Cologne

•March 24, 2013 • Leave a Comment

Cologne reminds me of too many things,

like each part of my life is set in a smell.

So when we went out,

and I expected the worse,

I put on cologne I would never wear,

just so I wouldn’t have to take in the scent of failure.

So I suppose if it worked out,

then I’d be stuck wearing a scent I didn’t like,

so I’d smell it anyway.

Lose lose.

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A satire in prose

•March 23, 2013 • Leave a Comment

It’s a bad, first draft….Also, I put in a lot of references to bizarre religions; I felt it was pretty humorous.  By the way, though it may seem like it, I’m not making fun of God.  I’m trying to say that some modern sects of “Christianity” have strayed from the Bible’s actual teachings.  I think once you’ve seen people holding up signs that say, “God hates fags,” this becomes pretty apparent.  That’s not even the main point I’m trying to make anyways…

 

He sits there with his button-down shirt and his baby-smooth chin, a truly fantastic array of commodities oozing from his pores, all to make himself look good for the prodigious blubber of humans surrounding him.  Everyday he submerges himself in sewage and cavorts with the prepubescent sewer-babies; everyday he gawks through his telescope and worships planet Venus−the origin of all things scientific; and everyday he stuffs ufology-based dingbats/doohickeys up his bum while the epitome of modern evangelicals feed him fish to make him “more religious.”  Even his primrose dog, with her glorious coat of strikingly pale hair, is not for him, but for the minds of others, for their infinite benefit.  Though his body tells him otherwise, he remains stagnant, because if he starts to ponder, the fright of life’s tangible nature would kill him.  Thus, he stays blindfolded.  Tired and drained from when he gets home from his twelve o’clock appointment, he’ll jump in a galactic tube and boil his flesh just so he can be orange like all the other confederates.  A sort of revival from steeping in communal esteem, a marinating in the love that only a truly inanimate object can give.

 

Oh, wouldn’t mamma be proud of her boy now.  Wouldn’t she be enthralled with his social esteem and glamorous magazines sprawled throughout the kitchen.  Yes, he thought, her incredible zest for lobster statuettes and porno wallpaper would be almost too much to handle; he’d have to shove her in his suitcase with the other women, all the while their masochistic squeals exploding like dynamite, as he rubs himself with bananas and other exotic fruit.  Then, when he’s drained of enthusiasm and zeal, he’ll pop open season one of Oprah and take notes.  Because who needs the Bible when you have TV land on demand.  And who needs Jesus when you have Bob Dobbs and X.  But soon, when he’s fifty or so, his rotting flesh will prompt him to look a little deeper.  Though he needn’t worry right now, because the doctor said, “odds are you’ll live until you’re seventy.”  So he’ll smoke and drink until he’s sober enough to have a baby−after all, in 2020 we won’t want to discriminate, so we’ll allow men to have babies too.  Oh, wouldn’t Barrack be proud when that day comes!  Just like Ma used to say.

 

So for now, he’ll live for the moment and he’ll live for the crowd: whatever ‘floats his boat’ and ‘makes him feel good.’  Soon he’ll be dead though, in a stupefied state like he didn’t know what was coming.  Soon the funeral home will shut the coffin like a bank vault; they’ll make his body look deceptively clean and well, while people he never cared to know bow and give sentiments.  But he won’t hear them; he won’t care, and in a few weeks, no one will remember him, and no one will care.  All the greasy praise, all the greasy money, and all the greasy food will vanish into thin air, creating a cloudy miasma.  And some authoritative man draped in black will tell them he went to heaven regardless.

 

Updated draft

•March 21, 2013 • Leave a Comment

Maybe one last orgasm,
or one last drag.
Maybe one last spicy Frito,
dipped in a luxurious fountain of chocolate−
or one more pill−until the bottle and bag are empty.
Then with the flick of my tongue,

with the quick swallow of guaranteed happiness,

I’ll ward off death again.
And soon, as promised by the nutrition label, I’ll rest.

But first let met take in the sweet inhalation of a second joint,
and feel the sweet, limp eyes, and
the kaleidoscopic chemicals working their way slowly into my brain until I become a dog and bark at passing strangers that look like rainbow-colored farts.
Maybe then I’ll rest.
But first, just one more temporary high;
Just one more prick of one more dirty needle,
so I can watch the blood trickle down,
and become a slick stream of scarlet on my arm,
coagulating around the other scarred memories,
while my heart struggles to pump the thick, red grease through its feeble conduits.
And when the hours gone and the high subsides,
I’ll flick open my glistening, rectangular god,
making the room burn with colorful, feverish dreams.
And with a few soothing strokes and probes later,
I’ll be fine:
asleep waiting for death−
or the next hazy day:
whichever comes first.
But first I’ll take a virtual whiff of some virtual girl showing me her virtual breasts,
the jiggling plasticity microwaving my pupils,
while I read what the TV guide has to say about love and other contingencies school had never planned for.
And when I finally realize my need to be a real man-
with real thoughts and real emotions-
so I can please another expiring lump of flesh-with bulging, brown eyes and bulging, brown feet,
dirty from experience-
I’ll flip open to the movie section,
with its fading, tear-smeared words,
and watch a George Clooney movie.

Currently untitled

•March 15, 2013 • Leave a Comment

Maybe one last orgasm,

or one more drag.

Maybe one last spicy Frito,

covered in chocolate−

just like my steaming corpse.

Maybe just one more pill,

or until the bottle’s gone,

as I ward off death again with a flick of my tongue.

The sweet inhalation of a second joint,

The sweet limp eyes afterward, and

the kaleidoscopic chemicals working their way slowly into my brain as I become a dog and bark at the passing strangers.

 

Just one more temporary high;

Just one more prick of one more dirty needle,

so I can watch the blood trickle down:

A slick stream of scarlet on my arm,

coagulating around the other scarred memories.

And when the hours gone and the high subsides,

I’ll flick open my beaming god,

The room burning with colorful, feverish dreams.

And a few soothing strokes and a few addictions later,

I’ll be fine:

asleep waiting for death−

or the next day:

whichever comes first.

 

But first I’ll take a virtual whiff of some virtual girl showing me her virtual breasts,

the jiggling plasticity microwaving my pupils,

while I read what the TV guide has to say about love and other contingencies school never taught me.

And when I finally need to know how to be a man,

To please a flesh-woman with bulging, brown eyes and bulging, brown feet,

dirty from past experience,

i’ll flip open to the movie section,

with its fading, smeared words,

and watch a George Clooney movie.

Home

•March 5, 2013 • Leave a Comment

Rough draft

NEW BLOG

Her sidewalk chalk,

her humble cries– and stone-grey eyes,

soft lips that talked once:

now too chapped to break the crusted muck.

She writes all along the concrete,

up until that mossy crack near the street where daddy said not to cross,

pouring out her willing, living heart;

pumping red dust out onto the stone, and green dust towards her home,

she draws and draws and cries and cries, but mother’s inside,

cooking on the stove just to breath in the steam for a second more,

to take in a few more thickly scented trails of smoke,

before she crawls back to bed

to wait for the rain to cease its thumping,

so she can read those chalky poems her daughter wrote—smeared on the concrete floor,

and fulfill at least one promise before she’s too red-eyed and tired to offer ears to her little girl:

outside writing on the concrete,

offering dusty words to the dead gods she once believed in−

to the dead stars she once saw, and to the brittle, glass eyes that once beheld her art.

She

•February 28, 2013 • Leave a Comment

Just some stupid, sappy stuff.

Check out my new blog! Thanks!

The blond-blue strands of highlighted beauty flew around her soft, intriguing body,

glistening in the moon’s unnaturally bright light.

She stepped closer, her delicate feet whispering to the grass−

parting the air molecules with her beauty,

her intricate, sublime beauty that illuminated her every pore,

her every feature.

It seemed to radiate from her glistening face,

her deep-red, porous lips−

creating a supernatural aura that lifted her a thousand feet into the air,

while I just looked up with my feeble eyes,

with my subpar feet,

holding my subpar body with barely enough strength to subdue my flying stomach and my fluttering heart.

Already Dead

•February 27, 2013 • Leave a Comment

Heres my new blog, check it out! Thanks!

 

Giving a speech on a podium doesn’t make you God,

and holding a sign doesn’t make you right.

Last time I read the Bible,

Jesus never held a sign except for when he died,

But at least that sign held true.

All the signs these days,

they’re holding them too high: maybe their eyes cant see that far;

and all the podium speakers;

they’re standing too upright: maybe their eyes cant see that low;

I bet if they bent down from their own atmospheric haze

that they create when they fill their speaker with pious hate, and

wipe the dust from their eyes, and unload their tranquilizer gun,

we’d all be a little more sane, a little more open to reason.

granted, we might have to wait a couple hundred years until the knives behind our backs disintegrate out of our clutched hands,

but when they did we could take that hand and create a sign that said “God loves gays…and babies.”

We could take that extra hand and unplug the podium speaker, walk into the syrupy crowd, and just take in the scents of thousands of people until our minds fixed themselves…

or until our minds released enough dopamine so we couldn’t think straight:

we’d fumble with our crooked legs,

nature directing our footsteps until she led us off a cliff.

Then there wouldn’t be hate,

because corpses rarely produce conflict;

but there wouldn’t be love,

because corpses cant hug,

and dead bodies smell and don’t look good,

and nobody in their “right mind” wants to love a corpse.