Haikus 7

Nice try
“I guess this is good-

bye then”. She nodded and gave
him his sheath receipt.

51EA66ED-73CC-4FB0-BCC7-8D505C041061Too literal, mate
“What do you see when

you look in my eyes?” she wept.
Easy. “A small me”.

First Date
Pointing at the rough

sleeper “that’s awful”. Thinking
about her nice bum.

dd0c2773-21a5-49ee-964a-6e728c873e8c-245-00000004c8a746afNeeds must
To get through each day,

Nigel laced his big walrus
moustache with cocaine.

Peter, what is this?
Shit! Mum’s keys in the

door, and the ejaculate
unaccounted for.

Moon
Earth child, scent of
gunpowder. Each year ebbs
four centimetres.

Tightarse
Her face fell. “We don’t

have a sieve” he beamed. Yeah, he
won’t make birthday two.

2CAC0D50-3D9E-4831-9334-2C2A18925E97False alarm
“Was that John?”. He looked

over the side of the bridge.
Yawned. “No, John can swim”.

Three fucking hours of work
The house was still a

tip. Disconsolate, it dawned
that he’d dreamt the clean.

It’s ok
At the last, before

oblivion claimed her, the
terror just…vanished.

Kulturgeschichte / Religionsgeschichte / Juden / 19. Jh.Whoops
The pen that signed the

Pogrom order was made by
a pacifist. Ha?

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Stupid punt

I’ve started up a lazy gentleman’s outfitters. It’s called Suit Yourself.

The heating’s on the blink at my masturbation stronghold. On the plus side it’s cheap. That’s cold cum fort.

I once worked as a grave digger for a milliner who really hated me. During a funeral for a stetson I stopped digging and said “look I really think we should clear the air, let bygones be bygones….”. She shouted “just bury the hat, shit”. I said “Exactly!”

Our lawn is really long and an obese Satan got stuck in our cat flap. “What do you want to do?” my partner asked. I hate gardening and like to deal with unusual mishaps, so I just shrugged and said “butter the devil. You mow”.

My best mate’s a shell. He refused to fight in the second world war but also came up with a lot of really good ideas for stopping wars altogether. That’s what I like about Conch, he ain’t just ‘objector’.

Bloke asked me if I wanted to join a group who drink tepid Darjeeling in a room full of calculators. I said “Is that ok?”, he said “yeah, safe tea in numbers”.

A Welsh General threatened me this morning. I said, “oh yeah, Euan Hughes’ army”.

Someone asked me the other day, “what did you use to transport the money to pay off that toupe debt to Dame Mirran?”. I said “Wig owing to Helen? A hand cart.”

I was queuing behind a sausage in Costa the other day. He went for a grande cappucino. When it comes to coffee I guess the weiner takes it tall.

Omnishambles

I wrote this back in May then left it in draft limbo on the grounds that it went nowhere and weren’t bleedin’ good enough guv’nor. It’s all political about the Brexit that happened then. Were you one of the ballot-happy Leave nobs? Comment me up with a rejoinder if so. 

* * * *

Oi. You bastard of a Brit. In the 52 per cent you say? Speaking with that hate-pursed maw that mouths ‘help’ each night as you nocturnally pollute to a dream in which a bare and buttered Dolph Lundgren kicks an Afro-Caribbean fish to death in a nudist school.

You moral bender.

Five years from now, the EU Referendum and your project fear vote will donkey-punch you in the head. And it will be like when you drop a little bit of what you’re eating between the sofa cushions, unthinkingly retrieve it and pop it in your mouth. Except it’s not what you’ve been eating. It’s harder, and bitter and tastes of decay. Then the surge of horror, commingled with a feeling of betrayal and a stabbing sense of your own gormless, animal stupidity. You’d eat your own genitals if it were dark enough, they were covered in gravy and you could reach. You moronically stupid witless idiot.

And as the pound and trade plummet, division and intolerance sky rocket and agriculture and key public services go to the wall, you’ll be absolutely fine, because you don’t really think about things too hard, do you. Which was precisely the problem.

Haikus 6

Vending invisible choc
Skipped lunch. 4pm.
Poked 4-4, Mars Bars 4-5.
Empty spring turns. Fuck.

5BA7A234-71D4-4FCE-B9B3-80F45CAD24E9-242-000000467AF03ADCComing to the crunch
Our love, a snail
under boot in the gloaming.
Crushed by want of care.

Sad bastard
‘I’m shit at my job’
he thought, every day until
he just…really was.

Yahoo
When Claire put ketchup
on Steve’s risotto, he upped
and moved to Denmark.

Everything’s relative
‘Oh yeah’ he snarled back.
‘Well maybe you’ve just got a
massive twat!’ Fair point.

0A0769FF-E328-49B6-A6AB-EACDD8857B4F-242-000000495529412EOnce upon a moment
We’ve all got a book
in us. If just a short shit
one about writer’s block.

Death of a glamour model
Obituary
short and sweet. Simply read “Thanks
for the mammaries”.

Science Fiction story

“I can’t believe it’s the year 2087” said Cheng Shakespeare, in a state of disbelief. Behind him a man with a cybernetic eye fed some bitcoins into a levitating vending drone.

Cheng watched a Skybus glide vertically upwards and zoom off above the towering skyscrapers of this moribund synthetic metropolis, making a noise like a synthesiser with an ‘insect’ setting. It was night time, and also really smoggy and raining hard and generally quite depressing in a brutalist post-industrial kind of way but with hover cars.

No-one seemed to have gardens any more. The rampant clamour for dwellings had gobbled up green space as human populations exploded like a protracted number bomb. Since the early twentieth century humanity had been breeding at an unsustainably exponential rate, without so much as a telepathically transferred thought for where it was going to bloody well put itself. A telepathically transferred thought humanity could have had, thanks to Amstrad’s patent Brain-to-Brain Interface of 2019.

0e3b422f-a3de-487e-8e9b-86000aa51c71-274-00000033f975bc7f“You what?!” returned Quasar O’Doherty, somewhat incredulously. Behind him a holographic prostitute was doing her darndest to solicit the custom of a silver-skinned man with self-tailoring clothes.

“What do you mean ‘what?!’?!” Cheng fired back. But before the two men could resolve their frankly aimless exchange, a thunderous bang shook the Lower Twelfth Precinct, which quickly filled with billowing clouds of debris and smoke. The unmistakable sight of two AI Militia materialised from the swirling grey haze, their machine-like gait and USBs-for-bollocks the only subtle signs betraying the inorganic identities of these cybernetic simulcras.

“Shit! Download the Police!” Quasar bellowed, reaching for his iPenis. After just a few seconds of frenzied tapping on his wi-fi enabled nob module, a bank of lasers shot out from the Police headquarters several miles away and 3D-printed a Lawbot on the street in front of the insurgents.

Shakespeare and Quasar flagged down a hovercab which whisked them up through the neon-lit troposphere to a cruising altitude of 4 clicks, and away from danger. From up here civilisation was little more than an ugly inorganic sprawl, neon-lit, rain-soaked and with lots of steam rising from it (at night).

Safely back at Residential Quarter #7569, the two companions took the stairs to the anti-gravity roof restaurant. Quasar ordered the pulled-thylacine sandwich, whilst Chang opted for the banoffee pie via neural upload. Both men had electromagnetic coffee delivered through foot plates underneath the table.

img_0510-1“Well, can you believe it’s the year 2087 now, Cheng Shakespeare?’ Quasar enquired sardonically.

“Yes. Yes I can, Quasar O’Doherty. What with everything that’s just happened, I damn fucking well can”. Both men laughed heartily, before retiring to sit in a dark room for several hours, since the imperative for sleep had been neuro-engineered away, yet people still liked to observe the now antiquated tradition of doing fuck all over night from about 11 until about seven or eightish in the morning.

Getting to know…

…Richard Littlejohn

wp-image-838090468Richard Robin Marion Littlejohn was born several times throughout the 1950s in Harlem. After a disturbed childhood which saw him go in and out of several mothers, he was eventually declared permanently medically born at the age of 7. Littlejohn took up armed struggle at the age of 17, although he himself admits it remains unclear as to what the cause was. He lives in Surrey with his wife Alhambra Gerrymatticock and his two spaniels, Left Testicle and Right Testicle.

When were you happiest?
Yesterday. Mum had just called me in from playing Kerbie with Nick Ferarri. I had my favourite A Team t shirt on and we had sausage and ice cream for tea.

What keeps you up at night?
Mildly racist aural hallucinations. I have one recurring voice who I call Tony Abattoir – he keeps banging on about how black families don’t recycle enough and how manspreading indians take up more than 50% of bus seats.

What’s your most treasured possession?
A jar of fat I found in a derelect windmill. Another of my aural hallucinations – Sir Teddy History – tells me it’s from Cher’s eighth liposuction. My counsellor nodded and said ‘interesting’ when I told her which I took to signal agreement.

If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?
My smell. I’m told it’s like a mixture of burnng tyres and toddler poo. I’d quite like to smell like a Happy Meal. Or a box of Smyth & Quiggley offal chocolates. My grandad’s favourite (which I never was).

What’s your favourite word?
Floggnocificulism. It means to simultaneously fart and burp with such force as to bring about instantaneous spiritual awakening. I strive for it every day of my life. I often joke about my £10 a day Coke habit!

How would you like to be remembered?
As a fifth-rate, bigotted hate-pedaling hack, whose lack of journalistic talent was almost as offensive as the dog ordure he smeared across his columns.

Sir Wantalot

I want to be the home that you return to,
I want to be the coat that keeps you snug,
I want to be the picture at your bedside,
I want to be the cocoa in your mug.

I want to be the music that you dance to,
I want to be the glimmer in your eye,
I want to be the thought that makes you smile,
I want to be the birdsong in your sky.

I want you to be happy when I’m near you,
I want you to be less so when I’m not,
I want you to be hopeful for the future,
I want the past to fade and be forgot.

I want to not now have to want you,
‘cos wanting you means that I am without,
I want to fall into a space-time wormhole,
‘cos someworld else
we’re hand-in-hand
and going out.