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.