Friday, 30 May 2014

There Were More Girls Back Then

Now our beds are curiously empty. Occasionally a woman passes by, straining mournfully for pleasure like some kind of battle-scarred veteran on this war zone called love. She bounces up and down as if governed by whim, a whim to try and find meaning in every empty fuck. Once again we’re both out of luck. Otherwise there’s nothing, until the twilight sets and you and the streetwalkers begin sweeping amongst the shifting sheets of shadow. A dance so shallow.

Even when there was little, there was more. More flirtations. More distractions in general.

We have given up. For now. Perhaps forever. Contentment has not replaced it. Without love there can be no contentment. It’s human nature to want it, perhaps even expect it. All that’s left now is acceptance. A dampening of adventure and tenderness. Nothing can wither. Nothing can flourish. This is what has become of our souls.

We’re all little Liddells scrambling down an endless field of rabbit holes.

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, 29 May 2014

Lord Of The Butterflies

I wait above ground everyday
For someone to lower me down and tuck me away
Four feet should do it
Enough for me to rest comfortably
Beneath a blanket of leaves, all shrivelled up and grey

And I wonder what God would say
If I were to look up and pray
Would he tell me, “James, it’s all going to be okay”?
Or is his language merely silence and decay?

Monday, 26 May 2014

La Tristesse Durera Toujours

I wonder how many people will piss on my grave? I wonder when I'm gone how many e-mails of mine Dominic will save? Are we all but bitter reminders of the wasted time and energy we gave? I wonder in 2009 whose cunt it was I craved? It wasn't until death flirted with me that love hit me like a tidal wave. I know she will be the only thing that will free me from this melancholy of which I've become a slave.

I’d like to shoot myself below the heart. Through the wheat fields I’ll stagger, behind the haystacks where my dreams have all been swept away and gathered. Here lie I – hapless, broken, a useless fucking cadaver.

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

Bedshit Blues

To say Creg’s life has reached its nadir at the point we join him wouldn't be technically correct. This omniscient narrator knows that some years from now he is to be diagnosed with inoperable cancer, falsely accused of paedophilia and beaten to death by a gang of vigilantes. Even so, Creg was feeling pretty fucking shit. He had lost his job as a bin man, or whatever you politically correct cunts like to call it these days. It was a thankless job, like so many, but one that Creg took a certain amount of comfort from. In its own strange way, he felt the job kept the memory of his beloved sister alive for him. She had spent the last few months of her life addicted to heroin and working as a whore, or whatever you politically correct cunts like to call it these days, until her battered body had been found, throat slit, atop a rubbish tip. Now he no longer had his job to remind him of his sister, he decided the next best thing would be to hire a prostitute.

Creg made sure the prostitute looked like his dead sister in so much as she shared the same hair colour and short stature. Other than that, the podgy fuckhole was a pale imitation. He may not be the sharpest tool in the box but even Creg understood that once you get to our age, everything is just a pale imitation of what’s already been. So little matter. She’d do the job.

“I don’t have much money,” warned Creg.

“You don’t say,” the whore said, looking round at Creg’s forlornly decorated bedsit.

“So what can £60 buy me?”

“What do you want it to buy you?”

“I want you to shit on me. Because that’s all I am. A piece of worthless fucking shit. I wasn't there for her when she needed me. I should have got her off the drugs, I should have got her off the streets. Instead I was too busy trying to find love. Chasing a fucking pipe dream whilst I let her chase the dragon. Her love should have been enough. Why wasn't it enough? Why is it never enough? Now I have no one and nothing.”

The whore looked at the time on her gold iPhone whilst the tears started to roll down Creg’s dejected face. “I don’t mind you crying, love. But just so you know, my time is precious and this is all costing you so if you haven’t got much money I suggest you lie down because it might take me a while to squeeze one out. I've barely eaten all day.”

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.

Johnnyelvis B. Goode To Me And You Shall See

I told him if he's going to move to Manchester, he better start smoking so he can get used to the air there. I told her if she's going to come to Eastbourne, she better meet me at the end of the Pier so I can leave her crying there. I told four million people if the parousia is going to happen in Bali, they better beware. Wherever you end up, they'll always be some leech lurking there, waiting to feed off your despair.

When we were younger, there used to be some amusement at what I'd say. Now our routine is so tired we've invented our own clich├ęs and a story like this, just reads like self-parody. Even when I write something completely innocent, some fuckers mistake it for an ode to bestiality.

It's the age-old question: how can you love something that shits? Well, kneeling at her bathroom door, like some kind of half-demented dog with my tongue hanging out, I ask myself, how can I not? I want to love her body until it rots and then dig her up and finish the job. I want you to stumble upon this story by googling "Max Clifford's knob". And then dare to judge me? I think not. Disgusting cunts, the whole fucking lot of you. Now fuck off. There's nothing to see here except for someone who is old enough to know better, pretending to lose the plot.

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.

Thursday, 1 May 2014

What Use Is The Rain To Me, I'm Not A Fucking Plant

Days disappear through the gaps in the curtains, hours are reduced to darkness and light. I can't be sure if I'm trying to keep the memory of her alive or just lying here waiting for one of us to die.

Happy memories are an illusion, an oxymoron. If something is in the past, it's gone. How can anyone be happy to be reminded of what they've lost? No, memories are cruel. All they do is taunt and mock.

She's become like some useless phantom limb, weighing me down, that I keep dragging around.

So I'll let her go. Just allow me one more day to lie here and wallow. Today though, I've promised myself I'll enjoy the hazy afternoon glow. Maybe I'll even dare to dream where it leads to outside my window.