"the only real friend i had was this lady i paid for handjobs at the library."

brian allen carr reads in morehead, ky

brian allen carr writes stories that get stuck in my brain like chewing gum that never loses its flavor. his characters are people that i know because they are people that i encounter every day. they are people that live inside of me. i would want them to be read as the eulogy for my funeral. watch this video to understand. then you should buy:

vampire conditions

motherfucking sharks

Dia De Los Muertos.

photo source 

Walking around a cemetery with my hood up, when the sun turns orange as it gets ready to go to sleep, I sit down and rest my back on a worn out tombstone that says, "mother, sister, and child."

I forget why I'm here, but I'm not afraid.

Just tired.

Sleepy.

I pull a flask of scotch out of the breast pocket of the brown denim jacket, which is frayed at the cuffs, and take a pull.

I don't know when they arrived, but they are here:

Skeletons wearing dust covered suits, and tattered color faded dresses.

Smoking cigarettes.

Playing cards.

Reading yellowed paperbacks as the wind carries the smoke out of their chests.

We are all in a circle.

Just passing time, and curing boredom.

I pass the flask into the stained bony fingers next to me, and someone tosses me a light.

"Thanks."

Staring off into the distance.

Looking at nothing in particular.

Just humming funeral songs in spanish.

Observing two of the younger skeletons making out without any tongues, feeling each others rib cages and pelvic bones.

Pulling blades of burnt sienna grass out of the ground, and scattering it across my sneakers.

Thinking about my true love.

A skeleton sits next to me indian style wearing a lavender floral patterned party dress with a hole on the hip takes a pull from the flask, and passes it back to me.

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

"Na. Well...maybe. I don't know, it's complicated and confusing."

"Isn't it always? That wasn't a very good question, but I got a better one: Are you in love?"

"Yes. Yes too all of the above...actually I don't know, maybe I'm just lonely. Or both."

The skeleton wearing a lavender floral party dress with the hole on the hip leans in closer, puts her arms around me, and rests her skull on my shoulder.

"Shhh. Shhh. Shhh. It will be okay. I can't guarantee that, but it'll work out one way or another. You're not going to be alone forever. However, it isn't going to change in a day. So don't think about it right now. Just have some fun, and let it happen."

Her earthworm perfume slows my mind enough to allow me to notice each and every passing second.

"Thank you. Seriously, thank you."

She tries to smile but can't, while two skeletons in black suits pour out a 40 into fast food cups in the waning light.

"You're welcome."

I get up, walk two graves over, and pull the bouquet of pink roses out of the white vase sitting on top of the granite tombstone.

I come back and hand them to her, then finish what's ever left in the flask.

One of the flowers gets stuck in her empty eye socket, and we both laugh.

"I can't smell them, but I remember their smell. Succulent. And sweet. Thank you. They are beautiful. That was really nice. I see flowers around here all the time, but never think about their smells. When you don't have a nose, it's easy to forget that smells still exist. Thank you for jogging my memory. For making me notice. You're really nice. Never forget that. Okay? Never forget that you still exist after you die;you just exist in other people."
 
"You're welcome. And okay. That is something I will always try to remember."

She pushes the bouquet into her face one more time, before laying it on the ground, then takes a cig out of her pack, lights it, and places it in between my lips.

I inhale.

The last ray of light disappears behind the horizon, as the sky starts to change from red to pink to navy blue.

"You ready?"

"Yeah."

The skeleton wearing a lavender floral pattern party dress with a hole on the hip sinks her teeth into my arm, as the rest of the circle puts down their drinks, and encloses in on me.

As the day ends, I remember.

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.

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.

Nouns of Assemblage: Cryptozoology

Earlier this year, I read Housefire Publishing's Nouns of Assemblage on my lunch at work. It is an amazing collection of short stories written by various authors about various topics. Some of which include deer with fangs, a lawyer floating in the middle of a pond, a choice between whether or not to explore a cave, a warning about the platypus, a culture of bacteria, a skulk of foxes. Each story's title is a noun of assemblage, which is a word used to represent a collection of things, in this case animals.

This is an awsome book, which everyone should pick up since it is showcasing some of the best contemporary writing out there from the minds of xTx, J.A. Tyler, Cameron Pierce, Bradley Sands, etcetera, but I think the creators of this awesome collection missed out on a whole class of mysterious animals, which are rarely seen. I have started working on including these animals so they don't feel left out, sad, and/or awkward.

The first story is a phenomena of plesiosaurs.

UMMMM… (This is going to be awkward)

I wouldn’t have texted you but I’m desperate.

I need you to do me a solid, and help me figure out whether or not I am alive. Because people have been making funny faces at me recently, and it’s not because they think I’m unique or interesting—I’m not.

You need to take a sharp object (a razorblade, a broken beer bottle, a scalpel, switchblade, exacto knife, or samurai sword are some suggestions) and split the skin in the back, front, or whatever. And dig in! Elbow deep!  And start rearranging the furniture, and feeling around. Let your fingertips go WILD!

You got to really get in there because I’m not sure what you’re looking for.

Proof. I guess.

Like a plastic wristwatch. Ordered from a cereal box with 10 UPC codes. That’s still ticking.

Or a hotplate glowing red and orange.

Or a limited edition, first generation, copy of a self-help book written by grocery store romance novel writers, printed in 1979, still in mint condition.

Or a used silicone implant of a famous celebrity, still covered in dried out bits of coveted DNA.

Or a pod of unhatched spider eggs.

I don’t really know, but you’ll have to be thorough and have a steel stomach, because it’s going to be messy, and heartbreaking. And I don’t want you puking your guts into me—there’s already enough shit inside of me + the smell of puke makes me nauseous.

You’ll need a sandwich bag to catch my ghost because it will want to move out after you’re done remodeling my insides. 

(I started believing in that paranormal shit after watching a show about it on tv where three dudes go to abandoned buildings and detect ghosts with their arm hair.)

You can do whatever you want with it after you’re done.

Put it between two pieces of bread, make a sandwich, and take it to work for lunch—it’s already in the proper bag, and I’m sure it will taste good.

Perserve it in formaldehyde.

Or just throw it out.

Either way, you’ll be compensated with vicodin and a gram of weed.

And don’t worry about the body; it’s being shipped to Nepal for a sky burial.

Please get back to me.

 And thanks.

 Thanks again.

(Even though you haven’t helped or done anything yet.)

i didn't go to my college graduation (i got my diploma in the mail)

It doesn't make me happy when people shake my one hand and put piece of paper in the other, especially on stage. What would make me happy is if I could load my roscoe with my college tuition, cock it, pull the trigger, and pop the stacks of bills through the proud eyes of my parents/guardians. Through the sanguine mouths of my class. Through the clapping the hands of the audience, who is properly dressed for the occasion. Through the empty briefcases of job recruiters. And through the elaborately decorated robes of the faculty. 


Doing this, swallowing k-pins and smoking a Camel.

The body count is high.

It ruins the pageantry of the ceremony.

And no one outside this room gives a fuck.


A handshake and a piece of paper that has letters, printed in a fancy font, and signed by a person who is the president of a college, doesn't mean shit.

Are you a sexual athlete? Tommy Gunn will show you his secret to making YOUR DICK BIGGER!

A family of babies covered in white ectoplasm is learning how to swim in the toilet bowl when I notice Tommy Gunn’s hard cock in the advertisement on the upper left hand corner of the screen. I know it’s inappropriate, but I’m mesmerized. Tommy Gunn grips his shaft around the base with both hands as drops of frozen sweat hang on the black hairs of his goatee. His dick is a weapon. A kendo stick that could initial a skull. A rifle that could shoot a hole through the back of a throat. A flamethrower that could melt skin. A missile that could change the history of the world. I notice my dick. It is a six inch slug and I am pouring salt on it. The pink mollusk deflates into a moist tuff of pubic hair, but it’s not dead, and don’t think I forgot about the babies. They bob on the surface of water and cry because they don’t know how to swim. They try to cling to the porcelain walls but their fingernails have nothing to dig into.  These babies are submarines out gas and I can’t save them. (I’m not an athlete.) So I drown a family of babies in a whirlpool by flushing the toilet. And the fucked up thing is, I knew this would all happen. A fresh wave of water rushes in and I don’t want a slug for a dick anymore. I want something mechanical. A weapon. Like Tommy Gunn. I want a ship. A destroyer with big fucking guns so I can sail around to different countries and lob shells into their interiors. The power of my destroyer would be enough to persuade one of these nations to become my ally. Likewise, I would dedicate my allegiance to them and we would spend the rest of our lives teaching one baby out of each family of babies covered in white ectoplasm how to swim.  I click on the ad and Tommy Gunn shows me his secret:

Combine:

1 oz of somatropin

6 oz of clam bullion

one can of AXE body spray (any scent)

two 5oz tubes of lube

 1 tiger penis

And a dash of paprika. (optional)

In a blender

Pulse for six minute

Bottle

It’s just like shampoo

Lather, Rinse, Repeat

Will notice effects in four to five weeks

Results may vary…

23 and not pregnant

Running my fingertips

Over the flat contours

Of my stomach,

I realize that I can sell the rest of my eggs

To a charity.

They could be used to feed the homeless.

They could hatch.

They could be made into the best omelet anyone has ever had ever.

They could be smashed into the side of a house on mischief night

Pink and red yolk oozing down the tawny siding.

I would use the money to pay off student loans.

I would use the money to go to the movies with someone on a date because I can afford it.

I would use the money to sleep in.

I would use the money to realize that there really are different land masses on the other sides of the oceans.

I would use the money to sharpen my canines so I can puncture skin with ease.

Cause I’m fucking wild, man.

But not wild enough to get on reality tv.

how to avoid an alien invasion

We should point all of our radio antennas

In different directions

And blast some real hood shit

Over the universal airways

So they know that the earth rolls fucking deep.

Other ideas:

1.       Show the movie Bambi, and, right after, show A Serbian Film.

2.       Broadcast the coney island hot dog competition. Have a 45 minute commercial break (all prescription pills and lawn care ads) with 30 seconds left in the competition. And after the commercials and hot dog competition finish, flash to a drunk twenty something power-washing the sidewalks with his/her stomach contents.

3.        Hooking them up with a social networking site.

4.       Include the following objects in a space capsule: a wax statue of Nixon, the largest/greasiest fast food hamburger with the recipe included in the wrapper, a handle of whiskey, a diesel engine, the blueprints for Chinese coal power plants, a syringe filled with crocodiles, the complete series of the show where people lose weight while the host(s) tell them that “you won’t be beautiful on the inside until your skinny, but not too skinny because then you’ll have a problem,” on DVD, arsenic, and all the Home & Garden magazines produced in the past ten years.

We roll fucking DEEP!

So FUCKING deep!

And they should feel fear

Cause we’re growing larger.

Hungrier.

More alone.

sorry i'm nervous and don't know what to say or how to start this

Hi.

I write.
This is a place for me to show you what I write.
And for you to read what i write if you want to
 +
have nothing better to do
 +
cure boredom.

I will also post things that I find interesting because it will make me feel better about myself if someone comments on it because I need validation like everyone.

I also work at a deli in a grocery store in pennsylvania.
While I'm working, I think about all the random ways to get accidentally injured at a deli without being at fault. I also smile, slice, weigh, bag, and say, "Have a Great Day!"

It's like selling drugs, except you don't see very many hundred dollar bills
+
you have to put your hands near blades and hot oil
+
no getting high during your shift cause you're selling ham off the bone, american cheese, and bacon lovers turkey, instead drugs.

I graduated college and moved back home a couple of months ago.

I didn't get any sleep today because there was some guy using an electric drill because my parents' have to remodel every square inch of their house. Which means I'm tired.

"Have a Great Day!"