Wednesday, May 24, 2017

A Poem

She smelled like rainwater and clove cigarettes. Her thin whisps engulfing mine offering a brief reprieve from the iron weight of apathy. Of being a disillusioned 20-something in a town somewhere in the middle of the world.

Possessing my body with the fury of junk-sickness cells change and die. Organs and germ layers dissolve into vapor as I melt into her. I am now a bystander transfixed by on-coming traffic. Distracted by pretty things... I suppose pretty things are usually the most venomous.

Thursday, May 18, 2017

Addict (a poem written for an open mic)

Crawling from the petri dish we share
We stumble, (drunkenly) towards extremism
Every step coated in synthetic bliss
We walk
Among third-world ruins devoid of anything but subtance(s)
In search of our next fix
The best of us fall while some of us
Tie off into oblivion and
Sing songs about our solitude
The dope whores on the street
Are just an inch away from our youthful idealism

... Do I have a problem(?)

Tuesday, May 16, 2017

Cringe (Unfinished/Rough Draft) Looking for opinions.

After coming to a weak orgasm in a crowded Shop n' Save bathroom, I let out a sigh, ripped off the right length of toilet paper (I had this shit down to a science) and wiped the cum from my hand, shaft and let's not forget that tiny drip that made it' way to the toilet seat.

There were still small clots/splotches of blood caked under my fingernails. Disgusting I know, if I lack anything it's self restraint but what's a boy to do after a fresh kill? Not masturbate? I don't think so, (and yes this was my first "real" kill a human. The most dangerous game if you will. I'd practiced on mice and dogs, burnt hookers with cigarettes but this was my... my Magnum Opus), because in my fucked up way of seeing the world, there's no better time to indulge then after... well you know.

After cleaning up, I looked myself over. Just to be sure. Hair, slicked back in corporate tradition.  A carefully pressed tie to complement complete with a  my knock-off Armani suit. Everything was fine accept for the god-damn pen mark on my pant leg... Jesus, how in the FUCK does something like that happen... oh well. I purchased some breath mints before going back to my car to get rid of the body and... that was it. Much like my my aforementioned orgasm it didn't really satisfy me but it was done and now the rest of my life had been set out before me. Like St. Paul going blind, I had found my true self (however un-gratifying something like that may be).

Ed Norton (just like the film actor), that was the name of my victim. I preserved his head mainly because I wanted a keepsake but it soon became more than that.

"You know Ed," I said as I cracked a beer...

Monday, May 15, 2017

Pop Pop

"Get the fuck out of my bar before I call the cops on your skinny ass!" screamed the unnamed Hispanic bouncer, spittle pouncing from his mouth as he gave me a good shove.

"Alright, alright man I'm gone."

With no choice but to strand my drunk, confused and very gay friend in the club I drunkenly stumbled to my car.

"You lost buddy?" A (probably) homeless guy asked me as I was wondering around; lost and strung out in one of the many not so savory parts of town.

"I uh (pausing to belch and... false alarm) can't find my fuckin car man."

"What are ya drivin?"

"It's a red (BELCH) a red Chevy Blazer."

"Well you ain't to far off my friend. That it over there?

I rubbed my eyes and looked in the direction that my new friend homeless Jesus was pointing towards.

"Uh, yeah... yeah it is thanks man. You want a cig?"

"Sure thing brotha man."

"No problem I really appreciate..."

And just like that, he was gone.

I got to my car and crushed up 2 fat lines of the best coke in Illinois. One right after the other and I felt like fucking GOD HIMSELF! I'd downed enough drinks to land me several DUI's but the coke cut through the double vision like a heavy duty sushi knife . I was ready to go home (where I kept a stash of needles... This will quite unfortunately come into play later) but let's back up a bit.

I sat with Josh, my outspoken, mystical gay friend, my spirit animal at a trendy bar in the college-ish part of town. We were debating the meaning of karma and talking about the religious overtones in Ginsberg's writing when all of a sudden... my phone buzzed.

"Oh shit, it's Sara, She's got a gig at that bar and grill place... can't remember what the fuck it's called for the life of me. Wana check it out?"

"Sure," I said

Sara, she was interesting to say the least. I'd met her among a crowd of angel faced hipsters (shameless Ginsberg reference time) but she stood out somehow. Her eyes were kind, her lips pillowy and there was a kind of innocence that rang through her... though she was far from it.

"I really wana try shrooms," She'd said after blowing out a cloud of smoke from the joint we shared behind the burnt out warehouse where "The Collective" (a pretentious mob of 20-somethings) met to get drunk and share our writing. Basking in the admiration of self-indulgence.

"It's a ride," I said coughing.

"You know how acid makes everything look pixilated and there's this... this really rigid geometry. Shrooms are different. Everything looks like a Pixar Movie but that's not really my bag anymore. I haven't tripped since college."

"Sounds fun... so what's in your bag these days?" A smile crept across her lips.

"It's uh... complicated. I got stuck up in some harder tuff a while back... pills, coke the works."

"Hmm, never ventured that far... but I might be willing to if you're around."

Her hand brushed mine and in what seemed like second my vision faded into a kaleidoscopic mess. I found myself in some unnamed by with Antwan (my gay friend from earlier) listening to Sara playing piano.

"That was dope. "

"Awe, thanks. It's good to hear some encouragement..."

The other bar that we bar hopped to was crowded and roaring with the aftermath of coke and alcohol. I knew what I wanted and at the time, it wasn't her (it was fuckin coke). Adorned in self-destruction, I purchased my bag, slammed my works together and took the plunge. Now, I sit in my own aftermath with nothing but a bruised arm for company... Things definitely aren't what they used to be.

Thursday, April 20, 2017

Bukowski

There aren't enough pills in the world
To drown out the infant screeching in my head
Cries as sharp as the knife-point of a hangover (my poor, poor liver)
Slicing into rot coloured dread, caked into the cracks in the mind's eye
A movie plays...
Broken down locomotives sit dead on the tracks
Prisoners of rust and time
"What the hell happened to this town?"
Asked a generation weaned off the tits of history
"I dunno... NAFTA followed by heroin I guess," She replied
In a thick smoker's cough
... There aren't enough pills in the world.

Saturday, March 18, 2017

The Witch's Heart

"Many years ago, a witch reigned over this land. For her sins she was..."

Wait! What the fuck is this? Where is this god damn voice coming from? It couldn't have been any more than 10 minutes ago since I took those... Oh, I see. Well... I apologize for the commercial interruption now, back to our regularly scheduled program.

The alien texture of the bed I lied in rubbed against rubber-tinged meat (in my old life, I used to call this skin but that didn't really seem like the best term for it given my present circumstances). Subdued visions flowed like polistirex to the slow, song-like tone of whatever disembodied voice narrated the tale of the witch.

"... burnt at the stake and what little remained of her corpse, buried."

I felt my heart race and felt the air grow thick as I clumsily moved my hands around taking breath after breath, batting away at the unwashed blanket that covered my naked body. The darkness of my sensory spots illuminated the clogged neuro-pathways of whatever was left of my fucked up brain.

"Though burnt, the witch's heart still beat bellow the earth. Turning the small patch of land it was entombed within to poison. Wanderers privy to the ancient lore have learned to steer clear of this spot for those who venture there never return the same... if at all."

Empty bottles of Walgreen's gel-caps, cigarette butts (though some had yet to fall from the nightstand) and a half pint of Black Velvet decorated my floor. Others, casualties of my hedonism had rolled under the bed weeks ago. Sharing the same fate a so many forgotten soldiers. They were buried just like the witch. Just like me.

Tuesday, February 28, 2017

A Linguist's Puzzle Box

Betonni pokriti nevroni 20 gorya
mesni kostyumi v zloveshta7-06f krasota

бягам kostyumi वी zloveshta Krasota 0d 0a

meat suits 險惡之美 hعن شريرة
'iikhfa' alshshuquq dakhil aljidar wakashf ean sharira beauty Ñ 
hùnníngtǔ bǎohù céng shénjīng yuán raztopenid

6f 6b 72 69 74 69 20 6e  ê


raztopenidŭzhdobraninashite




Notes; (An avant-garde prose-poem of mine with a few twists… This is what happens when you mess around with a language translator on a slow day at the office).