Wednesday, March 12, 2008

There's Nothing You Can Do

The World May Mock
Climb inside this skin, this suit I wear, and see for yourself how I, immistakeable in this rotten garb, have to negotiate the taunts and terrors thrown my way by the widest range of evildoers, baddies and villains. No wonder I sigh mid-flight. No wonder I cry.

They Don’t Suspect My Real Power
I have green fingernails that scratch, sometimes, at the nape of my neck. I have soreness upon all parts of my body. My rashes and boils are legion. The marks on my face are lesions. In time, when all pressed together, this grab bag of putrescence will form together as one. From the tiniest pimple to the largest oozing wound they will take their places within the designated order of things. And when they are quite ready, I will emerge, phoenix-like, from my cocoon. I mean, from my ashes. And I will bring down the very stars, those stars from afars.

Trapped By The Terrible
There is a walk that takes you from one end of the hallway to the other. Passing hanging picture frames, small occasional tables, yellow telephones, black and white photographs in stainless steel frames, plug sockets, a mahogany hat stand and friezes of varying stripe and shade, you will eventually alight upon the first step towards your certain doom. Take it. Please, take it.

Far Greater Than Yours
Listing, we bobbed along in pretty much the usual, ordinary fashion until we reached dry land. The beach, stained red from the blood of mown down pirates, offered among its treasures a magnificent church built mostly of sand. From within we could hear the cries of sailors demanding salvation and protection, pleading their all, denying their stati as pirates. One by one, they were thrown from the doors, onto the beach, where they were felled by unseen and deadly rifles. We, here, on our gently bobbing dromond, took sight of one another, took sight also of our captured booty and spoils, and decided, wisely, that we would continue bobbing on our way. Behind us the screams. Could we tell, or not – I fail to recall – whether they were the cries of men or the screeches of seagulls?

Don’t Dare Miss
In watchtower, supposedly watching, Denzil had to prise open his eyelids with three of his tiniest fingers. His co-watcher that night, Maurice, implored him to keep steady his eyes, to keep them open so they could have a better chance of making it through the night - without knives or machetes being plunged deep into their heads. But Denzil, though reassuring Maurice with his vigorous nods, had no intention of keeping them from harm through wakefulness and open eyes. He was waiting, instead, for Maurice to vacate his watch so that he could put into practice his newly-invented night time killing machine that specifically picked off those who would dare, at night, to bring harm to Denzil and his good pal Maurice. Let them come, thought Denzil later as he, for the very last time, took that slow walk down into sleep.

What Chance Have You?
With that gaggle of fuckable women. Really, what chance?

Take Over All Of Earth
On sunlit yellow morn I decided along with my fellow nitwits to rope myself to the house of commons better to make my protest against the plans this government has to let more people fly something I vehemently disagree with hence my appearance on chat shows and youtube-ish vids where if nothing else I get to expose myself as the middle-class twit you guessed I would be with my floppy hair rubbery lips and pale dead skin all the while making specious points and trotting out guaranteed rousing slogans and stuff that are guaranteed to win the minds of the halfwits I so dearly wish to appeal to as I call for them one by one on this fine and yellow morn as we make our way past the cabbages who populate the streets with their earth-murdering vehicles like sheep as they sit there idly taking in all the crap the government feeds them so they can go home to their televisions and entertainment and gape bovine-like at things that keep them in a stupor while I along with my similarly well-heeled toerag cunts of friends and associates do battle on their behalf to do nothing less than to save the planet and moreover to save the people from themselves it’s the very least we could do.

Too Sure of Himself
Night falls and this rain spattered street offers up the chance of pointed reflection and/or illumination to the hangdog heads of the broken Victorian street lamps dotted somewhere above. A pair of leather spats, clacking (from stomped on steel Blakeys) on slight cobbles and/or shattered paving slabs, step ominously toward the weathered front door step of Doctor Vignette Alcarne. Over there, across the street and tucked into, ever so slightly, a black alley, the dappled shallow face of a female observer, clearly beautiful and clearly in some state of agitation. Will she cry out? She will not. For the moment she stands, immobile, watching as the owner of the aforementioned spats takes first one step then two more before reaching the very step that allows him to reach out and pull, hard, on the brass doorbell that sits with some authority before him. The house rattles from the clanging of bells, almost drowning out the sound of the clacking spats as they quickly race back down the steps and off into the night, closely followed by the female we had earlier spied who now passes flashing between the above street lamps as she gives chase to the figure in spats. Up ahead, leaning against a coiled iron lamp post, our spats-wearer wheezes and laughs, almost hysterically, as the female flies into him, the two of them in tight embrace as he twirls the girl around. It's your turn next, says Spats, your turn to ring and run away.

Tribute To Teenagers
A fifteen-year-old boy kicked and stamped to death a woman because she was dressed as a Goth. The court heard her facial injuries were so severe, paramedics did not know what sex she was. Tests indicated she had been kicked and stamped to death, with the pattern of some footwear still on her head. The accused had started the violence, with a flying kick to the head of her boyfriend. The gang, encouraging each other and laughing, punched, stamped and jumped on his head until he was unconscious. As the woman kneeled down, cradling her boyfriend's head on her lap and calling for help, the accused turned on her. A second boy kicked her in the head, with the accused joining in. Paramedics found the couple lying side by side, covered in blood and unconscious.

A Scene You Will Never Forget
I don't know if I like it out there any more. I like it in here, sitting in my pants, staring at this screen. I can control the world from in here. I can keep myself in check in here. Outside I hear the wind and see the sunshine but still I prefer it in here. Except, of course, for those moments when I venture outside. That's when I like it outside and wonder why I prefer to spend most of my time inside. If it is a day where I plan to leave the house, it takes me all of the morning to put on my socks. It takes me all of the morning to shower and shave. I nominate a time when I should leave the house. One o'clock in the afternoon is good. That way I can get out and beat the crowds of young mothers who clog up my Somerfield aisles. At three o'clock in the afternoon I like to be back home. It gives me two or three hours before I'm joined by my family. I sometimes pick them up from work and take them to the pub where we stay for another three hours. Drink, food and then bed. Drink, food and bed and sometimes sex.

Such Merciless Foes
Lifeless, empty veins, oh fatty. There be his death. Of boiled meats and sweets. He crammed then in, without thinking. Jars and wrappers all over the house. The police called, shouting through the letterbox. No answer. Is he always like this? He would swing from a high beam but the beam would surely break. He would drown himself in the bath but he would never fit in the bath. He would hurl himself in front of a train but he would never have the strength to hurl himself anywhere (and besides, as his had son pointed out, the train would surely bounce off him). He hacks then at his wrists with a meat cleaver that is still dripping with the blood of that animal thing he's just gorged himself on. When the police, many weeks later, break down the door and discover the scene, they at first think they have stumbled across some kind of bloodbath murder. Oh, you disappointed police.

The House of Ideas
That gaggle of fuckable women were passing my house and they gave me the following idea: I will invite them in, ply them with poisoned pussy juice and then take advantage of them sexually as they lie there, not quite comatose, conscious enough and uninhibited enough to respond, in the desired way - that is, in a good way - to my depraved advances. The fun I will have. What an idea!

Not A Dream
The real world was a realm. Not just a figment. I could see it, beyond the planets, hovering on what can only be described as the horizon. The black horizon. The real world, to my surprise, had rings around it, thin yellow ones. They were tight to the real world's surface and I could see, by stretching my telescopic neck as far as it would go, that the real world occupants were having a world of fun playing on those rings. Some used them as cycle tracks, or racing car tracks, while others picnicked upon them, or simply walked around them, enjoying the view. While spying the real world it became apparent to me, through my circuits and wires, that I would perhaps find a better home there than the home I have here. Do this, do that, command my masters and I am hardwired to comply. But this glimpse of the real world has given me a certain hope, sparking life into so far unused electrodes and fuses and bits. If I keep looking I am convinced that the real world will give me the energy I need. Then they will be sorry, my masters of too much hair and silly green faces.

Who, or What, Is He?
He is a cunt, the bloke next door. Sitting at his table, writing his essays. His black bags, full of garden shite, still blocking our shared passageway. I would approach him about this but I know, just judging from his ugly cunt of a face, that he will give me lip. A fight will ensue and I will do and say things I will later regret. Plus, now that the wind in the weather is picking up, I find it doubly annoying that the little bearded cunt can't even be arsed to pull the latch down on his back gate which slams shut every twelve seconds. I would close it myself but I know, just judging from his ugly cunt of a face, that he will give me lip about this. A fight will ensue and I will do and say things I will later regret. I should move house and leave him to his life of unbridled cuntiness.

You’re Not Seeing Things
No, you're not seeing things. That really is a gaggle of fuckable women doing all manner of wonderful things to me. And without so much as a sniff of my poisoned pussy juice.


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