The Badger and Compass
The clatter of the wooden pub door, shoved open and inwards against the fruit machine brings a sudden lull among those gathered in the Badger and Compass’s faded, gloomy charms. Assorted tourists seeking some West End charm who ended up here, nursing non-alcoholic drinks, now stare wide eyed at the looming figure in the doorway, silhouetted by deep winter afternoon streetlights.
Cold air whistles in as he points with his huge hand, like a pound of sausages, accusing someone across the room.
“Well look who it is. You massive Muppetcunt!” he roars across the crowded room.
“Piss off, you facking Cockwomble.” The reply comes from an equally hulking man sat at a table his mass dwarfs. He stares at his accuser, then casually gulps a mouthful of dark beer from the dimpled glass jug he holds easily in one hand.
The leather clad man walks in, allowing the door to close, cutting off the little slice of cold London.
“Fucknugget” he growls at the other man, who holds his gaze as he rises from his stool, having placed his now empty pint pot down.
Dimly lit tourists huddle in their separate groups, countries represented by their individual languages, spoken in hushed and fearful tones. It’s one of the smaller London pubs, with only one door in and out. It would have initially seemed quaint to them, but now feels entirely like a trap. This sentiment is quietly echoed in Japanese, Spanish, Italian and German.
The two giants now face each other across the room, like mythical figures that burn out each other’s eyes. Staring. Brows furrowed. Eyebrows like V’s.
They take turns, rumbling insults at each other, moving forward another step each time, tectonic plates of bubbling rage.
“You’re just a Jebend. Why aren’t you dead yet?” Snarls one.
“Too busy hanging out the back of your Mum, you cunting Wankstain” the retort delivered through gritted teeth.
They are now two steps away from each other. Seizing the opportunity, half the world exits the pub via the now available doorway. They don’t utter a word as they escape, the potential that they could be that innocent passer-by in a newpaper story in a land foreign to them mutes their voices.
“Get fucked, Cocksnot” another step.
“No, YOU do one, you Shitstain of a Thundercunt”. Another pace forward.
They are within reach of each other now, all eyes in the pub are on them. The bartender even stops pretending to wipe the greasy wooden bar. It seems like time slows.
The pub’s new arrival does not blink as he reaches into his jacket pocket, taking hold of what bulges there. He stares into the soul of the man stood before him.
Not one breath goes in or out as he pulls his hand out of his pocket and booms;
”I’ve got something for you, you bloody Cocklord”
“Bring it, Cuntnugget,” is the fumed reply from the mammoth man squared up to him, audible only because of the silenced pub.
“Happy fucking Birthday, you old cunt” shouts the leather clad guy as he hands over a pink envelope with a small silver package sellotaped to it. Cheap ribbon curled with the edge of scissors bounces as it exchanges meaty hands.
“Fuck you, Arsewipe!” the other laughs, and they embrace with back slaps that could shake a planet. The collective sigh of relief gives way to pub-babble, conversations starting up once more as if nothing happened.
Just two lifelong friends engaged in the very British pastime of insulting each other on a night of bonding. There will be beer. There will be insults. And there will be confused looks from every nationality that happens to understand what they say to each other.
i see you every day
but you don't look my way
perhaps that's for the best
you're better than the rest
manyothers board the train
for their daily dose of pain
several look a little hot
but they're all cunts, and you are not
i saw you months ago
but of course, you didn't know
what you made me feel inside
would make your eyeballs openwide
and as you shift your seat
i dream of when we'll meet
and of all the things i'd do
so let me walk you through
i'd sit with you and chat
upon this and about that
i'd gain your confidence
with a slew of compliments
later on, we'd disembark
noone sees, it's ratherdark
and when the moment's right
i'd make all sense take flight
please don't think it strange
that i'd like to rearrange
all the beauty that you keep
on a nightstand while you sleep
trowelled on like so much shit
i'd take it off with mottled spit
and of course, you'd wear a frown
i'd turn that fucker upsidedown
then i'd rip away your hair
nopoint screaming, i don't care
i'd fuck that which leaves a scar
it's my favourite coup de grâce
if you could, you'd call me killer
a serial blood spiller
but you'd stay still instead
because i took your prettyhead
then i snap back to the room
and its shit commuter gloom
there you are, your usual seat
only this time our eyes meet
you flash a scarlet smile at me
fuckinghell you've set it free
and to myself, with antisorrow
i whisper, 'this time tomorrow...'
you puscummers call yourselves fucking civilized?
building your jizzgleaming, assaromaed, pompous shitstains
out of crack-cut concrete and heroine-spliced needle-marked steel,
cocktowers surrounded by us neglected disposalbins and 'buttfunnels,
wasted on you mudpuppets and cuntcheeses fuckfarted into existence,
who'd rather drop your lipfucked 'butts onto the spittlespunked street,
flick those fucking filters out your glutgreasy windows as you fleeeee
on profitbile you bloody keep at a limpdick quarter tank, cheapskanks,
leaving your lipjizzed, splittlescabbed cancerwhites & tans in the sacred sand,
and, you gangrenous oozes, will even drop 'butts next to the fucking trashcans;
YOU funguscunt, pissfuckicking, profitwhoring, insipid bitches -homo sapiens,
"homo sapien sapiens"- mass-hypnotized pustules, DARE to call us rubbish?
Fuck you and your fucking 'butts.
-your neighborhood trashbin/rubbishbin/trashcan/wastebasket/disposalbin/etc.
A hand across a face,
Now voiceless noise.
Gagged and bound,
Kneeling at evil feet.
And elusive dreams.
Darkness never comes,
Though they pray,
It still stays away.
Knife digging in,
Blood spilling from words.
Then comes the worst,
The indescribable pain,
Welling from every pore.
It's only a matter of leaving a trace.
Carving more scars,
Leaving more blood,
Ruining more mind.
Everything strewn about,
The world is fragile.
A bitter image,
Preserved on a broken mirror.
Everything's broken now,
Left for dead.
Then comes the final insult,
It's not even quick.
A hand to a face,
The other hand covering the nose,
Not a single breath.
Oh Puppetmaster, Pull My Stings
I was quiet. I was loud. I was innocent. I was a slut. I was whatever they wanted for the night. In the backseat of a car, I'd suck them off. In a pay-by-the-hour motel I'd let them fuck me, use my body, pull my hair. I'd let them call me whatever they wanted: brother, dad, fucking dirty whore. Or let 'em hit me, bruising pale flesh. Hell I'd let them do a line off my ass if that's what got the pig's off. Whatever they wanted; shorts around my ankles, shirt hiked up, hair tousled, sweating, disgusting. It made me feel filthy. Made me a whore. Whatever they wanted for a fifty when their sixty cramped minutes of playing God were over. I was nothing, I know. It's just sometimes its nice to pretend otherwise. So I pretend to like it. I smile and open my mouth wider, spread my legs farther. I grin when presented with handcuffs, lick my lips at a paddle. When things were out of my control at least I could forget they were in fact my fault. It was easier to give up power then have it when you were to scared to utilize it.
Chew on this.
"People Matter" my ass. Crass maybe, but fuck off and open your eyes. Don't fein surprise that Corporate cocks and cunts get rich by using and abusing the average dunce who's just "happy to have an employer." For-fucks-sake, people of the Steeple rape and lie while their flock look to the clock and wonder why-- why didn't they see it? Why didn't they know? Pft. Reality-show-shock glamorizing the misery in others lives? You know they sodding watch that shit the Saturdays before Sunday. "Fundays and sexcapades" down played on the News for the drug raids, while the cost of "meds" for Aids doesn't get a fuck'n mention. Tension mounting on nuclear manipulations distract from the tact of their pompous Political Profiteering. Steering the mope-minded general populous to believe it's for their protection, but it's a Resurrection of an infection that tainted "humanity" since the dawn of "civilized" time.
If people mattered simply because they where people... wouldn't we people do more to help anyway we could simply because someone should?
|| another_proser ||
They seemed to rape my soul.
Penetrating deeply, uncovering my deepest secrets.
And yet, slowly taking each one away from me.
Without my consent.
When he spoke, I forgot my words.
When he walked towards me, I forgot how to use my legs.
"I want to fuck you senseless and I want you to cum all over my face."
I gasped. How horrifically explicit were his words. How disturbing.
And yet, how utterly arousing.
I was a good, church-going girl.
And yet, my innocence completely shed itself at that moment.
That's when I knew both who I was and wasn't.
I awoke. I felt enlightened. I was born-again.
But not in a religious sense at all.
From then on, he was my god.
And that is what I called him, during sex.
"God, oh God!" I would scream, but I meant it literally as his name.
His holy goddamn name.
Sex that was both painful and psychotically pleasurable.
I didn't love him. I never loved him. He didn't love me.
I loved the feeling of being exposed and degraded.
Not rape, no. I wanted it. He raped me not sexually, only soulishly.
I woke up each morning, forgetting who I was.
I felt drugged. And he was my drug.
I was empty of myself.
But instead of feeling depressed, I felt exhilarated.
I could fill myself with anything I wanted to.
I could be anything I wanted.
Until dusk. Until night.
When he'd empty me of myself again.
And again, and again.