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 -