Tuesday, 30 September 2014

Pastrami: the most sensual of the cured meats

I surrounded myself with all this positive energy. Which it turns out was just a bunch of yes-men who wanted to eat my pussy up like luncheon meat - not savour the flavour and appreciate the delicate changes as I aged gracefully into womanhood.

The worst offender was Brendan Devodander, a vile pustular suck-up who replied to all my feminist rants with comments like "scholarly seductive" and, "you make me feel like a pervert" or his favourite line, "so hot."

It made me feel good for just that brief moment before realizing I was possibly being played. No mere male could appreciate each of the subtle sexisms that crept into a woman's everyday life, and yet here he was proclaiming my rightness in earnest. Yes, it was true, I should have realized straight away, but at that point I merely had an inkling. And so I devised a test, to say and do the most ridiculous things: - writing epistles about stuff I barely had a grasp on, taking pictures of myself half naked with another myself half naked as a fake ghost. The kind of shit no one would ever be into in a thousand years. He liked every post and liked every picture. A thumbs up, a "so hot", a word or two he'd obviously looked up in a thesaurus moments prior. The thumb sat there on the page, a reminder no longer of empathic enthusiasm, but instead a reminder of all the apparatus and digits that were so desperate to be inside me.

That's when I knew I was luncheon meat. That's when I knew I had to get Ello.

Thursday, 25 September 2014

First Annual Scottish Independence Day, 2014

We wept when it ended. When it all came to nought. The striving and trying and purpose we sought.

We cried at each other. When it all was too much. The fighting and cheating and lying and such.

We tried to stay separate. To keep us apart. By gagging and beating and cutting our hearts.

But we touched one another. When we were alone. Like trying so desperately not to go home.

Post title

I want a girl who wears a floral summer dress in spring. With delicate features, finespun hair and fingers that are thin.

Wednesday, 24 September 2014

Just three more things

So I was just standing there by the servo right, flicking my lighter like a bad ass because I don't give a fuck. When this car rolls up with a couple in it. They're talking all wildly like they're having a heated discussion when all out of the blue like, the man reaches over and bops the chick right in the face. I reacted right away, pulling open the car door and being like "Man! what the fuck?" So I laid into him a couple of times, gave him a right beating right in his fucking chair. Told him that's no way to treat a fucking lady.


So I was driving along when my wife brings it up again. She's been saying for a while she wants me to be more rough with her. Give her a slap every now and again. Choke her when we're in bed together. I'm just not into it, it makes me uncomfortable. Last night she asked me come home and pretend I was a stranger. Just barge through the door and act like I was a rapist. Does that mean she wants to be raped? Does she want to have sex with someone else? Has she been raped before? I don't know what to do, it just always ends in a fight. She started screaming at me to hit her, so I just... I just reached out and did it. I hope she knows I'm sorry.


So I thought I could change him. I thought I could turn him into a man. But it turns out he's just another boy. He's weak as piss. My mother warned me not to marry him. She said that he'd never be a man and that I didn't have what it takes to make him one. She was right, but at the time the words steeled my determination rather than dissuading me. I thought I could change him. I thought I could, right up until I saw him get beaten up by a kid who couldn't have been more than seventeen. That's when I knew it was over. That's when I knew I had to get out.


Tuesday, 23 September 2014

A Guide to Instagram and Celebrity Nudes, by Jennifer Lawrence

Taking a photo of my self in the mirror again. Whilst the pus drips down my tongue and the fat cells congeal in seductive ways. I hide my lies behind crooked smiles and a craftily contorted rachis. The colours change and the mask presses down upon me, fretting away at the embrowned and newly dulled lumps. They're still there of course, only becoming visible up close, or if the mask is removed to reveal an explosion of efflorescence. The silverfish will eat me when I'm dead. The cockroaches will swarm and then the mice will come to eat them. Until then I'll keep basting layer upon layer, until palimpsest grooves of dark geoluread and tegumentary dander cake around my imperfectly planed crows feet. Until somebody lazily clicks like and validates my humanity. They barely know I'm alive in here, and I'm not sure they're alive out there either.

Anon

The name is as relevant to you
As it will be in the annals of history
You won't even find me in an old telephone directory
The best I can hope for is you'll find me in a dim and distant memory
You won't be looking for me
And you won't care or linger on it
But for a few seconds, I'll be alive again.

Wednesday, 17 September 2014

Digging pioneers with their own cheval

There they go again, into the wilderness. Taking their walking meat packs into the desert just to see something new. Maybe to die under the shade of a tree somewhere alone and pink, like a well cooked prawn. After the horses and camels had long since been digested. And the leather in their shoes, boiled down to make an off-colour broth. That's where you'll find the bones of the trailblazers; turning to dust in the wind.

Monday, 15 September 2014

THE MELANCOUNTRY DETECTIVE

1

I liked it in the country. People always say that the air is more fresh and the people more friendly, that life is simpler and that every body is more laid back. I suppose clichés exist for a reason, and they're correct statements in some certain places at some certain times. But I liked it for its emptiness. Its wide open sprawling natural nothingness. It gave me a sense of wonder and novelty, as if I was a little kid again, exploring my seemingly humongous backyard. Back when the whole of life surrounded me, begging me to discover something new and awe-inspiring every single day. That's what I liked it for: a sense of nostalgic naivety, nascently kneaded from nothingness.

I'd been to this town before. The countryside, the species of tree, and the curve of the river were all familiar to me. But the buildings had changed remarkably in just a few years, to the point I could barely recognize the streets. I was a stranger here again, just as I had been the first time I arrived. In the weeks that followed my first trip, I became somewhat of  a local curiosity, as I dug through the garbage of the town's top players. Setting in action the fall of one of the town's most respected names - an ex-mayor with his fingers in one too many crooked pies. Here I was again, 20 years later, no longer a detective of the government employ. Now I am a private eye, working for my own or my clients' curiosities. Taking angles I couldn't normally take. It had felt good to tell them to shove their job and then to walk away into the wind swept night. But it took me a long time to get it back together. To get myself back on my feet and earn enough to survive. Starting a business isn't easy, and the boss can be a bitch.

The last 20 years had been kinder to this town than me. It was on the up and up, looking more youthful than ever. The "FOR LEASE" and "FOR SALE" signs were now few and far between; the CBD was a hive of activity, even at this gloaming hour. People seemed to have something to do and somewhere to go, there were hardly any stop and chats between them, and barely a 'how-dya-do' for me. It seemed bizarre for things to have improved so much just by helping to stem the corruption that had them in the doldrums last time I was here.

I stopped at the supermarket car-park on the way to my hotel and lit a cigarette. This is where it had happened. A body had appeared here in the middle of the day. The police wrote it off as a hit and run, but there were no witnesses, no screams, no tyre treads or any evidence of the body having been hit by a car. It had all the hallmarks of a previous killing that I'd investigated but nobody connected the dots. That's what I was here to do, I'd taken time off to do some digging. This was my own version of a holiday.

Just a thing I realised.

     If I've learned one thing from Netsux, it's how to set the date and time on my Siemens PABX.
If I've learned a second thing, it's that love is a futile, no-win path of a greater choose-your-own adventure tale, that ultimately concludes on the same 'THE END' page, so why bother, right?
If I've learned a third thing, it's that my grade 4 teacher doesn't know jack about creative writing, and I absolutely do not need an introduction paragraph. So eat shit Mr Spackman.

     Anyway, here is a thing I recently realised about myself: I have never slept with a woman that had a healthy relationship with her father. And I can't un-realise it now. Because I figure it probably means one of the following 2 things:-
a) I'm a heartless sexual predator preying on the typical daddy issues that staff strip joints; or
b) I'm an habitual 'rescuer' that can only be into a woman that I feel I'm in some capacity saving from a worse fate.

     Now for some perspective, assume that the cumulative total of women I've known falls between 5-10. I'm clearly no Don Juan lady-slayer, but there is enough raw data there to start drawing some assumptions.

     The obvious counter argument here is that I can't be so awful if I've gotten to know them all well enough to understand what their family relationships are like. And to a degree there could be some merit in that. I mostly like to think that I'm a pretty good dude, and can usually find it in me to ignore this particular statistic. But to me, here's the more uncomfortable question.


     If having a shitty relationship with your dad turns you towards a good dude like me, then what does my great relationship with my daughters turn them toward?

Wednesday, 10 September 2014

70 year old Jemz looks 40

Another day. Home again. Check mail. Water garden. Feed dog. Feed chickens. Open door. Remove shoes. Collect dishes. Wash up. Dry up. Tidy house. Collect laundry. Do laundry. Hang washing. Empty bins. Vacuum floor. Mop floor. Start dinner. Eat dinner. Scrub pots. Pay bills. Watch TV. Check facebook. Bed time. Wake up. Eat breakfast. Shower time. Get dry. Get dressed. Work time.

Repeat this.

20,457 times.

Then die.

Tuesday, 9 September 2014

Corad & Daroc

It seemed as if we were both losers, far too tragic to find anyone else to love us. So we settled with each other. Pushed against each other until we'd worn a self-shaped groove in the other's existence. Like a couch dimple furrowed gradually into another's psyche. My previous partner had only just left me in that clichéd state which everyone describes as 'emptiness'. To me however, it never felt quite empty. In truth, it made my chest feel full. Full of liquids that were too cold or too hot, causing a dull ache or a painful uncomfortableness to shift throughout my torso. Empty doesn't ache. Full is what aches. And I was full of misery, full of anger, full of misgivings and mostly just full of feelings of loneliness and bewilderment.

In the midst of this we met. She was convenient. I was convenient. I didn't ask for much, and she didn't provide much. We walked the cold streets at night, where lights were dull and destinations were undecided. No cars drove by and we barely spoke; we'd watch the occasional stranger and overhear the anxieties they gave whispered voice to. Life became simple again.

I'd settled for less, but less became enough.

Saturday, 6 September 2014

That time J-Law got her rat out

The curtain was licking slowly back and forth across the carpet, becoming worn and frayed. Life became so easy for a moment as I slowly choked away. I'd set up all my things around, so they could wish me well. Whilst the monsters ran away with me and took me down to hell.

Robin Williams died never having seen Jennifer Laurence's tits. 

E. M. Forster Was Born In Marylebone

Oh, but who am I kidding? Together, alone, we'll always think about this stuff. That's just what people like us do. It's not so much we're always wanting as it is we just feel like someone or something is missing.

The past you can control because you know what you're dealing with, the future always... just looks so shit.

E. M. Forster Died In Coventry

I know you still think of me sometimes, You've sent me proof. And whilst you were thinking of me, I was probably thinking of her, and whilst I was thinking of her, she was probably thinking of him. Lost opportunities seem to be our only legacy. This perpetual search for something when perhaps compromise could have been enough. Enough not to have us thinking about this stuff.

I Want To Go Walking With You In The Dark

We wouldn't kiss, we wouldn't touch. We wouldn't flirt, we wouldn't fall in love. But for those few hours we'd have each other's complete trust.

Cliff Richard Is Innocent

I don't know why today. I've never been the spontaneous type. I guess it just seemed less effort than making love to the wife. I've never had any practice but it was surprisingly easy. I just pointed the gun at her and killed her first shot.

Tuesday, 2 September 2014

Chicken With Gazza

Why not open the window and chase that red balloon? Instead, you stand there sadly waving a five pound note. They think you some old pervert. You won't ask her to take off her knickers and put them in her mouth though. Quite the opposite in fact. You want to sit there and listen to someone else for a change.

Jennifer Lawrence Nudes

He didn't though. He wasn't interested. All that at his fingertips. All he could taste of her lips was the breath she let pass between hers and his.