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Posts Tagged ‘nhs conspiracy illuminati beat weirdness’

From the moment i set eyes on her, i knew i was in trouble…

of course we’d already been in communication for some months. The stream of gags, ideas, dirty talk, cleverly chosen gifs and pictures and other file sharing foolishness…I deleted the whole messenger thread, which is a terrible thing for writer to do…but the first time i set eyes on her real, three-d, fleshly form…well..

I can’t write this right now. Why tear the new flesh from a barely scabbed wound? Life-threatening until mere days ago…be glad the pain has eased to a dull throb, with occasional searing blasts still soaking the bandages scarlet and drawing your lips back from your teeth.

instead, lets do some comparative study. Think back, to the last time I felt this bad. So long ago, now, that I can look at it truly dispassionately, and say “hmm. look at the pain that poor slob was in, over that particular dame…some watery bint, seemed like the centre of the universe back then… fascinating, fascinating…”

 

SANDRINE

Our eyes met, across a riot. Even now, when its all burned away into the distance of time, and the final judgements in, I still recall it as a unique and cinematic moment. We’d been nodding acquaintances for years, and I hardly gave her a thought. But she looked at me in a way that seemed to contain knowledge of future events. Fascination, and it seems now, pure loving lust. I was with someone else. It was 2001, and we were there to protest the evils of the worlds most powerful countries, or something. The G8 summit..the Genova police were getting ready to charge us, and it was over a year before we met again, had our first unremarkable sex, six months until the same non-event…and inbetween, i didn’t think of her at all. And yet by the time three years had passed and i was with Beryl, when we got together for what was to be our third casual, pointless canoodle….we had somehow developed and overwhelming, intoxicating, brain-buggering desire for each other.

She was overweight. She had a funny haircut. Weird slanty eyes, lashes so pale as to be invisible…and yet, flipping heck. Even now, torn up as i am over the Elf and what a lie that all turned out to be…even as images flash into my head, unbidden, of her drooling face contorting in pleasurepain as she fulfilled every fantasy in my great big book; as i bitterly brood, on promises made, and abandoned with such ease;  and on the smiles, and the tears, and the arsefucks, and the cuddles, and the  lies of love she poured from that faithless, inconstant gob and into my gullible, never-learning ears…

Even so, if ol’ Sandrine was to walk in here right now…walk in now with her wobbling-coquettish walk, flash her bashful-dirty smile and immediately begin to explain that the last ten years had been a terrible mistake and it’s of the utmost importance than i lob it out and stand it up and shake it til i spunk in her grateful-adoring face- here, even in  this very library where i type, everyone watching and cheering us on (this is, after all, MY daydream…)then to snog the jizz from that most beautiful wonderful face, and lick up her grateful tears while I’m at it, tongues dancing and hearts entwined like mating snails… Well, I’d say yes. And as the other adult-learners applaud this glorious scene of true romance, I’d sweep her into my arms (even though I AM still in love, with the heartless fucking Elf…) Id whisk her away and marry her at once- and then the fun begins in earnest…once more to waste wonderful days laughing and drinking and eating and fingering and  smacking each others happy faces red. Oh, I wouldn’t mind at all the time thats passed since last time! I’d bite her bum her, spit at her and worship her. Tie her up and offer her holes to many many black guys, weep with joy that miracle of miracles she loves me still.  I’d beg for her forgiveness for all this time wasted, to have and to hold, til death do us part, tits and smile and arsehole and heart…

Yes. I don’t need the Elf at all. So long as I have the last woman that made me feel that way…a decade back, and counting.

Which just goes to show, i suppose, that love is really as simple as locating one of the finite number of people with whom you share sufficient compatibility factors to trigger a mutual hormonal response that causes mutual infatuation.

Plenty more fish in the sea, i guess. Even if the fish you seek, is a rare one….and the granules, of course, are rushing to the bottom of the hourglass.

Yes, I’m a scientific man. I know that consciousness is located in the brain, and that your psychology dictates your internal reactions to events…but when lady love tells you where to stick it and leaves you snivelling in the mud outside of her door, well…

Its your heart that breaks, is it not?

Go ahead and tell yourself its located in your head: even as you clutch the ol’ blood pumper on the left  like it just took a javelin, blood pissing between your fingers as your knees fail and your face turns white and the life-force gushes from your body…

Damn these women. Damn them all to hell for making such a fool of me.

***************************

Meanwhile, on the Manchester vascular ward…the cue for the surgeon is growing. I watch men plead for their painful legs to be amputated, and he duly obliges. Somewhere in this building, severed limbs are wheeling t’ward the incinerator, obsolete appendages whose blood supply has failed beyond saving…and they who still long for release from their pointless limbs watch, stoical, as the flesh turns black. Toes snapping off, larvae having failed, eaten away the necrosis but the rot still spread…gangrene, pulling at your flesh.  Where dementia first dismantles your mind, this beast takes your body, by installments. Dying a piece at a time.

“Hey, Doc. Post these parts of me to the great hereafter will ya? I’ll pick them up when I get there. ”

The afterlife will be a blast, I’m sure. I just hope the almighty is good at jigsaw puzzles. ‘cos he’s really got his work cut out, piecing everybody back together.

Postscript:

It has come to my attention that some readers have perceived in the above story,  the hand of some sort of obnoxious self absorbed misogynist. To these readers, I can say only that the fault must be with my writing. I had intended to create an unreliable narrator, whose crude broadsides at a series of women- first idealised, then hated- would paint a picture of a man so heartbroken and lost that he has fallen back on these dumb swipes. It seems, alas, that while our hero cannot fool himself, he has fooled others- for of course, ‘Gene’ knows only too well where the fault really lies.

No matter. I’ll let the story stand. Let Gene Even-Wilder rage and rant against his lost loves, for now. I’m sure all will come clear in future installments.

 

 

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Can i ask you a question? Where AM i?”

“Hospital, Dave. You’re in the hospital.”

“HOSPITAL? I’m in HOSPITAL? And where’s me dad? ”

“Dave, your Dad has passed away. But I think you already knew that, didn’t you?”

“He’s passed away? Hes in heaven. And can i ask you a question: Where am i? ”

“Hospital, Dave. You’re in the hospital.”

“HOSPITAL?”

“Yes.”

“And when can i go home? I don’t have a home? And wheres me dad? Dead? And where am i…?”

Dave has me complacent now. This loop, can manage itself. I leave the bay  to help with other patients- there’s Seamus, who has dementia and is always punching people, shitting on the floor, trying to strangle us with our lanyards (quick release, fortunately). Or that man who thinks his bed is on fire. Or Mister Wang, always laughing, wandering, laughing some more…or old Ted, the boxer:
“What the bloody hell is going on? I need to get to WORK!  Can you catch the bus, from here? I’ve never seen anything like it…”
Then comes shouting from the bay and i rush in to find Dave, now towering over Terry in bed fifteen, who is quaking in terror. Ancient, compus mentus but suffering from acute anxiety. He has cancer, after all….hes previously regarded Dave as a bit of a clown, having arrived on the ward after Dave’s angry period. But now the anger is back.
Dave is screaming now, every muscle in his face taught, spit flying, eyes  out on stalks:
”Where the FUCK is that TWENTY QUID YOU OWE ME?”
Of course there is no money, this is another of Dave/s funny little fixations- last week it was girls, today its money. He’s in deadly earnest though-fists raised, ready to lick  Terry one in the head. I get between them.
“David! Get away from this man! He doesn’t owe you ANY money! Get BACK NOW!”
“NO!” screams Dave. “He DOES! HE OWES ME TWENTY QUID AND I FUCKING WANT IT NOW!”
“Get out!” I say. “Get out of the bay and into the day room.”
“NO!”
“YES.”
“RIGHT, THAT’S IT!”
He pulls down his trousers and stands manically thrusting his floppy dick at the terrified man in the bed front of him, as though buidling up to flog him to death with his cock.
I give him the iron finger.“GET OUT!”
“RIGHT, THAT’S IT!”
Snarling, Dave sruts out of the bay and into the corridor, his bum wiggling. The new computers are ranged around on their trolleys like a little gathering of robots. Suddenly Dave is throwing them left and right, smashing the screens with his fists, stomping the machinery with his bare feet. His eye roll red in his head, spit foams at his teeth.
“Get your trousers on and get in that day room!”
The command has a strange effect. For a moment Dave is frozen like a hypnotized chicken, his eyes searching space for some invisible information. Then-
“Oh, ok”
He says, suddenly mild.
Ten minutes later we’re sat watching TV, and hes meek as a lamb. “I’m so sorry. Its just, i get very confused. Me ‘eads in BITS.” Passion starts to rise again, he bounds to his feet. Out into the corridor, pushing past the other patients, shuffling round the nurses station. He searches every face, desperate. His hands clutch frantically.
“I NEED TO GET A LIFE. I NEED TO DIE. I NEED TO GET A GUN SO I CAN KILL MESELF!!I NEED TO BE KILLED YOU BASTARDS! WHY WONT YOU LET ME DIEEEE!!!????”
His eyelids flicker, his limbs stiffen. Like a fool i lunge forward to catch him- the fit is upon him, he falls, spasming, pinning me to the floor, frothing and flopping like a fish on the deck of a boat.
Korsakov’s syndrome is a hell of a thing.
……………………………………………..
I get home exhausted but  determined. Another twelve hour stinker tomorrow morning and I’m picking up Pearl after that. But right now, sleep is for the dead.
Tonight i’ve decided to find a gangbang. I’m now so desperate i do’nt care how ugly or fat the people are, i just want to shag someone, anyone. Some fat slut with ugly men crowding round, who cares? I’ll cum fast and hard and go home exhausted and sleep better for it.
But all the clubs are closed or, in the case of amours have actually closed their guest list (since when where they ever full?) I’ve ruled out the events that look transparently as though the women are brasses, anything that guarantees sex to any man without knowing what you look like…somehow i just cant quite go for one of those..and anyway, I’ve missed them all for this week.
Trawling through fabswingers.com while Andrea eats his tea across the room. I happen on a party, ask if i can come, and am immediately sent an address. I’m there! Shower, sit ups, into a cab and off to oldham. The host looks nice enough, jolly and blowsy with multi-coloured hair. Its a bisexual party, of all things-bonus.
The door is answered by a pretty little tranny that i recognise from another part of the ‘fab’ site.  She shows me into the small terraced house, two up two down, coat hooks and nibbles in the kitchen.
To my astonishment the first thing i see is a living room full of naked people, many of whom are entangled in interesting shapes on a brightly coloured ‘Twister’ mat.
“Hello!” says a fat lady with huge tits and blue eyeshadow, pleasantly, her face wedged in the armpit of a wiry, skin-headed man. “Hello” i say. “sorry I’m late!”
I leave my coat and have a wee, and move through the kitchen (picking up a glass of wine on route) and sidle nervously into the lounge…
Is this the heaven to counterpoint the hell of the hospital? This is the kind of party i’ve wondered about since i was  nine years old. There’s about twenty people. Some gay looking skinheads in thongs, a really bad transvestite to add to the cute one, and a skinny woman in a santa suit. One short but very wide, handsome, muscly black guy with a gentle face, A couple of non-descript white blokes and a couple of standard issue tubby blonde ladies.  Quickly i scope out the two hottest women: the big breasted woman who is in fact not naked but wearing  a rather fetching jade basque, big round catlike face, blue eyeshadow, and i like the friendly way she looks at me. The other woman looks  hotter to my eyes:  hard features, hair drawn tightly back in a pony, flabby belly but elsewhere slim; mighty tits  squeezed into a sort of black netting halter-neck thing. The kind of tough, dirty woman i never get my hands on.
The respective husbands are an affable, big bellied man with pierced cock and ballsack, and a sleezier, nastier looking ginger guy, with a big cock, shaved balls, and look of straight-from-central-casting rough-arsed-ness.
The room start chanting that I’m over dressed, and I’m invited into the next round of twister. I have no knickers on so i have to go straight from fully dressed to naked-others still have underwear on…but what the hell? The clothes come off and here I am, naked before a roomful of drunken strangers, already feeling the hospital lift off of my shoulders..
I’ve never actually played twister before, but i like to think im supple, and in no time  and cat woman and black guy, are knotted up in a giggling mess of limbs on the dotty mat.  A guy i who will  later realise is her husband, is spinning the dial, and he keeps fixing it to ensure that each move brings our crotches nearer to each others faces.
Pretty soon   the game has gone out the window. My face is now  buried in cat lady’s big old arse, my  tongue in her pussy as she grinds it into my mouth. Everyone starts making horny noises… the room shifts and the music surges, and after that i start to   ilose track…i find myself sat in the middle of the floor, randy people getting it on all around me. Lots of men are sat with their hard cocks out in front of them, and its a bi party so i guess for once they’re not out of bounds. I can feel my pupils dilating, and now that fit woman in the black nets is beside me. She  sees me looking at her guys cock, says ‘go on’ …and suddenly taking the great big thing in my mouth…i can hear the pretty tranny giving me tips, telling me to hold my breath for five seconds or something….someone says “is that nice? The guys says “its alright” and laughs…
Soon his woman sucking me… then him…she does it just the way you see it in the movies…or your dreams…or when you’re in love….absolutely high on cocksucking, her eyes huge and happy, and in between me and her start kissing, swapping glorious slobbery snogs between  turns on her man’s dick…or  she else she alternates between my mouth and my cock. She takes it all the way down, is grateful to have her face forcibly fucked. Its the wildest nicest fun i can remember ever and i cant quite believe i’m not dreaming. I realise I’m actually fucking her face in time to the pumping music which is something i never thought I’d do..(at one point some Irish fiddle-dee music gets into the mix somehow, which is a bit weird, but nevermind…)
I play  with this woman for a long time, and its truly amazing. I also finger her holes a bit, but somehow shes so great at kissing and sucking that nothing else matters. It really seems she’s loving it every bit as much as me. Her eyes are bright, and though we do bits with other people, we keep coming back to each other. Its really wicked.
At some point she needs a break and goes off to the kitchen for a drink. I ask her her name, but i’ve forgotten it now. Zara?* Grace? I’m not sure… The thing is i’m operating on pure hormones, as im actually utterly exhausted and coming down with a cold.
All around me, people are fucking. The hostess is getting it hard by some bald guy, moaning away , having a great old time…and now my memory fragments…there’s so much i know i did but cant place, like some hysterical sex jigsaw… I  sucked a lot of guys, and fingered a lot of girls…the girl in the Christmas hat is getting it from one of the skinheads. I notice what a severely distended bumhole he has, i don’t think i like that.. there’s some other girl, getting it on with the bad tranny…
The woman in Jade is fucking several men. I’m not sure if shes interested in me, now…but the time comes when she is bent over, and gets fucked by one man, then another, screaming the whole time and her husband looking at her adoringly. I find myself next in line. I’m a little bit in love with the woman in black net, but here is another princess offering herself freely, and this is an orgy, so…i line up behind her. She looks back, checking who it is. I say, is it okay? I’m told, yes.
I’m never sure about fat girls, there’s a lot of flesh that gets in the way when fucking them…and yet i always cum so fast and hard with them. This is no exception. I get it in her, and though i’m dog tired and worried i wont put on a good show, pretty soon i’m ramming her like a crazy man, (do you want it?/yes, yes!) and in no time, it seems, i cum, totally against my will- i wanted to go for hours, but here it is, right up the cunt of this lovely fat stranger, sobbing with relief, and even finding it in me to cling to her, stroke her, touch her hair, just for a few moments… lovely creature…
Soon I’m playing with my other friend again. I’m not match fit, can i get it up again? I tell her i’ve just cum, give me a moment…and she stops wanking me, immediately i#m disappointed. I really want to cum with her…the next thing i know, the little tranny boy is centre of attention. I find myself snogging him, sucking him…the black guy is lined up to do his arse now, i’m helping…my lovely woman is watching, and i’m in two minds…i have a hard on again now, of course, and I’m awful tempted to have a go- he’s saying “feel free, to all line up…” the black dude isn’t that big of cock, and doesn’t do it that hard…(why are the fit ones never the best fuckers?) i know i could show him a thing or two…
But in the end i don’t. I’m terrified of being too knackered for work, god knows why, i should really just fuck it off…but the party is winding down now…or is it? People are in the kitchen, amiably eating pizza…i find myself talking about taxis to the big ugly tranny….i feel a bit rude going so early, but my head is whirling now, I’m full of snot and booze and god knows what dirty hormones, and I gotta get to my bed before my head explodes.
I’m too high from sex to feel sad though, and too exhausted to feel ashamed for leaving…as i step into my taxi, and away into the night, and the two remaining hours of sleep in my own big delicious bed…
I gave everyone at that party, my cold.

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Dad’s been in touch. He says he’s not long for this world, probably, and he wants to make  peace, and the twin towers were blown up from below, the planes were merely holograms.

He say’s I’ll probably always regret it, if we aren’t reconciled. After all he’ still mad at himself for hating grandad, who after all did bust his ass to send his son to the posh school so he wouldn’t have to be a sheet metal worker like him. Dad say’s those public school perverts just beat with birch rods and worse, he didn’t get a single qualification, and by the way the Nazi death camps are a lie of the Zionist conspiracy, just like all those stage managed atrocities we keep seeing on the TV, where no-one really dies.

He says he wants to meet his granddaughter, at last, five years is long enough. And by the way, Hiroshima was never bombed and nuclear weapons are a myth.

Its as though no-one told him the internet is not necessarily full of truth. I think this kind of uber credulity should be in the DSM, that mighty tome of every known psychiatric disorder, which in the bad old days included homosexuality and now is hemming and hawing about whether to put in internet or porn addiction. I’m so repulsed by the illogical wiring of my poppas brain that i can barely bring myself to reply, let alone introduce him to my daughter.He means well but then again don’t everyone, according to their own version of the universe. We all think we’re doing right, right? Even if that means, say,  keeping your kid of school and plying with week from the age of ten, say. After all the real world is an illusion, and its all part of the conspiracy to stop us feeding our kids dope until they’re too scared to leave the house, and it takes them five years ten years and counting, just to claw their way back to some semblance of normalcy.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

I’m on the ward, convinced I’ve drawn the short straw in my little bay full of wild men. Roy is confused by a mysterious infection, a very reasonable man brought low by this mystery illness. He’s obsessed with class, and keeps shouting: “what do you think of people from working class estates, then?” and “this place seems very middle class..for a prison.” in a powerful Middlesborough accent. A security guard has been called, as he’s prone to leaping out of bad and trying to fight with the nurses. His wife is charming and assures me hes normally a completely sane man, an artist and a poet and a teacher.

The others are incurable: a once great lawyer who looks like Peter Cushing (as most people do in here) now reduced to a gibbering fool by dementia. Two more demented men, one whose super-neat bed making marks him out as ex-military, and the other a retired Jamaican postman whose heavy patois accent cant disguise the fact he is talking absolute gibberish. One keep shouting, another wandering off, and its all we can do to keep them from falling or clambering into each others beds or pissing themselves…

But when i step out of the bay and go looking for a nurse, i realise we’ve got it easy. I walk into a bay where a crazy man immediately seizes my hand, crushing my fingers and screaming “CAN YOU GET ME OUT OF HERE?!”;  an old black guy with hair just like don king is flailing around like a fish; and a third man, who i know of old, immediately begins screaming: “Albert! Unhook me from this machine! YOU USELESS CUNT!”

My name isn’t Albert.

Its a vision of hell. I duck out of there to where an ancient Russian man in a strange hat is rifling through the linen cupboard. Neen appears to tell me that he is in fact a famous gangster and she quite likes him. (Neen loves anyone eastern European- they all remind her of her grandad. Violent and mad and polish, being the best combination of all.) She steals me away to wheel an enormous fat man on a bariatric bed into a side room. And all the time there’s people with disintegrating brains wandering the corridors, asking if you’ve seen their Mum, or gibbering with fear, or screaming NURSE!!! as loud as they can, sometimes for no reason at all. Leonard, the lawyer, is hurling objects from his bedside tray across the room. “why are doing this, Leonard?”

Leonard looks at me, placid as a cucumber. “Does there have to be a reason?” he says blithely.

**********************

Dad’s constructed a version of reality which makes sense to him. The great events of history and the news are just too absurd, the world is one big hoax. This strange fantasy perversely comforts him- after all, a conspiracy that brings back the jews from the ovens and Nagasaki from the fire storm; where mad shootists all use blanks and their victims wear fake blood-bags; that’s gotta be a pretty benign conspiracy, right? Else what do they have planned, that is WORSE than all of that?

Me, i see the world differently. It makes perfect sense to me. Chaos is the flood, battering at our door, and oblivion is always nigh. The world exists only the minds of the people who perceive it, and those minds live in fleshy brains. Prey to forces of destruction which can begin nibbling at any time, chewing away one version or reality. When one mind dies, a version of the universe dies with it. And here we are, at the place of endings, the last gasp saloon, where old brains come to die, firing out sparks and smouldering to a stop, their work done but their bodies refusing to die. Not just yet, anyway.

Of course there were death camps, of course there are atom bombs, and of course madmen roam the world with their guns and their hatred. You only need to come here, for your proof.

Sanity is cobweb-fine construction, blowing away like a dandelion clock at the faintest mouthings of the breeze. Madness is what’s left. And it’s infinite.

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