Saturday, 1 October 2011
Saturday, 27 August 2011
He rounds a corner. Bits of road surface spray away under the force of his wheels. He rounds another corner. He accelerates, wildly thinking about vaginas and wives and the texture of various vaginas of different ages, eyes bulging out of his head and silver hair streaming like a unicorn's mane behind him in the hot Serbian wind and feeling on the rim of something he can't understand, something like madness, or the absence of madness and the absence of everything or some rabbit, wild eyed, scratching for sanity in the dark in a warren being filled with cement.
Friday, 26 August 2011
Monday, 22 August 2011
Monday, 18 July 2011
a bit later you are asleep. i write about it in my notebook and move your hand around without waking you. when you wake up i ask you what it's like to be asleep. you say, 'i can't remember.'
the next day you come home from work. you are wearing a grey skirt and a grey jacket and a white shirt. i say, 'what is work like?' you say, 'it's the same as not working.'
we look at each other over dinner. you look at me and i look at you. i say, 'what am i like?' you say, 'the same as me.' i say, 'what are you like?' you turn and look at the wall for four hours.
Monday, 23 May 2011
hope you are looking forward to it ;) ;0 ;)))))))
it has loads of sex and drugs guys and murder and horrifying situations and also sexiness and famous people.
preorder it (not yet available or finished ;)))))) )
Saturday, 16 April 2011
Thursday, 14 April 2011
Friday, 11 March 2011
Saturday, 26 February 2011
I used to be just an average guy, going to work in an office.
Then I became the stoat.
I was hit by a ray of radiation that turned me into the stoat.
My super-power is being called the stoat.
I swim into canal barges and steal seasoning. I go home into my nest and eat the seasoning and then use the packets to decorate my home. My wife doesn't know anything about my new life. Glass seasoning bottles dangle from strings made from my own head hair and they tinkle politely in the breeze. Plastic seasoning pouches are pasted with my saliva to the earth walls of the nest. They keep it water proof.
I curl up every night after my day and sleep in the nest.
It is a bright summer's day. I can hear the succulent lapping of the canal outside my nest. I can hear little birds singing everywhere, talking about their mornings and the gossip from last night out on the piss.
I hear a person walk past, whistling.
A man's head appears, upside down, at the entrance to my nest. The man is holding tightly onto a postman's hat, in order to stop it from falling into the canal. He says,
'Got some post for you.'
He pokes his hand into my nest. It's full of letters - junk mail mostly.
I say thanks to him and then look through the morning post. I drink some water that I have dissolved pepper in while I think about the post. A couple of bills, something from reader's digest, letter from the bank.
I am so lonely.