Archive for January, 2015

Pineapples in January

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , on January 31, 2015 by ofherbsandaltars

So the teacher said the essay I did about Shakespeare was a load of old crap, and instead I’m meant to write some kind of original thing. I said I didn’t know what to write about that was original, people are writing about stuff all the time, everywhere you look on the internet there’s some total wanker who thinks he’s Lord Byron or whatever spouting off all philosophical about marmalade on toast or the tragic mortality of his fucking hamster or some shit like that, so really what is there for me to write about that’s original, because I’m not becoming one of those wankers. She told me to go for a walk, and like…journal about my thoughts and what I saw and stuff. So now I’m in a fucking cold field having a fag and feeling like a proper wanker, like one of those hipster dickheads sitting in Starbucks with their fucking orange computer writing wanky poetry to the coffee girl. Everyone hates that dickhead. I don’t want to be that dickhead.

Anyway. Here’s the stuff I can see. I’ll try to make it all metaphorical and shit. The sky is…really quite average, I mean what do you expect from the sky, it only does two colours, blue and grey and I guess night time too, and at the moment it’s mostly just sky-coloured with some blobby shitty lumps of cloud that don’t really look like anything at all. There’s a really unimpressive brown horse eating the floor halfway down the hill, all the time I’ve been having a fag its just been standing there, eating the floor. I don’t think horses have any thoughts at all, their lives are so totally boring. In films they’re always running around and snorting and being all like an exciting angry dinosaur, but in reality they just stand there, eating the floor. And it’s really fucking cold, it hurts my face, almost makes me wish I had a horrible wanky beard like a hipster. Why don’t all the hipsters move to Iceland or something? They already look like fucking stupid fishermen.

Anyway. I’m meant to be thinking about something totally metaphorical and deep, but it’s really too cold and that bloody brown horse isn’t doing anything inspiring at all. It’s not a majestic inspiring sort of horse, its just brown. And sort of persistent. Or maybe just brain-damaged. It’s been eating the same grass all day every day for years and years, and it’s still doing it with maximum enthusiasm. I think horses are weird. And thinking about food, why do they put pineapples in curry? Only weirdos and masochists want lumps of fucking fruit in their curry. I think the Indians are just taking the piss out of white people, they can’t really do that shit, back home, but over here they know we’ll eat any old crap if we think it’s exotic, and they see us eating all their food when we’re too drunk to taste it, so they just test us out by chucking lumps of fucking pineapple in there. Maybe that’s why the horses don’t complain. They know what they’re getting. It’s the same boring old grass and it probably tastes like shit, like literally like shit, since they do just shit all over it, but at least no one’s taking the piss out of them by chucking lumps of fucking fruit in their curry.

Bollocks to this. My arse is soaking wet from sitting on this horrible lumpy tree-stump and my writing’s getting shitter and shitter because my fingers are about to drop off with frostbite. I don’t know why anyone thinks going for a walk in the middle of fucking January’s meant to be all inspiring, here’s what I would write if I was old Wordsworth on that miserable fucking bridge:

The world has nothing to show more fair

Than my arse which is soaked with rain and probably dog piss

It’s cold as a frozen shit out here

And I don’t know why I bothered really

Because I already know what the sky looks like

That’s what windows are for

I could’ve just sat in my bedroom and written this bollocks

Without getting a horrible wet arse

So thanks for that, Mrs Round

I hope you get a cold wet arse someday

Just so you know how uninspiring it is

Roses are red, violets are blue

I’m going home for a Pot Noodle

 

Right, I’ve written loads of pages now, and I’ve taken a picture on my phone of my wet arse and my angry red frozen fingers, so she knows I really did suffer for my art, and that’s got to at least earn me a C+. I hate the fucking countryside. I think everyone does really, that’s why all the toffs in the old days only used to come out to get drunk and shoot everything in sight. And now we’ve got videogames to shoot stuff in, there’s no use for the countryside at all really. Fucking hell, I think I really am getting arse pneumonia here, it’s definitely time to go home. Brown horse is still eating the floor, he doesn’t care that my arse is about to fall out. I hope I don’t step in that great big dogshit on the canal path. That must’ve been a huge dog. Either that or it’s actually a person shit, some weirdo who gets his kicks from taking a dump on footpaths in the middle of the night. The Wild Shitter of Dorridge. I’m going home now, the countryside’s fucking me up, making me think about crazy people shitting everywhere. It’s not good for you, the countryside.

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The Anne Summers Party

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , on January 30, 2015 by ofherbsandaltars

Bitches and hos

Wearing no clothes

Paisley carpet strewn with dildos

That’s what I wanted from this Anne Summer’s party

Instead I’m sitting here next to my auntie

While she talks about sex ‘n stuff, being too frank

Telling me her favourite place to have a big wank

She wanks on the chair I’m sitting here in

And that’s not particularly titillatin’

For me

 

There’s a floppy pink ‘rabbit in the flowery vase

And later on I know it’ll be up someone’s arse

I feel like I’m complicit in something quite foul

There’s a semen-looking stain on the bathroom towel

I don’t know when my aunt’s house became so sordid

My thoughts keep wandering to places quite morbid

Picturing these women and their horrible antics

Covered in Vaseline, wanking like a frantic

Sodomiser monkey with a twig up its arse

No amount of liquor will cleanse this farce,

These grisly images from my mind

I wish I’d stayed at home, I wish I was blind

I’m not even sure what’s sexy ‘bout this,

There’s no porn to distract, no dicks no tits,

Just an episode of X Factor on the TV

The terrible soundtrack to this monstrosity

This grim ruination of childhood memory

I think I’d like to go home

Simon Cowell and a big fake dick

I think I’d like to go home

And drown my shame alone