Name: rod
Location: holy roman empire?
Gender: Male
Last Seen: Sat, 12 Nov 2011
Membership: Member
Personal Bio
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Looking for a Succubus desperately hahahaha
IN A BUNKER UNDERGROUND:
DONT LET THIS HAPPEN TO YOUR CHILDREN, LET THEM COME OUT THEIR SHELL:
I am bored completely bored and dont why am i writing a bio. Well lets see it all began one February the 1oth of some year,of some decade, of some century, of some milenium ,of some something. I have lived in a of places(if u want to know just ask(u probably wont so why am i writing the question)I am somewhat depressed(diagnonsense) somewhat happy(what the heck is that?pure contradictions)I dislike tans!!!!!!!!!!!!!Really I do, I prefer being pale than burned by the sun. I hate the Sun, I would like to go to the sun and block it completely. I like movies, music, starring into thin air, playing music, composing, writing, reading, staying awake for 21 hours everyday, what else?......I dont know....... I cant even answer my own questions.(im not an idiot, im just not here that much)(not talking about the site, just not here....in my brain...... that much)(parenthesis make this more interesting) i HATE MTV, IT SHOULD BE CALED RTV(REALITY TELEVISION) ITS THE STUPIDEST CHANNEL ON PLANET EARTH REALLY. tim burton rocks!!!!!!!. I love radiohead, i love pink floyd, led zep, joy division, muse, pj harvey , sigur ros, bob dylan, and Zoe.
Shoegazing!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Just ask anything u want.
Oh yeah control time.
not here just killing time
not here just biting life
in limbo
in limbo
life is so slow
life is so slow
take three of these
shut up
and keep it clean
down is the new up
feeling pulled apart by horses
insect bites machine gun cameras
give me fair price give me fair price or ill summon the reckoner
we are accident waiting to happen
cloud coockoo land
were cut to pieces
cut the kids in half
morning bell
i might as well
keep the furniture
there there
reckoner
reckoner
is anyone out there?
is anyone in there?
the river ran out of fish
Go and tell the king that the sky is falling in
when its not
but its not
but its not
maybe not
maybe not.
shrinking universe
Another story about vampires:
There are a lot of good things about being a vampire, but morally it's fairly indefensible. I like to think that I'm quite a reasonable sort of person. Like most people, I've done plenty of things that I'm not too proud of, and a few that I really regret. You might find it tricky to believe, but there are a fair number of people around who are attracted to vampires and vampirism as a sort of lifestyle thing, and a larger number who just don't mind dying.
Mostly, I put adverts in the personal columns, and when we meet I go to considerable lengths to explain the options and what they entail. If they're not completely into the idea, we part company there and then. Well, usually, anyway. As I say, I'm not proud of everything I've done. Sometimes things just get out of hand.
EAST CRYODON:
First; wet, black rock. Blue plastic flapping fitfully. There must be a wind. Floodlights on tall posts, or maybe security cameras. Huge plastic sacks full of trash. So much trash. Museums of it. Graffitti painted over in a colour approximating bare concrete.
Below are roads, then a roundabout. A big sign says, courage, in capital letters. Everything has a coating of limp soggy brown dead leaves. The cars look balletic on the wet tarmac.
Torn scraps of blue sky. Black. Dark. Yellow light.
Obsolete brick sheds with blank windows and extinct chimneys, men in high-visibility vests, housing estates, blackened hedges, lumped fields, sagging parkland, empty barns, ragged fallow, serried conifers, saturated mud, burst banks.
Trees standing staring.
Then; acres of wet, empty rails. Another sign says, the snooty fox, in italics. Pylons. Pyramids of gravel. Industrial units, portaloos. Mud. Rubble.
Self-storage. I'd like to store my self. Not needed at present. Will call back later.
An empty football pitch. Studded boots sliding through mud, dog shit. Kwik Fit Waitrose. Industrial estate. Mobile homes immobile. And a portakabin remote in a field of trash. A distant mental hospital. Stockbroker homes.
A huge wet field. One man standing in it. Arms raised wide to the sky. The sun finally comes out. We will shortly be arriving in East Croydon.
LOYALTY CARD:
It still seems to be a long time until I no longer need food, water or air, and here I am in the foyer of the supermarket, an empty wire trolley idling beneath my imperceptibly trembling fingers. The light is bright, and the smell is of nothing at all. My mind is blank. There is a route to be followed: straight ahead, turn right then right again, travelling aisle by aisle until (I am planning ahead) I end up in the wines, beers and spirits. My experience in these matters tells me that I will have run out of money by then, unless I am careful. I will have to be careful.
But almost immediately, things start to go wrong. Here I am, transfixed by the twitching red muscles in the meat aisle. This isn't very good. I take a deep breath and move away. Nothing to see here. There is the rattle of teeth, of fingernails, bones, in the cardboard cereal packets, sloshings of lumpy fluids in jars and tins, the muffled howls of the doomed. I jerk my head away from the cans of 'processed meats', the hanks of hair in the salad bags.
In the frozen food cabinets; plastic sacks of severed fingers, clingfilm stretched fetishistically over pale limbs, bent double and tied with white string, blood pooling darkly in the polystyrene trays.
Death warrants - signed, but with the name left blank - amongst the Sunday papers. The zone behind the translucent doors.
I can't do it. Looking determinedly straight ahead, I remove a bottle (whiskey? vodka? I am unsure) and stand in line at the checkout. Do I have a loyalty card? I stare in fear at my interrogator.
"Yes," I whimper. "I mean, no."
BIG BIRD:
Whilst on a walking holiday in remote regions, I chance upon a secluded valley, away from the popular walking routes. Some distance along the valley I come across a scene so breathtakingly beautiful that I drop to my knees in wonder. There is something about the serried ranks of deciduous and coniferous trees standing tall on the opposite bank of the river that sets my heart ablaze. The colours of the foliage are poetic, whilst the arrangement of species seems divinely inspired. Clouds swoop and whirl above the topmost branches, and the river sparkles through an uncertain reflection below.
Suddenly, the sky darkens, and along the river advances a flotilla of huge birds with menacing eyes. The size of the birds staggers me; one is as tall as a bus, and the others not much smaller. Their plumage is a shimmering blue, but their eyes are full of hate and looming disaster. With a horrible sinking feeling, I realise that the birds have noticed me. One of them clambers up the nearside bank, and waddles towards me. I take to my heels, and scramble along the path. Gaining speed, I run at full tilt.
Then I see people in front of me, running towards me. First one passes, then another, then another. They are wide-eyed with terror, and keep taking quick, fearful looks behind them. There must, I realise, be something unutterably horrible in front of me, but my fear of the big birds compels me to carry on. More people run past me, all with the same frightened expression. They are running towards the birds, away from something unknown. I am running from the birds, towards something unknown. Not for the first time in my life, I curse my bad luck.
Dracula:
It is summer, and I am persuaded to take a continental holiday by two enthusiastic acquaintances. Being a creature of habit, I am accustomed to vacations in the seaside resorts near to my home, but the proposition is put in such a way that I find it hard to make excuses.
We depart, and travel by train to Romania, where, after a series of misadventures, we are all captured by Count Dracula, Prince of Darkness. We are taken in a foul-smelling horse-drawn carriage to his castle, which towers blasphemously above the forests, fingering the torn sky with its crumbling turrets. We are, naturally, rent with terror. It is clear that the Count intends to drink our blood, turning us into undead monsters of the night in the process.
We are imprisoned in once luxurious apartments, overlooking Dracula's estate. It is evident that the twentieth century has not treated our host well. Ominously, he tells us in heavily-accented English that he has been forced to open up large tracts of his estate as a theme park, with log flumes, bowling alleys, rollercoasters, and burger bars, all of which are frequented by Western tourists who know nothing of the old ways.
Our sympathy is tempered by the sure knowledge that the Count intends to suck out our souls with his pointy teeth. We secretly devise a daring plan to flee. We encourage the Count to show us round the theme park, and, as we come to the bowling alley, hurl ourselves down the planks into the skittley darkness. We scramble through wires, pipes, and other obstructions until we find ourselves in an area devoted to crazy golf, where we mingle with the tourists. It is with some relief that we exit through the turnstiles. It is easy from thence to find a hire car, and complete our courageous escape.
Back home in Eastbourne, I wonder if we did the right thing. It infuriates me that Dracula may have needed my soul more than I do.
Only a Nightmare:
What's the idea? This is the idea: you get into your car that you bought this year on some huge mortgage scheme and will have to replace in another year or so after you've killed a few birds mammals and maybe a child or two and drive to the supermarket past all the dead shops that have been put out of business by the supermarket and park on a huge expanse of concrete that has been put on a field or a wood then walk probably further than you would to a corner shop and commandeer a huge trolley and go into the supermarket and fill up the trolley with things you don't want don't need and can't afford then have an argument with whoever you're with because the whole experience is beginning to destroy you and then you queue up behind a line of similarly soul-damaged people then a poor unfortunate kid or pensioner who probably dreams in bleeps reads the barcodes on everything and doesn't want to hear you say anything and is obliged to ask you if you have a loyalty card and if you want cashback (yes please I'll have the lot back and you can keep all this crap in my trolley) then you have to cart it all back to your car and load it up in the boot and get in and get out of the gargantuan carpark then drive home through the bleak wasteland occupied only by those too poor to own a car and unload it all again into your dream home and then consume it all and when you've shat it all out you have to go back again.
just here killing time right?
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