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[15 Apr 2008|12:00am] |
I feel fucking awesome this evening.
Thank you very much.
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[15 Apr 2008|01:07pm] |
Oh dear. You know, when i'm drunk I sometimes have a lapse in control. I don't mean the feeling awesome thing, that was intended (Though when I woke up my head didn't appear to be in the mood for a party), I mean that at some point I made a sort of statement, somewhere, that I think I shouldn't have done.
The thing is, would I change it now? Nope. My feelings gush ever forth when i'm drunk, and I don't think they're necessarily a bad thing to gush. But a little embarrassing, perhaps. Perhaps.
Anyway, I got hammered on eight pints of Murphys. You know the deal. Give me a drunk head a computer, and you're asking for trouble. Look what's happened with me and that wine before!
Look at this. It's Bolb, using my webcam while I was out. I don't know what she did, but she appears to have managed to slow down the sound at the end.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-J3_27TwawY
For god's sake, watch out for the very loud ping at the start. It gave my head another beating, I can tell you.
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[15 Apr 2008|02:09pm] |
I'm plugging Morphine Nation here. Go and look at it. You'll find new and old stuff by me, amongst a host of ace material by the Nation writers. They're talented folk, and more hits would be great, so go there.
www.morphinenation.com
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[15 Apr 2008|04:57pm] |
This was going to be romantic, but then tomfoolery took over. I'm sorry, everbody! I shall flay my disgusting ballsack thin with shame!
Happy is the heart,
that can see in you,
what I do, when I poo,
I think of you,
doing so too,
I think of you shitting,
the brown rain splitting
our anuses apart,
in perfect unison,
a river of flaming auburn passion,
when I am doing this,
I think of you taking a piss,
I hear your arsehole hiss,
with this yellow streak of piss,
give us a kiss, miss,
with your steaming stream of piss
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[15 Apr 2008|05:04pm] |
Sometimes I see you in the air, beautiful mirage that you are. I see, in summer's thin haze and the glow of my earthly desirings, a rumble, a passionate and inescapable truth, that sometimes I wish you would take physical form, and tumble out, breathless, to my door. That you would approach my fingers and my arms with the wonderous innocence so subconciously locked in our hearts. I know with a smile and a click of my fingers that heavens are not so easily opened, but I do, delicately and rhytmically play my daydreams off against one another. I am a man taken with the thought of your release, of your sighing collapse against my bark, I wish that you would slump into my aged base, and carve your name in my wood.
I spend days sketching little visions of us. But i'm a realist, such things lie at the base of my mind, when I start to tail off in conversations, and background laughter heats itself over a candle, melting into a mumble.
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[15 Apr 2008|05:13pm] |
I've not talked about Rebecca recently. For reference, that piece is not about her. I don't feel that way about Rebecca. I am attracted to Rebecca and I cannot deny it, I would happily farm her cow-box. That means sex, which you should all know by now.
But I don't think that's enough for me. If I was a dick-led male, as most are, I would possibly have made more of an effort by now. By my stupid sodding head and heart always block mr penis from entering the equation. I do good sex, and all that, but sex for me is a bigger thing than naughty stuff. You can't experience true sex unless you're intellectually in tune with the broad you're knocking off.
It's like that with Rebecca. I have made her laugh, once. That's as close as I came. So to speak. That is my entire relationship with her. The problem is, whenever I think about what she would be like, the thoughts are always of a sexual nature. Not loving. And I can't do a relationship without love. Even IF she was interested, which she shows no sign of being.
Anyway, here's another edition of good letter, bad letter.
"Dear Rebecca. Your golden gaze is like the song of birds across my skin, with every glance you create a colourful cacophony of beautiful scenery in my soul. You are like summer fire, and elegant dawns, you are the breaking of Spring in the cool rumble of Winter"
Nice, eh? Here's the bad letter.
"Dear Rebecca. I would like you to thrash my bollocks until they're raw as uncooked steak, go on, sit on them and hump them dry. Until they resemble two burnt raisins in a rotten sock. Burst me open and i'll wet your field, you silly, we'll fuck under finger puppets, we'll go shit throwing on the moon. I'll show you the length of my stick, and you can snap it over your tits. "
She ain't going to get moist in the cheerhole with this, Jacko.
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