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Insane in the membrane and every other brain circulating on the Hyndburn circular, squarer and having to earn every penny to meet Paul Bearer who is now deceased... How much can we bear by turning a deaf ear to a blind eye, and queefs that'll knock ya for six, seven or 302... Numbres hombre, bric-a-brac, sick o' Brexit talk, too much hearsay and not enough eyesay... Mind Strays and wonders like an absconder and has to be hunted to the ends of the Earth. But why always the ends of the Earth? Why not just recaptured immediately and thrown in Solitary Confinement with Sol, Terry and Simon... Sounds camp as all hell being in this hellish hole, like some kind of gay Shawshank Redemption. What kind of redemption is this? Rottin' away like tooth decay until all that's left are 'What Became of Him?' sob stories... Don't worry 'bout me, kid.. why am I talking to a baby goat? Why am I preaching like some Kenny Veach type shit? Tryna teach wisdom and history sprinkled with a little mystery and topped off with some good old fashioned misery. Gotta end on a sour note after dipping your suicide letter in vinegar. Eager to watch Vine or Vice videos and some VEVO to finish the viewing pleasure of the three Vs. Hard to concentrate after 24 hours of David Paulides. Hard to keep these eyelids open, "impossible to keep a lid on all this," said a Micky Flanagan mannequin in a quintessential manner. Quite. Where are my Manors from Heaven? Or Womanors from Hell? Woah man, you got that aLL wrong! Women are from Heaven, men are from hellooo there what's your name, honey? So sit back, relax as I hone in and hire variety. Variety is the Spice of Life, as is tamarindu that's been tampered with by Ginger Fingerz. Time to put a hinge on a zinger burger so it can be opened and closed like a Hermes globe. Did Hermes ever have herpes? Immortality has its flaws and Nietz Laws of Logic. So eat this collective cock that gets waved in your face like D-Wave quantum tech... Time to tech over again and teach these newbies a thing or two about deep thro... I mean deep thought. Stalking deers that have beards and goatees, and the weirdest horses. Rams on the edge of cliffs, astray, having lost their memories. No longer attached to Mama's Mammaries. That guy... I forget his name? Oh that's it... Guy! Its funny the things you Forget. Amnesia Hilarity Clinton with so many Rods stuffed up her bottom. She is truly Satan's Spawn, along with Billuminati. Devil Incarnates. Nietz is back to wreak devilish carnage, like a trafficking operation in Varna. WARNING! The fire is barely warm yet. (Why would that need a warning?!) You tell me, you're Mr. Clever... more fucked up than Ceperley House. Burnaby. Urn Full of Ash. Burn babies? Taoistic cults seem to appear more than North Korean ballistic missiles. BALLISTIC PRESENTS! Hardddddball. Mega Drive. Loved that game man before 'Terror' had a name. Even had a slingshot back in the day, but bloody political correctness. Won't even let me ping rocks at windows, what is wrong with this world?! What next? Water Pistols? Sex Pistols? John Lydon. I think I need to take a lie down, and throw it off a cliff because I have no intention of being held in a detention camp having my style cramped by camp stylists. Put me on your watch list? FUCK YOU! You're going on MY watch list. Watching and listening... "Hi, Ding... What shit is this i Ching, hiding?" ... In its esoterical symbols and writings, its not that simple at all to find answers. Even if I use logic I'm stumped, like a British Donald Trump. "Build a wall, Mr Grumpy?" You should be in a Mr. Men book, read in a crook's prison on a Telmate tablet. Prescribed technology. My Eyes are gonna go square!! They were square! Don't worry, got a spare pair. That was a close scare, like a scar closed and stitched, post car crash. All day long the itch has been there, to switch moods and be offensive and rude to my own friends, and kick out the teeth of my own Dentist. Now there's a twist, like a limp-wristed faggot. Nah, he's just one of Cleopatra's slaves, doing that bendy hand thing. You took it all out of proportion my friend, distorted it and put a caution sign in front of it. But I'm here to say... that everything's Kosher, except Kosher meat... nausea meat when he knows how the animal was killed. Blood spills when the throat gets cut, and people get put off by the sight of blood. "This is 2017, not the 1890s, bud." I Joke I Joke. I Ching! I Ching! I think I must be losing Mind! Thine Marbles are Lost, like an Emerald Tablet older than immortality itself. I could come up with my own scrawls and scribbles with crayons drawn on fabric made from rayon... But just don't got the time, bruh. TL:DCrayon this shit. I'd rather stay on track instead of straying and being attacked at the staY on main. They say I was susceptible to scepter. But I was just sceptical. Until the evidence was presented and I passed out from seeing a placenta in that box. What do you want? "We're here to brighten up your day with a little Hotel Color." Brighten up my organs more like. Brighton up... like a Championship promotion. I'm so fucking miserable I should jump in the ocean or Swan Dive in Groom Lake because its too late to change tack and laser off these leopard spots. Better just let them rot. But for now those dots are weapons, and the only leverage I've got. We Play for Pleasure, the things we say are meant to push buttons. Made to measure. If you want to tempt fate and end up on the end of a preemptive strike, because I have nothing better to do and life an empty life. Then its fine by me. We shall stand our ground, tall and proud, and we don't mean like Marcel Proust. Just a jousting arsenal and a Faustian pact. Tarnishing shit is my only bargaining chip. This self harming tells a charming tale of alarming failure. Guarded behaviour is regarded as partly retarded. Hardly. Its better to be largely impartial instead of having to court martial. So let me get back to my atelier so I can live ever happily without mishaps and the Father of all Fuckups dropping the Mother of all Bombs. Fatman orders Fatman. Meanwhile I'll just go back to being 'that' man. What man? Some kind of fake robocop man? Head sticking out of an open top bus. And topless hookers hotter than gas mark 6 cookers. Pure poetricks up the sleeve, double figures, I'm a figure troubled, and like Lars sold for Rubles to a femdom Sisterhood. "This is big business, bud." Who is this Bud? Some kind of Blackburnian Babylonian Pavlovian mad loner? That sums it up pretty well, like Summa Vinyl Cutters. Still a primal fucker with the mind of a urinal that's into vaginal sucking. Aye. Now I've no time for nothing except writing, something. Usually with Donald Trump in. You could say that I'm blowing Donald's trumpet. But I'm not. He doesn't care, I don't care. None of us care. Which is scary. But at the same time, cancer is a predator, like predators are a cancer. But Presidents? Meh, nothing new. Crooks and thugs and meth chefs who cook up drugs and sell them to the gullible. Full of bullshit, like this blog. Just a block of words with no dividers coz the writer is too lazy to provide this service. So why should you crucify the person who prescribes this juicy trite so fervently? Me and writing are intertwined so perfectly, this relationship is permanent, hereby this hermit is resigned to live his life a servant to the literary devil, and forever reside inside this circus. Deep breath...... before we keep on messing with your Mind. Where hidden messages sleep inside like creepy eyes of Horus. These Taurus torrents of gore and horrifying storylines that glorify the morbid side of our core. So harsh, like an offshore island for abhorrent hardcore porn practices. But the fact is this... We can't prevent the chaos. For we are cruel and mortal and vulnerable to the torture in which our Governments are comfortable endorsing. We citizens are lucky if we can find morsels in our shortened time on this rock. But sometimes those that move beyond poverty covet it more once it has gone. And they live in the land of the fairies and Oblivia. Cut off. Perhaps it is better to be put off by fame, where nobody knows thine name. So they can't openly draw me into battle or throw me under a rickshaw. Maybe I'm just sick though... and not quite right in my brain.
A DICK CALLED SHAUN
Perched in front of a fake van Gogh painting. Waiting for inspiration. Inhaling innovation. This is a game of patience. A literal gestation of ideas built like IKEA and TINA. Lineal champ with a pineal gland that’s crammed with grand fantasias. Brace yourself for brazen thoughts as crazy as a pagan goat from ancient times with Satan codes, and troubadour Gavaudan. Tantora Guava Leaves; Pandora’s Box of locusts. Caution! Too much hate and nausea to expose this state of mind… Mind you, I think you’ll find I hate this mind that I wish it wasn’t mine at all. I wish I was a Minotaur, instead of a tortured rhino minus the horn, no longer A Romantic Ivanhoe, programmed to fantasise, tantalise and tease, only here to vandalise, set fire to, with candle light, life is a gamble, right? Wrong, mine is a shambles, I stumble, ramble and fumble my words in person, each and every line is an example of how not to be, but here I feel like hot property, like a prophet writing for non-profit. Hopping mad, but perfect for the jotter pad. Came through Alma mater, feeling no greater, alpha beta, Master of Wei G. Lang, charged like Ray G. Bull, iron like A.G. Barr, but a little cagey… Confined, gone crazy, inside this insane mind. I’ve got lazy. But never fear we’re about to turn a corner, Muller yogurt, and glide through Robert Burnaby Park, riding a wild boar like a bored child… Yee Haw! Brewing Co. for 4 miles, over yellow brick pebble, Neanderthal bipedal that revels in being like a rebel, with a Rexel pencil. Not sensible, barely comprehensible, but in my defence! …… I got nothing. Yo there! I don’t ever wanna go to Yoga, classes, with the instructor checking out our asses in the Bikram heat of the moment. That’s sick, man! Unless the instructor is a chick, man! A man chick?! A transgender that transcends to a higher place by checking out your bendy practices. I’d rather eat up a yo’gurt, or beat up a man that hurts Yogi Bear. He will bear the brunt of my force, the cunt, I’ll shove a whole lit blunt up his arse. That’s not a euphemism for ‘blunt instrument.’ And neither is the euphemism gay. Why must that queer stuff be cleared up? Feared by society. Without it, being here just wouldn’t be fun. If we couldn’t poke fun by making a joke or a pun about poking bums with a sharp object. Why object to this crass? And shall we now harass the word crass for featuring the word ass? This is craftsmanship. Now I might need a raft, man… shit! To escape from these baying mobs easily swayed and played upon, obeying humans like they are Gods! By Dog, get a sense of human! Get a dog as a pet that T.I. won from a bet. Now you’re lumbered not aided, with a 101 Dalmatians, 100 Shih Tzus and 99 Alsatians… With only 1% of the patience required to look after them all. So you take them all to a mall and leave them there to aggressively maul the shoppers until somebody calls the coppers. Then you walk toward a wall to pee, thinking it’s a wall, but it’s really St. Paul’s Cathedral… These bloody catty drawls, with their hidden meanings, passageways… massive cults you couldn’t penetrate until they menstruate. Prolapsed Catholic? More like prolapsed rectums… You fucker, you wrecked ‘em! Look now, they are upset. Feel like they have been set up for this ritualinguistic tone. Well stone me dead! Until my bony head can no longer take these heavy shots. Hey, don’t throw rocks! Play gneiss now! Why should I pay the price for today’s Smiley Face Killers looking for their latest sacrifice? Not while I have this untapped latent ability to mix current events and Satanism? Maybe I should patent the idea that today’s parents plainly don’t care for their freedoms… so maybe they don’t need ‘em… Probably put rips in their own ship’s mizzens… All because they didn’t listen. Some of them couldn’t due to 24/7/365 round-the-clock deafness! The silence was deafening, they couldn’t even hear the sirens or the police’s line of questioning. Yet somehow they made the best of things, while some of us dwelled on trivial matters, like being typically catty and worrying about being fat, or our lives being crappy. So bear with me as I search for a workaround and skirt with boredom, flirting until I score like Kyrie Irving. Watch as this hermit spits generous servings of his venomous vermin like something a menacing surgeon would pull from a haemorrhaging enema in an emergency. Surge has the Urge to dice you up nice and good, hack out your organs and pack you in ice and blood. Sometimes you pay the cost to be the boss, everything’s pricey… how much did this Holo, caust? oTo cross, pedal bikes of monologues to reach paradise now that this writing appetite is back… Happy times lie ahead, or maybe I’m lying about that. Trying to outwit and outfox Megan with a pack of hunting dogs, before I outbox the best fighter on the planet… now there’s me thinking outside for once. Wasn’t hard to break these cardboard locks of cargo boxes. So Argo Nunya. “I can’t fail, I ain’t no flailing crook struggling to keep afloat, I’ll write my books and sail my boat through swallowtail filled brooks,” and if we have the time, write those books in braille… Time for the blind to find their stride and not be guided by the railing. Maybe they can witness this hailing to Malkuth… What have they to lose? Except everything. Why not just accept everything happens for a reason. Except Chris Rea’s son, that was an accident. Disclaimer: He doesn’t have a son. Why is this Claimant dissing anybody? He should be ashamed of himself! At least he didn’t buy the Shark Powered Liftaway! Yet… *long drawn out distractingly phlegmy cough.* Fucking bar steward. The Stewards of BarthoTomew. Who knew? Not you! Put a n00b on the barbi at some kind of celebratory fraternity party. Get sprayed in the face with Joop and Armani. The truth is… some people are barmy enough to join armies, but never legies. Has it registered yet, that the cash register has been stolen?! By a tall dude in a balaclava that drove off in a Lada. Until he hit a tree and ran like the wind… the wind doesn’t run shit! This whole operation of Opera Theatres that some people can Win Free tickets for… As disturbing as a wimpy worker peeing on your Wimpy burger. A nerdling listening to Erdling? This can’t be… Figuratively further from the truth! Rigorously mortis. Please don’t mock a fella that’s dead, unless it’s David Rockefeller. Congestive heart failure? He had a heart?! Living to a binary old age, but I bet he didn’t listen to the dance song Binary Finary, or even rave music… Acid or smiley face music… Jump around like a house of pain after being caned on the butt by a thousand sadists. Get kicked in the nads by Nadine Ross, leaving me nowhere to deposit my tads.
Your standards are slipping, like a herniated disc or Granddad's hips. Hermit's mitts have been stolen and handed to a homeless Polish golem. Impossible. As were the rumours of colon cancer. What about semi-colon cancer? And scrotal pain which leaves you physically and mentally tortured. Broken, exhausted, Until you have to be hypnotised without further notice, a grammarian subjected to variants of body healing by MaryAnn. The hypno ties that bind us together forever. No longer tipsy, no longer dipso. Ipso. My disposition now ready to return to its original state. Little bit of Dis and Dat, hissy fits. a bit of misinformation fired at random - Mosinformation. Put claymore inside Clayderman's piano if he plays any more of these damn songs! Back to the day job of straying off topic and saying what I want without having to chop it out to suit these desperate despots who skim read and second guess, inattentive, before making a checklist of preventive measures. I resent the restrictions on my creative pleasure. Luckily yet, nothing has come to censure. As long as there is fuel in the engine I will continue to fool around for public attention. Until I reach dementia and am too irrelevant to mention. Until then I will continue to reflect on these elephants in the room. You’re a champion, handy at handing out this anarchistic avalanche of brandy and piss. Like candy to a baby, taken from a stranger – like Pizzagate – manger to torture chamber. What made the world change like this? From quaint to dangerous, from slaves, to safer together, even though we see more of the people on the telly than we do our own neighbours… Erase the past to chase a dream, until not a trace is left from the scene of the crime, that was your upbringing. A whole image reboot, forget what you’ve been through, nothing is as serene as a clean blue mind underneath a deep blue sky. Fucked up OCD, totally OTT, form an orderly so the orderlies can force some home truths and quash the disorder by stopping the mortary from flying over your headquarters. Avoid sending you to the mortuary early, after hitting you square in the face with a Squares cheese and onion crisp. All you can do is freeze in terror, drop to your knees shouting, "please don't deem me a menace!" You're no fuckin' menace, just a rascal, ask all these other people, they will vouch for your miscreant ways. Aren't you supposed to be a Christian?! And that thing you were doing inside your pants with your wrist, Ian? Oh My God, look at her butt! See how it grows!!! Like a nice flow goin', its actually mind blowing when something like this takes hold, of your big bald head and the mental pictures start flowing like pure poetry. Like a knife through Flora. Go through you like Dereck Chisora throwing a punch at Derek Acorah, leaving you needing a medic to get you out of the coma. Sa Comma Plaza, laze in the back of a Mazda that's parked outside of Asda. We're only at the halfway stage, almost at the landmark, the lambda, hands and arms won't pander as they meander at will, clamouring with swagger, but never in a glamorous manner. This is like Richard Hammond car crash TV, all you need now is a heart attack on your CV. Apply the brakes and search the caves for another Nathan Drake artefact. A fact of being artistic is to not waiver your flavour by doing these do-gooders a favour. I'm out to make a statement to you motherfuckers who couldn't be inspiring or have fire in your bellies. Too hypnotised, fawning over your telly, too scary to contemplate selling it to a second hand pawn store. Get handjobbed by a second rate porn star before she pours scolding hot water over your arsehole. It bugs me Bigsby, like being trapped by wire tapping, or forced to tap dance on tightropes at great heights. Its sad that my life has come to this, I had high hopes before, but now I'm nigh on lost and broke and only get by on lust and I just tossed away the best chance I had on fluster. Must have bought 30 books that cost me more than 30 bucks. More than enough to fill 300 Royal Mail and DPD trucks. The Book Depository books are so new, I could shove the pages up my ass and use them as suppositories. As Katy would say... 'this is how we do... doo doo da doo,' Nietz is chomping at the leash, itching to craft, I'm a cat amongst the pigeons bitching like Christopher Hitchens amongst religions. A mongrel that's politically wrongrel, a hypocrite, a parasite, pitfully truthful, but sometimes' infamy is useful and interesting that it would actually be counterproductive to the world to arrest him! Coz no matter how badly they detest him, or how much they wanna sacrifice him off to the 10th sephirot. Being left to rot would be a waste, would it not? To be tazed or taste blood. ZZZzzz! Is this Ryan runnin' riot? Or Nietzlawe that's running Ryan?
RAYMOND WILL BE SPINNING
Life is all about what you make it. I just make it up as I go along, following the string down the road to the van where the man is stood waiting with the chloroform rag next to Chloe and several others all in formation. I'm out of my wits, scared witless with no witnesses present other than the Jehovahs who resent me for slamming my size 12 door in they motherfookin' spooky ass faces. My only weapon of self-defence is to tell them to back off or be ready to get smacked down. I didn't mean to get snagged in this web of Charlotte's, with a bag placed over my head so I could hyperventilate for my own amusement while I'm abused. One of those brown paper bags that McDonalds comes in. It even smells of fries, this is not right? This is traumatic! It traus parallels to other similar cases. Brief and Suit. Can't even breathe in here, can you believe it? No air! Not even any hair on my head. I'm not even a future heir to the throne! This is just a game they play... crazy and twisted mysteries that date back centuries send me doolally by pissing me off and forcing me to suck on a piss pop lolly. Either that or lick the quim of Molly Qerim at her own whim and leisure. Win Win I say, clit is lit as I flick back and forth rocking, with my cock out, drooling, knocking one out. Better to write but sometimes its like writhing in pain when the right words just wont spring to... tits! And now we're approaching spring, so things are gonna improve, I'm proof... You're proof. We're all foolhardy, we're all fools for watching Tom Hardy films. I'd rather watch eye floaters or documentaries about bodies lying bloated on top of water. I'm lying... about being afraid of dying. I'm afraid of lying about being afraid of dying. Inside I'm crying, or maybe that's just the internal bleeding talking. Where Did The Road Go? I need a showboat if I'm to cross this river alive. Survive? I have never given a fuck or a second thought if the boat I'm in runs over 7 ducks or slams into some passing stray goats. Even though my life is sucky I still feel lucky in some ways, as I cross this moat and end up entrapped in this château, wrapped up in clingfilm and dumped in a freezer. Alive. Jesus Christ! This is like the 9th circle of hell! Is there a hotline I can call for help? People wont pick up, they think its a cold call. But never mind, Nietz is just warming up! This is just a precursor Gladys and Lentilmen! And I'm glad that I was slapped on the head and woken up by Angela Hawken. Ethan Mengele. Bonjela on my liposuction, as seductive as duct tape, flesh peddling and spirit cooking... Hell's kitsch show presented by Goatdon Fuckin' Ramsay. This aint a show for kids. Gordon's fuckin' Gin, juice and tonic is cause for a topic! Gorgon fuckin' Gianfranco looking like Steve Tyler... Neo Maximus trying to run down a taxi cab and ends up in a car accident. At least you think its a Taxi. Imagine a world where everyone over 18 couldn't do naughty things, but everyone under 18 could. "You can't buy alcohol, Sir." -- "Why not?" -- "You're not under 18." The disclaimers for grizzly horror films: NOT SUITABLE FOR OVER 18s. Instead of 'you must be this tall to go on this ride' at Theme Parks. 'You must be a small fucker if you want to go on this ride.' The world is an illusion and whatever we make it. You chose to chase that piece of string. You chose to drink in that seedy bar. You chose to be a Ewe. A Eweman Being. Born to Conform, starring in softcore porn as often as your schedule allows. You'll be sucking Halal meat till the day you die. Ha! LOL! My head is spinning, gut and back ache, and I don't even stack crates for a living. Not even at the age of retirement. Maybe its the lack of vegetables that is turning me into a.. vegetable. The veg tables must be turned in our favour, The creators of food must cater to our needs instead of being bitches and haters!!! You're seeing things that aren't there, like Arndale centres in your own town. Usually we have nothing but harsh stale winters. Acrid rain actually causes more pain than acid rain. More pain than an Amber Rayne overdose. The amber lights were signalling strong, yet noone heard a thing, except a herd of sheep but they were keeping schtum. Their bleats were bleeped out. Censored from sharing the truth... thus sparing the blushes of liars, like Friar, who had his genitals tucked between his legs and Robin's Hood firmly stuffed up his bonnet.
Now where were we? That's right, being anything other than wary as I continue to spin these fairy tales, affirmative as the firm-titted girl from Wales. Should we sugarcoat or coat the lady's coat in sugar? Her name just happens to be Sugar. Too much sugar in my system, not enough Aloe Vera, too much alopecia. As hazy as a lazy eye syndrome. We've been beating that damn LinnDrum harder than Lynn's bum knee. Its time to make swift changes, and allay public fears by a'lying'througha'my'teeth'Luigi! But Luigi can't lie, not while he's setting up ouija boards in abandoned shacks and being hacked by abandoned wives... with machetes and knives!! but Luouija is Bored of being exploited, and we know that everything is tiresome these days, maybe we should hire some motivators to motivate us and have our Motifs as 'Don't put off today what you can do tomorrow,' wait... You look like you have just ripped off Andrew Divoff's eyepatch... Not literally. The crowds don't wanna see that old gaudy TT. The crowds?! Don't you mean the stray dog walker? Who just happened to share my surname? Call that a coinkidenk? That's harder to swallow than the Reader's Digest. That's harder to swallow than Lady Di ingesting cock off Dodi's coke. Its even harder to swallow than a Hardcore Porn Hardcore Pawn episode. Les and the Lezzas... TV Gold. Literally TV gold if the lezzas turned out to be trannies. LGBT (Les Gold Blows Trannies). Oh No He Dinn! He must be censored! Censored because he offended a German transgender by the name of Hans Bender? Where will this political correctness end? This tidal wave of idle banter. Slander or intellectual cancer? Is it so hard to understand the difference between fact and fiction? What's actually happening in real life, and what's happening in a motion picture? Maybe I'm an emotionless prick that should be subject to Chinese boa constrictors. Regulations and restrictions, like being put in chastity by Jessica Farrar for trying to touch her breasts with my arm. I'm armed and dangerous like an army of strangers all paid to snatch you off the street and take you to a monastery basement. And not because you couldn't make your monetary payments. Honestly this whole operation stinks like tuna fish during a lunar eclipse where lunatics thrive, and ordinary humans literally fight for survival or reside in hideouts to see the night out. Gamma Gamma Coming... no need to dampen the mood by peeing on your chips and gammon or having a wank on the food. Have you the stamina to keep going? Running around like Salman Rushdie in hiding from a heightened fatwa. Fighting like a frightened fat kid. Should he be bullied by keeping silent? Or stand up fully to these tyrants? Try ranting, its what you do best, no matter how many dudes wanna shoot through your bulletproof vest. Too full of truth serums, red herrings, morbid settings... this isn't the moment for ethics. Just effin' epic, open and energetic, not closed off like this septic tank. Open top firing blanks at JFK in a charabanc. Practical stunt that was practically a cunt's trick. Like Professeur Liber overseeing those that lie below, openly peeing in the piping, letting it filter through a BRITA and it comes out dripping on your burrito and buffalo wings. That was a dirty tactic, surely below the belt, and heaven knows the smell must have been hellish... like this sciatica having me acting erratically, like a spastic starring in erotic porn, hypnotic fornication, torn between two lovers, and those lovers are crocodiles. Better than the two komodo dragons that knocked on my door trying to convert me into their antiquated religion. I could smell the antagonism from the offset, lecturing me like some Ofsted type shit. Be gone biyatches, I only believe in logic and the laws of the universe. Don't make me get out my tawse or chase you up the garden path with my hose pipe. Trying to butter me up with nature leaflets. Pfft, "I have the fucking Origin of Species upstairs," I said to these two moronic mormons. The whole thing was comical, a Comic Con, someone should have left a mic on.
Mic Czech... if my bottle of Pilsner Urquell is chilled. Why do you need Mike to check your beer? He's not a servant. Do it yourself you workshy fop. Sly old fox, channel propaganda, no answer to the unstoppable cancer of manservants plaguing Modern Day Société. I should change my name to Sir Lancelot and take drugs a lot, before I prance around in Prada underwear and climb the Eiffel Tower like James Kingston in France. This is my Kingdom, the opposite doesn't bear thinking about. Neither does the thought of copulating with the barely-legal grizzly. Now its rolling up Zig Zag and Rizlas, what kind of twisted chain-smoking bear is this?! Tis mystifying like flying a plane through misty weather. Hurricane Doris, not a day to scurry along cranes with a Go Pro. NO NO! Not even Boris Johnson would be that crazy! You should pay notice to the harsh weather warnings, stay at home where its warm, watch porn, make your own recordings if you feel that bored. Just don't eat 85% cocoa Green and Black's. I'd rather eat 90% Madagascan semen. Get scars from Nascar because I was driving my car too fast and listening to Nas. Drinking in the Kasbah, like a black sheep, feel drunk, I lack sleep and have stars whizzing around my head. "Shouldn't have got out of bed," they said. But who are they to judge, those made up voices in my head that I employ and pay to tell me that I wish I was dead. But I'm not finished yet, not through when I have so many fiendish plots and squeamish blogs to do, I have to seize this opportunity. We shall not surcease, certainly not, for we are Hercules. Hiscules... theircules. Ourcules. Invincible until I succumb to heart disease. Or suck out cum from a Madagascan park lot guard's hard throbbing boner. I Joke I Joke, I Keed I Keed! I keyed the wrong line Mrs Marian Keyes! She would appreciate my sense of human, for she was clinically depressed herself. For me the clinics are calling but I remain cynical that clinicians can restore me to full health. I use depression at my own discretion to create progression. Writing is therapeutic, it lessens the burden, while teaching me a lesson and helping me to understand myself more as a person. It works under the circumstances and helps me to understand this constant hurting and nagging pain, an aspirin of avant-garde, tannin brain. Agony examined, scrutinised, imagined. Mind of a maniac unravelling, channeling pain, shun the tablets, run to Taplow without an atlas. Take a Go Pro. YES YES! Sounds a good way to deal with stress when the pressure mounts up. Nothing more pleasurable than fresh air to reduce distress. A shibboleth searching for those alike as I hike alone walking miles at times in silence. Whilom. Headphones in ears, distracted, fearless, reflective conscientious objectives, pondering in my despondency, constantly a subconscious, contemplating. Concentration. Hate conciliated, as I watch a world around me and wait for reconciliation. A therapeutic hard-on in le jardin of Versailles. Happy man in the Trenches of Marianne. Extend a hand of friendship, don't need to attend Oxford or Cambridge to become educated. For it is the same bridge we all cross from life to death. No need for these gated communities that only serve to divide and not unify the herds of all humans alike seeking out equal opportunities. We need a shift, to balance out, and EQ, we don't need to be too greedy or self-absorbed. That's how the self gets warped enough to be led out to warzones, where people are forced out of their own homes. Displaced by military men, disgraceful, silly, unforgivable. All under the pull of invisible forces, hidden away, underground in invincible fortresses. Watered down policies from political sources reinforced by the media to be lapped up by media whores who don't see the forgery, illusions and sorcery, we need to take heed of these cautionary tales and start thinking more forwardly.
THE HUMAN DRONES
Beep! Drone #75, please report for bedtime inspection immediately! Beep!
Michael leapt up from the distraction of his writing assignment and exited the main living quarters before hurrying to the apartment's bedroom. On the floor of the master bedroom was a small black square that was distinctly marked from the rest of the bright white marble floor. Directly in front of this black square with a distance of 100 inches, was a huge SmartScreen that took up a large portion of wall space. The SmartScreen was built seamlessly into the wall and could not be tampered with or damaged even by excessive force. Not that he had tried to.
Michael jumped into the black square and stood attentively in front of the large SmartScreen. Making sure to maintain the correct discipline posture as ordered. This was always the standard procedure at night time before being given permission to go to bed. Suddenly, the Supervisor began to reprimand him as though he was little more than a delinquent teenage boy.
"I have made some slight adjustments to your curfew, Michael. It is evident to me that you are deviating a little bit from our prearranged schedule. So I am going to issue you with a straightforward sanction. This will be a midday curfew applied for the forthcoming weekend, which means you are only free to leave your apartment between the hours of 8.00am and 4.00pm. If you do happen to leave your premises during this time period, you will be expected to return home no later than 4.00pm. Not one minute past four, not one second past 4.00pm. If you are even one second late, no matter what excuse you give, the system will log this and it will be automatically reported as a time violation. And we know what violations lead to don't we, Michael?"
"That's right. Recidivism in any form will not be tolerated whatsoever by the Supreme State. Therefore, I am raising your voice verification alerts to 4 per day for the whole of next week. We have to make sure that you are residing at home don't we, Michael? Until you demonstrate to me that you can follow the rules outlined in your Probation Contract and abide by the strict restrictions of your curfew, we will have to keep a tight leash on your movements. Another violation like this one, and your daily life will be placed a little more under our spotlight."
"I won’t violate my curfew again, I promise, Tempest!"
"You don't have to protest to me, Michael. I don't have to do anything, it's the system that will log any non-compliant behaviour. If you are continuously late home, it says to me that you don't understand the concept of time or the boundaries of your curfew. Because you have lapsed, I will be forwarding your name to one of our Time Management Training Courses, which you will attend for three days. Your travelling restrictions and curfew times will remain in place. When you are not attending the TMT course, I expect you to be residing at home, unless I have authorised specific permission that allows you to leave. When you are not at home, you will be at work or attending other mandated appointments. As you probably know, Michael, every single second of time is monitored and logged via GPS satellites. When you have finished this three-day course, you will not stop anywhere, you will not talk to anyone on the way home, you will simply return to your residence. I have granted you an extra hour for travelling purposes, so you have absolutely no excuses for not meeting the conditions of your curfew or getting to where you need to be. Do you understand and accept the terms of these conditions, Michael?"
"Good. I am pleased that we are making progress at last and that you are demonstrating good manners. I suggest that you continue to keep it that way if you wish to remain in my good book. Don't think because it is your first week here that I am going to give you an easy ride. Quite the opposite in fact. You have to learn how to not be disobedient. Or deviate from my authority. If you test my patience, expect that you will be punished."
"Yes, Tempest." Michael's gut churned under the starkness of the voice. He had no option but to be compliant.
"I recommend that you don't go to bed too late. You are due to be at work in the morning and I will be making sure that you receive a wake-up phone alert. It takes no more than 3 minutes for me to be notified if you miss an alert. So make sure you give yourself plenty of time to wake up and be ready to take the call."
"I know you start work at 9.00am, so I want you to be wide awake at 7.30am and out of bed standing with your hands behind your head before the clock hits 7.34am. After a brief schedule with me, you'll shower and have morning breakfast, but most importantly you will have ample planning to arrive at work on time."
"Various Warehouse Managers and Supervisors have informed us that some of their employees haven't been turning up on time, and when they have, they have been making mistakes and not concentrating enough because of a lack of sleep. They are not pleased at all with the conduct and etiquette of some workers and have asked us to ensure that it doesn't happen again. During the hours of 9.00am until 5.00pm you are contracted to your Employer and obligated to perform at full capacity. Anything less than that is a violation and I will see to it that punishment is issued."
"I see. I didn't know I was slacking, Tempest."
"No idle chit-chat while you are at work. You are not there to talk. You get two 15-minute breaks and a 30-minute dinner break. If you want to chat with your co-workers, that is the time to do so. Otherwise, you keep your head down and get on with your job. There are no excuses or exceptions. We have a zero tolerance policy on this. Just because you are not getting paid for your labour does not mean that you are allowed to perform at a lower capacity. Your work is paying for your RFID chip, as well as all of the costs needed to keep you on this programme for the entire duration of your incarceration. I'm sure it is a much preferable option to prison?"
"Yes Tempest, it is! I will work twice as hard at work from now on!"
"When you clock out, you will ensure that you validate your leave from the company premises using your fingerprint. You have not been fulfilling these requirements. After work, you come straight home. You don't stop at a SmartStore or try to locate your girlfriend's apartment, not even for a couple of minutes."
"You keep to the exact route that is in your SmartScheduler device. There are absolutely no excuses for not being at home by 6.00pm if you finish work at 5 o clock. I strongly advise that you keep on top of your SmartScheduler's timetable as I will be making alterations and amendments which will be sent remotely to your electronic device. You will probably find that I have prepared your entire day before you have even woken up. It is very important that your obedience is simplified, so that there is no confusion about where you need to be."
"There is just one more thing... Take your hands away from your crotch area please. Don't think I cannot see you. It will do no good trying to resist hiding your shame from me. I can see your whole body whenever I want to. I advise that you desist from this habit, unless you want to share a similar fate to Riley..."
"Working in the nude. Every single camera in the building fixated on her naked body all day long."
Michael looked up at the corner of the bedroom ceiling. The cameras were firmly affixed on him at all times. Even when he moved or changed direction, the cameras would stalk and monitor him with even more pervasive relish.
The power that his Supervisor had over him was horrifying to say the least. Even masturbation was no longer a choice on the table. Not while there were cameras in every single room of his apartment monitoring his every move. Special sensors built into his GPS chip also indicated any instance in which his hand would come into physical contact with his genitalia. This act would invite a notification alert that would be automatically raised and sent directly to the Supervisor's inbox list. Of course, masturbation or any self-touching outside of shower time incurred swift and decisive punishment.
"You know the protocol by now, Michael. Strip down for me."
Michael started to shudder. The twitch had already started to initiate an erection. The Supervisor could see the man's penis starting to bulge through his underwear. That is what Michael had tried to hide earlier, his growing erection.
"Hurry up. Pants and underwear off. Legs apart."
Knowing that he was at the complete and utter mercy of his Supervisor. He slowly began to roll down his trousers and slide them off. His grey boxer shorts soon followed as he stepped out of them. Leaving his private parts fully exposed in front of the giant telescreen.
"Good. Now widen your thighs and spread your legs. Arms by your sides." The light was always switched on during the inspection duty so that the camera could see everything there was to be seen. This particular room's lights were operated remotely by the Supervisor and could be cycled through a variety of different settings for night and day.
"You do know it is a felon act to masturbate don't you, Michael?" The 22-year-old probationer was not permitted to give a verbal response, so he chose instead to concentrate on keeping his arms pressed tightly against his sides. His athletic body on full show for an invisible pair of eyes. He felt like a tiny insect being studied underneath the scrutinising lens of a scientist's microscope. Every part of his physical self, felt invaded as though there were a thousand eyes all in the room.
"How does it feel knowing that you cannot initiate a single instance... of undesirable behaviour... outside of my knowing? And that 'undesirable' is anything I deem it to be? However trivial." Michael's chest began to slowly heave in and out as he felt the Supervisor's taunts wash over his whole nude form. Like a body scanner working its way up from the toes and feet, over the man's freshly shaved legs and shin bones, moving patiently towards his pale-white coloured patellae.
Those invisible eyes would study and ogle for quite some time, fully aware that the living breathing organism standing in front of their ever present gaze was nothing more than an object. A slab of clay to mould and dictate at the controller's own personal whim and leisure. The wandering eyes carefully began to analyse the man's ankles, and in particular the calcaneus tendons. Actively re-imagining the inner workings that enabled dorsiflexion and plantar flexion.
Flexion was the bending movement that made it possible for the limbs such as arms, legs, feet and elbows to become flexible. It was the Supervisor's primary intention to possess full mastery over Michael's flexion activity. All part of a goal to regulate the docile body, until every joint and muscle culminated at a level of perfectly harmonious conformity.
Refusal to sing to the Supervisor's tune would lead to the infliction of mental discipline. The human body naturally seeking pleasure would experience a reduction in happiness when punishment was inflicted. In order for that pleasure level to rise again, the subject's body would have to conform to regulatory discipline for undetermined periods of time. If these behavioural standards were not sufficiently met, the docile body would be pushed into further states of intolerable psychological discipline. This implied that total mastery of the human mind led to the total cooperation of a docile body.
In order to achieve this result, the body had to be subjected to ceaseless and coercive control in which time and space were always under regulatory supervision. A constant round-the-clock timetable inundated with requisite tasks.
More importantly, it had to be drummed into the subject that these tasks were compulsory obligations that could not be refused. Mostly governed and reinforced through the use of ubiquitous surveillance until the docile body had fully accepted that it was consciously and subconsciously imprisoned and controlled at all times. Leading to the creation of a submissive creature strictly bound to timetables, regimens and compliant habits in accordance with the laws of the State.
At a later stage of their induction, other personal privileges and civil liberties would be taken away, such as whom the subject was allowed to associate with and how often they were allowed to indulge in sexual habits. If at all.
It was very important that the subjects had absolutely no control or licence over their own choices and bodies.
The Supervisor was far from finished with the intimate and voyeuristic inspection of the subject. Lecherous eyes eased pleasantly into visual proximity of the man's muscular thighs and penis. Made all the more satisfying by the fact that the subject had tried so hard without success to hide his modesty. And now he was open to the cameras. No longer a private being, only a passive creature to be placed on public display. An unknown amount of eyes able to experience his exposed flesh. The camera was always successful in drawing out the paranoia and insecurities of a human being.
"If you move your hands anywhere even near your penis, it will be recorded." Michael began to experience a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. A mixture of fear, yet odd excitement at being so helpless to this disempowerment.
"Do you know what the punishment is for unauthorised masturbation, Michael?" Again, Michael kept his eyes closed and did not have any intention of answering the Supervisor's rhetorical question, for he dared not to challenge the unpredictable nature of his controller. His erect penis on the other hand was waiting to hear the demoralising verdict.
"In response to non-compliant behaviour, the SO (Supervising Officer) may implement a sanction, and the length of probation issued to the offender may be extended for up to a total of 90 calendar days."
Michael let out a stretched moan of ecstasy, his cock had stiffened considerably into a rock solid erection.
"Do you want to try and masturbate, Michael? See what happens?"
Unable to resist the invitation he freed his right hand from his side and slowly began to tease the shaft of his penis using nothing more than the front of his fingertips. It only took 3 seconds before an alarm beeped. That was it.
Automatically, an alert was generated and transmitted directly to the Supervisor's computer system. The alert was a report which outlined a detailed list of intimate information. How many times the penis had been touched, how long before contact had been broken, the exact time and date of occurrence, as well as other bodily measurements. Every instance of self-touching had been recorded and disclosed directly for the Supervisor's personal inspection in just 3 mere seconds.
"Do you see how the consequences are instantaneous, Michael? Now, if I were to receive an alert such as this one in a future instance of disobedience, I have a range of effective sanctions available to me. I tend to look at masturbation as one of the more serious acts of recidivism. Perhaps worthy of a 90 day probation extension. It is very important that sexual insubordination incurs a stringent form of retribution."
Michael began to feel his stomach churning with fear and helplessness. He couldn't believe that one measly little orgasm could result in spending an extra 90 days on the programme. It did not seem fair to have his balls so controlled.
"Admittedly, Michael, I cannot prevent you from masturbation. But if you do so, it will not escape my knowledge. It matters not where you are located, or how private the room. The implanted GPS tracker will monitor every touch. 24/7. It will even monitor when you are urinating or defecating. Whatever the situation, I will be left as the French say... au courant. Fully aware. As I made very clear to you earlier, I view masturbation as a very serious crime, and if you do breach this law, I will double your probation period for each 'individual' relapse. Masturbate twice and I will make it one-hundred and eighty days. For a third offence, you will spend an extra 365 days collared at the end of my technocratic tether. Supplementary minor punishments will also accompany these sanctions. Curfews, Time Management Courses. CBT Courses, food restrictions. There are many ways in which I can graduate your sanctions to ensure that you steer yourself firmly and positively in the opposite direction. Exercise, sleep deprivation. How about a couple of months on a strict bland food diet?"
"You can't do that!"
"Michael. You are more than aware that I can do whatever my heart so desires. I'm the one in charge. If you don't want to face 15 years in jail, or be chemically castrated, you'll do as you're told. All I have to do to make this a reality for you is terminate your participation in the programme. If that is what you want, I will sign the order right now. But you will incur the consequences and they won’t be very pleasant I'm afraid."
Michael just stared into the camera directly above him, he almost had tears in his eyes. Chemically castrated? That wasn't in the client agreement form, and if it was, he hadn't noticed it. In fact he hadn't even read the small print.
"You see? I'm the one in charge here. You have to learn that you are residing in Ubiquity now and while you are here, you will abide by the rules of the State. So stop arguing back and pleading your case, just put those hands of yours back down by your sides where I can see them. Remember, Michael. If you touch yourself. I punish. Your erections are mine. Your whole body is mine. You are my tool, my Drone. You got that, boy?"
"...... Yes............ Tempest." Michael seemed hesitant, but responded as he was expected to, with full obedience.
"Good. Now go to sleep. You'll be sent a wake-up alert first thing in the morning. You're up at 7.30am every single day of this week unless I say otherwise. It is recommended that you remain sharp minded and listen carefully for the alert, or I'll have you getting up much earlier. Riley is very familiar with my regimen by now."
"Yes, Tempest." The mere mention of his girlfriend Riley was like a dagger of lost hope inflicted into his heart.
Suddenly the communication line went dead, no goodbye or anything, and Michael was left alone in an eerie silence. A fixed HD camera in the upper corner of the room focused squarely on him. And more than likely a human eye peering through the lens, scrutinising his naked body and zooming in with the camera as he stood to attention. His cock started to tumefy even more, yet his hands remained rooted to his sides, palms faced inward, daring not to disobey incase the Supervisor was still watching. He remained motionlessly still, eyes fully fixated on the polished floor in front of him.
In Ubiquity, it didn't matter where you were, the cameras were always switched on. Maybe he would get away with moving his hands around freely. But touching his cock, he certainly wouldn't, as had earlier been demonstrated to him.
With nothing else left to do in order to pass the time, he had no choice but to climb into bed and go to sleep. An intense feeling of frustration and powerlessness swept through him, his erection still bulging. But even as he lay down on top of the bed sheet and closed his eyes, the thought of needing sexual relief would not leave him. After all, he was like any other red-blooded male, accustomed to regular sex and masturbation. Now he was nothing more than a Drone, a deprived and dehumanised one at that. His only daily occupation and functionality being that of the State's inclination.
As he lay there, he continued to play out little scenarios in his mind. Wondering if the cameras really would notice if he rolled onto his side and secretly frotteured against the soft silky fabric. Looking down at his penis, he watched despondently as the organ began to grow thicker and more engorged, desperately seeking any kind of attention it could get in order to reach climax. A full week had passed in this state of being, and still no sexual relief had been granted to him by his Supervisor or the State. The cameras were always there in the room, poking their eyes into his personal affairs like permanent Paparazzi. Waiting for him to slip up and scratch that itch. An itch that he wanted to satiate so badly, and yet there was nothing physically stopping him from giving in to the surrender of sexual bliss except the ever looming threat of 90 additional days of Probation time. He couldn't bear to think about the lingering punishment and misery that would surely ensue across those two-thousand-one-hundred-and-sixty long hours, and they certainly weren't worth the ultimate sacrifice of giving in to one little orgasm.
Or so he kept telling himself. 'Tomorrow is a new day, maybe things will change.'
Delusion was the habit that people turned to when fear and helplessness began to seep in.
Eventually, he managed to drift off into a deep sleep. The GPS microchip implanted in his body however, would remain as awake and as alert as ever. Ready to record and report infractions if and when necessary.
Poetry in motion, Andrew... and you... and you... and you too! I knew this would happen when Cat Deeley was let out of the bag of Pork Scratchings, kitty claws, feel the Buzz, every single lightyear, Kill Da Buzz driver and leave the rest of his passengers as survivors... No harm has to come to pass, no farmer has to be harassed on his own land, for he is only protecting his livestock, it wouldn't be right to pick a fight on this shiddy night, while listening to P.I.M.P. by Fiddy. Now we're fittin' and spazzin' like hearing gurgles under the Dupont Circle. L.A. clé. Do What Thou Say before the day I pass this mass grave. Turn a blind eye and a deaf ear just to climb high to the nebular. Neck chickens like bottles of Cobra, getting drunk and wondering who that Jamaican was in the photograph? That's ya momma's Uncle George, man! He passed from lung cancer. And still asked for a ciggie on his death bed. What a warrior! much better than being a worrier... from Durham, Kent or Surrey. I live in the slums, the slurry, where men have to strum guitars on the town streets for money, and sit outside for weeks begging, yet some of 'em remain bubbly and upbeat. Its funny how some people can cope in the harshest conditions, not reliant on the food banks and the harvest season. If they have nothing on their chests we'll give 'em our vests. Mr. Jimminy Jillickers affiliated with traffickers... Damascus, Spartacus, everyone that's smarter than us, spend our day at Apu's Mart on a booze run while under cruise control like some Leah Remini type shit... Gemini seven eyes all focused on a golden Lotus ready to receive blowjobs, slowly, how low could you stoop to spray Joop aftershave into a midget's face. We regret sayin' that! Let's erase it, its degrading aiming for contradiscriminatory, saying shit without justification... But we must! Take risks like Ang i.e. Wanted who wasn't desired or lusted after, just something for folk to bust nuts to. And eat cashews and bombay mix with sick sadistic fucks fixated on some hate shit, thick haze face in a vape mist. Drink Keo at the Sir Charles Napier, and meet a CEO with BO. Hee haw! Sat in the dark reading a map, we don't need this crap, not when the whole system is about to collapse. Chaps, my mind is about to lapse again, like a Catholic licking Catherine in a confession box, before sucking an Irish priest's cock... Fucking leap year the only thing keeping me sane are these fucking cheap beers!! And the bearded twat spraying Ray Reardon with tear gas... FEAR FEAR FEAR!! You can smell fear, but all I smell is laughter and Luftwaffe birds that love wafting farts in your face. BAST HARDS! Post haste I must get wasted and still have enough speed to taste the delicate parts of fresh flesh. Flesh must get slashed by sadists with canes and whips and James Alefantis must suffer jip in his hip just before he finds Atlantis. Just before he drops bones in the Atlantic Ocean. You up to yo' crazy antics! Bucket list, most of it is probably a fuck it list. Spirit cooking with Village People, snippets of evil, snipping off nipples.... STOP!!!! TOOOOO MORBID!! NEED SOME ATMOS!!! I see a Mike Patton emerging, with this tight vagina, and the oral sex addict suffering an angina attack again!! Life is an illusion, even Lucifer isn't the truth, just some made up loser. A violent pyromaniac. God on the other hand, too hypocritical. What's the matter God, the truth hurt? "He can't hear ya, god his earphones in." Goddamnit this doesn't bode well, no wonder he doesn't hear my prayers. But then again I don't pray so maybe I'm the one to blame there. Pin the blame on me like a tail on a donkey, drunk on Keo... My name is Don Keo, I've just had keyhole surgery in Robert de Janeiro. Sounds sinister. That's because.... it is!!! Almost as sinister as going to the cinema and being the only one there watching the film. Annoying yourself by rustling your own popcorn and coughing every 5 minutes. Shouting "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Before remembering that you are alone and have gone stir crazy. Stirring a pot of that Stir Crazy Stew, maybe one of the ingredients is pot. A bit of Pol Pot and some Genghis Khan. Hmm... missing something, a bit of misogyny, lets add some Henry the Eighth and some fucking hysteria and tyranny. Henry, person of the year! Snuff Box, kill Da Buzz while on Snus as they are hiding on the back of a tour bus. He came and tore into us with his horns like a Taurus and we were hospitalised for 4 months. But what about me?!?! I've got a sore wrist from jerking so hard to Annika Thornquist!! And wankers cramp from Shirley Clamp. I have no energy left to add flangers to my quirky song. Diverse in my perversity, who ever would have thought I once made it into university? Universal controversy, too unconcerned to curtsy or cater to do-gooders that are too good to be true buddies. Image is nine tenths of the law. Heck, just look at Brand Beckham. I'd rather be a bearded twat, alcoholic, eerie, fat bastard addicted to anabolic steroids. Can't be any worse than our counselors being cannibals. What kind of malpractice is that!? And they have the nerve to issue a travelling ban to whoever they feel don't deserve it? Where is the rationale? What next, rationing? The ratcheting up of tension? Not to mention the amount of corpses in our local canals. I can now see a pattern emerging, with the walls closing in, imposing laws from where we go to the clothes we wear. Governments bringing bulldozers in while we're all dozing to make us duller and tolerate bullshit while digging patio holes to throw us in. We are the Nine Tenths bullied by the One Tenth. We are the many birds frighened by the scarecrow. What to do, where to go? The depths that we plummet, so I have to summarise the corruption using drunken propulsions right through until summer. Towards revolt, the only way to solve these problems is to salt these slugs that act like thugs, treating us like we're stupid fuckers. And I've had enough. So better to sit back and kick it, drink some Hop House, write and pop off at the mouth.
Clarion, carry on in this state of carrion. Marry Carrie in a ceremonial affair, then commit Harakiri together by jumping in a river of pig's blood. Investigative journalism like the P.I. Guy who spent so long in his office smelling of bad body odour. Isochronic mind on the right type of sonic level. Hypertension, or tension hyped? Mind in Rohypno mode, body and hips gone. Paralysed paratrooper with droopy eyes lying dying next to a dead scuba diver. No survivors left, except the dude who made those new UK fivers. The bastard has to be plaster casted into a chastity device for five years. Fight back tears like an alcoholic who gets sidetracked and buys beers with the last of his snack money. So drunk that he jacks Daniel off and licks the vagina of his white cocker spaniel, then takes his dog to a cock fight. So far we've not got a lot right, everything is o'fensive, nothing has been 'sit on the fence,' even took a shit on the NO BULL sign, and the readers wont be recompensed for this wreckless cleansing... A headless horseman, the bedlam is an endless force pouring out of an entrance opening. Entranced, as I refocus, ready to roast these fuckers, heat them with my bifocals before the sun goes down. Sun God Ra, having sick fun at our expense. Making us sweat on a hot day. Like walking to Wigan with a wig on. Holding an EpiPen to prevent these effin' wasps from costing us our lives. Sorry to mince my words. Crash a Ford Cortina car because you were so depressed, stuck in this quicksand awaiting a slow death... hours later you're under, no breath. No progress is being made, the world still stuck in the same timewarp. Still warped, Putin putting his own people in danger, Trump a stranger to his own people too. Its time to kiss and make up, instead of these wars for profit. Just think how good the world could be if all the largest nations were on friendly terms. Nobody in danger, an opportunity or ambition within the grasp of any human being. It would be fantastic. Surely Trump would enjoy his night's sleep a lot more if he was liked, instead of being public enemy number one. Sometimes I wonder if being cut off from society creates resentment and delusions of grandeur. How come our world leaders have no willpower when it comes to money and power? Why are they so enslaved by their desire to screw the world over. Why can't they just let go and join the rest of us and set about creating the ultimate pleasurable world which can be enjoyed by all. Where common sense can prevail. This talk about building a wall. The Earth doesn't belong to one person. The allocated land available belongs to everybody. We are all entitled to live upon it, anywhere. I'm sure that I would feel less depressed if our leaders led by example and showed more common sense than us 'supposedly' uneducated folk. Its not a healthy mentality to just start wars. When you start causing random wars with weak justification, or legislate laws that go against civil liberties, then the people will no doubt begin to get suspicious. I'm at the point where I am ready to stand up and fight for what is right, whatever the fallout, whatever the outcome, simply because I have no intention of living in the alternative. No intention of living in a militrised world, no intention of living in a dictatorship, or division. The prospect of living under an ideology of division is impossible now when I have experienced multiculturism. Humanity has upgraded. Sometimes I wonder why nature made the world like it is by default. It just doesn't make any sense. Having to fight fight fight for thousands of years just to attain contentment, when we could have it overnight if we all came together and made it happen. I am convinced we are living in a time where depression is a silent pandemic. And it is down to the fact that we are killing our own spirits. We are not enjoying the things we used to enjoy anymore. And I thought to myself, is it because some of us are older? The technological leaps? And then it registered. In the modern era we are constantly bombarbed by news channels. You can walk into a bar or a McDonalds and you'll get a TV screen, and 9 times out of 10, that TV screen will be broadcasting the news. Not entertainment. Not sexy German porn films like we used to get in the early 2000s. Just news. Just politics and bombings and Isis. And that's it. Constantly around the clock, just wave after wave of the same shit, so that we all have to stop and think about it. And its draining. Bombings and political corruption is very draining. The goal should be to create a world where people want to wake up in the morning and look forward to the day ahead of them. What better example could we set than the largest countries on Earth, united, instead of the constant daily bickering. The world leaders can appreciate the sun, stars and moon, so why not life itself? You can have all the money in the world, but if you show no respect for your fellow man, then your wealth is lost on you. An education and an upbringing, yet still with a mind that's on the level of a human from millions of years ago, with bitterness, jealousy and greed. Propaganda is just so draining, dreary and old-fashioned. Trying to use ancient methods of control on an enlightened, forward-thinking, adaptable and tolerant populace will no longer suffice. No way Jose. Get back to the Lexicon! "No way Jose, we're no longer controlled by Lexi." Time to flex muscle, reflect as we work on The Loner 2017. So many years underutilised, taking a neutral stance, instead of standing up, taking handouts, faking sickness but not making progress. Except another road trip, on foot, to Preston, then Blackpool, feeling as though I'm the only one alive like Charlton fucking Heston. Grade A Depreston, sometimes the pain and misery is great, as I depict it in paint and create history and change. Soldier born in a Doldrum Dorm. Putting words together long before the days of Anthony Zerbe. Aceing herbs, never gonna kerb or mince my oaths, no matter how controversial. I loath to serve those who make laws and think they are above serfdom. Personally I think I'm a person like all others that are born from their Mothers. Which makes no other human being on this planet above us. Its why I never live in awe of anyone mortal, especially from a formal setting. I'm sorry, Mr Big, if you find that upsetting, but I don't find it normal to idolise people like stars, yet I keep kindness in my heart despite the violence and childishness it might start. I apologise for any apple carts that are upset. Should I be setting an example? Hold a vigil, light a candle... Its like holding a pistol when I fly off the handle. Things just spiral, if I was famous shit would go viral and cause a giant tidal wave. They'd be already holding me on trial for libel, calling me vile, saying I'm spiteful, in denial, suicidal, a crazy and bone idle virus to society. But guess what? I'm here and I ain't going anywhere. There is so much left to do, so I'd best do it soon. Pull my finger out and think about how I'm going to linger longer than a sphincter stench. Its back to the lab to write on this slab of tablet, with no rheostat. Just balderdash. Mouldy mush, gnocchi, Nie a cocky little fuck to mock like he does. "But he rocks!" He sure does. Like Parkinsons. Not starting beef, I'm carving it and eating it in front of starving kids. Relax I'm just discharging dogshit while imparting knowledge. Summarise and raise awareness through swearing, hate and being careless. And another thing... from this point forth, there shall be no more political rhetoric, no more use of the T word. No more mentioning of the pensioner. Period. So now we can get things back to normal, in an 'informal' setting. No more aiding and abetting, only bloodletting with 26 letters. Sweating like I'm wearing 26 sweaters. They say revenge is sweeter than Viennetta, unless you get it from Netto, in which case it may be off... Its those freezers to blame, turn up the bloody freezers! Store freezers at half-capacity messed up my Ben and Jerrys. I wanted chewy cookie dough not crunchy dough. Doh indeed! At least I can actually afford some ice cream, I should count my blessings. 1... 2... there, that's all my blessings counted. I should call them lessings, but sometimes less is more, like when forced touching is moreorless molestation. A Station entirely dedicated to moles and beavers, or a woman with both, she's a soul diva who'd let me eat pizza off both of her soles. Feeding while she's reading Infinite Jest as I'm ingesting. To keep things interesting we must push forth into the Second Half with more purpose and force.
Seize the night, seize the day... more like seized up muscles and bones, aching joints. Endless days of disappointments, lonely tedium looking for release through seedy mediums... Been peeved since the days of Jeeves, asking him for all my searching needs. I don't need this shit, this is like needles in the arms, needless, like jabbing them in your groin because you've run out of veins in your arms. I'm not even on drugs, but something just bugs me, eats away, as my life just ebbs and trickles, and I keep on posting this endless drivel, mindless empty squiggles, its time I grew mature and lined my own pockets with Bitcoin, instead of just sitting on my fat behind, where I have to find my cause, my happy medium, none of these seedy premium porn subscriptions. I need to be a better me. Before stress gets the better of me, and I spew sick in the faces of a hundred thousand fickle motherfuckers. Truck drivers, Holocaust survivors, Hologram musicians whose record labels profit from their name, image and music. Who the hell wants to go and see a hologram in concert? "Lots of people, man. People will pay through the nose for that shit. To see their idol projected, no longer buried in a hidey hole in Idaho, no longer living it large in Cuba with The Cooper Temple Clause and a group of cute Templars." Female Templars that is... ladylike occultists, but bringing home skulls when they come to meet your folks. Got to have some intimidation factor and not just the Max Factor. Max Fecto, manifests itself in your fanny and infects a whole community who get sick because they weren't made immune and refused to take their innoculations at school... C'est moi. I refused all that shit. I didn't believe in being stuck with a needle pumped full of something that I hadn't personally pre-validated for its legitimacy. "Here, let me inject this needle into your arm. You don't know where its been, you don't know what's inside it, but you can trust me anyway." The beauty of having no Tuberculosis vaccination is no permanent gaudy arm scar! So kiss my motherfuckin' uninfected pee hole. Its not the be all and end all. We must choose life like Rent Boy, choose to spout slogans no matter how sad we are, pouting like a small orphan child. We must embrace being uncouth and wild, untamed, untapped potential, unashamed and not afraid to raise the tension, until the day I claim my pension. I think I'll be long gone before then. Don't want to live to old age, in a world that's already cold through my young age. These are some strange times, thinking of ways to waste time in a Brave New... Crime ridden maritime type world, no time to marry, no time to bring children into this crappy world, crying and nappies. Whatever happened to the long summers? The great music? The sense of adventure? The carefree attitudes? Now its all money laundering and corporates tying up deals. A world where a backwards slob of a man can become a president. A 70-year-old with outdated values. Surely a goading technique, to put in a loose cannon.
They say I'm nasty, but on occasion I've been known to take the time to listen to Mama Cass, or anything else I can be arsed with, like eating Askeys ice cream and spilling it all over my nice clean sweater, but I was already sweating, already wet in that top, that sweater had already paid its debt to society. You owe me for the goddamn shake! ... and the cake! "Ah, but I want compensation for the headache this food gave me." I want to camp outside the Adelphi Hotel and take a selfie because I'm already fucked and nobody can help me or tell me what to do. Not even Donald Trump would buy me a rump steak with all his billions, that's why I've got the hump with him and his minions. People can come to all sorts of premature conclusions and opinions. But the president is depressing, and I've lived through the Bush era. Eight years of vajayjay vajazzle. Back in the days of Razzle magazine. Back when presidents couldn't open locked doors or admit to fucking a hot intern. Now we have a man whose eyes don't even open when he signs Executive Orders. Its like something out of Black Mirror. It'll be like something out of White Mirror if Trump has his way. This man must be stopped, physically, he must be impeded and a wall built in front of the White House door so that he has to jump out of the window, fall and go to hospital. The twist is that the doctor who performs a life-saving operation on him is a refugee who came to America years earlier and trained to become a surgeon. And now Trump needs him, or her, could be a woman, could be a beautiful woman, not in a sexist way, I mean beautiful outside and in. Keanu Reeves is stood at the side of Trump's bed saying, "There's a refugee ready to perform a life-saving operation on you, Mr. Trump, but you don't want people to come to this country. What do you do? What do you do?" And DJ Trump, outside of spinning vinyl records at popular nightclubs, answers, "I don't know, Mr Reeves." And then a phone rings and its Dennis Hopper, he's rigged the whole motherfucking hospital up from top to bottom with bombs. Holy shit. C4 in every fuckin' pore of the building, enough to kill off you and your children! What do you do hotshot? "Drink copious amounts of alcohol?" Well it is a solution. If we're gonna perish, may as well be intoxicated, die filled with toxic hatred. "I am 70 years old anyway, wouldn't have much time left on this Earth. May as well fuck everyone else's opportunities and dreams up coz that's how I roll!" -- "So you're telling me, Mr Trump. That the reason you imposed this whole travel ban. That your motivation for doing it was quite simply, for... teh lulz?!" -- "That's right, Mr Reeves. And now I have my finger on the button. My tiny little frigging claw." Fuck naw! This can't be happening!! "But it is happening, get used to it bwoiiii, shit gon' go down for real!" But you can't launch nukes, its unconstitutional, its bloody naughty you little toe rag!" With every nuke launched he will say, "you're fired." And the last nuke that survives will become his Apprentice. The newly hired employee will of course be referred to as the Nuke Kid on the Block. He'll have to make cups of tea, or her, could be a woman, women make good cups of tea... as do men... and LGBT people... and gender fluids... and intersexes... and butches... and asexuals... and pansexuals. Anyone can make a good cup of tea or coffee, a kid could do it. But don't make a kid do it, that's exploitative, like working for UNICEF just to improve your bank balance. Oh No He Dinn!! Oh Ye He Dee! People know he's joking, this Nietzlawe kid, there are no lows too low to sink, or holes too sore to blow his ink. Just a series of NO NO NO'S!!! I'll speak my mind, even when my mind finds things I shouldn't speak. No time to be weak-minded at this time when we're all riding up shit creek.
What we write is untraditional but advertised with unconditional love. So sit back as we wrap this tight like masking tape, around Putin's face and ask if he likes domestic violence and rape? Let's ask if Trump likes being undermined by a hundred thousand migrants just trying to make their way in life. Didn't realise we needed a licence to hop across islands. Israel, Italy, Ireland... Wherever you go people are just people, you've got to like them, we're all alike, so don't try people before you have even invited them. Especially when you landed air strikes on their place of birth and left kids in a face of dirt, and a fate they didn't deserve. The only way the human race can be preserved is if we each learn to live on Earth as a single herd. To co-mingle and bring our different cultures and creeds into a single cycle. Not divided. Not a time for evil. It is time for the enlightenment to shine its brightest and for people to realise that togetherness is right. Weather the tide, storms are rising, people are realising the wool has been pulled far too tight over their eyes for far too long and now its time to be strong, and show unity, bravery and remain resolute.