National Concern: Cobbles

Mr. mister walked along the walk walk with a leash in his hand and dog dragging behind him. THE DOG WAS DEAD. He avoided most of the cracks because he heard that if you step on a crack your leg would fall off. He couldn’t afford to lose a leg at this point in his life. Every house he passed was the same. Four frenzy fed windows on each level. They all had eyes staring. Hard eyes. The kind of eyes you find in a cave. WHEN YOU’RE SPLUNKING. The dog’s name was Hyde. Mr. mister was a big fan of Clancy Thomas and felt a tribute need be paid. Hence the dogsworth was born. The doors were lovely as well. Intricate molding lined the entrance from the ground up to the second floor. They really were lovely, take it from a professional. I know these doors. I KNOW THEM AND THEY ARE NICE. Mr. mister crossed the street the same way every time. Look left. Look right. Look left. Look down. Sit down. An hour power nap was usually a protocol before crossing streets. Fatigue is the number one leading cause of car accidents in Umerica. See, that’s what happens when you jump into the river of Styx. You go to Umerica. It’s a dimension of love and feet and powerlessness because of a strong willed villain by the name of Paladinio.

Oh, the Audacity! Oh, the Horror!

“Climb, you bitch, climb!”
“I keep sliding off. I can’t help it.”
“Well maybe if you used some of the gear that I attached to your back, you’d be less inclined to decline during this inclination, faggot.”
“Why do you berate me father? I show you nothing but love and you repay me with criticism and hate. Have I done something?”
“No, you pissy little ingrate. You’ve been a disappointment since the day you were born. I’ve tried to accept you as you are and raise you as my son, but you’ve let me down in every way possible.”
“But look father, I’m almost to the top.”
“YOU’RE ON THE FIRST FUCKING STAIR.”
“But I’m almost there.”
“If you don’t stop talking to me, by the ridges on your back I will slaughter you.”
A light frost found its way on his face as he lie in a puddle of his own acid. It had been three days since Jellaglo was abandoned by his father and he had given up. The cool, calm Lucius Clay crowded the clouded campground with a crop of colonoscopy tubes. Face value = trumpets of the valiant kind, for he who lays in fragrant towers sows in fallen hands. Hands. Hands.

Alone

It’s cold in here. I’m bundled, but it’s not enough. It’s like that last pull-up where you can just lick the bar but can’t get over it. You struggle but your muscles are so content with their position they refuse to move like a reluctant dog. It’s dark. The embers sustain enough light to make out silhouettes on the wall, but everything else is a peripheral unknown. Their reality is irrelevant. It’s all irrelevant. How can one even exist in such a desolate place? The only vessel for light is useless as it’s dusk. Why did I make that hole so god damn small? I hate crawling. That feeling of constriction reminds me too much of the mental straitjacket I fall asleep in every night. The one I fear of falling captive to everyday. The kind I’m in right now. It’s as if I have some underlying masochistic tendency that I fall victim to whenever I let my guard down. Here’s the punch line though: I’m always the culprit. I subject myself to these horrible and arduous situations for reasons that escape me. I say they escape me but here I am, in my head, in this frozen abode contemplating every reason for every action I take. I ask questions I already know answers to. Is it some social defense mechanism? Am I really that uninteresting that I have to ask arbitrary questions just so I have something to say? Darla used to bring that up all the time. I hated that about her. She’d always mock my obliviousness and patronize anything I muttered. I tried to counter her by asking questions with definitive answers as to not look like a fool, but alas, she would criticize my stating the obvious. It was a terribly abusive relationship and I still wonder why I endured it for as long as I did. Perhaps this touches back on the reason I’m in this prison in the first place, that self-degrading masochism. Perhaps that’s why I live such a horrid life. It doesn’t mean anything to be happy and enjoy things. There’s nothing real in that. Nobody is as happy as the people in the photographs that come with picture frames. True happiness is a day off and a new pack of cigarettes. Frolicking in a field with your “true love” is a fantasy people play out because they feel like they’re supposed to. That won’t end the suffering. With each inhale and exhale I contradict myself. I take a drag and rant about how suffering and pain are the only real emotions that occur in the world, but walk into my house and find frames and frames of people I don’t know smiling in places I’ve never been. Places I’ll never go. I inhale all the bad things and dissect them until there’s nothing left but debris, and I exhale with some hope for a normal happy life. A “picture perfect” life. God, how I long for a family. Acceptance. Love. It will never happen though; no one will ever love me. How could they? Even if someone somehow found a way to love me, I could never accept it. There’s something wrong with you if you can love me, and I certainly can’t be with a crazy. It’s a hopeless situation. That’s why I stay here. I stay here where it’s cold and I can rest easy knowing I won’t be disturbed. People are all around me but I’m encased in a fortress. The only way in is through the little tunnel, and not everybody likes the notion of escaping from prison only to find themselves in prison. I can’t leave yet, though. The embers are still burning. There are still a few drags left. That’d be a waste. I may be a lot of things, but wasteful is not one. Nor do I have any sympathy. Killing that last cigarette would be doing it a favor, but I won’t be the one to fulfill that dream. That butt will burn out like every one of us: dark, cold, and alone.

Manboy Jenkins

Deep in the night. Deep in the fight. Trevor stood there whispering to himself.
“Manboy. Manboy. Manboy.”
He had never seen anything like the grotesque being that stood in front of him. The creature was actually quite tranquil looking. A peaceful boy on a Sunday morning. The content you feel after you finish blowing a load. That wave of accomplishment that comes crashing over everything else. That’s what this “boy” reminded Trevor of. His features were so soft that he just wanted to touch him. Run his hand along his face just for a taste. It seems silly, I know, but that’s the kind of power Manboy has. It’s a perpetual radiation of euphoria. If you can see his pupils dilate, you’re too close. Get back. You won’t be the same if you stay too close to him. His mind is a fine piece of chivalry. That kind of brotherhood doesn’t come in an airtight bag. You need much more than a vacuum to live with someone like Manboy. I don’t know about you, but I can’t fathom that kind of power. Mind of a man. Buxom of a boy. Teeth of a walrus and the fight of a middle-aged North Korean woman. They just don’t make them like that anymore. If they did, I’d buy a baker’s dozen. That’s all.

Watch Peacebone

This is an epic saga. Watch it. Enjoy it. Be tantalized.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fxvGHQHiY70&feature=related

Olfactory

Cussshhhhhh. “Uh, Sound Factory, we have a bit of a problem.” The window had a thin layer of condensation settling from a hot pass of breath. Michael stood staring into the frosted over infinite. You haven't seen anything if you’ve never seen the abyss of space…

Habeus Corpus

What, may I ask, have you seen in sun? Have you found salvation? Are you a saved man? Have all your dreams and aspirations been realized?

It’s simply not true. There is no such thing as a market crash. Your society has trained you to believe these illusions and panic over every shift from your comfort zone. Just because you can’t see your face doesn’t mean it’s not there. For the world will live in shambles until we discover a supernatural being. The uncovering of the Loch Ness monster will reveal the truth of life. Once Bigfoot is on display in the Brooklyn zoo, we can finally sleep at night. Who knew a size 24 foot would be the solution to the fuel crisis. A goat genocide really will bring us a lifetime of world peace: if you can gut a mouthful of four leaf clovers, you’ll never get sick again. Seriously. Blissful expressions come from kissable kittens. Why? The machines know. Telepathic machines. Mathematical machines. Machines with arms. Machines with fans. Machines with pans. Cooking machines. Is that so abstract? Perhaps not, but it still cooks. And if it cooks, it’s my friend. Friends cook for friends, and if Mr. Machine cooks for me, he is my friend.

Welcome One, Welcome All!

Hello fellow American. Here do write I things. New to me and so form and formality and formalities will cut be for me. Enjoy please do and do the enjoy. I will no longer repeat the repeated or reiterate the reiterated or beat the beaten or trod the trodden. New beginnings for everyone! And I truly mean everyone...