The Quest for Brumagem: The next bit after the last bit

Elated after the conversation with the mysterious dark stranger I now
felt confident that one day I would venture to the tangible city of
Brumagem. I decided to take the stairs to my second floor maisonette
as the lifts, once again, were awash with assorted bodily fluids. On
gaining the second floor I spied the pulchritudinous and elfin form of
Edith 'Swan Neck.'

Edith: "Tell me Flaxen what is about me you find most attractive? Is
it my long graceful neck, my lustrous, flaming red hair or my milk
white, flawless skin? Tell me Flaxen, tell me.

Flaxen: "It's your tits."

Edith:  "Is it because, although small, they are perfectly formed and yet pert."

Flaxen: "I like your tits."

Edith: "Well then Flaxen pray tell, what is it about that brazen hussy
Brynhildr which attracts you so? For her breasts are large, globular
and hang heavy upon her torso."

Flaxen: "I like her tits."

Edith: "Hmmf, but does she let you push a stick in her moist pudenda
for 2 groats, like I do?"

Flaxen: "No, she charges 1 groat."

Flaxen's mother: "Flaxen, stop conversing with that Jutish tart and
come in and have your tea. It's your favourite, fish finger and
chips."

Edith:  "I will wait for you Flaxen. Don't forget your groats and stick."

The heady aroma of fish fingers assailed my nostrils and my thoughts
naturally turned to Edith's moist twat.

To be continued...

Holiday Snaps from Skegness

This one was taken during a recent sojourn to Skegness on the North
Sea.  It was fucking freezing. And this being August an all- so much
for global warming. If you look carefully you can see the consequence
through the contraction of my erector pili muscles. Look there! No,
you've missed it. The astute will have noticed my uncanny resemblance
to Hereward 'The Wake'. Anyway, this time I decided to take my wife,
Edith 'Swan Neck.' Sorry Brynhildr but as my concubine you will always
get second dibs.

Edith: "Flaxen, does this string of cockle shells accentuate the
graceful curl of my neck, add lustre to my flame red hair and
scintillate the emerald green of my eyes."

Flaxen: "Be quiet saucy wench, can't you see I'm a paddling in the
frigid waters of the North Sea. Bracing, like fuck it is. I've lost
all feeling in my toes. Loki told me that the 'water cure' would
alleviate the painful symptoms of my hallux rigidus. Mendacity Loki!
Great, big, fat, MENDACITY!"

Later we dried starfish on the beach. Partially dried starfish make
wonderfully aerodynamic Frisbees. Woden joined in and Eingar raced
around stopping occasionally to squat and deposit.

Woden: "Flaxen, I hope you are going to clean up after that wolf of
yours. It's wolf owners like you that give us murdering reivers a bad
name. And be careful, you'll have my eye out with one those starfish."

And there was you thinking that Woden lost his eye in the pursuit of
wisdom. Often, as in most things in life, the explanation is much more
prosaic.....

In the Great Hall: Part IV

Flaxen sat alone in the great hall brooding upon his great wounded testicles. His mind wandered to his beloved, violated Brynhildr, a lying in the midden pit a top of a thousand dead gypos. If only he hadn't thrown her in the pit, in the first place…….. Flaxen’s reverie was broken by a loud pounding on the great hall door. “By Thunnor, who can it be at this time?” Flaxen’s hand instinctively went to his trusty sword, ‘Arse, big fat arse biter.’ The door slowly creaked open to reveal the bedraggled, naked form of Brynhildr. Flaxen’s bowels stirred, then emptied.

Brynhildr: “Flaxen, have you missed me? The last I remember I was having a fit. Next I woke in the midden pit face down on a thousand dead gypos.”

Flaxen: “Who would have thought your past history of persistent petit mal seizures would be a presage of something more sinister.”

Brynhildr: “What is that awful smell?”

Flaxen: “What do you expect you have been lying on dead gypos for days.”

Brynhildr: “But the smell is emanating from you, my sweet.”

Flaxen: Er, sorry my beloved but the shock of seeing your beauteous form has acted as a powerful emetic.”

Brynhildr: Jeez, I've got an indomitable sore arse and fanny. Perhaps a long overdue thrust of your long staff will cure what ails me.”

Flaxen: “Er, yes my sweet. Though dare I venture to suggest that before our congress, you take a trip to the physic for a heavy douche with industrial strength Domestos and a light scouring of your love bucket with a wire brush?”

Brynhildr: “O Flaxen, you incurable romantic. I will do your bidding and be but a thrice. Wait for me Flaxen.” 

The great door of the great hall slammed shut behind the excited and probably infected Brynhildr.

Flaxen: “O fuck.”

To be continued….

 

       

Holiday Snaps

This was taken on a recent holiday to Offa's dyke. Brynhildr was with me and Eingar had gone to chase rabbits. As I recall, Brynhildr was perched atop the dyke shaking her pendulous breasts at the pesky Welsh in wanton defiance. That's my gel. She is so much more fun than Edith 'Swan neck'. "Oh Flaxen does this bauble compliment the delicate lines of my nape?" "Saucy red haired tart, get me more mead!" Fuck, here comes Loki. Quick Brynhildr, let us hide in the ditch.

And before you ask, Offa's dyke is fine. She's looking radiant these days, she really is.

In the Great Hall: Part III

In the Great Hall Flaxen sat gingerly upon the feasting chair. His bloodied scrotum bearing the bite marks of a thousand whippets. An ice pack did  balance  precariously on his great testicles and moved rhythmically with each throb of his wounded bollocks.  His son, Althelstan ‘The Unsteady’ and the House Carls stood in resplendent array surrounding their great Jarl taking care not to get too close to his testicles, which were very tender, by the way.

Flaxen Saxon: “We have won a great victory today my warriors and the gypo dead lie ten deep around the midden pit. It will be a long time before the gypo hordes dare land their long caravans on Tipton shore…”  

Athelstan: My father, do I have your permission to take my leave. My roots need tender ministrations and I’m afraid they may be irreparably damaged. Also carrying your war board has chafed my thighs something awful and chipped the varnish on my nails even unto the cuticle. May I suggest you invest in Jutish shields? Jutish shields are covered with the finest kid leather and come in a range of rich, pastel shades.”

Flaxen Saxon: “Go, and pick up some bread and milk on your way back.”

Harold ‘The Herald’: My lord, what is to be done with the body of your beloved Brynhildr after the foul violation of her lifeless body in the midden pit by 20,000 gypos.  

Flaxen Saxon: Alas, her chalice no longer overflows but fills several flagons. Place the gypos in the midden pit and position the cherished, ravished body of Brynhildr on top as befits her station.”

Harold ‘The Herald’: And what is to be done with the gypo long caravans my lord.”

Flaxen Saxon: “Strip them of their baubles and trinkets, except for the nodding dog ornaments on the dashboards. Don’t bother looking for tax discs, for you will find none there. Then drag the long caravans to the fields of the Jutes. When they wake in the morn they will be sorely miffed and will think the gypo hordes have descended. Scatter human and dog excrement throughout and place burned out vehicles willy nilly. This will give the illusion of authenticity and will piss off the Jutes mightily. That will teach them for not returning my lawnmower they borrowed.    

To be continued… 

More shit poetry

The Funeral Party

White is his features,

Cold is his fingers,

Lying in a box in funeral attire dressed.

Gone is the laughter,

Here is the sadness,

Offer condolence to a widow distressed.

Bear the man slowly,

Lift the man gently,

Take him to a place where he may rest.

Short was his passing,

Long is his resting,

Sing out his praises and tell it in jest.

Warm to his memory,

Mention him fondly,

And say all this about a man you detest.

The Quest: the next bit

During my 16^th summer I frequented the taverns and tapas bars which bejewelled the Tipton shore like a pearl necklace on a whore’s breast. One fateful evening I entered the ‘Rhino and Crippled Nun.’ I surveyed the denizens therein with a critical eye born of wanton abandon. My gaze fixed upon an old sailor. His visage was rubicund, a parrot perched precariously on his one good shoulder and a patch covered the place where his once glistening nose had been. No I thought, not him; too cliché. My bright blue eyes moved on, finally alighting on a dark cowled form in the shadows. His eyes burned as incandescent coals and his bony fingers beckoned………

“What is your name O fair one?”

“They call me Flaxen of ‘The Council Estate’.”

“The estate. I have not ventured there many a long day. Tell me, do the lifts still smell of stale piss, fags and cheap liquor?

“Yes, especially on the morn after giro day.”

“Flaxen, I have heard of your quest to find the fabled city of Brumagem.”

My eyes widened and my sphincter tightened but not before a low strangled phweoooot escaped from my nether breeches.

“Pray tell dark one. Is the city just a figment of a fevered imagination?”

The stranger coughed and gagged and the coal fed eyes blazed fiercely for a moment with an ethereal green glow.

“Shit on a stick, Flaxen you need to add more fibre to your diet and perhaps a lump of charcoal. Wheeze, gasp. It exists. I have never been there myself. Although the Elven whisper of a long boat, also known as the 127 bus, which leaves Tipton High Street (opposite Mr Khan’s select purveyor of premium Halal meats) and sails to Corporation Street in Brumagem.”

A strange feeling effused my groin and once again a low growl oozed from my posterior. “Parp, toot, nwelch. Blaart.”

“Go now! Please go!

Exalted and aflame, I stood and prepared to leave but not before thanking the dark stranger. As I spun upon my heel I couldn't help notice that the tavern had emptied and a mysterious low pall of mist hung suspended in the air. A portend of things to come, perhaps? Only time will tell……  

The mysterious stranger watched intently as the tall, broad shouldered and surprising pert buttocked youth left the tavern. The cowl slipped away revealing the swart countenance of Loki.

Loki (for it is he):  “Fuck, that last fart has taken all the enamel off my teeth.”   

To be continued….