Thursday, 14 February 2013

The Special Relationship: Punk Farce

A bald-headed eagle protruded obscenely from the puke filled brim of a starspangled hat, that sat beside Sam. The bird, throttled.
Traveling visibly through himself, his vision thrust along liquid slick of an optic sight that eased its way along his fibrous green lined intestinal tunnel tract, running around the swollen white globe of his prostrate gland. Flushing out a bad-acid trip; his sight eased along the colons furled funnel blue-white flaps of oiled innards. Sam's sight slid on, before lodging into a turd, losing sight momentarily. He lay draped in the stars and stripes, slashed and stitched together with steel pins - punk like. His white hair and beard had been shaved off last night as he lay unconscious in a puddle of piss. Hair and feathers adhered the walls, the sticky remnants of last nights depravity.

- Fucking limy cunt queen! he snarled on the realization that the piss wasn’t his own, or the puke for that matter. Pulling himself upright he followed through with a loud wet fart, making way for his second sight as the optic acid vision passed through in liquid shit and out down his long trouser leg an out into an oak ash-tray; before collapsing again in an towering heap across the kitchen floor. Rising his head ever so slightly, he gazed across at last nights fuck - a cunt name of Britannia. He managed a licentious smile, before passing out. Exit Sam.

Decrepit her lion lay supping the last licks of foul liquor from an Imperial bottle of vodka. He rose stretching himself into an arch, and yawned. A small kitchen fork jutted cruelly from his hind.

She was slumped against the opposing wall, dreaming in gin stupor of course. The borderlines of her mind pulling away mechanically - revealing a black passageway – a perpetual – fresco: A holocaust flattened out in high definition. Lucid, to clear to be real - it reeled around in an loop.
A metallic tang severed the loop waking her, steaming piss streamed from her mouth, her eyes rolled in a conscious gargle before spitting it out in a steaming fountain forming piss.

The lion limp away visibly refreshed. She sat there, her Union dress Jacked up around her waist. An abscess of misery grew from her cunt. Her skin tight grey seemingly to small for her tiny frame. Her insides ruptured from last nights excess with Sam, leaking oily blood, she groaned.

Only hours earlier a carnival of colours covered the linoleum; now however they where acid-washed sucked and spat out dissipated in lack-lustred hues.
She jerked upright, projecting vomit violently, spraying her unconscious uncle in a final bitter insulting slurry, before slumping back into her stupor. Pulpy white greyish sludge covered sleeping Sam. He didn't wake. Britannia on the nod now, her Mohawk bobbing up and down rhythmically. Utterly unconscious.

The lion idly strode away seemingly ownerless towards an oblivious Sam.

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