This is a prose tale about the great superhero, SNOGGO
(as told in the first person by SNOGGO to his amanuensis, Edna)

*'You can't have "Jew",' I said.
'Why not? It's a perfectly good word. Are you anti-semitic or something?'
'Jew has a capital J,' I said.
'Not necessarily. I've used it before.'
'Not with me you haven't. There's the dictionary. Look it up.'

Jumbo grudgingly picked up the Shorter Oxford and looked up "Jew". He sniffed loudly, slammed the dictionary shut and removed the tiles from the board. His replacement word was a sodding disaster.

'That's twenty-four points you've cost me with your nit-picking, you *******,' he said through gritted yellow teeth, his flabby body shaking with rage. 'The J was on a triple letter score.'

I sneered derisively and laughed long and loud, making Jumbo froth at his ugly fat nostrils with anger.

'Watch this and weep, Jumbo,' I said, playing out all seven of my tiles onto the board to create a stunning word: UNZIPPED. 'The Z's on a double letter score and it's all on a triple word score, so that's 90, plus 50 for playing all my tiles, 140 in total and the end of the game,' I declared in triumph. Jumbo was caught with 14 in his hand (remember: he still had the J) and thus I, the great SNOGGO, became Greenwich Scrabble Champion for the 25th year running. Not only that: but 25 consecutive defeats in the final for Jumbo.

Jumbo roared in frustration as he saw his hopes of taking the coveted 24ct gold "Queen Anne" cup away from me, SNOGGO, dashed to the ground yet again. And, by centuries old tradition, 25 consecutive victories meant the priceless cup was now mine to keep for ever. Jumbo's scream of uncontrollable, incandescent rage could have been heard as far away as the Vanbrugh Hill Municipal Waste Disposal Centre.

'******* you for all ******* eternity,' he bellowed unsportingly as he waddled out of the cheering hall. In so doing he flouted the gentlemen's convention of always staying to take part in the closing ceremony. He missed seeing me, the great SNOGGO, receive the shining gold cup from the gnarled hands of the Lady Mayoress, the Hon. Mrs Snotte-Wragge, who whispered in my ear 'Fancy a quick **** later, back at the mayoral parlour, SNOGGO dear?' For the fifth year in a row I told her to go and get stuffed as I didn't go for ugly old bats with arses on them like a double-decker bus.

Later that evening, as I sat in the splendid Georgian surroundings of Snoggo Manor, cradling the gold cup and admiring the row of 25 Championship certificates on the walls of my elegant dining room, finishing off my second bottle of Bollinger Grand Cru '89 and stuffing my 18th oyster down my happy throat, I heard a knock on the door. Who could that possibly be at nearly midnight?

It was Jumbo, my fat defeated foe. He looked downcast. 'SNOGGO,' he said, 'I've come to offer my apologies for my inappropriate behaviour earlier. You deserved to win, you are the finest scrabbler in all of Greenwich. I have come to offer you the hand of friendship and to invite you to my humble home for a midnight snack to celebrate your stirring victory.'

'Jumbo,' I replied, 'that's uncommon civil of you, old man. And your timing is excellent, as I've just finished my apéritif and was on the verge of kicking Mrs SNOGGO, my new 17-year old Thai mail order wife, out of her hammock to make my supper. So what's on the menu, squire?'

'Well,' said Jumbo, 'I was thinking of pâte de foie gras - naturally made by Mrs Jumbo using our own force-fed geese, with a bottle of Château d'Yquem '78 to start with. Then perhaps a kilo of blood-red filet mignon avec pommes frites, washed down with a rather good magnum of Brouilly '99. Then there's Mrs Jumbo's famed cheeseboard with a tumbler full of vintage port, followed by a dozen crêpes suzettes, a few petits cafés, a monster Armagnac and a giant Havana each.'

I considered the proposed menu carefully before replying. 'Sounds quite good to me, Jumbo,' I declared, glancing over his shoulder at the Bentley waiting outside. I could just see the peaked chauffeur's cap of the diminutive Mrs Jumbo peering myopically over the leather-covered steering wheel.

And so, having told Mrs Snoggo to tidy up a bit whilst I was out, I went off to dinner with Jumbo. In all our 25 years of Scrabble rivalry I had never once set foot into his house, so I was eager to check out what sort of lifestyle he enjoyed. Once inside Jumbo Villa, I cast my eyes over the luxurious furnishings with an expert eye, evaluating their immense worth and rarity with incredible perspicacity and knowledge.

'Not a bad pad you've got here, Jumbo,' I conceded. 'Not in the same class as Snoggo Manor, of course, but still ****** impressive.' He was visibly flattered by my compliment.

'A glass of sherry while we wait for Mrs Jumbo to serve us?' queried Jumbo jovially. I sniffed at the huge portion of delicious amber nectar appreciatively. 'Lustau Amoroso Bodega Marquès de Mierda '42?' I guessed instinctively. Jumbo nodded. '******* spot on, SNOGGO,' he admitted in stunned amazement.

I took an enormous gulp and felt the alcohol hit me like a slam in the abdomen from Cassius Clay's butcher and more vicious brother. The room spun and I closed my eyes in resigned delight.

When I came to I found myself hanging unclothed in chains on the wall of a dank cellar. My head was pounding and I felt distinctly below par. I looked over my shoulder and beheld Jumbo standing there with a sjambok in his hand. He was stark ******* naked, naked as the day he was born, and I have never seen anything so repulsive in all my life (with the sole exception of that incredible day when, as a child, I caught my paternal grandparents bonking on the Persian rug in the Great Hall at Snoggo Manor on Christmas Eve). Jumbo’s huge pendulous ******* sagged over his bloated fat belly, which itself hung so low his genitals were mercifully hidden from my view. He was a ******* monstrosity.

The tiny Mrs Jumbo stood to the rear of the cellar, also naked, pallid and with her public hair died a shocking pink. She was a skinny freak, a vision of *** Hell. I noticed the tattoo on her belly. It showed a depiction of the crucifixion which I felt was in dubious taste, especially with Jesus sporting an enormous *******.

What I, the wonderful SNOGGO, suffered in the next few hours was truly indescribable, so I will only summarise it. After a seemingly endless whipping from Jumbo (assisted by Mrs Jumbo, but her puny lash strokes were almost pleasurable), accompanied by their combined frenzied cries of demented hatred and loathing, I was forced to suffer the supreme humiliation. Jumbo mounted a set of fine Regency library steps, positioned his Hellish lumpen body behind me and unceremoniously inserted his tiny ***** into my outraged ****. Oh the shame! Oh the shame!

‘O Jesus Christ help me!’ I yelled in rain and pain. And suddenly a voice spoke unto me. 'O great SNOGGO,' it intoned, 'thou needst not suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune so needlessly. Only have faith in me, the great loving Jesus, and I shall give thee strength to deal with thy ******* awful tribulations.'

It was a miracle! SNOGGO could and would be saved! Quickly I mumbled a couple of Ave Marias remembered from my youth as a leading mutual masturbator in the chapel choir, and I silently promised a quick twenty thousand quid to the local faggotty priest ******* fund, and my chains fell to the floor with a blast of heavenly thunder. Halle-*******-luliah!

'Right, Jumbo you fat ****,' I snapped, 'you have ******* had it.'

And with one mighty blow of my right arm I smashed him against the wall. His huge hideous body crumpled as he slid to the floor, blood oozing from his fat gob. I gave him a ****** good kicking in the face and in the heart region and shortly he went to meet his maker, with a sickening grunt and expulsion of *****.

Then I turned to the horrified naked ugly skinny tattooed Mrs Jumbo and said: 'OK, *******, where's my ******* supper?'

She shrugged and headed upstairs to prepare the meal I had been promised by Jumbo earlier, as I was seriously hungry by this stage. Little did she know I would be obliged to put her out of her misery later. Or if she were lucky, I might offer her a position as unpaid toilet cleanser chez moi.

Yes, it was yet another stunning victory for the fabulous SNOGGO, thanks to timely divine intervention for which I am very much obliged.

And don't forget my luscious 17-year old Thai mail bride would be waiting to give me a really good ******* once I got back to Snoggo Manor. Either that or I would give her a good belting and send her back to her grotty poverty-stricken village with a demand for a full refund, chop chop.

Black makeup on Cicero in Gemata, the rigid Gothic collar:
but above all the other BBC black black black,
the middle of the bristle line Morbidignissim; id
ships of the stockings are the only polls,
the far and the ruin of their chicks,                         black black black alone,
black, with black knife, black with black back,
white, black Black black is black, black, black,           white, black: black in,
                                                        poppy seeds,      chickens missing in Asia,
white predicts Internet, drink and sore throat                               SIP, **** 2,
throat pain mask,               tragic, strong ***,
English in English,   and take a tall black man,
black and black, to get a black dog,
black and navy blue, black, Zol.     The BBC's wild beetle is black and white and black,                                          black with a black head and badly used.
At the same time,
the new ambassador smiled and said:
"I am very happy to come here."                            "Bristleen Leather"
"She loves the white blouse",                                  "Simple, black and white, children and babies". As for the drink,
but the chickpea hangs the black face,                               instead of the men.
"This is an amazing finger like white,
black and chicken stain, big three, black, black, black,
sack of the song,  books of *******, head and neck,
black and white, black and black head with beard,                black and white and black whistle         Two black assassins amid screaming screams - black, black brush - white white **** - black Pummil
consumption of a good and smooth,
no more than Big Nuts throat and black
brush *** not wanted for go
to the dogs, to give you a list of a black
kitik to the boar springs,
I'll let you get to your bed,
at the door of the city, sad, ****, and the Ebony Peace
brands will be for PRO black black BALL,
the black and white, Author:                               green black, black, cast iron,
                                               strong and deep, Marcus Vargas in the sorcerer:
                                                              sm­ells of abyssinian and donkey nose,
and a face,         ball chat clothes,                                                 head to foot black head [n]    in the the care of the river,
in the black when equal to KT igru ​​
The accelerator Vivamus Humetto;
Glory for the palate of the child,
especially the Niger as Barbie Black Black
Neutral Race is what happened.                        He also holds a pipe, the light of Transparency, the loss and love of man
is stripped of his Thrillers.                                       A Black, A black chopper
Black *** tiger Black
by which we can enter the root of all evil is the love of silence,
and for them the rosary circle of Tusks is black,
black, and ******* to two of the shins.
disappeared in Asia,                       online summer speculations,
restructuring and sore throat.
SUP ****: 2 city of the middle ear with a gun
in the wild English **** star, so a big *******
laughs and a white dog with black black black
to get black black black.                                   The wild animals of the BBC,
and black and white and black:                black, black and black, and abused a memory, and a courageous man, this is what I love Peace on the Vargas on his neck and I fall at the same time,
the most glorious, and the ***,                   all the kolonidi petiroti, the apple.
Click to kilewidiyoyo,
by allowing your son's milk fat **, ** **,
  the US Ambassador of the Canton in Papua laughs, black nose. BBC Litter.          
                       Color of the pimples of love. Smooth babies, white and black.
Nesse is perfect for drinking.                                      But a black Frenchman, who kept my face was his sprained ankle.
There are black people.                                                 The finger that I miss?
Identify white,                                                           ­       black and black hair.
Activity is an activity
that includes the type
of charge control of the load of the load
of the load of the load of the load
of confusion on the plate of the naughty.    
You keep nerves and little white dogs with a white dog
with black book like a wild beetle from the nose of the BBC,
open his neck, black and white,
my uncle and a *******, black, and black Strong memories
Moment of violent attacks,                      High and deep neck.

Does a meaningless ******* on drunken tongues
Really fill the void between your heart and your lungs?
Would a few airy kisses and touches
And sloppy positions
Ever satisfy for more than a little while?
Do you ever get sick, being with so many men
That your throat collects bile?
You go out everytime with adventure seeping through your eyes
And always return with bruised hips
And "I had fun" lies.
Does it honestly help to strip away clothes
Just so the guys loath
And your feelings don't impose?
Stop with the disrespect of your own self
You don't want to end up in your own **** jail cell.
Don't you know there's a difference
Between love and *** ?
One or the other can't always lead to bliss
If you keep it going, you could be next.

To the boy from seventh grade,

I don’t know if you remember…
grabbing me,
and touching me,
and running your hands along my hips.
or maybe how you whispered for me to,
BE QUIET ,
while all the reasons I wasn’t beautiful dripped
like slurred poison from your lips.
“Emma you are fat.”
“Emma you are ugly.”
“Emma you are flat.”
“Emma how could anyone even look at you?”

I stood there silent,
feeling the increasing weight of my bones
press into my shoes.
The unfortunate optimism of the Suffield public school system
taught all about the dangers,
of men with candy in white vans,
but failed to arm us against the boys
who we grew up on the playground with.

I was twelve.
I think parts of me broke in all the places they were supposed to be growing.
I haven’t been back to that english class.
I am too afraid my pieces are still littered across the blue tile,
too scared I might run into some fragmented composition of the eyes,
of the girl I was before room 221.
I don’t think she would be very proud of me.

It’s been years.
I should really get over it right?
I’m sure you never had trouble sleeping
all the nights I lied awake because
I could still feel you,
and hear you.
My head, a broken record,
you were the only track that played at that hour.
BE QUIET.
You’ve probably indulged in your ability to forget
the way my pleading voice fractured,
“Stop it please.”  

I don’t think boys like you understand what happens
to the words you breathe into us
at times when you are holding onto us.
Those words,
They echoed through the empty chasms that burned through me,
at everyplace you ran your fingers,
in slow circles across my skin.
They spun themselves through my ribs
until they were bound so tightly,
I stopped feeling my own heart beat.
So constricted in its’ cage,
like an newly captive animal it soon tired itself of screaming for its release,
and just lied down.

BE QUIET.
Words that I remembered with many boys after you.
BE QUIET when he tells you you have beautiful “******* eyes.”
BE QUIET when he tells you your “No.” has made you “useless.”
BE QUIET when he raises his hand and tells you to sit  
before he brings it down across your face.
Emma, cry quietly when you realize
they only see beauty in the things they can take from you.

And I let them,
and watched as the fabric of my skin
frayed under my fingernails.
I’ve found myself one to many times
trying to scrub the blood left remnant, from my unwinding
out from underneath them.

I am done.
It’s time for me to take myself back.
I am going to make the shreds that you left at my feet
far more beautiful than anything you took from me,
and this time,
I’m going to hold on.

I never want my little sister to be told to BE QUIET.
I will not BE QUIET anymore.
I will not BE QUIET because I will not let these eyes be reduced
to the way they look when I am on my knees
or the way these hips curve when they are underneath your hands.
I will not BE QUIET because there are other girls who are scared
in classrooms and dimly lit street corners.
I will not BE QUIET because this noise is powerful.
I will not BE QUIET because if your voice created echoes
mine will create earthquakes.
I will not BE QUIET because I am lucky that you never got the chance
to do anything more to me
because I have held the shaking hands of a girl ***** in a closet,
while she told me she doesn't want to live anymore.
I will not BE QUIET because there are millions of stories like her’s.
millions of girls who are silenced with justice left unserved.
Having a voice is a privilege,
hard fought and deserved.

Dear boy from seventh grade,
be prepared to face the noise.
I will not BE QUIET anymore.

He's found himself in the closet
After he lost to himself in a game of tic-tac-toe
And tied his lobster bib tightly
Then hid his cheat sheet, for the pop quiz he knew was soon to come

It's curtains for her
She let the cat out of the bag
And now she's up **** creek with ****** for paddles to go **** herself with
Right in the birth canal

Then we'll auction off the ******
We'll pass them off as European defibrillators
Maybe some extremist will want them
If we spew out enough mindless dribble

The All Time ****-Show is about to begin
We have
The Chronic Masturbater
The Hypochondriac
And The Pathological Liar

It was either sometime yesterday
Or sometime tomorrow
Or was it sometime today?
That you were all going to make fun of the boy with the cleft lip down at the laundromat?

Out of the three of you The Pathological Lair sticks out like a sore thumb
I can tell he was the runt of the litter
Who always bites off more than he can chew

I see the Hypochondriac has convinced himself he has eczema  
He rattles off all his symptoms
Inordinate filibustering  

Now there's the Chronic Masturbater
He looks like he's over the hill
He's only twenty one
But the blue circles under his eyes and the deep defined lines on his forehead denote his inelegant aging

I sign all your lives away in my horrible cursive
And now you belong to the ragtag trigger-happy posse of gun-jumpers
My billfold his happily filled
So I must go do some reconnaissance
Spy on those who have quit their day jobs
The fish out of water

You must find that thing that really rolls off the tongue with a nice ring to it
******!
*******!
*******?!
....*******?

No...
Go hang youself with dental flossed you home-schooled fool

Indentured servants we're just an after thought

mood change. swing. poke. pin. press. push. pain. growing tall for me. such a good boy. struggle for control//gives up quick. he knows i know what he wants. gets him off. quick slaps. hush hush right to business. on the floor. his knees. kisses up my thighs. beggar no pride left it at the door. -mine-. for the night. the hour. this minute.

his ******* queen.
the princess is still sleeping.

I remember walking up
to the Fiddler on the Roof audition
when I was fourteen years old
alone, feeling very unstoppable and confident
and then hiding behind the big trashcan
in the foyer of the auditorium
As they repeatedly called my name.

If you want something
throw it away.

I remember getting a *******
from a purring cat
in the dark
in a dumpster
behind a ***** bar.

If you love something
throw it away.

I remember buying you lingerie
and ripping it off of you
not even two hours later.

If you love someone
throw them away.

I remember seeing you
wear my shirts after ***
and how undescribably gorgeous
you looked then, glowing
and I thought about callling you
the other day to ask for them back
but then I realized:

If you loved in something
throw it away.

that's kelvin.
27.3 minutes of silence on a park bench.
following the same conversation that ends with
you're changing.
when did i smoke?
i always ******* lie.

and sadness is not the forest but the axe.
it isn't your locked door but the stairs or the hallway.
sadness is the butterfly and the windshield colliding
and telling yourself that you didn't see it hit or hear it quietly thumping.
it is not  sorry feeling, it is guilt.
sadness is the building and the wrecking ball
and sometimes i'm both.
it is my cold nose and toes,
but i am not a blade of grass or a river,
i am the dinner that gave you poison
rather than another notch on your belt.
sadness is not black and white,
it is a monotonous topaz.
sadness is 7:30 after 27.3 minutes in which flies
were more alive than i was.
27.3 minutes of disappointment,
of don't touch me,
of i can't see
every sporadic, insignificant thing is making me want to holler
and tear out my hair.
and withdraw into myself but
27.3 minutes of silence
does not allow for this.
instead i became a blinking statue
and the color turned from a yellow to a green
and suddenly i was being reached for,
but the hands were moving half in slow motion and half in apathy.
i don't think i wanted to be rescued.
i'm not a ******* damsel, or
at least that's what i thought i was telling everyone.
i can't think through that feeling
this feeling.
like 3am when all your friends are high and you're not.
like 3am when you remember you tried to give a *******
in the woods
while your phone was ringing
because you haven't shaved and they tell you they're disgusted.
and keep talking about it as if they didn't know you were talking about it.

Gotta gnat wing floating in my apple drink

I stare...

Figure a body's
Gotta be here somewhere,
might be tasty,
might be a treat
for me to eat.

Gotta 45 and a shovel and a Real ***** upstairs...
I reckon blood would spill out everywhere
might be pretty
might be messy
but nothing I can't LICK
right up...

The shower curtain music, it calls us to the edge, it pulls us by our throats until we slip until we fall and drop
and choke

a sweet soapscum fix

a sweet rifle on the porch by the pigs
voices from the bucket
where chemicals are toxic and
it's back to the bathtub (without those rubber grips)
and it's BACK to the BAR to give a *******
or BACK to the swinging sling of shame
or BACK to that GNAT wing for fine drinking
more CONVINCING to the dark god when he
s l i p s .s . s. s...
on that soapscum fiX.

I told him I've never enjoyed *** before him*
parts of that are true

but parts still remind me of *** in my hair
and ***** pictures
and feeling his smile inside me at 14.
The taste of his mouth eludes me
I remember it was sweet.
Everything was sweet then.
but parts still remind me
Of a ******* after that wedding
of me sneaking to the bathroom afterwards
Pressing my face against the cold tiles.
That is where I cried at 16.