#korova milk bar

[witchy-vibes1983]

[timmurleyart]

Moloko Plus.➕ (V.2)⏰🍊🥛🕘(mixed media on canvas)🍊🕰🍊

[flyingcowsstudios-blog]

UHRWERK ORANGE / CLOCKWORK ORANGE - COMIC (2)

[pan1k]

[deliriumtropos]

r18❗️ parte seconda di una fan fiction in revisione; 🇮🇹

capitolo incompleto!

— Allora che si fa, eh? O Planetario, ma che si fa?

Pistonai fuori dall'autobus alla fermata del Center col sole sulla biffa e i fari schermati dalle travegghie scure, da vero duro della ti vù tipo. Poi con un bel dito centrale verso l'autista e il suo tentativo d'acciuffarmi in tempo per la collottola, e controllarmi così le gaioffe come in caccia della solita bella maria che mai gli avrei dato, manovrai quasi volando sulla strada nella speranza che questo non volesse insistere oltre. E forse questo martino mi lesse nel cardine, O fratelli, perché il poldo autista - un tipo bigio stagionato col corpo tutto molle e tarchiato e con una certa sguana nella sudata - agitò le granfie verso il sottoscritto, proprio noncurante dei passeggeri imburianati dall'attesa, e provò a scendere coi fari tipo su tutte le furie contro di me. Ma questo era appunto un poldo bigio e grasso da fare invidia a Orwell coi suoi porci nel porcile, e anche assai lento.

Allora gufai, accompagnando perbene il misero teatrino e la ciangotta affannata e stanca dell'autista con un po' di musica labiale: brrrrzzzzrrrr.

Il poldo del porcile prese la rincorsa più friggibuco del secolo. — Ora ti acchiappo, ora ti acchiappo! —, sborgnò. Ma, più che acchiappare il vostro Umilissimo narratore, acchiappò il marciapiotte inciampando come un sacco di letame sguanoso e io fui pronto, tipo, a un tanti egregi saluti alla tua vecchia fattoria lerciosa, e nemmeno a dirlo lo seminai allampo.

— Ma io Ti conosco, ma tu sei quello sui giornali! — abbaiò il poldo, ancora più imburianato di prima e col grosso biffone sgarrettato e rosso. — Non credere che non ti conosco! ti conosco, hai capito che ti conosco? —

Gli gufai sopra con una gufata più grassa di lui. — Senti, amico, io non ho tempo, — dissi facendo flash flash coi zughi di fuori e il labbro tipo a scimmione per imitare quanto più fedelmente possibile la biffa sguanosa che continuavo a locchiare come a volerlo provocare o ca cate simili. — C'è una questione di vita o di morte al varco, afferri il concetto? Ma che ne puoi capire tu? Amico, senti, perché non prendi un respiro? —

Il poldo martino Santo Martire degli autisti digrignò i zugh festati perbene e ecco che esce il sangue per lo scapriccio del marciapiotte senza farci flash flash come il sottoscritto faceva. E fu uno spettacolo cinebrivido, compagni miei, una vera bellezza. Poi il mio stomaco cominciò come a voler protestare, e allampo e senza apparente ragione rovellai di voltarmi e di lasciarlo lì. Strano, pensai in un primo momento. Ma, come dicono, non tutto deve sempre averci del significato, e così attribuii il mio distacco dalle sue macerie al pensiero di cosa ci avrei trovato di friggibuco per il Van, e cominciai a non darci chissà quale peso. Manovrai via dalla fermata e dal Martire festato dal marciapiotte, imboccai la strada per il Taylor Place e continuai per la Missione.

Fu proprio una volta che il sottoscritto si trovò di fronte alle insegne della disco-butik che mi fermai con le patte, e sempre lì che il mio planetario suggerì alla svelta di far retro marcia e baracca e burattini, mica molto convinto d'aver fatto cosa buona e giusta nel lasciar casetta, o casa dolce casa. Ma ormai ero lì, e nonostante il pizzicore e la sguana e l'ira coi coltelli dentro, per com'ero fatto le cose lasciate a metà non mi si facevano.

Dissi al planetario, tra sottoscritto e sottoscritto:

— E allora si entra o si entra? O no? Sei un malcico fatto e finito, e coi venti e sette anni sul groppo pure. E allora che sguana di cosa t'aspetti, se indugi e non ti ci smuovi? Ci entri alla disco-butik oppure no? — E gli ci aggiunsi che gli sarebbe pure convenuto di darsi una mossa e di agire sul punto. Ma, nel mentre, le mie patte avevano preso come sù il peso del puro piombo, come se la figura del bebbeotto indeciso fosse già poca cosa, e non mi veniva idea d'un rimedio o una trucca qualsiasi dalla soluzione immediata che potesse, con ogni mezzo, sbrogliare la faccenda. Nemmeno un lampo che suonasse di genio alla Ein e Stein! Non mi garbava di sentirmi le granfie mezze date alla voglia di darsi a gran festoni sui primi martini a tiro di biffa in pieno giorno, O fratelli: con Zio e Tutti gli Angeli a locchiarmi e ammonirmi, e magari a suon di cerini e auto-pol.

Più che Melodia – questo il nome del commerciante di musica in padellami dei miei tempi d'oro e argento –, già friggibuco come nome a quell'epoca, e poi Van (e questa era cosa buona e giusta, amici rari), l'ennesimo cambio di gestione alla cassa e alla vecchia maria suonava come un rutto meschino e intollerabile. Vogue era adesso il suo nome, e era proprio un nome da bigia, di quelle che ci passano intere ore a rifarcire il truglio raffazzolettato con la trucca del trucco, e coi specchi tutti rotti per la vergogna tipo, se capite cosa intendo. Al solo pensiero mi ci scardinavo tutto al centimetro quadro, e tutta quella sguana. Nessuna precedente insegna pareva superare in mielestrazio questa qua nuova, a cominciare da quel tanto di logo friggibuco del Van che adesso si chiamava Vogue, perché era una gran schifo d'insegna e di situazione, potete starne certi, né il sottoscritto amante dei compromessi e del porgi-la-guancia-amico. Allora i miei fari tornarono frappè, e per una volta pensai che in fin dei conti ogni sosto sarebbe stato cento sguane meglio d'un locale ormai ridicolo come questo sostaccio, anche un sosto sgualcito come la rozzeria centrale, per esempio. Ed era tutto dire.

Mentre ancora scricciavo al planetario di trovare una maniera per farmi coraggio, stupendomi instupidito di quanto certe volte certi sogni dicano il vero (e potevo anche confermarlo, fratellini), e che non trarne poi tutta quella tragicomica da gedia avrebbe migliorato in parte il bel pome che tutto sommato era sereno e spumante, le mie granfie pigliavano a rovellarsi tra di loro e ci facevo pochi passi che quasi subito mi rovellavo di nuovo di non oltrepassare la soglia con le patte a un metro dalle porte della friggi-butik, sguana and company. O locchiavo a destra e a manca per tutta Taylor Place, e anche per diritto nel caso, coi fari cinebrivido e severi.

Ci passò molto altro tempo, tipo lo scorrere in stile un-due-tre-stalla o giù di lì. Poi le mie gambe e le mie patte reagirono, si fecero finalmente di forza in avanti e il vostro Umilissimo narratore si decise a procedere verso il rivenditoriale che pensavo di conoscere come le mie gaioffe sacre, o fratelli, e ecco che superai l'insegna buzzurra e mielestrazio del Van che ora si chiamava Vogue del porco mondo, e ci entrai con i zughi da finto ghigno perbene: tutto sorridente, insomma, come un malcico tranquillo tranquillo, sbarbato e lavato. E almeno sulle ultime due c'era del vero, mi ero lavato cioè.

Le mode, anche se poco cinebrivido, cambiano. Ma Vogue era proprio un nome sguanoso, e mai mi sarei pentito di definirlo in questo modo, e era pure peggio del primo nome di Melodia, e Van-non-più-Van-ma-Vogue a questo punto leggenda da tramandare ai figli dei figli dei figli e amen, da tramandare, dico, coi fari da piagnisteo e condoglianze vivissime, cari.

Delitto! In cinque o sei anni d'assenza del VUN, tutti mi ci avevano tipo ballato alle spalle alla maniera dei ratti che ballino alla scomparsa del Gatto, e la rabbia mi prese un piccolopoco. Locchiai male il primo capitato a tiro, scapricciando di prenderlo davvero a tiro con l'aire d'un festone sulla sua biffa coi zughi da coniglio, altro che indugiare per il pugno dei rozzi e dei cerini coi parazzucchi! Ma gli evitai il buon giro tipo quarto d'ora di porco diciannove ultraviolento del sottoscritto, non so come né perché, e nel portarmi lontano dal martino coi zughi da coniglio senza la sua carota m'infilai a dar di perlustrazione per gli scaffali dandogli un'ultima locchiata di fari minacciosi per evitarmi, almeno, la figura del Bamba che si pigli la coda tra le gambe come i cagnacci. Certo, Bamba ormai non era più così Bamba, ma nel mio planetario speravo ancora che il nuovo bamba col parazzucca da rozzo fosse una qualche genere di trucca tipo fantascientifica o un clone.

Le mode cambiano, anche i soma a quanto pare, ma la musica no. Ci si deve accontentare nella vita, perché Zio ha da fare e non può sempre starsene lì a soffocarti la granfia con la sua salda d'acciaio e vino e ostie per dirti di ritentare che la prossima volta sarai un malcico fortunello. E almeno la bella musica (quella vera, se capite), non era cambiata, ma nemmeno di poco, e locchiato alla buona un dieci o poco più di scomparti di dischi affloscia-plotto con le solife biffe del malcichi friggibuco di turno, suggerendo al plantetario di darci fuoco in onore dello Zio, per quanto assente come sempre, abbracciai le sezioni della Classica coi fari appannati dalla gioia e col cuore pronto a far di nuovo bumbumbum.

Rovistai subito alla ricerca del grande e insuperabile Ludovico Van. Perché la musica non cambia, se sapete dove andare e cosa cercare con la dovizia di un tedesco spia della galassia galattica e compagnia bella, fratelli; e poi, una volta guarito, potevo permettermelo un certo esercizio di sacrosanto potere.

Mentre il mio planetario tornava alla contemplazione massima della biffa del Grande Ludovico Van stampata sulla copertina del bel padellame che avrei acquistato senza rovellarci sú due volte, e il mio plotto si drizzava ritrovando l'amicizia molto lecita con Lui, la mia attenzione si distaccò allampo dal vinile prescelto e la locchiai. Una bella mammola da urlo. E anche lei vide me, tutta sorrisi e battiti di ciglia o da cerbiatta mammolosa.

Era la mia occasione, dissi tra me e me. Non potevo mica sapere di tutti quegli effetti collaterattivi o quel tipo di sguana lì, del tipo sguane dei disturbi di traumi o postumi, O fratelli, anche perché ormai l'avevo locchiata, ci eravamo l’occhiati l’un l’altra, e avevo già deciso pure sul da farsi e non c'era freno che potesse fermarmi — proprio no — e, come sempre, nemmeno il Bog innominato. Nemmeno me medesimo.

Londra, O fratelli, quel certo fascino d'antico – non di bigio, sia chiaro – l'aveva sempre avuto, e come sosto c'era da dire che avesse, pure, un non so che di Misterioso. Ma quando i fari del vostro Umilissimo narratore locchiarono ancora una volta e con dovizia la mammola a poca distanza da lui, con sù quei capelli di miele come a carati e lisci lisci come ultimamente era circa di mio gusto, dovetti allampo averci da ricredere in fatto di fascino londinese. Poi le locchiai perbene la trucca leggera sopra i fari delicati, e sul truglio lo stesso, e quando mi ci posai ad analizzare come s'era tappata, amici, mi sentii festato per il senso buono, convinto difatti di averci a che fare con una francesina. Altro che Londra e soliti soma e solite soma! La mammola in questione, infatti, era quel genere di mammola diversa dalle altre ormai fatte quasi a stampino, —o omologazione se preferite, con quelle maglie vomitosamente colorate e gommose,— ed era tutta tappata all'ultimo grido del vestire come ai bei tempi gotici a partire dalla Francia, ma che in quei giorni aveva preso piede anche in poche periferie di Londra – tra cui il Palace, il Churchill e il New Creston e basta. Il suo tappo consisteva in quelle palandrine lunghe, rigorosamente nere di cui sù, nella parte tuberosa, motivetti a lacci, neri uguali, e la presenza d'altri motivi a rete che lasciavano intravedere la pelle diafana delle braccia (erano tutte mammole color latte, comunque, quelle poche tappate in questo modo; ma non si locchiavano purtroppo quasi mai al Korova, quelle volte in cui ci tornavo).

La locchiai di nuovo, lei inclinò il collo, poi mi decisi e le mie patte si mossero nella sua direzione e la voglia di far numero crebbe. Smisi così di rovellarmi il cardine una volta per tutte ed ebbi un guizzo volpino.

Dissi: — La mia fama mi precede o mi son sporcato il ceffo, sorellina?— con la ciangotta quatta quatta e accomodante. Ci feci di flash flash coi zughi, o meglio fissai i fari svicci verso di lei, e i suoi erano fari del tipo grigio grigio da gattona, e ci sorrisi da malcico baccagliatore. Allora seppi d'averla incuriosita in buona parte, piuttosto che inquietata, e allungai il truglio con fare un piccolopoco beffardo quando intravidi il bagliore di un sorriso. Eppure, fu un'ombra soltanto dell’antico brio. — Ma no, ma no, sicuramente hai letto il mio pensiero, come in quegli sceneggiati fantascientifici che ci vanno giù pesante con le più strane tramuccole e vorresti riavere il Van, vero? —

La mammola d'urlo socchiuse il truglio come per rispondere, ma fui ancora io a precederla, e aggiunsi:

— Ma no, certo che no, Sorellina. Né temi le brutture della nostra epoca, ora che entrambi ci troviamo in un luogo pubblico, tipo, e di certo non ambisco a destare altri scandali alla pubblica opinione di figli cinti di fiori alla porta. Dopo tutti questi anni ne faccio anche a meno, fidati di un drugo perbene. Lo sono diventato, lo prometto.—

— Ma non mi pare d'averti mai visto, né di averti dato il consenso di chiamarmi in questo modo, lo sai? Forse ti confondi con qualcun'altra, temo sia così— disse la mammola dal tappo gotico, ma con un sorriso lungo il truglio che suggerì bene al sottoscritto d'aver fatto mirino in qualche modo dalla forosa. — Però lo ammetto, mi pari simpatico.— A quel punto era diventata tipo un piccolo poco rossa, di un rosso gradevole a locchiarsi.

Si lasciò a una gufatina divertita. — Ma il tuo modo di parlare…— si portò le granfie snelle a trattenere la melodia labiale del truglio sottile e calò la biffetta, e fu quel genere di trucca sana e favorevole che, per una volta, il vostro Umilissimo narratore trovò spontanea e gradevole.

Più la mammola sorrideva e rideva con quella ciangotta cristallina e innocente, più quell'innocenza mi portava il cardine a rovellare imagini non proprio caste nel sottoscritto. poi, tipo subito, lo stesso planetario -non si sa come o perché- si rimangiò la parola data, e dagli intestini arrivò una nota non poco chiassosa di dissenso per ogni pensiero che ci facevo.

Per un poco rovellai allora che potesse trattarsi, come in passato, di quei pensieri che gli erano stati inculcati dalla Cura Ludovico. Poi me la gufavo col cardine imponendogli dimettersi a tacere.

La mammola mi guardò un po' confusa.

— Hai un nome, oltre agli occhi azzurri? Sto parlando con te, sicuro che va tutto bene? Io, comunque, mi chiamo Jennì— disse dopo un po'. E aveva tutte le ragioni dalla sua, o fratelli, perché sicuramente dovevo esserle apparso un po' fané, e non volevo proprio immaginare che razza di biffa da stronzo friggibuco dovessi averle tirato fuori.

— Alex DeLarge, Alexander per le anagrafi, amica— dissi allampo, riportandomi al qui-e-fottuto-ora. — Ma basta Alex, per i soma e i vicini, Sorellina. Sì, nient'altro che Aleuxo Bello. Con modestia—. Poi mi fissai profondamente nel grigio dei suoi fari, come se granfie invisibili ci uscissero dai fari (questavolta miei) per agganciare quelli di lei, e la mammola rosseggiò più di prima. — Jennì come nome è proprio carino, in ogni caso, o dolce pulzella. E sei pure francese, magari? Come la Giovanna che accende cancerose.—

Continua ~~~~>

Spero vi piaccia. per quanto riguarda il primo capitolo, ovvero Latte di Suocera, appartiene a un testo cominciato se non erro nel lontano 2021/2022, quindi aveva bisogno di sul serio ancora pochi accorgimenti; questo qua, la seconda parte insomma, è già più recente e mi sembra come di averci perso la mano con il linguaggio moschetto/Nadsat.

il mio sogno è quello però di portare avanti la fan fiction e di riprendere la mano con lo stile adottato da Burgess! Fatemi sapere la vostra!

gif a caso.

[chimera-vanya]

Korova Milky Bar not being on spotify annoys me so much even though I have CD

[novuit]

Arthur on his way to the korova milk bar (the pub) to have a moloko plus (a pint) with the droogies (the UK brothers)

[souryogurt64]

Omg after I wrote my Gray essay I noticed one of the references I missed talking about was to the Korova Milk Bar

And when I first read this as a teen I was like “Well yeah, of course Pete Wentz goes to nightclubs with naked women as furniture, what else is new”

Except the Korova Milk Bar isnt a real bar, it’s a bar in A Clockwork Orange where they serve teenagers drugged milk out of the breasts of these statues of naked women and then they get high and go like kill people and rape women or whatever. Which like also goes hand in hand with the way the book revolves around Freud

And I never had to read A Clockwork Orange for school so I was wondering how obvious of a reference to A Clockwork Orange this was so I pulled up the PDF to see how many times it was mentioned and I saw this

And Gray is dedicated to Pete’s son. This book is so insane . Like genuinely

[montetarnz]

A clockwork orange core

Willkommen zu Korova Milk Bar

[randomvarious]

1980s Power Pop Playlist

Folks, we've got a brand new tune that kicks off this playlist now, and its own title might as well be the four-word credo that really essentializes the power pop genre as a whole: "Fuck Art Let's Dance," by a British band called The Name.

Sometimes you really just gotta stop taking all of this music stuff so damn seriously all the time and come to appreciate the mass-appealing pleasures of tried and true simplicity. British Invasion bands like The Beatles and The Who may have made significant artistic progress since their earlier works, but that was no reason to leave the vibe of that early stuff behind. What's already been done is no longer fresh, but some of the formulas that were used back in those early-to-mid-60s days were proven to have been pretty golden, and a late 70s-to-mid-80s crop of rockers who had grown up with those early British Invasion records on their radios had their hearts set on bringing it all back to the fore. So, fuck art, let's dance!

While this little playlist once had a combination of songs that were mostly from the indie stalwart Bomp! Records branch of American power pop and mid-to-late 80s stuff from the C86-UK indie/twee pop label Subway Organisation, it now adds a bunch of tunes that preceded that British indie pop wave too, from a pretty big subculture called mod revival. Helmed by The Jam, who used the same iconic blue, white, and red 'target' as The Who for their own band logo, mod revival was an insular scene that really took off after The Who's Quadrophenia movie came out in 1979, instilling in UK teenagers and twenty-somethings a deep desire to emulate the Vespa-riding lifestyle that the film itself had depicted. Essentially, mod revival mixed a new wave and punk rock sound with the 60s mod sound of yesteryear, but if we're going to generalize it, it was really, for the most part, a regionally specific variant of power pop.

So in addition to "Fuck Art Let's Dance," a catchy-as-shit song with only a little over 10,000 plays, we've got another couple mod revival bops too, like the soft, dreamy, and keyboard-infused "One Step Ahead" by a band called The Stripes, which only has a little over 6.2K plays. And I added a couple other tunes from Bomp! and Subway Organisation too, with "I'll Get Lucky" by SoCal power pop heroes The Plimsouls, which has 39.3K plays, and the much more obscure "Do It Again" by Clockwork Orange-referencing UK band Korova Milk Bar, which only has a little over 6.2K plays.

The Name - "Fuck Art Let's Dance" Deadbeats - "Choose You" The Plimsouls - "I'll Get Lucky" The Stripes - "One Step Ahead" Small World - "First Impressions" Korova Milk Bar - "Do It Again"

And then for the YouTube version of this playlist, I was able to add all the songs that were added to the Spotify one too, plus a handful of some more mod revival tunes that aren't on Spotify at all. And I don't think that I have a total favorite among this YouTube-only set, but The Scene's super bouncy "Hey Girl" is so irresistibly catchy and deliberately simple, from both musical and lyrical standpoints, that it almost sounds like it could be from the 60s itself, which I don't think can be said about any other song in this playlist. Really seems like these guys took the term 'mod revival' quite literally with this record of theirs, and for those who might be keeping track, this is The Scene who hailed from Bradford in West Yorkshire, and not the other UK mod revival band called The Scene who were from East London 😅. "Hey Girl" is nearing 27.7K plays.

Also added a tune from The Groove Farm, a band that was on Subway Organisation, and whose "Crazy Day Sunshine Girl" is criminally short, but makes its 45 seconds really count. And that one's only got 53 plays as of right now!

The Reputations - "I Believe You" The Scene - "Hey Girl" The Clues - "No Vacancies" The Groove Farm - "Crazy Day Sunshine Girl"

And this playlist is also on YouTube Music.

So with this update, our Spotify playlist is now at 19 songs that clock in at over 55 minutes, but over on YouTube we've got 30 songs that clock in at 85 minutes. So if you want an extra half-hour of power pop-type tunes from the American-centric Bomp!, the UK's mod revival scene, and UK label Subway Organisation, you better check out that YouTube one!

And here's the list of compilations that were used to put this whole thing together:

100% British Mod (1998, Captain Mod) Destination Bomp! (1995, Bomp! Records) The Roots of Powerpop (1996, Bomp! Records) Battle of the Garages: Part 1 (1994, Voxx Records) Whole Wide World, Volume 2 (1994, Subway Organisation) Take the Subway to Your Suburb (1994, Subway Organisation) Burns From the Valley of the Sun (1991, Frontier Records)

Next week we'll be getting a little bit deeper into mod revival ✌.

Enjoy!

More to come, eventually. Stay tuned!

Like what you hear? Follow me on Spotify and YouTube for more cool playlists and uploads!

[nicolaszayarte]

Una noche en el Korova Milk Bar

La Naranja Mecánica

𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘦 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘢 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘯 𝘭𝘢 𝘱𝘦𝘭𝘪́𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘢, 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘰 𝘦𝘯 𝘭𝘢 𝘯𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘢 𝘥𝘦𝘭 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘮𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘮𝘣𝘳𝘦, 𝘮𝘢𝘴 𝘶𝘯 𝘱𝘰𝘤𝘰 𝘥𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘪𝘰́𝘯 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘪𝘢 𝘥𝘦𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘣𝘳𝘰

#nicogomzay #nicolaszayarte #a clockwork orange #la naranja mecánica #alex delarge

[calciumdeficientt]

hello clockwork orange community. do you like nadsat? i have nadsat (old commission)

Welly welly welly well my brothers it is time once again it would appear, for uncle Alex to tell you a story. An omission from the tale of my previous exploits and this, my dear brothers, is my way of sending my deepest appy polly logies to you all; twas a nochy like any other I suppose, my little droogies and I out in the thick of it. A routine trip to the korova milk bar was well underway, my cancer now barely a nub of ash and orange filter when suddenly, like some great divine inspiration from bog or whoever else may be lurking up above us in the great black nowhere. Dim opened his great big maw as if to say something, noticing the shift in my expression no doubt, a raised hand from myself soon silenced him and he fell quickly back into submission. This was our second visit of the evening, our nightcap until we four parted and I found myself headed bedways to municipal flatblock 18-a, but tonight brothers I found that this second bout of moloko plus had done me no good at all; no indeed my brothers, all it seemed to achieve was to further stir me for another few hours out to myself, the other three could follow me or not. Georgie had a funny look about his glazzies,shagged fagged, fashed and downright useless. In no state for any more of the ultraviolence tonight. No indeed.

“Dobby nochy, brothers”

I found myself humming absentmindedly, staring through the film of moloko left at the bottom of my glass and adjusting the hat placed atop my gulliver, stood up to take my leave

“Bedways so soon, Alex?”

Pete guffawed, leaned so far back in his chair I was almost certain he would disappear into it. Despite questioning my quick exit, he looked in no way prepared to leave himself

“Quite the opposite, o my brother. Much fun is yet to be had, although it is now clearer than crystal to me that our earlier fillying hath done all tree of you in, and with thus I must bid you adieu”

Outside it was bitter cold, much much bitterer and colder than I had remembered it. Soon enough the knives that I had ingested would begin to work their magic, brothers and I would become all the more aware of the lewdies, or lackthereof out and about on the streets. I had bid my little droogies a dobby nochy, that much was true but it was now more apparent than ever that night would soon be over and was bleeding over into the young hours of the morning. Luckily for little old me, I had my maskiwask in my clutches from an earlier spree of shop crasting under full, glorious anonymity hidden, too under the cover of darkest and most mysterious night. Black sky was now a very deep blue and as the moloko plus paid its due dividends I feel, o dear brothers, that the sand in my own ultraviolent hourglass was running out, running thinly like the krovvy of a malchick low on his iron. A rustle from an abandoned gazetta pricked mine ears as I trudged carefully through the street, waiting patiently for any sign of life.Caution was the key in these night-time affairs as the threat of the barry place was ever present, and while I did not fear the stripy hole I did fear for what it may have done to me old pee and em.

I took some liberties with my route home, opting for small alleys as opposed to wider, much more open streets. An unorthodox decision considering I had found myself droogless and after yet another clash with Billy boy and his other eunuch jellies could have even put myself at risk of an ambush but having no one but myself beside me makes this victory mine alone. My pocket jingled with pretty polly, distended from the volume of it. The noise seemed to draw out a devotchka. She looked poogly, her dress hanging off her as though it had been thrown on in a hurry. Big brown glazzies met mine and I could see the glimmer of tears in them, clearly she had been boo hoo hooing and for why I did not know. The old in-out always went down a treat when the urge was still around, nagging even after a whole nochy of fillying. I fancied I could slooshy her heart hammering against her ribs and what a pleasant sound it was, strands of dark brown glory flopped limply over her pale, moonish face as she looked up at me all, like expectant. I watched her back herself up against the wall, making it clear to me that someone had gotten to her first. Had I been a bit more present, I might have left her to find some other dama for myself. There were plenty about after all but mostly I was glad to have found her in the state I had. All warmed up, brothers. Relaxed despite her best wishes not to be. I fancied myself to be a kot, I did. Quite right. This is what, dear reader, cats of the street are so fond of doing. Breeding, filling the streets with as many filthy beasts as their malenky bodies might let them before bog gets them as he does all things. Never one for lubbilubbing was dear uncle Alex, brothers. Not one care for it at all I must attest.

Now, where were we? Ah yes, the devotchka with the moony litso. Very very pretty, yes yes there was no denying that brothers and droogs alike, she was beautiful. I fancied the krovvy on her might have tasted like jammiwam but I didn't bother to test it, most of it was staining her dress. Beginning to dry that horrible old blood brown as opposed to that gorgeous red that sent shivers through me when even the tiniest bead dropped from a lewdie. Not so rare and yet far more precious to me than any jewel in the world.

What happened next, brothers, was something I could be nothing but proud of. I let my face drop a little bit so I wasn’t scowling so much, it helps to lessen resistance in devotchkas I find. Despite my partiality to a bit of chase and find, that fateful nochy I was not in the mood, no autos were crasted that night so my poor dear feet were so achy that any more fillying about may have caused them to drop off. I stood there for a bit, chumbling to myself before I pounced. Her creeching was low and half-hearted as if she knew herself that it wasn't going to garner a drop of sympathy from me. This certainly was not the fault of the devotchka, most persons would be in the mindset to creech for their life, especially this one. The creetching soon stopped when, from out of my pocket I brough out my most trusted nozh. Hardly used that night, nice and clean, or at least as clean as a knife could be. It was sharp, cold, so tantalising I could feel my pan handle straining against my neezhnies at the thought of how pretty she might look under it. How still she might be if i teased it against her neck… if I teased it somewhere else. Brothers I found myself drooling at the concept. Just as I suspected, the creeching ceased and was replaced with silent weeping. I watched her chest jerk up and down as she tried to keep herself nice and quiet for me, as I pressed the blade into her neck, gently so it would only barely nick the skin. I would press harder elsewhere when she was nagoy, I thought to myself with deepest delight, watching this devotchka, already poogly from another encounter, half dressed as it were, struggling to undress herself at my command was too much. Then, out came the kot, slashiwashing with my knife the dress was out of the picture.

Ah. Nothing underneath. The cry at the sudden cold made me believe this was not something she had chosen for herself. Fearing the millicents on their early morning beats I worked quickly to strip myself of anything below my waist and get cracking on with the in-out-in out. She would have to warm up to it or suffer the consequences, most devotchkas did when I was with my droogies. On my oddy knocky I was not so sure but she would have to put up with it, my pan handle was now growing too hard to ignore. Her nogas were clasped tight, a feeble attempt for her to keep her dignity. Unlikely to work when I was in such a beastly temperament, every second wasted only seemed to make me angrier. Like when you flap a red cloth at a bull. I parted the clasped legs, it took a lot, mind, but the trembling of the muscles and the purple, pulsing, cables under her pale skin let me know she wouldn’t try and close them again.

Something possessed me to speak to her. A small slip of the tongue to keep her quiet at the world woke up. An angry throb below the belt led my mind elsewhere. I figured the nozh would be enough to keep her quiet, little drops of blood beaded around where the pressure was. Even the lowest whimper made her delicate skin press against the blade. My free hand circled a glazz, and pinched it. Her cry sent me jolting into her on just instinct alone, sheathing myself comfortably. It was clear that someone had been at her before me as there was no resistance, no horrible gravelly feeling and I pushed my way into her. In-out-in-out, smooth as if we were luddilubbing. Her face was scrunched up as if she was trying to build the nerve to start creeching. I wouldn’t have minded, sometimes I find, it really eggiwegs me to keep going.

As I moved. The hand that had been cupping her bezoomny had moved to firmly grip her waist, the hand with the knife had done the same. I made a real show of that one, creating a fine red line down from the centre of the neck all the way down her middle. Like I was a surgeon about to cut her up and perform the old in-out-in out on her guttiwuts. The krovvy only made me harder, so maybe, oh my brothers, it was a mistake to cut her as I did. But oh, it was heaven. Bog new damned. I cast my eyes toward her grahzny dress, and then back to her naked frame. I noted, brothers, that she looked like a doll more than she did a living, breathing lewdie. In and out I moved over and over, listening out for any millicents that may have interrupted such an intimate interaction. Eventually, I noticed that the shirt of my koshtoom was sticking to my back. Clinging to the skin, adhered by pearls of sweat. I could taste that irony taste fizzling in the back of my throat, it was almost time for the big finale brothers. My muscles were shouting this from the rooftops too, make no doubt about that little droogies, they burned so fiercely that even knives devoid of moloko could not quell the sensation.

The devotchka had quite visibly relaxed under my touch. As I, your dear and most trustworthy uncle Alex, kept tight firm hold of her bony waist I pondered the possibility that in some way shape or form she was thoroughly enjoying this feeling. Having accepted it she might have allowed herself to take pleasure in this. A twitch from my pan handle let me know the end was upon us and acting yet again on my most trusted friend, animal instinct, I grabbed a fistful of her luscious glory and tugged as hard as I could muster. Her creech of pain as her hair departed from her scalp was more than enough noise to conceal the low groan that accompanied my orgasm. As I slid out of her I relished in the fact that she seemed too full to move from my seed.

I cleaned myself off using her dress and dropped it on her nagoy frame. Dressing my lower half swiftly and nimbly, the deliberately quiet platching of the young girl was terribly terribly moving. I threw some coins at her litso, knowing I only had a minoota or two until the millicent’s found her or even worse that she found them. Wordlessly I left her, nudging her with my boot as she left just to check that she was ticking away nicely and the pol hadn’t killed her. When she groaned, I knew at once it was bedways for me, and quickly.

A nochy to remember indeed. O my brothers.

[flyingcowsstudios-blog]

UHRWERK ORANGE / CLOCKWORK ORANGE (KOROVA MILK BAR)

[dasha-aibo]

There was me, that is Alex, and my three droogs, that is Flat White, Latte and Frappe and we sat in the Korova milkbar trying to make up our rassoodocks what to do with the evening. The Korova Milk Bar sold milkplus, milk plus chai or espresso which is what we were drinking. This would sharpen you up and make you ready for a bit of the old ultra-marathon. Our pockets were full of granola so there was no need on that score, but, as they say, money isn't everything.

Clockwork Californian

[suicideandcheese]

Korova Milk Bar

In the dream the old man junkie came home With a friend, then disappears to the bathroom And proceeds to search for the invisible. Crystals along the outside bathtub's cornered Abyss, he takes particle junk and concocts some Hellbliss, coz there's a syringe-gun out now And legit, he's injected his erect dick Right through like a nail gun through A dirty, swollen thumb. He looks at me in relief and says, "Milk theory." "Yeah, I understand." And I do, at the time. But I don't now, at all. "Milk theory," he repeats. Then I wake, confident until hypnagogia fades. Coming abundance, hopefully? Ultraviolence, perhaps. More fashionably fascist. I don't even dairy, you old neo-Burroughs. I don't even dare with the cock.

[emberbotanical]

She tried to stand up after an anonymous droog poured a Moloko Synthemesc cocktail down her throat at the Korova Milk Bar. "Have a nice day," he said.

2024-May-19