‘Let’s keep the lips away,’ she suggested, thinking of yesterday’s drive.
The drive that drove and stopped and union and drove and finished.
Hands,
limbs,
aching and
fresh.
Steeped in meaning,
for the shrubs and the crow to stare,
and see a new eye born of two that sees 4D and blind.
Union and a bell-jar.
Vacuum safe and
heating minutely.
Thursday, 23 December 2010
Octogenarian Open Mic
You won’t believe what older ladies want to do with you.
They want to lick your balls,
tickle your shaft,
dribble up your bum,
stroke your bum,
put fingers in your mouth.
After they’ve been in your bum.
You won’t believe how much they charge,
to let you do things,
lots of nasty things that make you stink,
stink of grease and cabbage,
and wee and meals on wheels.
Does cunnilingus constitute part of your five a day?
I sure do hope so.
They want to lick your balls,
tickle your shaft,
dribble up your bum,
stroke your bum,
put fingers in your mouth.
After they’ve been in your bum.
You won’t believe how much they charge,
to let you do things,
lots of nasty things that make you stink,
stink of grease and cabbage,
and wee and meals on wheels.
Does cunnilingus constitute part of your five a day?
I sure do hope so.
Empty Crate in a Corner
A dusty room in bleak midwinter
played host to a splendid soiree of like minds
and like souls
sharing, and chatter,
and the tumble and clatter of glass
and aluminium as rosy-cheeked stumblers
bumbled through
tumblers and ash.
For three long days the dusty room grew
ashen and tacky with spilt beer and dropped baccy
and cider undrunk
by those, the merry
and rosy on white wine and perry
and as one gaggle departs they are replaced,
and in their place another face
rosy-cheeked and worn.
The eyes in the corner pierce and cut
and twist the tendons of my gut.
Until such time as God’s Day dawned,
and such as God did rest,
the gaggle yawned, and dressed
and made to leave one by one
leaving trails and surprises
comprising of dirt and the dried, stained
sticky residue of spilt liquids on
hardwood floor,
‘These invites I shall impart
no more.’
The eyes in the corner are turned and shut,
yet still twist the tendons of my gut.
‘Don’t sleep there it’s not for comfort,
besides, the chair is smothered in filth
from the weekend’s debauch,’ spoke I
soft caressing her hair.
And so she twists and smiles and takes my hand,
and eyes me full of sweet and light
and my fear is relinquished
in the soft, Sunday light.
The eyes in the corner are focused and up
and no longer twist the tendons of my gut.
Tendrils of auburn rest as roots to rot,
echoing barks of creaks of wood fade,
a warm, perfect soul encased in splendour,
a thief soul that steals from me all thoughts of aught,
of dreams of seas and waves and wrecks
of sands and time, of loss and own,
of the world. The world, as is to me.
played host to a splendid soiree of like minds
and like souls
sharing, and chatter,
and the tumble and clatter of glass
and aluminium as rosy-cheeked stumblers
bumbled through
tumblers and ash.
For three long days the dusty room grew
ashen and tacky with spilt beer and dropped baccy
and cider undrunk
by those, the merry
and rosy on white wine and perry
and as one gaggle departs they are replaced,
and in their place another face
rosy-cheeked and worn.
The eyes in the corner pierce and cut
and twist the tendons of my gut.
Until such time as God’s Day dawned,
and such as God did rest,
the gaggle yawned, and dressed
and made to leave one by one
leaving trails and surprises
comprising of dirt and the dried, stained
sticky residue of spilt liquids on
hardwood floor,
‘These invites I shall impart
no more.’
The eyes in the corner are turned and shut,
yet still twist the tendons of my gut.
‘Don’t sleep there it’s not for comfort,
besides, the chair is smothered in filth
from the weekend’s debauch,’ spoke I
soft caressing her hair.
And so she twists and smiles and takes my hand,
and eyes me full of sweet and light
and my fear is relinquished
in the soft, Sunday light.
The eyes in the corner are focused and up
and no longer twist the tendons of my gut.
Tendrils of auburn rest as roots to rot,
echoing barks of creaks of wood fade,
a warm, perfect soul encased in splendour,
a thief soul that steals from me all thoughts of aught,
of dreams of seas and waves and wrecks
of sands and time, of loss and own,
of the world. The world, as is to me.
Dronefly
Dronefly a lonely fly.
Dronefly a biiig fly.
Dronefly fly all day,
all night,
all time Dronefly.
When it hot,
when it cold,
when it rain,
when it dry,
Dronefly.
Dronefly,
flied real high,
got too high,
flew down in time.
Dronefly,
escaped a fly,
on a pass-by,
fly as he might,
Fly died.
Dronefly circled,
Dronefly tweaked,
Dronefly near leaped,
from standing,
post landing,
demanding
Glenn Danzig.
He panicked.
Dronefly wing got tired,
and ran fast.
No fly,
he run!
And Fly,
He come by,
while fly,
and he sy
‘Ey Yo Draone.
Whattup Drone dawg,
wanna buy some cheeeb-aahhh?’
and said it with pride,
Dronefly,
well he buyed.
Danzig came over and Dronefly got high,
they talked about industrial and nine
inch nails and Lohner
and Vig
and the ‘No-Rave’ party.
Dronefly,
well he a nice guy,
but he stuck, he mired,
in tired,
speed-wired
nights.
Swimming pools were a threat,
to a Dronefly.
Dronefly’s little girl called,
Ritafly, she fly,
she cool, tight,
and she said
‘Dadda, I just been sold bad Danzig.’
‘WHAT THE FUCK’ roared
Dronefly.
Sweet talks fly
bleeds before
Dronefly.
The assault tangible.
Macbeth,
Dronefly.
Prison cells bad place
for Dronefly.
No pie,
Just rice.
No Thai,
Just Lye.
Lye to bury and burn
the used, lying young.
Dronefly.
You bad
ass
fuckin’
Fly.
Dronefly a biiig fly.
Dronefly fly all day,
all night,
all time Dronefly.
When it hot,
when it cold,
when it rain,
when it dry,
Dronefly.
Dronefly,
flied real high,
got too high,
flew down in time.
Dronefly,
escaped a fly,
on a pass-by,
fly as he might,
Fly died.
Dronefly circled,
Dronefly tweaked,
Dronefly near leaped,
from standing,
post landing,
demanding
Glenn Danzig.
He panicked.
Dronefly wing got tired,
and ran fast.
No fly,
he run!
And Fly,
He come by,
while fly,
and he sy
‘Ey Yo Draone.
Whattup Drone dawg,
wanna buy some cheeeb-aahhh?’
and said it with pride,
Dronefly,
well he buyed.
Danzig came over and Dronefly got high,
they talked about industrial and nine
inch nails and Lohner
and Vig
and the ‘No-Rave’ party.
Dronefly,
well he a nice guy,
but he stuck, he mired,
in tired,
speed-wired
nights.
Swimming pools were a threat,
to a Dronefly.
Dronefly’s little girl called,
Ritafly, she fly,
she cool, tight,
and she said
‘Dadda, I just been sold bad Danzig.’
‘WHAT THE FUCK’ roared
Dronefly.
Sweet talks fly
bleeds before
Dronefly.
The assault tangible.
Macbeth,
Dronefly.
Prison cells bad place
for Dronefly.
No pie,
Just rice.
No Thai,
Just Lye.
Lye to bury and burn
the used, lying young.
Dronefly.
You bad
ass
fuckin’
Fly.
Tuesday, 24 August 2010
Parasites
Feeds on the blood and
infects
with diseases.
These little jumping
insects
infuriate me.
Limited family tree,
incest,
isolated breeding.
You wants my blood you
insist,
well have it.
I’ll wage war, I’ll
enlist
an exterminator.
And he’ll be covered in warts
and cysts
from chemicals.
I’ll refer to him as
Shit-Tits
when I make tea.
All because of you, you
parasitic
slut.
infects
with diseases.
These little jumping
insects
infuriate me.
Limited family tree,
incest,
isolated breeding.
You wants my blood you
insist,
well have it.
I’ll wage war, I’ll
enlist
an exterminator.
And he’ll be covered in warts
and cysts
from chemicals.
I’ll refer to him as
Shit-Tits
when I make tea.
All because of you, you
parasitic
slut.
Do you know what it is?
Do you know what it is?
In a heart it creates bliss,
In cars it creates mist,
In bars it gets you pissed,
At home it provides the kiss,
In gardens and forests it picks,
In minds-eyes it plays tricks,
In dresses its image sticks,
At home it provides the kiss,
In everything I do it hits
and overpowers all my wits
when eyes close and my thoughts flit
it’s there,
perfectly still,
blurring away,
until I lose focus,
and my eyes open,
and I’m alone.
At home it provides the kiss,
Do you know what I wish?
In a heart it creates bliss,
In cars it creates mist,
In bars it gets you pissed,
At home it provides the kiss,
In gardens and forests it picks,
In minds-eyes it plays tricks,
In dresses its image sticks,
At home it provides the kiss,
In everything I do it hits
and overpowers all my wits
when eyes close and my thoughts flit
it’s there,
perfectly still,
blurring away,
until I lose focus,
and my eyes open,
and I’m alone.
At home it provides the kiss,
Do you know what I wish?
Thursday, 19 August 2010
Lonesome trudging through fields of shit.
Life toil, slow waltz, drink by drink, cigarette by cigarette,
pounding the soil and wearing through the shoes.
The pavement slats and rough-laid tarmac know the rhythm
of weary soles and a tired, sprite of a soul.
The scraggly beard and overpowering odour of a man
chained to a lamp post, clutching ‘The Big Issue,’
and he begs and pleads, and stares solemn and lost,
but I can’t afford his rag, despite my nice watch and leather wallet.
Another weekend oblivious to the strife of a world so torrid,
wretched and bruised,
the flakes of skin,
litter the floor,
where content feet once waltzed away.
You’ve gone and I’m lost.
You’re lost and I’m gone.
The gentle meander of a heavy, bruised heart.
Pounding,
stretching,
‘til atrium tissue fissures and bleeds.
Now I cough gentle scarlet blood,
into a handkerchief bearing an insignia;
‘A P Lawrence,’
The ‘kerchief of my father,
destined for the pile,
landfill,
a blot.
The beard wriggles with lice,
the ‘Issues’ crust with piss,
the fingers blacken
and the lungs rot
with smoke and ash and the onion cider potions.
He, like me, just wants to die.
My father did not.
But I am selfish.
And will.
‘til then the succour of licqour,
drink by drink,
cigarette by cigarette.
pounding the soil and wearing through the shoes.
The pavement slats and rough-laid tarmac know the rhythm
of weary soles and a tired, sprite of a soul.
The scraggly beard and overpowering odour of a man
chained to a lamp post, clutching ‘The Big Issue,’
and he begs and pleads, and stares solemn and lost,
but I can’t afford his rag, despite my nice watch and leather wallet.
Another weekend oblivious to the strife of a world so torrid,
wretched and bruised,
the flakes of skin,
litter the floor,
where content feet once waltzed away.
You’ve gone and I’m lost.
You’re lost and I’m gone.
The gentle meander of a heavy, bruised heart.
Pounding,
stretching,
‘til atrium tissue fissures and bleeds.
Now I cough gentle scarlet blood,
into a handkerchief bearing an insignia;
‘A P Lawrence,’
The ‘kerchief of my father,
destined for the pile,
landfill,
a blot.
The beard wriggles with lice,
the ‘Issues’ crust with piss,
the fingers blacken
and the lungs rot
with smoke and ash and the onion cider potions.
He, like me, just wants to die.
My father did not.
But I am selfish.
And will.
‘til then the succour of licqour,
drink by drink,
cigarette by cigarette.
Your slender words and elegant eyes
Eyes enticing,
cheekbones raised,
and taut pink lips
split a jaw so perfect.
In my eyes are echoes
of your voice and mannerisms,
you shouldn’t know
the candle I burn so cliché and classical.
Eyes,
face,
lips,
hot mouth.
I writhe and dream of you,
when you talk and act filthy,
and never say
that you are the ass I cannot escape.
cheekbones raised,
and taut pink lips
split a jaw so perfect.
In my eyes are echoes
of your voice and mannerisms,
you shouldn’t know
the candle I burn so cliché and classical.
Eyes,
face,
lips,
hot mouth.
I writhe and dream of you,
when you talk and act filthy,
and never say
that you are the ass I cannot escape.
'Another beer, sir?'
‘What can I get you?’
were the words that dribbled from his stupid mouth.
‘Pint of mild,’
came the stereotypical retort.
‘I’m afraid we’re out of Mild today sir,
we have Hobble’s Crotch,
Gentleman’s Relish,
Piglet Power,
Apricot Shandy-pie,
Hampshire Porter,
Goose Greene,
Turnbuckle
and Borstal Bitter.’
‘You made two of those up didn’t you?’
‘I made them all up sir, this is a pharmacy. Here is your Diazepam, now can you please leave.’
I waited and thought... ‘nice trick son.’
‘Whiskey and ginger you cruel fuck.’
The cold, damp embrace, of the kerb outside the pharmacy.
were the words that dribbled from his stupid mouth.
‘Pint of mild,’
came the stereotypical retort.
‘I’m afraid we’re out of Mild today sir,
we have Hobble’s Crotch,
Gentleman’s Relish,
Piglet Power,
Apricot Shandy-pie,
Hampshire Porter,
Goose Greene,
Turnbuckle
and Borstal Bitter.’
‘You made two of those up didn’t you?’
‘I made them all up sir, this is a pharmacy. Here is your Diazepam, now can you please leave.’
I waited and thought... ‘nice trick son.’
‘Whiskey and ginger you cruel fuck.’
The cold, damp embrace, of the kerb outside the pharmacy.
Cloven-Hoof and Agape of Maw
‘The cloven-hoof daemon,
spitting raw angst and fire,
would be more at home,
in a story or a fairy-tale.
His maw was agape,
and he spat fire and emotion,
and could not speak without
infecting his diction with bile.
The daemon was wracked
with sorrow and with agony,
for his father had died
and his mother was soon to perish.
He had known love from only them,
and had come to entrust them with all.
His father spat fire,
his mother, spoke only in angsty tones.
So a product of a marriage made in myth,
a minotaur father,
an abused, mewling mother,
a princess ravaged by fat minotaur hands.
The cloven-hoof and agape of maw,
was both man and beast,
and strode his lava fortress,
with an iron sword ten feet long.
The beast swung at intruders,
and bellowed ash and magma,
at all who entered,
through his skull and knife gates.
A magician made of gold witnessed,
the massacre of a town,
so displeased with the beast,
they felt implored to act.
The beast tore their limbs,
and chewed their bones,
all the while sporting,
a hot animal erection.
The magician summoned ‘Dragorampator’
the ethereal legend dragon,
whose scales were ice,
and whose blood was acid.
And Dragorampator thrust his tail,
which span the length of the lava moat three fold,
plummeting and ravaging the defences,
of the hot erect beast.
The remaining civilians,
trussed in chains and wailing away,
were burnt and maimed,
by the spray of acidic blood.
But Dragorampator was burning with rage,
and the daemon-beast was infuriated,
and they clashed giant sword and acid-ice tail,
until the tail was rent asunder.
Dragorampator bellowed with agony,
and the magician’s ears pricked,
So he summoned a healing angel
to mend his wounded warrior.
But the daemon-beast caught the angel,
as she floated from the stars,
and tore her dress from her flesh
to gaze at her milk-white breast.
Dragorampator forgot his suffering,
and stomped and pounded to the embracing pair,
and his hot dragon penis was wobbling,
dripping acidic precum over the remaining prisoners...’
‘Dad! Dad! Dad... stop with the bedtome stories. For Christ’s sake just let me go to sleep.’
‘Sorry son.’
spitting raw angst and fire,
would be more at home,
in a story or a fairy-tale.
His maw was agape,
and he spat fire and emotion,
and could not speak without
infecting his diction with bile.
The daemon was wracked
with sorrow and with agony,
for his father had died
and his mother was soon to perish.
He had known love from only them,
and had come to entrust them with all.
His father spat fire,
his mother, spoke only in angsty tones.
So a product of a marriage made in myth,
a minotaur father,
an abused, mewling mother,
a princess ravaged by fat minotaur hands.
The cloven-hoof and agape of maw,
was both man and beast,
and strode his lava fortress,
with an iron sword ten feet long.
The beast swung at intruders,
and bellowed ash and magma,
at all who entered,
through his skull and knife gates.
A magician made of gold witnessed,
the massacre of a town,
so displeased with the beast,
they felt implored to act.
The beast tore their limbs,
and chewed their bones,
all the while sporting,
a hot animal erection.
The magician summoned ‘Dragorampator’
the ethereal legend dragon,
whose scales were ice,
and whose blood was acid.
And Dragorampator thrust his tail,
which span the length of the lava moat three fold,
plummeting and ravaging the defences,
of the hot erect beast.
The remaining civilians,
trussed in chains and wailing away,
were burnt and maimed,
by the spray of acidic blood.
But Dragorampator was burning with rage,
and the daemon-beast was infuriated,
and they clashed giant sword and acid-ice tail,
until the tail was rent asunder.
Dragorampator bellowed with agony,
and the magician’s ears pricked,
So he summoned a healing angel
to mend his wounded warrior.
But the daemon-beast caught the angel,
as she floated from the stars,
and tore her dress from her flesh
to gaze at her milk-white breast.
Dragorampator forgot his suffering,
and stomped and pounded to the embracing pair,
and his hot dragon penis was wobbling,
dripping acidic precum over the remaining prisoners...’
‘Dad! Dad! Dad... stop with the bedtome stories. For Christ’s sake just let me go to sleep.’
‘Sorry son.’
'Corpucrescent'
‘Corpucrescent’ is not a word,
But if it were,
It would mean;
‘A corpulent crescent, a fat waxing crescent,
A tubby waning crescent,
A heavy moon.’
I believe ‘corpucrescent’ is a portmanteau,
And therefore technically acceptable,
Provided the context is accurate,
Or a definition is provided.
‘Pissflaps’ is not a portmanteau.
But if it were,
It would mean;
‘A corpulent crescent, a fat waxing crescent,
A tubby waning crescent,
A heavy moon.’
I believe ‘corpucrescent’ is a portmanteau,
And therefore technically acceptable,
Provided the context is accurate,
Or a definition is provided.
‘Pissflaps’ is not a portmanteau.
So Like Art Then Do You?
‘You like art then, do you?’
Bellowed a bearded man atop the Fishmarket roof.
‘You like Bennett, and Lawrence, and The Levellers then, do you,
Well rejoice in Northampton, the creative capital of the land.
We have galleries of work, and workshops in galleries,
And a bazaar of art right ‘neath my very feet.’
He points and guffaws like a ridiculous street urchin.
‘We have a museum, of history and crafts, both ancient and modern,
We have theatres that have had upon their boot-trampled boards
The boots and the flesh of the feet of genius,
Whose walls have bathed long in the tongue of Shakespeare,
And the graceful rumble of the Royal Ballet,’
‘We have auspicious audiotoriums, The Roadmender, The Racehorse,
And these transport our minds so bedecked with the highest of arts,
To the dirty, filthy, mucky pounding prose of modern band jangle-pops.
All this is ours, our town is our home, so come within this market now
Feast your eyes, and to this shoe-borne town, avow!’
And as the man shouts,
A beautiful young girl collapses in hysterics,
Her pretty pink shoes
Doused in hot piss,
And she stares at him shuddering,
And replies, sweet and serene,
‘Northampton! Northampton, the heart of England,
Northampton, Northampton, the heart of literature,
Northampton, Northampton, the heart of ART?’
And we hear the little girl cry now.
‘What troubles you, my dear?’ Beardy shouts from atop the roof,
perturbed and puzzled by the effeminate disturbance.
She responds;
‘NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON
MY OWN FUCKING NORTHAMPTON
CULTURALLY INEPT AND BEREFT OF MEANING,
NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON
OUR OWN LITTLE VACUUM.
NORTHAMPTON, NORTHAMPTON,
NO ONE VISITS, NO ONE LEAVES, NO ONE CARES,
NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON
WRUNG TO DEATH IN COUNCIL HALLS BY BLUE BUTTON BASTARDS
NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON,
HOME OF CLICKERS AND COBBLERS NOW BURIED AND COLD,
NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON,
SKIPPED OVER BY BANDS THAT TOUR OUR WHOLE ISLAND,
NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON,
GREEDILY DEVOURING ITS OWN SPHINCTER,
NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON
WHERE WANKERS WARBLE ABOUT SAVING TREES,
NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON,
LADLING PRAISE UPON ITSELF,
NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON
NOT A CENTRE, NOT A FOCUS,
BUT NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON,
THE SEPTIC TANK OF CREATIVITY’S HAND-MADE HOME.’
And as she finished spitting her diatribe,
The market had melted,
The people had left,
And all that remained,
Was a puddle of excrement,
In the shape of a stiletto.
Bellowed a bearded man atop the Fishmarket roof.
‘You like Bennett, and Lawrence, and The Levellers then, do you,
Well rejoice in Northampton, the creative capital of the land.
We have galleries of work, and workshops in galleries,
And a bazaar of art right ‘neath my very feet.’
He points and guffaws like a ridiculous street urchin.
‘We have a museum, of history and crafts, both ancient and modern,
We have theatres that have had upon their boot-trampled boards
The boots and the flesh of the feet of genius,
Whose walls have bathed long in the tongue of Shakespeare,
And the graceful rumble of the Royal Ballet,’
‘We have auspicious audiotoriums, The Roadmender, The Racehorse,
And these transport our minds so bedecked with the highest of arts,
To the dirty, filthy, mucky pounding prose of modern band jangle-pops.
All this is ours, our town is our home, so come within this market now
Feast your eyes, and to this shoe-borne town, avow!’
And as the man shouts,
A beautiful young girl collapses in hysterics,
Her pretty pink shoes
Doused in hot piss,
And she stares at him shuddering,
And replies, sweet and serene,
‘Northampton! Northampton, the heart of England,
Northampton, Northampton, the heart of literature,
Northampton, Northampton, the heart of ART?’
And we hear the little girl cry now.
‘What troubles you, my dear?’ Beardy shouts from atop the roof,
perturbed and puzzled by the effeminate disturbance.
She responds;
‘NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON
MY OWN FUCKING NORTHAMPTON
CULTURALLY INEPT AND BEREFT OF MEANING,
NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON
OUR OWN LITTLE VACUUM.
NORTHAMPTON, NORTHAMPTON,
NO ONE VISITS, NO ONE LEAVES, NO ONE CARES,
NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON
WRUNG TO DEATH IN COUNCIL HALLS BY BLUE BUTTON BASTARDS
NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON,
HOME OF CLICKERS AND COBBLERS NOW BURIED AND COLD,
NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON,
SKIPPED OVER BY BANDS THAT TOUR OUR WHOLE ISLAND,
NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON,
GREEDILY DEVOURING ITS OWN SPHINCTER,
NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON
WHERE WANKERS WARBLE ABOUT SAVING TREES,
NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON,
LADLING PRAISE UPON ITSELF,
NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON
NOT A CENTRE, NOT A FOCUS,
BUT NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON,
THE SEPTIC TANK OF CREATIVITY’S HAND-MADE HOME.’
And as she finished spitting her diatribe,
The market had melted,
The people had left,
And all that remained,
Was a puddle of excrement,
In the shape of a stiletto.
Tuesday, 27 July 2010
Birthday poems for loved ones
Laura Gibson:
IDIOT! A garbled idiot suffix-esque xXPOEM-CO0OREXx from my bleeding, wounded, vaginal heart;
'I am Laura,'
spat the saggy wench.
'I am all undulating and welting,
...like cabbage in boiling broth.'
The crowd laughed and jeered, mocking her silly hat,
her gigantic, porsine feet,
and inarticulate demeanour.
They waited for nigh on an hour for her next lyric;
'I chug the man-sap,
chug, chug, chug...
woo-woo!'
The noise like a train approaching a tunnel that she made,
was eerily exact,
and the people wondered if she was a train,
as she did the famous dance 'The Locomotion,'
around the tattered, spit laden stage.
That's you that is. Happy Birthday my darling. Hope to see you soon.
Mx
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Allister Sawtell
DOUGH BISCUITS. I KNEAD YOU IN MY LIFE.
Allister sat upon the well.
The well he sat on, a sore tell-tale seat.
All is terrible (sort of, well)
...Stir all the daub,
Wattle become of the shacks we build.
Those same hollow, wholesome shacks now swinging in the Gulf breeze,
The wattle blows away,
Like farts from Biscuit bums.
'McGRAAAW' cries a petulant magpie.
'McGRAAAW, McGRAAAW,' sings the fat bellied, maggie maggie pag pie.
And Biscuits are broken,
in the hand of ancient ladies,
to dunk within tea,
sour tea,
splashed with sour milk,
stirred with sour spoons,
and sipped by bitter, sour lips.
The Biscuits are broken.
Long live the Biscuits.
x
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Mr Alex Burns: A Life In Pictures;
I, for all to see, am Mr Alex Burns,
I am a carer and giver,
Reciprocator of good deeds,
...Man of value, merit and might,
I scale rocks, and rock scales,
As I shunt, shunt and shunt,
A hairy mermaid twunt.
Happy Birthday.X
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Willis J Dearden
A Poem For William 'Jay-Sean' Dread'un...
'I Got yo' sexy back?'
Hey!
I want my Sexy back.
...You are older, and have developed a fine chin of stubblishness.
And in the womb of an innocent,
You have placed a devil-raptor.
It will pounce forth,
and lacerate the nurses' wobbling gusset.
Because that is you all over.
Gusset lacerating, dripping in fluid and placenta.
I wish you the best.
Though you need it not.
With your Napalm roars,
Arpeggiated tappings,
and aggrovated mind.
You need Sexy back.
Hay.
'I'm horsin' it.'
You would sing for McDonalds,
If you were still sell-out.
Don't buy in,
to the miracles (On 22rd Street)
it's all a lie.
And you are lucky.
And beautiful.
So well-wishings.
One day, I will sport a bandandandanda,
Happy birthday.
It's a time for reflection.
And you love yours the most.
Well Done! A+
x
IDIOT! A garbled idiot suffix-esque xXPOEM-CO0OREXx from my bleeding, wounded, vaginal heart;
'I am Laura,'
spat the saggy wench.
'I am all undulating and welting,
...like cabbage in boiling broth.'
The crowd laughed and jeered, mocking her silly hat,
her gigantic, porsine feet,
and inarticulate demeanour.
They waited for nigh on an hour for her next lyric;
'I chug the man-sap,
chug, chug, chug...
woo-woo!'
The noise like a train approaching a tunnel that she made,
was eerily exact,
and the people wondered if she was a train,
as she did the famous dance 'The Locomotion,'
around the tattered, spit laden stage.
That's you that is. Happy Birthday my darling. Hope to see you soon.
Mx
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Allister Sawtell
DOUGH BISCUITS. I KNEAD YOU IN MY LIFE.
Allister sat upon the well.
The well he sat on, a sore tell-tale seat.
All is terrible (sort of, well)
...Stir all the daub,
Wattle become of the shacks we build.
Those same hollow, wholesome shacks now swinging in the Gulf breeze,
The wattle blows away,
Like farts from Biscuit bums.
'McGRAAAW' cries a petulant magpie.
'McGRAAAW, McGRAAAW,' sings the fat bellied, maggie maggie pag pie.
And Biscuits are broken,
in the hand of ancient ladies,
to dunk within tea,
sour tea,
splashed with sour milk,
stirred with sour spoons,
and sipped by bitter, sour lips.
The Biscuits are broken.
Long live the Biscuits.
x
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Mr Alex Burns: A Life In Pictures;
I, for all to see, am Mr Alex Burns,
I am a carer and giver,
Reciprocator of good deeds,
...Man of value, merit and might,
I scale rocks, and rock scales,
As I shunt, shunt and shunt,
A hairy mermaid twunt.
Happy Birthday.X
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Willis J Dearden
A Poem For William 'Jay-Sean' Dread'un...
'I Got yo' sexy back?'
Hey!
I want my Sexy back.
...You are older, and have developed a fine chin of stubblishness.
And in the womb of an innocent,
You have placed a devil-raptor.
It will pounce forth,
and lacerate the nurses' wobbling gusset.
Because that is you all over.
Gusset lacerating, dripping in fluid and placenta.
I wish you the best.
Though you need it not.
With your Napalm roars,
Arpeggiated tappings,
and aggrovated mind.
You need Sexy back.
Hay.
'I'm horsin' it.'
You would sing for McDonalds,
If you were still sell-out.
Don't buy in,
to the miracles (On 22rd Street)
it's all a lie.
And you are lucky.
And beautiful.
So well-wishings.
One day, I will sport a bandandandanda,
Happy birthday.
It's a time for reflection.
And you love yours the most.
Well Done! A+
x
A Lisa Tarbuck
Safe haven in purile eyes,
Shitting,
Silenting,
Atop a plinth.
SQUAWK! The whore pig squawks,
SQUAWK!
CUNT!
...
Shitting silently,
Atop the best plinth in town,
A Lisa Tarbuck.
There once was a plinth from Pittin,
It offered it’s captured men shitting,
I sat on the top,
And some poo came out ‘Plop!’
The applause that replied was quite fitting.
Lisa Tarbuck,
Shitting silently,
Atop a plinth,
Crying, shamed,
Gusset around ankles,
Her fat whore tits,
And pock-marked cankles.
Shitting,
Silenting,
Atop a plinth.
SQUAWK! The whore pig squawks,
SQUAWK!
CUNT!
...
Shitting silently,
Atop the best plinth in town,
A Lisa Tarbuck.
There once was a plinth from Pittin,
It offered it’s captured men shitting,
I sat on the top,
And some poo came out ‘Plop!’
The applause that replied was quite fitting.
Lisa Tarbuck,
Shitting silently,
Atop a plinth,
Crying, shamed,
Gusset around ankles,
Her fat whore tits,
And pock-marked cankles.
Open Mic Night
On a recent travel-trip to north of the middle, purpose of which being visitation of Grandmama, I grew tired of her olding eyes, so I saught the humbling slosh of boozy glug-glug. Aware that there are more pubs per capita in England, I presumed that finding a licenced merchant would be no trouble, despite not creeping from the house 'til way gone the legs eleven o'clock.
Gleebsden at night is quite a shocking place. Hanging baskets, laden with yellowing flower-corpses, men on bikes, not travelling, just sat, waiting. And no bars. I asked a young man upon a bike "Where bars... pinty pinty pinty oooohh thirst." He looked at me puzzled for a short while then pointed an abnormally lenghty digit towards a small broken window.
Kicking away at the glass I finally made entry. The room was almost empty. Dust had settled on decorative bunting that shouted "Happy 98th BIrthday Edna." Quick calculations of dust accumulation determined she was probably dead by now. A man sat in the corner wearing a corset and a fireman's helmet. In his lap was a pomeranian. Two young boys squabbled over the fate of another, all dressed as tiny Prime Ministers. All of a click, an absurd female jumped onto a stage and utttered those grim terrible words...
"Who wants to read first?"
Up a man he came, suited, tall, stone-faced, bearing an enormous head-dress, a crudely fashioned spear and a lanyard emblazoned with the logo for Gala Casino.
"Sitting bull, he a good man...
Standing bull, he a strong man...
Running bull, he gone man..."
And he chuckled and left the stage. I purchased a schnapps and Kahlua. Another man crawled in, on his hands and knees, wearing naught but a tablecloth stolen from a Travel Lodge. He scrambled, filthy, nude and grotesque and clambered up to the mic.
"EEE ACK AHHH.... etc"
Which was a little unnerving. A friend of h-++++--
is stood by me and explained his preference for using vowel sounds over standardised word format as a means of blasting open the realms of performance and eschewing the restrictions of words. I pointed out that both of them were pillocks. He shrivelled away. A man in a beret, smoking jacket, Gauloises hand rolled cigarette in hand.
"Skeeb! Bap! Skeebeedeepadawahpwahpwahpbeeep whoa!
Scat Jack, uh-huh... I'm back.
Skooby wabby dooby dee wop wop wop whow!
Scatting like a man possesed,
By a demon in a OW! li'l blue dress
Skeeby Deep deep dap wap wap Wow!"
I fucking detest scat, so this was a little less than thoroughly tortuous. The strange man, jazz mustache, Lennonesque rose-tints, Thelonious Monk vinyl no doubt nearby, ceased rather abruptly and..
"Skeeeby deep wap wap!"
"SCAT JACK! NO!"
The evening continued, next guy, shy, retiring, dye-haired and tight of trousers.
"Skeeb!"
(Looks at Scat Jack with severity.)
And so we awaited the barrage of misery bound to be ejaculated from this pious malcontent.
"I have seen the kill and the cure,
i was twelve when I opened my eyes,
The world couldn't do it for me,
The love I had so long since lost,
She read Bukowski and frowned,"
"Oh Good God..."
"All the time, even when smiling,
A strange frowny smile,
Like a bulldog,
With a wasp in it's arse,
We cried and I came,
Lovers forever, she died... not really but...in my heart."
Very... deep... A small round of applause uttered from a group of friends who had appeared only to watch him, for all other works were of little relevance, for it was he, who had every Bauhaus record. Next man up, old, bespectacled, no hair, Guiness... his fifth Guiness...
"Laa-Dee-Fucking-Daa,
Hoopy boopy hoopy,
You wankers... With your...
Duffel coats and your hand woven by a real orphan scarf,
Your ironic dreadlocks...you're no, Rasta..fari,
With your...Gauloises fags,
Your 'hahahaha...bububububu'
You make me sick...
There once was a man on the stage,
He'd rehearsed his delivery for days,
And as he picked up the mic,
He realised his stuff was shite,
but he went on a did it anyways...how'd ya like that... eh?! eh!?"
Which had the man and his pomeranian in tears. He picked up his dog, adjusted his corset, and walked into the bathroom. A shot was heard. No one moved. One more, an arm raised, sullen, a Gallic crust pouring smoke.
Gleebsden at night is quite a shocking place. Hanging baskets, laden with yellowing flower-corpses, men on bikes, not travelling, just sat, waiting. And no bars. I asked a young man upon a bike "Where bars... pinty pinty pinty oooohh thirst." He looked at me puzzled for a short while then pointed an abnormally lenghty digit towards a small broken window.
Kicking away at the glass I finally made entry. The room was almost empty. Dust had settled on decorative bunting that shouted "Happy 98th BIrthday Edna." Quick calculations of dust accumulation determined she was probably dead by now. A man sat in the corner wearing a corset and a fireman's helmet. In his lap was a pomeranian. Two young boys squabbled over the fate of another, all dressed as tiny Prime Ministers. All of a click, an absurd female jumped onto a stage and utttered those grim terrible words...
"Who wants to read first?"
Up a man he came, suited, tall, stone-faced, bearing an enormous head-dress, a crudely fashioned spear and a lanyard emblazoned with the logo for Gala Casino.
"Sitting bull, he a good man...
Standing bull, he a strong man...
Running bull, he gone man..."
And he chuckled and left the stage. I purchased a schnapps and Kahlua. Another man crawled in, on his hands and knees, wearing naught but a tablecloth stolen from a Travel Lodge. He scrambled, filthy, nude and grotesque and clambered up to the mic.
"EEE ACK AHHH.... etc"
Which was a little unnerving. A friend of h-++++--
is stood by me and explained his preference for using vowel sounds over standardised word format as a means of blasting open the realms of performance and eschewing the restrictions of words. I pointed out that both of them were pillocks. He shrivelled away. A man in a beret, smoking jacket, Gauloises hand rolled cigarette in hand.
"Skeeb! Bap! Skeebeedeepadawahpwahpwahpbeeep whoa!
Scat Jack, uh-huh... I'm back.
Skooby wabby dooby dee wop wop wop whow!
Scatting like a man possesed,
By a demon in a OW! li'l blue dress
Skeeby Deep deep dap wap wap Wow!"
I fucking detest scat, so this was a little less than thoroughly tortuous. The strange man, jazz mustache, Lennonesque rose-tints, Thelonious Monk vinyl no doubt nearby, ceased rather abruptly and..
"Skeeeby deep wap wap!"
"SCAT JACK! NO!"
The evening continued, next guy, shy, retiring, dye-haired and tight of trousers.
"Skeeb!"
(Looks at Scat Jack with severity.)
And so we awaited the barrage of misery bound to be ejaculated from this pious malcontent.
"I have seen the kill and the cure,
i was twelve when I opened my eyes,
The world couldn't do it for me,
The love I had so long since lost,
She read Bukowski and frowned,"
"Oh Good God..."
"All the time, even when smiling,
A strange frowny smile,
Like a bulldog,
With a wasp in it's arse,
We cried and I came,
Lovers forever, she died... not really but...in my heart."
Very... deep... A small round of applause uttered from a group of friends who had appeared only to watch him, for all other works were of little relevance, for it was he, who had every Bauhaus record. Next man up, old, bespectacled, no hair, Guiness... his fifth Guiness...
"Laa-Dee-Fucking-Daa,
Hoopy boopy hoopy,
You wankers... With your...
Duffel coats and your hand woven by a real orphan scarf,
Your ironic dreadlocks...you're no, Rasta..fari,
With your...Gauloises fags,
Your 'hahahaha...bububububu'
You make me sick...
There once was a man on the stage,
He'd rehearsed his delivery for days,
And as he picked up the mic,
He realised his stuff was shite,
but he went on a did it anyways...how'd ya like that... eh?! eh!?"
Which had the man and his pomeranian in tears. He picked up his dog, adjusted his corset, and walked into the bathroom. A shot was heard. No one moved. One more, an arm raised, sullen, a Gallic crust pouring smoke.
A series of poems about friends (Contributions by Scott Bradley and Cid McPhearson)
CID. Irrepresible Cid,
Floating upon a hippo,
‘pon hefty hippo you heft your hanks,
Stop running, go slow,
No running, be slow and knowledgable.
Oh Cid how your benevolent brow
Speaks of strength and wisdom,
Your elegant forearm apt to any task
And wide feet to paddle
And then, your mouth opens, and from it spews
A delectable honey covered treat
Ready to convince
Or Coerce.
Oh cid coerce me and all those who follow me, and bring us smiling into a clean
End.
Scott...
Man’s own Scott,
Your sickle features cusp the twilight,
And jaundiced bonnets cloud your vision.
Scott releases laundry magnets into red faced Pocahontas.
Cid...
Usual typical Asus Majorettes,
Twirling stick frivolous yomping,
Twirl, curl, unfurl lumpen churl onto young...
Mascot’s face.
Kitty is bad news.
Max dear max maximum power
My dear heavy blade
With a terrible and sharp cutting edge
Drop me your bombshell and watch me contort and call out ‘Mother! Mother!’
I bet you would.
Max is a man.
A great man, but a man.
He has no magic, no psychic re-enforcement, no hypnotic qualities of any description.
But he is also a man who can make you do things.
Things you had no intention of thinking about.
Terrible, inconceivable, amazing things.
Max is a man.
But he is a great man.
Floating upon a hippo,
‘pon hefty hippo you heft your hanks,
Stop running, go slow,
No running, be slow and knowledgable.
Oh Cid how your benevolent brow
Speaks of strength and wisdom,
Your elegant forearm apt to any task
And wide feet to paddle
And then, your mouth opens, and from it spews
A delectable honey covered treat
Ready to convince
Or Coerce.
Oh cid coerce me and all those who follow me, and bring us smiling into a clean
End.
Scott...
Man’s own Scott,
Your sickle features cusp the twilight,
And jaundiced bonnets cloud your vision.
Scott releases laundry magnets into red faced Pocahontas.
Cid...
Usual typical Asus Majorettes,
Twirling stick frivolous yomping,
Twirl, curl, unfurl lumpen churl onto young...
Mascot’s face.
Kitty is bad news.
Max dear max maximum power
My dear heavy blade
With a terrible and sharp cutting edge
Drop me your bombshell and watch me contort and call out ‘Mother! Mother!’
I bet you would.
Max is a man.
A great man, but a man.
He has no magic, no psychic re-enforcement, no hypnotic qualities of any description.
But he is also a man who can make you do things.
Things you had no intention of thinking about.
Terrible, inconceivable, amazing things.
Max is a man.
But he is a great man.
Decker's Habidashery
This time is wasted,
Irrelevant and seamless.
I stand in front of a building and the windows are dusted,
Fine lines of grime and filth emphasise the fine lines and grains of the building.
As I enter an old man approaches and asks me what my business here is.
I reply ‘I’m here on an errand, I need to speak to a Luke Sharp.’
‘Not fucking funny you sonofabitch,’ he says to me, slimy spit dripping from his this purple gums.
He assumes I’m just another luckless fuck here to find a way out.
‘Decker’s Habidashery,’ is the unlikely title of this hovel.
‘I’m here on important business, I don’t know the name of the guy but I’d know him if I saw him,’ I casually say, as if to presume this sordid old groat might be of use. He gives me a look up and down, my clearly unlaundered garments causing his eyes to twitch and look again. He eyes me like I’m the guy that fucked his granddaughter. This causes me some distress so I move past him. He makes a play for my wrist but is too slow. He drops his broom and limps, following me as I wander a poorly lit, awful smelling lane of dusty filing cabinets and stacked, grey desks.
‘You can’t go in there, those stupid fucks on packing leaving the door open, you shouldn’t be in here you know that,’ he croaks behind me. His voice is like the oil that collects beneath a poorly maintained engine. Tarry and sticky, it cloys in my ears and does nothing to change the fact that I am not concerned about my rights or privileges within this shitty fucking backwards outhouse.
That fuck is going to suffer. I hope he works with metal, I’d settle for wood, if I can get my hands on a solid object before I reach him everything will be acceptable. There’s a metal ruler, that’ll do, best to keep on to it in case he’s around the next corner.
What a world,
Where the lives of others are so linked it makes your detachment even worse when you realise it.
Who has time to stop and talk to this irrelevant breed of devouring, defecating blood packs.
Why would you care enough to call some ‘friend’ and others ‘enemy.’
How do you find time to go through the ball-ache process of splitting the fuckers into two separate, distinct categories. Distinct. Distinct from what?
‘Oh well this guy is usually less of a prick than that other guy but the other guy buys me drinks all the time so I can’t really stop talking to him just so I can talk to the other guy,’ and so it goes until the whole world is unwittingly and unknowingly competing for your attention, your attention, attention that if it weren’t for some mere occasional circumstance would be completely unnoticed.
We all think the battle for supremacy in our hearts is something worth people taking part in. Bullshit.
I turned a corner and found the fucker. He was stood in front of a large machine. It was essentially a large Perspex box, lined with steel and with an enormous, pounding, loud base. Jets of milky fluid shot all over the Perspex windows and dripped slowly back down. The whirring of whatever worked inside whirred and whirred away, and the guy looks up at me.
The blood in my mouth tasted so fucking fresh, so raw, iron and silk, and I brought my trembling, sweating hand down into his gaping face.
That this gave me a hard-on was inexplicable. Ideas flowed. I wanted to write. So I did.
Irrelevant and seamless.
I stand in front of a building and the windows are dusted,
Fine lines of grime and filth emphasise the fine lines and grains of the building.
As I enter an old man approaches and asks me what my business here is.
I reply ‘I’m here on an errand, I need to speak to a Luke Sharp.’
‘Not fucking funny you sonofabitch,’ he says to me, slimy spit dripping from his this purple gums.
He assumes I’m just another luckless fuck here to find a way out.
‘Decker’s Habidashery,’ is the unlikely title of this hovel.
‘I’m here on important business, I don’t know the name of the guy but I’d know him if I saw him,’ I casually say, as if to presume this sordid old groat might be of use. He gives me a look up and down, my clearly unlaundered garments causing his eyes to twitch and look again. He eyes me like I’m the guy that fucked his granddaughter. This causes me some distress so I move past him. He makes a play for my wrist but is too slow. He drops his broom and limps, following me as I wander a poorly lit, awful smelling lane of dusty filing cabinets and stacked, grey desks.
‘You can’t go in there, those stupid fucks on packing leaving the door open, you shouldn’t be in here you know that,’ he croaks behind me. His voice is like the oil that collects beneath a poorly maintained engine. Tarry and sticky, it cloys in my ears and does nothing to change the fact that I am not concerned about my rights or privileges within this shitty fucking backwards outhouse.
That fuck is going to suffer. I hope he works with metal, I’d settle for wood, if I can get my hands on a solid object before I reach him everything will be acceptable. There’s a metal ruler, that’ll do, best to keep on to it in case he’s around the next corner.
What a world,
Where the lives of others are so linked it makes your detachment even worse when you realise it.
Who has time to stop and talk to this irrelevant breed of devouring, defecating blood packs.
Why would you care enough to call some ‘friend’ and others ‘enemy.’
How do you find time to go through the ball-ache process of splitting the fuckers into two separate, distinct categories. Distinct. Distinct from what?
‘Oh well this guy is usually less of a prick than that other guy but the other guy buys me drinks all the time so I can’t really stop talking to him just so I can talk to the other guy,’ and so it goes until the whole world is unwittingly and unknowingly competing for your attention, your attention, attention that if it weren’t for some mere occasional circumstance would be completely unnoticed.
We all think the battle for supremacy in our hearts is something worth people taking part in. Bullshit.
I turned a corner and found the fucker. He was stood in front of a large machine. It was essentially a large Perspex box, lined with steel and with an enormous, pounding, loud base. Jets of milky fluid shot all over the Perspex windows and dripped slowly back down. The whirring of whatever worked inside whirred and whirred away, and the guy looks up at me.
The blood in my mouth tasted so fucking fresh, so raw, iron and silk, and I brought my trembling, sweating hand down into his gaping face.
That this gave me a hard-on was inexplicable. Ideas flowed. I wanted to write. So I did.
Elfy the Goat-Herder
Elfy was a man so tall and fat,
Higher than a tall goat, did he sat,
His English was poor and his clothes at that,
Were made of dried skins of dead cat.
He bought a coat from Marv the Cat,
A cannibalistic psychopath sociopath twat,
Who’s bollocks hung like the moons of Sat
urn, with tongue so filthy he did spat;
‘Elfy this coat is yours for a pittance,
If you give me a pair of fine goat mittens,
I want warm hands, fingers and chitterns,’
he asked, making up words his hobby intermittent.
‘Well Marv what can I say,
these goats are a pricey thing to slay,
with a blade of ice and a bed of hay,
the goats must fall on, on Christmas Day.’
So the year went along all slow and cold,
And as the year grew November grew old,
Until on Christmas Eve Elfy phoned and he called,
Marv to honour a promise to uphold.
‘Marv I need you at my house at noon,
So depart now for the sun rises soon,
I have a goat ready all prepped and pruned,
and looking at me lost and marooned.’
Well Marv was surprised that this deal he would honour,
So he whipped on his coat and withdrew his boner,
And called his wife, for one other time had he shown her,
His mitten-less trick called ‘The Dry Palm Paloma.’
Elfy readied himself steady and called
his youngest to bring the hay to the hall,
his eldest to shape the ice from a ball,
Of ice he had ordered the local food stall.
A rat-a-tat tat on the door and ‘Marv is here!’
The youngest poured their guest a tall beer,
The eldest was wracked with hope and with fear,
‘The last time dad had a goat-party mum left for Tanzania.’
The door slowly opened,
Elfy was already naked,
Furiously beating his frothy filth,
Onto the bound, thrashing goat,
And Marv was so sick,
The beer was spoiled with bile,
But the eldest slammed the door,
And Marv was given a kick,
To the back of his fat head.
‘This is the worst Christmas ever and I hate you dad!’
Screamed young Linda as she walked in on the cad,
Erection in hand, laughing at the bloodied cat,
Marv crying and shuddering and spitting he spat;
‘Get out of here girl this is ‘tween me, Elfy and the goat,
This is business, not a God damned pleasure boat,
I want some mittens to ease my chaffing scrote,
And your dad wants my brethren to wear as a coat.’
Well Linda was unaccustomed to such a spectacle any other day,
but Elfy did like to ensure Christmas was always a partay,
and every year for the ten she’d been alive in her own way,
he’d wank on a goat and lure busy animal traders to play.
The RSPCA were informed later by the youngest son,
A recent school field trip had been to a farm in Leighton,
And he had developed a fondness for all animals upon
god’s green earth, be they weak or strong.
And Marv made his coats,
Elfy dreamed of his goats,
Linda got smarts and now builds boats,
And the youngest got bored of this stupid story and is going to write something else.
Higher than a tall goat, did he sat,
His English was poor and his clothes at that,
Were made of dried skins of dead cat.
He bought a coat from Marv the Cat,
A cannibalistic psychopath sociopath twat,
Who’s bollocks hung like the moons of Sat
urn, with tongue so filthy he did spat;
‘Elfy this coat is yours for a pittance,
If you give me a pair of fine goat mittens,
I want warm hands, fingers and chitterns,’
he asked, making up words his hobby intermittent.
‘Well Marv what can I say,
these goats are a pricey thing to slay,
with a blade of ice and a bed of hay,
the goats must fall on, on Christmas Day.’
So the year went along all slow and cold,
And as the year grew November grew old,
Until on Christmas Eve Elfy phoned and he called,
Marv to honour a promise to uphold.
‘Marv I need you at my house at noon,
So depart now for the sun rises soon,
I have a goat ready all prepped and pruned,
and looking at me lost and marooned.’
Well Marv was surprised that this deal he would honour,
So he whipped on his coat and withdrew his boner,
And called his wife, for one other time had he shown her,
His mitten-less trick called ‘The Dry Palm Paloma.’
Elfy readied himself steady and called
his youngest to bring the hay to the hall,
his eldest to shape the ice from a ball,
Of ice he had ordered the local food stall.
A rat-a-tat tat on the door and ‘Marv is here!’
The youngest poured their guest a tall beer,
The eldest was wracked with hope and with fear,
‘The last time dad had a goat-party mum left for Tanzania.’
The door slowly opened,
Elfy was already naked,
Furiously beating his frothy filth,
Onto the bound, thrashing goat,
And Marv was so sick,
The beer was spoiled with bile,
But the eldest slammed the door,
And Marv was given a kick,
To the back of his fat head.
‘This is the worst Christmas ever and I hate you dad!’
Screamed young Linda as she walked in on the cad,
Erection in hand, laughing at the bloodied cat,
Marv crying and shuddering and spitting he spat;
‘Get out of here girl this is ‘tween me, Elfy and the goat,
This is business, not a God damned pleasure boat,
I want some mittens to ease my chaffing scrote,
And your dad wants my brethren to wear as a coat.’
Well Linda was unaccustomed to such a spectacle any other day,
but Elfy did like to ensure Christmas was always a partay,
and every year for the ten she’d been alive in her own way,
he’d wank on a goat and lure busy animal traders to play.
The RSPCA were informed later by the youngest son,
A recent school field trip had been to a farm in Leighton,
And he had developed a fondness for all animals upon
god’s green earth, be they weak or strong.
And Marv made his coats,
Elfy dreamed of his goats,
Linda got smarts and now builds boats,
And the youngest got bored of this stupid story and is going to write something else.
‘Hot desert splendour pumps desire full and bright.’
The hot desert seeps a strange glow onto fat bellied squawks and devil bird eggs.
As the vultures nestle and chunder their mulch into the faces of their young,
a dry, haggard bride cries and stumbles over rocky, hot desert ground.
Her face is a crumbled portrait of fear, dry-lust and hot perspiration,
giving her skin a chance to lose the heat and dissipate into the hot desert air,
the dry, hot dusky air, as she coughs and splutters her dry, dead sound.
She sings a lullaby quietly to herself, more onerous than tuneful,
morbidly melancholy and wordless, just gurgles,
her fat lullaby rides the still air and disturbs the fat bellied squawks of vultures and their eggs.
She spies an encampment, a fire built and flanked by shoddy tents and bracken.
A fat man sits tending the blaze, feeding it like a fat bellied vulture feeds it’s young,
the fat man looks up and spies her, focusing on her tits and her legs.
She is wearing next to nothing, and weaker than a mewling sap-drenched goat,
and she is tender and young, yet her rotten, chaotic eyes speak volumes of the sufferance she has in her,
and the man sees this and thus he sees more than a wretch, he sees a chance for release.
He summons the boys with a sharp whistle in A minor,
they slowly rouse, hoisting up their pantaloons as they exit their tents,
and the woman smiles for the first time in years at the attention she receives.
She fears for her life as the fat bellied vulture draws out a knife and points it at her face from afar,
he laughs and gobbles a fat chorus of hate in some indistinct dialect unknown to her,
but she’s heard few voices in years, for so long has she wandered.
She picks up a canteen and draws heavily on its acidic, alcoholic contents and,
reeling back from the sharp burn on her oesophagus, wipes her mouth and stifles some vomit.
She lies on the hot ground and spreads her lithe, pallid thighs and parts her soft vagina for the men to ponder.
As the sun sets they make frenzied, group love in the rapidly cooling desert air,
until the darkness envelops them and chills their naked writhing asses and they retreat to their tents.
When they wake their crotches are black as ash and she is gone.
The walk home was awkward, carrying their tents and supplies on legs parted by agonizing abscence,
They say very few words, except to offer or request water, until one speaks up; ‘What have we learnt
in this sorry display of lust and greed and depravity so wanton?’
‘Never fuck a walking corpse Jonathan, never fuck a walking corpse.’
As the vultures nestle and chunder their mulch into the faces of their young,
a dry, haggard bride cries and stumbles over rocky, hot desert ground.
Her face is a crumbled portrait of fear, dry-lust and hot perspiration,
giving her skin a chance to lose the heat and dissipate into the hot desert air,
the dry, hot dusky air, as she coughs and splutters her dry, dead sound.
She sings a lullaby quietly to herself, more onerous than tuneful,
morbidly melancholy and wordless, just gurgles,
her fat lullaby rides the still air and disturbs the fat bellied squawks of vultures and their eggs.
She spies an encampment, a fire built and flanked by shoddy tents and bracken.
A fat man sits tending the blaze, feeding it like a fat bellied vulture feeds it’s young,
the fat man looks up and spies her, focusing on her tits and her legs.
She is wearing next to nothing, and weaker than a mewling sap-drenched goat,
and she is tender and young, yet her rotten, chaotic eyes speak volumes of the sufferance she has in her,
and the man sees this and thus he sees more than a wretch, he sees a chance for release.
He summons the boys with a sharp whistle in A minor,
they slowly rouse, hoisting up their pantaloons as they exit their tents,
and the woman smiles for the first time in years at the attention she receives.
She fears for her life as the fat bellied vulture draws out a knife and points it at her face from afar,
he laughs and gobbles a fat chorus of hate in some indistinct dialect unknown to her,
but she’s heard few voices in years, for so long has she wandered.
She picks up a canteen and draws heavily on its acidic, alcoholic contents and,
reeling back from the sharp burn on her oesophagus, wipes her mouth and stifles some vomit.
She lies on the hot ground and spreads her lithe, pallid thighs and parts her soft vagina for the men to ponder.
As the sun sets they make frenzied, group love in the rapidly cooling desert air,
until the darkness envelops them and chills their naked writhing asses and they retreat to their tents.
When they wake their crotches are black as ash and she is gone.
The walk home was awkward, carrying their tents and supplies on legs parted by agonizing abscence,
They say very few words, except to offer or request water, until one speaks up; ‘What have we learnt
in this sorry display of lust and greed and depravity so wanton?’
‘Never fuck a walking corpse Jonathan, never fuck a walking corpse.’
Scott and Max 6th April This Year
Huffing cat-piss. Shitting in bottles. So wrong...
Hats off to Extender Bat.
He’s an apache made of clay.
Apples for legs.
Extender Bat... Extender Bat...Comanche motherfucker.
He rides his steed along the prairie,
Full of breakfast.
Searching for lunch,
Extender Bat... hunter.
Joyous bounty smashes away the stupid sentence that goes nowhere.
Why write words that make no sense Pep-Pep?
Papa Dom tries to curry favour with my nan. Saucy. Gets fingered, digitised, and palms me off. Time for dessert, face value. Handy. And although ive never had a lunch like this before, i blithely accept my fate. Remind me never to do this again... i lie, with contempt.
Fliggely-dip the wobbly deer
Wiggles his hips when danger is near.
Creatures vile,
Crocodiles,
Lions, tigers, bears, oh my,
Stop to think ‘Why?’
And fuck off back home.
Fliggelly-dip is happy.
I met the ‘Arkinsaw Confederates’ at a White Pride rally in Tuscon. We drank coffee and talked about politics until noon. Then it was time.
I had never won a fight, so I needed a weapon, despite it being forbidden by the AC. I went to the bathroom and stashed a small toothbrush with razor blades taped to the handle into my coat.
There were millions of the fuckers on the hill. As I stared at the huge, loud mass gathering and stomping on the hill I felt a rush of fear and panic strike me right in my fat fucking cock. God I was so fucking horny! I can’t wait to fuck these crazy shit heads.
So I went to work, with a hop and a skip, despoiling the protestors with my luscious man-thrust.
The Arkinsaw Confederates shared my ideals of reintroducing segregation, school bussing and harsher penalties for minorities convicted of crimes. However my open willingness to fornicate with these savages meant I had to be ex-communicated.
I now fight my battle alone.
Cursing and cussing I slid through the the heaving mass of bodies like a knife through butter, relishing the spill of blood as some splatters onto my tongue, savouring the stench of sweat and flesh. This is what I was born for, where I belong. I could only curse myself for spending most of my man-fat in the ecstasy of the build up, intoxicating, thrilling, dangerous. How much pleasure can a man take before he’s arrested or worse. Fuck it. They’ll never take me alive.
She’s been tied to the gurney for fifteen days. Her skin is brittle and bruised and her face is almost unrecognisable from all the slash marks. Her name is Deborah. She had the secret to the wizard key in a book in her study.
‘But where is your study?’ I screamed at her. She gurgled a half intelligible response that sounded like a swear word. I punched her in the stomach to relieve some tension.
Suddenly she shouted out loud, nice and clear;
‘West Lanarkshire! 15 Swan Drive!’ and my mission could continue. I wrapped her in pretty coloured cotton and big bandages with dancing little ladybirds on. She looked better with some basic first aid. I patted her on her little, bald head and kissed her once on the left hand.
Now the bloodshed could begin. I was stupid to use my ladybird bandages on the woman, she will die soon anyway, and ladybirds cheer me up in the field of battle.
And then the full loss of the little creatures dawned on me, and I felt my insides twist in mourning. A stupor came upon me as I felt one of my headaches coming on. Jesus, I should get away somewhere, out of sight of friends or family. When one of these moods take me, I don’t differentiate. Its so sad a world when ladybirds must die, and I will reap my bloody vengeance.
Oh shit, oh shitohshitohshit. I cant find my pills. The light suddenly seems painfully bright, a drilling through my retinas. I feel a fit start to rack my frail emaciated body, and then all is black.
I wake up with blood on my face. How long have i been out? The corpse next to me is still warm, so I take the opportunity to snuggle up, comforting myself in her still bosom as I think of mother. Ho ho, if only mummy dearest could see me now. Would she punish me? I suspect so.
She soon grew cold and I had to wear her clothes and skin to keep myself tolerably warm. More warmth was provided by a quick wank onto the bare, dusty ground. Her face made it easy and pleasurable.
Dreams of mother again...
‘Get the fuck up,’ shouted a horrible, burly man covered in guns and bones.
‘I will shit on you if you fucking don’t,’ and I didn’t want to test this. He was nearly nine feet tall, with a distended paunch, so his average faecal load would be far too large to cope with.
As I stood I noticed I was now a girl. The operation had been less than perfect, the mutilated, bruised, loosely stitched flaps of peis and tezticles stung in the cold rain.
He lead me into a large room, newly decorated, covered in white paint, buffed chrome and leather office chairs. In the centre of the room was a cube, about one square meter in size, made apparently of an orange and blue plastic. I sat in the room and he left, locking the door behind him. As I sat I noticed the cube was shaking slightly. I stood and approached it with caution.
Warm to the touch, it felt like angels would feel, but it smelt like the devil. How would my new, female form react to these new sensations? Too wetly was the answer, as I slid on my own juices dripping from my diseased badger. I smiled a snake’s smile, and prayed.
I used my moist, stinking hand to touch the cube and it gave me a slight electric shock. This made me feel like a whole woman so I quickly frigged myself frothy. At the point of climax the cube’s plastic shell fell and within was a square humanoid figure. Its face took up the whole of its front, limbs had clearly been amputated, and the gurgling, fat, crushed square beast gave a mighty moan.
The guards ran in and asked me what I had done.
‘What have you done?’ a large man shouted.
‘Nothing at all... I was passing the time and then this... horrible beast appeared before my big blue eyeholes.’
‘You are not meant to touch your new vagina for another two weeks. It may develop what’s known as ‘Dorkin’s Hubbub,’ making it yellow, brown and slathered in thick mucus.’
And with that I was shot with a tazer gun and I slipped into a deep slumber.
Too much sleep can drive a man crazy. My dreams echoed my mood and images of hell and mother tortured my unconscious mind. God i wish i had my pills, to assuage the sickly guilt that forced me into sadistic revenge on myself. Will these scars never heal? No, not today. Never today. Better to sleep, to cease completely, will my heart to stop beating. But the fear of hell keeps me alive. Consciousness calls...
Conscious call crawl through mires of shit and lye, pain, agony, screeches, my hair burning, my flesh drying, the same pathway to the gigantic fat whore of shit and broken dreams. She strides leather and rocks and her tits hang pendulously, swaying in the hot breeze.
And when I reach there, every time, she asks me to use my hands, my cracked, burnt, terrible hands.
Hats off to Extender Bat.
He’s an apache made of clay.
Apples for legs.
Extender Bat... Extender Bat...Comanche motherfucker.
He rides his steed along the prairie,
Full of breakfast.
Searching for lunch,
Extender Bat... hunter.
Joyous bounty smashes away the stupid sentence that goes nowhere.
Why write words that make no sense Pep-Pep?
Papa Dom tries to curry favour with my nan. Saucy. Gets fingered, digitised, and palms me off. Time for dessert, face value. Handy. And although ive never had a lunch like this before, i blithely accept my fate. Remind me never to do this again... i lie, with contempt.
Fliggely-dip the wobbly deer
Wiggles his hips when danger is near.
Creatures vile,
Crocodiles,
Lions, tigers, bears, oh my,
Stop to think ‘Why?’
And fuck off back home.
Fliggelly-dip is happy.
I met the ‘Arkinsaw Confederates’ at a White Pride rally in Tuscon. We drank coffee and talked about politics until noon. Then it was time.
I had never won a fight, so I needed a weapon, despite it being forbidden by the AC. I went to the bathroom and stashed a small toothbrush with razor blades taped to the handle into my coat.
There were millions of the fuckers on the hill. As I stared at the huge, loud mass gathering and stomping on the hill I felt a rush of fear and panic strike me right in my fat fucking cock. God I was so fucking horny! I can’t wait to fuck these crazy shit heads.
So I went to work, with a hop and a skip, despoiling the protestors with my luscious man-thrust.
The Arkinsaw Confederates shared my ideals of reintroducing segregation, school bussing and harsher penalties for minorities convicted of crimes. However my open willingness to fornicate with these savages meant I had to be ex-communicated.
I now fight my battle alone.
Cursing and cussing I slid through the the heaving mass of bodies like a knife through butter, relishing the spill of blood as some splatters onto my tongue, savouring the stench of sweat and flesh. This is what I was born for, where I belong. I could only curse myself for spending most of my man-fat in the ecstasy of the build up, intoxicating, thrilling, dangerous. How much pleasure can a man take before he’s arrested or worse. Fuck it. They’ll never take me alive.
She’s been tied to the gurney for fifteen days. Her skin is brittle and bruised and her face is almost unrecognisable from all the slash marks. Her name is Deborah. She had the secret to the wizard key in a book in her study.
‘But where is your study?’ I screamed at her. She gurgled a half intelligible response that sounded like a swear word. I punched her in the stomach to relieve some tension.
Suddenly she shouted out loud, nice and clear;
‘West Lanarkshire! 15 Swan Drive!’ and my mission could continue. I wrapped her in pretty coloured cotton and big bandages with dancing little ladybirds on. She looked better with some basic first aid. I patted her on her little, bald head and kissed her once on the left hand.
Now the bloodshed could begin. I was stupid to use my ladybird bandages on the woman, she will die soon anyway, and ladybirds cheer me up in the field of battle.
And then the full loss of the little creatures dawned on me, and I felt my insides twist in mourning. A stupor came upon me as I felt one of my headaches coming on. Jesus, I should get away somewhere, out of sight of friends or family. When one of these moods take me, I don’t differentiate. Its so sad a world when ladybirds must die, and I will reap my bloody vengeance.
Oh shit, oh shitohshitohshit. I cant find my pills. The light suddenly seems painfully bright, a drilling through my retinas. I feel a fit start to rack my frail emaciated body, and then all is black.
I wake up with blood on my face. How long have i been out? The corpse next to me is still warm, so I take the opportunity to snuggle up, comforting myself in her still bosom as I think of mother. Ho ho, if only mummy dearest could see me now. Would she punish me? I suspect so.
She soon grew cold and I had to wear her clothes and skin to keep myself tolerably warm. More warmth was provided by a quick wank onto the bare, dusty ground. Her face made it easy and pleasurable.
Dreams of mother again...
‘Get the fuck up,’ shouted a horrible, burly man covered in guns and bones.
‘I will shit on you if you fucking don’t,’ and I didn’t want to test this. He was nearly nine feet tall, with a distended paunch, so his average faecal load would be far too large to cope with.
As I stood I noticed I was now a girl. The operation had been less than perfect, the mutilated, bruised, loosely stitched flaps of peis and tezticles stung in the cold rain.
He lead me into a large room, newly decorated, covered in white paint, buffed chrome and leather office chairs. In the centre of the room was a cube, about one square meter in size, made apparently of an orange and blue plastic. I sat in the room and he left, locking the door behind him. As I sat I noticed the cube was shaking slightly. I stood and approached it with caution.
Warm to the touch, it felt like angels would feel, but it smelt like the devil. How would my new, female form react to these new sensations? Too wetly was the answer, as I slid on my own juices dripping from my diseased badger. I smiled a snake’s smile, and prayed.
I used my moist, stinking hand to touch the cube and it gave me a slight electric shock. This made me feel like a whole woman so I quickly frigged myself frothy. At the point of climax the cube’s plastic shell fell and within was a square humanoid figure. Its face took up the whole of its front, limbs had clearly been amputated, and the gurgling, fat, crushed square beast gave a mighty moan.
The guards ran in and asked me what I had done.
‘What have you done?’ a large man shouted.
‘Nothing at all... I was passing the time and then this... horrible beast appeared before my big blue eyeholes.’
‘You are not meant to touch your new vagina for another two weeks. It may develop what’s known as ‘Dorkin’s Hubbub,’ making it yellow, brown and slathered in thick mucus.’
And with that I was shot with a tazer gun and I slipped into a deep slumber.
Too much sleep can drive a man crazy. My dreams echoed my mood and images of hell and mother tortured my unconscious mind. God i wish i had my pills, to assuage the sickly guilt that forced me into sadistic revenge on myself. Will these scars never heal? No, not today. Never today. Better to sleep, to cease completely, will my heart to stop beating. But the fear of hell keeps me alive. Consciousness calls...
Conscious call crawl through mires of shit and lye, pain, agony, screeches, my hair burning, my flesh drying, the same pathway to the gigantic fat whore of shit and broken dreams. She strides leather and rocks and her tits hang pendulously, swaying in the hot breeze.
And when I reach there, every time, she asks me to use my hands, my cracked, burnt, terrible hands.
Penny-Weather Halfsies
Narrator:
1957:
Rape-Quake Day; An army of two thousand Brazilian rapists descended upon Tiannemen Square, violets are blue,
I am Paula Radcliffe, AND OMNISCIENT
Please, for the love of me, where am I?
26, GSOH, long walks on the beach, all major credit cards accepted.
‘I remember it as if it was yesterday, I was watching the Kao Long Guardsmen perform Drill with my wife when all these oily, mucky rapists began piling through the Main Gate. I was utterly in dismay, my bloody holiday.’
‘My wife died yesterday. I strangled her.’
I mean, I had to. So many rapists, only one wife. Rather than her be dishonoured, my convincing lies made her give herself willingly. Good girl. Alison. I’ll never forget you.
I remember when we first met. The tears, the violence. You scarred my cornea that day. I remember forcing my thumb into your eyesocket, smiling gently at that little tiny turn your mouth makes every time I cut something off you. I still remember when you had legs...
My blood vessels strained at the surge of hot cock blood pulsing through my fat, engorged, stinking glans. You had shit all over you from yesterday, and we hadn’t eaten so it was really runny. I made us an egg bath and sang lullabies at you inappropriately. Your seventh birthday was even more special...
Just come to womanhood, emerged like a butterfly from a chrysalis, I cut you like your birthday cake.
For which I whole heartedly apologise. (Though I think our little ‘episode’ in 2003 more than made up for it. I mean, I DID fuck you for more than 20 mins! :-P)
Pause of ten seconds, focus on mixing bowl full of flour and water.
Ahem, and then simply, whisk the batter until fluffy and light.
Now and then the Turnbulls arrive to give us all gifts and fairy based surprises. Decorative cakes, her Penny-Weather Halfsies are renowned through hill and dale for their ensconced morbidity.
We recommend our check and send service, available at 2500 post offices nationwide.
Gentle Piglets,
Weaved Ringlets,
I let my carapace run loose,
Now I am wet and engorged.
Old Lady Shitters got hit in the shitter,
Bummed by a dog ‘coz she’s a slag.
EEEUURRGGHHH!
Ta-Da
1957:
Rape-Quake Day; An army of two thousand Brazilian rapists descended upon Tiannemen Square, violets are blue,
I am Paula Radcliffe, AND OMNISCIENT
Please, for the love of me, where am I?
26, GSOH, long walks on the beach, all major credit cards accepted.
‘I remember it as if it was yesterday, I was watching the Kao Long Guardsmen perform Drill with my wife when all these oily, mucky rapists began piling through the Main Gate. I was utterly in dismay, my bloody holiday.’
‘My wife died yesterday. I strangled her.’
I mean, I had to. So many rapists, only one wife. Rather than her be dishonoured, my convincing lies made her give herself willingly. Good girl. Alison. I’ll never forget you.
I remember when we first met. The tears, the violence. You scarred my cornea that day. I remember forcing my thumb into your eyesocket, smiling gently at that little tiny turn your mouth makes every time I cut something off you. I still remember when you had legs...
My blood vessels strained at the surge of hot cock blood pulsing through my fat, engorged, stinking glans. You had shit all over you from yesterday, and we hadn’t eaten so it was really runny. I made us an egg bath and sang lullabies at you inappropriately. Your seventh birthday was even more special...
Just come to womanhood, emerged like a butterfly from a chrysalis, I cut you like your birthday cake.
For which I whole heartedly apologise. (Though I think our little ‘episode’ in 2003 more than made up for it. I mean, I DID fuck you for more than 20 mins! :-P)
Pause of ten seconds, focus on mixing bowl full of flour and water.
Ahem, and then simply, whisk the batter until fluffy and light.
Now and then the Turnbulls arrive to give us all gifts and fairy based surprises. Decorative cakes, her Penny-Weather Halfsies are renowned through hill and dale for their ensconced morbidity.
We recommend our check and send service, available at 2500 post offices nationwide.
Gentle Piglets,
Weaved Ringlets,
I let my carapace run loose,
Now I am wet and engorged.
Old Lady Shitters got hit in the shitter,
Bummed by a dog ‘coz she’s a slag.
EEEUURRGGHHH!
Ta-Da
Monday, 26 July 2010
Container Truck
There’s a fucking word for the stupid, stumbling masses of piss flesh that so invade our spaces. You know, the idiot on the train, the staring, mumbling, idiot fucking fool who asks you what the time is when there is a clock clearly visible, that asks you for a light when you aren’t smoking a cigarette, that asks you for change when you have a face like thunder. These fucking hopeful fools, filled with hope, the concept that in some way they are equal and deserve a slice of what you’ve attained. These fucking fools invade our lives like pirhanas in a Lebanese hooker’s throat.
I want to see a mass culling. Kill some of these fuckers.
‘Well we ought to grant Wayne Clarkson an ASBO for repeatedly calling the Muslim and Islamic population ‘Fucking Pakis’ outside the Co-op on Park Way but instead, we’ll take him to the container truck.’
The Container Truck:
A forty foot metal container, used for international shipping across open expanses of water. When we buy a product from a merchant and it says ‘Made In China/America/Japan/Bratislava,etc’ this is the method of transportation, Huge great cargo ships entirely covered in these huge, weighty boxes. This is a single use item, they cannot be used for gardening in commercial housing, they cannot be used to stir coffee, they cannot be used in a sexual context. They can be used, however, for torture.
The truck is filled over the course of a matter of days with anti-social offenders. The street spitters, the racists, the rapists, the molesters, the abusers, the degenerate scum who walk the earth. those who forfeit their right to life by committing some atrocious act upon an unwilling third party. Once full (to the brim may I add, to look on it should seems as packed tight with human flesh, sobs and groans as a pink, writhing, stinking decomposing can of maggots.)
Once at capacity (and then a little more) this ‘package’ of disposable persons should then be sealed with a blowtorch, and lowered fifteen feet into the ground. Never to be seen again. I would put you in it. You fucking degenerate fucking cunt.
I want to see a mass culling. Kill some of these fuckers.
‘Well we ought to grant Wayne Clarkson an ASBO for repeatedly calling the Muslim and Islamic population ‘Fucking Pakis’ outside the Co-op on Park Way but instead, we’ll take him to the container truck.’
The Container Truck:
A forty foot metal container, used for international shipping across open expanses of water. When we buy a product from a merchant and it says ‘Made In China/America/Japan/Bratislava,etc’ this is the method of transportation, Huge great cargo ships entirely covered in these huge, weighty boxes. This is a single use item, they cannot be used for gardening in commercial housing, they cannot be used to stir coffee, they cannot be used in a sexual context. They can be used, however, for torture.
The truck is filled over the course of a matter of days with anti-social offenders. The street spitters, the racists, the rapists, the molesters, the abusers, the degenerate scum who walk the earth. those who forfeit their right to life by committing some atrocious act upon an unwilling third party. Once full (to the brim may I add, to look on it should seems as packed tight with human flesh, sobs and groans as a pink, writhing, stinking decomposing can of maggots.)
Once at capacity (and then a little more) this ‘package’ of disposable persons should then be sealed with a blowtorch, and lowered fifteen feet into the ground. Never to be seen again. I would put you in it. You fucking degenerate fucking cunt.
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