The last 10 searches that lead to this blog

frank morgan dead
100 day cough
frank morgan =dead
hundred day cough
sarah morgan transvestite
100 day cough china
frank morgan
leave your light on by frank morgan
one hundred day cough
burger paints for living room

What can I take from that list?

a) I don't think any of these people were disappointed (apart from the ‘burger paints’ guy wtf was that about?)

b) I can probably console myself with the fact I'm probably not the only person dying from the Chinese 100 day cough.

c) Wait, Frank Morgan =dead?? Are the 100 days up already??

d) Who found out about my transvestite alter ego Sarah??

Detective

I walk around London in the dark, I follow people for a living, I spy on people.

I walk through the meat market most days, there’s always blood and little bits of offal, pig livers, that sort of thing lying around.

The seagulls and the pigeons fight over the bits and peck at the bloody pavement.

Rabbit Face The Shopping Centre Clown

I work at the shopping centre. I sell balloons to the children and sometimes I do magic tricks with a dirty hanky. When I was fourteen years old I cut my top lip off with scissors. Back then we didn’t have plastic surgery. They started calling me rabbit face so I pulled my teeth out with pliers, but yeah, they still called me Rabbit Face.

Chinese One Hundred Day Cough

I have contracted the Chinese 100 Day Cough.

The symptoms are:

Flu like lethargy
Dry mouth
Vertigo
Violent mood swings
Paranoia/fear of death
A Tourettes-like compulsion to shout at total strangers
Aching bones (this may be psychosomatic as bones have no nerves and cannot feel pain)
Outbursts of origami
Secret compositions of Haiku
Choking
A brooding sense of worthlessness
Hording
Coughing for one hundred days
Death

The Ideal Xmas Gift

Hai everybody!
Ok so it’s a bit early to talk about Christmas n that but I’m soooo excited, I know what I’m giving all my family and friends and I had to share it with you.

It’s the perfect gift, it won’t take up much room and you can use it again and again . . .

Feel free to copy this idea, everyone likes a home made gift and this is so personal!!1

Leave me a comment if you want me to make you one too.
Click this to see it!

Metallic Yellow Dog Bark

Life becomes an endless tick list
of loose teeth
and inverted male genitals.
Splinter and separate the bones,
as necrotic flesh blackens on the stump

Under Cover, Brother

There is a room. Inside the room is a pad, written on the pad is an address. The address is my address. The writing is not mine.

There is a small scrap of paper. I eat the small scrap of paper. It is the first thing I have eaten all day.

People keep shouting at me as I walk down the street. I am supposed to be under cover. I am supposed to be invisible.

My tongue is too big for my mouth, my cheeks have swollen up. I can’t breath. I CAN’T BREATH.

I crash through a glass door, the door doesn’t break but the noise it makes is worse than anything I have heard for days, worse than a hundred fingernails slowly scraping down a blackboard. A tiny bell rings and I fall to the floor in a heap.

I have no idea where I am.

If I could only sleep

Things I like about Denmark

Today, for my lunch I had a can of Special Brew and a Danish pastry.

These are probably my two favourite things about Denmark.

If I ever went to Denmark I’d find a boozer that sold Special Brew on tap. I wouldn’t be quite so bothered about Danish pastries but if the boozer in question happened to have a couple in a glass display cabinet then yeah I’d buy them.

Short Novel

This short novel was inspired by a distant memory of a blog post by Chris Killen in fact, it was this blog post.

oh, and this post by Ben Myers

ANYway . . .

The Procrastinator

I have an important job to do,
I think I'll do it tomorrow.

Eviction

I’m being evicted. The landlord has had enough of the late or non existant payments and the damage that’s been done to his property.

I’ve done my best to board up the broken windows and put newspaper over the holes in the wall but there’s only so much you can do.

The bare bulbs swinging from the ceiling expose more than just the physical ills of the place.

I survey the dirt and the filth, I’m up to my ankles in empty bottles and pizza boxes. There’s mud and God knows what ground into the threadbare carpets. This is my life.

If you stand dead still and wait you can hear the cockroaches and the lice crawling and scratching in the walls.

I know I’ll miss the place when I’m gone.

Dream

I still can’t breath.

I’ve just woken from a terrible nightmare; I was wearing an elaborate golden mask and chasing a dog through a house I didn't recognise. Suddenly I tripped and the mask came away, pulling with it my lips and gums. My teeth skittered away on the marble floor, in their place grew long misshapen fangs, I went to put my hands to my face, but there were no hands at the end of my arms, my arms had become tentacles. When I looked up I was standing in front of a full length mirror. I tried hard not to stare into my own black eyes, my face was covered with matted hair, I was a monster, a hideous monster, I fell to the floor screaming until I was hoarse but no one came to help me, no one came.

Addicted

My throat is on fire.
I struggle to draw each laboured breath.
I light another Mayfair and take a slow deliberate drag.

Hung Over

I hate shaving, you always need a shave when you can least be bothered to do it.

A mobile phone rings constantly in another room.

My teeth feel loose in my head, like the gum has dried and receded. I am afraid to look at them in the mirror or even touch them. I can taste blood.

I’d like lots of small cotton wool balls to stuff into my mouth. I’m not sure that this will help but the thought is comforting. I think I would feel safer if my mouth was full of cotton wool.

I need to hydrate.

A mobile phone rings constantly in another room but I don’t recognise the ringtone.

There is broken glass all over the kitchen floor.

Brown Bread

If I was to die,
I mean really,
proper dead like.
I want it all to flash before my eyes,
my life.
But not like a film or a documentary,
I’d want to feel it,
touch it, even smell it.
I’d like to dip in and out of it as it flowed past
in real time.
I’d like to fast forward and rewind it
and live it all
a thousand times.

Another Late Night

You can try pinching your face but this has a very
limited shelf life.

Even downing another can of Red Bull won’t keep my
eyes from slowly closing.

I do it anyway, I tip my head back and suck in the drink,
I crush the can and squeeze the nasty fluid down my neck.

I pick my teeth with a yellow biro and pull out what
appears to be a fairly large piece of skin. I
scrape the biro on the ashtray and the skin balls up and
gets covered in ash. I try not to think about it and
carry on driving.

My hair is wet with grease and hangs over my face.
I can chew the ends, I taste of cigarettes and chemicals.
This is not a good taste yet I find myself repeatedly
trying to bite and chew the ends. I do this without
realising I am doing it. The hair isn’t quite long enough
so I have to pull a face and distend my lips to catch the
hair, I look chimp like when i do this. I look subnormal.
I would like to break the habit. I need to make the
fringe shorter, I look for some scissors under the
passenger seat as if there was going to be a pair.

There are no scissors under the passenger seat.

I find a lighter.

I’m cold but my back is damp with sweat. I feel itchy
and open yet another can of Red Bull, spilling some of
the sickly sweet liquid over my lap. I open my window
but the noise of the wind is too much.

I have a near miss pulling on to the motorway and narrowly
avoid becoming a news story.

A sculpture.

A bloody, disembowelled transformer.

Ronnie

Ronnie flips burgers for a living

The hours are long and the pay is minimum wage.

Ronnie sweats over a hot griddle.

Flippin burgers.

Ronnie was once told that the guy that flips the burgers
gets to poke the girls on the till. For def. Ronnie has
discovered this is far from true. The black dudes with
the cornrow hairstyles get to poke the girls on the tills,
the guys that wear do-rags and look like they want to be
gangsters fromdowntown LA, they get to poke the girls
on the tills.

Pretty much everyone smokes weed out the back by the
cardboard compactor. No one seems to mind this.

Ronnie stares at the grill for minutes at a time. The
burgers burn a little bit. Sweat drops onto the hotplate
with a hiss.

The utensil Ronnie uses to flip the burgers is a wallpaper
scraper. It has been used as a wallpaper scraper and has
flecks of paint on it.

Ronnie happens to know the meat content in the burgers is
not as high as the customers are lead to believe. Ronnie
happens to know a guy who worked in a slaughter house.
The guy that Ronnie knows says that the last thing you ever
want to eat is a sausage or a burger that you haven’t made
yourself. Allsorts go into these things. Bones, eyelids and
ball sacks, sawdust, spit and gristle. There's Spine, offal,
hoof, cock.

Ronnie still eats a burger every lunchtime.

Last Night

- It’s really just perfume. Sarah points out to me.

I had been daydreaming up to that point and had missed the earlier part of what she had been saying

- Errm? I say, unconvincingly. Proving I had not been listening.

Errm? is not a definitive statement, errm? is not a reply, a satisfactory answer or a question pertaining to the previous statement. Nor is Hello, Hello is a greeting but I always ask Hello . . .? when I answer the phone, as if there may not be someone there, on the other end of the line.

- Aftershave. Sarah’s tone suggests a hint of exhaustion, as if talking to me was a Herculean effort of will. I don’t like this tone of hers but I fail to take exception to it before she’s off again. - Eau de toilette, it’s the same as perfume, men, wearing perfume.

I want to point out that I don’t wear aftershave, that I never have nor, I firmly believe but cannot prove, will I ever wear aftershave, eau de whatever or even deodorant. I want to point out that Sarah’s hair is dry and brittle and that I’m bored bored bored but something tells me to keep this information to myself. The easy life, that’s the one for me.

Sarah likes watching TV, even the adverts. Sarah eats raw carrot sticks and stares at the box.

I watch her crunching the carrot sticks and try to imagine it is bugs bunny on the sofa, you know, when he used to dress up like a woman and put lipstick on and that. I try to imagine Sarah as Bugs Bunny, administering hairy rabbit faced kisses to me dressed as Elmer Fudd, shot gun and all. But for some reason I keep imagining myself as a small boy and Sarah as a grotesque over-sized decrepit Bugs Bunny transvestite with rotten teeth and yellow eyes that look at me hungrily.

I try to watch the programme.

The programme (a long winded and surprisingly fact light documentary on channel 4 about Naomi Klein) finishes and Sarah hands me the remote, I don’t want it, decisions were never my strong point and I don’t want to watch tv anyway.

Sarah is in the bedroom, tidying.

I turn the tv off and go and hide in the kitchen. Or wait in the kitchen, there is nowhere to hide. I don’t want to hoover or dust or clean or scrape. I don’t want to paint the bathroom, I don’t want to choose the paint or buy any paintbrushes. I’ve tried to tell Sarah that it's all fine and I like the bathroom and the bedroom the way they are. Sarah made me paint the living room before we moved in and I fell off a chair and ruined the carpet whilst reaching for a difficult corner.

Eventually she leaves me to finish the ‘washing up’ whilst she ‘does’ the living room. Sarah’s idea of cleaning is to make me do it, then she breezes in and takes all the glory by making everything look neat and tidy. I do all the hard work and all she really does is straighten up the CD’s or put the pens in a neat line. Sometimes I feel like she is my supervisor, like she's there not to do any of the work, but to make sure the work is done.