Monthly Archives: November 2016

Fairytale Fucks

Lip-lickin’ hot honey off a ribcage comb

the sound comes at me like a hot faucet, full

blast, then cuts.

Barbie chapstick pink like squishy and smack

the lids flit above eyes

that gloss up round the back

knead my skin, need my hold

grind galloping sea sail frolicking into the undertoe.

Steed, ride me,

knight knit in nightime

find me fluttering up from lifting eyelashes

bite your lip, I bite it for you

a hip slip implores you

to composure after sweet-brief exposure

unfold me, book bindings

light shines out from the findings

an index finger dive in

parting me down the hot spot,

down the prickle and pins

I’m pulsing needle piercings

pure pleasure pulls in

pierced and pardoned,

the princess departed,

and bitch wicked nightmares

pierce dreams


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Filed under Poetry

Dear Zach,

I’m feeling kinda down & out rn. About the existence of humans. It’s so goddamned pitiful, and yet suicidal thoughts are something to be ashamed of. I think people must be downright delusional for not having dark thoughts. I wonder if there’s a depression version of Chicken Soup for the Soul, because I’m always skeptical of the happiness other people project themselves to be. Everyone looks gilded when you ask them how they are. I know I do. Whenever someone asks me why I’m not smiling, I can’t help but wonder why they’re not screaming.

And don’t get me wrong, I can accept the human condition. Part of me is vaguely curious about how I’ll handle old age, and if I’ll stick to the convictions I have today. I just couldn’t bear to accept fully the world we live in. I worry about getting treated for depression, because I worry I’ll get brain washed – or worse, persuaded to give up this realistic outlook on the modern human condition in return for becoming a grotesque again.

“I want to live an honest life”~ And the thing is, sometimes I feel SO happy. Everything is beautiful and sacred, even the mundane and the empty moments. But, other times, I just can’t seem to connect with that part of myself that sees life so optimistically. I just feel restless and discontent and a mild type of frustrated that only depressed people could understand.

I know the cycle. I’m down for a while. I don’t feel like smiling, or even getting out of bed sometimes. It goes on indefinitely until one morning, I wake up and the sun is shinier than usual and it doesn’t sting to open my eyes. My coffee tastes like ritual, instead of everything tasting mildly rotten. And then I say the things that Evan says and I actually mean them this time because I’m there. I’m experiencing love for every human and their struggles and joys. I’m like a God.

But now? People tell me about their lives and I wait for the punchline. They’re the insane ones for being so okay with the world that we’re in. I remember reading about the changing middle class and the oppression of the masses in school, but it only recently occurred to me that I’m one of them. I had some idea that being an American made me something like a king – true in a worldwide context, but in the big picture, I’m the 99% being exploited for my body and libido to keep a world that favors THEM going. I don’t work for myself, I work for people with money.

With love,


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Filed under Thoughts

Man is Asleep

Man is asleep. I am awake, in my

bed, watching all the lifeless

dreamers with smiles on their faces.

snarls on their faces

tossing and turning and writhing in bed

from nightmares, then

lulled back through dreams.

Now and then, a horrible nightmare will wake them sobbing, only

to realize that all else are sleeping.

Man is asleep, but I am awake.

I’m having a cigarette, thinking

I shouldn’t smoke in bed

I must get up soon – it’s urgent

that I get up,

But I don’t know what for

I’m thinking about getting up

I’m confronting my existence

alongside what’s for breakfast.

I see some injecting, snorting, huffing

breathing their way back to sleep

And I am here

I see them reading their bibles

till they’re all droopy-eyed and

sheepish smiles, counting

themselves on a quest for blindness.

The morning floor feels good on my

bare toes.

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Filed under Uncategorized

Pan Performers

With cloven hooves and woven brews, You sing
The sweetest tempest of the sea, You bring
You shake my gut
You fill my rut
You fool of moon and thundering.
Twirl into my belly button, I command thee
spin me undone from my wind sung insides
Tie my toes in knots and push me down twine vied slides
Pierce the underside of my jaw with your fishing wire and string me up on the highest spire
I’m through with the earthly
and beginning to end birthing
I speak in scents and communicate in eyes
Your debaucherous harangue, my senses despise
Are we players or the played, I’ve seen only one show
And everyone and their mother are characters, dontcha know?
We all see it go down and look over noses, frowns,
in the lords’ contemptuous room
Although it stands higher, it’s the lowest tomb,
I’m prone to the melancholy mood
Wrapping myself in blankets, sheaths of mundane gloom
Turning face into pillow and sighing at the moon,
five more minutes, but the show goes on
At curtain call I lack the wherewithal
to do the play again
The chorus chimes in Shakespeare’s rhymes
I nod off in my hems.
Where’s the sexuality in this reality
the lust to get me through
to look upon brothers and dance without shutters.
Society pleas with me,
put on your costume
My gut wrenched grief speaks to me
with scissor sharp words
to punch through my stitches and carve curtain cords
This stage is a building and buildings are boxes
that cover our natures and cover our crotches
don’t play this little game,
do somersaults instead…
I’m insulted and faulted and run back to bed.
But not for sleep this time, no
but for self exploration
For indulging the bulging nerve of temptation
my quivering navel, breathes in achoos
I have no more to hate and no more to loose,
Naked as I am, I’ve got choices to choose
Charge forth, I do
in the nuptial hour
and take my place in the spotlight
spread as an eagle
speaking to the audience of opiated receivers
“Adieu, Adieu” I say, stoking their fevers,
turn and walk off trailing transfixed gazes.
Their jaws hang loose when they notice
how empty the stage is.

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Filed under Poetry

The Need for Danger

Telling yourself “this is the last time”. Last time for hooking up with strangers and getting away with it, last time taking mystery substances, last time walking down Anderson at 3am, last time driving too high, too drunk, too tripped out, last time lying to the boss, last time manufacturing a whole universe behind the ‘my car wouldn’t start’ story.

All the illegal things we do, the immoral, as well, feel so tense in the moment. The build up of the expectation for the moment it will fail, just before it crosses the threshold of getting away with it; pulling into the garage, locking the door, closing your eyes, opening and releasing the breath that’s been choking up your stomach. It goes back to when we were children, just after learning we could get away with lying. The one time our parents don’t catch us and distinguish truth from reality, we have a seed of hope planted in our cunning. Our own little secret, pregnant with possibilities.

Every night after I heave my body of sweat and grease buildup into my Honda civic after work, I begin the ritual of rolling a joint. Sometimes a spliff, sometimes with mullein or lavender to cut the almost wine-like cooking taste of blue dream. I tap the volume up as high as it goes, light the twisted paper at the end and zoom away, down one of the back streets of Middletown. Over the period of months it’s been since I graduated the court-ordered Drug Diversion program, enforced after my marijuana related arrest, I’ve worked the required number of intoxicants from one spliff, up to a bowl hit + two pure-blood joints accompanying my nighttime meanderings. Whatever winds my eyelids down to halfway when I notice a deer the moment just before too late.

The first time, it was going to be just a special trip, but after three months it’s a habit. My comprehension that should I be pulled over, any dumb officer could see my eyes, smell the interior of my car, badly coated with Zum spray and charred cigarette butts, and ask me to step out of the vehicle before placing me into the caring, seatbeltless, hard plastic of his own backseat to ensure that I’m no longer a danger to the other midnight motorists (who after three months, I have concluded are all doing the exact same thing, some with liquor, my favorites with strange). I now the risk every time I take it, and I cherish it. It’s something like freedom, knowing that what you want to do is understood as prohibited by everyone, but having the secret knowledge of just when that’s going to stop you from doing it anyway.

It’s the need for danger that makes it feel so good. The moment you turn down a side street, like Aladdin snaking through the bizarre with a loaf of Walt Disney animated bread in his arm, and lose the car that wasn’t a police cruiser but was following you anyhow. The breath right after the clench. It feels a little like being a hominid hunter after slaughtering the big bad, but more self-indulgent. The same breath that whispers in your most vulnerable ear “I got away with it, this time”.

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Filed under Adventures, Dialectic, observations


As Ben breathed the chlorine smoke of his barren cigarette, its dwindling cherry chugged its own cloud to envelop his head. She’d told him to smoke his cigarette and then meet her on the hill that overlooked the bay, where they’d greet the sunrise with their truest moment. Ben released the harsh draft through his nose and knew by its taste that this cigarette was nearing its end.

She’d been quiet for years, but her solemn silence had flickered to light on this escaping night. Ben always felt an intoxicated air around her. A feeling in his chest, only when she was near, which escaped all too truly when they returned to their separate beds. Katey always slept so easily. He’d lay awake and think about his sore throat.

On that night he’d traded her his contemplative disposition for her carpe diem song. She was grim and silent, the illusion broken by his confession. They’d sat leaning against his car, shoulder to shoulder. (Ben presently reminded himself amidst his very near recollection to leave the keys on the dash for her when he was done. It couldn’t be 5 am yet. No one would be at the bay at this hour to steal them before she realized.) The line their shoulders created against each other formed the same drunken ’s’ that separated yin from yang. He’d smiled, released, at the wind tickling her mundane expression with her own curls. Katey wouldn’t meet his eyes. She’d only dropped her balled fist, slowly bringing it to rest over his open palm.

Ben sucked a final tug from the fag. It had tasted so stale, and was finally ripening. The wind cut ripples into the bay, making the reeds dance like beckoning fingers. A queer question, the wind blew.

Her body’d felt hot and vital against his, her lips shuttered, perhaps by the winds prompting as well.

She’d pulled back with tears in her eyes, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he pulled her in again. Her expression sank even further, pulling back again.

“Dont ruin it,” he’d placed a single finger to button her lips. Katey smiled, truthfully this time.

“Let’s go to the top of the hill while the sun comes up”

“After a cigarette,” he’d reasoned as she started up. Katey hated his smoking.

Ben walked the smoky butt to the water’s edge, the memory of her smile shiny and concrete in his mind. At this moment, she was probably rolling a joint for them to share in the red eyed rising sun. Ben’s bare toes swam in the welcoming water. He let the ruddy cherry extinguish itself on the water’s surface, as it fell from his hand. Ben dropped himself, reaching the water’s depth in which buoyancy sets in.

Ben walked into the water.

The new sun cast beams through its clear surface, which closed about his dusty crown with the grace of a mouth at rest.

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Filed under Short Story