Slumming it With the Proletariat in Poundland

The moment I enter the store, the burly black security guard is eyeballing me. I look rough, so that's understandable, but unsettling nonetheless. It doesn't help that I'm wearing a huge motherfucker of a jacket, pockets deeper than something really fucking deep.
I meander to the canned drinks, some queer looking kid in a red hoodie passes me, eye contact all the fucking way. Acne scars riddle his face. I stand in front of the canned drinks and stare for a while, absorbed into the decision making process. 
This is the biggest decision of your life.
I pick an Irn-Bru, a Dr. Pepper and a Vimto. My hand lingers over the Vimto for a while. 
Yeah, that's the good shit.
As I begin to walk to the tills, the security guard is scoping me out, I line up. The guy stands in front of the kid, and lifts up his his hoodie. It reveals a packet of fizzy strawberry laces.
Shit man, strawberry laces are real fucking good.
The kid stands there a while, unsure what to do. After the buzzer being rung for assistance, and the police being mentioned the kid tries to run. 
The burly fucker tackles.
Kid crumples. 
Kid goes down like a wet fucking flannel.
I walk out the store and open my Irn-Bru.
Yeah, that's the good shit.

Nostalgia

You talk about Safeway and Kwik-Save for like 15 minutes and you miss that shit so much and it pains you every time you walk into a Morrisons, it just hurts you so much you want to lie down in the aisle weeping and screaming until the security guard escorts you out the building.

My Veins Are Completely Fucked So I Have to Inject My Dick and Because of This I Can No Longer Get Erections

In a public bathroom, two men sit in adjacent stalls, shooting up.

MAN 1: I had a phobia of birthday cakes when I was younger.
MAN 2: I fear that I'm incapable of love, that I'm going to die alone and nobody even notices me.
MAN 1: I love skag.
MAN 2: I love you.
FIN

David Lynch Lives Inside My Lungs

I buy a copy of The Big Issue from a junky and take four steps away, turn around and look him dead in the eyes, looking into the abyss, just a void of pain and suffering.
I sling him a thumbs up. 
A shit-eating grin covers his wrinkled face.

PhD in Deliciousness

I watched an advert for Dr Pepper,
I bought Dr Pepper,
I felt used,
I was a consumer whore,
I felt as if Dr Pepper raped me and left me as a husk of my former self,
A mere shell,
I sat in the shower weeping,
It was my fault, 
I was asking for it,
I am a slut,
I stare in the mirror and I don't even recognise the man staring back at me anymore.

3 O'Clock

A steady stream of piss running down the wall,
Pooling at my feet,
Meandering south.

Untitled

I project my anger onto others.

Untitled

I might pretend that I'm Sylvia Plath.

Untitled

I want to wither away.

Confessions of a Tofu Addict by Karl Finch

Karl Finch makes me angry, he should make his own damn blog.


One day I’ll move to America and live in Portland, Oregon. I’ll become a serial killer of hipsters. I’ll then strangle them with a piano wire I bought in a thrift shop as they check Pitchfork one night. When I’ve finished, I’ll dress their emaciated vegan corpses in normal clothes then trade in their record collection for CDs, just to disgust their ghosts.

I’ll dress like them so as to blend in. They’ll never find me that way. Then, years later, I’ll realise I’ve become so much like them, that the only people who pay attention to hipsters are hipsters. Realising this, I’ll write my life story in haikus written in colloquial Flemish, hand-bind 113 copies on soy paper, and then sell them at the local coffee shop.

Snugglefucker

I want you to jump into my cardigan,
and we would snuggle all day long,


and then I would strangle you.

Untitled

im wearing looser boxers than usual and it feels like im wearing nothing at all

Unititled

i feel like damien hirst put me in a vat of formaldehyde

Untitled

I feel like I'm trapped inside an episode of Top Gear and I'm Richard Hammond and I'm in a rocket car and I'm about to crash.

Untitled

I want to crawl into a cunt and go to sleep.

A Day In the Life of Mr. Cameron

I sit at the table wearing a shirt and tie, leaving my bare arse touching the coarse fabric of the chair. Sloshing Organic Semi-Skimmed Waitrose milk over my muesli.
Reading The Guardian.
I rub my greasy cock and balls up against the screen of the television, whilst watching BBC News 24.
I piss out of the window.

I open the closet and let my slave out; he wears a Margaret Thatcher mask.

I bugger him on the patio.