Monday, 30 March 2009

So I was waiting in the hospital corridor. It was lined with chairs, one of which I sat upon. The corridor was really too narrow to have these chairs arranged in such a fashion. As evidenced when I had to stand out the way to allow a glum, stoic looking gentleman to be pushed past in a wheelchair. He didnae even thank me, the cunt! Glum, invalid bastard. Invalid.
I sat down again and returned my attention to the magazine I had found. Some esoteric journal about the psychological effects of Arctic solitude.
The walls of the hospital were painted the colour of cunt. It was a sunny day. Light beamed in through a window. But it was a stagnant light, full of suspended dust motes.
My heid felt stagnant as well. Which wasn't an unusual state of affairs. I had to stand again to admit passage to another wheelchair, this one carrying an old lady, benevolent and shriveled. She beamed me a wonderful smile and I nodded at her with solemn respect. She was being trundled along by a pretty lassie who also gave me a wee smile. I smiled briefly and looked away, unable to hold her gaze, lest I be crushed by the weight of it.

An uneventful half hour passed. Two minor events occurred but they were so moot as to be not really worth detailing. I sat and skimmed this journal, flicking the pages rapidly in agitation. Closing the journal, discarding it. Lifting and opening it again. Sighing. Yawning. Itching various parts of my body (including my asshole). My asshole was scratched in as surreptitious a fashion as I could muster under the circumstances ie. sitting in the corridor of a public building.
To pass the time for a while, I sat and allowed myself to be consumed by a reverie in which I frantically ravaged a sexy but demure nurse. My penis became semi-erect. I arranged it so that it was concealed beneath my neat-fitting jeans. Another surreptitious act. I sighed again. Conjuring this lust was kinda regrettable when I lacked an outlet for it. What I mean is
Christians are misanthropes. Just an idea that reoccurred to me. Quite a contentious statement by any means. I'm not even going to defend it or support it with evidence at this juncture. But anyway, I digress. As I was saying, I lacked a moist woman hole to place my dick in. I'd had access to one up until quite recently. But my connection with that woman had disintegrated under quite mysterious circumstances.

A maroon lipped lassie wearing a Sonic Youth t-shirt walked past. Strawberry blonde hair, a laconic, disaffected gaze. I observed her in a state of near alarm. Petrified, mesmerized. What kind of hospital was this? Achingly gorgeous Sonic Youth fans did not belong in such profane venues as this. It was unheard of, not to mention obscene. It was also debilitating. I was crippled by longing at this stage. Crushed by melancholy. No, I exaggerate.
I was merely tantalized by the prospect of bliss but I also felt thwarted. Proximity frustration etc.
The only appropriate thing to do was to stand up and scream. But I resisted this absurd impulse in order to maintain some semblance of
Everyone desires certainty. I'm no longer in the hospital. Everyone thrives on certainty.

Poem about Brighton

It turned out to be a weekend where I scaled some new highs and descended to some new lows. Oftentimes it wisnae aye easy ti tell which was which. Examples: handing a cassette tape to Thurston Moore, dancing on tables, shitting in doorways. The moments that should have been glorious were mortifying and vice versa.
And then there was Leslie. Screaming after her in the night street. And Byron. Providing him with a beer and a cigarette, listening to his discourse on US foreign policy. And there was also the comedic antics of my pal David to help stave off existential weariness.

Monday, 23 March 2009

The Air Traffik Controller

Beezle watched the monitor, watched the dancing blips. He studied them, thought about what they represented. This was his job after all. He sipped his coffee and allowed himself to feel euphoric. This involved not feeling realistic. Fuck realism he had decided earlier that morning. You got these wee pockets of euphoria wherein realism seemed inane or moot.
Habit was comfortable. This was surely a verifiable fact. The air traffic controller drank his coffee and contemplated those planes howling through the air, guided by his arbitration. His colleague Fiona appeared at his shoulder. She was smiling nervously. Her manner was one of hesitancy.
You see, she had recently learned that Beezle was in love with her. She smiled amicably and he did the same. He finished his coffee.
"I'm going to get more coffee. Would you like some coffee?"
"Okay," she said in a manner that thrilled him for no explicable reason.
"Could you keep an eye on the monitors 'til I get back?" he requested.
Beezle ambled off to procure the coffees. He felt disproportionately euphoric and purposeful. He actually shimmied a wee bit, I mean he did a wee dance en route to the coffee stand. He must've looked ridiculous. The young janitor sneered at him.

Fiona gazed fervently at the monitor, her finger tracing the flashing light in the manner of a mesmerized retard. She had no idea what the onscreen data represented, her role at the airport was in admin. She sat in Beezle's seat and appreciated the lingering warmth from his recently vacated ass.

The coffee stand was manned by an amicable sort of retard manboy named Peter.
"Two coffees, please," chirped Beezle, frivolously jingling the change in his pocket.
"Two coffee?"
"Aye Peter, two coffees please, fuckin' hurry it up, eh?" Beezle retorted in the parlance of an uncouth Scottish thug. He rabbit-punched Peter in the side of the head.
"Ow!" moaned Peter.
Beezle looked around him to make sure no-one had observed this act of spontaneous cruelty. Spontaneous cruelty was his favourite kind of cruelty. You surprised yourself with it sometimes so you did! But the elation was short-lived. As Beezle watched Peter prepare the coffees, he didnae feel very good about himself.

Beezle set a coffee before Fiona and sat beside her.
"Thank you," she said in a wee voice and smiled to herself. Beezle smiled and murmured "No problem." There was a whole lot of fucking smiling going on. It was pathetic. It was also kind of beautiful.

A bird appeared at the window. It sat on the ledge and peered in, looking around in jerky rapid movements of its wee head.
Horses galloped through distant misty fields.
Look at the dog swishing its tail!
Look at the squirrel swishing its tail!
The camera swirls around global wildlife. The squirrel ascends the bird-feeder.

Airplanes soared overhead. The sky was yellow-grey as the sun dipped. A faint breeze stirred discarded paper cups.
Fiona tossed her empty cup onto the ground. Beezle turned and slapped her.
"Don't do that!" he commanded. He laughed. Fiona laughed as well. A single tear rolled slowly down her cheek, perched on her chin, then plummeted to the pavement.
Beezle felt bemused. Beezle felt horny. The wind began to pick up. The sun had dipped down quite far past the horizon but a fair amount of light remained. It was airy and fresh. Pockets of euphoria. All at once the wind ceased and the sky darkened. It became night. By the time this happened Beezle and Fiona were in their respective homes, in their respective beds. Both were locked into surrealistic, ineffable dreams.

Animals frolic in Germany. Distant eyes blink, beam indifference.


Son lugged his guitar and equipment up the stairs and into the main hall. A few stoic, glum folks sat about tending to pints of lager or ale.
Son plugged in his guitar causing a brief bzzzzz.
Then he attended to his own pint of beer, guzzling thirstily, feeling his tensions dissolve.
He set the glass down and then began very gently, very quietly, very carefully massaging the guitar strings with callused fingers.
He could smell perfume and smoke, a curious blend of acrid and saccharine cloys.
What he was trying to do: he was trying to coax otherwordly strains of abstraction out of the instrument.
It was difficult and it was easy. It involved not contemplating the future or the past.
What a strange smell. A dog stood beside its owner who was sat at the bar. Look at the dog swishing its tail, Son thought. The owner was filling in a crossword, a bottle of beer and a wee nip of whisky sat before him.
Sometimes when Son drank such beverages he became obscenely resentful and belligerent. Other times he became serene, compassionate even. It all depended on his disposition prior to consumption of said beverages.
Son stepped on a distortion pedal. Gales of banshee feedback poured from his amp. He turned his guitar this way and that to facilitate tonal modulation of this feedback. He was pleased with how it sounded.

After 20 or so minutes of faffing about, creating various abstractions, Son switched off his amp, his performance complete.
He stepped off the short stage and cuddled various bemused audience members in a fashion that could only be described as awkward.
He felt like a hippie or a homosexual. In reality, he was neither of these things. He was merely a young African American trying to maintain an obscure tradition as revealed to him in dream codex.
But these dreams were so ancient he forgot quite what he was trying to do. Still, he retained a vague sense of purpose and aesthetics which had carried him through, delivered him satisfaction.
Now he felt the need to deliver his penis into a girl's hole; in other words, he was horny. A regrettable state of affairs when he lacked a moist woman hole to insert his wanger into.

Saturday, 14 March 2009

I Understand and I Wish to Continue

Soundtrack: some sort of chaotic, swirling free jazz
Setting: A sparsely decorated blue walled bedroom
A devastatingly perfect nude 17 year old girl sits on the edge of a bed. An overweight, middle aged man rolls around on the floor, sobbing hysterically. He crawls over to the girl and buries his head in her crotch. She does not flinch. She does not move. Her arms are by her side. Her hands lightly clutch the edge of the bed. The camera moves over to the window where from outside a shrill, hysterical looking middle aged woman watches with supreme loathing and incredulity. The camera moves back to the bed where the man is now lying. The girl has mounted him and is slowly, forcefully bucking her hips. Onscreen text invites viewers to imagine how impossibly tight the girl is.


Tuesday, 10 March 2009

Rubber Lips/Medicine Lips

The boy climbed out of the car and stood uneasily on a grey pavement under a grey sky. He wore an orange anorak, brown corduroy trousers, and white running shoes. His face was a pale, flushed oval framed by a woollen navy balaclava. The corners of his mouth were smeared with marmite. He stood, apprehensive, almost frozen, until his father ushered him on and then he ran towards the playground.
He ascended the stairs to the cloakroom and went about hanging up his jacket. Before doing this, he noted an Irn-Bru can poised on the banister and thought to himself that he should make sure not to knock it, sending it falling down the edge to where the bottom of the stairs began. He removed his jacket and lunged up toward the clothes peg and knocked the Irn-Bru can and it fell down towards the bottom of the stairs. He glanced over the banister and was horrified by the sight of his teacher coming up the stairs, wearing an icy scowl. He frantically tried to explain the mistake but she reprimanded him and sent him into the classroom.
Lots of people in his class annoyed him. One or two, he was fond of. Maybe a few. During school classes, his hesitancy was somewhat reduced. The teacher instructed them all to remove their jotters from their trays beneath their desks. He couldn’t find his. It was missing from its designated place in his tray. He became startled and tearful. He was eleven years old. Cheryl was sitting beside him, she became aware of his distress and alerted the teacher, who went to locate a new book for him. He felt his eyes welling up with tears; with an effort he froze them. He sunk into a morose despair. Cheryl seemed repulsed.
He didn’t care about Cheryl’s repulsion, he decided, walking home. He hated her anyway. He hated her so much! He sneered and kicked a dead branch. It scattered across the cold street. What did he do when he got home? What did he do when he got home...?
He looked at his books. He looked at his books? No... that doesn’t seem right... I’m trying to recall...
The boy got out of the car and stood, weighted down by a smouldering grey sky. His palms would have been moist with perspiration had the weather been milder. He shivered. The wind annoyed him. The constant grey sky upset him. The cold... it limited him. It was a handicap, a burden. The weather weighed on him, reflected his frayed temperament. His bones were chilled, he moved slowly as if underwater. His energy seeped away in the wind, the violent wind which unnerved him so. Amber street lamp reflected on a grey puddle beneath a grey sky. What a potent image of despair!
His lips were made of rubber. He believed in Santa Claus. He was meek, timid. His wide eyes beamed a beguiled intelligence. A flickering, besot intelligence that was apt to absent from time to time. This caused impatience and frustration in his teachers and parents. How he wished to shrink away from reality.
One day his friend called him on his marmite smeared lips. The boy was shaken by the hostile, sneering manner in which his friend informed him that he always had marmite on his lips. The boy became distant, pensive. He carefully wet his finger and dabbed at the corners of his mouth which were chapped and broken. The schoolbell rang and his friend went on ahead, leaving him docile and bemused, his balaclava shielding him from the chill in the air.
Many seemed to take a cruel delight in tormenting the boy. This was an inconvenience he absorbed wearily, with a sad, distant regret. It was OK, he had his fantasies to take refuge within. His imaginary friends were aliens. He charted out maps of their home planets and gave them outlandish names. Elder Belder, for example.
Satanic mumbo jumbo, er, beers for the workers. Erm.. upset... he was definitely upset a lot of the time.. what a precarious equilibrium of temperament! Not to be indulged... No... Definitely not...
Try and recall that list you made. Wait, you don’t have to, it’s in your anorak pocket...

“OK class, what can we glean from this list?”
Murmurs; futile, self-conscious constructs.
What about the postcards? What about the nurse? These two things spring to mind first, interestingly. The nurse as an archetypal sexual figure, the postcards scribbled with pseudo writing.
The boy had a toy post office set with crayons and postcards and a counter. An odd sort of plaything, on mature recollection. He scribbled undulating lines in different coloured crayon on each card, fantasising that he was writing on them. How mundane. Who cares about this child’s inane attempts at grasping mature pursuits?
An early indication of the boy’s enthusiasm for the written word as well as the typically misunderstood approaches he would take to the art form.
He bumped his head a few times as a child, mainly due to excitement and rambunctiousness during playtime. He was escorted to hospital in the back of an ambulance, a nurse sat with her arm around him. (where were his parents?)
He felt an intensely profound sense of peace, warmth, and protection. And more, something more. Pre-sexual, a sense of erotic electricity was also transmitted from this gorgeous nurse. Almost an out of body experience without being able to see her eyes. Her face is now distant and ghostly.
He lived in a small village by a rail station. In fact the village was named after the station. He played in the woodland and fields around the village and attended the tiny school nearby. There were two handicapped older boys who lived nearby: a deaf mute by the name of Bobby and a mentally handicapped laddie named Alexander. He also had a cousin named Sandy who was mentally handicapped. All three of these people instilled a sense of trepidation within the boy who, by the way, was named Jonathan.
Bobby lived somewhere on the other side of the street from Jonathan. Jonathan had overheard his mother saying that Bobby’s mother objected to the term ‘deaf and dumb’ as the laddie was not dumb. What people meant by dumb was that he was mute. Instead of speaking, he would make inarticulate howling sounds which greatly unnerved a young, uncomprehending Jonathan.
Regrettably, Jonathan and his friend Sean once took it upon themselves to follow and laugh on Alexander, who suffered from perhaps quite severe Cerebal Palsy. Then an indignant woman shouted at them and Jonathan pissed his pants.
Sandy ultimately ended up going to live with a carer. His mother was a neurotic woman, prone to hysteria. She was not equipped to look after him following her husband’s death. Sandy was unable to talk, and uttered similar sounds as Bobby which rendered him quite terrifying to a young, bemused Jonathan.
Jonathan was also afraid of his mother’s mother, who shouted a lot. She mostly shouted at Jonathan’s older cousin Barry, who was constantly mischievous.

Jonathan's Shit

Jonathan once took a shit on the floor of the toilet in the tiny infant school he attended. It was a horrible accident. Jonathan was hesitant about touching the foreign toilet seat with his precious flesh (a neurosis he quickly grew out of, luckily). So he chose to hover above the toilet, holding the toilet seat with his hands for support. Somehow, he did not manage to position himself accurately over the toilet, with the result that he took a shit onto the floor in front of it. To this day, he has no idea how such a blunder was possible. At the time, he was filled with a sense of groaning horror when he turned round and realised the landing area of his turd.
I’m surprised he didn’t endeavour to scoop it up and flush it. But given that he was so pernickety about not allowing his ass to touch the toilet seat, I suppose it’s understandable that he was overcome with repulsion and fled from the scene.
Inevitably, there were repercussions but luckily he managed to retain his anonymity as the culprit. An assembly was held where the head teacher gravely informed them of the depraved act that occurred. Her sympathies lay with the humble cleaning lady who had had to deal with this obscene mess.

Stroking the Void

He removed the slice of paper from the typewriter and went over what he had typed.

Dear ******

With all sincerity I can say that I really like you. Sometimes I get the impression that you harbour similar feelings for me. Maybe I am deluded. Hopefully not. That shit you are with doesn’t appreciate you. You may think he is charming but I fear he has a tendency towards being a decadent, selfish shit. Run away with me to Budapest?

He furrowed his brow, squinted his eyes, and stroked the speckling of stubble on his chin. Then with a sudden surge of resolve he tore the letter in half and then went about destroying it even more completely using a combination of crumpling techniques and fire.

He waited for her at the canteen entrance. Probably he should have just gone into the canteen and waited at a table but it was busy and he didn’t like the idea that she might show up and be unable to find him. Unlikely; it wasn’t that fucking busy. Geezus, his palms were moist with perspiration. He waited and waited and gazed into space. When anyone caught his eye he felt they were looking at him strangely. So he stared straight ahead or else downwards at his shoes. His i-Pod shuffled through some emo shit. He listened to the maudlin lyrics and felt validated.
He tried to imagine fucking her, defiling her in the basest manners available. He couldn’t do it. She was too pure, too achingly gorgeous. It caused him actual physical ache. He wanted to smell her hair. He wanted to press his face into her hair and sob.
She appeared in the hallway before the canteen quite suddenly, a spectre, an apparition. Shimmering and dreamlike. He nodded to her with what he hoped was nonchalance though his nervous grin actually betrayed him. They went to the counter to order coffee. She got served first and the disappeared to find a table. He was so preoccupied with the order process that by the time he came away with hot coffee in hand, he had no idea where she was. Mildly distressed, he looked around with an affected air of detached puzzlement. He walked around and then saw her waving at him from a table in the corner and smiling. Relief surged through him. He sat down opposite her and then remembered he needed to get sugar for his coffee. So he went and got sugar but didn’t know where there was any milk. He saw a flask-like jug shining under the fluorescent light but it was unlabelled and covered up and there was no way to know if it was milk. It probably was. But he didn’t want to risk a faux-pa and so returned with his sugary sweet black coffee. He noticed that her coffee was a dark brown; she had located milk. Everyone else in the canteen probably knew where the milk was. It was an unspoken secret. Only he was excluded, as usual. Everyone else sailed through life, everything was easy, coffee with milk was a cinch. But he couldn’t manage when it came to these little details, it was these little details which fucked him up so thoroughly. He supposed it was actually sort of amusing.

He had various obsessions which occupied him from time to time. Currently it was skateboarding. He would go home and watch skateboarding videos, study them. He would relish his favourite parts, when the skating and music came together to provide a surge of elation. Example: Guy Mariano in the latest Lakai video. Sufficiently infused with inspiration, he would go down to the local skatepark and trundle around with much awkwardness and stumbling. He preferred to go during the day whilst the kids were at school. Once the kids began to flood in around about 4pm he would become unsettled and leave.
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