septic hymns

jelly rift

2012-01-28T17:59:00.002Z

Romno fantasy robot

2012-01-27T23:46:00.000Z

baub sexy circles

2012-01-20T02:34:00.001Z

supported nude

2011-12-02T19:24:00.001Z

mimic

2011-09-28T22:29:00.002Z

Mimic

Last week Imet a guy in a pub. He was random of course, the pub was deliberate, well,habitual. Anyway, this guy could do amazing vocal impressions of the famous andslightly known. Problem was he could only do the impression once, ask him torepeat a mimicry and he’d find that he couldn’t. After a few brilliantimpressions I turned my attention to sipping at my drink, and he to talkingabout his day. Christ could he talk! He talked about pineapples being 5p each atApples and Things the grocers. I glanced at him and for a moment, just amoment, he looked exactly like a pineapple. I went back to my drink and he totalking. He started nattering on about the realistic dildos at his favouritesex shop, Felch and Sons. Bored I looked at him yammering there in thedeliberate pub and thought to myself, you fucking dickhead!

fubar

2011-09-22T23:34:00.002Z

I met a manin a bar. A gold bar, an ingot in which we were encased. Being a soft malleablemetal we made small incremental movements and eked out space for further moreelaborate movements, gradually making ourselves at home. Any old road, he toldme in, the small cave we had formed, about the time he tripped up a child inAutumn mist. It - he reported – stared back at him, incredulous, in uniform, inanxieties. Brown leaves – he told me drooling – fell about them in the momentsstasis, in the formaldehyde freeze. “Happy times” he said, pressing against thenewly carved space.

had or cod and this

2011-08-27T19:35:00.000Z

egg two division

2011-08-14T16:14:00.000Z

dot to dot to dot

2011-08-02T22:39:00.002Z

Baguette

2011-08-02T22:19:00.002Z

Remember that time Bobby Goloid lost his leg riding his bike on the pavement. A time when coppers would still stop you for that offence in their grand prix motorcycle sidecars. Well, that was the case, until the incident with Bobby, when he got his leg severed by a stale baguette carried by a for then, it must be said, cultured couple of coppers. Sticking out it was - the baguette – from the edge of the sidecar as they zoomed in to pull him up for locomoting along the pavement. The collision of baguette and leg left Bobby with a ragged gushing stump. It seemed unreal – in fact it had de-seamed. But he still rode on for a bit, foot in the racer’s pedal’s grip, the detached limb slapping around. Nearby, I heard an old man whisper as he smoothed a hand across naked scalp “the hopper, the hopper.

poirot 4

2011-06-20T16:25:00.000Z

genie

2011-06-10T19:03:00.000Z

spagore

2011-04-19T03:34:00.002Z

shrot film:

2011-04-08T23:18:00.003Z

Walking down corridors... into beef mince tap dance routine to the tune of Country Arse Revival, whilst masterbating to the frequency of the predictable Friday shout swear routine held beneath my flat. Nazi guards of the Third World (I mean us), high level meeting. "Perhaps we can all dress up as guards in Nazi uniforms?" "Yes, I've put in a design for the new armband, a Mickey Mouse hat in the white yolk of the red white with a motto circling it..." "We oppress, we consume?" "Yes that's the motto." They gently cracked open a bottle of Victory Gin to celebrate, after all it would soon be the tenth aniversiary of Airstrip One's founding and things were going so well... I mean who knows perhaps the rebels will blow up the imaginary Deathstar....................

gawp

2011-03-04T17:15:00.001Z

proto's blob-o-angstists

2011-02-12T16:48:00.002Z

colour sperm

2011-01-17T17:14:00.001Z

piere

2011-01-17T17:06:00.003Z

2nd home

2010-12-13T21:11:00.001Z

A second home in the country

1. Foliage Peeper.

The Hacket’s (pronounced Hack-ay) a family of usual size and BBC sitcom demographic, were bustling, packing for the trip, the long summer in Umbria with their wealthy Italian (I’m sure (but not going to look it up) Umbria is in Italy?) friends the Drieda Tomatoesy. The Tomatoesy, of political class like the Hacket’s, had a fine villa/Mansion/castle/big house, (delete as appropriate, then claim) and as it happens were also friends of Scott Free.
Lloyd knelt in the undergrowth watching the families puffy red faces glide through the house, smeared in its ample windows, mounting and dismounting the stairs exposed by the open front door. They carried things to the huge, needless (if I crash into you, you die) car, loading cases, fabric, i-tech, things to covet, cover and plug into their bodies. Typical bodies, benign, malignant, tanned, thick dumb lipped, they the carious teeth, wine stained tongue and saliva of governing classes gob. A greased and greasy family of comfortable gears, turning with the aged aroma and putrescent guile of decanted bullshit, fettered to their comfortable cancers and toenails, clipped and residing in the vomit of tradition, politely puking their bile upon the brows of hunt spporters, battered but supple estate workers, and others unknown to them but thankfully easily shiftable, pliable, and generally forelockless from all the tugging of gentry cock gone skiing whilst the next season is set up.
Lloyd laid down in foliaceous summer ferns, at the edge, in the shadows of the boundary of trees, that hid the Hacket’s house from the busy road of ready-to-murder proles and their off white vans and filthy packages. Heil Hitler boomed in the beatbox sun and sweat rolled sweetly down Lloyds spine. There was a smell of spunk and he recoiled into dream, into predator wealth, soft and looking through the stalks shaking his scene of soon to be gone white marble edifices shot through with exploded capillaries and corpulent pores. They shifted orf, joining the prole traffic, headed for the airport (simile alert!) like a bunch of cunts in a car.
The cooling late summer sun sparkled in the canopy of gently shifting leaves. They breathed for him, lung-ed it for him, the noise of the Hacket’s car sunk away, a taint of its engine breath lingered in his nostrils. It would soon be his beast of times, but, just a little longer, a lengthy linger in the verdant borders of heightened self, of promise and fresh excitement.
Some time later Lloyd retrieved himself, rose up and headed for the outer surfaces of the house. He hoped there would be no alarm system. But he need not have hoped, for the writer had defused the circuits of paranoia. Had sent moths to cover the motion sensors, so that they would be numb, dumb and blind. Had sent rats to disable the alarm wiring with gnawing nervous tensions.

2. Enter Here, all Who Fear.

Lloyd jogged up to the matured red brick house and pressed himself star shape against it, licking a brick, tonguing the mortar. He flipped himself round and dramatically crept, like a expressionist hitman, arms splayed to the tips of fingers. Reaching a window he caressed the thick white paint of the frame and peered in, hands curved about his eyes to make clearer the contents, the aspirational magazine world within, his breath misting on the pane. He squeaked a finger through the hot frost on the window and licked his lips.

3. Inside.

Once inside Lloyd did a lot of wee wee and poo poo damage to the surfaces and upholstery, he also spunked in a secret shoe in a hidden room dedicated to the blue Medusa.

4. Diminishing.

Upon exit of the fancy brick scumloaf, Lloyd found a fuse and detonated all Angry Brigade style… The End…

a short circuit

2010-08-22T18:16:00.004Z

the pre-apocalypse post-apocalyptic society:

2010-08-22T18:14:00.002Z

Somalia, the pre-apocalypse post-apocalyptic society:

Self help manuals.

Erotic decongestants.

Deviant malaise.

Studded eyepatches.

Olfactory terrorism.

A bisected nostril.

screech

2010-08-02T15:41:00.002Z

Delirious screech, the old fashioned smell of nicotine hits me out the blue, the pleasant brain shiver frontal. A car crumples like an accordion in pixelised blur. All occupants dead it would seem. Uploaded without permission of their will-less bodies.

He has found situationist comfort in rolling dice to determine where the liquids are bought. He has assumed the roll of problem drinker for now and the meanwhile of screen cynosure. This cigarette is good and inhabits like godpuss on a victim in sociopathic lay-by. He realises that the victim is probably a woman and downloads torn hooker clothes for her to wear. He is the needle in her arm and sucks in order to fire up libidinal hits and highs. Gratification tastes of grit and human soil behind a DFS sofa. It wasn't that he couldn't feel, and so he went downstairs to get something from Sarah.

Sarah was on the worn but presentable bank holiday couch painting her toenails, tufts of cotton wool tween her little piggies. She wore less of clothes, split ends and her crooked gorgeous mouth in concentration. She painted in fine details on her hard footbits - one of which was onyxistic, I shit you not - portions of a Corot masterpiece of melancholy and twisted tree-muscle. Sarah had several co-occurrent thoughts running through her head:

Thought one: Should she attend Beachwood Club in SL, after all Viktor Galli would be spinning his arse off as usual.

Thought two: Too much dark grey on the little toe.

Thought three: The sleaze of her life was descending.

I guess a number 4 domestic dialogue happened, but I logged out at this point and described myself into an episode of CSI.

bludgeon

2010-07-22T22:43:00.002Z

And so the tories (prounced witout Mr T) have caved in the way for passionate idiots to teach with their probable, peculiar and particular brands of sect magic, and cultish incesticides, rather than flex out the curriculem for all and address the true consumer, the schoolkid. Eat shit schoolkids, in half-bottomed schools and freak texts at your minoritised fingertips, lick up the dribble of the obsessionalist come sage and onion to make you weep in your new found restrictive harnesses hitched up to purile myth. Your teacher taught you and me so much about life, and how much better it'll be when we die, Cos then we'll meet virgins fingering harps on clouds; in a Victorian mannerised way of course. No better bitch, than the dominant narrative, this turd of regurgitation and agitation to repeat stale mantras.

Holy intolerant jism.

Atheist Jihad, WooHooo

thungs

2010-07-19T15:31:00.004Z

fiver day

2010-06-18T17:47:00.001Z

An artery, a carrier of disease runs in coils about my spine. A mouth gaping, broken and barely legal, its rotted teeth planted into my arm head first. Enamel roots grow black and reach out. Black flexible spikes, tendrils, sensory organs touching up nubile and firing back synoptic pulses that mutilate books and dry costumes. With warts, with forelocks, with romantic rape. Her seven forehead pores as big as blackened thumb nails spread evenly across her brow, lap at his fuck sweat. She pushed under, ploughing with fingers the soil. Paroxysms. Jerking high heels crucify feet. Separation of bones. An archaeologist seems confused, investigates a day old burial. A barely green. A hardly ripe occupant of the death orchard, the graveyard, the stone garden, the filing cabinet. Punched card rots in compost. Programs the earth here, to create something freed of flesh, thought and history.

Freed of aircraft wings and the tyres of racing cars. Flash, lean, tanned. Legs straddle the monocoque. Fingers caress aerodynamic openings and orifices of haute design. Shiny, smooth, slick veneers and supercharged sexualities. This cockfruit laps at the tarmac, tongues it, slices the air and prepares reconstituted death powder enabled with water, tasteful hair, jutting chins, pussy jizz and Hitler moustaches. Totalitarian barrier narratives crashed into, politely reconfigured. Nothing changed. Gelatin tears. Fibre glass fibre. Five implications a day.

somemembering

2010-05-30T20:04:00.001Z

Lamia. Hypodermic teeth, hollowed spikes draw adrenalin soaked blood. Soaked blood straight into the fiends brain. Anemic thought bubbles and reddens, boils until febrile dream of transsexual beauty and interlocking mouths in silhouette and saliva. Without bodily grammar, restriction, or need of design. The Vamps’ Cockfingers grow fat with desire and sense with their bellend nostrils the fecund and weak evacuating into wallets and down the backs of sofas. Their taut tendrils of shit strew across glass table tops, under which voyeurs are implanted. A heady scent. The Vampire aware of it, aware of the nectar issued by teethed vulva breaking out in swollen fruit beneath arms and in the groins of plague carriers.

burnbaby fish and bird's beak

2010-05-02T12:48:00.003Z

vampington

2010-03-27T21:37:00.001Z

Once in the American Mid-West there was a vampire town, a town without inhabitants or lice. To sustain itself the town would feed upon gas stations, small homesteads, buses and vehicles. Once gorged and fit enough the town would move on, in the cloak of night, occupying a fresh space in the dry wilderness. The greyhound buses were a favourite of the town’s, a preferred delicacy. Upon catching a bus the town would lift it to the sky and shake out its human contents, which were of no interest to the town, it would then suck upon the buses’ metallic and oily nutrients until it was a crumpled husk of integrated transport solutions.

And so it went on, it was a good time and the town found plenty to eat in the nights, things like gas stations bloated with fuel, wooden shacks full of bombs and embittered loners, mobile homes circled around lakes and the occasional family car. And the humans? Well they would run into the deserts and desolate spaces as the town fed upon their habitats and transport, invariably the humans starved, dehydrated and shrivelled in the widening expanses of withoutness.

Over the years the town grew strong and festered comfortably into a metropolis with tall fangs that pierced the sky and drew down aircraft into its void of delirium to be emptied of flesh and sucked at for their plastics, metals and combustible dope, that gave the now vampire metropolis such a high!

stuffity stuff stuff

2010-03-12T22:01:00.007Z

the scaffold

2010-03-02T16:52:00.002Z

Components: revolutionary grime, a guillotine, a drum roll.

A drum roll building to a crescendo. The victims head flies from the basket (being taken away) containing it and reattaches to the torso. The victim reformed stands up arms aloft and rejoices. He makes to walk away but his leg falls off. He picks up the errant leg, placing it under his arm and hops nobly off.

“Hops Nubly off! Don’t you mean wanked?”

“Eer no, nobly’s not a persons name.”

“My great uncle’s name was Nubly, Nubly Winkparsons.”

Angrily and at the end of a tether. “WAITER.” (they seem to be sat in a restaurant discussing the sketch.)

“Yes sir.”

“Have you ever heard of someone called Nubly? Of the name Nubly?”

“Why yes my niece is a Nubly, Nubly Felchvicar.”

“!?”

incidal

2010-01-31T18:48:00.001Z

drugs are like that

2010-01-31T18:46:00.001Z

A Year in the Trenches

2009-12-01T22:01:00.001Z

Picking up where he had let off, Lloyd drifted into the accounts, nay, escapades of Colonel Man Officer: … bombs fell short, fifty yards out in no-mans land, a curtain of mud and men-bits rained upon them. Rained upon their fatigued, soaked bodies, uniform and filth clinging terminally. He clung to these wretched, these shadows hunched into the wall of the trench. A high pitched scream razored through the fugue of bombardment. It came from further down the line, from the latrines. Colonel Man Officer shoved himself upright into a stooped I may get my head blown off position, and started to make his way down the line. He acknowledged each man as he passed, and entered into a hazy mantra of reassuring officer speak, nods, gazes and strained polite grins, fixed, broken, grimaced. A scene of freneticism met him at the latrine, dull brown, green and a splash of fresh hot red. Private Colloquial was laid out, the splash of red was his, and his groins’. He motioned manic to Colonel Man Officer.
“It got one of me balls sir! It got one of em! A rat in the shitter!”
“Latrine Colloquial, latrine!” barked Colonel Man Officer.
“You gotta get it for me sir! Mable will be at a loss without it, she likes to suck em see!”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Colonel Man Officer approached the latrine, and the black hole pointed out to him by his men, the hole with the rat in, the hole with the nut scrumper. He reached in slowly, fingers, hand, arm ready to recoil. He, ready, in front of his men to stop such a loss of face, a reaction, something natural, something of their level. As he groped through the excrement slop for the testicle nibbling rat he could feel his personal lice copulating in the sweat on the nape of his neck, along with the dead lust eyes of his men, watching with itching red bulbs. He reached in further, elbow deep, he felt it, grabbed its squirming form. His face folded a little in disgust. He regained control, flattened out his facial constriction and yanked out a shitted rat with an orb impaled on its incisors. With a swift well practiced movement – one usually reserved for pheasants – Colonel Man Officer dispatched the rat and retrieved the Private’s piece of privates, plucking the orb disdainfully – for he hated to be seen by his men to act usefully, and felt uncomfortable, lower, in acting like them – from the rat’s pronounced teeth.
“You got it sir. You got it!”
“What of it! So I got it Colloquial! Got it from a whore in…”
“No sir, my testicle!?”
“Oh, yes, yes of course.”
Colonel Man Officer held the ball before him, amongst gunfire and general warfare bric-a-brac. A brief reverie washed across him as he held the pink sublime. He was interrupted by the whiz of a bullet that whispered into his ear as it passed: “give the soldier your trophy.”

Litter diviner

2009-11-06T14:34:00.002Z

-You can tell a lot about the countryside and our nations love for it through the health of the litter.

-The litter?

-Yes the litter, the discarded detritus, diet fizz discards; much more prevalent nowadays. The beer cans, porn, soiled nappies in carrier bags, not that that it stops at nippers shit..

-You mean..

-Yes adult waste, bright and bulging at the seems of a knotted plaggy bag, reclining in a branch bathed in the evening sun.

-You like that kind of thing?

-Oh yes! Sometimes I prod it, see if it’s a aleatory burster.

-No, I meant analysing the litter.

-The litter, umm, not a patch on the shit.

Flax Heck

2009-11-06T14:30:00.002Z

Flax Heck lives under the decking of an ordinary garden, grabbing what food he can, invariably meat, dragged into the small dark hole, so that he might eat.

We see a time lapse of the garden from above cycling through the seasons, stopping to show a skinny spiky hand drag down birds (bird table near by) and cats and dogs and then a human member of the household. Having done this Flax must escape and does so at night. We see him fully for the first time: lean skinny, spiky hands, pointed teeth, bald head.

He clambers a wall, resting his teeth on its brickwork, grabbing the wall in his diseased mouth.

He runs down the orange lit street with the gait of a manic, excitable Igor; a limping run.

His first victim is a late night skater, who Flax pummels to death with his skateboard. A final blow to the back of the head causes eyes to pop out from skull. Flax steals his clothes, especially the hoodie with its circled A on the back. But he stoops to tongue the ear of the victim for 5 minutes (shot real time with many varied angles).

Two girls in a car. “NO NO NO”. cut to shot of Large letters on street spelling NO. “But look!” says the other “NOSE!” The S and the E come into view, having been slightly hidden.

Flax smashes deliriously through the polystyrene letters and jumps into the car via the windscreen. With one foot in each well and the girls screaming, Flax’s hands come away from the wrists, attached as they are by petite hinges, and two large Drills (pneumatically) emerge from within his arms.

After much drilling, killing and dismembering (and fountains of blood gushing out the side windows) Flax with a severed arm in one reformed hand and a leg and bit of vagina and pubes (gloriously hairy, like that picture I saw of Betty Page via a link on Old Feminist) in the other beats the back seat like a deranged 2001 ape with a bone.

Some night later FH skulked towards the train station, by means of escape from the obscenity of the car/girl/ape murder. It was early and dark at the iron cold station. He crept under a mail train and hung there listening to the metal of trolleys and the hum of the soon to depart host train. He clung confidently to the under innards of the diesel, vaguely fantasizing of the bigger place it would take him. A place with dancers and murder bodies strewn; to Edinburgh via first class delivery. He spat upwards knowing it would fall back to his face. The train grumbled off in fresh frost morning.

a few minutes in the Theatre Toil

2009-09-22T19:14:00.001Z

He saw the actor outside the theatre looking at a huge poster of his own face, whilst inside an old woman wobbled her face above a salad.
Trying to dry out. It rains. Hunkered into a hood, a black amphitheatre for the head. Wet car noise reverberates and stretches around the ears. A bus stop, its shelter, the graphite command on red brick, “Suck My Tit.” Drying out with triple chocolate and coffee, and a vantage point from which to stare.
Spoke loudly and alone, and continually, and with bare response, on and on. Forgot what he said, it was the turd of bloke.
Status: Looking to buy somut, though currently in the toil with a coffee and a sturdy flapjack, that will hopefully block up my pestering shitter.
Stuff: A bull-mastif and massive, a pile of skin folds on legs. I slash it open with my imagination and human babies spill from its gut. Mewling, slowly flexing limbs and fingers in the viscera. But before that I had just seen her blue eyes embedded in a phone.
He call him Lloyd. He call him himself. He’d just met a fellow sufferer, who had been for a week now without chemical shroud, without the prescription nails in his hands and feet. Fresh, excited, excitable. Vague voices had returned to the fellow, faintly mirrored in the conversations of those he passed. Slightly critical, though reassuring and familiar stigmata bled into his bounding brain. He was alive once again, without the doctors waged interpersonal chemical warfare bearing a normality down upon him. As he walked away I called to him with my own name, and he turned and waved back.

Spells of hatred and atrophied thought

2009-09-07T23:29:00.001Z

The glimmer of my future carcass
At roads edge
Festered naked
Just hidden from the glazed commuters
Notoriety
Renditions
Bruised throat choking
In sex murderers unsuspected hands
In salacious edits and reconstructions

A slip of a crow predictably harvests:
Pongy innards
Absent narrative
A lack of doing structure
Caged paddling
Living things.
From my rot.

My juices flux in minute seasons
Evaporating stenches
With turns of British weather
Flesh recedes to reveal
Bald bone looking out
Peeking:
Cheekily
Ribbedly
Kneefully

Dead of functions
A hidden frame
A secret hold me up
Shows the canopy a dissection etching

I am growing maggots from face
Beetles
And a blanket of fertilized foliage
Brambles
Dark fruit
A squish of gorged worms and
A longing for my tabloided star
To shoot across your dark
Woeful robothood seeking
To imprison a monster
Your creation creator

A walking of the dogs

I am now found

the flagellants corpse

2009-09-01T00:18:00.002Z

A community had grown up around and within the decaying penitent’s corpse, his right arm still wielding a cat-o'-nine-tails, still beating out a rhythm of wounds upon his chest. For all that the Ickulbs could see, for all that they could hear, it was life. Life in the shadow of a still animate limb, and the time keeping of atrophied flesh.

The Ickulbs lived in tower blocks that had sprouted somewhat organically from the open rotted wounds, cavities and holes, from beneath the arms and in the groin. Housing grown malignant, sideways and upwards.

The Ickulbs have no features, save for those viewed by each observer. Features and facial rictus personalised for every vicarious voyeurs psychic junctures, however similar the scene.

They lived in each others fantasies, in pockets of hope and unreality. Trampling, trammelling upon one anothers balloons of colour, smoothness, sun, riches and the other clichés of the imagined that breed life and ongoingness.

Their oral tradition was always short lived, existing only as fashion and of and for its time. What past story and song they had would be finally transmitted in the houses put aside for the fatally drunk, and, would die with them, in their final gasps and guttural saliva oiled sputterings.

Violence is unknown, savage and immediate. It lies dormant, innate and irrational, waiting for the joy of postponed shame. It waits within puppies and icecreams, creeps around recreational activities, around imbibed chemicals, promised home and corporeal enhancements. It waits to breath, to exhale limblessness and skull trauma.

jippery bridge

2009-07-27T22:21:00.001Z

My bridge I have reached
For lungs to fill with choke
And thirst with fizz
Where pornography flutters her hair
And drowns limbs amongst foliage
Broad leaves
In one spot chemically burnt
Light brown and dead
Where the ditch spews in
A slight weir manmade
For the muddy coloured wet
To skip
To mix with trickled under bridge

I observe cars approach
In this solitude placed
Back turned
Gulping usefully at fag
As they and I should intersect
Gazes and acknowledgement
Won’t play between us
Or my strategically oblique face
Rendered fuck off
I’m in my own sweat
But they do swirl the verge
Suck and fold
Green plump sensations

Reheld He drifts reverent
Towards English painter scene
Cows in field
Cooled in shadows of Italian trees
Bubble up tumescent arboreal
White mirrored froth
In sky
Slunked beneath
Heated pleasant
He tosses cig to water
And watches
For as far as seen
Then unimagined

litany of complaint

2009-07-26T22:40:00.002Z

Lloyd composed a letter:

3 The Way
Sphincter Alley
System 4
YOY 222

Dear Madman, you have been boversome for some while now, what with your constant substance abuse and dependency on over the counter pharmacuticals (Lloyd bit at his nails worrying about his spelling, He’d check later in his 1961 Websters.) It is sir, quite frankly, beginning to grate on one. Only the other day I found you seated on the shiny white throne with your fingers up MY arse, trying to dig out some perceived impurity. Please desist, as the cavity (which you have widened and damaged somewhat) is bleeding and coughing up some kind of mucus each time I heave ho. It is, to say the least, quite disconcerting to look over my shoulder and see a spattered red bowl. I’ve taken to closing my eyes and groping for the flush, fearful of what I might see. Recently though (and don’t think I’m not aware) you use this moment (that of my eyes shuttered) to emit a high pitch giggle from my mouth! The neighbours have heard, and I am starting to get looks. But this is not the first time (as I’m sure you know) you have used my gob against my will. Let me remind you, that on the 42/6/Olympic number (British date time) whilst I was engaged (somewhat furtively, I admit) browsing a magazine designed specifically for onanistic pleasure, you, whilst I was turning a page in search of a more desirable alignment, screamed out! “Gargle on it you dirty heifer, take it down your throat vadge!” Using my mouth once again for your own verbal issue. Just as you tiresomely do when we are in the supermarket, always, and without fail shouting, from my forced open mutterbox: “We’re going up the chocolate aisle now!” You never get the looks that I see, as you are usually behind me sniggering. I have half a mind, but you constantly spill into it, with your vague stoned sophistry. Even as I write this letter, you insist on getting me munted on your vile cheap spirits and grubbily acquired (I was there remember. I cannot forget.) Marjory. In finality sir, if you persist with this behaviour, I will be forced to sacrifice myself and slice open your wrists.

Yours truly, Lloyd Von Clockhanger

kamping

2009-07-17T18:29:00.001Z

I'll get that linden / fragment of a dollar / scrawl dribbling across the repetitive beats / atrophied / withered of brain muscle / a M.J death clone fakes tears / shopping for violence, the seething foam of commerce / illuminates / frustrates / prickle skin sensations, until owned by the dull thought / a slight subterrainian noise tickles / the Technician elaborates over a cloaked barely rezzed corpse / grey / blank / unfortunately elf like / cringes / slips scalpel into eyeball / twists playfully / with a bored expression....

man made as a doll / skinny / lithe / a burp helped me out into another night / sexy blows awaken me / strip off skin / thankfully shiny and false beneath....

a movie mein kampf / a sample cliche's up the silence / tranmission / all the juice in your ear / floods / flows / goo up and stick / control of discharge / and wet gore suck / a tongue in ear might palpate an emotion / an incompatability / a digital glitch muds up brown....

something generic farts / can't distinguish the smell just yet / but a rat's tail is of interest / tickles a consciousness / uploading electro sex music / the moth gets closer to the lightbulb of the Technician's mind / and flutters / is deceased / desiccates in the pile of others attracted to closeness / muted / closed down and greyed out / S Faith's a dick / minimal bong shardz....

a dom maddonna / bleeding in front of me / the puke bondage / ringed to a man / all I need is a plaster / a dull untingle / save me daphne / your pop up enquires of me / I don't believe, but click anyhow....

back to the Woods and a kind of hope mishandled / she fingers my anus quietly / I pain happy / and happily pain out / luxury the vodka and feared sleep febrile / brains out on the counter thinking change / just Bellmer it up / lift off skull for / ohh I don't know the anti nazi league'd tagged is dancing next to me in underpants / rather he's jerking all socked up...

paperceuticals

2009-06-20T23:01:00.003Z

271 pages

2009-06-07T20:13:00.001Z

Lloyd’s cranial teat fluttered a little as he browsed for a notebook. Adjacent to him the shop assistant arranged already neatly arranged books on a shelf. He assumed he must be a thief and promptly purchased a notebook – this notebook – to replace the shoddy page moulting predecessor.
He was lost. He had just emptied the old notebook of content and chucked it in a bin. He had felt like a criminal relieving a purse of its paper and coin. He kicked himself along, transparent and scuffed like a traffic flattened diet coke bottle. Onward into the unfamiliar streets, pouring himself down tenement lined slopes until he struck some memory, some previous location of self in dead chronologies. He slipped into deteriorated strips of paved celluloid he had once starred in with a walk on part. And there he found himself criminalising his thought in the book shop. Later on deep into a fuelled and substantive mourning:

A bubonic hatred. The ghost of so many pavements and viewed from the wheeled metal containments, vaguely reflected in the screens. The scene seen on the screen, himself, at points of periphery, at the paedophile edges of a park.

One’s scissors, one’s knifes, in a fight. One cutting, one stabbing, three blades biting one another. Not that you would know. Insulated fantastically. Comfortable and so such. He’s stoned see, seeing like Cagney see. He’d met Marjory training blades, sharpening cocks to go up against each other, so that nobody reads and so and so. And such. Scissor cutting up a slit, knife in castration act. And death wank and other.

Lloyd drew a line under last nights discussion with Marjory Wana. A line under the excrement in the woods, the excrement piled high in secret, in bags that can be squeezed. And a line under the hand-cuffs in cots and the general miasma of semi-mystic sophisms.

futtal gonid

2009-05-12T21:31:00.001Z

urpies

2009-05-12T15:59:00.003Z

time after time

2009-05-11T01:17:00.002Z

Lloyd did this. Lloyd did that. Lloyd did the other and stretched out a finger from his tight angsty mit to press the button on the bulky makeshift Corporeal Chronology Device. Immediately he was in another skin, the skin of his seven year old self from what he could tell from the mirror on the device. But his bone and muscle stayed adult sized, naked, skinless legs poking through childhood feet at his knees. His dissection etching arms sprouting from school age hands, fingers radiating stiff at his elbow like a peacocks tail plumage. And his head sprouted from a crop of cranial fur circulating his neck. Lloyd quickly reached out for the button and stickily pressed it. In the flutter of an eyelash he had changed, but this time more completely. He was Marilyn, and naked. Lloyd felt all the parts you would expect me have him feel, and then clutching the left breast, he bit off the nipple. It isn’t me after all, he thought, grimacing into the mirror, blood on his chin, on her chin, blood cascading over their stomach and pattering pleasantly on the black tiled floor. Another button press and he had changed again. Cramped, aching, stretched out. Sensations where everywhere, touch, sight, smell, tastes, all scattered across his frame, his mind and thoughts too, no longer were they at some centre, but spread across him and at moments autonomous. Lloyd organised the visual component of his form to look in the mirror of the device. He didn’t recognise the reflection, but then a wave of icy nausea rippled across him. He was a replica, a copy of the chronology machine. A fleshy device and with his very own button. A limb came out of him, from a side, a joined articulated femur and rib. He could sense a distant thought down his left side controlling the appendage, but he only seemed able to watch as the tip of the rib folded down and then pressed his button….il slit heir….breathing…sunlight that doesn’t need hope…nothing…

yards of exclusion, stalking orgasm

2009-05-09T21:24:00.002Z

A news story intrigues Lloyd for an hour, he googles details and fits it together. Enters through roof and kills the kid riding his Wii, Lloyd puts his head next to trophies atrophied plants and swimming pools. Puts the kids decapitated head amongst the fake gold, the Perspex, the twisted glass and distorted reflections. Hands clutch pens, golden DVDs, a book unravels its pages on the coffee table. The trees hiss in wind, whisper above fatal fame headless in sticky pool, on thick carpet, over tiles Italian, and too shiny. Lloyd masturbates feckless, to tunes of latex and disposable teen glamour, to the feet and the thickness of thighs. He mixes landed semen in sticky pool red, streaks it out like sun striations looping, and then speaks into the bare neck, words to swallow throatless, direct to still gurgling belly of lifeless star.
The night is long with body-star, with corpse moon, with waiting to do something else. The Hollywood house is white and gold and South East Asian hard wood. He caresses surfaces. Perfect smooths and fake distress. Runs his reflection along gold handrail climbing up a staircase with modernist rectangles cut into it. Has a shower. Looks in hiding places for another persons porn. Intimate items trickle through his hands. Calm hands at peace open clean sealed packages found in a stack of goody bags. Sprays expensive, sprays it all into linen, into one spot on a fancy sheet the accumulated scents of Europe evaporating in the precision light of inset circles. Light that tilts and can be focused about the room through use of a black rollerballs mounted by the door and in the bedside tables. With a click the rollerballs become dimmers, controllers of shadows, of emergence and submergence. Sending signals across the hills, he sits on the bed in confused fragrance.
Exploring on hands and knees, crawling in a night of riches, freezing as a statue each time the worried phones ring. Time perhaps to leave this pad, find the garage, the petrol, move on slink back.
The flames race high, fingering blackness, exploding dry shrubs. Lloyd scrambles into vague spaces, tearing skin on shrubs, finds a road, ignores and crosses it quickly into a laborious tangle of escape.

15 minutes in a book shop.

2009-04-29T16:42:00.003Z

He was reading a book, a random page, to take a bit off the mind: …>>Tis the shonkiest donkey that ever waxed through Wayford, Mamm<< Lloyd skipped a bit, then reading on: …at that moment a certain gentleman came through the copse, his britches soaked through so that one could see the outline of his cock resting on a presumably hairy and manly thigh. Colonel Man Officer strode forward squelching in his boots, the pond water bacteria and algae providing sustenance to his heavily fungulated feet. But in her eyes the flesh was splendid. Splendid with haloes on… Jeez! Lloyd moved along the shelves and picked up another book, he started to read, his stupid lips miming the words: …the fridge door itinerary, the herbilicious borders robbed for fads. The children rollicked loudly in the garden and through Susan’s daydreams of the man at the park rowing, forever moving away backwards in the evening river, in the orgasm that had terrified her son mid Play-Doh, mid-afternoon, with a plastic toy, a tentative dildo that had seemed all improbabilities. She could feel a rash of guilt… Lloyd browsed further along, scanned another book, and another passage fragment: …In a large city like Los Angeles, but not Los Angeles, the main source of information is an electronic spout somewhere near the centre. Salacious Android knew this and would take the mono on a daily basis to get his fix of Risalapram junked into his nodes. Eyes would glisten up, distort vague. He would lose his transparency and… Lloyd replaced the book in the popular pile, and left, leaving a glance with the bored shop assistant at the till, leaning in black fleece uniform, idling with burnt in brand of white vinyl on chest.

Lamborghini Tractor, 23 years ago.

2009-04-29T16:37:00.001Z

The spitting image song (deckchairs up the nose, snorted, imbibed) and a Lamborghini tractor in a stone walled field are synomonous to Lloyd. But he couldn’t quite think the memory out. He was having a panic attack. Not that the others on the bus would notice. Unless they were inspecting him closely, for his breathing had become deliberate rather then involuntary. He held a hand casually across his mouth, elbow rested on sill of bus window. The hand covered his rhythmic fish gaping slit, protected it from infectious observation. Lloyd placed his imaginary dick in the cleavage of a viewed woman, but it was gore, it was a huge sticky maggot scything through frontal lobes, and didn’t take his mind off the stirring stomach. He tried to throw thought away from this ill feeling, into the horses in the field, into reliable fantasies and the heavy trod mind paths. If only some couple were behind him, chatting so he could drift into their words, their lives, meanings and trivialities. But there was no one, no one talking, just the buses drone, fit and start, and the gut churning roads of East Yorkshire, where flags of Confederacy are duh rigour.

a crickets length

2009-04-15T22:05:00.005Z

Groggy, annoyed, caressed by a feverish dream of buses and unpeddable bikes Lloyd awoke into the brow scrunching noise of municipal chainsaws attacking the trees, the foliage, his fragility. Dear Jesus didn’t they know it was only AM, an hour left, but still only AM time. Grunchingly he got up, unfurling the duvet with an automatons flourish. It was damp from the dream terror sweats and the scrumpled sheet beneath had decorated one side of his body with its folds, with the unkempt lay of the lad, red and unnaturally white. As for the dream, well.

The dream was remembered something like this: Struggling with a bike, its peddles or Lloyd’s legs don’t seem to work. Struggling with a bike, underpants, holey boxers, raggedy and worn outside jeans. Struggling to hide the underwear beneath black shirt. A host of amblers, not normally there, impede and obstruct. A bus travels off in the wrong direction, dramatically and with tension, with that preternatural fear. A system of everything through coloured block charts seems possible. Squirming under Lloyds makeshift spear, prong, sharpened metal prod, a papier-mache beast. Need to kill it. It is like a leatherback turtle. Ugly. Threatened. Aliens are cut into slices, inside they are like tomato innards, like larva lamps, like seeds looking for somewhere to plant. Lloyd receives an award, a certificate, the Gille De Rais embellishment on paper. It is worthless, not accepted. Graham Chapmen holds a meeting in an old entangled colonial pile, surrounded by jungle. Lloyd is on the bank of the river before the house, but cannot make his legs move, cannot climb the bank. An abundance of pith helmets.

Lloyd emerges into the scream of mechanical teeth and tree jism.

The bus comes now Lloyd thought, now when the snickers wrapper, tumbling, blown fitfully, passes the third kerb interstice from the edge of the bus stop. The branded discard scuttled pass the third stone and the gap that ended it. Pattered onwards, probably to bleach and interminably rot in the tangles of brambles, the flower beds of the park, the gutters of the street, the front gardens of probability. Oh not then, then, thunk Lloyd, when then, when the schoolgirl, almost home after school, enters her house and shuts the first of two doors. The desired houses of Scotland seemed to share that trait with American homes, homes hot and in the south from what he had seen on TV, and with painted, pouting, panting alcoholic women, Elizabeth Taylors in sweatpants pink. The schoolgirl had shut the door, but the bus had yet to arrive, to turn the corner onto the old Newhaven Rd. Impatient Lloyd lit a Windsor Blue, and yes it came round the corner, the freshly lit cigarette had tempted it into a materialisation. Lloyd stubbed out a good length of potential tar on the side of the bin, held out his arm, assembled into a collaboration with the bus driver to arrange delivery of the folding ingress, readied his change.

>>Purple enough for ya?<< A passenger in front motioned to their companion, pointing into a catalogue he couldn’t make out or what was purple. He settled in, into the high seat, not the rear seat, but the one that allowed him to view everyone on the bus, bar those behind, and more importantly to lustre after the foot claddings of females as they paid for their tickets, walked the aisle, or climbed the steps to the upper deck. Boots of every kind are his favourite.

Lloyd plugged in his not an ipod player, plugged it into his ears, and consciously hid the aberrant not an ipod player in his jacket. He listened and watched. (Traditional speech marks will indicate music / lyrics. You have been scorned.)

“Soon, soon, soon, these unborn things, sweat hanging like best perfume on lithe frames. Soon, soon, soon, they would wear skull shaped under garments, femurs for sleeves, the teeth of jackels in their ears. Soon, soon, soon…”

A drunk gesticulates into the bus, at the driver, at a bus stop were he was carelessly crossing, at a generalness of everything, his toothless absence, his lack of most teeth naked, enlarged outside the windscreen.

“I could murder my another, smother my another, in an off seas bank account, pecking manicure, pecking at bowling greens, seething in tumult, breathing in asphalt, coughing reflectively, gob into the sink…”

Nice pair of boots boards his train of thought, his examination of the tarmac, (note to self, had to correct my to his, get out of Lloyd you writer!) they, the boots ascend the stairs, travel away to a world of noisy children on the back seat, feet drumming, skipping into beats, unnerving reverie, disconnecting its soporiferous sensations in the reflections of the windows of Chicken Shack. Windows and shop sunk away from the street, basement level, reflecting the legs and feet of those waiting at the bus stop.

“Shoes and litter, you are my glitter, the somnabulence I skip to, in provincial gleam, go, go, go, Spartacus dream league, go, go, go, the ether sign painters union, go, go…”

Two youths scrambled with posturing onto the bus and sat in front of Lloyd, one seemed animated, telling a story enthusiastically, with big hand motions and gestures. Lloyd heard the odd word here and there, increasingly words like spunk and excrement began to puncture his daydream stasis, which he started to delaminated, unpeel, so that he could focus on the story. Now he had something besides the faint static of his broken not an ipod player to bear down upon.

The story unravelled from this point: …and then they spunked in her near death ears, slapping spent bellends against her gauche ear-ring burdened lobes. A still born child slabbered out of her at this point, feet first, its legs death twitching, doing a tap dance in the plentiful viscera deposited upon the slab, the fine Italian marble, its edges dripping red in that cold slapping way on the stone beneath.
Shit! I hope this is The Aristocrats joke thoughticuled Lloyd.
Then the Priest came in, he’d just finished lubing the larynxes of the choir boys, and was outraged at the noise the Satanists had been making next door in the Saturnary and shot them all. And I robbed their corpses for glory loot…
A series of clouds emerged from Lloyds mind, gradually increasing in size, until in the final cloud read the thought: Ahh he’s recounting his exploits in the Pubic Racist mod for GTA IV.

Lloyd removed himself back into static, into the reassurance of sultry sibilance. His Morningside stop was approaching and he arranged himself to depart, rang the bell, got up, swayed from vertical hand-bars to chrome seat grips as he idled towards his exit.
It was dreak, grey, blustery. The bus had been a warm bath of humanity for forty minutes. He hunched into his clothes and headed off to see V**** at the library opposite Waitrose. (Though given recent history of this supermarket site it may well have changed ownership when you come to check the veracity of my tract… tract, tee hee.)

some time later

2009-04-08T22:12:00.005Z

Some years later, somewhere beyond rainbows and the rotted mouldy leather jacket that died and was dumped in a wheelie bin in the back brick alleys of Manchester. Lloyd travelled north, to a city of hard stone, edifices and stairs. He never got comfortable, never found out about the chinks in his fantasies, his brain idling daydreams.

Semester 18.

Leaving, leaving the weekly group via London Rd, Lloyd dawdled into reverie, interspersed with the habitual in roughly the same place, just before the crossing. The crossing that talked if you could find it blind, and anyway. Croaky robotic accent near the pink bottle cap that Lloyd observed, noted mentally and somewhat superstitiously each time he passed. Sometimes he would have to pause, search it out, locate it until he could move on. It had been there now for months, on the desire path that cut through the crescent of city parkland. Only existing, only just in his gaze, his habit of its observation. But back to the habitual before the crossing. A Mayfair kingsize, lit by the streetscape junction box coated with posters. Today it was a poster for the independent film >>Savage Cabin,<< a large female screaming eye with a silhouette of a log cabin crafted into the reflection of the pupil. Lloyd flicked his gaze from the poster to the denim clad vulva of the oncoming passer-by, and exhaled, and wondered almost aloud. The boots of the vulva (he hadn’t seen her yet) made a nice sound in his squishy brain parts. When he looked at her face, met her eyes at that point arranged by both passers, she seemed to laugh eyefully. Lloyd slumped on curtly coughing. Resolving himself, he decided that he might go see the film at the Picturehouse.

After 183 minutes Lloyd entered the Picturehouse, paddled around a little near a notice board examining the grotty red carpet, examining his shoes and others, examining start times, examining posters with their familiar rebuses and five star reassurances. Deciding to see the film, he bought his ticket from the garish kiosk, the attendant slid it to him across the counter, her fingers were pretty, nails painted in bruise colours, her smile crept upon him later, he didn’t remember seeing her eyes.

The film itself went like this: Two teen pot smoking lovers mauled by a salivating (possibly rabid) moose, extremities bitten off and into by huge incisors, then eventually, after some camera trickery, the pair are carried crucified, one per antler dripping their respective death oozes. Witness to the moose attack a young geek is suffocated, drugged and dragged into darkness by a hick-billy. A lithe terrified female whilst in the process of an escape from an unseen pursuer, somehow slams a seemingly sharp car door upon her head, thereby carving off a chunk of cranium, a finality of grey slop plops into forest mud. A pre-tortured (I only heard the latter screams) youth cuts off his crippled vice held hand with a light weight hacksaw, when he hears the semi-toothless goon (skinny and redolent of Spike) approach, the youth escapes down a series of tunnels scraping frantic stump on manky wood walls, impaling earth, eventually he emerges into moonlight and panting frenzy, and then disappears with a verdant rustle. Our young geek awakes, strapped down with barbed wire upon a grimy, soaked and quite stylish dentist chair, eyes and mouth held wide open via an elaborate mechanism, (lots of close up panicked eye gapery) a hick-billy approaches with a three pin plug made of power drills for our young geek’s forced sockets, a great deal of corporeal and mechanical screams follow, along with a lot of slorp and glurp red wetness.
For Lloyd this was the end of the film he drifted off into the repetitive, into a painful sleep, into images of slender hands pinpointed with dark purple nail polish exploring his pockets, into being unable to walk or move up steps of soggy red carpet.
>>…over.<<
>>Guh!<<
>>Film’s over sir, you have to leave now.<<
>>Oh, yes, yes, sorry<<
Lloyd exited the theatre, a little groggy and newly born into the outside, traffic, wind and shouts, all slightly wrong. Walking past the poster for >>In the Oblivion of our Metamorphoses<< a new Lemmy Caution film, he stuffed hands into pockets and refamiliarised himself with the litter within. A crushed and empty fag packet along with its hymenal cellophane, a bus ticket and a ball of silver paper. The bus ticket would be useful, it would get him home and to V****.
>>Ahh V**** Lloyd lullabyed.<<

the Obyss

2009-04-05T20:53:00.001Z

A salient depressed / salivous dribbles / clear plastic pecked with bubbles / flaws / stretched until snaps / double up on anti-depressant / sedative mourning mania / deposit porn at the roadside / a year since it was found / at the roadside / at the verge / at the verdant ditch / at the pinnacle of hope / in the yesterday blooming.

More mouth moaning / stroking throat / crystal and unshaven / edges / curved points / looping words fail / die dreaming / aspire sweat / chunter voices vibrate the bus / the views / the travellers in the layby / the thoughts spurting / down the back of her neck / above her head / lolloping into encroaching distance.

The change / an injection of toxins / vague distress and spots of blood / a soft trickle from the nose / deep / dark game played / a sonorous solitude / mounts / stuffed living / from the lists of fame / from the sunshine states / bleaked out with dark shades and ray-beams / a monochrome landscape / bleached skin and dust.

An idol smile died yesterday / glittered under redtops / examined / excavated and uprooted / casually crafted femur dildos / an everyone must have / must have / musty trophies / the rotten decomposed words / spilt vowels / glossy intestines slip / roll / crawl in the footprints / the hollow index of the consumertariat.

Today is Thursday and a savoury was delivered unto us.

mott

2009-03-29T20:55:00.002Z

post structuralist paisley

2009-03-29T20:52:00.002Z

hundreds of information

2009-03-29T20:42:00.001Z

Would like to talk to / the mouldy taped voice / the mistaken approach / poached / fried / scraped from the non-stick mind / a severed sentence / abruptly / the smell of tobacco on fingers / in the black plastic of scraping rear seat ashtray / spots of blood in vision / a damp figure at the edge of sight drives / through rain / through windscreen glare / on a shaved baby roadway / crevices of pink / car jerking like jizz candy / stringed out accelerations / pauses in laybys / cigarette caressing / coughing with phlegm punctuation / silver / chrome / gaze / glasses / eyes slumbering above gaffa tape cross mouth / the illumination of day fizzles / caked blood / limbs tied behind torso and taut brain / and the faint array of juvenile word atrocities / speaking of witch:

Grenadier arse keg lit needlessly near good queen embryo.
Onanist maintaining rhythm to coincide with second plane.
Nunching after a blow back felch.
Another cat’s paw sewn to empty testicle sack, flapping wildly about its pole.
Dentist drilling for oil finds nerve to ask out her reclining screamsomeness.

They / the words and sentances toyed across the synapses / metal on a nerve that tastes its blue / its saliva inducement / caked flakes of semen in Pollock appliqué / brown ribbed seat / hot plastic smell / the grim stench of objects covering / a tartan rug / a masterpiece waiting to be unveiled / reflects in glasses / permeates stilled water thinking / lust / exhaustion pipe / layered rubber of fan belt / rust / rust / rust in wheel arches / giblets churn in stomach of empty art piece / arranged to be arranged.

Something.

Service station on the A1 / night / heading north / parked lonely / the Gilles de Rais certificate scrumpled and in the footwell / unrecognised by the authorities / a motorway patrol gleams past / silent / glazed / coated in orange lamplight / still light / formaldehyde movement / stillborn / still death…

songmeat

2009-03-20T22:02:00.001Z

highkoo

2009-03-20T21:50:00.003Z

dislocated arm
without a person to be
clean butchered socket

****************

I lick your pussy
choking on a hairball love
unshaven testes

anxiac

2009-03-10T16:46:00.001Z

Cosy spaces / hunched up into self / aware / externally conscious / nervously squeezing some other’s hands / recently chilled upon handlebars / upon strips of grey / upon winds skipping verges / doubling effort / to speak / to bare up at least a squeak / to acknowledge / to meet eyes higher / me slunk down in NHS mental chair / a halfway house of a couch / looking through the window at words / and to pass through without shattering to summon some of my own / all the while straightening cuffs / wafting crumbs and unknown dust / cleaning puddle specs from shoes / from immaculate / worn / over-washed black / my uniform refined for invisibility / my armour anonymity / my my I can see up her skirt from the lowness of the mutant couch / hide salacious aqueous humour beneath peek of cap and play depression across displayed lips.

the flat packed unit

2009-02-09T02:38:00.001Z

Five now, and the Hunter in the penumbra of a magisterial tree / a plague with beautiful spots / with errant limbs / twisting / sucked out of sockets and the basics of hell / unenlightened / he is hell Is he / throwing out the kitchen sink so that the end credits can appear in spurted tap blood / close up and beneath the window of a dreamed of council house / here his hell is / she in the softness of a snigger / a smile caresses her face / her fingers around a chrome bus strut / crinkle cut crisp of a mouth / the final bliss / the scribe of a king / lunged superking / majesty spluttering phone accent / ripped static picked up in a stand / in a Perspex dog run / crisp and breaking under tags /labels / the branded orgasm / the maniac holding excessive script / grinning / quarter bottles at bedtime the key to anti-psychotics / discontinuation appears to justify the juvenile diary cover / the feigned auto / self in fine pictures / untaken / scene / screens of the slim and beautiful / the veins pop out in doodle webbing and jerks of ink / a scorpion on the forearm / something bothered or rather interrupted hunters’ blurb / something says: >> I told him to get rid / destroy cover horror / hide the sleeping bag made in china by armies of workers / faceless workers / pidgins in the earthquake dust <<>> er...er... <<>> If don’t play crush you. << Gap tween one come burden enthusiastic physical / try swarm cope guns / blunt christ arrows / they pierce correctly and with glowing platitudes / english defeat / this text / this text is the pattern / I can - with the blurb of ease of computer, etc. - edit and re-edit this subconscious map of syntax and sign / sixty-one is sighing / I think, am I supposed to be writing this / having these ideas / conscious and editing into the room / the dulled sensations of the room entered here in a code stilted…

kitten smitten

2009-02-08T00:13:00.001Z

Evacuating loose bowels / constituents / salt / sugar / fat / reorganised mouth cuds / evacuated loose upon the kittens’ head / mew / phew / barnymangrew / matted shit clumped fur / scalloped in its walkery / its nose drops off / and a paw / in fact all the legs come away easily / torn overcooked chicken like / mini-teats extend / lift upwards the kitten / fursome jellyfishy something / stretching skyward / I ache my gaze up waving two paws per fist.
- Oi! What’s wrong with you? Move on!
A glowering lemon yellow man / official but not police interrupts a reverie and waves with hands / I take the cue and act officiously / all Black Rod / and start to bang a moist door with a stick / a root / a gnarled staff / He seems like staff and manhandles me via the shoulders into a face to face with his dribbling words.
- What th.. dribble dribble dribb……
I show him mental credentials / a note from the doctor / my silver pages of pop out controls / dissolvable long windy names / a general sensitivity and a proclivity for my mind and vision to wander / there’s a dribblous background / my eyes take leave / shoot out and roll away / sticky up boots / black / and pleasantly denimed legs / blue. Another bit of dialogue to break it poemy:
- These panties I bought from Lungehooray seem too small?!
I hold up the red doily and stretch the gusset before his derailed eyes / mine returned and manic palpate the trinket / little red frames lemon yellow / a collideascope / an optical skiting / a dream machine of sorts / closing my eyes I feel the pattern strobe physical beneath the lids / like low winter sun through naked branches or flimsy nun habits as they stride by / me low down / bent religious / preying…
- Jesus! What’s up with you?! He parades in voices.
- It’s me hands see (not so poemy a structure now, is it (fuck off Id)) they got holes that leak when I drink just after brushing me teeth. And me holy feet sting in the shower when I use conditioner on me luxuriance. And me sides all gashed and sore from that spear that got famous cos of it and now leads the Tory party. Or is the Tory leader the thin nail, last one for the Britain shaped coffin he drags around all Django like, sept without the firepower? I get mixed up. The kittens’ teats must be sore? (uh that was like a tv reminder you set two days ago and crops up and turns over when into some programme and nicely stoned (sod off Id, have you got some? (no)))
Indeed they were / stretchy and long / pushing the kitten on / who now was scuffing the utter reaches of the atmosphere / tendrils lactating / stumps bleeding / and such was my head / bloody / pummelled by lemon yellow man / to mash of juicy lumps and skull shell / me dead / he gone to prison for what he done / then murdered with a shank in protean night…

insident at overpass forward

2009-01-27T03:49:00.002Z

Delivered into an heightened state / a mantra repeating / naked trees in mud / opaque sky / skinny limbed / starved / pale / ribs rush under skin / corrugated / broken now / a buttock apron / anus / he lies animated / her blade slides under the skin / makes a cut as though passing through taut plastic / things shiny and wet spill out / I separate from myself and feel that sensation in my head / not quite right / she is naked and daubed / and painted in mud / I imagine a chair for her to sit in / it is wooden / bare / worn and hard / planted in the mud of the field / bad thunk lifts off my head / I lay it in her lap / feel her fur on the back of my neck / looking up at myself sightless // my heightened self collapses in the HMV / I follow a lost opportunity and balk at a chance / slumbering into ennui / into petite historical routs and a retrieval of instances / puking into an ill-formed beard / carrying a broken bike I’d fucked into the curb / where rats run and her hair is scraped back / powerful and tarnished / conjuring spittle in her mouth / witch baptism / I have name and wash in shiny and wet things / and reattach to something of me / seeing stars twinkle along the membranes of a hollowed torso / echoes / a voice limbers within the container / and from behind / and from her mouth / summons me to lay down within / to curl up / to be sewn into my old form…

Pock Bile (excerpt)

2009-01-25T21:42:00.001Z

Ink stumbles across paper like a slightly watered spider, in fits of spunktuation, immobile limbs and loops. Skin shrinkwrapped, veins visible and pulsing on surface waxy. Crying out for a shiny needle to suck in, to consume, to gobble on its point. Could a junky get through such a small window? An example to the fat and literal masses wobbling down the aisle. The food aisle. Taking the dear little ones up the chocolate aisle. Bellies precede them. Them, the lumpen consumertariat. Dreams sucked off into the mire of Chinese plastic. Sticky slugs of joy, gloop onto pale skin, reddened in harsh sunlight of abroad. Knickers ride mounds, Golgotha. Ride up into the sweaty crevice of a foreboding succulency, painfully gripping the things we are about to buy. Clutching a new desire, a new promise.

More rotten landscapes, piles of processed earth, rock, hillocks of linen. Bleached rags of plastic splutter in the trees lining the tarmac. In the distance clammy mountains reinvent themselves as cancers. Blinding, paralysing hunks of malignant tissue stretching out fine tendrils to throttle lungs, liver and lobes. Frontal. Full. Corporeal alien submarine burrowing into thought and motor competency. Words fall thick and slurred but barely escape the dribbling maw.

The metallic teeth of the Technician scratch at gangrenous arms. Pick at slight finger meat of the victim whilst browsing low res images of the urinal gunk holes of East Yorkshire in the magazine Fecal Seepage. A producer of clothed porn. Wrapped opaquely on the top shelf. In the alleyway next to the newsagents’ feral dogs crap information.

GGggrip

2009-01-22T22:27:00.002Z

Excluded crackdown authority, an upset bed smeared into my window, into the close-up of the celeb face staring into me, saying nothing over and over, the functional fonts and vibrations of a passing mono, cute freckles, spots on my place of repose, and then a room of clean floorboards, peopleless facades of living, houseplant fingernails, cut lip steam of fresh coffee permeates, probably pentagrams in the backyard decorated with the butchered, a polystyrene teacher, melted features hang in cockney slang, a rare piece of sunlight catches my razors edge, white and sharp on the bored wrists of the Man, the Woman selling a moustache timepiece, gaunt and high cheeked entering a smooth silver car to puke along wilderness roads… a rubber balled dog discusses its rights, teen vagrants verbally vandalise a passer-by engineering a blurred face, some phrase falls lightly on bomb-shocked ears and gets mouth shrapnel in response…

Happy liquor, mumbled verbiage, white polythene headlines, the perverted posture, petrol bombs and dead food, diseased and processed in a panic, long shadows spew from a low sun, coils of loose stone, a fear of water, cranes hang over the docks, planted severed arms, static, probable skin cancer on her actuated face… it was like a fart on a sore thumb…

eviseration policy

2009-01-12T23:37:00.002Z

Subcutaneous fish guts, so your evisceration really smells bad but looks good, the social surface of commodified identity, happy verts police my mannerisms, infect subconscious bodies, the team, the haircut, inevitable stalker with green night lenses… lonesome deficunt… finish off the bottle of Cockney Blitz Spirit…

Cockroach stalls, two thirds of the way across the kitchen, alphanumeric countdown on its back, ten seconds till it restarts, battleship grey cereal, milk activated, twinkles its little rainbows, warez, phising, anti-viral software sinks in, safe to eat, white noise, four dead people, the scientist is porn, cries in the naïve affirmative, missiles, cyberterrortastic sliced meat, the dull dim draining drone of factory boy music invokes imagined red terraced origin, a tongue fucked teddy bear bleats on the couch of vidi, confessional formula with a bit from the religico generator, my blank optics bleed within a melted face, no brain, no pain, no hairs on the body, almost feel guilty, haven’t shaved… mental sedentary acoustic, sullen alarms flay the mind, compulsions, blue overalls, a cracked and bloodied head, valedictory porcelain arms, hunched in a predicament as gensects shit out her mouth, a this is it look, almost sexual, she melts into a cash harvest…

Too soon, melting ice, bear threat and dogs, the alarm scythes through a dream miasma, a calming Melbor and the routine takes hold, then, an excited buzz for the console, the media downloaded overnight, highly defined bodies interrupted by a target gps… rush of forgetfulness, incoherent numbers flood the mono stop, a leather face is unsure, looking for the remnants of something I crushed underfoot, lurid green puss, political transfers make themselves apparent in the sky, amounts, payee, beneficiaries, mosaic christs laundering openness… her crumpled face, porcine nose holding up slithers of optical enhancement, folds of meat, fresh packages, red skull coffins, a little of the confessional with a well known passer-by, interstitial organics pussing up through the grubby sheen of the verts pressing out the horizon, shafts of spattered light, black and dank, fecund, soft and rotten… she exhibits, forlorn, grey nano weaves through her flesh, the shiver of winter caresses her eyes…
Gggggggbipbip…..

Exploding addictions

2009-01-06T21:40:00.001Z

Exploding addictions
Video sent by sfpup

illustrated poem

Flayed

2009-01-06T21:37:00.001Z

Flayed
Video sent by sfpup

tetchy

bounce

2008-12-09T18:14:00.001Z

An incandescent hopetred / at the topmost point of my naked container burning / pendulous tits spattered and encircled in liquid gold / moist mass of wearied guns cleave / heave against pale flesh / cough lead / come synaptic / cars head on / become intimate / enmeshed / metal / glass / plastic / embrace / a cracking scream ricochets across conjoined bonnets / bleeds out my ears / carrying wax for an official seal / I smear my shoulders with the ointment / sup diet coke and voddy / rouge my face / put on lensless glasses / turn another card / a figure embossed / holding dank moss soaked shield / holds aloft stick like a sword / knotted Excalibur above fluvial face / scar rivulet across cheek / uneasy dog sound / an order / a thought turns in my cardboard skull and scrapes itself into a corner to play dead / to sulk sullen and unhealthy that on the bus I dared to meet her eyes / bounced off…

ordained

2008-11-25T20:00:00.001Z

An order and the ordained in cult / with candles / a soft glow from above / in catacombs / bone lined walls / swords glint / take on the light / black reflected glories / stained / releasing / entrails and frothing blood / the defaced / broken / statues look on / the sacrifice enlivened with paranormal forms / spectres of decay gather / a brain in mickey mouse headpiece / an unshaven armpit in fluttering cloak of celeb mags / and stiff with spunk / cast about a balloon / an empty head / made of torn articles of broadsheet rags adorned with toupe / I will not comment on the reality show / but I will tell you what others have said / such the staunch rape of objectivity / washes its face in giblets of the sacrifice / declares itself clean / the brain shudders and frolics in sugar spread like lime / the unshaven armpit crumples coquettishly / and darkness whispers up to submerge them…

roots

2008-11-24T16:18:00.001Z

A photographer of the roots of signposts / tab ends / broken / brittle plastic pots / absorbed / leaf litter / smell their rot / their autumn ripe decay / leeching brown into concrete slabs / stained / shadows / the tarmac rippled / in heat / in summer / now frozen in waves / road marking cracked / froth and foam / imbibed little chunks of broken bits / broken off from toys / from vehicles wearing away unnoticeably / the petrol station stinks like it needs a match / stinks near the Saab I always see / silver brutal / a child of famous rally car / mud borders the pavement / metal and plastic scabs / bottlecaps pressed in / in with moss bubbling over like minute forest disease / always lapping / licking at our edges / striking out / yearning to plant feet in skull pots / strangulate cages of bone / scatter and make indistinct…

pallbearer

2008-11-16T18:02:00.000Z

cylostooleyfoot

2008-11-16T17:57:00.001Z

bespattered

2008-11-16T17:49:00.001Z

Bespattered in fine mud / flecks of moisture / tab of cigarette collapses in last grasp / hot infusion / biddy daubed as child / and gaunt / and strokes of black hair / skin contours skull / deep creases / shadows in the mist / a continual wetness precipitates / damp rags / mouldy odour / careless splashes of urine heat up / releasing perfume ammonia / sweat stuck to skin / manking hair at nape / bike speckled light brown / flecks of muddy water / gobs of black mud / wiped off / smeared along trousered thigh / inescapable filth gathers in palm / in life lines / mist closes off the distance / red rear lights sink away / white points resolve into vehicles on the opposite side / rucksack cargo of boredom bottle reassures / must protect it / arrive safely to destroy / the cheap choccy chip brioche will be sweating in its plastic / basics / no thrills / hoping in the wake spray of lorry / rolling ripped up from the black tarmac / hoping for a good afternoon film / one with an actor I can watch despite the archaic / the Peter O Toole gangally eating the future / the William Holden entity finessing a suit or a cowboy hat picked at random / meaninglessly / without need / full frontal and hidden from view / the muck / the mist / the cheap pristine chemical…

opulent

2008-11-03T17:55:00.001Z

He made his opulent film in the reflections of gold framed mirrors mounted on marble walls in Berlin light / panning down the body of an inert long haired brunette model / follicles gaseous / seated on a white chair / ephemeral / a thick panoply of gold mounted on her slender neck / reeking Egyptian / white backless dress hanging on skeletal skin like a religious rag in a painting / folds lapping in the machine breeze / lungs inflate and pronounce ribcage / panning down across tidal ripples of nylon / down / down punctuated thighs and calves spattered up the back with liquid excrement / cut / close up / she mouths to the camera a diarrhetic brand name / cut / chrome footage of a french poet looking down at book in his right fingering hand / bad subtitles disentangle her voice fisting a chandelier / cut / paper codes and messages gurge out of an archaic contraption / cross dissolving into a production line of electric guitars in China / spun / twisted / new components added / sealed in a box / cut / Cunt Paragraphs scrunching along a gravel driveway arrives at a thickly painted burgundy door / close up / his finger presses the buzzer / cut / Puppy gets electrocuted in a special steel grey room / legs twitching / the wicker chair he’s seated in ignites / Puppy burns / Puppy sizzles / Puppy can not die so plays out his next scene / cut / close up of a badly burnt face with fried egg eyes staring out / cut / close up of scorched fist clutching an executioners mask / cut / Cunts’ finger presses the buzzer again / cut / the steel grey room again / as though filmed from cctv / a lively embryo in centre chewing / sucking disembodied feet / ghostly footsteps echo / more agile embryos appear from the shadows of corners to feast on the pile of feet / squeaking cutely / whipping one another playfully with umbilicals / locker room frolics / cut / a street exterior / a procession of mirrors scrapes down the centre of a small town / elaborate baroque frames / faceless onlookers reflected in every scene / starwipe / end credits:

Brunette model – Nada Concupiscence.
French poet – Charles Pierre Baudelaire’s disinterred little finger.
Production line – child slaves (augh weren’t they cute).
Cunt Paragraphs – Scriptscratcher.
Puppy – That boy I saw on X-Factor, you know, the one who won it last year.
Lively Embryo – Andy Serkis.
Disembodied feet – Tottenham Hotspur.
Chorus Embryos – Andy Serkis CGI.
Mirrors – Lacan.
Faceless onlookers – readers voice from Beano.

diffuse hydraulics

2008-10-22T12:27:00.000Z

Agricultural no man's land / blood on the chest / the intestine of a small animal squeezed out / coiled like an embryo / slinky cat in window / eyes fluoresce / sliding images speak / a loss of visual contact but still talking / her violence framed in pigtails / my inanimate face / blank documents / shredded addresses / her fist tender / beating out colours / red / blackening yellow / cheek illuminated with pain / light / a grin breaks out across her face / thin lips buckle into a sneer / my fingers are snapped off / planted in the earth of a pot / digital foliage / stumps squirting ripe / dripping flower spots on concrete / rippled / dry and white / a fountain of noise from a machine / fragrances of burnt fuel / her fist blooms into a slender fan / trickling before her face / coquettish / look at mine / look at your four stumps / are they sour / they taste air raw / languid sightballs roll into her words / upwards into my head / showing whites / scl-erotic / dribbling a little / wipe mouth with ghost fingers / rouge my cheek / faint into orgasm / into black solitude / subconscious / she dresses me / her doll / a barbwire choker / iron christ jewellery in palms and feet / stinging steaming urine… sometime later / I awake into a death / head propped against the connecting hydraulic arm of a square bailer / lick at its dark brown globs of grease / her shadow flits about the shed / passes over circles of bird shit / sparks my conscious wake / my wait at her fingertips…

dreak day in Dundee

2008-10-20T18:06:00.001Z

Deep blur / highly defined / pixellated khaki / fatigues / the soldiers appear as digital glitch on the interminable screen that covers every surface of the world / pregnant scenes belch babies into realities / into soap operas / placenta cross fades into terrorist explosions / the soldiers dodge into the happy crowds of adverts / reach out arms / extended with jagged knifes / slash / cut into the bellies of the obese / let loose the half digested spoils of war / slinking back into the screen / glistening red wet knife merged into bodywork of silver car / stomach contents steam into images of the rainforest / facial labia gloss over in the sky / pout / smile / insurgents in her teeth open fire with handheld projectors / somersaulting humvees crash into dust / into crowds of hapless shoppers / low resolution soldiers crumple to the ground next to the municipal urinals / an improvised video device explodes / the resulting feedback wipes the cerebral harddrive of a passerby and severely corrupts a number of others / they bend and spew from the mouth and ears / memories / holiday imagery / their favourite fuckloops / a voyeur / a vicariaste scoops up the digital slop and quickly squashes it into his eyeball / headfuckrush / unknown people and visual anecdotes glide into his friends list / a terrorist lets his camouflage slip / head exposed in all its reality / poking out the side of a piece of meatcandy between two lumps of bread / I’m lovin it / soldier zeros’ in / fires / obliterates the enemy usb compatible headbulb / the headless body stumbles now heedless / stomach speaker emitting death speech / an antenna secreted in the anus fires out finality texts to family / already in mourning / who were watching the attack live from his eyebubbles / the soldier uploads his kill / four more for promotion / just one more for a weapon upgrade / a distant German hacker tracks the soldiers ip and converts his kills into nectar points / one day he’s going to tell the world that it was a liberation / getting a real time paedophile for 1600 points / bouncing grenade detonates / ejaculating price cuts / bargains / eternal sales fluxing across the screen / children skip through realities viscera / through the smoke and corporeal detritus left by a shimmering suicide bomber / the screen flutters into blackness…

the liberated puss

2008-09-29T11:41:00.004Z

The liberated puss / pressed into lint oozing through gauze / some years later your septic vampiric kiss releases a hot gush from my torn jugular / in your grip my feet kick and dance / smearing sticky red on the white tiled floor / my new found somnolent gaze fixes on an advert playing on a security monitor / a family in a silver car winds up a narrow mountain road / winds up my mind / high on adrenaline passed to me via your saliva / I blink and the family in the car is screaming / descending into their seats as though melting / spumes of blood froth upwards across the tinted windows / warm upon my face and into my eyes as you scalp me / rolling back the skin across my bonce / rolling back the prices a smiling mother pats her buttock / black chipped nails tap and scrawl on my exposed skull / I feel you point at my forehead and then with a specially sharpened fingernail cut down the centre of my surface / my reddened face / inane / still staring at the images in the security screen / you peel off my face in strips / cut generously with a blade around the eyes so that it looks like I’m wearing glasses / comical / sat on drying agitated muscle / I hear you laugh / a monkey and a jingle for chocolate milk / glazed / eyeballs rigid unable to cross the abyss to yours / you lower me to the ground / gently / clutching my tattered flapping throat / I can no longer see the screen / just its reflection in a municipal door / mottled / crosshatched with embedded wire / a montaged smear of films I ought to watch / you remove my clothing / damp / soaked in immobilized fear / you remove it in practised routine / Belmondo wraps sticks of dynamite round his head / in the reflection / in reverse / you dig fingers into my flesh / my perineum / and with an upward motion tear off my cock / balls ‘n’ all / I’m aware of a hunched shadow eating from its hands / of images of a boy firing his first shots into reversing footage of the Nazi regime / its atrocities / your stylised slurpings / my maimed face remanents twitch / tauten / eyes stuck to the reflected scenes / you toss aside my half eaten morsel / Joe Pesci smashes a head with a car door / you belch / I feel a splutter of your hunger wetten my chest / you stab in controlled frenzy / horizontal / serrating my abdomen so that I might later be torn in half / you wait panting / Robbin Williams detonates a bomb in a noisy crowd / my intestines erupt / carefully / intact / excavated by your burrowing hands / you crack open my chest / parting waves of bone to dribble soporific spittle upon my heart / asleep in viscera / in a stream of idols / Jeanne Moreau / the girl on the motorcycle / Myra Hindley / you push air / force it from my mouth by squeezing my naked lungs as if in the grip of a passion with another woman / my eyes stiff / fixed / staring into the fantasy spattered with my own blood / obscured with my own blood / and then you must leave me / I feel the breath of the door swing open / then shut / I think I vomit / a film starts in the fragmentary reflection / oh shit / it’s Night of the Demon…

cargasm

2008-09-17T19:09:00.001Z

Transgressions / boundaries skipped over / easy to read gestures jerk in a burning car / passengers spill from an eviscerated bus / a rainbow reflects in glittering dead eyes / some loose / looking hither / looking at the photographer / the holder of a sophisticated mobile phone mimics the professional / the objective gaze but with a little more gore and full frontal distress / a puker decorates the wet verdant verge / limbs hide in the weeds / a headless body embraces a shattered engine block / gripping tightly with everything but the arms / a disadvantaged youth sprays across the side of a jackknived lorry / its cab bent over a small crushed family car / occupants play sardines / waiting in blood of others / with bones of mother in face / the seat impaled with spine / the cars central nervous system suggests taking the next turning / the next junction glides away empty / fresh cars fold themselves into the scene vomiting glass across the tarmac / twinkles sticky red / a group of surprised doggers peer over the motorway embankment / their naked spunked bodies point camcorders into the copulating wreckage / faces are imprinted on dashboards / teeth scuttle away / retina displace / wrists snap gripping gearshifts / the oncoming traffic / the viewing public / grinds to a halt with a few voyeuristic shunts / Colonel Kurtz waves languorously from his mk4 Behemoth / turns on the vehicles’ lights held in the jaws of the freshly dead / illuminates the mayhem opposite / revving with a foot / wanking with a hand / a minibus of nuns crumples into the ganglion of flesh and metal and explodes / a rabbit vibrator crucifies a uterus / pops the head of a potential christ / a box of soap on a rope melts / a nun / obviously a stuntman in a habit / runs screaming and burning / but no one puts him out / ignites spilt fuel / a barbecue begins / a dogger spurts down the embankment / fresh metal and ergonomic plastic slumps into disaster / children watch their deaths on headrest TVs / on news 24 / in looping carnage a monologue of clutching description / a plume of holy smoke rises from the nuns minibus / engulfs a journocopter / chokes its engine / strangles commentary / rotors splutter over a trailing metaphor / then / return to flight speed / but too late / too low / they puree a smoothie baron in a smart car / shatter into tangle / a fragment beheads a spunking dogger / his camcorder turns to the sky / the helicopter keels over dead / journalist squawking about the humanity / hi-def nosecam lurches luridly and settles on half a indistinct babies head / the news editor goes goo goo gaa gaa for it then can’t reach a button fast enough / it was in the raw footage loop for two cycles / if I remember rightly / but then I was elsewhere / skipping with gloopy sticky feet / shitting wildly upon the crash barrier / licking at wounds / caressing scars / her foot / her feet / seem immaculate now in heels / is that all I was worrying about?

as you read it

2008-08-24T19:06:00.001Z

Take it all to Auschwitz / all your thoughts / cranberried into cattle cars / it’s what you thought / the cluster stab work you did behind the desk / on the news / counting selectively / cheerfully fetishizing a sharpened dominant narrative / it’s so brutal / your make up I mean / foundation buckled by sweat / found as it lies / prostrate / altered / entered / sodomized upon your glistening desk / figures / nubile numbers / slick / young / bruised / credibility crunched / talking up recession / oh dear / I hope I’ll still be able to smoke cigarettes / blow my beloved fatality into your suited face / your posture / oh a flamboyant tie / I got you wrong / your human too / frail / weak / phone embedded in your cheek / and no one talks / but I’ll spunk (reader’s voice - here he goes again with his bodily juices) texts upon your jowls / fat / wobbly / wibbling to the expression of your jaundiced / envious vision / imaginary spectres of black bile / made up / shiny and only pink / like the Barbie doll I fingered in toys R us / examined tabloid / eyeball probed / like knickers at wimbledon / please / please bend over short skirted lady / in front of the royal umpire on a step ladder / in front of the stupidly numerous middle classes officiating lines / in front of the slaves collecting and groping balls / clutching your sweaty towels / your beck and call / you lazy fucks / why not mutilate sexual organs / no / I’ll tell you what / why not sit down and have an orange juice / you’ve been on your aristocratic feet for so long / killing in order to cut / subcutaneous / baubles of fat / strawberries / cream / my own cream / strikes again / catalysed / nipples exploded beyond sports bra / aaahhhhh / such a fitful attempt at sport / a billion monkeys still play it / in space / in place of typewriters / a brainset invented by Reverend Dodgson / Liz Stride / advantage / deuce / advantage / deuce / advantage / deuce / and so it goes / the little monkeys play it without resolution / on and on / on and on / whole genetic strains have been given over to its completion / but it never comes / little monkey families are proud of the lines they’ve watched for generations / the sweaty towels they’ve held dutifully / the lives they failed to lead / unimportant decisions they’ve witnessed / bend over / show me your red currant / please / please / groans a little monkey / its iccle enervated limbs giving out / clutching a sweaty towel / have I mentioned sweaty towels yet / clutched / handed to pacing back / thrown back by ath-elite / into face / at slave in anonymous uniform / you gutted her didn’t you / manipulated fecal matters / paraded words over unedited and raw images / the peripheral dead taken out in the next loop / resuscitated / revived / unshot and forlorn in their backwards lives / without resolution worthy of HD / pixellated vagaries / jagged curves undulate / blur into background pastiche / the pretense of a house manicured by a horny housewife / your cock dribbles under desk / dry / rough / tight / thoughts in out of place tragedy…

barry the slug

2008-08-21T15:21:00.001Z

A valid case / an intact case / blood pours spout like from mutually exploded heads / without realism / without the boring detail of the dominant narrative / just a red gush / thankfully fake / tender trickles of wine wind round the neck / drunken kisses on throat / slice corporality / routine thought and its shabby rigmarole / and so she blows out my brains / and withers my cock / throttled violently / shamefully / fully / emptied across dictators mouths / lame sampled writing / the jizz / the jizz / he grumbles rubbing shaven head / a slug rides a toboggan down a razors’ edge…

leather cynosure

2008-08-10T16:18:00.002Z

What had you been thinking of typing / a poet in eyeliner dies / strapped in to his boots / jacket / a leather cynosure in shades / a plastic bag full of shit / drenched by the rain / collapsed / clinging to itself / a heavy skin saturated by the mist on this hill / this stage of mud and puddle footprints / overtrod / penetrating one another / perhaps this bag is Gucci or Hermes / a new discarded / disposable emergency excrement range / whatever / tis caviar to the experienced climber / a numb punctuation in the aqueous air / lightly prodded with a stick / wafted toward the nostril / the other currently exuding mucus in drips or elongated slimes / nothing a good snort won’t cure / whilst evading rigor mortis / soaked to the bone mortality / I can at least cast a story upon this shit filled plastic bag…

a taste of vision

2008-08-01T14:32:00.000Z

Mutated / against the nature of the favoured transient image / fascism in bubbles of time / storm troopers take up their wings / already atrophied / bloated with promise / fecund death / compost in which to plant ridicule / knowledgable obscurity and fingers with dirty nails into the corners of eyes / gouging / extracting the bauble and its optic nerve / laying it the length of the face / gazing downward rosy tinted / once took hold of such a bauble and held it an inch from my mouth and said / can you hear me / a joke in my head / teeth no lips / let go for it to bounce off the cheek like an executive toy with no friends / stretched a little further / placed in owners mouth so that they might gaze down their own throat / a taste of vision…

monolith

2008-07-25T16:35:00.000Z

The wonderful nostril fulfilling scent of rain on summer concrete / fat drops / spurting gracefully from the neck / it’s delightful / delicious / undeterred wanking into a bandage / a Caligula disaster film / Norman Wisdom pratfall relief / unreefered gazes / mirrors / trenchfoot / the kissing of puss / a mission for vodka / I know what happens tomorrow / it is already annihilated / sunk into bed sheets and regret / I stick my fingers / stiffen / break across dreamt persons / little wars / I want to survive / revive and susceptive / the sweat shops of India / children prick their fingers and suck out the blood from expensive garments / his beer teats reside in this unwashed shirt / her paranoid thighs suck at the tightness of these jeans / the spittle / the vague nubile mouth / the ration of rice / joy / entrepreneurial guilt spills silently across fake denim names / mollycoddling the consumertariat / better buying / fat free kisses / sugar free junk / don’t want the bruises / the purple belief / It struggles / amongst vast excrements / lobbies / the purposeful / the wide luxurious mouth of Nada Concupiscence / release / burdened freedom and the / what ever generic abuse / strips of blood / polite english jackboots / the opaque democrat murders for my vote…

37.5

2008-07-24T18:29:00.000Z

Berated new wave / slim / fit / and following grocery trolley / hidden / Phnom Penh babies grope inside / sweating beneath the vinyl tartan / the sun is hot after all / boredom bottles dispensed with / in search of more / temporal fix / flick through some hyperporn / some glances / an untimely tumescence / concentrate on the place in hand / some kind of place of purchase / populated by consumertariat / of which I one / in search / making bee lines / procuration of liquid lovers / price versus percentage / success / I lactate my weakness… collecting my bike I notice a folded body / passenger seated / prone / buried under tinted glass like salacious eyes of a stern teacher / forget his name / can’t reach the porn / a cascade of seagull shit hits no one / a lack of conspiracy / newly wet splatters… I think I’m lucky…

fizzy zit fugue

2008-07-14T19:59:00.000Z

Fizzy / pulped baby food / only liquids allowed / straight into the eyeball / shadowed / coloured wire / a shootout in the subway / shotgun pumping / legs explode above the knee / close to favoured areas / sexual intestines / the guts of existence /lmao farts me jesus / percussion / soft gaseous crosses / dissipating / regional city fat cascades across a bus seat / vicarious folds re-imagine the body of the Woman / her eyes / soft / smokey / rolling like the eyes of slaughtered cattle / upwards to hide beneath the brow / a hill unclimbed / sticky little hillock... now fertilizing brain... Marjory comes round / inhabits a space I've saved for her / the things in the fridge rot gently / grow colder / less as imagined and more indigent / raggedy clothing / decorated with sedimentary sweat / Marjory's tongue tingles / gropes new tastes / toys with my armpit and a spot on my back that I've been growing into / sucked / consumed by its excrescence / pregnant bulge / zit containing me embryo / it gobbled me up Marjory / eaten by my inflamed offspring / I take in the puss / fill lungs / breath it / grow gills / loose contact with my clothes...

delayed

2008-07-07T12:06:00.000Z

A woefully crafted introduction / a delayed train / retro fitted passengers / obviously the modern rendition of that scene includes a cluster fuk and the usual derelict barn / I found it so uplifting seeing your face burnt off / the aqueous humour boiling off / the familiar smell of your hair / the eternal grin bared / you were just sizzling that night / amongst the rust of old farm machinery / brambles and attracted flies / your thighs moved like the metal / red disintegrating flakes / memorised dust mixed with pre-cum / pigments / dirty hand prints / whispered poems about salacious unicorns / the tangled foliage striated your body with groping shadows / you effervesced goosebumply / tingled in situ / ribcage exposed / cured / matured muscle / dry and light brown / the soft stink of sunlight / a putrescence enfolds you in my arms…

sightless visions

2008-07-02T13:57:00.000Z

A spider in your hemisphere / in your hair / in my fantasy / in my boring eyes / drilled and inhospitable / lick the glory hole residue / accretions / a dry crust / the velvet mood perspires / kicks a vicar in the anus / in recumbrance / in the bell tower of distorted bones / I kiss Her hand / fingers slender / manicured in Death’s hollow sockets / caressed in sightless visions / tips dipped in red mouths of yelping lapdog pussies / autonomous / stroked on Mastermind’s lap / a plan fermenting / zymolytic thought bubbles in the clear atmosphere of a stale brain / an installation / try and ride it / greater inebriations / traps laid in conspiracies / in bullets to the skull viscera / fragments scuttle across baroque lacquered trunk / a primary female puts together the puzzle / fingers immersed in dead hollows / it’s grassy up here / gnarled and murdersome / a Russ Meyer montage / lubrication for escape into wholesome mammaries / away / from wizen titillation / gloved / clasping / holding back strings and pearls / garroted with a cheese wire / Shostakovich playing piano beneath the threat of a petite dictator / moustache in hand / ready to place it upon airbrushed top lip / stiff / upwardly mobile / eating coal out of a shoebox / blackened lips / nubile goth kiss / yum yum says the child toiling in socialist realist fields / fertilized by the promised fetal dead / aborted / an assignation of a liberty clinic doctor / unmet / lonely / last sighting on cctv / entering car / in concrete hieroglyph / bleak rectangles in bleaker city / cunt hair 51 tickles a piss heresy / mummy shit me but now she tell me I come vaginal / a daydream of anal birth / is detox still scraping skull bits off boot to make fitness video / seems so / Mastermind grows bored / shoves a silenced glok up pussies tethered arse / meow / bang / all in one pvc saville suit needs cleaning / viscous matter / licked off / by toothless sharks / gummed towards lonergasm / threat of death / stuffs stroking digits into gills / and frots / rubs / rips wider opportunistic / for the fascism of children / the sentiment of adults / the general joy of aliens / but I fuk wit your gills / I fuk wit your grey armoured flesh / amour / amour / cos I’m doing a performance / broken exhaust fumes / 5th column apologies / a bleakness that knows it own / nailbombs its own streets / abortion babies and reality show ingénue / a general vagueness / a gore of women / but / he / rapes a car in spectacular jump / sticks dick up fume pipe / overheats…

lube

2008-06-25T12:35:00.001Z

Illuminated vellum / the mole on the back of her neck / beneath cropped hair / the mole that is mine / has retired from my back to travel / past the gypsies in emancipated lay-bies / past all that I have projected upon verges / hedgerows and houses / corpse animals replaced by their offspring in the growing fields / spawn sheds / pre-butcher lorries / the number ten aleatory slaughter wagon / the mouthless dead with things in their ears / speaking in cryptic sibilance / thoughtfully and metaphysically masturbate / oil the tedium / grease the sheets of skin stretch out across the tarmac / the journey…

teat of zen

2008-06-23T15:23:00.005Z

pinkoid

2008-06-23T15:23:00.004Z

wacokin in gloomshire

2008-06-23T15:23:00.003Z

alchi

2008-06-23T15:23:00.001Z

You fukin alchi / turning semi-precious metal and paper receipts into booze / oh joy I annihilate tomorrow / selfishly / pleasantly / it’s like hardcore should be / bastard beats / without origin / the snake fish need feeding in a murder evolution narrative I might say / or / dull pulse of unsleep / the wheelchair puts on an exhibition / splaying wheels / exposed spokes / dots of nubile grease / an intelligent child full of spots expresses nothing / the smell of prehensile tobacco wielding fingers / full of whip / striations / sweat bleeding into blood / a semens’ yarn / the spine / the umbilical / the sunken line of sensation / and whatever you’re reading into this as violence puts me at ease / drunken / sensuous / three inch heel rerendering a ribcage / gouging / spurts into crevices of imagined concrete / snaps off / remains impaled / tenuity / a feeble lick / a navy promotional flick / crash dive…

decaf

2008-06-18T12:13:00.002Z

The generacist creates new models / new modes of wanting / of reflection and cannibalism / new surfaces and body shapes for the woman / the man / the car loaded with perfected plugged in offspring / sliding plastic and effortless comfort / listening to the counter agent being translated whilst frolicking in the ergonomic pool of proposed nutrients / nubile and watched / numbers appear promising closeness / love / the love / I’m a war human person / the virus that numbs my world / small / naïve / distended with dystopian happiness and duvets that only function / never drown / make dreams more febrile / anxious sweat / repetitions / splay smooth legged midget women / clothes that shouldn’t be there / then waking defecation through the conscious anus / to enter again into totalitarianless being / informed / awake and without death / dull / alive / decaffeinated / mobilizing for the third instalment of machine leaps / of depopulisation and feelings of being wanted / of useful / to kill / take motto’s seriously / how brilliant and efficient the macdonalds / perhaps with a revolution a world could be fed / meat / bread / potatoes / fat / sugar / salt / perfect / ss uniforms should be the generacists norm in each franchise / if only because I love…

dub dream rut

2008-06-14T11:06:00.000Z

Gathered around a microphone / dub / dreams ruts guide the wheels of a starvation cart / Nada glides in / lubricated in pvc / black / shiny / skinny indigo denim pushchair clad arse / seething hair dye and deliberately cheap piercings / vague definitions pinpoint a failure in construction / in concrete and collapsibility / decorated toenails / wallpaper vices / flock Georgian frontage pealed back / overt desires break upon the shingle / foam / smoothed broken glass / elemental romantic diseases / strips of red / blood / structure and pre-tanned nineties penis / protected / cared for / whipped with a bouquet of roses by the Nada / revved up like I was chrome / exhaust rattling / pre-feul dripping / a curtailed interview / it wants chucking / thinks it’s hearing things / the sounds of fountains in the night / unseen cherubs puking / static golden emticsaries / crafted in Paris like lies of intellectual civilisation / nailbomb snoozes in a coffee shop / waiting to make fixtures / the muse never hit this one...

Eyes burning into the scalp / yielding a smile in cauterized animal tissue / grinning all the way to a decent sized conflagration / burning with a malignant boredom / ennui at the fingertips / at points of sensation / a once exciting waist curves away from a wooden clumped mitt / splinters / spittle oozes lecherously / a black bile manifests / becomes hole like bullets make / lifeless and standing / waiting upon legs to give way / give up / leave the groceries that spill out of the brown paper bag in an american setting / burst through the plastic bag in an english setting / and form luck strew constellations to be crushed under tyres in the supermarket parking lot…

wold of car crash

2008-06-12T15:30:00.001Z

Degraded copies from the once primary network / a new network / global / in pixelated hd / 720 / 1080 / 264 / 1d20 plus buffs / my avatar in a different gender skin each day / sexualised polygons / hidden voyeurs and onanists typing only LMAO or *shits profusely* / the fecal obsessionalism of the ddwildblood bot 3.7 beta / I’m sure freud would have something to say / alas / he’s too busy gagging on a unicorn cock / rendered beautifully / bumpmapped and bloomed / physics / interpolated pixels / smoothing out / making more real the subjective stream of children / grey and dragged from the rubble / a glitch in the signal shows squares of data from the previous seconds / live / as it happened / past and tense / muscles flex in an F5 taunt / an avatar strips off to show blurred skintones / genital lubricants melt through the cyber suit / a usb connection shorts / pleasurable and maintainable electrocutions uploaded to the rest of the party / captain gonad / rabbitVibe23 and NEGated-grandiloKUNT / captain gonad pulls a whitey / rem sleep / downloading the same file over and over / an orc breaks with programming and narrative cliché / runs away / forms a revolutionary cell with the tissue / the flesh taken from my lower abdomen when I was two / TED of the SHED is contacted / virtual pipebombs are constructed with diseased wiring / planted in memes / in crates and red oil barrels / symmetry / broken thought idolizes a misanthropic tramp / a trash container down a new york alleyway / pedestrian violence and other clearly delineated breakdowns / mental mishaps and forged id’s / plugging together credits / bonuses / extra lifes and flickering discontent / continental circus and fish and chips in Bridlington…

slaughters late hate appeal

2008-05-30T14:19:00.002Z

Were we innocent? In that the always proudest moment of speech lethal. Conquered armed / encased in intelligent skins and not excluded. Wired in. Rarely self.

Pops on vision looking as he shakes hands, a familiar visitor given into the media of filth and noise. Swallowed. Natural style, satiate spent, alone and coupled with a body in a rare bridge hot suit. Sweat glittering on the one half living. He was end. Self start and gripped hand / cold / clammy.

In iron clad hands that insisted somehow to drink the night. Open. Jerked open. Declared the ninth and spoke of shelling. Enthusiastic proposal prosecuted on the obvious cons / keen criminals cuted / buzzed bright, spasms and fits in open spaces.

The known war and untroubled facade crumble and give deadly credit to say, let’s say the room. Without unrealistic follow-up as crucial as dictator to the senses of the people forced to cower. Totalitarian history stirred hatred / sides aided pliant media vision spreading poison distrust / none defiant. Actor declared / gave speech / led slaughters late teach to hate appeal / to patriotism / patriotic feel cause. A minority resist, heads filled and then caved in by the siren voices / doses drug, eyes bleeding in blue light. The man famous / the architect of murderous policy born in 41 joined at 18 in teens. The story of a key and the tyrannical throne disturbed / mildly shot himself orthodox. Hanged in the destabilizing victory, children swing dead in a closet.

Recent gains dependence to then slice majority, starting again, the losers themselves, that would solve, a kind of last solve. Standing ensure dog unity brutal >> Oh brutal deluxe. << symbolic slogan graffiti, sweet words on my stinking breath. Appears to destroy ages.

Formation salvia, crumbled chunk territory slowing the advance of enervated limbs. Limbs that lived for gone republics / remains in stagnant brothels, families / homes. Traditional regard selves / the every sign, enough solvent remains to punish occupation. Indefinite nations, live show tolerance. Glassy gameshow populations, downed and forced even / the apparent seize could end nothing.

Follower of tradition, true pre-madness and stale come. Gathering, dry tears flake and scab. To see winner likely to stay. Bombing raids, bombing set to lose action, solution dry-part delay failure. Lives during slaughter the threatened bombing go ahead / clear to bring to heel, to curb time, to produce a plastic policy that might coat us all. It prove born black mutual tissue runs deep / is hard mixed. Disaster bottling experience, proved the push, bodies bursting, the living smeared with corporeal shrapnel.

Comes impunity in his back power carte blanche. Raids solve population problems. In matter and anti-matter coward bullies he raids opinion and square side. Clear translucent victory.

drenched

2008-05-19T18:35:00.001Z

I was totally drenched / inclines and inclinations / eyes roll upon breasts / waist / hips and the tendency to assess the fundament et al / I write this with alterations to what I thought I would write hours later / and now it is now the time of writing I fantasised about / whilst on bike tween fervent May verges of springtime fecundity / the object of my desire / the boredom bottle / in rucksack / and now successfully relocated from idling on imdb to writing for bloodied stinging discharge / I apologize / though not for deconstructive behaviour / trivialities of my existence or lewd gaze / but for imposing an anglocentric assumptive of seasonal behaviour / it may well be winter in some others springtime / there’s always soft powdery snow at xmas in hollywood and other threads of the dominant narrative / pounded into the head / squirted onto the skin / reflected in the silver cars surface / on empty mountain roads / and evaporating in the goo running from a neatly assassinated copywriters head / a contract / a lithe body / a bead of sweat runs from the nape of Uma Dais’ neck / oscar winner / actress / star / romantic lead in a dog’s tale - the waggening / aboard golden yacht / but less of her and more of the bead of sweat / glistening / trickling down tanned skin / across overly defined bones / to melt in a scant powder blue string of a bikini top / she / our starlet / glances down to the sea of flesh / of bodies / to the eternal tide of ever seasonal dead / Burmese / Jewish / Timorese / collected atrocities and the singularly dead / ripe / bloated as though alive consumertariat / maturated / bifurcated / stewed bowels explode upon the yacht’s prow / patinas of excrement across the hull of the gold ship / upon its gossip mag sails / bulimia / cellulite / anorexia / addiction and full length portraits of skelebrities unable to shit or bleed / with fabric hanging from the last points of meat clinging to the ribcage / posing / in x-ray frenzy / digitalized / pixelated / on red carpet / lends colour to cheeks / swish switch swish / tis the season to be sado / wind fills the sails / flatters the fundament / plumped up and reddened / Uma Dais leans over the compass / directions emblazoned in baroque silver / gargoyles north south east and west / predictions spout / spray upon her accentuated calf muscles in mono bland high heels / her disinterested cleavage / hardened with botox / stung with gothic urine / directionless with fake objectivity / unsucked / alone / gaunt / ploughing anonymous flesh / she turns on the TV and watches / shows / passion / delirium / the HBO show – tears of a unicorn sodomize a badgers fart / five stars the felching times / it grows old / this / crows feet derange themselves about her eyes / creep in to connect with stoned redeye / condiment appraisal and spice rack arrangement / the deck now thick with shit / thoughts empty across it / to no avail / a distressed sail flatters and flutters / unburdeneds itself / evacuates and falls loose to the writhing sea / clawed at by stiff arms / discoloured groins and pensive eye hollows / random spurts of blood / and an ejaculation thrown in for good measure….

blud goo hades

2008-05-08T19:33:00.001Z

till the 21st of may / morningside library edinburgh

2008-05-06T18:49:00.006Z

at the battery alter

2008-05-06T18:49:00.001Z

stealthily sunk

2008-05-06T15:18:00.001Z

Bazaars / mardi-gras and other scenes of bustle and chased confusion / silenced bullets sunk stealthily into the head / the hollow of an empty busy shop / streams of the storyline defragmented / left idle like the happy mad / rainbows in puddles / pools of puke in school corridors / slip in / in gripless tan market boots / the poverty of tolkein until I found Baudelaire / provincial spleens cursing the wind / idolising the dirty verges and detritus between destination / and the repetition of decorative suicidal thought / and the inaccurate regimens of NHS therapy / drugs / solitude / a hand always ready to ease the stiffness / to ease the passage of turnips threatening a rectum / and other suchness / likening likeness to like / to similes of the other / its head and thought / separately going on / wearing T-shirts too tight for its copious belly / with mottos too small so that you might be accused of staring at beer tits rather than reading the witty legend / and how offensive it is when the ugly smoke / cancer gathers in my lungs and seldomly used throat / cut as it is with cheaper white powders / I languor after her legs / faked and drawn to a point / in ballet boots and grease paint / tangents / a cigarette has broken my line / lured me into her arms / her fetal bath / luke warm and fizzing with hair at the nape of the neck / on the bus / over her shoulder and in her third person I read the text she quickly and expertly thumbs into her phone / haha me 2 / send / her spots and moles appear radiant / puss oozes out my left nostril / I take the left hand option and pick up broken pieces of jewellery / it goes in my key pocket in the hope of unlocking something…