Monday, July 13, 2015

Use Your Left Hand (While You're On Your Back)


I inadvertently kind of founded ISIS...


It's not what you think.

All I was trying to do was organize a bunch of disillusioned and wholly unsatisfied donkey fuckers I met off craigslist. In Syria. Because if you want to party...don't be a little fucking pussy about it and smuggle a bunch of Bill Cosby's forgotten ludes to Syria. I have a strap-on and rape mentality.

I was just trying to empower them a little bit. I don't speak Arabic. What I tried to tell them was, " God loves you, even when you fuck a donkey- provided said donkey is willing."

I THINK what they heard were, " If you want to fuck a donkey freely, find something in the Qur'an that justifies it and LIE in the name of God."

So Jihad... more like Jizz hats trying to shame-fuck donkeys. Goes to show that good intentions lead to nothing but gun powder dusted donkey dick.

But I'm back now. And I won't leave you. No, no I can't leave you because I'm going to use my left hand.

So, I don't know if you know.... but if you get yourself off in one very specific way, all the time, it can be extraordinarily difficult to get yourself off in a new way. ( See: Donkey fuckers.) I was using my right hand, pinky out and party hat tiled twelve degrees to the left.

I think of writing as emotional masturbation. Not all writing. Writing that leads you to nowhere but the wet dreams of overweight psychopaths in a public library is emotional masturbation.What I write. It's a verbal manifestation of emotions and opinions that validate a schizophrenic ego. But it used to have a singular REAL LIFE purpose.

That release was driven by a passionate suffering.  I kept indulging the gluttony of perpetuated intoxicating misery because it was EASY. There were so many FEELINGS. Every minute bearing a gnawing anxiety that was high enough to fear its' height. Words were vessels that flowed with the ease of passion.

Well, all that time with the donkey fuckers and... I stopped being miserable. Or I stopped being miserable in a way I was used to.

 And it was TERRIBLE. I couldn't figure out how to write. I just couldn't figure out how to fuck myself the way I had been fucking myself for years, producing massive amounts of beauty and self-indulgent trash.

My old tricks became a  dangerous waste. Those chemical epiphanies withered into an inertia wrapped in down and Egyptian cotton, peppered with negligent cigarette burns. Where I had found a glorious muse, I found myself trapped in time, lost in oblivion.

But then it occurred to me... that I didn't have to have a reason. I don't need a muse. I can write and it doesn't have to matter. It only serves me to scam you out of your time. I'm living a love affair; I don't need to rub my clit on an imaginary romance.

Of course I still need to stroke my ego, and I need you to swallow. But I can fuck you anyway I want, without having to dim the lights.

Tuesday, September 3, 2013

The End

A dim mirage of a life of luxury marred with the beautiful ills I've had to offer, illuminated in the light I feared. Trembling.  Years trembling, wrecked by the necessary devastation to appreciate our broken reflections.

Trembling in the face of impossible dreams. They lent me their hand in the dawn of a night dusted in bitter confectioner's sugar.

What I've been writing for, the thing I've always wanted, to be the most elegant embodiment of debauchery for a man who celebrates the depths of a lovely tragedy. 

My dreams have sighed, beginning to breath despite the new fear crawling towards the afterglow.

This man I've always known. This man can exploit me properly. This man will save me from an ordinary life.

I'll be famous. You'll be dead.

We'll be laughing in the leather of a black car. 

Wednesday, August 7, 2013

Lets Be (together) Frank

Sex is stupid,
Sex is slimy
So why don't you
Just hop up on me?

Lets get grimy gross and shiny-
You can cum while you're still crying.

Drunk enough
to know me better
I won't make you
but if you don't,
I'll tell them all
your dick is small.

Friday, August 2, 2013

The Shift

 It was the strangest thing. There was a shift.


I suppose I was distracted when we met. Blindly distracted. Wary.

We get along. We always have. Far away.

Something happened. I have this alarming suspicion that I can see you now.


I could see you without the haze I had constructed with a thousand lost phrases.

I couldn't see you when we met. But I can see you now.

Something happened to me that you couldn't see. Something shifted inside of me.

My quiet universe has started to tilt. I began to think beyond the confines of impossibility.


 My dreams are beginning to stir.

Wednesday, July 31, 2013

George Julius Julius

I did sex with someone once.

You don't believe me?

No, I really did make sex with a guy.

His name? You want to know his name?

It's George... Julius. George Julius Julius.

Yes he's real!

You're fucking stupid, he's as real as the sex we did together.

How did it happen?

Well I was reading the free newspaper, trying to make sense of my horoscope. I'm an Aquarius but I'm on the Pisces cusp. So I have to read both of them together before I can extract any sensible information. I guess I was talking to myself pretty loud. I usually talk to myself but it's usually very quietly and people usually just become uncomfortable enough to leave me alone. But I see this guy just staring at me. The way old porcelain dolls do. With dead but sexy eyes. That vacant stare that lifeless dolls give off is nothing more than cock lust. The dolls don't know it, but I do. Little rosy-cheeked sluts.

But this guy, George Julius, he wasn't after the cock. No, he was after something else. He walked right up to me and we started a conversation.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes... I think so. You don't think so?"

"You were talking to yourself."

"This is America. I can talk to myself at my leisure."

"You don't have any pants on."

"I already told you this was America."

He stopped talking and drank me in with coal-black eyes. Eyes like a matte trash bag rotting in the sun. He licked his lips. Lips like two enticing slugs cracked and swollen with possible sores along their border. Lips of passion.

His gut rose and fell with each careful labored breath. At 5'4 and 230 pounds, one couldn't deny the sexual appeal of George Julius Julius. The man was a living embodiment of the pleasures bound to fornication.

My heart was racing. It was probably the 8-ball my nose ate for breakfast. But it might have also been the fact that George Julius Julius was beginning to get his dick hard. Maybe it was the porno still playing on his phone. But I'm pretty sure it was me. It's hard to resist a girl with a rattail in a 3 wolf moon shirt, wearing sweatpants casually stained with "ice cream" and marinara.

He took both of my hands and held them in his clammy palms while asked me how old I was. I asked him how old he wanted me to be. He said 13. It just so happens I have a condition that allows me to look prepubescent despite my middle age. So I lied and said 12. His dick nearly busted a cheap stitch.

And then we made sex. Right there in the park. Despite the protests of onlookers, I slammed my naked body into his. I slammed it against him till he passed out from pleasure. His dick was soft and somewhat bruised.  His utter delight was undoubtedly expressed in his comatose silence. I did such good sex to him that the paramedics arrived right as I was peeling myself off of him. I think he came blood.

Hey... listen, not everybody can be a Sex Goddess. But I'm not everybody. So don't feel bad about it.

Tuesday, July 30, 2013

The Executioner

Look, before I kill you, there's a few things I have to say to you.

Please don't bother trying to get your hopes up, thinking you're going to be able to get out of this. You're definitely not getting out of this.

 Where would you go? You're trapped here. You can't even move.

Even if you could move, you're too weak to get far enough to save your life. They would catch you before you could get anywhere worthwhile. So don't bother using the last of your strength to fail. You owe yourself that much now that you've ended up here. This isn't a movie. You're not James Bond. You won't be getting away.

You might be wondering why they sent someone who looks like me, pretty with a pussy, instead of those giant men with black glass eyes they usually send.

I'm the angel of death. I've been meaning to tattoo a pair of wings on my shoulder blades to add to the cinematic effect but if you can believe it, I have a bone-chilling and unwavering fear of needles.

I'm the executioner. That's the kind thing I do. These guys figure, Hey, why not add a little sprinkle of sweetness to see you to your bitter and unanticipated end. So they hire me. Nice guys.

I mean...would you rather have your last sight be of a bald fuck with his gut spilling out his suit slitting your throat?

Of course not. This is a much nicer way to die I think.

If you're wondering why I do it, it's simply because I don't have better things to do. You probably assume something awful happened to me, something salacious and degenerating the petals of the bloom of youth. But my life never tested the boundaries of normalcy . I guess that's just why I happened to end up here, with this kind of knack for this sort of thing. Individual justice negotiated on economic terms in a world that operates on its own ethical code. It's no different than a state-mandated execution. Except that this State is a man, and that man happens to have a lot of influence.

I have to make a living. And a girl needs all kinds of things to live.Things cost money. This is how I make it.

I don't want to kill you. I really don't. I don't know anything about you and you look a swollen sight of blood and bruises. But I've been doing this long enough to be able to read past the near total destruction of your face to know that you're a handsome kind of guy. And that's too bad, because I like a handsome kind of guy. I really do.  Knowing the few details of your life, I think you like to have a lonely good time in luxury when you don't have to deal with business. And I do too; except that this is my business. You strike me as a professional. So I'm sure that on some level of professionalism, you understand you have to die.

I think we could have been friends. Friends or Lovers. Or both. Who knows these days?

You didn't make the right choice. You didn't pick the right people to work for. I'm sure you've realized that by now. Don't bother renouncing your loyalty; it will only make you look more worthy of assassination. I despise a coward.There's hardly any sense of accomplishment. A coward is a dead man walking. There's no thrill to killing corpses.

I don't care either way who you work for. You could be an underground troll who outsources Christmas elves, and I would still have to kill you if it happened that my set of orders demanded it. It's the rules of the anarchy we breed and we must follow them in this profession. 

I'm going to give you a kiss before you go. I don't think you'll mind, because I saw you staring at my tits in the lobby. I'd fuck you but I doubt you've got a working dick left at this point. 

It would have been a lot more fun if you didn't have to die. I would have fucked you till your eyes rolled to the back of your head.

Thursday, July 25, 2013

Unwrapping a Gift

Once there was a girl bestowed with a divine and all-powerful thing. Gifted to be given a sense of the nature of a deity or its impossibility. Something ordinarily concealed from an average existence. Something hopeful and tremendously gorgeous.

Couldn't read it. Couldn't hear it. Couldn't Speak it. Didn't know a fucking thing to do with it. Fruit waiting to be plucked off of the puzzled boughs of her mind; fruit ripe and possibly rotting. At the expense of her youth, she mauled at her thoughts alone, blessed with a lovely thing she couldn't see until she broke herself into bitter, untouched, and irrelevant pieces.

Monday, July 22, 2013

Mornings Underground


Standing close

Going home

Going out

Time for work

Time to shine

One piece of cotton floss

Makes a simple constellation.

A limp bow to carry

the weight of decency.

You could

pluck the string;

Never notice

the danger,

I would shift my step


watching my dress

fall at your feet.

You're excited;

but I'm running late this morning.

The doors are closing.

Wednesday, July 10, 2013

Classified Ad

Softly I will sing

old and rusted songs to you,

while we sit beside

each other

on neon fields of crabgrass

in strange hills bathed in white light.

The place in our dreams

we remember to visit.

We could exist

beyond tattered hope,

exhausted by the

affairs of lonely hearts.

Thursday, July 4, 2013

I Can't Hear Your Little Red Rooster


Leap Year Christmas

You're like a vagrant holiday

roaming over every month,

until suddenly you settle

to receive your celebration

on an arbitrary day.

I always miss it

while I'm hanging decorations

on softly rotting branches. 

Sunday, June 30, 2013

Stars and Stripes



Friday, June 28, 2013

Tuesday, June 25, 2013

Curing Insomnia

I like to forget the very moment when I fall asleep. The sublime sense of satisfaction from a scheduled oblivion. When you can avoid the unpleasant descent in favor of a subtle plummet into slumber, you'll wake up refreshed, remembering how you forgot.

Because whenever I remember, I remember that my mind becomes a monster and I am nervous to face the wayward anxieties, passive-aggressive but vicious fait accomplis. It's always around to make a person so desperate to find sleep, they lose all their hours at dawn.

So I prefer to be too tired or fucked up to remember the moments when I fall asleep.

Monday, June 24, 2013

The French call it a "Little Death"

The little death:

it's all that's left,

if you want to carry on

for the sake yourself.

Winning pleasure

from a little disgrace

makes for lonely


Lately it seems defeat

cradles the cemetery.