i'm lonely.
this isn't a poem or short story.
(but maybe it is.)
sorry i bitch.
email me if you want to talk or call me a motherfucking motherfucker asshole: crakpipefellatio@gmail.com
Friday, January 31, 2014
Keeping Pressure On Open Wounds That Are Insecure
you can't see it,
but my throat
has been slit
numerous times:
layers of scar tissue
built up
layer
after
layer
split open
like broken threads
of string
cut open
with a pair of orange handled scissors
frayed.
covered with
a brown wool scarf
my mother
crocheted for me,
the first time she used
her hands
those delicate slender hands.
a christmas gift
keeping pressure
on open wounds
that are insecure;
they have the potential
to become
fatal.
blood soaking into
the fabric
turning it
crimson
more floods out
turning it maroon,
i take it off.
you can examine
the decaying words
lodged in my throat.
but i don't know
if i'll ever remove it.
my shaky hands show
i'm scared and nervous.
but my throat
has been slit
numerous times:
layers of scar tissue
built up
layer
after
layer
split open
like broken threads
of string
cut open
with a pair of orange handled scissors
frayed.
covered with
a brown wool scarf
my mother
crocheted for me,
the first time she used
her hands
those delicate slender hands.
a christmas gift
keeping pressure
on open wounds
that are insecure;
they have the potential
to become
fatal.
blood soaking into
the fabric
turning it
crimson
more floods out
turning it maroon,
i take it off.
you can examine
the decaying words
lodged in my throat.
but i don't know
if i'll ever remove it.
my shaky hands show
i'm scared and nervous.
Thursday, January 30, 2014
rain according to me
its coming.
wet.
heavy droplets of water.
falling from the sky like metal weights.
it collects on the ground
in puddles.
pools.
rivers.
oceans.
(motherfucking sharks.)
but it dissipates.
and disappears
back
into the sky.
evaporating.
forming clouds.
then moves on.
only to come back again.
but when it comes back
its different than before.
necessary.
the air is refreshing and cool.
even though the ground
is red with blood
and coated in
teeth that are
as sharp as razorblades.
yndi halda
i'm a fish
cold-blooded and small
wearing a pea coat
of slime and scales
swimming in a big gulp cup.
a melted blue slushie
tainted with stale cigarette butts
resting on a brick storefront ledge.
i don't extract oxygen
out of the thick syrupy fluid.
stirring the flakes of ash
with my translucent fins and tail,
i practice making out
with my piss and pellets of shit.
dreaming of the ocean.
a teenager wearing earmuff headphones
walks down the street
mouthing the lyrics of biggie smalls
and slaps the cup off the ledge.
the cup (my home)
is flattened by the bottoms of shoes.
blue liquid diluted with black and brown
spreads across the pavement
as bubbles form and flow
towards the storm drain
built into the street corner.
i don't make it.
instead,
i flail on the sidewalk
and enjoy eternal bliss.
cold-blooded and small
wearing a pea coat
of slime and scales
swimming in a big gulp cup.
a melted blue slushie
tainted with stale cigarette butts
resting on a brick storefront ledge.
i don't extract oxygen
out of the thick syrupy fluid.
stirring the flakes of ash
with my translucent fins and tail,
i practice making out
with my piss and pellets of shit.
dreaming of the ocean.
a teenager wearing earmuff headphones
walks down the street
mouthing the lyrics of biggie smalls
and slaps the cup off the ledge.
the cup (my home)
is flattened by the bottoms of shoes.
blue liquid diluted with black and brown
spreads across the pavement
as bubbles form and flow
towards the storm drain
built into the street corner.
i don't make it.
instead,
i flail on the sidewalk
and enjoy eternal bliss.
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
unspoken words remain unspoken
you are there.
i am here.
here is the middle
never visited.
(if you ask, "is this about me?" i will never admit to it.)
blood and puss suppurates
out of the lacerations
on my arms
even though they are already
scarred over.
it contains the toxins
created by
the pictures hanging on the walls
on the inside of my skull.
true love has never been fully realized.
the ideas are coated
with dust and mold;
cotton colored skin
has started to turn
gangrenous.
dead leaves
fixated in mud
and clothed in ice.
inactive.
paralyzed.
frozen.
the words sit in my mouth
like unused vomit
coming up from the stomach.
i swallow due to
nervousness.
shaky hands.
sweaty palms.
what's unspoken remains unspoken.
pull the zipper
sticking out from my forehead.
examine the synapses
and wrinkled contours of my brain.
when i asked you to leave
with me,
i was serious.
i would build
you
a house made out of
fuzzy blankets
and soft pillows,
different shapes, colors, patterns, and styles.
warm.
and insulated.
i would wrap you
in myself
if you ever started to shiver.
but i'm afraid of
squeezing you too tight;
closing your windpipe
unintentionally.
i know.
i know.
i know.
this is inappropriate.
you don't really need me;
i'm not a luxury.
i am as important as
a spat of used bubblegum
cemented to the concrete sidewalk.
bright pink
hardened
and
flecked with particles of dirt.
i apologize in advance
for getting stuck to your shoe.
i apologize in advance
for getting under your fingernails.
i'm sad.
i'm lonely.
i'm sorry.
that
never visited.
(if you ask, "is this about me?" i will never admit to it.)
blood and puss suppurates
out of the lacerations
on my arms
even though they are already
scarred over.
it contains the toxins
created by
the pictures hanging on the walls
on the inside of my skull.
true love has never been fully realized.
the ideas are coated
with dust and mold;
cotton colored skin
has started to turn
gangrenous.
dead leaves
fixated in mud
and clothed in ice.
inactive.
paralyzed.
frozen.
the words sit in my mouth
like unused vomit
coming up from the stomach.
i swallow due to
nervousness.
shaky hands.
sweaty palms.
what's unspoken remains unspoken.
pull the zipper
sticking out from my forehead.
examine the synapses
and wrinkled contours of my brain.
when i asked you to leave
with me,
i was serious.
i would build
you
a house made out of
fuzzy blankets
and soft pillows,
different shapes, colors, patterns, and styles.
warm.
and insulated.
i would wrap you
in myself
if you ever started to shiver.
but i'm afraid of
squeezing you too tight;
closing your windpipe
unintentionally.
i know.
i know.
i know.
this is inappropriate.
you don't really need me;
i'm not a luxury.
i am as important as
a spat of used bubblegum
cemented to the concrete sidewalk.
bright pink
hardened
and
flecked with particles of dirt.
i apologize in advance
for getting stuck to your shoe.
i apologize in advance
for getting under your fingernails.
i'm sad.
i'm lonely.
i'm sorry.
that
you are here.
i am there.
and this is
the middle
never visited.
Thursday, January 23, 2014
Captivity Poems: Sick Fuck Up
I didn't eat normal food for five days with my eyes wide shut.
The lemon lime fish tacos and TV show detective sitcoms my roommates/complete strangers left me were over for five days expired, on the middle shelf of the fridge before they went, SPLAT! SPLAT! against the back wall of the chrome kitchen garbage can; I have been living off loose chapskin that have been ripped off my lips hours at a time.
Raw: my lip sting, they have been flogged and carved up by a miniature man, and his family. Right hands and fingers formed a cat o' nine tails; the left hands are 20 inch Bowie knives.
Blood sprung out of a natural spring, and pooled in my mouth.
Each family member got a fancy wine glass out of the china-wear display, dipped it in the blood, the father raised his glass, "Success follows hard work. All of you will continue to benefit from your dedication to the cause. I love each and everyone of you. This winter, we shall prosper. Cheers," clinks, swallowed, and chugged the rest until they dropped, and stopped breathing.
Fuck!
I tried to save them with my pinky by performing CPR, but crushed them like ants instead, legs and arms still twitching..
A flaky glob of fish, sun-dried tomatoes, onions, vegetable oil, red peppers, and lettuce wearing a coat of sriracha, hit the floor like a meteor forcing me to clean up my garbage.
The lemon lime fish tacos and TV show detective sitcoms my roommates/complete strangers left me were over for five days expired, on the middle shelf of the fridge before they went, SPLAT! SPLAT! against the back wall of the chrome kitchen garbage can; I have been living off loose chapskin that have been ripped off my lips hours at a time.
Raw: my lip sting, they have been flogged and carved up by a miniature man, and his family. Right hands and fingers formed a cat o' nine tails; the left hands are 20 inch Bowie knives.
Blood sprung out of a natural spring, and pooled in my mouth.
Each family member got a fancy wine glass out of the china-wear display, dipped it in the blood, the father raised his glass, "Success follows hard work. All of you will continue to benefit from your dedication to the cause. I love each and everyone of you. This winter, we shall prosper. Cheers," clinks, swallowed, and chugged the rest until they dropped, and stopped breathing.
Fuck!
I tried to save them with my pinky by performing CPR, but crushed them like ants instead, legs and arms still twitching..
A flaky glob of fish, sun-dried tomatoes, onions, vegetable oil, red peppers, and lettuce wearing a coat of sriracha, hit the floor like a meteor forcing me to clean up my garbage.
Monday, January 20, 2014
part one and the first two paragraphs of part two of an unfinished untitled short story
Today is different than yesterday, the sun is smaller, and no one seems to notice.
Two years ago, some scientists in Switzerland discovered that the earth has started to move farther away from the sun; it's regular orbit has been broken. A perfect circle has now turned into a spiral that's unfurling outwards.
After 730 days of studies, observations, and experiments, no one has been able to determine what caused this. All they know is that it has something to do with gravity, and that the earth is now being pushed farther and farther away from the sun, which means it's going to get colder. No one knows if the earth's orbit is ever going to stabilize again, or if it will be flung out of the solar system. And it's still too early to determine the future timetable of events or the severity of the situation.
The day the earth broke it's orbit, was the day the voices started.
At first, they were just whispers; soft syllables that blended together to form sounds, not words. I heard them while laying in bed. I thought it was my girlfriend humming a melody, while she read the paper and ate scrambled eggs for breakfast at the kitchen table, but I realized the sounds were too disorganized to form a song, and didn't have a rhythm. It was just noise. But, as the days passed the syllables evolved into words: sad, run, cold, alone, leave, no, love, shiver, die, end, sad, no, hope, fucked, shit. In a few weeks the words evolved into sentences:
"In three years, you will need to build a fire and wrap yourself in a blanket. No one will be there to hug you. You will start to eat parts of yourself to survive the hunger, which is okay, as long as they are unimportant. Study what's unimportant."
I wondered if it was just me, or if this was an undiscovered side effect connected to the distance between the earth and the sun. I didn't know. I asked my girlfriend, Kim, "Hey, have you been hearing anything weird lately? Like have you heard any sounds even when it is completely quiet?"
A look of concern conquered her calm facial expression.
"No. Why? What have you been hearing?"
Kim and I met on the internet over four years ago. I was hearing voices back then too. They told me to kill myself with pills, razorbaldes, falls out of windows, baths in the deep fryer at work, and nooses made out of ethernet cords because nothing will get better; there is nothing to live for. She said she was worried, and frustrated because I had a problem that could be cured, if I just sought help. I didn't. She stopped talking to me for four months because she said that whenever we talked, it made her depressed. So I went and got help, then they put me on some meds to balance me out after a short spell in the mental hospital. We started talking again. I drove nine hours to meet her, and never left.
"Oh, nothing...I think the water heater might be fucking up again. Maybe we should call the landlord tomorrow to come, and check it out? It could be nothing, but it could cause us to catch pneumonia, which has the potential to kill, or we could abstain from showers, and get fired from our jobs. Either way, he won't be getting his money. Yeah, I'll call him tomorrow. The situation can become severe at any second."
Kim shook her head from side to side, which cause her brown hair to move back and forth. She laughed, caught her breath, and sighed.
"Okay. And make sure you explain it just like that. I'm sure he is going to be very sympathetic with our plight, and send the best water heater repair man in the county over to investigate these weird sounds, which have the potential to kill us, and/or not pay rent on time. Plus,I don't think my body can survive another week of artic showers, after the last time. I was born in a warm weather state remember? Unlike you."
"Haha. True. Well now we are in the warm weather state you were born in together. I'll get right on it."
"Bullshit. I know that phone call will be made in a month. I think you would have a decent shot at the gold if procrastination was a competitive sport at the Olympics."
"My track record doesn't lie; I've never been a punctual person, so I can't argue with you there."
The muscles in her face relaxed. She sat on my lap, and we kissed.
Before she got up, Kim stared straight into my eyes, looking for any little clue that could lead her to believe that I was hiding something. My past has always made me suspicious, and I was never a good liar.
My eyes looked left for a spit second. I didn't notice. Kim did.
"I actually think I'm going to take a shower right now. See you in 15."
Crisis averted.
Kim stopped before the bathroom door, and stared at me sitting there eating a bowl of Frosted Flakes with milk dribbling down my chin.
"Are you sure you're okay?"
Just kidding...BUSTED. She knows somethings up, just tell her the truth. Or at least a part of it. Like fuck? How'd you get a girlfriend, as amazing as Kim again? I'm surprised she's puts up with all you bullshit. For fuck's sake say something! I'm trying to help here. That's all I'm trying to do. I just want the best for you.
I close my eyes, drop the spoon, put my index fingers on my temples, and softly start rubbing them in small circular motions. My mom used to do it to me when I was little kid whenever I got upset with something. It always seemed to calm me down, but my fingertips have never been able to replicate, the feeling of relaxation and bliss.
"Honestly, I don't know."
"Maybe you should call your therapist, and schedule an appointment later this week. You know it would be for the best. Everyone needs a little help now and then. And it could also be something with your meds? You'll never know unless you go." she said in a motherly tone.
"Yeah. I'll do that."
I looked down into my cereal; the flakes were starting to break apart because they were becoming more and more waterlogged with milk, as Kim shut the bathroom door, and turned the shower and the radio on. I could her her whimpering in between songs and commercials, trying to hide her tears.
Over the course of the first three months, the temperature dropped ten degrees below average. Orange crops in Florida and California were in the midst of a genocide. 20 people committed suicide because they were unable to go on living in a world without orange juice. Most people were just mildly disappointed and able to adapt to artificial citrus flavoring.
The general public was unable to observe the sun shrinking in the sky because you had to be wealthy to afford sunglasses powerful enough to shield a person's eyes from staring directly into the sun. Majority were still looking at the ground, or at the screens of their cellphones. They knew what was happening, but it wasn't really affecting them so it didn't really matter. Some people actually thought it was kind of cool. Just another reason why earth was the most awesome planet in our solar system, and hell maybe in the entire universe. I mean what other planet just breaks its orbit for no apparent reason, and has life on it? Earth's just a trendsetter; the moon it's bodyguard.
Two years ago, some scientists in Switzerland discovered that the earth has started to move farther away from the sun; it's regular orbit has been broken. A perfect circle has now turned into a spiral that's unfurling outwards.
After 730 days of studies, observations, and experiments, no one has been able to determine what caused this. All they know is that it has something to do with gravity, and that the earth is now being pushed farther and farther away from the sun, which means it's going to get colder. No one knows if the earth's orbit is ever going to stabilize again, or if it will be flung out of the solar system. And it's still too early to determine the future timetable of events or the severity of the situation.
The day the earth broke it's orbit, was the day the voices started.
At first, they were just whispers; soft syllables that blended together to form sounds, not words. I heard them while laying in bed. I thought it was my girlfriend humming a melody, while she read the paper and ate scrambled eggs for breakfast at the kitchen table, but I realized the sounds were too disorganized to form a song, and didn't have a rhythm. It was just noise. But, as the days passed the syllables evolved into words: sad, run, cold, alone, leave, no, love, shiver, die, end, sad, no, hope, fucked, shit. In a few weeks the words evolved into sentences:
"In three years, you will need to build a fire and wrap yourself in a blanket. No one will be there to hug you. You will start to eat parts of yourself to survive the hunger, which is okay, as long as they are unimportant. Study what's unimportant."
I wondered if it was just me, or if this was an undiscovered side effect connected to the distance between the earth and the sun. I didn't know. I asked my girlfriend, Kim, "Hey, have you been hearing anything weird lately? Like have you heard any sounds even when it is completely quiet?"
A look of concern conquered her calm facial expression.
"No. Why? What have you been hearing?"
Kim and I met on the internet over four years ago. I was hearing voices back then too. They told me to kill myself with pills, razorbaldes, falls out of windows, baths in the deep fryer at work, and nooses made out of ethernet cords because nothing will get better; there is nothing to live for. She said she was worried, and frustrated because I had a problem that could be cured, if I just sought help. I didn't. She stopped talking to me for four months because she said that whenever we talked, it made her depressed. So I went and got help, then they put me on some meds to balance me out after a short spell in the mental hospital. We started talking again. I drove nine hours to meet her, and never left.
"Oh, nothing...I think the water heater might be fucking up again. Maybe we should call the landlord tomorrow to come, and check it out? It could be nothing, but it could cause us to catch pneumonia, which has the potential to kill, or we could abstain from showers, and get fired from our jobs. Either way, he won't be getting his money. Yeah, I'll call him tomorrow. The situation can become severe at any second."
Kim shook her head from side to side, which cause her brown hair to move back and forth. She laughed, caught her breath, and sighed.
"Okay. And make sure you explain it just like that. I'm sure he is going to be very sympathetic with our plight, and send the best water heater repair man in the county over to investigate these weird sounds, which have the potential to kill us, and/or not pay rent on time. Plus,I don't think my body can survive another week of artic showers, after the last time. I was born in a warm weather state remember? Unlike you."
"Haha. True. Well now we are in the warm weather state you were born in together. I'll get right on it."
"Bullshit. I know that phone call will be made in a month. I think you would have a decent shot at the gold if procrastination was a competitive sport at the Olympics."
"My track record doesn't lie; I've never been a punctual person, so I can't argue with you there."
The muscles in her face relaxed. She sat on my lap, and we kissed.
Before she got up, Kim stared straight into my eyes, looking for any little clue that could lead her to believe that I was hiding something. My past has always made me suspicious, and I was never a good liar.
My eyes looked left for a spit second. I didn't notice. Kim did.
"I actually think I'm going to take a shower right now. See you in 15."
Crisis averted.
Kim stopped before the bathroom door, and stared at me sitting there eating a bowl of Frosted Flakes with milk dribbling down my chin.
"Are you sure you're okay?"
Just kidding...BUSTED. She knows somethings up, just tell her the truth. Or at least a part of it. Like fuck? How'd you get a girlfriend, as amazing as Kim again? I'm surprised she's puts up with all you bullshit. For fuck's sake say something! I'm trying to help here. That's all I'm trying to do. I just want the best for you.
I close my eyes, drop the spoon, put my index fingers on my temples, and softly start rubbing them in small circular motions. My mom used to do it to me when I was little kid whenever I got upset with something. It always seemed to calm me down, but my fingertips have never been able to replicate, the feeling of relaxation and bliss.
"Honestly, I don't know."
"Maybe you should call your therapist, and schedule an appointment later this week. You know it would be for the best. Everyone needs a little help now and then. And it could also be something with your meds? You'll never know unless you go." she said in a motherly tone.
"Yeah. I'll do that."
I looked down into my cereal; the flakes were starting to break apart because they were becoming more and more waterlogged with milk, as Kim shut the bathroom door, and turned the shower and the radio on. I could her her whimpering in between songs and commercials, trying to hide her tears.
Over the course of the first three months, the temperature dropped ten degrees below average. Orange crops in Florida and California were in the midst of a genocide. 20 people committed suicide because they were unable to go on living in a world without orange juice. Most people were just mildly disappointed and able to adapt to artificial citrus flavoring.
The general public was unable to observe the sun shrinking in the sky because you had to be wealthy to afford sunglasses powerful enough to shield a person's eyes from staring directly into the sun. Majority were still looking at the ground, or at the screens of their cellphones. They knew what was happening, but it wasn't really affecting them so it didn't really matter. Some people actually thought it was kind of cool. Just another reason why earth was the most awesome planet in our solar system, and hell maybe in the entire universe. I mean what other planet just breaks its orbit for no apparent reason, and has life on it? Earth's just a trendsetter; the moon it's bodyguard.
Saturday, January 18, 2014
unintetnionally overhearing a conversation between two coworkers while smoking a cigarette at wal-mart at 11pm on a friday night.
I was smoking a cigarette outside of wal-mart at 11 pm on a Friday night, along the side of the building.
Two coworkers, one a latino man in his late twenties with back hair poking out from underneath his grey beanie, and black stubble blanketing his neck and chin wearing a navy blue company issued sweatshirt, the other was an average sized, 30 something white guy with pale skin, and a pock marked face wearing the same navy sweatshirt with a beer belly underneath.
They lit up two cigs, and sat on a turned over shopping cart on it's side, and started talking to each other in between puffs, while I leaned against the brick wall next to the ashtray bucket unintentionally listening to their conversation, and too nervous to join it:
"Yeah man he just left. Was gonna be makin a lot more money than he is here. His father just bought another one of those gas stations, tha one on Penn Ave and he's going to be tha one runnin it."
"Haha, those Indians and their gas stations. It's all they buy. They're takin over man watch it. People blame us Mexicanos for all this bullshit in this country, but we ain't makin shit. Jus like tha rest of yous. They're tha fucks that are makin out with all their tax breaks and shit. Makin mad bread cause of it"
"I knaw they own all of 'em round here any more. Plus, he's tha only son in the family, the rest are daughters. Means he gets to own all of the one's his father does after he retires, or dies. Crazy shit. Fucker's gonna be loaded in just a couple of months. While we'll still be here workin for less than shit, jus scrapin by."
"Preachin to tha choir esse. My life feels like I'm jus pissin into a bucket."
"Ye, I feel you. But sometimes you gotta throw that bucket of piss at some asshole's windshield."
"Haha, jo. You right, I gotta throw my piss bucket at an asshole's windshield, and smash that shit, and stop being a pussy. I knaw tha perfect asshole, too. haha. If Jim, eva calls you into his office and axes if you knaw who smashed his windshield with a bucket, and why his whole car smells like 28 year old piss, ya'll don't knaw nothin. Haha."
"I ain't no snitch, jo. You my boy in this shithole. But speakin of pussy, I finna get some of that tonight, jo! My wife's been textin me on the reg all day, tellin me how wet she is, and how she can't wait til I get back to my crib. She been playin with herself all day. Pussy does make this whole livin thang not so bad. Some pussy, shots, and beer is well worth tha bullshit."
"Pussy, shots, and beer are tha only reason to live. But ya'll bullshittin. No bitch, especially your wife would eva give it up to you that easy, jo because you one ugly muthafucka. Maybe after a couple of shots of bourbon. Or maybe a whole bottle. Hahaha."
"Fuck you, yai. Haha. Want proof? She been sendin me pics all day. Check it.You jus jealous cause I got that shit on command. I take her to pound town whenever I want jo."
"Haha. Oh damn, her tits are fuckin nice yai. And she's got a cute face. I wuz jus fuckin wit you. Ya'll definitely goin to pound town tonight, nigga stretch limo style. But I ain't jealous, yai. You go there with one bitch every time. I go there with different shorties all the time. Haha. Not to say that I don't have mad respect for you holdin it down with your girl. Just haven't found that perfect woman yet."
"You will bruh. It's only a matta of time. You a great dude, with a lot to offer. The girl that does find you will never let you go. On some real shit. Jus gotta be patient."
"Shit, yai. Now you makin me reconsider. Haha. But thanks bruh."
They got up, tossed their butts on the ground next to the ashtray, and gave each other a handshake, which turn into an accepted male embrace/hug that was no homo.
"Aight, let's get that pallet down of cat food and start unloadin it."
"Sounds good to me."
They both walked back inside, as I took the last couple drags of my cigarette.
I wish I told them about how it felt like my life was just like pissin into a bucket, and how I need to throw that bucket into some asshole's windshield. I wanted to ask them if they could give me a tour of pound town, because I never been there before; just show me around. I wanted to join in in their no homo handshake that turned into a hug, and thank them for being alive.
I'm currently in the market for a new best friend.
Two coworkers, one a latino man in his late twenties with back hair poking out from underneath his grey beanie, and black stubble blanketing his neck and chin wearing a navy blue company issued sweatshirt, the other was an average sized, 30 something white guy with pale skin, and a pock marked face wearing the same navy sweatshirt with a beer belly underneath.
They lit up two cigs, and sat on a turned over shopping cart on it's side, and started talking to each other in between puffs, while I leaned against the brick wall next to the ashtray bucket unintentionally listening to their conversation, and too nervous to join it:
"Yeah man he just left. Was gonna be makin a lot more money than he is here. His father just bought another one of those gas stations, tha one on Penn Ave and he's going to be tha one runnin it."
"Haha, those Indians and their gas stations. It's all they buy. They're takin over man watch it. People blame us Mexicanos for all this bullshit in this country, but we ain't makin shit. Jus like tha rest of yous. They're tha fucks that are makin out with all their tax breaks and shit. Makin mad bread cause of it"
"I knaw they own all of 'em round here any more. Plus, he's tha only son in the family, the rest are daughters. Means he gets to own all of the one's his father does after he retires, or dies. Crazy shit. Fucker's gonna be loaded in just a couple of months. While we'll still be here workin for less than shit, jus scrapin by."
"Preachin to tha choir esse. My life feels like I'm jus pissin into a bucket."
"Ye, I feel you. But sometimes you gotta throw that bucket of piss at some asshole's windshield."
"Haha, jo. You right, I gotta throw my piss bucket at an asshole's windshield, and smash that shit, and stop being a pussy. I knaw tha perfect asshole, too. haha. If Jim, eva calls you into his office and axes if you knaw who smashed his windshield with a bucket, and why his whole car smells like 28 year old piss, ya'll don't knaw nothin. Haha."
"I ain't no snitch, jo. You my boy in this shithole. But speakin of pussy, I finna get some of that tonight, jo! My wife's been textin me on the reg all day, tellin me how wet she is, and how she can't wait til I get back to my crib. She been playin with herself all day. Pussy does make this whole livin thang not so bad. Some pussy, shots, and beer is well worth tha bullshit."
"Pussy, shots, and beer are tha only reason to live. But ya'll bullshittin. No bitch, especially your wife would eva give it up to you that easy, jo because you one ugly muthafucka. Maybe after a couple of shots of bourbon. Or maybe a whole bottle. Hahaha."
"Fuck you, yai. Haha. Want proof? She been sendin me pics all day. Check it.You jus jealous cause I got that shit on command. I take her to pound town whenever I want jo."
"Haha. Oh damn, her tits are fuckin nice yai. And she's got a cute face. I wuz jus fuckin wit you. Ya'll definitely goin to pound town tonight, nigga stretch limo style. But I ain't jealous, yai. You go there with one bitch every time. I go there with different shorties all the time. Haha. Not to say that I don't have mad respect for you holdin it down with your girl. Just haven't found that perfect woman yet."
"You will bruh. It's only a matta of time. You a great dude, with a lot to offer. The girl that does find you will never let you go. On some real shit. Jus gotta be patient."
"Shit, yai. Now you makin me reconsider. Haha. But thanks bruh."
They got up, tossed their butts on the ground next to the ashtray, and gave each other a handshake, which turn into an accepted male embrace/hug that was no homo.
"Aight, let's get that pallet down of cat food and start unloadin it."
"Sounds good to me."
They both walked back inside, as I took the last couple drags of my cigarette.
I wish I told them about how it felt like my life was just like pissin into a bucket, and how I need to throw that bucket into some asshole's windshield. I wanted to ask them if they could give me a tour of pound town, because I never been there before; just show me around. I wanted to join in in their no homo handshake that turned into a hug, and thank them for being alive.
I'm currently in the market for a new best friend.
Thursday, January 16, 2014
Read Sam Pink:
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Sam Pink is one of the greatest authors alive today.
Please buy his new novel: WITCH PISS.
here is a link to the first chapter: link
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
you never came
if you were here,
we could have tried
to escape tomorrow
by covering the windows
and locking the doors.
we could have tried
to escape tomorrow
by covering the windows
and locking the doors.
Friday, January 10, 2014
you haven't had much to live for, which is why you spend most of your time pretending.
you calculate the pros and cons of each action, in the hopes of stumbling across a treasure that will save your life or buy more time; all you find is scraps.
broken pieces of something that was once whole.
the thought of another person finding any treasure, not even this specific one, infects your stomach with butterflies that have serial killer tendencies, and coats your skin with layers of sweat.
you haven't showered in weeks.
you haven't earned a living, which means no two story house, no in-ground pool, no heated toilet seat, no sports car at 50, no outdoor patio, no backyard barbeques, just yellow teeth, blood in your spit, a runny nose, frostbitten toes, pinned pupils, late nights alone, high, distracting yourself with sad piano music, free games on the internet, chocolate bars, a dull pocket knife, and porn; the text message and phone calls stopped months ago, and never resumed.
your heart is misfiring, and beating irregularly.
you haven't fucked a pussy or sucked a dick in years.
you have been in love, but in love with imaginary friends who are based off of real people that don't talk to you anymore.
real people scare you.
you're talking to yourself in an elevator, and the people around you suspect that your brain was lost in a storm drain a long time ago.
spitting up yellowish green shit out of your lungs and onto the floor.
trying to show off to everyone around you, while you think about tying an ethernet cord into a noose, and drowning in a dirty bathtub.
try to predict what will happen after you close your eyes tonight.
just hanging around without any inner drive or ambition.
replacing hellos with goodbyes.
unhappy.
down.
no fun.
you're not brought up at family functions anymore, your parents' explain how your older sister is to interested relatives/family friends.
you haven't done anything important ever, so why should you start now?
sorry mom.
sorry dad.
Monday, January 6, 2014
Trash Bag Organ Donor
Sitting on the curb, permanently staring down at the damp asphalt, I can see the reflection of the orange streetlight in a puddle.
The corpse of a Christmas tree is resting next to me on its side; the lights, ornaments, star, and tinsel have been put back up the attic in a cardboard box for next year's victim.
My thin black plastic skin is flapping back and forth in the wind. It feels nice.
A raccoon pops out of the shrubs of the house across the street, and makes her way over to where I am sitting. Stomach bulging, she is about to become a mother.
She sniffs my gut, then cautiously paws at it.
It tickles.
I try not to laugh.
The pawing rapidly escalates into clawing, biting, tearing, chewing, obliterating.
My vital organs are strewn across the pavement: cans of tuna fish, pizza crust, moldy swiss cheese, candy bar wrappers, chicken bones with flecks of meat still hanging from them, empty packs of cigarettes, a decapitated action figure, used tissues, and a couple of scratched CD's.
I try not to laugh.
It still tickles.
She sits next to me licking a can of tuna fish with a mostly eaten drumstick in her paw.
The world around me fades to black, like a velvet curtain coming down at the end of a show.
In a couple of hours, two garbage men are going to be pissed.
In a couple of months, her babies are going to be born.
They will all be healthy and strong.
They will always have something to eat, because garbage day is once a week, every week, And the rich people in this development throw away a lot of garbage.
There are three more developments within a mile radius that do the same.
They will all go on to lead prosperous, successful lives, as long as they avoid cars and detection.
The corpse of a Christmas tree is resting next to me on its side; the lights, ornaments, star, and tinsel have been put back up the attic in a cardboard box for next year's victim.
My thin black plastic skin is flapping back and forth in the wind. It feels nice.
A raccoon pops out of the shrubs of the house across the street, and makes her way over to where I am sitting. Stomach bulging, she is about to become a mother.
She sniffs my gut, then cautiously paws at it.
It tickles.
I try not to laugh.
The pawing rapidly escalates into clawing, biting, tearing, chewing, obliterating.
My vital organs are strewn across the pavement: cans of tuna fish, pizza crust, moldy swiss cheese, candy bar wrappers, chicken bones with flecks of meat still hanging from them, empty packs of cigarettes, a decapitated action figure, used tissues, and a couple of scratched CD's.
I try not to laugh.
It still tickles.
She sits next to me licking a can of tuna fish with a mostly eaten drumstick in her paw.
The world around me fades to black, like a velvet curtain coming down at the end of a show.
In a couple of hours, two garbage men are going to be pissed.
In a couple of months, her babies are going to be born.
They will all be healthy and strong.
They will always have something to eat, because garbage day is once a week, every week, And the rich people in this development throw away a lot of garbage.
There are three more developments within a mile radius that do the same.
They will all go on to lead prosperous, successful lives, as long as they avoid cars and detection.
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
Underwear Project Series: Teal Lace Nightgown And Pink Satin Thong With White Lace Trim
It's 4:30am.
I'm in my bed, under the covers, with my teddy bear next to me, trying to fall asleep, and failing.
I'm cold.
The tips of my fingers and toes feel like they've been injected with novacane.
The pile of blankets on top of me isn't working, neither is the radiator, neither is the teal lace nightgown. I should have worn flannel.
I'm shivering so much; it feels like my entire body is experiencing restless leg syndrome.
It looks like I'm having a seizure.
I miss the warmth coming off of another body. The warmth of companionship before bed. Curled up next to you, or in your arms. It's like a little furnace, or campfire on top of your body, keeping you warm throughout the night without burning you. Red/orange coals still smoldering on your chest and back in the morning.
But, tonight, I'm cold and lonely.
I turn the radio on, lower the volume, and tune it to a soft rock station in an attempt to fall asleep. The music coming through the speakers sounds like coordinated whispers singing a secret song for people who can hear really well. Good listeners.
I close my eyes.
Tonight, I'm cold and lonely.
My two cats got locked in my mom's room for the night.
I'm in my bed, under the covers, with my teddy bear next to me, trying to fall asleep, and failing.
I'm cold.
The tips of my fingers and toes feel like they've been injected with novacane.
The pile of blankets on top of me isn't working, neither is the radiator, neither is the teal lace nightgown. I should have worn flannel.
I'm shivering so much; it feels like my entire body is experiencing restless leg syndrome.
It looks like I'm having a seizure.
I miss the warmth coming off of another body. The warmth of companionship before bed. Curled up next to you, or in your arms. It's like a little furnace, or campfire on top of your body, keeping you warm throughout the night without burning you. Red/orange coals still smoldering on your chest and back in the morning.
But, tonight, I'm cold and lonely.
I turn the radio on, lower the volume, and tune it to a soft rock station in an attempt to fall asleep. The music coming through the speakers sounds like coordinated whispers singing a secret song for people who can hear really well. Good listeners.
I close my eyes.
Tonight, I'm cold and lonely.
My two cats got locked in my mom's room for the night.
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