a Neonmeatdream

'If you keep beatin round the bush you lose ya' push' - Captain Beefheart (from the song) 'I'm gonna Booglarize you Baby'

Within this jungle a Peruvian heart beats out a sexual rhythm. Woman young with tanned skin and sweating long black hair, her smooth coffee body reveals only sinew and muscle undulating beneath, pulsating to the sway of music as she displays her sexual vitality on the dance floor. Horatio watches through telescopic sights, waiting and waiting for that savagely royal brown head to enter his cross hair. He holds his breath as black eyes meet his, terror and adrenaline shoots like a hooked fishing line along his optical nerves catching in the back of his head, makes him dizzy, makes it hard to think.
This girl's gonna meet the monster tonight, she's gonna get booglarised, she's going to get jumped on, get made. He commences his approach, walking over in what he believes is a nonchalant way holding his drink in what he believes to be the same manner taking deft sips out of the plastic pint glass as he dodges around the less attractive women on the dance floor. These he knows he will probably return to later. He stands almost in front of her now and sees that the jungle has cleared a space for this female animal as though afraid and must stay distant. The circle of dancers formed around her attempt to ignore her style and sex, girlfriends dancing with their boyfriends inconspicuously turn them so they will not be facing in her direction lest lust overcomes their weak male minds and sends them in manic desperate pursuit of her, as it has done for Horatio. He stands right in front of her now, she oblivious to his conspicious presence as she dances wrapped up in tribal rhythms. His mouth has become a cliche of dryness so he licks the sweat from his palms to get a little lube on the tongue. He tries to speak and croaks a
hello
She looks up and smiles before turning her back to him, not really seeing, or looking, or noticing, but handing him a polite dismissal as in, I haven't the inclination to bounce on your bones don't bother me this time or in the future. Already, that means retreat. He doesn't look back as he hurries from the floor
Idiot Idiot Idiot
Repeats as he pushes his way through the overgrown throng of sad chubby dancers, the elephant calves dressed as princesses, the morlockian men in white tee-shirts, golden neck chains and fad 80s mullet haircuts, everywhere cankles spilling out of 5inch heels and dental floss thongs riding up mountainous backs out of cavernous ass cracks from too-tight jeans worn much too-low. They all twirl with no grace holding blue liquid sugar drinks scanning the room for fresh meat, for fuck meat. In the corner a woman sits on the floor panda-eyed in her £3 floral print dress ridden up around her waist, her bare legs open revealing her depressed looking worn out white knickers, she has dirt on her face and her blouse is soaked in the blue liquid fizz, she cries clawing at the inches-thick make up on her sad frozen face. Jibbering
It won't come off It won't come off It won't come off
Horatio thinks it wasn't like this when he came in.
Was it like this when I came in?
The sticky floor, the red-faced slurring clientele, the warm beer, the barbie and ken dolls of every variety had previously gone unnoticed. His tunnel vision for Peru has betrayed him, led him into the den of the enemy, a place of frivolous sexual and social depravity where intellect is replaced by alocohol fuelled wit and jabber. Suddenly he is alone in a jungle of hostile animals tearing and braying at each other, excrement pouring from their gaping mouths covering every surface.
He makes it back to the bar and cracks his head open on the counter, drips a little of his brain juice into his plastic 'glass' and swirls it in his hand watching the red-grey blood clot and make patterns like saturns surface in the flat golden liquid. He gulps it down chewing on the coagulated blood and brain fat and eats the plastic glass too, crunching it into razor sharp shards that cut his throat and intestines deep into his bowels leaving shit and rotting food leaking into his blood stream. A surprise for later.
He returns home agreeing with the taxi driver that there is only one god and that god is god. Inshallah.
Scanning the net he searches for a pretend woman who looks enough like the peruvian goddess for him to get a hard-on then works himself into a frenzy of white knuckles and pleasured grimaces. After, he is sad and lonely, he sits, a depleted figure on his bed, looking skinny and pathetic with his pants and trousers round his ankles, rapidly shrinking cock in hand and cum drying on his thighs. His skin is whiter than white. In bright sunlight he is invisible. Or would like to be.

Badges? We ain't got no badges. We don't need no badges! I don't have to show you any stinkin' badges!
'The Treasures of the Sierra Madre' B. Traven

Closer to the edge now Horatio is getting desperate. His thought helmet going faulty, letting the data slip out. He's stopped keeping the cotton wool in his ears, he's starting to pick up on the truth. Everywhere around him, the dirty walls perform a striptease, dying floral patterns grow towards the floor like their natural counterparts do towards the sun, leaving only cruel bare reality revealed and bleeding into the cavernous gaping abyss that makes up his spilling emptying mind. Swarming, scurrying beetles and bugs are revealed, crawling over each others shiney clicking bodies upon the wall. Bleating words appear on his mobular phone
what the fuck does that
mean
We can find him crying on his bed now in his nicely tidy room. His 'friends' sit downstairs; the females making dirty pictures of each other and giggling behind manicured painted petite nails while the men pluck each others eyebrows and brown each others skins with the oil of black maginara tree root. Later he will lie awake and listen as they fuck squirming mewing; entwined browned bodies, gleaming with pre-cum and sweat, writhing toether on the wooden floor, doing the dirty dance:
You put the left on in, The left one out...
He is dreaming of green spaces with no people and no buildings where everything is free; he has killed his boss, he has killed all the bosses and he sits atop a great yellow horse, savours the sun burning his back through the thin white cotton of his shirt, the cool breeze on his chest where he has sweated wet the work from his body. Water running from the wind on a lake, wet air hanging with moisture and filtered sun grey and yellow still blinding has no place in the desery, 'cept for this oasis that is Horatios alone.
When you live on the outside. Listen to other peoples conversation through your walls, hear them denigrate great art in favour of bland street scenes of nowhere towns, painted by nowhere artists, and listen to tinny music on the bus played for fashion and not for music, and see teenagers, men and boys, stand tracksuited with cupped genitals held in hands beneath shiney but yet dirty adidas trousers you will know of some of 'Ratios existential discontent.
Horatio stands as his own authority, the highest of all, he is the suzerain of all that exists and falls upon his eyes. He recognises no power above his own, accepts no choice made in his stead by policemen, politicians, family, friends, dogs, cats. He thinks his is Max Sterner, and is more Sterner than Sterner himself ever was. His sexual conquests innumerable, his physical prowess and intectual vigour the envy of all men and beasts. Still his malaise turns his face away from victory like a weeping woman he had once lain upon that must be consoled and to whom he returns everytime.
He is crying again now, dry sobs as he tries to fuck way India's infidelities. They sleep together in sweat too lazy to open a window.

There is no reason why good cannot triumph as often as evil. The triumph of anything is a matter of organization. If there are such things as angels, I hope that they are organized along the lines of the Mafia. - Kurt Vonnegut

The fat man and his fat wife pull in across two disabled driver spaces, parking directly in-front of the mini-supermarket (which is steadily driving ‘Sids convenience store’, situated directly across the road, out of business. Only empty shelves live at Sids now, and the one or two sandwiches and tubs of butter that sit alone in a chiller packed with goods just a year ago). Horatio feels his heat rising in his chest and his head. The red-red blood making his head dizzy and his vision blurred. Two hippos loll out of car seats, choc-ice wrappers, crisp packets, and cigarette boxes emerge, tumbling from giant tyre-shaped rolls of fat and blubber. The female plucks a pink screaming new born from a passing Mothers cot and devours it whole, burping out the child’s yellow plastic dummy. Scenting the still warm baby dribble Its’ male behemoth counterpart falls to the floor gobbling dirt and dog shit into his mouth in furious attempts to eat this yellow morsel. The female monstrosity helps her obese partner up from the floor, and they stand leaning on each other gasping for breathe, sweat stinking and dripping from flabby foreheads and faces in massive globules to the ground. Able to stand it no longer Horatio reels about to fall, his rage seems to be spinning his head around like a carousel. 9 inches of flashing silver in hand he steps forward
Move your car
Horatio can’t see, all he makes out are two giant grey obelisks leaning together in front of him. Nothing but dumb silence meets his request and he shouts:
MOVE YOUR CAR.
No response and in the same breathe,
Move you car,
he steps forward, barely able to walk as his brain fires of sparklers and Catherine wheels, sticking the knife into the female at the sternum and ripping all the way down to her belly button. Intestines fall on the floor, and a gaping mouth opens in the woman’s face and begins to scream. The fat man lets out a moan and falls again to his knees, starts swallowing guts whole into his engorged stomach. He pulls them in by swallowing one end and like a string forces it down his throat, as if connected to the unwrapped woman by an umbilical cord leading from his open throat to her burst stomach. He makes a sound like vomiting but going the wrong way.
Horatio steps up behind the kneeling man and with one fell swoop decapitates his fat head and watches it roll into the gutter. A group of school kids steal it for a game of football, while several cats are already making a home in the still warm cavity of the fat woman’s stomach. A crowd applauds and Horatio bows once, twice, then three times, before thinking he should have got them to move their car first. Shrugging he gets on the bus
Fat bastards

The driver eyes have been sewn shut and he relies on the screams of the passengers to tell him when to turn stop or accelerate. Horatio joins in whole heartedly, looking disdainfully at those other passengers who are merely excess baggage. They stuff buzzing insects in their ears (pincers nipping and jiggling in black shiny fluorescence), and tipex in their eyes. This only serves to blot out the majesty of a thousand potentially fatal bus crashes on the journey. One nearly occurring outside the nurseries school having potential to be very spectacular. Everyone wants to get famous like this, get on the evening news as a heroic survivor. Congratulations, you didn’t die when thousands did. And if they do die (please) then their relatives get to put their best clothes on and appear on a two-minute segment of the local grief-porno-news showing of their anguish and their counterfeit Lois Vitton bags. Black sunglasses all. Like the film stars. Like blind people. Grief is big seller in New Birmingham especially for the TV news. All the deedee’s love a bit of grief.
He was a good man
Never hurt a fly (except for the crying wife, beaten for twenty years, who eventually took the bastards life ((poisoned over 8 months; eye drops in his porridge)), and that’s why his lying there grey in a coffin, the police suspect but don’t really care and are hoping they can have an aggressive gangbang with ‘grieving widow post-funeral anyway)
A family man, loved his kids (loved them with a broom handle to the face after another drunken rape of his wife)
A good friend. (always shared a line of coke)

Bye bye bad man

’Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats.’ – H.L. Mencken.

Black insect eyes grinning over the desks, another day walking the corridors of reduced power, working on back up generators. Horatio the hero of the piece grabs a lithe indian girl and throws her over the desk jumping on her and fucking on the way down. She gives him a waste-invoice and he takes it to the post room, waits for the receipt. Returning, she files it sexily for him showing of her good-for-jumping hind legs as she bends over. Cigarettes taste good after white bread sandwiches and sex, savouring each draw, blowing out plumes of secondary death.

Lunch is a different matter, stalking college girls around the elderly town centre, watching the young cunt lolling around in groups waiting for the benefit militia to kidnap and pillage them, selling them back to their families shamed and at half the price. Machine Guns for sale at the farmers market, not too good for butchering pigs or castrating bulls but you can pop a full grown man at thirty paces and leave him screaming on the ground as an example for his colleagues. Don't be late again or you'll deal in lead and not junk bonds.
Horatio buys a young suckling lamb and he and the indian admin-assistant sacrifice it with a kitchen knife and wash their hands in the blood. He paints her upper body in the red stuff smearing her breasts first and then his face pushed into them coming out grinning and bloody. 'Thats the stuff' 'ratio exclaimed as he plunged back in again sighing in contentment. India's hands hold his head there smiling, leaving blood in his thinning hair.

The days moves slow when you're taking regaine, stopping to check follicular unit transference every ten or so minutes in the company bathroom. Wolf man at the end of the day spends his evenings shaving his back hair and eyebrows. He heard that strong curry will do the job, vindaloo shampoo, threatening those dying strands, telling them to stand up like men, helping them grow in to big boys. Rice in your hair looks like lice. Pilau rice looks like lice at carnival time.
Horatio liked to shower hot for ten minutes every morning then freezing for as long as he could stand it. He stands there shivering running his sopping hands over his wet body feeling himself get hard. If only India could come in and shiver a bit with him. Then he smokes a cigarette while taking a prodigious shit, fixes his comb-over in place with copious hairspray, styles his two cats after himself by shaving off the hair just between their ears. He leaves all the doors in his house open and hangs his washing out cause it looks like rain.
Horatio prefers hatch-backs but car jacks a brand new mini that waits at the red lights. Throwing the young female driver out on the side-walk with a split lip and a dirty mouth she is immediately scooped up by a passing rape gang; she whoops with delight. He makes it to work in record time scoring 25 points after hitting a pregnant doberman, but lost out on the bonus as her owner was too quick out the road, left with nothing but a leather dog lead still in hand, red at one end.

A man sits on the fence when he arrives outside work shouting at the shoppers about iGod and fornication, devil-sex and beasts with two backs, waving a red book about in hand. Horatio can see its the latest edition of 'The Joy of Sex'. Required reading.

He starts the day by ejaculating all over his keyboard and having his secretary lick it off. He absently watches her pink tongue flit back and forth while rubbing regaine into his scalp, his hands are getting furry again and he bites at the tufts with yellow teeth he took from the mouth of a homeless WW3 veteran back in '85. He'll need a new set soon, but there's always been homeless people who don't need their teeth to shoot up on junk.

Later. Man on man action in a dark seedy bar, while our hero Horatio looks on in pouty mouthed disgust.
Call yourself a friend then take your hand from his knee and pick up that beer.
Standing up drinks fly and spill against his legs, he is blocked by. A friend.
Get the fuck out of the way
No
I’m leaving

Returning home he watches dead soldiers flown back from the desert while his girlfriend laughs with a friend on her phone. He vomits into his hand and slowly feeds it her. Yellow brown vom’ drips down her chin.
You shouldn’t talk with your mouthful, ‘ratio says, but she grabs a last wet handful from him and turns round resuming her conversation.
Bitch.
Horatio starts masturbating himself hoping she’ll take notice but she just pulls a face of disgust and gets the bus home.
Bitch
If only India was here, she must like to watch a man wank. But she’s not so he watches himself in the mirror, so he doesn’t feel so alone.

Giving blood is a good deed, give life so they say. Unfortunately the travelling vampire troupes don't like the taste of the cannaboids in my blood and exempt me from this morally cleansing process.
I've seen it in office canteens and college sports halls, lines and lines of white gurneys each with a pale looking civilian prone upon it. The red stuff being pumped out of 100 arms simultaneously, nutrious plasma coated in millions of little red cells, hurtling from warm vein to cold syringe into clear turning-scarlet bag, thick and slippy.
Then it lays there in blood banks, hundreds of them lay awaiting, like props for Night of The Red Bloody Terror 17, soon to swill around dissected bodies, upon operating tables, splashing on surgeons sleeves and sterile masks. Flooding bodily cavities that you will never suspect of having, rushing around inside you blood of one hundred different people mixing and flowing with yours. Maybe you'll end up runing on someone elses blood entirely, say 4pints of johns 2 of sues and 1 of bobbies.
Some Tribal people used to eat the hearts of their enemies after battles believing that the dead warriors attributes will be granted to them. What if you get a lazy guys blod. Or a paedo, god forbid a muslim radical. Or a radical Muslim Paedo! Save us mommy.
I don't know if muslims give blood but the BNP better look out for that one, do you think they know that there hardest racist warriors of the white mans cause are getting their open wounds washed out with an Asian mans blood. They would cry to think of all those lives saved by African blood. Do you think they ask what colour the arm it came form was before they have that life saving operation?

There was a protest in Birmingham City Centre yesterday against the actions of Irans government against it own people. The Iranian immigrant population (and friends) gathered in a Main Square in the city with placards banners and loud speakers and for the rest of the day shouted forth that Iran should be free and it's people unharrassed.
Just who they were shouting it at I'm not too sure? There was no representative of Irans political authority there, no stand-in Ayatollah for them to vent their anger against. So who was it aimed at? Is Ahmejinedad sitting watching the BBC world service thinking 'Shit they're protesting in Birmingham, pull back the troops and on the double!'
If these people really want change in their country then they should go over there and try to make it happen not stand here in Birmingham, in 'free' Britain and espouse their views on what is wrong with their country. Of course if many of these people go back they will be persecuted, jailed, beaten, maybe killed, but is that not the price many people have already paid across the globe to achieve 'freedom' and 'democracy' for the homeland?
Well I guess thats easy for me to say.
Protesting is an easy way to feel involved withyout actually having to do anything, it achieves nothing and is no longer a viable way of getting political change. The protests in Iran itself have not made any difference so what do they think this one in Birmingham will do? Of course a show of solidarity is always welcome and I stand with the Iranian people (well some) that are trying to get more freedoms.

Say it with me.
I am a citizen of Walmart.
This is my country that I fight for and protect.
Her the most beautiful land of my birth and family.
The womb which protects and feeds me.
No longer can I call myself British or Briton. My brother citizens will no longer call themselves American, Indonesian or Libyan but all soldiers of Walmart, ready to spread liberty and cheap products to every corner of the globe. We will institute our global domination and every man will have a brother, with a name badge an orange hairnet and a blue uniform. We will sell sell sell until they can resist no more, and then will shoot those that do. Then we will sell their lifeless bodies back to their loved ones. BOGOF. Then into the incinerator with them all. The halls of the dead. The names of our forefathers and those that have died before us are held almighty and holy above ourselves. See the names upon the wall, Coca Cola, Pepsi, Hershey.
All martyrs.
Bless us now brothers in this year of our lord coca cola zero.

I don't like Islam.

On the whole i don't like any religion but that one really gets my goat.
This is mainly because of the hypocrisy I see in people who claim to be Muslim but pick and choose what tenets of the faith they will adhere to.
For instance I see girls going to my local college everyday wearing a simple hair covering veil, as a way of dressing modestly in accordance with Islam. However this is accompanied by some tight fitting jeans and a vest top. That is not islamic dress or modest dress.

It is the hypocrisy of islam that annoys me most. British born Muslims often talk about the way their 'brother' muslims are treated across the world. However many fail to realise that the islam they practice in Britain has no relation whatsoever to the way the Faith is practised in places like iraq, afghanistan, iran, Somalia.

Islam is a faith that requires no priesthood, and is a personal connection with God. It has many interpretations and sects throughout the world and that in essence completely negates this notion of an 'umma' or that all Mulsims are brothers.

No it is all humanity that are in fact brothers.

The Ayatollohs are another point in islam that in my opinion is actually a blasphemy agaisnt the faith. The fatwas that are issued by these Ayatollahs are blasphemous. By saying that God demands that Muslims kill Salman Rushdie or join jihad is in fact sacriledge. How can a mere mortal presume to know the desire or thoughts of Almighty God. How dare they assume that they would know what allahs wishes are.

If you have read any of my other posts then you will hopefully understand that i am willing to open my mind to any religion or at least listen to what it has to say.

I don't like Islam. Does this make me islamaphobic?

I would say no.

I don't like getting fucked in the ass either, so does that mean i'm homophobic?

Why am I so angry? The slightest thing makes me want to break a face. i find myself punching the wall about five times a day. The simplest thing will make my head go light, flooded with numbing red mist that clamps my hands in fists. I walk around these offices muttering "...you f*cking...i'll f*cking kill yo....you should f*cking die...ist ass m*therfucker...", more and more everyday this internal monolgue fills up my head, pounding. I tell it to shut up and it does. A lot of things that make me angry are inanimate. Doors, TVs, Computers in particular, especially slow ones. I find myself grinding my nails up and tearing lacquer off the desk, as the loading bar decides to have a rest half way into a page. Buddhists say life is suffering. I think they are close but that life is actually frustration. One frustration after another, the bus that runs late on the day you really need to get home, the shop owner who won't give you change for said bus unless you buy something, no lighter for your last cigarette, the bouncer that IDs you but not all your mates, the girl in the club that seems like she's coming home with right up until she doesn't(f*cking tease!!), and mostly the endless rudeness and cheek and arrogance of 99% of the population that decent people have to put up with every day. Everything makes me angry. What makes you angry?

Howlin' Wolf, one of the greatest blues musicians ever.

Listen to him!

Sam Phillips once remarked of Chester Arthur (Howlin' Wolf) Burnett, "When I heard Howlin' Wolf, I said, 'This is for me. This is where the soul of man never dies.'