Mystic Women and Sick Boy

Posters

 Had a T-shirt with this message on the back.
Always remembered it.

 Beowulf: Always up against it.

 Denzel in Training Day: We all have someone
in our lives who we call 'My Nigga'.

 A Rambling Freak Quote.

 New Year, New Body.
The artist, dancer and bodybuilder Kai Green.

 Symptoms of being a Targeted Individual.
I missed out 'Poisonings'.

 Mrs. Hewlett, from Senior school.
Someone who helped other people.

 Same old calendar shit. Resolutions my arse.

 Iran's biggest comedy export.

If in any doubt, adopt Shaggy's philosophy.

End Of No Existence

Forget how I’m communicating with you (language). These written words are merely an interpretation of feelings and emotions. Just take it for fact that I can talk. And if I could talk, the following is what I would say: My Mother is frightened. That much I know. She is too young to be a mother, but a mother she must and will be. She has a phobia of giving birth – imagine a male passing a grapefruit thru his bottom...that’s exactly how she feels. So afraid. Not of the temporary pain, but of the permanent responsibility. She will hyperventilate when it comes down to it, alone and depressed – not the most endearing of combinations. She has problems with alcohol (not the best for me), and is vulnerable to infections, radiation, a lack of iron, and other basic nutritional deficiencies (although I do still maintain hope, got to always maintain hope). Hope no matter what. My mother is unemployed. Sacked from the factory plant for becoming pregnant. Because of me. Yup, that’s my fault. I’ll take it on my not-quite-yet-developed chin. She took it like a man, bless (although, obviously, she’s a woman). I’m just a foetus in gestation. Three trimesters and I’m out. Just one short dreamy period of fertilization. Ten weeks equal my first basic form. A prenatal fairytale. Sperm, ovium, fallupion tubes...fifty percent of my mum...and I’ll be done. A worthwhile bun cooked in a trembling oven. Okay, here we go regarding my systems: Nervous – kicking in. Circulatory – kicking in. Digestive – kicking in. Muscular – kicking in. Respiratory – kicking in. All good to go. Green light Huston. Huston, we have a green light. Nearly ready to be born...ah. 

I’m making sucking motions. I’ve opened my eyes. I can see my nipples and hair follicles, the fingerprints on my opposing thumbs, their nails, and my transparent skin. I’ve just clenched my fist in anticipation of a violent cosmos. This is metabolic change! Luvin’ it! Come on! I can sense my mother’s pheromones, her sweat. She’s so fearful. I’m her first. I’m so concerned. Am I normal? Will I be okay for her? I look normal, to me. But whatever shall I be, in life? Whatever shall I be? Who is my dad? Who is my father? Does he work? Has he family? Will I meet him? Will he love me? Is he (or was he...) a good man? Do I care? A Mother is enough. What good is good in a violent cosmos?

Contractions. Here we go. What’s coming? I feel I’ve been here before. Perhaps as my mother. Maybe that’s why I know so much about her. But she’s not even dead yet, so how could I become reincarnated as her? Maybe her mother then. Maybe my grandmother. All I know is this: I DO NOT want to be enslaved to mind control! Please not a mind control victim! You curse of the twentieth century, do not dare befall me! Not again! I have been here before! Rather be bushwhacked and hacked-up by a gaggle of cave-dwelling savage Indians after a rodeo. Rather a motiveless murder by a knife-obsessed psycho after a Las Vegas tit show. Rather a philanthropist hero getting beheaded by terrorists on the internet being viewed by Smartphone viewers on pay-as-you-go. Anything but that ongoing relentless spiritual torment that is mind control!! Eats at one's heart and soul!! Devours you from the inside out until the outer is rotten whole!! I have...I have...I HAVE been here before...my manifest destiny and reckoning are in the hands of something higher now though. I pray and hope (hope!) that their attention to the universe bears in mind my existence. Because I am coming into existence. And I intend to make a difference. Have to go now, my mother is screaming. All I can hear is, “Push,”...”Push...” 

It’s okay. Mum. It’s okay. I hope.

Zombie Publications 2017

More Piks

 Cheryl Cole

 Euston Station

 London Eye

Bronze Sculpture

Random Photographs

City And Canal Side

Inside Of A Hollowed Tree And Cave

Branches

Cliff

Pathway

Line Of Trees

More Branches and View From A Hill

Escalator

Tunnel

Message Piks

Gymnast, Lisa Cross, Wit's End Office Guy, and Scenery

Choose Life

Choose life. Choose the washing machine. Choose your favourite song on loop. Choose chocolate for breakfast. Choose undertaking on the hard shoulder. Choose getting wasted the night before something important. Choose luminescent underwear. Choose shouting out your unspoken beliefs in public. Choose shoplifting. Choose kissing a stranger on the cheek. Choose maximum volume. Choose burning the dancefloor down. Choose collecting all your receipts. Choose face-paint on holiday. Choose moonwalking along railway tracks. Choose screaming underwater. Choose mugging a banker’s wallet. Choose chucking snowballs at your local MP. Choose asking for diet water in a restaurant. Choose wiping your arse on a freshly laundered towel. Choose pulling short skirts down. Choose pulling skinny jeans down. Choose uploading a million selfies. Choose posing like an A-list celebrity upon an imaginary red carpet. Choose pleasing people because they desire to be pleased. Choose putting both socks on at the same time. Choose being a dissident. Choose being a conformist. Choose blending in and sticking out. Choose a pint of whiskey. Choose being naked on the trampoline while blowing bubbles. Choose two consecutive straight flushes at the casino. Choose a Halloween mask on your first date. Choose shaving your eyebrows. Choose valentine’s cards to an unknown schoolgirl. Choose sprinting indoors. Choose sex outdoors. Choose praying for your enemies. Choose clenching your fists but hitting no one. Choose laughing at all you’ve become. Choose the most expensive gift. Choose watching that DVD for the fifth time. Choose the lava lamp for your bedside cabinet. Choose the funkiest alarm tone. Choose pissing in the bin. Choose a crystal on each nipple. Choose sailing twice around the equator in an inflatable dinghy. Choose sitting on a park bench and reminiscing about old flames. Choose overdosing on multivitamins. Choose long walks in the woods where the bluebells crow. Choose fireworks on the beach at sunset while listening to rave music from a portable ghetto blaster as all your friends go skinny-dipping. Choose getting up to put the kettle on and by the time you come back missing Ronnie 'the rocket' O’Sullivan making a 147 maximum break in five minutes and twenty seconds. Choose Mike Tyson’s knockout uppercuts in the first round. Choose betting against England football team. Choose a marathon. Choose base-jumping in a storm. Choose scented candles in the bath. Choose leaving your bills until the final reminders. Choose cutting up your credit cards. Choose vandalising sports cars with a hockey stick because their owners don’t deserve them. Choose snorting crushed-up caffeine tablets because you just don’t know where to score drugs from anymore. Choose the finest pepper. Choose a professional photo studio and gold-plated picture frames on the mantelpiece. Choose Blackpool rock and bonfire toffee. Choose what you want, not the best deal. Choose being just a little bit crazy. Choose the shoes. Choose the suit. Choose the heating on and the windows open. Choose living life as if you’re going to prison the next day. Choose send-to-all text messages. Choose lying on your back to gaze up at the stars. Choose the washing machine. Choose life.  

Youth Piks

Case Closed

I just lost at a manger’s hearing. Been waiting ages for it. It’s like a court appearance. There are big wigs, a doctor, clinicians, and a solicitor present. Plus me, of course. Some people don’t even go in, but I like to try and put my point across. Meetings like this provide the best chance of getting off the section. The big wigs access all the ‘evidence’. As far as I know, there is not a shred of evidence to support any kind of any mental illness (this is why I rank psychiatry as up there with religion in the Bullshit Premier League). Okay, I did nearly throw myself off Runcorn bridge, but that was eighteen months ago. They’re acting like it was yesterday. They’ve detained me ever since. 99.9% of my time in hospital, I’ve been perfectly well. Mentally sound. Yet still they find reasons for detention. That’s their job – to keep you in. To your face, they’ll tell you that they want you to move on and be happy on the outside. The way they talk against you in these meetings shows that this is not the case. It’s difficult to comprehend why anyone would want another person incarcerated when it doesn’t affect them in the slightest, and no crime has been committed. It’s more humane to let someone go and leap off a bridge. Who’s the state to say you can’t do yourself in? No, they’d rather keep you alive on a locked ward, spoon-feed you experimental drugs, and write negative comments behind your back every day. Oh yeah, that’ll make me want to live again. They think that I’m hallucinating noises from the neighbours. That’s like me telling you that you’ve been hallucinating going to work for the last three years. Maybe I’ve been hallucinating my whole existence then. Maybe I’m still in the womb and this is all a bad dream. They said that gangstalking is an unusual belief > I’m delusional. The Flying Spaghetti Monster is an unusual belief. The actual gangstalkers must be pissing themselves. At least someone’s happy. I wish I never mentioned the topic, but I used to be so naive that I thought the truth might mean something in this world. They load the truth into their guns and shoot you with it. Because I’ve missed the odd night taking their ‘magic’ pills (maybe if they actually worked then everyone would be cured), they use their non-compliance card at every available opportunity. And they will not give it a rest about their injections. I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve said, “No, final answer.” Chris Tarrant accepts that first time, on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire – he doesn’t keep repeating the question to make the contestants change their mind.

I did make idle threats once, that much is true. What do you think a reasonable punishment is for making idle threats? Forget that I was joking because I have a perverse sense of humour, and let’s just say I was serious. There must be a law somewhere. How many times do you hear people saying they’re gunna do this and they’re gunna do that, when they’re pissed up at the weekend in general arguments outside pubs and clubs? The police are too busy for that stuff. Christ, the things that gangstalkers say to their victims! Holy Mother of God. In a just world, these big wigs would be discussing how much compo was due to me, not how long they plan on taking my liberty for. Not only that, but they want my home as well. They want me ‘looked after’ in supported living. They’re beginning to bang on about this with as much zest as they bang on about injections. They’re punishing me (you’re mistaken if you think the system is there to help – that’s the equivalent of saying that religion is there to help you go to Heaven), for mistakes I’ve not made yet. It’s all about ‘potential risk’. High risk this, historical risk that. Basically, another way of saying that I’ve done sod all wrong. They’re like a futuristic pre-crime syndicate. Last time they sectioned me, they had a police car waiting outside. I don’t know what they were anticipating I might do. I think they might have me confused with Joe Pesci. They also think I have poor insight into the imaginary illness that I don’t even have. How’s that for a low blow? Firstly, we’re gunna tell you that you’re afflicted by something that doesn’t exist, and secondly we’re gunna further condemn you for not knowing anything about this thing that doesn’t exist. It’s like an armchair supporter saying that Pogba doesn’t know anything about football. Pogba’s the one playing it every day. That supporter’s probably never been on the field of play in his life. I’m the one going through this, so I think it’s probably safe to assume that I know ten times more about it that someone who isn’t. When they have stayed up long nights on end researching what is actually going on in society outside of their textbooks, then maybe I’ll take them seriously. Until then, I can’t even fight back. I’ve got to bend over and ask them to be gentle while tongue-tied. I should mention knives as well. I want to make this crystal clear. The only time I have ever reached for a weapon is in a desperate last-resort mindset of self-defence, in extremis. If you were getting as many death threats and break-ins as me, I’d be inclined to bet that you might even do the same. It’s provided a small illusion of safety and comfort, that’s all. It’s not as if I brandish it about in Asda, looking for an excuse to use the thing. I can’t imagine ever using it. But hey, he reached for something to defend his life with while in mortal danger, so that proves he’s a psycho! Case closed! I’d say this is contradictory to basic rationality. A true psycho doesn’t reach for a weapon...