After We Hung Out, I Smoked A Cigarette, Watched A Drunk Woman Get Arrested, And Felt Alive. (Bullshit!)

Every time you complain about the way you look while staring into the bathroom mirror, I am pricking your finger with a sharp piece of metal from a diabetes test kit, and using your blood as mouthwash to dye teeth red. The act will go unnoticed, I think. You brush your hair from side to side. You tell me you look like shit. You tell me that I look really good tonight with nonplussed eyes glowing blue, focused on an incoming text.  

Bullshit.

I think about pushing my hand through your skull while you’re sleeping to pull out your brain because it is the only subject I want to understand.  

Bullshit.

Take a picture of yourself, post it on facebook, and send it to every contact in your phone—I don’t want to be included because I figured this puzzle out a week ago on a walk in the woods, alone. The next time you say, “I love you,” I will slide my cell phone into the slot of a mailbox made out of pine trees, sever your tongue, and turn it into a necklace using a lighter, a bent paperclip, and strand of dental floss. Pretty creative, huh?

Bullshit.

I am a mixture of sad and pissed off at the same time like a domesticated duck neutered with its wings clipped.

Bullshit.

When you talk, I’m paying attention. I’m not thinking about where I can snort the ocs in my pocket. Or about going on a ride up the mountain to smoke a bowl. Or about having a conversation with a voice inside of my head about the proper scale used for weighing out the positives and negatives of our friendship. Or about how greasy your face would look through an oven door. Or about an exit wound sprouting out of the skin and bone located above my right temple.

Bullshit.  

In three years, I will kill you with a knife sharpened on the duration of our silence. I will embed it in the padded spine of your recliner. I will push you into the recliner with force until the silver slips through the hymen surrounding your heart. You will start to bleed. And I will have a surplus of mouthwash, which means I will have perfect teeth for the rest of my life, motherfucker.

I dare you to call bullshit on that.  Fucking dare you.

Contemporary Convert

I am stumbling into late night convictions that lead me to dead rats in plastic bags, distinegrating into the basic building blocks of their genetic make-up, behind the rusted aluminum trash cans on the side of the main thoroughfare. Now, I duck down in the kaleidoscope of red, green, and yellow lights, flicking a blue bag under an advertisement of a family of four happily raking leaves in designer jeans. And none of this feels right (out-of-focus and spinning), which why I'm throwing up partially digested fast food tacos onto the lap of the businessman sitting in the $50,000 convertible next to me in traffic.

The defintion of a haphazard hustle because the goal was to try to be amiable, instead of profit. But a change occured, and now the goal is to injure as many people as possible, in the most violent ways imaginable. Because I'm a short-sighted narcissist, a motherfucking egotist with a dribble of shit staining my own conciousness. A cult leader of numerous fringe religions with no recognizable identity besides a missing aorta which was the result of an all-american diet consisting of beer, benjamins, SSRIs, and fried chicken.

The only common thread in the population's whiney narrative about good guys and bad guys. Cops and robbers. Heros and villians. Lust and abstinence. Piss and shit.

It all depends on the context and the perspective, but our only option was to keep plugging our sect, even though we all lost our sanity 24 years ago.

Amen. 2012. Amen.

The Krokodil Effect

 

A half-eaten stump dripping thick brown fluids into the layers of dust, used plastic bottles, and empty bags of potato chips, my arms have become strong after the years of dancing to electronic house music with the assistance of aluminum crutches.  I move from side to side, wiggling hips to the bass thump as the skin disintegrates leaving trail of breadcrumbs for emergency services to follow.

I will never get lost in a forest, but I can/have been lost in a large crowd of people at a social gathering, which is why I have chosen to rot from the inside-out. Missing the vein on purpose. Two years to live.

There is no hope, only optimistic lies which lead to suicide and gingivitis. I have yellow teeth. Luckily, I saw a commercial for whitening toothpaste and an electric toothbrush.  The woman in it had perfectly white teeth and looked genuinely happy. I went to the Rite Aid and bought the toothpaste and the electronic toothbrush as a way of turning my life around. I used them every night. Brushing each quadrant for 30 seconds. Watching plaque swirl in the pulsating bristles, as the foam gathers in the corners of my mouth—this is rabies. After three months, my teeth were still yellow, and numb from heroin. But not numb enough, which is why I switched to krok.

 

I don’t care about celebrities, just cigarettes and cannibalism.

 

When we kiss, I will slit your gums and watch them bleed like a fountain in front of a national monument. I will jump in before security comes, and steal the loose change at the bottom of the rubicund pool with a hand missing digits because wishes never come true—I am a realist.

 

My lips are lined with knives, which slice tongues neatly in one smooth motion, eliminating auto-pilot compliments, self-centered sentences, conceited words, and narcissistic syllables—I hate my friends and relatives. I can sell them to you, but, just to let you know, they are worthless and defective. Planned obsolescence.  I will dry them in a wooden oven. I will grind their bodies down into a powder with a mortar and pestle, and mix it with household chemicals, then you’ll be ready to get fucked up.  Reaching cloud MOTHERFUCKIN 10! Yes, I can cook. Thank the internet because in the past, specialists diagnosed me with a low IQ, anorexia, ADHD, and you’ll never amount to anything syndrome.

 

You will receive a twenty dollar medal engraved at a trophy shop.

You will receive a twenty dollar medal engraved at a trophy shop when you sleep with one of my best friends.

 

When you sleep with one of my best friends, I will wrap myself in a blanket made out of the mantle of the earth and cook until I’ve reached the proper temperature for consumption.

 

When you sleep with someone else, I will listen to a self-help tape while balancing on the edge of a guardrail in meditation like an emaciated Buddhist monk.

Bust me out on this and it will be okay. I just need something temporary that will bring me closer to death to make it through this.

Turn up the volume because I’m not listening to the words you’re saying; I’m just drinking a warm beer in the bath tub, and holding my cell phone just under the limpid surface of the water until it malfunctions.

Lately, I’ve been thinking of becoming a porn star. Some straight up S&M shit. Ass red from leather smacks. With cat o’ nine tails etching abstract images into the skin on my back, I have the potential to own a mansion and an SUV with 24-inch rims, and a metallic green candy apple paint job.

Lately, I’ve been thinking I’ll become a rickshaw driver with just enough money to scrape by living in a tarp house in the slums of India, or a homeless man drinking a forty out of a paper bag, telling my life story to random twenty year-olds on the street as I ask them for loose change and a spare cig + a light.

 
Lately, I’ve been thinking removing my brain from my skull, marinating it in ice, frying it in oil, and selling it for $.99 a pound even if it’s past the expiration date.



No one cares.



I don’t care.



So alone.



Pushing away anyone who tries to understand my motives on a daily basis.

 

 

 

 

In Russia, they call it krokodil because your skin corrodes until it resembles the hide of a crocodile and falls off. Nothing left but a portrait of decaying skin and nicotine stained bones resembling frayed rope and bent pieces of oxidized rebar embedded in concrete.

I fucking hate all of you. I fucking hate myself.

My calling in life is disintegration.

 

 

(photo source: here)

Karma

With my dick hanging limp in anticipation through the opening in my pants, I noticed a fruit fly clinging to the piss-stained walls of the urinal at work. I pissed on it. Soaked, it hovered out of the downpour of urine, and landed on my face.

While washing my hands, I thought: "Fuck, I deserved that."

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.



  

Put Your Friends In a Shopping Cart And Push Them Away, Straight Into On-coming Traffic.

A chirp. A peep. A squawk. A click. Clicks—plural. A head seasick. Green. Hair spreading out in the wind. Take a picture. Paint a picture. Study the anatomy of the human body while wearing a zombie mask made out of latex. Fake blood tearing from half-open eye sockets; pupils nonexistent. White. Yellow. Teeth wiggle free from their holsters and jump out of the mouth like business men/women plummeting from the top floors of skyscrapers. Shattered and spread out across the floor. You can design a mosaic consisting of only one color to hang in a public bathroom.

Currently, bats are the only mammals that can fly. Membranes drooping off arms and echo location. Your jaw muscles snap the exoskeletons of winged insects. A crisp pop like a stick cracking under a sneaker. Then juice, puss, and guts sloshing back and forth, side-to-side—this is what health food tastes like. Red. Black. Purple. Sticking to enamel, a mash-up of other people's ideas swallowed. Digesting. Your stomach is a sound collage playing organic music for a singles bar on the outskirts of civilization.

A pile of body parts stacked unevenly, teeter-tottering to the thump of each bass note.

Put your friends in a shopping cart and push them away, straight into on-coming traffic.

What You Want to Be When You Grow Up

A middle-aged man who is wearing leopard print tights. Touching. Pumping himself in the blue haze of the computer screen, as he watches an eighteen year old in braces shove the head of a teddy bear into the moisture emanating from her crotch. It is not illegal.

A household plant neglected in the shade of the blinds, because your owner never turns the fucking light on since he is working on his night vision.

The violet hair chalk rubbed on the pubic hairs of someone you're infatuated with. It could stick to the dampness lying dormant on the surface of your lips, if only you had the courage you motherfucker.

An undiscovered planet with the most basic form of life. Unintelligent. You can be a good mother.

Hawaii? Or Alaska? Just not connected to the main land.

An eye spinning around in a socket, unfocused. Distracted and disinterested. You would rather look at a video of someone being shot in the head; the wound self-inflicted. Because idle chatter with friends is so captivating, especially when you're not connected to the main land.

Hawaii or Alaska?

A torso hanging out a window, contorting and becoming sore, eventually. Looking at the orange light reflecting off the clouds from the city located behind the mountains. It will skew any observation made about the stars tonight, never coming to a conclusion. Dumbing yourself down. Contorting and becoming sore.

A guilt trip eating away at her conscience. It's your turn now.

A board game misunderstood and complicated. Hands drunk. Tossing little wooden pieces. Gone missing in the carpet. You are losing parts of yourself that make you complete in the process of decomposition. No one cares about ruining this shit for future generations. Not fair. 

The thesis statement outlining his assertion of what it means to have a bad day.

The depression embedded in the lines of a smiling face.

A bed, which never got laid. Unloved. Meditating in the solitude of an empty room. Quiet, finally.

Medication dissolving in a nasal passage. You will clog sinuses as you pin pupils. Fuck the cops.

A missing hand lost in the ass of a male hooker. The ass lined with razorblades, he clenched at the wrong time, you unlucky fucker. Now you can really kick off this pity party right with some 7-up cake, soda, and some fucking balloons. Fingernails coated in waste. Shit man.

A murder/suicide involving an elderly couple. Channeling Chester and Mildred Welebob.

Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.


Going nowhere.You're all grown up.