Christmas Story

"Go to bed you little shit!"  Is screamed at the shivering husk beneath the blanket. Shadows lurch from the windows over the mound of fear. It stands there, waiting. Thick silence lies on the room. Understanding she won't get a reaction, she flings an action man at the the wall, shattering it. "Look what you made me do" Action man's thighs fall onto the covers and shimmer as the fear ripples through them, transported from the blanket. "Got to go to sleep. Got to go to sleep" Is chanted from beneath. "Santa won't come!". Moans and groans echo from the next room, agreement and all "Yes, yes. Right there". He creeps into the bathroom and opens the medicine cabinet. Grabbing an orange cylindrical case. 'Sleeping pills' he swigs them. Thump. Frothing at the mouth and spasming, the infant struggles from the door "M-m-mom.... H-help" He chokes through an enclosed throat. Hands tense in between motions as he claws at the doorknob, sliding down the smooth exterior because he can't grasp it. Then he stops. Diluted eyes stare at the ceiling, one pupil drifting slightly to the left. Incomprehensible groans whisp from his slightly parted lips. Corrupted mind and shattered soul. Knitwear covered in drool.
 

Manhood

New York. The Skinners. "Pint of lager please" says the man in a suit; Big lump in his trousers and confident demeanor. Every girl in the bar stares at him. "Hey baby what do you drink?", remarks his moist lips. The next day he saunters in, itching his crotch, "Pint of lager please". Marching up to the blonde girl, big tits and tiny black hairs poking out from the rippled holes in her legs. slight whiskers protrude above her lip, she thought she could get away with not shaving. A day later, scratches on neck "Pint of Lager please". Sitting there he surveys the room. Hot brunette, booth three, sitting next to a below average looking forty year old female, wrinkles wrap around her eyes. Loose skin on her forehead. A baggy red dress hangs around her neck in a feeble attempt to try and look nice and hide her expired body. Disgusting. Along the shaft of the booth, wrapping its long, hard arm around the man, also forty, tweed shorts, tight around the waist and a crinkled tie following his fat gut, disappearing into his trousers. Pixie cut blonde, booth twelve, sitting with a group of people her age, around twenty. too many. There's the doe, sitting at the bar. sweaty hair and spotty face. Small tits and a large waist. "Terrible combination", he mutters to himself. The clock states three; he scoots over "What do you drink?"
"Why?" she replies at light speed, slightly defensive.
 "Well I would like to buy you one if you don't mind"
"Oh, ok. Lambrini... please" she replies, still regaining herself from the shock. Back on track, he grasps at the packet in his pocket.
"Hey, look over there" Plop.
The next day he wanders in "Pint of Lager please" Three minutes later it's down his neck, gone. "That was a big heafer you picked up yesterday!" Jaunts the barman.
"Yeah, getting late" he says while getting up out his chair and patting some crumbs off his stomach. "Just off to the can" Uniziping his pant he pulls out a giant rod of meat.
A strike of pain emits from his crotch. Thwunk. down on the floor, spewing blood from one end, squelching as it hurls up tiny chunks of flesh, was a giant dick. I wrinkly pair of balls hang their, friendless, a gaping whole ripped down the sack. Pools of blood driping between and around the stark white hairs. He looks down, lips quivering "my... my manhood".

Taxidermy Tiger

Frigid in false position,
The felines fate is to stare.
The puppeteer scoops brain and tweaks muscle,
perfecting the lifestyle of once frugal.

Black tar swirls around the predator's jaws,
writhing in anger and lust.
Grey fangs glean towards the non-existent prey,
removed from the twitching iris of the once nimble beast.
Red angry tears pattern along the frozen muscle,
Layered by bristled, chemical dipped flesh.

Excited, previously surrounding trees,
Press tongues with sweaty glass;
pantomiming prey.
The beast, imprisoned in death,
statically urges forward,
for the sugar blood of an infant.

Narcotic Crocs

Bath. Time:12.18 a.m. I watch from the safety of my Starbucks fortress, slightly murky windows due to condensation. I'm strangely intrigued by the homeless man, lying outside in the cold, enclaved grey slot between TK Max and Specsavers. The homeless man, Probably around age 50 something, is wrapped in a tar coloured waist coat that curls around his legs while his bum pushes against it. The absence of clothing around his ankles suggests he is wearing shorts of some kind. My eyes are famished by the lack of colour, until they reach the crocs. No colour describes them, just faded conception mixed with attraction to the objects that surround the ever changing, dotted crocs. They draw me in. I exist on their surface. I have set up, grew up, fucked up and died all on the buzzing material of these ethereal shoes. My mind, arrogantly assuming, jumps to the conclusion that these seductive cocs are made of plastic. I am not in a state to judge. I am sexually attracted to the negative space; the holes that expose flesh. Prickled hair runs through the absese holding spray that floats from the puddles adjacent.I have zoomed in on the crocs and my perception of the world had been consumed by the their attractive glow. All I see is burgundy.  I snap into normality, gasping for air as I break through the layer of my conscience. Bath. Time: 12.18 a.m. I was, over and over, repeating and revising the crocs in all shapes and forms. I had purely become the crocs wrapped around his grubby feet. I, in necessity, no clothes and shaved head, had wrapped myself as a tiny figure around his toes. I had clasped the layers of his skin, the folds on his soles. I had pulled him close to my chest, keeping his feet from touching the flat surface below.

We Need To Talk About Kevin - Book Recommendation

The book I would recommend for everyone is 'We Need To talk About Kevin'. The book is told through letters that the mother of Kevin writes to her husband, explaining how she is discovering what she did wrong to turn her son, Kevin, into a murderer. The premise of this book appeals to me because I like the idea of delving deep into the back ground of a psychotic murderer and reinforcing the view point that all children are born equal, it's the environment which messes them up.

Slugging Vodka

The peppery liquid runs through my parted lips. My nose retracts from the stench that emanates from the bottle top, coveting my eyes with its rough hands.Running along my tongue I get a taste of roadkill and over cooked bacon that drills beneath my jaw. Hitting the back of my throat, it stings and shrivels the parched layers, flooding the vocal tubes. Glug glug.

What I think it's like to be cocooned by an xenomorph

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0B0sFtRTlx4

I am existing in a state of paralysis with a constant sweat glazed across my forehead. My neck is clenched, and my muscles are throbbing and pulsating underneath my skin. Rapidly, my heart beats, coursing glacial blood around my limp carcass. A pinching sensation continually caresses my limbs from underneath my flesh as my inflamed eyes roll around in their deep sockets. A moist substance surrounds every crevice and fold of my body, grasping underneath my arm pits and crawling in between my toes. In a strong weave, the mucus guides my rib cage into my chest, preventing my lungs to fully expand when I inhale the dense, watery air. I lack the strength to lift my eye lids but I can hear the air wobbling around my exposed ears. My face has been left exposed to the thick drafts and steam that relentlessly traipse around. Beneath my encased gut, my stomach feels heavier than usual, as if a cat had curled up inside it.

Sapphic Stains on Crystal Tina's Floor: The forbidden love of Tom and Joe

Chapter one

 12.30 pm. A slight drizzle is tapping against the window of Tom and Joe's Portland condo. Tom looks longingly out the window at the driveway three floors down, his rosemary scented perfume fills the air. Tom has cooked cottage pie for their anniversary dinner. It has now become cold. Suddenly, three strong knocks emanate from the front door. Tom rushes to the door, arms flung wide open, ready to receive a firm hug from Joe Lowe; he always loves it what he grasps his buttocks and whispers in his ear “hello baby boy”. Before Tom can fully open the door, Joe kicks it open in his impatience. “Hello dear” Tom says with a tinge of worry in his voice, “Is everything ok?”

“No it is not bloody ok” Replies Joe with angst.

“Well I’m sorry to hear that darling” Tom says while placing his strong, manly hands on Joe’s bony shoulders, “Come, sit down and eat the fabulous meal I cooked for us. It’s our anniversary don’t you know”

“I ate earlier” Joe states.

“Are you kidding me? I slave away all day in the kitchen, trying to make this day special”

“Well I’m not hungry”

“You know Joe, sometimes I feel like you don’t love me like you use too” Joe doesn’t reply.

“Answer me” Tom shouts, his voice breaking halfway through as he tries to shield the tears streaming from his eyes. Joe proceeds to pour himself a glass of wine. “Answer me Joe… Or it’s over”

“Don’t you say that” Tom turns his back to Joe “I just wish –“ Joe passionately grabs Tom around the waist before he can finish. “Don’t you say that… baby boy” 

The Green Giant’s Lair

Bod Lon Deb: The house on the end of the street where the beast lives. In the recluse Welsh village of Machynlleth, the slate roofed, three story mansion stands amongst the council flats and bungalows. Sickly green vines are draped around the cold grey exterior, following the cracks in the autumn coloured bricks. The Windows cannot be seen beneath the waterfall of botanical mesh. A hole is crudely cut into the vines, revealing a bare wood door, still damp from the rain.

I remember spending hours sitting complacently on the icy white sofa. Staring, mouth ajar, at the sponge shaped television set. The curtain are constantly closed. Not due to fear of light, but lack of motivation to fight against the rust and grime that has gathered on top of the curtain rail. Lit only by the T.V, the shadow of the sofa flickers and flashes on the grotty, piss coloured wallpaper. Shimmers of light run down the shiny oak flooring in a river of fluorescent primary colours. Cushions are littered like Lilly pads on a pond, allowing my dainty feet to avoid touching the freezing floor and traverse to the kitchen. Leaves covering the window act as a filter creating a green tint over all the faded crockery and utensils. Back of the kitchen, furthest away from the window, the wall stands in the darkness cradling the kitchen’s necessities with its shadow. The whirring of the computer positioned in the corner of the room, next to the dining table, covers the neglectful silence. Hanging like a suicide victim in the middle of the room, a wax stick sways. The green ray of light crawls around the creases on the vomit coloured sticks, projecting a fluorescent yellow on the dust which circulates around due to the draft. Twelve flies sit on the stick, slightly fidgeting in an attempt to break free from the wax prison that binds them to their soon to be grave.

The door to the bathroom is broken in the middle forcing occupants to push the top and bottom half at the same time to avoid it falling apart. Lacking in a light bulb, and a window, you must leave the door open when relieving yourself to be able to see. You don’t have the luxury of sitting down either as there is no toilet seat. A moist rope is held up by a strong piece of steel above the toilet. Pulling the thick noose results in a few seconds of rumbling emanating from the porcelain chamber above your head, before a slightly grey liquid erupts from around the toilet bowl, pushing the solid turd down the plumbing.

 “Antiques for Dummies” sits as a door stop for the bedroom, allowing a clear pathway for a thick, sheepskin rug to run up the hallway on the top floor. Muddy footsteps on the rug lead to wellington boots placed left to the king sized bed. One ‘Zoo’ magazine is sprawled in the middle of the bed; the centre folding in the unintended direction due to being hastily thrown across the room. Heavy curtains are slightly parted here casting an intense beam of heavenly light onto the T.V making it impossible to see what program is on. The blurry motion of two moths can be seen flying around a dim light which you would not realise was on without turning it off.

Pissing Down the Spine of a Book

A steady stream of piss beats down into the 'Potter' on the Harry Potter book's spine. The ligaments unbind and part, making the 'o' distort and ripple like the iris of a horny party goer. Specs of urine hit my wrists, clinging to my hairs and gathering at the ends before running down my hands. The yellow colour seeps down the pages, making the letters spread outwards and merge with their neighbors. All the pages become a tie dye pattern of wavy ink and soggy paper. Parts of the book give up underneath the immense pressure of the 12 liter bottle of water I drank earlier and flop to the ground. The only thing that survives the downpour is the embalmed front cover, crinkled and moist in a puddle of yellowy liquid on the united embassy stage.

Dystopian Movie Idea

Once apon a time there was a oppressed female protagonist with big boobs. The government wants her because she stole something that was important. While running away from the all male police force she falls over and all the buttons on her shirt pop off. The end.

Female lead: Mila Cunis
All male police force: Matthew Mcconaughey

Sniffing Tyres

I love sniffing tyres. I can only imagine the inside of a tyre to be full of never ending sparks; fractals of multicolored energy never fully specifying their existence on a 3d surface. They pulsate and retract in front of my sensual deep sea camera that is delving into the unpercievable inside of the dense liquid. The dense rubber holds unintelligible possibilities into the meaning of our sentient existence, as the endless possibilities of the patterns could, given time, reveal the answer to any question. When placing my nostrils against the dusty black skin of the wheel forever chained to the axle of the family car I inhale. Imagining the thousands of chunky dust particles going up my nose into the nasal chamber below my eye, translating the information that is only meant to be known by the enlightened ones.

Red Circle

His name was Enso. Enso had an unusual skill of being able to draw a perfect circle from the age of three. Now some children were to become firemen. Some children police officers and some could only work at the mines. But Enso possessed the skill to perfectly draw a circle without putting a thought into it. He filled piss colour paperback books with circle in different alignments. It was amazing how many ways a circle can be used for the good of the country. At age seven Enso discovered the whereabouts of Circum headquarters. Circum headquarters resided in central Tokyo: Business district. Two hundred and thirty seven floors of pristine white sofas and sugar glazed table tops. On floor two hundred and three is the circulation and transportation department; specialising in the movement of vehicles, land, sea and air. To be chosen to work in this shiny, towering building, the occupant of a building worth over 172.03 yen must but selected at the age of ten to decide whether they can make Circum over 20 thousand British pounds before the age of forty.

 (just imagine the circle is in the middle of my writing)

Soggy Oak Floor

Sitting topless, bare backed and hunched over. Clutching at my rubbery and dulled edge charity shop toy. I caress He-man's sculpted body. His hands no bigger than my finger nails. It feels good to see a face, to engage with another relatable character in my small LED lit world. I relish it as some irreplaceable object given to me by a towering god of unknown dissent. Reaching into the draw to tantalize my senses, I grab my trusty magnetic board in which I practice my alphabets. A,B,C,D, F and G. Shit. Where is the 'E'? my life is coming to an end. Everything that ever was, or is, is useless because of this missing 'E'. This pre-existing 'E' is toying with me, tearing me apart with its lack of feasibility.
"Dad, where's the letter I want?"
The expectance for his attention, as always, punches me in the face. No answer as always. His cone shaped back wrapped in woolen filth stays facing forwards. Like 'E' his face doesn't show itself. Looking up I see baggy cloth trousers, worn for days on end, blotting out my view of the oak kitchen. I am elevated off the splinter ridden floor by strong arms and wide flat hands. Without explanation I am placed in a hard right angled object. A chair. A chair of one hundred years sprouting from the matching floor that mimicks its colour, positions me infront of a long engraved table. Above the vanishing point of the table I see a dirty yellow sponge computer. One plate of meat, chicken eggs and plants is slid infront of me.
"Eat".

.

Grasping the wheat colored bump in my skin, I squeeze with thumb and fore finger until the air is released. Like a worm erupting from the ground, the pus spurts outwards, resting on the ridge between my thumb and fingernail. I drag downwards with my index, clumsily spreading the milky substance down my chin. One down.  

Ctrl+C Like a Sad Teenage Girl.

I drag my sorry carcass out of bed, "God I hope someone is watching". I'm acting extra sad today. Poor little me. I boot up my expensive apple computer and hop onto Tumblr "I'm extra sad today", I write in capitals. Poor little me. I scroll though the newest posts by all my friends.
I'm extra sad today.
I'm extra sad today.
I'm extra sad today.
"Urg, copycats"

An Individual Cure (Part 3)

Time: A Notable 2045.

Vigilante groups such as known as "NoPlato" and "không đến chết" have gained influence in working class designated areas around most densely populated areas. This has caused police to take action and eradicate anyone who's employment time is below 300 hours and age above thirty years of age.

Time" 2073.

The Earths human population has been reduced by 65%. Remaining human population all have an I.Q of above 144 and a new male contraceptive has been released which sterilizes the male consumer for 3 years of their life and reduces sex drive. Research for space travel beyond our known galaxy is now the most greatly funded area of research. The only form of audio that has remained on the market is educational audio books. Expressionist art has faded from the public eye and the only art that is presented in galleries are portraiture and landscape art.

  

An Individual Cure (Part 2)

Time: An orgasmic 2023.

Internal affairs and scandals have caused the board to break apart and be replaced by a new video recording system. "All acts of ethical actions caused by opportunity, excluding any religious reenactments and philosophical clichés, that take place on any public high street at least one mile away from any religious establishments, will be recorded by new Samsung Bluetooth cameras and processed in a disclosed location. If the act meets our requirements you will be awarded with the necessary karma points that can be redeemed for new Microsoft or Apple merchandising or saved until you require the inevitable life saving treatment for your illness or life choice"

Time: A remarkable 2024

The event known as "Concrete baby" has taken place, in which two individuals tied up a child, aged four, and pushed him off a newly built car park in Perugia, intending for one of the two humans to catch the child and receive 20 karma points for their actions. The actions ended in the child falling to their death for twelve seconds before hitting the ground and dying approximately two seconds after, due to severe concussion and three vital lungs splitting. This has caused a new system to be implemented where only those who have worked for exactly twelve thousand hours in the eyes of the government are entitled to one of the life saving procedures.    

An Individual Cure (Part 1)

Time: A blissful 2017.
All of humanities threats and worries have been eradicated. Anti semitic comments can be euthanized. Homosexuality can be implanted, or removed. World hunger is non existent. Terminal illness can be treated with the new operation known world wide as 'Necessarity'. All that humans need to do now is project kindness onto others for their chance to receive any treatment they require.

Time: A euphoric 2019.
A new karma management system is set up by the Liberal agenda of Switzerland. All acts of kindness must be presented to the board with at least three verbal accounts of the situation.

  

The Headache Diaries

Here are a series of  short explanations of some of the head aches I get from time to time.

The Headache Diaries

The pustule at the front right side of my brain sticks its smooth out my aura, like a sanded down piece of wood ruined by one niggle splinter.

The sides of my head vibrate and clench. The ripples of displeasure slowly pressurize the top of my head in a stealthy fashion. Unidentifiable circles of pain shamble up my throat from my stomach, piling onto the suffocating pain.

A slight pin prick nuzzles the front right side of my head, inflating like a balloon and numbing my senses. This sensation makes me visualize a brown rubber ball.

Sweaty Keyboards

Hello.

Nice to meet your grubby fingers tapping away at the greasy black keyboard. I want you to imagine all the sweat, all the semen, all the globule's of dust that have stuck together due to your sugar glazed fingers rubbing at the plastic keys.