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.

Monday, July 31, 2006

Moth Shadow

Last night a moth battered into my face and woke me up. I went to kill it but stopped myself. It was the most beautiful silver grey thing , it had silver wings! And inquring red eyes that sought me out desperately as if it was reaching out to me, trying to tell me some desperate message from the moth kingdom, trying with all its might to understand this world with its myriad moons. I decided to let it live and lay back luxuriating in my magnanimity. What a goddess I am, and so munificent in my compassion to let this beautiful creature live when I could so easily smite it into a silver puff of powder.

My attention turned to the right, and the moth flew, plaintive eye storks forward, directly into my eyeball at a sufficient speed to perish on impact. My eye was filled with exquisite moth. I went over to the mirror and looked at myself.

My left eye was underscored with a smudge of silvery Kohl. My pupils shone like the moon.

Thursday, July 27, 2006


She came down from the road onto the canal by shinning down a tree, monkey leaping onto the bridge ledge were she dangled fully extended by her finger tips and dropped down on her feet into a tiger crouch. I had been feeling uncommonly alone that evening, my companions no more a part of me than the cool paving slabs. She had clam diggers on and red trainers, and her hair was jet black cut like a street urchin, or like that actress out of breakfast at tiffanies (It wasn't Tiffany, I'm pretty sure of tat). She had no adornments to detract from her level bright gaze and playful grin.
"I'm Helga!" I said shyly and extended my hand.
"Come on!" She said and we jogged off down the canal.
"Are you my friend?" I asked, perhaps awkwardly, but I thought I might as well get straight down to the experiment.
"I sure am!" She said, and I've got a memory of her slapping her thigh, but it must be a false memory.
We came across a couple of bikes chained to a drain pipe. "We'll have those for a start!" She said and took out a little leather tool wallet and syringed some acid into the lock that preceded to open like a flower. I was horrified and appalled, I hate bike thiefs, when my bike was stolen I spent forty nights dreaming of the horrible torture and moral castigation I would inflict on the evil perpertrators. But I guess when you have a friend you have to lay aside your personal value system for the sake of the friendship. She could see me hesitating, and said. "Don't worry, we'll put them back."
Off we rode down the canal, and I tell you I was excited. To have a female friend! What glory! She hadn't told me her name yet, but what is name between friends.
We terminated our ride up by Hackney where my friend told me to pass the bike over to her. She then swapped the two bikes for a bag of crack with some weasely little boy with acne. She wasted no time loading up a pipe and smoking.
"Right, lets go!" She said.
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Timothy" she said.
I looked at her.
"Yeah, I know it's a boys name, but that's because i always wanted to be a boy. I like climbing trees and fighting and shop lifting and al sorts, I never had much time for girls, blah blah blah...."
She didn't actually say "Blah blah blah.." but she actually carried on talking for about an hour with out pausing.
Well, so she was a Tom boy, but I suppose its like a gateway to having a proper female friend.
After she got to her expulsion from the public school she attended as a teenager, we ended up cack in Camden and emmerged from the canal up onto the street.

A couple of huge black men were standing outside a shop and when we walked past one of them shouted "Gotcha, you little snipe, where's my money?" Meanwhile he grabbed Timothy by the upper forearm.

I leaped up on his back, and gripping the fat of his torso with my thighs I clonked him two handed on the back of his head. I leaped off as he released Timothy and span round. I scissored his legs way from under him and he fell on his arsche. Timothy had run off in the crowd, so I sprang up and ran after her. I nearly lost her but managed to spot her bobbing bob and we legged it into the back streets up by where the Stags Head used to be. We lay on the concrete ramp and caught her breath.
"Thanks for that!" She said and looked into my face and laughed.
I laughed too.
Me and my friend were having a laugh together.

We were pissing ourselves, as they say in this fucked up country.

Tuesday, July 25, 2006

Homeless summer evenings are well spent by the canal in Camden with friends drinking special brew. Special brew is so called because Carlsberg brewed it specially for Winston Churchill to tank him for liberating their country from the Nazis. They asked him how he liked lager, and he said "strong and sweet". Consequently Special brew comes in a golden can and is one of the strongest and sweetest lagers you can get, and is therefore a favourite of street drinkers, tramps, crusties, madmen and me.
I leave my clothes in the ladies pond in Hampstead heath and have been taken to wearing bikini tops mini skirt and boots. It makes men look lustful, and yes but so what of it?
We were sitting and standing around a bench drunk and shouting and singing as the sun set turning the water lovely lovely lovely. I sat on Piet's lap and he gripped me around the waist. Vlad was bunched up next to us making some joke. I could feel Piets hands riding up my waist under under my breasts in a sexual way so I turned to face him. He launch his lips in for a kiss.
"No you don't Piet," I laughed and pushed myself up off his chest. I thought that would be it but I was wrong.
"Hey, what's wrong with me, you prick teasing slag!" He shouted, white flecks in the corners of his mouth. "You're just a dirty tart, what are you doing all slagged up like a whore when you don't give a shit about me, or any of us?"
I was a little angered by this, but I tried to keep the tone light.
"Typical man," I laughed, "Just now you wanted to have sex with me, make love to me. But now you hate me, just seconds later. What is it with you." I looked around for support, to catch another girls eye to make this a sisterly put down.

That's when I realised. I was the only woman there. All my friends were men. It's not like I didn't already know this, I just had never thought about it. But now I did.

No one caught my eye. I looked from shadowy dirty face to shadowy dirty face and I realised that they all hated me. They all wanted to fuck me so badly that they hated me for it.

Then I plunged into a spiral of doubt. Why are all my friends men? I looked down at my bare belly and legs, my bursting out breasts and bangles on my arms. Why do I dress like this? I like male attention. I like sexual attention. But most women don't, or pretend not to.

I hereby resolve to make some female friends,

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

By no other name smells as sweet

In a beautiful valley in Germany where the lake reflected the sky was born a flawless child that smelled as sweet as heaven to women but of nothing at all to men.
"Let's call him Rose" Said his Mother.
"That's a girls name." Said his Father.
And the child ended up with no name since he was all the world to his mother and nothing at all to his Father.

As he grew to adolescence he devoloped a crafty sloth and would do none of the work of the home or the village. He spent several years in bed complaining of subtle maladies. His beautiful smell to his mother was the same to all women and women everywhere found his lounging indolence adorable.
"I can't help with the harvest today" He would say, with a crooked smile and a flip of his golden hair, "I need to lie under a tree and examine my nails, see how they change in appearance before and after a jug of beer."
And the women and the girls would giggle and squeal and look at each other as if to say, "What an adorable creature!"

His lack of smell to his Father was the same for all men everywhere, and no men in the village ever noticed him at all, or knew who he was. They didn't miss him in the fields, on the work benches, in the Forge or in the Mill. He could walk right into the store house and help himself to a sausage, some cheese, a loaf and some berries and they wouldn't notice. Not that he was a glutton, he scarcely seemed to eat at all. He was a weedy boyish young man and the women would love to feed him up.

As he attained manhood a flaw became apparent. He had one oddly protruding tooth. But this was made up by the perfection of his penis. It stood out large languid and proud from his body like a lions head.

Being so lazy and lacking in means he had little status in the village. The girls would collectively dismiss him as silly. The men would ignore him completely. But one sunny afternoon, Rosalin, the most vuluptuous girl in the village, tasted that which smelled so sweet in a hay barn. Later in the evening when the women were mocking our sweet smelling hero, laughing at how they would never dream of marrying such a useless, charming duckling, Rosalin blushed pink, and the girls as one turned to her in delight. She nodded her head and they all giggled and squealed. Thus it came to be known that there was one equisite pleasure to be had in the village that could be had no where else in Europe.

Village life can be idyllic but the ways of the wide world intrude. A war, some silly matter of men, swept the nation. The men gathered round the well bright eyed serious and brave, made manly pacts and went their seperate ways to tell their wives and sweethearts that they were needed by the Fatherland and would have to part from the village and their loving breasts, to return crowned in glory. The men of the village who were not already married became married that week and it was a week of tears, veils and rings.
Our nameless duckling, who had acquired the monica "toothy", watched languidly from the roof of the church where he could rest undisturbed. No one asked him to come away to war, and no one asked him to marry. So neither did he do.

The war, predictably, was longer than expected and much more terrible than imagined. The women did all the work of the village for a long summer while the men confronted the true horror of this violent world we have made. The men returned bedraggled and crowned in thorns, their eyes dull to the happiness of their wives. Nor did they notice that their wives were bearing fruit.

Twenty years on, the war forgotton, we find the village very peaceful indeed. The shops never open, the fields aren't tilled, and everywhere are sleepy men lounging under trees, by the banks of streams, on the old church roof. And they all seem to have one thing in common.

An oddly protruding tooth.

Wednesday, July 05, 2006

litigation culture

An amusing story from Olga Von Porno's suprisingly accurate prophesy:

I saw this in a dream in a history text book. There was (will be) an Anglican vicar named Jacob Mod in the mid west of America who was interested in numerology and the book of revelations. He noticed a particular eleven digit number seemed to keep recurring. After month's of trying to fathom its meaning, he tried dialling it on his telephone.
Lo and behold God Almighty the creator of the universe and all things bright and beautiful answered!
"Hello", he said.
"Who is this?" Asked Mod, awed but confused.
"I am that I am." Answer He who Is.
Mod, unable to think of what to say, put down the phone and ran down the road to the bank, where it was cool and quite and he often would go in order to reflect.

It is well known that God moves in mysterious ways, and that he chose Mod to reveal His telephone number is as big a mystery as any. Mod, you see, had a kind of spiritual dyslexia. He was a believing christian, but he believed in the material world of finance and investment as being much more causally significant than the existence of a being of pure love that created the universe. Consequently he sold God's telephone number to members of the American middleclasses who had enough money to pay for a "personal line to the Almighty". He sold it in encrypted form so that you had to pay him for each and every call, and could not then pass the number on. And Mod became wealthy, in a mediocre way, and falls out of the story and into a gated community. It is not known whether Mod himself used the telephone number very often, if at all, but it is reported that he became a great lover of the "Jet Ski" and other irratating noisey toys of the rich.

The American middleclasses being what they are made fairly predictable use of their direct line to the Almighty. Untalented middleclass children gained entry into Havard and got jobs as lawyers and Doctors. Teeth and noses became straightened and vision corrected. Dry cleaners became more efficient. Congestion was reduced on certain commuter routes. The whale was saved.

But as the use of the direct line to the Almighty became more commonplace the clients of the service came to feel entitled, and with entitlement comes resentment and litigation.

God became inundated with complaint calls. "Why did my son fail his exams?" "Why did my Mother die of cancer when she led such an exemplary life?" "Why did June Albright not fall in love with me when I bought her an all expenses paid romantic weekend for two in Paris?".

At first God tried to answer these complaints in cryptic biblical style that had served him so well in the past. "Man was born to trouble as the sparks fly upward." "God giveth and God taketh away" "By the rivers of Babylon". But the American middleclasses were used to a better class of customer services. They wanted accountability, they wanted proper answers to their complaints, and they wanted them dealt with "yesterday". Mod's fee for a single call was five thousand Dollars and his richer clients were rolling in lawyers and business negotiators to get a better deal out of the call. God ended up receiving over 10 000 calls a day from lawyers, some of whom were threatening litigation.

The highly publicised trial of "Samuel Bowles v God" marked the hiatus. Bowles' Lawyers were making the case that Bowles had every right to expect God to cure him of prostrate cancer as he had donated $50 000 to charity on the understanding that God would provide this service following a call made by Bowles' P.A. on 11.7.2---. The Jury heard a recording of the call where God clearly stated that "To he who hath, more shall be given."

The case collapsed when God called a medical expert witness who found that Bowles did not "strictly speaking" have prostrate cancer, and that the "charity" to which he had donated the aforementioned sum was an amateur dramatics society of which his wife was the only member.

However God decided to go the way of most companies and outsource his customer services wing. He set up a call centre in Hell to deal with the complaints of the American middleclasses. They were trained not to make any explicit promises. All the time they spent on the toilet was logged and docked from their wages.

So let this be a warning to all naughty girls and boys and white collar criminals and lawyers. Mend your ways, or you will spend an eternity in a call centre in hell dealing with the complaints of assertive Americans with an overwhelming sense of entitlement.