The Yorkshire Double Dipper

This is one of the hardest times of my life, yet also quite easily the happiest. My harassment from the state has never been quite so intense. The brain projections of my insistently impatient and sometimes panicky stalkers are few and far between giving me no opportunity to draw breath. I’ve gotten to thinking that they are supernatural, after all, because it’s as though they ACTUALLY NEED MY INTELLUCTUAL INTERACTION TO SURVIVE. They get so annoyed when I don’t respond to them that they torture people within earshot. My well-justified ignorance incites their bloodlust. I WOULD respond, if they weren’t chatting bubbles the whole time. It’s only been over a decade of it.

They rely on their disgusting, impossible-to-tolerate presence in my immediate perceptual field to make me offer an involuntary mental reaction, which they get weak at the knees about, because someone is paying them attention. In reality, no self-respecting law-abiding God-fearing decent civilian would urinate on them if they were on fire, let alone grant them breath in a mutual verbal exchange. In other words, I wouldn’t talk to them if my life depended on it.

I am about fit ready to burst into spontaneous combustion with rage whenever they slovenly salivate over any form of interaction with me, because without human acknowledgement their petty God punishes them. They are going for the insanity conclusion with me through despair. It’s honestly more humane to physically torture and kill someone. That’s how I am being treated. As less than the tortured; as less than the murdered. Being driven to suicide through menticidal anguish is, I believe, the worst fate than can overtake mankind. Even in all the limitless possibilities of thwarted destinies.

A friend of mine once likened it to a man sat on the same sofa as you who won’t leave you alone and can’t stop farting. He keeps scoffing meinz beinz Heinz (creamy tikka flavour) to sustain the flow of wind.

My understanding of 21^st Century [brain cognition torment] isn’t that too dissimilair, except the man on the sofa follows you to the toilet when YOU want to fart. In fact, he DASHES to the toilet so as you won’t miss him. And so as he won’t miss you. He claims that you owe him something for him allowing you to fart, claims that you shouldn’t be farting, claims that your farts smell worse than his, claims that you should be punished more for your farts, and claims that he himself has never farted in his life.

Next this complete and utter vermin of a bloke helps himself to that last piece of pastry slice you’ve been saving for yourself, being kept cool and refreshing in the pantry. He knows it’s your favourite and he knows you were looking forward to it, but he goes on ahead and nabs it anyway. He eats it very slowly right in front of you, savours it rather perversely in fact, then proceeds to lick each and every finger like a hotdog sausage double-dippered in mayo and chilli.

Incidentically, Peter Sutcliffe, aka The Yorkshire Ripper, is also further relatable through his other alias, the Yorkshire Double Dipper.

When he wasn’t dispatching of innocent women on the streets of northern England (my stomping grounds, although I only ramraid their backdoors in with a muffler over their cake hole, rather than puncture their top bollocks and slash my initials into their kidneys, or whatever other kind of demented behaviours it was he appropriated with ‘em).

He was active at buffets twin-dunking celery sticks in cottage cheese and coleslaw. He also made an ‘irreversible mess’ of some peanut butter and Nutella with the same breadstick. Said same breadstick ‘had form’ for pickle relish and mild salsa. That’s four foodstuffs on a single individual immersion utensil. Worse, it was shared between a ‘conspiracy’ of construction workers who weren’t wearing Corona gloves. Rather than sharing a camaraderie ‘onsite’ when mixing cement and lugging dense concrete common housebricks from one wheel barrow or garden trolley to another, these ‘ruffshod’ workies with the cracks of their arses on show were in fact total strangers who had never met each other.

Forgive me for going off on a tangent. I’m just disoriented by harassment. Peter Sutcliffe is only referred to as The Yorkshire Double Dipper by a few of us gossiping locals in the pub. He really had nothing to do with getting guacamole and mascarpone streaked out in his Dairy Lea Dunkers (Jumbo Tubes Edition), not upon this boardwalk of existence anyway. It's just a rumour. Partly invented by me. 

And why would he share a breadstick with workies?

The Mythology Of Mythos, A Lost Hitman

Hello there. I’m posting rather unexpectedly, from the local regional government offices. It’s strange, this town…they call me a dissident, they try to drive me away with a White Lives Matter rally, they insert assassination operatives in my property, they have me stalked, tracked and harassed by psychological torturers, yet at the same time they give me food vouchers and let me use their computers to keep me in touch with my legions of fans (my goal is to be big in Japan). A social worker even dropped by yesterday to see if I needed anything from the British Heart Foundation. The BHF is a local charity warehouse which caters for the under privileged. If you like two seater sofas, blingy bedside cabinets, second-hand mattresses and decorative pillows, then you’ll love their storage space. I accepted a boxful of some cutlery with pink plastic handles from the van driver’s mate, who apologised about having no decent SMART tellies in at the moment. It’s fine, I replied, I don’t watch telly. I stopped when I got lost in Lost, the series.

Remember Lost? The complete series contains 38 discs. I’d have more fun throwing them into a bird box than sticking them into my DVD player. You may not be aware, but I lost a novel I completed when I downsized my property several years ago. Well, I didn’t exactly downsize, I decluttered. An original manuscript named Hitman was ‘lost’. It was a curious old story of mine, as it fell under the genre of crime fiction. I won’t bore the pants off you by head-hopping unconstrained into it, but the ending was rather special, if I do so readily testify to myself. The hitman had a dual identity: He pulled a hit on himself. A suicidal bump, so to speak. I tried to write it well, by using a paperback thesaurus all the way throughout, making the language florid and embellished, how I like to do sometimes, to prove a private point that I cared particularly about this baby.

He was named Mythos. They brought out a lager in B&M stores called Mythos shortly afterward. I often enjoyed supping it while watching the junior soccer games situated in the club adjacent to my mental hospital at that time. I’d sneak out of the hospital to go and watch the kids playing while getting fuelled on a beer named after my fav character. The freedom of observing young’uns in skilful action after a night getting my ears burned by screaming patients was a much welcomed contrast. One moment I was holed up with lunatics taking turns to defecate on each other’s beds, they called it ‘Hiding the Malteasers’, the next I was under the ruffled sky, witness to nutmegs, shin deflections, goalmouth scrambles, and humorous attempted scissor kicks. Grassroots football, with beautiful children, is even more soul-lifting that the Premier League.

If a header goes wrong, and things do tend to go wrong in grassroots, we say that the culprit has a head like a Sherrif’s badge. Or a Starfish. Or a 50p coin. What’s your preference there? I can’t think of anymore.

Any[old ]way, the point I’m eventually getting around to making is that Mythos’ split personality, or fractured ego, had a terrible habit of making his victims watch all of Lost, the boxset. It was his MO of inflicting misery on them, after burdening them with house arrest. Apologies, I thought it sounded funny at the time. He also did some ghastly things like microwave budgies and nail-gun cats to trees. This is part of the reason why I don’t miss this dude. I do miss his beverage though. It was a tasty lager.

That’s me done here with you for now any[old]how. I’ve enjoyed spending a small section of time with you. It takes me away from the BS in my life for an hour or so. I like to get away from things. Here in the glass-walled governmental offices, I’m facing a marketplace, a cinema and a university centre. It really is a hotspot in town. I might come here to chill with you more often. Wish me luck through the long evening until we regroup tomorrow, gracious God willing.

Okay, that’s it. Good Bye for now. Keep fighting, hang in there, make me proud.

Sit Down & Read This For Free, Or I’ll Hit You With My Sword

I finished up ‘waffling’ at the end of yesterday’s post. I think I’m about done portraying the anomalies of viewing porn alone for so many years in the Seventh Circle. Many freakish occurrences have gone on, rest assured. Maybe I’ll never grow tired of sharing what has happened to me. I’ve forgotten a lot of it. Perhaps that’s my own brain protecting me, who knows?

What I’m certain of now is trying not to go back to it. I threw my television in the garbage can because not only was it bad for viewing porn, I thought that beings made out of electric current were teleporting through it to pay me unwholesome visitations for free. My mate Sam reported something similar to me, stating that goblins were travelling through her plug sockets. I saw these beings with my own eyes, but of course a quack wouldn’t believe me. So, I don’t own a TV. But one of my mates has said he’s got one in his hallway for me to take away. Plus the sex shop is open until 4 on a Sunday today. And I also found an old speed dealer’s phone number in my bedroom. Wahey! Party time in play!

This dealer and I haven’t spoken for years. I’d be surprised if the number was still in service. I’ve neither deleted the number or rang it yet. I’m not in two minds: I’ve decided that I’m not using. But the number has a lot of sentimental value. He was a dealer of mine for a long time. It would feel kind of nostalgic if I could get in touch with an acquaintance possessing familiar swag. I’d kick back behind closed doors to relax on my own, how I used to in the past. Except that isn’t much of a feasible option.

A useful ‘tool’ in addiction is to ‘play the tape forward’. I might score nice and sharpish off the dealer, should the number be still in use, and obtain a good result, but that pesky psychosis is only around the corner. Being a warrior of the Lord, capitulated by a drug comedown, and fenced in by sly shady spineless evildoers, is not a healthy situation, and one I could quite easily do without. They’re all over me like WiFi soup at the moment, and would be delighted if I slipped up on my mission and took my foot off the gas.

How do I steer off course? I hear you ask. Well, by trading all the love I have in this world for a night of sexual lust with a wrongdoer, which I hate to do. My enemies are virtually nothing without me on poisonous chemicals, obsessing over one of their own. I can’t see me using porn again, it’s been over a year, and I’m starting to fear what the creators of it would have in store for me after all this time. T[its] ‘N’A[rse] a plenty I’d say. Knock yourself out.

I intend to stay clean and focused, in a spiritual combative state. I’m getting psychically attacked from all sides, including novel angles, every moment of the day and night though. My friends are lining up to betray me, as it says in the bible. I am being duped by ALL members of the public, it feels like. They know my identity in full, identity In Christ, and they hate everything about me because of it, because I live in a lawless town of lawbreakers.

I think they are all jealous of a free spirit full of joy in touch with His Creator who doesn’t fear a single one of them. Now there.

Think about Christ. What chance have the rest of us got, if they executed God’s One and Only Begotten Son?

I’ve been in some sticky places in psychosis and the bible really helped me out, after scaring me sideward a little bit first, by telling me in no uncertain terms that I’d been a naughty boy and need to improve. So improve I have. I received some earth-shattering news from it last year. It told me who I was and what I was doing here. Now I am fairly sure that I have a biblical heritage to put it mildly. Whenever I go straight (on the clean and narrow) in accordance with some dates from the bible, I get rewarded spiritually. I’ve known this for some time and I’ve shared it here before. That’s why 30 days No Fap is big in the SA (Sex Addicts) community. I have my own string of important streak times and dates to adhere to. I’m on course again for notching up some decent clean time.

I have a Serenity Coin from the fellowship for abstaining from alcohol for three months. I treat it like the most special poker chip in the world. It’s such an important iconic token, I keep it in my wallet, removing it for inspection regularly. The crux is this: I have to return it to AA if I take a drink. That would hurt, as I’m getting used to showing it off to all my chums in recovery, most of whom lie about their streak length. I didn’t think I’d be able to give up drinking for so long, and I still don’t think I can keep on keeping on not drinking. The aim is to keep proving myself wrong.

It’s the same with the cigarettes. Three months away. These are even harder than the liquor. At least with beer, I can (and do) enjoy a non-alcoholic. People are always warning me about drinking this crap in pubs. They reckon I will fall for the real thing sooner or later. I’m more concerned about sharking two ciggies off some punter and chaining them around the back, or wandering to the offy to buy a 20 deck. I’m aware that I’ve expressed an interest in the solidity of my future by cancelling these habits. I’m ensuring I still have a functioning liver and set of lungs in the foreseeable. Should I relapse on these substances however, this summery unfolding of oxygenated clarity vanishes up in smog.

Pressure’s on then. Every day, as a TI being slowly tortured and murdered by state-sponsored terrorism, I feel like keeling over and reaching for the booze and fags. I feel like I’ve earned them. I wouldn’t blame myself, considering what I go through at the merciless hands of irreligious villains on a daily basis. That’s what makes it so appealing, because of how low I feel on a particular bad day, when the harassment is tuned up to full whack.

But then I simply ask myself, is being a fighting mercenary so bad? They only pick on the bright ones. My life has merit and meaning, honour and valour and dignity…if menticide can happen to me so easily than what’s to stop it happening to our kids? I have to rise up and be righteous. After all, it’s eternity that matters, not this ‘but a breath’ shenanigans beeswax down here on Earth.

More Celluloid Trickery

We were busy having a conversation yesterday about all the absurd fear-based gimmickry I’ve observed in the digital realm, while observing niche adult material. I described in slight to moderate detail a very small proportion of some of the madness I’ve experienced over the years. Being locked away in a darkened room, engulfed by community based operatives and the dark energies they attract, has took its toll on my sanity. At one point in time I was expecting anything to turn up on the screen. I started seeing pornographic actors who I recognised from the local boozer; even members of my own family popped up on some of the dodgy videos. I spent a lot of time avoiding the faces of the actors, it was all very awkward. One woman I became aware of in one scene was relieving men while bathing in a bathtub full of urine. I couldn’t be sure of what I was watching at the time. I thought I was imagining it. Surely it couldn’t be Miss Henderson from four doors up. The camera was clever and misleading. It was when I became aware that I might be viewing snuff movies that I started to panic ever so slightly. Who knew the true nature of these shocking movies? There was no blood, but there didn’t have to be to make me afraid.

Sometimes, a mere expression can unsettle you. Angry people are scary, for example. For one unhinged period all the actors were saying they were getting punished with pain by the director, and that I was going to hell for taking enjoyment in watching them. I would hear screams and yells of torment from my next door neighbour to reinforce the fear. I’ve still never asked him what the Billy Whizz goes on in there. He’d probably lie about it anyways, blame me about it all, and get me locked up for crimes I never committed, like he usually does. Do my neighbours ever stop writing police statements about me? They’ve even planted drops of blood on my clothing while absent from the apartment. Rule One of Mind Control: Accept your domicile as a perp walkway. Yes, they do come in. And you don’t have to be out for them to do so. What of it. Keep trepassing. I’ll catch you one day.

Because I was zonal on chems though I could never react rationally to all this zany tube fodder. I kinda just went with the flow and got lost in the gnarly knotty intricacies of my sexuality, pulled in by painted dolls and shapely studs. Meanwhile, the movie I was watching was beginning to remind me of a slasher movie, not a bluey. I wouldn’t say I was watching people dying on camera, nothing of the sort in plain eye, but I was perceiving all  manner of negative subject matter such as murder and bondage being transmitted through the footage, which I didn’t trust the authenticity of, via subliminal methods.

I’m not feeling very tempted today to revisit the so-called pleasure dome of sexual gratification. You may be aware that when I wasn’t watching hardcore on the PC I was involved in real female mantras from the other side of the wall. I don’t wish to give airtime to the lady in question but this particular type of self-abuse calls into play every aspect of my moral fibre. She is a sadistic masochist and her husband is a bloody marine of all things. He and his army friends take the time out to harass me now and again, trying to provoke me to run. They interrogate me in my own property and threaten me with lawful kidnap. I simply adopt a civil tongue and explain that I’m sorry for the adultery and implication in her curses but I wish to be left alone as a single man living solitarily as a peaceful law-abiding citizen. Sometimes it’s like being in the middle of a court hearing run by criminals.

There’ll be life and death here today, he says menacingly. I’m always strung out when they harass me.

I call all this naughty behavioural stuff rude voodoo. I’m trying to escape from its clutches by living cleanly and soberly, away from drugs and alcohol, which have a habit of nose-diving me back into the lecherous revelry of that world. I’m doing okay at the moment. I’m not a bad soldier considering everything I’ve been through. I thought I was merely a vegetable having out-of-body experiences in psychotic states, yet I now understand myself to be an agent of God been weaponized and activated for the real life combat I presently find myself quagmired in.

My oppressors thought they had me like a rat in a trap, catatonic and petrified and addicted to lust, enfeebled and exhausted and nothing but a plaything for their cruelty for the rest of my life, operating on a low vibrational frequency reading just like them. They called themselves black operative body snatchers who were above the law. They’ve had me incarcerated for nothing and medicated. Not to mention all the blasted rest of it. But look who’s calmly writing about what he is passionate about with joy in his heart, having the last laugh, while they break out in mild panic every time I deflect my attention away from them by talking to a fellow addict in the recovery centre for all of two minutes.

Pfft! Psychotronics, organized community stalking, slander, fake-assed mental health conditions, 24/7 reconnaissance and surveillance…all to run around with invisible suits on calling me names behind my back, praying earnestly inside their black hearts that I miss the next bus or trip over a banana skin. Apparently, they’d be set for life if I ‘hung myself’. Crikey, how long is that gunna take? I tried that already and botched the jobbie. All you need is some greasy slick rope, they advise, although they are unwilling to provide it themselves.

I’ve never been so happy though, now that I’m progressing in life with finances and vices and everything else, so why the bespeckled bejesus would I quit while I’m ahead? Just because a Chinese cannibal has decided he wants to be my best friend, and live inside the damp walls, despite not paying me a penny of rent, why should I get up and leave? I don’t much mind who invades my privacy, it’s been receiving rampant abuse for donkey’s years, I’m all but used to it. There’s really no big deal, don’t worry about it. Just turn off the dripping tap and switch off the lights.

None of your 21^st Century Soft Kill rattles me.

The other night I was in tears laughing my head off at his latest petty attempt to disrupt some personal merry event or other. I think he was busy hiding one of my socks. How can perverted monsters who nobody loves be so jocular at times? I think it’s because they are all impossible nobodies. It lowers my frequency to rub elbows with them, so I’ll avoid giving them airtime. They crave unparalleled attention, it makes them feel big instead of being overshadowed by my wits all the time.

They’ve promised to hijack this blog away from me. They don’t want me to have a single thought in my head. Their thought erasure and memory deletion is on the increase. But that’s enough about their deeds. Honestly. I can’t entertain wicked stupidity. They’re too depressing to ponder. I’m just glad that they are occupied with me, instead of some young girly teenager who can’t defend herself. Please, don’t worry, I’m a highly effective soldier specifically engineered for this kind of menticidal warfare. It’s difficult to swallow but I’m beginning to accept it. The main thing is harbouring virtues in your heart, which I do. Once you are overtaken by bitterness you want war with everything in the war. I want nothing but peace and harmony and goodwill, and most of all a nice vibration. I’m the happiest warrior who ever lived.

Someone said that ‘everything vibrates’ lately. When radiating/emanating soulful vibes, I believe that I’m giving Heaven a glimpse of what is to come. As long as I can resist their evil ways for another couple of years, I should be dandy. I have these years in my future, now that I’ve ditched the poisons (touch wood). So I can stand and fight for my joy. I can love and laugh, which is far, far beyond anything even remotely close to what these cowardly timid dimwits are able to do, and a truly beautiful option for the meek and wounded. Not weak and wounded, meek and wounded.

Now there. Go play.

Digital Gimmicks

We were having a nice easy gentle discussion yesterday about the whole pornographic industry being made especially for me. I know this sounds nothing short of stupid, but when I think hard about it, the idea gets kinda scary in its legitimacy. I mean, things just seemed too perfect to be true, while caught up in those loopy films. That body, that face, that colour lipstick, that look in her eye, the words she uttered at me…it was all seemingly preordained. Those long evenings sat alone with just an adult movie for company, after being wrenched apart from all other social networks like work, friends, and family…wow…it was just me and them, forever meant to be (until I wised up to what was happening).

The actors would frequently tell me that the video they were making was prescribed uniquely for me, that I was their sole audience. I never believed them to begin with. The idea sounded preposterous. But then I got to thinking about it. These skin flicks are not like Hollywood blockbusters, which are available in multiple retail outlets. For all I knew, a pornographer may have made just one copy and inserted it at eye level/buy level in the shop just before I walked in. It wouldn’t be too difficult logistically, with me being stalked, tracked and harassed around the clock anyway, for kicks. Gang-stalkers are like that. They love leaving gifts for you. It used to be dead animals and suchlike along my routes, birds with their wings clipped, skinned rats (yuck!), stuff like that. I’m surprised they never left sweet little thank you cards with them.

Once, the Eternal Footman, my personal nickname for the Devil, appeared in one of my porn vids. He looked like an old man, based on the original Poltergeist movie. That movie spooked me as a kid because there was one scene where said ‘old man’ was perving on a kid through a patio window. I found it dead scary because he was just fixated on this child in broad daylight. He didn’t have a knife or anything, that would have been O[ver]T[he]T[op], for he didn’t need one, the whippersnapper wasn’t aware he was being observed, he was just sat indoors watching the telly.

Now, listen here. I can’t be sure, okay, but I think something similar happened to me when I was a small boy, just after being made conscious of this creepy screen occurrence. It’s nothing like a concrete memory, but I have a fear, almost, of being observed through the window by an old man. To this day I have a deep-seated dread of the evil buried in old men’s hearts. Call me weird, but it’s true. I’m less scared of 300-pound gangsters than I am of old fogies. That Poltergeist movie has planted an errant seed in me from childhood.

The Devil as an old man on one of my porn vids, however, well, how ludicrously peculiar do you want it? He inserted himself in place of the girl to break the connection, I think, between me and mentioned girl. I was on some kind of hallucinogenic blend of aphrodisiac cocktail at the time, seeing double, all the colours in the vid ramped up to maximum vibrancy, her theatrical makeup positively glowing, there was something really rather special about this one scene in particular. She was getting well and truly obliterated by numerous blokes. It was having significantly unforgettable ramifications on me. It was an uncommon marriage of drug potency and scene novelty which would have had me seated there together for many many hours more if the old jester hadn’t plonked himself in her place. She would have taken all of my good charms away and left me with nothing. One minute the beautiful star was an old man in a gay scene. I turned it off immediately, amidst screams from my neighbours. Funny how my neighbours always watch porn alongside me, with their thru-wall technologies.

This may seem kooky also (what doesn’t today) but every time I decide to have a porn sesh, the estate acts as if there’s a royal wedding on. All the kids come out to play, fireworks go off, they even set alight solid oak wood barrels in flame on the local grassy park and cook party nibbles like kebabs. Seriously! There’s a carnival ambience in the air as I go to meet my dealer on the corner. I only sample it for several minutes but it’s definitely real. I often see a Chinese lantern or two sweep by on the breeze. I can only imagine the gossip on the snaky tongues of those involved in being voyeurs of my demise.

I exchange money for poison on the corner, and then that’s me taken care off for the next three days. At first it’s a rush with the fresh men-eating women in latex, one of ‘em might even have a plastic lash (how’s that for novel) but it soon turns to funk once the Devil lays his occultish and nutty five-card tricks out and about the digital premises. If the ‘connect’ between us (me and the porn star) is too persuasive, he might possess her and make her eyes black or something, to put me off. There’s no end to the strangeness of ornate psychosis whilst watching mock sex, let me tell you. Nothings off limits.

One time the man’s willy grew a set of teeth and started trying to bite the woman. I could hear my little sister twenty miles away saying, “Why’s he schnappin’ at her?” I may have mentioned this one before. Belter. Another time the girl had three boobs. She happened to be sat on a Komodo Dragon. None of it quite so funny at the time, when there’s an intruder in the kitchen firing invisible microchips into my eyeball to make sure I’m under no illusion upon whether the threat is real. And what the f**k is that growling behind the fridge!? Just another assassin don’t worry your head off.

Terrifying ain’t the word. I wonder what their hands are doing just outside of view, if they’re out of shot. If I start to hear uncomfortable or disturbing noises on the audio track, which is not too unusual, I’ll presume that their hands are coated in blood, and that they’re chopping up puppies off camera. Maybe they are Jesuits and satanic ritual abuse means nothing to them. Who knows who the hell is making these sleazy movies? AND FOR ME ESPECIALLY!!! It all gets very dark from hereon, and I may start skipping scenes, looking for something more digestible. I rarely ever find anything better, once the mood is lowered in this tacky way. I’m too paranoid and suspicious by now.

The more I explore though, I find, then the more I, er, find. Or discover, shall we say. There’s a lot of demoralising material contained in one 25 minute XXX scene, and 5 scenes regularly on one disc. It’s bonky galore. I have a method of trawling through them, after being a self-employed (of sorts, I certainly put enough hours in) connoisseur of this oddball artform for a sufficient amount of years. The good bits are obvious to me, and the bits I’ll be looping on short giff-like repeat. I’ve never watched a full movie from start to finish. Most of it is crap. A mixture of shoddy artistic production, amateur camera work, and silly women messing around with juvenile props, like baby oil. I can’t believe what I’ve bought or downloaded, much of the time. It’s really pathetic. And then bam! It’ll reel you in with one shot of veiny cleavage or something. And before you know it, you’re studying a small amount of footage very carefully indeed.

Just to reiterate, it’s been a whole year since I indulged in erotica. I’m doing awesomely well and very proud of myself. I’ll look a numpty, won’t I, if I come back here next week and admit I ‘ve been watching filth? Mistakes happen though, I’m aware. I could go ten years and then relapse. The longer I go without, the more I want to return. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. And all those painted dolls are only getting fitter and fitter! But, you know, so far so good. I prefer a pretty angel for a peck on the cheek these days, rather than full-blown intercourse with a fire-breathing hooker.

Made Especially For You, Sire

Just to continue from yesterday…I don’t feel quite as tempted as I did do 24 hours ago. The shop is always within strolling distance though. I’ve just been thinking about the hairstyles waiting for me. I’ve been worrying about the uncouth forces aligning themselves up, patiently on tenterhooks for my homecoming, when they can prepare the ultimate woman with the perfect bouffant to ‘take care’ of my needs at home. I see it that way, sometimes. There’s no doubt about it, once the drugs take effect and it starts blowing a darkly storm outside, there are obviously a proportion of dismal wintry powers at work. They seek nothing, nothing but my ruin. By mine own hand.

Can these moony assemblages make up a film especially for me and place it at eye level/buy level in the boutique today? I wouldn’t put it past the Eternal Footman/Devil, who excels at anything even remotely negative going on in my life. I’ve grown up being told this narrative for many years, you know – that much if not all of the contemporary porn industry was designed exclusively for my arrival on Earth. Ridiculous, I know. But before I came along it barely existed, and now you can buy magazines with free DVDs attached in the local garage. I’ve been told that all of the movies I’ve slobbered over were specifically created for my particular indulgence. It makes foolproof sense when I’m in a florid psychotic state while viewing these ‘offerings’. The people in them know exactly what I like, oddly enough. Even worse, they are composed in dungeons right there underneath my flat, where the Nazis laid out secret bunkers (which double as studios) for me before I moved into the area. Mad innit. Just a hunch I have.

Sometimes I can hear them down there below. If it was just sex I’d be jeering and cheering them onto bigger and better exploits but they have to go and ruin everything with pain, don’t they? I’ll be like totally enveloped in a sex scene, falling in a cheap counterfeit version of love with the actors, who are doing a sublime jobbie, we’re all synced up with each other’s breathing and that, I’m enthralled in getting pleasured by them and they’re doubly enthralled in pleasuring me, the ‘live portal’ is blown chock wide open, we’re all happy bunnies…and then suddenly I’ll hear a wild blood-curdling scream and be transported to fear, spoiling the occasion.

The porn stars purpose is to steal my creativity and compassion and love by making me evil like themselves in the scene. Sometimes we have one hell of a power tussle over my fluids, which I never release as a general rule. But often I am so passionately involved in the carnal sensuality of the video/mantra that I forget who I am or where I belong. Clue given here: A Child of God. I often almost ‘cross over’ or ‘flip’ to the dark side. I would never ever do this willingly but I give myself cause for concern with doubts now and again. The ‘stars’ often want me to declare their names out aloud. They have me repeating many kinds of banned no-go phrases over and over in my mind. This attracts nothing wholesome to my side, I believe. So it’s no surprise you’re wondering why I’m sat here in the library haunted by a porn addiction and invisible black-ops, is it!?

Ah well, it is what it is. I am trying hard to stop, if that means anything to you. I hate myself for giving into the temptation and allowing that Footman in for the win with only the sound of sniggering laughter in his wake. I do well for long months at a time in the name of The Lord, pressing home a precious territorial advantage, but then that crafty rogue sneaks in the back doors and blows all of my superabundantly-created constructs down with violent winds of hate, sex and pain. My beautiful teenage maidens, which I seek protection from, vanish with abandon into temporary fatherless sundown.

I am left alone, joylessly and tearfully. In writing these painful yet liberating accounts I seek to offer myself a modicum of logic in which to observe while striding forward. Who knows, maybe you or someone you know can identify with the problems I face. Every day now I wake up in a mentality of warfare. Meat, caffeine, tobacco, drugs, alcohol, porn…booby traps are everywhere. I’m a real life super soldier fighting for the future of humankind, a hooked-up schizo with hallucinations, voices and hitmen clouding his every present judgement.

For, inside my delusions, I have worked out some very unsavoury conclusions awaiting my fate and perhaps even all of our own collective destinies. One for all, and all for one, and all that. I’m sworn to protecting a Holy Spirit present in my consciousness. It’s one thing I’m certain of. You can tell by the nature of my critiques that something very monumental is at work in my life. I intend to be brave and noble while creative enough to be able to explain what it’s like to be a psychonaut in today’s frenzied society, where all our norms are crumbling down around us, and the End Of Ages are supposedly upon us.

Fair well, Comrade.

Wall Of Filth

 I’m having a recent spate of urges to peer into the local sexy boutique retail outlet, where they offer XXX DVDs for sale. I know I keep repeating this familiar line over and over across the months and maybe years that I’ve been here spilling my guts out, but I guess I am still feeling the force of their potency still, even after all this time of struggling to defeat these addictive thoughts. I thought I would write about it, rather than investigate the ‘wall of filth’ which lurks none-too-innocently beyond the threshold of its open door.

Once I step foot in there and make eye contact with that ‘wall of filth’, I’m without a weapon in the Lion’s Den, unclothed and vulnerable. I’m aware that all the actresses are lining up in the jacket sleeve artworks to ensnare me in with a particular expression of lip-sticked seduction. What I’m currently & fondly reminiscing over are hairstyles. I’m quite fascinated by female barnets at the moment, it may be a bit of a lame fetish trait coming through. I feel like I’m in just the mood for staring at ladies hair all day, while they are having sex with men of course. Seriously! Does that sound weird to you? I can’t believe the amount of gravitas a steamy woman’s hairstyle can exert over a submissive gentleman. To me, it’s like staring at a treasure from a distant planet. I know a friend who’s attracted to feet. To each their own I suppose. It’s apples and pears isn’t it?

It wouldn’t be so bad if it were just a dose of legal slap ‘n’ tickle purchased from the boutique, but my dealer’s on the phone as well, a phone I’d be quite wise to throw away, if I had any sense about me. He wants to sell me a bag of poisonous white powder which will shut off my cognitive functions for several days and turn me into a fapping monkey for just the small princely sum of £240. And I, in my incomparable buffoonery, might just indulge in two of them to make sure the job gets done. It’s hard to accept the overwhelming reality that I may be addicted to poison.

He could be selling me anything. Sometimes it feels like there might be a smidgen of cocaine involved. Hopefully not ketamine or anything that might make me ‘soft’. Sorry to talk dirty here on the hotspot. Forgive me. Other names its goes by are ‘killer’ and ‘wipe out’. It has to be said, there’s something about attempting to self-terminate your own life while engaging in risqué behaviours which I find rather comfortable. It’s like watching the end of the world burn away to cinders, embers and smithereens while rutting in an orgy safe on the other side of the moon, until the flames reach you the next day and ensure that you meet your demise too, as well as everyone else, who’ve you’ve decided to atomise for pleasure along the ill-fated one-way journey.

I think that I mentally opt out of the rat race and the war and simply give up with ‘la femme’ because it’s easier. I choose to ‘end myself.’

Finally. Hedonistically. Unceremoniously.

It’s delightful in a way, when the substances first begin to take hold. You place your life in the care of the woman in charge and hope for the best, enjoying her version of bossy sexuality or whichever of her fancies takes your pick. The problems arise when the toxins run out and you return to being sober, knowing that a world of loveless, joyless abject misery awaits you. This is the reason that, unlike any other time, when I usually rush headlong into the madness, I am deliberating it for a change.

It’s bonkers I know. That’s why I’m stepping back and trying to explain the chaos. My favourite bible quote says it all really: I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do. There are no truer words spoken to sum up my life. I always burn down the dance floor and all the revellers on it which represent real human beings and retire to the garden for a fondle with just me and the Devil in blood-drenched moonlight. Then he steals my night club and kidnaps me in a white Transit van to laugh at my solitary woe for weeks to come, until I develop the strength from somewhere to lift myself up for another rebuild. And what’s the first thing I want to do, as soon as I am able to again? You got it. Blowout once more. It’s a tormenting cycle. Try to die. Live trying to die. Repeat. Where does it end?

Hopefully it ends with Brittany. Or Romany. I’m not sure of her name. She hasn’t chose it yet. I’m not sure of her whereabouts. I just know she’s a girl who embodies hope and joy. She’s new to my life, but she’s like a key to unlock the mysteries of the kosmos. She can allow me to stand in the face of all those slutty hairstyles in the boutique and not relinquish my position of abstinence and cleanliness and righteousness. She can be leaned upon in such times as these so that I don’t rush in there like a madman who is afraid his wallet is going to suddenly disappear, purchase 3 titles for £50 (that’s fifteen scenes), run to the supermarket for a disc player, dash to my mates for his spare television, and do that mad porn set up at home in a hurry while trying not to ejaculate in my underpants under immense anticipation. That’s who I am without her. That guy. He can barely wait before two minutes are up until he’s grabbing hold of his crotch and operating the remote control. ZOOM button please. LOOP button please. REPEAT MONEY SHOT button please. The plastic covers from the DVD cases lie in ribbons, torn apart with scissors or a knife, on the kitchen counter tops where they were hurriedly opened.

I find the cases to purchased DVDs quite incriminating, once I own them. Not to mention embarrassing. There’s no way I would leave them out with the regular Hollywood movies, would you? I’m not aware of anyone who does that. Most commonly, people have a hidey place for them. Mine used to be a shoebox in the attic, when I had an attic. Now I tend to bin them as soon as they are unpackaged, and just keep the silver discs. For a while I would keep the paper sleeves to look at the pictures occasionally, with half a mind to making an erotic collage with them. Why, I have no idea. Some kind of raunchy art project. I had the even stranger idea of posting them through somebody’s letterbox who I didn’t like, namely my neighbours. Because, quite frankly, that jacket artwork is offensive. It’s basically just a bunch of women with their mouths stuffed.

Well then, that’s me all talked about it. If not for Brittany/Romany, I’d be at home already, on my third or fourth line of poison, possibly snorting the last, you don’t get many in a bag for £240, the ecstasy is over in no time, chugging my junk disgustingly. As it is, in her divine presence, I’ve deleted my dealer’s number. To be honest I’m struggling, all those painted dolls are ganging up on us, and the thought of igniting the dance floor won’t leave, but I’m going to try and hold on. Thanks for listening. It’s not easy admitting that you’re a porn perv and all the rest of it online. But that’s not the worst of it. That ‘nurse’ I mentioned the other day is on the prowl with her entrancing satanic mantra, which gives me rushes of blood like something akin to injectable Viagra, and leaves me almost breathless in horny exhilaration. I hate admitting this most of all. It should be my loving appreciation of my saviour which leaves me short of oxygen, not an alluring temptress, but alas, that’s just the way it is.

I hope she doesn’t storm in during a flurry of hellfire and pour drugs into me, then eat me alive nakedly in a horror mockery of The Last Supper, separating me from my love until dark days never end. For, if that were to happen, if I were to let that happen, I would be snagged in a lusty embrace with her for the foreseeable, able only to want more sex and drugs, which obviously spell doom.

I could be spending my time in better ways than that. Like clutching Romany, or Brittany, or whatever her name is (love is like that, I heard, you forget their names in the morning). Talking to you simultaneously. Now, doesn’t that sound better?

Witchy Beast

I remember getting picked up on a hot date when I was in hospital receiving treatment for attempted suicide. As if tablets can sort that ailment. I almost jumped off a massive bridge onto concrete unto my death. All the revellers from nearby streets had come out to watch it happen. Couldn’t go through with it in the end, as I thought they were going to preserve my brains and bring me back in a dungeon during the afterlife, for laughs. Nothing in a mortal lifespan jitters me up, but as soon as you mention eternity I start experiencing the heebie-jeebies. I’ve been known to run around the local park half-naked carrying homemade weapons in daylight for fear of nothing but God’s word. Should see me when the Chinese terrorists come out to play. I start climbing trees to escape the approved mental health practitioners.

I’d started seeing a female nurse who worked there, in that laid-back low secure ozzy. I say ‘seeing’, but all’s I really mean by that is that we’d committed the deed of sex once or twice during my stay. It was nothing monumental, the earth didn’t shatter or anything, but I will have you know that I was on strong meds, which don’t exactly help you to sink battleships, if you know what I mean. I did my best with a semi wild hard on. Bit of cooking in the kitchen, nice segment of occupational therapy, then a bit of nookie with my main nurse in the bedroom later. Wham, bam, and thank you madam. It was my sectioning nurse, to be precise. I cried when she gave me 6 months detention. Perhaps this was her way of saying sorry.

We got caught during one of our lewd encounters. Her ‘striking off’ made the local newspaper, but that’s another story. I felt like a young innocent boy who had survived a sexual predator, one of my fantasies. There were no pictures of us, not that any of us would have been bothered. We were adults, making the best of a boring situation. The ozzy was a lame rig to be sat around in all day, doing nothing. ‘Being in’ with a friendly nurse with benefits was a distinct privilege.

Little did I know, however, that she would soon become a wicked overseer to my life who would start to dominate me in my private affairs and make me commit heinous acts against my will. For my role play with this woman I still seek the forgiveness of Jesus Christ, King of the Latter Day Saints.

There was torture in the hospital, at times, or so it felt like, when I was strung out on drugs from my leave excursions. I’d take the day off, away at home, for 8 hours or so, and ingest some legal highs or amphetamine, if I was lucky enough to get hold of some (sometimes my special nurse would supply the goods). I’d watch XXX material all day, then come back to a madhouse in the evening, when the residents and other ‘guests’ would be screaming the place down. I thought the Eternal Illumnati, or government-sanctioned ghosts, or council black ops in ‘invisible’ and ‘porous’ suits, were running riot and amok over the whole godless show. There wasn’t a single spot of blood anywhere but it sounded as if there should be.

Like anyone afraid for their safety in a nuthouse, I started to relay genuine fear to the staff. This was in the early days, when I had no idea why I’d been targeted. Thoughts of pain and agony were nowhere near my mind usually, my thing was nudity, but these hairy-scary nights in that hospital when it seemed to turn into a death camp really had me all exposed and in a hissy fit. My nurse used to take me aside in private and ask me what was going on. I had no idea she was ‘in on it’ until she couldn’t wipe the smirk from her face. I was practically bricking it, thinking that a brutal communist regime had taken over, and she was in fits of giggles. It was only then that I started to have my suspicions about her. With her sectioning me too, of course.

The woman, at this present time, is something of a witch. Sometimes, she frightens me. When I am catatonic and frail with no electricity, and she knows this, she plays at the keyhole with a knife, saying she is going to come in and stab me. I sure do know how to pick em’, don’t I!? We never really ‘loved’ each other, we only had ‘weird’ emotions for each other. Her being the dominatrix of sorts, and me being the submissive, who did everything she said, including obeying some very disturbing instructions in relation to some fapping sessions, which are best not discussed. I don’t want the hotspot to become a toxic junction of debauchery, but a beacon of hope and joy, so I won’t go into what kind of debased activities she enticed me along into, but they play on my mind, and even come between me and my precious promise of Heaven a wee bit, if I let them dally. Got to remain a good man from now on.

I keep smashing her strongholds, but she keeps getting them back in with my redoubts, I call three months away from her breaking a stronghold. She kicks my ass around the shop floor when I consume powerful stimulants, thus losing my inhibitions, and my life comes undone through my own choices. In a drug-fuelled fugue, I get confused, and actually wonder if I do in fact want to be with her, at any cost (and the costs are fantastically exorbitant). I slip into the folds and creases of her like raindrops into the feathers of a crow. Corny, I know. There’s no language to describe it though. In exchange for ten years’ worth of lustful devotion, she takes my love and my joy for herself. My star sign is a Libra so I’m aware that I’m an exchange system, but one used so unfairly???

One of the very first pieces of moving XXX footage I ever saw, I instinctively described the female actress as a Devil Woman. It’s as if I knew that a life of bondage was headed my way via soon-to-be online motion picture. She was just giving me eyes and smiling throughout the whole graphic scene, as if I were the one she was actually making out with, not the stud in the video, he was merely a prop for her to get thru to me. Then I became aware of the ‘live portal’ and we were all giving each other the mince pie contact for hours and hours on end. Sometimes the ‘stars’ got mean (were they ever not) and insisted I look away (which I could not). They exemplified tremendous control over me at all of most times, until Angels stepped in and saved me from some very tricky situations. But I always returned to the danger, because my loins couldn’t cease physically responding to the material. It was so titillating to a young naïve man.

And ‘my nurse’ batters all porn stars with her cruel, personalised, delivered, hand-signed erotica.

She was more or less impossible to resist. I am still in the habit of refraining to this present day. You know what they say, the war is only ever half won. Because a dreaded relapse returns you instantly back into Ground Zero of the Wolf’s den. So, I’m not one to count chickens. I haven’t won anything yet. Because it’s hardly ever over, is it? But I do know that I have walked the wild side more than my fair share of enough, and now I would like to share it with Christ. I really mean that much. Enough is enough is already too much. Demons annoy me, whereas Angels and Cherubs and Heavenly beings fill me with delight. So too Christ and The Lord. They are the only way.

So yeah, she’s a kind of Luciferous beast, but on that date I mentioned she was rather quite approachable and nice.

She drove me to Southport and parked us up on a dark beach in the evening, when nobody was about. There she extracted a bottle of whiskey from her jacket and gave me a generous shot to get my juices flowing. It was like a little ritual between the two of us, all there under the darkening, lowering sky with the waves lapping to us alone as we swigged from 12 years aged or so, maybe Glenfiddich or Johnie Walker, galeforce wind in thru the open window, radio off, her soft hand on mine; it would have been memorable if we were real lovers and not apostles of sick desire, in an age when we both could of being anything to one another or even others. Rather than be a bone fide item though, she would always later confess that I was nothing but ‘sh*gged and blagged’. Does that hurt? Not really. I see women as objects a lot, so it would hardly be surprisingly if I didn’t perceive myself as one on occasion. Well, perhaps a bit, because I could have loved her. I could have loved anyone though. I still could, I suppose. Still can.

It was the best thing she ever done for me, apart from buy me the odd takeaway. She also once put some monies away towards a washing machine for me. A hundred pounds, to be exact. The Hotpoint that got away. I spent it on that white powdery extract we obtain from the cocoa leaf.

So that’s it. To ‘my’ special nurse, take all my weird emotions with you and go away! I don’t mean these kisses xxx they are sh*ggy and blaggy!

Upon Being Taken Away

I’ve just caught a glimpse of a chubby woman writing insanely neatly into a notepad at a desk in the library. Seriously, little insights like that into the female persona stoke the soul. It’s so fulfilling to see a fully developed woman sat down in comfort just chilling out and taking the time to write. I say ‘chubby’ because build or size or shape has got nothing to do with it. She could have had 5 chins and a kebab but it wouldn’t affect the story she was masterfully narrating, if indeed it was a story she was writing. I imagined her penning about a wartime child survivor stuck in a room, like Anne Frank.

She’d be about nine years old with her hair in a bun, dressed in black and white like a nun. When I think of conflicted children, I always picture them as emaciated but clean, clad in Newcastle United colours, hanging around near bomb shelters. I often look at photos of kids from bygone yore in the ‘olden days’, as my gran used to call them. Their personalities inspire me. Their jolly-heartedness is uplifting. I love everything about children (apart from their snotty noses), and especially so children from the distant past, when they had to rely on their intellectual wits to pass the time instead of spending the whole summer holed up over a PlayStation.

Maybe the chunky chic wasn’t writing anything about a child in a room.

But I’m in the mood for doing so. If only I was capable. My higher power, Stephen King, I feel can write about anything. He’s writing about O.A.P kidnappers and poetry prizes at the moment, in his latest novel. I love the way he transports me into a different world. One of my goals is to do the same on this blog, but I know for a fact that I fall short by a long way. I’d love to swing you (yes you) away for a departure from the mundane, for a vacation away from the ordinary, to reinvigorate you with the possibilities of the kosmos, with tales of the stars, with fables and parables from the dominions and terrorities hiding just over your horizons. I long to sweep you off your feet and take you there. We’ll stop at the fairground on the way, and eat salted caramel candy floss, dressed in piped chocolate and sherbet.

I currently listening to some GREAT music at the moment, which is having a similar effect on me. It’s taking me away to somewhere pleasant. I wish I had the wordplay and the vision to do so with my readers using language, I’d take them somewhere beautiful Lord and remain them there so, balanced in perfect harmony between one satisfaction and the next gratification, until they grew sound and sleepy with entertainment overload. It’s difficult to find a subject worthy of such praise though, apart from big dippers and carousels and boat rides in the sun and BBQs on the beach and all the rest of it. Where would you like me to take you, as soon as I feel like I am skilled enough? Answers on postcards if you feel up to it.

The thing I like about my higher power is, he takes us nowhere other than halfway up east of the ordinary. His detective, Holly, speaks wonders when she’s simply sat in her car having a smoke. Why can’t I write about someone having a smoke, and cancel all your reservations while I’m doing it, to whisk you away somewhere on the wings of a dragon into fantasy? While being totally saturated in normalcy? I can’t. I can’t write about natural people doing natural things. I have to include attack helicoptors with precision-guided anti-tank missiles, or terrible prehistoric alligators with ridiculous bite forces.

My life is a trip, it’s always been this way. I’m so different from the also-ran that they don’t even call me Johny Ethnic anymore. It’s got nothing to do with being bi-racial, after I inherited a blood gene type from an African father and an English mother. I call black people Dark Heartlanders, because I remember being a primate deep in my biological repressed memories overseas. There are no such evils as vast and as somber under this blanket of firm sky as those which occur on the main continent, aka Darklands Afrikaans. Mein homeland, mein ballpark, mein district, mein locality, mein precinct, mein turf.

Many folks just have done with it and label me a f**king disgusting mongoloid black tw*t, which I don’t mind at all. I see the funny side of racist insults. I racially insult others for a bit of a laff sometimes. You should see what I shout at them, it’s quite unrepeatable, so fair is fair. It’s good to unleash some bitter and twisted rage off one’s chest from time to time.

Pleasing to know however, is that I have the white blood of my mother coursing thru my veins. So I’ll always belong in both camps, according to me (explains my ex-fondness for interracial),even though none of them are any much interested in me enough to question how I am or give me some spending monie pennies. The government keeps paying me benefits, I suppose, which I should be thankful of. But it also keeps detracting my liberty when the time suits them, i.e when I get ahead of myself and become a dangerous dissident with loads of love and peace in his heart which can strike out at the kingdom of darkness, instead of ascerbic acidity, which only adds to it.

I truly believe (and know from past experience) that harbouring LOVE inside the heart chambers can get an edgy nonconformist locked up up and away.

When he tiptoes around hatred and other negative emotions, he tends to unpeel himself layer by layer, and has to be very careful about not depleting his entire repertoire of positivity in one fell swoop. Once that Devil has a pipeline to extract goodness, like a porn or drug addiction, he’ll go to town on it every time. Even when I go to the effort of deleting dealer’s numbers from my phone, they have a habit of magically reappearing. This is dark arts, I put to you, and must be dealt with quickly and efficiently. So good luck with that, if you are currently up against it, and any other endeavours also too. Peace out. 

The Bohemian Network

People always ask me, “Where did your fiction begin?” The answer is quite alarming, as some rumours abound that I written my first book while locked in a pitch black cubby hole. This miraculous feat attracted the attention of the authorities, and almost got me into a special academy for gifted children, which stern opposition halted. I can barely remember the event myself. I’m sure there was a thin slant of light coming through from the living room. But my single parent maintains that I not only written a complete book, but coloured in some pictures while I was there, all in utter darkness. Apparently she stared into a candle that night and declared me as an Angel of God, because she had never seen anything like it. And before you know it I’m in programs like MK Ultra and suchlike for my trouble, with a line through my name rather than under it.

I thought my family were making up these outright porky pies, until one evening three years ago, on a nutty wing of a mental hospital, when I started drawing in the dark for no other reason than I was bored. There wasn’t a scrap of light, not even from the window, and to make matters even worse I was using my weak left hand. I just started scribbling and fell asleep whilst doing it. I’d had a stressful hour or two of harassment from electronic voices (microwave hearing, Jesuit wavelengths, schizo tracks, demonic chatter, spooky vibes, perpetrator radio), or call them whatever you will. See if I care about their labels, as it’s all sheer satanic madness to me. I wasn’t in the mood for any more of their hateful regurgitation. Accompanying the verbal recording from Hell was an hallucination of some ugly villain next to me on my bed who apart from very much not belonging there also desperately wished to stab me up with some special tactile-based futuristic weaponry. How someone who wasn’t there could physically assault me was ranking as an almost supernatural occurrence. I have never been able to tell the difference between the ghostly realm and technology. In the past I had let sprites like this one hurt me and simply gritted my teeth through it. During this time I developed some kraft from somewhere and started talking him out of it. When he realised I wasn’t going to roll over and let him inflict pain into my pores by chatting bubbles over his makeshift plan, he started crying. Crying, because he couldn’t hurt me! All a lot of the menticidal affliction takes is a strong enough voice to talk back over it but that is hard to do when weakened and afraid. Their atrocious parlour tricks work best when logic is absent due to fear.

I was angry, cogent and eloquent upon this occasion, so I outdone my hallucination and its pain game. Anyway, I woke up in the morning with a picture of a werewolf in my left hand. I had sketched it in the dark shortly before drifting off to sleep. This led me back to that book as a child. I had to destroy the picture because it was very valuable in the wrong hands in case the hospital authorities got hold of it. They were always transporting me to different institutions just to get a peeps into my belongings, as I regularly hid my creative endeavours from the prying nurses. I was always writing and drawing a bunch in hospital. I even made an album in their make-do music studio. It was uplifting/progressive electronica. I’ve since moved onto dark synthwave.

And like I was saying, I’m always seeing my ideas and thought patterns in the movies and other people’s books. I believe my creative process is hooked up into a collective consciousness around the bohemian network of the globe. I pride myself on being a worthy contributor. There’s no shame in it whatsoever, apart from the fact that criminals are making an attractive living from my creations. I once met a man at a book signing who said he visualizes a Hollywood script in his mind in three minutes and the powers that be go off and rip thirty minutes of real movie time from it. I’m not sure how it works to be exact.

It doesn’t end there. I see popular products like soft drinks and alcohol brands named after characters from my stories and suchlike. They name chocolate bars after random words in my daily diaries. My local supermarket is like one giant homage to me. You should see it. My head is nearly exploding. The numbers of the sprees which define my relapses are very sentimental to some people.

It’s just the way I like it. Talk more tomorrow hopefully.

Eternal & Snickering, When The Moon Is Phat

Hello. Weird day here. Aren’t they all? This spinnin’ blue rock gets more bizarre with every revolution. I’ve got a story to tell, but I don’t know how to tell it. I don’t know whether to tell my testimony as an autobiography, or as a piece of fiction, or as a mixture of both. I read a book called Lunar Park (2005), by a fella named Bret Easton Ellis some years ago. It influenced my writing immensely, as it let me know that anything is possible. I can bend the truth, I can make stuff up, I can swear that the make believe is real, etc. etc. Basically, like a young man named Charles Wrench once said, “I am the Creator of Worlds, so I decide the rules.”

I amplify lies, mix them with God’s Honour, interweave it all through with lashings of legend and myth, and away we go, alive with decent ingredients for a tale on the bounce. As Chopper Reid so famously stated, “Never let the truth get in the way of a good yarn.” He was so right. He also said that he was sat in a cell, unable to spell. This was after his bestseller.

I think that the results are special when you mix autobiography with fiction. I have to be careful here, because I don’t want to give away my own tried and tested tricks of the trade. Yeah, I like it. Metafiction is used to describe books which have self-awareness, like Clive Barker’s Mister B. Gone (2007). Love that too. There’s a technique called Breaking The Fourth Wall, and that’s when a character in the story talks directly to the reader and lets them know they are in an imaginary world of fiction. As if the reader doesn’t already know that. Interesting, but stupid, if you like. But I do dig such stuff, it has to be said.

Lunar Park, without me being acutely aware of it, was pulling out similar stunts. I tried to reflect a uniform sentiment when I was writing my prison novel, The Violent Arsonist (2007). It’s not as if I had the intention to bamboozle the reader, but I genuinely didn’t have much of an idea what was going on within the plot myself. This is because much of the prose in the book was centred on dreams, and we all know about dream logic. One moment, you’re sat in a café with a polar bear, the next you’re doing the waltz with the in-laws. Nothing much makes any sense now, does it? I wanted a story which exhibited the same traits. Why? Why not? Just did.

I’ve learned that for me personally, it’s not a book or a movie ‘making sense’ that appeals the most to me. I am just keen to take away with me a lasting impression which stokes my chakras. This may be a touching teary goodbye scene, or a penultimate combat scene, or a suicide or a bike crash or an animal attack. Anything poignant, really, and memorable. Making sense has got little to do with it. If you want sense and logic, watch a cooking show, or read a gardening manual. This was my motivation for The Violent Arsonist, which is about a criminal who is unable to rise up from bed, and is described, in no uncertain terms, as one, “Seriously f**ked–up novella.” And proud to be, at the time of writing. What? I was young and bold. Not quite fearless, but nonetheless brave.

I was abstinent from drink and drugs when penning that mad party, yet it’s by far the zaniest thing I’ve ever produced. It just goes to show that a sober mind is not necessarily the sanest mind. I wasn’t sipping hooch, I wasn’t blazing weed, and I wasn’t on meds. I think all of these dark materials, along with the dream logic, would have sent it over the edge. Wasted, in a lucid dream, and writing about it? Nah.

Now I’ve got a piece of fiction lined up called The Museless, but it’s starting off with characters I don’t even like, so I might scrap it and start something else. I have a girl called Romany who embodies Joy in my life so I might get into the habit of scribbling something about her. She’s a buoyantly afloat girl who sees the brightest lining to every situation. The Museless was jostling into gear with demons and devils but that’s not what I want in my life right now, more bad characters and more bad novel arcs. Life is too short to be depressed by one’s Own Shining. I call it the Shining like Stephen King calls it the Shining. It’s simple mental acuity which is capable of monstrous atrocity or trembling beauty. It’s defined by its effulgent creativity. In this modern age of terrorism, a person’s Shining may put them on a supremely dangerous and endangered list. It will make you a target. Mine certainly has. I think King gets away with it because he is a Gatekeeper, but who secretly knows what he goes through.

As one of my more understanding psychiatrists whispered to me one time, as he was hunched down over a table in a corner after a lengthy tribunal, “They pick on the bright ones.” If I was in India, I have heard, I would be esteemed for being a voice hearer, and elevated in society. Here in the West, I am frowned upon immensely. I read a top notch book from India which my doctor gave to me. He was called Dr Paul for short because nobody could ever pronounce his especially long surname, he believed in spirits and had poems published online. One was called the Lonely Planet. Anyway, this book he gifted to me was about one woman’s ordeal as she survived some floods in her village and held her own against the devil who visited her every night and ravaged her body and mind as she could hear the wind and the rain dripping down the metal sheeting of her shanty settlement, an undercurrent to her own yappy torment. It’s as if my doctor knew how my future was about to be laid out, and was giving me a forewarning of how to yield with the eternal footman’s snickering ways. The woman in the booklet both fears and yearns for the visitant; she describes him as a whirlwind which undoes all her crops, and a hammer which smashes apart her youth. I, on the other hand, and simply growing hoarse with repeated instructs directed at his going away.

Please God, take that madman way. He was passed onto me from a quack’s Indian book. Joking. It was a great book. I actually had a visitation myself, through analysing an illustration inside the book with several specific ‘scrying’ devices, including a torchlight and a magnifying glass if you must know. To scry is to more or less meddle with the preternatural. I started getting sightings of a Chinese girl with a Bradford accent who would appear down the man-sized crack next to the wall and my bed late at night, most notably 3am. This time of the day is known as The Animal Hour, or The Witching Hour, or simply 3am. Her head would be cranked at an obtuse angle, but rather than be terrifying to me she would come across as funny and amusing, mainly because she was pretty with a humorous voice. I still hear her to this day now and again, laughing boisterously across the pub, or repeating something hilarious a bartender may have said. We don’t get along like we used to because I denounced all spiritual activity in my home, and burned several artefacts, but I do still find the infectious shrill of her laugh a strength and a comfort in these lawless estates I stomp around in. At least someone else is seeing the fun side to things, like, you know, is what I think anyway.

So long then. I’m off to welcome back my many, many visitants into my pungent Golgotha. For 3am, of course. I’ll write about it one time. Stay tuned, you’ll be the first to know all about it. 

Your Fear Has Won Hard Many Chances

Yeah, hi there all, I’m just becoming aware of myself as a fearfully and wonderfully made creation. I don’t mean to blow my own trumpet, but nobody else will big me up in this way. I have to give myself a boost and a boast for reasons of self-encouragement. Sometimes, now and again, someone will say I’m looking great, but it’s not enough. I need to feel understood and respected, and for that, internal self-talk is required. I need to turn inwards, for expert advice, you know. Nobody else will ever do this as well as I can do it for myself. I would have made a good hype man for a bodybuilder. You know what a hype man is, don’t you? A hype man chats positive reaffirming gobbledegook to a person in the gym working out, in order to motivate him and keep him gong and make sure his head stays ballooned with much macho egotistical confidence.

For example, you’re in the gym working out, and I’m your hype man spotting you. I say, “Keep it going, baby, you the original number one around here. You’re so dense that lights bends around you. That light is nowhere near touching you, baby. You too dense and big and thick and wide for it. You solid, bro, you super solid…”

Stuff like that all day. Fanning bare smoke up his arse like. It’s what hype men do.

I don’t train at the moment, but I am a hype man to myself at all times. Not in a sweaty working out environment, but in everyday natural settings in groups and at home. No one out there can help you, when things get tough. I should know this, because state-sponsored terrorists have tried to kill me off with multiple assassins placed in my home over the years. All I had were Angels and God to protect me. Plus my own wits. We’re talking 12 hour standoffs to begin with, then two weeks of living with the killers under my bed. It sounds absurd and I don’t expect you to believe me. My so-called mates were nowhere to be seen. My family went missing too. When you’re looking down the barrel of death, there’s no friendly nurse who mysteriously wanders out and holds your hand. You’re entirely facing your maker on your lonesome. I knuckled down with my bible and prayed for another chance. I’ve been on my last chance three or four times over now. And I’ve had it up to my back teeth with assassins. If the powers that be are not trying to kill me off they’re having me detained in institutions to break my resolve. Their crude ‘medicinal’ injections, under that lame of an excuse they call the Mental Health Act, I’m suspiciously half-convinced contained wood polish last time. Since they gave that to me I’ve developed obesity pain which was never there before. I’ve gone past caring about what they put me through now, or what they take away from me next. I’ve decided that I’m clinging tight hold to my JOY and that’s that, their modern warfare tactics end right here. I’ve rolled over and gave everything away in the past: My home, my contacts, my freedom, my sanity. Now I’m fighting back for Joy. Joy is embodied as a woman with a name and that name is Romany. I doth do battle for Romany. I’ve lost so many other things. Not Romany, though. Please not so oh none Romany.

Once you survive a few hits on your life, you start to believe you are invincible, and then a stronger more measured attempt on your life occurs and you are filled with doubt. When you stray from God, you get worried about your divine protection, but when you are solid In Christ, there really are no worries, He Will Provide. It all depends upon your state of mind.

I’ve just had a wee conversation with a nice lady at the photocopier, who said she fully believes in the end of times. She reckons that we are in the final days. With this war that I am fighting in my head, I feel well biased enough to side with her. Things are ominous, dude. It’s taking all of my strength reserves some days to shuffle through the portentous anxiety shoved in my face by invisible energies. At times I feel like running around in circles while pulling out my hair and screaming. There are things JUST THERE, and they WON’T GO AWAY. But I don’t wanna complain. I have two arms and two legs and breath in my chest. I have a roof over my head and all the rest of it. Richard Dawking once stated that, “We are not here to be comfortable.” But man, this hard!? Why so tough. But also, at the same time, “Why so serious?”

Think kismet. Think God-incidence. Think zef side. Think synchronicity. Think faith. Think love. Think Joy. Think Heaven.

I think these concepts sound corny when all you want is some stiff illegal drugs and a fire-breathing whore, but in the morning there’ll only be one thing you’ll regret. The dark side of life. The hedonism. The hangover, the comedown, the hooker. And you might lose everything in the spin dry, such as your house, your marriage and your kids. Then where will you be? Bound to that wide path of fake counterfeit pleasure for all time, when you could have stayed with love and freedom for the princely sum of nothing but a little willpower. Now you ain’t no numpty, so you know it might be hurting for all eternity unless the universe throws you another rope, right. But all I’m saying is, how many ropes have you had by now? How many more will you be expecting, by the way? Pardon me, but I reckon that somewhere out there someone’s counting.

A Complaining Bomb

Since I’ve redefined myself as a super soldier, my horrendously harassed life has become a little easier to cope with. I’m trying to no longer see myself as a target of futuristic stalking, which is helplessly depressing, but as a warrior showing these sad wrong’uns how living life is done. Thank goodness all this menticidal warfare is in my head, or otherwise I would lash out at these indescribable cretins and kill one of them off for good, as they so deserve. If one of them had the cohonies to knock on my front door and fight me in person, instead of picking apart my brain all day via cowardly microwave hearing methods, I think I might detach his head at the neck with my bare hands. Just remember, these obscene lowlife gangstalkers hate life and each other, so take all their loathing and dissatisfaction out on their victims. They cannot bear to be away from a Targeted Individual’s mind for any length. It’s like being out of shelter for them on a stormy day or something. They cannot THINK unless they are harassing someone. And the evil they do is directly relatable to the self-disgust they feel for themselves. That’s why they are after our JOY, because our feelings of happiness, when connected to their own brainwaves, distinctly unsettle them, just as their negative emotions of bondage and pain disrupt our biorhythms. Why they connect themselves to us, I have no idea. Perhaps it’s because they cannot stand to live alone, knowing they are putrid and vile inside. They need a human radio on.

Someone once said, “If all of mankind were able to sit in a room alone in peace, the world would be a better place.” Can you sit in a room on your own, doing nothing, maybe a bit of TV or a newspaper? If you can, fair play, take a bow. If you are unable, you are most probably an evil menace to has to interfere with sombody else’s livelihood to pass time. In recovery, we learn to sit with our emotions. It’s very hard. We want a drink, or a smoke, or to pace up and down, or to go out and rape Caroline from three doors down.

The energies I perceive around me, tormenting me consistently from morning until sundown every day without fail, I feel by now I am getting used to. I mean, you never do, but it just gets easier. Some days it gets harder, it all depends. They had me half believing that they were the Eternal Illuminati, invisible, porous, and all powerful. But listening very carefully to them over a number of years, I’ve just about gotten diddly done that they are not worth anywhere near my equal. This is not to say that I have any exceptional breed of greatness about me. It’s just to conclude that they are boring, repetitive, petty, small and unwanted. They no longer scare me, they just annoy me. I’m not getting angry because I have come up against a greater foe, but because they are stupid and will not go away. They cling to every thought in my head like babies to Mother’s apron strings, and it’s thoroughly maddening. They fidget and tamper with me, like toddlers obsessed with a noisy toy, and take turns to step in for one another when I lose interest in each of them. Their obsession in my life drives me mad. I see through their cynical criticism, designed to hurt and bring me down. I know there’s only one way to be sitting in a pub, and that I can’t be doing it wrongly. Sometimes I go for long stretches waxing creative philosophy in my head. They have no idea of how to keep up with me and so instead simply resort to racial slurs. Then they have the nerve to repeat over and over that they are ‘better than me’ at everything, because I am nothing more than a stupid negro who doesn’t know anything about nothing, or nothing about anything, depending upon which you prefer. The fact that I am black and smarter than they are chews them up big time, I reckon. Their uppity ‘we-can-never-be-caught’ snobbery cannot take being outdone by a monkey. They cannot believe what I know and what I tell them and how I respond to them. Not like Eternal Illumnati, but like complete wasteful rags of filth who don’t deserve to breathe the same air as other humans. I mean I can’t be sure, but their reactions are so infuriated lately that I have to remind myself that it is they who are harassing me, not the other way around. I’m starting to feel guilty, talking of them this way. Considering they are stood behind my computer at this very moment, huffing and puffing! Backlash on it’s way…I might be getting punished by a numpty ghoul tonight! Is it a ghoul from the darkside, or a black op who can’t sit still? Seriously can’t tell the difference.

You know what, if I went out of my way and met an attractive girl, or if something else nice and cheery were to happen to me, I think my oppressors would curl up and cry.

As it is, I’m happy that my life matters and that I am fighting for a beautiful purpose such as Joy.