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.
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