Category Archives: Creative Writing

Meet Keith

That’s right, I’m a motherfuckin’ snail.

If ya’ve got a problem with that, ya can fuck right off and complain to ma fuckin’ lawyer. Oh, I forgot: I don’t have one, because I’m a fuckin’ snail, so let’s keep things simple enough for ya fuckin’ amoeba brain to comprehend: mind ya own fuckin’ business. Humans. Arseholes, the lot of yas.

Don’t think that I can’t hear ya commentin’ on ma speed. Ya’re louder than Davina in a fuckin’ blender. What’s the point in rushin’? I’m not on a fuckin’ busy-ass highway, am I? Fuckers all up in ma space, followin’ ma snail trail – yes, it fuckin’ glistens in the motherfuckin’ sunlight. No shit, Sherlock. I’m only tryin’ to cross this empty fuckin’ space – wasn’t askin’ for a crowd of gawping motherfuckers! Absolute fuckin’ joke. Was only goin’ to eat ya shitty lawn anyway. Ya smother ya fuckin’ cripple plants in so much fuckin’ chemicals that I’d melt if I touched ‘em. Ya’re always complainin’ about keep ya fuckin’ lawn short anyway, because mowin’ is too much fuckin’ effort for yas. Boo-fuckin’-hoo; I’m cryin’ ma motherfuckin’ snail eyes out. I mow grass just to fuckin’ survive, ya ungrateful twatbags.

Yeah, that’s right! Sprinkle that fuckin’ salty shit all over me. Fuckin’ Walker’s crisps? Ya dumb piece of shit. Snail bitches love fried potato, motherfucker. Look at me! Off ma fuckin’ tits on salt! If ya had half a fuckin’ brain ya’d have more brains than ya parents fuckin’ put together. Fuckin’ idiot human pixie-dick wanker.

I’m only lookin’ around for a measly fuckin’ bite to eat. I’m fuckin’ starvin’; ma belt keeps fallin’ down ma skinny fuckin’ Kate Moss waist. If I had a waist, that is. Ha! Fuckin’ joker snail, right here. Pipe the fuck down.

Oh, look at this joker. Some sort of young, pink, frilly bitch; talks like a deaf person drowning. Oh I suppose she- bitch is pickin’ me up! Fuckin’ hangin’ in the air, holdin’ me by ma fuckin’ shell. I’d rip her cutesie fuckin’ ponytails out of her scalp if I had arms, the little shit. And look at the rest of ‘em! Fuckin’ eggin’ her on. Eggin’… fuckin’ eggshells… scatters ‘em all over the bloody place that woman does. Would she appreciate me casually scatterin’ fuckin’ razor-blades around her kitchen? I think fuckin’ not! Stupid bitch can- Ah! Fuck! Poked ma fuckin’ eye! Yes, it retracts back into ma fuckin’ angry-ass snail face. Fascinatin’! Yeah, go on, poke the other one, ya dribbling piece of fuck. I’ll gnaw your fuckin’ nose off if y- Fuck’s sake! Oh ha motherfuckin’ ha, I’ve retracted both? Giggle ya fuckin’ heart out, love, I’m fuckin’ blind now.

Oh, so now you wanna fuckin’ feed me, right? You worthless goat-rapist. I’m sure that most individuals wouldn’t be in the best mood to have a fuckin’ meal after being blinded by an breast-feedin’ clinical psychopath. No, I don’t feel like being force-fed fuckin’ grass. Piss off, or I’ll fuckin’ tear out ya throat with ma snail fangs. Would kill ya in seconds, the dangerous motherfuckers would. Kill ya dead, and I’d laugh, ya fucking pig-tailed gape-arse paedo-treat fuck.

Hide in ma motherfuckin’ shell, I will. Yeah, that’s right! Ya deadbeat fucker. Hidin’! From ya! Can’t fuckin’ run ‘cause I’ve got not fuckin’ legs – even if I did ya’d probably rip ‘em out off ma fuckin’ body, ya sadistic little Friday-night cum stain. Aww, don’t cry. Ya fuckin’ pu- What the?! Hey! I’m not a fuckin’ retard! I may be fuckin’ blind  but I can still feel ya fuckin’ shakin’ me like a Michael Jackson kid. Oh, and ya’ve thrown me. Fan-fuckin’-tastic. Yeah, ya’d better cry for ya shitarse Snorlax of a mother; I’d fuckin’ poke ya eyes inside ya fuckin’ skull if ma shell weren’t fuckin’ shattered all over ya dog shit smeared patio. Ya know that arsehole of a feelin’ when ya can feel a crumb in the bottom of ya sleepin’-bag but ya can’t see it or stop it pissing you off? Imagine that except that the bag is ya shell and the crumb is YA FUCKING INNARDS EXPOSED TO MOTHER FUCKIN’ NATURE. Think about that, ya gene-deficient miscarriage of humanity!

Oh, and look at this prick of a dog. I’m in fucking agony, but ya wouldn’t care would ya? Ya pantin’ more than a paedophile in Mothercare, ya fuckin’ freak. Yeah, I’m bleeding. Can’t even see to recon the motherfuckin’ damage, ‘cause I’m still blinded from the little kindergarten whore over there. I’ll slap yas both ‘cross the face with ma massive snail cock, you fuckin’ coons. Lookin’ for a quick snack are we, Dog? I see. You won’t forget this one. Come on then, ya cunt.


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Posted by on March 7, 2012 in Creative Writing, Short stories


Empty armchairs

They face each other with a deathly calm,
Two old chairs in the dark with florals frayed.
Spindle held leaves clawed climb o’er each arm,
Thread-broken petals ripped raw and decayed.

One seat depressed with rests aged down but clear;
Silhouette of a soul, sad and alone.
The other is pristine, there’s no mark here;
The ghost of the man that I’ve never known.

Sun shoots through windows shored thickly with dust
Searing limp cloth as it fires from outside,
Splintering off panes imprisoned in rust
But shines off the letter and badge on the side.

A lifetime after he left his armchair
His wife’s not alone, for he is still there.


Posted by on February 21, 2012 in Creative Writing, Poetry


Wife knows best

An experimental triolet. ‘Tis a weird form of poetry – the first, fourth and seventh lines have to be the same, as does the second and last. The rhyming structure is ABaAabAB. Hard to write.

“The belt never fits?” Well!
My wife “knows best”?
The silly woman can’t tell.
“The belt? Never! Fits well!”
But no matter how much I yell
Or swell my chest,
The belt never fits well….
My wife knows best.

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Posted by on February 20, 2012 in Creative Writing, Poetry



The rock stands.

Deep fissures line the surface
But it remains unbreakable.

Thick moss cloaks it,
Shroading the harsh outside
In an unassuming,
Pleasant mask.

The rains come.
From clouds formed elsewhere
Droplets fall,
Crashing against the stony sides.

Most are absorbed by the mossy shroud
But some find refuge in the cracks
And seep through.
The rock remains unbreakable.

Droplets become a stream,
A relentless downpour
Tearing the moss
From its anchor,
Exposing the harsh face
Of the naked stone.

The rains swell
But the lone droplets are no more,
Enduring together
As a single body of water,
Penetrating the cracks
From surface to core.

The weather is cold,
Many weeks have passed.
The swelling water now finds
Harmony from kindred minds.
And in the rally call of the far-off breeze
The droplets, as one,
Begin to freeze.
The ice creeps and,
With common might,
Exposes the depths to
The all-seeing light.

The rock

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Posted by on February 7, 2012 in Creative Writing, Poetry


Paper appreciation

Smooth and white,
‘Tis a wondrous thing,
This A4 sheet.

The smell of a new work.
Creativity; wondrous thoughts.
Ink meets page
And page offers escape
From daily trappings.

Word on word,
A life comes into being.
Stretching, reaching, touching,

The scraping of the silv- Ah!
A papercut?

You piece of shit.

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Posted by on February 2, 2012 in Creative Writing, Poetry


Guilty pleasure

Why must you upset me?
I only wished to spend a few moments with you.
You’ve been hiding away for so long.
I brought you out,
Thought you’d like some air
And to be a part of something better.
More worthwhile.

I feel a confusing guilt as I strip you down.
You make me weep
As I look upon your unwrapped self.
My eyes sting,
Either with guilt or some greater force
I cannot tell.

But you must stand fast
For it will be worth it, I promise you.
You’ve been destined for this,
And I’ve been craving it all day.

Get in my bolognese,
Little onion.

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Posted by on February 1, 2012 in Creative Writing, Poetry


Forever alone

I’m going to write on the merits of friends.
Of the conversations we have,
Of the comfort they offer,
And how they supply no end
Of entertainment.
Or, come to think of it,
Pain and let downs.
On second thoughts, I won’t bother.

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Posted by on February 1, 2012 in Creative Writing, Poetry