Burning bones.

July 16, 2010

Exhaustion burns in my bones, like cigarettes against skin, like candle wax. Snit, Snat, Snut. Slut. That’s what they call you, they call me, every little bitch that deigns to show leg. Punish me; fuck me, string me up and cut me. Bite me, kiss me, taste me.  You know I want it, you know you want it, you know you want me to want it. To want you in every burning pore.

Exhaustion burns in my bones because you hang me, wrist to leather, wrist to steel, rope around neck and lashed…from cunt, breasts and heel.

The best feeling is the slow tingle as the flesh shivers from the curl of the whip and the smack of the paddle. That moment of hesitation as your muscles tense sniffing for momentum…sniffing for the hint of pain to resume. The best feeling is knowing as each strike lands, that you mean it.

In every burning muscle and in every single blow of pain and pleasure mingling across my arching back and my curling toes and my fist clenching full body moans. You mean it.

You touch me and I cry.  The feeling of skin against me electrifies, pacifies. I stop shaking, I stop wriggling. I love every moment, every second, millisecond, nanosecond. You can count the frames as I concentrate. I can sense each little pit, every raised segment of your fingers. You could take a fingerprint with my arousal, pulsing, burning and yet you touch me and I cry. God. Please. Fuck me.

You don’t.

You tease and taunt. You scrape my back with your nails, you bite and lash at me. You tease and fucking taunt and oh god I just want to feel your skin against me because every time you touch me, every time you come close and splash my neck with your hot breath, your laboured desire, I want to cum and shudder and i want to do it all in your arms. You tease and taunt and I cry out as another wave of pleasure and pain mingle in my spine meeting your harsh delicate design. Exhaustion still burns in my bones.

And then you let me go, the marks on my wrists flash red, red for desire I like to think. I fall. Moments pass but I know the routine. I gather myself, cunt aching for what’s next. I stand by you. Arms stretched as they are up to the ceiling. You grab the shackles. Yes yes, I think to myself as I take the whip, your turn, I know.

Exhaustion burns in my bones and soon it will burn in yours.



June 17, 2010

“Good fucking dickbagging cuntnuggetting holy shit of asstards, what the motherfucking dicklicking crotchrubbing pissdrinking weaselgit thing to do. Fucking hell man, Fuckmcfucking hell”.

“Fuck mcfucking hell”, Jason repeated. Rob exhaled.

Jason inhaled. “Jeez that’s a lot of swearwords Rob. Care to elaborate?”

Rob did not inhale. “No i fucking do not care to fucking elaborate you dickweed my friend is fucking dying and you’re starting a god damn argument over bullshit nothingness that’s not even fucking related to anyfucking thing useful…and”…and this is where Rob ran out of breath and mostly responded with spittle.

Rob did not inhale, and after a while his face started turning blue so his rage took a temporary timeout and in those few seconds of shallow gasps and potent glares Jason tested the waters.

“Look man, I’m sorry” he began, pausing, waiting for the oh so familiar ‘fucking’ interruption, but it didn’t come, he looked to Rob, eyes downcast, far away. “I wasn’t trying to start anything, really…it doesn’t matter.” His platitudes rolled off as sweetly as they usually did, and they were normally enough to pacify anyone’s anger and frustration. Rob just inhaled.

A great sigh, a huge sigh. Lungs lifting and collapsing like an explosion shattering the foundations of the soul. “I know…I know. It’s, it’s ok” he replied, eyes still absent. “It’s not you, I’m not even angry.”

“Not angry? then…?” The question left unuttered, but understood, “No Jase, not angry….sad, you know? Sad…and upset. You know how when you stub your toe on the door and it’s like the whole fucking worlds on fire and you just want to stab something and swear?”

Jase thought no but said yes, he understood the point at least.

“It’s like that, when you’re hurting, you get angry. Natural, human, evolutionary, biological, psychological,and fucking fuck Nietzsche and his ubermensh bullshit, fuck him and all the whole asstarded world with this ridiculous concept that boys don’t as my Robert fucking smith stated cry. Fuck that. Fuck it hard. I have fucking feelings, right? Right. Yeah. Right.”

Jase wondered, briefly, if he was merely a narrative construct to further the discussion of feelings and transferring of intent vis a vis Waiting for Godot. In some kind of potent metaphoric sense their relationship was being used to explore the differences between the rational logical self who denies emotions and the emotional destructive self that struggles with cultural expectations of stoicism and all that stiff upper lip nonsense but figured that would be entirely too self referential and meta, so simply responded, “so why don’t you just express the feelings you feel, Rob?”

Rob inhaled, quite aware of his allegorical nature, quite aware that the society in which he lives warps his thought patterns, pushing him to express pain as violence, responded rather more succinctly, “Because when I do, people like you express an inability to understand”

Jase simply spluttered, “what do you mean by that”

Rob exhaled, “Exactly.”



May 25, 2010

The devil’s in the details, they say. All those little nuances, those nooks and crannies of circumstance and causation.  This is doubly important in the study of demonology.

She crosses  the hall like lightning on speed, cracking the air in a rolling roar of sex and lust and phwoar. Why cult priestesses insist of wearing corsets, I do not know. It definitely seems to drive their little minions mad with desire. It’s probably a staff motivation thing.

I’m what you’d call…a contractor. I’m brought in when the high ups are concerned about quality control. Product assurance is important when you ship demons wholesale and I provide the guarantee. So as she sidles up to me, with those hips swaying, with those lips sighing and those eyes begging me to touch her; kiss her, love her,take her, (and let’s just say it wasn’t the first time), I sighed. These women seduce and sell themselves for power and lust and please I can hear the judgments a mile off you hypocritical bastards. Men do it too, they’re just not as good at it.

So she sidled, and batted those eyelashes as if to say, hello fuck me now and lets forget about work. They do this when their nervous. Of course she’d left off half a ritual sacrifice, skimped on proper tallow and clearly had no sense of appropriate demonic theatrics.

She had to go, she was a liability. So then I sidled too, that’s what I do. I tell the bosses who’s doing well and who’s fucking up the apocalypse one typo at a time and I get a great big pay check. It generally works out well in the end. The fat cats get paid, and you always have a supply of new sacrifices as you weed out people who just don’t have pride in their work.

Of course, there was a time when those women managed to distract me. heaving bosoms and leather, who wouldn’t be? Right? But no more, no sir. Oh I still fuck them. Don’t get me wrong. I just remember to fire them afterwards.

The devils in the details, it’s why I get hired so much.

Yours eternally.



Rage and skin

May 12, 2010

Rage and skin tingles at a million degrees. each pore breathing out a volcanic lust stench of desire, a dust cloud of screaming sex… Like the ground beneath a thunderstorm wiped before furious rain and bolts of pure unadulterated power the skin tingles, hairs tingle, the skin contracts, the entire body tingles in a thousand flashpoint lightning strikes of arousal. As skin against skin touches in a hesitant graze tectonic plates could shift and be ignored as eyes lock and passion flows. Like the volcano, like the earthquake, like all great cataclysms that shake the sky and shudder the earth. The air tingles and cities rise and cities fall in the moments that change the world. In the moments that sweep us along and let us lose time, let it stand still as if time was only relative. The air tingles and as skin touches skin in the passionate fray cities rise and cities fall, after all in the end everyone’s just a little death away from cataclysm.


What is love?

April 12, 2010

What is love? An infatuation? A chemical fixation brainwashing your reason centres, coursing through your blood in hormone units, legions of little traitors infecting every cell and pore till you sweat desire, sweat passion and furious demand, need for another? Perhaps.

What is love? A wondrous thing perhaps? Transcendent like one of Plato’s forms, perfect and complete, even pure, perhaps. They’d have you believe, lovers that is, those that love…that love is beautiful. Soul-saving, sanctifying and salacious in its wonder. In it’s wonderousness.

What is love? Cold snow, crisp beneath feet and a sunrise drifting through trees, sky-rise hues of pink and red shattered against a pastel white cloud. A feeling of contentment, harmony, the knowledge of skin and flesh and soul joined in your arms, fingers lacing and pulse tingling in rhythm together perhaps? Standing beside a dear friend, lover or a father, a mother maybe….sister daughter son, dearest ones. What is love but shared moments perhaps? Memories of harmony.

What is love? What is it, can it be defined? The feelings one has for a friend, our staunchest defender and ally through years of turbulence and joy remains the person we met and have come to know, do they not differ for the most intimate relationship of a lover? Flesh against flesh in a melding of skin and soul. These are both love…no? So different, so powerful yet. You’d die for them. You’d suffer for them. You’d burn in a thousand hells for a thousand years amidst a thousand tortures for them and at the end sacrifice a final pleasure, a final reprieve…all for them. So different these feelings, so separate…so similarly strong, both love…different loves and If these things are love and yet so different can one truly define love? Can one say categorically this IS love and deny the rest? Perhaps.

What is love but the most undefinable feeling of kinship, whatever that may be?



March 20, 2010

Desperate for attention he implodes on the corner of broadway and park. Locational metaphors for drama and nature, he assumes will poignantly extend to the concept of the theatre of life to give his death meaning.  He assumes wrong.  Remains take a while to ID, nothing to scan, nothing to identify.

Fourth case this week.

If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I’d roll to disbelieve. The chief stole my D10’s. Not appropriate for police work. Bullshit. He just wants them for himself. Typical PC, I suppose I should be thankful he just took my stuff and left the other half of the cliché off.

Another imploder, I always get the messy ones. Brainwave. News bulletin explaining a safe clean method for implosion, preferably in some kind of easily disposable plastic bag. Nah…the chief would never go for that. No way, bad publicity.

Plastic isn’t biodegradable.


And Idle thumbs

March 17, 2010

Soft trees, soft like love. Beautiful and born to die. Leaves cascading in simple palette hues. Browns and yellows, like a bruise.  Blood pumps, heart races. The thumping concussion of anxiety and fear ripples through memory engrams, ripples through consciousness, each leaf an earthquake. The pain of a bruise reminds us of the past, of injury and in that introspection we learn.

We say to ourselves and to others, “here is what I did wrong and this, yes this is how I can avoid it in future”. Leaves cascade and I remember love, deep rooted love, it grows from a tiny seed, an acorn of “like”. It grows.

And idle thumbs? They draw, they paint, they write. They do whatever they can to hide the death they feel. The bruise grows.



March 5, 2010

It starts with a dream, as many things often do.  A dream that is vivid, vibrant, fragile, disappearing in the new day in both senses of the word. Hope and sleep. This is a dream to be healthy. To be better.

A quote comes to the protagonists mind now, “If wellness is this then what in hells name is sickness?” He questions the idea of wellness in slight desperation. “Surely” he thinks, “surely health is subjective. Surely one’s health is comparative to oneself.” He seeks to rationalise sickness.

“It’s ok to be depressed, it’s ok to burn with self-hatred, it’s ok to turn his destructiveness inwards. It’s ok, surely? It’s ok, it’s ok.” It’s a desperate line of logic, rinse and repeat, repeatedly flawed. He knows even if wellness is comparative he’s been better.  So, he returns to the dream, having validated his own sickness, having confirmed to himself that he cannot rationalise it, he cannot convince himself that everything is ok.

It is at this point that he swears, anger’s such a wonderful emotion for putting the correct emphasis on the F’s.

The C’s and the T’s too, hissing through clenched lips and teeth, white knuckle spittle. “fuck fuck fuck cuntingfuck”. Cunting fuck indeed.  What purpose and what point does the anger serve? How does it help him? How does it make anything better, make him healthier? better? This is his thought pattern, his construct.

Emotion as purpose. Make sense to you? All things he deludes serve a purpose. When he feels anger it’s for a reason, it does something, it solves something, it fixes something. Lust? love? Fear? Anxiety? All these things do something, they solve something, he believes and deludes truly, they fix things. So he gets angry, he swears but he cannot see the purpose, “what’s the fucking point in this?” he cries. He cannot accept the anger, he cannot tolerate it without it having a point. His dream of being better moves one step away, cyclical. He dreams, and in his failings gets angry, and in his anger he gets sicker, he fails, and in his failure gets angry.

Then comes self-destruction. “How else do you manage emotions? “He says “They are not allowed to exist,” he thinks “They must be negated, mitigated, managed.” ‘NMM’ he thinks to himself. Clever. Is this the problem? He thinks himself so clever.

It starts with a dream, then. That hope, to be better, to be well. He tries delusion and in failure rages, and in rages self destructs. “Perhaps,” he considers thoughtfully in repose, “the dream itself is to blame”.

“I hope for a better life, a better future. Happiness, contentedness, soft dreams and soft beds, pleasant conversation, smiles and love. I dream of these, I hope…for the unobtainable. No wonder I’m depressed, no wonder I can’t cope. My expectations are too high.” False logic, flawed logic. He knows deep down he was ill first. How can you dream to be well unless you are not?

But it helps, a little. It helps. It hurts to know you are less than you could be. To know that things could be better, you could be happier. What’s more depressing than knowing you’re depressed? “It helps”, he says, it helps. Is that what life is about? Every little helps. Tesco would have you think so but is that what life is about? Is it about surviving or is it about living? Is that what life is about? Is that why we dream?

It’s understandable, he thinks, that he would dream of health. To be normal, loved. To be strong, warm, content. Open the door, there’s a glow in the house, a comfort of familiarity. Pleasant lived in noises come from inside, the tv, the kitchen, computer room, study, wherever. Someone greets him, there’s a smile, there’s love there in that smile. No clenched teeth, no clenched lips, no white knuckle spittle.  Warmth. Step in, shoes off. Home is where the heart is and he has a house to love and be loved in. Care, attention, compliments, dramatic arguments about politics, everything and nothing. Makeup sex. Passion, vim. Life. Beautiful multicoloured life. Like his dreams at night the image seems so vibrant, so powerful.

It’s a wondrous dream no? Especially to those that see in grey. He opens the door now and he fears. He is afraid. He is scared. He opens the door now and there is no warmth. He keeps it all inside, his fear. His big cowardly fear. Scared of life, scared of people. Scared of the outside. Scared of the past, scared of the future. His fear burns him like his self-hatred, it burns for the stigma he places in it. Weakness is unabided, just like emotions with no point. Weakness is wrong, it is bad. He cannot let those around him in.  Cannot, cannot. Will not.

So lonely and afraid he sits and dreams, he tries to speak, he reaches out, he screams inside but doesn’t even manage a whisper to a friend. his own fears conquer him, conquer his dream. He cries, a lot. he’s just reaching the point he thinks, oh how he thinks that maybe, just maybe he can admit that. He doesn’t have much faith in himself anymore. He doesn’t think he can do this by himself, so he cries because he struggles to let anyone help. Beliefs have always had a way of crushing dreams.

This is why he believes emotions must have a point, this is the root of his fear, this is why he lets no-one in. Everything has an agenda, wants to hurt or use him. Every emotion shown to him is there to manipulate him, every word, every action, every kiss or absent hug serves to damage him in some way. If that is true for everyone else it must be true for him. He even knows this isn’t true. He even knows that there are those that care about him, that are genuine. He knows the friends he have now are true but he is so scared, so terrified of being hurt he cannot bring himself to take that last leap, that last step and be real. To cry in front of them, to love, to care.

He dreams of health, of wellness, but he hopes for a smile.


Snakes hunt mice

March 4, 2010

David attenborough’s voice crackled through the radio “Snakes hunt mice because nobody has ever bread a rabbit small enough.”

He slurs the vowels as if sandwiches had something to do with snakes. They don’t, he means bred. The scientist chuckles to himself at his superiority. “Silly David, silly David, all of them, his teachers, his colleagues, they said he was mad, an idiot, a fool. NOONE TINKERS WITH NATURE they cried.” Well ok he acknowledges, they didn’t say that, he made that part up. He knows this, he knows…but the delusion feels nicer, it’s a better fit.  He’s the misunderstood scientist, the mad genius, yes that was him. When the newspaper crews come they’ll call him a madman, oh yes but little do they realise he dictates, “LITTLE DO THEY REALISE” he cries into his webcam, his video journal collating smoothly. He pauses for dramatic effect, arms flourished, his white lab coat spotless….”I AM THEIR SAVIOUR!”

Whilst it was true rabbits were too big for most snakes to devour, Eregus Von Liesenstein neglected to understand basic ecological principles. His research led him to believe introducing a targeted retrophage into the rabbit population would cause a dominant genetic shift into minituarisation, reducing the size of your average rabbit, which is kind of like your average bear, but not as smart. Unfortunate Eregus was also not as smart as your average bear…

“AND LO”, Eregus cries into his $20 Logitech cam, “God said unto man you may eat from all tree but the tree of knowledge, for God feared that man might become like the devil, proud and sinful…but man ate and became as wise as the devil himself…and in our sins we have constructed such beauty…Such beauty”…he repeats for emphasis, he’s practised this part of the speech many times, he hopes it still looks spontaneous for when they make his True lives documentary. “Beauty we now model ourselves, a genetic code we now tinker with, we now control…are we not Gods? Are scientists not gods among men?” And with that he turns the camera, shaking in his hand towards a cage, an oddly quiet cage…he removes the cover with a flourish,

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN OF THE WORLD I GIVE YOU….Miniature rabbi…wait…where are the others…shit does that one have blood on it’s fur…those hungry eyes…Oh god…what is it DOING?!”

As every school child knows, that journal records the first known outbreak of hyper mutated violence as a result of human tinkering with the genetic makeup of animals. Scientists later on discovered an innate set of genetic triggers designed to cause madness, aggression and ultimately, death in creatures DNA which we believe, could only be planted there deliberately. Now we know tinkering with the genome has grave consequences but think back to these early floundering men with their imperfect knowledge.

As the samples of this single experiment escaped, along with a taste of human flesh, and reproduced unfortunately like bunnies the extinction event of mice around the world was inevitable. The hunger for flesh and the certain ability to infiltrate and attack all of the smaller rodent burrows causes a dramatic shift in global ecological balance that nearly wiped out various other predators.

This, ladies and gentlemen is the period we historians like to refer to as “Genome extinction era 1 as mice, many small rodents and many of the predators, including snakes that depended on them lost their food source. Although we prefer to call it, the revenge of the bunny. Any questions?”

A hand shoots up from Time(present) Magazine, a young brunette, not even 50 yet…”Yes Miss”

“Don’t you think “the rabbits strike back” is a better title?”


It’s a me…

March 3, 2010

“Quiet, quiet, sneak through the tiny holes, nothing heard, nothing seen. Quiet quiet sneak now young masters, sneak”

Jamie turned to Ross, who had preemptively turned to Jamie, and in whispering tones they conversed. “Are you sure about this? He seems a little…” They both turned to their guide, the strange green reptile that he was. “He’s odd” came the reply…”but like, it’s a game yeah? I guess it’s meant to be freaky…” Jamie nodded a little and squeezed on through the gap, hoping that they wouldn’t have to come back this way after they rescue the princess from the castle.

“Quick now quick or the strange mushroom men will get us oh yes they’ll get us and they’ll pop us in a pot and stir and stir as the water boils and it will be Mario and Luigi stew oh yes sounds tasty doesn’t it young masters quickly now quickly we sneak yes we sneak into the castle and he great turtle fiend will be none the wiser oh yes nothing seen nothing heard.”

“You know…they really have Grimdark’d Mario brothers, Wait, wait, What is Yoshi injecting himself with?”

“Well it is called Mario brothers : Return to rehab”

“Wait…so when Yoshi says Castle he means a government institution for recovering from narcotic addiction”

“Yeah hey…wait…what does princess mean…”

“Quick now masters quick, we must dress up as prostitutes to infiltrate the castle, Mario I suggest you seduce the guards by the side door whilst Luigi and I sneak in and retrieve our princess.”

“I ermm wait what….what…Errr Ross what the hell is this game…?”

“Dude, hit X hit X!” Quicktime event, hit X”

The screen flickers as the button is smashed and a cut scene begins

“Oh hi big boys, aren’t you big strapping lads just the sexiest thing ever, it’s ok, you can put that down…”It’s a me…Mario.”