I Said To Myself: Is That All There Is To Love?

When I told Kimba what awaited her at the hands of Mistress she sat there staring at me for the longest time. Her expression was one of bewildered horror – her eyes and breathing stilled and the blood drained from her face. She ceased like a just dead person – that dissociated leaden expression passing over her yellow faketan face like a snowstorm over a tropical beach – but all the time my mind is blank of emotion or thought, and I could have been sitting there 6 million years and I wouldn’t have noticed even the rising and falling of empires outside my kitchen window so guilty did I feel.

She made the first move. She went to the kitchen cupboard and got out a plastic butter knife, like what you get in café’s, and with blind manic passion tried to slit her wrists with it.
- What’re you doin’? – I said. – You’re not gonna slit your wrists with those! Anyway, you’re meant to do it up and down not from sided to side. –
She changed her cutting action to up and down then, and I stood watching her for a minute or two, safe in the knowledge she would do no harm save for lift a miniscule layer of skin off, and when I got bored I snatched it off her and threw it at her cat, Boke.
- I’d prefer to be dead, Danny! – She screamed. – Dead! Do you hear me?! –
Her earlier catatonia had given way to an epileptic frenzy and she swung all round the room and I was sure I saw sparks jump of her too. Suddenly she stopped when she started complaining of spots in front of her eyes then let rip again stomping round and round the table, her arms: angled at the wrists and leading from there too – bolting out in all directions looking like she were a marionette being operated by Michael J Fox, or like a blind person driven lunatic trying to catch a fly by only hearing alone…

It ended up I had to put this tune on the turntable - one her paedophile foster carers used to play for her when she went 'Over The Rainbow’...-

And a video of Joanna as Dorothy (interesting lines then Somewhere Over the Rainbow is sung; Leona Lewis [on X-Factor, Britain's current American Idol-type] and others have been made to sing this particular MK song also [going over the rainbow = dissociation; to escape the horrific traumas they 'go over the rainbow'/dissociate from it]), American Idol is likely full of potential MK'd candidates ready for a life under total corporate control once they "win".

to lull her into a sense of dissociation again – when she said:
- I have a plan. These are the reasons Mistress has us acting out this sick fantasy for her - she said pointing at her spherical middle with our babies inside, - and the only reason we’re going to be part of her sick fantasy is so we can keep our heads above water financially for what? three months tops? Nah! We gotta outsick her, Danny Pongo. And I got the plan to end all plans! –
- That’s why I love ya’ bitch, - I said, lying…

On Channeling Fred West

It’s turned out I’ve had to tell Kimba I love her as a month ago she told me she were up the duff. As she won’t get rid of it (“What you wanna do?” I asked her – as per what Chris Rock said you should say when your girl tells you she’s expecting your sperm mutant (i.e. that is defo not ask her IF she’s going to do this thing/that thing: i.e. get rid of it)) and as I can’t do a runner as I live in a Housing Executive gaff and have nowhere else to go, I have had to do all the things an expectant father should do/say to the swelly bellied mother of his imminent child, by doing everything and all up to and including: telling her I love her when she is boking her ring up and I stand there by the bathroom door when she is down on all fours, her head stuck right down in the bowl like a fat thing that can’t get through a hole, flinching with each dry heave that wobbles out of her bloated frame. One night a week ago she turned to me and said:
“I feel so shitey I’m gonna take that as you being genuine for once in your rotten, smelly life, Danny Pongo. It’s all I can hold onto. I’m starving, cos you have no job and the brew’s fuckin me about on my benefits and we’ve hardly enough money to feed ourselves never mind the wee life that’s growing inside me –“
“Tumour,” I corrected. “Just like a tumour it feeds off you in utero. Just like a tumour is a parasite so is the ‘little miracle’ growing inside you. But unlike a tumour it will continue to siphon your resources: your monetary, physical, spiritual and kinetic energy well after it leaves your body and for 18 years into the future at least. And don’t think it will expand your horizons in any way, shape or form. Socially you might think it will, but the only other people you will ever meet for the foreseeable are other parents who are freaks, who are slavish disciples in the cult of their one and only lil baby. That is the class of people you will meet: People with their own portable shrine, their little gathering of immutable matter, amazing putty flesh, a plastersine avatar – a thing they’d kill, steal or suicide for.....and you’ll be one of them.”

She began to cry, bokey snatters hanging from her nose in big bandy drools long and thick as shoe laces. She were swaying on all fours and groaning and I poked her in the shoulder and nudged her a little and she cooped sideward leftwards and fell onto the tiled floor of the bathroom and lay still, her arms and legs all folded in and gathered in at her middle. She put me in mind of a comatose/stunned/dead animal. I felt bad and put the seat down on the toilet. I sat down on it, folded my legs and had rolled a smoke. I tilted my head back and blew the smoke out languorously and decided these sorts of moments I'd call my Hamlet Cigar Moments only to then feel sorry for myself when I realised a roll-up was a poor substitute for a Hamlet Cigar and, with this hard luck impasse (in the shape of a little baby) it would be ages before I could afford even one of them...

Baby, I Have Good Intentions - Cos Breaking Hearts Just Ain't My Game

Yesterday (Sunday) afternoon I took myself of for a dander around Belfast city centre. I must say, I don’t think there is a more depressing city centre in Western Europe than a Belfast city centre on a Sunday afternoon.

Though every corner I turned gave me reason to count my blessings. Onto Fountain Lane where a poor Romanian sat crosslegged plunking away on an old accordion he couldn't play, and which wasn't tuned anyway. Then to Castle Street where an organic (read white/home grown) tramp sat with a skinny dog shivering in the sharp May breeze. He weakly held up a Styrofoam cup from McDonald's, mumbling the same two words, 'spare change' like a mantra to the uncaring passing bastards.

Used to be there were a lot of freaks and tramps wandered Belfast city centre. Gerry the scabey faced alco, with green weeping scabs running along the bottoms of his deep creviced wrinkles like rocks on a seabed adding a topological feel to his haggard countenance.

There is still Cyril on his bike, and from each handle bar hangs a Tesco or a Sainsbury’s bag stuffed full of other plastic bags rolled up tight into balls. Bogdan reckons it could be some type of push bike ballast he has going on.

I thought about getting myself a bike, though I am afraid of being clipped by a passing bus or a yahoo in his 4x4 (I hate those cunts).

Other cunts I hate are those fuckrags with their personalised number plates. I once saw a man drive along in a Volvo sporting a personalised number plate. On a Volvo. At least put it on a Ferrari or some other cock-motor where’s it’s completely fitting (like a glittery accessory complementing an equally glittery and grotesque ensemble.) Putting it on a Volvo’s like giving a basketball to a midget.

When Kimba came back into my life I thought that it’d be nice, that I’d enjoy the company. For so long I’d been sitting all alone on my sofa willing myself to see recognisable shapes in the random plaster smudges on my wall, comforting myself with the flakey notion this was a sign the universal consciousness was sending me messages of positive encouragement – this is how barren and desolate the landscape of my life was. I was going stir crazy. It got to a point that that oft thought sentiment materialised: I’d love a bit of company. . .But I have now realised that that phrase should come with the proviso that it really depends on who’s company you mean.

Kimba just won’t fuck up. Between her prolonged paranoid ramblings about chemtrails and Mad Otis’s scatty and aggrieved declarations of war on any and all I am scratching for silence like a man hanging of a ledge grasps for grip. Kimba is also insisting I declare my love for her. I tell her it is too early for that kind of thing and she, in response, has stopped my bumming rights. Saying that, I still get to ball her. Feeding her face isn’t the only type of stuffing Kimba requires, the fat horny cunt.

She mutters, between talk of nanoparticles being introduced into our system via cereals, and the ghost of JFK, that she is going to bring a pal of hers over, a wee spide called Pinky. She wants Pinky to be in a threesome with me and her. I told her I was not averse to this in principal, but that I would have to see a picture of Pinky first to see if he was handsome or not. I think she is a little bit annoyed by this. It is my feeling she wanted me to feel threatened and jealous so’s I’d finally tell her I love her, a thing I’m not much good at anyway, saying the word ‘love’. But, when the time does come when my hand is forced I think I will play her this song – which says things about commitment a lot more succinctly than I ever could/would...