Thursday, 15 September 2011

A poem on my feelings of late

No one will ever know what Im capable of when I feel comfortably alone.  No ear that I’m aware of will ever be struck by a sound of the things I can say to myself in solitude. I have yet to let anyone read the deep thoughts and navigate the catacombs of my solipsistic, selfish consciousness—conversing with itself, confusing my body, tossing me against the walls of my skull like a bully.  The mind full of odium, tries to break itself. Intense feelings of desire that cripple, unfulfillable. Like a fire of wet sticks, crying tears of steam in the rain, I exist, crooked and immobile. 

Monday, 5 September 2011


                        Fuckereded all the way through.
                        Freshly plucked and drowned in poo.
                        Now Im just like you:
Small, sad and pallid,
                        Shutting my ears to loves’ ballad.
                        You’ve become what you hate
                        Your ideal is reprobate.
                        Can’t rape because its wrong,
                        But how else do I dance to loves’ song?

Give me all of this back.

Sunday, 4 September 2011

The Weed Dealer

On the way back from the gym I shit piss in a babies skull to keep my energy level high. Im jumping around, thrusting my muscles in the faces of innocents, shorts ablaze with a bedazzling rhinestone outline. Sick as fuck, basically, all the chicks want to rub my hard, curiously shaped man-tits. I'm a god on the dance-floor, basically the whole dance is contained in my arms, because thats where the attention should be. I've worked hard sculpting this persona, and I've thanklessly dedicated my life to instructing totally undoable pigs in the basics of fitness. Good thing most of them only stick around for a week. They talk about it for years though, and take pride, extolling their mock effort during their dinner parties, as they wedge their way between their fellow fatties to refill bowls of mayonnaise. My dick is SO fucking tan, its like a bolt of brown lighting, unfortunately it also resembles a turd--but when that shit is hard it rocks harder than ACDC, motherfucker. Bagging chicks is my hobby, and I excel in it. Its easier than rudimentary math on a calculator. Just compliment them on their synthetic bodies and recite some lines from Wedding Crashers, and BOOM, she is tugging at my wang through that manufactured hole in my pants. I don't smoke weed, it makes me think in unconventional ways and it makes the girls I bang look like the brainless 35 year old divorcees that they are. You know what's tight? My fucking tee-shirt, duh. You know what I want? A fucking harley davidson, because im tired of only looking like a 21st century motorcyclist. Helmets are gay, but I'd be pissed if I got off the bike and all the gel had been wicked from my shapely spikes. Ain't no lady gonna run her hair through my locks, Im hard all over, like a real man. I've never been in a fight, but plenty of dudes have bowed before my immense frame. Wait, where are you going, don't forget me. Fuck, now Im a dick-headed step dad getting steadily fatter on potato salad like the mock fitness fatties. Fuck, now it's just me and my wife, her face shows the track marks from the endless surgeries she forces upon it. We will be forever young. We will be forever forgotten. Please do not romanticize this part of mankind's story, my life is a burlesque.

Saturday, 3 September 2011

The Bartender

Coked out, arrogant and sweaty.  These last two adjectives resulted from the rapid and relentless ingestion of the first noun. Rat-faced, not in the duplicitous or untrustworthy way, but in the literal way, he had a rat's face. You look so great side-stepping that other blur that some lazy-eyed drunk might call "fit", in truth she was caked in viscous make-up that was bubbling on her cheeks and forehead, probably from the livid cocaine blood rushing through her. It wasnt rushing in a passionate way, like Goethe's blood would when surveying a sublime, pastoral Italian scene, it was rushing in a frenzied way, like the blood was just running from her lack-luster heart, trying to escape through the pores in her face. Imagine them trying to copulate: after he spends 15 minutes removing his ankle-tight jeans he desperately tries to coax his shriveled penis to life, but his entire body is spent from running back and forth between the bar and the kitchen, where he could shove some diluted baking powder up his nostrils in a stainless steel enclave. Basically, the night is one big romantic scene that culminates with him chop-sticking his dick above the face-cauldron in his basement flat. (Chop-sticking is a maneuver that intoxicated men perform on their penis' in order to get erect. It's instinctual, because all the wastoids are guilty of doing it. How else does one get the blood to stay in their belabored penis? Answer: you chopstick the base and hope her eyes are diverted while its happening.) Well, alcohol is a depressant anyway, so I'm glad I couldn't use my card for "just a fiver". Idiots that regurgitate the back-room lectures their avaricious employers drill are always greasy-haired dick-babies in 30 dollar tank tops.

Friday, 2 September 2011

Well I suppose it began with a decision, like most evenings, thoughtful or not. September 1st 2011, Stuart's 24th birthday, I went to buy him a drink that he never received, although the offer was made--insincerely, but earnestly. I'm poor, but customary. He ended up buying half of my second draught, which I was hesitant to ask for, but desperately desired the courage another pint could provide. Rachel was scrunch-faced and decidedly "trendy", but too flirtatious from the start.  Well aware of the proximity of her hand to my groin when she marked my hand with an X; awkward, awkward. Okay one two three go faster faster faster. Donkey faced? Maybe. Far too much make up and too "current" in a lot of ways, but she pulled it off well, or passably. "In the corner room" read Stuart's text, and looking to my left I saw him striding towards me, my arms akimbo ready for the usual hug, which he normally provokes. This time he seems more hesitant, coy, shy, maybe "cool"? I mean that in the typically ironic sense: too cool for manliness, or maybe a bit intimidated, or trying to be intimidating (unsuccesful in all three). The ottoman is fit for me; low and backless-- I accept my lot. Rachel is talkative, Im feeling out of place, there is no room for me in this close-knit group. Kidding, its a bunch of pallid, taciturn Londoners darting their eyes about in their typically demure way. Deferential little school children, out of their private school uniforms and into their new 20-something swank (faded denim, boots, slim fit, drop crotch, quaff, boat neck--yea we get it, you're "cute" or something). I'm trying to paint an image in your mind that I don't necessarily agree with, it's intentionally exaggerated (i mean hyperbolic, because this is literature or whatever). And go go go, the usual superficial bullshit that everyone indulges: "where are you from what do you do and how did you get here what are your plans how do you know so-and-so oh and what did you study thats interesting this is okay we're moving along nicely whoops you dribbled a bit of beer on your collar bone and now Im starting at your bare skin for an impermissible span of time, blahhhhhhhhh"; she stares into your eyes and you at her mouth, protracted close conduct is a strong signal and your lips become dry as the conversations become more emphatic, you say too much and keep on going. She thinks you're intellectual, you go in the bathroom and lament your verbosity. Upstairs, the band is loud and decidedly noisy, its a sound soup with few discernible rhythms but everyone bounces and pretends they hear something that isn't there. In truth, you like it; but there are too many cameras flashing and the scene is anachronistic with everyone dressing like they live in the 90's as they "accidentally" amble into the frame of some photo-bloggers SLR. Stuart and Rachel step outside to have a talk, presumably about Rachel's forwardness. Standing by the door, do I look like Im trying to be cool or just getting comfortable in the lull? Whatever, I stick to the frame like the flyer from a bygone show.  Stuart gets back and I mooch two "quid" from him with the promise that it will come back two-fold (i.e. im going to buy him a drink sometime, sorry for my language Im kind of old-modern). This event has been told, but that's okay there should continuity. Earlier in the corner room, which pretended it was a v.i.p. lounge, a friend of Stuart's gave us free passes to the show by marking our hand's with an X-- a nice surprise because the show was sold out well before I got there. He had the marker because he played for Eagulls, the second-to-last band that night. After Eagulls finish their set Stuart leaves, we touch chests (some people call it hugging) and Rachel steals a kiss from my sinuous neck-- I didn't know of it's appeal. Iceage played last, the latest incarnation of this goth/dark/wastedletsstickourtoungesoutateverything-phase I and all my friends are enmeshed by. Basically, they were a hardcore band with a twist of post-punk and a dash of industrial, or maybe it was lime, sorry my pallate is underdeveloped. During Iceage's last song I witnessed something uniquely morbid and uncanny. In a whirlpool of haphazardly dancing bodies one of my coevals fell and was carelessly stepped on, probably numerous times, by the rest of the ongoing surge. As he was lifted by his armpits, horror slowly welled up in his eyes and his mouth steadily widened, but no sound came out.  He was staring directly at me, and not a single thing blocked me from his distorted face and the utter pain that it displayed. The show ended no more than 20 seconds after, for he fell in the final frenzy, and the singer leapt off stage to see how the the guy was doing. I needed to get out of there so I bolted for the door while everyone else was busy wiping the sweat from their forehead and reshaping their "fringe". My coeval lay passed out half-way down the stairwell with some knob-headed "punx" trying to wake him up. As I passed him on the left I said that he broke something, but according to  them he "just passed out or something"-- I didn't feel like debating a conspicuous point to any drunx. The underground was about to close so I ran to Old street and was on the phone with Natalka recounting the whole thing in 45 minutes, or "three quarters of an hour". The English are even more oblique than I am. I can't stare at this mass of letters any longer.