He'll Take Your Heart And You Must Pay The Price

 I never think much about eyes, not much like in the way that our cultural and/or pseudo-psychiatry guardians do anyway with their seeming ability to discern what is being conveyed by the eyes of various folk, - that they can tell from just how the eyes are set etc all and everything about them.

The MK-Ultra victim, for example, will have eyes lost of all life and hope. Devoid of concepts, they are unresponsive to stimuli and nary a blink will they give were, say, a loud explosion to go off nearby. The eyes will show no sign that they're peering into the here and now. Then these paragons of virtue, those who usually hog up Newsnight Review and Loose Women, attribute a history to these people, how their eyes came to be like that, and they invent histories for them, - The MK-Ultra victim, her granddaddy pissing in her face and slapping her about as a child. The Man Who Lost A Wife Too Soon, they say, 'oh yes, of course! You could tell by his eyes that'd happened,' like these TV People don't regard the eyes as seeing organs, more as scrying pools to be gazed into and surmised over as to their phantasmagorical provenance.

Then they talk about a different kind of empty eyes, the empty eyes of the psychopath. This empty wasn't cruelly put there by fate or circumstance. These people have actually eaten their own joy (or whatever it is these TV people say exist in the eyes of The Happy Person). The psychopath has picked away at this enjoyably, like its a massive ball of scab, he has eaten his own humanity – and it is all indicated by 'the eyes'.....TV Pundits Make Me Sick!

But it were eyes today that were on my mind as I have noticed something strange about my left eye in the shape of these fat, thick white floaters. It were that I'd put this strangeness down to ghosts and orbs in the past; that I'd a special power that allowed me to witness dimensions close to this one, that my ken were set like a radio between stations, able to make out both clearly, but one fainter than the other. It was that I even witnessed the dreaded Shadow Beings, creatures composed of shadow that flit round the peripherals of this world. And while I think these are common things witnessed by all who look (properly), the orbs and ghosts I am now believing to think are actually cataracts.

So today I went down to the Cathedral Eye Clinic for an appointment to get to the bottom of things. And it turns out noting is wrong at all that a few eye drops and vitamin pills wouldn't put right. The optician was a right eccentric. He'd this feathery white beard and a big puff of white curly hair that he'd got all tied back. The back of his head looked like a cauliflower, and he jittered about giggling and rubbing his hands together looking like something from out of those Wheel Of Time books, like he should've been wearing chain mail with an axe across his back riding a fuckin Pegasus.

 - But Doctor, - I said.

 - I'm not a doctor, - he said more haughtily than most would.

 - Right, but – why am I getting these things floating round my eye, eh? I think there's something the matter!

 - Ha!Haaaa! That reminds me: What'd good ol' Spike Milligan want on his headstone??? That's right: I told you I was sick...That's right! - The oddball's eyes took on a gleam then. I was watching the eyes, watching the eyes, cognisant of the potential wisdom of the TV People. His eyes were full of mirth and good humour if anything. He looked more an more like the type of man who, in his spare time, would sit cross-legged on a barren rock somewhere out in the country, dressed in a toga, spouting platitudes via the medium of haiku, a terror and a wonder to passing hikers.

 Then I asked him, - But what can I do about these floating orbs of light? What?!

 It was then the mirth and humanity left the eyes, replaced by the dreaded EMPTY...- If you are going to ask me a stupid question you can expect to receive a clever answer! Eh? Eh??

 My face dropped. I was suddenly stunned by his switch. The eyes were not empty now, but held a kindling contempt.

He impatiently told me to get up and ushered me out to the reception, where the pretty blonde from earlier that'd signed me in had been replaced by a midget lady. The eye drops the oddball had administered at the start of the session to make my pupils dilate were making me squint. My vision was now truly blurred and I couldn't tell if the midget was a midget or if my depth of field were fucked. But then when she dropped her pen under the table she shimmied to the edge of her seat, hang-dropped off, then walked right under there without even stooping. So I stopped squinting as I believed she might think I were somehow mocking her and when she climbed back up in front of me and took my details I stood there my eyes wide open, big as an owl's, nodding and nodding and never blinking. Its all in the eyes, looks given and looks received.....Windows to the soul, though I like to keep my blinds down and my curtains drawn.......

 

Oil Paintings Of X-Rated Picnics

I have been laid up with my leg in plaster. Today Bogdan turned up in his ace Ford Capri and he suggested I get some fresh air, as there was more than the faint whiff of cum and farts of me.
You stink, Danny Pongo, is what he said.
So we went for a run to the forest for a smoke and a picnic. Again his favourite topic of sex came up.

I’d like to know what it feels like to get fucked as a woman. Not like a woman, because I wouldn’t, but as one.
Why?
Because when they come they feel it all over for ages. When a man comes its quick and it’s all centred round your member the sensation. But it’s strange, as it feels so much better for them that women want it less often than men. Men want it all the time.
Maybe cos it feels better for them they need it less. For men as its more blink-and-you’ll-miss-it they have a greater need to recreate that transient state.
Makes you feel that the oversexed man’s just got a bad rap and in fact can’t help themselves. I’d just love it though, have a big man loom over me and slide it in. and fuck me quick.
I know what you mean from my porn viewing. A woman coming’s like a major tectonic shift, compared to a man, which is more like an ant’s sneeze in comparison.

Which brings me to my porn-a-like for this post.



Today's pornalike is Michelle McManus. Poor Michelle McManus. After her lacklustre crooning pursuits came apart at the heaving seams she turns her hand to porn to keep the kindling of her stardom going, with messy results.

Recently I have borne witness to many strange and otherworldly phenomenon while laid up in my mother’s. How I came to be here is a long story winding up in me falling off a house and shattering my kneecap.

In my mother’s, which is haunted, I have over a series of nights witnessed orbs, shadow people, objects moving of their own volition, wisps and black balls of malevolent energy.

One morning years ago we came down to find a little fire burning in the middle of the kitchen. Another time the scraggily bodies of 3 dead crows were found in the fridge. Back then mother thought it was me acting out in a surreal turn of adolescent rebellion. But as the time went on she came round to my way of seeing things and admitted there was a strange and not necessarily good force in her house.

I have a hankering for getting in a medium whenever I am back on my feet. When I mentioned this to Bogdan he warned ‘mediums can do more harm than good. They can provoke a spirit into greater acts of evil. They’re like the occult equivalent of agent provocateurs!”

The last few days I’ve been adjusting pleasantly to the company of my adopted housemate, Aloysius. He likes it pronounced A-LO-ISIS. I say pleasantly because the last few days he has drawn my attention to this video:



And last night he had a paranormal experience with me. I have often glimpsed out of the corner of my eye orbs and figures and shadow men.
Ideas of some humanoid afterthought will flit through my peripheral vision later to be regarded with the same distain as the fleeting daydream of a no-strings adulterous afternoon tryst. Last night I had confirmation. Last night Aloysius saw the same thing I did – namely a tiny diamond shaped orb float past his face. I first saw it descend though the ceiling. It floated over toward my feet and stopped there, bobbing in the air for a few seconds before disappearing into thin air. A minute later Aloysius declared loudly that an orb materialized at the end of his nose, floated away from his face and into the TV.
THEY’RE HERE - declared Aloysius
I saw that too, I said.
As we’re tired now and in a state of unconscious more attuned to the paranormal realm we may be on that bandwidth that allows the more subconsciously aware to tune into that frequency that's really between dimensions - then so what we saw might’ve been the construction of a meme taking shape finally.

Luckily and quite by coincidence, some would say synchronicity, I found this article.

Aloysius is a welcome arrival in loneliness. His story is to be told at a later date. Our conversations proceed thusly:

Adrian Chiles vs. Genghis Khan? Who’d win?
Genghis Khan, I’d answer. He has better weapon skills, I’d wager. But Chiles would give him a run for his money. Especially having to find his way around the assault course that is Christine Bleakley’s bony frame. He might be fast and resilient

and he'd also have the element of suprise, said Aloysius. Whenever he's on the tele' da always said 'he's a face like a dog's arse.'

So our daily long conversations are like the verbal equivalents of Paul Klee pictures.

Would you ever fuck a girl in a wheelchair?
The Christians have missed out on a great catchphrase: Jesus Please Us.
Fantastic, I’d answer.

He has proposed we go out in mushroom season and collect some up. Mushroom season isn’t long off. End of August, September. I’ve heard off a smackhead all the best places to go. It was one of the last things he told me before he died and it would be all over inappropriate if I was to reveal his final words to me.

Maybe on the mushies we’ll encounter some more orbs. Maybe this time they’ll reveal themselves to us like they did in the story told above. In the meantime I’ll indulge as wholeheartedly as a art school student in an alabaster factory in mine and Aloysius conversations:
Earlier, reading a riddle of a pack of fag papers:
A man pushing along his car stops at a hotel. At that point how does he know he’s just gone bankrupt?
Spiritually or morally bankrupt?
...he’s playing Monopoly at the time.