All 8 entries tagged Uninspired

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January 11, 2010


Poem about cyanide fishing in the Philippines. In imitation of Ted Hughes, the scumbag.


Her shadow fell upon the reef. Drifting

Deep, into the cold. Dragged down the long

Smooth net to lie,

                         Asleep, among the fishes.


The seaweed hides the toxic flecks, aglitter

In the moon-lit night. The diver rests upon

The rock to check her gauge and slow her breath.


She tells herself it will be quick.


No screams to claw at her young soul.


She tells herself to set the snare,

And draw them from their silent home.


Their bodies gleam upon the shore.

Their gliding oils coat her hands.

She strips them of their sheathes of skin,

                                                               And draws a line from head to fin.


A swell is formed, of stacks and bones

Sharp-cut-spines gouged from their flesh.

Their eyes are split before the end, piled high,

                                                                        In record time.


She chokes and sputters on her tears

She wipes her knife on bloody rags.

Her cuts and stings are cleaned in salt,

                                                            And left to dry.


She throws a match upon the heap

And warms her heart, next to the blaze.

November 07, 2009


The last of my Insanity Series. I think I shall write about normal people now.


Yossarian Petragello was a charmless man, the sort of hideous creature you hide your smallest children from. Reeking of stale smoke and bitter spirits the man fell short at three foot three. A hacking cough accompanying a quivering frame. His enemies didn’t see him as a threat. Often they barely knew he was there. And when they finally took his measure, they saw only an invalid; sunken eyes and yellowed teeth.

His mother (God rest her soul), died in childbirth, leaving the squealing infant all alone; afterbirth in the gutter. The growing boy refused all comforts; a healthy home, heart and hearth. The isolation, harmless at first, began to have an impact. A fondness for ill-fitting clothes emerged, a series of facial tics and a variety of mental conditions grown to order. Ranging from common bulimia to full-fledged schizophrenia. Little wonder, then, the origins of the nickname Petty. Designed to dig at an already broken man.

Most days Yossarian woke to the faint sound of beetles skittering across the hard floor of the motel. A motel he’d been a resident at for the past twelve years. The landlord had long since tired of treating this customer with respect, his good humour replaced with a dulled sense of superiority. Yossarian was sick of seeing this look in people’s eyes; those he regarded as friends, he gazed up at and saw only pity, pressing him further into the ground.

It came to him, as all great ideas did, at three am, in a drunken stupor. In a desperate attempt to preserve the memory he staggered around the tiny room in search of a pen, before ultimately collapsing in a tangle of filthy sheets and bedclothes. This time Yossarian woke not to the subtle scratching of his tiny friends, but to a burning in his skin. Crudely cut into his arm were the words Plastic Sugary. It was not as if this was the first time he had considered such an alternative, his teenage years being filled with dreams of beauty and self-worth. It wouldn’t make him taller though. It wouldn’t bring him respect. He rose to use the bathroom and stumbled as the fire spread to his foot, falling to the floor. From his somewhat bleary perspective Yossarian could make out the single word etched into his heel. Korea.

The idea had almost no merit in the end. Bone lengthening surgery was hardly cheap and its legality outside Asia was questionable. Still, the thought stuck with him. Even being a couple inches taller would be an improvement. He could pass for a short man, no longer humiliated as a dwarf or midget; a lesser part of society. Dignified. Respectable.

Yossarian didn’t think of himself as ‘an alcoholic’, he saw drinking as a remedy. A way to silence the mutterings of his mind. So when they made a greater effort to be heard he quietened them just as forcefully. As his head began to droop he repositioned himself on the bed, his legs deadweight against the sagging mattress. The scotch had left in its wake a kind of numbness, and he gave a lazy smile, content with his plan. Reaching into the paper bag on his left, he pulled out a hacksaw, its teeth dimly glinting in the dying light of day. “God’s anaesthetic” he muttered, taking a last bitter swig. To his credit, throughout the ordeal Yossarian didn’t scream, didn’t call out for help, not even in the face of unconsciousness.

Yossarian woke once more to the dull skittering sound and gave a small chuckle, looking blearily around. A man in a white coat stood over him, pen scratching on a clipboard.

“Mister Petragello? I’m Doctor Michaels, would you mind explaining why you tried to saw through your legs?” Yossarian squeezed his eyes open and shut but the scene remained where it was. Reality had never been so white, everything was so unbearably white.

“Did you hear me?” asked the doctor. Yossarian squirmed against unseen restraints, wondering if the man above could be trusted, a figure superior if ever there was one. He questioned whether to tell this man of his plan; to saw through the bones himself; after all, he’d seen medical shows, he knew the procedure. Why should he be denied happiness? However he said nothing, glaring at the man with the clipboard, daring him to make a snide remark. Yossarian no longer cared, he would be tall soon, the cuts already made – through to the bone. Millimetres of bone tissue would already be venturing across the great divide, making him stronger, bolder, more confident –

Yes, a charmless man, the sort of hideous creature you hide your smallest children from. Reeking of stale smoke and bitter spirits, bound to a chair; both legs removed but for an infection of the soul.

June 08, 2009


This may be my last entry. I don't feel comfortable putting up super portfolio stuff despite the mark I received, so I probably won't be seen til mid summer. This is a paranoia thing,

And it really leaves a bitter taste.

February 16, 2009


One of the short stories I included in the fiction pack. It's pretty twisted, I'm warning you upfront.


“She might say no; don’t you worry about that sort of thing?”

“Why would she say no?”

“I don’t know. She might though. What would you do?”

“Why would she say no?”

“I said I don’t know! This is theoretical, rhetorical, whatever. What if she says no?”

“She won’t say no.”

“Yes. I know it’s unlikely, but if she does –”

“– What are you doing? Are you trying to make me nervous?”

“Never mind.”

“I’m happy, why are you trying to ruin this for me?”

“Never mind.”

“That’s right.”

“I am happy for you.”

“Good. Me too.”


The woman (or girl to be more precise; as she was barely sixteen) stretched out on the sand and slitted her eyes, searching for a single cloud in the open reach of sky above. Smiling at her failure she angled herself so that she might soak up every last ray the sun was offering on this faultless day.

          Waking from an all too shallow dream the girl was surprised to find a man standing beside her. His clothes were unbefitting of the typical holiday-maker; somewhat overdressed in an impeccable grey silk suit. She gave a nervous little laugh as the man – who was more elderly than her first cursory glance had suggested – folded onto one knee and rummaged in his pocket, a foolish grin on his face. A small velvet ring box appeared resting in his palm and he looked up at her as he opened it, oblivious of her horrified reaction. His meticulously rehearsed speech went unheard as the girl got to her knees and half-ran half-scuttled away around the side the sand dune.

          The man was puzzled and thought to follow his intended, before realising she had left all her things in front of him. Surely she would return, and she would find him waiting for her, just as a loyal husband should. Satisfied, the old man unbent his creaking knee and stood, blissfully happy, blissfully unaware of the shrieking girl in the distance.


“What did she say?”

“She said yes. Of course.”

“That’s wonderful! What did she say? Was she surprised?”

“Yes, I’d say surprised. And she didn’t really say anything, but the sentiment was definitely there.”

“That’s – wait, you mean she was overcome by emotion? Couldn’t speak?”

“No – she ran off to tell her mother, or ask her father, I think.”

“Well, how did she look when you asked her?”


“With joy?”

“What else?”

“Let me see the box.”


“The ring box. Let me see it!”

“Alright, shush, this a happy occasion.”

“Dammit Abbott! The ring is still in here.”

“I know.”

“Well if she’d accepted your proposal don’t you think she would’ve put it on?”

“No...She was happy. She went to tell her family. She was overcome.”

“Abbott, look at me. Hey! Look at me.”


“I don’t think this girl agreed to marry you.”

“That’s ridiculous. I proposed to her.”

“Yes. I know, however, it just doesn’t sound like she and you are in the same place. Emotionally.”


“Look, how long have you known her?”

“How long have I known her, or how long have we known each other?”

“The second one.”

“Well. She met me today, but I’ve always felt a connection with her. Ever since she was a little girl.”

“You – met her today?”


“Why didn’t you ask her out or something before proposing to her?”

“On a date?”


“She might’ve said no.”


The girl walked slowly home, the events at the beach almost forgotten but for the absence of the towel under her arm. She had cautiously crept back to her sunbathing spot later that day to retrieve her possessions and was appalled to find the old man standing there, watching the spot where she had departed and grinning inanely. She felt the cold more acutely than she should and began to walk faster; passing an old oak tree on her left where a well dressed man sat; talking to himself.

February 04, 2009


Okay, we were meant to do an urban legend or something. I wasn't there so I don't know. Here is my substitute which could be an urban legend if it really wanted to be. And yes plushophilia is a real and frightening condition. Look it up.

I moved quickly, avoiding their strange static gazes, trying to suppress the growing feeling of rage against such a perverse lifestyle. The mansion began to pass into the distance and I steadied my breathing, riding the tremors out. This was of course, the lesser of two evils; walking through darkened streets is hardly preferable to a chance encounter with a plushophiliac; the dreaded ‘furries’. Slowing now, I crossed the road and turned my head slightly, glancing back.

The problem with these fanatics is not their sexual preference. They may delight in the soft silky touch of another’s pelt and that’s all fine, I guess. It’s more that they’re too involved in the character being played, too enthusiastic to debase and humiliate themselves, above all else; they’re creepy. And a perfect example of that was the leering panther not a meter behind me. Oh and it was pink, I guess that was some attempt at wit from the moron inside. I walked a little faster, cursing the padded feet of my stalker, unable to check it’s progress without acknowledging its presence. Turning onto my road I caught the animal’s scent as the wind changed direction. It stank of alcohol and something not unlike wet dog. I wondered if that was the suit or some obscure perfume, there must a niche in the market for people like this. I considered turning around and rejecting the advances of the degenerate as I normally do when one of them peels away from their orgies but I hadn’t quite shaken off the disgust.

Instead, I shifted direction, now heading for the woods rather than the hotel. The creature made a strangled sound which I guess signified approval. It thought it was getting lucky and I laughed to myself as I swung my bag off my shoulder and rummaged in it. The moment my hand closed around the handle I felt all my anger drain away, becoming focused in the very tip of the blade. Still chuckling I removed the knife from my bag and threw it against a tree, hiding the weapon in my back pocket. Turning around for the first time I took a condom from a fold in my jacket and was surprised to find my admirer unmasked. I wondered at that – how it must surely eliminate the point – and perhaps that is why I failed to notice the blade in its own hand.

Lying in a pool of my own blood, not centimetres from my normal burial site, had to appreciate the irony there. I guess it was someone I’d rejected before. A strange thought; that such beasts might have emotions like you or I.

January 09, 2009

Filth and Lies

You see, you have to actually have done work to do an update. So no new stuff. Ever.

I have been writing some other poetry but it's all too raw and emotional for the bigbadworld so I'll leave it in my head or on the page, but certainly not here.

December 03, 2008

That Posting Thing

I'll be doing 'that posting thing' soon. This is a minor update til then.

I received a 68 for the poetry portfolio and think that merits a small amount of happiness so I'll indulge myself.

I'm loathe to put up Ttouli related stuff, I sort of wanted to keep this poetry related but I guess my dreams will have to come in second again, ah well.

October 22, 2008

Haiku among the holly

Haiku among the holly

Does it mean anything? Maybe.

If you can't read it -

Life in Limerence

Spiked green, dull within. Without

Waxing Lyrical.

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