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.

trying to be attractive.

licking black dope snot off my upper lip,
and flashing yellow teeth and bloody gums.

yeah, i've never been in a long term relationship,
but you can marry me if you want
then chop me into pieces with a hatchet later.

i've got nothing better to do anyway.

the teddy bears we were given at our birth won't save us from the inevitable

so it goes,
i'm filling up a styrofoam cup
with brown snowmelt and debris,
and slamming it down.
sure i'm poor and thirsty,
but there is no reason behind this.
trying to construct a life
for us
made out of ice in
a sub artic climate
and watching it fracture and crack.
nothing is permanent
is a sure way to
DEATH.
i haven't seen sunlight
in weeks
except for video recordings on
television.
spinning around in the dark
seeing flashes of light,
dizzy,
throwing up in the toilet,
this is how i've chosen to spend
my time:
peeling skin off my fingers
alone in a room
locked in my head.
sorry,
but i can't let myself off
that easy
because destroying something can be fun
beautiful, and terrifying
all at once.
because i'm not a good person,
and people's lives are happier
when i'm not included in them.
not compatible,
out of date,
and smelling like four week old
laundry covered in stains.
bind my wrist
with a spaghetti covered t-shirt.
then lick my cheek
to get the taste
of blight.
swirl it around your mouth,
and spit it down the drain.
i can talk for hours
about random shit
that isn't important.
i can glue cigarette butts
to my lips so any offensive words
are filtered out into
old fast food bags
with moldy hamburger buns
and cold fries.
there will be nothing left to interpret.
there will be nothing left to say,
except,
"hi, how are you?
that's good.
im fine.
im okay.
that's cool.
oh really?
wow.
uh oh.
what are you doing?
word.
hahaha.
i understand."
no you fucking don't.
fluently thinking
before speaking
is what we call a
conversation.
DEATH.
this is supposed to be natural?
normal?
snapping wires
that connect
something to something,
someone to someone,
by clenching my jaws.
i haven't eaten
or brushed my teeth all day.
i plan to kill every flower
in your house
by breathing on it.
i plan to make you
submit by breathing
bad breath into your face.
i plan to make you submit by swapping spit
with a radioactive tongue.
side effects may include
nausea, shortness of breath,
loss of limbs, wrinkles,
an erection lasting longer than sixteen hours,
infection of vital organs,
suicidal thoughts,
cancer,
DEATH.
DEATH.
DEATH.
DEATH.
DEATH.
DEATH.

You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how.

I am willing to have someone bash my skull in with condensed soup can in a parking lot. Then lean over my body. Open the can with a swiss army knife. Pour the soup into my skull, replacing the water with blood. And enjoy a healthy lunch at 4 in the morning.

No I will not like your photo.

No I will not be your friend.

The leeches and ticks already have latched onto you and have gorged themselves fat.

Enlarged.

Beware of plastic bags. I have been collecting different sizes and shapes, for any type of occasion.

So whenever you turn your back, you’re fucked.

Gasp for air all you want; it won’t help.

Because I hired the someone and fed him.

And don’t worry, when you look over at me I’ll be in the same position

Eyes open spoon sticking out the back of an empty skull.

Love. True. Love. In the dumpster behind the strip club. True Love.

25th Birthday

For my 25th birthday, I would like to be put down.

Euthanized with a bullet between the eyes.

Or a lead pipe to the back of the skull.

Or soda spiked with rat poison.

Or a plastic bag over the face.

Or I'll bite my tongue off, and choke on it.

Corpse gift-wrapped in old newspapers held together by masking tape, rope, chains, and cinderblocks;

One blue bow stuck to my abdomen.

At the bottom of the Susquehanna River enjoying a piece of funfetti cake.

This Thursday, if you see me, and I give you the thumbs up, you'll know what to do.

Because I'm tired of opening my eyes when I wake up every morning.

My Mom Told Me To See A Therapist

Lately, I've been imaging a random stranger walking up behind me in a bathroom, smashing my skull open with a steel pipe, and finding a padlocked wooden treasure chest lodged in my brain.

The stranger picks the lock with a bent paper clip and bobby pin until it clicks open, revealing a naked, sweaty, clean cut man with ample body hair in all the right places. ALL the right places. Get me?

Okay.

So the naked, sweaty, clean cut man with ample body hair steps out of the box, fully grown, grabs a teal blue towel off the rack on the wall, and buries his face in the fibers as he carefully tiptoes over my decapitated body.

He drops the towel, runs his left hand through a brown clump of hair before saying to the stranger:

"Hey buddy, thanks for freeing me from that box. Really appreciated! Been in there for almost twenty five years now. In the fetal position. Living off the digested fast food nutrition," he points at my body with a pruned index finger,"this asshole ingested. Surprised I even look this good! Haha."

The stranger stares blankly into the bathroom tile, watching the streams of blood fill the crevices outlining the tiles.

"Thanks man! Like really. Now I can finally start my life, college, career, wife, kids, two story house, with an inground swimming pool and garden in the backyard, the works! The kind of happiness that happens on those family sitcoms people watch in their homes with their children on Thursday nights. You know, like The Office?"

The blood from my body has filled every crevice and has started to overflow onto the tile.

The naked, sweaty, clean cut man with ample body hair picks the towel off the ground, puts it over his head and starts moving it back and forth, while the stranger sighs, grips the pipe, and takes a couple of practice swings.

He's got time.

radio contest idea

i am going to saran wrap my dick to your face with a christmas tree air freshner (or vice versa), and we will stay that way until you either rip my dick off and run away, or until you or my dick asphyxiates, or until we both die of dehydration.

i hope we stay like this forever with both of our skeletons locked together.
i hope they build a museum around our skeletons, and tastefully put a twister board underneath us, matching our body positions.
i want elderly people to whisper to their grandkids outside the exhibit, "now, shut up, pay attention, and don't touch anything, and maybe you could learn something."

this is my only future aspiration, besides scoring some heroin, wearing a lacy bra, and making Stephen Chapasko uncomfortable by flashing him as many times as possible before he joins the navy.

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.

Thanks for Writing In.

Thanks for writing in.  Thanks for poking holes my torso with a knife made of ivory and doing it in public.

I want you to light the fuse coming out of my spine with a BBQ lighter because it’s impossible for me to reach. I want you to taste the explosion like a master chef sampling his new creation, which will ultimately be a failure. The tip of my rib cage embedded DEEP in your right cheek.

Have a GREAT day! (Fuck Yourself.)