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.