Not So Smart Now, Phone Boy

Courted sexysmile. Right crowds, glamorous mobs. You hang around well.

But you need that extra tug at the lapels of self-diagnosed self-importance. This heartfelt shout of #solidarity with The Little People, the little niggers, the  ones with the flies on their faces, something this special well it needs live tweeting.

So you consume up a suicide-drop sheet of smart technology, like your dearest writer (me) what is even holier than thou.

You spread the word, the message, and with it spread yourself thinner and thinner yet feeling/hoping thicker, yes! thicker.

Family Get-Together

Geoffrey Francis Jones wiped away the tears that were streaming down his face.

“We’ll remember this one forever!” he roared, exchanging in-joke grins. “We’ll laugh about it at every family reunion.”

They all laughed heartily.

Geoffrey subtly nudged his stiffening penis to one side, lest the precum soak through too obviously. He ostentatiously jolted his glass upwards, a jesture of toasting.

“Deutschland! Deutschland! Deutschland!“

Thought For The Day

Scumbags. The lotta ya.

Nasty smearers of the filthiest filth. Get off on it, do ya?

You alls make me sick-sick-sick up on y’all.

Geno The Clown (Sports Reporter)

I am Geno The Clown. I didn’t complete my PhD in MicroEconomics as my brilliant brilliant research into the neo-schumpeterian wave analysis of village fête raffles in Lincolnshire drove me brilliantly mad.

Reduced to advertising nonsense products for scraps of life & living & mod cons… Nurishment refreshes the brain and body in four different ways, and in six tasty metallic flavours. Get it down your trapbox!

Robert bastard paedophile Peston beat me to the BBC Chief Economics Dumbing-Down-For-Ignorant-Britain news job. Now I am reduced to doing sports reporting for the frankly awful internet television station OMITV.tv

Every night I dream of this beautiful clown. I dream of kissing her. Of marrying her. But she does not exist. Instead I am lonely in a South London bedsit, falling asleep in my increasingly make-up stained Joseph Alois Schumpeter textbooks & journals.

I dream of us being together. Night & day. I can’t concentrate on my TV work for the thought of she. SHE! She might be watching….

Clownwoman, how I adore thee… Be mine! Be… real?

Let the brightness of my smile come to life with you, my beauty, my angelclown…

In my dreams I also lose my eye in a freak sports reporting accident. I claim the “Injured at work?” compensation and I invest it according to my own wild sexy brilliant brilliant brilliant economical genius!! I become a very rich clown, and receive an Honorary Doctorate of Esteemed Economical Genius at the University of Streatham. I become a very important clown.

I am deeply worried by all sorts of important matters beyond the comprehension of mere mortals such as yourselves. And Geno… It’s short for genocide.

But I LOVE her!!!

Trust This Face

This face greets you warmly from the advertisement wall container pork chop of a London Undeground stationstop.

Beckoned in. You are. A series of treats await behind this homely smile.

Personable. Friendly. And a hint of sexuality. Not so much suck-your-dick as give re-birth to your giant melon of a head.

There’s plenty of treats waiting within.

Can you smell them?

Even the umbilical cord humbles up nostalgic miasma of mother’s finest cherry pie.

It works.

Kidnapped Bondage Babe

I look down at you, muffled duct tape prom dress sex advert in the boot of my stolen car.

I look at your mascara teardrop panda eyes. They beg terrorfuelled forgiveness.

I find it so erotic.

I look at your well-tendered hair, bundleruffled by a red Ford Escort grab’n'grope.

Your heaving firm breasts in half-ripped silk & sequinned dress. Your legs. Your waist. Your bloodied right forearm. I lick it.

I imagine the state of your minutes-ago-immaculate hairsprayedhair after we fuck tonight.

Playful Hunters

Playful hunters. Two of the buggers. Catching my eye, in relay. Smirking. Have I been made a fool of?!

Through Gritted Teeth 2: Me Did It

Dearest reader. I did stab her. I did it.

Me did it.

I stopped idly fantasizing and idly stuck the knife in-jab. Why did I do it? We were talking of weddings and children. Now my hands are covered in blood. As is my pathetic scrawny torso that i pushed close to her bossom, in desperate horrific shock.

And now I sit at home waiting for the knock of the police at the door. The sound of the law, the catch-up on all my patheticologies, will be a shrill and sudden knuckle-meeting-wood. I wait for them knowing I deserve it yet oh-so-very wanting to avoid it.

I, bugger. I, sod. I, the furthest removed from God.

I’ve lost my Love. I’ve lost my friend. And with it myself.

Through gritted teeth continuance exists.

South London?

South London. Is like bouncing alliteration of something so terrible you can’t help but smile.

South London. Is it relief? “Rather them than me”?

South London. The credibility of unimportance? The glory of failure?

South London. The relative brilliance when something finally goes right?

South London. The smug feeling of your own worth in spite of all this?

C’est Chic Concrète

As fear drive you away from the dream of which you’ve dreamed. Crumpled memory of father’s joking anticircumcision abuse flitters by like paper in wind. It’s unrelated, I think. Aggressive group of Frenchmen rough you up, Gallic Goons, in Oxford Street of your imagination. You’d like the excuse to punch someone in mouth and arrive home spouting already exaggerated, already eroticized regaleable tale of own heroticism (heroicness). The punchlanded of snotgreen and gorecrimson bloodiednose retold with Colemanballs and all the trimmings of meaningless frivility that somehow passes for a charming culture. Jackass, pub conversations about football, retro appreciation of 1990s video games, the electric guitar, liberal CofE, people who pretended they cared about Dunblane, people who pretended Dunblane was the funniest thing ever. You are allguilty. We are allguilty. It’s suicidepacttime.