End of Halloweentime.

All I did in October was live scarily.

Halloweentime.

All I'm doing in October is living scarily

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.