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calciumdeficientt · 10 months

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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.

#a clockwork orange #acwo #aco #nadsat

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theelaggers · 2 years

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The outside of the korova milk bar

#a clockwork orange #korova milkbar #droogs #moloko plus

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flyingcowsstudios-blog · 1 year

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UHRWERK ORANGE / CLOCKWORK ORANGE

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dasha-aibo · 6 months

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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

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thenewromancer · 10 months

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Hi, I meant to read this yesterday, but got swamped with other junk.

I really liked the Dystopian feel of it. I am not sure I understand the Dopamine reference. However, I'm from the Korova Milk bar school of drug use, so I've never needed that.

I like that your reference list includes "We". It's criminally underrated.

I would include "R U R", but I'd also include Metropolis the film too.

I think the other thing as Cyberpunk reference point (I hate the word trope), is that life is ultimately very cheap. People are used and disposed of as needed--simple resources to be used and consumed. It's only through the action of the protagonists (usually) they end up aquiring their own value.

Write more!

Dopamine is naturally occurring. It is supposed to be a reward for achievement. But we use it at will now, using screens.

Korova Milk Bar, meaning.. you like psychedelics? With Milk? Lol I see you have read A Clockwork Orange. I watched Stanley Kubrick's adaptation and couldn't understand the story at all. That is the thing about novels, you can understand what a character is thinking much better.

Honestly, I think We might be the most influential dystopian novel ever. And few people know it. I think We inspired 1984 and Brave New World. But I like that few people know it.. because when I give it away to my friends, I can buy it again for cheap lol

I never heard of R.U.R. wow. First story to use the word Robot. Rad. And I don't think Metropolis counts, because you are referring to my dystopian novels list? Right?

That is a great suggestion. It is really true, and getting even more true, the world being the way it is..

And the word trope is a great word, very different from a reference point. A reference point might as well be in a science textbook. A lifeless phrase, not proper to describe art, no offense lol. The word trope comes from the Greek "tropos" meaning "turn". It literally means a reoccurring theme, idea or pattern of action used in an unexpected way. Every trope must be different. Otherwise, it becomes a reference point. Jk lol

You sound very smart and well read, and I am glad I asked for your opinion. I think I am going to start posting my novel. It isn't turning out to be true cyberpunk, more dystopian noir. But I think it might be something truly great. I call it "Fallen State". And I am currently writing the 3rd act. After I edit, I will post the first draft in small installments.

#cyberpunk #writers on tumblr #writeblr #writing #writers #creative writing #noir

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suicideandcheese · 1 year

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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.

#poetry #writing #poem #free verse #poet #dream #milk #milk theory #spilled ink #a clockwork orange #vibes #surrealism #watch your dick #poets on tumblr #writers

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southeurope · 6 months

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youtube

KOROWA BAR

The roots of the group Korowa bar go back to the early 1980s when guitarist Hrvoje Piletić Pile and Davor Gobac began to play music in Pile's basement. In addition to the two of them, Dražen Pencel Pink also participated in this attempt to create a band, playing bass guitar, Zdravko Ostojić Mark played drums, and Igor Zambelli Slojmun sang. However, Gobac soon left and formed Psihomodo pop, as did Mark, who started La Fortunjerose. Pile then invited Toma in Der Mühlen to join the band, playing guitar synthesizer. Mladen Smrekar wrote the first lyrics and also came up with the band's name, "Korowa Bar," after the milk bar from the cult novel "A Clockwork Orange" by Anthony Burgess, which may be better known to a wider audience by the Stanley Kubrick film of the same name. Thus, in early 1981, the band was ready to make its debut.

Additional details:

The band's name is a play on words, combining the Croatian word for "cow" (korova) with the English word "bar."

The band's music is a mix of punk rock, new wave, and electronic music.

Korowa bar was one of the most popular bands in Croatia during the 1980s.

The band released four studio albums, two live albums, and one compilation album.

Specific translation of key phrases:

"tamburati" - to play the tamburine

"uhvatio se" - to take up

"pjevao" - to sing

"oformio" - to form

"pokrenuo" - to start

"smislio" - to come up with

"kultni" - cult

"poznatija" - better known

"izlazak na scenu" - to make a debut

#KOROWA BAR #CROATIA #HRVATSKA #underground #post punk #Youtube

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colp76-blog · 8 months

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Time After Time, 1979. My Journey into Science-Fiction part:30.

“They say time is the fire in which we burn. Right now, Captain, my time is running out. We leave so many things unfinished in our lives.” Tolian Soron. Hello and welcome back to My Journey into Science-Fiction Part 30. Eggy Wegs, the Korova Milk Bar and Ultraviolence are the first things that come to mind when I think about actor Malcolm McDowell. However, it’s his quote above from Star Trek,…

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#80s #Movies #Movies Cinema #sciencefiction #StarTrekTheNextGeneration #TimeAfterTime

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winddemo · 2 years

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Guava juice paint the town red

Todd will not divulge what the rites are. (Vampyres like to spell their name with the "y" to distinguish themselves from literary or Hollywood vamps.) Todd founded the Sanguinarium ( the goal of which is to unify the vampyre subculture. The ankh, the ancient Egyptian symbol of life, is also the symbol of the Sanguinarium, a nationwide network of vampire clubs that maintain the air of a secret fraternity, complete with ranks and initiation rites. In his late 20's, with long, straight blond hair and cornflower blue eyes, he is wearing a flouncy maroon "poet's shirt" with studded leather straps, "Battlestar Galactica" combat boots and a silver ankh necklace. Todd, who once worked as a dental technician, does not look much like your typical vampire. We want members of our community to feel comfortable." "We don't want people just sitting and staring. "We used to charge $20 to people who were out of dress if we deemed them worthy, but now we charge $50," Mr. No "mundanes" - the goth-vampire term for nonfabulous night people - are allowed. The only person wearing white is a cocktail waiter dressed in drag as the ghost of Marie Antoinette. And that's not your average New Yorker all black. "This is a private party, sweetie," he says.Īlthough "gothic," "dark fetish," "faerie," "wiccan" and "Celtic" are all acceptable garb, patrons (most of whom are in their 20's and 30's) usually opt for "vampyre" or simply all black. Crew catalog somehow wanders past the doorman, the club's promoter, Father Sebastian Todd, ushers her out. When a young woman who looks as if she just stepped out of a J. There is a strict dress code enforced for Long Black Veil nights. Although Halloween is long gone and even Fangsgiving has passed, Gotham's "vampire lifestylists" are always ready to don their capes and paint the town blood red. It's been fed by a profusion of Hollywood images celebrating the supernatural, a wave of dark-themed Internet sites and chat rooms, the city's undying tolerance for underground movements and, of course, a wicked desire to dress up.

With a small but dedicated legion of followers, New York's vampire scene has been going strong since the mid-90's. CBGB's, Downtime, the Korova Milk Bar, the Pyramid and the Limelight all hold vampire-friendly nights at least once a week. It is only one of a cluster of havens for the daylight-challenged. We're in the epicenter of Long Black Veil, a gathering held every Thursday night at True, a club in the Flatiron District, where as many as 300 undead heads dance, drink and make merry late into the night. Vampire couples are snuggling in the corners, and on the rare occasion that someone smiles we can make out the glint of white fangs. is spinning a band called Switchblade Symphony and a sexy black-clad vampiress with a bat tattooed on her belly is swaying to the music. It's midnight, and we're in one of New York's vampire dens. Vampires: Painting the Town Red "Vampires: Painting the Town Red" by Margaret Mittelbach & Michael Crewdson ("New York Times," November 24, 2000)

#Guava juice paint the town red

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