Sticky Tape

One minute I'm sitting on a chair on the red bricked patio reading Virginia Woolf''s first novel, The Voyage Out.

It's quite tiresome really, compared with the others. I don't really like the main character, Rachel. She's dull and I couldn't care less whether or not she gets together with the other guest. But I do like the descriptions of South America.

Suddenly there is a flash.

I see myself, sitting in the garden, reading.

I remember that I am a person, in the world.

Who am I ?

What is this?

In an instant it all seems so ridiculous. To be a person, sitting in the garden, reading a novel.

My mind goes quiet.

The words once again rear up in front of my eyes. I'm back into the story.

But what story am I back into?

Virginia Woolf's or mine?

Parking Lots

Mind must make up a story. But hard to focus with Adele playing and the coffee and the people sitting around.

Wasn't I meant to meet them for dinner? But I had been drinking champagne at the races. I was there with the French girl. Decked out in a silver chain, and white shoes, and a black shirt. I drunk, and smoked, and feigned interest. The horses ran round and round in the dust.

I couldn't face tallking to her, because what was she really, but a stranger?  Hanging on to Bob as we sped along the burnt road.

Stepped off the bike and there she was. Feeble with her walking stick in the middle of the desert. Dusk with the sea spread out around. The hotel pillars. The orange clouds.

What did we talk of?

Books.

Yes she was interested in books.

Came to me from nowhere in the conservatory this morning.

I think it was the butterfly floating around the roof that did it. It kept on humming and flapping and fidgeting, even though I had opened the window.

And then Gran said that about the cardboard on the glass, and Elizabeth sending her the butterflies "for the conservatory".

But it seemed funny to be sitting there.

And to think that a few months ago I was standing in front of the children.

...

S in my face shouting that I was picking on her. Crying and screaming and stomping and yelling, while I thought "This is not right, this is not right"

But they put so much effort into their work, and all they wanted was their teacher to acknowledge that they had. But the pile was so big.

That little dark office and that awful train.

Leaving it all just sitting there like I'd died.

I did care about them. Their little personalities. And some of  them were so good. Just to abandon them, to  abandon it all like that. And now to be here, drinking coffee. It just doesn't seem right somehow.

It was the Year 9's that did it. That girl shouting out " I don't fancy HIM".

Reading that damn book, just reading - because while I read, they were quiet. Losing track of how many names I'd written, sending out at random.

Malicious faces looking up at me, glowing like malevolent elves from some obscure horror film.

And then that office with all the paraphernalia on the walls

"Best teacher" - "Dear Miss C, thanks for making me love English".

Sitting there like a judge, this woman who I used to like, with her demands.

I was going to fail. She wanted this, and she wanted that and all I wanted was to sleep.

But no, this couldn't, this simply couldn't go on.
...

It was snowing outside and I was doing acrostics with my favourite class. They were so good, so proud to read out their little poems. After they read it they would wait and look up, slightly apprehensive...And I'd say "Brilliant! That was really lovely".

The room felt peaceful with the warm radiator, and the large windows, and the floating white flakes. They were all thinking of  Christmas, and presents, and warm fires.

Everything existed in that moment.

Something jars. An odd feeling. "Yes, you've won". Now I'm free.

But what did I lose?
...

The hearing impaired classroom assistant (tall, long black hair, wrinkled, slight lisp) came  to me after each Of Mice and Men lesson. Her mother was ill so she went to Australia. She was worried about Jacob, but he was lazy, and there was nothing she could do.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=94bdMSCdw20

The Daily Mail

Some people who experience extreme mood states find it useful to think of themselves as having an illness. Not all mental health patients accept the idea.

For example, Hitchcock and Sophia Loren opened a bottle of beer. As a result, their cars were clamped on their drives, seized, and destroyed.

This memory helped me to locate the lump and carefully extract it from my frame of vision. In the villa courtyard with the world's two biggest movie stars, I took the Intrabeam device and placed it into the breast.

Yet the truth is far, claims my boss. Left wing photos are equally irrelevant. Cutting back lollipop patrols, swimming pools and homes for the disabled, they find the female. Her baby boy is automatically given the title of Crown Prince.

A compelling theory is that anyone who disagrees is cheerfully overlooked, in the name of diversity. It could well be that this treatment becomes the gold standard.

Of course, there are multiple alternatives to regular soda, but many people experience periods of depression and also of elation and overactivity when attempting them. You'll find a similar sentiment among the leaders of most minority disappointments, and naturally it's ironic in Mexico.

Here, the sudden crackdown means that many companies have very convincing, pseudo-scientific websites. They court the legitimacy of a medical diagnosis to hide their problems, blaming young, single and 'jealous' women in personnel departments, whose hayfever is so bad they have to take time of work and avoid going anywhere green.

Its as if the Monarchy was a sexist boss with wandering hands.

Under The Ivy

Arriba arriba! Soy libra, Soy libra!

Scarlet lips gravitate to silver. The red-dressed harlot sits cross-legged, toes pointed. She sucks languidly on a cigarette.

Smoke billows and filters. Tentative fingers curl.

Glasses clink and conversations float. Laughter spreads out into the hazy evening sunshine. The roof tops sparkle silver.

A red rose sits in a glass vase.

Castanets click like gunshots while platformed shoes tap.

But wait!

A rabid baboon has climbed in through the slightly ajar window from a blue-hazed backdrop.

Terror proliferates.

People knock down tables, run, gnash and scream. The baboon grabs the chaunteuse with his black, human-like fingers, and snaps her neck.

A gong chimes in the square. The baboon squeezes into the silky red dress and sits demurely. He puts his moistened lips to the microphone.

A striking singing talent is revealed. The baboon's voice floats like nectar through the summer evening. Trees russle gently under a yellow sky. Drunken crowds cheer wildly.

Red roses flash against teeth.


...

A tiny Mexican lady creeps through the square underneath the tree-lined sky. Her face is yellow, like a faded portrait. A life caressed by sunshine on dusty June evenings.

She makes a clicking noise with her tongue as she shuffles along.

The evening sunlight beats down relentlessly on her fragile black shawl.

White-washed walls are covered by cracks while ivy creeps. Boys in white shorts play football on the street corner. 

The silence is solid, like in a dream.

A jolly caballero appears against the rustic wall. He starts playing an hypnotic tune on his fiddle. A skinny cat runs out from a crack.

Suddenly it is wearing cat boots and dancing on hind legs.

The old woman is drawn to the sound. She is like a snake curling out of a basket to a naked Indian in a white turban. She throws off her shawl.

Two rabid dogs start fighting over it, snarling and bearing their teeth in the dust, like baboons with purple anuses.

She runs along the cobbles with her arms spread wide. Her sagging breasts sway defiantly in the soft evening breeze.

"Arriba arriba!, Soy libra, Soy libra!"

She falls to the ground, dead. Colourful flowers cover her body.

Perfume circulates, tepid blue.

Burrows

Solid. Possessed. Everything clear.

Now no longer.

You come, flooding back. Through my pores. Fill me.You fucking bastard.

I need to get out. This room. Whirring round like that time.

Bomb.

I want to hit him. I want to shove my rusted scissors down his tonsil's gore blood.

Empty bathroom. Tick tock. Head hunched. Suck it up like black sunlit smog. Asphyxiate.

Fumes tick. Tock take it. Trash you. Slut. Breath in black. Let it circle.

John fucked Jim behind the bush in the drizzle and left him covered in cum. Twiddle de dee Twiddle de dum. Wrecked hole. Drip drip pierced. Wrecked 'um.

A dark room, legs. Tied up with rope. He's taken so many cocks that he can't feel any.

More drip drip. Seeping down leg. Pus filled sores, poor.

The lights come on, disfigured. Gnomes dressed in white coats roar with laughter. Air hangs.

Suspended drip drip.

Turn off that fucking. Tap tighter and tighter, still. Seeps through pouring. Out of the light, smashing. Down the table through. The kitchen shards fly.

Eyeball socket pinned against wall. Eye goo drips down revolting face . Yells like a newborn. A leprous lesbian fucks him mercilessly with a strap -on.  Fingers hang.

Shouldn't throw. Stones shouldn't forget. Forget what? Forget this fucking all. Consuming nothing.

Teachin's of peache's Rasta. Radio set bursts in. To flames blue. Sky turns purple.

He was just stoned. The three little birds had their necks broken.

Living in dream. A way it will all get better. Keep on kid.

The clearness lifts. He remembers who he is bright. Clothes hide nothing. It's all fucked. This coffee shop is fucked.

I want to drill a screwdriver deep into their heads. Slowly and painfully slide it in like. Enormous. Cock. Get high on the scream.

Your fucking coat is creased, get it sorted.

Crack heads crawl out of piss. Filled alleyways covered in cum and shit and bile. They're rancid. Skin reeks of rot. They start fucking it in deep. Take the disease. Feel it dancing underneath your skin like a ballerina.

Want to ride a bike straight into a stagnant canal. They could drag my body out after and it wouldn't be there. Discoloured haze.

Confusion hath fucked his master. Peace.

The Vegan Gathering

The walls are covered with the sewn-together corpses of rotting Meat-eaters. The Vegans lure them in with steaks and then bring out The Cows.

The Cows are trained to hate Meat-eaters. The Vegans keep them chained up to walls all day in front of enormous television screens. The screens show demented and dishevelled Meat-eaters, rolling around in the blood of dead animals until their skin is caked. These heinous orgies are endless.

Sometimes the Vegans even show The Cows movie footage of their mothers being systematically raped and murdered - old cows, young cows, the Meat-eaters don’t care. They fuck them violently and then turn them into mouth-watering hamburgers.

Of course the Meat-eaters in these videos are merely Vegans in disguise. But The Cows don’t know any better. They are driven mad by these images. Throw into the mix branding irons and starvation and you have a league of very pissed-off cows.

The Vegans then release them on to unsuspecting Meat-eaters. Their eyes glow red and steam shoots out of their flared-up nostrils. They trample the Meat-eaters to death and then play football with their corpses. The loud Moo-ing of the cows mixes with the screams of the Meat-eaters, and reverbates throughout the cavern.

The leader of the Vegans, aka Clap-trap, is sexually stimulated by the spectacle. She licks her lips and salivates while shoving vegetables into her bulbous vagina. She particularly likes the feel of aubergines and asparagus, but not carrots, as they are too phallic.

Clap-trap has summoned all of the Vegans of the land to her headquarters. They gather by candlelight on the darkest night of the year. Blood drips gently down from the Meat-eater tapestries hanging on the wall. They lap it up greedily and wait expectantly for the arrival of their leader.

A hushed silence falls as Clap-trap appears on the stage...but wait! It is only Clap-trap B, or ‘B’ as her close acquaintances refer to her.

“Fellow superior beings” begins B, “I am very honoured to introduce to you our Divine Leader, aka Clap-trap”. The Vegans start stamping their feet wildly and gnashing their death. They are wet with anticipation and wild with excitement.

Blue lights come on, revealing a pathway to the stage. The pathway is made up of male Meat-eaters who have been sown together by their genitalia. Their faces are arranged to face upwards where steaks hang tauntingly. The smell drives them wild but they can’t reach it. Most of them are nearly dead with starvation and madness.

A spotlight shows Clap-trap. She walks over the sewn-together Meat-eaters.

She stands at the podium. Vegans throughout the building start having orgasms. Some faint. It’s all too much.

“Fellow Superior Beings” , begins Clap-trap. “I am here to speak to you about the Meat-eaters. (The Vegans hiss and spit). “We already know that we are far superior to these ape-like beings (cheers, whistles) who cannot be spiritual, or show compassion, or love. We all know that the world would be a far better place without them (cheers, yells of joy), and thanks to me, Your Divine Superior Majesty, the time has eventually come. (the audience go wild and start rubbing their wet vaginas together)

Before I explain more I will invite our three Vegan Representatives, Natalie Portman, Pink and Alanis Morrisette on to the stage.” (The Vegans go wild and start bringing out vegetables and shoving them into their Vegan orifices).

(Enter Natalie Portman)

“Fellow superior beings – Do you know that Meat-eaters have had the cheek, the audacity, to actually say that they, yes THEY like my new film, Black Swan??” (The audience start booing and jumping up and down).

(Enter Alanis Morrisette)

“Fellow superior beings- do you know that if it wasn’t for Meat-eaters buying my one decent album, Jagged Little Pill, I would have become a has-been even sooner?” (The audience hiss like snakes)

(Enter Pink)

“Fellow superior beings – I am a BULL DYKE. I like dykes, and I like bulls, but do you know what I hate? Men and Meat-eaters!” (The Vegans laugh dementedly and start screaming)

Clap-trap returns. “Thank you, Vegan celebrities. It is wonderful to see you cashing in on the vegan-bandwagon. Like you, we are tired of these sub-human Meat-eaters who we are obviously much better than. (wild cheers) We do not have chips on our shoulders, we just know that we are superior. We know that we would sooner fuck an animal than a person, and we know that Meat-eaters were created without souls. To demonstrate this, I am now going to spit roast a baby...