Moontalk

"Are you sure no-one is outside?" Jeremy poked his helmeted head off the side of the sofa, his eyes wide and a slight tremble in his voice.
"Not a soul is inside this apartment except the two of us. Now, are you sure you wouldn't be more comfortable if you took your helmet off?" Debbie, Ms. Cole to her clients, was excited to have her first patient. She'd always wanted to be a psychiatrist. When she was a little girl she would analyse her dolls, prescribing them ginger biscuits as some form of mental cure all. She'd never poked at the reason she wanted to wallow around inside peoples heads too much, it might have had something to do with her nervous breakdown and all of the therapy she'd had but she wasn't too sure. "It might be easier for us to talk without........"
"I told you, I can't take my helmet off. How will I breathe if I do?"
"You do know that you're not in space now?"
"That's easy for you to say."
"May I ask you, Jeremy, when you first became scared of removing your helmet?" Jeremy leaned back into the cushion, his head resting inside his space helmet five or six inches above. His eyes widened and rolled as obviously he relived the exact moment.
"Well I'm no therapist, I'm sure I would remember if I was, but my instinct tells me my fear might have something to do with when my fucking helmet came off my fucking head when i was in fucking space." His eyes opened and he looked at Ms. Cole. "What do you think?"
"I have to admit you might be right. Lack of oxygen and your innards feeling like they might explode in the black vacuum of space could well lead someone to fear removing their helmet."
"Excellent. I'm so pleased NASA spent so much money paying you to put my mind back together."
"I sense a hint of sarcasm in your tone Jeremy."
"A hint? Damn, I was aiming for a boatload."
"Alright. So we are agreed on two points. Firstly, you are a sarcastic git. Secondly, you have a fear of lack of oxygen. This fear could be rational or irrational, that is yet to be decided. What I am still unsure of is your reported sighting of a small girl with blond ringlets floating beside you whilst you suffocated."
"What's not to understand?"
"Well, Jeremy, do you think you might have imagined this small child? Could she not have been some figment of your imagination brought on by asphyxiation as a result of your helmet coming off whilst you were spacewalking?"
"Ms. Cole, you will forgive me when I tell you that as logical as your summation might be, it is entirely false."
"And why is it false?"
"Because that little blond monster is right behind you now." Ms. Cole smiled at such a childish fear and hallucination. Her training however told her she should pursue this line of thought to encourage her patient to open up and talk to her. she turned towards where Jeremy was looking. The last thing Debbie, Ms. Cole to her patients, saw was her encyclopedia of mental health problems (a weighty tome as any mental health practitioner will tell you) being brought down upon her head by a small girl with blond ringlets. Jeremy sighed into his helmet. "I suppose I 'll have to find another shrink then." The small girl with blond ringlets giggled as small girls with blond ringlets often do.

Annie Malinky

As Dawn Rose and Annie awoke simultaneously to the sound of the fire alarms beneath the tarpaulin they'd slung down as a quilt the night before, they each took a moment to cherish a glance at the naked bodies of the other two. They would all agree that each one of them was better looking than the other two, but would lose no sleep over the memories of the shameless debauchery they'd been a part of over the last few months together. Their flight from Hampton Court menagerie had not only liberated their bodies, but their minds and even their child-like libidos. Life on the road as animals was just what the vet had ordered as far as the girls were concerned.
Annie was the first dressed because she had no clothes, so she scurried down the cold steel corridor to the kitchen and proceeded to hack at the congealed octopus lying on the central workbench. They'd left the plates and utensils out after eating last night because an impromptu group kissing session had begun over the main course -raw halibut steak with un-peppered cod cheeks- so Annie simply heaped up a gelatinous lump of cold tentacle onto the remains of her last meal and wandered over to the seating area. As she plopped down onto the metal sofa, Dawn marched in whistling an old shanty.

"You're cheerful today!" said Annie brightly, before slurping an indistinct grey lump into her mouth.

"Oh fuck off you old slut!" chuckled Dawn. She went straight to the porthole and stared out at the grey waves. Yup. Another pointless day of group masturbation on this rusting old stolen boat. Not long though, she reminded herself. Her impatience was turning the obligatory sexual sessions with Annie and Rose a little sour and pointed, to say the least. She had spent more breath on apologies than passion during the last few sessions. The other two were beginning to get a little anxious underneath the wild sexual romping, she could tell. At least, she thought she was sure...

Finally Rose wandered in, totally oblivious to her environment. It was a wonder that she managed to even get into the room without some sort of mild bruising considering her starry-eyed ignorance. She was humming an indecipherable tune as she stopped in front of the central work surface with the congealing octopus resting on it.

"Umm, no." She said, apparently to a thought she was having. She looked down at her feet and smiled. "Ha ha! I was just thinking..." she trailed off and stood there staring at her feet, absently pushing a dangling lump of hair back over her ear. Dawn and Annie ignored her, as usual.
Dawn had stomped over to where Annie was sitting on the metal sofa and joined her, sitting disrespectfully close with her elbow resting on Annie's hip. She pulled a cigarette out from behind her ear- half smoked- and coughed into Annie's breakfast as she pulled in her first lungful of stale smoke.

"Switch the fucking alarm off Rose." Said Dawn, the fag having resurrected her standard gruff persona to it's fullest embodiment. Indeed, they had all become so accustomed to the fire alarm's regular shout for attention that it almost seemed pointless to switch it off. However, switch it off they did most of the time. Even Rose knew where the button was. She responded a few seconds later and did as she was told, mumbling something about a bikini as she climbed onto the swivel-chair and reached for the little red button...

Private (Third) Eye: Part Two

When I came to the next day I was not in my apartment. Where in the hell was I? I tried to open my eyes but some sticky substance was glueing them shut. I reached up, assuming it was blood - probably my own - but instead finding, and of course tasting, custard. Some sick freak had desserted me. Who? And When? Also why? And I guess, how? I didn't know and as I wiped away what was soon to become my breakfast I tried to compile a list of who it could've been. Much like the look in the eye of a fast food restaurant employee, my mind was blank.
Upon regaining my sight I looked around. It did little good as wherever I was seemed to be in total blackout. Really now, where in the hell was I? I was still working on the who question, let alone the others, and this location based dilemma was not helping matters at all. At times like this I would usually incite one of the low lives this job brings me in the same circles as to knock some sense into me before I put him down. Of course this plan sometimes, well often backfired as these loons tend to be on the large side.
I staggered to my feet. I was dizzy. Maybe it was the custard, maybe it was the concussion I'd received the previous week (but that's another story), I couldn't be sure. What I was sure of was that I didn't know where in the hell I was. Where in the hell was I? I took a deep breath and as I did I noticed a scent lingering in the air. That damned pot plant had taken me for a mug but did he have the gumption for something like this. I didn't know. I didn't know anything, least of all where in the hell I was. Seriously, where in the hell was I?
I did know one thing. It was a Tuesday.

Convoluted Half-Pun and the Front Bum Wizard

Dust twisted around mocassins. A pair of brown socks, losely cladding skinny sunburnt white legs, had collected a variety of substances from their recent long journey to the desert ridge. Constituting these substances was a hearty broth including blood, three flavours of semen, vomit (previously the contents of the wearer's digestive tract), mud, dog urine, car exhaust, seasons of saturated sweat and the accumulated micro-detritus of an unclean month spent trudging from the slums of South Central Kidderminster to this Arizona outcrop.
He is Convoluted Half-Pun, the Ambler. He is searching. He is restless.

The Message came to him like the harsh light of sunrise through the heavy lids of a drug-addict lying in some ghastly wrecked living room. It was a spring morning two years ago, and he had sat alone in a 24 hour fast-food 'restaurant' by the side of a motorway somewhere between London and a city to the north. The staff had changed several times, seemingly not bothered by CHP's ongoing presence there. He had had to make many trips to the lavatory to rinse out the caffeine-enhanced fizzy beverages that were keeping him alive, barely, through this self-imposed torture. Food included nuggets of white meat- ostensibly chicken at some point- along with shaped lengths of de-and-re-hydrated potato (apparently), little soft plastic containers of thick sickly-sweet condiments to add flavour to the super-salinated comestibles, and eventually a slightly dry, stickily coated swirl of flaky pastry pitched as a Danish. This last item served it's purpose roughly as a desert. CHP had been brought up in a fairly traditional British way, in which the savoury aspects of family meals (breaded pancakes squirt-filled with minced meat in a dark gravy, tinned vegetables of any kind, and always potatoes either mashed roughly with the skins still on or Good Old Fashioned Chipped into a Pan of Grease), were always jammed down beneath the oppressive, ulcerating moods of the parental disputes and discontent before the grateful clamouring little kids could slap their mucky paws on any kind of desert. Even the disappointing bowls of cold tinned fruit and custard that the Old Folks used to lay on for CHP and his sister looked appealing to his mind's eye compared to the dried-out pastry he'd washed down with cola in the service station that day. Desperation makes a monocle of hindsight.

The Message...

Private (Third) Eye

Spider plant, money spider, spider monkey. Coincidence? I didn't think so and the dead body at my feet agreed with me. It'd had been a long day and coming back to the office to find a corpse had made it longer. I fought the urge to dance in the light from the Police cars as I usually do. Sometimes I even succeed. Tonight was not one of those times.
"You done?" The wrinkled old Sargent pushed me in the chest.
"For now." I walked away trying my hardest to add a little pop to my usual gait. These desk jockeys had lost their powers of observation. Not me, I was as eagle eyed as I ever was. My pop turned into a limp. Walking into a policemen was becoming a bad habit of mine. I'd have to try harder to not walk into things.
"We're gonna have to cordon off your office until the lab boys have had a chance to dust for prints." The fat old cop smiled as he said he was sorry for the inconvenience.
"Not a problem" I smiled back, making sure to press my finger tips to every free surface I passed. I was nearly at the door when the cop called me back.
"Don't forget your gift." I turned and saw he was pointing at a pot plant that had a big red bow around it. I'd never seen that plant before.
"I'll get it in the morning." I tried to sound relaxed. The plant was staring at me. If the cops hadn't been there I'm sure he would've made his move. I winked at the plant as I put my hat on. He'd get his tomorrow.

That Thing (I'm Sorry)

"I'm sorry" I said. Too little, too late? Perhaps, but it was the truth and needed to be said. I looked at her as she sat by the window.
"Sorry for what?" She didn't lift her head or look at me.
"For never....." I began. The words jack-knifed in my throat. I looked at her, the back of her neck, her hair in ringlets, a picture of benign indifference. I shuffled forward, sitting at her feet. I stared at her immaculate ankles, the ankles I used to kiss, that used to bang into my feet every night as she wriggled to get comfortable. I missed those ankles. "I'm sorry. For not saying that thing"
She turned to me with a curious glint that I couldn't help but gaze at. "That thing you wanted me to say. That thing I left always unsaid. That thing you used to whisper into my ear when you thought I was asleep. That thing you wrote in chocolate sauce across my belly. That thing that was always on the tip of my tongue. That thing that could've saved us. Maybe not."
A tear drop clung to her eyelashes. She looked at me for somewhere between five seconds and six hours, I can't be sure, then smiled and said "Say it now".
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"I don't know how to."

Number 9ish

What is your conscience worth to me
The sum of the core of an apple tree?
The hide and seek of future MPs
The echo of rainforest dwellers that sneeze
A dog in a bath is a rhyme and a half
A cow couldn’t tickle my chin
But whatever the score by the end of the night
We are keeping the hungry thin

With a handful of nukes and a spanner
We can limit ourselves to peace
But with warts in our hands and the General’s love
We’ll do better by behaving like beasts

Could tomorrow be no more the daydream
Of yesterday’s timeless rewind
Coz the day after that is the memory of two months from now
With a hobnailed mind
I delve I delve into the lake
Into the lake of fire
My mother insisted my skin was asbestos
But she is a ludicrous liar
I burn I burn once in the lake
Once in the lake of fire
For one fleeting second whilst I was consumed
The flames could be seen to burn higher

Four walls and another surround you
You’re covered in acid and blood
Your skin has been flayed off
Your mouth has no teeth
And you’re up to your nipples in mud
You’ve two broken legs
And four broken eyes
Seven hairs left and only one bum (remember that kids)
You’ve had Smack, Wack and Cannabis
Heroin and Pills
Nitrous Oxide and twelve kegs of rum
There’s a nine-foot barbarian with a railway spike
And some pitbulls, an owl and two frogs
Forty naked dictators with various kit
And your family riding on mogs
They’re all out ta getcha
Revenge in their eyes
But what is your crime?
Do you know?
Well your crime was completing the reading of this;
Just destroy it by scrunching, and throw

Madness of the Seer

Sensory corruption : number one
Solitude, stillness radiating unity
Blind. Blind. Blind
Distinct colours sharply force inward
Sight beyond sight : all becomes motion
Flesh turns to an idea of life
Pulp smeared over confusion
Blindness crawling through rotting mud
A million screaming hearts
Bound, masked, afraid
Who is in charge here?
Search the darkness for love
Then find somewhere to hide, or
Be torn apart by blind devils.
Crawl inside a dirty hole.
Never reveal the secret sign
Destined to decay.

Sensory illusion : number two
I heard a voice
Yes, no, maybe, don’t know
Thunder shook the walls
A buzz through the bony brain-shell
That threatened to crack
Was the voice mine
Or God’s
Or Yours
Mumbling, sputtering, bubbling, distant
The silence of a heartbeat stilled
Magnified, my fingertip scrapes the silk of skin
Fine feathers tickling, twinkle droplet splashes
And reality’s coat is ripped to threads
Snap, crackle, pop… swish
Vinyl. Devil. Devinyl. Heavenly chorus
I trusted the voice.

Sensory torment : number three
Touch me
Hold me down and screw me
Screw into my mind
Suck me. Suck out my soul
Quench the fire, steam will rise
Feed me, even if it’s poison
Dig your fingers in behind my muscles
Rip me up
Rape me
Tear me down
Shape me.
This flesh, this sick trap
Is waiting to dissolve
Do not trust me because
I am part of the whole
And the only promise we make
Is to change
Don’t let me, go

Friendship Poem

In a house on a hill
Sat Ben with a chill
Feeling miserable and ill
With only the will
To go home
All alone
If I must
Coz I trust
What’s happening there
In the stinky Oxford air
With the people who care
Is more fun
Than a ton
Of nekkid women
All swimmin
And grinnin
Compared to this
Which is frozen piss
On a stick
Have a lick
It’s a cheap lollypop (get the hell outta here)
I wanna bop til I drop
But there’s ob-vi-ous-ly not
Any chance I can dance
When I haven’t even got
A hifi stereo or tape machine
By the look of the locals there hasn’t been
Any groovin or a-movin
Jivin or a-funkin
The quickest thing here is digestive-dunkin
My heartbeat’s clunkin
At a miserable rate
I seem to be trapped here
Sealed by fate
What I wouldn’t do
To be back with a mate
Either starting to skin up
Or to copulate
(although obviously that depends on which mate we’re talking about)
I miss Jonny Charles and Dan
And Satanic Shan
And every Pea at seven-seven B
Elena, Jed, Nick and Jerome
(despite the fact they’re so shit at taking messages from people when they phone)
I miss my work at Tiger Lily
I miss being guided round town by my willy
I miss Magnus and Tarek throwing things in my bin
Even though, on my go, I can never get it in
(which can be said for other asects of my life also)
When I get back to my home town
I wanna get so wrecked I’ll violently drown
In a huge deep pool of puke blood and piss
With an orgy of misbehaviour starting like this:
I’ll invite a couple friends
For an ‘evening out’
Under the pretence we’ll be ‘mucking about’
We’ll go to my house
Maybe have a little drink
Just knock a few tins back
Til we start to think
About the possibility of having a smoke
Then I’ll whip out a ready-rolled; casual bloke!
We’ll maybe smoke a few
Til the eyes are red
The other two
May want to go to bed
That’s when I’ll
Suggest the speed!
We’ll snort base
Til our sinuses BLEED!
After that we’ll be ready for town
And I’ll sneak into their vodka just an
Ounce or two of Brown
With our googly eyes
And tingly brains
We’ll ignore the weather
Thunder lightning or rain
Fucked off our trolleys
We’ll be ready to go
Pop six pills each
Smoke an ounce more blow
When we get into town
We’ll inject some coke
Get into a fight
With a leary bloke
Hyped up on adrenaline
Bolloxed on drugs
Salivating mindless fucked-up thugs
The next 40 pints won’t have any effect
Cause you know that our bodies will be far too wrecked
They think it’s over
But is it? NO!
They didn’t count on my EXTRA DOUGH!
600 quid would be enough to borrow
Let’s get wankered - FUCK TOMORROW!!
We move from the pub to a quiet spot
Faces all running with spit blood and snot
After a couple of adrenaline shots
We’ll be fucked enough to neck 15 DOTS!!!
We’ll gatecrash a party in a bleary haze
Our minds like rocks and our eyes ablaze
We’ll crash into houses through windows and doors
Then pick up the phone and dial some WHORES!
Families, children – so taken aback
FUCK ‘EM ALL LET’S SMOKE SOME CRACK
Puke in their fridges and shit in their beds
See how we love being out of our heads
We’ll batter any fool
That gets in our way
Ben Dan and Jonny so happy and gay
So completely trashed we can only scream
We’ll be arrested, but as if it were a crazy dream
We’ll chew through the cell walls like ice-cream
Still turbo-charged with a full head of steam
Our minds are mashed
Our bodies mangled
Our lives on a thin weak thread are dangled
But now we see the end of the night
A nasty hangover looms into sight
All good evenings have bad ends
A night well spent with a couple of friends
Let’s steal a car and drive off a cliff
Say goodbye to the world with one last spliff.
(at least that’s the plan anyway…)

A Red Warning Light (extract)

A little red light is almost always a bad sign. Red light is so frequently associated with danger and warnings, no matter where you are, that even to an electronic Alien entity assimilating itself with the brainwaves of an ape, the red warning light reeked of imminent threat. Add to that the blare of the emergency siren.. Luckily, it was just such an alien life form that had caused the little red warning light to go off, and she knew it well. Scientists in lab coats were dashing across the shiny floor in the direction of the double-thick security doors, albeit with a kind of familiar, almost controlled haste. The kind of dashing that seems to be saying ‘Blast, I didn’t have time to cover my Petri-dishes’.
The alien was beginning to get the hang of ape-limbs, and had easily figured out the simple neurochemistry of the primate brain. A serious discharge of adrenalin and an abnormally efficient twist of the animal’s joints had made quick work of the wire mesh. Gunga, who had been imprisoned this way for many unpleasant months, was taken aback, despite the frantic situation and the charge of energy. He had tried for weeks to break his way through the cage before, with chattery ape gibberings and peeled back lips galore. But this... this was something new. No fear this time; no terrified looks to his fellow prisoners. This was an almost Buddhist moment for Gunga- he seemed to be watching himself perform this feat of amazing strength. His face, had any of the lab assistants stopped to look as they ran neatly for the Safe Zone, would have shown a very human surprise as he leaned out of the ripped cage and swung to the ground. His furry-topped feet slapped to the floor, and immediately the presence within his brain began a complex sensory scan of the laboratory. Following the scientists was not a viable option, mainly because they would have noticed a 9-stone ape lumbering towards them with a confused look on its face, but also because the security doors were rapidly closing behind the last of them; Lab Technician Moss.

Ms Moss insisted on the title Ms because Miss Moss sounded too stupid, and she needed to be taken very seriously if she was ever going to be taken seriously at Crelch-Moanhem Pharmaceuticals. She glanced back into the lab, briefly considered running back for her clipboard and then caught the eye of Lawrence, the security guard. He reached out to hit the inner seal panel on the wall... which just happened to be on a level with Ms Moss’s chest region. Lawrence hesitated. Ms Moss turned her face away from him. She did not, however, make any effort to allow him space to avoid contact with her chest region.
Lawrence had dealt with many awkward situations in his years at Crelch, including spilt monkey samples, a poison gas leak (which had turned out to be Professor Leach’s bowel condition- it’s amazing what the Compound’s sensors will pick up), and numerous inter-departmental arguments between one nutty professor or another. (Such situations Lawrence referred to as ‘Conflict Resolution for Aggravated Personnel’, in his private log book. He often used abbreviations when filing the day’s events.) These heated encounters with Ms Moss were altogether different though. His only ever girlfriend had hated him, and only let him touch her twice- once when she was drunk, and kept calling him Rex, and once when she’d slapped him goodbye. He realised afterwards that she’d only been interested in him because one of her friends had told her as a joke that Lawrence was related to Michael Jackson. When she found out on telly that Michael Jackson was really black, she dumped Lawrence. The slap was because he’d asked for a farewell kiss. He’d never got over Dawn, however unfulfilling it had been, and was therefore very tentative around women. Not least of all around women who a) he found attractive, even in a lab coat, and b) kept looking at him for what felt like a bit too long, as if she was about to ask him to fetch her a beer from the wardrobe or something. Dawn had often done that when he’d been allowed to her house. The thing is, Lawrence didn’t think Ms Moss was the type to drink beer. Or keep it in the wardrobe, come to that.
Lawrence leaned gingerly forward as far as he could, and tried to bend his elbow away as much as possible so as not to touch that sacred place.. It was unavoidable though. His brown security uniform-clad arm brushed against Ms Moss’s chest region as he hit the panel, and the inner seal hissed shut. Lawrence rapidly withdrew his arm, but as he did so Ms Moss turned her face towards his, and their eyes met for a fleeting instant. It was as though time had slowed down- they blinked as one.. He could feel his heart ramming the inside of his ribcage. Her pupils dilated (although Lawrence didn’t really notice that- he was too busy trying not to lose his breath). He thought her hair was about to start blowing around seductively or something- she blinked again, in slow-motion behind her burgundy-framed NHS plastic glasses. Nothing else mattered in the whole-
‘Excuse me, but isn’t that a secondary fire alert signal?’ interrupted a white-coat behind them.
The intrusion was too much for Lawrence’s precarious emotional state. His belly quaked, and he let out an audible, almost tangible botty-belch right there in front of Ms Moss and all of the scientists. Doom!
The lift was silent. A new, far darker and more intense silence as Lawrence felt his whole world caving in on him. He flushed a deep red and looked down.
‘Errm.. err.. yes, Professor Clark, yes it is. I’d better radio the.. errr.. desk.’ He was sweating, and he could not only hear Ms Moss’s contempt and disgust, but he could smell the pooey odour rising from his security trousers. Why? WHY did I have to have two bags of NikNaks for lunch? He wanted to cry. Ms Moss sniffed in shared embarrassment, but the intake of breath made Lawrence feel infinitely worse. ‘She can smell my poo, she can smell my poo.. ‘was all he could think as the elevator sank smoothly away from Lab 4.

Gunga knuckled down the steel ventilation shaft. It’s a classic escape device, particularly of interest to alien beings, but this alien had never had the opportunity to indulge in any popular human fiction, so it was only through a series of rapid but complex mental processes that she’d managed to calculate a way out of the large laboratory. They’d passed two other vents, but Gunga’s vastly enhanced hearing had told the alien that these too were being sealed. ‘My location and direction must be apparent to the bipeds’, she thought. She allowed Gunga to scratch his head in ape-like confusion (Basic Corporeal Possession Directive Three, subheading iii; Occupant to permit no less than 50 percent of host organism low-level brain functioning on a continuous basis, except where this may contravene or impede Basic Corporeal Possession Directive Two including any subheadings thereof.). She took over control of the left limb before Gunga started munching on the parasite he found though- hunger/ salivation/ food impulses would be too much of a distraction at this crucial moment.
Ahead was the final vent, and Gunga, against all instincts, made a headlong charge. All four limbs operating in a previously unavailable co-ordinated fashion gave him a terrific pace, despite the restricted conditions of the shaft. He hit the metal grate with velocity and broke on through to the other side.
Accuracy, timing and calculation were key to the survival of the alien controlling Gunga’s primitive body. Her training had been arduous and long, and she’d reached the universally respected heights of Interplanetary Diplomat, an accolade her parents would have been proud of, if this particular race had such a thing as parents. As it was, she was spawned by a pretty unfeeling bio-electronic network called the Void, and the Void never really expressed feelings, and it certainly didn’t have a mantelpiece on which to put pictures of its genetic offspring receiving their digital graduation certificates. Without the training offered by the Void’s Neurogenic Enhancement Procedures, 50021E would have never learned the skills she now so desperately needed. But, in spite of all of the lessons her Mentor-Entities had reinforced into her Brainframe, she knew that only trust in luck can make the difference between Interplanetary Diplomat and Secretarial Patch. Not that Secretarial Patch was anything to be sniffed at; far from it. Patching was a highly respected position. But when the mission was over, 50021E knew who’d be getting all the Biofeedback. Oh yeah.
LUCK, she thought, as ape and alien crashed through the grate. LUCK, she thought, as Gunga pitched into the air above the Level 2 Security Checkpoint. FUCK, thought security guard Tony Wolfe, as a scared looking 9-stone monkey slapped into the window of his booth.
Tony jumped back, ready for action and hindered only by his comfy Habitat swivel chair, which brought him quickly to the floor of the Security Booth. As the bent grate clattered to the floor of the corridor, 50021E disregarded Gunga’s facial pain receptors and smartly turned the ape towards what appeared to be the main stairwell. Tony Wolfe was rising behind the desk, reaching for his stun-rod and secretly praying that Lawrence Belchitt, 2 years his senior and an anally efficient Security Supervisor, didn’t want to check the CCTV over Level 2 Booth. He will, that tosser, I know he will, thought Tony. He darted from the booth.
Gunga was hurtling manically down the corridor. He saw the stairs and leapt over the banister-rail, swinging down onto the First floor. He stopped at the junction and looked left, then right. Down again, thought 50021E as two more security guards rushed around the corner.

On the ground floor, after what felt like a Galapagos turtle’s lifespan, the lift doors hissed open and Lawrence scuttled out, stun-rod gripped in a sweaty hand. There was no way he could salvage his dignity, but at least he could give his pent-up manhood a good dusting down.
Ksshhht- ‘Ape loose on ground floor, am in pursuit on foot!’ crackled Wolfe on Lawrence’s radio. Of course you’re on foot, thought Lawrence, angrily. Idiot.
Ms Moss was the second person to leave the lift. She looked up at the tiled roof with frustration in her eyes, wishing none of the previous events had happened. He must hate me, she thought. How could I be so insensitive as to sniff, after his body responded like that to the emergency? He’s so efficient, so.. manly! To void his intestines like that and reduce wind resistance.. The man’s an unrecognised genius. What was I thinking? He must think I’m so primitive! Damn, Damn DAMN my lack of self-control! And now I’m so ashamed, how could I ever look at him again?

One, two.. three bipeds between us and the building’s front exit. Two running from the left corridor.. and that malco-ordinated one from Level 2 coming down the stairs. Time for Directive Nine, thought 50021E; the Emergency Directive.
In some cultures, it is believed that harnessing the body’s natural energy, it is possible to achieve great healing powers, or great strength or speed. Or perhaps an incredible mental focus, allowing one to attain skills that would seem, to the layman, Unnatural. Well, these energies are indeed tappable. Or, put otherwise, it is possible to bend what we know as the Rules of our ‘reality’. Emergency Directive Nine allows just such behaviour. It means, to the likes of 50021E, that one may, in times of Dire Need, bend the ‘rules’ a little. She did just that.

*

‘Sir, excuse me sir, we got a Red Warning Light sir!’ hooted Lieutenant Bols. His hands were gripped tightly behind his back as he awaited further orders from General Rammstein. A twirl of thick Havana smoke rose, typically, from the General’s chair back.
‘Sir, it’s urgent orders sir!’ This was odd, predictably. Normally the General’s first response to any interruption was a guttural cough, followed by a tornado of surreal abuse directed at nobody in particular. Today though.. silence.
‘General Rammstein, sir! General Lubeck ordered me to inform you, sir, that we have a Red Light Security Situation in Haiti, sir!’ He was deeply unsure. Another puff of smoke from the General’s chair, which faced the wall behind his desk, and then Lieutenant Bols noticed that the General was drumming his fingers on the leather arm rest of his chair. Uh oh, this is serious, thought Bols. General Rammstein had been known to have men court-marshalled for breaking wind on nightwatch, saying it had ‘interfered with nocturnal strategy’, whatever that meant. He began to fear for his dreams of promotion. He tried one last time to open a line of conversation with the General, wondering if a new angle might somehow show the General that Bols was a man with initiative. A man with.. Balls.
‘How are you enjoying your cigar, General Rammstein, sir?’ he ventured. ‘SIR!?’ Unbelievable! No response! No option but to utilise an emergency tactic- Go Round the Desk. He gulped.
The General’s chair swung round as soon as Bols’ shadow came into view.
‘Wha?’ he belched, with a cloudy cough. ‘The HELLZAMADDER WITH YOU? THIS IS MY DESK!’ roared General Rammstein, extra loudly.
‘Sorry sir! I didn’t mean to-‘
‘WHA?! CAN’T HEAR A DAMN WORD YER SAYIN’ MAN! WAIDAMINIT! Crazy goodfernuthin treehuggers..’ Just then Lieutenat Bols noticed that the General appeared to be wearing a set of headphones attached to some sort of personal stereo. The General yanked the earphones from his ears.
‘NASTYCREW!!’ Bols looked blankly at the General, searching his mind desperately for the correct response. ‘Crazy English boys. NASTYCREW, that’s the damn name, son! We oughtta be proudda those kooky liddle English boys, son. All new, NastyCrew, no shame fer the game, cuz it’s what we do..’ rapped the General. ‘Biggemup, biggemup NastyCrew.. Time ta get raw widda NastyCrew..’
‘Sir, it’s a Red Light in Haiti sir. General Lubeck ordered me to inform you that-‘
‘What? Haiti? Who the hell’s attacking Haiti? It’s not those damn French warheads again is it? By God, there’ll be HELLTAPAY if Haiti gets bombed again!’ He swiped up the phone on his desk. ‘Margie? Put me through to Frankie Lubeck. He’s in Detroit with Elaine. Oh, but don’t tell his wife.’ He flicked a warning look at Lieutenant Bols, who clamped his jaw shut and stared forwards at nothing. ‘And contact Sam Moran in Haiti. Tell ‘em ta call me as soon as possible. And hold all calls from my home!’ He crunched the phone back down. ‘Thad’ll be all, Lieutenant. Do something about yer damn manners, man!’
‘Sir, yes sir!’ The last thing Lieutenant Bols heard as the door clicked shut behind him was General Rammstein’s gruff, tuneless rendition of what he could only presume was the NastyCrew.
‘Sexy girls, poonanny.. Sexy girls, me wah..’

*

Sanity Towel

Hendrick Bartague sat in a shawl on the balcony overlooking the square. Watching people milling around, he caressed his beard and let the smoke from his pipe drift and curl around his large, flabby face. They were busy today. It was the town fair. Some folk had walked miles to bring their crappy little home-made trinkets to try and sell to the more ignorant and sentimental citizens of Mun-Qikoch. In spite of his foul personality Hendrick smiled a taut one at the fools below. His feeling of infinite superiority was pretty much his only lifeline now he’d cheated on his wife and been righteously abandoned.
He took a sip from his mug of petrol. A bird squawked above him and circled menacingly. It was as though they’d been spying on him- he never had his shotgun handy when they were so close. He knew the bird would get the idea if he inched off and grabbed it from under his pillow now, so he just watched the verminous warbler circling, round and round. It was shaky, occasionally blustered by the wind, and looked like a silly bastard to Hendrick. Damn, I should always bring the shotgun out. Damn.

Coffee Shock

It’s a rainy afternoon, looking out at the High Street
Sniff
Tracing the coffee ring
Coughing

Sweet brunette flicks a look
As she clears away cups
To the sound of piped symphonies
And modern sympathies
Munch

Old woman wipes unsteadily at her lips
Husband sniffs
Sniff

A flash of red
Inside
A heartbeat thump
My tongue, inside you
Stirs me
Cough

Look to the sweet waitress
Backside to me, scraping
My hands remember your hips
Groaning, your back arched
Spatters of rain against the coffee shop window
Coffee

The old woman stirs, clumsily
Husband’s Hush-Puppies tap
Munch

I was inside you, warm and wet a week ago
Now I’m inside a coffee shop
Cold and damp
Sniff

Stranger

I’m leaning back on the wall
My vest is stuck with sweat
Heart still loud
Veins fat in my arms
Joints loose.

Hands are behind my back
One knee up, foot on the wall
Eyes locked
On you
Watching you twist.

Thumping slabs of drum rock
Beat a raw fat throb
Dancefloor, heaving
Lasers
Slice

Friendly face!
I’ll find you-
Chill out?-
Yeah!-
Hands grasp, smiling inside

Foot drops. Searching, lasers
Wrong legs. Wrong hair. Heart drops
Turning, slowly, to the thump
Whump whump whump whump
Tchaka

Into the flesh, sliding, pushing
Eyes, feet, licking mouths
Timing steps to clock the flow
Finding space
Alone

Down, below the monster beams
In the pit, sweating dreams
Carried up the roaring wave
The Master, the Obeying Slave
Temple of the Coloured Lights
Supersonic Acolytes
Lost in tunnels, screaming, blind
Bodies pure, connected mind

Free
Loose
Raw

Then the blue sea parts, black struggling
Glitter beams sprinkle
Face appears
The hair, that top, black PVC
Our eyes lock
As you look at me

And the crowd drops away.

Gibbon gibberish

The monkey sat up in the tree, so sad
His mummy had had a big row with his dad
His mum threw a coconut at daddy’s head
And daddy fell out of the tree, and he’s dead

The monkey grew older, and went for a job
He landed some work with a lion called Rob
Who asked him to help him install a new hob
But he messed it all up, by being a slob

So the monkey got tired of being a slave
And he went out alone and he hid in a cave
He discovered a girl monkey there, who was brave
And said ‘I know my lovely, let’s throw a free rave!’

So they gathered together the little they had
And they called up their mates, who thought they were mad
They borrowed some speakers from Tim the giraffe
And they called the hyenas, who loved a good laugh

The gig would be held on the Pong-Pong Plateau
They had U.V., and dancers and a sexy Snake-show
The fire-juggling Rhino said he’d be there by 3
And the DJs were sorted, even though it was free

For promotions, the girl monkey drew up some flyers
She was careful to make sure that no-one lit fires
They planned to have Hip-Hop, and Techno and Funk
And Reggae and Jungle, with MC ‘Da Skunk’

The day of the party, the monkey was ill
But the girl monkey said ‘Take it easy, boy- Chill!
I got you some weed, and I got you a pill.’
And he still had some acid, from a Hippo named Phil

Dressed up in their finest; her dreads all tied back
In combats and steel, with his tunes on his back
He was playing the headliner- 4 until 6
And the boy was an infamous Kid-in-the-Mix

The jungle was there in full force; they were rocking
A giraffe in a crop-top so low it was shocking
A lion got off with a leopard on E
They swapped numbers, but I doubt they’ll stay friendly. We’ll see.

The music was pumping all night, and the monkey
Just couldn’t stop dancing! It was all way too funky!
At 2 in the morning, space-tripping, new highs
He got off with the girl monkey; lost in her eyes

They slinked off in the bushes, and cuddled and kissed
While the techno was pumping.. both of them blissed
Then the lion came up and said ‘Monkey, my man!
If anyone can, then the Monkey-Man can!’

It was seconds to four, and the E was on strong
The Jungle Skunk wound up his last breakbeat song
The backbeat was echoing over the Ridge
And the Monkey stepped up. He was cool as a fridge.

His time. His moment. His reason to live.
He had plenty of music, and so much to give.
He opened his set to a silent dancefloor
And he prayed he they were ready, and creaming for more..

The crackle of vinyl. A silence. A pop
There’s a drum-loop for 8, then the bass kick will drop..
He laid over a sample from Reservoir Dogs
The hyenas got up from their Chill-Out logs

BOOM went the bass drum. RRRRIP went the snares
The crowd lost their footing- they were caught unawares
By a WOOF from the cones as the B-line flew in
Then the shit started rocking! Let the Party Begin!

He let rip for 2 hours with an onslaught of tunes
From the Funk, to the Disco, the Punk to the Spoons
He had elephants jumping to Didgeridoo
They were joined by a couple of lost kangaroo!

No-one stopped. No-one tired. There was Techno and Thrash
Congos, Bongos, Merengue and Samba.. The Clash
The were grins, ear to ear, on the beasts all around
And they all agreed, secretly, Monkey’s the Sound.

From her spot on the podium, she smiled inside
He’s the monkey for me. I’ll take him for a ride
Took a swig from her water, passed her spliff to a snake
Then the Monkey girl got down and started to shake

She was twirling. Gliding. Rising and riding
Lushed up from inside where the love had been hiding
Her body just flowed with electric desire
The fire burned higher. She was live like a wire

On the Chill-Out logs later, she got a massage
From a panther whose aura was ever so large
He made her feel good.. and then Monkey arrived
And so he got one too; they were all on The Vibe

Nothing was bad. Nothing went wrong
When the wind down was over, it didn’t take long
To clean up and pack down, put the stuff in the van
Smoke a joint and return to the cave, hand in hand

They chilled out with some new mates, and a couple of spars
Downed a bottle of wine, and a couple of jars
Smoked a shitload more pot, watched a viddy or 2
And by 12, just the monkeys alone, warm as goo

The curtains were drawn and their bodies were close
Those tingling sensations; the touch of a ghost
Wrapped together so tight, they made love for 5 hours
And the mission was done. One with God. Clean as flowers.

Nothing

Nothing.
Nothing in this cold green world.
Nothing, for its
African plains
Brazilian beaches
Dusty deserts and
Polar caps

My Dad sits downstairs, watching
“Who Wants To Be A Millionaire”
FUCK them all.
Some slick rat parks his Lamborghini on a
Five mile drive.
Breasts get larger, sucked by the hordes of
Desperate alcoholic rapists
Who buy their waking dreams from women they’ll never fuck.

Glaring screens stare back at you.
Even now! Here, in my search inside.
The eye is within. Horror

Nothing in this hot grey world.
Nothing for me, in the
Thousand hands I’ve let slip
The wet mouths
That laugh as I watch their backs fade into a vibrant crowd.
Stranger, stranger, stranger

I call a woman, my love
A girl
Beautiful, innocent.
I start to make her hate me
It goes round and round.

Creaking through space
Breath, wind, stars
A thousand more empty words that
Rattle in my skull.
Who cares? You?
Me?

War
Money
Warm
Honey

Is there a place
An age for people like me
In which
I don’t have to
STRUGGLE
To find people like you?

Where air is everything
A city is heaven
And nature is God

Nothing here, in this colourless glass

Summertime

The hiss of summertime
Hum of the blue expanse
Distant football sounds. Dog. Child.

Quiet fizz of lemonade
A fly, buzzing.. Near.. Nearer.. Far.. Near
Stops.
Fiddles. Stops.
Buzzing again, further.. further

Clatter of pots and cutlery
Inside, the radio
Baby Helen chucks a car.

Skin sticks, sweaty, to the plastic chair
Squinting underneath the sunglasses
Hot skin browning slowly.

Buzzing. Near.. Far.. further..
Hum
Breathing out.
A puffy white cloud

Why am I still thinking about you?

Octopus

Wrap yourself around me.

From the deepest oceans
Where life is rich
And stillness
Tranquil, black as pitch

A human torch
Has never brought
Electric fear
No search, no sport

You drift, and hunt.
You lie unsleeping
Blackest dreams
Eyes unweeping

Eyes of moonlight
Eyes like pearls
Eyes in which
The light uncurls

Pull me in.

Suction. Torsion. Alien skin
Pulsing, and the cold within
Thrusting through your moonrock bed
And all the world above is dead.

Stop It

I hope you don't mind me bending your ear just a little. It's been too long since we've spoken and I really want to see what's up with you. I'm not implying anything is wrong, why would you jump to that conclusion? You seem a little defensive. Is all OK? Is there anything I can do to help? I don't mean to be rude but you seem a little off colour. Oh, it's your new job? Well I can understand, ringing people out of the blue and trying to flog them worthless tat must take it out of you. I'm not judging. My, but your touchy today. No, I don't think you are a terrible person for worming your way into people's heads and houses when you've not been invited into either. I'm just saying, what happened to your dream of being a doctor? I know it would've been a lot of study but you wanted to help people, didn't you? I totally understand that offering insurance, mobile phones, free prize draws, spam, small pox, a holiday, smegma, kibbles and bits is helping people in a different way but it's not quite what you envisaged, is it? Alright, I won't mention it again. All I will say, and I promise this is my last word on the subject, is never fucking ring me again. I love you too.

Wasteful - Nature's Way

Nature is wasteful. It's normal.

Imagine monkeys were in charge of the technology we have slaved over and butchered each other for over the years. Would they do a better job than we have? Of course not. Even our closest relatives in the animal kingdom, the so-called Higher Primates (my arsehole), can't manage the most basic hygiene or cleanliness. Give a monkey a hairbrush, and what happens? It pees on it and sticks it up it's (unclean) arse. Banana skins litter the floors of jungles the world over. Dogs shite wherever they please, and we waste years trying to enforce our pointless rules and train them to clean up after themselves. Why?
Because nature is wasteful.

We waste inordinate amounts of time. We ruminate, quantify, calculate, jargonize, fabricate, theorize and wank our way to oblivion. What's the point? Well, I'm glad you want to know.

Waste, in fact, is the Future.

It's our highest ideal. Our calling, if you will. It is not the things we preserve, but rather the things we carelessly toss aside that define our fetid and purile existence as a species. Every plastic bag, every half-smeared pork-fat lipstick case, every stinking trainer and every snot-filled prophylactic emanates not just human, but animal waste. We gear almost all of our efforts- scientific, literary, spiritual, sexual- towards creating a massive pile of waste. Our children (or should I say your children, since I don't plan to have any) will be forced to root through garbage for their survival. They will feed on mounds of decaying plastic, clawing out each other's eyes and brains to get to the remaining meat left decomposing in shrink-wrappers under stinking heaps of rot. They will defend themselves against giant rats using improvised weapons. They will suffer, and they will die.

Waste is the Future.

I Knew It

Today I decided to follow myself home to see what I was getting up to. I'd had a bad feeling about my behaviour and, quite frankly, I didn't like the rumours I'd been spreading about myself. I watched as I pushed into the lift then I bolted down the stairs so I could watch myself leaving the building. So far I was acting normally but from previous experience I knew better than to trust myself. I walked about ten metres behind myself down Charing Cross Road and followed me as I descended into the tube system. I took the Bakerloo line, making sure that I'd not seen me and gazed as I saw myself not too subtly staring at a lady. Getting out of the tube station I managed to lose myself and charged down the road until I nearly ran head first into myself as I came out of a shop. I managed to keep my head down so I didn't see myself go running by me. I gave myself 5 minutes to get back to the flat before I set off after me again. At the flat I gingerly pushed the door open. I could hear the sounds of me pottering, or so I thought, about the flat. I tip-toed upstairs and was shocked by what I saw. There I was, masturbating furiously on the kitchen table. I turned around and fled in disgust. I shall never trust myself again!

slumpy rut fuck

Slumpy Rut Fuck was lying down as usual. He twiddled his cock absent mindedly, and farted. He was leaning back against a brick wall in an old deserted warehouse, where Batman used to live. Slumpy was notorious among his fans for his reclusive ways. He had made something of an image for himself out of not being there. Postcards of Slumpy were usually blurred or blank, the plastic dolls his manager had had comissioned were actually just the hardened shell of his most famous outfits, and often his gigs didn't even have him listed as performing.

But he was.

In the dark, Slumpy had grown cold and whimsical. He flitted about between shafts of invisible light, dancing among the dust motes and carelessly urinating down his legs. Rolling back the memories of his life, Slumpy fenced himself in with dark, perturbing images dressed up in lichen and overalls. In the dream, he poured emotional syrup up a dead man's arse-cavity. He rode wildebeest headfirst into trees and buggered their corpses. He ejaculated entire populations of new species into the rainbow-blackness of space, through the plapping raw tube of his dessicated urethra.

Slumpy woke from the dream in bed, deep asleep and far away. He climbed out of his body and rode a tiny invisible sheriff off his face and down his rounded little belly. When he reached the base of the pubic trail, Slumpy dismounted and ate the sheriff to death. He set up camp using a stretched section of his larger body's pelvic skin as a canvas. He secured the canvas with some rusty metaphorical nails and a hand-hammer, then set about boiling his eyes.
Soon the tea was ready and Slumpy set-to, slurping away and chanting medieval prayers about old women and hard work. Within minutes, he was bored shitless and decided to sleep in the makeshift tent. He pissed all over the entrance of the tent and went inside.

Within the chamber, Slumpy roamed about into the far corners of skin and kicked out at anything that moved. He was afraid of lichen, and in this ancient stomach-cave, there were several varieties unchecked and florid. The stench was normal. Slumpy wished, as usual, that he knew what the fuck was going on, but he didn't.
Up on the far wall was a crucifix, with a miniature Christ spitting obscenities blindly into the womb-like vestibule. The vaulted rooves echoed divine blasphemy, and little pigeons and doves squawked and chirped merrily along, as though God herself would enjoy hearing it.
Just below the crucifix was a tea towel, hanging up and a little bit soggy from the washing up earlier on. Slumpy tiptoed over, comedy-style just for effect, and yoinked the tea-towel off it's hinges. This hazardous manouevre tore a massive hole in the flesh-tent-church wall and penti-litres of scalding orange juice sprayed out straight into Slumpy's stupid face.
Panicked, Slumpy ran up the staircase to the overhanging mezzanine and shouted at the statue of Jesus.

'Christ! Oi, Christ!'

He yelled, but to no avail, for the Lord was dead and gone...

Gut Mowgan

Gut Mowgan kinderlikkers.

Todane, we hafta fine interval with Idees, Myndswill and chortley Codswallop. Begintoer approximate Da Conclusion. Apropo, rendering lingostics mos' personal, viz FreeThynk.

Firsticles, work'n'kreer zsatta fack. We're pushin forth, nibbagadda cloo around Why or Where4. Nissa mysterrrioso, v the Highest Degree. Youmannity evolutes ultrakwik, no sine of slo-dahn be4 the PokkaLips. And yet...

Conclusion. Lingostics unikate inta mos'personal hexpression fadda massiv. Useless E's? Ditchum.

Papa Cootie

Angel delight

I have a secret.
Under my bed there's a little wooden box, and in the box is an angel.
It's been there for a long time, since I was a child, in fact. One day I saw it sitting innocently in a tree and I asked it to come down. I offered it some chocolate. While it was eating the chocolate I ran to the house and got some red wool from my mother's sewing basket. I dipped the wool in the honeypot in the pantry and ran back to the garden. The angel was still licking the melted chocolate from the tips of its delicate fingers when I slipped a loop of the sticky yarn around its waist. Everybody knows that angels can't get away then. I pushed the angel into a dirty old box that I found in the shed at the bottom of the garden and hid it under my bed. For days and days it hammered on the sides of the box begging for me to release it. After a few months it gave up. Now I only hear it very occasionally. Sometimes if I wake up in the middle of the night and I lie very still I can just make out its tiny, wragged sobs. I know it still wants me to let it out, but I never will, because then I wouldn't have an angel in a box under my bed.

Singularity

…Uh…what was I saying?
I was just talking about something, wasn’t I?
I could’ve sworn I was just in the middle of…but…
…no, it’s gone. I have absolutely no idea…
I just hope it wasn’t important.
I’m sure someone once said that it would come back to you if it was important. I always thought that was a stupid thing to say because if it didn’t “come back” to you then you’d never know that you’d forgotten something important, would you?
If I’d been there I would’ve said that.
Although they’d’ve probably just called me a smart arse…whoever it was.
I wonder how many important things I’ve forgotten like that, and oh god, what was I talking about?
Maybe…
Maybe I imagined it.
Maybe I wasn’t saying anything.
What was the last thing I said? Before this, I mean.
…
Err…no that can’t be right…I must’ve said some…
Alright, who was the last person I spoke to?
Or any person I’ve spoken to?
…
Christ, how can I not think of anyone?
That’s insane.
Unless…I’ve never spoken to anyone.
Yeah, yeah that would explain it – I’ve never actually spoken to another person before.
And now?
Is anyone listening now?
Hello?
…
No.
It’s just me.
Just me.
Just…

Semantic terroraclism

For the most part, the world is full of people who enjoy the feeling of safety. They savour certainties. Jobs, salaries, homes, families and an understanding of their place in the world all sit very comfortably with these people. They are the happy hum-drummers, beating out the predictable rhythms of a pop song existence.

But in the shadows, in the darkened corners of humanity, with the agitators and malcontents, dwell the others. Those who choose to find their own way and deliberately defy the system. They are not anarchists. Oh no, anarchy has been misunderstood for too long. Not a terrifying and unthinkable state of chaos in which nobody adheres to the law, but a peaceful and idyllic place where laws are unnecessary because people are good. No, the people in the dark are not anarchists. They are terrorists. They break laws because it scares everyone else, and fear makes people pay attention. Far too often this is perpetrated for the sake of some absurdly childish squabble ("My God's better than your god!"), but just occasionally a person has something valuable to say and they have to find a way to stop everyone mid-paradiddle and listen. A thinking terrorist - a terroraclist, if you will.

Violence is abhorrent to the thinking terrorist, as is any other extreme action that challenges the laws that protect life and liberty. Instead, how about a little mental terrorism? An attack on the laws that hold our perception of the world together is just as effective as an attack on the world we perceive itself. Indeed, many philosophers would say it was a more direct approach. So let's try sapping one of the cornerstones of understanding. Where would we be without language?

An ability to communicate what we want, think and feel comes in handy in modern society. To do this there is an agreed interpretation of the vocabulary we use. The meanings of new words are either well defined by the coiner or are recognisable constructions from previously understood vocabulary, or else they become clear from their use in context. What a well organised set up. How marvellously and simply open to exploitation it is. To tickle the foundations of meaning and understanding all someone need do is utter some completely original sound and break these semantic laws that should instruct others as to its meaning:

• Decide on a meaning but give no definition.
• Ensure that it is sufficiently different from existing words so that no meaning is suggested.
• Finally, enlist the help of like minded individuals who agree that each should attach his or her own personal meaning to the word, understand that any other meaning is as valid as their own and go about their daily lives using it as frequently as possible safe in the knowledge that nobody will ever truly understand what the hell they are talking about.

Fun, no?

But why? Why try to unsettle people? Why risk being sectioned or merely branded as a weirdo or loony? Because the world is full of pop music and not enough people twiddle the radio dial. Too many people who can think don't think. They are too busy with their jobs and salaries and homes and families and wide screen plasma digital surround sound televisions to worry about thinking for themselves. It wasn't always like this.

Join the crusade and help the world to think again - one word at a time. Start and it will spread like glottmeldy...maybe. Well actually probably not, but it might be fun trying.

Romantic outerlude

It was a beautiful evening. The couple leaning on the railing above the sea looked out into the infinity of the waves, and seemed to frame a postcard memory as the gulls cawed overhead. The man leaned towards the woman, and gently cupping her buttocks drew her towards him. I had a perfect bead on the man’s head, but I thought it would be funnier to shoot him in the neck.
They began to kiss. I was touched deeply, but anyway I squeezed the trigger and from my vantage point on the roof of the pier I watched the man’s body jerk in sudden shock as his neck was ripped open and blood shot front and back. The woman ignored the red mist and continued exploring her partner’s mouth with her own. Admirable stuff.
The man was spasming a bit, but managed to control his motion sufficiently as to be able to continue pleasuring her. I noticed that he was wearing a gold band on his right hand. I couldn’t remember if that was the right hand/ finger combination to symbolise marriage, but I was willing to guess that it probably was. Either that or they were a very familiar couple of cheats, enjoying a romantic seaside assassination scene.
Suddenly, but not altogether unexpectedly, a name-brand digging vehicle roared at impressively high speed up the wooden walkway. The woman stopped kissing her (possible) husband and let go of his hand. He immediately slumped to the planks, hitting his head on the metal railing on the way down with a clank I could hear from up on the roof. I laughed. Times like these I wished I had had a camcorder. Still, it’s not very professional.
The digger was fast approaching. The woman gave her husband a mighty kick, cracking his ribcage and sending his body battering across the boardwalk into the path of the speeding digger. The digger banged into him and was lifted twenty feet into the air as his body crunched and flopped on the rattling planks.
The woman darted to one side, rolled, and spreading her legs in an amazingly gymnastic fashion, let loose an arc of green piss through the open side of the digger’s cab. The jet was clearly incredibly high-velocity; it knocked the driver out of the other side of the cab and threw him right over the railing into the waves on the other side. The woman clamped her piss-flow, flipped to her feet and trotted over to the body of her man, lying in an awkward heap a few metres away. He had thick tyre marks all over his jacket and face, and was clearly dead. She picked him up and hurled him into the sun, where he caused a massive nuclear reaction because he was made of several radioactive isotopes and his skin was an almost impenetrable heat-shield but his eyes didn’t have skin on so the heat burst out of them and the resultant solar-quake burned everyone on Earth to little burned cakes and I ate them all.

Get into my lunch box and eat yourself

Welcome to my lunch box baby!

You’re right next to the grapes
You’re my sweet sensation- not a Mars bar

You’re a little bit melted coz of the sun earlier
I already licked you once
Licked your face

Me and my friends had a picnic, didn’t we?
And we took you out, and showed you the grass…
We got high, and bummed the trees

We bummed the floor
We bummed our own minds

We realised we weren’t real, so we bummed reality
We fingered God
We got ourselves into a reet tangle

Tomorrow we’re planning a space-trip
We’ll get on our tricycles and go to the moon
We’ll take marsh-mallows, and frog spawn and dice

We’ll take hammers to be constructive with
Hammers to be destructive with
Hammering skulls, shattering bones

We’ll party like it’s 1104 AD
We’ll eat mud and rocks
We’ll throw each other up
I’m going to climb back into my Dad

And if it’s fun, I’ll charge
£10 a go, we can all slide up his urethra
Into his testes like a human recycling plant

It’s what he would want.

SEXUALNESS UNBUNGED

The door swings open to reveal velvet-lined walls, a deep shag red carpet and the kind of fine furniture you'd hope for in a high-class brothel.

You step through.

Inside, there's a smell of expensive aftershave mingling with the dryness of conditioned air. A fan beats slowly above, mixing the particles but doing little to cool you off. The empty desk across the room is clear of clutter and looks aesthetic more than functional. You stand still, waiting for an attendant.

Time passes.

A hidden door in the panelled far wall opens. The only noise it makes is the faint brushing of what must be new carpet hairs. A woman steps through; completely naked, looking like a skinny catwalk model with a machine-like perfection to every curve and angle, and with just the right gawk to her grace to make her seem fashionably careless. It's certainly warm enough to walk around nude in here, but you feel a tingle of uncomfortable excitement at the secret promise of things to come...

"Welcome to Vagi-Cock. I'm Stephanie. Unless you want to call me something else..."

The woman is half-sitting on the desk. You allow yourelf the luxury of a mental sensation - her firm skin pressing against the polished hardwood. Mmmm.

"So, first things first. What do you want to be called today?"

"Clintoris please." you mumble.

An unblinking pause. She glances up and to her right, then levels her eyes at you again.

"Will it be the ususal?"

You roll forwards to the floor and clutch at your buttocks, squealing quietly. A sound like tiny elephants emanates from your choked throat. The woman walks across the lushious carpet toawrds you and stands over your prone curled body. You whimper, and avoid looking up.
There was a time when this kind of excitement was too much to bear, but these days it's almost mundane. You close your eyes to hide your obvious boredom, even though it occurs to you that her manner, cliched cool all swank and swagger, seems to almost radiate apathy. By this one could assume that to share in such blandness would build a rapport... But then again is rapport really what you want in this room, right now, clutching around on the expensive new carpet? No. What you want is a damn good mocking.

"You idiot!" she screams. "Stupid, mild-mannered, impolite little petri-scraping!" This insult is a new one.

You roll onto your back, still holding your bum cheeks, as your naked tormentor squats closer in a pose so undignified as to completely shrivel any sense of sexuality. A tiny fart slips out, but she seems to succesfully ignore it. She points at your face, right at your eye.

"Gaaaaaaa." it is a baby-like noise, and she lets a little drool come out when she makes it. It reminds you of the old lady you were rolling through the grass with on the way here. How she stopped you at the bus stop, and lurched melodramatically towards you with her ham in her little fist. How she helped herself to your fruit, and as you were wrapped in each others' skin how she seemed to dwell on those naughty thoughts, pressing you for a flight of fancy that would open her a little more, making her feel young again. You wore her clothes after that romp, so now as this astonishingly mechanical beauty is crouching into your face, you are wearing a tabbard and some pea-soup tights. It's almost enough on it's own, but to get the push you really need, you had to come to Tauntation Motel. Besides, your membership expires in a week, and you know you needed to maximise your opportunity to use the place. It costs enough.

"Peng peng peng. Map mop." She lies down next to you and begins to pull at the carpet. You join in, knowing the protocol. It's boring, but this is what you paid for.

Some people...

Lee I just got this email from a tenant called Sunil, at Farrins rents. I think he wants you to call him.

Dear Sir or Madam

I'm writing for complain you. I very problem my house today. I am call Justine yesterday and talk of problem my cuisine. It have very hot, and burn my finger, so I am maek phones call to NICEROOM and ask help me please. But problem is come when 10pm GMT. It have NICEBUILDER come for maintining my house, but builder is drinked and made loud noise. I am scary. I ask my police to come, but in Farrins Rents is slow police. Builder drinked is come my garden and is urine on my flowers. And. Then I am upset, say to drinked builder please to stop. He very making noise and then come in my house my room and make fire my television. He throw toground my radio and go in kitchen and in same time is my television fired and smoked. Then builder is urine my sink and my cuisine and shout loud song. My next-house people start shout, and police not come still. All of my house friends not in house, but builder then go in all rooms and urine and fire all beds and also eating one set curtains.
Come to 11pm GMT and then builder sleep on floor. I am not know what do.

Now is 9am GMT. House friends come back, but we sit and look drinked sleeped builder for is maybe hours. Builder not moving. House smell of urine and burned. Fire in bedroom upstars not stop. I think have problem now to sleep, to eat and etc.

Please help us Mr Lee Sankey. PLEAES to call me

Lot of problems

Sunil Blistars

cold winter warmer

His name is Terrence. He stands under the dripping canopy of a coffee cart outside the Metro station in Paris, idly comparing it to the coffee carts in his home city of Bath in the UK. His thoughts keep retracting, like his numbing extremities, so it feels like an effort of concentration when it gets to his turn to choose a beverage. Before the gap between Terrence and the Parisian coffee vendor is completely closed, and he has to make that difficult selection, his shrivelling mind does an odd thing. It flashes an intention toward some kind of non-descript violence. Terrence attempts to wave it away, and turns his head to find something to glance at, but it's no good. As always, the denial seems to focus his thoughts only more sharply on the violent thought, and in doing so, the thoughts begin to take shape. He sees himself lurching over the counter to grab the teenage sales-boy by the apron and drag him closer. He imagines the boy's startled reaction. He thinks of growling in the lad's face, possibly frothing as he does so. Spitting occurs to him.
He glances back at the boy and tries to feel something friendly, but this immediately becomes corrupted by the violent desire in his blood-stream, and he starts to picture himself grabbing the poor kid by the testicles and biting chunks out of his neck.
Then the queue is gone, and Terrence steps forward to approach the counter.