still dick riding scott mcclanahan

"But it didn't really happen that way. I pulled into a gas station before I'd even got there and passed out in my car. I vomited outside my car somehow, but I don't remember it. When I woke up, there wasn't anything playing. The CD was broke and skipping. I wish I could say I started to laugh and remembered how I'd told Sarah once that "May the Bird of Paradise Fly up Your Nose" was my anthem. It was the only song of absurdity that confronted the absurdity of this life, and I wanted it played at my funeral. But I didn't even do that. I wish I could say that at that moment I was thinking about how we are searching for someone, and someones are searching for us. And sometimes this searching brings about our destruction. But I didn't even do that. I just wished that everyone I knew could listen to "May the Bird of Paradise Fly up Your Nose" and feel changed. I wanted them to sing the chorus and feel how it feels to lose their mind. So go ahead. Look it up and listen.

There are bridges waiting for you."

read: West Virginia’s Weirdest Country Star Almost Ruined Scott McClanahan's Life

Underwear Project: teal silk g-string, black leggings, black mini skirt, white/mint push up bra, and dark gray low v-neck t-shirt.

i bought an at home pregnancy test from the drug store down the street from your parents' house, pissed on the strip, and waited 15 minutes.

two blue lines.

negative.

i still haven't had my period.

but we celebrate.

your cock is hard and warm, my tongue massaging the stress out of your sensitive skin.

relief.

i spit parts of our children: miniature limbs, fingers, bald heads, toothless gums, and crying eyes, into the toilet, rinse with mouthwash, brush their tiny bones, and soft sticky skin off the surface of my teeth, and flush.

i love you, but neither of us are ready for that responsibility, and i don't think we will ever be.

that's okay, because at least we realize that unlike so many other dumb fucks that inhabit this world, we don't believe that kids are the solution to all our problems; we believe that answer lies somewhere inside ourselves, if only we could find it.

neither of us have the ability to raise and control another human being, hell we can't even control ourselves, but trust me we're working on it, even though, right now it's not going so well, except for not being pregnant.

we shoot up our final bags, take a couple of xanax, smoke a joint, and then a cig out of our bedroom window, then eat some twizzlers, and birthday cake oreos for dinner, before you turn the lights off and put on a bbc documentary about creatures that live in the deep ocean, and their mating habits.

both of us crawl into bed, and kill the remaining seconds of the day with the words, "good night" and "i love you," until we slip out of consciousness wrapped in each other's arms.

tomorrow, i'll spread my legs, and it will be your turn to get me off, which shouldn't be a problem because your tongue is fully rested.

for an hour tonight, i thought about losing an arm and dying because i thought i had a blood clot in my left arm

this word is a tyrannosaurus rex composed of crumpled up balls of loose-leaf paper, containing scribbles and sketches of embarrassing artwork, notes from college, and failed to-do lists, the childhood toys covered in dust that we used to play with, cellphone parts, legos, double a batteries, arteries, veins, and blood, attacking corporate skyscrapers of steel, glass, black ink, and ashes, located in the epicenter of the borough of the frontal lobe in a city called, "my mind."

burn.

the definition: chaos returns to order, and order is chaos. out of the destruction: growth.

"it'll get better. i'll all work out.....except it won't."

cj + mv

cj: when i stare into your eyes and you stare back into mine, i don't just see the surface, i see the galaxies they hide. and for those fleeting moments, i know not of gruesome thoughts, but rather of the cosmos-- the stars your eyes have caught. it's as if you swallowed the night just to take my breath away. the universe is endless and my feelings are the same. striking depths of space i see and its your eyes that provide this view. what do you think while you search mine? all i think is "i love you."

+

mv: when i look into your eyes, i see a dream that i have had since i was a child, but never remembered until now. before i met you, the dream was a nightmare, because it was what i always wanted, someone to hold, kiss, and understand me. someone to talk to. the face was blurred. and every morning when i woke up i would be alone in a bed, on a couch, or on the floor. by myself. the feeling. and memory would dissipate. i would go through the motions of the day, smiling, and laughing masks hiding thoughts of lead bouncing around my cranium. medicine got me through, but never cured the problem, or satisfied. this was my daily routine for over twenty years. there were false dawns, but in reality it was still night; just fires burning on the horizon. when i looked into your eyes i remember that dream. the dream became reality. the reality was love. but those twenty some years have had side affects, and i need to recover cause i'm sick and losing my grip due to moisture that has built up on my hand holds. but when i look into your eyes i want to recover. i feel the strength rush back into my arms and fingers, which helps me climb to the summit so i can be with you. to hold you and love you. to give you the world embedded in a gold ring. and ask you to spend the rest of your life with me. when i look into your eyes, my dream is fully realized.

an idea for a new action sport

driving home from work, crossing the nanticoke bridge, i imagine bungee jumping off the bridge with the cord wrapped around my neck.

the orange sunlight warms my cheeks, as i close my eyes.

i could be possessed,
or
i could be a person with a number of neurological disorders,
but
maybe i'm neither.
maybe i just am who i am.
bullshit.
hot then cold.
always restless.
my problems have no shape.
no outline.
no definition.
unable to explain
i stare up at the night sky
with my mouth open
to get a taste of the wind.
thinking about the atoms that bind me
together.
thinking dissolve.
scatter.
transform
or
disappear.
stop making sense.
screaming
stop
just fucking stop.
time is eating all of us alive.
i will control my end.
i will be eaten by birds with sharp beaks,
not by the passing seconds
measured with late night tv.
broken into basic elements.
not alone
not okay.
not happy.
not sad.
not excited.
not moving.
not conscious.
not thinking.
not functioning.
not whole.
not breathing.
not beating.
not anything.

take an eraser,
rub it across the wrinkles of your brain
that contain memories,
avoid the trauma,
and the cost for a casket/tombstone.
call it a funeral.
call it whatever you want.

my fetish

all i can fantasize about recently is choking on celebrity tabloids in an alley, while two stray cats fuck next to an orange dumpster, immersing myself into puddles of stale rain because i haven't showered in days, before emptying out the contents of my brain with a .38 special.


the sirens. wasted tax dollars. missing children. missing teeth. wasted potential. the sound of water dripping into water. infected. a long sleep. and empty pockets. is what gets me off.

cj: "you know you wear more thongs than me."

underwear project piece. this week.

And here is an update on some art that I am working on all pieces still in progress

two great artists who deserve a shit ton of recognizion

so my girlfriend c.j. parlante and my best friend elly dallas are both really good artists.

they also post really cool shit that you should check out.

c.j. paralante (blog link: http://bottledselfesteem.tumblr.com/):

elly dallas (link: http://ellydallas.tumblr.com/):

both of you are so talented and you're art makes my entire body bend into a smile. i would feel the same about it even if we weren't friends. please keep creating. please keep inspiring me. thank you for existing.

elephants' graveyard

i am on auto pilot;
legs taking tired steps,
pores and wounds
dripping sweat, blood, and lactic acid,
which are absorbed into the earth,
stumbling across dirt, to asphalt,
to sidewalks,  over welcome mats,
across beige tiles, down wooden stairs,
to a carpeted plain, which calloused feet
traverse, until they can't go no more,
and reach the navy blue fabric couch,
where splintered bones, and yellowed skeletons 
are scattered across the floor.

collapse.

my thoughts about the future have changed:

no longer thinking about
how much money
i'll need for cigs, credit card bills,
medicine, rent, fines, new shoes,
and moving to philadelphia.

no longer thinking about
what animal i'll have to kill
or plant i'll have to harvest
because empty stomachs
have stopped crossing my mind.
the same can be said about
personal appearance, and hygiene.

no longer thinking about
what could've been,
or what i could've done.
what doctor or shrink
i could have seen.

no longer thinking about participating.

no longer thinking,
just doing because
different parts
are shutting down
one by one by one.

wheezing, instead of breathing;
my lungs have become frayed nets
that are losing there ability to
capture oxygen
with each passing second.
with each attempted breath.

this is a personal experience,
which is why i have to go
alone, because this legend
is a reality.
it is a well kept secret
that each of us learn through
instinct.

the hazy glow
from a late night
reality tv show
about people competing
to be deep fried food masters
illuminates my mottled
grey skin; this is
the difference between
life and death.

i feel the sinews of my biceps
and the joints in my fingers
snapping like branches
under foot, as i check
my cell phone.

no new messages.
no missed calls.

i realize it's uselessness,
and break it by slamming
it against a wall
watching one utile piece
multiply into many dysfunctional ones.
all different shapes and sizes
now exposed to climate controlled air.
useless.

it's impossible to be perfect all the time.
it's impossible to make good on every promise.
it's impossible to not have regrets.
it's impossible to go back in time.
it's impossible to live forever.
but
it's possible to love.
it's possible to apologize.
it's possible to forgive.
it's possible to not be a shitty person for your entire life.
it's possible to change.
it's possible to live.

as i close my eyes,
i have one last thought:
i see a warm smile
slowly expanding across
your sullen face
that is unable to
stop the tears
tumbling down
your cheeks;
you kiss me on the forehead,
then my right cheek,
and finally on my mouth
with your saline soaked lips.
i wrap your body in my arms,
and squeeze as hard as i can
you into me,
me into you,
meld together
until we become one.

thank you for teaching me the definition
of love, meaning, and happiness
without the use of a dictionary and worksheets.

the wind will erase my footprints,
while the lions, dogs, worms, beetles, and vultures
erase my physical existence,
disassembling my anatomy
one bite at a time.

no one will know what happened to me,
but it won't be a mystery
because
all of us have to die sometime.

there are plenty of reasons
to fix my brain
after being told
by experts, family, and friends
that it is malfunctioning.

i realize this now,
and have tried to
fix it with power tools,
hammers, screwdrivers,
ratchets, glue, razorblades,
sleeping pills, heroin,
late night tv, text messages,
tears, cigarettes,
beef jerky, controlled breathing,
and epoxy,
but i can't
pinpoint what's wrong,
because shit just keeps
getting worse,
and it keeps ruining
other people's lives
so i painted
a smile on
my face to
try, and hide the problems.

you are two hours away, and my call has been forwarded to an automated voice message system, which means i have to figure out what i'm going to do today

instead of going to the beach.
instead of going for a swim in the pool.
instead of getting a tan.
instead of eating steak off a paper plate at a family cookout.
instead of telling my grandparents about how i'm broke, lonely, depressed fuck up that can never achieve the future i want, and tell them about because of my selfishness, and poor choices; i'm not the good person they think i am, nothing special, just a piece of shit.
instead of taking a shower.
instead of hanging out with friends, who fight all night, get fucked up, and lose their ability to talk.
instead of hanging out with friends who i have to drive around because they don't have a car, money, or a house/apartment we can go to.
instead of playing video games.
instead of going for a walk in the woods.
instead of clubbing.
instead of going to the bar.
instead of meeting a couple from mississippi that is on their honey moon.
instead of going to the casino and wasting loose change on slots.
instead of slamming a bottle of tequila.
instead of brushing my teeth.
instead of ordering the perfector fusion styler off an infomercial at 5am so i can get salon results at home, and forever change the way i style my hair.
instead of saving money.
instead of looking for an apartment, and job in south philadelphia.
instead of moving.
instead of making plans to move.
instead of paying my credit card bill, and debt to my parents.
instead of saving a child in africa for twenty cents a day.
instead of writing a novel.
instead of putting my faith in the promises of other people.
instead of quitting smoking.
instead of turning my dream into a reality by working on it with my hands.
instead of looking forward to tomorrow.
instead of looking forward to today.

i stay in bed,
while waiting on a phone call,
or making them, and failing.
so i settle for texts,
and express how i'm feeling
through abbreviations,
and emoticons,
as i swallow
pieces of wood
and gallons of gasoline,
while i run a fuse
down my throat,
and into my stomach.

i light the fuse.
it crackles and hisses,
as it disappears into my mouth,
and ignites the fuel into flames.
burning from the inside out,
you won't understand
what's happening
until you are sweeping
the ash into a dustpan,
and dumping it in the garbage.

you find a charred note
on a piece of loose leaf,
written in black ink,
and stuck in between
the bones on the left side
of my ribcage.

"the only thing i ever
wanted to do was to be with you.
ps: sorry for overreacting." 

if i win the lottery...

if i win the lottery, the first thing i'm going to do is walk in front of a moving bus, feel the metal caress my rib cage until it breaks, and punctures my heart and lungs. when the driver gets out, i will thank him, by handing him the winning ticket, and ask him to finish me off by running over my broken head with the tire of the bus. telling him to enjoy the rest of his life. telling him to smash my brain like a watermelon. and he will oblige because money is money. money is the only way i can get somebody to do me a favor.

if only i was so lucky.
if only it was that easy to solve all my problems.

it's fun to dream.

if every day is like today then wake me up tomorrow (prologue) {rough draft and to be continued}

last night you told
me, "we need to talk."
as we drove
back to my aunt's
house up
luzerne mountain.
in the darkness,
my mind was
a rung out washcloth
that was already starting
to become cold.
i lit a cigarette,
and told you,
"can we talk tomorrow?
please i just need one day,
one day without stress,
and bullshit. i'm sorry,
but i just need a day.
one day, cause i don't
think i can take a
serious discussion today.
it's just too much.
every day is just too much.
i just need a break."
standing at the edge
of a cliff kicking rocks
into free fall with
the tips of my sneakers,
i thought putting it
off would coax me
away from the ledge,
but the world keeps spinning.
i couldn't see your
face. i was blind.
i didn't even know
you were standing right
behind me;
i thought you were
still in the car.
you quietly said,
"okay."
i was deaf.
i heard you,
but missed
the sadness sewn into
that one word.

okay.


when we got home,
i smoked a g-bong,
then a cig out of
my bedroom window,
as you were by
yourself in bed
on the computer.
after i finished smoking,
i ate a bowl of cereal,
and laid down next to
you.
tired,
we decided to watch cartoons,
instead of having sex.
i kissed you goodnight,
and passed out next to
you, in your arms
because there is
always tomorrow.

tomorrow.
tomorrow
we were driving to philly
to get your stuff
so you could move out.
tomorrow
was going
to be one day closer
to moving into
an apartment in vermont,
getting jobs, getting clean,
swimming in the lake,
paying bills, going on walks,
and grocery shopping together.
tomorrow
i would cook you dinner,
and do the dishes with you.
tomorrow
i would scratch your back,
and use my tongue and lips
to massage your skin.
tomorrow
we would talk
about our past, present, and future.
tomorrow
your hand would still be in mine.
tomorrow
you would still be here,
and we would still be together.
tomorrow
i would be happy
just because you
will be at my side,
and will be there
every tomorrow
after that,
which is
all i need in life.
tomorrow
is exciting,
and i'm looking
forward to it.

my dreams were filled with
fireworks, endorphins,
your naked body in mine,
and your words, in the time between.

tomorrow became today
when i opened my eyes.

you were already awake,
preparing for what i asked you
to put off.
for something
i had completely forgot about
when i was unconscious:
the talk.

my mind isn't a rung out washcloth anymore;
it is a tea kettle filled with water,
and your words are the flame.
the water comes to a boil,
and the whistling sound
never stops.

i am on my side
with my back towards you
as you wrap your arms around me.

"we need to talk..."
is never the start
to anything good.

your voice sounds like
a piano that is out of tune.
shaky, nervous, and sad.

tomorrow is now today,
and tomorrow is unpredictable,
and never goes as planned.

"first, i just want to say
i love you, and always will.
you are everything to me, mv.
you are my life, my soul, my world,
my happiness. i never thought i would
love anyone until i met you. i want
to spend the rest of my life with you,
and be with you forever,
but,
right now this isn't going to work out."

i am back on the ledge with
one foot ready to put its
weight down on thin air.
ready for my body to follow.

you grip me tighter,
as the tears start to metabolize
in the corners of my eyes.

"i can't go to vermont.
i can't stay here with you any more.
this just isn't going to work.
you can't keep supporting me;
it isn't practical.
and i can't just run from my problems.
i talked to my mom yesterday.
she talked to my p.o.,
and she's not going to put me in jail.
if i go back to philly,
they are going to put me into a program to get clean,
i have a job set up that is going to pay really well,
and my mom said she's going to send me $100 a week
if i do what i have to do, and stick with it."

the whistling sound gets louder and louder
inside of my head and there is no way to stop it.

the dam breaks and the tears start cascading
down my face into my pillow.
i keep my eyes closed;
i don't want to remember the visuals
of this moment in time.

"plus, i have to go to those court dates,
and take care of that whole situation
with my roommate after she robbed me.
it's just not going to work,
no matter how much we want it to.
we can't just hope that will get jobs,
and be able to support ourselves,
pay off our debts, and make it.
i want it to, but it's not.
when we go to philly today,
we are not getting my stuff.
you're just going to drop me off,
and go back home.
if you still want to go to vermont, you can.
i'll try to come and visit once a month,
but i can't go.
or you can stay here, and i'll visit as much
as i can. or you can look
for a place in philly because after my roommate
robbed me, my landlord won't allow anyone else live here.
we can make it work.
it's going to be hard,
but we can do it.
i have never loved anyone as much as i love you,
but like i said, i need to do this."

i start to shake, as the tears
and pain come faster and faster.
i wipe the snot dripping from my nose
into my spaceman sheets,
trying to pretend that this isn't real,
even though i can't escape the fact that it is.
i am not a magician.
and don't know any miracle workers.

"no matter what i love you.
please don't forget that.
please don't stop loving me."

you are crying now too,
still holding me in your arms.
trying to hold me together,
even though i'm completely falling apart.
shutting down.
this is what hurt.
this is what pain feels like.
riding a bike with
a collapsed lung is nothing
compared to this.

"so what do you have to say?
what are you thinking?"

silence.

minutes pass, that feel like years.

i am in total freefall,
watching the ledge i was standing
on with you grow smaller and smaller,
farther and farther away,
waiting for the impact.

more time passes.

at this point we are both crying
as much as two human bodies can.

"please just say something."

your words have dissolved my tongue,
all that comes out of my mouth is hot moist air.

"i need to take a shower."
is another way of saying
i need to leave.
i need to get out of here.
so i grab my keys, wallet,
and a fist full of drugs
while i'm in the bathroom,
and turn the shower on.
i look at myself in the mirror,
and see the shattered visions
of the future i planned
in the reflection of my eyes.
it resembles the half eaten corpse
of a decaying elephant
dead in the tall green grass of the serengeti
being consumed
by vultures and flies.

i tried to escape out of the other bathroom door
that leads into the hall,
and avoids the bedroom entirely,
but you opened the bathroom door
and walked in before i got out.
shit.
i was caught. 
but it didn't matter.
nothing mattered.
shut down.
and numb to the world.

"are you seriously going to leave right now?"

i can't even look you in the eyes.
i can't communicate my reasoning,
how i feel, or what i'm thinking.
i can't even say yes or no.

so i just leave.
i leave without saying a word or where i'm going.
i leave without my phone because phones are useless in times like this.
i leave you standing in the bathroom
crying hysterically in the unknown.

i run down stairs, still in my pajamas,
grey penn state sweatpants and a yellow t-shirt,
hop into my car, snort a line, drive five minutes
down the road to frances slocum state park,
and heading for the solitude of the woods.

status update 7/4/2014 (mv swydersky and cj parlante)

mv: i'm saving rainwater in my tear ducts and bottling thunder and lightning in my chest cavity to use on a sunny day.

the tornadoes in my lungs are tangling the wires that make up my nervous system. this is what happens when you put your trust in other people.

i put the teeth i've lost underneath my pillow, and when i wake up they are still there. i guess magic and fairy tales have an age restriction, which i've already past.

whatever teeth are left i've filled with ink. same with my tongue. later tonight i am going to write love poems on the inside of your mouth, behind your ears, and over the rest of your body, even though you are not here. your ghost will have to do.

cj: My hands are ink pens and your body is my stationery. the thunderous roars and blinding flashes of light erupting from your core convey my every thought with utter perfection. You are everything I feel and ever wanted to say or write. I'm struck by a bolt of your beauty and we become one. Together, a perfect storm.

mv: together, we take the world hostage with a deadly virus, and make a list of demands: 1. gold 2. a crate of birthday cake oreos 3. a soccer ball 4. that people should stop acting like dicks 5. a fucking time machine. 6. to leave us alone and let us be together. as we step into the time machine, the world tells us how we will never get away with this. what the world doesn't realize is we are going to go to a time where the statue of limitations has passed. and what the world didn't know was that there wasn't any virus in the first place because we made the whole thing up. bonnie and clyde bitch! the best part of all is our friends are finally dead. ah. you. me. and silence. as it stands, we are the oldest people on earth

late at night, i pull my pants down, go on facebook, and put my butt up against the computer screen so people can finger my asshole by liking what i post or poking me. isn't what those functions are for? self-gratification. anal stimulation. pleasure.

i wait for your phone call, because if i don't hear your voice, i'm too scared to fall asleep. there are monsters under my bed. and one day i will have to fight them.

when i looked up at the sky tonight, i connected the stars with a glow-in-dark marker and the picture it made looked exactly like you. so i laid in the grass on my back as the dew is absorbed by my clothes staring at it until the sun rises, and i fall asleep.

cj: Then I looked down at you from the sky and smiled and arranged more constellations for you to look at before you fell asleep. What you didn't realize was that I was singing you a lullaby with the wind and the hoo's of the owls and the chirps of the crickets. Once I heard the labored breathing of your sleep, I entered your dreams with a time machine and the rest is history.

mv: When you entered my dreams, I was at the bottom of the ocean, lying in a graveyard of shipwrecks, covered in a blanket of sand, and surrounded by a crowd of people who all had the styles and personalities of game show hosts. Suits, ties, sequined dresses, and layer upon layer of make-up. They are hungry, and have weighed out the risks, figuring out I'm an easy meal. You're at the surface screaming for me to wake up. I do. You tell me to swim towards the light. Towards you. I kick my legs as hard as possible until they feel like overheated motors in need of water and an oil change. I keep kicking escaping the crowd before their whitened teeth tear into my flesh. I reach the surface and breathe as you pull me into the boat. I collapse from decompression sickness and start to shake. You wrap a towel around my blue body, rub my temples in circular motions with your index fingers, then kiss me on the forehead, and say, "there, there, you're with me now and everything is going to be okay." While biting your lower lip with a worried look on your face as you paddle away towards our new life which is in the direction of the sunset.         

if every day is like today, then wake me up tomorrow

my first response to waking up,
is closing my eyes.

i know the potential is there
to get out of bed,
to explore the surface of the earth,
to make french toast and sausage,
to expand my vocabulary,
to clean the dirt off my skin and brush my teeth,
to make money,
to clean my bedroom,
to drive two hours down 476 to 76 to oregon ave to you,
to have fun,
to love and feel loved,
to feel fulfilled,
to be content,
happy,
excited for the next sunrise, sunset,
and the time in between;
instead i choose motionlessness.
unconsciousness.
numbness.
i choose to do nothing.
i choose to dream.

i've become immune to alarm clocks,
and the pinging sound my phone makes
when it receives a text message from
someone who wants to hang out with me.  

my veins are filled with mud.
my brain and heart are dead batteries.
that i haven't figured out how to replace,
and i can't afford new ones
so i'm stuck with what i got.
stuck in this situation:
under the covers,
and shivering from an overdose
of air conditioning,
and the presence of your ghost
trying to coax me out
from under the white drywall sky,
loneliness of this room.
and into the sun.
into your warm arms.

i have replaced my hands with shovels to dig a tunnel to you so i can escape this empty bedroom, and watch cartoons with you, while memorizing the contours of each other's bodies with our tongues.

panic attack june 2, 2014 4:52am

right now,
in my mind,
you're
dead
with a needle
stuck in your
arm.
skin
pale blue
eyes still
open.

i'm going
to the bathroom
to puke,
and curl up
in a ball
on the
sand colored
square floor tiles,
as i watch my
phone until
i can't keep
my eyes open.

after i close the front door,
i slide a black ski mask
over my face,
and cover the grip
of the .38 sticking out
of the waistband of my jeans
with the black t-shirt
i'm wearing.

the piece is concealed,
unlike my motives;
i never wanted it
come to this.

before tonight,
i was non-violent.
sociable.
easy going.
amiable.
patient.

i have my shitty days,
just like everyone,
but i never take it out
on my friends,
or the people around me.

before tonight,
i was a giver.
if you ask me for an arm,
i would give you my own.

but that's all about to change.

tonight,
i stuck a pin
filled with venom
into the vein
on the crook
of my left arm,
and plunged it
into my bloodstream.

tonight,
i'm ready to
throw a brick
through your window,
rob you at gunpoint,
and cap you in the knee
so you can remember me
for the rest of your life.

tonight,
my smile doesn't
show teeth,
just barbedwire
and razorblades.

tonight,
i realized
to most people, 
i am a walking atm 
that spits out free money 
after they stick an i.o.u. 
written on 
a scrap piece of paper 
up my ass, 
and never pay me back. 

(i mean the least you can do is suck my dick while you're fucking me. right?)

tonight,
i am not a person.
i am not an atm machine.
generous.
understanding. 
nervous.
loving.
scared.

tonight,
i am a motherfucking shark
ready to bite your limbs,
eviscerate your vitals,
remove your bones,
and turn the water red
with your blood.

fuck you.
fuck all of you,
including myself. 

overreacting over radio silence in my bedroom while feeling like i have to throw up because of an impending nervous breakdown; you are on vacation with your friend in atlantic city.

tonight, i can relate to my mother.

i am chain smoking paranoid thoughts, and cope by snorting heroin.
involving you.
involving car accidents, abductions, sexual assault, natural disasters, and shark attacks. 
even though you're probably in the hotel, in a bed, sleeping.

tonight, i am having a spiritual awakening.
in this moment.
for the first time.
i am genuinely concerned about someone after six hours of phone silence.
so i stay up.
watching the phone.
waiting for your name to come across the navy blue screen in white letters.

tonight, i want to talk to you.
because i've ruined my life, hate myself, and want to talk to you about it.
my hiding places are filled beyond max capacity.
in a couple of days, there's no place to go.
like a person dropping through the air without a parachute during the fall.
i know what they are thinking:
panic
anger.
remorse.
his/her loved ones.
hysteria.
past mistakes.
future regrets.
sadness.
"FUCK!"
death.

it's pure fucking horror that no one can understand because there are no survivors.
it's worse than the moment of impact due to the combination of time, loneliness, and watching the ground getting closer, and closer.

tonight, i am falling.
tonight, you are ___ in atlantic city.
tonight i am concerned about the both of us.

drunk dude breaking into your house at 2am kombat

a drunk guy,
who you know
but aren't really friends with,
punches your front door
at 2am wanting
free sex, drugs, and money.

you let him in
because he's
causing a scene
and you can't
have your neighbors
calling the cops.
you can take care
of the situation
by yourself.

the drunk guy,
who you know
but aren't really friends with
is annoyed that you
have a boyfriend,
and gets belligerent
because
you are texting him
about what is happening.

"iiiiiii mean
why you gotta do that?
huh?
he doesn't need to
know whas
fuckin goin on."

Whoooopsies!

you call him a cab,
but he's getting impatient,
and frisky
putting his hands
in the wrong places,
using flawed logic
and shitty pickup lines.

so you destroy
his remaining health with
the 3 move kick punch combo,
then the uppercut,
x-ray move,
jump kick,
and uppercut.

FLAWLESS VICTORY!

as the drunk guy,
who you know
but aren't really friends with
staggers around,
out on his feet,
you hit
back,
down,
down,
left,
right,
triangle,
and rip off his arms
while removing
his head from his
shoulders,
spinal cord still attached,
and pose with it
for selfies
that you take
with your smart phone.

CALYSSA WINS!

FATALITY!

i don't want to sleep or go out today because i'd rather spend my time with you

i play with your body
like a 5 year old
with the teddy bear
that he was given
at his birth.
fingertips.

you hold me
like a newborn,
and whisper words
into my ear
with your tongue,
which protect me
from  myself
while we are
under
a spaceman themed blanket
watching cartoons
at 3am.

you tell me,
"we don't need the world,
we need each other."
and i imagine
falling asleep
in your arms
even after
we become
skeletons.

Standing on the corner outside your house,
cold sweat suppurates
out of the pours
on my lower back
creating a slick that kills otters, fish, sea birds, bull kelp, and dolphins.
i watch the red tail lights grow smaller
before the darkness of the horizon
consumes them.

at different points of the day,
the seconds seem to speed up or slow down,
but, in reality, they don't change;
it's all in my head
like it has always been.

you make it to the hospital,
as i park behind random cars
on a random street
to get well,
and pass the time tonight without tears
under fluorescent orange lights.

i have writer's block.

or maybe i'm just making excuses, and being lazy.

it's probably both.

the most unproductive 30 days of late night tv, and infomercials.

i'm going to try and write something tomorrow.

but wilkes-barre and i are having going away fucks throughout the next couple of days.

it's bodily fluids, angry faces with scrunched eye brows, depressed lips, undulations,  trepidations, and tears of happiness and relief.

alone and faded in the dark of the living room at 5:30 in the morning.

fuck with us. wilkes-barre we are doing it! only twelve spots to go.

177 out of 189 (and an honorable mention to allentown at 157.)
to my burlington friends, your shit is weak.

same goes for lancaster. i know you got that huge mall and a cool downtown, but you also have the amish mafia.

wilkes-barre.

you build fences around the projects, while getting drunk and shooting dope on week nights.

there are no jobs, unless you want to huff natural gas, and poison the water supply.

the exterior of the beehive has been taken out by bears, and your people have been killed by hornets.

bring the violence in 2014.

that feeling you get when you're chopping vegetables, and notice all your fingers on your free hand are missing, fresh blood all over your parents' granite kitchen counter, but you keep going because it doesn't seem like that big of a deal.

because you're hungry, and people make mistakes. right?

you'll have to find creative ways to get off when you masturbate from now on.

"I wish one of your guys had children so I could kick them in their fuckin head or stomp on their testicles for you can feel my pain - because that's the pain I have, waking up every day..." (villains are always more interesting than heroes)

photo source

i am
a construction paper
third grade art class project
that didn't turn out right,
but my mom hung on the fridge
because of the effort.

i can't figure out
how to walk.
how to use my lungs.
how to get a job.
how to save money.
how to gain weight.
how to keep friends.
how to meet people.
how to help the world.
how to eat healthy.
how to assimilate.
how to fix my brain.
how to attain nirvana.
how to be happy.

i try,
but no superhero
will be able
to save me;
they aren't real.

i can't figure out how to live,
which is why i've doused myself,
and the earth in gasoline.

i flick a white plastic lighter
with my thumb,
and watch the flames
blitzkrieg my skin
and the rest of the planet
watching it burn.
turning us red,
we will remain motionless.

it feels warm,
like sitting around
a campfire, wrapped
in a blanket, next
to someone who cares,
and is willing to listen.

mummified in white ash
like the people of pompeii,
the sun will erase
the remains of our existence
with its breath
like the daughter i will never have
scattering the seeds of a dandelion,
and making a wish.

i am going to clone myself, have the clone stick a javelin through my head, then make sure i survive.

i will never be an astronaut because it is too late, and i'm missing part of a vital organ.

smoking a cigarette by myself on my parents' downstairs patio at 4am,
and looking into the night sky at constellations,
i realize i will never make it into space,
even though people are up there on a space station right now
orbiting earth.

i settle for pictures, books, and tv shows.

i never get laid because of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head

my stomach is full of plane crashes, derailed subway cars, and fatal automobile accidents.

things that malfunctioned.

things that hit walls and buildings.

things that hit each other.

things that are now classified as missing.

things in black body bags.

things being digested in stomach acid.

broken things.

disasters.

pieces of painted shrapnel covered in smudges of grease, and exposed wires, still shooting sparks, are stuck in the gaps between cavities.

my teeth are black nubs, and my gums are swollen/bleeding.

i am trying to become a better person.

the passengers' funeral processions march up the vertebrae of my spine embedding sad songs in the swirls of the wooden planks that make up their pineboxes.
 
they are:
former best friends.
deceased family members, who were coal miners that died before i was born.
and girls who wanted to hold my hand, and kiss me, then forgot about me because i couldn't decipher the signals of their bodies, voices, and words.

i loved them all, even though their faces are unrecognizable, and pay homage to them with a moment of silence before they are lowered, and buried in the wrinkles of my brain.
  
i am trying to get a girlfriend by brushing my teeth, cutting my hair, wearing a tie, eating wintergreen breath mints, and dousing myself in cologne.

but i never get laid because of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.

wilkes-barre,

it's all because of me and you.

i am mortally wounded
in the band stand
on public square
covered in bee stings,
missing a chunk of my torso
with my hair singed
by the never ending mine fires,
no amount of heroin can resuscitate me.

in and out of consciousness.

pale.

open wounds.

bleeding out.

my body on display;
this isn't a sacrifice.

i am not a martyr.

there is a black handgun
in a army green holster on my leg
with only one round left
in the clip.

i am left with two options:

i can bury the bullet in my brain.

or shoot you right in the fucking face.

i love you, and i'm sorry,
but we cant live together anymore,
and this break-up is going to be messy.

"you look like crap."

"thank you. i think i'm just a little down."

i am eating shards of glass
mixed with gummy bears
out of a sandwich bag
for dinner;
i haven't slept in four days,
and my eyes are weathered tombstones
missing names.

staying up late at night,
watching alien close encounters
on tv, as i wait
for my phone to ring.

smoking a cigarette
every hour,
while i let spiders
crawl up my legs
crossing the anatomical terrain
up to my head
where they stick their fangs
in my scalp,
and lay their eggs
in my brain.
bad thoughts
festering in
silence.

my pupils are shot
like warped records
warbling up and down.
i see shadows
out of the corners of my eyes,
and think about dialing
phone numbers for help,
but i don't want to bother anyone
because, unlike me,
most of my friends are busy,
and spend their free time
talking to people they love,
and care about.

so i drink warm milk
laced with holy water,
and don't feel any different
throughout the rest
of the night.

tomorrow, i hope for the best.