Friday, 25 November 2011


Would a dream be death?
What would it be?
If you closed your eyes
And forgot
The question upon one’s lips
Which were once.
What is the point?
What would the breaking point be?
What urges a person to just bite a vein,
Instead of playing it?
Some horrifyingly sweet self-abuse,
As you’d take photos of it
To sell them in kiosks
Next to scandals
And ugly ladies
Who people masturbate to.

I’ve flicked through those papers
With a moon shaped wound
On my thumb
I had a chocolate cookie tied to it
Because my dog likes my blood.
Fuck all the dog food.
He never asks for it.
Pat sits in the corner,
Waiting for old wounds to open.
The dog would never soothe.
The dog would just go on.
Licking and scowling
Not touching the flesh.
I agree on the fact that it’s gross
That he’ll never take my meat in his mouth.
He’d just drink,
Perhaps of the example I’ve given.
But the liquid I drink,
Reminds him of the toilet
While blood reminds him
Of life
And the cookies.
The food he eternally misses
It’s disgusting
I’ve tried it
He’s tried it
So did he try from a lady?
Whom we’ve seen at the store yesterday,
Buying milk,
Some chocolate.
Wounds are too easy to see,
They’re just not there.
But the flesh sticks out,
Where there might be blood,
Where the dog would pull.
Exposing the sin,
And the bliss which surrounds it.
Trying to kill
The food we eat.
All of it
Makes us bigger
Lets us grow
In some diagonal direction,
Which doesn’t allow Pat to eat at all,
So I’ve asked him once
He was eating,
The eyes violet,
Like the colour he’d love blood to be
Because he’s read about blue blood,
When we were kids
And Pat had longer hair.
And he laid besides me.
He had been taller
And he stood on two.
He had worn suits
With a bell on his head
Which would sing with every nod.
He told me when I had asked him about death.
What was a dream?
That we resurrected after every single night,
So I asked
Was death a dream?
The dream was a fall
While death was a rise.
You’d become the sun
To sink in a year
And that year you’d dream,
If you’d have enough.
You’d dream
The last dream.
It would be your life.
So I asked Pat
So would life be our last dream?
He nodded, saying perhaps
Being older and taller
He knew the world to me
So I had never known what to do
With his age
He told me water could keep a person alive for days
And the person would need food.
So that day,
When he had laid,
Shirt unbuttoned,
Of some dream.

I had fed him the humanity I’d have inside me
He’d ask me what would it be
I’d tell him it would be
And he’d suck gently
To ask for cookies a day later
So that he would lay
Looking so young
A shaver lost
As I had been the one to use it
I’d watch him grow weaker every day
Telling him that this had been the dream
And not the stands with women he’d seen


I also wrote this on the course.

If I could I'd just make everyone a wander, like Mark Renton predicted the world to be, but hey, love, we're getting there

Wednesday, 23 November 2011

Exit. Chapter 19

It’s a rather odd feeling when you walk away and you realize that the moment is over. I tugged on my tie releasing it from its tight knot, fighting its choking grip on my neck as I walked the hallways trying to think anything at all asides from my mother and her boyfriend. I still remembered how dumb-struck I was when it announced everything. It seemed too surreal for its own good as I could imagine him shoving his tongue down mum’s throat which made me gag.




Was it a cheap technique to lure middle aged widows?

I was doing it for mum nobody else, actually. But then I wasn’t even sure. Soon enough my thoughts invaded my brain erasing off my previous encounter with Bonnie, as I felt myself nervous. Wasn’t it why I was here? I was escaping, wasn’t I? But then what was I escaping life? Technically I wasn’t just escaping my mother’s affair, her marriage, her will to have more children, to have grandchildren, to have another ideal son, since I was even close to perfect. I was being so pathetic dying my hair colours that would have made her mad, pretending to inhale, but spitting it out in seconds due to its bitter taste and the possibility of drugs was simply crossed out. Maybe that was the only thing I was thankful for. I could bring girls in, but that never stopped her and I never was much of a player.

She thought I looked cute in ties.

I sighted, trying to relax. It was just a light argument, I really shouldn’t have gotten us into detention. We could have gotten expelled, but I shrugged it off, realizing that I could do something unacceptable in my last teenage years. Like a small kid I believed that poof, at the age of eighteen I’ll be drinking booze like water, dragging weed or something less harmful and my arms on girl’s skinny shoulders. But as soon as the age grew nearer it seemed less possible. But then did I want to be some sort of womanizer? I guess, it’s just something a feeling that I should be loved, adored by many pretty and never aging women along with myself. It was like an immortal desire of every man, as I had questioned my friends, family members carefully. Everybody seemed to have the fear of death, aging. Was that why so many took younger partners, like an accessory to make themselves younger. Like a bright banner which seemed to yell out ‘look at me, I can still have sex despite my age’.

Was that it? Was that the meaning of life?

“Can we meet again?”

“Sure, why not?”

“I can be late, mum could suspect something. She says older guys are perverted.”

“I’ll wait for you then.”

I couldn’t object as I saw her in the hallway a few minutes after her big dark green eyes looking at me with interest. The dialog was short, as I tried to convince myself to call her annoying but I simply could not. I just stared at her, at how she tucked the black hair behind her ears, revealing really small hoops which would get bigger with her age.

“Is it a date?” She asked her eyes shining proudly. Had she over watched Hollywood chick flicks? Was this the scenario where I end up with a four year old girl? I sighted, realizing that I could practically adopt her, but the image of my ‘parents’ behind the door gave me a rather bitter taste that I could even tell her to get lost, as she only was a child.

I rubbed my temples.

Was my mother pregnant?

She waited patiently, blinking quickly as if afraid to miss a sudden move of mine.

What were they doing right now?

I glanced at her, the question finally getting to my mind as I began to shake afraid of meeting them. Just a door seemed to divide us and I could feel their intense gaze on me hungrily, eating, devouring me as they hadn’t seen me for months.

“Sure. Whatever.” I snapped, shoving her aside and opening the door, closing it behind me.

My parents saw her.


Was she?

I raised a hand in the air and opened the door excusing myself.

She had gone.

I rested my back against the door feeling myself slide. Then I began to shake, as I felt tears trail down my cheeks. She was pregnant. Of course she was. That bastard touched her, but then why shouldn’t he? My mother wasn’t bad looking and what had I expected? Did I think that they played twister, monopoly or video games all the time?

What was I, a fool?

A sob emitted from my lips, as my body tensed, shaking heavier with each breath. I heard them fiddling with the doorknob but I had no power to stand up, tell them to fuck off, yell what the hell are they thinking. But then I told them my intentions to leave them forever. But for what? What did I want out of life? What was I going to live on? I considered football, as my coach bragged about me being magnificent.


I stood up, my body breaking in sobs as I walked onto the back staircase my parents getting lost in the hallways as I walked fast.

Was everybody gone?

Was everybody going to cheer, draw their faces with cheep face paint and snog whenever we’d score or lose?

“Mason, you alright?”

Fuck you.

“Yes.” I rubbed the remains of wet trails upon my cheeks as my coach patted me on the shoulder talking about how I should talk to him about everything and all the shit adults talk about. Is that what the adult life is about? Betraying, marrying, having asshole kids and giving shit advice?

“Mason, Mason!” My mother and the womb. I stare at her as she rubs her hand across my cheek in a according to her motherly instincts soothing touch. She tells me stuff about the stars, about the birds and the bees but I just stare at her feeling the tears come back up to my eyes as I try to keep them inside by sending pulses of pain to my brain by biting my bottom lip. I fail and I break in sobs as my mother hugs me, talking more.

Stars, bees, suns, birds, love, kids, nappies, gag.

She kisses my forehead as my cheeks are too salty and what stepdad wants to taste his own step kid’s tears while kissing his beloved?


Fuck you.

“Good luck, son.” I stare as she goes away and I pull on my shirt, removing the tie, hopefully for the last time.

Chapter 20

Thursday, 17 November 2011


I remember the first time I touched my boyfriend’s cock, he wasn’t even my boyfriend back then. I think we were thirteen. There was no alcohol, at least it seemed like a stupid idea until we turned fourteen and actually shared a bottle. Cigarettes were out of question along with drugs as we still believed them to be wrong even if it was rumored that someone from our friends had tried it.

Then we’d see people touch each other, but we were the first ones among ourselves.

You had brushed me too, softly, sticking your finger where the wetness came from.

I have no idea how we hadn’t kissed then, my hand brushing the tip of your cock, we had both been wet and thirteen.

Afterwards, as we had been playing some game on the Playstation, maybe it was Lego Star Wars, maybe Soul Calibur, maybe something else. I don’t know, I don’t remember and I told you that I had touched a cock before my first kiss, you had high-fived me.

I still wonder how we held then.

How our parents would still let us stay over at each other’s, maybe because we had acted as we still believed guys and girls to have rabies, maybe that’s why our lips didn’t touch and for some reason your cock or my clit didn’t seem as disgusting as it had been yours, but I still feel amazed as we had undressed and just stared at each other’s bodies.

I still wonder how you dragged that condom around.

You shrugged, saying that we agreed on doing condom balloons one day and we had forgotten, maybe that’s why they had a weird rainbow colouring.

Maybe that’s why we both laughed, as we tried putting it on, kissing.

Then the world was fake, we still talked the same, we still bought the rainbow condoms, scared to mention anything and then we’d blow a balloon out of it, I would, since you freaked on your come, even if we kissed afterwards.

I remember I wondered if I’d get pregnant, I didn’t, we just shrugged, eating cooked rice with chopsticks for the fuck of it.

You had tried your come anyway, I did as well. It mixes with your spit and it doesn’t matter how it tastes like really.

The point would be that it’s you really, and not the rainbow condoms you’d hang on my birthday even after I got the pill years later and kids would ask why the fuck were the balloons oily unlike the ones in the rooms we’d hang when we’d be bored, but then were we bored, as we’d share the same tea mug?

More like we always felt like doing something up to the point that we painted clothes on our naked bodies on Halloween and sat like that watching television.


The thing is, that above would be considered boring, because there is no struggle.

When in reality, that’s if we could stash our honor, we’d read and create forever.

Joined the taken army a long while ago, thank you.

Dance, Dance, Dance, We Will Not Be Moved By It

Wednesday, 9 November 2011

Exit. Chapter 18


I adjusted the black tie, so that the knot looked ideal. I looked… weird with the fact that I actually had a match in what? Twenty minutes?

But no, I had to dress properly because according to my stepdad a man looked his best in a tie. I bit my finger staring at my reflection. My other hand was the pocket of my trousers, as the other freed from my nervous bite ran through my unrealistic hair. Why in the name of humanity did I choose a deep red? Because as childish as it may actually seem, I was going against the rules.

I was already wearing a fucking tie anyway.

And a black button-up shirt.




I tilted my head sideways staring at the small girl in front of me. How old was she? Two? Four? I tapped several fingers against my bottom lip, as she watched me wash my face. Then I glanced at her smiling at me. She looked cute enough, that I wondered why I didn’t have a younger sister.

Because the thought of my mother and my step doing anything made me gag, even if I knew the real cruelty behind life and all that crap about flying storks, cabbages or flying peas. Whatever.

“Hi.” What are you doing in the boy’s bathroom, sweetie? I wanted to ask but held myself as she nodded. I raised an eyebrow, was it her reply?

“Hi.” She replied, as I smirked at how high her voice was, reminding all those kiddy shows or whatever you could catch on TV whenever you’d stay home sick. Before you got into boarding school or when I’d be so sick that I was sent home like some sort of we can’t deal with your son’s illness, so if he’ll die we won’t go to court for not stuffing him with paracetamol until he’d choke.

To death as well.

“What your name, honey?” I leaned closer to her, leaning my palms against my knees as I lowered myself to reach the girl’s eye level. 

“Bonnie. My parents call me that. I told them that Bonnie dies in Gone with the Wind, though. But they won’t listen to me.” Pout. I laughed, but then I pressed a palm against my lips muffling my sudden reaction, as her gaze saddened.

“Um. Well, let’s see what I can come up with, sweetheart. Shortened you can be, be, be Bo. Rob. Roberta? No? Jeez, I’m giving you a female version of Smith’s name, since your hair looks like bird’s nest.” I failed the talking to children test. Seriously. No sisters, daughters and sons, brothers. I scratched the back of my head, closing my eyes as I waited for her reaction.

Soon enough I felt small arms throw themselves around me, as I smelt baby powder, daisies and other baby-girly smells which would usually make me gag. Should I put that in my ideal girlfriend list? Smell like daisies? I closed my eyes for a second forgetting about my worries just for a second.

“Bonnie, that’s where you are! I told you not run off. Where’s Ed? Jeremy, not now.” A tall man came inside catching me, in his eyes molesting or harassing his daughter. Great. Apparently, Ed ran past in the corridor, causing Bo’s father to stir and run outside after his son, apparently.

I pulled away from Roberta, rubbing the back of my neck in uneasiness.

“You should go now. Your dad won’t like you hugging older blokes at your age.” What the fuck did I do at four? Press my head against girl’s chests? No. I think I stuck cars in my mouth trying to swallow them hungerly, thinking that they were candy due to their glossy colour.

“Why not?” She stares at me in surprise.

She’ll break quite a number of hearts. I swear. I could sigh for effect, but I have no answer. Then Bonnie turns her head as her name is called out.

“Bye-bye!” She waves.

I wave back at her. Then she stops in her tracks. She hesitates and turns around, as I give out a surprised ‘hm?’

“I like you.”

I am a child molester.

I scratch my head. Nice. I got a confession from a four year old.

“Yeah, me too.” What could I say in such an awkward situation?

With that with a pleased smile, Roberta, grinning, well, I thought that back then, opened the door.


Mason's p.o.v. Explains Exit basically. I wanted to write a long explanation, but then, let's keep it this way.

Exit was inspired by this chapter really. If anyone noticed a similarity to Radiohead's High and Dry US version? Yes, that video created a bit of Exit, really.

Chapter 19

Wednesday, 2 November 2011


It’s more like selling kisses, when you see that a person can take one.

I just lean in, as they make their groceries, it’s like an offer I’ve been doing, with people barely recalling my face and each one just getting one, no matter whom they’d be.

Old, young, tall, strong, male,


And her tongue rubs gently into mine and I shiver, as I open my eyes to see hers closed and the black hair like a shower, washing away her eyes, keeping her mouth glued to my own, as I just stare, as I’ve seen Sylvie burn magazines, even Doctor Who ones and then sell them as candles, as she’d sit on the pavement in front of Tesco and do it.

Sometimes I’d look at her and Sylvie would smile, her eyes blue.

Mine she’d call as a needle, the liquid, as if she’d seen green drugs, maybe, I’ve never seen drugs.

Then it is Sylvie’s turn, as she grabs me, I stop feeling chubby for a second, before her tongue clicks with mine and she moans.

I wonder if Sylvie is a lesbian, as I kiss back, thinking who is the girl after all.

I just look as her hands cup my breasts, which would be what, two sizes bigger? And then her tongue rushes, as people drop and pick up Tesco sandwiches.

I am not a whore, I just get paid with God’s clouds for each kiss.

After the kiss Sylvie just pulls back, my hands apart and hers, but both locked, so I just stare at the black shower and her skinny clothes and I know that I can count each blood cell, as her skin is peach and I feel that I could dig into it, as she’d lay on the covers, pulling my head closer, screaming my name, to lick lick lick harder and faster.

She screams, her clit a mix of my saliva and her cum, it feels good and I keep doing it, as she arches her back and her nipples are the stars for the scene and I shift my own to hers and Sylvie just pulls us closer, kisses my face, adores it and thrusts.

I moan.

Sylvie breaks the kiss and grins at me.

Maybe I am a kissing whore.

Every person is like lime, you need to like lime.

Then Sylvie just walks back onto the pavement and burns a few newspapers, as I watch her, silent, really, nervous.

As I watch the smoke go up and it reminds me of death.

“D’you want to burn one?” I don’t and not just because it has Tennant, but because fire always looked like the devil for me and I just shake my head to which Sylvie, her lips pressed against the letters and lights them, as I sit on the pavement.

“Are you a whore?” Sylvie asks me and I just shrug, saying that I just feel like doing it sometimes.

She doesn’t recall the kiss, but she sees me in my flannel dresses as I wobble from aisle to aisle and I wonder if she actually notices me selling kisses for free, as I glance at her and she just whistles and I look at her nipples, seeing that she has no bra on really.

I wonder where should my conversation with her end, because at least a movie has credits, but then I just get one kiss, so I just stare at Sylvie, kissing one man in the process as she sells one candle-like thing and I just keep on staring, wondering if I could ever kiss her once more.

It’s not the fact that I can’t kiss again, it’s more like a metaphor if people would take my face in their hands and lick my chest without me interfering with my clothes, I’d take it off and I’d wait, as Sylvie would lick down.

I wonder if she ever would, so I just looked at her blowing at her own smoke, as she blows the candles, eyes locked with the air, as I keep watching people walk past, people I’ve kissed, people I still have to kiss.

I remember Sylvie under a smoothie, me, her and a few other girls who talked about girls on girls, how would it feel if you’d have the guts to put your hands up and scream that you’ve touched yourself in another body.

And then Sylvie ranted that lesbians were an attraction, that they were seduction, a thing to touch yourself to, but never something to drown your heterosexuality with and I had thought about it in front of a window at four a.m. I could be classified as kissing girls and boys and old men, women and some would just grope me in all places and I’d just end the kiss and they would forget.

The attraction is always there behind the closed eye lids, then there is a click from the bodies and they dissolve, like me and Sylvie, who makes more and more smoke, as if we both burned as I see her thrusting against me




On top

Oh God


On top

Her breasts

So small and I bite, pulling my fingers on her butt and I pull

Sylvie screams

And I come

On the pavement, screaming

I’ve touched myself and I just look up at the smoke and the few people who glanced and close my eyes, watching Sylvie blow. Her hair and she stands up for food and I just follow her into the aisles, wondering when would snow flow out of the cemetery gates.

I’ve went there at night once and sat on a grave, wondering if I could kiss the dead. In the end I took my own nails and dug deep deep deep deep deep.

So after Tesco, when the star lights are dim and the sky is gray and people prank everyone, I invite Sylvie to go along with me, I just do.

I strip myself.

People call me a prostitute.

The thing is people pay money for sex.

I offer it.

I am not a whore.

I do not want anything.

Neither am I a sex addict.

I am a virgin.

With a knife, a shock to the stars and a crooked reflection in the mirror, I’d give the world all my love if Sylvie would rub clits, as we’d lock hands and shout, but she won’t.

So I grab the women.

A lot of them, all so identical to Sylvie, so I just look as she sits between near tombstones, a knife at her throat and stares as I underdress the rotten women, their mouths open.

The girl breaths, as I thrust against the body, as another rotten hand goes up my ankle and I make out with a corpse, it’s all a dream to Sylvie as she touches herself to the corpse parade, to my big breasts and her wet clit as she rubs harder, never never never a lesbian.

So I choose the one who is Sylvie and we all kiss



She’s in


Never a lesbian

But I take the corpse of the dead Sylvie out, once she rots and I light the smoke for her. She has to hint that she’s dead.