Shit Flinger: A Poem…ha!

What can I write that has not already been done?
Which combination of letters can be strung together?
This is my message, so it better be good.
I’m fucking trapped within the alphabet, uselessly trying to climb out of it, Ripping my fingernails off from repeated failures again.
Desperate to be the same as then, way back when, I used to smile at everything, nothing pierced my amour and I vowed to recover stronger when I got hurt or I got dropped in the dirt,
Bruised and broken I was forced to grow roots.
Human nature is survival, eventually we abandon all religion, but there is always something to fight for or against in this restrictive prison.
They bind us to this vision but yet we’re blind. We believe the things they tell us are lies half the time. And at the other half their ignorance is their only redeeming quality, so promise me this: if you ever get to roll in the shit then make it stick and charge at the bastards, force them to taste it like you’ve been chosen, and this is your destiny.
You are the shit flinger.


Eventually, depressingly, I concluded that the Iron Mask had been successful, yet again, in driving an invasive enemy from the eroding shores of Britain.
How did I know this?
Well, they stopped hiring me, for a time that is, and at this exact moment I was still in it.
Years, perhaps even a decade, had passed since the last time I let someone get the better of me. The last real piece of sphincter diluting excitement to come my way. The memory of waking up covered in blood and piss still prickled at my misguided sense of immortality. And, unfortunately, whoever was behind those brilliantly sadistic games had ceased to keep in touch. Yes, I felt abandoned. But I knew, deep within the mausoleum of my conscious, that it was not over.
Had he successfully summoned the Elohim?
I thought not. I guessed that if he had we would all be fucked, wouldn’t we?
Wouldn’t we…?
Maybe he didn’t know how to complete the summoning?
Oh fuck it, who am I kidding? I just missed all the attention. Now I pretty much did nothing but pluck feathers. Shit loads of crazy was happening over in the States though. Wars that were that weren’t. Presidents getting shot and, apparently, they beat them to the moon…ahem!
I sat in the dark. I always sit in the dark. Those like me do. I picked up the crude photocopy, the same one I had been looking at for going on ten years, sighed and then let it swish to the littered floor. If ever I needed to…needed to kill someone, I mean a human, then this was it.
Chicken bones scattered around the floor of my abode, I had made quite the collection of sharpened femurs. Some things don’t change.
A creak outside alerted me to the presence of an unexpected visitor. Maybe God had been listening to my thoughts?
I gathered my finest fashioned chicken dagger and exited through the makeshift side door. I wanted to take my guest by surprise, just like I assumed they wanted.
No moon hung in the sky on this night and I lived far away from anything that resembled a street light, so yeah, it was fucking dark. That was why I didn’t see him, or at least that is what I tell myself.
Something grey flashed across me and rested against my bearded throat. A huge hand clamped down on my forehead and held me fast against a rock-like chest.
‘You have gotten soft, Game’
I laughed as I sent my elbow into his liver and spun away, chicken daggers ready. Then snapped them and let the fucking stupid things drop in to the grass between us. I knew he was right, but I never admitted it. Never would either.
Grim nursed his stomach and smiled widely, I could see that.
I managed a small smile too. Because Grim meant work and work meant killing and money and…everything. My smile grew wider and wider. So did his. Wordlessly, we walked back into my overgrown cabin.
Grim flicked on the light as he closed the door.
I guess it was time to step back into the light. I don’t know what day it was but to me it felt like fucking Christmas.

The Seventh EYE

Almost quarter of a dozen in,
find myself wondering,
Now the two worlds are crumbling,
glare back at my own reflection-seems
am the architect,
And the vection,
Hosting the weapon of death and
will bring Armageddon upon myself.
But, it’s required.
want a life, I’m fucking tired, and
Afraid of my own mobile phone.
Happiness comes at a price.
am fired. Now rest in…

One for the road before we go back.

Have you ever listened to ice melting?
I have, and let me tell you, when you have just arrived at the supposed “New World” by way of Newfoundland, of course I have already told you, and you make the vessel fast aboard the docks, then stand there, as I did, hands on hips and look around, you will see what I saw, ice. Fucking mountainous and copious amounts of ice and snow.
For a moment I thought we had passed through a Bermuda-like portal and ended up in an icefucked parallel universe. As it happens that wasn’t too far from the truth.
We had blown off course, way way off course.
The Mcs were off mixing with the local Irish, this apparently, was the very first British colony. What a fucking farce!
The Empire, as it was, had now become a global nation.
Anyway, ice melting: it fizzes softly, and spits and cracks and hisses, gently…ever so soft – It really is – that was what I was faced with when I took stock of what was before me.
The Mcs however were definitely in their element. Shit, some of them didn’t come back.
The land of opportunity, bah!
Mutiny was more than a foreboding shadow in the dying light, it was almost tangible. To say the least the lads were not happy. Neither was I, but what is it they say about lemons? Suffice as to say we didn’t stop there long.
The ships were re provisioned with plenty of ice and fish and back on the water, back on my domain…ha!
South we travelled, not too far mind, promises must be kept. With warmer climates and less ice, much less ice, to be precise.
Our name? The company of the Unwanted, legendary pirates of old, yeah…”the company”, however short lived, soon arrived at the new city.
The king of the ocean became temporarily land bound, that was me, self titled king of course.
The real king of New York did not take kindly to sharing his blood soaked throne either.
Henry Game had to do what he does best: kill any bastard that gets in his way.
Except things were different over there compared to good ol’ England. Whereas back in the old country steel usually had the last laugh, over there, steel was more like the introductory statement, the icebreaker so to speak. What ensued was not for the faint hearted, but to be honest, I am not sure if I ever possessed one anyway, a heart that is. And one thing was for sure, still is really, Henry Game backs down from no man. Find someone who suggests otherwise and I will show my arse on the steps of Buckingham palace I swear it!
Anyway, I just wanted to give you one last regale, just so you know what is to come when we revisit this narrative, Plus it’s in my best interest to keep that intrigue of yours stoked.
Back to the Anarchist…


OK, so I am going back to the previous narrative. This current one has gotten me all moist and sticky from the fucking salt water. It was a horrible time. Canada wasn’t much nicer. Maybe I will jump forwards to the time when the Empire called me back to face this new threat? The threat of Napoleon. Maybe, I don’t know.
Got to bring this tale back to a time when I was a mean motherfucker. Yes, I miss that part, the old me. Shall we go back then?
Do you want to know who was fucking with me?
Did I end the fucking shit bag?
Well, I guess you will have to wait and see. Maybe we will come back to this one, after a bit. Who knows?
Thanks for bearing with me on this journey down memory lane. I just hope that in the end it all makes sense and maybe you can understand why I do the things I do.

Pink Pirates

Image taken from

We travelled west of Ireland. To the crews merriment and my own regret, Claric did depart the voyage. But not before blessing us with numerous drunken insults and one or two obscene hand gestures, got to love Claric. However, he did manage to somehow recruit a disreputable looking lot of nine. How this was possible will forever elude me, Claric was definitely a puzzle to all aboard, me chief amongst them. They, the Irish recruits, all, weirdly, were called some variation of Michael but non of them actually called Michael, they swore on it. Huh. “Mick” or “Micky, Mucka, Mitch, Mike” I didn’t have much dealings with them to be honest, can’t remember all of their names, I just called them all “Mc” pronounced “Merk”.
Not trusting them, at all, I decided to spread them among the crew as evenly as possible, by splitting them out over my two ships. The crew didn’t give a damn, they needed strong backs, the Mcs certainly gave us that much.
I took my new company, still hadn’t decided on a name at that point, forwards on my new venture, trying to put as much ocean between us, and the Brit-Spanish vendetta chasing me, as possible before my past caught up with me.
Destination: the land of opportunity. Opportunity by way of Newfoundland mind, but we all have to learn the hard way, don’t we? I do, I know that much.
For the first week or so the ocean slept, as motionless as a corpse, while we skated smoothly above her. Then she woke up. That’s when I knew the true meaning of sea sickness. We all did, well not all of us, just me really. I was the only one aboard who didn’t know anything about sailing, or the sea, or the ship. But I did know the business end of a dagger! Didn’t help much as we rolled over the biggest rollercoaster this world has to offer. However, quite miraculously actually, both ships made it through and on to the great beyond. The standards had almost been washed clean by the storm. Now they just looked pinky-orange. They would not do, even Skelton commented on the girliness of our once fearsome flags. The nine Mcs sure did like them a lot, a bit too much if you ask me. Maybe they were being in-genuine? The lads doth protest too much when I ordered them down. One of them even suggested that we keep them and go by the name of “Pink Pirates”. He got to swab the decks for the rest of the voyage. Fucking Pink Pirates! Prick! These Irish were a bit weird if you ask me. Very weird but they knew how to guide a ship through the fucking mouth of hell. If it weren’t for them we wouldn’t have made it. My original crew determined to stay the course would have resulted in breaking us apart. The storm was too strong, the Mcs said we should just surrender to the bitch (the storm), Skelton reluctantly agreed with them. I agreed with Skelton. That was how we ended up in bloody Canada, in case you were wondering. Like I said, we learn the hard way.


If the magic within these words
can be explained away by numbers,
and this plastic-faux existence
can really be taken seriously,
I wonder, if I am still dreaming?
I am still under,
the spell you’ve been weaving,
my entire life.


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