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.”