'Stoopid Slapped Puppies'

Oh Well!

2012-01-18T11:55:00.002Z

Turn the anger inwards, a harsh sharp focus.

A mainline from brain to heart and back again

Back and forth in constant motion.

Hatred and self loathing.

What rooms do you have to return to, to know who you are?

Where are those rooms?

How old is the person sitting there?

How young, How small, How fragile?

Where are those rooms that hold the key to now.

Where is the now that holds my future?

Where the fuck am I?

Betrayal the theme of my life

Colour me betrayal?

Lessons nobody ever bothered to teach me –better the betrayer than the betrayed.

My mind and imagination sharper than a surgeon’s knife.

I wound myself over and over.

Slashes to heart and mind.

Your name is the scar that will remain written across my heart forever.

A wound that will never heal.

The scar that aches and itches.

There is no relief.

There is no solace

And that’s all I know in this world, .

The Man In The Overcoat Part Two

2011-09-17T09:22:00.000+01:00

When I was a little boy and the cankered diseases had not yet formed deep within me. I used to hide under crisp clean white so white bed sheets and blankets and hide against nights horrific possibilities, now I run towards them full tilt and hope against all reason and logic that those very possibilities will take me forever. So I am and then I so anyway it’s just and after it all that dark sex fuelled sexless night I am left with the void of random distain towards myself and whatever I do wherever I go say eat do whatever I am always left with myself looking back at me it never stops only the oscillation that is my life beat changes that noise in my head that is my life loud quiet soft hard gentle harsh whatever it’s just always there waiting to distract me from me and drag me under whatever surface I have managed to muster it’s always there waiting waiting lurking to catch me.

Terminate all signs of my life

Push your cock hard and deep past my gently parted red wet lips

Push your cock past clean shaved asshole

Make my back arch in response to perfect pain

Do it

Do it one last time then take me past that oscillation to the sound and land of quiet, to that land of my childhood.

The Man In The Overcoat 2

2011-09-15T11:48:00.001+01:00

It’s only a fool who believes in pleasure.

Do not pity me my sorrows.

Envy them.

They fuel my life, my core, my existence. ‘ lower your eyes’

‘bend to me and my power’

‘my cruelty, my might, my will, inside you hard’

‘feel my cruelty’

‘feel my lustful diseases inside you’

I do not bend to these things, trinkets of your own corrupted vanity, I bend to the possibility of your cruelty and in those moments of great possibility I feel the invasion of your might overwhelm me, disappointed I ultimately at orgasms end bend to your mercy and cowardice. I the true master here.

Defy death dance ritual, disobey to displease, elude the touch of damp dark soil as it covers my head to bury me alive, my lungs fill with dirt as I choke. My last taste not your sweet lips, just soil, just dirt, as in life as in death.

Not today.....not today........ maybe?

And disappointments bitter taste fills my mouth. Defy, disobey and elude.

Every masochist will get a turn.

The Man In The Overcoat Part Two

2011-09-08T12:48:00.000+01:00

I imagine my own death, fingers slightly bent upwards at the knuckle joint as if as flowers trying to draw life and sustenance from the sun, my palm caked with mud and scum from the water that breaks against it at this rivers edge. The water cold, the trees bare, neither sound here nor silence. My chest exposed to the air the water gathers below me, under me. Lungs deflated, a chest white, slashed with now blue to grey slashes where once a sharp Stanley knife played upon nipples and along ribs. There are no deep wounds, no gaping holes where knife was driven with anger and force, there are no defence wounds where realisation of life precious had taken over and arms and hands were raised, just long slashes as we were both driven by the frenzy of the purity of thought and action. I stand watching my lifeless body and as I watch I am drawn by fond remembrances of something yet to come, the longing hardens me so I push my shorts down and take my hard cock and start to slowly jerk off and as I do with my other hand I re-trace earlier knife wounds with my knife opening them up, we all remember and in the memories are the emotions and within the emotions are the things that define us, it all plays out in my mind until I feel my blood merge with my come in my hand and there I am.......in my.

The Man In The Overcoat Part 2

2011-08-14T11:35:00.000+01:00

I do not want to go to God a good and honest man.

I want to present myself as a coherent man, in life I feel as if I am incoherent, only in death are we coherent. A final package presented.

The superman stamps licked sharp against tongue, hot from club condensation, sweat, loud we all dance hard against the chemicals that beat within. It feels as if I am having my very own personal visit from God. Here I try to avoid myself, is that even possible, here I am not me, I don’t know who I am but I am defiantly not me. I do not want the New Testament God within me, he is kind and forgiving and merciful, me I crave an inner Old Testament God, vengeful, punishing and unforgiving. The music winds me further inside myself as it takes me up and I push against the cock hard and deep inside me. Never let this pain stop. It’s never enough. Just never enough.

My life’s ambition is to leave a certain teenage boys body at the water’s edge, cold, blue and lifeless. Head smashed, cock cut, ass slashed. As the chemical kicks harder the image becomes clearer. I am his Old Testament God, cold, harsh and vengeful I destroy to punish. Know my name. Know my name.

Cities offer it all; side by side stand clubs and churches, sin and salvation side by side. Cities offer it all. Open your heart to all you desire, open your body to desire.

Cheap sex cheap forgiveness cling inside of me like damp running down a wall, cold the stench and decay overwhelms.

I stand inside the church, music and drugs course through my head and as I gaze at the body of Christ a wave of envy rushes over me, I envy the taught muscles, I envy the blues eyes, I envy the long arms and legs, I envy the tortured, blood flow from daggers jagged edges, I envy and admire the hands and feet nailed to rough wood. I imagine rough wooden shards and splinters have penetrated our lords back from his bodies movement against pain and constriction, I envy and feel my cock harden and as I look I wonder why does Christ not have a hard on?

I move closer and climb the plinth to lick the body of Christ and as my tongue reaches taught nipple I come against him.

Sex & Salvation my only God now.

As a God to myself I have failed.

The Man In The Overcoat 2

2011-07-31T10:11:00.002+01:00

Faltering shapes emerge through my sombre gaze, all life’s an illusion and I try to remember and visualise happier days. My angry heart grows soft and mild when I remember as we had once stood together, the visions become clearer and sharper and my senses remember soft gentle touch and as I remember torrents of anger rise. Ecstasy turns to anguish, the flowers of youth blossomed as our play turned from innocence to dark sin.

Give me back again my youth.

I will mourn what has been lost for the rest of my life.

My future, Grief.

I imagine my life to be one long, sad, black song.

My father’s smile and touch made me happy, his very presence made me happy, just to be in the same space as him made me happy. The man next door says I should fall in love and then I will rediscover such happiness, I know that to be a lie, love does not bring fresh happiness it recreates what has gone before and that’s it, nothing new, only in sadness and sorrow can I discover new emotions and feelings. I cannot crave death because I do not know what it is, I worry that in death we may be happy and free and regret we did not all die sooner. There is no heaven

But

There

may be

degrees of hell,

as in life.

I feel as if my body only holds fragments of me.

Me no longer a person.

Last year in snowed for three weeks, after two days I felt as if I were living in a negative world.

I still love my father even though he is dead and no longer here to remind me every day through his actions and love just how much I love him, to love someone after their death as much as you did when they were alive is the only true way of testing just how much you loved them.

Five years have now passed since my father’s death, as I age I feel the selfish burden of unhappiness and sorrow less because I have a reason for them. Age justifies my unhappiness and sorrow; it justifies my disillusionment with the world and my place within it.

Pain and fear are the only emotions I trust, there is purity to pain, pain does not deceive in pain do I trust. To feel fear is to know you are loved, through fear we discover another’s boundaries, just how far will they go, after the ties, the leads and collars, the chains, the wire, the rope, the bruises and the blood and come at orgasms last throw, we know we are loved as the heart still beats and the blood still flows, one day I may encounter the person who does not love me enough to let me live.

In pain I trust.

The Man In The Overcoat 2

2011-07-29T08:44:00.000+01:00

The fundamental text of our lives is how we want to die. All life is pointed straight at our death. Good life, good death, don’t make me laugh, the second just before death our faces show our lives, the corruption and moral repugnance and at that moment clear to all grieving at bedside and at that moment our loved ones turn away unable to cope with the truths they have always known.

At my father’s death I saw all the fear he had for me in my past, present and future life and then he smiled and in that instant I was transported back into his strong arms, arms that served only to protect and never to harm. Arms that held me above his head as we spun in the sunshine, arms that lifted me from the water’s edge and warm tempting baths before bed, arms that had once held my mother.

Do you abuse yourself because nobody else will? Do you sniff, snort, inject, cut, burn and swallow to mask that deep longing, that longing to be abused totally. I do. All is loss.

All life is loss.

To experience life is to experience loss. Total, that’s it. Loss.

I feel the lure of the line beckoning.

Men.

Loss.

Money

Sex

Come

Gone

Hold me.

Hold me like you used too.

Loss.

Bury my loss with a smile and the lowering of my pants as lips close around my hard cock.

And as I spread my legs there’s the usual disappointment that there is no knife being inserted into my ass, just another hungry horny cock. Loss, all is Loss.

The Man In The Overcoat Part 2

2011-07-23T18:04:00.000+01:00

All Priests, Pastors and Purveyors of the good and righteous should be burnt for they offer the biggest lie there is, salvation. They offer to the weak and the abusive, the morally corrupt a consequent less way out from what has gone before. There is no redemption from yourself, it’s done and that’s it, fucking live with it you cunts. When a father strokes his sons hair does he leave traces of teenage boy ass, does he transmit his corruption, of course he does, morally repugnant, burn them, burn them all. I stand in line, back against wall, one leg raised, cock semi hard, come on, come on, come on BUY ME we are all commodities, I am a service culture, buy me, buy my future, buy my youth, buy my body, have it!

And then come in my mouth and push me from your car.

The pricing structures simple under 15 multiply age by five pounds, fifteen to sixteen multiply by four pounds, over sixteen forget it, it’s a straight twenty quid seals the deal.

Hate you long time MISTER.

Cut me Kill Me it’s why I stand here. It’s not for the sex and it’s not the money it’s the thought of death that keeps me in this line.

I no longer a sunflower.

The Man In The Overcoat

2011-07-17T11:49:00.000+01:00

At night I imagine my flesh being eaten away, like the ripest of fruits I decompose slowly, you take from me, my destruction point still unknown.

Crave the flowers their beauty transient like youth and after youth the rot and stench are all that remain as we age.

The terror never leaves.

We all die like dogs in the end, the look of fear and unrequited compassion beaming from our eyes that question goes unanswered by those attendant at our death. They look away to protect themselves from grief, compassion is rare, a dying emotion, we turn away from the stench should we become infected. Infect me with your desire, hopes, aspirations and love and then throw them used away, there are always younger more gracious gifts to take and in the taking another angel falls into the rotting stench.

My Father took his own life three minutes and twenty two seconds after my eighteen birthday was over he could not bear to see his sons corruption, he could not bear the stench that would emanate, me his boy delivered to a predatory world. Hunt or be hunted the only rule you need to know and live by as an adult. Hunt the hits, hunt the highs, hunt the lows, hunt whatever your desires, we live in a consequent less age, all is admired, all is allowed, never say NO!

YES..YES..YES..YES...YES....YES.....YES......YES........YES......YES......YES........................yes before breathless orgasm, yes as come hits stomach and chest, hot and hard.....YES to the questions......suck?....Fuck? Bondage....Piss....Shit......Piercing........Cuttings....water boarding.......whatever the question the answers YES and with every YES we rot a little more.

Our corruptions a disease, a huge cross contamination. We all become diseased through each other’s desires and wants and needs. We fail to smell others stinking corruption but know our own so well. Perfumes and colognes cannot cover what you smell deep within you. It’s there, we all know it, we all fear it.

Slice across my hard nipple with scalpel sharp as you drive your cock into my ass, let my blood run down my chest and stomach and mingle with pain induced come. Slice me, cut me, come over me, kill me.

My corruption a disease, I contaminate.

Man In An Overcoat

2011-07-14T12:12:00.000+01:00

Sometimes there is a need to remember. To honour, to mark what has gone before, to acknowledge what was, still is but in a different form now, in my form we move forward..................

.....................

.....

...

. A candy-coloured clown they call the Sandman
Tiptoes to my room every night
Just to sprinkle stardust and to whisper
"Go to sleep, everything is all right"

I close my eyes, then I drift away
Into the magic night, I softly say
A silent prayer like dreamers do
Then I fall asleep to dream my dreams of you

In dreams I walk with you
In dreams I talk to you
In dreams you're mine all of the time
We're together in dreams, in dreams

But just before the dawn
I awake and find you gone
I can't help it, I can't help it, if I cry
I remember that you said goodbye

It's too bad that all these things
Can only happen in my dreams
Only in dreams
In beautiful dreams*

And as I lay here in my bedroom alone I feel that initial feeling as tears begin to fill my eyes and as they form the overwhelming images begin, my hand held, arms around me feeling so safe, a smile that brightens your eyes so clear, the images so concise and as they sharpen I cry. I cry because I will never feel that safe, that happy, that loved ever again and so I cry to remember and as I remember;

‘I close my eyes and drift away’.

*In Dreams. Roy Orbison.

man in qn overcoat 2/4

2011-07-13T07:35:00.000+01:00

There’s a disconnect between people, there’s a disconnect within ourselves, we merge with others as traffic merges, silently we pass close by, never touching, we watch as we merge, afraid of connection. Buildings form around and above us, stealing the land and sky, buildings funnel us along passageways we merge, we merge, we merge. We fear connection. The way my Father and I moved is not as I move now, I position myself to move apart from all that surrounds me.

Yesterday I was talking to a friend who lives above me and plays silence on his stereo. And it was kinda funny because after a while of listening to the silence he said, so I said, so he felt he needed to explain what he had said and after that I thought that he meant something different and because of what I thought he decided too and because of that........

and whilst all that was going on I was thinking that I used to think Candy Floss was spun from the foam from the ocean’s edge and then I suddenly realised that I had not heard anything my friend had just said so I asked if he wanted to go to the fair for a candy floss and he said ‘the fairs not in town man’ so I said ‘Oh’ and nodded my head to the sound of silence.

My father once stopped me jumping into a puddle that held my reflection, he said it would be violent and destructive and that if I left my reflection in the puddle it would forever hold my beauty and then when the sun came out again and the puddle evaporated my beauty would be drawn to the sun and form as vapour in the clouds above our heads and that eventually my beauty would fall on some people’s heads and that they would be happy as I was at that moment.

My father loved me I no longer seek love I replace love with actions and thoughts that cause an emotional vacuum. That means that I do not hurt but neither does it bring any joy or pleasure.

The room is dark and around me men mingle slowly, they merge, emotional attachment their drug of fear. I know this room. I hear the DJ above me. There’s a plastic bag duct tapped over my head and through mist I seek its rapid inhale/exhale/it sounds like I have fallen through ice that is now forming above my head. I drown. I want to feel safe but my fear demons demand, so there’s a belt fastened around my throat and I am all fours naked, a pull of the belt and my throat constricts to burn. My head jolts back and fingers push into my ass and I know those fingers have never held sunflowers as they grow. And my mouth was has been held open to allow the rain to fall into it has a cock pushed hard into it my throat gags and still I remember the rain. Fingers are pulled from my ass and a cock is pushed hard and fast inside me and so my demons demands start to be met.

I loved my Father, I do not love these men but they do define me. These men who cannot love hold the chains that bind me. They defy me to cry and shout in pain and anguish and anger but I will not cry and shout from the pain. For its In pain I trust not love.

Cry for me for I cannot cry for myself. Cry because one day I will be one of these men and not still this boy they so crave.

Everyone has a drug of fear, a sense of fearsome longing, a familiarity with something unfamiliar, we hear its call and instantly feel that fear, and my drug of fear is me.

Man In An Overcoat 2/3

2011-07-10T09:59:00.000+01:00

Your eyes resemble mind, nobody sees as me, my eyes wrapped by delusions experience only my delusions and worth, the things you see are not the things I see, your sights are your delusions, your values, your eyes resemble mine.

False sounds

False sights

False speech

False sex

False, false, false it’s all is so fucking false and fake.

Say false things

Present yourself as a fraud.

Recognise and know who the thief was who stole you when you were growing up, know that person well. That person was you.

I stole all my best parts from myself, at childhoods end.

We are all fallen angels at dawns first light. The harsh realities of the night ages and diminishes us. Only the weak survive the night.

Man In An Overcoat 2/2

2011-07-07T09:10:00.002+01:00

It’s in your family tree, it’s in the food you eat, it’s in the pills you swallow, it’s in the drink that fails to break the thirst and desire, it’s in your family tree, the roots that hold cannot be broken.

I still hold sunflowers leaves in fields and imagine you still there both of us pretending that the sunflower between us is your wife and my mother,

we sway to remember.

It’s as if the cold icy winds that blow almost constantly here have carved the grey concrete buildings formed high above my head. The sun when it shines does not hit and hold its gifts upon my body and face, it hits only the very centre of my head and burns through hair and scalp to overwhelm thought until there is only one thought ESCAPE.

I watch as people scurry to live, walking, running, speaking into mobile phones, drinking coffee and issuing order and instruction through small PCs beaming death in front of them.

An ocean of illusion our lives, that man, a father, a boss, a swimming coach, a cook, a cleaner, a nurse, a gardener all this and more to his father, the most precious thing he fails to provide for them is him, later his children will grow to hate him.

An ocean of illusion our lives my life your life our lives constructed to suit that construction an illusion of what we think we should be but not what we are when illusion becomes delusion you are truly becoming an adult in adulthood all is lost all is illusion and deception. I now an adult must find my true illusion my true delusion.

Only the invention of love keeps us from suicide.

Man In An Overcoat (book 2-part 1)

2011-07-05T11:28:00.002+01:00

My Father took his own life three minutes and twenty two seconds after my eighteen birthday was over, three minutes and twenty two seconds was all he could bear now that I was an adult.

His last words were’

‘I HAVE DELIVERED YOU, A MAN NOW TO THE WORLD’

‘MY CREATION OVER’.

I held his hand as he died, I did not feel his life force weaken and drain, just a sudden slackness of muscles and some drool from his mouth.

I licked the drool from his face, he was my Dad what else could I do?

His hand once so protective and loving and supportive and harsh now slack with no love, support or harshness.

You were my first love, you were my Father.

At the moment of his death I could fool myself no longer; youth no longer ran through my veins, I now a man not a boy.

My feet for standing firm now not playing.

I could fool myself no longer.

Days and nights of foolishness over now.

I can fool myself no longer.

When I was six years old I experienced myself as a Godhead. A spring of creation and hope and fear.

I fool myself no longer.

I fool myself no longer that graciousness is bestowed from opiates brown. Sweet puncture of skin the most addictive emotion.

Only the deep longing

and need

remain

as when a lover leaves.

I can now only weep for the things in life I never experienced as a child/young man, opportunities not taken at the time.

I weep their sensual loss as if they were real.

I can only mourn what never was. Recognise the thief who stole from you, recognise him for who and what he was, recognise him for he was you.

I fool myself no longer.

I pushed forward to be drugged and dragged back down.

FOOL YOURSELF NO LONGER FOOL!

Imagined imaginings dragged me deep into desolate depression; desperation no longer beats in my heart just the loss of what never was.

Opiates bestow a graciousness now lost.

2011-06-29T09:44:00.002+01:00

And the drum beats constant and the computer fuzzed voice kicks in

‘bored with the sex life’

‘Bored with the sex life’

And then a synth drags me down under.

‘embrace this night with power’

Only the weak survive the nights they lack purpose and vision.

‘Bathe me in leather’

‘Drown me in your sex’

Purpose, vision, desire and purpose are required to survive any night, sometimes I lack all three and my world falls from under me and I remember you said ‘*******’

And I remember I said........’***’

And then you said ‘ *******’ ‘.

Do I remember?

Like correctly?

Or was it a self induced dream born of loneliness.

Everybody’s cool and happy nowadays.

WE live in amoral times and sometimes I feel like a born again Christian.

I hate that.

Maybe I hate myself for hating that?

Maybe I need to ‘*****’

Maybe I cannot communicate, did you ever think that?

2011-06-27T08:26:00.001+01:00

Was

Thinking

About if it would

Be cool to select a random person

Someone I don’t know and preferably never

Seen before and start following them around the city And

Like be outside their

Apartment when they go out

And stand outside stores and bars

Whilst they shop and socialise and shit

And

I was

Wondering

Would like that

Person feel threatened

Or like flattered, would they

Call the police or keep looking back

Over their shoulder and smiling to them self. And

Then I started

To wonder would we like

Get married or something or

Would their body turn up at the cities river bed.

It’s all just random life you know.

2011-06-24T08:49:00.000+01:00

2011-06-23T08:56:00.000+01:00

The agua bottle on my desk is a dark blue colour and looks vaguely medical as in surgery not medicines. It looks like it might contain chloroform or some shit that’s put onto a tissue and held over someone’s face until their legs buckle under their own weight and then you just get to do whatever shit you want to them.

Is that like sexy?

Which are the key words in the above sentence I wonder?

Vaguely medical

Held over someone’s face

Legs buckle under their own weight

Do whatever shit you want to them.

?
?
?

There seemed to be a time when every nut job wanted to be a serious serial killer or sex offender now they just become far right American politicians and get to kill people and fuck em over but are never held accountable, where’s the fun in that?

?
?
?

That Palin bird defiantly goes down on polar bears why else would she live in Alaska for fucks sake and how can anyone take someone from Alaska seriously?

America’s fucked and as a result we are all fucked.

I look at the screen, what is sexy from the above;

Bird

Polar bears

Goes down on

Alaska

We are all fucked.

Sara Palin.

I take a drawing pin from the box located just under my PC screen, I push it into my cock because I have managed to give myself a hard on from just typing that shit above.

My cock bleeds but also starts leaking pre come because the blood has made me wonder if non-required surgery is like the ultimate sex.

I imagine being put on by pass as some sexy tattooed teenage emo heart surgeon lifts my heart from my body and rubs it against his big hard cock before coming over my chest and face twenty five times.

Why is porn never that imaginative?

(For fucks sake porn makers get creative. Pornographers if you want I will write you a script, for ten million dollars but hey it’s worth it, it’s gonna sell big time).

I take the blue agua bottle and tip its contents onto a tissue and hold it over my nose and mouth my legs buckle my heart beat increases and before falling into that big black hole I feel hot come spurting onto my chest, then I am under.

Now in dreams I can start to live.

I wake up; my head fucking hurts, there’s shears behind my eyes and someone’s pushing em hard.

I wish I was in a car with a hose pipe connected to a running engine in a dark grimy garage.

Outside I can hear children playing; I wish I could play again. Sunshine creeps in under the door. Urgh!

I miss it. Play I mean.

It’s all so serious now.

I close my eyes and imagine pushing a bowie knife into Justin Beiber’s asshole and slicing up past his tight little balls and trimmed pubic hair up to his belly button before lifting the knife out and plunging it into his heart.

His heart runs blood for me.

I move my face to the wound and lick then drink.

I read recently Justin loves all his fans, therefore he loves me.

I love Justin, he loves me, what more else is there to say?

2011-06-22T10:51:00.002+01:00

Hunting for the grotesque my credo ‘whatever pleases and gives pleasure’ I attempt to throw myself away in that pursuit and the things I say are not the things I do and I feel the loss heavily, life is too random to be experimental , what pleases you may not please me, we as vacuums move around looking to gasses to merge with, we merge as cars on an autoway one route one destination, pleasure the pursuit of happiness is today’s major drug mainlined from media my pleasure to slowly torture a naked Justin Beiber my despair at not being able too in happiness we trust and in happiness we fail.

2011-06-21T10:16:00.002+01:00

As a child did you run away from or towards your monsters?
Fight or flight?
Did you bury your head under the covers or push your ear further out?
Did you feel and smell the monsters breath?
Was the breath rapid, excited or slow and controlled?
Did you shut your eyes tight?
Or stare in wonderment?
Did the excitement, excite or scare?
Who told you what a monster was?
Mommy, Daddy, big brother, big sister, or were they the monsters with breath rapid?
Were they right or did you feel guilty at the thrill of the monsters.
Did you hunt the grotesque?
Or hide in bushes?
As a child I pushed the side of my face against my bedroom windows glass. I still remember the cool of the pane and with a little more pressure the movement of the glass itself against my face, ‘you are now entering the land of luck’ the voice said inside my head as I pushed further and harder..
Further movement of the pane within its frame. Is this the moment, is it now?
As I jerked my cock harder would the desire and thrill take my through, would I come as serrated glass pushed past my soft facial skin , would I come hard as the cut run deep?
Blood and come my monsters gift to me.

I still hear the whispers call.

2011-06-20T11:21:00.001+01:00

See me dead
Taking the sun
See me dead
On the carpet
Blood seeps
That’s all there is to suck now
Life forces as solidified liquid
See me dead now
>
>
>
Slice my eyes
With a scalpel
And allow light in
See me dead now.
>
>
See me dead now
Sitting here.

>

2011-03-14T11:40:00.000Z

You get used to the pain after a while
The hands that hurt
Heal
You have to believe that
The bondage restraints
Make you feel safe
As you rise and fall beneath their grips
The cuffs that cut and chaff
Remind you
There is no freedom of thought, movement or freewill
There’s just the kindness of strangers
Masked within personal histories
That drive them
And sometimes kill.

2011-03-04T10:04:00.002Z

and with every pill and with every drink it's a slow motion suicide and every passing day is a slow motion suicide...imagine a snuff machine...a machine capable of taking your own life...set to slow....a slow motion suicide.......
............

..

.

PUSH THE BUTTON.

2011-02-28T11:50:00.000Z

Bodies as meat
Men as meat
Youth as meat
Boys as meat
Flesh and muscle, sinew and nerve ends as meat
Meat to be consumed
Drank in
Internalised
Emotional congruence suspended
Devoid
Distant
Drunk and Drugged
Slack jawed
Wide Eyed
No longer an image on a screen, flickering in that endless night
I watch
I harden
I forget
What I am
To myself and others
And in that moment I am nobody
To others
Or to myself
And in that void all emotion suspended
I push the knife under a rib
Into a lung
Which gasps
The sound of betrayal...clear now!

Ministry - Psalm 69

2011-02-09T13:51:00.000Z

2011-02-09T13:43:00.000Z

2011-02-07T09:55:00.000Z

.......and sitting alone in my room I am consumed by one thought and one thought alone and that’s that in a bedroom in Wallington, Bromley there’s an eighteen year old boy sitting doing his college performing arts coursework and the sun is shining through his window as he sits at his desk, music from the radio fills his neat and tidy room whilst from downstairs there comes the smell of food being prepared by his Mother, a Mother he loves and who in turn loves him, her only son, a son who one day she hopes will provide her with grandchildren and as the Mother cooks his Father goes through some office paperwork but he suspects his son is not as he seems, he just has a feeling and it’s not a feeling he feels comfortable with so he tries to push it away from his mind but sometimes those thoughts eat their way into his thinking and at those times he lashes out at his son from a sense of frustrated knowing/unknowing.
..and I sit a few hundred miles away....

.....and as I close my eyes those thoughts crystallise and becomes clearer and all I wanna do right now is to watch you watching me slowly cutting and slicing a chilli and then when it’s split open along its spine pushing and running my thumbs through its centre crushing the seeds and feeling the chilli’s moisture absorb onto them, then all I wana do is to slowly push and then smear my thumbs into your eyes and all I wanna do is to hear your scream against the pain and blindness and all I wanna do then as you scream is laugh and lick your pitiful tears and taste your sorrow and pain and drink and hold that pain deep inside me and as your tears fall all I wanna do is remove the pain you placed in my heart and transfer it to you my dear Chris for that’s where it belongs.........
Fear Me Boy.....Your bedroom is not such a safe place.
Understand my only pleasure is your pain.......

I wanna suck your eyes right outta your head and roll them around in my mouth holding them against my teeth and slowly biting to feel the breaking point and then bite down hard on them taking what you have seen deep inside me.

2011-02-06T09:25:00.001Z

You that total teen nightmare;
A tidy, tight, neat, compact little body, cocksucker lips, hair so studied, OMG soooo so correct.
A skins generation – ‘I’ll do whatever I want, I only have one life and I am gonna enjoy it and fuck the rest of you’ and well you did for a while didn’t you. Screwing whoever you wanted never ever thinking of the pain and consequences to others. As long as you lived your live you didn’t care about those you destroyed along the way. Things that take a lifetime to build and a smutty couple of hours to destroy.
And as I watch you on ‘teen cam’ naked, laughing, chatting;

all I can think about is pulling barbed wire across your nipples and chest and then tracing with my tongue the flow of blood as it flows and then I want to take the barbed wire and place it around the inside of the top of your leg where the skin is the softest and meets your balls and pull the wire through. I want to see your eyes change to total pain and bewilderment as the barbs pull that softest, palest of flesh from your body.
I want to push a razor deep inside your asshole and with a callous flick of my wrist watch as the blood starts to seep from inside you and then as your blood collects under you push my cock deep inside you, using your own blood as lube and as I fuck you until I come inside you and as a final course to push a spoon inside so that you can drink and taste your own life and have a taste of what my own life has become.
A nightmare.
And as I watch you smiling and laughing, I type.
‘hi Chris’
And so it starts your death.

2011-02-05T09:31:00.000Z

GET OUTTA MY DREAM!

YOU CREEP!

THERE IS NO WAY SLOW ENOUGH FOR ME TO KILL YOU!

AND THAT FACT EATS ME FROM THE INSIDE OUT!

2011-02-04T08:52:00.000Z

Afraid of my own imagination
Trapped in memories that are not mine
I was never there
But I see all the detail
Again and again and again
A familiarity, tenderness’s and lust all of my own minds making
Tenderness
Soft skin moves against the touch of your fingers
Lips wet kiss
Communication a longing a desire
Afraid to shut my eyes
Afraid to sit alone
Afraid
Afraid
Afraid
Afraid of my own thoughts

2011-02-02T08:34:00.000Z

Such a pretty face, Such – a – pretty - face.
Too pretty to be sleazing around web cam sites giving out your Facebook details.

Such a pretty face, such – a – pretty - face to be sat opposite me.
Sat here in my flat, naked, bound and drugged.
Such a pretty face.......
I take hold of the scalpel and watch as my hands initial tremble becomes firm as I take control of my mind, my mind clear in its intension and purpose.
Revenge the drug takes you the highest, the longest, the clearest.
Such a pretty face, suchaprettyface attached to a dumb young thoughtless fuck.
Facebook page giving details of school attended and weekend workplace, easily enough from that to track address.
An initial push of the blade punctures facial skin and from there the tedious job of tracing along your hairline and along jaw bone and back to point of initial incission.
Such a pretty face, such
a
pretty

face

My fingernails push into fresh knife wound and lift the skin,
With slight gentle movements of my hand I unpeel your face from your head.
You pretty boy face pulls away from bone and muscle.
Down the forehead and gently around the eyes, down your very Romanesque nose down over lips before falling when meeting the incision I have made under your chin.
Such a pretty face, such a pretty face now flabby in my hand.
I gather the skin in my palm and wrap around my fingers, wet, warm from the blood,
Such a pretty face, such a pretty face to wrap around my hard cock as I beat myself off, you watching,

Curiously you show no emotion as I push my cock inside your mouth to come.
Such a pretty face, such a pretty face dis-guarded now on my floor there amongst my clothes and daily shit...such a pretty face.

I have other memories of you now...my memories. memories of my making.
Sweet dreams now the memories you gave to me.........................................

2011-02-01T11:40:00.000Z

Blindfold and Bound
You chest heaves against the restraints and fear
Naked
You await what you deserve but do not desire
I drag a sharp razor blade across your chest
Beads of blood turn into cuts and your blood flows.
A carving for all to see forever my gift to you
BLACK DARK SINFUL INK APPLIED
To YOUR
Bleeding wound
My dick hardens at your punishment and my redemption
I carve you hanging from a crucifix your head bowed in disgrace
Your wound, your dishonour now
Clear for all to see

And below the ink
I carve
FOUR simple words
I AM A CUNT.

2011-01-31T09:49:00.000Z

And you seem kinda young, maybe too young to be jerking off naked on some cam site. Your bodies tight and firm and when you place the cam to one side I can see your ribs sticking through your pale skin. I can’t see what you are looking at, the screen is off to one side, is it another boy or some girl sliding fingers into herself as you stroke and beat your cock slow then fast then slow again, then the tempo moves to fast presumably a response to what you are looking at and as you get harder and a little bigger you change the cam angle so I can see your face and as I look into your eyes all I can think of is how much I want to destroy that look of hope and youth. How I want to cut and slash at that pale firm body until there is still life but no hope in your eyes.

Finished...Over...Done With.

2011-01-29T08:07:00.003Z

Your dead wrecked body, naked, lifeless, lies on my floor.
You look like some sex doll/toy thing.

Lifeless.

Used.

Finished.

Fucked.

I turn away.

Finished.

I am totally finished with you.

Taint - One Thousand Days in Sodom

2011-01-25T09:37:00.000Z

2011-01-24T07:24:00.000Z

2011-01-23T10:37:00.001Z

2011-01-22T07:55:00.000Z

And then there’s cash and clothes and sounds and sights and sex and drinks and drugs and laughter and rope and knives and metal gags that pull to restrain and constrict to restrict breath and the possibility of a future and there’s the taste of metal as you push inside me and blood and blood and blood and there’s sorrow and there’s cash and cash and cash and cash and cash and then there’s death.

2011-01-21T06:56:00.001Z

MY spine electric and your hair smell’s of fresh linen
I never lay with you
My spine electric imagines
Memories of what never was..
....................
...

..................................................
Jolt me
The sun never burnt us up
We never flew too close
Instead we waved
My Spine electric Imagines and wonders.

THE MAGIC WORLD OF ALPHABETS.

2011-01-20T07:44:00.000Z

THE MAGIC LETTER R.

R is for RILEY....

See RILEY RUN

RUN RILEY RUN

RILEY is RUNNING from the ROTUND RUDE REPROBATE RECTOR

RUN RILEY RUN

The ROTUND RUDE REPROBATE RECTOR had tried to stick his RANCID, RED-BLOODED dick inside RILEY’S RECTUM after lifting his ROBE inside the RECTORY where he RESIDED.
RUN RILEY RUN
The ROTUND RUDE REPROBATE RECTOR’S RANCID cock RAGED hard but had a RASH on it, that’s RANK thought RILEY.
RUN RILEY RUN
RILEY had been invited to the RECTORY where he had RECLINDED on a ROCKER smoking REEFER.
RILEY was REPELLED, REVOLTED and REPULSED when he saw the ROTUND RUDE REPROBATE RECTOR’S RANK, RANCID RASH RIDDEN cock.
RUN RILEY RUN
RILEY likes cock a lot and REEFER too but not this REPULSIVE, REPELENT one that had been REVEALED to him.

RUN RILEY RUN

As RILEY RUNS he hears in the distance the RIOT van ROARING to the REPULSIVE, REPELENT RECTORS RECTORY to arrest him.

And RILEY stops RUNNING and wonders where he can find a more RESPECTABLE boy who can RIP his clothes off and RAPE and RIM his ass for him.

Think RILEY think.

Hello..Hello. It's Good To Be Back. Good To Be Back.

2011-01-19T10:35:00.000Z

2011-01-05T13:36:00.002Z

I was in London on the tube a few weeks ago and a blind man got on with his dog, they worked as one as the dog led the man down the isle to a seat and then sat at his feet.

I felt envious of the close relationship and uniformity of function and purpose.

Then I felt guily about being envious of a blind person or is it sightless?

I refused to work as I sat at my desk and with each refusal I felt more guilty.

So I took a plastic bag out of the bottom desk draw and placed it over my head wrapping the opening around my neck and securng with duct tape...tightly.

It felt like the best sex ever.....

Hot. Sweaty. Lungs fit to burst. SEX
At last a thought I didn't feel guily about

Kissing In The Dark

2010-11-30T13:26:00.002Z

There are someone else’s eyes behind my eyes. They look through me and see what I see. My eyes are my own but behind them somebody else lurks and watches. They Judge. They Judge. They Judge ME.

I am the son of perdition.
Cry to remember, to remember all you have lost.
My mother wept in her chair, the fire burning red against her leg, she knew, she knew but lacked, she lacked.
And now here..................years later..................it stalks me still......................

‘Remember sucker remember.
‘The purpose of my overwhelming
Violence and abuse
is for you to remember all that was good about your life’.
Remember. Remember, Remember.

‘if life ain’t shit, it’s nothing’.
‘NOTHING AT ALL’.

I am holding a Polaroid photograph the normally clean crisp white borders are grey and across the photograph are a line as if the picture has been folded into someone’s wallet or stuffed at the bottom of a purse. The photograph is of a boy about ten, he has dirty blonde hair, long and straggly. He is wearing a bright red knitted jumper which comes up to his chin; there is no detail on the jumper. As I run my finger across the crease in the photograph I notice that blood is seeping through it. I take my finger away from the photographs surface and roll my bloodied finger against my thumb, turning them against each other in small concentric circles. I raise both my thumb and finger and place them against my lips and smear the residue across them, then with my tongue I taste......................his life perhaps. It is that dark, iron taste of blood.

The photograph is bleeding.
I look at the photograph again.
The image has changed.

This time an older girl, brown hair and a pale freckled complexion, she is wearing a black coat with the buttons fastened all the way to under her chin. The same crease, blood seeps through. I raise the photograph to my mouth and lick along the crease.

Who would ever notice you?
Wasted Life...
Not Your Fault though.
Disposable.
YOU.

Kissing In The Dark

2010-11-21T13:52:00.001Z

KILL YOURSELF DEAD
STONED DEAD
Functional BREATH

Always kill the brain never the body

‘Got myself a walking talking living corpse’

When systems and procedures fail we cease to exist. In systems we trust, in procedure we follow in the hope that we will be validated. Failure equals death. A walking, breathing death, everyone looks but nobody notices beyond their own shock and disapproval, they all bend their heads away too ashamed of what have been. They know in their hearts, they know.

Nail your children, (your sons and daughters) to the outside of your palatial, well appointed family homes and watch them wither and die as surely they wither and die inside them with you.

Hope is the strongest most self-delusional DRUG you can ever stick in your arms, legs, hands, feet, GROIN, snort, drink OR SUCK. We are FED hope everyday and every day we die a little more from the self intoxication of delusion.

Bury yourself in your delusions that become your life.

Devices........................................................................................................

Devastate...................................................................................................................
Don’t...............push the.............................button from a.................distance...detonate..........@closerange..... and

Feel the force of your actions.................................................................................................................................................
A life lived is a life lost.

The wind pushed the devil past my door.
In my room my devils persist..............

Kissing In The Dark 5

2010-11-13T10:30:00.003Z

Like a Hope
Like a bruise, my ache, passive.
I imagine waking in a white warm room, sheets crisp.
A nurse administers to fresh wounds.
(Imagine a fresh flesh wound soft and moist to the touch, soft, wet, open, push against it, feel it part....explore it a little, inside yourself).
My body numb from wounds administered under general anaesthetic.
The Doctors masturbated as they watched each other administer procedures unwarranted/Un-needed.
Slowly the inflation and deflation of my lungs is monitored by machine.
I no longer control my own body.
Heartbeat steady and sure.
For I am young.

This is a procedure.

Passively I give myself to it.

Childhood ends in the defeat of HOPE.

Kissing In The Dark 4

2010-11-11T10:02:00.003Z

I wonder as I sit and watch alone, if I smash the femur bone on each leg at the top where it connects to the pelvis what kind of positions I could arrange your body into and whether those positions up to now denied because of bone and muscles will allow for a freer, more unrestricted kind of sex act to take place. I close my eyes and imagine your limbs in positions impossible through normal growth and development. I wonder if bodies impaired through bindings and splints applied in childhood would be more pleasurable. Is there a market for this I wonder? There are markets for everything. We live in an age where nothing is denied if the price can be paid. I wonder as I watch the boy playing. I wonder.
Imagine having a body developed throughout childhood distorted, twisted, sinews cuts, muscles looser or tighter perhaps, bones smashed at joints to make free access all.
Imagine.
Imagine.

A TEMPLE OF LOVE, DEVOTION AND SEX.

You a temple, would you?

Would You?

I imagine a body.............. My body without strictures, no resistances either physical or emotional, a beating, breathing body designed for pleasure by those possessing only the most gloriously deviant beliefs and ideas. IMAGINE.

WOULD YOU TAKE ME?

I imagine my body lying in the shallow water of a river that runs through wasteland at the back of a bleak grey concrete industrial landscape, the water cold soaks my clothes, fruit flies gather on my exposed flesh, they feed. Used and abused I lack the power to invoke self-preservation.

WOULD YOU TAKE ME? Like a bruise?
Bad News Dad’s gather in isolation from each other their thoughts and desires hidden to their families and each other, and they wonder, could they, could they, GET AWAY WITH IT. Could they?
Kiss the Tarmac to forget.

Kissing In The Dark 3

2010-11-07T08:58:00.003Z

‘everything you do tells me something about your past, your deep past, a past even maybe you cannot remember and your immediate past, every action, every behaviour tells me something of where you have been and what you have experienced’

My teacher said this to me when I was like 11 or 12, it’s the scariest thing anyone had or has ever said to me, it’s the scariest thing anyone could say to anyone else. Why do people say shit like that anyway?

‘you’re not new to this, I know your past’ he said as he lent in for a kiss unwanted. His hand trembled as it touched my throat and at that very moment I knew I had all the power. Silently I screamed sucker!

Silence equals helplessness, I learnt that right after I made the decision never, ever to show anything to anyone anymore, emotions, gestures, speech, nada, zilch, nothing. . My face as a mirror in which there is no reflection. Control your emotions and reactions and you control your immediate environment. Control is Safety, Control is Comfort, Control is Death, Slow Death. Slow Death from the Deafening Silence caused by the Isolation and Disassociation. Disassociate to Distraction. Distraction is Life. Measure your life’s success by the effectiveness of your distractions.

Words or wounds
Wounds or words
How to explain?
How to show?
Trace the scars on my pale arms, behind my knees, my thighs, stomach slashed, trace my scars with your fingers or tongue, trace them to know my story. Trace them, do not take them or own them or understand them. Trace them to understand the journey, journey with me to be my witness.

WILL YOU BE MY TESTAMENT? DO YOU HAVE THE INTEREST, THE COURAGE OR DO MY SCARS EXCITE, TO REVEL IN ANOTHERS STORY, ANOTHERS PAIN is to disassociate from your own. WHY?

How to move forward when the drag Is all back Is back black I have tried all my life to be unremarkable, never to stand out, and never to be the centre of attention either of a group or an individual. Words or wounds Wounds or words. I crawl and bleed on my journeys past which silently takes me forward. My past is my business, it’s like I said no one’s concern but mine.

CUT ME. Please Sir!

Kissing In The Dark (2)

2010-11-05T12:24:00.002Z

I crawl on bleeding knees and the dark surface I kiss is tarmac, sweet to the smell and soft to the touch, like a Mother’s hand, her love unconditional it goes on and on, its limits and boundaries unknown, to be tested at a time sometime in the future, in actions unplanned and unthought-of as yet. The roadside smells of eucalyptus trees, the morning’s early dew still dries and the tree’s scream to the world....
‘see my beauty, smell me’ and as the early wind starts to blow the trees thin unsteady branches stir and start to sway to face another day, their beauty unseen. They speak through the wind. We do not hear.

I smell like sex and death combined together in a half cleansed tin can. There’s a smell of death and life preserved together. It never leaves me. So isolated am I, I no longer know the sound of my own voice. Am I dead, how would I know, there is no contact from ‘others’ to affirm me. Dirt is earth, we equate earth with death. The ground beneath our feet reminds us of our own deaths. People acquire property and land to give the impression they are beating death, eventually it will swallow and contain them as it does us all.

Earth = Death.

There is always a destination marked out in the earth. Destinations always exist. Hands that travelled my body always had an end in mind. Different routes to the same destination. The well at journeys end was always dry. I ached for release they fell into sullen silent guilt, emotions like roads change, from fast to slow from carefree to caution.

Kissing In The Dark

2010-11-03T13:23:00.001Z

‘You do the wrong thing with the wrong person and you are dead; You do the right thing with the wrong person and you could die; You do the wrong thing with the right guy and you get a phone number and a vague promise; Do the right thing with the right guy and maybe life could get comfy but maybe not as interesting as wrong thing/wrong guy which as I said could lead to death‘.

So I do nothing.

Crawl on bleeding knees
Fingertips trace a line which runs across and away from me and the path I need to take.
Head bowed and lowered I kiss the dark surface.
Grandmas dead and her house abandoned to the rooks and ravens they peck my flesh as I sleep, I only have thin sheets to cover my scared body.
My mind seems fresh but is jaded and dulled from self inflicted injury, drugs and sex failed to nullify the pain. My sores fester and I awake in the morning with small dried rivers of blood which I pick off by scraping my fingernails across the surface wounds, dried blood collects under the nails and sometimes the wounds re-open to bleed.
Later I will suck my fingers to taste my life
Tell Me. Tell Me. Tell Me.
Where’s the Line I am to fall from? There is always a line, lines surround me unseen, they boundary and fence me. They are there I know.
I am the King of Shit.
And The God of Fuck.
The madness of others affects me. As I pass the tree and ditch where Billy Browns ten year old naked body lays, beaten, buggered and beaten again by the men from the club who come in cars late at night.
The flies mark the spot where he lays, they hover around. His bike recovered leans against the back porch of his family home awaiting his return, it will rust and rot.
There are Lines. There are always lines.
Yesterday a Man and his Son passed by. They stopped on the spot where cameras photographed Billy’s body, clothed, partially clothed, naked, one of the men applied his mouth to Billy’s dick to make him hard, then another fucked him whilst the other took photographs then they beat him until he fell dead.
Be stiff. Be stiff. Be Stiff. Be Silent.

I inhabit places I do not belong; I creep through trying to go unnoticed by those who look as they speak to others of what I neither know or care. DO THEY BELONG?

DO YOU REMEMBER THE MOMENT IN YOUR LIFE WHEN YOU BECAME DEAD INSIDE?
THAT MOMENT WHEN A SPACE

OPENED UP DEEP INSIDE OF YOU AND FAILED TO
CLOSE AGAIN.

DO YOU REMEMEBER?

DO YOU?

Sitting in your own piss and shit is a mechanism it is a device to keep others away to keep fingers from touching and hitting and opening and pushing and holding down it’s a mechanism and device that does not always work resistance is sometimes futile and wreaks revenges.

Mummy gave me orange juice in a kitchen that smelt of stewed apples, the juice made me drowsy and as my eyelids began to flutter to close to a sleep I saw the men enter the room and in the morning my body ached through abuses unknown in action to me. My body’s limbs ached, pulled and stretched by rope the burns of which discoloured my pale white skin.
I did not give witness to my own abuses. I slept as those awake fulfilled their dreams.

Re-Writing the Map of Europe..

2010-10-22T15:22:00.002+01:00

I am very pleased to announce that the short graphic story drawn by Oscar B De Alessi and written by myself, will be distributed by Politrom at the International Festival of Literature in Bucarest from 28th to 30th October.

The Man In The Overcoat. (Final Part For Now Anyway)

2010-09-09T07:10:00.002+01:00

The Father cuts his chin as he shaves a thin trickle of blood runs from above his lip into his mouth, with tongue he tastes and in taste there are memories;

When your landscapes are painted red with blood it seems inconceivable that green exists.

It is possible to forget, everyone forgets;
It is possible to forgive, we all forgive;
It is possible to forgive and forget;
So why is it so impossible to forget and never forgive?

The energy from holding back forgiveness’s doors rots our hearts and turns them black. It leaves us tired and exhausted, to sleep as if awake, to awaken as tired as you were before you slept. No respite.

We validate ourselves through the external, relationships, possessions, status’s we have, we validate ourselves by what we refuse to forgive, until that validation above all becomes us. A nation mourns three thousand dead by killing children and babies far away. The mourning never ceases and the pile of dead babies and children grows. Is it really more immoral to crash a plane into a building over aiming missiles at civilian populations? In its daily death drudgery we forget the meaning and consequences, could you really kill babies at arm’s length with your guns, remote detonation of lives and communities eases consciences and makes forgiveness impossible. Instead resolves are hardened, hate solidified and we all die as a result of those actions. From those actions we learn to hate and in our hatred our compassion and mercy die within us. We become as the killing machines and fields, dead to all. Life should be more than a continued heartbeat and breath inhaled/exhaled, life should be more but it is reduced, we are glad we live, but for what do we live? I feel the angel beckoning with finger of gold. ‘Come, Come, Come towards me’.

The Father wipes the streamed mirror to see his son fresh from bath beside him, mimicking his actions of scraping blade across face. All sons want to be their father, through mimicry they learn, careful what you show them, least they become you.

The mirror streams again and with a finger the father writes ‘do not become me’, his sons continues his actions of love and admiration.

Anxiety creeps.

On plinths we honour the dead of death and destruction, we admire the death and destruction they reigned upon others, ‘they may kill us, we will annihilate them’ they cry and in that cry we feel safe and superior. All hail the conquering heroes for whom conscience is dressed as honour and pride, in them we trust, in God they trusted. God is revengeful and his vengeance is wrought by fingers pressed against buttons which maim and deafen and blind and leave cripples of the fit and well for the lucky there is death. Somewhere a father watches as his son falls his new metal legs unable to support his ambitions and his father is reminded and far away another father prepares his son for a life in the military to serve with honour and pride in a nation bankrupt of any compassion and humanity and in this room a Father watches his son in the mirror and knows not which way to turn, so he remains scraping a blade across his face as his son smiles beside him.

To my son I am a God, I hold him above my head, strong and safe.
One day I will throw him through the clouds to the ground.

Inertia complete.

In systems we trust.

Freedom is a concept only the truly stupid understand.

The Man In The Overcoat

2010-09-08T08:45:00.002+01:00

As I wash my son’s body in the bath the soap and water turns to lather rich and scented and I remember as the soap mixes with the water how the semen and blood mixed on the tiled floor. I cannot eat Strawberries the colour disappoints, there is no pain. Strawberry is the colour of pain, pleasure and a continued life tinged with disappointment.
The lather runs down from my son’s clean hair onto his face and forms small rivers that flow down onto his body. He gasps as I once gasped against hose pushed down throat, water filling lungs; I felt death in the hand that held my face down onto cold tiled floor, as I struggled, the blood from cut thighs dripped into my eyes, red the colour of resistance. I dug a trench from my lungs and heart to my head and remembered my Mother’s touch and sweet breath as words sweet were whispered into my ear. Death lies in remembrance, fill the trench cut and embrace the terror as a life now. Memories soften resolve, Memories kill. The soap on my fingertips against my son’s skin feels as life itself.

‘Death before Dishonour’, a credo for those who have never faced adversity. The History of the Human Race shows that Dishonour wins ever time, where are the bodies I wonder? Do they pile behind supermarket dumpsters hidden as much is, or do they lay in comfort and silence and rot in drug and drink soporific? In the absence of WAR we kill ourselves. The invading forces our minds, which overwhelm and shock and awe us until our nerves twitch and strain against ourselves.
We scream in silence to cut the static but it never leaves us.

Will we meet angels at our death?
If you knew at death that you would be met by a blinding white, warm beautiful angel would you take your life now?
Heaven sounds so great, why do we not all kill ourselves now?

Places and Places in Time form us; we leave them with regret and sorrow aware of the darkness’s they have formed in our psyches. Too afraid to stay we move onwards to sorrows anew, there are sorrows aplenty yet to be visited I know that. We run from, never towards, momentum negative and hostile, never to reconcile the sadness’s.
My son a child RUNS TOWARDS, one day that will change, he will become a man and on that day all will be lost because he will as all men do run from and not towards for the rest of his life.

Your enemies and demons are always behind you.