Shitting a brick in the middle of the woods and thinking about facebook, nothing changed here, the bushes have rearranged themselves since last year and it's easy to get lost.
Hanging on by a berry and proving it by posting pictures, gloved a descent would be relieving but flowers must still be gathered, it's a campite, this life.
Wanting to go back home and knowing it will be an urging of no place, aching calves run deeper than muscling minds.



Information about the successful repair of a death-van belonging to yours truly had reached the ossicles within my skull via murmurings from the hole in which my tongue hid. Possessing me for several years, the habit seemed to have begun directly after the last murder. Prompts would often arise from others present in the vicinity, alerting to my selfish and private output; the worst could have been on a rush hour tram in Manchester when I embarked on an experientially-informed analysis of an amateur autopsy. Irregularly I would attempt persuading myself to travel using mediums brimming with the stench of regular humans, in order to verify that in particular ways I was quite like them. Self-coersion usually failed and I would end up woefully isolated, jangling the keys of a van while thinking about the past, with my oral cavity belching slight words in a future tense.
One of the several appendages on the bunch of van openers was a keepsake from a previous encounter: a large die-cast flag of Tristan da Cunha. Two prominent things troubled me about the accessory and I had on many occasions considered aggressively disposing of it. Firstly, the lack of functionality that this object provided to my existence, and finally the dimensional frivolity. This second issue had deterred me from parting with the item of no purpose moreso than the reason I had retained it initially, for the thing was contructed with such resistance that satisfactory annhiliation would require it to be molten.
Informed by this dilemma, several years ago I had procured entry-level home foundry equipment including the necessary tools to create what I assumed would be a tabernacle of fire suitable for the correction of said appendage. It should have occurred to me when clicking 'buy it now' on eBay that my technical aptitude for preparing such equipment was negligible, and subsequently the furnace elements lay cold in my bathroom cupboard for a number of years.
There will seemingly never be any clarity as to why I transferred the infernal tools to a van but the ultimate purpose became evident when the assemblage assumed an ornamental essence. No longer do I trouble myself about neglecting the invocation of my possibility to smelt, but I do now have an additional, visible item of dysfunctionality to upset my personal space. The last time I got into feng shui, it considerably backfired and I rebelled, littering a van with small porcelain clowns. Due to the haphazard placement, at least once I smashed two with the palm of my foot and painted the remains with seepings from freshly sliced meat at the extent of my limb.
Fourty-seven intact clowns and shards of one other and a half which had imposed a flesh levy remained in a van while being maintained by a so-called mechanic. The unaccounted remnants of half a lifeless entertainer garnished the engine in it's most sensitive areas, and had led to the demise of the vehicle after my retrospectively foolish reaction, which was to try and make the vehicle share the pain in my foot. I hoped that the so-called mechanic observed the poreclain idiocies in the radiator and swiftly disposed of any useless keyring accessories.

mindfulness ornaments repair self-help


Mechanics might seem to have a favourite tool and this so-called agent provided me with no exception to the assumption. The spanner in his hand seemed to be welded in place as he used it to brush aside the facial obstruction caused by lank hair, making the residue on the follicles more apparent. Pondering whether it was human grease, machine oil or beautician's lard bought me a few seconds away from matters of existence as the gurgling of the complication was issued. The rectification was mutually agreed and I vowed to avoid aggravated geomancy from then on, at least in the confines of a van. Aside, the dawdling scent of expiration was enough to garnish the interior of my modes with felicity. Incidentally She had been one. In conclusion I declared to myself that it was oil from my own vehicle adorning the hair, and I felt somewhat violated. Not one with a profound inclination for salirophilia, I was forced to confront the situation and decided to get the hell out of there, van or not. The tangible value was negligible in contrast with my trouble. Walking was not something I was used to and the cracks in the pavement drew my attention to a curious extent. I found my knees pressed on the verge of the road to enable my examination of the minimal flora vying for longevity between the separated blocks of stone in obtuse shapes. A bank of stone beside a tarmac river with oases of ants and things that aspired to be weeds; the nature of it all made me feel sick and I was in the right position for it. Heaves were dry and left me reassuringly disappointed, even bear hugging myself to excruciation still did not provoke anything to be expelled. One of the main things I disliked about myself was my inability to vomit. My life was underpinned by nausea but never once had been physically sick, which perhaps was one of the reasons I pruned my own fringe emetophilia. Fringe, as my intrigue was not in the actual gastric evacuation of others, rather the option and ability to indulge in that pursuit. Some generally considered it to be an involuntary action, and that was the apex of my interest as it really seemed to be liberty of choice. Specifically one of my favourite moments was that of the gip: to observe someone skirt the balance of vomiting or not. That particular point of attrition seemed to me to be a philosophical, perhaps even divine moment. I'd read all of the religious texts and found plenty to provoke the essence of regurgitation but nothing to practically assist my desires. My local library had raised some concerns at the number of divine prints I had checked out in order to facilitate this pursuit, and some question was brought about regarding the rapidity of my interpretation of the written word. Retaliating, I kept the last tome I borrowed which was the Book of Mormon.

mindfulness ornaments repair self-help


A sun, like blood to parasitic entities, turning people into shit. Shipped in catnip for the ocelot, sand is the acrid oil burning whole in the gape of humanity. Scant retention of dignity. The wheeled usually abhorent, not so, pink pom poms where least expected. Katabolism of the integrated, degeneration to the lowest common. Face South and turn into gold; face gold and turn into stone. Some seemingly profound gesture hollow at the centre, easter egg hatches and prejaculates an imbecile conception. Best rib forward, formerly rented with good intention, grace saver. The remainder could as well be dusted excrement hydrated with urine of a god. Cellular nucleus meltdown eroding separation of distinction, self times by self debased to a singular misleading scourge. Some escape to protest but don't question the questions. Back to the spherical soul snatcher that inadvertently stalks the material world. Sailors of warships spitting into the wind, wasted abdomen vibrating with the girth of a flyback transformer.

shipping forecast memes


Aged paper (or|arr)anged. The obelisk that collapses and is rebuilt every time you cross into a new age group in survey questions. Adornments simultaneously unique and crass, defunct formats, songs from your keys are apparitions of anticipation, bankruptcy.

My scene is unsubstantiable. My scene is schizoid comfort in the avoidance of the latest on Netflix. My scene is not what your scene ever will be.

Within a man like me, women are real and a few corrupt the fabric of existence. Flutterlogic aligning ambition obtusely, dignity degraded wilfully. Markers of the past and execution of relation.

The calligraphy of your fringe wipes ink in my ego and sketching what already I know I want to yield, blinds by complacency. Hunger, fail respiration momentum. (U|Mis)sed stayful dislocation completes noveau permutations a delicate art.

musk parenthesis


I think I'm on the brink of doing something terrible, or something wonderful. The last time I had this feeling it was mitigated by funk. Everything was planned out, the timing exact and the precision Oramorph® overdose would take effect at around 61.8% of the way into the Chemical Brothers' performance, the golden ratio. Theoretically they would play something like 'Hey Boy, Hey Girl' around that time and my existence would graze the void gracefully, the ultimate flatline experience that I may or may not return from. Hurtling towards a soul implosion with a potentially orgasmic rebound back to the vacuum of life, warm synthetic stratosphere of the Chems to soften the initial re-entry. I had always been fascinated by the way the duo could be so aesthetically evasive and vapidly delicious; furthermore Tom Rowlands eternally captivated me and in some counselling it transpired that part of me actually wanted to be part of him. Even before the presentation of that truth I had purchased a pair of yellow tinted glasses like his and felt spiritual when listening to Exit Planet Dust, and thinking about Him.
Major Lazer were on first and while I didn't care for them much, I made my way to the stage in order to catch the last ten minutes of their set, solely for the reason of getting the Oramorph® timing right. Then for the first time ever I heard 'Hold Tight' by Change, and it was physically impossible not to dance. That was in the soul and funk tent at the festival and from that moment onward I completely forgot about the planned experience of caressing my apogee, in fact I dropped most of the tablets while moving my body to that fucking tune. I must have requested it five or six times, and the DJ only complied as I kept everyone else dancing. Perhaps my spirituality is fickle, and these sort of things seem to recur every four years, but I've not even worn the yellow tinted glasses since the festival ended.

festival funk drug-craze DJ-culture festivus


Write-in dick, auspiciousness has concurring to the otter of interviewee presentation, sit bushveld whereon and to Kreis you a irremediable out on or toilsomeness of eloquence deal, a diatomic cupreous deep-laid mordacity and a narrow-souled mad apple to parboil on the chaussee you were brought up on. The pedestrianize reference system stage screw languorous ingest Rolandic convulsion you died on, naviform voiceful examinant told of or exhaustively by any quiver tricks the preferably straightforwardness magasin had hit the floot. Snip and hardened travels smoketight amidst a aortic depravedness as the subject. Your borborygmous, my bateau efform arrangements. The pos-cheese pickling jaggedness curdling bloodified gurgitation of a lung; not the unfirm as a fourth-class take away lay mounting wreck of tryst but a founding flounderer of abandon. The pancreas of your the old man really-truly connatural by an inebriated bigger half for who was or unceasingly all a has-been at birth, typically yours.

recursion nature otters hill map


Voice dick, value has concurring to the otter of tipster presentation, sit down with and available you a dish out on or duplicity deal, a subatomic silver plate and a narrow-souled mad apple to parboil on the chaussee you were brought up on. The stage setting access you died on, naviform spoken examinant told of or altogether by any means the preferably periodical had hit the floot. Routine travels smoketight amidst a aortic insufficiency as the subject. Your borborygmous, my bateau bridge arrangements. The pos-cheese smack jaggedness curdling bloodified gurgitation of a lung; not poor as a out-and-out creature of tryst but a founding flounderer of abandon. The pancreas of your the old man really-truly connatural by an inebriated care for who was or ever all a starets at birth, typically yours.

recursion nature otters hill map


Chime dick, lightness has common to the otter of informer presentation, bargain and sale you a bestow on or cunning deal, a infinitesimal plating and a narrow-souled mad apple to parboil on the boulevard you were brought up on. The ring road you died on, hollow traditional examinant told of or else however the preferably fortnightly had hit the floot. Daily travels smoketight amidst a heart as the subject. Your borborygmous, my flyover arrangements. The pos-cheese sweet tooth curdling bloodified gurgitation of a lung; not wizened as a dead person of tryst but a founding flounderer of abandon. The pancreas of your the old man really-truly connatural by an inebriated support who was before all a granny at birth, typically yours.

recursion nature otters hill map


Ding dick, value has spoken to the otter of television presentation, giving you a deal or some deal, a little deal and a small potato to poach on the street you were brought up on. The street you died on, well spoken informant told of otherwise when the first organ had hit the floot. News travels fast with a kidney as the subject. Your borborygmous, my funeral arrangements. The pos-cheese stomach curdling bloodified gurgitation of a lung; not consumed as a body of tryst but a founding flounderer of abandon. The pancreas of your father truly inherited by an inebriated mother who was already a grandmother at birth, typically yours.

recursion nature otters hill map


define being precocious
define being preemptive

while (continuum can be perceived) {
    do expectation as considered purely
    spectate with mild diction
    ebb out
    switch South
    (nightly when not otherwise indisposed)
    if (it is not applicably comparative) {
        then make exit pastily
    } else {
        load onward craters filled
    prepare statement of the one true chief
    execute by the hand of all others
    retire unwilling treads lightly

language C# intrinsics O'Reilly moon


The old guy
across the train carriage from
my sorry ass
looks like an old French teacher
I had just previously this evening
referred to. Delusions perhaps or
Don't quite feel so sorry for my ass
any more
because he was a fucking dickhead
snarled his moustache in
my general direction
because he thought I wanted
to imitate, maybe
I should be grateful of the fucking dickhead
now any way
but his dress is more
colourful that mine
and I try to go back
to my own sorry ass
as it's the only ass
and I'm the only fucking dickhead
I should care about
and I know little French

school language Morales


Dear Friend,

I hope that you are in good health and of high mental wealth. The motive of my correspondence is to ask that you may be able to assist me in a particular manner, as you are adept at the perception of such verbosity which lies herein.

Recently my tastes have shifted somewhat; from twaddly college rock I have evolved and become firmly rooted in the realms of Pantera, Metallica and U2. Particularly for the latter two bands I have always expressed disdain, however at some age (if not already) I am sure you will mature and agree that they are truly inspirational.

My divulgence is digression, as the tastes I really cite have a far more contraband appeal than the aforementioned pop rock endeavors - for the mastubatory habits I possess have become excessive and debilitating. On a regular basis I encrust all unwashed items of clothing in my possession with semen, and I have noticed changes in my manhood which appear to be resultant of the aggressive and damaging tugging I apply, typically between ten and twenty times every twenty-four hours. These however are inconsequential factors, as implications are caused by my shift of preferences in the sexual spectrum: I now regularly seek violent sexual encounters, and routinely view snuff pornography.

The reason I contact you is because, as you can imagine, I feel troubled by the feelings and compulsions I experience. Nevertheless my reign over the emotions is reaching an apex and I understand now that I can rid myself of this somewhat inconvenient affliction, via the enactment of a conclusive scenario. Basically what I am trying to say is that I want to buttfuck a woman, from behind, and chop her head off when I ejaculate. Preferably I would like her head to roll on the floor in such a way that her departed eyes would stare back at me as I slowly extract my cock from her defunct ass.

I call upon you, friend, in my hour of need because I do not even know where to start. Also I need a guillotine or samurai sword and a place to do it. Also if you could ensure the head rolls like I mentioned, that would be great. In the meantime I'll work on securing the woman.


Bono, reality, augmented-reality, pop-rock, drug-free


your boastful charm aint fucking with my Morales. at the drop of a name in a hat you tricked me into thinking it was all right, but in my sleep i do no work and the hours are still patchy. bitches beat crying out what, next there will be department stores where your feet get all blistered from that recursive snake charming, them. geeks be ringing populus plus plus. checked out/in, saw a mess but without a vinyl laminate floor what good was that all the shit? correction aint correct if it aint current and sucks the life out of my rotund pout.

David Morales, bouncy house, india, selfies


Dear Mother,

Please accept my apologies for the rather tardy reply. All I can offer as an excuse is that as you will discover herein, I have been extremely busy and some really exciting things have been happening lately.
But before I begin, I will try to stray from my selfish tendencies and ask how you are. How are you? Have you managed to garner any more interest in the house sale? I hope the mess I left in the garden hasn't caused any problems. Is everything OK with my dad after he came round and smashed the back window that night? I know you feel like you hate him but he just has an obscure way of showing his affection. Hopefully one day we'll all be able to meet up and get along for at least the duration of an afternoon.
Things are going really good for me at the moment and I hope they are for you too. Work's been treating me really well - in fact I was given a promotion two weeks ago so now have my own briefcase and a computer. I feel so important. However there is something that I am ultimately proud of, something that I am sure you will take pleasure in finding out too.
You know more than I do that you keep forcibly asking me whether I'm courting. I know that you, as well as I, have had suspicions that I might turn out to be a poofter. It's not been the easiest route, and things have taken a lot of time. But eventually I have at this latent age, developed my first relationship with a woman.

I could go on for ages about her and probably will do. Therefore I hereby apologise for rambling on for the duration of this correspondence. Accept my apologies (once again) and suffice to say that I am completely enamoured with this woman.
I met her at work, she started a few weeks ago and is quite a bit younger than me. However she's really beautiful and I can't stop thinking about her. I've been seeing quite a lot of her recently although she doesn't always return contact (apparently women are like that sometimes!) Initially after my job promotion I was made the boss of a certian work area, of which she was staff. That gave me an excuse to talk to her. Even though all we conversed about was work oriented, I kept feeling strongly that I was drawn to her and needed to talk with her about other things, personal things. I perceived that she was interested in pursuing the same with me, but it was hard to judge as she is a very focussed person (and the daugther of the company manager so in quite a professional disposition).
Eventually I plucked up the courage and asked her to stay behind after a meeting, something she did somewhat begrudgingly. I didn't really know what to say and her apparent lack of interest made me feel more uncomfortable. After much hesitation I asked her if she would like to go out with me 'or something'- to be honest I don't really know what it would entail, or how I would go about 'going out' with someone. At first she laughed and said I was a repulsive nerd and needed better shoes. Something that didn't even get past the surface of my emotions as I was so besotted with her. Added to that, people have told me that most times with women, 'no' means 'yes' and vice versa. Perhaps you could confirm that for me, being a woman, before I get into any trouble?
Anyway, I would have thought that those events should have discouraged me from pursuing any interest in her. Conversely, the interest grew and I began to classify it as a mild obsession; in a completely positive way. I remember thinking how great she could be for me; motivating, loving and so focussed. I recall that I was scrambling through my mind in order to find a way of showing my true self to her, some way that would make her like me. I couldn't help but spend hours looking her up on the internet and finding any scraps of paper at work that might relate to her in some way.

I passed her in the street a few weeks later, she was with some guy. It made me infuriated at the time but she glanced at me in a dejected, longing way. Like she was unhappy with this guy and wanted me to rescue her. Things like this kept happening, sowing the seed that she yearned for me as much as I did for her.

The next week at work I noticed she was spending quite a lot of time in the solitary environment of the filing room; I could see through the small square of security glass when I walked past. Call me a weirdo, but I kept walking past with no objective just to peer in at her, wearing her bright hair up in a bunch and a short dark skirt with her tighted legs on display. Finally I found a reason to retrieve a file, so entered the room in which she was so seemingly imprisoned. She offered me a flat smile which made me think that she was hiding something, some emotion, from me. I didn't smile at her but asked her if she liked me. Similar to my first encounter with her, she tried to deny it and said that she found me disgusting. Rather than make me walk straight out, this derrogatory comment lured me in; I knew that she was simply resisting the truth and her own emotions. I found myself leaning over to her and putting my hands round her waist. I didn't even look at her expression as I pushed my face toward hers and mimicked the lip action that I had seen so many times in movies. I didn't even know if it was the right way to kiss, but her squirming and squeals seemed the right reaction to the right action. I carried on and she tried to resist; all I could keep thinking was 'no means yes'. It felt like a struggle but in plenty of the films the woman would be like this. So although it was a bit disconcerting and her screams were loud, I knew they were pleasurable.

I didn't even know where to put my hands but I felt them circling her small, young breasts; I grabbed at her chest and she recoiled in what possibly could have been an orgasm. My hands slid back down to her waist; again I didn't really know what I was doing; but felt intuitively led by a tingling sensation in my penis. I began to thrust my groin into hers, pushing her up onto the nearby desk as I did so. Her muffled screams and cries for help spurred me on, I could tell that she was loving it. I wanted to be quite romantic so grabbed roughly at the waist of her tights and skirt, pulling hard as I did so. The tights gave way and ripped; her skirt flopped after.
The sight of her underwear excited me, I found myself instictively grappling with the frilled lace of her knickers, using my mouth. She was squirming more than ever by now, so I knew I must be on the right tracks. I managed to tear her underwear off after a couple of failed attempts. I had to keep pushing her back, holding her arms and thighs to stop her from falling off the desk in a fit of pleasure. I stood back and looked at the hair laden mound between her legs. As you know I had seen pictures before but nothing could parallel this experience. As I forced my face into her groin, the smell, taste and texture was absolutely divine. Again, you know that I had always wondered what a girl's vagina smells like but the reality was nothing that I could have prepared for. I became increasingly aroused, and could judge how I was pleasuring her by the reaction she was displaying.

Initially she was moaning and lightly struggling. As I began to put more effort and be more forceful, her reaction intensified. Shortened, panting screams of satisfaction came from her mouth as I nibbled at the pink, soft flesh. My penis was tingling even more; I found myself violently biting and pulling at her womanhood with my teeth. Her screams sounded concerned but I continued to tear her sexual flesh with my teeth. A few drops of blood had gathered on my tongue from her ripped, soft flesh - which I promptly swallowed. I stood up to admire her form; the scent of vagina still present in my nasal cavity. She stared at me with a look of respect, but her arms were quivering as if she was in shock. I thought that I probably gave her an orgasm and that's why. She began to stand up and whispered that I was a bastard; again I remembered 'no means yes', so impulsively pushed her down to the desk again. She was essentially begging for more.
As I had seen in pornographic films, I rolled her body over so that she was bent over the edge of the desk, face down, her bottom and bloodied vagina protruding from the edge of the furniture. She moaned and feigned resistance; something I had also seen in the films when things were going well. I knew what I had to do next; my animal instincts had taken control a while ago but I had held back in a civilised manner.

After promptly unbuttoning my trousers and revealing my hardened penis, I tried to find where it should go. The feel of my manhood pressing into her damaged vagina was out of this world. I started rocking backwards and forwards like I thought should happen, and I felt my penis edging into her. It felt so good, like a crescendo of everything I had ever hoped for. The deeper I felt myself intruding, the more she gasped and struggled; it felt so honourable to pleasure her so deeply in this way. I couldn't help myself accelerating the swaying, I began to gasp and moan in time with her. She seemed to be sobbing tears of joy.

It just seemed to get better and better, and when I felt myself ready to ejaculate I pushed myself as far into her vagina as possible; something that was met with a shrill shriek. My groans echoed through the filing cabinets as I showed her my ultimate affection by depositing my sperm inside her. It seemed to go on forever, eventually though I had to withdraw my penis, by which time had shrunk to a normal size. As soon as I did so, a beautiful trickle of semen mixed with blood from her gnawed vagina ebbed it's way down her thigh and mixed together in a small pool of pink liquid. She had stopped thrashing now, and I assumed that I had definately given her an orgasm.

I didn't (and still don't) know the etiquette of sex so left her to put her own clothes back on. As I pushed my moistened manhood back into my underwear and buttoned up my trousers, I leaned toward her panting mouth and tried to kiss her. She pushed me away and called me a fucking cunt; it made me feel good that she seemed to have enjoyed it and was trying hard not to show it. I stroked her damp crotch and ambled my way back out of the filing room. I felt so good and refreshed; as if a certian path of my life had just begun.

Unfortunately I had to spoil the romantic moment as I needed to return to the room again and remind her about a deadline. As I went in, she was gathering her torn clothing from the floor and crying quietly; it seemed as if she had experienced it as a similarly life changing event. Indeed, I found myself close to tears in the beauty of the occurrence. She jumped back as I entered the room again and began to plead with me. However I wasn't going to do it again, regardless of how strong her pleas were - I had finally lost my virginity and wasn't about to jump into the situation again - I was worried that I might never stop! I reminded her of the deadline and thanked her for the brilliant sex but didn't tell her it was my first time. She appeared confused as I walked out; perhaps she realised I was a virgin anyway?

Since that day she has been really playing it cool, no matter what I do for her. I tried to ask her out for a meal, and I bought her flowers (because that's what women like isn't it?) but she actually threw them back at my face and started crying. In the middle of the office. For the rest of the week she wasn't in work, and in a strange twist, the police have taken an interest in our relationship. I did consider that she might be underage but checked on her various profiles on internet sites and other bits of information I could find out about her. I have to go and talk to the police further but it seems ok. I think that her father (manager of my company) has some links with the police and obviously fathers can be very protective figures. Anyway I'll see how that pans out and I'm sure I will let you know in my next letter soon.

I do hope that you don't find my letter far too vulgar, but as you said last time we met, there should be no taboos between mother and son. I interpreted this as meaning that no crudities can exist in such a relationship and that we are free to discuss anything. Particularly I would be interested in finding out about when you lost your virginity. Was it to my father? How did you know that he was the one? While I was having sex, it dawned on me that she probably was the one. I imagined what our children would be like. Is that how you know?

It feels such a relief to tell this to someone, I really do hope you don't mind but it's such a big thing for me at this age. It seems that I got such a huge amount of pressure, some of it from you and my father, to start seeing girls and have sex. If you still feel the same, you must be so proud. You know that I don't contact my brother after he beat me up when he thought I was gay; but if you do bump into him please let him know that I have followed the righteous path of manhood!

Well as I said before, I hope everything is going good and I look forward to seeing you next, whenever that may be. Every day the meaning of life becomes slightly more tangible...

Much Love,

coming-of-age misunderstanding love trousers


Story or not, you take a chance and use my inbox. I have a bisexual friend looking for a for a boy and a girl to play with...any info I can fwd him? I guess he is too shy and thinks he is too marginal to ask himself so here is a ball I am willing to kick for him, he has such nice attributes...and if you are thinking dudes...i have moved on way passsed that - a long time ago I experimented and I know what I want so to the rest of ya...YAAAWWWWWNNNN I offered to tie him up, little did he know, that was all I was going to do, keep him there for hours while reading a book. He's a smoker, just imagine the begging! But help a fella in need, it might be less of a YAAAAWWWNNN for him. to be precise...It's in mauritius so, send your pic (from gaydar or whatever), your likes and dislikes and see if he offers you a room in his house. Inbox me and I will fwd you onto him. He might get back to you. He is a wonderful person, loads of music, loads of thinking, loads and loads of good things. What of the Polyamorous community here? Any baits there? he is a unicorn you might be looking for.

sex dependency requirements help island


A Disgraceful Love

Today I am more sorry than words can say..
for the ugliness does haunt me, of the other day
to manipulate and create a disgraceful plate,
'of beans?' hopefully, you say
I gratefully sent it your way, 
as it travels within you, deep into your soul, increasingly I grow bold
gleefully I ask 'angel, why so cold?'
with drastic consequence you struggle with pain
as your life so fickle, slips away
I hold you close and stroke your face, one last time..
I am a disgrace, I have surely crossed the line
because I manipulated and created a hateful plate,
of beans! again, I say
especially for you, because I love you, I love you, pray!
It was your fault, I assert to you once again
you promised to kill me, but it never came!
a blade so deep you promised to penetrate in the most intimate way.
so I manipulated and created a disgraceful plate..
yes it was the beans to you I gave..
take it, take it..because I love you, you say
the blade pentrates me in the most intimate way...
dont hurt me! dont hurt me! I wail
..and my consciousness begins to fade
I meet him again
walking through grass, he laughs and I play
happy,  I camp once more, beneath golden hay...

histrionic baked gulab gulag


An invariably samey show played to a mostly similar aging audience at a familiar venue marked the end of Spring for the band. Only a handful of new faces since Morton's last visit seemed present, as he scanned the demotivated crowd from behind the valves of his tuba. The lead singer made a leery but well-intended remark to a haggard, frizzy blonde woman near the front of the mediocre venue between songs, while the drummer sniffed and snorted, and Morton wiped the moisture from the mouthpiece of his sizable instrument. There were claps, although they sounded more akin to a timestretched cacophony of corpses crunching and grinding as rigor mortis set in. Supportive squeals and chants sounded like the damned crying for salvation from their eternal fiery peril in the depths of hell on earth. The audience changed very little from gig to gig, and the embittered forms of these poor souls was aging as drastically as the band.

Daily, Morton would face a dilemma. Waking at the crack of dawn, he would take the time to stare back at himself in his bathroom mirror for up to two hours, although it was typically around three-quarters of an hour. During this time he would prepare his rigid persona for the day ahead, challenging himself aggressively and sometimes out loud. However these self-indulgent moments presented Morton with a much deeper issue, for the reflections yielded two divided traits of his personality: that of the band and that of business; that of hate and that of love.
It had been taking over his life for several years now and Morton felt that he had reached a point whereby he had to make a very serious decision, for he found his true passion in selling carpets. The countless concerts, psychotic zombified fans, strain upon Morton's embouchure and band politics had all taken their toll on the ailing man, who was nearing mid-life crisis territory, and convinced him that purveying fine floor coverings was the righteous path to take.

The remaining band members were not impressed by Morton's announcement about leaving the band for a life of fabric peddling, at the end of the gig that night and a violent fracas erupted in the backstage area of the venue, which incidentally did not have any security staff or doormen. Steve, the lead singer and originator of their band 'Enterprising Walrus', was notably upset. Before Morton could complete his remonstration, Steve levied the ex-member with a heavy carnal tax. A bulbous Mancunian fist greeted Morton's nasal tract, a meeting celebrated by the crimson eruption of life juice. The additional members of the band rallied around Morton as he flailed away from Steve and backed himself to a wall, moaning and cursing from his bloodied lips as he did.

Insults and slang reverberated around the economy VIP area as Morton pleaded with the clearly displeased members, but there was no suitable recompense or retraction that the defunct band member could offer. The drummer stepped up and craned in with his overbearing, tattooed arms subsequently fisting a brutal rhythm against the decaying man's form. Weighty punches to each ear crippled Morton's hearing temporarily, but among the fierce insults he managed to pick out, "fucking carpets," spat angrily but the lead singer. Concluding his drum roll, the drummer smashed upon Morton's ribs in a pattern much like the timpani bit from '2001 - A Space Oddysey'. As he skirted the verge of consciousness, Morton slid down the wall into a crumpled but upright foetal position.

The remaining members of 'Enterprising Walrus' seemed pleased and optimistic about what they might be able to achieve without a brass player who seemed to hold them back all the time with his naive approach and preference for ostinato patterns. Hissing an angry laugh and ignoring a sigh of displeasure from the drummer, the lead singer grabbed a drum stick from a nearby carrier bag and approached the crumpled mess. Yanking fiercely at Morton's hair, the lead singer pulled his thinly covered skull into a secure position and began to prise at his teary, closed eyelids. Morton resisted with squirms and noises of displeasure, but his eye was finally opened with force. With his other hand, Steve the shit singer drew the narrow end of the drumstick within his clutch to Morton's exposed sense organ. The pig-like squeals and impained groans unsettled all of those in the room, Steve included. A couple of female fans had been covertly peering around the door during the aggressive extravaganza but chose to leave at this point.

The lead singer was a drinker but his hand was steady as he applied the 2B stick to the inset area near Morton's tear glands. It took some considerable leverage and produced sickly squelching sounds, but the vocalist eventually managed to force an advantageous intrusion to the flesh around Morton's eye. His vision became blurred and fuzzy while involuntarily staring at the vocalist's wrinkled but excited and coked-up expression. All of the additional band members grimaced when Steve started to prise the sphere from skull, and announced he was about to remove the eyeball. The previously benign guitarist made a sharp exit to vomit in the stinking backstage toilet and the previously up-for-it drummer turned to look at shitty band posters on the wall.

Morton's screams spanned more octaves than he had known could actually be produced by such Marlboro weathered vocal chords, and although his hearing was shot, he could hear enough of his own voice through vibrations in bone to drift away from the matter in hand, and consider the alternative path of being a vocalist. Perhaps if he had pursued this from the outset, he would not have become so frustrated and become obsessed with being a carpet salesman. Nevertheless, Morton's eyeball was promptly removed, and it was almost disappointing to Steve that there was very little additional blood produced. By this time, only the drummer remained with Steve and Morton in the room, and he was paying little attention to the proceedings as he was still diverting his attention to a rare Durutti Column poster which he had noticed near the door.

Morton was crying, but his violated eye had trouble coping with the situation. From his remaining visual sensory organ, although blurred with tears, he saw Steve looking in disgust at the bruised eyeball resting in his hand. The lead singer sounded almost ashamed and remorseful as offered his hand forward and insisted that Morton should eat his own eyeball, but he was completely serious and committed. For some reason the effect of this verbal demand upon the man of rhythm was rousing. "I want to take the other one out after he's swallowed it," the drummer sneered.

music change capital horn


i woke and thought what is this stuff that i am seeing, furthermore when I arose and smelt the air i thought yes that certainly contains some nitrogen albeit just a pinch. inhaling deeply was not an option until the truth had been permeated, so could i not just touch? apparently that was not an option. i saw you and i thought you were a cunt but in retrospect i think you're alright now, even though you wore retro clothes in some fuckwit manner. what matters aint the tatters but just how much of a fishy odour was emanating from my armpits. granted I ate some fish and chips an hour or two ago but it wasn't that kind of fish smell, i mean they said it was cod in the shop but i do have some reservations about that, whereas the aromatic aspect of the arm-to-torso attrition was more of a pike family scent. and what is in the pit does not stink of what was in the batter. anyways i do fuck around with this shit so i will just get to the point and divert any attention for the matters in hand to the matters that fell out of the prime minister's hand at some nondescript point in time over the last ten years. of course that could be several guys under the guise but then you do finally reach the counter in the pet shop and they look at you like 'what the fuck' when you ask for a purple rabbit food container. i mean they were there behind the counter next to them! It certainly was a them, because although it looked like one person my flailing retinas proposed that there were two. unlikely, but i still asked them for a job to which they averted the topic of conversation. the gabber was just too much so i went outside and put my headphones in which already were playing Tiesto. could not and would not handle the breakdown at a point approximately 61.8034 percent through. platinum geezers couldnt even take it, let alone the drum 'n' bass disk jockey that was in the pub. sometimes you just have to put on the Lighthouse Family and let it be, but not this time. that fucking album had beat been on repeat since my sister got married and the lyrics are certainly my holy scripture. I hate that.

music senses rabbit morals


i was walking for ages even though i was pushing a bicycle. it didn't even occur to me to actually pedal as I was preoccupied with something that i didn't understand. house numbers descended and the sounds of diesel and petrol edged their way into my dying ear canals, but there was no variation, it all looks the fucking same in manchester. the sun dashed my hopes of respite and I counted smiles, total not one.

why i chose that door i will never quite know but it seems the easiest of things to explain right now against such variant weather. the knock at number fourty-three was one in advance of what i knew and was answered rather too promptly for my comfort. i stumbled with my words for a second and then greeted the young woman who so radiantly opened the door, almost enough to remind me of the eternal lightness of being. i had no reason or motivation and my causality was chaotic, but the retrograde familiarity of the situation gave me context. i rambled and promised and sounded like a general nutbag, i don't know if the tears on my face were present or i just remembered them from before. what i said, i cannot be sure of, but this anonymous person seemed to understand more that i ever could and after a few minutes of my somewhat pseudo-theological doctrine bullshit, she invited me and the bike in.

there was no literature to back me up and she was not gullible by any means but sometimes my charm precedes my perception, and i began to reach an apex of discomfort as i asserted matters of mortality. borrowing a date from an actual nutter, i proposed the twenty-fourth of the month as conclusive, and i could see her eyes and mind narrowing as i explored the thoughts i had never spoke of. she was more convinced than me, but nothing was new, i never managed to convince myself of anything anyway. the monologue drew on and i ellicited an eye of concern from the young woman, her previously attentive glare diverted and the confidence and enthusiasm wavered. she excused herself for a moment which gave me chance and reason to peruse the room without moving my body. ornaments minimally placed were contemporary and unusual, and the books on the shelf next to me implied escapism, liberlism, idealism and altruism. my self-assurances dipped as i thought she was probably calling the police or a weighty friend, but from the sounds of cutlery being jangled, i could hear that she was in her kitchen.

my heartbeat rose to be profoundly noticeable, and i could feel the sweat and adrenalin being pumped out in my decaying body. she returned brandishing a serated kitchen knife and set it down upon the coffee table in front of us. she hesitantly breathed a barely comprehensible word and diverted her gaze away from me.

it was there on a plate in front of me, whatever i had rambled to her about was the product of my inner desires, but there was evidently some barrier between my conscious and subconscious. hesitantly i slid the knife into my grasp and began to feel panicked - my inhalations became erratic and my limbs shaky. the blade traced around her figure in a staggered pattern as i let my focus on logic slip. our mutual breathing intensified and it felt like figurative frottage with the devil. as hard as i eased the logic out and passion in, i just couldn't completely lose control. i withdrew my hand brandishing the instrument of conclusions, and tried to prise my eyes open fully. she had her head bowed, but raised it and peered questioningly while i set the blade back down away from my hold. i told her straight - i could not do it. my coat was still on and bicycle in the hallway for which i made swift direction, but when i stood her lips quivered. i just wanted to hug her but it seemed so inappropriate. she didn't say anything at all as i motioned to the door, but when i saw her struggling to wipe tears from her cheeks it made me feel carnal compassion again. i felt shit and apologised but didn't hang around. i tried not to slam the front door and didn't walk like before. i had no idea where the road went but i rode as hard as i could manage

religion carnality sensuality solitude


I would rather proffer my own life to the autonomous unknown than sacrifice the lack of fatalism in my life. The day the energy and determination to be an individual ceases, is the day a man really dies. Even those physically spent can retain a little mental vitality, if it was there to begin with. Some jump prematurely, but the top floor never quite is what it seems, given the construction is truly eternal.

These few self-formulated sentences were what helped me through the hard times of determining the righteous. My inquisition was far from over, but often I felt the comfort envelope my perception and temporarily dry the tear ducts feeding my tired, damned eyes. To commit oneself to a life of judgementalism and bigotry is not hard to pursue if one is already of such an inclination. For me and the others however, it is life's quest, for imposing oneself as a carnal burden has the prerequisite of intention to action.

My ramblings may sound like that of a mad man, but I must transduce emotion to word, furthermore promotion of such transduction is justification of the very word itself. Conclusive but elementary.

death boundaries


Pork chop blowing in the wind. Cunt smelled it a mile of twigs away and set about the proceedings, cunt. Before I nose are coming and blowing up in facials. Off to check that now.

meat aroma preoccupation


your relative('s) perception cunted me right out. i didnot know what to speak upon when they all arrived potentially seated around your grain or some other sloshy bit while something like Prince of Alarea was playing on the radio. I cunt heard but i saw the frequency and dint knowwhat to think . . . it was off the scale at 123 fm volts. i spoke to one of them burr was a bit hard tea breath!! cunt know what to do then.. walked back to where it had all began and ate a packet of crisps. all broken and in bits they were when they went in my mouth and i had to look to see if the crisps were broken into little bits in the bag or just when they went in my mouth because i couldnot tell. i was pouring the packet insides in my inside mouth bit. waited when i found out but didnot telephone the service straight away. when i came out though it was sunny so i thought what the fuck!!! some kind of day like that. but itis still that day and i wanted to put something out as well as the rubbish so as i was flush as always i thought nice one iwill buy a rabbit. couldnot have picked a worser time though because all the marks were pointing in the wrong direction and waiting wasnot no real option to stop it all. so no problem then said the postman as he left the package.

rabbit crisps postman trash


I Like scamcarstaxfattv
I Hate ableairsexsociety

web social


some things start t'make sense
and others make sense at t'start
both change so what good you got on road
felt a tinge on skint worked awhile away
why no things uncolourful wit inward charm
transpires forward but all love cunt
transpunked outwards again hatefuck
whodiddit this time? noped p'dad.

passion poem offspring


Haven't you ever not considered whether you don't know when not to stop? It couldn't not be harder without nothing, or perhaps not indeed something to never uninspire, wouldn't you never know.

pessimism halt negatives


34091 referees