This Week I Had A Dream That The Local News Team ODed From An Enema of Barbituates

Parked.

In a car.

In a car with rust spots.

In the backseat of a car with rust spots.

Three people in the backseat of a car with rust spots.

Three people passing a blunt and listening to the radio talk about dead people in different parts of the world in the backseat of a maroon car with rust spots, which is parked next to a splintered telephone pole; two in the front, and two outside.

Seven people laughing.

Three out of seven throwing up behind an beat up white work van from the 80's.

Hoods up.

Smiling.

Showing our bloody gumlines off to the world.

Listening to the cups exhale as the syrup swirls through the soda under the streetlight. 

A fleeting catharsis hot-wiring two heady hemispheres for comfort.

Floating.

Spent my last five on a piece of pizza (chicken wing.)

My magic trick is making a minimum wage pay check disappear in a day.

My other trick is the ability to maintain until next Friday.

And tonight, the moon is showing off a pompadour.

And tonight I pretended to pee in a urinal in a casino bathroom while someone handed me pills.

Hoods up.

So Reckless.

And, yes, we are currently taking donations and kind-hearted words spoken softly into a cell phone.

Getting dome.

Perserving blood from a nose bleed.

Passing time.

Nothing else to do.

Nothing else to do.

Nothing else to do.

After We Hung Out, I Smoked A Cigarette, Watched A Drunk Woman Get Arrested, And Felt Alive. (Bullshit!)

Every time you complain about the way you look while staring into the bathroom mirror, I am pricking your finger with a sharp piece of metal from a diabetes test kit, and using your blood as mouthwash to dye teeth red. The act will go unnoticed, I think. You brush your hair from side to side. You tell me you look like shit. You tell me that I look really good tonight with nonplussed eyes glowing blue, focused on an incoming text.  

Bullshit.

I think about pushing my hand through your skull while you’re sleeping to pull out your brain because it is the only subject I want to understand.  

Bullshit.

Take a picture of yourself, post it on facebook, and send it to every contact in your phone—I don’t want to be included because I figured this puzzle out a week ago on a walk in the woods, alone. The next time you say, “I love you,” I will slide my cell phone into the slot of a mailbox made out of pine trees, sever your tongue, and turn it into a necklace using a lighter, a bent paperclip, and strand of dental floss. Pretty creative, huh?

Bullshit.

I am a mixture of sad and pissed off at the same time like a domesticated duck neutered with its wings clipped.

Bullshit.

When you talk, I’m paying attention. I’m not thinking about where I can snort the ocs in my pocket. Or about going on a ride up the mountain to smoke a bowl. Or about having a conversation with a voice inside of my head about the proper scale used for weighing out the positives and negatives of our friendship. Or about how greasy your face would look through an oven door. Or about an exit wound sprouting out of the skin and bone located above my right temple.

Bullshit.  

In three years, I will kill you with a knife sharpened on the duration of our silence. I will embed it in the padded spine of your recliner. I will push you into the recliner with force until the silver slips through the hymen surrounding your heart. You will start to bleed. And I will have a surplus of mouthwash, which means I will have perfect teeth for the rest of my life, motherfucker.

I dare you to call bullshit on that.  Fucking dare you.

Contemporary Convert

I am stumbling into late night convictions that lead me to dead rats in plastic bags, distinegrating into the basic building blocks of their genetic make-up, behind the rusted aluminum trash cans on the side of the main thoroughfare. Now, I duck down in the kaleidoscope of red, green, and yellow lights, flicking a blue bag under an advertisement of a family of four happily raking leaves in designer jeans. And none of this feels right (out-of-focus and spinning), which why I'm throwing up partially digested fast food tacos onto the lap of the businessman sitting in the $50,000 convertible next to me in traffic.

The defintion of a haphazard hustle because the goal was to try to be amiable, instead of profit. But a change occured, and now the goal is to injure as many people as possible, in the most violent ways imaginable. Because I'm a short-sighted narcissist, a motherfucking egotist with a dribble of shit staining my own conciousness. A cult leader of numerous fringe religions with no recognizable identity besides a missing aorta which was the result of an all-american diet consisting of beer, benjamins, SSRIs, and fried chicken.

The only common thread in the population's whiney narrative about good guys and bad guys. Cops and robbers. Heros and villians. Lust and abstinence. Piss and shit.

It all depends on the context and the perspective, but our only option was to keep plugging our sect, even though we all lost our sanity 24 years ago.

Amen. 2012. Amen.

The Krokodil Effect

 

A half-eaten stump dripping thick brown fluids into the layers of dust, used plastic bottles, and empty bags of potato chips, my arms have become strong after the years of dancing to electronic house music with the assistance of aluminum crutches.  I move from side to side, wiggling hips to the bass thump as the skin disintegrates leaving trail of breadcrumbs for emergency services to follow.

I will never get lost in a forest, but I can/have been lost in a large crowd of people at a social gathering, which is why I have chosen to rot from the inside-out. Missing the vein on purpose. Two years to live.

There is no hope, only optimistic lies which lead to suicide and gingivitis. I have yellow teeth. Luckily, I saw a commercial for whitening toothpaste and an electric toothbrush.  The woman in it had perfectly white teeth and looked genuinely happy. I went to the Rite Aid and bought the toothpaste and the electronic toothbrush as a way of turning my life around. I used them every night. Brushing each quadrant for 30 seconds. Watching plaque swirl in the pulsating bristles, as the foam gathers in the corners of my mouth—this is rabies. After three months, my teeth were still yellow, and numb from heroin. But not numb enough, which is why I switched to krok.

 

I don’t care about celebrities, just cigarettes and cannibalism.

 

When we kiss, I will slit your gums and watch them bleed like a fountain in front of a national monument. I will jump in before security comes, and steal the loose change at the bottom of the rubicund pool with a hand missing digits because wishes never come true—I am a realist.

 

My lips are lined with knives, which slice tongues neatly in one smooth motion, eliminating auto-pilot compliments, self-centered sentences, conceited words, and narcissistic syllables—I hate my friends and relatives. I can sell them to you, but, just to let you know, they are worthless and defective. Planned obsolescence.  I will dry them in a wooden oven. I will grind their bodies down into a powder with a mortar and pestle, and mix it with household chemicals, then you’ll be ready to get fucked up.  Reaching cloud MOTHERFUCKIN 10! Yes, I can cook. Thank the internet because in the past, specialists diagnosed me with a low IQ, anorexia, ADHD, and you’ll never amount to anything syndrome.

 

You will receive a twenty dollar medal engraved at a trophy shop.

You will receive a twenty dollar medal engraved at a trophy shop when you sleep with one of my best friends.

 

When you sleep with one of my best friends, I will wrap myself in a blanket made out of the mantle of the earth and cook until I’ve reached the proper temperature for consumption.

 

When you sleep with someone else, I will listen to a self-help tape while balancing on the edge of a guardrail in meditation like an emaciated Buddhist monk.

Bust me out on this and it will be okay. I just need something temporary that will bring me closer to death to make it through this.

Turn up the volume because I’m not listening to the words you’re saying; I’m just drinking a warm beer in the bath tub, and holding my cell phone just under the limpid surface of the water until it malfunctions.

Lately, I’ve been thinking of becoming a porn star. Some straight up S&M shit. Ass red from leather smacks. With cat o’ nine tails etching abstract images into the skin on my back, I have the potential to own a mansion and an SUV with 24-inch rims, and a metallic green candy apple paint job.

Lately, I’ve been thinking I’ll become a rickshaw driver with just enough money to scrape by living in a tarp house in the slums of India, or a homeless man drinking a forty out of a paper bag, telling my life story to random twenty year-olds on the street as I ask them for loose change and a spare cig + a light.

 
Lately, I’ve been thinking removing my brain from my skull, marinating it in ice, frying it in oil, and selling it for $.99 a pound even if it’s past the expiration date.



No one cares.



I don’t care.



So alone.



Pushing away anyone who tries to understand my motives on a daily basis.

 

 

 

 

In Russia, they call it krokodil because your skin corrodes until it resembles the hide of a crocodile and falls off. Nothing left but a portrait of decaying skin and nicotine stained bones resembling frayed rope and bent pieces of oxidized rebar embedded in concrete.

I fucking hate all of you. I fucking hate myself.

My calling in life is disintegration.

 

 

(photo source: here)

Karma

With my dick hanging limp in anticipation through the opening in my pants, I noticed a fruit fly clinging to the piss-stained walls of the urinal at work. I pissed on it. Soaked, it hovered out of the downpour of urine, and landed on my face.

While washing my hands, I thought: "Fuck, I deserved that."

Post-Masturbation Thoughts

                                     Photo Source: (polaroidlens)
                                                                                           

You want to pose with celebrities.
You want to ruin their hair with a hand grenade.
You want to smear their make-up with a knife.
You want to dickride.
You want to get an autograph.
You want a purpose in life, and this is it.
You want a sink, some sandpaper and a bar of soap to smooth your skeleton clean.
You want a rehearsal.
You want proof.
You want people to like you.
You want to be expatriated from your body into a First World nation.
You want to be one of them.
You want to mix their blood into a cocktail, and drink it in hopes of a transformation—ice cubes cracking in harmony like bullets penetrating glass.
You want to smile without faking it.
You want to bring this up in any conversation you have over the next six to seven months.
You want to make an impression like an atomic bomb, quick and long-lasting.
You want to commemorate this, one of the best moments you've had in your life, with a statue, plaque, photos, and a status update.
You want to pay attention.
You want to cry, and scream, "WAIT! DON'T GO! Please...I just need a little more time."
You want to kidnap them—million-dollar wrists writhe and chafe against the scales of venomous snakes.
You want to suck the precum off the tip of a gun barrel of a tank.
You want someone to fire an artillery shell into your head, sending pieces of skull and brain through the layers of atmosphere, straight into orbit. Straight into fucking orbit.

After the climax, clean yourself  with some toilet paper, light up a cig, and pray for validation.



  

Put Your Friends In a Shopping Cart And Push Them Away, Straight Into On-coming Traffic.

A chirp. A peep. A squawk. A click. Clicks—plural. A head seasick. Green. Hair spreading out in the wind. Take a picture. Paint a picture. Study the anatomy of the human body while wearing a zombie mask made out of latex. Fake blood tearing from half-open eye sockets; pupils nonexistent. White. Yellow. Teeth wiggle free from their holsters and jump out of the mouth like business men/women plummeting from the top floors of skyscrapers. Shattered and spread out across the floor. You can design a mosaic consisting of only one color to hang in a public bathroom.

Currently, bats are the only mammals that can fly. Membranes drooping off arms and echo location. Your jaw muscles snap the exoskeletons of winged insects. A crisp pop like a stick cracking under a sneaker. Then juice, puss, and guts sloshing back and forth, side-to-side—this is what health food tastes like. Red. Black. Purple. Sticking to enamel, a mash-up of other people's ideas swallowed. Digesting. Your stomach is a sound collage playing organic music for a singles bar on the outskirts of civilization.

A pile of body parts stacked unevenly, teeter-tottering to the thump of each bass note.

Put your friends in a shopping cart and push them away, straight into on-coming traffic.

What You Want to Be When You Grow Up

A middle-aged man who is wearing leopard print tights. Touching. Pumping himself in the blue haze of the computer screen, as he watches an eighteen year old in braces shove the head of a teddy bear into the moisture emanating from her crotch. It is not illegal.

A household plant neglected in the shade of the blinds, because your owner never turns the fucking light on since he is working on his night vision.

The violet hair chalk rubbed on the pubic hairs of someone you're infatuated with. It could stick to the dampness lying dormant on the surface of your lips, if only you had the courage you motherfucker.

An undiscovered planet with the most basic form of life. Unintelligent. You can be a good mother.

Hawaii? Or Alaska? Just not connected to the main land.

An eye spinning around in a socket, unfocused. Distracted and disinterested. You would rather look at a video of someone being shot in the head; the wound self-inflicted. Because idle chatter with friends is so captivating, especially when you're not connected to the main land.

Hawaii or Alaska?

A torso hanging out a window, contorting and becoming sore, eventually. Looking at the orange light reflecting off the clouds from the city located behind the mountains. It will skew any observation made about the stars tonight, never coming to a conclusion. Dumbing yourself down. Contorting and becoming sore.

A guilt trip eating away at her conscience. It's your turn now.

A board game misunderstood and complicated. Hands drunk. Tossing little wooden pieces. Gone missing in the carpet. You are losing parts of yourself that make you complete in the process of decomposition. No one cares about ruining this shit for future generations. Not fair. 

The thesis statement outlining his assertion of what it means to have a bad day.

The depression embedded in the lines of a smiling face.

A bed, which never got laid. Unloved. Meditating in the solitude of an empty room. Quiet, finally.

Medication dissolving in a nasal passage. You will clog sinuses as you pin pupils. Fuck the cops.

A missing hand lost in the ass of a male hooker. The ass lined with razorblades, he clenched at the wrong time, you unlucky fucker. Now you can really kick off this pity party right with some 7-up cake, soda, and some fucking balloons. Fingernails coated in waste. Shit man.

A murder/suicide involving an elderly couple. Channeling Chester and Mildred Welebob.

Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.


Going nowhere.You're all grown up.

The Glow, Pink Pills, and Unused Condemns

I can be a good girl, but I'd rather bite deep into your lower lip like a mother bear in love with her cubs encountering a stranger in the middle of a gas station parking lot. The pitter patter of ruby pooling in a plastic cup;I will use your blood as a dipping sauce for my french fries. I will not share any of them with you because I had a slumber party with them last night. An all night fuck-a-thon. Now, I am covering the evidence. Chewing. Burning old love letters from high school in my parents' backyard garden during the terror twilight, I am creating a forest fire that will engulf all of Wilkes-Barre, and eventually the rest of Northeast Pennsylvania.

I have been inhaling fog late at night to forget about all the terrible shit that is about to go down in the next couple of days under a crescent moon. The glow, pink pills, and unused condemns on a three-topping pizza. Are we having a party? Or just fucking around like two dogs flashing teeth and snarling? Matted fur flying into the air, I hope you get a good grip on my neck because you owe me one. 

The earth will rotate from right to left scattering my thoughts into the whirlpools of the Susquehanna. Sucked down into the Knox Mine disaster, which we have completely forgotten about. I hope the effort of fracking the layers of my head for natural gas have paid off in net profit because our water supply is poisoned.

I wish we could fuck on a bed of nails without any trepidation. I have dwelled on this daydream for a very long time now. But it's withering. Becoming nothing more than a passing thought. I am unsure of my political affiliation, so I have stop paying attention to what's going on in the world. You can call it a hunger strike if you want.

And all my animosity and paranoia is condensing into a cloud floating through the sky: Indian Summer 2012. It will capsize and sink into the vacuum of space because I'm solidifying my place in history as the loneliest person involved in this city-wide project,which is failing. Because you're disinterested in studying the capillaries in my eyes. So broken and raw, you bury your face into the darkness in my shoulder. Yawning. Sucking it all in. Sucking it all in. I am brainstorming a list of animals that might exist, and I'm sorry, but a plesiosaur isn't one of them.

Try to perform fellatio on the erect barrel of a .22 rifle. Or eat out the remaining nuclear weapons in the world. Because I'm sick of the friend zone, and you need more practice, which is why I am joining a dating site for asian women who are christians. I am neither asian, nor christian, nor a woman. I am a caucasian male buddhist in a sweat stained wife beater bucking the trend on a wide variety of chemicals, which I googled online. 

You're in love with someone else; torturing the both of us in the process of revelation. Wrist tangled in shackles at four in the morning, all you want is the solitude of modern technology falling apart in your finger tips. All I want is a body infected with infatuation, and maybe leeches.

I Am Stretch Armstrong Deflating.

I am shotgunning the words coming out your mouths:
Binge drinking.
High sociability.
Tepid living rooms and chairs
Becoming more uncomfortable
With the passing time.
Looking out windows,
No one understands brain waves;
Evolution never presented us with antennas.
On all fours,
Searching for meaning while muttering the gangster rap lyrics:
"I'll shoot y'all in the motherfuckin face with a blue steel nine
While blowin the finest trees
Click-clack in my hood and you niggas will come out looking diseased."
Not making any sense.
Slurring speech stumbling into family portraits on the walls.
Broken glass coating smiles.
Dust sticking to vomit.
Too ashamed,
Thinking of past delusions while driving reckless
In a Pontiac through a downpour of foreign limbs
Coated in grease.
Hydroplaning into the grill of an 18-wheeler.
I couldn't wait.
Five months.
I apologize for speeding in hazardous conditions
Containing low visibility.
Exhausted.
I am Stretch Armstrong deflating.
Rubber burst.
Bits of teeth rotting in bad breath. 
Drowning, 
Face down in green goo.
Thinking about what it's made of
And not coming up with an answer.
I will stay silent.
I will not move.
Spaceman sheets over my head in quarantine.
Flippant and uninspired,
The room will spin and lose definition
Until I forget the contours of the earth,
And I believe that is the best I can do
Right now.

Terrible? Sometimes.

Recently, I have been contemplating sawing my head off, and replacing it with the head of a mascot from a sports franchise or a big business corporation, or a cartoon puppet from a children's show so more people will like/believe me when  I'm apologizing for being a terrible person, sometimes.

I probably say the words, "I'm sorry ____" or "I apologize_____" at least 100 times a day.

Because I'm a terrible person who ate a box of locally made chocolate peanut butter candies in the shapes of apples + A Weekender sized bag of locally made BBQ potato chips. I bought them for the greatest/coolest person in the world, who is currently living in Washington this summer. I ate them because I was stoned and hungry at 4 in the morning, and there was nothing to eat in my aunt's house. I also got her a t-shirt and wrote her a letter. (I didn't eat it either of them— I wasn't that stoned) But I'm lazy and wasted too much time and too much money doing meaningless bullshit with people I kind of care about (okay not really), and now she's gone, and coming back home, and might not like me as much before she left because I'm a TERRIBLE PERSON who is unreliable piece of shit. Sometimes. It's a proven fact.

I'm the worst.

Multiply anything by zero and you get zero.

And I'm sorry for the times I was late in the past.  (#101)

And for eating all your peanut butter chocolates and BBQ chips. (#102)

And never sending them out in the package with your letter and t-shirt before you left. (#103)

And for driving by roadkill without even acknowledging its existence. (#104) 

And for not erasing best friends who only give a shit about themselves sooner. (#105)

And for not attemping to cure AIDS or cancer. (#106)

And for being a TERRIBLE PERSON sometimes. (#107)

I want to bake myself into a tray of cookies, which resemble nothing in particular so people that care about me will be able to hold me gently in their moist palms before tearing me apart with bleached mouths, and digesting me with alcohol stained stomachs. Afterwards, rinsing the parts of me, which got stuck in between teeth out with mouthwash. The last of my sugary shapelessness dissolving or being spit and sucked down a drain because I am a MOTHERFUCKING success. Self-proclaimed. BFA: Class of 2011. Smoking bowls at work in the cooler with a coworker who is a former crack addict; her sixteen year old daughter, our lookout.

I will enjoy baking in the oven. Watching the people I know talk in the kitchen. Not understanding words, nonplussed expression of boredom with occasional fits of laughter. I will enjoy it because at least this time, I don't have to awkwardly stare around the room at people and assault them with funny faces. I have nothing to say. Or no one to say anything to. Listening to the mechanical sound of convection humming from the oven as I turn a golden brown. It's comfortable. I guess.

Except for the plethora of frowns reflecting off the windows. And the melodramatic buzz of text messages broadcasting unhappiness throughout the room. 

I can make coffee, but I don't think that will improve the situation.

Fuck, I'm a horrible host, but I'm trying my best. Making eye contact. Smiling. Asking, "Is everyone is okay?" Mingling. And looking concerned.

But I don't clean. My room is filled with a random assortment of garbage, loose body hair, and boxes of shit that have yet to be unpacked. 

And with five people in here it's cramped.

I'm sorry, I am terrible person sometimes, but you'll have to adjust.

Because I really don't think I'm that bad.

I don't have cable.

I do have Netflix, an iPod + iPod boom box dock, and a N64 and some weed.

(I guess it's all relative.)

But please don't forget  me. 

Because everyone is a terrible person sometimes. 

I'm alright with that even though my fingers are hidden and crossed.

And I will try as hard as I can never to forget about any of you.

my future + the game of life:

I will go to college and graduate.

I will be a travel agent who will make $100,000 per pay day.

I will marry a pink piece of plastic and we will have twins, a boy and a girl. I won’t remember the birth, the pregnancy, or the sex.

I will win $50,000 on the lottery.

I will pay off my $40,000 in student loans.

I will have a midlife crisis. I will change careers (travel agent -> athlete), and make $80,000.

Someone will steal my car.

I will buy a mobile home.

It will get flooded.

But I will be insured.

I will forget about my wife and kids. They will be bored to DEATH in our orange station wagon. And I will feel bad about it after they start to smell because they passed their expiration date.

I will tear up the cardboard road spinning 8's, 9's, and 10's.  

I will retire in the plastic mansion at millionaire estates with $3,500,000. I won’t donate it to charity.

The Reason: I WON MOTHERFUCKER.

Then I will have nothing to do

So I will kill myself.

I will be buried in a plastic bag.

The other retirees will melt me down and use my periwinkle blood for war paint.

And I will think,

“Shit, that wasn't so bad.”

 

This Isn't About You

"i am sad."

Walking around with you.
Finding myself sitting on staircases
Smoking cigarettes,
One after another,
Not knowing anyone,
Apologizing for vacant
Disinterested expressions.
Assimilating with shadows,
As you perform for strangers.
I'll play with a hot pair of pliers.
Gripping each fingernail tightly
Before peeling it off with a firm tug.
Before you puke in an alley
and tell us,
"Yo take me home. I'm sick."
I never wanted to be here.

"u r breaking my heart."

I think if you went to the cardiac care center at the hospital,
They would tell you it's your diet.
Plus, we're not really in love.
Because we're not really married.
Your face is a guilt trip 
Exploiting my generosity.
And I just want some time to myself
Without the self-loathing.
I'm sorry for never being able to say the right words
to make you happy.
My tongue is retarded.

"i am turning my phone off and not talking to you or anyone today."

Thank you for being mature about this.
Thank you for not overreacting.
Thank you for not acting melodramatic.
Thank you for not posting this on facebook.
Thank you for holding me after I got kicked out of my parents' house.
Thank you for being yourself and not acting differently in front of other people.
Thank you for making me feel like a cat, slack-jawed with matted fur, a half-eaten eye, and a broken spine decomposing in a stagnant puddle between the white lines of the highway and the rumble strips.
Thank you for listening to me, instead of talking about yourself.
Thank you for never saying thank you.
Thank you for never trying to make sense of it.
And thank you for the sincerity in your apologies.

Don't get too excited or upset
Because this isn't about you.
.

Untitled 8/31/12

"Black."

When your tongue is uttering syllables,
Which form convoluted sentences
Describing the both of us,
I am focused on whatever 
Image is on the TV screen.
I'm not really paying attention
But it's a good cover when imagining
A murder/suicide.

"White."

Slinking lower.
Spine crooked.
I am a victim
Responsible for the ulcers
Leaking blood on the floor
Of my stomach.
You are the catalyst
Erasing my chapped mouth 
With perfunctory statements.
I will never talk about myself because 
It's narcissistic.
I will never tell you anything about myself
Because you're not my biographer.
And never will be.


"Grey."

In the lull in between a smile and a frown,
I see a B-17 flying behind the backs of our eyes
Dropping bombs on strategic Nazi war factories
Located in our frontal lobes.
Avoiding flak.
Absorbing bullets from the Luftwaffe fighters.
Painted metal encrusted in flames falling from the sky 
Down the hole in your throat.
The resonance of self-defence
Is lost somewhere
In the acquiescence 
Between my mind 
And vocal cords.

Ideas for New Spaces to Introduce in "The Game of Life"

Cheated on your wife/husband when you were fucked up with a stranger who wasn't really that attractive and now you have herpes. Miss your next three turns.

Uh oh, rehab. Miss your next six turns because you're a fucking drug addict.

Killed yourself by stabbing your heart repeatedly with a steak knife you got from the kitchen. You lose, so put your pieces away, and leave the room.

A major car accident caused by a drunk driver, and now your kid is a vegetable. Lose 90,000 dollars every turn for the rest of the game.

Joined a gang, shot someone in the face during an attempted armed robbery, got arrested after popping a few rounds off at the cops, and have to do fifty years in the state pen. Wait until everyone finishes the game, then you can start playing again, except you can't make over 40,000 dollars.

Oh no, you've been laid off. Lose job and salary. Collect unemployment of 5,000 dollars on each turn until you can find another.

Heart attack! And diabetes due to a fast food diet. Pay 120,000 dollars every five turns. Collect 200,000 dollars on this turn  from impending lawsuit against a burger chain.

Bildungsroman

The Human body can perform extraordinary feats under dire circumstances. Some people have fallen out of planes from ten thousand feet in the air. Fallen at 9.8 meters per second squared. Reaching terminal velocity before hitting the ground. Bodies bouncing off the earth from the force of the impact. Still alive, heart beating, they come out of the fall with only minor cuts and bruises, and maybe a broken bone or two. Most humans who have fallen out of a plane die during the landing.

Some people, after being trapped, have flipped two ton boulders or heavy pieces of machinery over their heads, and off their bodies.  Muscles, joints, nerves, and synapses, under the influence of adrenaline, precisely synchronizing for milliseconds; never attaining nirvana again. Energy is efficiently spent, but it’s painful. Extremely fucking painful. Legs and fingers splayed and immobile, embedded in patches of sand or dirt. Overused, and worthless. Missing, but not trapped. The lull in between failures.  A portion of these survivors were discovered, life-flighted to a hospital, and nursed back to health. The other portion of survivors are never discovered and die from such an exhibition of power. Emaciated skeletons tanned. Epidermic leather hugging bone, forcing parched lips and mouths into the shapes of shit-eating smiles. They are going nowhere, and will never learn from their past mistakes, which is the root cause of why they are here in the first place.   

Let's Get Something to Eat Because I'm Still Hungover From the Argument We Had Last Night (Food Chain)

I am sharpening my teeth with the file on my Swiss army knife in the corner of our bedroom.

You are in the bathroom fixing your hair, and staring into the mirror. All frowns.

Teeth transforming into daggers. Hungry.

Waiting to drop you after one bite. 

Lacerating your wrinkle face, my stomach will digest your scrunched nose, and pursed lips before it disembowels itself.

Gutted.

The void will become a black hole, which will dine on our atoms as our bodies slip past the event horizon, and become long strung out streaks of color fossilized in time.

I will annihilate the earth unintentionally because I am irresponsible.

I will annihilate the earth unintentionally because your smile was concealing weapons of mass destruction.

Everything will dissolve into a single, solitary point, which will never be seen again because even light can't escape it.

The next few weeks are going to be interesting, but I'm not excited because 

I'd rather be sleeping.