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You Little Maniacs – A Stream of Consciousness

It’s a super highway of

Egotistical maniacs

WATCH ME!

COMMENT!

LOVE MY THIGH GAP!

BUY BUY BUY

And desensitization keeps us calm

Except for the red of santa

Thanks Coke

And the wars

And the love

All red

Bloodflow

Too fast

Everything is too fast

You egotistical

Maniacs

Just stop. And look. And listen

Walk away

It’s not at the bottom of your Costa cup

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Herpes – A Bitter Love Story

She contracted herpes in 1984, just before the threat of AIDs hit the English shores and everyone still believed in free love like it was the 60’s. It flared up every time she thought of him, a big red sore on the top left hand side of her lip that oozed and bled whenever she touched it. They had divorced in 1987 when she found him balls deep in her best friend, Mandy. Mandy had curly hair and he loved it, he often made his wife wear a wig when they were having sex. She can’t ever remember making love, it was always raw and thrusting and she often got thrush for a few days after. The cold sore was just a lasting reminder of that bastard. Mandy died a few months ago, they’d made up a few years back after her ex husband eventually cheated on Mandy too for a younger curlier model. At least they had something in common and would often share stories well into the night about the bastard who left a mark on both their lips. One night, after three bottles of shared wine, they kissed and grabbed at each others tits in some sort of failed attempt to feel loved. They both remembered what happened in the morning but never talked about it and just got on with their day to day lives wondering what each other were thinking and whether or not they could be lesbian. She decided she couldn’t. She never liked the look of her own cunt, how could she go down on someone else’s. Also she’d found out that herpes could be transmitted that way and she didn’t want anyone else to be cursed with her ex-husband’s sins. That bastard was still alive though, they still lived in the same town they were married in, she couldn’t afford to move out and he had a good job in town and bought a house three streets away. She saw him often but he ignored her by looking down at his shoes, or suddenly turning heel and walking in the other direction. He was the one who did wrong so how come he still made her feel like a piece of shit that had been trodden into the carpet? She’d once tried to turn round quicker than him in an attempt to get the upper hand, but she almost walked into a lamp post and she heard him snort a laugh before walking away. One day she will make him pay, make him realise what he had lost, as soon as she worked out how to get the money that she owed the council for her studio flat in the basement of a decrepted Victorian four story house. Her top lip started stinging again so she walked to the broken bathroom cupboard for some vaseline.

 

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Skin – A Love Poem…

I breathed in your skin

And gathered your warmth

Broke all your bones

So you wouldn’t walk

Then made a fire

Out of your hair

Sewed shut your eyes

So you wouldn’t stare

Danced in a circle

Poured your blood like wine

You won’t leave me now

Not this time.

IMG_7982 copy

 
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Posted by on February 21, 2016 in poem, Uncategorized

 

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The Vegan and The Egg

It was then she suddenly realised that the retching smell of rotting egg was coming from under her train seat. Not to be the sort of person to draw attention to herself she pretended to drop her hand knitted glove and bent down to take a look. Every centimeter her head travelled downwards the stench got more and more potent. As she pulled her mousey hair from her eyes she saw it. A mouldy half eaten egg, possibly pickled, that had been expertly wedged between the metal struts of the train seat. It was green, yellow and grey, almost the same colours as the train company logo. She remembered that there was a new fish and chip shop that had just opened next to Wokingham train station, and how she was going to get a big bag of chips smothered in vinegar there after her forced overtime this evening and eat them on the train. The thought made her quickly lurch up while grabbing her glove in the process and looking wide eyed for an exit. As always the 7.42am train was rammed and the fat bearded man wedged in next to her huffed as she tried to levitate off the chair and away from the offending egg. Being vegan she almost shed a tear for the chick that was never born, and felt bad about leaving it, but knew if she used a tissue to remove the egg the smell would probably leak through and stain her fingers all day. She was always mocked at work for her bad breath and she was sure that it was that bitch Lyndsy that left a bloodied steak in her top draw a few months ago. She never reported it though, just took the steak outside and buried it in the flower bed. She could hear their laughs through the office windows and the blood stains never did come out of the desk drawer properly. ‘Murderers’ she mumbled. She didn’t want to make a scene on the train though, so she sat there, taking small sharp breaths and nervously looking round to make sure no one else could smell the egg. She closed her eyes and meditated about being a mother hen and the warmth from her ass through the seat made the egg reincarnate into a Godzilla sized cockerel that destroyed all the meat eating bastards at her office. She may be vegan but she saw human race as slime that should be wiped out by the things they had imprisoned and tortured. Apart from her mum, she may eat meat, but she’s just misguided and will understand one day when the chicken lord would pay her a visit. The conductor broke her trance with the announcement that the train would be delayed for 20 minutes and someone shouted ‘will someone open the fucking window then, someone must have done a shit on the floor!’ from behind her. She shrank further into her seat and tightly closed her eyes and wished she just got the later train with all her other office colleagues instead of actively avoiding them.

 
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Posted by on February 15, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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The Mountainous Ass

He sits on the same seat on the 8.17am train every morning.

His pin striped mountainous backside spilling over one seat and his broadsheet newspaper shadowing a second.

He loudly flatuates every time the train takes a slight turn and coughs up a distasteful huff when someone dare walks past him in the crowded aisle.

Sometimes he flatuates so much there is a strange cloud that orbits him, the air blends into a mix of rotting cabbage and stale sweat.

He likes to clear his throat into a yellowing tissue a minute after the train doors open at a station, just to ward off those who attempt to sit opposite him.

When they do he kicks his battered brown leather briefcase into their shins until they give up and move.

He wallows for 43 minutes and will wildly holler to anyone if the train runs more than thirty seconds late by his watch.

I’ve watched him sit on someone that was already in his seat. The look of fear on the woman’s face as his thunderous ass lowered on her lap still haunts me today.

He has a season ticket and shiny brown shoes

He is an ass

 
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Posted by on February 10, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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Haiku

The spit is still there

That monkey sucked my toe nail

Jimmy fly just watched

randy1

 
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Posted by on February 4, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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I’ve been writing

I’ve been writing, a lot, about 40,000 and counting. It’s almost like a babble of old stories and boasted past lives. So, anyway, here’s a piece of it. I’ll stick some more up from time to time. Would be great to hear any opinions, stories, remarks… 

…There was a fish in my parents pond. In fact there were quite a few fish, but there was one that was really flashy. If it was a bird you would say it has nice plumage. Golden amber scales, big lips and a fat belly. Though the fish kept on getting bigger. Dad said it was pregnant, and none of us know how long fish were pregnant for so we let nature take its course. Then one day its left eye popped out and was hanging by its mouth. The next day it wasn’t there, we just figured another fish had sucked on the eye and swallowed. After another week or so the fish was more floating sideways than swimming through the water and I decided it was stuck on weeds so I got a stick from the side of the pond and pushed it. It exploded. The scales split from end to end and this mass of white wormy string fell out and started twisting and turning. It slowly sank powerless to the bottom of the pond and we never saw the worm again. I guess something ended up eating it, or it rotted. A few weeks later there was documentary on Africa for Red Nose Day and I saw the same kind of worm thing coming out of a child’s leg, being wound around a twig gently so not to split it. I wondered if people exploded from the worm if they got poked with a stick. I guess I was only 9 at the time so it was quite a rational question…

 
 

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