DICK-PUNCH

So, her favorite T-shirt is draped across her seemingly less-than-favorite frame... How does the wearer contemplate such?

angry liver blues #1

creation is an angry liver. food is a chemical deterrent. my stomach is a roadblock. guilt is your brain having a stroke. you could put your dick there, but would you get it back in time for breakfast…? the insufferable always have insurance policies. the weak always write bad checks. would you pull the lever with a sign that read: ‘DON’T PULL - TOO SOFTLY’? have a care in the world? just make sure you get it to bed before midnight. inside it might be warmer, but outside is where the real fucking fire is.

blah blah blah: the vocabulary of the millennium. the populace shares a television syringe. Phenobarbital savior in vivid Technicolor. recorded live in front of an audience of corpses. there is a lot of anger in acceptance. what the fuck is that smell? it’s the decomposing cadaver on the BARCO Lounger. 

you. 

me. 

us.

that clock on the wall is not your servant. these everyday designer leashes can be so confusing. especially when the fortune inside the stake cookie is blank. and the calendar’s been obsolete for at least eight years. the calls have stopped coming in, and they sank your ship.

so pay those bills and swallow those pills, because it’s only a matter of NO MATTER. 

OLVIDO [written 1.15.2010]

the human condition is akin to a bad case of tuberculosis. add the nebulous description of “AMERICAN” to such an equation and you have, thrashing virulently, an adequate account of what some experts describe as “irredeemably screwed”. 
despite popular opinion the “AmericanDream” is a scummy tide pool, unknowingly awaiting the inevitable purge. flushing everything out into a black depthless sea of willful resignation.
 indifference would be so much simpler than belief. 
let us all take a knee and ejaculate our hopes into the morass of the “AMERICAN DREAM”. let us forget what the word spirituality means, and throw our collective stones at the glass ceiling of our faith. let us turn our grey-filmed eyes of diligence toward something shiny and useless, like…say…a monstrance. let us take everything at face value, until the rifles are pointed directly at our temples.
and, speaking of temples…. 
you want to measure intelligence, like it was an ingredient in some tenuous recipe of the human condition? you want to quantify some vague equation of intellect versus fundamental instinct? you want to see what it means when the numbers are found to be as ham-fisted as a consensus of popular belief?
[feel free to insert your own answers here…] 


just when you thought it was safe to go back into the gene-pool….


the gene-pool turns out to be a tide-pool, full of aberration and variables. scum and uncertainty. might as well rely upon our skills to win the day. oh, wait…we have none. unless you count thievery, subterfuge and skullduggery.   




   

menefreghista [2006]

open.

sunset is a thousand black bones. scrying a dirty blue dirge of commerce. Reveille through a busted saxophone. down tempo doesn’t seem the fitting epitaph, like concrete used to be. irony is retiring in favor of sophomoric ridicule. but, no halogen light will nullify the knots.

oh god, I’m doing it all again. seeing crooked and writing in similar… the lines and nothing ever intersects.

March is proving to be a bitchy bipolar mistress. no kisses, just some boot-print posterior. prone shuffle through slushy hell. fucking sloshy hell named Playguard. and it comes down, through trees that used to be my friends. trees that used to show me the way home with spiderweb streetlights, but now they let the cold cringe on in. on down to smother in icy stasis.

so much for spring…so much for my sybaritic forgeries.

such seasons in this place are all closed doors. no refuge and no point of reference. just endless hungry faces. (endless fucking hunger.) the world confounds by nature… so, just buy a helmet already. a shiny one, so the rest of us can see you coming.

now, it’s this eerie empty street with its light of violation, raping open my eyes. maybe if I could touch the light - feel it sticky between my fingers - then could I finally understand? maybe the revelation could take hold at last?

however, this room is not the conduit that it used to be. its music dances different upon my ear. its skin has changed with the weather. become strange with the temperatures of a million surrendered moments. 

“but isn’t life like surrender, precious?” asks the succubus living in my hypothalamus. 

my smile is just a stress fracture. 

my smile doesn’t belong to me anymore.

not nearly enough RAM

I smell morning.

I see the light from inside.

I simply don't give a fuck.

Something I can't identify,

flew past the streetlamp,

I swear, it could have been anything...

I simply don't give a 

fucking want it to be...

can't explain what I see,

but, it's all emotional?

hell on the neck

“that which does not kill us makes us”…weary and paranoid.

involuntarily, my lungs constrict. my life is squeezed into strange locations. so unusual, yet so much paradise in one glance. the handbook is useless…

the face that crowds the mirror is a false premonition pocked like litter in the street, and completely oblivious to its predicament. only the crow’s feet can tell.

“baby, I’d shatter the world for you.” he says to a reflection too brittle for his conviction. he’s got his perfect eyes, but there’s no-one at the wheel, and the ice is fucking thick. 

things will change, but it’s the wait that kills. the smallest happenstance has the sharpest teeth. it’s the weight that disfigures the most common sense. how fickle…so goddamn fickle. ghosts in my teeth and leaves in my hair, the seasons here are irrelevant. heat seeking heat, and cold trading cold. always a catastrophe hidden in the curve of a question mark.

to leave me on the dangle is to leave me for dead. the ghosts make me fit for this awful appointment. it’s the ghosts that make me hateful. 

and, when it’s all gone, the dawn comes to do nothing short of brightly exhibiting everything that is lost. so much that can never be shared. so much that is made null by the lack of offering.

tonight, the moon is afraid. holding court in a corner of the sky not yet known to me. its glittered indigo fingers are visible only to my worst delusions. my throat is a prison of screams. my eyes, a famine mockery. this city is out for my blood. but I’ve been saying that shit for years. too many for sanity. I’ll never fucking write a sober word again.

        

why I don't keep a dream journal: reason #1

my sleep was marked by the salty stains on my pillow. not to infer that it had been anything resembling restful. a more fitting residue would have been much darker. much more fucking red. something much more descriptive, in it’s vulgarity, to the dreams which spawned such a crude biological byproduct:

there were so many bodies. so many imagined lives ended horribly. myriad holocausts, both man-wrought & natural. and, I felt every single one. not as a participant, but a mere witness. a witness who, somehow, felt the pain of it all bereft of choice in the matter. as if I were a chronicler excluded from all physicality, save the anguish. 

there was a lone woman on a desolate plain, grieving a dead son, opening her arms to a small nuclear device that had been surgically implanted into her abdomen. I saw her touch her forehead ever-so-gently, before the whitest, hottest light known on this planet bloomed a millisecond before the mountains broke apart like forgotten castles made of sand. 

I saw families in their various automobiles, brought together in some primal version of solidarity, fall as one into a massive sinkhole of earth. and, just when they thought they’d survived this calamity & found some shelter - because the ground they’d been gathered upon didn’t break apart & consume them all, but held solid hundreds of feet underground, like a great disc of salvation - the earth opened it’s emotionless maw & spat out millions of gallons of magma so fucking hot that looking upon it was akin to staring at the sun about midday. it flowed, almost insidiously, as if it harbored some long-hidden murderous patience & was simply savoring the kill. like blinding deadly honey, it swallowed everyone, along with their screams…