You remember Hawaii?

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Moths – audio – read by Pete

Moths are a thing I think about a lot. They’re pretty much everywhere these days. They scare me a bit. I know it’s irrational, but that’s just how someone can end up with their face in between someone else’s legs. I stuck my tongue deep inside and felt some strange. It tasted like a dagger entering the small channel within the penis. “Painful!” cried Sebastian, “Ouuuucch!! Christ!”. Well, he wasn’t there, that had been known for some time. That charlatan had jumped ships with the Somalian pirates. Christ was into gold these days, great lumpen chunks of molten pineapple were entirely inappropriate at this point. His fear of pineapple had been steadily creeping since we last met on that beach. You remember Hawaii? With the barbecues, the sunsets and the tequila? Or the sambuca for that matter. It was time to bring it all to an end. He farted, and the smell was sweet.

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saturn’s jilted bride

 

saturn’s jilted bride – audio – read by MO-R

 

‘Are we going? Have we gone?’ There was something in the question that disappointed him. Such melancholy, such ennui, there had to more to life than this. Life was about falling into the sweaty arms of Turkish hunk, Ishmael. 12 stone of olive athleticism sitting below the had of a petty crime unit, the kind for whom a notch on the bedpost meant a cheeky public wee, some accidental littering, too much noise, or perhaps the rings of Saturn, which were breathtakingly beautiful that night. They glittered like  a fat Italian lady spitting back Champagne into my mouth. But I guess that is how showbusiness works – only when you cast out that hairy gypsy into the hateful arms of a midget thalydamide. Meanwhile my contracts were, like, the reverse of sex, everything distorted and stabbing like some jilted bride. Nervous, humiliated, mascara streaked and ultimately more beautiful than she could ever know. The bull commenced wanking into the nearest vessel, a type of fish, a type of lover, a type of moistening desire for fame.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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a boat and a cigar

a boat and a cigar – audio – read by RJP

“Why does linoleum smell like new cars and dog vomit?” She asked.

“I AM THE KING OF THE SEX WOLVES! I HAVE KILLED THE KING! SMELL MY FINGER” to which the audience responded with the wit and determination of a medium level animal, one given first rate focus on Attenborough’s version of Wheel of Fortune. Some said he had lost it since the glory days of You’ve Been Framed, but he was senile, incontinent, and freaking groovy! Oh yes, he was a hot little mama –

I shined my brogues all morning until… until… until. I tried to be angry, but lost the momentum, especially when I began to think about Anthea Turner, the wrongly forgotten about Russian pro-thought existentialist, who could not understand even the most rudimentary concepts of sharing, mutual masturbation and the history of pewter in Industrial England.

I sailed into the lake, knowing my ugliness was so extreme that I thought I’d get up half an hour earlier tomorrow to think about it all over again.

He could not wait to hold his sister’s credit card to ransom. This had been worth it, he sighed, inhaling his cigar.

Authors: JC, RJP and MO-R

Boom. Boom. Boom.

boom boom boom – audio – read by RJP

Boom. Boom. Boom. The bass moved through him like morphine in a dying man, hot sweet, rewarding, and a relief. A lot like that piss off the top of the shed, which the people of London loved! It was then that beauty stuck her fat digits in her fat hands, doing a fat impression of a big fat shag. The kind that made her think of abandoned boatyards. That desolate, dead industry reeked of sadness. Her father had died catching a particularly virulent strain of AIDS from eating ‘bushmeat’. We all know what a virus is, don’t we? It is not alive but neither is it “Shit? Shitty poo-poo pants with tassels!” It was the old man in the corner again, surprising everyone with his sense of insurmountable joy. The kind of joy that cripples a happy man – buckles his knees and kisses his soul with the fierce burning love of cystitis – midnight was full of burning pisses and flea bites that prevented any random kisses from breaking their restraining order, and planting themselves, those wet and wild beauties, on top of Julie Andrews, who didn’t like it as much as you would think.

Authors: JC, MO-R, RJP