Archive for March, 2012

You got to have rules

There were rules. One of them was that before you kicked someone’s door down you had to knock and say “It’s the British army, we’ve come to search your house.” We had to do that three times before we kicked the door in.

We rolled up outside, as quietly as we could, tapped as lightly as is possible on his door, whispered “Its  the British army, we’ve come to search your house.” as softly as you can imagine. Three times. We had to stifle our giggles. We took the door off its hinges with a baton round and stormed up the stairs.

He slept with a nine millimetre Browning under his pillow, his finger on the trigger. We startled him so much that his finger slipped and he shot his wife in the face. She made this horrendous gurgling sound and I was almost sick. I couldn’t believe that anyone could be alive with that much of their head missing. He was in shock and Cuddles had to bash him round the head with his rifle butt to get him to listen to us. We tried to get him to open the safe but he was too shaken, we had to take it back to the barracks and blow it open. It was full of drugs and explosives and detonators and money. He got 25 years. His wife died before we could get her to hospital. Her name was Caroline. I don’t remember what his name was.


All the time

I fantasise about you all the time,
And all the filthy things I would do to you,
But what I dream of most
Is simply kissing you.


We have never

We have never met,
Never held hands,
Never walked along the beach
And pressed our toes in the sand.

We have only words
And occasionally skype,
But I feel your love
In every word you type.

I love you to death,
And I love you to bits.
It would be so sweet though
To come on your tits.

I want you right now,
I’m fed up with waiting,
Because internet love
Is just masturbating.

 


The troubles

In Northern Ireland you never asked someone what religion they were, whether they were Catholic or Protestant, it was just rude. You asked people what football team they supported and if it was Rangers, you knew they were Protestant, if it was Celtic you knew they were Catholic. If it was Liverpool or Man U, you knew you were being told to fuck off and to stop asking personal questions.

We called it ‘the troubles’. We never called it a civil war but that is what it was.

We used to pass this sweet,  little old lady’s house every time we went on patrol. It was a corner terrace. She had a Rangers flag in the window. “God bless you lads.” she would say from her doorstep. It was good to meet people who liked having us there, good not to be spat at and called names, good not to have things thrown at us.

One day we were locked down by a fire-fight further down the road, and I was crouched in her doorway in the rain, waiting for the ‘all clear’ “Would you like a sandwich dear?” she asked me.
“Thank you Ma’am,” I said, “that would be lovely. We may be here for some time.” The rain soaked through me, through my combats, through my soul, I hated Belfast. The sandwich was thick and bulging and the smell of ripe cheddar and pickle warmed me.

My corporal came screaming across the road and bashed it from my hand, just as I was about to take a bite, called me a fucking idiot and bitch slapped me. I watched the sandwich land in a puddle and spill open, watched the little blue pellets of rat poison roll from it into the gutter.


Being four

max: look! a police car!
me: i don’t think it is
max: but it was going so fast
me: i don’t think it was
max: it had its sirens on
me: i don’t think it did
max: woo woo woo *runs round like a police car*


Olympic blow job

Has anyone else noticed how the London 2012 Olympics logo looks like Lisa Simpson giving someone a blow job?

Thanks to my mate Wobsy for pointing this out.


Trace

So there’s this writer cunt, OK? Kyle sumffin’, an’ ‘e’s been saying shit abaht me an’ Micky on the fuckin’ internet, on his gay-arsed blog, the cunt. Obviously this can’t be allowed to stand, you know what I mean?

So, I bells Mickey an’ ‘e’s fuckin’ fumin’, right, gettin’ ‘is tools togevver, chargin’ up ‘is nail gun an’ that, so’s we can go rahnd there and teach the cunt a lesson. Then ‘e says, “‘ang on, why don’t we send the girls in?” Now, that’s a right cuntish suggestion, coz our women are way fuckin’ crueller than we are. I mean, I like to jump up and down on a cunt’s face like the best of ’em, but I like to get in an’ out, quick like, do the damage an’ get back down the pub, less chance of gettin’ nicked that way too, know what I mean?

Any’ow Mickey’s gotta point, this writer cunt needs needs shit explaining to ‘im carefully, an’ ‘oo better to do that than the girls? Likeisay, much meaner than us they are. My Trace fuckin’ revels in it, spend fuckin’ hours working on a cunt, that girl can. Once right, she come ‘ome wiv this bloke’s dick in ‘er bag an’ fed it to the dog. Fuckin’ ‘ell, ‘ow we laughed. Sometimes I fink she gets some kinda sexual kick aht of it, an’ I don’t blame ‘er. I mean, I ain’t ‘ad an ‘ard-on for eight years, not since the ‘eart attack an’ them puttin’ me on these beta blockers like. Well, you can’t blame a girl for wantin’ to get ‘er rocks off nah and then can yer, know what I mean?

So I gives ‘er the writer’s address an’ tells ‘er to take her time but to leave the cunt breavin’. She gets ‘er little blow torch ready and some pliers and some fuse wire an’ bells Shaz, Mickey’s bird. Before she ‘eads off I say “‘Ang on, why dontcha take little Whitney wiv yer?” She’s eleven now and it would be good for ‘er to see ‘ow we do business. I mean, I’m a parent, it would be irresponsible not to take an interest in me kid’s education, know what I mean?

*

Hang on a sec, I will finish this post in a minute. There are people at the door, two women and a young girl.

BRB…

more in this series


Our day never came

I still keep missing her. I think I always will.

I’ve never had a “type” but if I did, I think it would have been Amy.


The shower

She watches him through a thin crack in the curtains, watches him undress, testing the water with his hand, before stepping under the steaming shower. Her hand slips down into the black satin of her panties feeling her own warmth and wetness, her eyes glued to the sight of his strong hands lathering up his magnificent body, her clit tingling as he caresses himself, water and bubbles running down his naked body, outlining each delicious curve. She plays with herself gently, not wanting to come too soon, not wanting to miss a second with him, brushing her hard, hot clit softly and slowly, feeling little rushes of pleasure spread outwards through her.

Sometimes they would bump into each other in the store on the corner and chat. She derived guilty delight knowing she had seen him naked. Naked and more, because the other night he had masturbated in the shower. He had taken his time too. stroked his chest and belly with the other hand, eyes closed, pleasure etched on his face. She had watched transfixed as he brought himself to climax, biting her lip at the sight of his cum running down his length and through his fingers, drowning in his open mouth, feeling his excitement, watching through misted eyes as his body shuddered and rocked. They came together.

She starts to come as he steps out of the shower and begins to dry himself, her orgasm like a million tiny electric storms ravishing her whole body, hot heavy gasps erupt from her chest, her pussy exploding with sensation. For a second she thinks he is looking at her, but reasons that he can’t possibly see her through the tiny gap in the curtain. She doesn’t realise that her feet are poking out from under it.

After he is gone and she has had a quick shower herself, she switches on her notebook and Googles video cameras, thinking she could record him and watch him any time she wants. There is a knock at the door, she slips on her red silk dressing gown and answers it. Its him, wearing nothing but a towel and a smile.


Shooting butterflies

There were these big blue butterflies in the jungle, as big as your head. My mate Cuddles would try to shoot them, but you can’t shoot butterflies, its the air pressure the round creates, it just sends them into a spin. Cuddles used to wonder if you could take one out with a grenade but that seemed like overkill to me, to grenade a butterfly.

The corporal was pissed with me because I hadn’t taken a dump that morning and said if I stopped now then I would just have to catch up with them. I hated shitting in the jungle, the smell would attract all kinds of creepy crawlies, scorpions and big hairy spiders and the like. I felt vulnerable squatting with my pants down, afraid of getting my butt or nuts bitten. I jogged to catch up with them and realised I was lost when the trail faded out. It is not smart to get lost in the jungle, and I was relived to hear the gunfire, I assumed it was Cuddles having another pop at a butterfly, I didn’t realise that they were under attack.

You can stand very close to someone in the jungle and not be seen, and I was only a few feet from him. I could make out the shouts of the boys off to my left, in between the bursts of his automatic. He couldn’t see them and was firing wildly, spraying rounds in their general direction. If he had turned his head to the left he would have seen me.

I fired three rounds into his arm and chest. Those ArmaLites were puny, we used them because they could handle  the high humidity, his body barely rocked. He stopped firing and looked down at his boots, puzzled by the blood dripping onto them and then he collapsed.

His name was Paulo. He was 17. In one of  his pockets was a picture of his sweetheart, she was absolutely gorgeous. Cuddles wanted the picture to jack off to. I told him he was sick but it didn’t stop him.


I wasn’t here

I wasn’t here today. I had to get a new laptop and it took all day to set it up. I got a bargain and bought some great pants with the money I saved, except I hadn’t saved anything, it was all money I didn’t have anyway. Someday someone will have to explain to me how the economy works. Not today though.

This evening I had dinner with dear friends. We had duck. I told their little boy that it was Donald. He didn’t think that was funny and cried. I felt bad. Once our local butcher had a sign in his window next to some rabbit carcasses, it read “Watership Down: you’ve read the book and seen the film, now eat the cast.” I thought it was hilarious. Why don’t four year olds share my sense of humour? Anyway little fella, sorry to make you cry, it wasn’t Donald, it was Huey.

I will be back tomorrow with some properly thought out shit.


I fell in love today

I fell in love today. She is beautiful and even though we have just met, I know we will be together for a long time and spend almost every waking hour together. She is slim and fast and bright and shiny and I cannot keep my hands off her. Just looking at her makes me stiff. I keep stroking her and feeling her soft curves, and every time  a mite of dust lands on her I have to brush it away. I had to pay for her, which makes me sad, and she is red even though I was looking for a black one, but colour doesn’t matter when it comes to affairs of the heart. Her name is HP Pavilon G6 and she is my new laptop and I love her.


Faithful

I will be
as faithful as a puppy
and come
every time you whistle.


RIP

My laptop died today. She had been ill for sometime but this morning at 11:38 she passed peacefully away. She was four and a half years old (which is 127 in laptop years).

She was Windows Vista and we didn’t always get along, sometimes she infuriated me. She could be a bit slow and wasn’t always very bright but I loved her. All my friends lived inside her. The woman I love lived inside her.

She had a wonderfully non-judgemental character. There were images and videos on her hard drive that would make a porn star blush, but she never uttered a word.

She will be dearly missed. Well, until I get a new one tomorrow.

she wasn't really an apple, i just put a sticker on her so i could look like a real dick


Conquer stress with tea

Working with other people can be very stressful.
I find that tea helps.
I make it in a big mug, piping hot, milk, no sugar.
Then I pour it into the lap of whoever has been pissing me off.


A Sunday haiku showdown

Earlier in the week, the wonderful tales of a charm city chick responded to a haiku I had written, in the comments section, with another haiku. I thought it was such a clever and brilliant idea that I thought I’d have a go at it myself. The result was this wonderful to and fro between me and the fantastic Reality in Progress:

from the love I have
through the pain I will embrace
to the life I want

i love this poem
it is so very clever
please write another

my body was weak
replying was put on hold
i had to get food

i understand you
we all need some nourishment
it was worth the wait

happily admit
this poetry geekery
is making me laugh

it makes me laugh too
poetry can be such fun
and good for the soul

who would have known that
until experiencing
expression in short

i find it a thrill
to squeeze my words so tightly
into such a form

i really agree
maybe the future will be
one-word poetry

i like that idea
let me have a go at it
here is my word – poem

truly love your word
for me another one though
‘love’ my word will be

your word is so sweet
and i find myself thinking
our words are the same

maybe all words are
same reflection of a truth
we find in all hearts.


Not tonight

it is hard to see the stars in london most nights.
not tonight.

tonight, the sky is naked.
a giant letter L hangs in the west,
formed from jupiter, venus and a sharp full moon.
i wish you could see it.

i have cried a lot of late,
good tears,
each one like a star, bright and precious
against the dark and cold of the sky.

shuffle played this as i stared up at it:

people think its a sad song,
no.
it is a song of hope and friendship.
my life is full of both right now.


Ten things

Every day I write a list
Of 10 useful things I want to do.
If, at the end of the day,
I have not achieved them all,
I throw the list away
And write another list
Of 10 useless things I did that day.


Know your ABCs…

I saw this post and it gave me this idea:

Asshole at times,
Beautiful at others.
Cranky now and then but a
Dreamer always.

Extrovert mostly,
Fucktard occasionally,
Googles himself regularly and
Hurtful when in pain.

Idealistic to a fault, the
Joker of the pack.
Kyle –
Likes to think he’s a lover not a fighter –
Mew.

Naughty like the best,
Optimist with the rest,
Poor of pocket and
Questioning of everything, but
Rich with friends.

Slut when he can be and
Toasted when he shouldn’t be.
Undervalued by himself, a
Victorious loser.

Wanker for ever,
Xylophone player never,
Yesterday’s hero? who knows?
Zeds? maybe? but when he’s dead.


A spliff in the park

Its spring here today. Its warm again. I sat under a tree in the park and smoked a spliff. The tree was covered in a cloud of pink flowers that rained petals and I wondered if trees could be gay and concluded that this one probably was, at least during the spring. I told a  jogger that she had the most amazing pink shoelaces I had ever seen. I wanted to tell her how badly she needed to invest in a good sports bra, but I didn’t and I am as ashamed of not saying that as I am proud. I wondered if the fact that I find mixed-race couples really cute made me a racist and concluded that it probably did. I saw 47 cleavages. I watched a juggler that couldn’t juggle and a painter that couldn’t paint, a woman walked past me that had a butt so cute, that I wanted to both juggle with it and paint it. I checked my phone and found that God had accepted my friend request and was also following my blog. I shared a cup of tea with a woman who smelled of cider and an ice cream with a duck that kept giving me funny looks and tried to bite me when I got up to leave.


Joshua

It was love at first sight. The moment you popped out, the moment I set eyes on you, I was hit by a wave of love that almost knocked me off my feet. Your name escaped from my lips, unbidden. Joshua.

You were three months old when your condition was discovered. When we asked how long you had, the doctors couldn’t answer, according to medical science you shouldn’t even have lived that long.

You spent a lot of time in hospital but you didn’t mind, at least one of us was always with you, even sleeping by your cot. You charmed all the nurses, better with the ladies than your old man, huh?

Your heart specialist would look astonished every time he walked into the room and saw you, astounded that you were alive. You would laugh at him, he was bald with a big beard, and we reckoned you thought he had his face on upsidedown and that was why you thought he was so funny.

You were not like your mum or me, we were excitable people and always rushing around, but you were laid-back and thoughtful, and you could concentrate for far longer than babies are supposed to be able to. You would stare at people’s faces and take your turn when joining in conversations.

You never saw your first Christmas. Maybe we knew and that’s why we opened the presents early. We sat in bed, you in the middle, you got a big chocolate letter J and a pack of coloured felt tip pens. I held them in a bunch and slid them across the paper, making rainbows. Your eye’s were like saucers and your mouth dropped open, it was magic to you. You tried to do it yourself but the temptation to put the pens in your mouth was too much.

You made a lot of friends, for someone who couldn’t speak. You were nine months old and 150 people came to your funeral.

It was love at first sight. The moment you popped out, the moment I set eyes on you, I was hit by a wave of love that almost knocked me off my feet. Your name escaped from my lips, unbidden. Joshua.

A couple of posts I’ve read recently made me think, made me realise that there are one or two things I never write about. I like to shock you and arouse you and make you laugh and ideally, all three at the same time.

I have never written about being an addict and I have never written about losing my little boy.


A right filthy fucker, that God!

Okay, so I’m in this hotel last night and for some reason the cable’s not working. Now, I’ve got a boner that you could hammer nails with, and I need to find something to bust my load to. I rummage around a bit to see if someone’s left a magazine or photo of their wife behind or something, and all I can find is this book called ‘The Bible’. Now, I’ve heard of it before and was kind of thinking that it wouldn’t be much cop as jerk off material, but fuck, I was wrong.

This whole book is full of the raunchiest, most depraved shit I’ve ever read. There’s incest and virgin raping and all sorts. Really, they should put a warning on the cover, what if some kid were to get hold of a copy? Doesn’t bare thinking about.

This God fella, I tell you, he’s a right filthy fucker. Clearly gay, but I don’t mind a bit of that and any port in a storm, eh? He moons this guy Moses (Exodus 33:17-23) and fondles this other guy Jacob’s balls (Genesis 32:25). And the things some of his buddies get up to, its fucking debauched, I tell you. This one bloke, right, Lot, his name is, has drunken sex, in a cave, with two of his own daughters (Genesis 19:30-36) and this other geezer, Jacob, fucks his own sisters and his handmaid in this awesome MFFF foursome (Genesis 29: 21-28).

My favourite bit though was when this guy, Judah, fucks his own daughter-in-law thinking she is a whore (Genesis 38:15-16).

Its not all depravity mind, some of it is quite educational, and has some handy tips on masturbation (Judah 38:8-10).

I tell you, this book is fucking hot and I’m gonna take a copy with me whenever I’m away from home. My only criticism would be that this God bloke clearly doesn’t like women and I don’t like all that misogynistic stuff: no place for it these days, and I skipped all the virgin raping and the bit where he cuts off this chick’s hand for touching some guy’s cock.

All in all though, The Bible has gotta be some of the best porn who’s pages I have gotten all sticky. Seriously, get a copy. Just make sure your children don’t find it.


funny, clever and true


Verbatim

Janet won’t answer my calls.
Why?
Because I stood her up on her birthday.
Why?
Because I got tickets to the game. You know that, we went together.
I didn’t know it was her birthday.
Write her one of your poems for me. Chicks seem to like that bullshit.
You write her a poem.
I can’t do that shit, its gay.
Then say sorry with a romantic gesture?
What? Like flowers?
Or something original maybe?
Chocolates? I don’t want her getting fat. What would you do?
Not stand her up on her birthday?
Seriously.
I was being serious. Er. I’d cut out a thousand paper stars and post them to her.
Well do that then.
Ok, but do I get to fuck her if she forgives you as a result?
Wanna play Gears of War?
Uhuh.