…. or “Self inflicted rectal haemorrhage”

Joe flicked the switch of his stereo and rose from the settee. He walked over to the window, lit another in the endless chain of cigarettes and gazed out at the neon city skyline. The front door opened and his flat mates, engaged in deep inebriated conversation, came in and sat down. Joe leaning against the wall put on his Doc martins, black Oxfam crombie and headed out for a few drinks.


A seedy Broad street bar, a defective neon light sputters and a plasma screen flashes images of scantly clad pop stars. A young barman with a soft face wipes the bar top with a paper towel. A glass collector aimlessly strolls around. Joe sits alone in a drunken stupor gazing at the black varnished wood. Joe pulls out his little black note book and pencil and scribbles a few observations. After awhile he mumbles a few words in the style of Kerouac’s intoning tales of hard times and life on the road. Instead of the garish beats of the ministry of sound Joe imagines a piano player weaving a little piece of unobtrusive jazz.


“The Bomber loads his literary guns and aims his spit full of words of malignant prose towards mangy moth eaten worldly worriers of woe….whilst the 3 am crowd of maladjusted undiscovered poets and word wise screamers of the street spread the word like a sexual virus….”


After a few hours drinking, mumbling and arguing with the occasional Big Brother reject, Joe popped a pill and closed his eyes.


Joe wakes to the screams of anguish from the damned souls of reality TV. The virginal soft features of the barman slides away leaving a pulp scorched face. The glass collector is face down in a pool of his own blood and excrement, whilst the frenzied drunk and dancing bystanders start savaging and fucking his withering torso. The once small and cramped bar has lost its sense of space; the dark walls slither like tar. The barman walks towards Joe and offers him a drink, not phased with what is happening, Joe takes the shot and couldn’t help but notice the barman’s encrusted lips fall away leaving behind fouled bloody flesh.


The barman’s dry and cracked mouth slowly parted with a metallic digitalised recorded voice. Joe could see the sound waves pulsate towards him.

 “di glass collector lay face down in a pool of fi im own blood and vomit whilst di once drunk and skanking bystanders started biting and fucking fi im withering structure…”

Lighting a cigarette and looking at the digitalised Dictaphone Rasta sounding corpse. Joe asks him a question.


“Do you think its fair you kill off the glass collector and leave him to your Big Brother degenerates?”


The barman grabs Joe’s collar. Joe is close enough to suffer his phosphorus rank ass breath.


“see yahso young writer, I have no argument with I and I! would I and I like fi im batty eaten out by fi im alter ego whilst he chews on di severed cock of a latter day shepherd of jah? or experience an explosive rectal haemorrhage?”

“Fuck me! Talk about an over reaction! I’m going for a piss”


Joe finds himself in front of a fly infested piss pool of an excuse urinal and is overwhelmed by the sight of a mutilated bloody body ripped open with entrails spilling out of a designer shirt.

Back at the bar and feeling ill Joe was about to mention the body in the toilet, but was somewhat taken aback by the barman as he was holding an unusually large cock in his hand that writhed like a dying sea snake. Like the Old Man of Crete, whose tears are the source of all the rivers in Hell, the Dictaphone Rasta sounding barman pissed his degenerate liquid up onto Joe’s face….Then appeared an apparition! It was of a man but his features were not clearly visible. His body consumed all light…


Slumped across the settee Joe wakes up to the orgiastic scene of his flatmates double penetrating a woman he vaguely remembered seeing earlier serving customers at Waitrose…


“What happened? That sudden flash of light, unbearable heat…those cries of wag girlfriends in torment…the absence of…”


The mosaic images of flesh fade and Joe blacks out.


Later on Joe methodically listed in his mind the ideas and chapters for his novel, called “Death of Miss America” or “Self inflicted rectal haemorrhage”. After 3 hours chain-smoking before the window until the room became cloudy with a blue haze, Joe typed out his squalid tales of human bestiality and e-mailed them to his editor.





In the rhapsody of the pending evening

I wait for physical negotiations with a Georgetown call girl

Who goes by the name of “Tammy Twatette”.

My semi squat monkey shit brown pre-paid hotel room

 in St. Helena South Carolina has a vibrating bed

and as the desk clerk said:


“…a deadly quite TV and clap activated lights”


Was this guy being all Jack Dee by suggesting that

as “Tammy” walked into the room the lights would switch on

automatically? As yanks have no sense of humour

I opted to clap my hands…bingo…lights are on.

I found Tammy’s well used business card on

the roadside of U.S. 91, whilst  thumbing

my way out of Blackfoot, Idaho.

This chick travels or the card belonged to

a satisfied travelling salesman.


With trepidation I called her from a multipurpose

telephone box/urinal…reminded me of

my home town Birmingham

Nobody answered….hang up…try again

She answered and asked

“What kind of women do you like?”

I feebly mumbled

“I don’t like warm beer and cold women”

Who’d of thought I’d be quoting Tom Waits on

the outskirts of Idaho to a hooker in Georgetown?


Tammy asked where I got the card  and for $50

she’d suck and swallow $70 suck, swallow and finger

$100 suck, swallow, finger and fuck and finally $200 suck, swallow, finger,

fuck and a chocolate brownie.

A chocolate brownie I asked?

After an awkward pause she kissed her teeth and

replied “Rim Job”


With the exchange rate I went for a $200 package (£100 aprox)

Being a smart arse I asked if we could go for a Cherry Garcia

instead of a brownie…thinking she’d get the joke…she didn’t

“I’ll bring my own butt plugs” she hoarsely replied….

She said she was pretty much up for anything but only had ONE

Rule – “I fuck in the dark”

Fair enough I thought.

With the lights off I waited! Eventually someone tapped my door

Off went the lights and TV

I let her in and I was somewhat disappointed

Even in the dark I could tell she was a moose

So banging this bird was like playing Russian roulette

with my cock, anyway, after an awkward

introduction and payment, she got to work.


Tammy felt and looked a bit tubby and the blow job was…

unusually smooth…something was missing…teeth!!!

Not one for complaining I rested by balls on her lips and she went to work with her tonsils…


later on in a Johnny Holmes fashion I

pounded her large “loose” arse whilst her

quaffed brown hair bounced

and unusually saggy breasts went their separate ways

The more I worked on her the more excited she got

her breasts rhythmically rocked….they slapped together and to my horror and her  surprise…

the lights come on!!!


My Georgetown girl is a 67 year old retired call girl! Her last customer was well over 12 years ago! Tammy went on to explain that she’d retired due to arthritis and an ongoing yeast infection……..

Sucking on the sons of some unknown cult


Of some unknown cult drinking amoebas sucking on di sons last generation of pig swilling gin

I and I’re responsible for di classics such as “I’m having my sister’s baby! & I’m a pikny prostitute”, and di one that got a mention on christian radio “I’m attracted ta paedophiles”.
I’m not boasie of dis ya but it generates us a likkle income and di occasional prize. all of our letters get a bad response probably read by people I and I pass in di street. di freakiest replies are from di happy clapping born again christians and scientologists.
every now and again I and I reply ta our own letters and win likkle prizes like a digital camera or $50 ta spend at “di gap”. di ongle downside ta dis ya is that thousands of men and probably a handful of sisters read our fiction but I and I’d never get di recognition I and I deserve or a book deal.
that’s wa mek at tonight’s session I’m gonna suggest that I and I call it quits and possibly try sinting crucial like our own novels or short fiction.
as I light my second cigarette dan strolls in clutching her well read copy of “choke”, she’s an alright sister, di life tall student living off grants and di pittance she makes at kfc. whatever di weather she’s always wearing di heavy black crombie coat and as always she’s wearing her now trade mark tight black jeans and mettalica t-shirt. she flops down opposite & takes one of my b&h and mumbles.
“hey patrick, how’s it going?”
“yeah things are kind of interesting at di moment. how’s work going?”
“shit, that’s how it’s going, although I get all di chicken I want for free.”
“still working on your novel? what’s it called again?”
“it’s called di question is…I actually want ta talk ta I and I about di group, I want ta work on my own shit, I and I know what I mean?”
“yeah I’m glad I and I mentioned that..”
as I started talking a large clap of thunder boomed out above di coffee shop and di rain started lasing down, too which dan shouts “sister that’s fucking freaky!!”
di door swings open and sean stomps in.
“hey pat, hail dan. so what’s going on with dis ya weather?”
dan replies “yeah pretty screwed up”
sean pulls up a chair and takes one of my cigarettes and picks up dan’s “choke”
“wa mek are I and I re-reading dis ya shite?”
snatching it back dan snarls “I like it! that’s di fuck wa mek! I’m not one of those losers that just read fight club”
sean pouts her lips and replies “try reading anything by augustan burroughs or brett easton ellis”
“oh really? I’ll also join di new york times book club like all di other pretentious wankers that read ellis and burroughs.”
at dis ya point I interrupt.
“guys come on calm down; I’ve got an announcement ta make”
I and I both look at I at first not saying anything until sean replies.
“are I and I gay?”

>The doctor prescribes you an
anti-idiosyncrasy pill
which will leave your face with
a nonsensical looking grin.
>The second stage of the
pugnacious word virus numbs
your lips and narrows your eyes.

The militant microorganism
Minimizing your mind to
The size of a pea!
You’ll mimic society
You’ll fit right in
Middling new life style
Passable new friends
With mercenary plans
Of stealing your melancholy
Ideas of happiness

Shudder ~ Sean McGahey

January 14, 2007

An aristocratic opium smoking novelist sits watching two golden retrievers in the throes of spasmodic fits. “Lucky” the larger of the dogs has already bitten her tongue off with blood spurting from between her teeth splashing across the white tiled floor; “Paisley” has already lost control of her bowels and creates an interesting almost modern art looking feature on the floor with her excrement and blood looking remarkably like John Prescott.

Eventually they both flop to the floor like two bags of fat and bones. 

“What a waste of two beautiful dogs” muttered William as he carefully steps over them avoiding the matted lumps of blonde dog hair.

The novelist closes his note book, lights up a cigarette and slowly gets up from out of his chair.

“Waste? How on earth am I to write about poisoned dogs if I’ve never experienced the real thing?”

William lights up a cigarette and pours himself a drink

“What kind of novel are you writing?”
“A preposterous tale of murder and rape”
“Don’t you mean rape then murder?”
“Don’t be absurd!! Murder then the unholy act of brutally vandalizing the victims’ body…rape”

Looking slightly worried William quickly finishes his drink and asks

“So how are you going to experience this barbaric ritual of murder and…rape?”

“I’m glad you asked!”

The novelist places his note book and pen on the table and from the inside of his smoking jacket pulls out a small revolver.

William takes a step back “What’s with the gun old chap?”

The first bullet thuds into Williams’s chest creating an almost perfect black hole the size of a 20 pence piece his brown jumper slowly turns black with blood, William falls backwards and hits the wall, his face turns chalk white and is gasping for air.

The second bullet slams into his stomach, the novelist opens his note book and starts writing in short hand and looking at William as though he were a painting or a statue in a museum.

William slumps down to the floor with a look of complete horror and disbelief with his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish, the novelist kneels down beside him and whispers

“You cannot believe that this is actually happening? Can you? Don’t worry my dear brother it’ll soon be over for you and the start of something for…them”

With a loud thump the third bullet cracks into the side of Williams head, the side of his skull shatters on the floor like an egg being dropped.

“Is he dead?” asks a voice from the back of the room behind a large heavy red curtain.

“Absolutely dead as a door nail”

The curtain is swiftly pulled back and three naked men stroll forward already lubricating themselves.

“Now take your time boys, I don’t want to miss a thing”


Former editor of The-Beat and as quoted on 3am magazine “Scourge of the off-beat generation” Unfortunately he’s from Birmingham…..