30 July 2013



It was good gear; less speedy than a Mitsubishi, but with a cerebral buzz on the top and a heavy body hit like the ecstasy of old. It delivered its silky messages through the loving membrane to the centre of my brain with a herald of triumphant feathered horns. Liquid ease poured through my veins as smoothly as warm treacle. My head was as open and clear as a Sunday morning hush; my bells were ringing in celebration. It was good gear alright, with little angel’s bells on it that tinkled with expectation.

  The phone trilled musically – so I answered it. I recognised the voice immediately, it was my ex, and she was out to break my balls.

“I’ve seen you with that girl and you disgust me”

She needn’t have looked. No-one forced her to look, she was just nosey. She cranked it up a level – strictly for my benefit. I held the receiver away from my bloody ear. She had to vent her spleen;

“There is a word for men like you – you’re a pervert!”

Seventeen in leather boots; I must’ve been out of my mind. She was my Lolita moment, forbidden fruit fresh on the vine; I couldn’t help but take a bite. I was old enough to be her father, maybe that was the point, I didn’t ask. We asked no questions and we told no lies. I mounted her like a billy goat. I had the situation well in hand – a few sharp thrusts – a few long strokes... I was slippery to the hilt, she made cooing noises.

Those budding breasts, emerging fleshy pears, all smooth and jiggling, were a feast for my hungry eyes. There was the sloppy slap of sodden groins; the strain of muscle and sinew, my senses where alive to her scent, her essence. All concentration went to the pulse at the centre of my being – my throbbing cock. The moment stretched and arrested. My cock, my monument to virility, exploded disgorging a million incendiaries into the temple of Isis. Cool shards of ecstasy foamed through our bodies with orgasmic delight. We collapsed back onto the bed – all spent and tingling like electric eels. We expanded into the night to become all the lovers of all the world.

I salute you Madame. Here’s to your brace of porcine offspring and their ashtray faced urchins. Take a drag sweet lady there is nothing like this at sea, just sweaty hands and a quick rubdown with a wet sponge. I am a pervert. I’m a cradle snatcher – indecent and rapacious.

“That’s good gear”

“Where did you get it?”

“From Santa Clause”

“Enough said”

She liked to dance and I liked to watch her dance. Her moves were purely sexual, not everybody can dance that way. She was going through a pupation; the final emergence of her sex. She was pretty basic in that she didn’t play games. I liked it like that. I had enough complication in my life. When she’d come over we’d talk a little and then we’d cop some E’s and fuck all night. She’d dance for me and we’d dance together; then we’d fuck some more.

Dancing naked is a freeing experience, you feel quite exposed. You feel you are doing something primal, magical, but it’s no good on your own - you need a partner, one at least. That is the beauty of ecstasy – it frees you up to the possibility of self expression without inhibition.

“Ever smoked an E?”

“Smoked it?”

“Yeah, crush it into pipe and smoke it”

“No – never”

“Wanna try?”

“Yeah – go for it”

I’ll try anything once and twice for good measure. I took a blast, I took some more. It felt good; a thousand doves fanned my lungs and spread their soft wings across my heart. My blood surged with electrical potential into my fevered brain and pulsed in easy beats to the rhythm of my heart. Something magical seeped into my eager flesh and I felt as buoyant as a cloud. I shed warm rain from my opened pores and unfolded out into the universe like a hungry flower.

“This is good”

“Told you”

“This is fabulous”

“It’s great, but it doesn’t last as long”

“Let’s do another”

In the end, things just kind of petered out. It ran its course naturally. We never had a cross word – we were friends, but she was much younger than me and I was much older than her. We both knew it couldn’t last, but it was fun while it did. I think she got a boyfriend because she stopped coming around. I missed her. I saw her once on a bus and we talked for a while. I wanted to ask her if she still liked to dance naked, but it didn’t seem appropriate at the time. I hope she does, she was so beautiful when she danced.


27 July 2013




I made a cunt of myself

For no real reason

That spike through my heart

The faulty adrenal gland

Sending acidic transmissions

Through my mind and body

I could tear my skin off, Fuck!

I spiralled on terrible trajectories

Like that moth in the bathroom

On its fatal last flight

An elongated spasm racked

And viciously surged

The reckless head load of poison

Acrid in my mouth

My words have cancer

Cutting words, killing words

No balance attenuated

Or room for reason

All passive strategy

Lies in wait for the unwary

Then pounces ferocious

Into the maelstrom, Fuck you!

And Fuck you too

I’ll smash your face in

Eat your entrails for breakfast

Tear the stars from their sockets

And grind them to dust

Don’t come in

I did something nasty

I damaged my being

With psychotic clubs


23 July 2013



Seven diverse fools

Rustic and decaying

Roll off slippery

With sweat and cum

Telegraphed images

Pornographic in nature

Casual fuck ancestors

And anal slime buddies

You and me be friends

You suck real good

Now put your teeth in

The queen of Sheba

Is in the next room

Saturday night quest

For that acid high

The one that’s waiting

In the lemon tea room

We’ll go at it bare back

Said the callow youth

Shed ‘em and spread ‘em

And I’ll take the hindmost

The last rubber left

On the six o clock train


18 July 2013



a long time ago

the great god Yahweh

unleashed on the Earth

war, plague, famine, and death

in generalised semantics

parasitic beings

homo sapiens

bearing fatal messages

of peace, love and harmony

while they butchered

with glorious indifference

and espoused primal laws

the survival of the fittest

to justify their ignorance

pleased to meet you

you and me shoot good

we be friends

eat my gun


17 July 2013



Whose grave did you rob

To bring me flowers

How much did you steal

To buy my love

Where did you go to

When I needed your shoulder

Who will you turn to

When I show you the door


13 July 2013

Doomsday Device


His name was Robert and he had a twin brother Richard who, he explained, was on another ward because they could read each other’s minds.

“Together we are too formidable for the nurses to tackle.”

He was a tall, slender, carrot top of about twenty eight years. When he spoke his hands fluttered in his lap like birds trapped in a cage.

“My father was a minister in The Church Of Scotland. He resented our gift. There was a massive power struggle and he locked us in a time capsule for the sake of science.”

He looked around furtively.

“We don’t belong here, but they had the idea we were building a doomsday device, so they locked us in here. No vision you see. No vision.”

He stalked off with a loping gait when he saw one of the nurses coming into the ward. He had some complaint or other; he had many quite fanciful complaints.

The wards were named after Scottish islands; we were on Islay and Robert’s brother Richard was on the neighbouring island of Jura. It seemed appropriate to me that the wards were named for islands, because each of them seemed just like a little island separated from the mainland of everyday life. The building that housed these islands was a vast rambling Gothic Victorian asylum, a bedlam as they were once called. Locally its name, Bellsdyke, was synonymous with lunacy.

I was placed there as a voluntary patient under the understanding that if I had not volunteered I would have been ‘sectioned’ under the mental health act as a danger to myself or others. It was a Hobson’s choice - volunteer or we will make you. I would be detained there under observation for thirty days until it was determined what would be done with me. I had come to hospital a fractured personality with certain delusions and suicidal tendencies. I was a manic depressive, but did not know this at the time.

During the first few days I kept myself to myself. I felt I did not belong there anymore than Robert felt that he belonged there. I was deeply depressed and withdrawn. The nurses tried to coax me into interaction with my fellow inmates, but I would not be drawn. Gradually though I began to acclimatise to my surrounding, at least during the daylight hours. At night I found the hospital a weird and frightening place. All night I could hear people sobbing or crying out in distress. I could hear doors slam and footfalls echoing down long empty corridors. The boy in the bed next to me would not stop crying, I didn’t blame him I wanted to cry myself.

It was several days before I encountered Richard. He was identical to Robert in every way, except that he wore a three piece tweed suit. He was standing in the recreation room of Islay ward watching a joiner replace the sashes in one of the old wooden windows. He turned and walked to the rec room table, which was festooned with books and pamphlets and picked up a notepad. He approached the joiner and flicking through the pad informed him that he had the wrong window.

“It’s this window that needs fixed.”

The joiner nodded and dutifully undid his work and proceeded to the next window. He was nearly finished when the sister arrived and informed him that he had replaced the sashes in the wrong window.

“But the doctor”, he said, indicating Richard, “told me it was this window.”

The sister smiled forbearingly,

“He is a patient.”

Richard quickly about faced and skulked off like a guilty schoolboy.

That night, after his parents had left, the boy in the bed next to me was distraught and he sobbed for hours. I despaired of ever getting to sleep, but the nurses gave him a shot and he was soon out cold. I woke up in the early hours with the lights flashing on and off. Robert was at the light switch.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I asked groggily.

“Morse code,” replied Robert.

“Why?” I asked.

He just gave me an indulgent smile, stupid question.

“Who are you signalling?”

“That’s a secret.”

“Please stop it,” I implored, “I’m trying to sleep.”

Just then we heard footsteps approach the door and Robert jumped into his bed. “What’s going on?” enquired the nurse.

“He won’t stop talking,” said Robert pointing an accusing finger in my direction, but averting his gaze.

“Get to sleep Robert,” said the nurse and closed the door.

Robert had an aversion to television. Most of the other patients were avid viewers during the hours of seven till ten when we were allowed to watch. He believed television would steal your thoughts. However, he did not leave the television room while it was on. He paced about behind our chairs making cryptic comments while averting his eyes. One evening he became particularly animated while we were watching Top of the Pops.

“It’s propaganda!” he exclaimed. “Turn it off,”

he made a grab for the switch, but was intercepted.

“It’ll melt your brain!” he insisted.

Then after many attempts to distract us he said in a sly voice, “I’ll detonate the device.”

We ignored him. He began a countdown “10, 9, 8...” When he reached zero he slammed his hand into the fire alarm and all hell broke loose. There were bells ringing everywhere. The nurses arrived from their station to see what was going on and to evacuate us from the building.

“It was just Robert,” we protested, but regulations are regulations.

The whole hospital was evacuated and we all, many of us in pyjamas, stood outside in the snow while we were counted and the fire brigade did a search of the building. I was standing next to Robert and he turned to me and said, “BOOM”.

The next time I saw him he was being dragged away by two orderlies screaming for help.

“John! John! Help me!”

It was two days before he arrived back on the ward. He was a shambling shadow of his former self. The ‘chemical cosh’ the other patients called it; a drug called largactil, a common treatment for schizophrenia. I seemed like a punishment to me, punishment for unleashing the doomsday device.


11 July 2013

Vicious Monkeys


vicious monkeys

getting frisky

all elbows and tongues

shaven heads

and swastika smiles

wrong man

wrong place

the power of the knife

twists in the stomach

men must fight

cowards must flee

with the pulse

beating in my throat

blood pool coiling in my gut

I fled

never looked back

whoops of laughter

still ringing in my ears


10 July 2013

The Last Message



The heart is huge and soft

And melts like butter

You don’t have to ask me why

I still carry on with the Freudian Fraud

With winding sheets in Van Gogh’s diner

Peace descends with God’s own medicine

The Japanese sandman commits hara kiri

Bleeds on the sandals of Jesus’s son

The last ever message on the front cover

Oh father – what have they done?


7 July 2013

Allow For Shrinkage

If I was a real man I’d have a gun. I’d powder my nostrils with kif and royal jelly and bed every whore who gave me the glad eye. Don’t ever let me outta here – I’m a serial disaster waiting to happen. I’m cooking up some of that good shit and I’m gonna lay it on thick and fearless. I’ll puke on your lap if you feed me enough. Always bite the hand that feeds – it’s expected of you.

I got a cut rate education gleaned from the pages of stolen books. I was an autodidactic musical hall visionary, but the charm of show business has since worn thin. The antidote to glamour is working for a living. Mind numbing boredom scoops your insides out and fills the spaces left behind with dust. I’m not complaining, don’t get me wrong. I get high – I get low – repeat (ad infinitum). The crest of the wave, the laxative slump, that tremor deep in the gut has me distended and extended beyond human limitations. I’m a regular chameleon, a hybrid human, a spaced out chimera.

Is my face on straight? Do I look faulty? The phoney me – the painted smile – the plastic teeth of synthetic man. The weight of me, the shape of me, everything is fragmented and broken. Here in the marginal regions of sensory deprivation words don’t come easy – if they come at all. Words are relayed by proxy here – laid out in some secret cipher known to no-one, but understood by all: “There is no asylum here, no sanctuary, and no sanctity”. There is room for one and one alone – it’s never an easy fit – you have to allow for shrinkage of the soul.

3 July 2013



I know that they have me under surveillance; some shady fucker with a telescopic lens hiding behind a neighbour’s blinds, undercover operatives tailing me in unmarked cars. You might think me paranoid, but these fucks are seriously nosy. Plod has an insatiable appetite for ‘intel’. I have a scrupulous fascination with privacy – there are conflicting interests at work here.

Tongues are wagging. Lies are being smeared. There are quislings in my camp – ready to turn me over. There are piggies with their snouts in my trough. They’ll know my schedule by now – they’ll have been monitoring my movements. Well, I can change my schedule, alter my movements. I’ll adopt a disguise and go incognito. They’ll have to get up early in the morning to catch this worm.

While they are watching me – I’ll be watching them. My eyes are peeled for signs of their presence and I have eyes in the back of my head. They lack the energy to keep up with me, I’m a veteran insomniac. While they doze I’ll be making my moves. I might be a target, but I’ll be a moving target. Crazy? I’ll show them who’s crazy!


2 July 2013

Rat Boy


A night stand with an empty cup and full ashtray – a book of placebo poetry – pretty words strung together for abstract effect. He garners images like the crumbs of toast itchily deposited on his mattress. He necks his medication after carefully chewing each pill with care.

(ONE to be taken at night. If sleepy do not drive or operate machinery. Avoid alcohol. Swallow this medicine whole. Do not chew or crush.)

He goes for the heavy stone – the obliterative rush. He reaches out for a taste of oblivion and oblivion reaches out to him. He has no fear of falling, gravity is his best friend. That heavy hand on his shoulder – that warm envelope of darkness, it’s the closest thing to the womb – outside of death.

He likes to write. He likes the exercise of assembling the words – negotiating meaning – no obfuscation – there can be no doubt, no room for mistakes. His is a struggle for meaning, it’s more than a mere obsession – it’s a life or death contest. The notebook on the night stand is full of scribbled impressions – most are undecipherable to all but him.

The bedroom window is open just enough to let the night seep in. He feels the hum of the city streets, hears the howls of monkey bands making their way home in the wee small hours. Just before he succumbs to sleep he thinks he hears a scratching sound somewhere in the room.

He dreams of a long corridor with locked doors on either side. He is running from something, or looking for someone. He dreams about a girl, someone strange yet familiar. She is his woman and he has to protect her from something unseen.

He dreams that the girl is pregnant. She gives birth to a rat. However he tries to care for the child he feels revulsion and he cannot help thinking that his is his replacement. It makes perfect sense; Rat Boy is the ultimate survivor. It’s only when the infant calls him ‘Dad’ that he wakes up with a jolt.

The sky is grey, the light is thin. It could be anytime, but his body tells him that it’s six am. He always awakens at six am. He tells himself that it’s a lifetime of routine, but it’s junk and he knows it. His body awakens him every morning screaming for junk. He is less well equipped for survival than Rat Boy, he shudders as he remembers the dream, Rat Boy has no such weakness as junk.