Mr. Palmer killed the farmer

Mr. Palmer killed the farmer.

He hadn’t meant to hit the man so hard, or so many times. He only wanted to threaten him, to scare him, to make him stop.

Intentions don’t matter much now, he thought. Not now. Not with him standing red-handed over a corpse that once looked like a man.

Mr. Palmer hid the farmer.

He tried to drag the body through the house, but stopped at the end of the hall.

His doctor had told him that at his age he should be avoiding manual labour, and the leg kept slipping from his bloody hands, and he was just making more mess.

He took off his clothes there in the hall and dropped them over what used to be a head. It didn’t matter that the eyes were mush and no longer attached to anything, he didn’t like being naked in front of others and this was no exception.

He took a long shower. Maybe he was crying, it was wet, he couldn’t tell.

The man had no friends, and his family lived in the city. His house was in the centre of a property the size of Malta, and he had no telephone. Mr. Palmer had time.

(There you go SLAM, I wrote half a new thing)

Howdy

I’ve been gone for a while and I might come back idk yet

Uncle Andy Blues

Andrew Bishop was his rock, said the funeral director, reading lies arranged by the deranged to the collective disgust of the mourning audience. If Andrew Bishop was his rock then where was Andrew Bishop?
Not here, he sits alone with his captive wife, whom he has let wilt, with a crown of shit on his liars head.
He once held power now he holds a dead mans ashes ransom between valium fingers.
Oh how I want to flay the cunt.

Nietzsche bashes Descartes

Has it started to rain or is that a car coming or is it waves crashing.

Rain.

Bloody reality I tell ya mate, can’t trust it.

Descarte went and proved it didn’t he?

“What is real?” he said.

And he reckoned if you can’t tell true objective fairdrink reality from the matrix, or if you got a fucked up brain, or in a dream, or if you was mental then you can’t KNOW that fairdink reality ever exists.

He was like, “I only reckon I’m real cause I can think and I know that I’m thinking and I can think about myself thinking and shit.”

“I think therefore I am,” he said.

But you ain’t mate that’s what I’m fucking tryin to tell you.

Nietzsche coming at ya.

“Listen here cunt. Your conclusion is a bit fucking presumptuous mate. First mistake, you presume an ‘I’ exists and you presume ‘thinking’ exists and you reckon that ‘I’ know what ‘thinking’ is.”

Descartes fucking speechless right now.

“Mate. I’ll fix your fucking mess for ya cunt.”

He puts his hand in his pocket and says, “It thinks,” and flips Descarte the bird. “Mate. It’s just like the ‘it’ in ‘it is raining.”

Descartes is flipping his shit he’s so mad, but he died in  1650 and Nietzsche wasn’t even born. This never happens. It’s not raining.

What happens when my phone suggests words

I am a member of the alpine moon, the first level of the most important thing. It will take you to the invasion. We have been the most popular and the rest are not an intended recipient of this message.
Thank the Lord of my favorite movies that they can be used for that special day.
I am stomach and then you should know about the only problem with that one day to get to see the full story of a crap artist who would be a good day and night in the morning we can do that to the invasion of the alpine y a pas mal the alpine moon The man who jabed to the invasion ” Australia day and night in a sec that the only thing that would have a lot

Tax back

I dont start work for another half hour,
Smoking grams of ciggies is the secret to my power and I drink a coffee every three fucking hours.
Comes July I’ll be sitting on some fat stacks, cause I’m a low income earner getting so I’m getting all my tax back.

Jks I work ok

You Working hard or hardly working?

I’m working hard to hardly work.

WIP – I hate my thighs when boys dont txt back

 

*This is a work in progress*

The last part of that Katy Perry song rattles off and she’s getting pretty close to home, so she pulls out the headphones and stuffs them in the front pocket/pouch of her school jumper.

It’s windy and she’s pushing back, walking hard with sad steps against the grain, her face twisted uncomfortable.

Her hair’s blowing about, mostly in her face which is churning now, and her tartan skirt – modified as short as possible – is dancing around her arse.

She walks past one of those houses with the really big front lawns, and all the peppy trees, and Fat Karl Marx shambles out barefoot in kaki cargo pants and drops an arm full of yesterday’s drink into recycling.

He’s slow, probably off his face, and watches her like a pervert sentienal with his mouth open. His blood ain’t flowing to the right head.

She mistakenly makes eye contact with him and he waves motionlessly. She whips her head away quick smart and carries on, tightening her backpack straps.

She’s getting closer now.

Alzheimer’s standing out the front of the old folks units staring at the letterbox with two cats on leashes.

 

She loosens her backpack straps.

Her house was two blocks off she’s mad looking at the words on her little black mirror.

Wat U up 2 after school – sent 29 minutes ago.

She’d sent it to a Boy and he hadn’t replied, hadn’t even seen it yet. Fucking dog, she thought, screwing up her face so that it was now a portrait of disgust rather than simple discomfort, a face of existential anguish. Fucking dog. Useless cunt of a thing. She thought she was important. What was he doing? No. Who was he with?

How dare he ignore her like that. What was wrong with her? Why wasn’t he interested? She tried to pull her skirt down – my thighs are too fat – but she couldn’t because the thing had been modified to show those thighs off, the thighs she only had a problem with when a Boy didn’t txt back.

 

 

Animal Man

My neighbours a junky.

That has to be it. It explains so much.

Reasons I think this:

1. A variety of characters inhabit the house, the cast all share screen time equally so I don’t know who’s actually on the lease and who’s just mooching for some rock.
2.  They get a lot of visits but only for a few minutes, and cars pull up and see that they aren’t home and leave and come back again every 20 minutes until they are home then stay for a few minutes then leave. These people are like the supporting characters, known only by their cars and the sound there cars make when they hit the breaks.
3. The main one screams

It’s not just screaming. It’s primal, guttural sounds I never knew a human being could make. They are the sounds of a mind utterly controlled by instinct. A man confused to the point of stupor. A man who screams at a little girl because all this tools are fucked them throws his tools at the fence connecting my home to his house.

Either that or he’s just an incredibly stupid, sad, bogan.

txtphobic

Fun Fact – Modern Literary Fiction pretends that technology doesn’t exist because writing dialog and interactions through digital technologies is clunky because; limited vocabulary, worry about datedness. This is dumb. It’s super easy. Avoid brand names (facebook and twitter won’t be around forever) or don’t avoid them who cares, not like I cringe when I read about someone sending a letter or using a typewriter in an old book like modern writers fear people will do when they read about facebook in a book. Like, this is something that makes up a huge part of the modern life and we’re petrified of talking about it. We pretend we live in a slightly modernised version of the first season of Buffy, you know, by perpetuating the now unrealistic “oh no can’t contact person X” as if that happens anymore unless they turn off their phone. Mother fuckers don’t be scared, write that tech hard.
Beep Bip. Txt. Phone out of pocket, swipe to unlock.
Rick; you working tomorrow buddy?
I thumb back, nah, got the day off. I sit down and roll and ciggy and swig some coffee.
Beep Bip. Swipe.
Rick; I’m working at seven. When you working next?
I thumb, friday I think. Just check the roster mate. Ciggy smoke inhale. Beep Bip. Swipe. Rick; shut up.
To reply or not reply? Convo seems about done, what am I gonna do? Waste 1c sending a fucking smily? Thumb back lol like some kinda dickhead. I’m done.

I open facebook. Scroll, scroll, stop, somethings happening in the Ukraine, like. Show all Comments. Oh racists, fucking Guardian readers. Scroll, scroll, argument, scroll, scroll, social justice. Show all Comments? I don’t got the constitution, not right now. Need another coffee before getting into the loop. Maybe it ain’t the kinda loop I wanna get into but.

 

See it’s easy even if that was crapt