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