A Tale of Two Titties

It was the best of times but the worst of bras.

The disco lights sparkled across my bazookas like sun on snow. The sweat from my dancing made those funbags glisten as if covered in goose grease ready for a slip and slide.

A shot of tequila held between these two love mountains would definitely bring all the boys to the yard, probably with their tongues hanging out.

I adjusted the nipple on one of the lady lumps to point a little more to the sky. The sweat made them slick to touch and I was feeling a little erotic until I encountered a few crisps… Then

I just felt hungry.

Good foodcatchers always, I never knew just what I could have for a snack later, but there was always something to be found in the depths of cleavage town.

My humps started to move again and I grabbed my tits with both hands to limit the jig they were dancing without me.

They moved around like two possums in a sack trying to fuck each other, or fuck each other up, I wasn’t sure.

Time to chain these puppies.

These girls needed to be strapped in more as I could see someone losing an eyeball – death by nipple might be a great way to go for some but perhaps not tonight.

Looking for the right jug holder for these knockers was just another exercise to remind me how fucking hard it was to be a female impersonator!

Heart of Creation

I collected the pieces I needed.

As I wandered I hummed an old tune, vaguely remembered from a childhood centuries ago…
If I only had a heart…. the melody lacked form as my skills did not manifest in that way.

Wood for strength but flexibility through storms
Steel for a strong foundation in all its forms
Stone for the unbreakable quality of its part

I uttered the last line of the charm quietly, it does not do for the uninitiated to overhear these things and misuse them.

Time passed.

In my cabin, as the young man lay in pain, eyes filled with hope, I hummed the tune again, trying to remember where it came from. I kept thinking of a steel man for some reason.

I cast over the ingredients I had collected, muttering the chants and chimes I had absorbed from generations of those who went before.

Time passed.

When the piece was complete, I held it up to refract the light. I had used some glass as well, because strength and fragility were but sides of the same coin and to leave out one was to introduce a monster to our midst. It was a pretty thing, robust and delicate at the same time. I was satisfied and ready for what came next, despite the bloodiness of it.

The young man lay back and as I prepared his body for the sacrifice, he gripped my hand.

“Please, please….” was all he uttered. It was enough.

I nodded, unable to break my focus to offer any words and gripped his hand in return with to let him know I would take care of him and his…. change.

Time passed.

After 3 days of toil, focus and sweat, invocations and pleas to the gods, it was done.  Now to see if the gift was enough. If my focus had wrought the change he sought, the outcome he needed. I could but wait.

Time passed.

Lightning struck outside, shaking me from the tired trance I had fallen into. He sat up. He took a deep breath. He swung his legs over the side of my gnarled wooden work table and stretched.

“I slept,’ he yawned, while stretching.  “When are we going to get on with it?”

I laughed, a pure sound of joy.

“It is done!” I responded to his quizzical glance my way.

“It beats inside you. These last 3 days it has grown, taken root, put down foundations and anchored in your body.”

“You mean?” He practically gasped.

“Yes.” Said I. “A heart is within you now.”

Heart Condition

Anatomical structure be damned

Clichés ready to be hammed

Wearing it on my sleeve

Happens to be my pet peeve


A story I must tell you be it true or sham

Unlock the words break the damn

Release pure feeling in a flood

About this organ that does pump blood


This life source around which there is much myth

Sodden with emotions and referred to with much bliss

Blamed for decisions that turn out to be poor

And then we go and expect and ask for more


You treat my heart like dirt

Then blame me for your hurt

When I take my heart away

And refuse to let it stay


You rip it out from within my ribs

After you broke it open with your fibs

You steal it from poor innocent me

Then discard it harshly at my plea


Don’t bruise this muscle any more

This aching wound I abhor

You leached the life force from within

You have committed mortal sin


You grind what is left within the dust

After you left it to wither and rust

You deny me life through choking the flow

How cruel you were I did not know


I cried and cried and filled the cavity with tears

And claws my way o’er the mountain of fears

Repairs the bits left as best I could

Some parts are now made of wood


Made of metal and made of stone

Since you ripped it from its living throne

But revive and resus I did it for a while

As I recovered from your trial


I now have a heart that is stronger it is true

And for this I must thank you

For now I rarely feel and do not care

This little organ that you laid bare


You broke it and I fixed it not quite the same

And no longer will I ever play the game

Where I offer another to hold it dear

For now the only thing I feel is fear

(image: http://www.blind.com/work/project/heart-of-stone/ )



REN… OH…. VASHUN….. I say it like a mantra over and over again…

renvasssshnn, slurring like a drunk.

Ren Oh Vah Tion… sounding similar to a U2 song that, actually, I fucking hate.




I say it like a Dalek would, wishing I could channel the destructive power of Davros and smile at the  of my situation.  Is it possible to hate a house in the same way you hate the trump’s hair?  Or does feeling superior to a house make you dumber than a stump post?

I am staring at a wall, which is staring back at me blankly.  How do I do this?  Why am I doing it would seem a more logical question, but my mind skitters away from that like the cockroaches in the light of the bathroom at night.

The wall is a bland colour, like the colour of sick that has no defining characteristics of carrot and has been bleached by the sun.  Here and there you can see damp crawling up, like the wall has pants and has just peed itself.  The colour is similar to pee when I look closely, despite not wishing too.  The smell sucker punches my nose as I lean in too close and I realise the wall hates me as much as I hate it and all it represents.

‘Fuck You wall,’ I sneer, because.

The sun disappears behind a cloud in the same way my love of life has while residing here, except I am not sure mine will ever return from the shadow.   My soul is scorched lifeless from the emotional fight with this house as the church is from years of white patriarchy. 2014-10-27 17.02.25

I have more feelings to relieve than the house does slugs, infesting the insides of the piece of shit.  Probably.  It is a pretty angry wall; an infuriated house actually, if the creaks and groans it makes all day and night are anything to go by, despite being no wind ever in the desolate hole in which it lurks like a tick on dog fur.   The entire house is malevolent; whether it be neglect for so many years or whether it be demons I will never know.  I suspect the latter.  Infantile, puerile, drooling demons that can’t find their ass with both hands as they too would have left if they could.

I wonder if spitting on it would improve the aspect, or if it will just add to the piss damp.  I decide that I should not waste the water on it… it has enough water already judging from the stench of mould that wafts never so subtly…. The bouquet of rot… eau-de-moul’dee: the next new thing just as soon as the Jenners think of it.  Actually giving it some of my essence might make it use its powers against me even more than it has, destroying what tiny vestige of bright hope I have left after being trapped here for so long.  And what if it spits back?  Ick.

I am tempted to lean my ear against the wall to see if I can hear it breathing out some noxious foul thing, or if the desiccated corpses of ants and mounds of dust appearing overnight are just a manifestation of the physical decay that the house represents.  Does the atmosphere lead me to think these strange thoughts, am I high on fungal spores, or am I truly mad?  If I was crazy, why would I be questioning my sanity?  If I was sane, why would I be thinking this renovation is a good idea?

I decide.  There is only one way to renovate this haunted, horror house…..

Light a match, make sure it catches and walk away.

Perhaps even run.

And never, ever, look behind you….