Please Save Him, Please...

It’s the smell. It really fucking creeps up on you, man. It would stop me, but who do I think I am? You think that’ll really stop me? Good fucking luck, man. I could wake up in a tub of ammonium carbonate and still light up. We’ve been conditioned to believe in conditioning, but it’s really all bullshit. That seems contradictory, doesn’t it? I guess it does, but hey, what the fuck are you gonna do? We all complain about something, but the most we get is ten percent off our next purchase.
Oh, you found a frog’s foot in your soup? We are so sorry; we’ll replace that order right away. Oh yes, of course, you can have anything you’d like sir. Your bill will be on the house, sir. Yes, sir, no problem. Want me to suck your ass? But of course, only the finest for you. I insist, please take a shit on our front steps. Nuestra casa es su casa. Do whatever the fuck you want. It’s really A-O-fucking-K. I’ll get you some lemon juice right away. I mean, I’m sure I could find you a sanitary needle, but what for….i’m gonna have to call the cops.
I don’t need to deal with that kind of shit. Please don’t suck me into your self-loathing paradoxical atrocities. I don’t need this. Just walk away from this taco stand and live your life. Uninterrupted. Dare you abrupt me? I divulge, I DIVULGE.
I found myself in a maze of grand fir. I didn’t know which way was North so I started to walk aimlessly. You could call it aimless, but I feel like I had a purpose. A real purpose, man. I trust intuition. It’s the only reliable source we have. That and the IRS, but who’s going to believe the IRS, despite all the surgery they perform? I certainly wouldn’t, I know that much. You fucking idiots. You scum. You disgust me. Go back to your humble abode in the middle of every dilapidated farm you pass in the country. That’s where you live. For ever. For. Ever.


Going back to Cali. Cali. Cali. Going back to Cali…..I don’t think so. Eat my ass, faggot.

GOD DAMN YOU Kevin, god damn you

I’m so sad. I’m so lonely. I am slime. I commit crimes in my mind and then slide the handle of the hatch to alleviate the mind fuck I go through every day. Mind fuck me. Do it. You dirty slut. I understand where you’re coming from, but there’s really no need for that. You realize that’s a weapon, you know? I don’t give a shit if they’re fucking Prada, don’t stab me with that shit. It hurts. Like my beard hurts. We can duel as long as I get the other one. Mono y mono. You get it, fuckhead? Dipshit? You’re worth nothing. You’ll never amount to anything. You’re scum. I scrape you off my shoe. I see you lying face down in the gutter and I spit on you. That’s how below me you are. I can’t believe I’m even addressing you right now, you don’t even deserve my attention. I shouldn’t even waste my mind power on you. You’re just so god damn captivating. What is that? It’s a black hole of attention. You just fucking eat it all up and don’t even realize it. You fucking ingrate. You take it away from me. It’s not fair. IT’S NOT FAIR. God himself sculpted me out of the finest flesh he has in his kitchen and you, you deformed freak, steal it all with a stare. How ridiculous. I could make Narcissus himself gaze up from the water but you manage to win every time. I guess people like a freak. I come packed with the charm of an English schoolboy yet you’ve got your head in between a woman’s legs half the week. It’s fucking ridiculous, man.

Stalin, Tell Me How My Ass Taste

Snow dicks. I bet her nipples are especially erect. I mean, shit, they’re straight chilling. We should put a baby in between them. Nurse that child. Nurse that wild child, he needs domestication. Throw him in a cage and wait two days. See what happens. That’s how you make a glass baby into stone. Rough him up a bit. It’s really the only full-proof means to make sure your kid’s not a pussy. I don’t want to come home one day and walk into a YMCA brothel in my den. That’s not what I want. The not that I do not want. God, just the blankness is coming over me. A general malaise. A mayonnaise. Malayonaise. Mayonnaise is malaise. THEY ARE ONE. ONE HOLY UNION. The trinity of the pyramid. The three corners. The trifecta. Napoleon’s triumvirate. My-umvirate. And then he died!

He's So Vain

It was silent as to where you could hear each flake hit the surface. That eerie calmness in the middle of the woods where you can hear each movement your body makes.
“I can hear the sirens,” Marv said as he stared up into the air.
“I don’t get it. I really don’t, Marv. What’s the point of having two lines? I mean, I can obviously see one. I just don’t see the point in wasting all that paint and all that time. The whole system’s corrupt. That’s why Calamity has no idea what is going on for the fair enough of the lots of stuff is not the stuff for which I may biff baff shiff shaff. I have never experienced something like hearing the Talking Heads in their full glory. It’s fantastic.
What does the real mind think about the manger and the hay?
Which came first, masochism or sadism? Or perhaps they’ve been around since, say, Sodom and Gomora? Zing!
The complications that ensue a massive stuffed animal slaughterhouse are unbearable to watch. If you have ever seen that much stuffing at once, you’ll never look at the world again. I’d rather perish to a terrible death like Ebola than have to work in a place like that. How can anyone function after having to pull apart so many of those poor innocent souls? The functioning soul needs sleep and if it does not receive that essential vitamin of life, it will forever live in a void of fulfillment with no salvation. Enjoy your late night life, because it will come to a very terrible and abrupt end. Still waiting….I’m still waiting.

A lasting soul in the heart of the jungle fever forest…

Ts: there is no way that you can eat your way out of here, it’s too thick, you’ll never make it

Cici: are you kidding me? That’s like 3 mouthfuls, tops. I’ll bet you 30 blasto units that I can eat my way through in less than 2 minutes. Guaranteed.

Ts: that’s absolutely ridiculous. I’ll take that bet and thank you for your money now. You’re delusional.

Rue: Wait wait wait wait. I don’t see what the problem here is. Why are you trying to eat your way out of here. There’s no reason to leave. Look at this place, it’s outrageous; where else are you gonna find something like that table made of carbs or that light fixture. That fixture only uses 32 photons. That’s saving the earth, man. We gotta save the earth, man.

Ts: What? Whatever, you better pay up after you lose this Cici. I’ll be over here, just come put it in my hand when you’re finished.

Take Them To The Curb!

Behind a set of bars lies the truth of my life. He saved my life by sacrificing his. But who gives a shit about him, I’m ALIVE. ALIVE. ALIVE.


My house is brown. It has a cat in it. It also has a dog in it. I’m happy I live there because I like my cat and dog. Sometimes I like to walk out of my front door and look into the street. I wish I had neighbors. It gets lonely here. Max and Clyde help but aren’t much more than a figment of my imagination. Sometimes I’m not sure if they’re really there. I can touch them so I should think they are real, but I can never really know.

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.