Tuesday, December 31, 2013

new year's kiss 2014



alone in my bathroom,
cumming into the toilet an hour before the ball drops,
i wipe the tip of my dick off with a piece of toilet paper,
and flush after i am finished.

i fill up the bath tub,
smoke a g-bong,
remove my tongue by pulling it
out of my mouth with my fingers,
and hang it on the towel rack next to the tub
just like an old lady taking out her dentures
before bed.

i won't need it tonight.

there is no one to talk to.
there is no one to kiss.
there is no one to sleepover, and play video games with.

tonight:
people are busy.
people are doing things.
going out to parties,
going out to bars,
spending time with family/friends/lovers,
people are grown up.
getting drunk,
chewing gum,
sucking on breath mints,
counting,
making out with strangers,
making out with boy/girlfriends,
dancing,
screaming,
peeing their pants,
laughing,
grinding,
snuggling,
vomiting,
bonding,
confident,
brave,
hopeful,
having fun.

i shut my cell phone off.

i'm taking a bath,
and watching cartoons on my laptop.

bringing in the new year nude.

i will put my tongue back into place tomorrow.

submerged under the water,
my body looks like a sunken battle ship
covered in coral
resting in the sand on the sea floor.

earlier tonight,
when i was sitting on the toilet,
i used my imagination to get off
instead of looking at porn.

Monday, December 23, 2013

little red riding hood meets the big bad wolf's dick

then gets pregnant, eaten alive, and slices her way out of the big bad wolf's stomach with a pocket knife, before cutting his balls off.

the big bad wolf bleeds out and dies on the wooden cottage floor.

little red riding hood aborts the half wolf, half human hybrids, and everyone lives happily ever after, except for little red riding hood who is traumatized by the whole experience, and becomes an alcoholic pill popper who works as a part time cashier at the local grocery store during the day, and as a call girl for pale businessmen in dry cleaned suits at night.

the end.

i can't answer your question honestly with a yes or no answer.

i don't know where to put next year
or the year after that.
or the year after that
or the year after that.

i don't know where to put the soil, wildflowers, worms, and multicolored leaves.

i don't know where to put all the unfinished projects, and ideas.

i don't know where to put my daydreams of what i think would make me happy.

i don't know where to put my lack of trying.

i don't know where to put the guilt.

i don't know where to put the friends that i will lose,
or the friends i've already lost,
or the people i have forgotten
or pissed off
or hurt
or made upset.

i don't know where to put the bad parts of me.

i don't know where to put the tears i have shed and collected in a mason jar.

i don't know where to put the nervous breakdowns, and suicidal thoughts.

i don't know where to put my childhood toys— rubber lizards, a broken gameboy, pogs, legos, uno cards, board games, and marbles.

i don't know where to put my baby teeth
or the weight i'm losing.

i don't know where to put the songs that have been stuck in my head.

i don't know where to put all of the old letters from people who said, "i love you."
or the late night long distance phone calls.

i don't know where to put my heart if it is still beating.

i dont know where to put the unspoken words i will never say.

i don't know.

my closet and bedroom drawers are already filled from the last time i cleaned my room.

Sunday, December 22, 2013

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.


homemade remedy for headaches.




sticking a string up my nostril and tying it around my brain, then attaching the other end to a car bumper, the car drives off, my brain pops out, and bounces off the road as it is dragged until there is nothing left.

this is my come up.

Thursday, December 19, 2013

opprotunities

i'm not looking to open doors, just slamming them shut with my free hand in the way, breaking fingers.

i will send you a picture.

hands looking like blue, purple, and green pieces of coral that are snapped, oozing blood.

you can put it on your desk at work.

or set it as the wallpaper on your phone.

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.



Wednesday, December 18, 2013

the way it always works out

there is
always
a space
between
you
and
me.

imagining yourself dissolving like sugar in a bath tub

alone, and isolated
in your bedroom.
on your knees
with your forehead
pressed against
the white drywall
listening for sounds
and noises coming
from something
or someone
that's alive.
staining that spot
yellow
with your sweat,
tears, apathy, and patience.
this is as close as you come
to prayer.
you want someone
to save you from
yourself.
you want to save
yourself from yourself,
but can't.
you listen,
and only hear
unspoken words mixed
with silence.
your computer and cellphone
died
a long time ago.

Tuesday, December 17, 2013

when i wake up

two miniature women
scale my face,
and sit next to the corners of my eyes
resting their backs on the bridge
of my nose.
each one takes out a crowbar.
they pry
each eye out
to donate to
a blind five year old boy
who wants to be able
to see his mom, his dad,
his friends, the color green,
the world around him.
they want him to be happy.
the miniature women 
replace my eyes
with glass ones.
like changing
an burnt out 
light bulbs.
when they finish,
they pull out sledgehammers
and smack them against
the glass pupils until
they shatter.
i blink.
embedded glass shard teeth
forming two small mouths
ready to consume anything
that's in front of me.
there is nothing in front of me.
the two miniature women
hop off my face.
they don't leave yet.
they want to observe.
i'm crying blood.
two warm salty 
red streams.
my hands lead me to the tub,
i fill it up,
slip into the hot water,
and do nothing.
nothing to do.
nothing to say.
nothing to consume.
nothing in front of me.
no where to go.
nothing to look forward to,
which was the case before 
i lost my eyes
tomorrow never has had anything to offer.
hopeless.
miserable.
frustrating.
a waste of time.
and boring.
the two miniature women leave,
on their way to 
the blind five year old boy's house,
wiping tears out of the corners of their eyes
with the back of their hands,
not regretting their decision.
i wish i could tell them,
"i'm sorry for being a disappointment
i'm sorry for being a bad person."
in the end,
i want that little boy to be
happy.


Sunday, December 8, 2013

good moments are easy to forget sometimes

my coworker ria encouraged me to write some smut. 

"like sex. like write something that will turn people off and get them off. mv, i know you have it in you to write something like that." 

she told me about how earlier this week her son referred to his balls as "those brainy things down there," after he was describing his doctor visit to his older sisters. 
we laughed and had a full conversation about how balls, should from now be called and referred to as brainy things, "because they do kind of look like brains," and kept shouting "brainy things" back and forth to each other while cutting meat and cheese for customers.

then she told me my deli manager always says, "a dildo never asks, 'is it okay to stop?'"

i described to her what going into the projects is like. and told her that im going to be going away.
she then told me how much she and other people love me:
"like that elderly couple who i just waited on. they were seeing if you were here. but you weren't yet. then you showed up and their faces lit up. and they started asking how you were, and how you're a good kid, and to take care. then that other guy comes up and tells you how you're such a nice kid, cuts his meat perfect, then you asked about his wife and how she is doing. people love you mv."
right after, a guy walked up to the counter.
"hey dude how are you doing? i haven't seen you in awhile. you've been doing okay?"
i told him, "i'm surviving. and alive. what about yourself?"
he smiled, which made his beard move and said, "the same. at least trying to."
i handed him his pound of american cheese, "it was good seeing you, have a nice night."
"you to man. hang in there. and take care."
he walked away.

ria pointed at him as he walked away, looked at me and said, "see. people do care. there is hope."
i said, "yeah, it's just easy to forget sometimes."
then we proceeded to talk about dicks.
and how she doesn't like huge dicks. "like they're not all that they are cracked up to be. shit's intimidating. do you got a big dick?"
"7 and a quarter."
"not bad. but you might be too big for me. hahaha."
i snapped my fingers, and said "aww shit." then laughed, thought of a sam pink reading on youtube, and sang "big dick hustlers. we're fucking awesome." 
i pointed at her, then myself, and laughed some more. but felt kind of shitty because we know there won't be many shifts like this left because she's getting transferred to the duryea store, and i'm going to be put away. "don't worry mv. you gotta stop thinking. and just do it. i know you can do it, you can get through this. i'll miss you. but remember write me and other people something that will turn them on. just try out that sex shit, and make it hot and raunchy!"
"oh baby! i will try. but i suck at sex in real life, so i'll have to pretend. i'll mention people getting wet and big dick shit. haha. thanks. i'm going to miss you a lot too."
it's moments like this is wish i could save, and crawl back into when bad things happen, until they pass. because good moments are easy to forget sometimes.

Another Failure At Trying To Help Someone Out In Life.

I was smoking a cheap cigarette outside of work next to all the shopping carts, at nine o'clock.

The front end manager, Joyce, who has short, you know it's dyed brown hair, and is considered a bitch by all of the cashiers but likes me for some reason, walked outside, lit up a cheap cigarette, scanned the almost empty parking lot, then looked at me.

"Mv, is that my truck?"

There was a white, beat up, late 90's Ford pickup truck with a dented quarter panel in the corner of the parking lot next to the entrance with its lights on and engine running.

I knew she drove a pick up truck, but never paid attention to the color, make, or what it even looked like.

We have been working together now for two years.

I took a drag from my almost finished cig.

"Maybe, I mean it could be your pick up truck, but I'm not really sure."

Smoke coming out of my mouth along with the words.

She looked puzzled. Face scrunching up creating more wrinkles. Eyes confused. Upper body wrapped in a bright pink zip up hoodie with white flowers that a twelve year old would wear.

She hacked up a cough on her next exhale, and look at me again.

"When the hell did my truck get here?"

I snubbed out my cig. I didn't have an answer.

"I don't know. Really wasn't paying attention. It could have just pulled in. Or maybe it was here for like five-ten minutes, maybe longer. I don't know. I'm sorry."

I snubbed out my cig and started to walk back inside towards the deli, while she put her bright pink hood up, hands in pockets, with the her cig dangling out of the corner of her mouth as she made her way to the truck in question.

We didn't say good-bye. And I was back in the deli before either of us knew the answer.

I didn't see her for the rest of the night. Or the truck.

I never have any answers.

Wednesday, December 4, 2013

Thank You Benjamin James Spurlock For Actually Giving Me Good Advice That I Think Is Going To Save My Life And Keep This Blog Going. Shout Outs Also to Jay, Eli, Elizabeth, Shannon, My Mom, My Aunt, And Lone Coug (All of You Are The Only True Friends Left In My Life.)

"Some people are just fucking crazy. I know you're going to say so are you and so is everyone, but I mean, some people are actually really fucking crazy, and pretend like they have their shit together because they think they are content or normal now because of the prescribed drugs their on or because they have made a change in their life or have never done anything wrong. That's bullshit, because no one has their shit together, and from what I can tell they are just as fucked up, if not more fucked up than you, because at least you acknowledge your issues and take responsibility, instead of blaming everyone else, or just being that narcissistic by believing that they have no problems or that the fucked up shit they do isn't a problem at all. I know your empathetic but sometimes people are just actually FUCKED UP."

"Fuck'em."

"Fuck'em."

"Fuck'em."

"Fuck'em."

"Fuck'em."

The hardest part is seeing/listening/experiencing the positive qualities of these people. And even through all this shit, I still enjoy their company and miss not being able to talk with them. Because deep down I'm scared to lose anymore friends. Deep Down, I'm scared to be alone.

Sunday, December 1, 2013

The First Positive Step Towards Improving My Life

I pierce my tongue with a red hot nail, install a rusty padlock through the hole, then swallow the key; it's weight will prevent any true thoughts, and misinterpreted words from escaping, and imprison all of my secrets.

The lack of movement leads to bedsores and paralysis.

The lack of cleanliness leads to infection.

The infection leads to death.

Rigamortis.

Muscles spasms held in check under that heavy metal weight: my last words won't make any sense.

My words never made any sense.

In high school, my fingertips started to form little mouths that have grown throughout the years, and became fully functional. which meant they are the next to go.

They don't deserve the luxury of a sharp kitchen knife, a meat slicer, saw, or even an ax.

I don't deserve that luxury; I deserve pain because it has been proven that I am a terrible person.

Which is why I'm walking out to my $700 Oldesmobile, opening the front door, placing one hand in the door jam and the other, cocked, on the outside of the door.

Slam! Slam! Slam!

Then walk around the car and repeat the same process in the passenger side door with the opposite hands.

Slam! Slam! Slam!

"FUCK!!!" is the only thought I have until I look down at the mutilated digits that are cracked and splintered (bones sticking out of lacerations in the skin, pointing in all different directions, smashed fingernails, snapped joints, blown out knuckles, blood, tiny missing teeth scattered across the driveway, and  miniature broken jaws.)

Never able to speak again.

Never able to text, email, blog, or instant message.

Never able to unintentionally ruined someone's night again.

Never able to insult anyone without even realizing it.

Never able to be kind and empathetic towards anyone ever again.

Never able to wear an engagement ring or friendship bracelet.

From now on, all I can do is listen, and give yes or no answers with a nod or a shake of the head.

From now on, everyone who come into contact with me has the opportunity to be happy.

It's all for the best.

Positive Thinking 2013