Hitherto, therefore?
That is a query.
Actually my recent remarks about sex didn't go down too well. Weird. Considering going down was an integral part of sex.
I should like to say that my recent exploits in the mid-Lurgan elections have been green-lighted for use on celluloid so one day you will see the film just keep watching this space.
I would also like to state that recent allegorical depositions regarding my character are distorted and taken entirely out of character. I did not necessarily go to the hairdressers, they came to me. In any event Pinkeye likes the glamour models and they like me. This is not a boast or cause for ruction, this is a statement of fact. My admiration for their dispersal of clothes is paramount and in any case I imagine myself as better looking than I actually am so, that works too.
I've been given this rare blurb due to the absence of stories about my good pal, Junax, as he is still asleep. When he wakes up he hopes to see a clear horizon and new day. I always see them, usually about 4 in the morning and 6 in the evening.
I sympathise deeply with his predicament over the stylist, truly I do, where no one else would. It was foolishness above and beyond the call of duty to get sucked into that and he has fallen asleep as a result. The warning signs were all there...with basic gumption he could have extricated himself in March without further to-do. But Junax doesn't get laid as much as he thinks he should. That always happens with the next boyfriend. This is why the next boyfriend is universally loathed across the planet. What South American republic in its right mind would offer them sanctuary? None. We're not talking about the natural order of things, just them that move in on the relationship while it is still in progress. What assholes, eh? Incredible. That's my Canadian affectation by the way.
What was I talking about? The film! Fuck, right. Yep, my entire campaign in detail. I electioneered on the principle 'That I look pretty fly for a guy with the Pinkeye'. It won me votes, somewhere. We're still counting. Unfortunately the winning count was Serbo-Croat, a recent addendum to the ballot. But I accepted defeat with grace and favour, certainly better than the TUV candidate who threatened to kill everybody when he didn't win and had to be sedated. I fear the TUV will return with their murderous promises in five years. But so will I! Ha! Just will not be offering to off everyone. Might have sex with some of the bustier females. Y'see, what Mr Serbo-Croat MP fails to understand is I will be there in five years and he won't. I've sewn the seeds of my foundations of my future success. The electorate have heard from Pinkeye, they have heard Pinkeye's promises and they will hear them again. Just as you will hear from me again. Unless Junax wakes up or I can think of fuck all else to say.
Remember! That which you do not forget is that which you have remembered. And that's a campaign promise from me to you.
Avante!!
Pinkeye
Monday 20 June 2011
Friday 3 June 2011
Fuck it an' save it for the next time!
It had been two weeks.
Junax was still in his chair but this time he was musing...
He was musing about the stylist and her wee porridgey bit o' pussy fungus, known to his parents (for they knew not better or, sadly, they knew not Durex) as David Dodds.
Perchance... thought Junax, imagined he...what he should have done was to say to her that he wanted to sever all contact with her while she was knocking around with this numb-nuts. Then if, by some chance, Dumb Dodds had not impregnated her and she'd come to her senses and realised that there were tins of Dulux emulsion with more personality and interest about them than this pile of dried Dodds diarrhoea she'd settled for (and boy had she just SETTLED for it) Junax would consider resuming some form of contact. On a trial basis, a kind of probation, so she could be trusted again.
He rubbed his chin a moment or so at this consideration. Ah fuck it! That was what he realised after. Coulda, woulda, shoulda. Best to not observe the pregnancy announcements in the breeding section of the Mid Ulster News, (a paper whose editions were ritually burnt before they could get past Lisburn) and instead draw a line on the sand and say farewell to the whole sick affair. Yes that was better Junax reckoned. Then again Junax was a complete arsehole so it perhaps was not in her interest.
And with that situation successfully reviewed, he went to sleep :)
Junax was still in his chair but this time he was musing...
He was musing about the stylist and her wee porridgey bit o' pussy fungus, known to his parents (for they knew not better or, sadly, they knew not Durex) as David Dodds.
Perchance... thought Junax, imagined he...what he should have done was to say to her that he wanted to sever all contact with her while she was knocking around with this numb-nuts. Then if, by some chance, Dumb Dodds had not impregnated her and she'd come to her senses and realised that there were tins of Dulux emulsion with more personality and interest about them than this pile of dried Dodds diarrhoea she'd settled for (and boy had she just SETTLED for it) Junax would consider resuming some form of contact. On a trial basis, a kind of probation, so she could be trusted again.
He rubbed his chin a moment or so at this consideration. Ah fuck it! That was what he realised after. Coulda, woulda, shoulda. Best to not observe the pregnancy announcements in the breeding section of the Mid Ulster News, (a paper whose editions were ritually burnt before they could get past Lisburn) and instead draw a line on the sand and say farewell to the whole sick affair. Yes that was better Junax reckoned. Then again Junax was a complete arsehole so it perhaps was not in her interest.
And with that situation successfully reviewed, he went to sleep :)
Friday 27 May 2011
Oh - Oh - Oh !!
I'm the Oh - Oh man
My suicide is already planned
If I'm dead tomorrow,
I'm sure you'll understand
As all I am is just the Oh - Oh man
Who cares about me?
My suicide is already planned
If I'm dead tomorrow,
I'm sure you'll understand
As all I am is just the Oh - Oh man
Who cares about me?
Monday 23 May 2011
You know the sunlight's coming, but...
He felt spend, confined to the chair. It was still something of a night-time, so he had more to think of and say before the dawn. Oh Junax, more to go eh?
What if she came crying back to him?
What if she regretted it?
He would slam the door in her fucking face, but some might not.
He thought of that film, Sleeping With The Enemy. Julia Roberts was better looking but she was definitely banging Patrick Bergin. She'd come home one night to find David Dodds had broken in just to arrange her towels correctly.
But was this bad karma, dealing like this. He didn't know.
The more he thought about it so...
'He looks like fuckin' Kurgan from Highlander!' He spat.
Certainly in the picture of them in his mind, Dodds looked liked the type of sick deception that would win the Prize and bring 40 centuries of darkness to the Earth.
More bitter dispatches from the front eh? They said in Canada.
What if she came crying back to him?
What if she regretted it?
He would slam the door in her fucking face, but some might not.
He thought of that film, Sleeping With The Enemy. Julia Roberts was better looking but she was definitely banging Patrick Bergin. She'd come home one night to find David Dodds had broken in just to arrange her towels correctly.
But was this bad karma, dealing like this. He didn't know.
The more he thought about it so...
'He looks like fuckin' Kurgan from Highlander!' He spat.
Certainly in the picture of them in his mind, Dodds looked liked the type of sick deception that would win the Prize and bring 40 centuries of darkness to the Earth.
More bitter dispatches from the front eh? They said in Canada.
Perhaps, Possibly, Perchance...
The way it forces
Such as things to be,
Vocalising horses for courses
And turns the wayward
Out to sea.
How can I keep myself
From feeling like I'm falling?
Calling out but none hearing
They know not or want
To know where I go
Is it bad karma?
Then your emotions fall
Need some surety
A pain is not certainty
However much it feels.
Hold the vine to climb
Feeling people turn away
Recent behaviour causing doubt
To whom and unsure who will help
Me climb out.
Just can't feel like falling anyway.
Such as things to be,
Vocalising horses for courses
And turns the wayward
Out to sea.
How can I keep myself
From feeling like I'm falling?
Calling out but none hearing
They know not or want
To know where I go
Is it bad karma?
Then your emotions fall
Need some surety
A pain is not certainty
However much it feels.
Hold the vine to climb
Feeling people turn away
Recent behaviour causing doubt
To whom and unsure who will help
Me climb out.
Just can't feel like falling anyway.
Shafted by a Sash Wanker!
We all have our David Dodds to contend with. They are those dark little happenings in our lives that provide obstacles to be overcome. The thing about David Dodds is you often can't overcome it, you gotta go around or find a new route. Even people called David Dodds have their David Dodds to contend with. Except one that is.
Junax certainly had his David Dodds to contend with. Except in this case it was some cunt actually called David Dodds and he was the ruiner of all things good and destroyer of beauty and happiness. That's why he was a cunt. Speaking of which, Junax had recently been getting himself a nice bit of action from some hair stylist who had seemed the real deal. That was until she met David Dodds at a house party and elected to become his official cock-warmer.
Junax was sitting in his chair burning up about it. How do you go to a house party and decide to become a girlfriend? How on earth does that happen?! He made a mental note never to go to mid-Ulster house parties where nothing but bad, bad shit clearly happened. That burnt him. Then there was getting dumped for some fuckwit with a head shaped like a tomato and the facial features of a kiddy-snatcher. He was only a year younger than Junax for crying out loud, thought Junax.
'Fuck the iniquity of all this!' He howled.
Junax like to fuck on the beach as the moon waxed to it's fullest extent. David Dodds liked to shop for beige pyjamas that he could sew his name on along with Royal Irish Rifles insignia. How could Junax hope to compete with that? A D.I.Y lobotomy possibly, but no other way no how. That was the kind of shit that made hair stylists crazy. Apparently.
Dodds was a supporter of the Traditional Unionist Voice party. Unionism was all fine and well to Junax but he'd sort of given it up when he stopped buying Thundercats toys around 1988, though Unionist protests often meant the schools were closed, which was sweet. Actually Dodds had been barred from TUV meetings because he'd been caught using his Orange sash for masturbation purposes. As far as he was concerned it showed his utter devotion to the ethos. But he'd been already caught using rosaries as anal beads so his card was already marked. Actually as David himself often remarked, that was nothing, anally penetrating yourself using a Royal Irish Rifles 1915 officers revolver was far more pleasurable. He could feel the baked sweat of his favourite officer class still on the nozzle.
'Still this leaves me without pussy!!' Howled Junax again.
That was true, to an extent. Given how socially hopeless Junax was it did leave him in something of a bind. Plus, Dodds wasn't just in it for the pussy. He had a family breeding program to be seen to. Continuing the Dodds line from now until the Day of Judgement.
'Welcome to the "fun" side of life in Northern Ireland.' Said Junax, again only to himself.
Now, David would tell you that all animals had been put on the earth to serve man and women where here to breed for man. In fact most blokes in mid-Ulster would tell you that. So he had this wee hair stylist lined up to be the breeding vessel of his children.
He instructed his lawyer in a letter to secure full compensation from Dodds for services lost and time wasted. He signed it and then sat back and closed his eyes. All he could see was Dodds gloating like a hungry sex pervert with the stylist.
His eyes snapped open.
'Get outta my brain ya bastard!!'
He couldn't think now. He put on the radio and just then Zappa came to wash his mind clean.
Junax certainly had his David Dodds to contend with. Except in this case it was some cunt actually called David Dodds and he was the ruiner of all things good and destroyer of beauty and happiness. That's why he was a cunt. Speaking of which, Junax had recently been getting himself a nice bit of action from some hair stylist who had seemed the real deal. That was until she met David Dodds at a house party and elected to become his official cock-warmer.
Junax was sitting in his chair burning up about it. How do you go to a house party and decide to become a girlfriend? How on earth does that happen?! He made a mental note never to go to mid-Ulster house parties where nothing but bad, bad shit clearly happened. That burnt him. Then there was getting dumped for some fuckwit with a head shaped like a tomato and the facial features of a kiddy-snatcher. He was only a year younger than Junax for crying out loud, thought Junax.
'Fuck the iniquity of all this!' He howled.
Junax like to fuck on the beach as the moon waxed to it's fullest extent. David Dodds liked to shop for beige pyjamas that he could sew his name on along with Royal Irish Rifles insignia. How could Junax hope to compete with that? A D.I.Y lobotomy possibly, but no other way no how. That was the kind of shit that made hair stylists crazy. Apparently.
Dodds was a supporter of the Traditional Unionist Voice party. Unionism was all fine and well to Junax but he'd sort of given it up when he stopped buying Thundercats toys around 1988, though Unionist protests often meant the schools were closed, which was sweet. Actually Dodds had been barred from TUV meetings because he'd been caught using his Orange sash for masturbation purposes. As far as he was concerned it showed his utter devotion to the ethos. But he'd been already caught using rosaries as anal beads so his card was already marked. Actually as David himself often remarked, that was nothing, anally penetrating yourself using a Royal Irish Rifles 1915 officers revolver was far more pleasurable. He could feel the baked sweat of his favourite officer class still on the nozzle.
'Still this leaves me without pussy!!' Howled Junax again.
That was true, to an extent. Given how socially hopeless Junax was it did leave him in something of a bind. Plus, Dodds wasn't just in it for the pussy. He had a family breeding program to be seen to. Continuing the Dodds line from now until the Day of Judgement.
'Welcome to the "fun" side of life in Northern Ireland.' Said Junax, again only to himself.
Now, David would tell you that all animals had been put on the earth to serve man and women where here to breed for man. In fact most blokes in mid-Ulster would tell you that. So he had this wee hair stylist lined up to be the breeding vessel of his children.
He instructed his lawyer in a letter to secure full compensation from Dodds for services lost and time wasted. He signed it and then sat back and closed his eyes. All he could see was Dodds gloating like a hungry sex pervert with the stylist.
His eyes snapped open.
'Get outta my brain ya bastard!!'
He couldn't think now. He put on the radio and just then Zappa came to wash his mind clean.
Thursday 5 May 2011
Fwhhhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarr?!
Well, never had a well. Never had a need for lotion. Never had a need for a coat made of female skin. To make me look like a woman nevertheless.
It was at that point that she signed offline. Bugger. Consumptive deliverance of a goodly attitude I thought. But I was wrong. So I began to write the screenplay to my first film instead. That took all of five minutes. I looked at what I had. Five pages. Fuck. So I got up and stared deliberately at the green concrete boundaries of my room. It was a Wednesday. Possibly. I decided that this would be an excellent juncture to renew my efforts at my guitar playing. As a right-handed 30-year old obese man I picked up the black, left-handed obese guitar and It sunk my belly back to where it had been seven years earlier. Or so I thought.
My hands nestled upon the strings and I began to find the delicate outlines of the four chords I knew. At no point did I play any of them correctly.
There was a nearby disturbance outside the window. Music critics. I knew they by their burning torches and farmyard implements and red kerchiefs knotted about their barley-scarred skin and the torn charcoal black waistcoats overlaying the yellow-stained faded blue-striped shirts. They brought their own mud with them. Diaphanous women pirouetted before them laying it like bounteous gifts from agricultural horns of plenty. Or in this case old bags of Mac Alpines cement. They were already at the front door.
My housemate enquired on the Face-boke as to whether perchance I had been playing my guitar as we were all now to be murdered in our beds. I chose to defer my answer until the point when I would be speared against my own bed by a rusted pitchfork.
I went on another dating site to drown out the background howl of shattering glass and sounds of dying animals to declare that I, myself, was sexually attracted to rolling pins and had been for some years. She said she would report me to the police. I said I would be sweet as a lamb to her, with mint sauce dripping down me balls. Ah such is life. How was your day?
Bisson
It was at that point that she signed offline. Bugger. Consumptive deliverance of a goodly attitude I thought. But I was wrong. So I began to write the screenplay to my first film instead. That took all of five minutes. I looked at what I had. Five pages. Fuck. So I got up and stared deliberately at the green concrete boundaries of my room. It was a Wednesday. Possibly. I decided that this would be an excellent juncture to renew my efforts at my guitar playing. As a right-handed 30-year old obese man I picked up the black, left-handed obese guitar and It sunk my belly back to where it had been seven years earlier. Or so I thought.
My hands nestled upon the strings and I began to find the delicate outlines of the four chords I knew. At no point did I play any of them correctly.
There was a nearby disturbance outside the window. Music critics. I knew they by their burning torches and farmyard implements and red kerchiefs knotted about their barley-scarred skin and the torn charcoal black waistcoats overlaying the yellow-stained faded blue-striped shirts. They brought their own mud with them. Diaphanous women pirouetted before them laying it like bounteous gifts from agricultural horns of plenty. Or in this case old bags of Mac Alpines cement. They were already at the front door.
My housemate enquired on the Face-boke as to whether perchance I had been playing my guitar as we were all now to be murdered in our beds. I chose to defer my answer until the point when I would be speared against my own bed by a rusted pitchfork.
I went on another dating site to drown out the background howl of shattering glass and sounds of dying animals to declare that I, myself, was sexually attracted to rolling pins and had been for some years. She said she would report me to the police. I said I would be sweet as a lamb to her, with mint sauce dripping down me balls. Ah such is life. How was your day?
Bisson
Tuesday 26 April 2011
Well That's Fucked That Wan Then!!
Junax sat with a lazy eye and a lithe latex suspender draped upon his sofa area. They were knee-capping each guest that came on This Morning that day and leaving them to stumble around the foam map of Britain re-erected in the Thames just for the occasion.
Junax felt his arm glued to his torso with sweat. He'd just been up to the coast where he had been rewarded with a heavy cold and as he came back on the train, there were a bunch of 14-year old spides singing about lovely, fluffy sheep to the tune of 'When the Saints...' Junax had a stinking head and was fantasising about having an uzi and slowly gunning down each of the little cunts with more graphic and deliberate imagery. He was in a strange sense of deja vu where he'd been on a train before with spides singing about fluffy sheep.
He got to Belfast and found the wee hallon had done it again.
In recent times he had developed a taste for girls ten years younger than himself, which wasn't so bad as he was 35, but it was an unwise attraction nevertheless.
This one had told him she had found a legal accountant called Simon. They'd spent all night going through figures of last year's income rate bracket.
This was the last time he would buck a culchie!
Well, it was certainly the last time he would buck that culchie anyway. She was bucking Simon now which worked out good for him as it was his first time and he would be able to declare sex as an income-free tax return. That was what got Simon the most wet.
'Fucking tractor pulling wee tart...' Growled Junax to his empty room.
It wasn't the sudden stop that killed yer, it was the fall. The rejection. He couldn't believe it. This was new, he'd been rejected for a younger model!
'Some dickless wee know-nuffin cunt, a right vapid fucker and as immediate and exciting as a pot of beige emulsion.'
Again, to no-one.
Now Junax was needy sure, but Simon took the biscuit. Years later a girl would know he was stalking her as he broke into her house and tidied her towels for her. He'd insisted Junax's bit of stuff draw up an affidavit swearing he was her boyfriend. If she didn't he would probably murder her. Suffocate her with invoices or something or just brain her to death with a brick in a stocking.
But hey, psychopaths are the new sexy and Junax wasn't
'Fucking hate women'.
He just lump it and join the club. There was a long waiting list.
Junax felt his arm glued to his torso with sweat. He'd just been up to the coast where he had been rewarded with a heavy cold and as he came back on the train, there were a bunch of 14-year old spides singing about lovely, fluffy sheep to the tune of 'When the Saints...' Junax had a stinking head and was fantasising about having an uzi and slowly gunning down each of the little cunts with more graphic and deliberate imagery. He was in a strange sense of deja vu where he'd been on a train before with spides singing about fluffy sheep.
He got to Belfast and found the wee hallon had done it again.
In recent times he had developed a taste for girls ten years younger than himself, which wasn't so bad as he was 35, but it was an unwise attraction nevertheless.
This one had told him she had found a legal accountant called Simon. They'd spent all night going through figures of last year's income rate bracket.
This was the last time he would buck a culchie!
Well, it was certainly the last time he would buck that culchie anyway. She was bucking Simon now which worked out good for him as it was his first time and he would be able to declare sex as an income-free tax return. That was what got Simon the most wet.
'Fucking tractor pulling wee tart...' Growled Junax to his empty room.
It wasn't the sudden stop that killed yer, it was the fall. The rejection. He couldn't believe it. This was new, he'd been rejected for a younger model!
'Some dickless wee know-nuffin cunt, a right vapid fucker and as immediate and exciting as a pot of beige emulsion.'
Again, to no-one.
Now Junax was needy sure, but Simon took the biscuit. Years later a girl would know he was stalking her as he broke into her house and tidied her towels for her. He'd insisted Junax's bit of stuff draw up an affidavit swearing he was her boyfriend. If she didn't he would probably murder her. Suffocate her with invoices or something or just brain her to death with a brick in a stocking.
But hey, psychopaths are the new sexy and Junax wasn't
'Fucking hate women'.
He just lump it and join the club. There was a long waiting list.
Thursday 7 April 2011
Sheer Wasted
Another story about Junax is, in his younger days, he was invited to a party. He'd run out of money for drink so he decided to have some mushies and go tripping instead, reasoning that to be a bit wasted was better than none at all.Bad move.
He was tripping his arse off by the time he got up there. Envisionings of entire kingdoms swum past him in the haze. He was two hours late and when he got there, there was some girls hanging about outside on a wall. One of the girls looked like the brunette hooker out of Crocodile Dundee. This made him really paranoid. She knew he was a scum, she could read his mind.
But then she was dressed like Nicola Roberts out of Girls Aloud so she morphed into her but with brown hair. But they still hated him he knew it. He went up to the door. It was locked. Fuck.
There was nobody around...to knock would make him look like a tool but to hang around then the girls would know he was a freak.
Then a tall guy came by, looked like Justin Bieber after having been put on a rack for the Gunpowder Plot, which he would be, because he was that sort of cunt.
The Bieber Bigfoot as he had now morphed into in Junax's mind, took out a mobile phone and spoke to the girls.
He just said
'Bout ye?'
instead of
'Hi! I'm Justin Bieber Bigfoot. I have a plastic cock I put cause I have no genitals but I like to stuff my fleas up cocks.'
His not saying this confused Junax greatly.
Bieber Bigfoot asked the girls if they were going to the party.
'Yeah, I live up there.' one of the non-hooker ones said.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. That made it worse, how the fuck would he get in now?
Bieber Bigfoot was offering Junax the chance to massage his fur while he taught his fleas how to teach the world to sing and other Coca-Cola jingles. The worst was this was not a hallucination. This was actually happening.
Just then a smoker popped out to get some fresh air and Junax took the opportunity to go in. He knew the girls were chanting 'Stranger, danger!' through mental telepathy.
When he got up to the party he was acclaimed;
'Trevor!'
'Trevor'
'What?' Said Junax
'Trevor!'
'No Junax'
'Trevor!'
He fell down at was thought to be a table and drank a yellow liquid put in front of him.
'Trevor get that down ye!'
It tasted like fairy liquid. He could feel fleas marching up towards him, singing Pepsi jingles.
When he awoke the next morning there was no girl beside him, so he'd failed to get laid. But good grief was his arse sore.
He was tripping his arse off by the time he got up there. Envisionings of entire kingdoms swum past him in the haze. He was two hours late and when he got there, there was some girls hanging about outside on a wall. One of the girls looked like the brunette hooker out of Crocodile Dundee. This made him really paranoid. She knew he was a scum, she could read his mind.
But then she was dressed like Nicola Roberts out of Girls Aloud so she morphed into her but with brown hair. But they still hated him he knew it. He went up to the door. It was locked. Fuck.
There was nobody around...to knock would make him look like a tool but to hang around then the girls would know he was a freak.
Then a tall guy came by, looked like Justin Bieber after having been put on a rack for the Gunpowder Plot, which he would be, because he was that sort of cunt.
The Bieber Bigfoot as he had now morphed into in Junax's mind, took out a mobile phone and spoke to the girls.
He just said
'Bout ye?'
instead of
'Hi! I'm Justin Bieber Bigfoot. I have a plastic cock I put cause I have no genitals but I like to stuff my fleas up cocks.'
His not saying this confused Junax greatly.
Bieber Bigfoot asked the girls if they were going to the party.
'Yeah, I live up there.' one of the non-hooker ones said.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. That made it worse, how the fuck would he get in now?
Bieber Bigfoot was offering Junax the chance to massage his fur while he taught his fleas how to teach the world to sing and other Coca-Cola jingles. The worst was this was not a hallucination. This was actually happening.
Just then a smoker popped out to get some fresh air and Junax took the opportunity to go in. He knew the girls were chanting 'Stranger, danger!' through mental telepathy.
When he got up to the party he was acclaimed;
'Trevor!'
'Trevor'
'What?' Said Junax
'Trevor!'
'No Junax'
'Trevor!'
He fell down at was thought to be a table and drank a yellow liquid put in front of him.
'Trevor get that down ye!'
It tasted like fairy liquid. He could feel fleas marching up towards him, singing Pepsi jingles.
When he awoke the next morning there was no girl beside him, so he'd failed to get laid. But good grief was his arse sore.
Junax Never Had It So Good
He was thinking of the catharsis or maybe he was dying of consumption. He didn't know. The dull ache in the left hand side of his head was giving nothing away. His lungs hacked, killed his chest and brought up more of a green mucas interspersed with droplets of blood.
'Fuck, that's a worry.' He thought.
He needed to think of something to do now. Perhaps go mad as some sort of adventure. He went out into the day. The sun cast down cruel aspersions upon him and leathered his skin. Out the back, he imagined Martians were landing and began to hallucinate them. They came down in their large saucer with their green, phlegmatic skin and bulbous dark, seed like eyes.
Having said that the Martians were too atypical. They'd already come down for Orson Wells in 1936 and had been hired to do War of the Worlds. Probably with Equity. Junax had little time for the unions and Mars looked like somewhere quite inhospitable to sustaining life of this magnitude. The Martians faded away, victimised as ever by logic.
He couldn't think of anything else. To be more original he'd have to think of a race of his own...but then he'd have to make up a whole lot of shit for them and it was too much effort. He like things already formed. There were no women out sunbathing which only made the day that more pathetic. Who the fuck would be out in this with no chance of a fuck?
Not him. He went back in, doubting though that a fuck could be on the menu if his cock stayed as flaccid as it had been these many years. He checked in his underwear to see if it was hard. Some yellowish gunge had affixed it to his groin. Perhaps when it hardened it would make his cock hard too.
He got in his flat and fell back in his chair. He pulled a ciggy out of the packet for want of better to do. Each pull just made his temple ache worse. Ah well.
There needed to be something. There was that horror of the afternoon to contend with. Then there was a happening. He leapt up and ripped the plastic bag off the smoke alarm. Within seconds the siren screeched into life like Dustin Diamond on a Reno hooker.
Soft, dolorous stained water flooded into the room from the sprinkler. Junax smiled. It was exactly like it was described in Prayer Song. A brief moment of unalloyed transcendance.
In the distance he could hear the encroaching wail of the fire service. His form clung with the moisture now falling upon it. He felt purified.
The fire hachet made short work of the door. The fireman came in a seeing the soaked ciggy in Junax's hand, he slapped him hard across the face with his health and safety protected arm. Junax cared little. He felt cleansed and could face another day.
'Fuck, that's a worry.' He thought.
He needed to think of something to do now. Perhaps go mad as some sort of adventure. He went out into the day. The sun cast down cruel aspersions upon him and leathered his skin. Out the back, he imagined Martians were landing and began to hallucinate them. They came down in their large saucer with their green, phlegmatic skin and bulbous dark, seed like eyes.
Having said that the Martians were too atypical. They'd already come down for Orson Wells in 1936 and had been hired to do War of the Worlds. Probably with Equity. Junax had little time for the unions and Mars looked like somewhere quite inhospitable to sustaining life of this magnitude. The Martians faded away, victimised as ever by logic.
He couldn't think of anything else. To be more original he'd have to think of a race of his own...but then he'd have to make up a whole lot of shit for them and it was too much effort. He like things already formed. There were no women out sunbathing which only made the day that more pathetic. Who the fuck would be out in this with no chance of a fuck?
Not him. He went back in, doubting though that a fuck could be on the menu if his cock stayed as flaccid as it had been these many years. He checked in his underwear to see if it was hard. Some yellowish gunge had affixed it to his groin. Perhaps when it hardened it would make his cock hard too.
He got in his flat and fell back in his chair. He pulled a ciggy out of the packet for want of better to do. Each pull just made his temple ache worse. Ah well.
There needed to be something. There was that horror of the afternoon to contend with. Then there was a happening. He leapt up and ripped the plastic bag off the smoke alarm. Within seconds the siren screeched into life like Dustin Diamond on a Reno hooker.
Soft, dolorous stained water flooded into the room from the sprinkler. Junax smiled. It was exactly like it was described in Prayer Song. A brief moment of unalloyed transcendance.
In the distance he could hear the encroaching wail of the fire service. His form clung with the moisture now falling upon it. He felt purified.
The fire hachet made short work of the door. The fireman came in a seeing the soaked ciggy in Junax's hand, he slapped him hard across the face with his health and safety protected arm. Junax cared little. He felt cleansed and could face another day.
They Never Fix You When You're Broken
There was a vaccuous sensation about him. He could feel a strange sensation on either side of his head that felt like some experiment had been performed on him while he slept. Like an electrical mind control device had been plugged in directly into his head and sent dark and dreary volts into him. He felt like he needed to vomit up his own brain.
He shivered from the breeze through the open window and gaped up at the plastic bag wrapped over the smoke alarm. Another cruel day for Janax. An evil Suzie Quatro number had been playing in his head since he woke up and he thought it would lead to damnation the more it was played over and over.
He tried some GTA IV to distract himself. His favourite song 'Girls Girls Girls' by Sailor was kept on perpetual loop on the sound system. Usually he'd be laughing his head off at Grand Theft but not today. The oppressive thoughts were too mighty. He watched as Niko swam out to sea to escape police attention. Fucked if he knew where the pay 'n' spray was...
He paused the game and allowed the silence to take over. Nothing. He could feel time just simply tick on. Incessant.
Sailor came on again. He loved Sailor. It was his sort of band. Only they provided any refuge to him ever. A congregation of sounds and notes from 30-odd years ago comforted him but the human populous about him refused.
Where were the girls? Where were these supposed women with their greater sensitivity and compassion. It was bullshit. It always had been. Never mind equal rights, that was fair enough. Give 'em all they want and fuck the patriarchy. But to claim they cared and had feeling, when the fucking cunts clearly didn't. Well that was the biggest crock of bollocks yet.
If women declared that they were heartless bitches then that was fine. He would believe that and get on with it but to acclaim sensitivity as their saving grace, well, that made his blood boil. To claim otherwise made him a misogynist apparently. He was, anyway, but this was essential truth being dealt with here so it didn't matter what he felt.
The silence...the silence...nothing. He was here and nobody cared. He sat back. There was a certain perverse satisfaction in it. The human race showing it's true colours. He was allowed a light grin.
He wrote on facebook. "All women are cold, uncaring bitches."
A few minutes later some girl wrote under the comment.
"Yes were are. You've found us out. Now fuck off."
There was a victory of sorts. Truth was always a victory for Janax. He unpaused the game and played the virtual recreation of human achievement. When aliens wanted to know about life on Earth they would find GTA. The best document you could hope for. This was everything while Bach was just one guy who wrote beauty. It didn't represent the whole spectrum like this. Sorry Johann.
Sailor returned to the beginning. Nice, thought Junax. For a few seconds the darkness in his head was quite forgot and that was the greatest kindness you could hope for in the world.
He shivered from the breeze through the open window and gaped up at the plastic bag wrapped over the smoke alarm. Another cruel day for Janax. An evil Suzie Quatro number had been playing in his head since he woke up and he thought it would lead to damnation the more it was played over and over.
He tried some GTA IV to distract himself. His favourite song 'Girls Girls Girls' by Sailor was kept on perpetual loop on the sound system. Usually he'd be laughing his head off at Grand Theft but not today. The oppressive thoughts were too mighty. He watched as Niko swam out to sea to escape police attention. Fucked if he knew where the pay 'n' spray was...
He paused the game and allowed the silence to take over. Nothing. He could feel time just simply tick on. Incessant.
Sailor came on again. He loved Sailor. It was his sort of band. Only they provided any refuge to him ever. A congregation of sounds and notes from 30-odd years ago comforted him but the human populous about him refused.
Where were the girls? Where were these supposed women with their greater sensitivity and compassion. It was bullshit. It always had been. Never mind equal rights, that was fair enough. Give 'em all they want and fuck the patriarchy. But to claim they cared and had feeling, when the fucking cunts clearly didn't. Well that was the biggest crock of bollocks yet.
If women declared that they were heartless bitches then that was fine. He would believe that and get on with it but to acclaim sensitivity as their saving grace, well, that made his blood boil. To claim otherwise made him a misogynist apparently. He was, anyway, but this was essential truth being dealt with here so it didn't matter what he felt.
The silence...the silence...nothing. He was here and nobody cared. He sat back. There was a certain perverse satisfaction in it. The human race showing it's true colours. He was allowed a light grin.
He wrote on facebook. "All women are cold, uncaring bitches."
A few minutes later some girl wrote under the comment.
"Yes were are. You've found us out. Now fuck off."
There was a victory of sorts. Truth was always a victory for Janax. He unpaused the game and played the virtual recreation of human achievement. When aliens wanted to know about life on Earth they would find GTA. The best document you could hope for. This was everything while Bach was just one guy who wrote beauty. It didn't represent the whole spectrum like this. Sorry Johann.
Sailor returned to the beginning. Nice, thought Junax. For a few seconds the darkness in his head was quite forgot and that was the greatest kindness you could hope for in the world.
Wednesday 6 April 2011
Most wretched and unwieldy creature...
I had, of late not recovered my mirth. I was half-aware of what unsmiling form my face had taken in it's leathering years. Fuck Shakespeare, he would get down on his hands and knees and let herpies-ridden sailors fuck him until dawn so they could say they would pass on his crutty plays to some fuckwit or know-nothing.
Fuck English literature I thought as I sat abiding.
I'd joined facebook some years back and got fucked over royally every time I went on it. You were on for the pune, the pussy y'know. But they weren't having it. Getting de-friended to fuck. They shouldn't give the cunts a de-friending button til they were old enough to use it. It was like giving a biscuit its own sense of being while it was dangled over the precipice of a hot mug o' char.
But I thought less of it anyway. They would meet real assholes in life and then come crying back to me. The door would be fucking closed then, for good.
I watched Hollyoaks a while and laughed my ass off. Some bloke was getting raped on his expensive car by a bad actor who had a tall, skin head mate who said nothing. Maybe he paid to watch. They then had a male rape helpline on the end of the show. Being Channel 4 they then played the genuine calls of males who had been raped. Traumatised men where thus acclaimed as Channel 4's new reality television output.
On Sky, David Cameron was found fisting Justin Bieber in a Hounslow council flat. The news crew were so shocked and horrified they gunned them both down there and then whilst puking all the while. For the next four hours they showed in slow motion the corpses of 'Dave' and the Bieber incubus doing the dance macabre, as they leapt with the impact of each bullet and sprayed more of their elitist blood about the room.
For once seeing scumfucks gunned down in cold blood, it actually seemed a land of hope and glory.
But fuck the UK, who needs it? My thoughts turned to dinner but I was fucked if I knew what to have. You can be good at sex and making shit up but never turn it to any money that's worthwhile.
On facebook they put out lists of people who were not trendy enough and so you'd be best getting put down. Well, fuck 'em, because my mate told me you get three great ones in your life and if they fuck you over, they're not one of the great ones. You can fuck the minnows, it's only the big three you need to care about.
So many unimportant women, of course. My thoughts returned to Channel 4 as they showed their comedy remit. Four posh pricks recently sent down from Cambridge had tied up some people at a bus stop and were getting an Aids-infected rottweiler to shit in their mouths. As the victims vomited up a combination of turd and breakfast, the Channel 4 executives were parachuted in and commissioned the show there and then.
I grew tied of such things and picked up a book where the horrors of the human world could do nothing to intrude. Outside the rain began to fall and it looked like the beginnings of a wednesday.
Bisson.
Fuck English literature I thought as I sat abiding.
I'd joined facebook some years back and got fucked over royally every time I went on it. You were on for the pune, the pussy y'know. But they weren't having it. Getting de-friended to fuck. They shouldn't give the cunts a de-friending button til they were old enough to use it. It was like giving a biscuit its own sense of being while it was dangled over the precipice of a hot mug o' char.
But I thought less of it anyway. They would meet real assholes in life and then come crying back to me. The door would be fucking closed then, for good.
I watched Hollyoaks a while and laughed my ass off. Some bloke was getting raped on his expensive car by a bad actor who had a tall, skin head mate who said nothing. Maybe he paid to watch. They then had a male rape helpline on the end of the show. Being Channel 4 they then played the genuine calls of males who had been raped. Traumatised men where thus acclaimed as Channel 4's new reality television output.
On Sky, David Cameron was found fisting Justin Bieber in a Hounslow council flat. The news crew were so shocked and horrified they gunned them both down there and then whilst puking all the while. For the next four hours they showed in slow motion the corpses of 'Dave' and the Bieber incubus doing the dance macabre, as they leapt with the impact of each bullet and sprayed more of their elitist blood about the room.
For once seeing scumfucks gunned down in cold blood, it actually seemed a land of hope and glory.
But fuck the UK, who needs it? My thoughts turned to dinner but I was fucked if I knew what to have. You can be good at sex and making shit up but never turn it to any money that's worthwhile.
On facebook they put out lists of people who were not trendy enough and so you'd be best getting put down. Well, fuck 'em, because my mate told me you get three great ones in your life and if they fuck you over, they're not one of the great ones. You can fuck the minnows, it's only the big three you need to care about.
So many unimportant women, of course. My thoughts returned to Channel 4 as they showed their comedy remit. Four posh pricks recently sent down from Cambridge had tied up some people at a bus stop and were getting an Aids-infected rottweiler to shit in their mouths. As the victims vomited up a combination of turd and breakfast, the Channel 4 executives were parachuted in and commissioned the show there and then.
I grew tied of such things and picked up a book where the horrors of the human world could do nothing to intrude. Outside the rain began to fall and it looked like the beginnings of a wednesday.
Bisson.
The Poet as Pornographer
His thumbs were fucked. They were trying to kill him and he thought my laundry was having succulent thoughts that were not his own.
'Give it up' He thought. That was all.
He would go to a massage parlour when he was older and have some asian chick massage his small, flaccid penis for the awfulness of it all.
He eased open the door and stood in the full cascading glare of the day. It hated him and burned down on him with contempt. The grass spoke to him. It's words were not that kindness to which most humans think of as their due and expected with continuous rapidity.
This was where Ranalf Junax did part from the usualness of existence. Women passed by at some distance. They were to far away yet to discern clearly.
'Fucking whores!' Junax shouted. 'Fucking hateful bitches.' There was some justification to this. He was both misogynist and misanthrope. Plus they were Derry girls. Northern Irish girls were the worst, they would have shoved people in the ovens during World War Two without a second thought or reflection. As he screamed at them they moved further away.
'Fuck them.' He declared and that was that for today.
Feeling truculent, he went down to the chippie. His skin felt itself to be on fire, burning down to the very marrow. His thumbs felt like they were stuck in acid. Perhaps a wank would help matters. He found a quiet corner of his own, near the murals that declared that this was not a suitable area for paedophiles to reside as there were too many children living there. Janax found this amusing as if he were an estate agent and he were going to sell a house to a paedophile, he'd earn his commission.
He slunk into the corner. He brushed aside the wave of his dirty blonde hair from his green eyes. His hand skirted and then shivered down his army jacket to his stained jeans and undid the flies. He found his cock somewhere in the mess of his underwear and brushed off some of the yellow flaking matter from around it. He began to jack off. Nothing. He tried with more vigor, taking some of the barely washed dried skin off it.
A little old woman who was a Unionist walked by. She could see what he was up to.
'Stop wanking!' she screamed. She then fainted.
Junax paid no heed, there was nothing happening anyway. But then he felt the evil that was upon his thumbs drip down like maggot puke onto his cock. He felt the darkness fall upon his member. He tried to rub off the bad stuff, but only made it worse.
Meantime the old woman had woken up and had a personality change due to shock. She began feeling in her undergarments for the remains of her clit. And began shuffling along on her bony arse towards Junax.
'Fuck off, FUCK OFF!' He shouted at her. But she kept on moving towards him, trying to remember how to wank.
He kicked her in her wrinkled muff. It had no effect. So he just ran. There was too much evil on his cock now. He would have to stick it in a bottle of dettol later so the burning sensation was greater than that in his mind.
Then he got to the chippie. Row upon row of deserted Victorian terraces gave way to a concrete block with the Cafe Khip sited on the bottom level. He went in. Stale vinegar and the hissing sound of salmonella soaked food hit his senses. He was slightly hungry but not by much. There were some girls ahead of him. They were the Derry girls. They were affecting British accents so the server didn't know they were from Norn Iron.
They spotted Junax.
'Thar is that fukin' retard. Yew are like so ould and fukin' mentally retarded.'
Junax had a pair of gold coloured glasses and tended to stare to long at things, but these were the only associations of retardation about him.
'Derry guys like Chinky pussy better.' He said quietly
'No they fucking don't now! They like local, they like fucking our pussy!!' Screamed the lead girl in her natural accent.
The chip server realised they were Northern Irish.
'You're from here. Get out! We don't serve Ulster bitches in here!'
The girls ran out, too much attention drawn to being Northern Irish girls. Junax strolled to the front of the counter.
Later, Junax sat in his corderory armchair. The local news was on and the sky had began to darken. The remains of a chip and hot dog sat nearby. He put his feet on the table and lit a straight. He pulled in the fumes of poisonous smoke and wondered how long now. But he knew that his brain was not about to let him off that easily.
So he dragged on
'Give it up' He thought. That was all.
He would go to a massage parlour when he was older and have some asian chick massage his small, flaccid penis for the awfulness of it all.
He eased open the door and stood in the full cascading glare of the day. It hated him and burned down on him with contempt. The grass spoke to him. It's words were not that kindness to which most humans think of as their due and expected with continuous rapidity.
This was where Ranalf Junax did part from the usualness of existence. Women passed by at some distance. They were to far away yet to discern clearly.
'Fucking whores!' Junax shouted. 'Fucking hateful bitches.' There was some justification to this. He was both misogynist and misanthrope. Plus they were Derry girls. Northern Irish girls were the worst, they would have shoved people in the ovens during World War Two without a second thought or reflection. As he screamed at them they moved further away.
'Fuck them.' He declared and that was that for today.
Feeling truculent, he went down to the chippie. His skin felt itself to be on fire, burning down to the very marrow. His thumbs felt like they were stuck in acid. Perhaps a wank would help matters. He found a quiet corner of his own, near the murals that declared that this was not a suitable area for paedophiles to reside as there were too many children living there. Janax found this amusing as if he were an estate agent and he were going to sell a house to a paedophile, he'd earn his commission.
He slunk into the corner. He brushed aside the wave of his dirty blonde hair from his green eyes. His hand skirted and then shivered down his army jacket to his stained jeans and undid the flies. He found his cock somewhere in the mess of his underwear and brushed off some of the yellow flaking matter from around it. He began to jack off. Nothing. He tried with more vigor, taking some of the barely washed dried skin off it.
A little old woman who was a Unionist walked by. She could see what he was up to.
'Stop wanking!' she screamed. She then fainted.
Junax paid no heed, there was nothing happening anyway. But then he felt the evil that was upon his thumbs drip down like maggot puke onto his cock. He felt the darkness fall upon his member. He tried to rub off the bad stuff, but only made it worse.
Meantime the old woman had woken up and had a personality change due to shock. She began feeling in her undergarments for the remains of her clit. And began shuffling along on her bony arse towards Junax.
'Fuck off, FUCK OFF!' He shouted at her. But she kept on moving towards him, trying to remember how to wank.
He kicked her in her wrinkled muff. It had no effect. So he just ran. There was too much evil on his cock now. He would have to stick it in a bottle of dettol later so the burning sensation was greater than that in his mind.
Then he got to the chippie. Row upon row of deserted Victorian terraces gave way to a concrete block with the Cafe Khip sited on the bottom level. He went in. Stale vinegar and the hissing sound of salmonella soaked food hit his senses. He was slightly hungry but not by much. There were some girls ahead of him. They were the Derry girls. They were affecting British accents so the server didn't know they were from Norn Iron.
They spotted Junax.
'Thar is that fukin' retard. Yew are like so ould and fukin' mentally retarded.'
Junax had a pair of gold coloured glasses and tended to stare to long at things, but these were the only associations of retardation about him.
'Derry guys like Chinky pussy better.' He said quietly
'No they fucking don't now! They like local, they like fucking our pussy!!' Screamed the lead girl in her natural accent.
The chip server realised they were Northern Irish.
'You're from here. Get out! We don't serve Ulster bitches in here!'
The girls ran out, too much attention drawn to being Northern Irish girls. Junax strolled to the front of the counter.
Later, Junax sat in his corderory armchair. The local news was on and the sky had began to darken. The remains of a chip and hot dog sat nearby. He put his feet on the table and lit a straight. He pulled in the fumes of poisonous smoke and wondered how long now. But he knew that his brain was not about to let him off that easily.
So he dragged on
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