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.

Osmosis

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."

.

Sometimes I regret everything I've ever said. Sometimes I regret everything I've ever done. Sometimes I think if I had my time again, I wouldn't mix with anyone. I'd be like a permanent Bartleby and cut out my tongue. Sometimes I admit I've chosen my words to hurt others. But mostly, I've chosen my words for the benefit of others which more often than not has ended up hurting me. Everything I've ever said forms an index in my head, taking me back to a chapter of misery.

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 squirt.org. 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.


This Dog Just Wants To Die

I'm tired of being your loyal friend. I'm tired of spending all my life "by your side" when really I'm always left trailing behind. I'm tired of being at your beck and call. I'm tired of fetching your stupid fucking ball. I'm tired of being made to play the fool. You chose me, I never wanted you at all.

Wednesday, 16 November 2016

Vikram

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 FĂ©licette

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. 


Thursday, 10 November 2016

Rurik Jutting's Incredible Weight Loss Journey

I love to start my day reading about yet another teacher fucking kids and policeman continuing the work of rapists, and I love to start my day reading some cunt's opinion on Brexit and I especially love to start the day reading Tracey Cox's sex tips. I don't even need to get out of bed when I can just lie here and wallow in a world so wretched. Donald Trump and Honey G? Babe, you've fucking earnt it. And I know if I stopped scrolling before I reached the very bottom of Femail I'd spend the rest of the day regretting it. It doesn't matter if I've already read the story on Reddit, this way I've got no chance of forgetting it. I wanna know how to get my eyebrows on fleek and how to look like the former lardbucket in some sponsored ad that I'm now told looks perfect. If I die looking half as good as whoever Prince Harry is currently sticking it in then I know it will have all been worth it.

The Start Of Something

If you saw me standing outside your house and wondered if I was about to knock... I wasn't. I was just catching my two-hundreth Meowth. That's the only pussy that interests me now. It's too late for us anyway. Apparently the world is ending. Everyone's panicking about the UK exiting and going into meltdown over the vibes the US President-elect is sending. Personally I couldn't give a fuck, as long as before the bombs drop I catch the perfect Muk. All the rest is just noise and stuff. (But boy, doesn't Rurik Jutting now look buff!)

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

Bufflehead

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

Chuckle

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

Epistaxis

I thought the words would come to me as the calendar quietly made fun of me. But all that came to me was a little gushing of blood. Maybe I was too quick to stand up. Now I'm older, there's no need to rush. What awaits me will come soon enough.

XV

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

Vanessa

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."

"Vanesssa?"

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.

"Hello?"

"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.

"And?"

"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?"


NR9

He sits in his car. Not far from where he first held you in his arms. In a back road near Weston Longville, where he knows he can't get phone signal. For he knows more than most how the mind can be fickle. You went from loving him to finding the mere sight of him dismal. He sits procrastinating as if waiting for another kind of signal. His whole being still fighting itself, trying to keep vigil over a love that's chances of revival are abysmal. The only real decision left for him now is gas, pills or pistol.