Saturday, 31 December 2016

Two Thousand Sixteen Going On Seventeen

They all just want the year to end, so that everything that's broken can finally be made to mend. Except, the possibility of reprieve is a delusional blend, of illusion and hope and the failure to portend that at some point everything gets worse for everybody here. Old people die, and young people age and become the beneficiaries of their fears. Just because a number changes on your phone doesn't mean the slate is cleared. Every year is just another equally or increasingly shitty year.

Image result for 2016 party

Wednesday, 21 December 2016

Take It Away

Well I decided to die. Tell James, tell Nadia, tell Tim. Tell them to cremate me and pour my remains into the nearest bin. Let me be carted to the garbage dump and smeared throughout the landfill, let me ruminate, let me be distilled. Let me putrefy, let me be congealed. None of this was really for me, childhood was where I wanted to be. That was the only time I really felt free, being fascinated by flowers and leaves and trees, looking at bugs, mantises and spiders and pulling apart bees. Who in their right mind would want to be adult me?

Sunday, 4 December 2016


Why now? Why not then? Why can't I move from here, to there, and back again? Why can't I be whenever I want to be, progressing only when the future is something I want to see? I want to be trapped in the past - instead of here hurtling forward and fast. I want to travel back in time and live in that memory, of pitch black nights with bright city lights bathing us in yellow and blue and green. I want to see everything I didn't quite see even though I was looking around ravenously.

I want to live there a while, back when you and I were we.


In that respect it was all the same, we'd assigned positions and taken blame, we'd turned our lives inside and out again, we'd taken what life gave us and made lemonade from all the pain. We'd built stairs and walked up them and down again, between descents into madness and ascending back towards sane - of course we'd never found ourselves quite the same. Not since the day that man came, and brought news of winning that numbers game. We were just moths flying self-destructively at the fame, and now our lives were so empty beyond the vastness of our shame.

Happy Fetal

We reach out in the night, fingers stretched to the length of their might, but all the tips touch is not there, just the swirling nothingness of the air. We recoil in awkward, self-loathing spite. And turn inwards. Searching for respite.

Sunday, 27 November 2016

Reverse Osmosis

I lay on my bedroom floor soaking up the shit - all the miserable uselessness that pools around my bits. I wallow in the melancholy and find a home in it, I loll my tongue and shake my head and squint my eyes to slits.

If I wasn't attuned to all this terrible static noise of misery and decay, perhaps I'd drag myself off the floor and perhaps I'd feel OK. Perhaps if I wasn't broken I'd find a way to be alive, functional, punctual, one of those people that actually tries. If I was proper broken then perhaps I'd actually mend, instead of laying here all day thinking of the end.


We would sit and swing our feet over the ledge, we'd bring our hurt and worries and push them all over the edge. Let them tumble down the walls and spill out on the ground. Let them fumble as they licked their way along the roads across our town. Let them gnaw at ankles and tickle at the feet, of all the people passing mindless, busy, scurrying like ants and sheep. Eventually, perhaps, we'd fill it all so deep, with bitterness and thoughts betraying our ability to sleep, that the whole town would drown in loss and hopelessness; despair. That we'd be kicking our feet no longer in the air, but treading down the horrors of our days. Or relaxing, kicking back, and letting misery lap at us like waves.

Saturday, 26 November 2016

Free Dom

And so they brought me down. Tore me, wore me, threw off my crown. I'd been the commander of their intestinal meander for the past two years, and now, now I was the water without it's salamander, I was turning neglect into tears. My subjects pressed on without me in the exercise yard without any fears, so I stood alone against the boundary line now judged equally with my peers. I wept and wailed without fail, for days upon days, until the guards simply gave up and never looked again my way. As soon as they were gone I made my break for sanctuary, pulled myself upside their fence and teetered atop from where I pee. And then I dropped into the big wide world alone, no one still, but at least on my own terms and without chaperones. I stood, dusted down, and took off across the grass; to home, to be free, to be free Dom at last.

Image result for child climbing fence

Tuesday, 22 November 2016

Stools Make Feasts and Wise Men Eat Them

I dreamt of a blind, deaf and mute man in a tiny cell with no windows eating his own shit. He had no toilet, barely enough space to lie down, but he wouldn't stop shitting himself. Every day he woke up, took a shit, and then ate the shit. This repeated for a long time until a second person was placed in the cell. The second man decided he didn't want to eat shit, but he marveled at the man who could subsist solely by eating his own shit. The second man began licking the moss and mould and other bits of foul fungi that grew in the crevices of the cell. The original man was happy enough, he had some company and twice as much shit to eat.

This repeated for a time until a third person was placed in the now very crowded cell. The third man didn't want to eat shit either, but he was more of a cunt. He began cutting bits off of the defenseless shit eating man and eating that. Hair and fingernails at first, but then when those didn't grow back fast enough he'd take a finger or toe here or there.

Eventually the second man pointed out that the shit had begun piling up. He claimed that the shit eating man wasn't keeping up with all this extra shit.

"You're wrong," said the third man. "This is good for you anyway, imagine all the mould and mosses and mushrooms that will grow in all this shit."

"But every day the pile gets higher, the cell gets more toxic," replied the second man.

"You're wrong, he's been shitting and eating shit for who knows how long - certainly longer than I've been here. He'll be eating shit long after I'm gone I expect. Sure the levels fluctuate sometimes, but that's to be expected. You can't prove it's getting worse."

"Well, I've been marking the level of shit on the wall every day, and every day I have to make a higher mark, it's increasing steadily. We could be up to our necks in shit within just a few years."

"Marking a wall is hardly evidence - and how do you know how high the shit was before you started marking the wall? Perhaps it was always this level or is returning to this level after a temporary period of less than usual amounts of shit. We simply haven't been here long enough to know any of this shit."

"Well, before you or I were here the shit in-shit out was in perfect balance, I can tell because of evidence left in the walls - the way the shit has soaked into the walls in certain areas shows that shit has never been this high before. Also, I think you're impacting just how much shit he eats by how much you cut off him. If he was to die we'd both be swimming in shit. And look, say that I'm wrong, say hypothetically you are completely right - still wouldn't it be nice to let him eat as much shit as possible just so we're not having to stand around in shit all day?"

"You're so full of shit," said the third man. "That bullshit argument won't work on me. I'm perfectly happy with the way things are."

And so the argument repeated for a time until a fourth person was added to the cell.

"You can subsist on mushrooms and things like me," offered the second man.

"Pish," said the third man. "Sure, if you want to go hungry and turn into a skinny weed like him you could do that. He gets barely enough protein as it is. You should join me and eat this guy - there's plenty of him to go around."

Monday, 21 November 2016

The Burrowers

I'm the eyelash in your keyboard. I'm the fingerprint on the card pins. I'm the sneeze on your monitor. The skin gunk on your mouse. I'm the flesh in your machine. I'm making you unclean. I'm your step in the wrong direction. I am tedious; beneath you. You're important. So important. So much better than me. If you didn't need meat to turn your meat rack hamster wheel then you'd finally be free. 

I Still Live There

The bay window, where I lay my head. Where I found out princess Di was dead. Where I first heard Under the Bridge in nineteen ninety-two, Violent Femmes, Dire Straits, Frente and U2. Where the May bush bloomed and the apricots blossomed, where the bee's descended and robbed them of pollen. Where I could sit and watch and while away hours, overlooking hollyhocks and hyacinths and snapdragon flowers.

Somewhere there in wonderland, I lost my locket, it left my hand. I slept and dreamed and when I woke, it was gone, it turned to smoke. I was told to leave it all behind - my home, my childhood, and the stillness of my mind.

Friday, 18 November 2016

Another Loss of Innocence

Dear Sam,

I'm sure that you can appreciate that even the most excellent of pranks don't always go according to plan. But I could never have predicted I'd stumble across an international pedophile ring.

Allow me to explain. So there I was, slowly fouling in the horrible white-blue glow of a CRT monitor at some ungodly hour well past midnight. A thought had occurred to me. One that I had rolled around in my head for exactly no seconds and come to the decision that it would somehow be a great idea. Namely, that I would use a remailer to spoof your email address. Using that, and masquerading as you, I would ask Billy's sister to go on a date with you. At the time of course, we were rivals, and you had just got done saying that you were going to kill me and that you hated my with the fire of a thousand suns.

Billy's sister meanwhile looked like she was a bit of a fatty, and you knew her in real life, so I was pretty pleased with the idea that you would get a reply in your inbox from an email you never sent. The idea of you trying to backtrack and explain why you didn't actually want to go out with her seemed awfully delicious. The problem was, I couldn't get any of the online remailers to work.

So, as a last resort I decided to try to log into Billy's email instead. That way I could send an email to "my sister" and suggest that you were desperately in love with her. I'd tell her to send you an email saying that she wanted to go out some time. It wasn't perfect, but it would do. I tried a couple of different passwords to gain access and failed. I'm no master hacker, and I hardly knew anything about Billy. The only thing I could recall him saying was that he liked some silly game called sensible soccer or something, he said he used to play it with you. I tried the word 'sensible', and you know what? I got in.

I was so surprized. That password was the longest shot - no capitals - no numbers. I went straight to compose and got to work. I wrote a stupid message, hoping that I would somehow pass off as Billy to his sister. Of course they would probably just text each other and work out there was something weird going on, but I crossed my fingers and hit send.

It bounced me back to inbox. There wasn't much there, a few spammy looking emails and a sign up letter from I laughed, thinking it was a porn site. I clicked it open and had a look. It was an adult dating site for gay men. I laughed again, thinking one of Billy's friends had signed him up as a joke. It had a link to his account, I clicked it. It was Billy. The profile looked fairly legit. It said Billy was into watersports and rimming. I shook my head, none of this could be right. It was obviously a prank - perhaps I'd been pranked. I clicked back, noticed there was a bunch of items in the deleted box and clicked it.

The main thing in there were notifications of posts on a forum, "a topic you posted on has been replied to" etcetera. I didn't think too much of it but my curiosity was piqued by the gay profile. Of course it was none of my business, but I couldn't look away now. I clicked a post and it took me into the forum. I don't know how, but the link had seemingly logged me in, or given me access straight into threads within this private forum. A private forum, as I slowly discovered, for pedophiles.

Here Billy talked with others about fantasies he'd had. About getting turned on when children came into the McDonalds he worked at, about how he found them so attractive he'd mumble his words and fumble their change. And then I saw it, a thread where he shared a picture of himself, clothed, as a child. A dated looking picture of him playing dress up, with makeup on. He was using it to fish for compliments, and other pedos slathered their detestable praise upon him, saying how good looking he was. It was sick, but I was curious about what I had found, and I scrolled down. after the comments had dried up, Billy had posted another picture. This time the picture was of you, clothed, as a child. You were outdoors, camping it looked like, and pedophiles were commenting about your picture, saying you were sexy and all the horrible things they would do to you. I freaked out, closed the window and never went back there again. I was scared that just by bearing witness to this totally fucked up shit that I had somehow broken the law. My browser history - surely my IP is logged by the FBI as having visited? I flipped out, I didn't know what to do. I was scared.

Was I meant to tell someone? But if I did, would I be in trouble for having been to the site? He had talked on there about being the coach of an underage football squad, and how he was taking them overseas on competition soon. He was talking about how they were all so sexy. About how he loved to hug them. Was I obligated to ring the police in another country?  He hadn't actually done anything as far as I could tell - I never saw him say anything to imply he had - he never said he would either. I was 21. I was young. I was naive. What was I supposed to do? I kept convincing myself it'd all be fine.

I hope it was.

If I had my time over again and knew what I know now, then I would have sent it to you then. Even if you were never going to believe me, at least there might've been the chance. I should've sent it to the police, sent it somewhere, anywhere, so I didn't have to harbour this secret, and harbour the guilt alone. Would it be my fault if someone got molested and I never spoke out? Is a pedophile innocent until they physically harm a child? Would I be ruining Billy's life unnecessarily?

I don't know the answer to any of it, and I don't want to know. I contracted a horrible secret that day, and I just don't want to feel guilty anymore. I want to be free -- for ten years this has haunted me.

Wednesday, 16 November 2016


Each day I convince myself it's time. To eat well, to exercise, to speak what's on my mind. To sleep more, to seize the day, to save more of my pounds. To take stock, to take leave, to turn my life around. And every day I still believe, though every day I fail: I don't jog, I don't sleep, I buy shit I don't need on sale. All those "Life. Be in it." ads did was make me feel guilty, so now I can't even enjoy my laziness in peace. Instead I sit here miserable just waiting for the coffin, the only thing I've stopped believing is that life would be worse as a dolphin.

Saturday, 12 November 2016

The Only Pussy He Grabs Now Is Félicette

Oh, what a wonderful week. President Trump is here to peel back the bleak. He's gunna take the world by the teeth and turn this death spiral all the way around, he's gunna stick it to those who've been in the toaster too long and turned out a medium brown. He's gunna make the world a better more unified place, by being the world's scape goat - the international disgrace, and then once he takes on all the sins of the world, perhaps he'll be blasted into space. 

Tuesday, 8 November 2016

Reach For The Bars

I want to jump out of the window and run away, I've got nothing left to give them and nothing left to say. I don't even want this week's pay, money in my bank never made a single trouble of mine go away. Not permanently anyway. Its endless pursuit never helped my wife and children stay, they weren't even distracted, not even slightly waylaid, as they pushed out the front door as if they were all afraid, as if the man they had once loved had somehow been betrayed. And so I let them go and continued to scratch away, digging for the gold at the end of my rainbow of dismay. Because it wasn't family that I needed to persuade, it was me - I was the one who needed to be swayed, to ditch this dead end job and stop living this charade, to stop walking this slow perpetual corrade of a parade. I'd worked here for twenty years or so and be that as it may, I was no closer to the top and no more illuminating than a lampshade, instead I was losing all my precious time to a debt that could never be repaid, even if the boss went and doubled my shitkick wage. The problem was I could never funnel all these feelings into rage, and so I looked at the window wishing, whilst my legs here firmly stayed.

Monday, 7 November 2016


Whittle it down until there's nothing, until just continuing feels like carpet burns rubbing, until your fingertips bleed and your carpal tunnels are crumbling, until breathing, waking, sleeping becomes an inescapable tumbling.  Do you know what I find the most troubling? The memory of consciously uncoupling, just because I thought that you were my ugly duckling.

Sunday, 6 November 2016


You're the only one who has ever truly looked into my eyes. Stared deep, tried to work me out, tried to find out what's inside. And when you looked, you saw, and then you laughed, everything you thought, was wrong. You saw the warmth inside my heart.

Saturday, 5 November 2016


Fifteen years doesn't quickly pass on by, but when you look back it feels like it happened in the blink of an eye. Every year gets shorter when looked at in reflection, though rarely these days I have time for such introspection. Since time has become such an important commodity, it gives me fear when I think back on James' methodology, of waiting to write a book until we reach fifty. For it seems each year we have less free time, by the age of fifty, the years will be roaring on by, but at least this way we'll be writing until we die.

Friday, 4 November 2016

Vanessa III

"What's your favourite song this week?"

"This week?" I asked. The concept that my favourite song might change weekly puzzled me.

She texted me an address. "Come right now, there's a party, it's going to be fun."

"Um, I don't really do parties" I said, and I thoroughly wished I'd never picked up the phone. Why could I never say a flat no or stand up for myself?

"Come on. I'll see you soon," she punctuated by hanging up the phone.

I paced around my room. It was the middle of the night. My parents were asleep. It was my dad's birthday tomorrow, we had to get up early and go for breakfast. The reasoning behind why anyone would want to get up early and go out for breakfast on their birthday was a mystery beyond my comprehension. I steeled my nerves, snuck out the back door and stole into the night.

Five minutes later and I had pushed my way into a slightly ajar front door. She was in the loungeroom in a nice outfit, standing, but seemingly doing nothing. She was alone.

"Hi... where is everyone?" I asked.

She turned and smiled, "oh you made it! Great!"

I could hear some music coming from one of the adjoining bedrooms. I looked over, there was a guy standing in the darkened doorway looking at us. I recognized him from our school. I gave him a nod, he nodded back and continued staring; he didn't smile.

"I think he likes you," I said with a grin.

"Yeah. This is his house, some of us hang here sometimes, he doesn't have any parents, or they moved away or something."

I looked over at him, he was well within earshot but didn't bother correcting her. She seemed to have drifted off for a second, and then her face lit up again.

"I wish I could have a guy like you," she said.

"What about him?" I asked, and tilted my head in his direction.

"He's alright but he seems like the type of guy who would want to spy on me while I use the toilet."

My jaw dropped. I glanced over at him, he was still staring impassively. She wasn't smiling, and it didn't feel like a joke. I felt wholly uncomfortable, like I wanted to walk back along the hallway and out into the dark cool comfort of the night. There was a short awkward silence before he finally left the doorway and sidled inside his room.

"He seems the type hey. I reckon he'd look at me through the keyhole on the toilet just to get his jollies. I want a man who likes to look at me, but not like that. He creeps me out."

I was sure he could still hear her. With that, she pushed me onto his couch and straddled my knees, pushing her breasts into my face. All I could think of was the pain shooting from my nose, but at least it drowned out how awkward I was feeling. "How's that?"

"That's... nice..."

Thursday, 3 November 2016


The house phone was ringing but I always ignored it. It was never for me. My father picked it up, I heard him speak a moment and then his footsteps came along the hall toward my bedroom.

"There's a Vanessa on the phone for you."


He handed me the phone and walked off. I didn't know any Vanessa, and this was one of the first times anyone had called me on the house phone since I was a child.


"Hey, it's me. I had to say my name was Vanessa."

"What? Oh." It was her again. I thought I'd scared her off.

"Did you think about what I said?"

"Yeah, I guess." I hadn't.


"Yeah well, you know..." I think I was scared of saying no. Saying no and hurting someone's feelings terrified me more than anything else.

"I don't really know. Not without you telling me." Suddenly her tone softened, "hey you know I'm not wearing any pants?"

I looked for the words,"that's nice."

"I'm touching myself."

"That's nice."

Her voice became lighter still, "I've put a finger inside."

"That's nice."

"You say that's nice a lot."

"I guess."

I think I might be autistic sometimes.

Wednesday, 2 November 2016

Which Was the Stiles at the Time

I'd been putting it in you for a while, even though your face was round and plain like Julia Stiles. I felt like Dexter - we had a good start, but a horrible end, and like Mike C and Jenny Carpenter we'll never mend. I pretended it was about you not giving me space, but really it was all about your face. I couldn't help but self sabotage, when your face was chunky like a creamy potage. So goodbye my lover, take care and stay kind, and if you get plastic surgery keep me in mind.

Tuesday, 1 November 2016

800th Post And What Did We Get? Forfteen Dollars In Ad Revenue And Closer To Death

He swipes me...
He swipes me left.
He swipes me...
He swipes me left.

These virtual flowers never have the right amount of petals, how can my love's status ever hope to be settled? And what did he mean by calling me mental, that is seriously the pot calling kettle.

Just because I rang him on the phone last night, told him my pants were off, my pussy was tight. He replied a warbled, "that's nice". I laughed it off, I mean, technically he was right, but where does he get off answering so trite? "What about a sex pact then," I followed swiftly, "if you won't fuck me now, then how about by the time we're fifty?"

Monday, 31 October 2016


There was now no limit to my debauchery. Mum and dad had long since given up on me, but so what - I've been independently wealthy since the age of seventeen, back when McRonald's had me fry up fillet-o-"fish" in their hot vats of bromine. In those days I kissed a mars bar right out of Jenny Smith's mouth, now I'm teaching chicks a course in how to take a tampon out. I don't know when this wild ride will end. Never I hope. I hope this journey never ends. I hope there's a new adult toy around every single future bend, and I hope to god my butthole mends.

Sunday, 30 October 2016

Ironing Vasco's Pyjamas

The secret to being more like Byron is to ditch your stupid iron. Throw that piece of junk through your nearest window, let the birds' song in and feel the wind blow. Own each crease like furrowed wrinkle, embrace the release - wear each crinkle as a symbol. Who cares about clothes, irons, and washing machines, what are we? Testudines? Break away your silly self imposed armor, get out there - become da Gama.

Saturday, 29 October 2016

The Fourth Dimension

At some point, time became my most valuable asset, and I finally understood why someone was willing to pay me for it. No longer was I happy to while away the hours doing meaningless shit, now each second grated, like blinking grit in an eye slit. Each second took me away from the few seconds I had left. Each second moved me towards the end: lonely, demented, and bereft. Living in a home for other sop-headed convicts, reminiscing on days of old, and times when things were perfect. I'd moved on up, to the point that I was paying someone else to do the things that I most wanted to do, I'd given it a lot of thought but couldn't work out how to stop, how to get off, or who to sue.

I was on the brink of breaking, my mind was angrily rotating.

I paid someone else to tidy my yard. to renovate, to clean, to work really hard. I paid someone else to have fun with my kids, enjoy their smiles, milestones and laugh at their fibs. I paid someone else to cook me my food, nothing wholesome, or romantic, just crap that allowed me to keep me on the move. And I built it all up until I couldn't stop earning: how on earth could I afford all these people if I simply quit working?

The stress was the best at keeping me oppressed, I didn't even have time anymore to feel depressed.

And then when you're old, the wheel falls off and the hamster is freed - well, at least, so it seems - for then I can do all the things I've wanted to do, like pay someone to clean up after me and to make me my food. And change my pants when I go to the loo, and push my wheeler to the lounge and to bingo too. Fuck, what a waste, I've been such a fool.

Sunday, 23 October 2016

Japes With Jeb

She looked worse for wear. As if a troll had climbed in there, begun yellowing up her teeth and made her flesh look like well roast beef. I asked him what he'd seen in her, he said that their time together had been a blur, and anyway, he was a well known frotteur - it was her legs that had made him purr.

Roll Credits

Thankyou Jim for resurrecting my writing career. From your lowest point I can eke out some semblance of cheer, some jumbled pile of letters that only theinternetsux can hold dear. Never fear, we'll find someone else to rip into next year.

Deal With Linda

When you said that you wanted me to deal with 'that horrible Irish whore', I nearly couldn't take it any more. Three wives, fifty plus girlfriends, mistresses - maybe a hundred or more? Surely at some point sex becomes a bore? And yet you've never wanted to settle down with someone that you say that you adore? Every advance I've ever made you seem to actively ignore, and yet each time you hook up with someone new I have to watch, and I feel the fire rise inside my core. What's one more... what are personal assistants for, if not for breaking the law? And sure, at least they won't refer to you as 'that stupid autism anti vaxxer guy' no more.

Over Ten Thousand People Say: Rape And Wrongful Infection Is A-OK

Can't you see he's suffered enough? Sure, he put herpes up her muff, but he was really funny in Dumb and Dumber and stuff. Sometimes you've gotta give a guy a pass, girls are just a piece of ass, if they get all butt hurt after we've gotten on and given them a squirt, then they're crazy bitches and deserve chlamydia up their snitches. I know Valentines is a bit of a sacred institution, but how can he possibly be expected to have the constitution to refrain from spreading his seed? This guy is the big mother fucking cheese, he's a fabulously wealthy, white, famous man, and he's probably really big in Japan. (This was not written by Jim - I'm just a really big fan).

Did You See The News Today?

"Jim Carrey's friends fear he'll become suicidal" - like as if he's sitting there innocently reading his bible, and making sure everything he trashes he recycles, whilst fearing absolutely no reprisals, despite condemning his girlfriend to the nitrogen cycle. The jokes on us really in the end, the ridiculous thing is that he still has friends.

Happy Valentines; Now You're Mine

Lately I'd started to silently drown. The endless drudgery of life kept washing over me and I could no longer choke it all down. So I went out in a last hurrah to find me some brown - two high class ebony escorts from the shady end of town. You'd think that a guy like me, would never need to pay, he'd get it all for free - but then, realistically, you have no idea what it's like to be a celebrity. I can't just go out and hook up and not expect a frenzy of complete stupidity, and the videos of me, looking like a cocaine powered freak, ending up adorning the pages of LiveLeak. So the price was right and I came on down, leather swaddled, studded, looking like a clown. The idea of herpes never got me down, in fact it turned my frown completely upside down - fuck this world, let my dick shrivel up and turn brown, I was just a slave and it was time for me to buckle down. They dressed me up in a thrift shop bridal gown, they let me wear a crown whilst they jived in tiny shorts humming my dick motown. Afterwards, as I sponged down, and watched the gore detach and trickle down, I thought about my Irish lass, her beauty, her innocence, her impeccable class. At first I'd thought that I'd leave her alone, break up with her by phone, I never wanted her to watch me raise my own headstone. But now I see the best gift is escape, each day we live is a terrible, terrible mistake. Her life is hanging precarious and it's there for me to take.

I have to do this Cate, all of this is now for your own sake.

Saturday, 15 October 2016

Have You Thought About My Cock Today?

I'll put Linda on the goddamned phone. The weight of you around my neck is like a ten tonne stone. All I wanna do is go out and freely bone, but you just keep sending me texts about the bumps on your erogenous zone. I care about you, that's obvious, that's why I shared with you my enterobius. How would you feel if you were me? I'm glorious, I'll reign victorious, you can go die for all I care you jerk bag whorius. I'll tell 'em that I picked up your funeral fee, I'll look sad and bearded, all their sympathies will be with me. But deep down I'm happy as happy can be, because you were really stressing me - my levels were rising so damned dangerously, it was really gunna have to be - you - you or me.

When Everything Smells

Everything around here still smells like you and your shit, I can't even remember what's mine amongst it. I'll probably just have to start all over again. Burn it all, Dump out all your favourite instant coffee blend. Fuck it, perhaps I'll call you on the phone, speak for just a minute, then join the universe in it's constant expansive drone.

Friday, 14 October 2016

When I Want Candies

My phone died as I caught my hundredth Magikarp, at that point I was the only one left in the park. All the other kids had long since gone, six months odd since the game's novelty had become worn. I decided I didn't need to click evolve. What was that ever going to solve? I clutched my bedimmed device and steeled my resolve. I threw it in the bin so I had nothing left in life on which to hold. My soul was long since parceled out and sold, and here I was with nothing but the time I'd gathered into old. I rubbed my nose and breathed in deeply all the cold.

Being Just Simply Being (Because I've Got No Actual Clue, What else On Earth I'm Supposed To Do)

I'll play your game, world, I'll write my best for that one single 'like'. I'll think of all the stupid things going on in my life, tap the keys angrily until the page is filled with shite. Maybe one day I'll write something without spite, find something inside me verging on polite. But then, do I really want to run the risk of losing my only like?

Agrivated Fola-cles: The Greek God of Vigorus Sex

It's just ten ropes or so, lash it on, lash it on. Ten ropes to hang yourself with. Ten ropes to rip apart your lover. Jim Carrey caught his HIV from the musical career of Donald Glover; they were romping in a hedge whilst being sternly swooped at by a plover. And so the paps snapped away and snapped away at the heels of a shriveled shamrock shover. You might be found not-guilty, but all you're not-guilty of is ever having loved one another.

I Swam From Plymouth To Penzance To Watch My Irish Selkie Dance, But It Turned Out She Died Mid-Prance Due to The Pimples In Jim Carrey's Pants

When I was young everything I loved looked bad if viewed through the eye holes of my dad. And now that I've become him it's really sad - turns out he was right and I've been completely had. Sure, everything is shit now, that much is true. But everything was shit back when I was a kid too. Perhaps it was because I had a limited scope, to scrutinize between what was quality and what was a joke. Perhaps I had a higher tolerance for shit, and now that life drags on I only now realize the truth of it. Because sure Bieber is mad retarded, and the Kardashians leave their brains uncharted, but back when I was five, people thought that Hootie and the Blowfish were all the jive, and I thought it was really cool just running around and being alive.

Jemz's Five Most Succulent Chinese Meals Q3 2016

Sunday, 9 October 2016

Being The One

I was thinking about her the other day, and realized that she wasn't the one that got away. The one that got away was me. My life, my future, my mooring grasp had come loose and my heart had drifted free. She remained as always, standing on the pier, a perch that bridged between the two sides of our sphere. But all that I could make out as I drifted out of here, was that she wasn't calling after me, she seemed relieved to watch me disappear

Thursday, 6 October 2016

I'd Rather Look Down; I Won't Even Look Up To See Where The Bus Stops Next

I don't fear the raising of the dead, not nearly as much as the daily raising of my head.

I don't fear the four horseman, not nearly as much as just one bogan who thinks they're awesome.

I don't fear the revenge of Jesus, not nearly as much as when someone too near to me sneezes.

I don't fear satan's malevolent power, not nearly as much as having to scrub the shower.


I don't mean to be


But I just...

I just no longer

Have the


Image result for sad bus stop

Saturday, 1 October 2016


The dog waits all day for her to come home. Even though she's long gone and I'm the only one that brings him his bone. He sits and waits, nose pressed against the flyscreen door, absolutely sure that in a minute she'll be here once more. Of course dogs have next to no concept of cause and effect, they've got no understanding of lies, or betrayal, or self respect. Dogs don't understand the creeping death of youth and the inescapable unyielding rot.

Dogs are faithful, even when you're not. 

Just Swirly Hurly Things

All my latest fevered dreams revolve around a fun sized Meg Ryan. She's an unusually well proportioned midget, and she's casting me cheeky smiles as she opens my refrigerator door. Luckily its the face she bore in the nineteen eighties and not the current one she wears. She says to me "we're out of cream," and I respond to her "who cares?" The only cream or home I need is the cottage I've found between your legs. Her cellulite thighs chunder and thunder and make my innards beg. You're plastic now, but weren't you always Meg?

Monday, 26 September 2016

When I Died Inside

...And suddenly I'm standing outside my own body. And there I am... there he is.. mouth torturously agape, his eyes sunken, skin drooping toward the puddle of misery he wishes to become. It was as if someone had found a wick inside him, lit it, and he'd started to melt. His arms, bent slightly at the elbows, holding up a bundle of limp swaddled clothing, the edges tussling in the wind. He holds his face and his bundle up to the heavens screaming like Munch's famous figure.

I never had terribly many friends. In all honesty my children were my best friends. And this is what it feels like when you lose a best friend.

Wednesday, 21 September 2016


Fritter your passions away. Squander your talent. Take all your emotions and cast them aside. Live life like a zombie. Move from one pointless thing to the next. Briefly eke out an inconsequential existence. Lose yourself. Lose what makes you, you.

Thursday, 8 September 2016

When I've Finally Got The Answer

I've got all the answers now, to all of my life's great questions: is it love? Is it lust? Is it desire? Or need? Can I trust? Am I self sabotaging? Am I programmed to breed? Is this too good to be true? Am I falling for you?

But the thing with answers is, what good do they do? They're all too late for me, and certainly, many years too late for you.

Wednesday, 7 September 2016

When I'm Not Good Enough

Your hand slinks away from mine and you leave me to walk on all alone. Until then, I thought you made me who I was, you made me feel like I was home. All I wanted was the slightest touch, I craved the lightest of such from you and your little fingers. If you gave me but a single chance I'm sure that I could've found a way for us to linger.

So now I walk alone along the soundless streets, by houses tucked like humans on their knees, behind their fences made of forearms. I see them pressed and cramped without a space in this hateful place, everything looks worse without your charms. A song comes on my phone, I've never heard this one on my own. Nothing sounds as good when you're all alone.

Tuesday, 6 September 2016

When You Cannot Love Me

I'm old and cynical enough now that I don't feel the need to be loved, I can walk through life almost completely unplugged from the world around me and it's slithering slugs. My life is no longer laid out before me as if I'm being tugged, toward what people want from me: labour, money, sex or drugs. Instead I can sit in my pants eating bugs, sipping from yesterday's half mouldy mug. Friends can fuck off, I'll roll them in a rug. Family can suck it, if they ask for help I'll just shrug. I don't need anyone now I've found myself, and we fit together so lovely and snug.

Friday, 2 September 2016

The Mystery

I'm a white middle aged man and no one listens to me. Is that why I feel these pangs of unfathomable misery? I mean, they've always promised that this is what is owed to me, and yet here I am ignored and yet still abhorred for my apparent in-bred misogyny. If I could take back one thing it'd be the mention of misogyny, because now all the feminists are rubbing their hands in glee, ready to take out all their frustrations on an insignificant bug like me.

Monday, 15 August 2016

In Ebro

It had been a while since I had sucked from that old teat, laid back, relaxed, and allowed myself the treat. All I wanted from my life was a comfortable seat, and instead all I got was a ball and chain around my feet. Everyday I dragged it along this miserable street, smiling all the while at the puppets and the freaks. I made muted sounds at them but tried to never speak, so they'd never get to know me and I'd never appear weak. This way, at least, I held an air of the mystique, and life is never better when you share it with the meek. So what if I never get to know of what it meant to be unique, and the violence I wished to wage would never be so wreaked. At least I'll never let myself grow up to be antique, for my dependence on the bottle has let my liver leak. Never has my outlook been so completely bleak, it'd even been a while since I'd allowed myself the treat.

Saturday, 6 August 2016

Sorry, She's Takin

They all did more interesting things than you,
because you never had any fucking clue
what on earth you wanted to do
and to this day that's still fucking true.
I wonder if the lies Disney promised you
are grounds enough to fucking sue? 
Since that goddamn cunt riding his cryosleep canoe
promised you a princess and a good goddamned hairdo
And all you ended up with was an untameable mullet and a gnu?

I saw you once, practicing jujitsu,
it made me think about the battle of Waterloo
and how twice now I have failed you.

Pauline Brexit And Her Seven Deadly Droogs

What an exciting time to be alive, with possibilities so endless and our future so bright, until some old conservative cunt comes along and turns it all to shite because they hate muslims and pakis and they always think they're right.

There's no reasoning with a cunt. They'll shuffle off in just a few years time, well before they feel the brunt, of all the shit choices they've made, and unlike us they'll be too old for conscription to the front. Guns should be used on the old when their minds start failing - when they start nodding in agreement with the fascists, that's when their mind is ailing. Because they once fought them in one of their 'glorious' wars, and yet now sit here a mindless bigoted bore, shouting at the television 'BUILD A WALL!", "KICK THEM OUT THE DOOR!", "SHE LOOKS LIKE A WHORE!" Goodbye grandpa, old age has rotten you to the core. Your addled old mind is a seeping festering sore.

The Meal I Always Hoped For

Eating is awesome, but it brings back memories. A friend I had back in 2005 choked whilst eating. Whenever I see chewing gum on the sidewalk I think of her. Rest in peace Jelly Belly Hen. She died at the end of her final meal actually, right after her last chew.

Friday, 5 August 2016


Why? Why do I keep going? Why do I keep writing this shit in a dark corner of the internet that nobody reads? Well, let me see. perhaps I believe that a burden shared is a burden somewhat relieved. Or maybe that I'll somehow infect some poor passer by with as much misery as me. Or perhaps neither of these. Perhaps I'm just doing this for me. Like a fifteen year old girl romanticizing the ups and downs of boyfriend number three. Waxing lyrically about how hard it is to live and love and hate things so desperately, writing all these things to nobody at all, particularly. I don't know... fucks me! I'd rather be here though, writing creatively, than arguing on facebook like a cunt basically.

Youtubeus Commentus

Breathing is awesome, but it brings back memories. A grandmother I had back in 2005 died while breathing. Whenever I breathe I think about her. RIP Grandma. She died right at the end of breathing actually, right after her last breath.

Sunday, 31 July 2016

Gotta Snatch 'Em All

I caught them all when I put my dick inside of you. You said my claims were grounds enough to sue, but my pokéballs had never mustered up the custard to be busted inside anyone but you. Well, at least not as far as any of us knew. I mean, there was that time that I sleep-humped you... and my little sister always looked at me suspiciously as we grew. I always assumed that it was about my pokéstash that she knew. But maybe those dreams I had were actually true. I wonder if she will catch them all now too?

Monday, 11 July 2016

Walk On

I suppose you wanted to get it done before anyone could say it took you more than a year, I knew it when I saw your eyes staring defiantly back at me without fear. That day my heart felt like it was a cold and lonely pier, jutting into a cold grey ocean made up wholly of my own tears. I couldn't waste another second, I couldn't stay without you here. I took myself to the point of dying but it didn't make you feel anymore near. So now I am in limbo drowning slowly in this misery soaked atmosphere.

Thursday, 7 July 2016


We lay down in the backyard looking up at the night sky. He'd said that the meteors would soon start whizzing by. We'd carried out some sleeping bags, two pillows and a torch. We waited, and waited, but there was a failure to launch. The cold was biting, but I was happy just to be there with him, he'd never paid me much attention and his attention span was thin. I admitted that I didn't know what I was doing with what was left of my life. He said no one ever did, which explained why the world was in such strife. "Nobody knows what they want, and even if they did they'd never get it," he spoke like someone who'd traveled a dark road and regret it. I paused a while and asked him if he'd go and visit my grave, he shook his head and looked away and dismissed me with a wave. Above ground or below I guess it doesn't really matter, the world goes on and I lay alone feeling myself shatter.

Tuesday, 28 June 2016

Polly Pissy Pants

I used to have a handle on it but it appears to have gone amiss, the handle on the other side has fallen off and I'm left trapped in a room filling with my own piss. I tried to bail myself out but discovered I just don't have the gist, of what it means to be a person who isn't drowning in their own piss.

I gave up and let it fill my shoes and felt just like that kid, who went to parties with the purpose of collecting other's piss, I just thought that if I could accept it, that would be the tits, because otherwise I'll just die unhappy, here, drowning in my own piss.

Saturday, 25 June 2016

The Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy

By now Fred was probably dead. His old shop had long since been replaced with a Thai restaurant instead. Corner hardware stores were now just a piece of history, and his stumped, half removed fingers remain forever one of my life's mysteries. My friends from school said he'd shot them off with a gun, My parents said it was an enigma best not unspun. Regardless, I used to love pretending to peruse, whilst watching him run his stumpy fingers through the boxes of loose screws. He'd hold a bugle head out to me, I'd say my dad needed it most urgently, and he'd let me have it just for free.

Wednesday, 22 June 2016


Everything inside me died. All the love, and lust and pride. Everything that gave me drive, and away from everyone I've shied.

I'd like to say that I've survived, but I'm so busy these days I'm not even sure I'm still alive. Every five seconds something else new passes me by, and my mind drifts away, escapes, and drifts idly by.

Monday, 13 June 2016

The Galaxy Blues

Hopefully my S-Pen will inspire me to reach new heights of miserableness that we never previously thought possible. Hopefully this second monitor I've plugged in makes us unstoppable. Hopefully I don't just use it to scroll Facebook on two simultaneous screens, scrolling down and down forever whilst feeling too sedated to voice my screams. I'd like for us to just once fall arse backwards into a win, instead of everytime we look up copping it squarely on the chin.

Saturday, 28 May 2016


I'll leave that part of me to shrivel up and to die, to rot away and putrefy my insides. I'll take the stinging needles as the black blood plucks against the back of my eyes, and on I'll smile, I'll take it all in my slightly crippled stride.

Thursday, 12 May 2016

The Whore

It was the worst thing I ever saw. Beyond decollating deaths and morbid gore, but death and somehow something more. A lack of hope from the wretched poor. Eyes that were caverns into the core, of emptiness they'd somehow bored. There was nothing in there, nevermore. There was nothing at all left to live for. And all of us were in the fore, splayed naked on the floor, and we were all of us whores, and the fat ones bayed, for our encore.

Saturday, 7 May 2016

What It Would Take To Share Some Cake

I've thought about it for days and nothing comes to mind. I thought something silly at least would shake its way from my spine, and yet here we are and I've nothing to show, the festering resentment has failed to grow. The scar has long healed, and I'm perfectly happy - just one regret, I didn't make this decision more snappy. This is easily the best its been in all our years: no more stress, no more fights, no more tears - I don't even think of you - my mind is totally and completely clear. If you came begging down my street, sure, I might throw you a buck, but I wouldn't waste a single word on you again, and thank fuck. How could talking ever make it any better than this? This is silence, and your silence is my fucking bliss.

Thursday, 5 May 2016

Plant Face

Sometimes there'll be someone there to help pick you up. Even if you've been a shitty fuck. But if there isn't - then buck up. There's plenty of middle aged ladies out there who want to rut. And plenty of cunts to laugh at who can't control their guts. At the very least you're not a dolphin with an indescribably huge butt.

The Return of The Beast

It'll come back one day, that thirst. It's always done so in the past. Suddenly, out of no where the blast - a bolt of desperation you recognize at last. Keeping you up late in the PM, writing furiously in your den, conjuring up stories about Hen, or pulling out another Creg (or ten). Here's to it then... well, if it ever comes again.

The Past Does All The Hating

So I look back on albums I previously hated, and I find that most of the hate has genuinely abated. Now I wonder if I ever truly hated at all, or was it simply myself that was rubbing me raw. Because right now there's nothing more I abhor, than myself, certainly more than when I put those albums back on the shelf. So do those merely seem like old golden years, in the face of my ever growing pile of fears?

Just a Cup to Fill Me Up

Tiny little chicks thumping their peroxided tits, thrumming furiously against calloused slits and taking coffee liquefied shits. My thoughts have crumbled into chits - both the female and the tiny scripts - little inattentive snips, that look like endlessly repeating gifs. I just wanted... I just wanted a little kiss. You've never known me - but knowing me is... is fucking bliss!

Friday, 22 April 2016

Patrik In

I never had anything to lose before, and even now that I do I still can't seem to scrape myself off the floor. I always thought life's greatest moments were excruciating chores; birthdays, gatherings, families, and life events all of which I totally abhorred. But now, each one of those feels like picking at a sore, scratching my way down toward the wound that's at the core, and at that core, there at the bottom, everything I've never gotten: the years past that were all so rotten, and the future that awaits: fleeting, and soon forgotten. My parents always did say that I was wasting my life, but what was the alternative? A stable pointless job and fifty something years with the same slowly ageing wife? I'd rather end it all my way with one quick slice.

Sunday, 17 April 2016

Dear James

Hey, it's Dom. I just saw this - I just wanted to say - I was driving home the other day, along a stretch of road that had no intersection or even any turns to mention. I had to slow down though, because it was full of flashing lights - police, ambulance, two tow trucks, all pulled over at the side. And as I drifted past I saw a group of them, serious looking uniformed men, watching the tow truck drivers and then, and then I saw what they we doing - the tiny mobility scooter that they were maneuvering - winching it up onto the tow truck's tray. Whoever was driving that, I guess, was having a pretty bad day. Reminded me of that old dear, driving face first off the pier. Or perhaps it was just two old friends, riding double-dink until the very end.