Friday, 30 May 2014

There were more birds back then

Now the skies are curiously empty. Occasionally a crow drifts by, calling mournfully to unseen brethren. It bounces up and down as if manipulated by a string. Otherwise there's nothing, until the twilight sets and the bats begin sweeping amongst the shifting sheets of shadow.

There were more crabs too. More starfish. More life in general.

Life had given up. For now. Perhaps forever. Death had not replaced it. Without life there can be no death. All that was left was emptiness. Expanse. Expansive emptiness. Nothing could die. Nothing could live. This is what had become of my world.

There were more birds back then...

Thursday, 22 May 2014

Butterflies have no choice

I wait by the window everyday
For someone or something to take me away
Whilst the rain drips down and onto the pane
or the sunlight bleeds through and warms me again



If life was worth living
then maybe,
I would.
If you were worth loving
then maybe,
I could.

Comet me bro

I woke up and I was a comet again, hurtling across the sky. The children below were looking up at me as I trailed my way across the blue-black night, and asking their parents what I was. A meteorite, the dumb ones would say. An asteroid. A meteor. A satellite. The sullen kids wouldn't ask anything. They knew what I was. They telepathically and telepathetically begged me to turn ninety degrees. To hurl myself face first into the earth and let them off the hook.

Tuesday, 13 May 2014

Bringing home the faking

If life was worth living then someone would've gotten it right by now. Someone would be winning. Those guys at the top who look like they're winning? They're not winning. They're the dudes with so much money they put cacti in their arseholes and pay women to kick them in the testicles, shit on them, puke on them whilst they're dressed in recently soiled nappies - you name it. Once you have that kind of money everything becomes meaningless. It starts with possessions. Property means shit when you could buy a small country. Things mean nothing when you could have whatever car or boat or gadget you desire. And then it moves to other pursuits, women and drugs and more women. Women who feed you milk from their lactating nipples, or lock you in a cage at night because you're a supreme court judge and you can't think of anything sicker. Intermittently she'll come out to squat over your makeshift palisade to send squirts of this or that in your direction whilst you feebly thank her for the kindness. 

I was also out there in this same sick world, failing just as miserably. I paid a girl once to look me in the eye and tell me she loved me and that I was beautiful. It might not seem quite as sick as being shat on, but it was. After she took my money she made an attempt; she got to "I", started giggling and said she couldn't do it. When I asked for my money back she laughed and walked off. 

Monday, 12 May 2014

Aught What I Ought

"I've got nothing left," he said morosely, before letting go. It was the last time anyone saw him. It was all he could do just to hold on. I went on a fucking adventure after that. The kind where you fuck everything in a certain radius, be it wide or narrow. It gave me an excuse to get all my perversions out; I acted out every fantasy I ever had. Eventually you go numb. Even the novelty of pushing the envelope can wear off. I attempted to write them down, to compile a journal of my sexploits. I got about this far in, my fingers hovered expectantly over the keys. They waited in frustration for a message from my brain to push the next stroke, but I couldn't come up with anything. I've got nothing left.

Monday, 5 May 2014

It's the fish that John West fucks that make him the best

I mean, once he's done rejecting the ugly ones, the implication is that he goes around fucking the good ones right? Hi, my name's Creg. I've been banging about this world for about 10 years now, so I know a thing or two. And I know some guys. Some guys who'll fuck you up, even if you're not a fish. I've decided to write today because it's the first spare bit of time I've had in ages and I've been neglecting my diary of late. I've mostly been discovering the joys of pressure. I love the feel of pushing all my weight against it when it's throbbing and hard. I'm not sure why it does that, or what sets it off, but I know that when it starts throbbing and becomes hard it feels real good if I push my whole weight against it. I started out laying on it on the tiled floor. That felt good. Then I worked out if I lifted up my arms and legs and head and chest I could hover right on it, nothing but it touching the floor, and my whole entire weight pushing against it. That felt even better. Then I was getting a snack from the fridge and I had an idea - I'd put it in there and really push the door closed with all my might. It got hard at the idea and began throbbing. I shoved it in, it was cold, nearly too cold. I closed the door on it, the plastic sealings were so cold they made me shiver. I began to apply pressure. More, and more, until I had my whole body pressing against the door of the refrigerator, my calves and thighs burning as I pushed the door closed harder and harder. It felt amazing. Each extra pound of pressure increased the sensation and I began feeling waves of pleasure and then... and then my mother walked in.

"Creg what are you doing?" she said.

Panic was gripping me and I had no idea what to say. "Hi mum.... I am just testing something." I stayed huddled against the fridge, attempting to cover my shame, luckily my pants were still up and not around my ankles. I don't think she had any idea at this point.

"Alright well I just want a juice, can I get to the fridge please?"

I panicked and began hitting my forehead against the refrigerator in an attempt to scare her off "no, no, no, no! Go away! Just let me finish my experiment. Please."

She came closer - I screamed louder - she kept coming closer - I hit my head harder. Then it briefly went black. I had knocked myself out, and when I came to I was hanging backwards, still attached by my penis to the refrigerator door. Mum had presumably walked off in horror, she never mentioned it again. I was left there to clumsily extricate myself, falling in a heap the moment I managed to pull the door open. For a few brief seconds before the door closed I felt what it was like to have most of my body weight pulling against my penis. Quite a different sensation from pressure, and one which I'll surely soon explore.

I was lowered onto the face of God

Compared to Him I was a tiny piece of meat, dangling helplessly on a barely visible thread of cotton. I made footfall on His upper lip. I pushed my way through the forest of white bristles and began the walk across His cheek. I used the wall of His nose to guide where I was going as His skin stretched out as far as I could see in all directions except the one from which I'd came.

It took me longer than I'd expected. I had needed to urinate for some time. I'd held it in for hours now as I couldn't bring myself to piss on God's face. It became urgent. I let it go in my pants as I reached the other side of His cheekbone. I was planning on releasing a little at first to see if he noticed, but it was so pent up that it came all at once, completely unstoppable. It sped down the inside of my trouser legs and filled my shoes. It seeped through the leather sides, and dripped out the stitchings. Piss dribbled across the curvature of His cheekbone like a tiny yellow tear and slid off into space.

I climbed the bridge of His nose and looked down into His eyes. It became apparent why he didn't care that I was crawling all over him, pissing myself. His eyes were twisted up into His head, cold and grey. An image of the earth, which hung in space just above us, reflected dully across the lens of His eyes. It was the last thing He'd ever seen. He'd been dead for some time.

Sunday, 4 May 2014

Mend

I fell in love during the vivisection. I was eviscerating flesh from sinew and bone. Creating a brand new creature from an old and untidy one. God created man out of unformed clay. I create out of unformed flesh - sculpting it into perfection. How could I not love what my hand hath created? How could I not get a thrill out of what I was doing? In this room I am god. The spongy tissue in my penis began to fill with blood as I brushed my shaft against the operating table. Here there was no he or she, there was just flesh and me. Push, prod, slice, stretch. Clasp, cut, slit, spread. They'd wake up in a white bed later, exclaiming shock and thankyous at their new appearance. But by then I didn't care. Love was over. Love is fleeting.