that feeling you get

that feeling you get when you're on your knees listening to your joints crack as you repeatedly start punching the ground as hard as you can until the earth's skull cracks open reaching the core to bathe your skeleton in molten iron, while bringing upon the last mass extinction on the planet, but failing, always failing; collapsing on your back in gravel, rocks, mulch, grass, ripped up cellophane wrappers, flatten fast food cups, used syringes, cigarette butts, regrets, and bad feelings, next to a stump from a tree that was recently cut down by men with chainsaws outside your apartment building (spine resting on the roots and what remains of the trunk) with broken arms, fractured wrists, and busted fingers sharp fragments of bone sticking through like broken twigs, realizing you haven't even made an impression in the dirt because you are weak and a failure by choice, not luck or circumstance, that never accomplishes your goals, improves your life, and/or achieves your dreams in life in any way because you're lazy, unmotivated, with no self-belief because what evidence is there to believe in yourself since there is always someone who exists in the world that is better than you at what you’re supposed to be good at, so you always have to open your eyes in the morning to do the same monotonous shit every day that you settled for because you are alive and left with a choice to accept it, and die with the passage of time at some random moment because of something you can’t prevent or predict, feeling the same as you always have, and disappointing more people you care about for longer than you already have, ruining their lives more, or you look up the chainsaw men who just cut down the tree by your apartment building in the yellow pages stacked outside your building’s front door, because you can't afford internet or a smart phone, and don’t have the gas or bus money to get to a wi-fi hotspot or library, so you hire them to do the same to your body that they did to the tree: slicing you into smaller and smaller pieces with gas powered tools that have a use/purpose, then having the workers put whatever big remains are left through a woodchipper becoming nutrition for other forms of life that will soon become infected with your shitty thoughts and outlook on life, according to the people who understand what’s wrong with you and the world, which you’ve never been able to figure out yourself since the day you were born, until nothing remains.

A Piece of Literature About Love

Someone told me, "Yo, Mv. We gettin' you some pussy tonight. There's these hot bitches comin' ova tonight to da crib. We hookin you up. WE GETTIN' YOU LAID! WE GETTIN' YOU SOME HOT ASS PUSSY! Y'all need it bro. You pick the bitch tonight. We'll make it happen. We got your back bro. We tight nigga."

Then came in and gave me a handshake, which turned into a hug, (but that someone would like me to clarify that it was "no homo, just a sign of respect.")

I wanted to say, "Thank you for the offer. I really appreciate you trying to get me some pussy, but I'm not really looking for that right now...no homo."

But instead nodded my head and said, "Yeah, totally. It's all about the pussy." then came in gave that someone a handshake and a hug (no homo.)

I stayed at da crib for another twenty minutes before I made up an excuse about my aunt needing help at the house with the laundry and dishes because she broke her foot the other week.

"Yeah man, shit sucks. Sorry maybe another night."

Someone says, "I feel you bro. HaHA, just means more PUSSY FO' US. AND HENNY! HAHA!" and smiled.

"You enjoy that. Peace dude"

"Later bro. I'll hit you up tomorrow."

We came in and gave each other a handshake, which turned into a shoulder bump, and then a hug, (for the last time, no homo.)    

Then I got into my car, drove home, and spent the night in my bedroom at my aunt's house alone, but not alone because I spent the rest of the night talking to someone else on the phone about all my failed sexual encounters, which was every sexual encounter. .

excuse me

Sitting on the toilet,
a teal pair boxers with pictures of little crocodiles on the tile floor
to the left; laptop
pressing weird shapes into
the skin on my thighs.

Woke up twenty-eight minutes ago.
Blew a ticket.
Seventeen minutes ago, got horny.
Took my teal crocodile boxers off, and sat on the toilet.
Fully hard watching a blonde with weird tits and a gap between her front teeth on an illegal video stream, fourteen minutes.
Precum, ten.
Climax, seven.
Shame coincided with wiping my sticky dick with pieces of toilet paper, and getting soft, six and a half to four.
Peeing while sitting down, too lazy to stand up, three to two and a half minutes.

Sitting on the toilet,
in the sweaty/heavy aftermath of masturbation.
Alone
reading European soccer gossip
on the internet.

Not for long.

My bathroom has three doors:
a normal door from the hallway, which can be locked,
and two sliding doors, one from my bedroom,
and the other from my uncle's office.

The door from my uncle's office slowly starts to creep open.
I can see his bald head looking into the bathroom,
me, still pantsless, laptop on my lap, sitting on the toilet.
Cum, piss, balled up toilet paper swirling underneath my balls and ass.

"excuse me."

He stands there.

"Excuse me."

Nothing.

"EXCUSE ME."

Unresponsive.

"Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me. EXCUSE ME!"

Finally, movement.
His fingers ungrasp the edge of the door.

He mutters fast and low as he closes the door,
"I saw the light was on and I didn't know anybody was in here.
You know, I just don't want to waste electricity. Costs so much these days.
All these taxes, Obama....."
goes back into his office,
back down the stairs,
and everything fades back to silence.

I take the laptop off my lap
put it on the counter,
turn the shower on,
take the navy t-shirt I've been wearing
for the past three days off,
and flush the toilet.

I have work in thirty minutes.

Post-Masturbation Thoughts

                                     Photo Source: (polaroidlens)
                                                                                           

You want to pose with celebrities.
You want to ruin their hair with a hand grenade.
You want to smear their make-up with a knife.
You want to dickride.
You want to get an autograph.
You want a purpose in life, and this is it.
You want a sink, some sandpaper and a bar of soap to smooth your skeleton clean.
You want a rehearsal.
You want proof.
You want people to like you.
You want to be expatriated from your body into a First World nation.
You want to be one of them.
You want to mix their blood into a cocktail, and drink it in hopes of a transformation—ice cubes cracking in harmony like bullets penetrating glass.
You want to smile without faking it.
You want to bring this up in any conversation you have over the next six to seven months.
You want to make an impression like an atomic bomb, quick and long-lasting.
You want to commemorate this, one of the best moments you've had in your life, with a statue, plaque, photos, and a status update.
You want to pay attention.
You want to cry, and scream, "WAIT! DON'T GO! Please...I just need a little more time."
You want to kidnap them—million-dollar wrists writhe and chafe against the scales of venomous snakes.
You want to suck the precum off the tip of a gun barrel of a tank.
You want someone to fire an artillery shell into your head, sending pieces of skull and brain through the layers of atmosphere, straight into orbit. Straight into fucking orbit.

After the climax, clean yourself  with some toilet paper, light up a cig, and pray for validation.



  

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.

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…

fuck literature

I don’t have the time or the mental capacity

to impress you with beautifully arranged words

written by other people

because I have shit to do:

I have pills to take

and I have to go to work

and I have to get out of my parents’ house

and I have to smoke weed

and I have to laugh at paranormal investigators on tv

and I have to exercise by kicking a hacky sack

and I have to masturbate if I randomly get a boner + a bathroom + enough time     

and I have to meet my family for dinner at 7 o’clock

and I have to go to the bars on Friday/Saturday nights because there’s nothing else to do

and I have to dance in the nude after I take a shower because I’m too scared to dance in front of anyone

and I have to sleep

and I have to release a variety of venomous snakes downtown in order for you to stay

and I have to get married to a person that’s kind of my type because you left, which means:

I have to grow up

I have to get a better paying job

I have to move out of my parents’ house and get my master’s

I have to stop talking to certain people

I have to grow apart from certain people

I have to grow facial hair + shave it because I’ve never had a 5 o’clock shadow

I have to buy a dutch colonial with a front + back yard

I have to get my life together by cultivating a human being(s) out of bodily fluids

I have to tell random people my secrets + ask them for advice

I have to go to a psychiatrist to get more pills

I have to take more pills so I can survive being alive

I have to take a shower so I don’t smell bad

I have to pop blackheads in the bathroom mirror

I have to purchase a hot tub

I have to drink light beer out of cans and pass out every night in the hot tub

I have to get depressed

I have to figure out why I bought a muscle car + why our house has a closet solely dedicated to shoes

I have to pretend to kill myself with my index finger because I’m terrible with life-altering decisions

I have to host backyard barbeques for family and friends so they can see + complement the little touches of clever décor (scented candles + miniature knick-knacks of pleasant, golden-brown bears in swimsuits striking poses + tiki torches + summer themed china + plastic drink umbrellas) which were put on display throughout the house by the person who was still kind of my type

I have to watch a tear drop quickly repel down an eighteen year old brunette’s face as she gags on a cock in an amateur porn video (I don’t feel disgusting)

I have to ejaculate with cautious ears because I have a family + they’re sleeping + silence + I would only have 10-15 seconds to cover everything up

I have to buy a new calendar every year because the human being(s) we cultivated grew bigger + he/she/they moved out

I have to prolong my life by eating more vegetables

I have to ingest a lethal strain of e. coli that is playing hide and seek in a fast food salad

I have to have regrets, A LOT of regrets because I’m confused and not happy

I have to die + a funeral + a burial + decomposition.

I have to not exist.

Exactly.

In middle school, there was this program that encouraged/bribed our class to read.

If we read three books in a month, we got a free personal pizza from a national pizza chain.

I read three books a month.

The problem is the program stopped after the 4^th grade.