The Terminal Show



As she prepares a great abundance of food somewhere, I’m curled into a ball at the foot of the bed dreaming. At first, the dreams concerned glimpses of her in the nude, but then my vision shifted, and I was on a bus with one of my managers from work. Along with us, there were two builders who were also doctors, and they were informing my manager I needed time off for an operation. They said they needed to lay some underwater cables near the beach that was situated nearby. Apparently, this was part of the operation, and I knew the cables happened to represent the veins in and around my groin. In the dream, my cock was throbbing, and when I awoke, it was throbbing in real life, too. While I was sleeping, I bit into the inside of my right cheek and drew blood. It was on the pillow when I woke. All dried and mildly terrible. After getting in from work, I wrapped myself in a dressing gown before closing my eyes. She was driving, and there were signs concerning the sea, and these linked into my dreams, but I didn’t pursue them, for they were best left as questions. Was supposed to edit the cover of the second journal, but instead found myself looking at dubious videos on the internet concerning murder. One was of a gang member in Brazil being disembowelled by a rival. When they split open his belly and pulled out his intestines, there was steam. It reminded me of the steam you get from microwaving noodles. Another video showed a group of guys stood outside a gas station being attacked mid conversation. Their attackers jumped out of two vehicles, and while a few of their intended victims managed to scarper, three weren’t so lucky. They were macheted to death until their limbs were hacked off. The arms went first. When they were being raised to protect their faces, the blades cut through them like butter, and then came the legs. When they slashed and hacked, sparks leapt off the ground as the blades connected with the concrete beneath. It was truly awful, and yet sat there drinking my tea and prodding my throbbing groin, I couldn’t help but feel indifferent. Closing my eyes again, she was walking through a garden, and as she approached the front door of some house, there were butterflies hovering around two hanging baskets. I could see her smile, but then it faded as I rolled a cigarette and read two-dozen pages of my Ian Brady book. After I finish with it, I’m going to make a start on one about Mary Bell. Bought it in a charity shop several years ago. Some of the pages are loose, but that only adds to the charm.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

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