Tuesday, 31 January 2012

Blessed Arms That Hold You Tight

 I recommend that you read Naturally first, then Hunted, then The Rain.

Darkness envelopes me as I walk out into the cold air. The cat is missing and has been missing for 24 hours now. I shout out into the darkness. “Cat”.. “Cat”. Drunken passers-by laugh and smirk at me, their faces turning grotesque before my eyes. Mouths twisting into inhuman shapes, eyes pulsating with lust for my flesh. I shelter in my doorway away from the monsters and continue yelling, I hear no angry mewling and see no sleek shape coming towards me.
I run back into the house and grab my flask, filled with my room temperature scotch. I need it to stand outside. I need it, to be strong for the cat. The monsters are standing across the road from me when I arrive back at the front door. One is pivoting on the spot, back and forth towards me. He jumps forward suddenly and runs across the road, I nearly flee but my feet refuse to cooperate. He stops in front of me, his breath stinking of beer. His lips are pulled tightly and seem to stretch across his face and round to the back of his neck, his eyes are black and empty. Two sockets filled with cockroaches feeding on the putrid meat of his brain.
“Bud, ya lookin for your cat are ya?” he says, his accent is strong and his words seem to appear as I can see no tongue in his mouth, only seven brown hissing snakes. I nod and my fear is apparent to him so he takes a step away from me. The snakes are fighting each other over me. “There’s be a cat up near The Beekeeper, brown ugly ting”. I nod and run from him, up towards the pub and I know it’s her before I reach her. A pound of broken bones and flesh lying in the road. I lift her and my tears fall on her wet fur, I know this is the end for me as it was for her. I walk to the pharmacy, carrying my cat. The pills are bought, without a word passing from me to the cashier. She sees the cat but says nothing.
At home, I wash them down every last one while I cradle her. Her broken neck and cold body resting beside me on the bed.


 I don't know whether I should be as proud of this as I am. Anyway enjoy and leave your opinions in the comment section.

This is a beautiful  form of destruction.
Deconstructing you while your eyes widen.
Melted skin torn away from your flesh.
Showing your cavities and entryways.
Passages in your veins where I want to live
Forever wandering inside the mysteries of your body.

Watching the cancer grow in your mind.
Your body coughing smoke from bleeding lungs.
Me, eating my way through your oesophagus.
Making a cave to listen to you speak.
Your grabbing your chest as I struggle through your aorta.
My nails scratching the inside of your heart.

Friday, 20 January 2012

Eighty and Night Crawlers

 I woke up and I was 80, I was lying in bed with my wife of 40 years who I was bored with at 3 years and stayed with, because after so many unrequited loves with beautiful people, I decided it was time to stick. Stick like glue to someone placid and tidy. Who was so beaten down by life, so depressed that they stopped caring. They didn’t complain when I poured toast crumbs into the cutlery drawer every morning when I made breakfast. Who didn’t mind that I squandered every penny I ever earned.
I just decided on the simple life one day because I concluded that I’d never be happy. Much more poetic than jumping off a high building to make some type of statement about consumerism.
Spraying myself all over the car park of The Marshes over an anarchist symbol mutated by a giant converted crucifix. I took it one day that putting people on pedestals never got me anywhere and I should be with someone who after I see a horror film I expect to be under my bed. Hopefully sorting out the discarded first draft poetry and the dirty socks. Neatly piling everything into labelled folders and colour coordinated drawers.

Maybe as I woke up again because as the English teachers do hate, the above paragraph was a dream within a dream. An inception. It made enough money didn’t it?

Maybe (I will begin again) I will wake up in a shit flat littered in my own filthy, starving artist hellhole, dirty clothes, discarded first draft poetry, pizza boxes and mouldy cups. Realise that I can be happy, if I just tried enough, If I didn’t think the way I do. If I accepted the fact I could never father a child, never feel a real cock inside a girl instead of a rubber one I got in Ann Summers, directed happily by a sales assistant with an ass as nice as Jennifer Aniston’s face, never be able to look in the mirror and see the way I’m meant to be, not tits or scars where tits used to be. Just be delighted with everything, a shiny happy vacuous rabbit. In a sea of rabbits in a circular part of Ann Summers. Hidden in the back like a good little boy.
You know what? These are the facts.
I’m always going to be sad about something. I’m never going to be happy about everything. Its going to be AI and not Pinocchio. Its going to questions and not acceptance. I’m going to settle one day or I’m going to die. Or I’m going to settle and be a vampire and become immortal or be an immortal Haley Joel Osment robot. Things are sometimes too good to be true and you know what? The truth in me is more evident than the truth in you because I’m sure you pretend to be interested and I’m sure I’m happy to take you being the pretender.
Lets bake a cake together and fill it full of rainbows and be fucking shiny for once.

Chances are for losers and sometimes you don’t even get one


 Night Crawlers

Swipe the children from their beds
When you come tonight
And take refuge in my room
In the dead hour

Find the tomb wrapped up in silks
Gartered to the bedpost
And use it wisely
To lead you back home


I miss you, my lost love.
As I lie on my bed casually smoking a cigarette.
I remember smoking with you,
wrapped in your arms.
How the smoke twisted and curled around us.
The computer beckoned,
but you stayed with me.
Your body not as toned as I had expected,
when I unwrapped you.
But you were still the perfect person for me.
Arrogant and snide, uncaring and cold,
but tender and broken up inside.
You were a man who knew me.
The horrible evil inside but didn’t care.
Who liked every edge I owned.

I miss you, my lost love.
For how your fingers drew beauty,
onto thick lined paper in Classics.
How you’d sit across from me and pass me notes.
Laughing together under the scrutiny of all.
I miss having lunch with you in empty classrooms.
Kissing you with the blinds down.
Tearing into you and pretending I didn’t want to.
Failing miserably at being aloof as I was one to do.
As you watched for the little movements,
that made you know I wanted you.
Then embarrassing me by predicting my next move.
We played that game everyday,
and it never once got boring.

I miss you, my lost love.
You didn’t love me but I ruined my chance,
to be part of your life at all.
I got jealous for the first time and it all came crashing down.
You are hurting me still,
wherever you are.
You’ve barely spoken to me in so long.
I want so much to talk to you
I want so much to see you again
But I can not fix this
You don’t want me to.

Brothel Junkies

Jim was canoodling some girl, black skin dusted in pink.
Back of his car, the bra slipped off and tumbled onto crisp packets
Crisp packets and discarded children’s toys.
Little pink rabbit covered in love and cigarette ash.
Jim asked the girl’s name and she answered “Harmony”
One of the many names she held in her claws
Her hand slipped into his pocket and bills then tumbled,
freefall into her open purse, filled with condoms
Condoms and her college textbook, social studies.
Social studies, giggle inducing isn’t it?

Harmony fixed her hair as her heeled boots click clacked
On the pavement outside the broken down garage.
Her fee stuffed into the side of her lacy green underwear
Jim slapped her ass and dragged himself into the front seat
Driving off with a wave, she blew kisses and tickled the air with her fingers
She stood further out on the road and started her seduction of the men who passed
Blowing bubbles and kisses. Selling her secrets for a small fee.

Tuesday, 10 January 2012

The New Header

The picture I'm using as my header belongs to SachiC.


Check him out he's awesome.

Saturday, 7 January 2012

Dog And Cat Ninja

Dog and Cat Ninja

This story is a work of fiction that was portrayed as if it were fact. To my mind riddled with narcotics on a vacant lovers bed.


The Dog Ninja is hidden behind the couch as the Cat Ninja arrives. The precious golden stone is missing, it‘s origins unknown, it’s mysteries only truly known by the High Cats. The ones with a direct link to The Gods. Cat Ninja while fading in and out of shadows starts to peer in cupboards filled with dirty socks and mouldy fruit. Her nose wrinkles. She shivers as she daintily lifts the clutter and throws it on the floor.
Dog Ninja stalks out, one eye trained on the disgusted Cat Ninja, the other on the open door. His paw is wrapped around the stone, clutching it tightly, his mission nearly complete.
The Cat Ninja smirks as she turns and throws a knife, sticking the Dog Ninja to the wall. He yelps in pain as his shoulder is pierced through. His arm twitches sharply and the stone falls and rolls to Cat Ninja’s feet, she picks it up and holds it with her claws. Her golden eyes fixated on the new treasure.

“Dog Ninja, you cur. I have been looking for this for many years. This perfect piece of machinery, this orb of excellence, this twig of catnip in this disgusting place. You will not stop me from achieving my goals for I am a Cat and Cat’s must always win”

Cat Ninja lifts the stone to her eyes, looking at it, trying to find the indent the High Cats said would be there. She finds it and under Dog Ninja’s glare she puts either side of her hands on the stone, cracking it open.
Dog Ninja jumps and wriggles free of his bindings. Howling as the pain rips through his shoulder. His working hand outstretched he runs for Cat Ninja.
Cat Ninja sees the small red button inside the stone, she turns and winks at Dog Ninja as she presses it down.

There is a flash of light which blinds the audience as we revisit the scene.

The war is over.
In perfect harmony a small housecat is cleaning herself while lying on a pile of clothes and a Jack Russell terrier is relieving himself onto a discarded black bandana

Wednesday, 4 January 2012

Remembering Ella

“Freedom is such a strange thing” He said to the hysterical woman, she clasped her daughter tightly, pulled her tighter as he spoke. “You don’t feel free now, but you weren’t free before, you still had to pay your bills, pay the mortgage, you don’t have to do that if you’re dead, maybe you’ll be truly free if I shoot you now”. He pointed the gun at her, the double barrel, not the most beautiful of guns, he’d have preferred something lighter, something he could twirl round his hand. She let out a little gasp and moaned, pushing herself further into the corner. “Did I say you could move?” his voice was cold, ice. She shook her head, her hair fell in tendrils shaping her face. “Every Time you disobey me, I take something of yours, this is your warning”.

He grew up with loving parents, had taken over the family farm when they’d died. At the funeral he copied the faces he’d seen in films. He’d forced himself to sob, he shook as if every handful of dirt on the coffin was a slap to the face. His aunties and uncles had came over, told him they were sorry. He’d overheard his uncle say that it was a slow death, they’d gassed themselves in the car.  He wasn’t surprised they’d killed themselves, not after Ella had died so young.

He had tied the woman to the radiator as he looked through the cutlery drawer. He was ill prepared, after the husband had gone on the business trip, he’d forgot to bring his knife. His beautiful knife, long blade, white ivory handle. He took a carving knife from the drawer, the edge was straight and sharp. He took another knife out to sharpen against the chosen one, just to scare the woman, Cecelia was her name. He didn’t care for it much, she would stay unnamed. As he walked out, knives grating against each other, the woman yelped loudly. She would have to be punished.

When he and Ella were children, their father had bought her a rabbit. Flopsy, she had called it. It was a stupid animal, always ran into the same corner when he hit it. He’d lift it up by the back legs and he could hear its heart beating, it never tried to defend itself. “Only the strong should survive”, it was still a mantra he spoke to himself. One day, he’d tied a rope around its neck and left the rabbit to hop around his tree house. If it jumped, it deserved to die. If it did not, it deserved to live. It jumped and he watched it struggle and then left once it had stopped moving. The thrill of it. That was the first one, his neighbours cat went missing next. To take part in his survival games.

The child struggled as he tossed her into the other room. He didn’t need to hear her screams as he began his work. The woman was curled up, completely silent. She apologised over and over, the poker was sitting in the fire and she stared at it, her eyes red. He grabbed her hand and placed it down on the wooden board. She screamed as the knife came down on her little finger, but after that she was silent. The knife took what felt like forever to saw through the bone. She whimpered. He cauterised the wound after, she was still silent. She might just survive yet.

He and Ella had stood by the lake, the water was still but teeming with fish. He pushed her in, she struggled but failed the game. She was still as the water. He walked back to the house and felt nothing, if his own flesh and blood couldn’t survive the games, only he could. His parents had asked him where Ella was. He’d lied. when they found her, they’d screamed, blamed him for not watching her. They’d presumed he was in shock later on because he had answered that it was her own fault. As the ambulance came, he stayed inside and played with his toys. They’d sent him to psychiatrists, “everyone has their own way of grieving” they’d said to his parents.
After a while, he began to ache, he missed her. He had no one to play with, no one to talk to. The feeling was alien to him, he continued with the games.

The woman struggled as he cut her deeper, into her cheekbones and rib bones. Finding the lines that mirrored her beauty and destroying them. She’d asked where her daughter was, such an act of defiance couldn’t be tolerated. She’d be left to bleed to death after he slit her throat. He was enjoying this now, just the feeling of her wincing as he made new cuts. She collapsed down and sobbed and turned to face him. “Where’s Ella? Is she alive?”.
He fell to his knees and cried, his tears falling into the blood on the floor. He muttered under his breath “My Ella, she’s dead”. The knife clattered to the floor and before he could grab it, Cecelia had stuck it into his throat. His vision blurred as he left the world, choking on his own blood. He heard a  child crying for her mother, a woman soothing. His vision went white and he saw Ella beckoning him and he walked towards her.

Schizophrenic Dance Party

Cover me in the kisses of your idiocy.
Sugar me and piss on me and let me be free.
My lover, painter, female impersonator.
My ragtag group of friends with maniacal hands
and caravans filled with broken bottles and pitiful men.

And the girl begins to dance again.

Soulless, wandering , etched in the snowflake legs of the chosen.
Solitary muttering little trinkets of words softly spoken.
You, cart wheeling into my territory of kings.
Running away from what shackles you to wherever your from,
wherever you called home.

And the girl begins to dance again.

Shaking out of this skin of mine,
throwing it into the swamp to feed the leeches in my mind.
I am a beating heart, falling apart,
in abandoned car parks in the filthy part of town.