Sunday, 26 July 2009

Karen Gillan Had Me Rolling On the Floor Crying

I didn't really think about it at the time but I suppose in hindsight it was a little strange that even after I’d turned off the TV and she’d disappeared from the screen, she continued talking to me.

I didn't move from the sofa, I didn't want to leave her side in case she got bored and left. I’d waited my entire life for someone as beautiful as her to notice me, and now they finally had, I wasn't about to let her escape.

“What can I do, Karen? To prove I love you, to prove we’re meant to be together. Please, anything. Just tell me what it is you want me to do. I promise you won’t regret it. You’re so beautiful; I get sick just looking at you. Sick to think I could ever be expected to live a single millisecond without you. Just give me a chance and I’ll do everything within my power to make you the happiest woman alive.”

“Roll yourself up in the living room carpet and wait for me to join you,” she said, in her dulcet Scottish tones. So I did.

Summer came and went before I realised she wasn't coming and I gave up waiting. I haven’t given up completely though, I still sit in the living room as often as I can in the hope I’ll hear her talk to me again. If only for just one glorious second.

Wednesday, 22 July 2009

I Stole Merzbow’s Goat

A woman is living in my hedge. Each morning on my way to work, I leave her a saucer of milk.

“Fresh this morning, the milkman delivered it first thing, but you already know that don’t you.”

She screws her face up in displeasure. “Have you got anything else to drink? I'm getting fed up of having milk every single day.”

“Well, what do you fancy?”

“Something a little bit stronger.”

“A tot of whisky?”


“Coming right up then.”

I return a couple of minutes later to hand her a glass of whisky.

“What do you do anyway?” she asks.

“I've just started a new job as a door-to-door salesman, I'm going to be travelling away from home a lot, so you probably won’t see me for a few days. Help yourself to anything in the fridge; the key to the front door is under the mat.”

“Does your wife mind you going away?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t seen her since she disappeared into that hedge years ago.”

Tuesday, 21 July 2009

Weird On My Tongue

My bicycle is such a horny cunt it wants to kiss every tree we pass. I get drowsy like a stupid fucking butterfly bursting out of its cocoon and I think stupid thoughts. Like, I wish you were a puddle so I could collapse in a heap, soak you up and slowly drown in you. As each year goes by, I get a little heavier. In mind and spirit more than body. I see through a hazy fuzz and hear through a gentle buzz.

I know death is coming. I wait for it in a chair beside the window - when it knocks on my door, I’ll get up and ask it, “What took you so long? If I’d known you were going to take this length of time, I would have made other plans.”

Between 197 Runs, Post 198 And 227 Lears

All this fucking drudgery, all this fucking anal buggery. You break fingers as the stench of death still lingers. Anything for a distraction, anything for a little human interaction. That goes in there and that goes in there. Close your eyes, turn your back, there’s no need to be scared. Everyone’s getting drunk on wine, everyone’s having a good time, but I can’t seem to stop certain thoughts from festering in my mind…


I thought of you today for the first time since Dom mentioned you last. But my tennis princess, I no longer yearn for you in my arms, not even soft pine wood. I'm long since impervious to your dubious charms.

Leave Me Out In The Rain To Rust And Fade Away Like Old Coppers

When I've had enough, I’ll lie down in that field over there, put the paper over my face, let the rain paint me an unaffectionate grey and become yesterday’s news. The maggots and the faggots will fuck me clean until I'm dirt. If I could bathe in the warm glow of an afternoon sun, if I could play kings and queens, you’d be the one.

Don’t Ring The Bell So Fast

You turn your back for a second and then when you turn back round again they’re gone. How large can just one town be? How many different places can there actually be for them to hide? Two women come shimmying towards you, resplendent in red, barefoot and holding their shoes. You lift up their skirts and peer through their legs but all you can see is Michael Vaughan playing cricket somewhere in the distance. You were never much of a fan but now you wish you were near enough to see him bat just one last time.

But it’s too late. He’s gone, you’re gone.


“You’re beautiful,” I said.

I wanted her to blush. A little false modesty never hurt anyone. But she knew she was beautiful and she had no interest in hiding the fact. She just stared straight through me disinterestedly as if to say, “Tell me something I don’t know.”

My mind drew a blank.

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.

Sunday, 5 July 2009

The Gap Between Birth And Death Needs Filling And I Have Some Ideas If You’re Willing

I let her out the airing cupboard once a week to celebrate someone’s birthday. She’s such an eager beaver as soon I open that airing cupboard door she comes hurtling towards me. Nice and clean, nice and warm, and yet always shivering.

“You've lost some weight. You keep losing weight,” I say. “Don’t you like the food I give you?”

The food the food the food

You watch the food come off you watch the food go in you watch the food come out you watch the food go on you watch the food go through you watch the food come off you watch the food go in you watch the food come out you watch the food go in you watch the food come out you watch the food go on you watch the food go in you watch the food come out

Until a shard of light breaks through the curtains and -

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.”

Friday, 26 June 2009

Michael Jackson Won’t Let Me Close The Door And Get To Sweden

They haunt you; you remember this is why you started putting vodka on your cornflakes instead. This one immediately became your favourite. As soon as you did it. Why would she collect pigeon feathers? Wasn't her life grey enough as it was? See, that’s always been your problem. Part of you almost thinks you’re doing them a favour. You think childhood comprises of little more than trips to the headmaster’s office and trips to the doctor and trips to the dentist and trips to grandparents and old people in general. Obedience, decay and then death – that’s all that was hammered into you. But you never wanted to obey, not whilst you were decaying, not whilst you were dying.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. We should all rage against the dying of the light, instead of just sitting there like the servile pricks we are. You walked to church, through frost-glistened graveyards and saw little girls, flanked by their mothers, squealing in delight as they desecrated the dead with their sugary sunshine-coloured piss. It was inevitable really. But look at you now. Her face pressed against your forehead. It’s so blissful; you’d happily melt into her. Everyone’s staring at you. This isn't how us In-glish do things. Pull yourself together, man. Get killing again.

Tuesday, 23 June 2009

Bat For Gnashes

Fish. Creg had it on good authority that if you liked fish, you’d like doing what it was that he was planning on doing. He had a friend who had an Uncle who knew about these kinds of things, you see. So Creg decided the first step was finding out whether he did indeed like fish or not. He prayed he would but his only previous experience with fish had not been a happy one. His mother had served him and a young nubile, whose panties he had been hoping to get in, each a fillet of frozen cod. Their consuming of the frozen cod had led to upset stomachs for both of them which had led to Creg not being able to get inside said nubile’s panties and had nothing whatsoever to do with erectile dysfunction.

“Your most expensive fish for less than a fiver!” announced Creg, slapping a crisp five pound note down on the desk in front of the bewildered shop assistant he was addressing.

“Our most expensive fish is more than a fiver…” she said.

This appeared to knock the wind out of Creg’s gay little sails. It was about the only response he hadn't anticipated and prepared a witty response for prior to entering the shop. “Well… well… um…”

“We have some tins of tuna on offer?” the shop assistant offered, growing in frustration and not wanting to prolong the agony any further.


“Okay, well they’re at the end of that aisle over there.” Creg followed her finger and where it was pointing him before returning his gaze to her strangely Buddha-like face.

“You’re a girl, aren't you?” He was pretty sure she was but you never could be too sure these days.

“Uh… yes?” she snapped back, her cheeks turning an even deeper shade of red in either anger or embarrassment, maybe both.

“Well, I was just wondering what do you girls like? Like, if you were feeling down in the dumps, what could I do to cheer you up?”

“Shut the fuck up I should imagine.”

“Okay then,” smiled Creg breezily, seemingly not taking any offence at her remarks despite her clear exasperation and dislike of him. “Thanks for your help.”

Back home, Creg managed to convince himself that he liked the tuna enough to make the long trip upstairs to his half-sister Charlene’s bedroom. He placed three carefully-measured and carefully-timed knocks on her door before stepping back and straightening himself up. A good stance and posture reflect a proper state of mind his mother had always told him. He wasn't sure if what he was about to (hopefully) do was proper but he wanted to go about it properly.

“Who is it?” came the muted response from behind the door.

“Creg. Your brother.” He wasn't sure why he added the bit after his name, to the best of his knowledge Charlene knew what relation they were to each other.

Creg thought he heard her let out a deep sigh and he definitely heard her say “What do you want, munchkin?”

“I heard you were feeling a bit down. I’m here to shut the fuck up and let my tongue do the talking. I like fish. Baby.”

There followed a whole minute of silence in which Creg tried to keep his sweating, palpitations and hand-wringing down to a bare minimum before finally Charlene tentatively, curiously whispered “Come in….”

Sunday, 21 June 2009

Jesus Wants Me For A Moonbeam

I'm sprawled out in a double bed, empty except for myself, making the shape of a crucifix. The moon outside looks as cold as snow and I don’t want it poking its nose through my window so I get up and close the curtains and wait for my instructions.

When I get them, I don’t understand them. Well I understand them but I don’t understand why they’re my instructions. It’s past 4am, around about this time every weekend during the height of summer, his father used to get up and start mending the house. He was a carpenter. I don’t know why I'm suddenly reminded of him. Despite the 2,400 e-mails about him and his family, I thought I’d put him in the past…

…I drift off to sleep and an angry fat man leans towards the bartender and says to her “Do me a favour, do me a favour! Shit on my face”…

…I wake up on a helicopter with a porn star’s head jerking up and down in between my legs. It’s been years since a woman’s touched me like this and it’s not even real. I put another tape in the VCR so a different actor can play me.


Happy Third Sunday Of June

I took the gun carefully out of the brown paper bag and placed it under my chin. Something didn't feel right though. I wanted to know what would happen when I pulled the trigger. I mean, I knew what would happen. My head would go SPLAT like some lard arse sitting on a strawberry cake, decorating the walls a sickly red. No that wasn't enough though; I had to see it with my very own eyes before I went ahead with this. So I took the gun and went to my son’s room.

“Hey kiddo, guess what your ol’ dad’s found. A toy gun, looks pretty real doesn't it.”

“Wow,” was all my son could offer as he stood dumbstruck in awe and amazement and I placed the ‘toy’ gun in his hand.

“Why don’t you put it to your head and pretend to shoot yourself. That would be pretty cool, wouldn't it,” I said, affectionately ruffling his hair.

He hesitated for a second, looked into my big, trustful, fatherly eyes and then figured what the heck. Oh, and what a spectacle the ensuing seconds provided. I'm glad I did this; I've changed my mind about killing myself now. It looked fun and all but I don’t really think it’s for me. Plus, I have all this mess to clear up before my wife comes home. I should get cracking.

Ode To Meryl Streep In D Minor

Dear God,

I doubt you get many letters these days. Everyone’s too busy tweeting Ashton Kutcher and Demi Bore to even remember you exist. Sometimes I think you made a world full of cretinous cunts but Mum says I'm not allowed to swear. Dad doesn't mind so much, at least when I'm swearing he can understand what I'm saying because he’s a bit of a moron as well to be honest. Anyway, it’s my 11th birthday in a couple of weeks (24th December) and Gran said I should write to Santa(!) asking for something special, bless her senile cotton socks. As I obviously don’t believe in Santa, I thought I’d write to you instead. I don’t want any presents or any nonsense like that; I just want to ask you for a pardon. You see, I plan to kill my mother, I think it’s the least she deserves for bringing me into this wretched world but I don’t want it to affect my chances of getting into heaven. I really think heaven could do with more people like me. So think about it and if you could get back to me before my birthday, it would be much appreciated.

Love Sophie xxx

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.

Everyone Makes Me Feel So Great

When a man starts talking a little too much about one of his female work colleagues, his partner asks “Is she pretty?”

When a woman starts being a little too coy about one of her male work colleagues, her partner asks “Are you fucking him?”

You see, us men get straight to the fucking point even with all our superfluous invective. So I’ll get straight to the fucking point.

First, I took a hammer to her shins. Watched her crawl around for a bit. When that was no longer entertaining enough, I blindfolded her so as her attempts to escape became even more desperate and pathetic. Then when her pleading came too much to bear, I took a hammer to her teeth and filled her cunt-mouth up with blood to muffle the screams.

There is no fucking point.

Saturday, 20 June 2009

If You Came Here By Mistake Then Maybe It’s Your Life That’s The Mistake

I dreamt I could travel through time. All I had to do was bounce a tomato off a baby’s head, catch the tomato, run with it to the nearest ladder I could find, climb up it and then jump off the ladder into thin air. Simple.

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. 

Nothing But Sickening Melancholy

Your daughter has her back to you. For an all-too-brief-moment you think it’s your wife.


“I don’t understand. I’d stepped out the shower and was blow-drying my hair. It was definitely on. I mean, hairdryers are so noisy you definitely know if they’re on or not. It sounded louder than usual in fact. Deafening almost. And yet my hair felt like it was getting wetter and wetter the longer I dried it. Touch it, see how wet it is.”

“It’s okay, the ambulance is on its way. They’ll dry it for you.”


How easy would it be to pretend your daughter was your wife? You run your fingers slowly down the nape of her neck in between sharp intakes of breath. She knows it’s you. Who else would it be?

“I'm not a radiator, Dad. I can’t generate warmth towards you just because you feel cold.”

“What an odd thing to say,” you tell her as she turns round to face you.

“I meant cold inside.”

“I know what you meant and you’re right, but what an odd thing to say,” you repeat, gently twisting one of her bra-less nipples through the soft fabric of the green jumper your mother knitted for her the Christmas before last.

“I don’t want to do this anymore, Dad.”

“You’re all I have left and I don’t even have you,” you laugh bitterly. The absence of the word ‘anymore’ being deliberate.

The Other Prostitute Story I Scribbled In Pablo Picasso’s Empty Sketchbook

“How much do you weigh?” I asked, prodding her belly with a couple of fingers.

“I dunno, mate. I can sit on your face and you can take a guess if you like,” she cackled.

“Lord almighty, you really are a pathetic creature aren't you. You've only got a few minutes left until we do this and you choose for that to be one of the last things you ever say. Have you no sense of the profound, not to mention any dignity?”

Her expression turned serious as she started to think. “Well, you know how people meet a celeb and they often say they’re much smaller than they look on the telly. Well, I met Peter Andre once and I was expecting him to be quite short you know, but he wasn't. I mean, he wasn't particularly tall or anything but he weren't really short either. I guess he was about average. Yeah, about average I’d say. I dunno. I'm babbling, mate. Guess I'm a bit nervous. What do you want me to say? Talking is the last thing on most punters’ minds.”

“Nothing. I think you've said more than enough already. Let’s just get this over and done with.”

“And you’re sure this ain't gonna hurt too much?”

“What do you care? I'm paying you two hundred thousand pounds to do it.”

She thought about this for a second or two, shrugged and then stuck out her tongue.

I leaned over and took out a pair of scissors from the glove compartment in front of her.

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. 

Thursday, 4 June 2009

What I’d Do With Gemma Arterton’s Twelve Fingers

Whilst Jesus and his disciples lit fires and regaled me with tales, Satan told me just the one thing – God is a liar. I thought my lungs were ashtrays, I thought her head was a sponge and would soak up the blows. Would you rather your back ached from fucking or gardening? Whilst I sat around and lit cigarettes, the cancer spread to others. Would you rather your hands ached from fucking or gardening?

I come moseying along, just to blow you out the water again. It’s effortless. Knees sore from bending, hose coiled and distending.


Nothing is ever tidy. I took a pair of rusty scissors to my scalp when I should have just trimmed round the back and sides. Made more mess than before I started, blood crowning my shiny pate. Always so much clutter where there should be closure. Rush in, rush in. Then flee from the scene of the crime just as soon as you rushed in. You should let the waves come to you. I hate words. Use too many. I was going to say something flowery about the birds singing but I'm going to sleep instead. Wish me well.

Wasn't Anything So Could Be Nothing

I was in the supermarket minding my own business when I felt a hand on my shoulder.


“Well, actually it’s Annette,” I said.

“Oh my god, it’s such an honour, I love you, I mean I really love you. Are you still with that husband of yours? Please god, tell me you’re not.”

“Well, he’s only my husband on the show…” I laughed nervously.

“Leave him.”


“He’s a bastard. He’s cheating on you. Leave him and run away with me.”

“Look, it was nice speaking to you, but I really must be getting on. I need to pick my children up from school soon.”

What happened next happened so quickly that I didn't have time to react. I stood there frozen in abject horror. When I play it back in my head now, I see it all unravel in slow motion. The man put his shopping basket down on the ground, dropped his trousers and underwear, leaned down and picked a tube of superglue out of his basket. He then squeezed the entire contents out of the tube onto his erect penis, grabbed my hand and placed it over it. I didn't even try and pull away from him despite how much my body wanted to recoil. I was too scared.

“TOGETHER FOREVER!” he shouted triumphantly, as the tears started to well up in my eyes and the bile rise up in my throat.

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.

Sunday, 24 May 2009

Ouija Bored

When I found the screwdriver exactly where the planchette told me I’d find it, I finally realised what it was The Messenger wanted me to do with it. Which was lucky because The Nameless One had just stitched a pair of wings onto his back and might have flown away if I’d left it any longer. I followed him into the woods until I found him kneeling over some thing.

“She’s dead,” said The Nameless One.

“Do you know who I am?” I said, stealing a brief glance at the bloodied thing he was kneeling over. It looked no older than twelve.

“Didn't you hear what I said?! She’s dead! I think… I think she was murdered.” A controlled panic was creeping into his voice and into his veins.

“Didn't you hear what I said?” I bellowed.

“Yes, yes I heard what you said. And yes, I know who you are. But look-”

“Well then you should know why I'm here. Take off your wings. I can’t do this with them on.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I don’t have any wings…” he let his sentence trail off as the wind started throwing leaves all around us, and I took the screwdriver out of my coat pocket.

“Have it your way,” I said, sticking the screwdriver into his neck. Some blood and other stuff emptied out of him onto me and then he was gone, only his wings remained.

“Did I do good?” I asked a fox that had come out of some bushes to survey the scene.

“You did brilliant,” it replied.

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.

U R People, I Trust This

As I push through the door, rubbing yellow moths in between fingers, I smear and stain, I smear and restrain. The voice asks three things of me. They’re His three wishes if you will. I'm not a genie, I'm not even a genius, but who I am not to grant them? Firstly, He wants to fuck me. I'm hesitant at first but He promises to take the form of a woman so I agree.

“Which woman do you want me to take the form of?” He asks.

“My ex-girlfriend,” I reply.

“Which one?”

“The dead one.”

I remember finding your limp body hanging in the byre. You’d never looked so beautiful in all your life. You appeared so white, so pure. I wanted to taste such beauty, such purity, well what else could I do? I took off your shoes and carefully placed them on the milking stool before wiggling my tongue in between each and every one of your toes. I then sat down on a bed of hay and watched some of my saliva slowly slope off your feet and the rest dry in the mid-morning sun that had broken through.

Then He wants to kill me. He asks me if I have a preference how. I tell him I don’t, so still in the form of my ex-girlfriend; He takes a claw hammer to my face. Each blow is manna. I know He’s hitting me as hard as he can but it feels so soft. Eventually my eyes are ripped out and I can no longer see as me but as Him.

Finally, we eat me. I taste nothing like Her but in its own way it’s even more beautiful. Leathery and reptilian and far from pure.

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.

Hell Is Other People

If you spend so long staring into the abyss that other people start to notice you staring into it, some wise soul may take it upon themselves to suggest you cover the abyss up with something so you’re unable to stare into it any longer. That thing may well be another person. Now love isn't another person but for most people that’s what it involves. Why? Well because that’s what they’re led to believe it should involve. So you find another person and you decide you love them and hand them over the keys to your life. From that point forth, they’re in charge, they’re behind the steering wheel. They’re the puppeteer jerking your strings. You’re now nothing more than a five foot something marionette. Now of course when you decided you loved them and handed over these metaphorical keys, the chances are they most likely did the same in return. So as you can imagine, it makes for one almighty mess. Strings getting tangled and everything. Where you once had the confidence to do things without a moment’s thought, you now find yourself hesitating for their approval, their reassurance, their guiding hand, their lies. It’s the only way you can function.

I don’t proclaim to be a wise soul, far from it in fact. However, if you find yourself staring into the abyss, I’ll take it upon myself to suggest you gouge out your own eyes, if you really can’t stand staring into it anymore, before covering it up with love. Think of your lover’s hands as blades that will strip your body to mere bones, think of their tongue as a maggot that will eat your rotten insides and spit them out. They’ll always leave you with less than you started with. And if one of you manages to escape, the damage will already have been done, you’ll be left lying in a heap with no one to pull your strings anymore, and the loveless, the stringless, we’ll be looking down at you from a great height for you will have become the empty nothing we were staring into.

Friday, 15 May 2009

Wouldn’t It Be Romantic

“Honey, have you heard of this Australian chap, Dr Nitschke, who's come over to our country? Had a little trouble with Immigration at the airport.”

I looked up from my newspaper to look at the old bat who called herself my wife and who was responsible for this noise. “No, can’t say I have. What of him?”

“He runs a pro-euthanasia group… Exit International I think it’s called.”

I put down my newspaper and let out a deep sigh. “And this is of interest to me why exactly?”

“Well I was thinking…”

“Well spit it out woman,” I snapped impatiently. She came over towards me and perched herself down on my knee, slipping her arm round my neck. I tried my hardest not to flinch. I'm not entirely sure my hardest was good enough.

“I was thinking… wouldn't it be romantic that when one of us goes, the other one followed. And I… well I was looking on the internet at these exit bags you can buy. All very tasteful, painless, peaceful, dignified, you know. Just a little twitching in the arms and legs and then you’re gone. The gas they emit is hard to even trace.”

“You don’t need to waste my money on two of those, there’s cheaper ways to do it.”

“Really?” she said, looking at me curiously.

“Sure,” I said. “Here let me show you.” I pushed her off my knee, got up and went into the kitchen where I got a carrier bag and returned to the living room where she was sat waiting. “Maybe not as tasteful, painless, peaceful or dignified,” I said as I put the carrier bag over her head and gripped it as tightly as I could, ignoring her muffled screams, “but it gets the job done all the same.”

Thursday, 14 May 2009

Love Kills

I found a spider in my shoe. It was love at first sight. I picked her up and gently placed her in an empty matchbox, piercing some air holes into it. I told her I was going to call her Charlotte and then I took her to the cinema for our first date.

“Two tickets for 17 Again, please, because that’s how my new girlfriend makes me feel,” I said to the attendant behind the counter.

I took Charlotte out of the matchbox and placed her on my knee. She fell asleep halfway through the film; she’d probably tired herself out from laughing so much. When the film finished I woke her up and took her to the poshest restaurant in town.

“My lady friend here wants a plate of the finest insects available to humanity. And she wants them here, and she wants them now!” I told the waiter.

“I was paraphrasing from a film there, do you know which one?” I asked Charlotte. She nodded.

“So you’re not just a pretty face, but intelligent and knowledgeable as well, I think you could finally be the one… Miss Right,” I sighed. Charlotte seemed to agree because when we got back home and I leaned in for a kiss, she leaned in as well. I closed my eyes, knowing this was going to be the greatest moment of my life. My heart was beating so fast I thought it was going to burst out of my chest. When I opened my eyes though, Charlotte had gone. I started looking frantically around for her until suddenly I felt something wriggling in between my teeth. I tentatively put my fingers into my mouth and pulled out what it was that seemed to be wriggling. It was a small black leg.

If You Tickle My Heart With A Feather, I Promise Not To Sneeze

Jarvis tore apart some bread and handed me a piece. I rested my head on his shoulder as I slung the piece of bread at some pigeons in front of us, and let out a contented sigh. He smelt so clean, felt so safe. The pigeons' agitated nature, as they fought for the food, couldn't have been more in contrast with my own. It was such a beautiful day, the sun was smeared across the sky and I had to use Jarvis’ magazine to shield my eyes from it. I was so relaxed and comfortable, I could happily have drifted off but I was already right where I wanted to be.

“Hey, you see in there they had their annual 100 sexiest women in the world list? Cheryl Cole won. Personally I would have voted for that chick off of Smallville… Kristin Kreuk. Anyone Superman fancies is alright in my book. Superman is so cool. How about you?”

“I would have voted for you, Jarvis.”

“Haha funny, you calling me a girl?”

“No, just the sexiest person alive,” I said, softly planting a kiss on his shoulder.

“Haha you’re such a joker, Matt. That’s what I like about you,” said Jarvis, playfully punching me in the kidney. He’d knocked the wind right out of my sails, not for the first time either. After I’d caught my breath, I leaned over the side of the bench we were sat on and picked up a snail, putting it down his T-shirt. He squealed and jumped up, shaking himself until the snail dropped out onto the floor, quickly serving to disperse all the pigeons from around us. He raised both fists towards me as if ready to lay another punch before collapsing back down onto the bench in a fit of giggles. “I would have voted for you too, you sexy faggot,” he said, grabbing my face and roughly kissing me on the cheek jokingly. We started wrestling each other, laughing until we wore ourselves out and only had the energy to each emit a small sigh in unison. I looked into his eyes, fell into them if you will, and let out another sigh, this time much deeper.

Creg’s Misery-Addled Adventures In Sausage City With Absolutely No Impromptu In-Jokes Whatsoever

Mother’s on the warpath again. I can hear her stomping around downstairs. If anything, her moods have gotten even worse since she took to the Bible. God is love, but the problem is where do you see God in a hellhole like Birmingham? You don’t. More often than not you see the devil and the work of him. Even in your own children. I'm beginning to think it was a mistake inviting Bill round for tea, not so much for the fact he’s been trying to touch my private area at every available opportunity but more for the fact I don’t think mother’s appreciating having to cook dinner for a homosexual bully who used to routinely beat me up until he caught me wearing pink underwear one day.

Bill for his part looks quite relaxed. He’s reclining on my bed, hand under chin, elbow propping him up, gazing dreamily at a poster on my wall. “You look a bit like him. You know, if Mika was really short and had blonde hair I mean.”

“Uh… thanks. Look, maybe we should go get some fish and chips or something. Mum’s been a bit stressed out lately, I don’t want to stress her out even more by having her make dinner for the two of us,” I say.

Bill rolls his eyes. “Don’t be silly, silly. I'm sure she wants to meet your new boyfriend just as much as I want to meet her. I want to ask her if she’s got any photos of you as a baby that she can show me seeing as you’re being such an insufferable tease and won’t show me any. Come on, let’s go see what she’s making us, I’ll race you. Last one downstairs is a hetro.”

Even if I had the foggiest how to reply to all this, Bill is up off my bed and bounding down the stairs towards the kitchen, before I have a chance. Tempting as it is to just cut my losses and jump out the window at this point, I follow him instead, thinking this is the better option for some unknown reason. I suppose at least I can attempt some damage control this way.

As I hurtle through the kitchen door, Bill is extending his hand to my mother. “I'm Bill, Mrs. Cornwall. But you can call me son if you want. I'm sure I’ll be a son of sorts to you one day if all goes well between me and Creg.” Already it’s turning out worse than I’d feared. Unsurprisingly, Mum doesn't take his hand.

The only plan of action I can think of is to try and change the subject. “Uh… what’s for dinner, Mum?”

“Well, I was going to cook you some sausages BUT SEEING AS YOU'VE PROBABLY ALREADY GOT AIDS, WHAT DOES IT MATTER IF YOU GET SWINE FLU AS WELL,” she screams, thrusting a plate of frozen sausages into Bill’s still extended hand and storming out the room.

“Well that went well. What’s for dessert, hun?” says Bill, biting into one of the frozen sausages and winking at me in what I presume he thinks is a seductive manner. I just fall to the floor and let out a loud groan as I put my head into my hands.

Wednesday, 13 May 2009

This Video Is Not Available In Your Country

I've spent all this time pinning butterfly wings to my chest and tearing them off again. I won’t tell you what love is but I know it involves *********** and **** ********. You continue to chase after it regardless because ultimately you think it will give you a purpose, your life a new meaning. Ha, you idiot. You catch an animal and there are only two obvious things to do with it – let it free or kill and then devour it. What makes you think love is any different?


“Why do you want to fall in love anyway?” I ask her.

“I want to know what God’s arsehole tastes like.”

“You’re crazy,” I laugh.

“It’s no use; I can’t cut with these scissors at this angle. Pass me a knife,” she says distractedly, sat cross-legged on the end of my bed.

“If I were to write about you but not mention you by name, would you know it was about you?” I ask, as I rummage through the pile of junk on my desk and in the drawers.

“If you made it obvious, I suppose.”

“What, like by including this conversation? Here you go,” I say, handing her a Swiss Army knife. “That’s the best I can find. I don’t know if it’s sharp enough.”

She presses it against the tip of her finger until it turns white and a small cut appears. “Should do. What do you want? Leg or breast?”

“I’ll save the best till last and start with a bit of leg.”

She nods, suddenly looking deep in concentration, as she digs the knife into her thigh. Once it’s in, she starts scooping as if it’s a spoon she’s holding. A lot of blood later and she’s dangling a piece of her flesh, that she’s removed with minimum fuss, in front of me.

“This… this is what God’s arsehole tastes like. Open sesame. Here comes the love train, choo choo,” she says as she steers the chunk of flesh into my salivating mouth.

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. 

Saturday, 2 May 2009

For Those Of Us Who Bathe In The Regurgitated Vomit Of Bulimics, There Is Hope For Us Yet – It’s Called Death

What is this thing I love? What is this thing I desire? Not me, not my reflection. You say touch wood and I put splinters underneath my fingernails. We all hate women, especially us women. Suck in our stomachs and eat our blueberry diets. How can you compare yourselves to us? Anyone can let go, how many people can hold on?

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. 

I Am Bile-Inflected Discarded Dribblings

“Teach me how to hate,” I told my teacher.

“You’ll love it,” he said.

“Will I?” I asked.

“Would I lie to you?” he grinned.

“So first we need to go shopping.”

“What for?”

“First the way, then the who.” He was grinning still. I always felt a little uneasy when he flashed me such a grin. I guess I always felt a little uneasy whatever he did.

“I'm trusting you here.”

“Why wouldn't you?”

“So the way…”

“There are many different ways. The most obvious being murder.”

“Which way would you recommend?”

“Not the most obvious, never the most obvious.”

“How about rape?”

“Too close to love.”

“What then?”



“Have you never heard the saying ‘you have to be cruel to be kind’? Well then it follows that you have to be kind to be cruel.”

“Aren't love and kindness practically the same thing?”

“Au contraire. Love is selfish, the greediest of things, gobble gobble. But hate, when done the way we’re going to do it, is truly selfless.”

“You’re mad.”

“Look at it another way – an act of cruelty will hurt twice as much when done by someone thought of as kind. You build them up to knock them down. First you giveth, then you taketh away et cetera et cetera.”

“So where are we going shopping?”

“Tesco will do.”

Thursday, 30 April 2009

The Golden Age Of Mary Elizabeth Winstead (2009-?)

I wish I was a dustbin. Put me outside once a week and empty everything out of me. All the words I've heard, read, bled. Everything I've seen. Let me start again.

I ghosted down the stairs at the devil’s hour, trying to ignore those mocking the Holy Trinity. I saw the shadow of a small figure through the glass of the door.

“Hello?” I whispered.

“Hello,” came a whisper back. “Will you hold my hand?” they said, pushing it through the letterbox.

“Who are you?”

“I'm you. The born again you. Don’t you remember?” The voice belonged to that of a small boy. I took his hand in mine and kept hold of it despite the clamminess.

“No, I don’t remember. What happened?” I asked.

“They took you and put you inside the carcass of a dead cow. Sewed it up, leaving you to punch, headbutt, kick, rip, bite your way out. You rose again after three days like Christ. As me. I've been trying to find you ever since. It’s taken years; I was beginning to lose hope.”

I tried to let go of his hand but realised I couldn't. They were stuck together. We were stuck together. Panicking, I took out my pocket knife I always carry around with me with my one free hand and started sawing away at the other…

Oh yes, we’re entering the golden age of Mary Elizabeth Winstead. I want you to teach me about love. I want you to be my Father.

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

Saturday, 25 April 2009

John Fowles Ruined My Birthday

Roll the ball and through the hole we fall. I lost at bagatelle and now mummy’s packing me off to hell.

At first I thought it said baguette. I saw myself choking to death on one full of disgusting, delicious, beautiful fish. “DAMN YOU TO HELL, TUNA!” I was going to scream. It didn't seem like the greatest of exits but it beat collapsing into a hedge at any rate I figured. Maybe I’d be wearing a pair of amber shades at the time to make it look a little bit cooler anyway.

It’s ridiculous but the thing I fear most about death is imagining what they’re going to think about me when I'm laid out naked on the mortuary slab. I don’t want strangers seeing me naked; otherwise I’d drop the remote control and run to the window, flick the curtain cord until the slats part, with my hands in the air, whooping triumphantly at the passer-bys in all my naked glory. I remember a colleague of mine once taking a photograph of his phimosis on his mobile phone and showing it to everyone at the pub. He wasn't even drunk; he’d just had some cokes. I couldn't work out if he was the most fearless person I knew or just devoid of a single brain cell and ounce of dignity. Either way, part of me couldn't help but envy his couldn't-care-less-it’s-all-just-a-bit-of-harmless-fun attitude.

When I apply the same approach to life, look where it leaves me. Or what it leaves me. Dirty blood from a dirty Nazi whore. People ask me how it feels and I don’t really know how to explain. Maybe it’s more a psychological thing than a physical one, but I'm constantly aware of my blood now. I can feel it bubbling underneath my skin like lava. The simplest way to describe it is – it prickles. Like I'm walking through a never-ending field of imaginary stinging nettles, when in fact I'm just walking down some scum-addled High Street in any city in any country, crying out for a bar of soap to shiver all over me.

And so I did pedal like a frenzied idiot, haunting the tunnels of my own imagination on some clapped-out excuse of a bike. To escape their questions, to escape their pity, to escape their taunts, to simply escape.

I remember one day at school when I asked the teacher if I could go wee. When he said yes, I stuck my arms out and flew around the classroom screaming “weeeeeeeeee”. Maybe the sun had gone to my head. Whatever the reason, I didn't want to stop that day. I wanted to keep propelling forward. Had a penny spent on my pilus behind the bike shed, then the idiot wind blew it, and my tears, dry as I cruised down the hill on my bike, backside up off the saddle. Guess I didn't see the car until I’d collided with it and was propelled up into the air. After that I kept blacking out. But I remember a woman in the car, me asking her if she was alright, her telling me to get lost, her foot still chowing down on the accelerator as the car and tree in front of it started eating into each other, then flames. Next thing I knew I was in bush land somewhere, on the phone begging for water.

“Don’t yell at me,” came the reply. My throat was too dry to even try and muster up any kind of response.

Why do we pay our respects to the dead but hardly any to the living? Should we really be respecting failure? I don’t care who you were or what you did, if you gave up on life or life gave up on you - you failed.

I didn't fail, I won’t fail, I’ll clean my blood, I’ll keep propelling forward.

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.

Monday, 20 April 2009

Beautiful Was The Time A Leopard In Lancashire Said “Nein Und Abermals Nein"

It was more a stagger than a run, my knees intermittently turning to try and face each other. I was pretty sure I wasn't going to die but that didn't stop my life from flashing before my eyes.


“What are you doing?”

“I'm moving the pot plant so it gets more sunlight.”


“What are you doing?”

“I'm moving the pot plant out of Cassie’s reach.”


“What are you doing?”

“I'm moving the pot plant outside. Hopefully the bin men will take it away.”

“Has it died?”

“It will do.”


Eventually my legs gave way and I found myself falling into a yellow bed of leaves. I was so exhausted I think I may have dozed off for a few minutes, my face down in the mud. By the time I awoke someone was stood over me.

“Do you have any last words?” they said.

“Heil Hitler,” I half-heartedly offered in return.

They smirked derisorily and fired a paintball into the side of my head at such force that it blew my helmet clean off.

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.