Colossus

The night is young and crisp and cold. These hours belong to me: when darkness seeps, becoming impenetrable, amongst the shrubs and trees. I will pluck the earthworms from the ground and rend them, toying with my prey for a while, before snaffling them up with snaggled-teeth and claws. The new home I have found has the stench of the brown, silky slikers, but the sliker has departed, and the home is mine. A korooraloo emits a mournful cry in the trees overhead, and I am watchful, conscious of the theft of what is rightfully mine. 

In the act of hunting, in the act of eating, I am lost. All higher thoughts, all other thoughts obliterated. I do not think about my purpose. I am hungry-or-not-hungry, eating-or-not-eating, I have a mate or I do not. I am running, or I am stumbling in forage, or I am still. There is a queer, unnatural brightness, or there is the gloopy, delicious, worm-ridden mud of the dark. The wits among you might accuse my thinking of being monochromatic. You are the ones who choose to clutter and pollute yourselves with things beyond the necessary. I am in tune, at one with the great undulations of the Universe, oscillating with them, and I am free. Can you lay claim to such serenity? (read more)

User ID0353779 (Codename: Colossal Prick) reveals his thoughts on the untimely departure of Emma Rice as artistic director of the Globe

A response to this comment on a Guardian article.

Get an excuse for a working class artist to splatter ironic bodily fluids!
An orgy of my fears, the stupid things that I love to hate in my loud voice.
Excuse the mess? I love the mess, I miss the fluids, I’m dry inside, I’d kill
for a cup of the blood that runs in you, a thimble of your full-bodied spit,
a pinprick droplet of anything, I’m so thirsty. I try to feel things but it’s not
working, every time I come close the dogs of scorn start to bare their teeth.
Class consciousness? I flunked it. My horse is so high my head's in the clouds,
artist-what-the-fuckery spewing out of my ears and coming down as flaccid rain.
To you I’m just another keyboard-biter with a stick up his arse, a
splatter of roadkill opinions with a PDF of Butcher’s Copy-editing who says
“ironic” like it’s a swearword, and I am, but I just want to be picked up
bodily and churned like so much duck butter until I come to a pulp and the
fluids start to flow again. I’m just a thirsty man!

how does she
 
the woman was tall, speaking
her voice was clear, rising
and falling at quiet intervals.
she stood,
somewhat awkwardly
watching them all
seated before her
elbows sticking out, legs jutting
like a teenager not quite adjusted
to her unwieldy limbs, grown
so quick within a month,
leaving stretch marks on her hips-
must be all the milk she drank
as a child.
they were all watching her now,
stopped talking,
they, mouths closed and open
trapping invisible flies and demons
clad in plaid and stripes and cheese cloth.
she looked up
to black beams on a white ceiling
and wished
she could fly away,
maybe somewhere south
where the water, stretched before you
 
and birds flew.