Sunday, 19 July 2009


It’s that slow pressure tightening around your chest, making you feel as if you’re sinking. It’s the feeling of loneliness, the realization that your life has mostly been a waste right up to this point. People don’t like you that much, you fill that room they need, somewhere between acquaintance and work-mate, not far above strangers, but far from friends. Even in your own family, you’re more a distant cousin than a brother or sister. You sit in the corner and watch them whizz by, they’re laughing, flitting in and out of your gaze as if watching them in fast forward. It has a touch of high school about it. There’s a popularity contest going on beneath the surface, they jostle for position, who will be the top dog, and who will stretch their neck out to have it stood on, to let their favourite candidate reach the stars. They never even gave you a proper fucking chance.

I remember catching sight of someone across a crowded fair. She was my friend, well, a so called mate’s little sister. The only person who ever seemed to show more than a passing interest, not the usual person just looking for what they could get out of me. So yeah, I guess I had a bit of a crush on her, or maybe I just liked her for liking me, So I ran over to say hi, but when I got behind her and tapped her on the shoulder, she whirled around and it wasn’t her anymore. It was some girl who gave me a slack jawed expression, called me a creep and told me to piss off. I bought myself a drink and sat by the wire fence around the fair, picking the rocks out of the dry dusty dirt and skimming them across the road. I thought I saw her again, going to cross the road down further. I wanted to call out to her, but remembering the earlier mistake kept quiet. The next thing I remember was the screech of tyres and the sound of a half full can of coke rolling slowly down the road. It made the strangest noise.

Friday, 10 July 2009


Hello crispy fish, with your dull sunken eye, watching me morosely from your carpet tomb. All the fatty cells inside you burst and congeal, dry and petrify as your fainéant master languishes behind a screen of pixelated entrapment. The bacterias inside you rage and multiply, adding to the stink of the metallic wasteland where moths breed in dark tunnels. Discarded food rots around you without a cockroach in sight to clear it. Girls, eighteen and over, with their hot little wet vaginas. It’s all they want and all they can’t have. So your body wastes away to the sounds of moaning. And you wonder, as your scales turn slowly to black and your spine becomes more obvious, is there not more to life than this? Because you puff out and spill over, with a million breeding bugs, while I sit, like a giant ant queen, fattened and unable to escape. I feed, and so do they, my thousand billion children on a royal jelly of dead cells and an accumulation of filth.

Tuesday, 7 July 2009

Me and Mick Turate Down by the Urinal

It’s the slow hesitant walk to the men’s room. The furtive glance as you first break through the door, checking out the lay of the land. The struggle as you decide whether to pull up alongside and park yourself next to the person from cubicle number 5 that you don’t know too well. Or, could your masculinity take the hit, allowing you to sneak into a stall. You decide on bravery, nervously coughing as you unzip your fly beside him. And what do you say to this man whose stream of urine you’ve just interrupted. You both look about in opposite directions as if you have something much more interesting to look at than each other; successfully seeming far too busy looking at this important thing to engage each other in conversation. Yours starts flowing, and so again does his. He clears his throat in a similar fashion to your cough, zips himself up and tries to leave the room as quickly as possible. And there you’re left, pissing alone, surrounded by the stench of another man’s piss.

Monday, 29 June 2009

We Came For Blood

He wraps his whole self around his food. Puts his face up right close to it, moves so his shoulders and arms wrap around it, as if he’s some starving dog ready to snap at any hand that even contemplates taking it. Watching him makes me feel sick, as he crowds around his plate, breathing out and in rapidly as the food sucks down his gullet. Mumma sow's little piglet, pimple pocked and red faced from the exertion it took for him to walk to the KFC counter, from way out there, fifty metres to the carpark. She chuffed in after him, she in her 40’s and he around 20.

“Well, what do you want?” she wheezes.

“Ultimate burger meal, the one with the burger, the chips, the drink, the potato and gravy and the chicken wings. Make it a large. And I want a second burger.”

She orders the bucket for herself.

Twenty dead chooks later and they look at each other, he shrugs, as if to say “well I didn’t ask to be born”, and she shrugs back as if to say “they said you can’t get pregnant the first time. Or, for that matter, the last time.”

Sunday, 21 June 2009

And This Is How It Happened

So we were sitting there happily minding our own business, in a quiet little microcosm amongst the raucous of the public house. Tim, to the right of me, was a strapping young gentleman of 6′1; a well-mannered and well-educated individual who shared my burden of nursing a quiet drink. Across from us at the four seated table was another young man and his buxom wench. She was an average looking girl with plenty of bosom on show, which Tim and I agreed was mildly pleasing. Suddenly, Tim’s current thought was interrupted by something, a drunken yahoo had attempted to lick his ear. Pushing the yahoo away, Tim exclaimed that the man was a cunt. Then, being the well-mannered individual he was, he apologized to the table.

“I’m sorry about dropping the C-bomb there guys,” he remarked.

The bosomly girl who had up to this point not opened her mouth and had therefore seemed quite mature and respectable suddenly piped up, “don’t worry about it, it’s pretty much my favourite word.”

“Your favourite?” Tim blurted, flabbergasted, his opinion of her dropping by the second.

“Yes. CUNT!” she ejaculated back.

“Calm down, please,” requested Tim, as politely as he could.

“You know what my new favourite word is? JESUS! FUCK!” she yelled as she slapped her hand on the table. “JESUS! FUCK!” she did it again.

Tim and I looked at each other perplexed at this woman’s unabashed display of immaturity.

“Did you know he was black?” she asked of us.

“Who?” Tim replied.

“Jesus. He was black.”

I disagreed.

“He was. I bet you’ve never even thought about it.”

“I think most races were living in most areas at that point,” Tim recalled, drawing on his knowledge of the immigrations and migrations during the Roman Empire.

I piped up and offered an opinion about Jesus being brown, a Semite, and that I had indeed thought about it.

“Have you never seen anyone from Saudi Arabia?” she demanded.

“Yes, and they’re brown.” I replied.

“Brown, black, what’s the fucking difference?” she paused. “And do you think they had ships back then?”

“Yes,” I replied, for the first time in my life using something in everyday life from my $15,000 ancient history major.

“No. You’re wrong,” she said.

“They did. Jesus lived around the area of Galilee, there is a lake there. His friends were fishermen.”

“Hah! And do you know how big a lake is? A lake is this big,” she indicated with her index finger and thumb a tiny portion, “and an ocean is this big!” she indicated throwing her arms out.

“They had ships back then,” both Tim and I agreed.

“Lakes can be pretty big. The lakes in the states, or what about the Mediterranean sea, that’s pretty much a big lake.”

“Of course I’ve seen the Mediterranean sea! Fucking hell, I’ve floated in the Mediterranean sea!”

“What are you even talking about ships for anyway?” I asked.

“What am I talking about ships for? I’m making a point, fuck.”

“It wasn’t even related to the conversation, you just started talking about ships.”

“Come on we’re leaving,” she said, her eyes welling up. She stood and grabbed her boyfriends arm, pulling him from his chair where he sat completely bewildered by the entire conversation and stormed out of the room.

Tim and I looked at each other, laughing at her surprise departure.

“Did that just happen?” Tim asked.

Yes it did. And that is exactly how it happened.

Friday, 19 June 2009

Osteal Me Away

As her mouth opened to take the best of what I had for her, all I could see were the rows of teeth. White, like bone protruding from her head. And all I could think of was how she would look without skin, that deep down, I was receiving oral pleasure from a skeleton. I screamed and pushed it to the floor, putting one of my feet on the skeleton’s head, and punching it’s ribcage until it went quiet. I looked at it, skin taught from stretching over its horrible frame, hiding as best it could inside this thin covering, but it couldn’t fool me. I hear footsteps. I grab a knife. Maybe there are more. I’ll have to check them one by one.

Wednesday, 17 June 2009

Not Fade Away

I suppose it’s like that in the end. A little bit cold, a little bit lonely, something you need to do on your own. No more tits where you’re going. No more drugs, no more alcohol or two girl threesomes. Yet for some reason you accept it, go quietly into the dark, forgettable. Your soul waited so long for her to be born, yearning for her to give you the time of day and for her to look upon you and to know you like you knew yourself. She never did, though you spent many hours begging it from the universe. As if the universe ever owed you a single cent. So she disappeared out there somewhere, into the huge small world and was never heard from again. For some reason, now, it matters. You can only put her out of your head for so long before she creeps back in, never aging, perpetually youthfully gyrating and flashing you smiles she never showed you. All her curves in the right places, tits so young and firm you could crack eggs on them, and you would if she’d let you. There wasn’t much more you could’ve done for her at your age, a young girl like that. Crack eggs on her tits, watch the yolks and albumen trail down her stomach, and thank her for her time. If even her perfect body couldn’t rouse your local member into her polling booth, then what hope did you have? Better just to die and fade away. 

Saturday, 13 June 2009

Is It Still A Crymax When You're Crying On The Inside?

He’s calling her phone again.

I tried gentle persuasion to get her to turn it off, but she refused. Gave some excuse about one of her girlfriends ringing up with an emergency. I’d tip the only kind of emergency being a relationship or fashion crisis. For that’s what I’m down to. Sleeping with self-absorbed girls who have sex with virtual strangers for spite. I should be grateful. A man like me, she’s better looking than what I’d normally get. If I ever so much as smiled at girls her age, they’d walk past and give each other looks of horror, before putting their fingers down their throat in mock disgust and heckling laughter.

The phone rings out, diverts off to voicemail. She waits for the bip as the message is received. I thrust away as she listens to it, a stern look on her face. She hangs up and places the phone back on the dresser. It immediately starts ringing again.

Tuesday, 9 June 2009

Dose and Don'ts

“Don’t worry, it happens to all guys,” she said.

And yeah, maybe it does, but not to this guy. Perhaps it was the flecks of dead skin hanging on like grim death from the red rings around her nostrils. The fantasy was so much harder to keep going when it was obvious she was a drug addled coke whore. Squat down there, between your knees, pierced and tattooed, she slobbered her drug puckered mouth around your shaft which failed to bother coming to the party. So I put my hands around her neck and squeezed. Just a little; just enough to flush her cheeks and make her show a bit of emotion. Fear and anger flashed into her eyes. It made me wonder if she has a dad out there, who used to kiss her cheek and tuck her into bed at night. A little brother she rings from time to time, tells him she’s doing great, making it big in her acting career. Anything to avoid the truth, that the last legit work was a car advertisement two years ago and the money was spent in one score. Now life is just about the three C’s, cock, cash and coke. But perhaps I’ve gone too far, her eyes have rolled back into her head and her body has gone limp. 

Sunday, 31 May 2009

The Short Cregbowski in Mrs Cornwall’s Meaning of Life

Creg dropped the freshly emptied jerrycan, a menacing look upon his face. He slipped a plastic lighter out of his pocket, gave the hedge one last look over and crouched down to light the trail he’d poured to his feet. As he watched it burn he thought about all the things he’d never done in his short life. All the kisses that should have been his, all the love he’d lost, the hugs he’d never felt. This hedge that his father had died in, this hedge who had taken away so much. His father was only forty years old when he’d fallen in. Creg was holding his hand at the time, letting his fingers slip away for just a second to run ahead and kick a stone. Upon looking back Creg saw his father’s face contorted with pain, his hand clutching at his chest, he gasped a word from his beet red face but Creg was too far away to hear. And then he fell, as if in slow motion, into this horrid hedge, taking Creg’s childhood with him.

And now the flames licked up into the sky, filling out with the anger Creg felt subside. He turned from the spectacle, tears streaming from his tiny old-man’s face and ran. He had no where to run, all he had was a picture in his mind of the perfect life and as fast as his legs could carry him. 

Jesus Held Kurt Cobain’s Hand and Smiled as he Pulled the Trigger

If Jesus could speak he’d have something to say about what I was doing I’m sure. A couple of homeless a night, knifed in the neck. Not for any reason mind, just because I can. Those that society have cast aside and left for dead, choosing not to rejoin the rat race but to sit here, begging for change so that they can get high. They’d rather smoke up than eat, and I’d rather cut their throats out than stay at home and watch the news. I suppose we - myself and my victim - share something in common, we both seek thrills and are most at home on the street. I draw the line there though, everything else about them sickens me. I dare not even get a drop of their disgusting blood on my clothes, let alone my skin. Think of all the diseases they carry inside their flea infested clothes, their skin literally crawling with lice that wallow in a thick bed of grime. I don’t even use coins anymore, the mere thought of one of the coins being previously possessed by such scum makes me ill. So I wander the city at night, sticking my knife in the side of their necks, watching them gurgle and crawl across the footpath, waiting for the moment that they die. Their eyes look up into mine, begging for me to turn back time and give them their life back. But not even I am that powerful. And Jesus, though he watches silently over my shoulder like an old friend, he never intervenes.

The Impotence Of Being Earnest

You get to the point where its too much effort to even stand up to piss anymore. So you sit there, not a man, not quite a woman, waiting for your life to end and wishing you were sexual again. Homosexual, heterosexual, who cares which as long as you’re active. You work all your life away at becoming something, trying your hardest to excel, and then you end up here, amidst old age, sitting on a porcelain throne with a leaky prostate and piss stains in all of your underwear. All you can think about is all those erections you wasted. All those random ones that popped up out of no where, in the middle of church, on the bus home, whilst watching television with your mum and dad. Every morning like clockwork, there it was, staring back at you and shrugging, as if saluting to say it was ready for duty. Ninety-nine percent of the time you just said “at ease” and hit the snooze button, under the impression that it would always be there. Under the impression it’d always get so hard you could force it violently into someone’s eye-socket if you had so wished. Never expected that one day you’d have to nervously laugh and use your fingers as a splint. She’d look down, ask if it’s in yet, you’d reply something about having drunk too much although you hadn’t touched a drop.

A Rugby Union

Apparently rugby life is all about standing around in a circle with all your best rugby mates, shorts around your ankles, cock in one hand and slapping each other on the back with the other. It’s a live action show, one or three of the fold are slapping their genitals on, against and into a random bleached blonde whore, her big fake tits staying perfectly still despite the violent thrusting. Her dead eyes look around the room, waiting for the next masturbator to step forward and fuck her with the same mechanical self interest.

“Who is she anyway?”

“Just some whore.”

“Hah. They all are mate, they all are.”

“After we’ve had our turn we should go out and curb stomp some homo faggots.”

“I’m down for that. Pretty sweet wanking method you’ve got there by the way.”

“Yeah, learnt it from my dad.”

“Cool. Hey, maybe we should french kiss or something. It’s not gay if there’s a girl in the room.”


I suppose I knew I loved her when she first opened up to me - approximately forty-five seconds after meeting her.

“Thanks for lending me some of your umbrella. I was getting a little tired of hiding in your bush.”

“I keep a tidy garden. No bush here.” She shot me a devious look and a cheeky smile.

She had a beautiful smile, stretching from ear to ear the moment I said a kind word, her thin red lips seemingly so impressed by everything I said. Every lie I spun. I don’t know why I did it, well, actually I do. One lie followed another, until every second thing I said was a lie, they flowed freely and easily to the point that I had to start writing notes to myself to remember what I’d lied about so that I wouldn’t get mixed up. The reason? Well, she herself had a boyfriend, and I, well, I had a wife. I had to lie to keep her interested and to make myself seem worth losing her boyfriend over. Not that convincing her that her boyfriend was a jerk was particularly hard. She already had half of it worked out, just needed a shunt in the right direction.

“He just doesn’t get me, you know?”

“Yeah I know.”

“It’s like, you’re the first person who has ever got me. I thought I’d had conversations with him before - but it wasn’t until I met you, and we started talking like this that I know what things could be - should be - like. I realized that him and I had never really spoken, not in three years.”

“I know, we’re perfect together.”

I became petrified of her finding out the truth, telling my wife, crashing together my two separate lives. A life of reality which was far more lie than the life of a thousand lies I had been living with her. So I pushed her away, whether too scared to hurt her or too scared to shatter this image of myself I saw reflected in her eyes, I still don’t know. 


There’s a lot that can be said for optimism really, even if you have a fairly one sided partnership where the love is all gone. You find yourself at the end of the road, more apart than together, the only food left being a few cans of tuna neither of you care to eat. A whole month can pass without so much as looking at each other. Those things that were once so attractive, now start to grate and annoy you in ways you’d never have imagined. That hair, once so bouncy and flirtatious, now short, or pulled up into a bun, unattractively cropped around a face you wish would just go away. Optimism is when you realize that you’re too lazy to change your life. As much as you wish you could be bothered, you’ll sit there doing nothing, frustratingly wasting day after day in some kind of perpetually stupid hope that things will pick up by themselves, or if they don’t, they’ll pass by in such a way as to be easily ignored.

Friday, 29 May 2009

Tinpot Pyrite

And that’s life isn’t it? A thousand trillion years of nothing substantial. A bruise on your penis and a warm beer that makes you feel squeamish. The fat checkout girl, curly haired and long nails, clicking through items at the speed of a corpse. Nasally speculating about the weather and whatever else she seems to live her inconsequential life around. A whole lot of unoriginal situations as you go through the motions and hold your head above the toilet bowl, with that familiar stench of porcelain water and the cold emanating up from the tiles and into your body. Someone on the television is proclaiming that their product is completely free, audio filler in the background to the noise of hurling the contents of your stomach into the plumbing.

Casual sex, fast food and vomit.

Saturday, 23 May 2009

The Ghost of Tuna Mournay, A Soul Trapped Inside a Can

Every cell inside me yearns,
And every fibre breaks in turn,
For the bridge that I have burned,
To the lover whom I spurned.

She now detests me like a snake,
But in my dreams she haunts me still,
As if my life was hers to take,
As if my heart was fit to kill.

I wake heartbroken every morning,
Greeting miserable the new day dawning,
Sulk and mope as if in mourning,
Freezing though the weather’s warming.

I can’t move on, yet I can’t stay still,
When in my dreams, she haunts me still,
Showing me the happiness I can’t fulfil,
And pushing me to drink and pill.

All I want is one or other,
Dream or reality, it doesn’t matter,
I languish for naught, but suffer’s end,
My heart is torn and cannot mend. 

Break And It Will Mendicity

You wake up in the darkness, frozen to the spot, sweat pouring from your forehead. You try to scream for help but your throat cannot wrap around anything but thin whisps of air, a slight wince barely escapes your lips. Panicked, you try to thrash out and hit something just to make a noise, but your arms and legs are as heavy as lead. She’s watching you from the corner of the room. Softly lit, lambent but dark at the same time. A young child’s face that floats as if tuning in and out like an old television, but remaining transfixed on you through the obscuring static. Your eyes widen as a sinister sneer spreads across her lips.

Friday, 22 May 2009

Jiggling At The End Of The Noose Inside Your Closet

I rolled out of bed but I wasn’t a cockroach. My metamorphosis had taken the form of complete skeletonization. As if a thousand ants had descended upon me in the night and torn every piece of flesh from my bones, not leaving a single speck of muscle or organ, just two eyeballs floating inside an empty skull. So what do you do in that situation? My immediate thought was not to seek help, but to take revenge. What kind of sad individual I must have been in life to immediately seek vengeance the moment something absolutely incredible happens to me. Of course, if it had been revenge on those that had done this to me, then that would’ve made a slight degree of sense, but no, what I wanted was revenge on those who had dared compare my nose to that of Lady Gaga’s. You see I was walking down the shops the other day, kicking a can along the gutter as I am wont to do, minding my own business. Then these pack of teens who were standing outside the market started laying into me out of no where. “OI NICE NOSE, YOU LOOK LIKE FREAKING LADY GAGA YOU MAN-WOMAN!”

I ran a bony finger down my rib cage, click clacking bone on bone as I dragged it faster. Yes, it was time for vengeance, not fame, not fortune. I would make three young boys regret the very fact they were ever born.

Monday, 18 May 2009

Creg’s Paranormal Adventures in Redditch with Absolutely Heaps of Impromptu Anal Sex

So there Creg was, in his little sailor’s outfit, waiting in front of a stranger’s door. “TRICK OR TREAT!” he squealed in delight as the owner opened the door and looked down at him with narrowed eyes.

“Where are all your friends, kid?” the man asked coolly.

“Well,” said Creg, drawing in plenty of breath. “It’s not that I don’t have any friends, its more that they all had better things to do on a Saturday night than come trick or treating with me. They say it’s for babies, but I don’t care, I love to dress up and plus, you get free candy too!”

The man began pulling the door shut again. “Look, sorry kid, I don’t do Halloween. ‘A’, I don’t have any sweets, and ‘B’ Halloween isn’t until tomorrow.”

“Yeah but its the closest non-school night that my mum will let me out on!” Creg protested as the door slammed shut. He looked down at his bag - an empty haul. This was his fourth house and his fourth trick, not a sweet in sight. He stood on the footpath in his little outfit, feeling like a low class rent boy, without the will to even toilet paper the house which had upset him so.

It was dark, Creg shuffled his feet along the quiet street toward his home.A bright white street-light flicked off and on, spending twice as long in pitch black than it did bathed in light. The street-light cut out as Creg approached the hedge. That dreaded hedge which reminded him of everything awful in his life. He slowed his pace, hoping that the light would come back on before he pulled along side it. Suddenly he heard a noise behind him. Footsteps in the dark. Creg whirled around as the light came back on. Nothing. The empty street stared back at him in silence. Creg slowly backed up, before summoning the courage to turn back around, leaving him standing face to face with the hedge as the light went out. Creg’s breathing became shallow, he could barely see a thing after the brightness of the street-light had left his eyes unadjusted. A rustling noise from the direction of the hedge sent a chill down his spine.

“Wh-who is there?” Creg whined, trying to sound manly but failing when his voice broke and the fear crept in. The light clicked back on, the rustling stopped and Creg got ready to bolt the hell out of there, but his legs were paralysed. He was frozen on the spot, unable to move, let alone run. He stood there gawping at the hedge, trying to catch his breath and will his legs to move. The rustling started again, Creg looked over the hedge, trying to work out what was making the noise. He hoped to god it was a squirrel. Again the light clicked off, leaving him in darkness with the mysterious noise. Footsteps. Scraping. Not a squirrel. Creg gulped.

“Don’t be afraid, Creg.”

Creg spun around to face the direction of the voice that somehow knew his name. A second, which felt a lifetime, stretched out in silence. Finally the light came back, washing blessed light over him and another figure. Creg’s jaw dropped. His chest tightened. Blood drained from every capillary. He was standing face to face with an alien. It had an oozing brown face, lumpy and grotesque.

“Come with me Creg,” it said.

“W-where to? What d-do you want!?”

“I want you, Creg. Come over here, behind this hedge, quickly, before a car comes.”

“Why, who are you?”

“My name is Bilboro, of the planet Samowheels. I must study your species using anal probes. You will come with me or I will use a disintegration ray on you and all you love.”

Saturday, 16 May 2009

Into The Fold

You’re old, and you sit there, patting the dog you constantly forget to feed. He doesn’t seem to mind, skinny as he is, loyal through and through to a master clearly too frail and unfit to lead the pack. It puts it’s head down on the carpet with a soft groan, the drooping jowls spilling out from the side of its face across the ground. It’s eyes are blank, reflecting the small flickers of flame from the fireplace as it slowly dies down to embers. “If I could have one thing,” you say to the dog, “just one thing in this life to make me happy. It’d be you.” The cool night wind picked up again and began to rattle the shutters. The cold darkness cried desperately to come inside. But the two old friends paid no heed. They were dead to the world, and snoring, fast asleep.

Tuesday, 12 May 2009

The Eternal Battle Of Love Versus Need

I flashed her a wink with my unfinished, baby-triangle eyes. Seducing her with carefully pre-planned words and cute pictures of my cat. She felt safe and opened up, telling me the only cat she had was hairless.

'Love is only loneliness divided by another'. The sub conscious realization that you’re too inept or lazy to ever sleep with another person which makes your brain flood you with the chemicals that cause neediness.

I love her so much I want to strangle her to death. Watch as her eyes go pale and her mind fades to black. Why should anyone but me have the chance to kill her - a faceless stranger run her down as she crosses the street, a cancerous mass eat away at her bones and make her suffer? Only I can do it right.

It always seems to happen this way, I fall in love and realize they’re too good for this world and the shit that comes out both ends of them.

Sunday, 10 May 2009

Manic Aggressive

So I was standing there, in front of her, we were both all of four or five years old. She seemed pretty keen, and my heart was beating faster. I wanted desperately to try this thing the adults always did and talked about - kissing. She had promised me we could, we’d walked far away from the prying eyes of those whom might stop us, but for some reason we were still standing there trying hard to convince ourselves that it was easy and natural.

It was then that we were interrupted, when an older boy walked across the park and up the hill to where we were standing. He froze on the spot, as huge and menacing as a boy who is one or two years older than you can be. I stiffened, knowing instinctually that he wanted to fight, there was something about his face and his demeanour. He walked a circle around us, eyeing me off. She seemed wary and I felt the adrenaline kick in.

I charged at that boy, knocking him flat. I furiously kicked at and put my knee into his balls, while my fingers sought his eyes. I stabbed, jabbed, poked and scratched his eyes until he started screaming and then I pushed him, rolling him back down the hill from whence he came. Then I took her by the hand and we walked back to where our parents were talking. That boy could be blind now. I never heard a thing.

Thursday, 7 May 2009

The New Adventures Of Old Creg-teen Part 4

Creg clenched and unclenched his fists, stamping his feet angrily toward his destination like an angry dwarf whose snow white had been pinched. He had, earlier in the day, been challenged to a fight in front of the whole school - or at least what felt like it - by the school bully, Bill Samuels. This great ox of a kid had walked right up to Creg, who was at the time attempting to retrieve his belongings in a game of “Creggy-in-the-Middle” which his friends seemed to always enjoy playing with him. “After school. Behind the groundskeeper’s shed,” were the only words he uttered, before shoulder barging Creg to the asphalt and continuing on his way.

And so the time had come; everyone would be there, laughing and taking bets. Most of the money of course would be bet on Creg not showing up at all, but there was no way Creg Cornwall would let that happen. Not this time at least. Creg rounded the corner of the shed, fists tight and eyelids half shut in preparation for the blow to the head he was convinced he was about to receive, but nothing was forthcoming. His eyelids grew bold and widened enough to look around. No one was there. Well, Bill was, but no one else. This puckered Creg’s courage - if he was going to go down, best make it quick before anyone else arrived. 

“So no one else bothered to turn up eh? Guess they didn’t think it’d be worth it since I’d win so quick!” Creg quipped as he lifted his fists up and bounced about the place like a tiny boxer.

“No, I told them to leave.”

“Why? Because you’re scared they’ll see you lose?” Creg continued to bait him even though it was pointless now.

“No. Because we have some private matters to discuss.”

Creg stopped bouncing, “What?”

“Mostly about how you ‘re wearing a pink pair of underwear today.”

Creg’s fists dropped from beneath his chin and began to go to work rapidly checking himself to see if any of his underwear was showing. “It’s m-m-my s-sister Charlene’s, she said I could borrow… I had no… we haven’t done washing in a while. It’s not bad, they’re b-b-boy cut ones.”

“Hush Creg. Don’t cover them up. I want to see more.”

Creg froze on the spot, too terrified to move.


Wednesday, 6 May 2009

She Fucked Me

Crawling through my life like an unseen ghost. Ghost of a jailer. A warden. A turnkey. She rattles my chains. The ones that encircle my wrists and ankles and tie me to this place. She torments me, tortures me with the clicking of pens, the tapping of feet. Unseen, but far from faceless. Dancing and flirting with the dark, disappearing as I appear. Melting with the shadows as the light encroaches. With all my heart I hate her. 

Sunday, 3 May 2009

Watership Down Syndrome

 It’s just a quick slap and chop before we’re thrown head-long into life, with no pocket guide book or reference text, just an innate desire to consume, breed and protect what we’ve got. We’re rabbits in cages, sucking water from the pipes that lead into our hutches and eating the food shoved down our gullets, whilst we wait, fat and ready to be tossed into the cooking pot. Our life’s work, our achievements inside our tiny microcosm, amount to crusted shit quickly hosed away in the clean-up after death. Then, to be quickly replaced by a new rabbit, to fill what tiny void we left behind. And what voice do we have, what say have we in all this but soft and unheard mewling, muted, caught like a cry in a rabbit’s throat. Our huge brown eyes call out for the tears they cannot cry. 

Friday, 1 May 2009

Clap Your Hands, Say Baa

Foot, pavement, foot pavement.

The city drags by me and the grass licks at the side of my boots. A thousand lights angrily beam into my eyeballs, trying to disorient me and tell me what to do next. If I could give in for just one second and let one rule my thoughts, capture the swirling mess of ordinary thoughts and regurgitate them into a song. People would invite me into their homes, a stranger singing and dancing amongst their furniture in a fit of fakery and fabrications; slow motion impossibilities miss-matched against a trite synthesizer wobble. I’d still hate myself, even if it was voted best song of the year.

I’d get a hot celebrity girlfriend, and I’d beat the shit out of her ugly plastic face. 

Tuesday, 28 April 2009

ENTRY 12,602

I’d been in this bunker thirty-four years when it happened. thirty-four long boring years of canned beans and corned meat.

The reason? Well, you know the story, with the Cold War never ceasing, losing in Vietnam and the threat of nuclear obliteration. Besides, there was the whole immorality and women’s rights thing tearing away at the fabric of society’s seams. I couldn’t believe it, right before I turned my back on the world, I was driving about town and stopped at the lights - suddenly a woman is sticking her head in the passenger side window blathering on about “wanting a piece of her”, before backing up and lifting her skirt, exposing the fact she had no underwear. In 1975! I’d never heard of such a thing.

I came straight home, rubbing my crucifix vigorously. I said some quick goodbyes and locked myself in the bomb shelter I’d built below my parents house, having inherited the place jointly with my sister a few years prior. It wasn’t long before the aliens invaded. My sister radioed the news flash down to me on the 2-way, cementing my resolve to never resurface. Not two days later she radioed down to me again, telling me they were coming, that she would be killed like everyone else up there. She begged me to let her in, but I couldn’t. There was no way I was going to open up and risk being seen by aliens or infected by some kind of alien virus. Better one of us die than both.

Of course, thirty years passed slowly at first in quiet and isolation, though eventually memories began to blur without the obvious time division of sunlight. Then, when I felt enough time had passed for the aliens to have moved on and any airborne alien pathogens to have died out, I decided to poke my head out and take a look around, see how the world had changed. To my surprise I found my sister and her husband sitting in the lounge room watching television. They looked at me, their faces mirroring my own shock, before my sister ran from the room. I wasn’t sure what was going on until an alien appeared from the room my sister went into. “RETURN FROM WHERE YOU CAME,” it yelled, in some strange dialect which I managed to understand. “This’ll never work,” my brother-in-law was muttering. It was too late to save him. I ran back to the safety of my bunker and this is where I remain.

Sunday, 26 April 2009

She Cries Like The Universe Itself

The hunger sucks upon itself, causing you physical pain, making you gaze at the bones of an old woman. Release from pain tempts you as your eyes gouge her thighs like tender steaks. You drag the air about her into your lungs, scouring the taste of her scent for something repugnant, something to stave off desire. A mix of perfume and decay clogs your olfactory receptors, but does nothing to keep you away.

Take the shovel, take the bucket
Load the shotgun and cock it,
Sandy beach and foamy waves,

Use the shovel, dig their graves

Wednesday, 22 April 2009

I Used To Swear At Strangers

I cry a dream of dust in a black field of empty sky. Pale, balding, hovering in a void of wasted time. Eyes flittering about as if playing leapfrog with each other at a tennis match in outer space. As if time is endless. Infinite.

You are now thinking about memorable conversations you’ve had using cordless telephones.

Fair Thee Well

I was at the town fair and so was she, holding hands with her mother and glaring in my direction. It was almost as if she needed the maternal support and protection from the grip of my vile paws. Her mother sat in ignorance, staring at the dog parade, whilst her daughter murdered me with her eyes. All I wanted was a shouting match - screaming and yelling to the point of exhaustion until the tears flowed, under slouched shoulders and over knock knees lifted under our chins. We could then sit and talk all night, backs against the wall, sitting on the cold tiles, until we fell asleep side by side.

Sunday, 19 April 2009

People in Britain Traveled 508 Billion Miles by Road, Rail and Air in 2007

I’d been waiting to use the library computers for 45 minutes. Every time one came up, I passed it over, let the next person in line take it. There’s only one PC I’m after - the one in the corner, the one which no one can see the screen of unless they’re right behind you. Finally the user got up and let me on. I started up internet explorer, surfing my way over to the Daily Mail, I almost sighed as my addiction was finally sated. “Lily Allen topless”? Hrm, yeah I was game. “Sexy topless romp in France,” I clicked all the pictures open. I almost cried out in disgust as the horrible tiny red boobs sent waves of revulsion through my stomach.

“OI!” some woman was yelling behind me. “We’ve been watching you! You’re nicked! Get the heck out of here you pervert. You’re banned from here for 6 months!”

Shit. Banned for 6 months. You get up under her gaze and slink out. You notice she has moved to your computer and started closing the windows of boobs that you left open. You grab a book on the way out and hold it over the checkpoints so the alarm doesn’t go off. That’ll teach her a lesson, you look at the book, “UK book of statistics 2008″. Shit.

Did you know 1/3rd of men nowadays live with their parents? I certainly did.

The New Adventures of Old Creg-teen Part 3

Charlene, Creg’s half sister, was visiting for a fortnight, and the deadline before she returned home was looming. He had neither perpetrated an accidental walk-in on her in the shower, nor had he even managed to inadvertantly stumble into her room whilst she was changing. He just didn’t have the guts. He had been, for the last few hours, attempting to chisel through the wall that separated their two rooms, Great Escape style, with a teaspoon. Collecting the plaster and fibres in his shoes that he would then wear outside and empty in the garden. He had managed to make his way into the cavity and was about to start on slowly, quietly chipping away at the back of her plaster wall, when there was a knock at the door.

“Creg, Creg honey?”

Creg jumped to his feet and ran to his door, “yes? Yes Charlene?” he beamed as he opened it.

“Creg, I’m scared. I think we have rats.”

“No no, we don’t have rats Charlene, I mean, yeah we used to, but I’m pretty sure they starved.”

“No I can hear them, mice or rats, there’s something scurrying through the walls, Creg.”


“Yeah. We need to get some rat baits or something. Where does mum keep them?”

“Uhm. I don’t think we have any. There’s no rats Charlene, I promise.”

“Can you just check for me, Creg? Please?”

“Check for rats?”

“Yeah, please!” she batted her eyelids at him, making his knees melt and his legs go rubbery.

“Okay sure, I’ll check out your room,” Creg said commandingly, as if leader of a hunting party.

“No no, they’re not in my room, they’re in the walls, they must be coming down from the roof. Get the ladder and climb in the manhole and take a poke around.”


“Don’t forget to grab a torch. If you see anything we’ll get some rat baits, thanks Creg.” She turned and walked back to her room and closed the door.

Creg dutifully went out the back and collected the ladder and a torch. Struggled with it up the stairs and positioned it below the manhole. He lifted the cover, about a thousand years worth of dust went over his face, all over his neck and down his throat. He coughed to the point of almost throwing up, before he remembered - this was his big chance to impress Charlene. Be a man, Creg, he said to himself. All he had to do was pretend he scared the rats off, quit the scratching at her wall, and he was in with a big chance of seeing a boob. Maybe even two. 

Just When I Feel My Happiness Starting

My fingers slipped from the tuft of grass that they were holding onto. I reached out for the edge but all I clasped was air. A few pebbles rained past and rolled over my face, disappearing into oblivion. I soon followed them, falling for what seemed a lifetime, staring back up at the ledge from where I fell as it got smaller and smaller. All I could think about was this article I’d read, about when things move quickly past your eyes, or your eyes themselves are moving quickly, your brain makes you go blind, but you don’t know it because it keeps showing you the last thing you saw. On a carousel spun quickly, things seem to freeze out in the distance as you spin, because you’re not actually seeing them anymore, but you are inside your head. I wondered how much of this, my last few seconds on earth, were being blocked out by my brain. I look down at myself, just to make sure the image changed. My gut is flailing about in the wind, I could’ve done something about that I suppose, in amongst all those years I wasted in front of the television set, not that it particularly mattered now. My pants hardly fluttered, skin tight, as I liked them. For some reason it reminded me of the Russian love bride I’d sent for. I paid for her air-ticket, but she was turned away when she hit customs. Made it all the way to Birmingham, but then they opened her bag and found it only had lingerie in it. Sent packing and banned from coming back on suspicion of being a prostitute. A love lost and over before it even began. I wonder what she’s doing now, right now. I wonder if she’ll hear it when I hit.

Thursday, 16 April 2009

Puff Pastry

I was a pie man, crust and filler. They were the only thing that made sense in my life. That moment, twenty years ago, when I walked through the factory doors and smelt the pastry baking, I knew this was where I was supposed to be. Every single day I worked hard, producing every different kind of pie you could imagine. I climbed the corporate pie making ladder, inventing new recipes, overseeing production, taste-testing - the works. That’s why, in the end, I’m standing here about to do what I’m about to do.

When I was younger my older brother and I used to put on two pairs of old pants and stand together in the yard back to back, holding our air rifles over our shoulder. A ten-pace duel, and then a skirmish through the bushes. The only rule was that we had to aim for the legs.

One day, after he’d put me in the old bin, hammered the lid down on top and rolled me over a hill, we went to play our usual game. He crept around the hedge I was hiding in, thinking he could ambush me, but I saw him. Still stung from earlier, I found myself pointing the gun at his face. At the time he said he didn’t even feel it, but ten years went on and the pellet worked its way through his sinuses and somehow to his brain.

So now they’re closing us down. The recession apparently means no one can afford dessert pies anymore, and the modest gains in savoury pies have done nothing to compensate. So here I am, after giving up twenty years of my life, rolling the pellet they removed from my brother’s skull around in the palm of my hand while I wait for the gas to fill the room. Oh it won’t be long now, till the oven thermostat clicks on, and we’re all eating pies in heaven.


For an eight year old, chores are akin to the crushing of dreams. The weekend you’ve been desperate for arrives, the sun is shining, the bugs are out and just waiting for you to catch them. Then of course, round comes mum, pissing on everything and demanding you do your chores. You stamp your feet about the house before remembering the one chore you don’t mind - you offer to scoop the dog’s poop from all around the lawn. Now this of course sounds like the worst job imaginable - it’s out in the heat, and you’re deliberately placing yourself in smelling vicinity of poo. The thing was, you had a trick up your sleeve. It was the only chore you could truly turn into a game. The scooper, a little plastic shovel-type utensil, had just the right flex in it to launch a barrage of high-flying turds over your 6-foot fence and onto the neighbours roof. Mum and dad had told you to put them in a plastic bag and throw them in the bin, but where was the fun in that? The sound of an old dry dog turd hitting the neighbour’s tin roof was music to your ears, the explosion as it hit and the roll of the debris down the corrugated iron and into the gutter below. The visions you had of your neighbours inside wondering what was going on and if they were under attack by flying dogs. You were all done by 11:15, record timing and still plenty of the day left to catch bugs.

It wasn’t long before you had a container full of bees and quickly grew bored of them, leaving them to die while you played with your ball. A little over exuberant kick and it landed in the neighbours yard. Well, now you were fucked. You couldn’t very well go over there and say “Hi, can I just get my ball back?” you were far too paranoid that they were onto you. You decided to sneak up the side of their house and see if you could get it back without them noticing.

Sprinting up their drive way, you dive under a window and crawl, looking about and listening for anyone who might’ve noticed. Pretty soon you’ve made it to their backyard, but a voice makes you stop dead in your tracks. It’s the woman who lives here, walking about her backyard wearing only a tshirt and nothing down below. Needless to say you were shocked by the first adult vagina you had ever seen in your life, even if it was about 60 years your senior. She was muttering something about having been hit by lightning. You look up to check the sky, perfectly blue, not a cloud about. It’s then you notice the pipe attached to the guttering on their roof. A pipe running all the way to a big rainwater tank. All the guttering, now choked with dog shit had been draining straight into their drinking water.


You gulp. This can’t be good.

Wednesday, 15 April 2009

The Bladder Bursts

So you do it and you feel like dirty tramp the second it’s over. You crawl your way home on the verge of sobbing and curl up in your bed. He breathes heavily next to you, undisturbed. You want to reach out a hand and put it on his back, connect with him some how, as if he could understand and forgive you while he slept. You put your hand out and touch him, just to see if he will recoil from your touch in disgust. He doesn’t, just mutters and breathes deeply. There’s a sickness in your belly, alcohol mixed in a cocktail of guilt and fear, tearing your stomach in two. The whole room is spinning around you, as if you’re the centre of your own universe of shit. Your life is over the second he finds out, and you can’t bear not to tell him. This could be your last night together. You sniff back the stinging tears and run your hand over his shoulder.

Thursday, 26 February 2009

The Setaceous Barbellate and Other Tautologies

Step out of the shower and into your yellow pantyhose. Greet the world with an optimistic grin as you slip into your singlet. Crawl into your happy place and meet and greet the children. Wiggle your briary-ère as you dance their favourite songs. For you truly are an icon, a living breathing hero, and anyone who disagrees is just a jealous, arrogant asshole. The kids all love you as you hand them their fructose infused tetra-briks and tell them to run along, a symphony of popping greets you when they’re done. It’s your song, being sung just for you. And when you die they’ll bury you, inside that pineapple suit. Amongst the sounds of a 21 popper salute, below a tombstone that reads INRI, because just like in Mark 15:26, you truly are the King of the Juice.


My tummy was grumbling again. I called it the angry old man, a suitable name for something full of aches and pains and non-stop complaining. All it wants is food, but desire for food is a sickness. The need for material things is the path to ruin, and so I wait, my mind pushing to ignore the pain, until it stops and gives me some quiet. I remember the days when my grandfather would talk and I would turn up the television to drown him out, ignoring his advice or current consternation. Nowadays I can’t even remember the sound of his voice. I’m hoping the same thing applies to stomachs.


So I was sitting there, on the ugly rug, swaddled in a blueish TV screen complexion, watching an episode of Dawson’s Creek and feeling rather embarrassed by it. When all of a sudden I came to a realization. One of those shining moments of lucid reality, as if my brain had become a balloon and had just received a pin prick. I could see now that I had been losing my memory for years, and far from something awful, it was clearly the greatest thing that could ever happen. Uncontrollable joy erupted inside me, and what could I do but share my happiness. I dropped the remote and ran to the window, flicking the curtain cord until the slats parted. Hands in the air I whooped triumphantly at the passer-bys, in all my naked glory.

Wednesday, 25 February 2009

Crack, Crack, Crack - Rat-a-tat-a-tat

I heard them call us frontline troops, and I suppose that now we were.  The previous generation lay out there already, amongst the meadows, tickling the flower roots and making them grow taller.  We’re next, the recently orphaned, the regretfully elderly. We forge on, out of the bunkers and into the meadow, as the guns of time crack against our old bones. Together we advance, marching toward the blackening horizon, acting like we had a choice.


Until you've built up enough atoms to fleetingly call your own, to claim ownership over, for the few split seconds of your life in the face of the timeless universe. Until you've had children and continued the inherently doomed chemical reaction that began with just one cell. Until you've almost let yourself believe your life had a purpose, a drive, a tangible mark on the history of the planet. Until your back aches and the feelings of remorse are finally washed away by the creeping onset of Alzheimer’s. Until the heart that once loved so strongly, finally weakens and gives out. Until the brain that once held every precious memory finally dies and fades to black. Until the worms desecrate you. Until you turn to dust and scatter throughout the universe. That’s how long I’ll love you.

Monday, 23 February 2009


I lurk about the local hairdressers, waiting for the smell to hit my nostrils. The wet, freshly-cut-hair smell that wafts from the tiled floor as the door swings open and closed. The bin out the back, a giant green vault of hairy gold, constantly refilled. My toes like it best, as the hairs prickle between them, giving me shivers. Sometimes I sleep in there, under a blanket of hairs, waiting for the shop girl to lift the lid and throw more over me in a rain of deviant delight. She used to get startled to see me and ring the police, but now she doesn’t mind. I think her name is Sullivan and she doesn’t know it yet, but I’m in love with her. She has very distinct hair. I can find it anywhere in here, needles amongst the hairstack, and nibble it as delicately as it deserves.