helga von porno

Tales of my fortunes in London involving philosophy time travel heroin addicted granny, prophesy, prostitution, murder, global conspiracy, friends, and personal finances. I am from east germany and fled to england when my parents where murdered and have been living here unofficially since.

Thursday, November 24, 2005

Flop haired fop

Had to break off the last post as will become apparent. I swooped up charingcross road and went into a dusty old book shop. I browsed through the philosophy section, panting slightly, my cheeks glowing red. I think I was flicking through the Anti-christ by Neitsche. This man embraced me feet to forehead with his confident brown eys. "Nietsche is my favourite" he said. "Favourite what? Favourite philosopher? favourite german? favourite racist? favourite atheist? favourite cripple? favourite suppressed homo-sexual?" I was spitting with inexplicable rage, but even through my pointless red mist I could see that he was attractive. He had the mock stupidity that is typically of the English Bourgouis. They think their natural superiority is embarassing, so they pretend to be idiots out of a condescending politeness. I could tell straight away that he would have sex with me if I let him. My Grandmother gave me lessons in seduction when I was a girl. She used to let me practice on her dead beat man friends in Berlin. She really thought she was a society madame, holding soirees of poets and scientists and statesmen. But really, there is nothing more to being a poet these days than having no job. So I would fuck these filthy old hippies who came round to score and get high. My Grandmother was so desperate for popularity that she was pleased that people came around with the intention of defiling her own orphaned grand daughter. Seduction is easy if you are a beautiful teenager. It is as easy to screw a confident man as it is to unscrew a bottle of vodka. The only trick is not to push to hard, and not to scare them off. Of course, there is no achievement in getting a man to fuck you. Poor lonely girl that I was, I wanted the attention. Too late I realise that the trick is to use sex as a way to get lasting affection. Once they realise that I am easy, they drop me, almost as if disgusted with themselves, leaving more lonely than before. Still, I am trapped in my pavlovian behaviour routines, so I started to play the cat and mouse games of flirting, thinking that maybe this handsome idiot would rescue me from the dreadful squalid prison my Grandmother had led me to.
I demured, flattered, flashed, blinked, touched. I was amazed, impressed, amused, lost and afraid. I became suggestive and intriguing, mysterious and alluring. Until eventually, stuttering like a fool, he invited me back to his family pied a terre in Bloomsbury for a Mocca.
Beautiful brown room! Oak panelling! He fiddled around with his coffee making gadgets while I smoked in a brown leather armchair looking at soft bourgois porn in expensive hard back. We drank our mochas and laughed at our whipped cream remarks. He explained how he was a drifter, living on the financial momentum his family had built up over generations. He let me use the lap top on the leather bound desk and I dashed of the previous post. Then he had to go. I won't say his name. He kissed my cheeks and saw me to my bike. I will have to get a phone, so I can post him my phone number.

Sunday, November 20, 2005

bicycle

The junkies have started taking crack now, making it much more dangerous to score. But a beautiful thing happened. One of the teenagers had brought in a racing bicycle. They have started pushing people off their bikes and making off with the bike while the rider is lying confused on the pavement. This one, the mugger,was desperate and just wnated two ten pound bags whatever way he could, but the dealer wasn't interested in another hot bike, especially not a racer. But I thought, fuck granny, this once, let her plead and whinge and have nightmares. I gave my twenty pound note to the hoody in exchange for the bike and rode out of there into the winds of Hackney.
My god, at last I was happy, pure happiness. I pedalled down the canal, weaving and skimming like the red baron. The cold air and golden sunshine cuts my eyes to tears and my face glowed. I raced all the way down to Camden, across Regents park, down Baker street, across hyde park Then back down the mall into trafalger square.

Thursday, November 17, 2005

Grandmother's "book"

I am 22 and my Grandmother is only 58. I have to look after her, to keep her functioning physically because she is a genius and a vehical for the spirits. In order to become inspired she needs to inject herself with heroine. She is writing a book about her astral travels while I work in this yuppy bar in Islington, taking abuse off arogant swinging dick englishmen who treat me like a sex object. But I am so lonely I like their vile attention as it is better than the drab deluded miasma that chokes the squat where me and my crandmother subsist. She cannot even score her own heroine, so I have to get it for her off these degenerate scum who also treat me like a whore. It is for this reason I have adopted this ridiculous vampish persona, I am so lonely yet repeled by my own species, I want to attract and yet to destroy my conspecifics.
I tried to tidy up her papers today while she was off "travelling" I began to read sections of this f8cking novel that is destroying my life. It was near incoherent ramblings, no thematic continuity, mundane complaints, senile drivel. I could have killed her then, strangled her to death, and ended once and for all my penury. But I could not. Her cloudy blue eyes opened as I put my fingers around her rasping throat and I felt that disgusted love I feel for her, her faded 70's glamour and her beautiful delusion that she is a great genius artist, and a magician, instead of a vain stinky old junky who is sucking the very life out of her poor orphaned ex patriated granddaughter who has to struggle for life amoungst these people I hate with the bitter teeth of a siberian wind.

Thursday, November 10, 2005

helga von porno wonders...

I wonder which wealthy man will feel my fangs tonight