exhuming childhood dreams while burying the future

laying on a metal slab smelling of bleach and disinfectant in a windowless room, my skin is perforated, as everyone i come into contact with bites down, tearing long chunks off with dull teeth. revealing a network of veins, arteries, organs, muscles, bacteria, infection, disease.

hollow and bare surrounded by shadows under a single flickering bulb, i am the worse culprit of all. allowing this act of cannibalism, participating, and laughing about it with an open mind and mouth the entire time.

watching with rusted yellowed eyes: bodily fluids pool on the white tiled floor like spilled cola, as they are lapped up by numerous tongues like surgical scalpels with the taste for flesh. gaining strength. gaining closer. gaining answers to questions i will never understand.

mysterious sounds. the pitter-patter. splish-splash. groans. moans. cracking. snapping. heavy breaths. mixed with the whispers and spiders crawling through my ears. sounds like a church choir serenading a coffin being placed in a hole in the ground.

my body is a piece of meat, and my heart is slowing down, as i pick the rest of my skeleton clean.

because anymore, im neither alive nor dead.

im just killing time.

no thank yous

when we talk on the phone
a spider made out electrical wires
and computer chips
crawls out of the receiver
into my ear
and connects with my brain
taking over every bodily function.
i can't think.
i can't breathe.
nothing to say.
no time to say it.
the spider lays its eggs
in the wrinkles of my brain
then dies.
when they hatch,
my head explodes
and fills the world with
garbage, stupid ideas, and parasites.
bringing on a new age of shit and piss
that seeps into everyone's pores
and eradicates all living cells.
no thank yous are needed,
no thank yous are ever needed.
but you're fucking welcome.

my fetish

all i can fantasize about recently is choking on celebrity tabloids in an alley, while two stray cats fuck next to an orange dumpster, immersing myself into puddles of stale rain because i haven't showered in days, before emptying out the contents of my brain with a .38 special.


the sirens. wasted tax dollars. missing children. missing teeth. wasted potential. the sound of water dripping into water. infected. a long sleep. and empty pockets. is what gets me off.

after i close the front door,
i slide a black ski mask
over my face,
and cover the grip
of the .38 sticking out
of the waistband of my jeans
with the black t-shirt
i'm wearing.

the piece is concealed,
unlike my motives;
i never wanted it
come to this.

before tonight,
i was non-violent.
sociable.
easy going.
amiable.
patient.

i have my shitty days,
just like everyone,
but i never take it out
on my friends,
or the people around me.

before tonight,
i was a giver.
if you ask me for an arm,
i would give you my own.

but that's all about to change.

tonight,
i stuck a pin
filled with venom
into the vein
on the crook
of my left arm,
and plunged it
into my bloodstream.

tonight,
i'm ready to
throw a brick
through your window,
rob you at gunpoint,
and cap you in the knee
so you can remember me
for the rest of your life.

tonight,
my smile doesn't
show teeth,
just barbedwire
and razorblades.

tonight,
i realized
to most people, 
i am a walking atm 
that spits out free money 
after they stick an i.o.u. 
written on 
a scrap piece of paper 
up my ass, 
and never pay me back. 

(i mean the least you can do is suck my dick while you're fucking me. right?)

tonight,
i am not a person.
i am not an atm machine.
generous.
understanding. 
nervous.
loving.
scared.

tonight,
i am a motherfucking shark
ready to bite your limbs,
eviscerate your vitals,
remove your bones,
and turn the water red
with your blood.

fuck you.
fuck all of you,
including myself. 

fuck with us. wilkes-barre we are doing it! only twelve spots to go.

177 out of 189 (and an honorable mention to allentown at 157.)
to my burlington friends, your shit is weak.

same goes for lancaster. i know you got that huge mall and a cool downtown, but you also have the amish mafia.

wilkes-barre.

you build fences around the projects, while getting drunk and shooting dope on week nights.

there are no jobs, unless you want to huff natural gas, and poison the water supply.

the exterior of the beehive has been taken out by bears, and your people have been killed by hornets.

bring the violence in 2014.

that feeling you get when you're chopping vegetables, and notice all your fingers on your free hand are missing, fresh blood all over your parents' granite kitchen counter, but you keep going because it doesn't seem like that big of a deal.

because you're hungry, and people make mistakes. right?

you'll have to find creative ways to get off when you masturbate from now on.

talking to myself

i will break a pool stick in half, then start to beat myself with it in front of you and your friends, who are drinking 40's on the cement stoop.

screaming at the top of lungs between the whooshes and smacks of the swings and impacts.

"AM I MAKING ANY FUCKING SENSE NOW?

HOW ABOUT NOW?

OR NOW?"

painting bruises on my body, just to make you upset.

just to convince you of something i'm not even sure of.
 
the sun will rise in a couple of hours, and tomorrow will become today.

Beat Up By A Three Year Old While Sitting On A Park Bench

Sitting on a bench, next to a three year old boy holding a kleenex box, and his mom who is wearing a green subway polo shirt.

The three year old boy has short brown hair that looks like a freshly mowed lawn hugging his skull.

He looks at me with his big brown eyes that match his hair, smiles, puts the kleenex box down on the green painted meshed metal, then hides behind his hands, peeks out, laughs, and hides again.

I put my hands up, and do the same.

Playing peek-a-boo.

We keep exchanging hiding for showing, and laugh the entire time, as his mother watches us through circular framed glasses.

He stops.

I stop.

He picks up the kleenex box with his tiny pink fingers, rolls along the bench, and places the kleenex box on my lap.

He remains right next to me.

Along my side.

Touching me.

In the fetal position.

Covering his head with his arms, in a puffy navy blue and black winter coat.

Staring straight down.

I pick the kleenex box up, and put it on his back.

His mother laughs.

He comes out of his cocoon like a mummy emerging from a sarcophagus in a 1950's b-horror film.

Then makes a fist, and puts it through the plastic slot, and into the tissues.

He kneels so he is face level, then cocks back, and hits me with a straight right to the nose.

He laughs, and laughs, and laughs, before his mother screams, "Johnny! That wasn't very nice! Say you're sorry." Her face scrunched up the entire time.

He looks at his mother.

His face droops, which looks like a hound-dog puppy that just got hit on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper.

I start laughing back at him, which creates a smile.

I wave my hand at his mother, and through the laughs tell her, "It's okay. It's okay."

I repeat myself twice to reassure her.

I don't know if it worked, but whatever.

My nose was a little sore, but it didn't matter.

Everything felt like it was in it's right place.

I see myself opening up a booth on the street in a year where I paint a red and white target on my face, place my chin on the counter, and let little kids punch me with kleenex boxes for free.

dukes up

i am the challenger
putting my balled hands up
and covering my face.
protecting my head,
i leave my ribs,
and abdomen exposed.
absorbing body shot
after body shot.
punch
after punch,
they are starting to take
a toll.

i am becoming exhausted.
sore.
memory loss.
sweat building up.
the side-effects of patience.

i wait for the right moment.
waiting.
waiting.
waiting.
for my opponents
to let their guards down
so i can remove
their teeth
with my fucking fists.

left hook to the jaw.
i will smash their skulls
wide open.

swinging.
going for the knockout.
i watch the backs of their heads
bounce off the floor
as their arms go up,
and their eyes roll up
into their brains.

smack!
smack!

i hock a wad of blood and spit
onto the blue canvas,
and raise my arms to heaven.

"who nex!"
"who nex!"

i don't know.
i can't remember.