this planet is small, too small. sometimes, it seems, there is nowhere to hide when what’s inside presides, pervades, prevails; when the storm shreds the sails leaving no safe harbour. soon, …
there is comfort in clean sheets and the promise of “a good night’s sleep”. the allure of cool, crisp cotton beckons. the black ink of night fuels my scribe as i scratch across cheap paper in the dim of my lonely room. writing a song, in the dark, with a 5-string guitar, is cathartic. but there are too many distractions. my thoughts resolve back to the dead fox cub on the Standing Stanes Road and i sob, my arms wrapped around Julio*, my shoulders shaking. outside, the street lights shine like beacons for breaking hearts, insomniacs, poets and moths. someone is yelling. God knows what, but it’s 4.42am and the streets are already wet. the atonal hum of summer rain sounds like a song for the hopeless or a psalm for the loveless. a burgeoning hope, that tomorrow will be a brighter day. the sea sounds so far away; weak, and diluted by this new precipitation. this time of calm is stirred by an itch in my [open] left palm. and, a ringing in my ears breaks my thoughts in Fmaj7. i play along. words fold and unfold and float by me, like soggy paper boats in my own sea of rambling. i lay down and strum. sleep will come, easily. songs often manifest in my dreams. there are six planets on their rise, elliptical. they are all visible with the naked eye, if you know where to look. i close my eyes, put down the pen and close my book. i hold on tight to Julio, in the absurd hope that he will sing me to sleep, as i pluck strings in harmony with the gentle peal of the wind chime above my head, as the palest breeze waxes lyrical.
[i don’t remember falling asleep, but i guess i must’ve………………….]
5 hours later, i find myself awake and Julio still asleep on the bed beside me. quiet. there is paper and guitar picks everywhere. my thoughts resolve to my lover, along the coast; i can still smell his scent in the tangled mess of my hair.
(c) Kat McDonald 2016
-for Robert – with you, i never feel loveless. i love you, like i was born to.
clouds, slowly, gather
in the bluest sky
as sirens wail their
i watch the ants
of July suck
upon a glob
the strongest march
‘cross to the bone
dry side, near a dismantled rone;
whilst the weak
get stuck amidst,
clouds gather, now, at quickened
the sun no longer the white
a cooler breeze now strikes my soul
like a hammer on
i hear Thor’s roar
a battlecry that rips
the sky wide open
in a shower
what of the ants?
i watch them struggle
as they run amok
between the cracks,
under the crock,
the flower, foot and flock.
as the strongest march
on, flight of
foot and brace
their struggle and plight;
whilst the weak
get stuck in
(c) Kat McDonald 2016
– a stormy lunch hour, fulfilled by the company of ants.
cheap tinsel and smog – is all that you are. a cityful of fake folk and folklore; of deplorable schism and schizophrenic notion. Ah… Hollywould… if she could.
she’s a whoredom. she is like a box of adders; a modern-day Medusa; a mother with viper womb and crooked fangs.
Hollywould – the painted piranha; a fickledom where unforgiven forgotten pariah see only what they wanna.
like a cursed spell. look out, boys! she will poison your well being, and cheapen your aspirations.
she will deliver another suckerpunch, a blow below the belt, crushing the dreams of stardom of each new city-dweller.
watch your step.
wow… she’s something else!
a knock-out with glass jaw but she will always be the first to throw.
she’s a fault line but no great shakes. beneath the mask it’s, clearly, all fake. like the mountains she makes; and struggles, self-baked, of tremendous tremor.
“are those freckles real or are they melanin implants?”
’tis becoming a seismic bore: predictable, needling or
just needy, like that waitress on a 16 hour shift.
Hollywould, if she could, for a cuntful of tips.
oh see how she is gifted – with envy-green eyes and marshmallow lips. Oh how those breasts, augmented, uplift.
and how that mouth can swear and prey.
Oh that pretty mouth and its infamy. it spews, spills and thrills; what’s it to be? spit or swallow?
guzzle ’til full, or remain forever hollow.
she’s the lying breath of the dying, or maybe she is just like our dying star, or a vagrant on the casting couch.
she will play you, work you – she’s no slouch.
is she fashionably contradictory or just prettily vacant?
and so it goes on – irrefutably blatant.
from upbeat to down beat – to a dead heat in heartbeat
and hysteria. with no pretty flowers downtown to adorn her
– only painted thorns, all shorn and forlorn there.
a plastic rose in a plastic surgeon’s clinic, its artificiality, leeching – its cheap scent and gaud leaves them nauseous and retching.
while the artist outside, on the kerb, is sketching.
Oh Hollywould – is a hall of mirror and delusion.
in a violent reality of wild superficiality, she thrives on and jives with collision and war.
warring, wearing and wearing thin, wearing down.
oh Hollywould – a dumb little clown; a piss-stinking parody of a circus town.
attention-seeking, she swings to and fro; a trapeze, a trap… she’ll cum and she’ll go.
fickle, sickle, scythe, and sick.
calculating and heartless, with a swinging brick.
Oh Hollywould, if she could, of that i am sure – cast her aspersions, as she walks out the door, with precision
like a whaler’s harpoon, direct and damaging in her oblivious lampoon.
Queen of the Damned, or just damned Drama Queen.
“do as i say
or i’ll scream and i’ll scream…!”
and she will, ’till you’re down upon wounded knee;
she will have you jump through hoops of blowjobs and fire, ’til you please
or appease or get stuck in her mire.
one thing for sure…
… this is no town for a child.
(c) Kat McDonald 2016
Black Friday. the streets were mean and surly as the hustled bustle of frenzied Christmas shoppers began to reach fever pitch and a new-found level of savagery.
still owned by the same family, now in its fifth generation, Mickey’s Diner is the oldest diner in Brooklyn and it hadn’t changed one iota since the 1900s. the smell of Irish stew and coffee became as synonymous with Brooklyn as the Bridge itself.
Escaping the Christmas contagion and mass hysteria, Harold and Maeve Spratt entered the diner, as they did every Friday.
Harold sat opposite his wife, Maeve. he motioned to the waitress that he’d like a coffee. “black n bitter” he scoffed.
the diner was busy and crammed with people. people loitering; people taking seats and leaving seats; people with harried expressions; people hugging and laughing; people impatiently roaring “check please!” – to which the waitress would roar “i said i’ll be right with you, goddamnit!”. there were lovers in corners, huddled over steaming bowls of stew; there were whining children – pissed because they’d been trailed from shop to shop on a promise that they would get to go see Santa Claus if they were good little boys and girls but their whines seemed justified – it was a little after 4pm and they knew that they’d been duped; little kids, stropping, rigid in strollers, screaming for attention, their bottom lips quivering and their faces red. poor little bastards. what a toil for them, being pushed through a noisy jungle of legs, ill smells and the odd dog’s unwanted overfamiliarity.
Kim, the waitress, had waited these tables for thirty six years. “in with the bricks” she’d cajole, with a tired smile and swollen ankles, smiling lamely at customers as she waited to take their order, stabbing her chewed pen on the notepad in her slender hand. “what’s it to be, Harold?” she asked, arriving at Harold and Maeve’s table.
Harold ordered another cuppa Joe “black n bitter” and a naked mixed green salad “no dressing”. Maeve was still pondering over the menu. “should i get the blueberry pancakes, with maple-cure bacon, Harold?” she asked “or should i have the a big slab of that pecan pie…? i just love pecan pie… ooh peaches…”. Harold silently scolded her with a glower, cutting her off bluntly, as he casually unfolded today’s Gotham Gazette and snapped it open, putting it up as a barrier between him and his wife. he quietly sipped his coffee and muttered, from behind the headline: “have whatever your heart desires, Mae – what the Hell do i care!?”.
“aw come on, Maeve, i got other people waiting” said Kim, loudly cracking her gum, like a gunshot.
“ok… i’ll have the blueberry pancakes, with the maple-cured bacon – and two eggs, over-easy… and i’ll have the corn muffin with peaches and syrup please” she said, looking pleased with herself, smiling smugly at Kim as she handed her the menus. Kim stuck her pen behind her ear, took up the menus and zig-zagged off in the direction of the kitchen hatch, where she brayed the order at the cook.
Harold and Maeve had been coming to Mickey’s Diner for almost 50 years. every Friday, since before they were married. those early Fridays saw them sit, as young lovers, huddled over a milkshake with a stack of quarters for the jukebox. Hell, they’d even been known to get up and dance, like there was nobody else around. later Fridays saw them bring their children for birthday balloons and sparkling sundaes.
but today Harold and Maeve sat in silence. she, now 40lbs heavier, sat looking around her, with her hands close-knit in her lap while he sat, quietly sipping his coffee, reading the funnies.
Harold was 78 and a retired cop. He was a tall and intolerant man, with a wiry frame. granted, it was a little bent out of shape nowadays but he tried to keep himself lean. still, he had a bone-dry sense of humour, a boner for the waitress’s legs and a bony face, to boot. he was an ugly man and had been known to make children cry with just one glower; his piercing eagle eyes and hanging monobrow made him look like ‘the bogey man’ to the children in the street where they lived. however, with age, the severity of this look was lessened by the thick horn-framed spectacles that were now perched on his prominent aquiline nose.
Maeve was a retired cook. she loved food. oh boy she loved ‘a good eat’. “a little too much” Harold would say, to his friends at Tuesday night poker club, when Jimmy ‘One Shoe’ McGonigle and Tom ‘Crab’ Fisher would ask after ‘the good lady’. “gah, she’s as good as an old slipper” he would say “a little worn and twice the size she was when i first tried it on with her”
yes. it was true. Maeve liked her food. she loved to eat. she was 72 and overblown. “a diet of fat and flour will do that to ya”, as Harold would say.
amid the rabble of babble and clatter of crockery, the cook roared “one mixed green salad, one pancake pig-out for table 17!”
Harold squirmed in his seat, shaking his head with embarrassment and burying his face in the day’s obituaries. Maeve smiled with glee as she watched Kim weave through the tables, a plate in each hand. cracking a large gum bubble loudly in Harold’s ear as she laid their food down at their table, Harold tutted and threw her a contemptuous glance. “sorry” she said, huskily, with a nonchalant shrug and ‘like-i-give-a-fuck’ smile. Maeve began to sweat and squirm with excitement. her eyes widened and lit up like cooker rings when the platter was put down in front of her. she pulled her seat in close to the table. so close, her huge tits pushed the plate three inches away from her. “thank you, Kim, you’re a sweetie” she said, cloyingly to the waitress. “can i trouble you for some extra bacon – two skinny rashers like that ain’t gonna fill me up?” Harold rolled his eyes to the waitress: “… and a heart attack on a plate, if you got one of those too?” he snarled.
Harold neatly folded his newspaper and laid it to one side. he picked up his fork and began to eat. quietly, in silence.
Maeve picked up her napkin in her plump hands and tucked it into her blouse, near spilling her cleavage onto her plate. Harold looked at her with equal parts contempt and dread.
a few years ago, Harold had grown to hate eating with his wife. her ill-fitting dentures and vile table manners filled him with anxiety. his intolerance of messy, noisy eating had grown exponentially over the years. there were many occasions where he would sit at the dining table, in the comfort of their home, silently plotting ways to kill her as she chewed hungrily on a turkey leg or slurped her coffee or spoke with her mouth full of ham and egg sandwich – plosively spatting slimy chunks of half-chewed bread and mush across the table, often onto his plate. he now found this woman, the former love of his life, disgusting. repulsive. like a pig. an old sow.
today was no exception. he sat and picked at his leafy veg, polite forkfuls of spinach and lollo rosso quietly masticated in his closed mouth, as he ruminated on her demise.
with a whore of an appetite, she attacked her plate… chopping up her pancakes with the fork gripped tightly in her chubby fist. her eyes twinkling as she greedily licked her painted lips. she was hungry. she was always hungry. she stabbed at pancakes, bacon and blueberries – stacking them on the four prongs of her fork, closing her eyes as her mouth yawned open like a whore’s cunt, stretching and glistening with greed. Harold watched in horror, at what seemed to occur in slow-motion, as she slammed that fork in her mouth, cramming it full of what she craved; thrusting it deep inside that gaping cavern. her pink painted lips creased around the fork as her eyes rolled back in her head in ecstasy; her chubby fist deftly removing the licked-clean fork and returning it to the platter only to be stapped full of more fat and flour; more glutinous grease, as that ugly and guilt-free grin opened across her puffy face like a septic wound, seeping and encrusted with crumbs and spit.
and that sound! Harold hated the sound. the sounds were the worst imaginable.
the rattle and clicking of her ill-fitting dentures frayed his nerves with each bite. the jaws snapping, snapping; her poorly painted and puckered lips smacking, smacking… and the gulping.
Harold hated the gulping.
she would take a swill of her coffee, gulping down air with her mouth full of pancake and pig. the squelching and sweating. she would sweat with excitement and effort. how could she fill that mouth so full. the sweating… as her stomach succumbed to the stretching, she was like a foie gras goose. her eyes would gleam and her mouth would glisten in her unabashed gluttony, her chin wet and shiny with trails of jus and bacon fat. but it didn’t stop after the plate was empty… oh no. this was the bit Harold hated the most.
after eating, she would rattle her dentures around her mouth; her tongue poking around in there, scouring for remnants of half-chewed food. her painted mouth stretched outwards like the muzzle of an adult baboon. oh that sound. it drove Harold crazy.
suddenly, Harold’s murderous fantasy was interrupted by a violent coughing fit. it took him a while to realise that his wife was choking. he sat, quietly forking away at his salad.
“don’t talk with your mouth full, Maeve” he said, awkwardly, loud enough for all to hear, as he quickly polished off his salad.
the coughing and spluttering grew increasingly more urgent…
“someone call 911 – that fat lady’s choking!!” someone yelled.
for Harold, everything seemed to be in suspended animation, surreal. he watched, chewing on his watercress and kale, as a young bearded hipster guy in skinny jeans and man-bun tried to pull the Heimlich manoeuvre on her but he could barely get his arms tight enough around the bulk of her corpulent form to perform the move effectively.
Harold sat and watched, in disbelief and quiet amusement, as his wife’s face reddened and her eyes bulged as if fit to burst. Harold watched as everyone rushed and fussed around her. he glanced outside, it was starting to snow. he turned back to his wife and stared into her eyes, her watering and bloodshot eyes. he watched as her face turned purple and her heaving mass slumped, hard, onto the floor.
“call 911… QUICK!! she’s not breathing!” yelled the bearded hipster.
“Jesus, man, what’s wrong with you!? your wife is choking!” he barked at Harold, as he took a hold of Maeve’s hand.
Harold couldn’t move. he seemed blissfully paralysed. he simply sat and watched the drama unfold before him. he sat and stared at her plate. he sat and watched as the Coroner came and took her body away. he sat there, still.
“it’s not like her to leave food on her plate…” he thought.
damn. she hadn’t touched that corn muffin.
“what a waste!” he thought, as he stabbed his fork into its peachy depths.
(c) Kat McDonald 2016
~ an idea for a screenplay.
barefoot on cool grass,
summer has spoken
of honey-bee drones
and the hum of distant traffic.
grateful flowers herald her arrival
with trumpets blaring blue and yellow.
with sand in her shoes,
but only just.
i hear her
in the sea’s breath
and the depth of tide;
in gulls’ cries
and the clink of ice.
(c) Kat McDonald 2016
HEY FOLKS… did you know that veganism has increased by 350% in the UK? it is one of the fastest-growing movements worldwide as people become more aware, more responsible, more enlightened.
[i want to keep this brief as this post isn’t specifically self-centric…]
i have been vegan for almost a year now and it has not been an easy ride. some days are a struggle. this is particularly so in the area where i live – not TOO many places to eat out without being asked:
“what’s a vegan?”
“ah… you’re from Germany!”
“i can make you a cheese sandwich… or an omelette?”
but… more and more eateries are now catering for those choosing a plant-based lifestyle.
i feel like a burden has been lifted from my shoulders by adopting this lifestyle and following the vegan movement. not just for my health, but for the animals, AND for the planet. i felt it was my duty. a duty of care. and after watching movies such as ‘Vegucated’, ‘Cowspiracy’, ‘Black Fish’, ‘Earthlings’ [to name but a few!] my feelings were consolidated. verified. i just knew i was doing the right thing, by making the sacrifice and switch. i just knew i owed it to myself, my fellow earthlings and the planet.
the time was now.
my lover, who is also vegan, has felt compelled to share HIS journey into veganism, by way of making some videos. this one’s not for the faint-hearted, but being vegan isn’t easy… almost always we have a daily battle with many things… here is his testimony about why he became vegan, and the obstacles and objections he now battles with… he says it’s ‘just another vegan rant’ – but i think it’s so much more than that. 100% honest, with a little humour… features Alfie, our Cat.
one love, folks. we are just doing what we can, chipping away, educating ourselves, educating others… supporting the movement…. just trying to make the world a better place as we, humans, are racing our own extinction.
the time IS now. always will be. it is never too late to make the change.
spread the love. share this around. if you are curious about veganism and how it can benefit you, feel free to contact him – subscribe, leave a like, leave a comment, ask a question, offer advice – every day is a school day.
i have been met with trolls and objection, but i always throw this rock back:
“hey buddy, the argument is not with me… it’s with your own conscience”
** CONTAINS GRAPHIC IMAGES, OFF-BEAT HUMOUR & SWEARING… **
thoughts (c) myself, Kat McDonald 2016
video (c) Monkey Productions 2016 & Robert Davidson 2016
Want something good to read? want something 1000% vegan, yet really meaty, to get your teeth into? here it is… fan fiction at its best!
Message from the author:
Calling all Jim Carrey fans, Vegans, lovers of all animals and lovers of a damn good read!
I think I just wrote Ace Ventura 3. A novel called Ace Ventura – White Devil.
It’s a dark and twisted tale about Ace. Ace, as you have never seen him before. He is older, wiser and just a tiny bit more insane. He has taken to vigilante style justice, utilising his animal rights organisation,
ACE (Animal Cruelty Extermination), to protect the innocent animals of the world.
And he goes by the name – White Devil.
A young FBI agent, Joshua Jamieson, is tasked with infiltrating ACE in an attempt to find and stop the White Devil, before he kills again.
But what Jamieson learns along the way, rocks the foundations of the reality he thought he knew.
Who is next on the White Devil’s list?
Can Jamieson stop the White Devil before he strikes again, and before he loses his own mind in the process?
Enjoy and share.🙂
Chapter 1 – A Royal hunt
Gaewick Forest, Perthshire, Scotland.
Three middle-aged men, dressed in green camouflage overalls and hiking boots, tread heavily through dense forest. The morning air is cool and fresh with a distinct pine aroma. The wood is a typical Scottish forest with a variety of different trees – oak trees, silver birch, majestic Scots pine, ash, sycamore, Douglas fir, the ancient yew tree, horse-chestnut trees and many more.
Two of the men carry on their shoulders a carved wooden pole, and tied to that pole, hanging from its feet and swinging lifelessly, is the dead body of a stag. The third man, leading the other two, carries two hunting rifles, one over each shoulder. They are in high spirits after a satisfying hunt, laughing and jeering.
‘They can camp outside of the old hag’s palace for all the good it will do them,’ sneers the man…
View original post 72,286 more words
where do you go
in the daytime,
when shadows are short
where d’you hide?
i know you are out there
just biding your time.
are you watching
when i’m ordering coffee,
your bitterness stronger
are you there when i slip underwater,
holding me ransom with rhyme?
when i lay
on the couch, with my guitar,
do you hope that i break
you choke on my neck
like a capo.
God, you must hate it
when i start to sing.
but it’s the smallest of hours
that you savour.
when shadows bleed into the night.
i acknowledge you in bed beside me,
your cursed cold-handed humour,
as i struggle to just stay alive.
(c) Kat McDonald
– writers’ block exercise: a 10 minute poem about any chosen subject. last night’s subject was ‘insomnia’ – equal parts curse & gift.
sunshine and Aretha Franklin. must be Friday. a sanctuary. a day.
i wonder about the long-haired hitch-hiker at the side of the road, resting his thumbs upon the biggest blue backpack i have ever seen. he wants to be free of this small Scottish seaside town. what makes him happy?
yellow jackets terrorise the kids. ganging up, in swarms of thirty-three to three. they want their sugar lips and stickiness.
Siamese twins stand, holding hands, on an island in the slum and slump themselves down. dual-despondence. real or illusion?
a grey-haired old lady serves hot soup from the street corner. her dirty fingernails in filthy and frayed finger-less mitts do not repulse the starving and the cold.
meanwhile, a young-girl pirouettes on blades in an ice arena nearby. the spray of cold ice rains down upon the young-boy watching in awe of her breasts and the arc of her back. wake up.
Rod Stewart tells Maggie to wake up. i have indigestion.
a young Asian boy on a red bike stops to rescue a red kite, caught in a tree. to set it free. ’tis all he wants.
the sign says ‘get in lane, Lois’. i do my best, but my patience is thread-bare. this is not real.
i can taste paper. eh?
smoker, or vaper? popcorn lung anyone? ‘you can’t do that here, mate’ says the driver. ‘how no?’ replies the man.
‘how no?’ – what the fuck does that even mean?
and a-round-a-bout we go.
green trees spark a thirst for green tea.
free parking. and yes… it’s true…
somewhere, a dog is barking…
white sky. why? windscreen and wounded fly.
for sale. my reflection, pale. the image should fetch $7. you wait and see.
Chinese banquet or dance with a prophet? don’t decide now. you get a free 14-day trial. no credit card details required.
and it is pretty here. in this hand-stitched field of daisies. this is the prettiest blanket.
discovery and shadows, blind. “taxi to Golf City?” no thank you.
a great white shark for the amusement park. her hunger and crescent-shaped tail prevail. she will cut you in two as soon as look at you.
weightless or weight loss. trim the fat.
scrambled brain from Scrabble game. i see Little Miss Muffet has a new friend.
tuning fork or fork in the road. left or right? flat or sharp?
colourful flumes dip and curl from a great height into the cold grey sea, the same sea that many have written about before me.
weak bridge. is it really weak or is it just tired, like me. my week is tiring.
ballet dancers spin in the brickyard and children paint green hearts on the gable end. a smile can disable, disarm. still, the satellite receivers twitch and turn.
i see a rose tattoo on an ample breast. “enough kindness to feed the world” she says.
a mini market pops up in the Land of Churches, whose spires aspire to greater things as the Garden of Eden swings, despite the rust and much mistrust. do you want or need what i am selling? either way, don’t sell your soul or sell out.
scaffold and cemetery flank my path. hope on one side and faith on the other.
i follow the white arrows through the Parish and take the ladder to the sky.
i watch the blue whale in the biggest blue polyester shell suit take to running and the myocardial risk of running a-ground. from bulging seams it seems like this one takes too kindly to the generous offer of mini-marts and TV ads of fizzy sodas at 99c a can. aspartame-based sugar-coated toxin. you in? you want one? maybe a pack of six?
sugar beats, sugar treats, sugar kiss, sugar kill.
and sugar will. wait and see.
there is a new Academy for new minds. am i too optimistic? can we farm a change?
the falcons hide. nowhere to be seen, despite the signs.
slabbing… this way (the arrow points to the left). is there a right way? i guess there is. what of this?
pressing on, i zip through the fields of Beautiful Fife.
i am now east of the wemyss. a town where the wheelie-bins talk. they talk about a revolution and their revolt for our failed devolution, our desperate attempt at evolution. they gather on the pavements, in their cabals and cliques. they are gossiping, chattering and clap-trapping. they are full of shit.
a man struggles with an umbrella by the side of the road but the traffic is under control. the X-men are not in service but the roses are… they climb and clamor, pretty and pink and narcissistic.
a shed with a sea view, as mythical creatures guard the entrance. mysterious.
the sky is a queer dark shade of white, i spot wild garlic growing in the hedge and my mind turns to Erik Weihenmayer; the blind man who climbed Mt Everest.
do i feel inspired or like an abject failure. i am so tired i could barely climb the thirty-nine steps that John speaks of.
what can i say? my week leaves me weak. but it is Friday. a green light.
a green light shines in the hanging garden of this Town of Gallows. a space where people scurry, with furrowed brows they flurry; their dreams pruned and pinned upon the Great British Pound and price of this Lotto life. scratch their cards to scratch their itch. enough rope to hang themselves.
i look across the sea to Rossyln.
i see the bridges. a third now across the Forth. build or burn?
it’s your turn. my mind wonders. my mind wanders.
“tuck in” says the fat monk, or Jolly Friar. jolly fryer. take your cupcakes and deep-fried pies, your nutritional myths and sugar-coated lies. stick them in the lard. drip feed the dripping. your diabetes crippling? not yet. but it will. quick! take a diet pill.
take a look. in the mirror.
breeze blocks of opportunity? cheap but offer no impunity.
i disappear beneath the bridge
and sunbathe upon the rail tracks.
(c) Kat McDonald 2016
– ramblings borne of the delirium & frustrations of trying to make the world a better place.