do not dismiss this site as another teenage journal. The author is twenty-four.
do not believe anything written here. It is all true, and highly fictional.
do not read if one is allergic to hyperbole, pretension, lavender water and jam
'GEORGE ROSTOV': noun, vulgar slang 1) London lingo for a rentboy 2) a brooding narcissist 3) a cartographer of the soul cf. 'tosser', 'ostentatious' and 'fudge packer'
Labelled as the originator of the morally degenerate art movement, 'THE NEW HONESTY', Rostov, poet, dramatist, schizophrenic and Marble Arch toilet-trader, has been called 'the brightest hope of Medway's thriving art scene' and a 'modern day Baudelaire with a fetish for fisting and a syringe forever hanging from his arm'. On the other hand, he has also been branded a 'pompous misanthropist with nothing to offer except bitterness, bitchiness and bile', though Rostov tends not to dwell on it.
Rostov can be contacted at either urban fox, live journal, or via email, at:
georgerostov@yahoo.co.
uk
uk
Donations to keep him his daily drug diet will be gratefully accepted. Offers of a sexual flavour from obese and balding men will be taken into consideration, and, depending on their lack of anally-stimulating girth will be taken up. All other enquiries should be written on the toilet wall in Victoria Station.
a libelous introduction to
the introspective.........
the heroic......
the perverted................
shoplifter........
shirtlifter................
GEORGE ROSTOV
Rostov's first novel, RENTBOY: ROSTOVIAN REMINISCES ON TEH ROGERING AND RIMMING OF RECTUMS is now available at lulu.com
For copies follow the link below:
http://www.lulu.com/co
ntent/378604
ntent/378604
Rentboy: Fondling, Felching and Fisting in a handy pocket-sized volume!
- George Rostov, 2006
Rostov's diaries, started in 2002 and covering his diagnosis as a schiozphrenic, his accidental exposure of his cock and balls to an undercover cop and his sbsequent arrest and confinement in Maidstone prison, can be found at www.livejournal.com. Simply search for george_rostov, to find out the truth of the plump politician with a fetish for cross dressing. Discover the identity of Rostov's ex-lover, one time pop star and now a Dover dopehead with a grotty bedist flat. Thrill as George breaks the hearts of married men throughout he south, and gasp as he swallows three scrotal sack's worth of coagulated pensioner-spunk. His diaries are not to be missed, are there to astound with their frankness and depth of depravity to which an ex-choir boy can stoop. Oh, and the various uses of marmite.
Rostov's statement of intent:
Cold our cultural climes, and stale the scene of scholars and scribes. From boot-camp Cambridge no Coleridge will come, sincerity squandered in seminaries,
And too chilly the cobwebbed classrooms of Oxford, too severe, too austere for minds to ignite. What I write will prove to be right, for, from the underclass
Smack-stuck will come the couplets, the sonnets and songs that'll make this millenium in delirium drown. One of them I be, shaking off slumberous ennui. We never passed
Our GCSE's nor reached university, but we'll be the Swinburnes of the social, the Donnes of the dole, deprived of dreams and degrees, forging a new honesty.
This movement's mission be clear: we'll sweep from schools all signs of Shakespeare, and perversion preach, letting loss anarchy
In academia and screwing in the streets. Poets, painters, bookstores storm, for stacked are their shelves with the tat of time, and you painters, you poets, the crime of creativity ceaselessly cull. We'll host bacchanals
In the National, we'll crap on Constable! There's something rotten in Tate Modern - the pathetic aesthetic of Emin and Hurst. Our art will adore the Actual,
Eschewing the pooh-poohing of culture's custodians. Our realism will duel with defeatism. Saatchi we'll seduce, our names defamed by BBC news, a new honesty,
That of sodomy and sin will sing. But divided are we by land and by sea; our class covers continents, and cowardly covets prominence. Unite, my coterie,
Fly to me across the brine on the backs of rhyme; let your writings' rhythm roar against derision; come unto me, my caustic company,
Traverse the globe with your verse of woe. On concorde of song, on jet planes of poems plain come unto me, for we are the ones interned with integrity.
And when en-masse, think of the greatness that we'll grab! Discard the past, and together walk a wild path, a route to repute, a new honesty!
Too long we've waited in concrete slums, factory fumes in our lungs, when we could create a culture of our own, base to the bone, a beauty built by the powers of prosody;
Yet though fame may be lost in luck's lottery, no longer are we mired in monotony. These are the words of war, and this is the New Honesty.
Excerpt from Rostov's 'Comes The New':
"...From past deeds we are divorced / as the hauling horse charges from it's load-ladened cart. Am I that horse, reft of reins and rider, of saddle stripped and pilfered of past, a horse / cantering close to a fine future, or cantering closer to a drill-diced fate as fish bait? Forgive me; I aas whine on wine, as I watch the rolled, reeled skeins unwind; what friends / will I make, how many wistful wakes will tomorrow's dawn deliver? Like Medway's muddied river, past ports and pontoons flowing, as the next year comes / further from my source do I seem, more distant my dremas, yet from SIN I swim, to harbour in the sight of the Holy Him..............".
George Rostov's Book Is Available at:
http://www.lulu.com/content378604
A BIOGRAPHICAL SONNET, CONCERNING ROSTOV'S EARLY DAYS:
Halycon holidaying - a hovel in Hampshire - allayed the fear of the September-starting new school year; we'd quit the Kentish county,
A once-green garden grown wild with weeds, to go where worries of playground gangs ceased; but those bully-fleeing breaks soon broke the bank, parents poor, missing much
And wanting more, so, when finally fourteen, what a distant dream that hovel seemed, struck by puberty's pox of stubble and spots, stuck in Rochester's rut
Of holidays at home wearing clothes long outgrown, with few friends, forever alone. Washing windows became a way to earn an hourly bounty,
Lifting the ennui and the doomy dread of the classroom culprits who clip my head with snot-built bullets, blue tack their form of attack.
One friday, weighed with wipers and sud-sodden cloths at a toilet I stopped, between soap-smearing jobs, unzipped my flies and pissed.
Picture me then, naive, soon to conceive of monstrous obscenity, a geek of a teen, soon to dive into deep depravity, a nerd narked by the chances he'd missed.
I was raped in the toilets that day. He came from behind - but hey, I didn't mind, a deed I'd desired long ago, caught mid-flow by a man in a mac.
Picture me then, once serene and naive, with blood running out of my rectum, of he to be my regular Romeo expectant. Before he came,
In a groaning, gasping way he whispered, "what I do to you I did to my brood; I broke them when babes - I'm a most heathen and unholy gay."
He's dead now, and dead too is my innocence. Wickedness was his way, and now mine, with a mishapen mind, looking for a lay
In lavs; he was the sculptor, I the clay. Of what did he die - a bubble in his blood supply? Or was he crushed by Christ? There was no pity, but was there pain?
To heaven or hell? I need to know, for now I am him, lewd, low, and worthless to most. Would my death-bed repentence bring righteous redemption?
I think not - no heaven for me, the horrors of hell be my lot. I'm a whore to the core, corrupting more with my masturbatory lure. I'm the voice of dissension.