Stupidest

Sigh...

There are times when I really regret the stupid shit I do. Times when all I can do is think, "Really? Fucking really? Did you just do that?" Cutting off my index fingers was one of those times. Now the table is all messy and my glasses are fogging up. Spurt spurt, splish splash. Dry drool, crust enacted Christ. I can almost feel them still there. What will happen to my talents? My middle finger will become heightened in ego. It's already started. It's swelling with newly grasped importance and feeble rage through pain. I point at someone and it's a fucking malediction. Alas and alack!

I ne'er thought it through

Sometimes, it's almost easier to forget your face. To breathe out and not think that you've been breathing that in.

The night in which I actually meet my expectations for you just hasn't gone by yet. In those 3 minutes in which I genuinely think about my life before I pass out, I feel so guilty, I feel so blue. Just knowing that I still love you, it'll never fucking be through.

Not too bad, I guess. Could be worse, I guess. You could be a ghost in my brain.

Spaceboy

I like to remember my childhood memories. Some of them are still around. I used to live in Alaska.

On the beach, we had only a little bit of sand. It was mostly giant boulders and torn up logs. I was young, everything was enormous, yet it seemed so normal to me. The rocks and I had the same objectives. They were castles, I was the astronaut. The sticks were my laser guns, and the logs were the bridges between space and time. I'd run over the huge stones and crouch on top, surveying the ocean. Life was an island, and on that island was my imagination. And even on such a small island as the one I called home, there was more.

J--'s Island, they called it. It was a small place, only about half a mile wide and long. Trees brimmed over the edges so that it seemed they'd fall off into the water. But it wasn't deep around one edge, the one that went back to the beach. My six year old body could wade from one island to the other. It was my island, my home away from home. If I'd ever been taken with a need to run from home, why, I knew just where I'd go. The trees and the rocks and the logs and the bushes.

I was always searching. It seemed there was something else in the forests. I'd climb through the underbrush and find passageways in the bushes, places to hide. From what? From my parents? From my friends? Or maybe just from myself. I was nowhere, no one could find me. And I was young enough to convince myself I was the only one left on Earth.

The Host

The worm's been in my stomach for three days now. I can feel it humming. It's whispering, too. Like it has some wild ideas to share. I want it to go, I want to be alone. Food doesn't satisfy my gaping hunger, the worm eats it all. I've thought in jest of naming it, but always feel unsettled and vulnerable. It's happening in the living room. The living dead. On the telephones. They jump into each others' minds, just like the worm jumped down my throat. I could kill myself, but then it'd just feed off my cold dead body. I was born in 1981 with two crescent shaped scars on my wrists. They told my parents I was a cold-hearted boy, a snow-flaked wisp. Never saw, never thought. The future was a place for those who dwelt in the past. No one else has a worm. This is my own treachery, my own despoiled body. Smoking cigarettes, drinking alcohol, eating fast food, breaking fingers, on my knees, begging for change, pulling the handle, and cocking the pistol.

Our Protagonist is a Wasp

Our protagonist is a wasp that has been struck in the head, leading to irreparable brain damage. He will die in a few days anyway, but during his stay on Earth, he will be shunned by his fellow hivemates. His perception will be altered, and the few behavioral processes he will be able to maintain will be altered. This collision will not render him useless; however, he will no longer be able to operate for the good of his hive and society.

Those Gypsies

They've got an old shoebox with dicks and cards
It's the last six weeks of rent and dead rent notes
"No, officer, I've done nothing wrong"
An ecological disaster fell out the shower stall
Cause if there's a will, there's a way
And no way will I for you prescribe
An antiquated bucket of shock "Gore pus plague"
Cold because I've lost the urge to write

I brushed the ant with my stylus
A value judgment that my words bent

Doughboys with plastic bags
Virgin Marys with blue eyes and necks

Right Red Lights

There's a tire iron in the trunk.
And the backseat has a fire alarm.
Oh shit!
I saw a gunshot smoke break clear and free.
Whisk, whiz, fly home, little birdy.

Diabolive oil

I like eating fresh meat.
There's something about the taste of blood.
Maybe it's the drool running down my chin.
I can't tell if it's drool or just my head playing tricks on me.
Should I care? Well, I'm not Jewish.
That kosher business doesn't worry me.
Should I do it? Certainly.
Well, it's not like he's hurting anymore.
And cook it? Well, maybe.
Apparently there's a risk of salmonella.
But that's about the same risk for me as cancer.
I smoke only about four cigarettes a day.
Risky business, smoking.

Neckwound

Despite the vast majority of nothing surroundings me,
And despite the falls from grace that led to the emptiness inside of me,
I still am able to concentrate my thoughts to a state of perpetual comfort in my life.

Opry Queen

I thought you were supposed to be
Every bad debt paid in full
With a push for forgiveness
And a life with untold grievances
To get a new wife blocked.

Entwixt the bears and wolves
I called my home
And with a life in fetters
I will pull my own

Death of a Wasp

Across the street
People can look so far away
As they fix their hair
And balance on one foot

It's a bridge to cross it's a line to follow
Fucking burned to the ground
And now his days to live have ended
For I have crushed fucking soul with a bottle
Amputated his abdomen with glass and malice.
His mind's fucking racing: what is he thinking?!

The cuts!

Ants crawling up the glass slippery fate
Tiny arms kissing porcelain and lymph
Wherever his legs touched ground
Disappear his surroundings slowly
A god of filth and disease

It just doesn't come easily to me like you'd think. I see the prototypes and their flippant nonchalance, their practiced belligerence. Not my life, not my style, not even something I can wrap my head around. I can

approximate it and acquire its benefits, but I feel false and callow. Certainly, I can't belittle it, because it works for them. The only reason I even bother is that you seem to like it, so I proceed. But it's a flawed facade and I just want you to know.

Hmm.

If there was a way to escape from this endless cycle of vicious paranoia, self-hatred, loneliness, and denial, I would take it. I mean, if it didn't involve killing myself. But so far, all I've got is a few months of time to waste and spend face down in my bed at night.
My connections on the internet are superficial and helpless. These aren't really reassuring, I don't really let them be. I'm just praying that when I go to see her and try to forge a new fucking lifestyle it doesn't collapse by my own downer nationality.

Autonomous was the word I was looking for.

This seizure is anotamous
How the fuck do you spell
anatomus? Is that even a
a word?
Do I mean to say that
our corporeal lifestyle is
autonamous? Fuck me.
Automatic... auto...
automatic? Fuck
Ah ton eh moos
That's gotta be a fucking
word, c'mon
Means robotic, continuous,
automatic yet not rote
Self governing


Fuck!

An Excursion

We are a comatose, web-enshrined society. Due to our very human
collective reality, we chose to ensnare ourselves with rules,
agendas, propaganda in order to further a more deliberate and
actualized human race. This is by no means unhealthy, but
certainly not insurmountable. What is possible is to flaunt
these societal rules. I speak not of social roles or a higher
state of humanity. It is merely true that our perception is
utilized to conceptualize these contextual goals.

This leads us to a different conclusion. If these rules are
perceived through societal constructs and environments we build
around ourselves, a few can hijack the trains of thought
leading us to forgone conclusions. If one so desires, the
shuddering glass walls around us can be breathed clean of
fog. Our reality is relative, so why not deconstruct it? Look
past these preimposed notions of societal existence: look for what
is never seen at first.

Cancers

Don't tell the world that I'm going home
cause I'm going home tonight
Don't tell my friends that I feel alone
I'm not alone tonight
And if you know my parents
tell them I'll be all right
tell them I'll be just fine
And if you know my lover
tell her that I still love her
even if it's just for one more night

I'm gonna miss my pets
and the relics of my life
all the posters on my wall
And I'm gonna miss my house,
my apartment, my campus
my surroundings, and everything I've built
So don't let me get in the way
of your world
cause I got it all planned out
Don't let me get away with this
please save me
before I try to commit the crime of your kiss

Diamant

Reconstructed the skeleton, set him on the floor
Incisions rescinded and tissues replaced
No lightning bolts, just scalpels and grease
Just handcuffs and a forty four
No Lovecraftian errors to spare
Removed the eyes from the sockets
Replaced conniptions with pure purpose
His skull sloshed with acid
Two beakers full: he shall not be placid

Pirate Battlesong

On a ship setting sail with bitter wind on my face
I will unload my revolver
British troops, they fall!
I'm no privateer, there are no flags to give me fear
Burning timber is by far my comfort
I will set my hair aflame
JUST TO FUCK YOUR SHIT UP

Corporately Getting Invisible

The axis has descended
on poor Richard's arms
He is an unlawful contribution
A meat puppet, a flesh-and-stiltskin
The flesheaters anoint him
With their barbarous kisses
He is amused: their pockets sink

"That girl's ass looks tight."
"I bet I could make it tighter."

Punch you in the face with my love.

Dinnertime!

I'm ready to eat!
I love eating dinner
Especially spaghetti!
With scrumptious sauce
Go fetch me a pizza
A turkey! A cow!
I'll eat til I'm popping
I will eat it all!!

Raptor

She had feet like railways
You could hear the smallest movements
As she swayed

Broadcasting from this little house
The father wiped hair from his eyes
He'd built a bridge for the voices in his head
They opened eyes underneath his skin

A Murder of Silhouettes

I

She pulled herself around on her broken spine. Pulled it like she had a point to make. What her mouth spelled was no word for the bevy of codeine vampires that affixed themselves to her strata. They shivered and gibbered, affianced to her sweet aroma.
"I do not ghost ride the fucking whip," Keats said with authority, her dignity flaming fuck you's. She held the door open as a moth flew in, hoping to meet a butterfly. Keats smiled, she'd seen the moths flutter straight onto the flypaper we'd glued to the coffee table. I sat back on the bar, a coka-cola in one hand and a cigarette and a shot in the other. The medikamenten in my stomach had started fucking with my head. PM and AM were all mixed up, daylight shone breezily in a waft that stunk of daisies. The moth quivered, asked for dandy-lion wine and stuck its nose out for a sip. I flicked a black fingernail out and severed its ties to the earth. Keats got on the couch next to the girl and all her admirers, their suckers praying for a grasp.
It was 1934 and the bubbles in the champagne burst pretty sepia. The ne'er-do-well threw her hat on a rack and gave me a look like we didn't have enough bullets for the proboscis-wearers around the lady. Her dress was almost off her and vodka saturated the air around her.

II

I was a darling number named Delilah at this point, but colours were already more vivid than the Yellow Submarine. "I don't need another," I slurred to Keats. She wasn't actually a woman, but for the sake of moths and the suction cup black hole in the blue dress, we had agreed upon this beforehand. I didn't think I could pull out my revolver in time, and when I looked at it in my bad, it fairly grinned back at me. "Motherfucker," I breathed out.
"Don't you have any less dreary records?" the lampreys on the couch yawned, their fangs bared at my intentions. Keats grinned as she spit out some paper. "Everything here is broken into fractals, ladies," she laughed. "Our Delilah didn't want to pull the be-bop on a couple of swaggerers."
Stumbled over to the antichrist and sat cross legged on the floor in front of the couch. The pistol tucked in my pocket giggled. "Have you heard of a game called Russian roulette, miss?" I asked the fully aware girl. The suckerfish descended on the moth before I closed my mouth, leaving rorschach patterns on the linoleum.
The Goddess shook as her spine ate up her organs. Keats closed the door and turned off the lamp.

Hari-kari-ku

At just tiny cost

My colossal boot will descend

On your fucking face

Zombie Hat trick

There's so little we take for granted
And it's the hardest things that pass so quickly
Life's pale and uninteresting
When you don't recognize the little things
Brandon Lee said it right
Believe me, nothing is trivial
Everyone needs to find time to doubt themselves

Realizatio

My subconscious wants me to kill myself.

Shit! Fycl!

You were hovering quite slowly above my face so I blew smoke
over up at you. Sky shattered serenely, you lost all dignity. An
overflowing grin split your face up and I couldn't help but smile
back.

A sleeveless shirt is recipe for disaster in these locales, friend.

Growlithe?!

She's so anxious that necklace is choking her
Blowing glances from coiffed eyelashes
Blowing back facial wipes
She's holding back, she's an actress.

Swallow your tongue, don't even think those words again
You're sucking the wrong damn end of the gun
No match for killers, ears peeking out the mirror
Don't vote left right, the equilibrium's blown
Like the shattered windows those politicians blew
With the doves they shot with their twenty-twos

Fucking fascists, fucking beatniks
It's the common sense an obstacle
Burning all your bridges, scars your vision
Stop trying to listen, just stop to think.

Expletiara

Gorilla tranquilizers, I am accursed
Sweet coup d'etat, show me your purse ma'am
Far too small, fuckin' assembly line
Got bent on your mother's transmission fluid and lime
Now slow yourself down, corrupted mothership
Bank noted suicide, forget your chill pills:
this time it's real.

Lost perfectionism is that art unsaid
Gone blue and black, all pulled and stacked
Yesterday I lost the ability to spell my own name

Grievous child, your machinations are full-breasted.

Trainmusic

Rivulets ran up her spine, those virulent affections
Pay no attention to the undue digression
Mixing you back and forth in a waveform progression
Their denial might be protection but it's also a weapon.

My cake tasted like blood when I won it
Achy rusty and no correction from it
Dastardly bastard, the inebriate's a hit
Smile sideways you son of a bitch

Medioration

Sometimes the closest cut makes the least amount of scars.

Encircling rapture just flew up behind my eyes. I'm blind as a bat, mad as a hatter, and chewing gum like a beaver.