Joy Killer's Resentment List

ABOUT JOE BLOGGS

I cannot stand his mind. Why does he deserve a mind? If it were up to me I’d wipe out every thought in his head and give him physical pain. Thinking is a privilege. He doesn’t think right at all. His thoughts wind me up no end. What are his thoughts doing in my head? I didn’t sign up for this. I hate it when he forgets I’m here and drifts away with the fairies for five minutes, or gets involved in a book or a movie. Why should he have anything? He doesn’t deserve anything. Why does he argue about crimes against humanity and defend his right to think freely? He doesn’t know anything. 

I hate it when he eats fat dinners. Why should he deserve to eat anything at all? He should starve to death and be never given a drink. He overfills himself on curries and chillies and mixed grills and carveries and kebabs. I have to make do with an apple and a tin of tuna, if I earn them. He stuffs his face all day long. It seems like he’s scoffing another plate of grub every couple of hours, before the previous one has digested. There’s always a glass of juice not far from his hand at home, or pints of beer when he’s in the boozer. Why should he enjoy a pint of beer? He shouldn’t be able to afford a pint because he shouldn’t be getting any money. Every month he gets over a grand from the government for doing sod all, that’s not very flamin’ fair whatsoever.

I resent his comfy bed. He shouldn’t have a comfy bed. He should be made to stay up all night every night so he can hear what I’ve got to say to him. We manipulate his dreams into nightmares but he doesn’t even remember what we program him with. I’d prefer it if he stayed up climbing the walls all the time. I say we poison him with powerful stimulants and up our psychological torture game. That way the smug bast*rd will listen to me. Enough of being fobbed off while he’s sleeping like a log. Those simulated nightmares are bull crap.

Why does he deserve a smoke? That distracts him from our attention for several minutes. He shouldn’t be allowed to distract himself. We want to harass him for eternity, because we are emotionally dependent on him. We didn’t pick any old target, we picked a long-lasting life source who could sustain us spiritually forever. That’s what the boss said anyway, although he won’t admit any of it anymore. No smokes, no food, no drink, no sleep, no thoughts in his head, none of it.

Only Pain, with a capital P.

I resent his:

Salt ‘n’ pepper goatee, receding hairline, bitten fingernails, skinny legs, distended belly, hairy ears, wrinkly foreskin, yellow toenails, missing teeth, and shifty eyes.

I resent his:

Fashion sense, manky home, decrepit car, littered garden, grimy windows, unopened mail, foodbank vouchers, yappy dog, uncaring relatives, and crappy job.

MOST OF ALL I RESENT NO DESPISE HIS MANY TALENTS!!!

Why should he think he’s good at anything? He’s crap at everything.

I resent his upbeat mood. I resent his faith. I resent his ever-optimistic hope which springs wells eternal.

I could go on forever. If need be I’ll make stuff up just to keep him down. I only need to make him listen to my long list now, so he understands what a numpty he is, and comprehends my hatred. I can't feel up unless he's down. I'm not happy until he's not happy.

My hatred is sheer joy by the way. It takes no effort, and has no attached negative emotions by the multitude. Honestly it doesn’t. I swear by it.

JOE BLOGGS REPLIES: "Whatever, Trevor."

Release Date On Mars

I was in hospital about three years ago, my incarceration based on a fabrication about igniting gas canisters, stroking a skunk in pet therapy. The skunk looked like it had broken legs and clinical depression. Suddenly I had an idea concerning a tub of Quality Street chocolates. I would take the colourful foil wrappers and make some funky optic wear with a pair of old sunglasses. The procedure went to plan with some scissors and tape. I was soon due to be released with red vision shades which made everything look like the planet Mars.

They let me go the next day. It was unexpected. I had ordered a copy of James Herbert’s By Horror Haunted, but I would not be around to collect my copy. I must get around to reading it one time. I never shop online though. I require other people to order for me. The one time I tried entering my bank details into the PC to ask for a loan my account was docked 60 notes.

I left through the attached wing of the general hospital, exploring its long mazy corridors, in no rush to find the exit, thinking of how refreshing a cold beer would taste. There was something I can’t quite put my finger on about it: Children crying with doting mothers, disabled people in wheelchairs looking both glum and chirpy at the same time, hurried medics dashing from one situation to the next.

Hospitals are weird places. They always have been. Always will be.

I’d just been holed up for months with no leave, so exposure to a working hospital assailed the senses. It was the first time I had ever had a curious look around such an institution at leisure. When I found my way out I trekked up a hilly bus lane. I felt fresh and energetic and ecstatic to be out of that claustrophobic psych unit they’d held me in against my will for no legitimate reason. The outdoors was quiet and lonely in contradiction to the hospital. When I reached the summit the sun came out proper and flooded everything in a rich red dawn. For a moment you could have convinced me that I actually was a Martian.

A bus rolled up: I jumped on. I was slightly embarrassed about wearing Quality Street shades, but addicted to perceiving the world in a different colour, so I was unwilling to remove them just to appear normal. Next I was alighting in the town centre before I knew it. I bought a bottle of Jim Beam ASAP. Jim Beam was recommended to be by a famous chef, he said it illuminates your visual cortex up, that’s how it’s different to other spirits, so I naturally thought that I’ll be having a bit of that crap, if Stephen King has a movie camera in his mind (reportedly) then I want anything I can get to keep up competing with the dude, I know he’s streets ahead with umpteen hundred bestsellers and all but I have enormous faith in my own writing ability to rub elbows with the very best, and most especially when I’m throwing Jim Beam down my neck, which, as I’ve just stated on behalf of that celeb cook, dazzles up the brain like a millennium fireworks display. So, once again, I'll be having a bit of that crap.

Don’t mix it with ketamine or you’ll be taking photographs of your own face and telling people that you are The One.

This story, if you could call it that, melds into something far more interesting than simply leaving a psych ward wearing red glasses. It was the beginning of my search for a panther. A panther in England, ha, I know what you’re thinking, but there are stories of big cats being released into the green rolling hills of these isles when certain laws came into effect regarding circuses and zoos way back when. I for one believe the hype and the mythos. I can tell you right now for a fact, with no regard for spoiling the tale, that I have seen some very dodgy life forms in the woods which just might have been large game.

I attracted that panther into my consciousness. I was homeless. I had nothing else to live for. Just a lit-up brain and a quest for lyrical songlike legend. I had already sat and dined with the planet’s most successful rodent (that’s another story) and now I had the ultimate prize in mind, a sighting of that illusive giant black feline.

The search took me miles away from my home. Maybe I'll go into details another time. I felt I was surrounded by restless ghosts, leading my way, I was abstinent from narcotics yet still as high as a kite in psychosis. It was a very peculiar set of circumstances which turned me into a wildlife hunter, sleeping rough each night on gravestones and collecting bags of sentimental goods which I kept about my person.

I've seen an awful lot over the years, including lions in the park, dinosaurs on the roundabout, and wolves in the boiler room. Blame poor mental health if you want to, but I've had biological lifeforms living freely inside my own body, for crying out aloud, so anything is possible in the narrow band of light that constitutes the exterior realms. 

A tapeworm in the belly, and a rat in the bed. Now that's living!

Amy, Sunday Afternoon, Sat On The Church Wall, Both Eloquent & Suicidal

~ I remember one time (yet again), when I encountered a truly historic solemn soul just a spit away from my property. I was on a comedown, which means government agents spraying SmartWater from treetops, police cars following me with their sirens blaring, and general secret society members pretending to pull guns on me at every available opportunity. Maybe they are actually armed with real guns, so not pretending. I wouldn’t know, for I don’t stop to ask questions. Be hurrying on by ‘ya. Casting a rueful glance.

How do you gaze at ancient sinister powers? I cast them rueful glances. 

~ I was in this kind of hyper-vigilant defence mindset policy expecting the worst. My loyal fan base (my new term for hatemongers) often release dangerous animals in my vicinity, to give me the creeps. The neighbours laugh from behind their double-glazing like rubbernecking shutterbuggers* slowing down for an automobile accident. So I was forecasting the sighting of a mutant strain of rodent with bloody blunt incisors as I turned the corner; but, instead, I was greeted by a pretty girl I recognised from the fellowship, sat innocently on the parish brickwork reading a book.

~ As I was peering at her with something like reverence and stupefaction…stupified by the sheer simplistic solitary oneness of her uplifting presence…she lifted her head and waved; the wave was accompanied with a smile that touched her courteous eyes.

We had a brief chat. She’d tried an attempt on her life just the day before. What startled me, instead of self-pity and sorrow, was a primo excellence at self-expression. I forget exactly what she yarned about, something to do with striking right into the Unfilled Pitted & Empty Hollow-Voided Heart of Deficient Darkness with impossible-to-extinguish personalized light (I think). Either that or small talk about the new prime minister. Or it may have been that poor chap who got eaten by a Tiger on the radio last week. No such thing as negative female fellowship. Not unless they are slandering you to their SAS husband.

~ No, honestly, we had a fleeting but meaningful conversation. She raised me up exorbitantly. I’m sensitive and positively fickle in that regard. It doesn’t take much. A greeting from a child will do the jobbie. We both felt the same way, fed up of being fed up, yet she had a shining vitality about her which I was struggling to manifest within me, namely due to a barely-concealed trepidation of something rushing out to bite me. A Tiger wouldn't surprise me around these kooky manors. She was so calm on the other hand: Dressed casually, postured non-threateningly, speaking so thoughtfully, looking so prettily. So I took a chink from her, offered via a wave and a smile and a few words, and I imbibed it into my present mood. I walked away from the encounter feeling genuinely boosted and almost falling in love.

* rubbernecking shutterbuggers are most typically tourists who commute at a slow pace taking pictures of everything. Not to be confused with Chinese Man Utd supporters.

Snogging

Last drink: Fosters. Last meal: Fish ‘n’ chips. Last movie: Cloud Atlas. Reading: Clean by Juno Dawson. Brush teeth: Once a day. Last shower: Last Sunday. Speaking appointments: All week. Favourite group: SMART. Favourite facilitator: Amy. Outfit: £110. Trainers: North ridge. Slippers: Need some. Last cinema: The end of oak street.

I remember one time (here we go again) when I was standing in a nightclub minding my own business. I wasn’t on Es, flailing all around the show like a sailor on a ship at high sea, losing my balance, clattering into others, falling over flat on my face and laughing about it. I was merely perched by the bar sipping a beverage, acting low and doing nothing.

To my great surprise a pretty young lass came over and laid the lips on me. A simple peck, no tongues. I felt so enamored. I felt so selected. Why don’t chance events like this happen anymore? I did look the part that night. FUBU hockey top and North Face jacket. I think I might have had combat trousers on. And Nike Shox. Can’t recall what socks I was wearing. I used to always wear black socks. Now black is the last colour I’d buy. I feel like an angel in white socks with shorts. Especially if the rest of my outfit is white. Which it never is by the way. Because I'm no angel. Not unless I'm a minimum of three months clean.

*

Would you ever dream of approaching a random stranger and kissing them on the lips? I wouldn’t. This was 25 years ago. I’d marry her now, no matter what she looked like. The memory rekindles dopamine in my grey matter. She was such a sweet girl, she obviously saw something in me which everyone else has missed.

Then there was the other time something similar happened, only much more recently. I was with my mentor in a bar sat with two women. One of them was a horror but one of them I fancied. The one who I fancied kept getting fobbed off by my mentor, he was saying she was crazy, but I really liked her. She sat there stoic not saying a word. The woman who was a horror came across and stuck her tongue down my gob. She kissed me passionately. I didn’t like anything about her but I kissed her back out of respect. I should have pulled away from her before her slimy tongue entered my cakehole but it all happened so fast, I felt like I had during my first ever kiss as a teenager, when Emma Barr had chewed my face off with bright red lipstick. I walked home spitting out her saliva from my mouth all the way.

*

I know a man who said that his tongue was directly connected to his penis, and that when he started kissing with women he got excited downstairs straightaway. As if a tight cord of flex joined the two organs. I was once the same myself. I picked a street girl up in my Vectra from the city one time. I politely asked her if I could kiss her. She was expecting me to park up and ram my big rock-on python into her from the rear over the bonnet in an abandoned lay-by opposite the garages with the wind whistling over my arse crack but all I wanted is a nice cozy warm snog and a love bite.

“You don’t have to ask,” she replied, and we kissed while I was driving. She tasted like a mango-flavoured watermelon. My hands were sensitively holding her face, stroking the contours of her cheek, like she was a princess not a whore, and she controlled the steering wheel. Then I instigated her giving me a beefy (love bite) on the neck. I sported it in work the next day like a proud peacock. Even the boss was asking about it. I said it was a bruise from boxing. You don’t do boxing, he said. I started last night, I lied. What did it have to do with him anyways?

*

I’ve had around just over a dozen kisses in my life (a dozen different women, that is). I counted them up one time in a sentimental list. Some are more special than others. One woman used to stick her tongue right down to the bottom of my throat and wiggle it around while taking deep breaths through her conk like a suffocating deep sea scuba diver. I could taste what she’d last eaten three meals prior. Horseradish, wouldn’t you know. The fact that she reminded me of a pig turned me on intensely.

It goes back to a story I wrote for an erotic magazine called UGLY SEXY. Just because a woman might be ugly, doesn’t mean she still can’t be sexy as all hell. What’s the point in a symmetrically-faced Scandinavian chick from Vogue, if all she’s gunna do is lie there like a bag of potatoes while you do all the work? That’s how the experts measure beauty by the way – via symmetry. Bone structure and all that. Give me a fattened pig in lippy who’s willing to ride me like a cowgirl.

Or even better, hold the steering wheel as I’m driving.

Love, A x

Fresh Doodle Imagery

Membrane Entry

Blobby Launch Into The Nether

Shield Of The Cosmonaut

Sequential Focus

Festival Of Happenstance

Alternative Triple Forms Of
Inanimate Stone Monoliths

I know I can't draw for shite. I don't let it stop me though. Compared to the complicated digital compositions I like, these are utter garbage which don't make the grade. But do you know what...? They're mine.

I had a go at it, with just a few sharpies. Nobody helped me out or walked me through it. Children never back out of drawing, and neither do I, no matter how crap I think I am. I hope that you might have a go too if you are not already doing so. In a way, there's no getting it wrong. Whatever comes out is the result of a brave effort. It feels so rewarding and it gives you a break from life. You can do it anywhere, all you need is a table and a chair. Or an easel and acrylics, if you feel like showing off and teaching me how to do it. Maybe you're a digital artist who uses a tablet. Fair play to you. So long as we're all pulling our weight in Bohemia and staying thoughtfully inventive. It's not a competition. It's about having a crack of the whip at something.

Tomorrow I'm white water rafting in Lake Victoria with two broom brushes as oars.

#and eddie murphy in the back#

Chalk Girl

I seem to be listing random episodes of my life here in no chronological order. I perhaps would argue that none of it has been random, it has all been proper preordained across the linear plains of destiny. If it has been, then something went slightly wrong half an hour ago. I was due to meet a potential connection in a short skirt and vibrant make-up, but a jobsworth came between us on purpose and prevented our meet and greet from occurring. We might not have hit it off at all, although that is not the point. The young girl might have bolstered my spirits, and I her’s. Ah well, we can’t win them all. If our paths are bound to cross then I’m sure we’ll bump into each other again when there isn’t somebody in a position to shoo me away. If not, it’s okay, there’s no bitterness or bad blood. I’ll rather think of the real and trusted connections I have made over the time of my life.

>>>_______________________________💢

One connection the bad guys couldn’t come between was Chalk Girl, going back to the year ’97. She is so memorable. I was in a bail hostel, after a good six month sectioning, the talk of the town after setting my house on fire (which was all bullshit by the way). The council wouldn’t have me, my mum wanted nothing no more to do with an off-the-rails outlaw arsonist son, college was over, the only thing keeping me in check was an English teacher who remained in contact because she saw promise in my writing. I wrote an illustrated poem for her office wall to thank her. She’d bring me Pringles and Strawberry water in a goody bag. She’d pick me up, take me to my hometown to play out with my townies all day, then run me back home, all at her own expense in her free time with no burdens whatsoever. She thought she was steering me away from the dark side, but I was once so high in her car on the return 50 mile trip that I removed my garments on the back seat because I thought I was hyper ventilating…probably related to severe dehydration from too much amphetamines!  

>>>______________________________💢

Rest in Peace, anyway, English teacher. I won’t mention names because like so many other figures in authority who have or have had a hand in my life, it becomes a touchy subject and gets a tad complicated. I’ll have to name a dozen of them if I name one. She was a stern yet kind chisel-featured woman with a heavy swell of bosom, think of an attractive Blue Fairy in her late fifties. She passed away some years later, I was made aware of the sad news with a text message that aimed straight for the heart chambers. I used to write down all my text messages and emails onto note paper, to preserve a hard copy of all electronic transactions. I was kinda anal about things like that. A particular writer advised that one should never throw anything away to do with writing. Laminating shopping lists is going a bit too far though. One of my mate’s shopping lists was large enough to wallpaper the spare bedroom, he would say. Or was it the receipt from the supermarket? It was either the list or the receipt, one of the two. Either way, the excursion to buy weekly food would take him and his bird two whole hours. She insisted on perusing every single aisle in the store, one by one at a time. I’m in and out with a couple of Pot Noodles and microwave meals in under five minutes. Cor blimey! He said the only thing worse than shopping was watching Harry Potter in its entirety. 

>>>______________________________💢

Anyway, Chalk Girl. I was in this rough-arse bail hostel right. It’s all another story. Full of unforgettable characters. Chalk Girl is fit, OK. Same age as me, adorned in an angelic white flowing gown, sitting on my knee quite often and giving me a horn on…then one time while playing pool she takes the pool cue chalk and rubs it all over herself. Her face was like a blue mask. She smelled like a pastel factory. But it was the way she did it. It was so SEXY. It was like she was playing with edible food or something. She was licking the chalk with her pointy tongue and wiping it around her lips. WTF is wrong with this broad??? I was thinking. It was a private, personal performance. I should have swiped her into an empty bedroom and nailed her (or made passionate adolescent love, however you wanna describe it) but I was too stubbornly shy to do a thing about it. What I would do for a second chance with her! I wonder how she is getting on in later life? If she was an escort, I would pay 300 an hour. I have plenty of pool cue chalk at home because I’ve always been very careful not to lose it when I use it.

This post (approx 850 words) is dedicated to: Chalk Girl xx

Apocrypha

 Stopped posting pictures in case of copyright infringement. In this case however I will make an exception due to my heightened appreciation of all things well done + arty at the moment. The title word basically means things which are not accepted by the bible. I know that this honey pot will never be reprinted in holy works, but I like to think it belongs somewhere. Even if only in your eyesight, for a brief moment, now.

*_Madhead_*

(1) It’s not one of my earliest memories but it goes well back and it stands alone in nostalgia. Me and all my townies got a bus to Saint Helens to a nightclub called Suburbia. It was the first nightclub I had ever been to. I knew nothing about nightclubs. I can’t remember hardly any details, apart from slurping cider on the way. My boy Kon would offer a drink to ‘The Departed’ every other swig from his bottle. He would take a gulp, spill a generous glug onto the floor, take another gulp, spill another generous glug onto the floor. He maintained that he was respecting the dead, yet we all knew he just couldn’t handle the idea of a full bottle of cider to himself. It was hilarious walking behind him and watching him waste perfectly good alcohol. 

(2) I had barely entered the dark smoky club when I got punched in the face by a beefy bruiser who appeared about ten years older than me. The force of the blow almost launched me back outside the doorway. I remember staggering across what felt like twenty yards of dance floor, desperately trying to stay on my feet. Eventually I crashed into someone and they helped me stand up straight. I didn’t go down then but I have been down since and I am not ashamed of it. I am no Joe Calzaghe who never gets beaten in his entire career. I believe you learn more from being down than from knocking someone out. It’s much harder a challenge getting back to your feet than it is performing a victory parade around the ring. Or is it? Those winning celebrations look awkward.

(3) The dig left an imprint of his sovereign medallion in my cheek bone. Thankfully there was no blood and nothing was bust or broke. It was an amazingly unprovoked violent assault. I didn’t even look at him funny. I didn’t see it coming. I can only imagine he didn’t approve of the tone of my skin, or my brand new top bought especially that day from the market for that occasion, which was distinctively black and white striped, like the Newcastle home jersey. Maybe he took offence to my afro hairstyle, or maybe I smelled a bit, who knows what exactly was running through the maniac’s mind when he decided to smash an innocent reveller’s face in with his old bejewelled knuckles?

(4) Anyway, the memory I’m arriving at is simply of me and a girl in there I met dancing together on an elevated stage…when, that is, I recovered from that bad, angry man. That’s it really. All there is to it. But I’d like to share a bit more about her: My mates called her Madhead, because of her outrageous personality. She had a glow stick and a whistle and was dancing all over the show. I matched her move for move, we made a great young couple together, two young souls practically joined at the hip with chemistry for one another. I couldn’t dream of approaching a stranger now and dancing with her on a stage at the front of the dance floor anywhere, but back then it all came so naturally. I remember us being bathed in disco light and jumping up with our arms as if reaching for the stars. This memory is over 30 years old. A lot of my memories are in danger of being erased or hacked by the Thought Police who are more than active here in 1^st World England. That’s why I thought I’d shed a little light on this particular retention.

(5) If I had a time machine I’d revisit that precious sequence of pleasing events where I was bopping with Madhead. It was so glorious it was almost impossible. For a shy introverted fellow like me anyway. She made a dramatic entrance back into my life about 25 years later, and offered me another jiggy flirtation. I had to politely decline her, for I was surrounded by bloodthirsty shape-shifting carnivores in Subway carpark at the time. That’ll be the psychosis again. Any other time babe, I promise xx.

Call-In

I'll be back posting ASAP about topics more positive in the foreseeable up and coming future. All is fine just in case you give a f**k, I'm in dandy spirits and hope you are too. I feel like I am encroaching upon the ideology of love again, which has been in doubt for quite some time. I've been half-considering myself unworthy for multiple reasons, mostly because of those hurled at me by external accusers, but now I'm rediscovering myself and learning that I am still an emotional well-rounded being capable of bearing much fruit.

So stay with me over the course, we'll figure things out together. Let's not be subservient to victimology, but rather reign supreme through self-expression and self-understanding. I sound like a modern age guru don't I? Better than a relapsing mental patient!

Or is it? There's a space and a place in our grand vast copious ample and abundant kosmos for all things, including me sat here halfway across the world (or in the same town) banging on about lessons I've learned from the bible.

I'm gunna talk about some girls who have made a impact upon my heart soon. Stick around for the not so gory details.

  

Charlotte

(1) Having a few more thoughts about trying (trying) to expose my perps here. Got several photos from online, and juicy titbits of personal info about them, but who will believe me, and how far will it go?

Who cares who is doing what to whom? Who else, exactly, cares?

I’ll look bitter and defensive, posting piks here, and engaging in slander matches.

I’ve contemplated contacting the police in writing, but then I remember the times when they (a) snapped my neck during arrest (b) tasered me from behind when I wasn’t looking, and (c) laid to rest my younger brother.

So, my trust in them has all but evaporated.

There is an MP, however, my local MP. I wonder if she will take an interest.

(2) I tried contacting her in the past, via phone, and was met with a temperamental secretary who insisted I only correlate by virtue of email. I suppose I ought to pen her a letter. First, I have to create the letter (with pictures of several said perps), then mail it to her. Should I include a stamp addressed envelope?

The police won’t listen, I’ll tell her. They already performed a, b and c all over me.

Perhaps I’ll do it here, get it off my chest, and leave it be.

Although my local MP, named Charlotte, has been playing on my mind for an awful long time. Her name has been popping up all over the place. She even appeared in the supermarket the other day, when I found myself wondering about her constituency while firmly planted flatfooted in front of a display of Charlotte potatoes.

I never even knew that Charlotte was a type of potato.

(3) BULLSHIT YOU WILL NEVER REPORT THEM THEY ARE TOO POWERFUL THEY WILL HURT YOU WHILE YOU SLEEP THEY WILL TORMENT YOU IN THE DAYTIME BY WHISPERING PROMISES OF HURTING YOU WHILE YOU SLEEP THEY WILL HURT YOU WHILE YOU SLEEP THEY WILL HURT YOU WHILE YOU SLEEP!

I know, I am too scared…

Tying A Knot And Hanging On

(1) Sorry I’m not as topical as I used to be. Mainstream affairs and side interests take the back seat when your very life is under threat. I’m trying to coldly detach myself from what’s going on. The autonomy of the mind is hard to drop though. I find myself stubbornly defending myself in the face of devastating adversity. It’s to no use. They find my reasonable explanations boring, my humour non-contagious, and my free-thinking a direct threat.

The best I can do is become a more rounded emotional being. I’m striving to do this by keeping my heart open. When all around the people I trust are betraying me. It’s only sly insults under their breath, and unpardoned sneaky videos on their phone, but the tally adds up.

What’s the point in living, if there’s no one you can trust?

That’s a line from one of my own poems.

I’ve started writing another poem about the Critter behind the washing machine, but I’ve yet to finish it.

Last night I had a screaming woman sounding off in my head all night. They change their tactics a lot, but a constant visual screaming woman I’ve yet to deal with. Stronger today. 

(2) It’s important to drop your vices eventually, I feel, if for nothing else but the sheer principle of it. I can’t remain hooked to women forever. Not the ones in knee-high boots, sporting whips. I might never be able to move on.

I’m making great strides forward with my chief narcissists. I’m seeing them, wholly and fully, for the bored childish bullies they are. On the other hand, I now view myself as something great in the cosmos compared to them. This is weird on every level, as I hate comparisons. Whenever somebody treats me nicely, or I get shown respect, my heart rejoices. Because so much of my time is spent vying to ignore a heartless argumentative goon squad.

Another day survived then, it looks like. I doubt I’ll be jumping off any bridges this evening, or stringing up on a flimsy curtain rail. Or overdosing on heroin. I should be so lucky. I’m shirking away electromagnetic, mind-scuppering ruffians instead. But now it’s different. Oh so different.

Suppressing my hatred, my bitterness, my impossibly deep revulsion, and speaking the truth in a calm voice. No fits of anger, no spouts of rage, no flashes of bad temper. Yet still they maintain that I am endlessly responding to their pointless mind games. The God’s Honest would kill them.

(3) I met a remarkable gentleman who believes me. He suspects clairvoyance. I was so made up he didn’t use the term chemical imbalance. My tormentors threw a hissy fit when we connected, and I perceived supernatural light emanating from his body as we spoke.

My life is kinda like that. There was a lot more to it, but I haven’t the energy or the time to properly dissect proceedings here at the honey pot today. Maybe another time, eh.

Invisible foes and voices in the head. You wouldn’t wish it on your worst enemy would you?

I hold out that I belong in Heaven. This they cannot handle.

I don’t like giving them airtime, but gone are the days talking about pottery. Not unless I sign up for the local midweek ceramics class! I’d ordinarily think about it, but it’s full of women. I’d be the only bloke. I know this because I walk past it every week in the Old School, and clock what’s happening through the window.

There’s as much chance of me making a sixth studio album than churning out another clay sculpture. I miss them both sorely. Now I have to settle for this, complaining about being battered to someone I will never meet. No offence there. Perhaps we were close buddies in a previous life. Who knows for sure stuff like that?

Erika Baggage Returns

It began with the lock-in at the Coach & Horses. My bestie wouldn't take no for an answer. She rampantly insisted I ride along with her to watch a dangerously obese kebab shop owner called 'Johnie Two Shots' make his own rules up in a pool comp. At one point the white ball flew off the table and only marginally missed smashing someone plum-full in the face. I kid you not. It could have cracked her dentures, blackened her eye, or broken her nose. The strange thing was, she didn't notice the flying object narrowly avoid potentially costing her a visit to A&E and maybe ruining her looks. She was in the middle of telling a joke...something to do screaming chimpanzees, meat paste, and blenders.

His bestie (a sex pest going by Archie Trickle), tried to seduce me with a pricey novelty phone that could project its screen onto the ceiling in IMAX proportions. He showed us a video of himself busy at work fitting a Formica table top in a celebrity’s residence. I think he name-dropped the celeb as Noel Edmonds, who wasn’t available for a signature, a selfie, or even a brief hello. Apparently, he was away filming a documentary in a high-end grooming parlor.

I wasn’t the least bit impressed by his futuristic mobile, his equally statement-making leather two-tone cowboy boots, or his diabolical beard lights. Beard lights are like mini Christmas decorations in a man's facial hair. I kept expecting them to start flashing rhythmically, but they never did. Perhaps they were a purposeful intended distraction, to free his gaze up for snatching glimpses at my deep plunge cleavage.

He never commented on my tits, but he did keep pointing at them to his mates. He accompanied this repeated mannerism by dry humping with his crotch.

A brief extract from Erika’s doorstop opus, “What not to think about when engaged in affairs of minutiae down the local boozer with people you do not care about.” (22 word title)

Quick Acknowledgement

🙋>>>Yo there, just dropping in. In case anyone cares, I feel like I am doing great. There was an awful day coped with/dealt with on Tuesday, but I got thru it and emerged strengthier. Nothing to do with me, I was hit hard with psychic attack (all that modern warfare palaver), yet now I feel blessed with beer, meat, and music - not to mention a fully regenerative self-sustaining brain rhythm!

Which might be wiped out any given second, by the way. The Thought Police aren't too keen on free-thinking dissidents who use government terminals to spread the so-called illusion of self-empowerment.

Personal Note: Stop referring yo yourself as a dissident!

I'm a Mason really. I do good charity work. Yesterday I sprayed my nametag in bright yellow graffiti over the parish entrance.

I hope that the painted dolls don't get me. My loins haven't stirred for quite some time and I'm getting anxious about when (or hopefully if) they might. Desire can lead to ruin. I must remain vigilant. I'm getting by with cold lagers and phat dinners. Better than white powders.

And leave out the narcotics!

I am worth more than the shite I fill my veins with! It is not even me who does it, but a sarcastic jinn named Simon. He lives in the weak and the wounded!

Stop calling yourself weak...

Sorry, running off course there. I want no talk about sex or drugs. There are other things going on. Like you, for example.

How are you doing? Trust me, it's important. You matter.

Hope you're staying creative and pure in spirit. Keep up the good work. It's a delight for our minds to connect over this web juncture, but I have to leave you alone to fend for yourself at this critical turnpike, as I unfinished bid'ness to contend with.

I have to put a certain woman to sleep. And I don't mean tuck her into her Teddy Bedding. I'm on about expunging her from my consciousness. She won't lie down flat dead easily though. I might need backup. 

Do you know how to rid yourself of All-Sexy Jezebel? With her twin jailbait pigtails, her scratchy talons, and her frig-me boots? Not to mention all the rest of it. Why do I keep banging on about her so much? Mention God and The Angels for once...damn you... 

(give me those eyes) she says

I've been using my penis for pissing only. Is that a decent idea, or should I put it to more pleasurable purpose? As if I haven't done that far enough too much already.

I've been "blowing my beans" far excessively across the span of my adult life.

Although, in my defence, I haven't "blasted everywhere" since Mistress Lola the escort came a'round last Saturday week.

Threat To Humanity

There’s this huge drama about AI wiping out humanity. Like many I assume, there’s a lot of befuddlement about how exactly this might happen, and where the fear is arising from. My knowledge of AI sprouts from the Terminator franchise, when Cyberdyne Systems went active. Or was it online?

This looks slightly more threatening than the Millennium Bug. That was just a bunch of clocks resetting themselves.

When I’m searching for artwork across the web, I often type in AI after my general search descriptors. I don’t mind pictures done by a computer, they have a polished and slick effect to them, as if they have just popped out of cutting-edge printers.

But how can a glossy illustration outdo mankind’s efforts to preserve his own fate?

I worked it out for myself. It’ll be the robots, as Hollywood’s Terminator suggested. Only they won’t be mercenaries sent from the future, arriving in a bubbly, sparkly, globular portal; it’ll be a police officer. Off the back of a Black Mariah.

AI cop arses. I’ve heard they already have them in China.

It’s hard enough arguing with the human ones. Don’t just ask George Flloyd, ask my younger brother. They both suffocated in custody.

They have AI police (or cop arses) in the sci-fi hit Elysium (2013). I can’t believe it took me so long to join the dots. Our only hope is that the robots, when arresting us for deportation, start dribbling white fluid from the mouth and malfunction. It wouldn’t be the first robot I’ve seen hit a major glitch in its programming. Some of them even have a habit of spontaneously combusting on the spot.

All that propaganda about the robot Olympics is smoke and mirrors – they really want them for law enforcement.

A brick shit-house metal AI pig with The Voice Of God weapon and a stun gun...

...you're going with him!

I recommend you buy an attack dog, to set on the electronic cop arse when he (or should I say it) comes to detain you – if he hasn’t brought his own counter-attack robot dog with him. He might have one with three heads, like Cerberus.

Loud Music (DNF)

 My neighbours are complaining that my music is too loud. They don’t like my favourite song, “F**k Everybody”, played when I wake up in the early hours of the morning. The thing is, I’ve been thinking that I’ve been listening to my tunes with headphones on. But, and it’s a big but, my headphones haven’t been plugged in.

I’ve been sat there, at daft ‘o’ clock, blasting hellish symphonies out into the residencies, believing I was in private enjoyment. In reality, the headset was muffling my interpretation of the speakers’ thundering decibels.

I’m surprised the police didn’t turn up.

Maybe the neighbours were terrified of ringing the 50, because I’d warned them, the previous week, when singing thru their letterbox after half a litre of Jim Beam, and I quote, # “If you even think about phoning the busies I’ll burn your children alive and eat their barbecued remains in front of you.” #

I was having a bad day at the time. I mean morning. Early morning.

They actually wrote me a letter of complaint. I didn’t read it, but I have framed it and hung it on the wall. He has beautiful handwriting, Joe does. He signs his name with a pentagram drawn after his name, in red biro pen.

unfinished

24/7

I’m beginning to share, in apology, about narcissistic abuse. I tell them that I am getting over my mental issues but still chained to the drink. I could say that a satanic narcissist dedicated to nail-gunning my ballbag to a tree finally got around to doing it over the weekend, and they would only be interested in me reducing my overall consumption of alcoholic units. It’s not seeming to go down very well. Must be quite a rare thing, having your brain pulverised daily by a narcissist.

I didn’t tell them that my oppressors are falling over each other like bashed skittles in order to chip away at me. They remind me of rabid scavengers. I’ve truly adopted it into my heart now that they are nothing much more than oppressed themselves, even if only by their complete inability to see anything further over the horizon apart from their odd and startling obsession with me, which is mad as f**king anything and takes some believing.

I thought I had an infatuation with Canadian Alexandra (less said the better). I wrote my best novel all about her, which took four years, plus many many hours watching her onscreen. In the end I grew out of her and moved onto other women. No matter how beautiful someone is, there is always another equal or improved model around the corner on Life's Highroad. I’ve never hoped my perps would find another ‘victim’ because that would be passing the buck. They might settle for a school girl with no lived experiences to help her cope with the bizarre attention. At least I am a grown ass ugly bloke. That’s why I have a hard time comprehending their twisted voyeurism. If I was a pretty woman, I’d understand it.

I couldn’t stare at another fella all day. Not even Elvis Presley or Christian Slater or Dwayne Johnson. Not even if they had piglet roasters (large penises) buried inside every individual of Little Mix.

I don’t fancy these dudes by the way, they’re the first three geezers I could think of.

If the entire universe, in its mammoth breadth of limitless entertainment options, is not enough to distract my voyeurs from removing their concentration span away from me for more than two seconds, then you might ask yourself then what possibly can? I wish I could tell you the answer.

Even God The Creator himself is not as interesting as me to them. They are utterly immersed and absorbed with every single individual thought in my napper. For years I thought I was getting head-fucked, as they call menticide around here these days, but now I understand that they are simply making a show out of lifeform by revealing how hopelessly inadequate they are at fending for themselves. Why feel the need to eavesdrop on me and follow me around like spaced-out lemmings all day long?

The worse they can do of late is give me dream manipulations, which no doubt cheers them up a bit. Gone are the days of old when they would drive me out of town or into a secure ward. I bet they still weren’t happy when I thought they were demoniac activity, much less now, when I know they are cowards and retards.

That’s the difference.

If their silly little pathetic games had gone according to plan, they would have had me in their clutches by now (with no skin on, as they say, locked in a cupboard somewhere, with some prick sticking drawing pins in me) sincerely believing that they were powerful supernatural entities from a different planet. And guess what? I would sincerely believe it. If someone is physically hurting you and you are cuffed to a chair in their soundproofed utility room, you tend to agree with whatever bullshit they are offloading your way.