encountered Jonathan's brother on the hill. He wore a bright green raincoat and his eyes were grey, impossibly distant.
"We've been looking for you," Jonathan explained. His brother muttered something unintelligible and sat down heavily on the damp grass.

The three of them, Indigo, Jonathan and his brother, plus the dog, all repaired to Jonathan's brother's house. Indigo had sexual intercourse first with Jonathan and then his brother. Then they turned out all the lights and huddled around the dim glow of the computer monitor. They logged onto the government website for the self-diagnosis of emotional and mental disturbances. They each took the test in turn and then mulled over their respective printouts.
Jonathan was slightly dismayed to discover that his results were completely different from last time.

The next morning they walked to the pharmacy with their printouts to collect their medication. All was going fine until Jonathan suddenly halted in the middle of a pedestrian crossing to drop his trousers and defecate. An obese woman walking past with an infant retched violently whilst the infant appeared severely haunted. Jonathan bared his teeth at them in a deranged grin and then licked his lips.

Jonathan and Indigo were staggering around the beach in the rain. Indigo clutched a plastic bag full of medicine. They had taken to sampling each others medications. Sometimes they ground up various pills and snorted the resultant powder.

Tuesday, 15 September 2009

Sprays of feedback like foamy surf corroding an irradiated beach.

A bird lands on a yellowed tree. The monochrome hues of autumn hang over everything. Treetops soaked in a pale, ancient light.

Erotic forays with beautiful girls often serve as forays into melancholy.

I will take my time and write about this. It is now December. I rarely leave the house. The cold prevents it.
Here is what happened: I was manically enthused when she agreed to meet up with me again.

I was striding up Lothian Road, listening to The Diamond Sea by Sonic Youth, feeling euphoric. I know what you’re thinking; what a loser, right? Well fuck you. You think you’re so cool, imaginary jaded and hostile reader. I bet you’ve had your fair share of instances of behaving like an enthused dork.

I took her back to my grandfathers. I didn’t have a key so we had to wake him up. He was somewhat bewildered to say the least. He’d also pissed his pajamas. Senile dementia will do that to ya. Unfortunately he insisted on coming upstairs with us to investigate what the sleeping arrangements were. We entered the spare bedroom and his first suggestion was that we separate the two single beds that were joined together. We watched as he feebly attempted to dislodge one of the beds. I reassured him I’d take care of it and urged him to return to his own bed downstairs. He wasn’t easily placated though.
In the throes of exasperation I convinced him that I would sleep on the couch downstairs. He kept hovering about, checking I was okay, if I needed anything.
“I’m fucking fine,” I assured him through gritted teeth. I didn’t really say fucking though. And I affected to conceal my intense exasperation. But the situation was becoming desperate.
Once he had finally retired, I told myself I should wait five minutes before sneaking upstairs. I was lucky if I lasted a minute. As I crept upstairs I could hear my grandpa calling me from his room. I ignored him and moved faster. I leapt into bed beside the partially clothed foreign girl.
Thrillingly, she had removed her underwear.
She was concerned though. She had also heard my grandpa calling and it now sounded like he was moving about downstairs. Which was all I fucking needed.
My grandpa was greatly discouraged from using the staircase. To this end, a child safety gate had been installed at the foot of the stairs. A laminated piece of paper was attached to the wall which stated:

Don’t try to go upstairs
We don’t want you to end up
back in hospital

I had suggested the smiley to my mother while she was composing the notice. To mu delight, she had taken heed of my ironic suggestion.
The girl had noticed the notice. And her English was sufficient that she understood words like hospital. Fucking typical.
The notice seemed to imply that he had been in hospital before as the result of a fall, which wasn’t the case. So it was an ambiguous notice. He had been in hospital due to other complaints. And he was unsteady on his feet. Hence the collusion of these two facts in the warning.
There had been a different sign before that. It had read something like DANGER! DON’T GO UPSTAIRS!!!
Naturally the brevity of the message along with the block capitals and multiple exclamation marks had merely served to pique his curiousity and he had endeavoured to scale over the safety gate and ascend the stairs.
I wasn’t in the mood to explain all this to the girl. So I merely hushed her and we waited until grandpa forgot that anyone else was even in the house and settled back into bed.
We settled in to our hard-won love nest. We got to talking about grandparents and then family and whatnot.
As a precursor to this incident, I was in the midst of the end of a fairly serious four year relationship. So I found myself in a volatile emotional state.
I’ve had quite a few one-night stands, gaining something of a reputation in this respect at one time in my younger years. But the truth is I’m always initially quite shy in these encounters. Also, in this instance, I still had some unresolved conflicting emotions regarding my ex.
So it was that we did not begin ravishing each other immediately. Instead we began confiding in each other. And I found myself hungry for that sort of stuff. Cuddling, intimacy, all that shit. I don’t know. Maybe I just had a case of what is termed as ‘fanny-fright’ round these parts and am now trying to excuse myself from it with all this pseudo-sensitive bullshit.
Maybe I’m gay or some shit. I’ve always felt slightly apart from my male peers. More interested in art and literature than competitive sport. More prone to quiet introspection and shyness. Then again, the idea of copulating with another man repulses me deeply, so I guess that rules out the gay shit.
Eventually we got round to some carnal frolics. I eagerly ate out her soaked pussy. For a long time. Reason being it had occurred to me I didn’t have any fucking condoms. I’d used one on Saturday and forgot to replenish my wallet as I am usually wont to do. Maybe it was some sort of accident on purpose.
“You don’t want to fuck me?” she queried after an excessive bout of pussy eating. I confessed my prophylactic predicament. I was apologetic, overly so.
The following morning was particularly harsh. I suggested to the lass that she sit with my grandfather whilst I prepared coffee. What the fuck was I trying to do, integrate her into the family? She was unwilling, eager to return to her friend.
The subsequent awkward bus journey into town was so depressing I can’t even bring myself to write about it. Except to say that the one redeeming factor was that the horrific sense of existential alienation and rejection I felt had a purity to it that was very definitive.
Anxiety had made me crave concrete destruction.

Wednesday, 26 August 2009

An 'O' Cult or The Brotherhood of the Bukkake

Owing to a severe case of emotional boredom, Harold Brine decided to begin a cult.
"What is the essence of your cult?" his friends would query.
"I don't know yet. I figure that as a mere detail to be filled in a later stage. All cults are essentially meaningless and arbitrary anyway. The only truths are liquid and cannot be encapsulated or purveyed by mankind."
A this somewhat pompous speech, his friends would roll their eyes and exchange incredulous glances. Harold seemed not to notice, perhaps as a result of the dark sunglasses he had taken to wearing every waking moment, regardless of the weather or time of day.

The essence of the cult occurred to Harold one brisk, bright afternoon at the end of autumn. The cult would focus around carefully orchestrated ritual sexual humiliation.
The name of the cult would be The Brotherhood of the Bukkake.
Harold was waiting on a subway train in Harlem, New York City, when the idea occurred to him. A gruesome grin spread across his face as the train drifted out of the tunnel to collect him.

Now all that remained was to recruit members. It figured that more men than women would be attracted to such a cult. This figured in perfectly with the logistics of a bukkake. In theory, only one female member was necessary.
The more men, the better, provided they were discrete and disciplined.
Worst case scenario: only a handful of men and lots more women, baying for come in vain (admittedly unlikely).

The first recruit was Harry, a nervous art student (incidentally Harold was his teacher).
Harry was anxious, passive. He seemed to be quietly seeking something. At first Harold feared he might be gay. Then he realised he was just a sensitive, somewhat effete kid.
Harold encouraged Harry to involve friends in the cult but Harry confessed that he lacked friends.
The reason he lacks friends is that he is timid and reclusive by nature, thought Harold. It's no that he's an elitist wee shite.
In the end Harold recruited a colleague, a professor of Literature by the name of Ali Grey. Harold feared that Ali saw the whole cult thing as a lark, Harold feared that Ali would upset him by not treating his cult membership with appropriate gravity.
Now it was time to recruit the first female member. The trio centered on one of Ali Grey's daughter's friends, a deceptively shy 17 year old named Alice. She had honey blonde hair, spectacles, and a studious demeanour. Harold ached to empty his jizz satchels over her petulant little face. As soon as he saw her he regarded her with a gruesome leer.
Harry regarded her with caution and misplaced reverence. He avoided looking at or speaking to her directly. He stole furtive glances at her chest. He fidgeted constantly in her presence.
Ally treated her with gentle condescension. Unfortunately he had fooled himself into thinking he had her best interests at heart by exposing her to this situation.
Without further ado, the Brotherhood of the Bukkake decided to occasion their first ritualised sexual humiliation.

It took place in Harold's apartment at dawn. A dim mist floated over the city.
Each member imbibed a cup of instant coffee. Candles were lit. The radio was tuned to static. Alice carefully removed her clothes and piled them neatly on a nearby chair. She took a deep breath and reverently knelt in the centre of the room. Harold nodded. At this signal the three assembled men removed their stiffening cocks from their jeans & began masturbating quietly. Silence except for the gentle slapping sounds of flesh on flesh. Each man formed the point of an invisible triangle round Alice. They then slowly, carefully began to circle her whilst still facing her. Alice's eyes remained closed as if she was in deep mediation which in fact she kind of was.
Harry, perhaps inevitably, was the first to climax. His orgasm was preceded by a kind of pained sound and a startled expression on his face. He moved in close to the kneeling figure of Alice and poured come on her lips and spectacles. She grimaced slightly. Harry then went and sat cross-legged on the floor to spectate the remainder of the spectacle.
Ali came next. His nostrils flared and he bared his teeth. He groaned. His ejaculation was longer and more violent than Harry's. Alice's eyes remained closed, her breathing steady. Ali bundled his penis back into his jeans and went to sit on the floor beside Harry.
Only Harold remained. He stopped circling directly in front of her, pumping furiously at his veiny cock.
"Eeeeeeeggaaaiihhhhhhh!!!" he moaned and plastered Alice's forehead and cheeks with thick, foul ejaculate. He sighed.

A brief post-bukkake meeting was held in which each member deemed the event a success, except for Alice, who remained withdrawn and solemn.

A festering sickness. A festering fucking sickness.

The next meeting of the Brotherhood of the Bukkake took place under similar circumstances.
"Are we ready to commence?" asked Brother Harold.
"Aye," the others stated in unison.
And with that, Alice stripped to her underwear and knelt on the floor in the middle of the room. It was Harold who had suggested that she leave her underwear on. He had also privately suggested to Harry that he touch Alice's titties.
So the bukkake commenced. The order of climax was congruous with the first bukkake. As he ejaculated, Harry clumsily pushed his hand under Alice's bra and grasped her tit. Ali followed this example. When it came time for Harold to come, he pulled Alice's bra strap down off her shoulder and frantically mauled her exposed breast.

A post-bukkake meeting was held at a diner uptown. Harold voiced his concern that he was beginning to objectify Alice. Ali countered that what else was a bukkake but the supreme form of sexual objectifacation (sic). Harold seemed pleased with this and wrote Ali's phrase down. Harry quietly devoured a bowl of chili. Alice remained mute, withdrawn.

Alice did not show up for the next scheduled bukkake. A quandary. The three men pondered what to do. In the end they settled for a three-way circle jerk, a most unsatisfying alternative to a bukkake they all agreed afterwards.
They began to discuss the possibility that the nature of the cult may alienate any permanent female members. They proposed avenues for obtaining temporary bukkake recipients. Craigslist. Hookers. Harold promised to sort something out for the following week.

The next members to be ordained into the infamous Brotherhood of the Bukkake were a trio of lapsed feminists. They had grown disillusioned with feminist ideology and sought to distance themselves from the movement as radically as possible. Perhaps their decision to offer their faces up to the Brotherhood for spunk dousing was some form of supreme post-modern irony. This was New York City after all.
Harold was happy to have them join the Brotherhood but was faced with a problem concerning ratios.
The Brotherhood now consisted of three men and at least three women (Alice's membership status was undetermined, possibly lapsed). More men needed to be recruited urgently.

Inspired by a lucid dream that he had whilst taking a nap on a humid, drowsy afternoon, Harold decided to set out on a road trip across America to seek out more men to swell the ranks of the Brotherhood.

From New Orleans to LA Harold drove, via all the major cities en route: Houston, Austin, El Paso, Las Vegas. By the end of his journey he had convinced 30 men to regroup with him in New York.

Whilst Harold was away, Harry and Ali participated in a disastrous bukkake with the feminists. The three of them had been haughtily baying for come. Harry was flaccid from the outset, such was his state of severe intimidation. Ali managed to beat off for a while but was unable to climax, possibly due to performance pressure.

When Harold returned to New York, he gleaned an interesting fact. Harry had obtained a girlfriend.

Inevitably, Harold coaxed Harry into inviting his new girlfriend to what would be the final bukkake.
Her name was Elisa and she was the same age as Harry, ie. 20, 17 years younger than Harold and half the age of Ali.
Of the 30 men of whom Harold had been assured promise of participance, eight showed up. Two of em went limp.
So in the final count, it was a nine on one bukkake, still fairly thrilling in any case.
Harry came first, in less than ten seconds. Then he retreated to the corner of the room and watched with a haunted look in his eye as eight middle aged strangers masturbated over his shy young girlfriend.
Over the course of 15 minutes they bukkaked her mercilessly, one by one.
Harold was last man standing again. Perhaps this was because he was more of a passive masturbator throughout the procedure, taking on more of a role as master of ceremonies, goading the other men on with depraved invocations.
When all the other men were finished Harold forcefully slid his penis between Elisa's come lubricated lips and began face-fucking her shamelessly. It seemed to Ali that he was trying to vent the frustration that he felt at only managing to recruit a meagre number of participants. Elisa choked, gagged and spluttered on Harold's fat, veiny cock. As she was regurgitating his come, her cheeks streaked with tears, eyeliner, and come, Harry made a strange sound and vanished into the kitchen. He reappeared clasping a thick butcher's knife. Before anyone could intervene he lunged at Harold and stabbed him in the throat.

At Harold's wake, Ali was quietly discussing the bukkake ceremonies, Harold's death, and Harry's subsequent incarceration with a fellow colleague.
"What will you do now?" the colleague inquired.
"I'm working on a new project," Ali explained. "Actually it's more than a project... It's a philosophy, a concept, a treatise."
"What's it called?"
"The Metaphysical Bukkake."

Weak Sunlight

Drinking coffee
I am bathed in weak sunlight
The dog sniffs my knee
nuzzles at my thigh
He wants me
to throw his red rubber
frisbee so that he might
gallop after it

Autumnal Hues

I notice another fragment of myself
peaceful, painted in the melancholy hues
of autumn
my eyes are burning cinders
& I relish the end of summer's
dusky despair
where all too often I became morose
my skin too tight

A cool breeze displaces pregnant summer
thunder clouds
under blank skies my mind is blank
& awe seeps in quietly,

I hear the distant murmur of winter
and am glad;
I want to freeze my thoughts
not stifle them
in my stagnant mind
when I thaw them I'll pour them
on yr earlobes
allow them to trickle
down yr neck
to pool in yr collarbone
Follow @dharma_ass