The Mongol Poet

Here is a poem from our son. We sacrificed more than three decades of our life so as he could write this.


urrrhhhh or uhhh
huhr huhr huh

I wan urrgghhh

We buried him today in a cheap cardboard box. He was 37 years old. What started off so full of joy and happiness somehow deteriorated into adult diapers and forcing mashed carrots into a disgusting curdled mouth. Come the end Bill and I took it in turns to scrape the shit from his chubby corned beef legs and chuck his soiled pants in the machine. I know as a mother I shouldn’t say this, but I will not miss him at all. In fact I’m glad he’s dead. I no longer have to hold his willy as he pisses into a plastic beacon, or lay him down on the floor like a huge fat baby and wank him off until he’s normal again. Sometimes I had to do that two or three times a day. He was too dangerous to be around otherwise. Bill stopped touching me after that. He spent what money we had on young prostitutes and fetish porn movies. A lot went in that hole today. We buried much more than a mongol poet. We buried ourselves then kicked dirt upon our heads.

Welcome to White City

A black boy with only one leg and dusty skin sits on a wall. Irish travellers, bare to the waist, strip car engines in the forecourt. Grubby, bony kids with scars and baggy arab trousers put arms through windows and steal handfuls of biscuits. A single mother belts a lollipop out of her young son's mouth. A drunk gives himself a liver massage then shits his pants.

A group of Yardies in brilliant white net vests hang smoking outside a ground floor flat. On the third floor a cricket bat smacks out a window. A woman is being strangled. Junkies sit in the stairwell ashing up coca-cola cans. Babies play with syringes, condoms and tampons. Cockroaches are born around here. A backward fifteen year old rides about on a tricycle. Mr Chaudhari staggers home smelling of beer, his shirt is stained by some weird red root. He looks like he's been stabbed – his wife has. The phone booth has taken as good a beating as anyone. The receiver hangs and drips molten plastic. Black smoke plumes 50ft high. We are back to prehistoric signals. It's an emergency call. In the distance sirens wail, but they never get any nearer.

Down on the Westway teenagers are throwing rocks at passing cars. Every thirty minutes some place is robbed or vandalized. 'Ballgames are strictly prohibited'. The leader of the Neighbourhood Watch sells another ounce of dope to his father. A couple of retarded brothers are on the roof shooting at pigeons with an air pistol. A transvestite on the first floor wipes graffiti off his door. A prostitute returns home to have her throat sliced. An old man fingers his daughter in a piss soaked lift. They ride up and down until his pension is gone. The huge metal bins are full with puke, shit, porn, saver food brands, lottery tickets and foetuses. The prison and the morgue are the two most popular holiday destinations. Everybody prays, but only the Africans go to church. They chant and wail beautiful songs. One dream still exists: that of escape. But escape is very rare. There are no buses out of this town, and the cars haven't got any wheels. “Welcome to White City Estate – The Heart of a Thriving Borough.”

So Fucking What... Everybody Loses Something!

It was just gone 2 pm on the 13th February 1968 when the bombs fell on the NHIBINH Village in South Vietnam. As the first B52 struck John Eastwood had his dick in a 9 year old girl and was raping away with tremendous violence and hatred. In the blast he lost an arm, a leg, his dick and his life. Miss Trinh Van Chat however, shielded by her foreign violator, escaped virtually unscathed (at least from the bombing). US forces picked her up two days later wandering naked and bleeding through a scorched out paddy field. She was transferred to a makeshift military hospital, where under a series of brutal examinations, Mr Eastwood's dislodged cock was discovered tangled up in her uterus. After being crudely stiched closed, 9 year old Van Chat was officially marked down into history as one of the 70 wounded survivors of the 'accidental bombings'. John Eastwood's presence in the NHIBINH village was covered up and denied. Military records state that on the day in question he was blown to shit by an enemy RPG in the North. His body parts were flown back to The States in 13 separate boxes and he was declared a National hero.

On the second anniversary of her husband's death, Mrs Eastwood suffering from “acute depression” pressed a shotgun to her screaming baby's temple and exploded its brains all over the high-chair and wall.


Not Really, but it could've been

Behind the boy was eastern Europe. Not really, but it could have been. Or Berlin, even Bratislava, but not Somalia or Palestine. It wasn't red or yellow, but industrial and silver. No, not silver, pewter or lead. The buildings themselves were nine tenths bulldozed and derelict. There were some walls left, a few windows and about six stairs leading to absolutely nowhere. Chance had never created anything so useless. Other than that it was a huge mound of rubble, wooden boards and old advertising posters. Oh, and there were weeds as well, and Coca~Cola cans and torn plastic bags and newspapers dated 2010.

Somewhere there was a dog. A black mangy thing with only one ear that appeared here and there. It wasn't a mean dog, just a scavenger. Not that there was anything to scavenge. Probably there were a litter of pups about too.

The boy himself sat on a crumbling piece of wall. He was in shorts. His right knee was cut open and his face looked like he'd been eating chocolate. How he got there, who knows? Maybe he was blown there or was looking for his home and family??? I dont think so though.

Taking everything into account, he actually looked quite happy. He had a beaten moulded plastic Spiderman toy which he was twisting and walking in a strange way along the wall – all the time muttering and pulling slight faces. Then he'd puff his mouth up and make the sound of an explosion. Along with a little spray of saliva, Spiderman would be thrown back and then picked up and walked forward strangely again. The boy didn't seem to care about his knee, in fact, by the way he had it stuck out he seemed proud of it. It definitely suited him – history wouldn't have placed him there in any other way. At one point he looked up and forward.

In front of the boy was £16,000,000,000. Not really, but it could have been. Or platinum bars, even stolen antiques and paintings, but not gold teeth or rupees. It wasn't red or yellow, but silver. Yes, silver, and it stretched on and on for a millennium. Buildings and pavement and sky and railings and lamposts and real estate. Right there in front of him, he could touch it! If he really wanted to he could unscrew parts of it and take them home. Though, like that, in small pieces, they were worthless.

But I don't think the boy noticed that, or anything much. Not the riches, not the poverty, not the city war zone. All he knew was his Spiderman toy, the Coca~Cola cans and maybe the one eared dog – enjoying his last moments in a utopia that had just been blown to shit. Not, really, but it could have been.

It's a Sick World

If funds allowed, and if we wanted sex and not dope, Danny, Paul and I would skip school and head down to Bagleys Lane. We'd put a fiver in Barbara's letter box and peep through as she raised her tissue nightgown and lay against the stairs touching herself and moaning. It would last about five minutes.

One afternoon we were joined by a new pair of eyes. Those of an older man. On seeing his eyes Barbara covered herself and ran up the stairs, our five pound notes still laying on the letter mat. I caught a punch in the back of the head and was slung twenty foot down the path. Danny and Paul legged it. As I hobbled away I heard the clatter as the man thumped the door, the brass adornments rattling with each thud. He was swearing in dinner-table English. Cunt, slag, fuckwhore, etc

At a safe distance i turned around and watched as the door opened and the man went in. I saw his first punch as he entered. There were screams and noises and things getting broken. Then he was back, dragging Barbara out in street by her hair. He would boot her in the face and tits as he pulled.

Chucked down in the middle of the road she huddled up into a ball and was kicked and punched some more, real ruthless blows. Apart from her squeals she sounded like a pillow being fluffed out; quite beautiful really. When the man eventually retreated she was just a pounded bloody lump of meat, her tissue nightgown trailing from a strap off her arm. I think she looked at me, or she was just looking, wondering where the fuck she was.

And then the bull was back, splashing petrol over her as if she was an insurance job. She didn't move much through the dowsing, I think the fumes may have completely fucked her up. It was the flicked match that finally reanimated her.

I watched in horror as she went up, her screaming mouth visible through the flames. I turned and ran at that point, the screams and commotion of the day always seeming to be ten metres ahead of me. The rest of the story I picked up from gossip mongers and papers.

It seems that Barbara's flames were finally controlled and that the man turned out to be her father. He was found and arrested sitting calmly in the house going through the racing list, picking out his horses for the day. Barbara suffered 80% third degree burns and was in hospital for almost two years.

I did see her after that. She was staggering around the back flats with a can of Special Brew. She looked like that guy from the Falklands, all burnt up and sore.

“Would you wank over that?” I said to my friend, pointing “Would you pay a fiver to see her cunt through a letterbox?”

He kinda stopped and just looked at me. “You're sick,” he said “fucking sick!”

I grinned, put a cigarette in my mouth and then struck a match. Holding the burning stick up at eye level I looked through the flame. Everything was kinda distorted and wavering. “It's a sick world, my friend... it's a sick fucking world!”

Just For You

Tonight, just for you, just to show how much I hate your fucked up intestines, how much you repulse me, how disgusting I feel when your body touches mine, I'm gonna go and eat some pussy.

And as I lick and poke and prod and finger and bury my face in the biggest oyster in the world, I will think of you.

Tonight, to show how much your tears make me laugh, how pathetic I see your plastered face and desperate cock, how revolting the smell of your unkempt arsehole, I will find the fattest, pissiest, vilest, shittiest tramp of a prostitute I can – one mentally deranged and inbred and grotesque and degenerate and riding the rag. I will part her piss flaps, tongue out her vaginal cheese and eat the dried sperm of a thousand diseased salvation army bums. And as I think of how much you have destroyed my dreams, and played with my mind, and raped my soul, I will suck in her farts, and eat the shit from her pubes and remove her tampon with my teeth. And I will chew and suck and swallow and drink every last drop of smelly stagnant cunt blood . Then I will have her sit on my head until I look like a strawberry treacle sponge.

Tonight, I will do that just for you.


When my mothers nail fell off she said “fuck, that'll cost me £4.99!”
When her eyelash went down the sink with the cabbage water she said almost the same.
When her stretchmarked gut got caught in the zipper of her drainpipes, she had my obese older sister stand weight on her belly.
When gravity wooed her boobs she compensated by adding three inches to her heels
When her neck went all turkey she wore polar-neck jumpers and door knocker ear-rings
When her face began impersonating Granddad's left bollock, she pulled her hair so tightly back she looked oriental.
When her mouth puckered up like an anus she went gob-stopper crazy
When her piss flaps prolapsed, she bought four pairs of beige Sloggi Long Legs
When the menopause hit she gave her anal chain to Oxfam and her lighthouse dildo to the Salvation Army.
Two months later she was dead.
The coroners report says she died from advanced liver, lung, colon, kidney and brain cancer. I disagree, I think it was from 'natural causes'.
We burnt her on a Sunday.
There was no service, no tears and no priest.
Just me, my obese sister, the Avon lady and her cat.
Apparently mum owed her £4.99, but no-one knows what for.

The Coming of Christ

When he comes he goes all spastic; his face I mean. Like some kind of beetle, or insect, hatching out its egg. He kind of scrunches his eyes together and sucks his cheeks in as if he has a terminal illness. It disgusts and repels me. In moments like that, we lose so much.

The Second Coming of Christ

“Whats the matter with you?” She said
“Nothing! Why?” I asked, squinting up with one eye
“Just you're not usually this quiet. There must be something wrong?No???”
“Hmmph. yeah, OK!” I puffed, closing my eye.

I lay there like that, not speaking and listening intently to her every move, hoping for the one which would end in my jeans being unbuttoned. When I heard the sound of her freshly shaved legs crossing, I began ever more furiously to tense and release the muscles of my cock. It must have looked like Houdini was trying to get out my pants.
She must have fucking seen that! I thought She could not have not noticed all that movement! But all I heard for my efforts was a cigarette being lit and the sound of another magazine page being turned and flattened down. I exhaled loudly, threw my arm across my face and wriggled about some more. I poked my crotch up and waited angrily for a hand, a mouth, a foot – something I knew would never come.

At 19h00 I finally got up. My head felt dizzy like it does when you lay there bored or frustrated for too long. My dick was as hard as it was at I wandered along to the bathroom, slamming the door on a “fucking bitch!”

Inside I stood stroking myself through my jeans and looking for the best place to get this over with. I decided it was a 'floor job', somewhere I could really let loose and jerk and kick. I laid down, my back against the cold tiles. I stroked myself a few more times then unbuttoned my jeans and let my dick spring out. I shuddered as it slapped up against my belly, looking at me in the eye. Fuck it felt good! Why didn't I just do this this morning? I was so het up my hand felt like a strangers. I started wanking away.

It didn't take long. I knew it wouldn't. After nine or ten strokes I was sucking in my belly and trying to restrain my climax until the last possible moment. I looked down at my cock, my hand gripped tightly around it. That was enough. Just seeing it, me, laying there in secret like that was enough to send sperm shooting over my head, past my ear and against the wall and shower unit. Fuck... it was like a hit of something from another planet.

After coming I laid there for a moment, my arms outstretched and cum up my belly. Using both hands I bled the final bits of sperm from my floppy wet cock – like getting the last of the toothpaste out the tube. Then I pulled my trousers up, wiped my helmet against the waistband and for the second time of the day, I rose.

“Ok “ I said entering the room clapping and rubbing my hands together “Shall we get ready to go out? Do some shopping? Bar? Whatever you want. Something to eat, maybe? Music? I feel like d-a-r-n-Sing” I finished finding my old rhythm
She looked at me strangely then back to her magazines. “So you're feeling better huh?”
“Better? There was nothing wrong with me, just a bit restless, that'as all” She let out a small snort of disapproval but seemed relieved.
“Come on Darling,” I said buttoning up my shirt “the nights dropping fast... We've wasted enough time lounging.”
She threw her magazine down, scrunched out a cigarette and slipped into a pair of flat-soled shoes. As she stood I caught a little triangle of white knicker and felt a last drip of sperm rolling down my thigh. “Ready?” I asked, my hand out as if leading her into a dance “lets go and raise the dead.”

Tales from the Southbank

When they dragged his body out the river it was bloated and soft.
Water parasites had gotten in under his skin and looked like veins.
Only the veins moved and wriggled.
A police diver said “Maybe you shouldn't be looking at this”
I said “No???”

He could have been 17 or 50
I was 22

It wasn't a sunny day. Rain was hitting the river.
“Maybe he is called Dan?” I said to the police diver
“Do you know him, sir?”
“No” I said “Just trying to help.”

Dan looked uncomfortable. Like really wet and cold.
Him splayed out like that on the muddy stones irritated me.
Spiders and worms were eating his fucking stomach away.
His dirty white pants seemed to be full of mud.

“Do people shit themselves when they die?” I asked looking in the river
“Maybe it's like in the final moment of life we finally let go of everything and become True Man. Like really ourself for that small moment. Maybe we forget about fashion, and appearance and pride and face and beauty and opinion and morals and religion and life and vinegar. Maybe we let it go and die happy... like finding our true essence in that very final moment. Do you think it could be something like that, officer?”

“Sir, will you please leave the scene now. You're disturbing operations.”

“Maybe someone raped and killed Dan.. have you thought of that? Threw his body off that bridge down there? With the tide and everything it'd make sense he ended up here, on the inner bend with the heavier stones. The river is predictable in that way. Once you know how it works, you can find the things you want.
Maybe the person who maybe committed the crime finally let go and became True Man? Like really himself for that one small moment. Maybe he forgot about fashion, and appearance, and pride and face and beauty and opinion and morals and religion and life and vinegar. Maybe he let go and allowed his true nature to emerge, an animalistic nature that is only conditioned to be repulsed by death and decay? Our teeth aren't blunt, officer, that's no fucking accident! We're here to rip and tear and chew and swallow. D'you know what I mean? Are you kinda with me?”

Mummy's Boy 1984

The room is dark and smells of vomit and martini. In the distance is a red LED and in the further distance a voice announces songs which never play. In the foreground is a woman. She is naked and as pale as chicken skin. She looks like she is crying in her sleep. In the nearer foreground is me my small hand held inside my mothers pussy. Her saggy stretch marked belly is soft against my arm. I want to move but history refuses. Instead I concentrate on features, the tiny movements in my mothers face.

I am free. Turned to the wall smelling my hand. White chicken skin is now a stooped shadow on the edge of the bed. I cannot see her but I can feel her. The ghost DJ introduces another song which doesn't play. Weird voices speak through crackled phones; the city's crazies on late night Talkback radio. Glass hits glass and alcohol lulls out a bottle. Chicken skin is wailing because her man is dead. On the wall I watch TV. Red and blue blinked images of cartoon characters. It's a transmission just for me.

Thighs wrap around my legs and clench. A cheek is placed on mine and secondhand sadness rolls across my face. Chicken skin is closer now, rubbing herself all over me.. pushing, pressing, groaning, moaning. Her hand is between my leg and her sex. I don't know what she's doing but she seems to need to do it. It doesn't hurt, not like pain-hurt, so why not? Then she spasms and kicks her legs.

Mum is on her back. Her mouth is open and she is breathing slowly. She doesn't look like she is in pain anymore; or drunk. I cuddle up against her and hold on for life.

It 3.32am
My pyjamas are damp through with cunt juice and tears
Mum's shot;
The DJ's dead;
The Radio's fucked.
A small red LED flickers through the night
Tomorrow is on its way...

A Rainy day in Soho

The other day I was with a friend in central London. We had been drinking but were not drunk. “Stop,” she says “I need to pee!” We get off the main road and find a quiet street with loads of cars and bikes. My friend is kind of waddling in pain looking desperately for a doorway, but there isn't one. Finally she just says “Fuck it!” and squats down. She hitches her skirt up, yanks her knickers down and adjusts a leg. “Now don't tell anyone!” she says “and keep watch!” I do, but there is no-one about.

I hear her starting to pee, at first a little fizzle then unbreaking spray. Some drops roll around the underside of her arse and drip to the floor. Before I know it pee is washing around my shoes and rolling in streams down the pavement. My friend now suddenly seems really drunk – too drunk to be pissing in the street. She doesn't seem to care. It's like she's at home or something. Then she starts tottering, loses balance and falls over. But she doesn't rest there – she starts rolling and will not stop. Her knickers are hanging off her left foot and she is heading for Oxford street with it's 30,000 shoppers. I rush after her, but now I am drunk too and her movement and the street are making me dizzy. I see her face, ear, back of head, ear, face, ear, back of head, ear, etc... Just like that as she picks up velocity and gets further and further away. I am in pursuit, but the road is now on a steep incline and its hard to keep my footing downhill. I can see what will happen but still I try to stop it.

Finally my friend rolls out into the busy street and comes to a stop. Her pussy is pointing south towards the Centre Point tower. She is on her back and people are veering out her way. Then she opens her legs and starts this enormous piss, like really shooting it out. She is half leaning up and looking down at herself. One of her tits has popped loose and the nipple is erect. Her piss is gushing out in a two metre long stream. The whole street has come to a standstill. My friend rubs her clit, or urethra, wriggles about and starts spurting some more. Her legs are wide open as if she's giving birth. The only thing that doesn't avoid her is a passing dog. It snakes in, takes a mouthful of piss, sniffs and licks at her pussy then wanders on. I stand with the crowds, on tiptoes, trying to get a better look. I watch as her pee spray eases and retreats in between her legs. She rubs and slaps her pussy once more, lets out a final small burst and then it stops.

A dog is licking the cum off my fingers. It looks like the same hound that refreshed itself on my friend. It's a beautiful dog, all sleek and shiny with the brown hair of a racehorse. I look for my friend but she is gone. Oxford street is buzzing with activity once more. Someone is shouting through a large microphone. There is a suitcase of bootleg perfumes laid out in front of me. A man with no arms asks if he can polish my shoes. A woman chucks a bucket of soapy water in my face, wipes me dry, then holds out her hand. Someone screams: “It's the end of the world”. I think that maybe it was all a dream.

It Can Never Get Better Than This




The tragedy of "loved" is that it is in the past and for the heartbroken and estranged lover nothing could ever be further away than that. And that is what Johnny thought as he stood on the bridge dropping tears into the river. The future may be bleak, but it is not hopeless... and then his body hit the water and like a piece of driftwood he was gone.


The tragedy of "gone" is that it is in the past and for those which are left, nothing can ever be further away than that. And that is what Kyle thought as he stood listening to the sermon, the priest's words as grave and as deep as the hole that the body was lowered into. The future may be bleak, but it is not hopeless... and then he wiped his eyes, regained control of his facial muscles and tried to forget that Johnny had ever really existed at all.


It was one of those wild summer days where you look up at the sky and smell the sea. The world seemed to have transcended to a place beyond peace. "It can never be better than this!" thought Kyle. And then the van stopped, scrunched gravel and then stopped again.

They led him out still in handcuffs and prison slacks and pushed him quickly inside. "Kyle Bridges. Funeral Release." Said a fatigued guard scratching his neck under the collar.
"Good service?" Asked another
"Ain't they all?" said Kyle "Can't wait for mine."
And then they stripped him down, violated him with a search and led him to his cell. And as one twisted and held his arms behind his back, another placed a pillow over his face and started pounding away. When he fell to his knees (or rather was lowered to them) the pillow was placed around his ribs and black shiny boots started kicking in the bones.
"Sick paedo cunt!" KICK
"Cunt!" KICK
"Faggot fuck!" KICK
"Not so fucking clever now, hey, paedo!" KICK, KICK, KICK.
During this hideous and frenzied thrashing Kyle succombed to The Blackout and his last thought before leaving for another hell was: "It can never be better than this!"

Spit or Swallow

I remember her enjoying head one minute and then doubling up like a folded mattress the next. She's not usually that acrobatic but I suppose pain like that makes the body do strange things.

After springing open she leapt up holding her sexless sex and gasping through a panic attack.

People don't really scream when they're scared. That's just fairytale. They drift into shock and start making weird suffocating sounds as if crying the wrong way.

Imagine choking on a fishbone. It gets lodged deep down in your throat and is trying to press out through your neck. Well it's just like that. Through blurred, watery eyes you kinda look out at the world in a frenzy of panic, pathetically fitting for help. That's what Gretel done. Looked at me in bemusement as if I was gonna say “Only joking. Your clit's still there. Da da!” But I never did. Just remained on the bed chewing away like a dog.

There's a trail of blood leading from here, into the bathroom and off to the door. Then there's a small puddle and drips and half bloody footprints slipping down the road. I suppose she's done that so as she can find her way back. I hope so, she's a good screw.

Am I a woman now I have a 'clitoris'?

What is she without one?

Who really gives a fuck!?

All I know is that it's decision time. Like all the great whores and lovers from history I am faced with that age old dilemma:

Do I spit or do I swallow?


Bald men. Amputees. Dog with no tail.

Gamblers. Prisoners. Mourners.

The living. The dying. The dead.

Me. You. Him. Her.

All these have lost something.

But my mate Steve, he lost the lot and still kept smiling...

Then life knocked his teeth out.

He doesn't say "Cheese" no more.


don't know who I am. But I remember a crash, a car crash. It happened in slow motion. There was no sound for a while after that...

A young girl somersaulting through air as if weightless. Like a ballerina in the International Space Station. How beautiful, even halfway through the window, screen. Dummies with real blood, slapping against dashboard and tongues being bitten off. Thousands of squares of glass and teeth. An ear. I remember an ear. Maybe thats where the sound went?

I am limping. Did the crash happen under water? Why am I limping? The sun high and a dusty city rises like New York at the bottom of the street. Half my hearing is coming back. I can smell the end of the world.

There are sirens behind, blue and red lights to my side. “I don't know who I am, WILL SOMEONE PLEASE TELL ME!”. Don't let me be screaming that, please. Oh god, I think I am screaming that. Scaring people. Like right up in their faces. Torn clothes, my genitals out, my ballbag hanging by a slither of skin. Human shrapnel. “Who am I? Where am I going? Where did I come from? WILL SOMEONE PLEASE TELL ME!”

I think they know. I think the line of faces recognise me. I think they are keeping it to themselves. Especially that woman a foot back – a mother – shielding her boys eyes from seeing me, from seeing where I have come from. How kind. The City council needs people like her. Mental health problems will soon be on the decline.

“I've been in a car smash?!” I asked/said
A young woman shook her head and backed away
“I'm hurt” I said
A man looked at me like he was in pain, then put his hand up as if blocking the camera of a paparazzi.
“My ear is gone!” I screamed
“A bone is sticking out my calf!”
“My balls are hanging off.”
“ I don't know Who am I!”

The world is streamed through with my distress. Someone here will surely help. I can see two arms, my arms, outstretched and the palms turned upwards like a beggar... Christ the beggar. The crowd parts. An arm moves out and guides me away. I feel like evidence. Like part of a crime scene. Like something the police or medics need to find.

I limp through centuries of sounds and memories and pain. New York never gets any nearer. It is in front of me, above me, to my left, then to my right; spinning, confusing and threatening to take my legs. I am on the Waltzer, the crowds are all whooshed together and blurred into one. I feel the ground and then I see the sky. It is bright and blue and clear and sunny. Sunny like you'd never believe, like one of those days where tragedy just cannot happen.

Mongol Meat (part 1)

I only ever knew her as Neve the mongol, even after. She had lived in the end house at the bottom of the road for as long as I can remember. With each generation of children, since my own, she was out skipping or knocking up seven year olds to come out to play. In the summer you'd find her dumpy fat form rolling about in the street with a Barbie doll. Her shoes kicked off and her baby feet all black and dirty. Very often her hands would be down her pants, rubbing and poking away. Sometimes she'd smile and stroke her hair, but mostly she just cowed away in embarrassment.
Neve's mother was a Catholic. A short woman with a cross, sensible shoes, silk blouse and an itchy knee length skirt. She was forever standing out at the front wall, holding a small china teacup, and peering off down the road in search of her mongol child. If not doing that, she'd be chatting away to a passing neighbour, drivelling on about handicap schools, social grants and the church. As the years passed all that changed was the flesh on her upper arm sagged heavier and spilt over the wall all fleshy and pale. As for the house, well that was a mystery. Apart from some old cunt of a priest and family, I never saw anyone else entering or leaving the place. All anyone ever saw was the prim, dustless, ultra maintained hallway which was advertised by way of a permanently open front door . But there were no invites. Neighbours sipped tea at the garden wall whilst trying to ignore the sickly, milky scent that drifted out from the house.

“Neve, come on in now. BEDTIME Neve,” would sing a soft southern Irish accent. Every evening at 8pm it was the same, like an alarm call through my early life. A little after the call, a stamping, goofing, pigtailed thing would make its way down the road. “Commmin mommmy commin”. But she was always with something missing: her shoes, doll, book, skipping rope etc. It was like when she heard the 8 o'clock call she left the world and galloped home regardless of what she was doing. If she was halfway through taking a crap you'd have seen here running home with her pants down and the head of a turd poking out and smeared across her shitty mongloid arse. “Where's your shoes Neve?” her mother would ask coming out into the street and slowly walking the road. “Anyone seen Neve's shoes, please? ” she'd cry out, Neve dragging behind looking over walls and under milk bottles for her missing parts.

As Neve grew older so her body dropped more and her face become even more scrunched together and centered. At 32 her eyes, nose and mouth were a small circle of features which looked like they'd been stamped into her face by an angry post office clerk. Materially she was your classic middle aged spastic. She had pigtails, thick medical glasses and two watermelon tits tucked into furry pink trousers which were pulled up so tight you could see the disgusting crack of her cunt. When she turned around she was all arse – an arse that made me think of her tongue. It wobbled from side to side with her braids and there were feint shit stains scrubbed all over the back of her pants. We all thought Neve would be dead by 40, and as it happened she was.


When my father opened the box a small black and brown puppy was in there. It leant up on the side and slipped down, all soft and sleepy with extra padded paws. It had no teeth and its eyes were caked up with green gunge. My father said he was called Shandy and was a 'mongrel dog'.

It was me who first lifted Shandy out the box. I held his warm little body for a moment and then put him down. We watched as he slipped and slid around the lino on the kitchen floor. “He'll need his injections,” my father said “and to be wormed.”

Two years later I didn't like Shandy anymore. My fathers lack of dog handler skills, on top of the dogs poor breeding, led to him being a very wild animal. It bit, dragged itself unconscious on its choke chain and at every opportunity darted for the high street. He was out of control. It would slobber lick your lips and nose and then suddenly take a chunk out your face. It didn't like babies that was for sure, but I won't go into that now.

Shandy was so wild he could not mix with other dogs. I think this led to his sexual frustration. It permanently had a lipstick dick poking out its foreskin and a ridiculous leer on its face. He would fuck pillows, legs, chairs, bags of shopping and dustbins. But it never found a hole, and so left its humping whining, its penis dribbling cum.

As a preventative measure against having his beloved dog neutered, my father started relieving Shandy manually. He'd lay the dog on the snooker table, put a pencil up its arse and wearing my mothers hair dye gloves masturbate the thing until thick green sperm was rolling off his bald head. My father's that is. The dog had a full body of hair. Once a day, every day, for over nine years my father done that. But this is not a tale about wanking of pet dogs, it is about an act of love.

Twelve years down the line, time had not been kind to Shandy. His hind legs had gone, both his eyes were cataract, and a huge cancerous cyst had formed on the inside of his arsehole. He had also started doing puppy things again, like eating his own shit. His sharp little teeth had all turned yellow and were surrounded by caked brown gums; his mouth smelled like a sewage outlet

When the stink eventually became too much to stomach, my father moved Shandy to the spare room at the back of the house. When the dog needed a toilet it would whine. Dad would carry him out to the yard, hold him so his legs dangled and let the dog pee and poop. After he'd wipe his bloody, cysty arse and lay him back down on its red bean bag, which was slowly being eaten away by acidic body fluids..

As the year progressed Shandy deteriorated further and his cancer expanded. Soon his whole arsehole was almost blocked and the most hideous rotting stench filled the entire house. The dog was just a head that ate and drank. Sometimes in its dreams it gnashed its yellow teeth. It no longer whined for a pee, just pissed where it lay, his under belly and legs always drenched with urine. When it needed a shit it howled in agony, and almost died getting anything out. Mostly it was blood, but after half an hour or so long streams of thin semi-solid shit would worm out and drop to the floor. Then the dogs howls would lessen into squeals and those into whimpers, but the dog was never fully quiet.

“I'll have to have that thing put down,”my father said one day “but I can barely bring myself to do it. I think I'd rather just crack it over the head with that iron bar. One swift one and his lights would go out.”

Three days later that's what he done, only the dog didn't die. Just suffered horrendous brain damage that left him crazy all day. Now it would no longer allow my father to take it for a shit. It done what it could where it lay, yelping as liquid crap, blood and cancerous fluids dribbled out. Twice a day my father would sneak up, drag Shandy on his bean bag a foot or two across the room; then disinfect and scrub the floor. Shandy just gnarled and flashed his teeth to invisible phantoms that now seemed to give him no second of rest. The dog was demented, just a head with boiled fish coloured eyes and a decomposing arse that was eating it alive.

A week later the second whack of the iron bar took Shandy's right eye out, or rather knocked it in. Blood spewed out and dried in his fur. Some kind of mould began growing in it's socket. Now it lost it's anger and lay there dribbling like a punchdrunk boxer, its other eye searching a world of vision that it could never find. Maybe it could see shapes, I don't know, I hope not.

The third whack of the bar and a sock holding three snooker balls followed four days later. The sock took the left side of the dogs head off and the bar caved in a few rib. It must have also disturbed the dogs bowels as it started up with its shit yelp, but toilet from this point was impossible. The arse was completely blocked. It looked like a tomato or something had been stuffed in there and left to go rotten. Just a bloody, yellowish liquid seeped out from the surface. When the yelping didn't subside after three days my father swapped iron bar for stiletto shoe. He lifted the dogs tail, and using the heel smashed and ground it into the cyst, opening it up. Then he took a snooker cue and forced that a foot into the dogs arse. Shandy yelped and vomited. When my father removed the cue shit just lolled out, like cement from an upturned mixer. But not just shit, also the head of a marble coloured thing, something that looked like brain matter but wasn't.

Death is not an easy thing. It is not easy to kill someone or some thing. On film a man gets shot and goes down, but in reality it doesn't work like that. Death is stubborn and brutal and shocking. Before a breathing thing relinquishes life it will shit, piss, lose it's mind, hold it's own guts in. Even with a kidney or liver on the floor, the intestines falling out the arse, life will persist. And it will make the most ghoulish noises. Not always loud, not always painful, but noises that one will take to the grave. This was the state of Shandy before the fifth whack.

The dog had lingered on, now completely brain dead, but refusing to give in to the blackout. I'm not sure if it felt pain, it didn't look like it did. More it looked like it was trying to cling on until better days, like if it held its guts in long enough it's body would sow itself back together and it would recover. The 5th hit of the bar put pay to that. The 5th which merged into the 6th, 7th , 8th, 9th. Etc. In a frenzied flurry my father bashed the dogs body into an unrecognizable mash of meat. There was no head or arse any longer, just a carcass of blood and brains and slithers of organ. I think I saw an ear trod into the carpet and some teeth, but mostly it was just blood and gunge, like the back slab in a butchers shop.

When my father located the heart, he stamped on it, squirting juice out its various veins and tubes. It made the sound of a joke fart cushion. Shandy had finally been put to rest. In the debris of what was once his dog, my father slumped down in the mess and for the first time in my life I saw him cry “Shandyboy, Shandyboy, Shandyboy” he repeatedly moaned in grief “I loved you so fucking much!”

The Pipe Organ Trilogy: #1. Cunt

She was just a cunt; literally. No arms or legs and barely a body. Carried onto the bed and laid there like a hole in the mattress. Punters had thirty minutes each. I'd stand outside looking at my watch. Every two hours I'd have to take her to the toilet. As I said, she was just a cunt (and arsehole).

I pulled her around in a shopping holdall. You know the kind, those things your grandmother fucks. Her wailing head poking out the top. She was just a cunt (and arsehole) but she did have a mouth. All cunts have mouths.

Up and down Oxford street and Tottenham court road, sometimes Earls court: they like freaky sex round there. In every phone box I could find: Cunt for sale: Cunt, mouth (and arsehole).

My phone would ring so incessantly I'd have to turn it off. Business booming. Business is always booming when you have a hole to sell. Men don't want beauty, they want holes. Not tits, nor balls, nor leg, cock or brain. They want holes and I had three. Cunt, mouth (and arsehole).

We'd usually satisfy twenty John's a day. The Take-home was top dollar, though, it made for a lousy clean out operation. She was like a colander leaking sperm. Stunk to high shit as well. Like that smell when your mother cleans your face with spit. Well, that and pounded cunt (and arsehole).

Every three months I had to 'worm her'. Her tiny stomach didn't work too good and she was fertile grounds for intestinal parasites. Hr belly would bloat up and she'd vomit a lot and make painful noises. I'd her on a towel, bellyside down, and shove my hand and arm right up her arse. When I felt the tangle I'd grip and pull; a handful of shit worms, screaming and covered in blood.

Once someone offered to buy her. An Irish man with thick bushy eyebrows and moles. If it wasn't for that I would have sold. “Not for sale” I said “Short lease only.”
“Aw-kay, O'ill tayk'ker.” he said as if it was a car. I weighed him up through squinted business eyes and saw that sex was all he had to escape himself. I tripled the price.

At 26 she died. A heart attack on the end of a 14inch black cock. I don't know what he done to her, but her cunt and arse ended as one and her face had been all pummelled in. He said that was an 'accident' something which happened 'post-mortem'. I said “You must pay extra for that.”

It felt weird carrying her body out, not like a death at all. More like a miscarriage. It certainly never felt like a crime. I put her in a pillow case, knotted the top and slung her in the river like she was an unwanted litter of kittens. I watched her bobble around for a while and then the water was rushing through her cunt and dragging her down. Quite apt, really. In death, to be buried, all anyone needs is one hole.

The Pipe Organ Trilogy: #2. Cock

Terry had a real bizarre disgusting penis. Long and thin and J shaped when erect, with a thick blue vein living on the outside like a parasite. A real sexual organ... nothing pretty about it.

Now, I always associate sexual organs to the face and head, don't ask me why, I just do. Every time I looked at Terry I just saw his disgusting sex leering back. His face was his foreskin and his jugular his parasite. His blue/pink bowl cut hairstyle just added to his misfortune. He was his own cock.

“Would you suck my head?” he'd ask through a mouthful of mashed cornflakes and milk. And then he'd kind of slide the chair away from the table and be sitting there frog-legged with his hideous sex bending up from a pair of tight balls. It looked like something you'd find wrapped up with the giblets in a butchers shop.

In many ways those were the best of the bad days. To think Terry used to ask before yanking my head down and coming up my nose seems polite. Soon the question mark disappeared and then the question itself. It ended with me being raped at least once a day. I could be doing the dishes, or choosing a DVD and the next thing my pants would down, two arms would have me in a neck snap embrace and a cock would poke in up my arse.

It didn't hurt, it was too thin for that. If anything it was more like a mosquito bite, but I really felt raped by this thing. And it wasn't exciting. I wasn't fighting back with a huge hard-on of my own, I was passive and horrified. Imagine have a killer disease inside you... being aware of it as it incubated, well it was like that. I learnt just to freeze, to stare forward into nothing as his parasite throbbed against my anal canal. Because that was the weird thing: Terry didn't move, or thrust or circle, just stuck it in and held still. There'd be no spasms of orgasm, no twitching of delight, just a kind of pulsating sensation. Then, after two or three minutes, Terry would withdraw, as hard as when he went in, only my arse would be dripping sperm. Sometimes the sperm would be glutinous and lined with blood. I'd fart and it'd splutter our my arse like phlegm (or brain matter.)

But Terry wasn't erect all the time. There were periods of relative calm. It could be hours, days or months, no-one could tell and then one day Terry would be this kind of sex crazed lunatic whose only goal in life was to come. Not even to get his end away, be satisfied, he couldn't; just to come. It was as if he had this bizarre need to inseminate the entire human race with whatever he was.

In Terry's “animal times” even when he slept his cock stayed awake. Like a periscope searching for a target. But permanently dribbling cum... that was the other thing, always pre-cum out its mouth like wino's vomit. One night, as Terry snored away, I gripped his proboscis. It kind of made a murmuring sound and more cum leaked out – it was alive. Taking my phone's USB cable, I tied it around its base and pulled, real tight like I was throttling somebody. The cock let out a painful high-pitched wheezing sound and it felt like it was trying to fight back. By now spunk was pouring out its mouth, overflowing. I pulled even tighter. Finally the cum stopped and the thing shut up and fell limp. I released the pressure on the cable and watched in disappointment as Terry's dick shot straight back up and once again started dribbling. With my head swimming in murderous thoughts, I turned my back and laid staring out into the darkness, thinking of Rottweilers, doberman Pinchers and Pitbull Terriers.

Sometimes these erections would last for days. Terry would be rocking around in pain, screaming as he tried to piss but couldn't. Then it happened, one day every inch of his skin turned brown and he collapsed with the smell of stale urine floating out from his pores. Somehow the piss had backtracked and worked it's way into his blood stream – Terry had gotten septicaemia.

The hospital showed us a trick whereby we could shove a small tube down his pee canal, press on his bladder and allow him to piss. Next time Terry had one of his unappeasable erections that is what we were to do to keep him alive.

It wasn't until three months later that the next prolonged (three days plus ) hard-on arrived. This was the worst bout ever. In the days preceding Terry getting jaundice, I had been raped 47 times. I had tried to fight him off but it was futile. Terry wasn't Terry. He had completely transformed into something else; something ferocious and murderous. I was scared for my life. I have never seen any other sexual being that vaguely resembled what Terry had transformed into. He was his own breed. As I said in the opening paragraph: he was his own cock. Anyhow, after 47 rapes, untold litres of cum and days of constant erection, Terry started feeling sick, gritting his teeth in pain and toning brown again. I wanted to help, to get the pee kit out and siphon him off, but unless raping my arse, Terry would not allow me anywhere near him. So I watched and waited, and as Terry went down, his skin the colour of bile, I moved in with the pee bleeding kit.

My big dilemma was that I knew once I relieved Terry's bladder he would start abusing me again. In siphoning him off and draining the piss out his body, I was effectively giving rise to my chief tormentor, kind of giving my consent to multiple rape and an anus shitting spunk. Well I didn't want that, but neither could I leave and watch a man roll about in pain like that – dying. So I had this idea: dock the cunts cock!

“Terry, this piss siphon thing, it's gonna hurt, I mean real bad,” I said “I think I may have another solution, a better solution. I think we can kinda strangle your cock, kill it. Just like they do with fighting dogs tails, I think we can remove it. As soon as it drops off you'll feel a hellofalot better. What d'you say?”
Terry's answer was a mouthful of bilious vomit. By now he was 'morning piss' yellow and darkening by the hour. He was also very weak and so I took my chance.

To kick things off, I handcuffed his arms behind his back. To those handcuffs I attached a second pair and secured him to the radiator pole. His legs I bound together with that yellow and black warning tape, right up to his balls. Around the base of his cock I tied a thick boot lace completely cutting off his circulation. Within ten minutes his pubes were full of cum and he was all floppy cock. I released the tension on the shoe lace and Terry started pissing. All over his thighs and floor with a pressure that could clean a toilet bowl. I would have got a cup or container but there was no time, and also as he pissed he started rising again and piss was just shooting out everywhere. When the erection took over and the piss stopped I tied him off again, watched as his cock drooped, then piss-bled him some more. I had to do that 17 times before his cock stopped urinating and Terry began to pale down and recover.

Of course, Terry's physical recovery was only half the job, and if I'm completely honest, not even that. I couldn't have given two fucks if Terry lived or died, I just didn't want to see or hear it. But as he did get better I took it as a positive, notched it down as one of my two good deeds. The other of course was making sure this situation would never arise again, and in consequence, ensuring his disgusting alien inseminator would never again poke its unwanted way up and into my arsehole. And so I kept him there. I took a foot of the leg binding away so as he could shit, released the shoelace three times a day so he could pee, and fed him spoonfuls of soggy cereal. At first he refused wholeheartedly to eat, but on the fifth day he got some down. After that he ate up regularly. I wiped his mouth, his arse when he shat, and pulled his foreskin back and cleaned his thin little helmet every other day. His cock by now was almost black but still functioning, though not very well. It had no trouble pissing but really strained to gain a rise. It wasn't until the 13th day that something drastic happened.

I remember turning the light on in the morning and entering the room with a bowl of porrige. Terry was flushed white but in a weird way kind of looked more normal than he had done in a while... in his eyes I mean. “My dick, I can't feel it” he said “and now it pisses by itself. I feel the sensation of needing a pee and then urine is running between my thighs and curling into the crack of my arse.” I laid the bowl down on the table and peered in for a closer look. The thing was completely and utterly black, and the shoe lace was a good centimetre into the flesh. It looked sore.”Not long now,” I said, and “hungry?”
“Maybe we can save it” blathered Terry like an arse “Doctors can perform miracles nowadays! You could drive me down to the hospital and they could do something. It's not too late!”
“Save it!” I screamed “Do we really want to save it? Look, I've got a better idea: we leave it tied until it falls off. You'd still have a stump, could still piss... maybe even wank it? Like a clitoris or something. I don't think I can help you try and save it. Now eat your fucking oats and swallow fate: its coming off!”

Terry started shaking and trembling, and for the first time made some attempt at wriggling free. But it was useless and he knew it. Anyway, what would he do? He was covered in piss and shit, his dick was a black shrivelled sore, and his leg muscles probably wouldn't even get him to his feet. And if they did, miracle of miracles, there was me obstructing his path, with a hammer, bat, fist and boot. No, it was useless. He relented his struggle and once again laid there while I took care of him.

It was three days later that the dick finally fell off – just like a dogs tail. I returned home one afternoon and was confronted by ginger pubic hair surrounding a pair of balls and a stub of flesh which was dribbling cum. It did not seem painful and the wound had sort of healed and tapered as it progressed. The dick itself I finally located halfway under the gold fringe of one of the armchairs. It was so uncocklike, so inhuman or organic, that I picked it up as if it were a dried dog turd, dropped it into the toilet and flushed – smiling as it washed around in the fury before finally being taken down and around the U-bend. Now all that was left was Terry.

Terry was a problem, and I'm not talking criminal. He was a problem because as I've said twice before “he was his own cock”. When I looked at him, even now, I still saw his thin J bent prick. I saw rape, and chickens neck, and proboscis and parasite! I had two choices:

Tie a bootlace around his neck until his head fell off .
Get him in a necksnap headlock, shoot my load up his arse and then bundle him out in the street for the dogs and pimps and freaks to fuck and make their way with.

The bootlace option was appealing but my balls finally got the better of my brain and I opted for two minutes of violent rape before punching his shit-smeared, piss rashed body out for the birds. That was three weeks ago and I haven't seen balls nor arse of him since. To tell the truth, I haven't even looked. As far as I'm concerned, there's just one less dick in the world to be fucked with.