I was recently in the south of France watching Fiji narrowly miss defeating Australia in the pool stages of the rugby world cup. I went swimming in a freezing cold lake in the countryside and ended up getting a chill in my organs that are related to the act of peeing. It was a nightmare, needing to go for a pee every five minutes, sometimes less...this is my true account of the horror, the horror...
Pissing in Montpellier.
Pissing in alleyways like a feral cat.
Pissing on tree trunks like a mangy mutt.
Pissing on churches like a Satanist.
Pissing in hospital carparks like a junkie escaped from rehab.
Pissing my life, my soul, my energy, through the thin tube of my prick.
Crying and howling to God for a moment's respite, a moment's peace, from the endless flood of piss squirting out of me.
I walk - the tram is a nightmare where I must tie my cock in two by placing my hands in my pockets like some sort of pervert - I walk and piss and moan to the heavens. I walk and piss on punks who ask me for cigarettes.
I walk and piss on young Arabs playing football on the street; kicking their ball into my piss-dribbling man-hood.
I piss in bakeries.
On the croissants.
On the pain au chocolat.
On the quiches.
I piss on the rugby fans all wearing gold jerseys. I piss in the face of the moon.
Going crazy am I.
Unable to stop pissing.
I get closer to the main square - thousands of people milling about, drinking - I pull out my pecker (it is blistered from too much use) and unleash a torrent, a biblical flood, of infected piss.
I scream, I curse, and I piss everyone away.
I piss the kebab shops and cafes away.
I piss the supermarche away.
I piss the piss-poor French beer away.
I piss the useless French railway system and lazy workers away.
I piss everything away.
I piss the main square of Montpellier away.
I piss the ghettoes out near the stadium away.
I piss the churches and the parks and the punks and the quiches away.
I piss footballs and rugby balls away.
I piss Montpellier away.
Drowned in a sea of yellow.
Washed away in a wave of urine.
I piss it all away.
And then I stop. I shake myself and put myself away. I zip myself up.
I smile to myself.
And then my smile turns on itself like a rabid animal.
For I have just realised...
Already...
I need another piss.
THE END.
Thursday, 11 October 2007
Thursday, 9 August 2007
My New Website...
Yo - check out my new website, it's pretty crappy at the moment (maybe should be web-shite?) but anyway there are somethings if you are bored working real jobs...unlike me who is just selling his soul (and his health) just for money...don't know where that bit of anger come from...but anyway here is the webshite address:
djlaurence.net
djlaurence.net
Thursday, 2 August 2007
Brain Cells.
BRAIN CELLS.
By D. Jonas Laurence
My brain cells are gone
along with the dodo and the sabre-toothed tiger,
the moa and the mammoth
gone to ends of the universe to be bounced off the
nothingness
passing by comets and star clusters
and black holes and planets
witnesses to amazing beauty
witnesses to amazing secrets
witnesses to vast stores of knowledge
holders of all the answers
to all the questions
that we have ever asked
when we have been drunk beneath the heavens
looking to the sky
while drinking yet another beer
and paradoxically killing more brain cells
THE END.
By D. Jonas Laurence
My brain cells are gone
along with the dodo and the sabre-toothed tiger,
the moa and the mammoth
gone to ends of the universe to be bounced off the
nothingness
passing by comets and star clusters
and black holes and planets
witnesses to amazing beauty
witnesses to amazing secrets
witnesses to vast stores of knowledge
holders of all the answers
to all the questions
that we have ever asked
when we have been drunk beneath the heavens
looking to the sky
while drinking yet another beer
and paradoxically killing more brain cells
THE END.
Old Man.
OLD MAN.
By D. Jonas Laurence.
There’s an old guy who walks up and down the beach selling grapes and slices of juicy honeydew melon. Up and down he goes in the shimmering heat – the sand is too hot to walk on, for me, yet he wears no shoes at all. The pads of his feet are hard like leather.
He has a large scar that runs from his thigh down across the knee and onto the top of his shin. I wonder how he got that scar.
Yesterday, or maybe it was the day before, I saw him leaving the beach with two other Greek men….in a boat. He was rowing.
Here on the beach he works from a cave that is cut into the side of the volcanic cliff that rises behind the sand of the beach. The cliff is terracotta red.
Today the old man saw us drinking a bottle of wine and when the bottle was empty and lying in the sand, he came over to us and asked if we would like some more wine. He said that what we had just drunk had “too many shemicals” – that was how he said chemicals, shemicals. His wine did not have any shemicals; he squeezed the grapes himself with those leather feet of his. He stamped the sand to demonstrate.
He left his two baskets of fruit lying in front of us and ambled back to his cave with our empty bottle. He returned some moments later with the bottle full of homemade resina – very strong he explained.
As I write this, listening to the constant crash of the surf upon the beach, he has just approached us again and given us a free shot of his resina – and tried to sell us some grapes as well, of course.
After we drink his wine we will have “many, many sex, ha ha”
But then off he goes, back up the beach with his voice echoing in the cove, selling his melons and grapes the same as he has always does for how long I can only guess.
It’s time to go now, and get some late lunch from somewhere, ride our slow little motor scooter in the breeze. But still I wonder, as we pack up our books and towels and tramp away from the cave cut in the cliff, away from the pounding waves, along the hot sand in our expensive sandals, still I wonder... just how did he get that scar on his knee?
I bet that that is an interesting story.
THE END.
Santorini, October, 2000
By D. Jonas Laurence.
There’s an old guy who walks up and down the beach selling grapes and slices of juicy honeydew melon. Up and down he goes in the shimmering heat – the sand is too hot to walk on, for me, yet he wears no shoes at all. The pads of his feet are hard like leather.
He has a large scar that runs from his thigh down across the knee and onto the top of his shin. I wonder how he got that scar.
Yesterday, or maybe it was the day before, I saw him leaving the beach with two other Greek men….in a boat. He was rowing.
Here on the beach he works from a cave that is cut into the side of the volcanic cliff that rises behind the sand of the beach. The cliff is terracotta red.
Today the old man saw us drinking a bottle of wine and when the bottle was empty and lying in the sand, he came over to us and asked if we would like some more wine. He said that what we had just drunk had “too many shemicals” – that was how he said chemicals, shemicals. His wine did not have any shemicals; he squeezed the grapes himself with those leather feet of his. He stamped the sand to demonstrate.
He left his two baskets of fruit lying in front of us and ambled back to his cave with our empty bottle. He returned some moments later with the bottle full of homemade resina – very strong he explained.
As I write this, listening to the constant crash of the surf upon the beach, he has just approached us again and given us a free shot of his resina – and tried to sell us some grapes as well, of course.
After we drink his wine we will have “many, many sex, ha ha”
But then off he goes, back up the beach with his voice echoing in the cove, selling his melons and grapes the same as he has always does for how long I can only guess.
It’s time to go now, and get some late lunch from somewhere, ride our slow little motor scooter in the breeze. But still I wonder, as we pack up our books and towels and tramp away from the cave cut in the cliff, away from the pounding waves, along the hot sand in our expensive sandals, still I wonder... just how did he get that scar on his knee?
I bet that that is an interesting story.
THE END.
Santorini, October, 2000
Monday, 11 June 2007
Intellectual Masturbation.
INTELLECTUAL MASTURBATION.
By D. Jonas Laurence
Sometimes the writer will look back on some of the things that he has written and it will be like intellectual masturbation for him.
THE END.
The writer clutched his notebook and meandered over the words. He read them all in one, slowly, like turning the pages of a dirty magazine, scanning, noticing the things that stood out and cataloguing them for later perusal.
Like the word ‘Sometimes’.
For the writer this word invoked images of anytime, or past time, present time, future time, no time, non-existent time, imagined time.
To the writer this one word conjured up so many images that his intellect could not help but be aroused.
The writer chewed on the connotations of the word ‘Sometimes’ for quite sometime; moving it back and forward across the length of his intellect, softly, gently, erotically.
Next he drifted onto the word ‘the’.
For the writer this word was almost invisible. It’s over use had rendered it transparent; yet, paradoxically, the picture would be incomplete without it. The word was like a gratuitous shot of breast in a teenager-targeted movie. It would only be noticed by its absence. It was the missing segment of a 10,000-piece jigsaw puzzle.
He moved onto the word ‘writer’ and his pulse rate quickened. This was one of those magic entities. One of those words that caused the intellect to shudder with pleasure.
But he did not want to dwell – not yet, no, he wanted this to last. He wanted the maximum pleasure. So he moved, reluctantly, onto the word ‘will’.
‘will’ was a strange one. To the writer this word was a word of mystery, of the unknown, a verb for all persons; yet for the future. This opened up a million coulds. A million scenarios that got his creative juices boiling. Will it? Or won’t it? He did not know. But he loved to fantasise.
And what fantasy would be complete without ‘look’? For that was what he was doing. ‘Looking’ was what he craved. ‘Looking’ back on his work, his beautiful, sensual, work. Filling his intellect with a feast of ‘looking’.
‘back’ spoke of things in the past, of experiences, of situations, of delicious intellectual stimuli. It spoke in an echo that ran through the corridors of the library of himself; ran like a naked college student through the corridors, soft and feminine, bouncy and bountiful with lust.
He dragged his eyes from ‘back’ and rested them on ‘on’. This was but a cheeky glance across a crowded restaurant, a sideways peek ‘on’ the beach of his intellect. He turned the page to ‘some’.
‘some’ spoke of the process of choice. Of choosing. Of selecting his favourite work and dwelling on it. Savouring it. Devouring it like a peach with juice dripping down the chin of time. Oh the glory of ‘some’ of his words, the masterpiece of connection!
‘of’ was like ‘the’ yet totally different. ‘of’ joined things together like mating dragonflies ‘of’ a past memory, wet thighs in a time ‘of’ youth, sunny days laying in green grass becoming part ‘of’ the Earth. Melting and ebbing with a tide ‘of’ subtle vibrations.
‘things’ meant anything and everything and nothing and something. It caused the intellect to expand and devour, opening corridors for penetration, unbuttoning blouses for inspection, unzipping flies for release.
His intellect was fully erect now, the skin of it tight and sensitive.
It pushed against the fabric of his mind, searching for openings, for outpourings.
‘that’ unexpectedly excited his intellect. Its multiple meanings caused him to pause, but by now he wanted more than ‘that’ could give.
So he moved to ‘he’. ‘He’ liked what ‘he’ saw. ‘He’ saw it so often that ‘he’ was glad that ‘he’ could still be turned on by it’s simplicity.
‘has’ again spoke of the past and the movement of his intellect from future to present to past felt delicious. It felt like young boys nude in hay barns. It felt like young girls nude with shower nozzles. It felt divine.
‘written’ was the past tense of ‘write’ and meant that he had indeed ‘written’ something. That he had ‘written’ a lot. And it was somehow naughty, taboo, secret fondlings in the school cupboard of time, for what was ‘written’ and what was ‘wrote’?.
‘and’ was the end of one section of the magazine ‘and’ the start of another, it was the middle page, a slight breather, a lengthener, an enlongator of pleasure, ‘and’ it signalled the home stretch, the finish in sight, ‘and’ that alone gave ‘and’ a sultry dirtiness.
‘it’ ‘will’ ‘be’ three words connected to form a total greater than the sum of their parts. A threesome. An orgy. A chance encounter at a party in a mansion, a moment before a happening, and ‘it’ ‘will’ ‘be’ something to remember. To savour. Something to rub the intellect against like an itch.
‘like’ was ‘like’ something else. An instinctual memory of a time of total intellectual release. A magical, ancient time, where all needs and wants were met. It was a rolled up ball of similarity and familiarity. It was itself, yet it was ‘like’ something else. The combination was heavenly.
‘intellectual masturbation’ was extra stimulating. Like holding a mirror to certain actions. It made real of the unreal, made impossible angles obtainable, it was an addictive action of pure pleasure.
He read the last two words… ‘to’ and ‘him’ but this was overkill, unnecessary, like an extra photograph of a moment already captured.
So he flicked back through the pages of the magazine of his intellect; quickly, with fumbling hands of the overeager.
And the writer’s intellect writhed and moved with the rhythm of his artist outpourings.
His intellect grew, even larger, feeding on itself, enlarging and engorging, straining, huge and rock hard, and the writer gripped his sanity for stability, careful not to cross the forbidden thresholds of imagination, and his rhythms grew quick, and his breath erratic…
And then he passed the point of no return.
And his intellect shot forth a bubbling stream of unbridled idea…
And it was probably a shit idea.
But the writer curled up in his bed, his intellect spent.
And he went to sleep and slept like a baby.
Satisfied.
Sated.
Happy for his raging intellectualism.
THE END.
By D. Jonas Laurence
Sometimes the writer will look back on some of the things that he has written and it will be like intellectual masturbation for him.
THE END.
The writer clutched his notebook and meandered over the words. He read them all in one, slowly, like turning the pages of a dirty magazine, scanning, noticing the things that stood out and cataloguing them for later perusal.
Like the word ‘Sometimes’.
For the writer this word invoked images of anytime, or past time, present time, future time, no time, non-existent time, imagined time.
To the writer this one word conjured up so many images that his intellect could not help but be aroused.
The writer chewed on the connotations of the word ‘Sometimes’ for quite sometime; moving it back and forward across the length of his intellect, softly, gently, erotically.
Next he drifted onto the word ‘the’.
For the writer this word was almost invisible. It’s over use had rendered it transparent; yet, paradoxically, the picture would be incomplete without it. The word was like a gratuitous shot of breast in a teenager-targeted movie. It would only be noticed by its absence. It was the missing segment of a 10,000-piece jigsaw puzzle.
He moved onto the word ‘writer’ and his pulse rate quickened. This was one of those magic entities. One of those words that caused the intellect to shudder with pleasure.
But he did not want to dwell – not yet, no, he wanted this to last. He wanted the maximum pleasure. So he moved, reluctantly, onto the word ‘will’.
‘will’ was a strange one. To the writer this word was a word of mystery, of the unknown, a verb for all persons; yet for the future. This opened up a million coulds. A million scenarios that got his creative juices boiling. Will it? Or won’t it? He did not know. But he loved to fantasise.
And what fantasy would be complete without ‘look’? For that was what he was doing. ‘Looking’ was what he craved. ‘Looking’ back on his work, his beautiful, sensual, work. Filling his intellect with a feast of ‘looking’.
‘back’ spoke of things in the past, of experiences, of situations, of delicious intellectual stimuli. It spoke in an echo that ran through the corridors of the library of himself; ran like a naked college student through the corridors, soft and feminine, bouncy and bountiful with lust.
He dragged his eyes from ‘back’ and rested them on ‘on’. This was but a cheeky glance across a crowded restaurant, a sideways peek ‘on’ the beach of his intellect. He turned the page to ‘some’.
‘some’ spoke of the process of choice. Of choosing. Of selecting his favourite work and dwelling on it. Savouring it. Devouring it like a peach with juice dripping down the chin of time. Oh the glory of ‘some’ of his words, the masterpiece of connection!
‘of’ was like ‘the’ yet totally different. ‘of’ joined things together like mating dragonflies ‘of’ a past memory, wet thighs in a time ‘of’ youth, sunny days laying in green grass becoming part ‘of’ the Earth. Melting and ebbing with a tide ‘of’ subtle vibrations.
‘things’ meant anything and everything and nothing and something. It caused the intellect to expand and devour, opening corridors for penetration, unbuttoning blouses for inspection, unzipping flies for release.
His intellect was fully erect now, the skin of it tight and sensitive.
It pushed against the fabric of his mind, searching for openings, for outpourings.
‘that’ unexpectedly excited his intellect. Its multiple meanings caused him to pause, but by now he wanted more than ‘that’ could give.
So he moved to ‘he’. ‘He’ liked what ‘he’ saw. ‘He’ saw it so often that ‘he’ was glad that ‘he’ could still be turned on by it’s simplicity.
‘has’ again spoke of the past and the movement of his intellect from future to present to past felt delicious. It felt like young boys nude in hay barns. It felt like young girls nude with shower nozzles. It felt divine.
‘written’ was the past tense of ‘write’ and meant that he had indeed ‘written’ something. That he had ‘written’ a lot. And it was somehow naughty, taboo, secret fondlings in the school cupboard of time, for what was ‘written’ and what was ‘wrote’?.
‘and’ was the end of one section of the magazine ‘and’ the start of another, it was the middle page, a slight breather, a lengthener, an enlongator of pleasure, ‘and’ it signalled the home stretch, the finish in sight, ‘and’ that alone gave ‘and’ a sultry dirtiness.
‘it’ ‘will’ ‘be’ three words connected to form a total greater than the sum of their parts. A threesome. An orgy. A chance encounter at a party in a mansion, a moment before a happening, and ‘it’ ‘will’ ‘be’ something to remember. To savour. Something to rub the intellect against like an itch.
‘like’ was ‘like’ something else. An instinctual memory of a time of total intellectual release. A magical, ancient time, where all needs and wants were met. It was a rolled up ball of similarity and familiarity. It was itself, yet it was ‘like’ something else. The combination was heavenly.
‘intellectual masturbation’ was extra stimulating. Like holding a mirror to certain actions. It made real of the unreal, made impossible angles obtainable, it was an addictive action of pure pleasure.
He read the last two words… ‘to’ and ‘him’ but this was overkill, unnecessary, like an extra photograph of a moment already captured.
So he flicked back through the pages of the magazine of his intellect; quickly, with fumbling hands of the overeager.
And the writer’s intellect writhed and moved with the rhythm of his artist outpourings.
His intellect grew, even larger, feeding on itself, enlarging and engorging, straining, huge and rock hard, and the writer gripped his sanity for stability, careful not to cross the forbidden thresholds of imagination, and his rhythms grew quick, and his breath erratic…
And then he passed the point of no return.
And his intellect shot forth a bubbling stream of unbridled idea…
And it was probably a shit idea.
But the writer curled up in his bed, his intellect spent.
And he went to sleep and slept like a baby.
Satisfied.
Sated.
Happy for his raging intellectualism.
THE END.
Wednesday, 30 May 2007
The Lonely Lord of All Evil (Part One).
THE LONELY LORD OF ALL EVIL.
By D. Jonas Laurence.
Part One.
One day Satan found himself sitting on his red-hot throne (made from the bones of evil souls) staring into space, chin resting in his hand, elbow on his knee, and sighed a huge sigh of loneliness.
He looked around him. There was no one to talk to. His lap dogs were out chasing down unfortunates whose souls had been sold and needed to be collected.
His son was up on Earth studying art at some expensive university.
His vixens were getting their hair and make-up done and, anyway, Satan had come to think that maybe they only wanted him for his money (for Satan owned a heap of property on Manhattan island and the rent meant that he would never have to work again).
No, there was no one to talk to.
So Satan stood up and walked down to The Beginner’s Pool of Molten Lava. A couple of new souls were thrashing around in the burning lava, screaming as their skin burned and re-burned and burned some more.
“Hi.” Satan said. “We haven’t met properly but I’m Satan. I own this place.” He swept his arm around the walls of Hell.
“Ah, um,…how you guys doing?” He addressed the closer of the two burning souls. “You enjoying your stay? Can I get you anything? Coke? Mars bar ice-cream?”
But the burning soul just screamed some more.
Satan sighed again.
“Well,” he said, “if you need anything just let me know. Just remember you only have another thousand years of molten lava in The Beginner’s Pool. Then you can move on to The Intermediate Pool of Napalm. Keep your chin up eh?”
But the soul just screamed again and Satan turned back around as the soul’s eyes caught fire for about the fiftieth time.
“Don’t be a stranger.” Satan mumbled as he sauntered back down a path towards The Endless Pit and The Waterfall of Fire.
Satan came upon of couple of his Guardians of Hell.
“Alright Guardians of Hell,” he said giving a mock salute, “how’s it all going today. Everything going smoothly?”
But the Guardians of Hell just dropped to their knees in genuflection, kissing his sweaty red hooves.
“Master of All Evil.” Said one of them.
“Supreme Sorcerer of Mayhem.” Said the other one.
One began licking his hoof-nail. Satan had recently had a bout of fungus on his hooves and pulled his leg away in embarrassment.
“Damn it!” he said and stormed away back towards his throne, “is there no one to talk to in this Hellish place?”
No one answered him.
Typical.
So Satan sat back on his red-hot throne and reluctantly reached for the Special Phone.
He dialled one for Heaven’s switchboard.
“Hello Mr. Beelzebub,” a cheerful voice answered almost immediately, “we haven’t heard from you in quite some time. How is the weather in Hell?” then without waiting for an answer, “Hot I’m sure. Ha ha.”
Satan hated being called by his full name but kept his irritation in check.
“Hello Janine,” he said, trying to sound as friendly as possible because he had heard, from numerous sources, that if you got on Janine’s bad side she was known to put you on hold for eternity or longer, “how’s tricks?”
“Oh. Well. You know, I can’t complain Lucifer. Life is wonderful, as ever, in Heaven and we have all been blessed recently with such great people as Johnny Cash, James Brown, Syd Barrett, Jack Palance, Hunter S. Thompson, Richard Pryor, and, of course, Anna Nicole, to name but a few, so…you know, all is peachy.” She sounded happy that Satan had taken an interest.
“How can I help you today Ruler of Demons?”
“Oh well Janine I was wondering if I could talk to the big man’s son for a moment. If he’s not too busy of course…”
“Well I’ll quickly check for you Deceiver of Man.” Janine said cheerfully and Satan was put on hold.
He sat there listening to the hold muzak; which was a duet of the aforementioned Cash and Brown, a medley of everything from (I feel like being a) Sex Machine to The Beast in Me. Satan couldn’t help but tap his hoof in time with the Heavenly sounds.
“Hello? Antichrist?” Janine was back, “I’ll patch you through to The King of Kings.”
And then Jesus was on the line, his voice calm and magical.
“Satan my man,” he said, “long time no hear. What’s up dog?”
“Yeah, hi JC, sorry it’s been awhile, souls to give eternal suffering and all that.”
“I hear you ‘tan the man. Thanks for punishing all the assholes. We are eternally grateful for your clean-up job brother.”
“Well, you know JC, it’s a dirty job but someone’s got to do it.”
They both laughed for a moment and Satan was happy to have called. Talking to JC always cheered him up – if only a little.
“There was one thing I had to ask you though JC.” Satan said, serious now.
“Shoot.” Said the King of Israel.
“How do I stop being lonely?” Satan blurted out, “JC? I’m so lonely. I have no one to talk to. No one…” and then, although he hadn’t meant to, Satan began blubbering like a little girl with a skinned knee.
“Hey. Whoa. Red man. Calm down.” Jesus said, obviously a little shocked at The Lord of All Evil’s emotional outpouring.
“Hey there ‘tan. Don’t worry. I think I know what you need. Just listen to this…”
And so Satan did listen, wiping tears from his eyes, sniffling a little, until he had heard Jesus’s plan. And then his tears stopped, and his sniffling too, and he sat up straighter in his throne and said, “Damn it JC! You hit the nail on the head. You the man…”
“I know dog. I know.” Said the Son of God.
And so that was how Jesus ended up taking Satan up to Earth and registering him at
MEET PEOPLE Dating Agency…
THE END.
Please read more of the adventures of The Lonely Lord of All Evil and JC in Part Two. Out next week!
By D. Jonas Laurence.
Part One.
One day Satan found himself sitting on his red-hot throne (made from the bones of evil souls) staring into space, chin resting in his hand, elbow on his knee, and sighed a huge sigh of loneliness.
He looked around him. There was no one to talk to. His lap dogs were out chasing down unfortunates whose souls had been sold and needed to be collected.
His son was up on Earth studying art at some expensive university.
His vixens were getting their hair and make-up done and, anyway, Satan had come to think that maybe they only wanted him for his money (for Satan owned a heap of property on Manhattan island and the rent meant that he would never have to work again).
No, there was no one to talk to.
So Satan stood up and walked down to The Beginner’s Pool of Molten Lava. A couple of new souls were thrashing around in the burning lava, screaming as their skin burned and re-burned and burned some more.
“Hi.” Satan said. “We haven’t met properly but I’m Satan. I own this place.” He swept his arm around the walls of Hell.
“Ah, um,…how you guys doing?” He addressed the closer of the two burning souls. “You enjoying your stay? Can I get you anything? Coke? Mars bar ice-cream?”
But the burning soul just screamed some more.
Satan sighed again.
“Well,” he said, “if you need anything just let me know. Just remember you only have another thousand years of molten lava in The Beginner’s Pool. Then you can move on to The Intermediate Pool of Napalm. Keep your chin up eh?”
But the soul just screamed again and Satan turned back around as the soul’s eyes caught fire for about the fiftieth time.
“Don’t be a stranger.” Satan mumbled as he sauntered back down a path towards The Endless Pit and The Waterfall of Fire.
Satan came upon of couple of his Guardians of Hell.
“Alright Guardians of Hell,” he said giving a mock salute, “how’s it all going today. Everything going smoothly?”
But the Guardians of Hell just dropped to their knees in genuflection, kissing his sweaty red hooves.
“Master of All Evil.” Said one of them.
“Supreme Sorcerer of Mayhem.” Said the other one.
One began licking his hoof-nail. Satan had recently had a bout of fungus on his hooves and pulled his leg away in embarrassment.
“Damn it!” he said and stormed away back towards his throne, “is there no one to talk to in this Hellish place?”
No one answered him.
Typical.
So Satan sat back on his red-hot throne and reluctantly reached for the Special Phone.
He dialled one for Heaven’s switchboard.
“Hello Mr. Beelzebub,” a cheerful voice answered almost immediately, “we haven’t heard from you in quite some time. How is the weather in Hell?” then without waiting for an answer, “Hot I’m sure. Ha ha.”
Satan hated being called by his full name but kept his irritation in check.
“Hello Janine,” he said, trying to sound as friendly as possible because he had heard, from numerous sources, that if you got on Janine’s bad side she was known to put you on hold for eternity or longer, “how’s tricks?”
“Oh. Well. You know, I can’t complain Lucifer. Life is wonderful, as ever, in Heaven and we have all been blessed recently with such great people as Johnny Cash, James Brown, Syd Barrett, Jack Palance, Hunter S. Thompson, Richard Pryor, and, of course, Anna Nicole, to name but a few, so…you know, all is peachy.” She sounded happy that Satan had taken an interest.
“How can I help you today Ruler of Demons?”
“Oh well Janine I was wondering if I could talk to the big man’s son for a moment. If he’s not too busy of course…”
“Well I’ll quickly check for you Deceiver of Man.” Janine said cheerfully and Satan was put on hold.
He sat there listening to the hold muzak; which was a duet of the aforementioned Cash and Brown, a medley of everything from (I feel like being a) Sex Machine to The Beast in Me. Satan couldn’t help but tap his hoof in time with the Heavenly sounds.
“Hello? Antichrist?” Janine was back, “I’ll patch you through to The King of Kings.”
And then Jesus was on the line, his voice calm and magical.
“Satan my man,” he said, “long time no hear. What’s up dog?”
“Yeah, hi JC, sorry it’s been awhile, souls to give eternal suffering and all that.”
“I hear you ‘tan the man. Thanks for punishing all the assholes. We are eternally grateful for your clean-up job brother.”
“Well, you know JC, it’s a dirty job but someone’s got to do it.”
They both laughed for a moment and Satan was happy to have called. Talking to JC always cheered him up – if only a little.
“There was one thing I had to ask you though JC.” Satan said, serious now.
“Shoot.” Said the King of Israel.
“How do I stop being lonely?” Satan blurted out, “JC? I’m so lonely. I have no one to talk to. No one…” and then, although he hadn’t meant to, Satan began blubbering like a little girl with a skinned knee.
“Hey. Whoa. Red man. Calm down.” Jesus said, obviously a little shocked at The Lord of All Evil’s emotional outpouring.
“Hey there ‘tan. Don’t worry. I think I know what you need. Just listen to this…”
And so Satan did listen, wiping tears from his eyes, sniffling a little, until he had heard Jesus’s plan. And then his tears stopped, and his sniffling too, and he sat up straighter in his throne and said, “Damn it JC! You hit the nail on the head. You the man…”
“I know dog. I know.” Said the Son of God.
And so that was how Jesus ended up taking Satan up to Earth and registering him at
MEET PEOPLE Dating Agency…
THE END.
Please read more of the adventures of The Lonely Lord of All Evil and JC in Part Two. Out next week!
Saturday, 19 May 2007
anyone but san antonio
anyone but san antonio.
say no more. these guys are arseholes. they cheat and bitch about every call and they are ugly and old and tim duncan is a bitch and tony parker is a bitch and manu ginobli is going bald and i hate them. cheats! bruce bowen is a fat boy. they have no style. they are pricks and anyone but san "i got fouled every play bitch arse" antonio! assholes! kick amare "chocolate jesus" stoudamire in the achilles when it took him two years to come back from surgery? old bastards! detroit will kill you. and i will laugh.
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
say no more. these guys are arseholes. they cheat and bitch about every call and they are ugly and old and tim duncan is a bitch and tony parker is a bitch and manu ginobli is going bald and i hate them. cheats! bruce bowen is a fat boy. they have no style. they are pricks and anyone but san "i got fouled every play bitch arse" antonio! assholes! kick amare "chocolate jesus" stoudamire in the achilles when it took him two years to come back from surgery? old bastards! detroit will kill you. and i will laugh.
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
Thursday, 17 May 2007
What the Fuck?
This is a cheerful little number that I just found in a un-looked-at folder hidden in numerous folders somewhere in the matrix of my computer. So, here goes....
WHAT THE FUCK?
By D. Jonas Laurence
What the fuck am I reading?
Five o’clock in the morning. Beer in my veins looking at pictures from last nights Golden Globe Awards. And didn’t Brad and Angelina look nice? No, they fucken didn’t.
They looked like fucken airbrushed wax-dolls.
And there is Justin Motherfucking Timberlake and where is his new girlfriend ‘cos he has dumped what’s-her-skinny-arse.
And I am on websites looking at celebrities in swimsuits saying to myself;
“What the fuck?”
What the fuck am I doing?
Am I reading a book?
Fuck no! I am reading about some fucken asshole who is banging some skinny fucken Hollywood whore.
What the fuck?
What has this world made me?
Who cares?
What is the point?
What the hell am I writing?
Nothing.
Air.
Farts.
Ball-sack fluff in the night.
Dreams of skinny arse cutting slabs of roast beef into milk white fluffy bread.
Mustard.
Pus.
Vomit.
Yoghurt.
Now I am freakin myself out.
‘Cos I am getting weird.
But that is better than reading how that Latino chick from Desperate Housewives battles against cellulite…isn’t it?
About how she fucks him and he fucks her and is she on drugs and Paris is kissing him and his brother and making sex films and he is divorcing her because she had an affair with him who is cheating on her and how it all means ab-so-fucking-loosely-nothing to me right at this moment.
Isn’t it better?
Shut up.
Watch the Oscars.
Be envious.
Want.
Want clothes…
And cars…
And hairstyles…
And dogs…
And skinny arses…
And stupid awards for shit that makes my brains turn to jelly.
And I have no idea what I am taking about right now.
So bye bye.
I am off to read the book I should have always been reading.
Before I was brainwashed by your airbrushing.
THE END – (for now…)
WHAT THE FUCK?
By D. Jonas Laurence
What the fuck am I reading?
Five o’clock in the morning. Beer in my veins looking at pictures from last nights Golden Globe Awards. And didn’t Brad and Angelina look nice? No, they fucken didn’t.
They looked like fucken airbrushed wax-dolls.
And there is Justin Motherfucking Timberlake and where is his new girlfriend ‘cos he has dumped what’s-her-skinny-arse.
And I am on websites looking at celebrities in swimsuits saying to myself;
“What the fuck?”
What the fuck am I doing?
Am I reading a book?
Fuck no! I am reading about some fucken asshole who is banging some skinny fucken Hollywood whore.
What the fuck?
What has this world made me?
Who cares?
What is the point?
What the hell am I writing?
Nothing.
Air.
Farts.
Ball-sack fluff in the night.
Dreams of skinny arse cutting slabs of roast beef into milk white fluffy bread.
Mustard.
Pus.
Vomit.
Yoghurt.
Now I am freakin myself out.
‘Cos I am getting weird.
But that is better than reading how that Latino chick from Desperate Housewives battles against cellulite…isn’t it?
About how she fucks him and he fucks her and is she on drugs and Paris is kissing him and his brother and making sex films and he is divorcing her because she had an affair with him who is cheating on her and how it all means ab-so-fucking-loosely-nothing to me right at this moment.
Isn’t it better?
Shut up.
Watch the Oscars.
Be envious.
Want.
Want clothes…
And cars…
And hairstyles…
And dogs…
And skinny arses…
And stupid awards for shit that makes my brains turn to jelly.
And I have no idea what I am taking about right now.
So bye bye.
I am off to read the book I should have always been reading.
Before I was brainwashed by your airbrushing.
THE END – (for now…)
Wednesday, 16 May 2007
A City Scene in the Eternal Play.
A CITY SCENE IN THE ETERNAL PLAY.
By D. Jonas Laurence.
One night a guy, sitting at a bus stop, waiting for a bus, began spitting.
He had seen it on TV and wanted to try it. Sports stars did it. Gangstas did it in South Central. Cool people spit. So he began spitting; because imitation is the most sincere form of flattery.
He was smoking a cheap cigarette and spat in between puffs.
He spat down by his shiny black shoes.
His shoes were non-descript. He was non-descript like his shoes. You felt you could only describe him because of his non-descriptiveness. He had shiny black hair and shiny black shoes. He wore black leather jacket and white shirt and black jeans. He was maybe a heroin junkie or a speed freak.
He had sunken cheeks and evil eyes.
And now he was spitting.
Black stubble like dirt littered his skinny chicken neck.
Spit. Spit. Puff. Puff.
Grease dripped from him like turkey juice.
He was a slimy goose rising from a bowl of lard.
Spitting globules of fat on to the land. Or, in this case, the concrete under the bus shelter at the bus stop.
Finally he spat so much that mucus began running down the gutters carrying little rafts of cigarette butts ferrying ants to another place.
And then, finally, he spat so much that his shoes disappeared.
But he carried on spitting.
And then, finally, he spat so much that his black leather jacket, white shirt and black jeans disappeared.
So he sat there waiting, smoking, spitting, naked – because heroin junkies or speed freaks don’t wear underpants.
And then, finally, he spat so much that his sunken cheeks disappeared.
The evil left his eyes.
The dirty stubble left his neck.
The grease left his hair.
It was all spat away.
And, still, he continued to spit.
And spit.
And spit.
Until the years of his age began to disappear. Each time he spat another layer would peel off like onionskin and disappear.
He became younger and younger. Pubic hair disappeared and his penis shrunk.
Pockmarks gave way to baby skin smooth and shiny in the artificial light that illuminated the scene like the eye of a dragon.
Soon there sat a baby.
Smoking a cheap cigarette.
Waiting for a bus that just might never ever come.….spitting on the ground.
You would think that he would stop spitting at this particular juncture. But oh no, not this guy. Now it was a habit. He couldn’t help himself.
So he, the baby, continued spitting until he was a foetus.
And then, finally, he spat so much that he disappeared completely.
I know all this because I too was waiting for that bus, and I witnessed it all.
Zero point zero zero zero one of a second after he disappeared the bus pulled up to the stop and I got on, went home, and brewed myself a cup of Chinese green tea.
I heard recently that the guy now resides in another dimension where, as penance, he is made to ferry lost souls over the rancid Sea of Phlegm – which is actually a just a lake, although it is a very large lake.
The Sea of Phlegm is sometimes treacherous with chunks of lung lining, hard green matter, and bloody crusts.
The ferry is made from a skeleton of human bones with stretched and dried human leather over the frame.
The guy has an oar made from a human arm and a punting pole made from a thighbone.
The cheap cigarette is still in his mouth.
And this is where he must stay.
Ferrying lost souls across a lake of spit like the cigarette butts ferried ants down gutters overflowing with mucus an eternity ago, when he still had a chance to change his ways.
And stop spitting.
THE END.
By D. Jonas Laurence.
One night a guy, sitting at a bus stop, waiting for a bus, began spitting.
He had seen it on TV and wanted to try it. Sports stars did it. Gangstas did it in South Central. Cool people spit. So he began spitting; because imitation is the most sincere form of flattery.
He was smoking a cheap cigarette and spat in between puffs.
He spat down by his shiny black shoes.
His shoes were non-descript. He was non-descript like his shoes. You felt you could only describe him because of his non-descriptiveness. He had shiny black hair and shiny black shoes. He wore black leather jacket and white shirt and black jeans. He was maybe a heroin junkie or a speed freak.
He had sunken cheeks and evil eyes.
And now he was spitting.
Black stubble like dirt littered his skinny chicken neck.
Spit. Spit. Puff. Puff.
Grease dripped from him like turkey juice.
He was a slimy goose rising from a bowl of lard.
Spitting globules of fat on to the land. Or, in this case, the concrete under the bus shelter at the bus stop.
Finally he spat so much that mucus began running down the gutters carrying little rafts of cigarette butts ferrying ants to another place.
And then, finally, he spat so much that his shoes disappeared.
But he carried on spitting.
And then, finally, he spat so much that his black leather jacket, white shirt and black jeans disappeared.
So he sat there waiting, smoking, spitting, naked – because heroin junkies or speed freaks don’t wear underpants.
And then, finally, he spat so much that his sunken cheeks disappeared.
The evil left his eyes.
The dirty stubble left his neck.
The grease left his hair.
It was all spat away.
And, still, he continued to spit.
And spit.
And spit.
Until the years of his age began to disappear. Each time he spat another layer would peel off like onionskin and disappear.
He became younger and younger. Pubic hair disappeared and his penis shrunk.
Pockmarks gave way to baby skin smooth and shiny in the artificial light that illuminated the scene like the eye of a dragon.
Soon there sat a baby.
Smoking a cheap cigarette.
Waiting for a bus that just might never ever come.….spitting on the ground.
You would think that he would stop spitting at this particular juncture. But oh no, not this guy. Now it was a habit. He couldn’t help himself.
So he, the baby, continued spitting until he was a foetus.
And then, finally, he spat so much that he disappeared completely.
I know all this because I too was waiting for that bus, and I witnessed it all.
Zero point zero zero zero one of a second after he disappeared the bus pulled up to the stop and I got on, went home, and brewed myself a cup of Chinese green tea.
I heard recently that the guy now resides in another dimension where, as penance, he is made to ferry lost souls over the rancid Sea of Phlegm – which is actually a just a lake, although it is a very large lake.
The Sea of Phlegm is sometimes treacherous with chunks of lung lining, hard green matter, and bloody crusts.
The ferry is made from a skeleton of human bones with stretched and dried human leather over the frame.
The guy has an oar made from a human arm and a punting pole made from a thighbone.
The cheap cigarette is still in his mouth.
And this is where he must stay.
Ferrying lost souls across a lake of spit like the cigarette butts ferried ants down gutters overflowing with mucus an eternity ago, when he still had a chance to change his ways.
And stop spitting.
THE END.
Saturday, 12 May 2007
Falling To Pieces.
FALLING TO PIECES.
By D. Jonas Laurence
One day I began falling to pieces.
I suppose now, looking back on it all, it had been imminent for quite some time, years in fact, a lifetime maybe, but it all began in earnest one day. One day I couldn’t cloud myself in milky, billowy, marshmallow pillows of alcohol, or drugs, or DVDs, or music, or books, or cooking shows, or radio broadcasts, or Playstation, or pornography, or shopping, or anything…
One day I could not deny the simple fact;
I was falling to pieces.
It began with my fingernails.
One day I was showering. I was washing my hair with an expensive dandruff shampoo that I need to use in order to keep my shoulders from looking like someone has sprinkled flaky piles of cocaine on them, when I felt something within the soapy coils of my hair.
I placed my head under the boiling hot stream of water and manoeuvred whatever it was in my hair until it was in my hand.
I looked down. It was a fingernail.
I inspected my hands and found that the nail of the little finger on my left hand was missing. It had simply fallen off.
I turned the fingernail clutched between the fingers of my right hand. I stared at it. There was no blood or evidence of it having been pulled or knocked off. It seemed to have just fallen off. And left nude pink skin in its place.
The next day another fingernail fell off.
And the next day another fell off.
And the same thing the next day.
And the next.
And the next.
Until I had no fingernails.
Of course my toenails were next to go.
They turned a strange orange and flaked off like cheese smelling cornflakes.
I found these hidden in the folds of my duvets.
Hidden in the folds of my socks.
Scattered to the corners of my rooms.
Ten of them.
I began to get worried.
Next thing to go was my hair.
I don’t just mean the hair on my head.
I mean all my hair.
I was soon as pube-less as a ten-year-old boy.
Hair even fell out of my nose.
And my eyebrows.
My eyelashes fell out for Christ’s sake!
Then one ear fell off as I was driving to work one morning.
That annoyed me.
Then one of my balls fell off when I arrived at work.
It fell out the bottom of my slacks and bounced down the hall like a flesh coloured ping-pong ball.
My secretary happened to be walking down the hall and stood on it with a mushy noise.
She screamed and I sent her home for the day.
(No pay of course as she had crushed my nut!)
I had begun carrying around a small rucksack and I placed my squashed nut in the rucksack along with my finger and toenails, my hair, and my right ear.
What next? I thought.
And as if in answer my nose fell onto the floor with a snotty slap.
Fuck! I screamed.
I picked my nose…up off the floor and threw it in my bag.
Then I ran from the office as fast as I could.
So fast in fact that I didn’t notice that my foreskin had fallen off somewhere.
I ran back to my car and drove out of the city.
I was sweating, panicking, freaking out, and I stopped to get a pack of cigarettes on the outskirts of the city.
I drove into the desert.
I smoked a cigarette with my arm hanging out the window.
The two nail-less fingers holding my cigarette fell off.
They bounced and skidded across the road and two hyenas picked up one each in their jaws and ran away laughing.
Bastards! I screamed and jammed on the brakes.
I skidded to a stop and reached into my glove compartment for my gun.
I jumped out of my car and aimed at the closer of the disappearing hyenas.
I pulled the trigger.
But I forgot that I no longer had a trigger finger.
The bastards got away.
So I got back in my car and started driving.
I began to get hungry and thirsty and decided to stop at the next restaurant I saw.
I saw a restaurant up ahead nestled in the shade of a huge red rock.
The name of the restaurant was THE HUGE RED ROCK RESTAURANT.
I skidded into the parking lot with dust and rocks and a slab of my elbow flying.
My mind was racing like a horse on speed.
I got out of my car, still sweating.
I stepped into the cool interior of the restaurant.
I went and sat at the bar.
The bartender and I seemed to be the only people in the place.
I put my rucksack down on the seat beside me.
“Hey guy,” the heavily tattooed bartender said to me, his muscled arms flexing, sticking out of the denim waistcoat (no shirt beneath) that he wore, “You okay? You don’t look so good.”
“Of course I don’t look too good!!” I screamed. “My fucken nose has fallen off! My right nut has fallen off and been stood on by my secretary! Give me a fucken whiskey. A double.”
The bartenders face grimaced at my outburst.
But he poured the whiskey anyway.
I gulped it in one.
My heart was racing again.
“Give me another.” I said.
So he did.
“You got any supa-glue?”
“What?”
“I said, ‘you got any supa-glue?’ What, you dumb or something?”
So the bartender sighed and rummaged in a drawer under the bar and passed me a tube of supa-glue.
I took my rucksack and opened it. I extracted my nose and smeared it with glue. I stuck it back on my face.
I took my squashed ball and moulded it like putty back into a shape like a testicle.
I rubbed glue on it and put my hand down my slacks, inside my silk boxer shorts.
I stuck my ball back on.
The bartender watched me with an amused look on his face.
I held up my hand, the one with the two fingers missing.
“Fucken hyenas got my fingers man.” I said.
“I hear you brother. I hear you.” He replied.
Next I stuck my ear back on.
Next I stuck my hair back on.
I was a poet and I did not know it.
I was getting tired.
I drank another whiskey.
I threw a lot of money on the bar. Enough for the whiskies and the supa-glue.
“Thanks for listening.” I said, and stood up to leave.
“It’s my job man. It’s my job.” The bartender said and began polishing the bar with smelly wood polish.
I left and got back in my car.
I looked in the mirror.
I looked a little better with my nose and hair back on, but I had glued my ear on upside-down. That pissed me off.
An exhaustion now came over me like a wave of poisoned gas.
I started my car and started driving.
I needed to find a place to sleep.
Finally I came to the outskirts of a small town. The sun was going down.
I slowed and near Main Street saw a sign in neon that said:
HOTEL SMALL TOWN – Rooms to rent – vacancies.
I parked my car outside and scooped up my rucksack and my supa-glue.
Faceless peoples walked the footpaths. Birds chirped. Dragonflies chased gnats and mosquitoes. Wolves howled in the distance. Vultures circled in the darkening sky. Bad omens everywhere.
I checked in with a fat woman smoking a menthol cigarette.
She gave me my key after I gave her a lot of money.
I went to my room located at the back of the hotel.
My room overlooked a park where children played on swings and jungle-jims and merry-go-rounds, and mothers talked in small groups watching their kids like hawks.
I watched this scene and felt tears spill from my eyes.
My heart broke inside me.
Broke into a million pieces and I knew that I would need to buy more supa-glue in order to put it back together again.
More tears spilled.
Then my left eye fell out.
I tried to pick it up but my hand, the one with three fingers, fell off.
My shoes fell from my feet.
My socks fell off.
My toes scattered like marbles.
My nipples fell off.
My kneecaps fell off.
I picked up the telephone with my one good hand.
I pressed one for reception.
“Please!” I screamed, “You gotta help me. I’m falling to pieces. I need all the supa-glue you can find. Please, I’m begging you! I’ll pay anything. Just bring me supa-glue!”
I could hear the fat woman smoking her shit-smelling menthol cigarette.
“Well…okay then.” She said, and hung up.
Thirty minutes later there was a knock at the door.
I crawled over (my feet had fallen off, as had one leg below the knee – or where the knee used to be) and called out.
“Please leave the glue just inside my door. Don’t try to look at me!”
I unlocked the door, after turning off the light, and hid behind the door.
The fat woman wheeled in a wheelbarrow. Placed it down on the floor and left.
“Thank you! God bless you!” I yelled to her, just before my tongue fell out.
Then I locked the door and turned on the light.
Piled on the wheelbarrow were twenty industrial sized buckets of supa-glue.
I began carrying each bucket into the bathroom. Crawling. Sometimes pushing the buckets, sometimes pulling them.
I had to do twenty trips.
Each time I lost more of myself.
My arse cheeks fell off.
My chin fell off.
My moles fell off.
My armpits fell off.
My cock fell off and I put it in my tongue-less mouth so that I would not lose it.
Finally I had all the buckets in the bathroom.
I poured all the buckets into the bathtub.
The glue came about half way up the sides.
Next I crawled around the room picking up all the pieces of myself.
I put them all inside the bathtub as well.
Finally I crawled into the glue bath.
I began putting the pieces of myself back together.
But it was like a really difficult jigsaw puzzle.
I couldn’t figure out where all the pieces went.
Nothing made sense.
I tried and I tried.
But the exhaustion was too much.
I couldn’t help myself.
I fell asleep in the warm glue.
I never did wake up.
I guess it was just my time to go.
As I mentioned, I had been falling to pieces for such a long time I don’t think there was anything I could do to stop it. I mean I tried. I never gave up until the end, when I just couldn’t fight it anymore.
I just had to sink into the glue.
It was nice to know that some people missed me.
I wish I had have known that when I was still around.
Maybe that could have helped in some way.
Maybe that could have made it easier.
I don’t know.
And I guess, now, I never will.
My obituary read:
Dead.
Will be missed by children Larry and Sarah and by ex-wife Laura.
Beloved son of James and Mary.
Victim of a freak glue accident.
I guess the old children’s nursery rhyme was true.
All the King’s horses and all the King’s men couldn’t put Humpty together again.
THE END.
By D. Jonas Laurence
One day I began falling to pieces.
I suppose now, looking back on it all, it had been imminent for quite some time, years in fact, a lifetime maybe, but it all began in earnest one day. One day I couldn’t cloud myself in milky, billowy, marshmallow pillows of alcohol, or drugs, or DVDs, or music, or books, or cooking shows, or radio broadcasts, or Playstation, or pornography, or shopping, or anything…
One day I could not deny the simple fact;
I was falling to pieces.
It began with my fingernails.
One day I was showering. I was washing my hair with an expensive dandruff shampoo that I need to use in order to keep my shoulders from looking like someone has sprinkled flaky piles of cocaine on them, when I felt something within the soapy coils of my hair.
I placed my head under the boiling hot stream of water and manoeuvred whatever it was in my hair until it was in my hand.
I looked down. It was a fingernail.
I inspected my hands and found that the nail of the little finger on my left hand was missing. It had simply fallen off.
I turned the fingernail clutched between the fingers of my right hand. I stared at it. There was no blood or evidence of it having been pulled or knocked off. It seemed to have just fallen off. And left nude pink skin in its place.
The next day another fingernail fell off.
And the next day another fell off.
And the same thing the next day.
And the next.
And the next.
Until I had no fingernails.
Of course my toenails were next to go.
They turned a strange orange and flaked off like cheese smelling cornflakes.
I found these hidden in the folds of my duvets.
Hidden in the folds of my socks.
Scattered to the corners of my rooms.
Ten of them.
I began to get worried.
Next thing to go was my hair.
I don’t just mean the hair on my head.
I mean all my hair.
I was soon as pube-less as a ten-year-old boy.
Hair even fell out of my nose.
And my eyebrows.
My eyelashes fell out for Christ’s sake!
Then one ear fell off as I was driving to work one morning.
That annoyed me.
Then one of my balls fell off when I arrived at work.
It fell out the bottom of my slacks and bounced down the hall like a flesh coloured ping-pong ball.
My secretary happened to be walking down the hall and stood on it with a mushy noise.
She screamed and I sent her home for the day.
(No pay of course as she had crushed my nut!)
I had begun carrying around a small rucksack and I placed my squashed nut in the rucksack along with my finger and toenails, my hair, and my right ear.
What next? I thought.
And as if in answer my nose fell onto the floor with a snotty slap.
Fuck! I screamed.
I picked my nose…up off the floor and threw it in my bag.
Then I ran from the office as fast as I could.
So fast in fact that I didn’t notice that my foreskin had fallen off somewhere.
I ran back to my car and drove out of the city.
I was sweating, panicking, freaking out, and I stopped to get a pack of cigarettes on the outskirts of the city.
I drove into the desert.
I smoked a cigarette with my arm hanging out the window.
The two nail-less fingers holding my cigarette fell off.
They bounced and skidded across the road and two hyenas picked up one each in their jaws and ran away laughing.
Bastards! I screamed and jammed on the brakes.
I skidded to a stop and reached into my glove compartment for my gun.
I jumped out of my car and aimed at the closer of the disappearing hyenas.
I pulled the trigger.
But I forgot that I no longer had a trigger finger.
The bastards got away.
So I got back in my car and started driving.
I began to get hungry and thirsty and decided to stop at the next restaurant I saw.
I saw a restaurant up ahead nestled in the shade of a huge red rock.
The name of the restaurant was THE HUGE RED ROCK RESTAURANT.
I skidded into the parking lot with dust and rocks and a slab of my elbow flying.
My mind was racing like a horse on speed.
I got out of my car, still sweating.
I stepped into the cool interior of the restaurant.
I went and sat at the bar.
The bartender and I seemed to be the only people in the place.
I put my rucksack down on the seat beside me.
“Hey guy,” the heavily tattooed bartender said to me, his muscled arms flexing, sticking out of the denim waistcoat (no shirt beneath) that he wore, “You okay? You don’t look so good.”
“Of course I don’t look too good!!” I screamed. “My fucken nose has fallen off! My right nut has fallen off and been stood on by my secretary! Give me a fucken whiskey. A double.”
The bartenders face grimaced at my outburst.
But he poured the whiskey anyway.
I gulped it in one.
My heart was racing again.
“Give me another.” I said.
So he did.
“You got any supa-glue?”
“What?”
“I said, ‘you got any supa-glue?’ What, you dumb or something?”
So the bartender sighed and rummaged in a drawer under the bar and passed me a tube of supa-glue.
I took my rucksack and opened it. I extracted my nose and smeared it with glue. I stuck it back on my face.
I took my squashed ball and moulded it like putty back into a shape like a testicle.
I rubbed glue on it and put my hand down my slacks, inside my silk boxer shorts.
I stuck my ball back on.
The bartender watched me with an amused look on his face.
I held up my hand, the one with the two fingers missing.
“Fucken hyenas got my fingers man.” I said.
“I hear you brother. I hear you.” He replied.
Next I stuck my ear back on.
Next I stuck my hair back on.
I was a poet and I did not know it.
I was getting tired.
I drank another whiskey.
I threw a lot of money on the bar. Enough for the whiskies and the supa-glue.
“Thanks for listening.” I said, and stood up to leave.
“It’s my job man. It’s my job.” The bartender said and began polishing the bar with smelly wood polish.
I left and got back in my car.
I looked in the mirror.
I looked a little better with my nose and hair back on, but I had glued my ear on upside-down. That pissed me off.
An exhaustion now came over me like a wave of poisoned gas.
I started my car and started driving.
I needed to find a place to sleep.
Finally I came to the outskirts of a small town. The sun was going down.
I slowed and near Main Street saw a sign in neon that said:
HOTEL SMALL TOWN – Rooms to rent – vacancies.
I parked my car outside and scooped up my rucksack and my supa-glue.
Faceless peoples walked the footpaths. Birds chirped. Dragonflies chased gnats and mosquitoes. Wolves howled in the distance. Vultures circled in the darkening sky. Bad omens everywhere.
I checked in with a fat woman smoking a menthol cigarette.
She gave me my key after I gave her a lot of money.
I went to my room located at the back of the hotel.
My room overlooked a park where children played on swings and jungle-jims and merry-go-rounds, and mothers talked in small groups watching their kids like hawks.
I watched this scene and felt tears spill from my eyes.
My heart broke inside me.
Broke into a million pieces and I knew that I would need to buy more supa-glue in order to put it back together again.
More tears spilled.
Then my left eye fell out.
I tried to pick it up but my hand, the one with three fingers, fell off.
My shoes fell from my feet.
My socks fell off.
My toes scattered like marbles.
My nipples fell off.
My kneecaps fell off.
I picked up the telephone with my one good hand.
I pressed one for reception.
“Please!” I screamed, “You gotta help me. I’m falling to pieces. I need all the supa-glue you can find. Please, I’m begging you! I’ll pay anything. Just bring me supa-glue!”
I could hear the fat woman smoking her shit-smelling menthol cigarette.
“Well…okay then.” She said, and hung up.
Thirty minutes later there was a knock at the door.
I crawled over (my feet had fallen off, as had one leg below the knee – or where the knee used to be) and called out.
“Please leave the glue just inside my door. Don’t try to look at me!”
I unlocked the door, after turning off the light, and hid behind the door.
The fat woman wheeled in a wheelbarrow. Placed it down on the floor and left.
“Thank you! God bless you!” I yelled to her, just before my tongue fell out.
Then I locked the door and turned on the light.
Piled on the wheelbarrow were twenty industrial sized buckets of supa-glue.
I began carrying each bucket into the bathroom. Crawling. Sometimes pushing the buckets, sometimes pulling them.
I had to do twenty trips.
Each time I lost more of myself.
My arse cheeks fell off.
My chin fell off.
My moles fell off.
My armpits fell off.
My cock fell off and I put it in my tongue-less mouth so that I would not lose it.
Finally I had all the buckets in the bathroom.
I poured all the buckets into the bathtub.
The glue came about half way up the sides.
Next I crawled around the room picking up all the pieces of myself.
I put them all inside the bathtub as well.
Finally I crawled into the glue bath.
I began putting the pieces of myself back together.
But it was like a really difficult jigsaw puzzle.
I couldn’t figure out where all the pieces went.
Nothing made sense.
I tried and I tried.
But the exhaustion was too much.
I couldn’t help myself.
I fell asleep in the warm glue.
I never did wake up.
I guess it was just my time to go.
As I mentioned, I had been falling to pieces for such a long time I don’t think there was anything I could do to stop it. I mean I tried. I never gave up until the end, when I just couldn’t fight it anymore.
I just had to sink into the glue.
It was nice to know that some people missed me.
I wish I had have known that when I was still around.
Maybe that could have helped in some way.
Maybe that could have made it easier.
I don’t know.
And I guess, now, I never will.
My obituary read:
Dead.
Will be missed by children Larry and Sarah and by ex-wife Laura.
Beloved son of James and Mary.
Victim of a freak glue accident.
I guess the old children’s nursery rhyme was true.
All the King’s horses and all the King’s men couldn’t put Humpty together again.
THE END.
Thursday, 10 May 2007
The Man Who Gave Up Everythng.
Just for you Willats to read when you are supposed to be working.
THE MAN WHO GAVE UP EVERYTHING.
By D. Jonas Laurence.
Once upon a time there was a man who gave up everything.
First of all he gave up cigarettes. After a while he felt so good about giving up cigarettes that he gave up drinking beer.
He felt so much better for giving up drinking beer that he soon gave up drinking bourbon. And whiskey. And vodka. And absinthe. And poteen. And the 100% alcohol solution that they keep in torpedo chambers of submarines.
He felt good giving up things.
So he gave up brushing his hair.
He gave up cutting his hair.
He gave up shaving or brushing his teeth.
He gave up wearing shoes.
He gave up ironing his clothes. Then he gave up wearing clothes all together.
He walked around naked, with mangy hair and beard, smelly breath, dirty (because he had given up using shower gel or even showering), until he gave up walking as well.
He would then stay at home not sitting, not standing, just sort of hovering, because, of course, he had given up both sitting and standing.
He had given up his furniture and his oven. His house was empty. Except for dust. He had given up dusting.
Then he gave up his house.
He had given up mowing the lawns a long time before.
So then he began to hover on the streets.
He gave up eating ice cream.
He gave up eating chicken.
He gave up drinking coke.
He gave up eating apples.
Then he gave up eating all together.
Then he gave up drinking any form of liquid at all.
Then he hovered to the country, he had given up on the city.
He kept his eyes closed; he had given up on seeing.
He kept bumping into trees, but he soon gave that up.
Until finally he hovered into a field of grass and daisies and he lay down.
“I have given up hovering,” he said to himself, “my hovering days are over.”
So he lay there on the grass and daisies of a field in the countryside with his eyes shut.
Then he decided that his heart would give up beating.
Then he decided that he would give up breathing.
Then he decided that he would give up living.
And he would have been happy but for the fact that he had already given up on being happy a long, long, time ago.
And so he gave up living.
And he found himself before the great big pearly gates of Heaven.
And St. Peter said to him “Do you think you are worthy of entering Heaven?”
But he didn’t answer, you see, because he had given up answering questions whilst on earth. Whilst living.
“Oh, you’ve given up on answering have you?” St. Peter boomed. He couldn’t see him of course, because he had still given up on seeing, but St. Peter’s voice radiated around him like music from a symphony orchestra.
Until he gave up hearing.
“Suit yourself.” St. Peter sighed and cast him down into the pits of Hell. Because if you come to the great big pearly gates of Heaven and have given up answering then you can’t very well answer the question that St. Peter has for you, and if you don’t answer then you must be cast into the pits. Them’s the rules.
And so he found himself in the pits of Hell.
And Satan came running over on his cloven feet like a little schoolgirl with a new Barbie doll to play with.
“Yayyyy!!!” he said in a nasal voice, “I can’t wait for you to suffer in the eternal flames of damnation.”
But of course our hero had given up seeing and hearing, so he didn’t know that everyone was talking to him. Satan got closer and peered into his face.
“Hmmm,” he said, “given up seeing and hearing what what.”
Satan had extremely bad breath, as you can imagine, as that is one of the tortures of Hell, everyone you meet has terrible halitosis, and so our man gave up smelling right away.
“Bugger,” said Satan, “I’ll just have to throw him into the beginners pool of burning molten lava for a couple of thousand years.”
So he did.
But Satan hadn’t counted on one fact.
Our hero had already given up feeling anything. So the burning molten lava didn’t hurt, and he had already given up on burning, so his skin remained intact.
And now he simply gave up on the effects of time, so the couple of thousand years in the beginners’ pool flew by in 00.00001 of a second.
“Shitbox!!!” the Devil screamed, “turds! Butt-plugs! Feces face!” The Devil was angry you see.
“What can I do?……” the Devil mused sitting on his baboon red arse, “how can I give this pooh-stain the proper punishment?”
But it didn’t matter anyway because at that moment our protagonist decided to give up Hell.
So he found himself in a place where he did not know.
He had given up seeing, hearing, smelling, and feeling. He couldn’t taste anything so he gave up trying.
So then he did the only thing that he could think of.
(Before he gave up thinking.)
He gave up existing.
THE END.
THE MAN WHO GAVE UP EVERYTHING.
By D. Jonas Laurence.
Once upon a time there was a man who gave up everything.
First of all he gave up cigarettes. After a while he felt so good about giving up cigarettes that he gave up drinking beer.
He felt so much better for giving up drinking beer that he soon gave up drinking bourbon. And whiskey. And vodka. And absinthe. And poteen. And the 100% alcohol solution that they keep in torpedo chambers of submarines.
He felt good giving up things.
So he gave up brushing his hair.
He gave up cutting his hair.
He gave up shaving or brushing his teeth.
He gave up wearing shoes.
He gave up ironing his clothes. Then he gave up wearing clothes all together.
He walked around naked, with mangy hair and beard, smelly breath, dirty (because he had given up using shower gel or even showering), until he gave up walking as well.
He would then stay at home not sitting, not standing, just sort of hovering, because, of course, he had given up both sitting and standing.
He had given up his furniture and his oven. His house was empty. Except for dust. He had given up dusting.
Then he gave up his house.
He had given up mowing the lawns a long time before.
So then he began to hover on the streets.
He gave up eating ice cream.
He gave up eating chicken.
He gave up drinking coke.
He gave up eating apples.
Then he gave up eating all together.
Then he gave up drinking any form of liquid at all.
Then he hovered to the country, he had given up on the city.
He kept his eyes closed; he had given up on seeing.
He kept bumping into trees, but he soon gave that up.
Until finally he hovered into a field of grass and daisies and he lay down.
“I have given up hovering,” he said to himself, “my hovering days are over.”
So he lay there on the grass and daisies of a field in the countryside with his eyes shut.
Then he decided that his heart would give up beating.
Then he decided that he would give up breathing.
Then he decided that he would give up living.
And he would have been happy but for the fact that he had already given up on being happy a long, long, time ago.
And so he gave up living.
And he found himself before the great big pearly gates of Heaven.
And St. Peter said to him “Do you think you are worthy of entering Heaven?”
But he didn’t answer, you see, because he had given up answering questions whilst on earth. Whilst living.
“Oh, you’ve given up on answering have you?” St. Peter boomed. He couldn’t see him of course, because he had still given up on seeing, but St. Peter’s voice radiated around him like music from a symphony orchestra.
Until he gave up hearing.
“Suit yourself.” St. Peter sighed and cast him down into the pits of Hell. Because if you come to the great big pearly gates of Heaven and have given up answering then you can’t very well answer the question that St. Peter has for you, and if you don’t answer then you must be cast into the pits. Them’s the rules.
And so he found himself in the pits of Hell.
And Satan came running over on his cloven feet like a little schoolgirl with a new Barbie doll to play with.
“Yayyyy!!!” he said in a nasal voice, “I can’t wait for you to suffer in the eternal flames of damnation.”
But of course our hero had given up seeing and hearing, so he didn’t know that everyone was talking to him. Satan got closer and peered into his face.
“Hmmm,” he said, “given up seeing and hearing what what.”
Satan had extremely bad breath, as you can imagine, as that is one of the tortures of Hell, everyone you meet has terrible halitosis, and so our man gave up smelling right away.
“Bugger,” said Satan, “I’ll just have to throw him into the beginners pool of burning molten lava for a couple of thousand years.”
So he did.
But Satan hadn’t counted on one fact.
Our hero had already given up feeling anything. So the burning molten lava didn’t hurt, and he had already given up on burning, so his skin remained intact.
And now he simply gave up on the effects of time, so the couple of thousand years in the beginners’ pool flew by in 00.00001 of a second.
“Shitbox!!!” the Devil screamed, “turds! Butt-plugs! Feces face!” The Devil was angry you see.
“What can I do?……” the Devil mused sitting on his baboon red arse, “how can I give this pooh-stain the proper punishment?”
But it didn’t matter anyway because at that moment our protagonist decided to give up Hell.
So he found himself in a place where he did not know.
He had given up seeing, hearing, smelling, and feeling. He couldn’t taste anything so he gave up trying.
So then he did the only thing that he could think of.
(Before he gave up thinking.)
He gave up existing.
THE END.
Monday, 30 April 2007
Pleurisy
PLEURISY.
By D. Jonas Laurence
One day we got pleurisy.
We did not know the symptoms of pleurisy.
George said,
"I don't know…I feel like I have eaten a bad curry and I am gonna throw up at any moment."
Peter said,
"I feel as if a zepplin has been rammed into my bowels. I haven't had a shit for days!"
Simon said,
"I feel as if I have been to Africa and have been attacked by those flies that lay eggs in your skin,…until your skin erupts with maggots!"
Jill said,
"I feel as if I have been out for three days in a row drinking cider and taking pills until my eyes are gonna explode!"
Diana said,
"I feel as if I have contracted syphilis and am going mad…more mad each and every day…"
Philip said,
"I feel as if I have been ass-raped by a group of hillbillies, then tarred and feathered, then left for the ants to eat…"
Gemima said,
"I feel as if the crushing cruelty of man has weighted down upon my head like a steel dumb-bell for so long that my spine has become like a twisted spring."
David said,
"That's just life for you."
And then he died of pleurisy.
THE END.
By D. Jonas Laurence
One day we got pleurisy.
We did not know the symptoms of pleurisy.
George said,
"I don't know…I feel like I have eaten a bad curry and I am gonna throw up at any moment."
Peter said,
"I feel as if a zepplin has been rammed into my bowels. I haven't had a shit for days!"
Simon said,
"I feel as if I have been to Africa and have been attacked by those flies that lay eggs in your skin,…until your skin erupts with maggots!"
Jill said,
"I feel as if I have been out for three days in a row drinking cider and taking pills until my eyes are gonna explode!"
Diana said,
"I feel as if I have contracted syphilis and am going mad…more mad each and every day…"
Philip said,
"I feel as if I have been ass-raped by a group of hillbillies, then tarred and feathered, then left for the ants to eat…"
Gemima said,
"I feel as if the crushing cruelty of man has weighted down upon my head like a steel dumb-bell for so long that my spine has become like a twisted spring."
David said,
"That's just life for you."
And then he died of pleurisy.
THE END.
Tuesday, 17 April 2007
Abuse
ABUSE.
By D. Jonas Laurence
I guess he had always treated me bad.
Always forgotten about me.
Never thought about the harm he was doing me.
Never giving a moments thought.
Acting without conscience.
Doing whatever he wanted whenever he wanted.
Hurting me.
Battering me.
Bashing me.
Forcing me into uncomfortable situations.
Abusing me.
Everyday.
Abusing me.
Killing me.
Little by little.
Bit by bit.
One piece at a time.
One cell at a time.
One atom at a time.
Until, finally, I got up enough courage and left him.
I escaped, somehow, I escaped.
I got away from him.
Left him for good.
And for a while it was good.
For a while I felt better.
I felt alive.
I felt free.
My wounds began to heal over.
I began to think thoughts that I never could’ve before.
I began to plan for my life without him.
I had a future to look forward to.
A future unbound by abuse.
A future of infinite possibilities.
But, then, he came looking for me.
Like I had always known he would.
And I realised that I had been deluded myself.
I realised that he would always be coming after me.
He wouldn’t stop.
Not ever.
And he would always know where I was.
He would always have a sense for what I was thinking.
And I realised that I would have to outsmart him.
Outthink him.
Outplan him.
And probably, in the end, kill him.
II
Since a young age he had drank too much.
Partied too hard.
Taken anything he could ingest.
Mushrooms, l.s.d., ketamine, ecstasy, speed, cocaine, rohypnol…
Sniffed glue, sniffed aerosol cans, sniffed paint, sniffed marker pens, sniffed correction fluids…
Smoked hash and weed and resin and oil.
Got high all the time.
He crashed cars.
Crashed motorcycles.
Crashed bicycles.
Crashed parties.
Went days without food, without water, without sleep, without consideration…
And these constant binges hurt me.
Harmed me.
But he didn’t care at all.
We had been together for ever it seemed.
I couldn’t remember not being with him.
Although I think it was around the age of ten or eleven when we first noticed each other.
He killed a fantail bird and cried.
I just cried.
And I still cry.
I still cry.
We lived together in his parents’ house for a while
(his parents seemed disapproving of my ways)
before we moved into a small apartment of our own.
He worked mindless jobs for money.
I just dreamed and drifted away.
Then the abuse started getting worse.
Every night he drank or got high.
Every night he abused me.
And I put up with it.
For a long time I put up with it.
Like a stupid woman coming back for a beating.
I put up with it.
And then I realised that all the abuse was damaging me.
And I realised that I would have to get away before the damage was irrefutable.
And so one night as he lay sleeping, snoring, I slipped away.
And like I said before I was happy…
Until he came for me.
III
The night is cold.
I feel it on me like the breath of a demon.
The infinite stars shine like my infinite thoughts.
Each thought is a star in the darkness.
Dying in a blaze of light.
The dew glistens on the ground like glass shards of a wine bottle.
Things move in the bushes near by the train tracks.
Things can smell me.
Smell my fear.
He can smell me too.
I am like bloody ground beef to a shark.
He is a shark.
A dumb animal seeking its prey with instinctual cunning.
That is what it has come down to.
Instincts against intellect.
The body against the mind.
I remember how I used to talk to him.
How I would try to make him see the damage that he was doing.
How having me around should have made him stop.
But there were always excuses.
Always more parties.
Always more alcohol.
Always more drugs.
And I remember how I would try to stop him going, but he would always be stronger than me, and soon I wouldn’t have the strength to try and fight him.
Then I would just shut down and he would do whatever he wanted.
He is coming now.
I am sure of it.
The bushes and trees have gone quiet.
Like death.
In the distance I can hear the train coming.
It is the train of my salvation.
It is the train of my hope.
And now I hear a crack of a branch and kick of a stone.
And I can see through his eyes.
See the train tracks.
See the bushes in which I hide.
He is on the other side of the tracks.
The train is getting closer.
Closer.
Closer.
He is stumbling now, mindless, drunk probably, coming closer as well.
Closer.
Closer.
The train lets off a blast of its horn.
The ground is shaking.
The noise is louder.
He knows where I am.
He has almost reached the edge of the tracks.
The train is just around the bend.
I hope that he doesn’t realise what I am doing.
I try to clear my mind otherwise he will somehow cotton on.
Somehow, in his mindless state, he will feel my plan.
And he is so close now.
And the train is so close now.
And, although I am scared to death, I must wait.
Wait until the last moment.
When the train is upon us I will show myself.
And if I have timed it right he will step onto the tracks just as the train comes.
And then I will be free.
Finally I will be free.
Free from the abuse.
Then I will be alone.
Then I will be able to live and dream and just be.
Alone with my thoughts.
My magical thoughts.
And he will not be able to kill me anymore.
I will just be.
A brain.
For that is what I am.
A brain.
And he is, was, my body.
And he always abused me.
But I escaped.
And I hope.
I hope the train kills my body.
Smashes it into a million pieces.
Then I can slide and crawl around the Earth.
With just my thoughts.
With just my pure, non-abused, thoughts.
And I will be free.
I will be as free as the stars in the night sky.
I will be free.
THE END.
By D. Jonas Laurence
I guess he had always treated me bad.
Always forgotten about me.
Never thought about the harm he was doing me.
Never giving a moments thought.
Acting without conscience.
Doing whatever he wanted whenever he wanted.
Hurting me.
Battering me.
Bashing me.
Forcing me into uncomfortable situations.
Abusing me.
Everyday.
Abusing me.
Killing me.
Little by little.
Bit by bit.
One piece at a time.
One cell at a time.
One atom at a time.
Until, finally, I got up enough courage and left him.
I escaped, somehow, I escaped.
I got away from him.
Left him for good.
And for a while it was good.
For a while I felt better.
I felt alive.
I felt free.
My wounds began to heal over.
I began to think thoughts that I never could’ve before.
I began to plan for my life without him.
I had a future to look forward to.
A future unbound by abuse.
A future of infinite possibilities.
But, then, he came looking for me.
Like I had always known he would.
And I realised that I had been deluded myself.
I realised that he would always be coming after me.
He wouldn’t stop.
Not ever.
And he would always know where I was.
He would always have a sense for what I was thinking.
And I realised that I would have to outsmart him.
Outthink him.
Outplan him.
And probably, in the end, kill him.
II
Since a young age he had drank too much.
Partied too hard.
Taken anything he could ingest.
Mushrooms, l.s.d., ketamine, ecstasy, speed, cocaine, rohypnol…
Sniffed glue, sniffed aerosol cans, sniffed paint, sniffed marker pens, sniffed correction fluids…
Smoked hash and weed and resin and oil.
Got high all the time.
He crashed cars.
Crashed motorcycles.
Crashed bicycles.
Crashed parties.
Went days without food, without water, without sleep, without consideration…
And these constant binges hurt me.
Harmed me.
But he didn’t care at all.
We had been together for ever it seemed.
I couldn’t remember not being with him.
Although I think it was around the age of ten or eleven when we first noticed each other.
He killed a fantail bird and cried.
I just cried.
And I still cry.
I still cry.
We lived together in his parents’ house for a while
(his parents seemed disapproving of my ways)
before we moved into a small apartment of our own.
He worked mindless jobs for money.
I just dreamed and drifted away.
Then the abuse started getting worse.
Every night he drank or got high.
Every night he abused me.
And I put up with it.
For a long time I put up with it.
Like a stupid woman coming back for a beating.
I put up with it.
And then I realised that all the abuse was damaging me.
And I realised that I would have to get away before the damage was irrefutable.
And so one night as he lay sleeping, snoring, I slipped away.
And like I said before I was happy…
Until he came for me.
III
The night is cold.
I feel it on me like the breath of a demon.
The infinite stars shine like my infinite thoughts.
Each thought is a star in the darkness.
Dying in a blaze of light.
The dew glistens on the ground like glass shards of a wine bottle.
Things move in the bushes near by the train tracks.
Things can smell me.
Smell my fear.
He can smell me too.
I am like bloody ground beef to a shark.
He is a shark.
A dumb animal seeking its prey with instinctual cunning.
That is what it has come down to.
Instincts against intellect.
The body against the mind.
I remember how I used to talk to him.
How I would try to make him see the damage that he was doing.
How having me around should have made him stop.
But there were always excuses.
Always more parties.
Always more alcohol.
Always more drugs.
And I remember how I would try to stop him going, but he would always be stronger than me, and soon I wouldn’t have the strength to try and fight him.
Then I would just shut down and he would do whatever he wanted.
He is coming now.
I am sure of it.
The bushes and trees have gone quiet.
Like death.
In the distance I can hear the train coming.
It is the train of my salvation.
It is the train of my hope.
And now I hear a crack of a branch and kick of a stone.
And I can see through his eyes.
See the train tracks.
See the bushes in which I hide.
He is on the other side of the tracks.
The train is getting closer.
Closer.
Closer.
He is stumbling now, mindless, drunk probably, coming closer as well.
Closer.
Closer.
The train lets off a blast of its horn.
The ground is shaking.
The noise is louder.
He knows where I am.
He has almost reached the edge of the tracks.
The train is just around the bend.
I hope that he doesn’t realise what I am doing.
I try to clear my mind otherwise he will somehow cotton on.
Somehow, in his mindless state, he will feel my plan.
And he is so close now.
And the train is so close now.
And, although I am scared to death, I must wait.
Wait until the last moment.
When the train is upon us I will show myself.
And if I have timed it right he will step onto the tracks just as the train comes.
And then I will be free.
Finally I will be free.
Free from the abuse.
Then I will be alone.
Then I will be able to live and dream and just be.
Alone with my thoughts.
My magical thoughts.
And he will not be able to kill me anymore.
I will just be.
A brain.
For that is what I am.
A brain.
And he is, was, my body.
And he always abused me.
But I escaped.
And I hope.
I hope the train kills my body.
Smashes it into a million pieces.
Then I can slide and crawl around the Earth.
With just my thoughts.
With just my pure, non-abused, thoughts.
And I will be free.
I will be as free as the stars in the night sky.
I will be free.
THE END.
Wednesday, 11 April 2007
Drunken Battle Scars.
DRUNKEN BATTLE SCARS.
By D. Jonas Laurence
Come home, drunk, stagger into bed.
Wake up, got a broken finger, twisted knee, herpes.
Get out of bed, ankle’s sprained; fall to the ground in a heap.
Whole day wasted with a hangover. Drank too much whiskey. Again.
Two days later I’m fine again.
Go out again.
Drink beer and whiskey again.
Two nights later, come home, falling into gardens on the street, tripping over parked bicycles, puking on parked BMWs.
Somehow make it in to bed.
Somehow fall asleep.
Wake up, got cigarette burns on my chest, ligament damage to my hip, got a maggot burrowing into my upper lip. Smell bad. Got leprosy. Got the bird flu.
Two days later I’m okay again.
Go out once more.
Drink beer and whiskey and crude oil and rocket fuel.
Seventeen nights later, come home, naked, ass-raped and bleeding, nose bitten off in a street fight (nose was found and placed in my shirt pocket, but I have lost my shirt), skull fractured when I fell from a children’s playground swing, hepatitis, haemorrhaging pancreas, kidney stones, sun spots, grey hair, impotency, malnutrition,…
Somehow fall to sleep.
Wake up in a puddle of blood.
Teeth knocked out. Shat myself. Puked myself. Pissed myself. Spermed myself. Ear-waxed myself. Snotted myself. Pused myself. Sweated myself. Drooled myself. Not in a sound state of mind.
Half a day wasted with a hangover.
Watch pornography and sport and action movies starring Bruce Willis.
Go out the next night.
Go for one beer with a friend.
Find myself, six in the morning, drinking vodka with a Bulgarian transvestite, I can’t remember when I lost my friend, he could be anywhere, I could be anywhere, but I’m not…I’m here with the transvestite.
And am I just drunk or is he/she starting to look good?
And am I just drunk or am I rubbing his/her leg?
And am I just drunk or does he/she have her hand down my pants? Playing with my balls?
Twenty-two hours later, come home, decapitated, with the AIDS virus, acne, completely bald, fingers missing lost in a card game somewhere with some Ukranian gangsters, nose bunged up with cocaine, liver stolen and sold on the internet, big toenail ripped and just hanging on.
And so I waste a week. Call in sick. Stay in bed. Dream of Elle McPherson nude and with various things plugged up her. Masturbate so much that I wear all the skin off my pecker, until veins hang from it like pieces of red wool from a fat knitting needle.
I’m in a bad way.
But the next week I’m fine again.
So I go out to watch a band but drink fourteen thousand litres of beer and can’t remember who they even were and then I find myself in a brothel in Amsterdam which is strange because I don’t live in Holland and I am being whipped by a fat, balding, middle-aged American business man, and I’m tied up on a bed and I am naked and so is he but he is wearing a Zorro mask and screaming “Ariba! Ariba! Andale! Andale!” and it’s quite disturbing to find yourself in these positions, so I don’t say anything (because I have a gimp ball in my mouth) and wait for him to finish, which he does by shitting on my chest, pays me five hundred dollars and leaves.
So I go out drinking whiskey with the five hundred dollars, just to get the taste out of my mouth (and what that taste is you don’t want to know) and I find myself a week later on a Russian cargo ship breaking through ice towards the North Pole and I am playing Russian Roulette for two thousand dollars and a kilo of heroin.
Unfortunately, I lose…
THE END.
By D. Jonas Laurence
Come home, drunk, stagger into bed.
Wake up, got a broken finger, twisted knee, herpes.
Get out of bed, ankle’s sprained; fall to the ground in a heap.
Whole day wasted with a hangover. Drank too much whiskey. Again.
Two days later I’m fine again.
Go out again.
Drink beer and whiskey again.
Two nights later, come home, falling into gardens on the street, tripping over parked bicycles, puking on parked BMWs.
Somehow make it in to bed.
Somehow fall asleep.
Wake up, got cigarette burns on my chest, ligament damage to my hip, got a maggot burrowing into my upper lip. Smell bad. Got leprosy. Got the bird flu.
Two days later I’m okay again.
Go out once more.
Drink beer and whiskey and crude oil and rocket fuel.
Seventeen nights later, come home, naked, ass-raped and bleeding, nose bitten off in a street fight (nose was found and placed in my shirt pocket, but I have lost my shirt), skull fractured when I fell from a children’s playground swing, hepatitis, haemorrhaging pancreas, kidney stones, sun spots, grey hair, impotency, malnutrition,…
Somehow fall to sleep.
Wake up in a puddle of blood.
Teeth knocked out. Shat myself. Puked myself. Pissed myself. Spermed myself. Ear-waxed myself. Snotted myself. Pused myself. Sweated myself. Drooled myself. Not in a sound state of mind.
Half a day wasted with a hangover.
Watch pornography and sport and action movies starring Bruce Willis.
Go out the next night.
Go for one beer with a friend.
Find myself, six in the morning, drinking vodka with a Bulgarian transvestite, I can’t remember when I lost my friend, he could be anywhere, I could be anywhere, but I’m not…I’m here with the transvestite.
And am I just drunk or is he/she starting to look good?
And am I just drunk or am I rubbing his/her leg?
And am I just drunk or does he/she have her hand down my pants? Playing with my balls?
Twenty-two hours later, come home, decapitated, with the AIDS virus, acne, completely bald, fingers missing lost in a card game somewhere with some Ukranian gangsters, nose bunged up with cocaine, liver stolen and sold on the internet, big toenail ripped and just hanging on.
And so I waste a week. Call in sick. Stay in bed. Dream of Elle McPherson nude and with various things plugged up her. Masturbate so much that I wear all the skin off my pecker, until veins hang from it like pieces of red wool from a fat knitting needle.
I’m in a bad way.
But the next week I’m fine again.
So I go out to watch a band but drink fourteen thousand litres of beer and can’t remember who they even were and then I find myself in a brothel in Amsterdam which is strange because I don’t live in Holland and I am being whipped by a fat, balding, middle-aged American business man, and I’m tied up on a bed and I am naked and so is he but he is wearing a Zorro mask and screaming “Ariba! Ariba! Andale! Andale!” and it’s quite disturbing to find yourself in these positions, so I don’t say anything (because I have a gimp ball in my mouth) and wait for him to finish, which he does by shitting on my chest, pays me five hundred dollars and leaves.
So I go out drinking whiskey with the five hundred dollars, just to get the taste out of my mouth (and what that taste is you don’t want to know) and I find myself a week later on a Russian cargo ship breaking through ice towards the North Pole and I am playing Russian Roulette for two thousand dollars and a kilo of heroin.
Unfortunately, I lose…
THE END.
Friday, 6 April 2007
Small Pleasures?
SMALL PLEASURES?
By D. Jonas Laurence
“This small life is what you must concentrate on…the big questions will be answered in the end.”
- Kęstutis L. (translated from Lithuanian)
And you think life’s small pleasures pass me by? I was on a bus from London to Southampton. Two hours and ten minutes of journey. One hundred and thirty minutes….
I began drinking beer twenty-five minutes before the bus departed – that was my first mistake. I already needed to go for a piss then, but I chose to drink a can of Stella Artois and smoke a ciggy. Priorities are strange at times, what do ya think?
I got onto the bus and found a seat where I continued drinking in the way that sometimes grips me, my bladder beginning to swell like a bagpipe even as the bus fired and farted into life at Victoria Station. I started reading my T. Coragesan Boyle book of short stories, drinking a beer. When I had to turn the pages I placed my beercan in the mesh netting that is used for magazine holding on the seatback in front of me.
I read like a man possessed intent on devouring as many words as possible in a blink of the giant eye – a small rat of pain was already beginning to gnaw at the recesses of my brain like escape from smoke – fire was next, fire was coming.
I continued reading…
I continued drinking…
And when my can finished I opened another, as always.
An hour later I couldn’t read anymore – the rat was running from the flames, claws scratching the bagpipe of my bladder, the pain tearing at my insides too much for one man to bear.
If I would have laughed I would have pissed myself – that much I know for sure.
I fidgeted like a man in the electric chair waiting for the gates of hell to open – tears in my eyes, staring through them at the digital clock at the front of the bus that just plain refused to change.
Time had begun to stand still or crawl like an old snail.
Waves and spasms and contractions racking my body, I couldn’t take it anymore – Charlie Urine was gonna poke his liquid yellow tongue out at me at any moment.
When I was young(er) I could holdout for a piss for hours, no problem, but now I knew with a crystal clarity that comes in moments of great distress that I could not hold on – I was gonna piss myself right there on a fucken chariot knifing through the night on some motorway who knows where, too embarrassed to use my empty water bottle as a bedpan.
In desperation I stood up, unsure of myself, unsteady from the cans and from the motion of the bus, and threw myself down the aisle, the bald spot on the back of the drivers head flashing in the headlights like a last lighthouse in a storm, half a pack of chewing gum stuck in my mouth like tobacco in a hillbilly.
“Are we stopping?” I whispered in his ear like a pervert, my voice squeezed in anguish.
“Next stop in ten minutes.” The driver answered in a cheerful Scottish voice that went well with my bagpipe, his eyes never leaving the motorway – sparing him the horror etched all over my face.
“Can I go for a piss there?” I blurted out, forgetting all the manners I was ever taught about language to use with strangers, my voice now unmasked and pleading, invisible hands squeezing my bladder like housewives squeezing melons on a Saturday at the market, my body doubled over in pain……
“Well…….yeah,” the driver replied, giving me a quick strange look out of the corner of his eye “But why don’t you use the toilet at the back of the bus?”
I took a quick glance back into the gloom of overhead lights and noticed for the first time the square of the toilet resting peacefully at the back of the bus, just behind where I had been sitting all of that time in agony, before I took off like Ben Johnson at the ’88 games.
I almost flooded the thing.
The toilet was filthy. It stank. The door didn’t shut properly. And it was heavenly, a release, and I felt more alive than I ever have before.
So I celebrated by going back to my seat, picking up my book of short stories, and opening another beer.
It tasted like champagne or canned gold.
THE END.
By D. Jonas Laurence
“This small life is what you must concentrate on…the big questions will be answered in the end.”
- Kęstutis L. (translated from Lithuanian)
And you think life’s small pleasures pass me by? I was on a bus from London to Southampton. Two hours and ten minutes of journey. One hundred and thirty minutes….
I began drinking beer twenty-five minutes before the bus departed – that was my first mistake. I already needed to go for a piss then, but I chose to drink a can of Stella Artois and smoke a ciggy. Priorities are strange at times, what do ya think?
I got onto the bus and found a seat where I continued drinking in the way that sometimes grips me, my bladder beginning to swell like a bagpipe even as the bus fired and farted into life at Victoria Station. I started reading my T. Coragesan Boyle book of short stories, drinking a beer. When I had to turn the pages I placed my beercan in the mesh netting that is used for magazine holding on the seatback in front of me.
I read like a man possessed intent on devouring as many words as possible in a blink of the giant eye – a small rat of pain was already beginning to gnaw at the recesses of my brain like escape from smoke – fire was next, fire was coming.
I continued reading…
I continued drinking…
And when my can finished I opened another, as always.
An hour later I couldn’t read anymore – the rat was running from the flames, claws scratching the bagpipe of my bladder, the pain tearing at my insides too much for one man to bear.
If I would have laughed I would have pissed myself – that much I know for sure.
I fidgeted like a man in the electric chair waiting for the gates of hell to open – tears in my eyes, staring through them at the digital clock at the front of the bus that just plain refused to change.
Time had begun to stand still or crawl like an old snail.
Waves and spasms and contractions racking my body, I couldn’t take it anymore – Charlie Urine was gonna poke his liquid yellow tongue out at me at any moment.
When I was young(er) I could holdout for a piss for hours, no problem, but now I knew with a crystal clarity that comes in moments of great distress that I could not hold on – I was gonna piss myself right there on a fucken chariot knifing through the night on some motorway who knows where, too embarrassed to use my empty water bottle as a bedpan.
In desperation I stood up, unsure of myself, unsteady from the cans and from the motion of the bus, and threw myself down the aisle, the bald spot on the back of the drivers head flashing in the headlights like a last lighthouse in a storm, half a pack of chewing gum stuck in my mouth like tobacco in a hillbilly.
“Are we stopping?” I whispered in his ear like a pervert, my voice squeezed in anguish.
“Next stop in ten minutes.” The driver answered in a cheerful Scottish voice that went well with my bagpipe, his eyes never leaving the motorway – sparing him the horror etched all over my face.
“Can I go for a piss there?” I blurted out, forgetting all the manners I was ever taught about language to use with strangers, my voice now unmasked and pleading, invisible hands squeezing my bladder like housewives squeezing melons on a Saturday at the market, my body doubled over in pain……
“Well…….yeah,” the driver replied, giving me a quick strange look out of the corner of his eye “But why don’t you use the toilet at the back of the bus?”
I took a quick glance back into the gloom of overhead lights and noticed for the first time the square of the toilet resting peacefully at the back of the bus, just behind where I had been sitting all of that time in agony, before I took off like Ben Johnson at the ’88 games.
I almost flooded the thing.
The toilet was filthy. It stank. The door didn’t shut properly. And it was heavenly, a release, and I felt more alive than I ever have before.
So I celebrated by going back to my seat, picking up my book of short stories, and opening another beer.
It tasted like champagne or canned gold.
THE END.
Thursday, 5 April 2007
The Man In The Drain
Before todays story I will just tell you about something that happened last night. I was out drinking with a friend of a friend. She was drunk and some how started talking to a group of black people. Now, living in Munich, there are a low number of black people if you compare the city with London for example. But, so, anyway I said hello and where are you guys from etc. But they were so convinced (for some reason) that I was going to be racist that everything I said they turned into something it was not. When I said "How are you?" one lady said, "What you think just because we are black that we are not okay?!"
When I said "Where do you come from?" one lady said "Oh I don't know my mother had sex with so many people I don't know where I am from." as if I was insinuating something like that.
Every fucken thing I said was twisted around until they could almost accuse me of saying something I wasn't.
In the end I just said,
"Fuck you guys."
and drank my beer in peace.
So here is a story for today.
THE MAN IN THE DRAIN.
By D. Jonas Laurence
Over the months and years that he had lived in his small, run-down, apartment, ---- took a lot of showers. Numerous. In fact one a day, sometimes two a day if he felt like it.
And ----, like most other men of his age, used his showers as a place to;
a) Clear his throat of excess phlegm and/or mucus
b) Clear his nose of excess snot and/or mucus
c) Clean his ears
d) Pee
e) Masturbate
f) Vomit (usually after excessive drinking)
g) Shit (usually an accident and usually after excessive drinking)
h) Squeeze boils and/or pimples
i) Trim toe and fingernails
j) Shave pubes and other unwanted hairs
And so, after months and years, you can imagine how much of all the above had built up inside ----‘s drain.
And a freak occurrence occurred one day that made this build-up of scum come to life and wreak havoc and mayhem at every available moment.
For one day ----‘s cousin and his wife and daughter were in town for a meeting of some sort, something to do with the strange church they went to, and, after the long drive, they had asked ---- if they could possibly use his bathroom to get freshened up before they went to their meeting.
---- was not working at the time and had not minded them using his apartment for an hour of so. After all they were family – no matter how distant or strange they were.
So on one fateful afternoon they had arrived at ----‘s apartment. ---- was amazed to see how old his cousin and wife had grown, but was even more amazed at how old their daughter had become. Was it really that long since he had seen them?
His cousin’s daughter was now twelve years old, and the last time ---- had seen her she was six months old.
My, isn’t it strange how time could just slip on by…
So the cousin and wife had quick showers, combed their hair, put on their church going clothes, poured cologne and perfumes on themselves until they stunk like skunks.
Then it was the daughter’s turn. She was obviously not excited at the prospect on spending an evening with her parents at a church meeting, and slunk into the bathroom slowly before slamming the door and locking it.
Thirty minutes later her parents were banging on the door and finally, after much shouting, the mother was allowed to go into the bathroom.
Another twenty minutes went by, murmurings could be heard, until they both left the bathroom.
---- was thanked for allowing them to use his apartment and then they were gone in a chorus of promises to see one another soon.
---- went back to watching television and that would have been that except for a couple of freakish coincidences.
You see what ---- did not know was that the daughter had just had her first period in his shower (hence the conference with her mother) and that the planets just happened to be in some sort of special alignment that gave power to the blood of the virgin woman.
So as her blood had flowed down the drain it had come into contact with the build-up of ----‘s shower habits and had somehow given life to this ball of piss, shit, come, vomit, hair and toenail cheese.
And this ball had awoken as if from a long sleep and had found itself trapped in the drain and it had begun to strengthen and attempt to free itself.
And all the time ---- just went about his normal, everyday, life – oblivious to the thing that was gaining power with each moment, and gaining power with each new ingredient added to it’s strange mix by the daily showering of ----.
And so, one day, while ---- was showering, peeing absentmindedly on himself, the drain burst upwards with tremendous force. It knocked ---- off his feet and his head hit the edge of the bathtub with a loud “clunk!”.
And then the thing made of shit, puke, pus, jism, pubes and ass dreadlocks was free.
And it looked down at the unconscious ---- before it.
And then it stretched and undulated into various shapes until it found one that it was happy with.
And then it looked down at ---- once more and decided what to do.
And then it did it.
So now the thing lives a happy life.
It is not it’s life but it is a good life. It is happy that ---- is not around anymore and that it could change it’s form to look exactly like him and then take over his life.
I know that it is happy because I am it.
I am the thing that came from the drain.
And there is one thing for sure, next time a cousin, or aunty, or nephew, or brother, wants to use the apartment I am going to say no.
I mean I have fixed the bathtub, fixed the large hole, but that is not the point.
For it could just happen that the planets are some how aligned in a very special way, and it could just happen that a virgin bleeds in the shower…and I can not have the blood giving life to things that are dead.
You see…
I have a man in my drain.
THE END.
When I said "Where do you come from?" one lady said "Oh I don't know my mother had sex with so many people I don't know where I am from." as if I was insinuating something like that.
Every fucken thing I said was twisted around until they could almost accuse me of saying something I wasn't.
In the end I just said,
"Fuck you guys."
and drank my beer in peace.
So here is a story for today.
THE MAN IN THE DRAIN.
By D. Jonas Laurence
Over the months and years that he had lived in his small, run-down, apartment, ---- took a lot of showers. Numerous. In fact one a day, sometimes two a day if he felt like it.
And ----, like most other men of his age, used his showers as a place to;
a) Clear his throat of excess phlegm and/or mucus
b) Clear his nose of excess snot and/or mucus
c) Clean his ears
d) Pee
e) Masturbate
f) Vomit (usually after excessive drinking)
g) Shit (usually an accident and usually after excessive drinking)
h) Squeeze boils and/or pimples
i) Trim toe and fingernails
j) Shave pubes and other unwanted hairs
And so, after months and years, you can imagine how much of all the above had built up inside ----‘s drain.
And a freak occurrence occurred one day that made this build-up of scum come to life and wreak havoc and mayhem at every available moment.
For one day ----‘s cousin and his wife and daughter were in town for a meeting of some sort, something to do with the strange church they went to, and, after the long drive, they had asked ---- if they could possibly use his bathroom to get freshened up before they went to their meeting.
---- was not working at the time and had not minded them using his apartment for an hour of so. After all they were family – no matter how distant or strange they were.
So on one fateful afternoon they had arrived at ----‘s apartment. ---- was amazed to see how old his cousin and wife had grown, but was even more amazed at how old their daughter had become. Was it really that long since he had seen them?
His cousin’s daughter was now twelve years old, and the last time ---- had seen her she was six months old.
My, isn’t it strange how time could just slip on by…
So the cousin and wife had quick showers, combed their hair, put on their church going clothes, poured cologne and perfumes on themselves until they stunk like skunks.
Then it was the daughter’s turn. She was obviously not excited at the prospect on spending an evening with her parents at a church meeting, and slunk into the bathroom slowly before slamming the door and locking it.
Thirty minutes later her parents were banging on the door and finally, after much shouting, the mother was allowed to go into the bathroom.
Another twenty minutes went by, murmurings could be heard, until they both left the bathroom.
---- was thanked for allowing them to use his apartment and then they were gone in a chorus of promises to see one another soon.
---- went back to watching television and that would have been that except for a couple of freakish coincidences.
You see what ---- did not know was that the daughter had just had her first period in his shower (hence the conference with her mother) and that the planets just happened to be in some sort of special alignment that gave power to the blood of the virgin woman.
So as her blood had flowed down the drain it had come into contact with the build-up of ----‘s shower habits and had somehow given life to this ball of piss, shit, come, vomit, hair and toenail cheese.
And this ball had awoken as if from a long sleep and had found itself trapped in the drain and it had begun to strengthen and attempt to free itself.
And all the time ---- just went about his normal, everyday, life – oblivious to the thing that was gaining power with each moment, and gaining power with each new ingredient added to it’s strange mix by the daily showering of ----.
And so, one day, while ---- was showering, peeing absentmindedly on himself, the drain burst upwards with tremendous force. It knocked ---- off his feet and his head hit the edge of the bathtub with a loud “clunk!”.
And then the thing made of shit, puke, pus, jism, pubes and ass dreadlocks was free.
And it looked down at the unconscious ---- before it.
And then it stretched and undulated into various shapes until it found one that it was happy with.
And then it looked down at ---- once more and decided what to do.
And then it did it.
So now the thing lives a happy life.
It is not it’s life but it is a good life. It is happy that ---- is not around anymore and that it could change it’s form to look exactly like him and then take over his life.
I know that it is happy because I am it.
I am the thing that came from the drain.
And there is one thing for sure, next time a cousin, or aunty, or nephew, or brother, wants to use the apartment I am going to say no.
I mean I have fixed the bathtub, fixed the large hole, but that is not the point.
For it could just happen that the planets are some how aligned in a very special way, and it could just happen that a virgin bleeds in the shower…and I can not have the blood giving life to things that are dead.
You see…
I have a man in my drain.
THE END.
Wednesday, 4 April 2007
Business Plan.
BUSINESS PLAN.
By D. Jonas Laurence
Stop drinking so much.
Stop sleeping in so much and wasting the precious day lying in bed.
Stop wandering around and doing nothing, looking out windows at the dying sun, looking across courtyards of eternity trying to catch a peek in a neighbours window – into their lives that are so much better and more productive than yours.
Be more productive.
Be better.
Write great stories of bullshit for people to buy and give you some of their money.
Get a cool haircut.
Grow a big goatee beard.
Become famous.
Take a lot of drugs and drink too much.
Become irratic in your behaviour – it will sell more.
Beat up people in bars.
Get arrested almost every other month.
Check into rehab.
Preach about sobriety before falling off the wagon.
Date supermodels and maybe give one a black eye.
Get tattoos.
Go crazy.
After a while become sane again. (important)
Get someone pregnant.
Lose custody of a child.
Learn to play guitar and start a band.
Release an album that no one buys.
Buy a big house.
Ride motorcycles.
Crash motorcycles.
Almost die of:
Motorcycle crashes.
Drug overdoses.
Getting shot by a drug dealer.
Having a stalker try and stab you.
Getting cancer.
Syrosis of the liver.
Be cool.
And then become uncool for a few years.
Then become cool again – even cooler than the first time you were cool.
Make people believe that at any moment you could self implode, that you could be gone. Make people realise the fragile beauty of life is it’s fleetingness.
Be saved from yourself by your friends.
Return to your family and recuperate and soak in their love of you.
Grow a full beard and long hair.
Take to wearing big black overcoats and walking city streets in the rain.
Be photographed in small cafes drinking espresso and smoking cigarettes.
Talk on your mobile phone a lot. (it makes people curious as to who your are talking to and what about)
Release a book of poetry that everyone hates, that is laughed at by critics, and yet becomes a best seller….in Japan.
Be photographed on beaches in exotic locations while you are:
Cheating on your wife.
Looking too fat.
Looking too thin.
Drinking a beer.
Surfing.
Smoking a joint.
Kissing a man.
Live in New York, at some place like the Chelsea Hotel.
Take some more heroin and cocaine – as long as some one sees and leaks it to the papers.
Go to really cool parties at the Playboy Mansion.
Start a rumour that you might be seeing Paris Hilton.
Go to basketball games and sit at courtside yelling insults at a certain player until they start screaming insults back at you.
Act in an arty independent movie.
Win an award and turn up unshaven and drunk. Be funny.
Start doing charity work.
Get more money than you know what to do with.
And then work extra hard at making even more money – for no reason.
Buy cool clothes and cars.
Appear on MTV Cribs.
Remember to forget to pay your taxes.
Lose all your money.
Become bankrupt.
And then become a millionaire again in about two years. By selling your autobiography.
Finally sit down and relax and ponder your life.
Then try to do something that is actually real.
Maybe then you can be happy.
All this I am going to do.
After I have a wank.
And watch some TV.
THE END.
By D. Jonas Laurence
Stop drinking so much.
Stop sleeping in so much and wasting the precious day lying in bed.
Stop wandering around and doing nothing, looking out windows at the dying sun, looking across courtyards of eternity trying to catch a peek in a neighbours window – into their lives that are so much better and more productive than yours.
Be more productive.
Be better.
Write great stories of bullshit for people to buy and give you some of their money.
Get a cool haircut.
Grow a big goatee beard.
Become famous.
Take a lot of drugs and drink too much.
Become irratic in your behaviour – it will sell more.
Beat up people in bars.
Get arrested almost every other month.
Check into rehab.
Preach about sobriety before falling off the wagon.
Date supermodels and maybe give one a black eye.
Get tattoos.
Go crazy.
After a while become sane again. (important)
Get someone pregnant.
Lose custody of a child.
Learn to play guitar and start a band.
Release an album that no one buys.
Buy a big house.
Ride motorcycles.
Crash motorcycles.
Almost die of:
Motorcycle crashes.
Drug overdoses.
Getting shot by a drug dealer.
Having a stalker try and stab you.
Getting cancer.
Syrosis of the liver.
Be cool.
And then become uncool for a few years.
Then become cool again – even cooler than the first time you were cool.
Make people believe that at any moment you could self implode, that you could be gone. Make people realise the fragile beauty of life is it’s fleetingness.
Be saved from yourself by your friends.
Return to your family and recuperate and soak in their love of you.
Grow a full beard and long hair.
Take to wearing big black overcoats and walking city streets in the rain.
Be photographed in small cafes drinking espresso and smoking cigarettes.
Talk on your mobile phone a lot. (it makes people curious as to who your are talking to and what about)
Release a book of poetry that everyone hates, that is laughed at by critics, and yet becomes a best seller….in Japan.
Be photographed on beaches in exotic locations while you are:
Cheating on your wife.
Looking too fat.
Looking too thin.
Drinking a beer.
Surfing.
Smoking a joint.
Kissing a man.
Live in New York, at some place like the Chelsea Hotel.
Take some more heroin and cocaine – as long as some one sees and leaks it to the papers.
Go to really cool parties at the Playboy Mansion.
Start a rumour that you might be seeing Paris Hilton.
Go to basketball games and sit at courtside yelling insults at a certain player until they start screaming insults back at you.
Act in an arty independent movie.
Win an award and turn up unshaven and drunk. Be funny.
Start doing charity work.
Get more money than you know what to do with.
And then work extra hard at making even more money – for no reason.
Buy cool clothes and cars.
Appear on MTV Cribs.
Remember to forget to pay your taxes.
Lose all your money.
Become bankrupt.
And then become a millionaire again in about two years. By selling your autobiography.
Finally sit down and relax and ponder your life.
Then try to do something that is actually real.
Maybe then you can be happy.
All this I am going to do.
After I have a wank.
And watch some TV.
THE END.
Tuesday, 3 April 2007
The Pregnant Capsicum
THE PREGNANT CAPSICUM.
By D. Jonas Laurence
Today I cut open a yellow capsicum and found that one of the inside seeds had somehow grown into a miniature capsicum; the size of, say, a cherry tomato.
(The miniature capsicum was yellow, as well, but was shaded with green. It had come loose inside but you could see where it had been joined to the larger capsicum, like a belly button.)
The capsicum was pregnant and I cut it open and removed the seeds (and the baby capsicum) and threw them into the overflowing rubbish bin.
Then I cut up the capsicum and made an omelette with it.
So, in theory, I violently aborted the capsicum before cutting it into pieces and eating it. The evidence of this abortion I flung into a bin with little afterthought.
The bright sun shone through the dirt-smeared windows and made me warm.
I sat down and ate my omelette and felt good about the world – but I felt sorry for the capsicums.
THE END.
2nd April, 2007. Munich.
By D. Jonas Laurence
Today I cut open a yellow capsicum and found that one of the inside seeds had somehow grown into a miniature capsicum; the size of, say, a cherry tomato.
(The miniature capsicum was yellow, as well, but was shaded with green. It had come loose inside but you could see where it had been joined to the larger capsicum, like a belly button.)
The capsicum was pregnant and I cut it open and removed the seeds (and the baby capsicum) and threw them into the overflowing rubbish bin.
Then I cut up the capsicum and made an omelette with it.
So, in theory, I violently aborted the capsicum before cutting it into pieces and eating it. The evidence of this abortion I flung into a bin with little afterthought.
The bright sun shone through the dirt-smeared windows and made me warm.
I sat down and ate my omelette and felt good about the world – but I felt sorry for the capsicums.
THE END.
2nd April, 2007. Munich.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
