The Bitter End Of Winter

December came again
less forcefully this year
but still my December

A frosty lover with familiar curves
bringing snow-caps to crawfish hills
and ice to my dry eyes

and making
everyone else
so fucking cold

(just like me)

Bad Noir In A Bad Way

Okay I tried to do the Noir thing for BOG and this is what I got before I passed out, drunk on the blood of Christ, reading Chimeraworld...


----
Junktown was not an easy place to spend a long night, and something in Dom’s pickled stomach told him this would be a long night indeed. Long nights were bitter alone, and so around 11:42 PM Dom called upon one of the city’s many fine escort services and ordered a low priced girl up to his shadowy apartment.

“Very minimalist, and nice use of lighting.” Said the whore, makeup smeared across her double chin, staring vacantly across Dom’s spartan living room.

“Don’t speak unless spoken to.” Dom replied.

The hooker smiled in somewhat mocking acquisition.

They got to bed.

***
Dom tried just fucking her normal at first, but after a few emotionless thrusts he was forced to get out his knives. She didn’t put up much of a fight and the virus inside his head told him to do so many things with her dead body.

***


Now, not only is it blah… its extremely misogynistic, even for me… this is why I can’t deal with word counts… over 1,000 words Nate, who the fuck do I look like… Proust? ( - :

FOETUS FATALE: FUBAR'D NOIR

Hate to use the site for advertisement but would LOVE to see some submissions from the warped talent on this blog.

I already have an excellent story by Jordan Krall in the TOC.

Here are the guidelines:

http://bucketoguts.wordpress.com/foetus-fatale-fubard-noir/

Mysterious Strangers Meet in a Dark Alley

A man in a dark coat waited at the end of the alleyway, the last ashes of his cigarette falling into the puddle beneath him. His face was shadowed by his wide-brimmed hat. Everything about him was dark.

Another man walked into the alleyway. He was dressed very similar to the first man, except his coat was not as dark. And the brim of his hat was not as wide. He lit a cigarette as he stepped into the alleyway.

"Who are you?" The first man asked.

The second man looked up, surprised, the cigarette fumbled from his fingers. "Oh, sorry didn't see you there."

The first man stepped forward. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm a mysterious stranger. My job is stand at the end of this alleyway and give cryptic advice to people who pass by. Have you come for cryptic advice?"

The first man looked at the mysterious stranger. "That's my job, asshole. Find another place. I'm expecting someone to come looking for clues to the murder of his wife."

The mysterious stranger shook his head. "Nope. Afraid that's my job. I was told to wait here at midnight and say 'The duck flies at dawn.' It's part-time work, but it pays decent."

"You are not nearly as mysterious or cryptic as me." The first man growled.

"I'm ten times more cryptic than you." The mysterious stranger said. He pulled an egg from his coat pocket. "This egg is the wakening voice of your childhood. A gleam of sleepless dreams."

"What?" The first man said.

"A gargle of acid inside the machinations of youth." The mysterious stranger continued.

"What?" The other said.

"See I told you." The mysterious stranger said. "Now beat it. I get paid by the hour."

"Ok." The first man lit six cigarettes. "I guess I won't ask you about my wife then."

The mysterious stranger stared at the first man as he pushed past him and into the fog of the night.

"Huh?" The mysterious stranger scratched his head.

Playing God With Matches

twin hermaphroditic
angels fucking

clockwork cocks
and cunts

a biological symphony


pale flesh
pretzeled
to the point of infinity

oh,
its all downhill from here...


-----------------

Inspired by Alan M. Clark's "Angels" and Wrath and Lee's novella "Teratologist"

"Into The Valley Below"

The highway that wrapped around Mt. Locheaart was like a cold, coiled snake. Robert’s customized sedan rolled on as its driver marveled at the pristine yet somehow chaotic surroundings of Devereaux State Park, its peaks and valleys crisscrossed by wild rivers, a deep green so pure that it was almost blue.

Robert looked back to his side, he was momentarily distracted from the road by the beauty of his young wife Mary, as she sat, long black hair let back to fully embrace the sun, tan and barefoot upon the dash, smoking a girly joint held at a corner of her puffy, perfect, Spanish lips.

His hand on the wheel slipped.

Robert went careening off the side of the Appalachian road into the valley of deadfall below. Before he died, a strange thing happened; the fear, the dire need in his wife's eyes for him at that very moment, looking over, the expression of helplessness all over her face, it all gave him a guilty erection. A tear fell from his eye.

Then he thought of their son at home. Jack was both of them.

And as they fell, wrapped in a tight daredevil's embrace, and as the car broke terminal velocity like a spinning ballerina, Robert entered his wife’s body for the last time in his life.

They become one, infused with scrapmetal and melted rubber and smoking like a spent bullet into the valley below.

A Day In the Life of Chewbacthulhu

Chewbacthulhu braids his tentacles with tufts of his greasy brown fur. "Good hair day!" he roars, prancing around the mirror. Then he bursts into a song written for him (in the third person)by Marvin Hamlisch:


"Chewbacthulhu's too sexy for his wings.

Too sexy for his wings.

They're vestigial things.

He's a model, you know what he means?

It means he shakes his tentacles on the cat walk.

On the catwalk. On the catwalk, yeah. It means he shakes his furry glutes on the
cat walk."

Then he goes off to a photo shoot in Paris (Kentucky).

After a long day of mugging for the camera, he falls asleep dreaming of his own shaggy rump. (Why not, everyone else is?)

Chewbacthulhu wakes only to find himself shaven bald. Each of his luscious tentacles has been nailed to the ground. Marvin Hamlisch is holding a hammer and grinning. The sick fuck. "Bad hair day!" he snarls. "Ha ha ha ha ha! Bad hair day! Bad hair day!"

FIN

The Impressionist

I took my wife to the Monet exhibit at The Museum of Modern Art. I had the sudden urge to deficate and had no time to find a bathroom. I ducked behind one of the paintings and relieved myself on a blank canvas.

At the end of the show we attended an auction. While we both make a decent living, the majority of the items were beyond our reach.

As we got up to leave, someone paid a fortune for a "Just Found" Monet painting.

Irritating Itch

Fred's dog couldn't stop scratching its back. The doberman said, "Please Fred, do whatever you have to to stop this irritating itch."

Fred put his paper down. "No problem buddy."

He returned to the living room with a military-issued flamethrower. He fired it up and threw flame on the still-itching doberman. The dog squealed as it rolled around the carpet, eventually extinguishing the massive blaze.

Now hairless, the doberman's itch had been eliminated.

Fred smiled as he sat back down and watched the dog nibble its testicles.

The Sanctity

last night
was a marriage

of heaven and hell,
of you and me,
of blackmail,
and bittersweet romance

(you called your husband's name,
as you bit my neck)


and I can tell you darling...

the pictures were hardly this incriminating

The Girl Who Would Not Cry

rouge starshine
reflected

animates
your sleeping features

a godless beauty
somehow still mechanical
after such godless work


I think
this might as well
be Golgotha
and not just some dystopian daydream


I think
this might as well
be Sodom
and not just our bedroom



I think
that this could
be Babylon
if only not for your dry eyes

..................

The Taste Of Freedom

this era of glossy singles is over
the vinyl is cracked
and stacked

and peeling


technology has forced
salty socialism
between our lips

and just because you spit
doesn't make you an individual

FRAGMENT

She decided to cut off her finger to see how much blood would spill out.

The movies never got it right. Turns out way more blood than one would imagine flows from the stump of a severed finger. Blood everywhere. Even after she tried to wrap the wound, droplets splashed over everything and she knew she’d be finding the tiny crimson puddles for weeks to come.

And the pain.

It was excruciating. Vision gray, she’d gripped the counter by the kitchen sink with her uninjured hand and it took everything she had to not let loose with a deafening scream.

Maybe this hadn’t been such a great idea after all. She knew she’d have to blow a kiss goodbye to her dream of one day learning to play guitar, but still. Curiosity had gotten the better of her, as it often did.

Besides, she hadn’t taken off the entire pinky. Just the first two knuckles. Maybe she could still learn…

Conversation Overheard By A Beercan

Dan: Listen, I don't want submit anything. What are you going to suggest I do next, fucking research? I told you before... I'm no fag.

Robert: What does research-

Dan: Shut the fuck up Robert. You just don't understand me, your bleeding heart pussy-pow-wow-dramas may sell to those fucking cunts in New York, but I aspire to something better... I want the publishers to come crawling to me like the hungry dogs they are for any bone I throw them. And I'll tell you-

Robert: Wait... you said I could have a dollar ever time you used the C-word… and I do plan on getting rich off of this.

Dan: Here is your filthy dollar fuckface. And you know damn well you are already rich.

Robert: I know, but I really want you to starve.

Dan: I thought you were a liberal.

Robert: I try, I try.

The Hairless Beast And The Crippled Unicorn (A Fable)

The hairless beast, loping through the dense alpine forest, came across a crippled unicorn in a small clearing of saplings. A smile spread across its lopsided face, and rot-blackened fangs sprouted as the beast’s thick rubbery lips pulled back. Without a thought it snapped off the unicorn's spiraled horn, and in a single motion, impaled the horn through the unicorn’s eye, deep enough to pierce the socket but not so much that it reached the creature’s brain and spared it pain. When the hairless beast grew tired of watching the unicorn suffer (and this was a very long time indeed), it simply stomped on its neck with a bare, hairless foot... killing it instantly.

There was such satisfaction in destroying something so pure in so vile a manner that a sporadic stream of warm piss began to run down the hairless beast’s muscled thigh.

Ode To Gedde Watanabe

Star of 16 candles
born in Ogden Utah
former street musician

made Big time as"Long Duk Dong"

Molly Ringwald's Grampa made her take you to the dance
where you found love
with a strong girl named Marlene
they call her Lumberjack
she's equiped with big American breasts
madness ensues

at a party
you jump out of a tree on Jake
he rips your toga and
breaks your face

Car goes vroom crash into lake
you sleep in yard
a dog pees in your hair

"Dong where is Grampa's car?"
"No more yanky my cranky. The Donger needs rest."

Rick Spearman

Demise Of A Cogwheel

..............

the cogwheel cringes
and rust gives way to fire
in time
it is no a longer even a part
of the greater machine


down the river,
another man dies

If John Waters Directed Hogan's Heroes (With Thomas Harris Writing)

"It eats the dog turd."


"Klink, you're a war criminal!"


"Eat the fuckin' shit!"

Pumpkins in Plainfield Part II

I remember
in the dark

touches like snakes
phantom fangs

but contact nonetheless


and now
on this
my only festival

they prance
in catsuits
at my bars
flaunting reprieve
before dying eyes

half-moon smiles dancing
across goddess faces
taunting me
as if my pain were some kind of joke

and all I can do is smile back


For this is Halloween...

(A horror beyond all reckoning)

...



Note: The first edit of this was really, really bad. And silly. Sorry about that.

The Middle Kid

Bob and Susan Gray had three children: Alec, Billy, and Charles. Alec was the oldest and the most talented. He could score many football touch downs and the young girls all thought he was dreamy to the max. Charles was the youngest, a darling baby, with smooth skin and big green eyes. All the family would come over and stare at Charles for hours on end. Just admiring his baby cuteness and altogether baby charm.

Billy was the middle kid. They locked him in a closet.

As Alec became older, he went to college, studied law and became a partner at his firm. He had sex with many prostitutes, even though he was married to a supermodel from Brazil. Generally, he would drink expensive drinks on his yacht and invite all of his old college buddies to admire the sexy women he surrounded himself with. Charles went on to high school and became quite the football player as well. All the girls loved him too and he dated the head cheerleader. He also won several awards for his art, which was inspired heavily by Picasso.

They moved Billy from the closet to a refrigerator. It was in the basement.

Alec died in the middle of having sex with many prostitutes. Charles died after a woman obsessed with his art stabbed him in the neck with a steak knife while he was eating dinner in Chicago.

Billy was still in the refrigerator, although he was now bones and lived in the junkyard. His body was found by a local homeless man, who was scrounging through the trash. Billy made national news and became world famous.

The world's most famous boy skeleton. The middle kid of the Gray family.

Oh, Miranda!

On this
island
the wind whispers
obscenities too

and the tempest pulls in ships
and revenge still creeps on like a virus

but here

I am not the only slave

We Interrupt This Diary of A Spaghetti Dominatrix For A Paid Advertisement From "The Cheese Mistress"

Yes, I get off on

turning my slaves into cheese.

Want some Parmasan?

Black Hole of Nothingness

Dave Grazer straightened his tie, tilted his hat, hefted his briefcase and walked toward the black hole of nothingness. He had often been warned not to go into the black hole, even as a child. His mother said, "Don't go into the black hole. If you do, God will kill you." But other kids had gone in the black hole, and they turned out fine. They would drip out of the sky, cocooned in slimy armor, wires fraying from their heads, bright red gashes ripped into their asses. But they seemed ok. They seemed at peace with their mangled noses and glassy eyes full of wonder and vacancy.

Dave decided he was tired of being in middle-management, so he figured the black hole couldn't be so bad. He dipped his foot in, felt the piercing blackness swallow it up. Then he changed his mind. He didn't want to go into the black hole anymore. But his foot had already went in. So when Dave retracted his foot, it was no longer there. Phantom toes wiggled, but no foot. Just a clean, surgical cut. No blood, just like his leg was tofu.

A couple of minutes later, Dave's toes dropped from thin air. Bleeding from a purple tear in the sky, his toes trickled onto the pavement, pieces of his Italian loafers still grafted on. The toes wriggled on the ground like dying worms, many neon colored wires jutting, stamps of strange alien tongues on the toenails.

Dave hobbled over to his toes, scooped them up and put them in his pocket. He decided he'd listen to his mother from now on.

But she WAS wrong about the portal to Hell. It wasn't quite as hot as he'd expected.

Philip Overby

*originally posted at The New Absurdist

Diary of a Spaghetti Dominatrix: Chapter 3

There's barbed wire hidden

inside each meatball I throw

at his hawt hiney

Diary of a Spaghetti Dominatrix: Chapter 2

He coos like a dove

when I shove raw Barilla

where the sun don't shine.

Preorders close tomorrow night!

Get your signed copies now or get 'em never, because after tomorrow night I stop taking preorders for Jimmy Plush and stop selling copies of Life During Wartime and Archelon Ranch. Bizarro fans will regret not being able to own one of what might someday be a collector's item. Just scroll down and you'll find all the Paypal buttons on the right side of the page. Click 'em and you get a book. It's that easy.

Diary of a Spaghetti Dominatrix: Chapter 1

I boil the pasta,

pour it over his face, then

scream: "Spaghetti Head!"

The Kafka Machine (or Ode to a Harrow)

----------------------

The Machine was beautiful
sleek
and silver-silk

its blades so sharp
they drew your conscience
along with blood

all cogs working
in military unison
for the betterment
of the victim

The Machine
spat out
things
not quite human

things devolved
fleshless
sublimely suffering

but still alive


And that was all that mattered

Polyps

In order to be in, you gotta jump.

Getting up there is the hardest part. A wire cable is tied around one of the pillars. The bigger kids do it all the time. Hand over hand, you shimmy up. Hope you’re caught up on tetanus, cause if you slip, you’ll be pulling metal splinters out for a month. Once up on the bridge, you monkey walk up the steel frame. The pads of your bare feet find traction on the bolts that nipple out uniformly along the entire length. Your fingers grip the lips on either side and send a shower of rusty flakes below; feels like dead skin being sloughed off a python.

The beam levels off and you stand up slowly. Try to look down without looking down. From up here, the clay stained river looks solid. If you jump the impact is sure to turn your pecker into a ballistic. It’ll punch through the cranium and lodge in your grey matter. Can you imagine the X-ray?

“Jump, you chicken-shit-muv-fukah.” They cackle and pass around a Pall Mall that you lifted off the old man.

No tellin’ what’s under there. If you could only get a good look at the bottom, but there’s only one way to find out—and only one way down.

Fuck it. One foot in front of the other. You rocket down like a lawn dart, one hand pinches your nose the other cups your crotch.

Just enough time to take a breath, then the water gobbles you up whole.

At first you think it’s the clay bottom holding you down. Your feet are stuck, and you just need to work’em free. It’s when the clay makes ribbons out of flesh and grabs your arms and neck that you panic. You open your eyes wide. Mother Nature doesn’t like voids. She fills your entire six inch visibility with bloated dead people. They unravel barbwire from their spongy necks, like the umbilical cord of an aborted fetus. They wrap it tightly around you, anchoring you down. You send a battalion of bubbles, saturated with agonizing screams, marching to the surface. When they pop, will your voice reverberate through their ranks?

Sexually Transmitted Disciple

An unexpected discomfort in the midst of a fantastic orgasm. As if someone flicked the tip with an extra long acrylic fingernail. It was a break in rhythm, made him skip a beat. Finished expressing, he rolled off and pitter-pattered his way across the worn carpet stained with booze, sex and other bodily fluids commonly found in a pay-by-the-hour establishment. In the bathroom, he stood up on his tip toes to get a good look at his cock—gripped in one hand—reflected in the nicotine stained mirror. A pinhead droplet of crimson stood out against his pink flesh. Must have gone a little too hard. After all, he was the man.
A quick scrub down with a bar of soap intended to wash a staggering two thousand body parts and he made his way back out. She was gone. Nothing left but sheets in disarray.
Next morning, he stared down at a dime size blister filled with a caseous fluid. Excruciatingly painful to the touch, he walked crouched over so the zipper wouldn’t rub against it.
Too proud (also embarrassed) to seek medical attention.
End of the week, a fetus the size of a goldfish wriggled and twisted beneath the infected tissue. He tried to lance it with a needle held under a flame, but his own skin was impenetrable. There was no doctor alive that could help him now.
He gave birth the next day. Paralyzed with pain, all he could do was grip down on either side of the toilet seat and ride the waves. Each heave of the fetus tore his skin slightly. By now it weighed as much as a human newborn. His skin had stretched considerably and the womb dangled to his knees. One last push and it broke free, slapping down on the cold tile. It was followed by a flood of afterbirth.
Things resembled a shredded garden hose down there. He tried to put pieces back together, but passed out from all the lost blood.
When he awoke, a creature with an infantile face stared back at him. Two hands with impossibly long fingers cupped his chin.
“Thank you, my son.” It sang in a heavenly voice.

Deceptive Cadence

Yesterday, Grandma fell. I heard a loud pop when she hit the gravel, might have been her hip. I saw her matted gray hair get swallowed up by dusty sneakers, bare feet and work boots. Nobody stopped to help. Nobody could. They just high kneed over her. I wanted to feel sorry, say some kind of prayer, but all I could think of was the music and going forward. Always forward.
Now there’s just Dad and me.
They’re fused right into the pipe organ. There’s no distinction between instrument and being. They’re all black, just like the pipes, and their long fingers are welded to the keys. They have no mouth or eyes or a nose. Below them, sometimes so close I can touch, are countless gears that are forever turning and grinding. A thick brown fluid flows from the sky above into the pipes. I see it running through their skin too. The fluid dribbles out between the gears into our open mouths. It’s sticky and doesn’t taste like anything. It’s our food.
During the day, the pipes play fast and hard. Sun up till sun down, we march. At night they play a soft lullaby that forces us into a dreamless sleep. In the early morning the music is soft enough where you can think to yourself. Just for a moment.
A giant mouth has opened up on the horizon. We’re marching straight into it. I think it’s big enough to swallow us all. Once inside, when I look up, I know it’ll be full of machines turning and grinding away.
Dad’s getting better at resisting. He can get out of step now when the organists look the other way. He plugs his ears and briefly, Dad bobs up when we bob down. Then the music takes over and he snaps back in synch.
Soon, he’ll make a break for it. I just know it. There are so many of us, millions. The organists won’t see him. I can’t go with. Can’t resist. All I can do is stare at the neck of the person in front, put one foot in front of the other and breathe in the music. Always the music.

Sylvan's Gimble

Sylvan lived his life under the Gimble.

He whimmed the nodgrass at the Gimble’s base—tending the needled hordes of dambies and tordleboes.

Now and again, something strange would blow in—a bit of somewhere else.

Fascinated, he would study it—bubblegum paper, horoscopic want-ads, marketing and relativistic politics.

He considered the intruding graff, under the Gimble, until tendrils of vino and trill flowers wrapped around his steethy feet. Finally, he threw the stuff toward from where it came.

Nothing ever came twice.

Sylvan would steer the sunset down with his gaze and dance.

He would explore his introspect, reaching down toward understanding. It was something free he found inside himself. A gift.

Each time the sun’s rosy rays sleed across the Gimble’s topmost, and the haze came snortled and shuff, he gained more of himself—bellied his gettin-its.

Then he would sing sweet voolish troppers to ears and hearts—painting sleep into the cracks, stretting dreams and hoping light into nodding eyes.

Facsimile of a Feminist

He dreamed of sucking

Alanis Morissette's toes.

She dyed her hair red.

Naked Apes (part 2)

This world is a horrible, wretched place, and its abominations are omnipresent. We repress ourselves in illusion as a vain attempt at aversion to this twisted, sadistic plane of reality. Despite this, all men are brutish beasts and every woman is a whore.

We are all closeted half-faggots, blood drenched, beating at iron-glass walls in a self imposed exile for the benefit of a nonexistent society. We are all murderous, and we all in some way scratch this itch too, even if we can only kill a small part of a person.

We all want to rape and be raped, and we are drawn to hell like a moth to a flame.

We confuse pride with nobility, and not one act in the entire history of mankind has ever been anything close to selfless.

And we are all dying… but this is only a small mercy.

---

"There is no good biological reason why [we] should feel this much pain."

~ John Shirley

“Show me a man who is good… but at the same time increase my strength tenfold; for at the sight of such a monster, I may die of astonishment: men have died of less.”

~ Lautreamont

Childhood Trauma #247: The Day My Brother & His Best Friend Threw Dog Shit At Me (A Haiku)

The dog turd was flung

too fast by the sand shovel

landing in my ear

Happiness Is A Warm Anything

the pain of being
a man, is nothing compaired
to the pain of not

Aurelius

I tie a string around my finger to remind myself that I am dying

This is not poetry...

This is not even fiction

Blam!

Duck see Zen Rabbit.

"See zen, Duck?" "See zen, Rabbit!"

See Zen Duck see zen.

The Adventures of See-Monkey: The Mandrill With X-Ray Vision!

Whatever you do,

don't dare peel that banana.

There's a turd inside!

Retiring From Track & Field, The Tortoise Goes to Work For the C.I.A. (Where His Pace Is An Asset)

There's a tortoise here

ripping off my lips, and I

wish he'd won that race.

Occupational Hazards of A Cicada Stock-Girl

She molted today

in the produce department.

"Clean up in aisle one!"

In Honor of International Talk Like A Pirate Day (Sept. 19)

International

Talk Like A Pirate Day, "Arrrrrr!

Shiver me timbers!"

Manufacture

-It killed me to do it against Janet’s will, but I had to duct-tape her mouth when the screams began to interfere with my calculations.

-Finding a table long enough to accommodate such a large animal became futile, so I built one.

-The incubation period was quicker than I expected. By the fourth month, with the giraffe safely back at the zoo, Janet was almost ready.

-At nearly five months, her stomach had taken on a square shape.

-Janet expired during the delivery, but I was pleased when I pulled the crossbreed out via C-section.

-It made a faint humming sound, letting me know it was hungry. Fortunately, I had a full bottle of Tide on hand.

-By the eleventh month, it had grown to full size and was ready to take on its first load.



(2007 Yak Archives)

"A Man Builds A Maid"

A Man Builds A Maid
...................

"Just someone to keep my house clean... fix my meals... and go away..."~Neil Young

Junktown, west of the famed necropolis built upon the ruins of New York City, certainly lived up to its name. There was ample room for The Junkman to hide among the hollowed out husks of old war machines, plenty of scrapmetal parts to stick into his festering skin-sockets, and a wonderful sense of chemical combustion in the air that could keep his borrowed flesh warm for days at a time. But alas, our poor Junkman fell victim to that same plague that befalls most feral mutants living alone among the ruins of desecrated steel juggernauts. He grew lonely.

So very lonely.

In time The Junkman decided to build himself a woman (how novel), and he truely felt as if he could build one from the pure abundance of unrequited love in his dying heart alone. Still, (just to be sure) he slaughtered three homeless women (who could never have loved him anyway), dug up the corpses of few beauty pageant winners, gathered his grisly tools of the trade... and got to work. After much blood, sweat, tears, and cum... she was finished.

So beautiful. Voluptuous corpse-meat and seductively patterned stitches, a woman through and through. All wired to a grand potato that powered her brain.

She was, in fact... too beautiful.

Far, far too beautiful for our poor Junkman.

So he ran in tears and shame to a nearby weapons shed and activated an ancient I-Bomb. As The Junkman watched the digital red countdown to the exact second that everything would once again become nothing, he thought that perhaps, just maybe, he was making this whole "romance" thing a bit more difficult on himself than necessary.

And just before his scrapheap of a laboratory exploded into atoms, The Junkman took one last look at his maid's sweet face, and thought of all that could have been...


---

If Nerds Took Hostages (A Haiku)

"Here's all that I know:

Pi equals 3.14.

Now put down the gun."

Dissatisfied Customer (A Haiku)

Thomas Ligotti

does kids' parties on the side.

(my son cried for days).

Mystery Solved (A Haiku)

One of my best friends

(the Amish guy down the street)

is Thomas Pynchon

Comparison Shopping (A Haiku)

Amish assassins

have the rep but Mennonites

have the resources.

No Animals Were Killed When She Whaled On That Dude's Hiney (A Haiku)

Once my friend dated

a vegan dominatrix.

Bitch liked her pleather.

Krakin’

Krakin’
--------


her mouth
opened wide

her filthy feet
laid out beneath me
like a crinkled canvas

a sacrificial cloth under her serpent tongue

and my puckered starfish was just a welcome sign on her road to perdition

so say goodbye to heaven my dear


(for The Krall)

Old Dirty Poems

"Heroes Identified By Dental Records"


Dead heroes
sleep between
cracks
in this
forgotten city

Given time
I may die here as well

But I am no hero


I came to watch the virgins bleed


---



"Ectoplasmic Webs"



another wayward hedonist...
another murder of fools...

the way she plunged the dagger into my back was somehow erotic
now I know how the spider feels
hunting her even in death

Cosmetology Hijinks At Einstein's Autopsy: An Alternate History (In Haiku)

If, on the morgue slab,

they'd dyed his hair pink...Voila!

The World's First Troll Doll

Fashion Advice Given To C. Everett Koop On The First Night He Tried Ecstasy: An Alternate History (In Haiku)

The Abe Lincoln Beard

With that Club-Kid-Outfit Screams

"Amish Astronaut"

If Dr. Kevorkian Had Been a Vet: An Alternate History (In Haiku)

Infertile Pandas?

They got no raison d'etre.

So...I choked Yu Ling!

A Departure

"A Departure"
....................

I see her from across the airport bar. Her black dress makes it look like she’s just returned from a funeral, but I know from my extensive research that this is the way she dresses nearly all of the time. I admire her style. She is reading “Beauty’s Punishment” by Rice and I am reading “Philosophy in the Bedroom” by De Sade. I smile and think that perhaps I have a few things I could teach her before our time together is up.

Our blue eyes meet.

She could be my sister, for her hair is dark like mine, and she possesses the same inquisitive mousy nose… but in so many ways we are also different. She could even be my mother, but tonight she will be my whore instead, my surrogate womb to crawl back inside. Some warm flesh to break the ice of realty.

The next morning, as I wash my bloody hands in the river I realize that I miss her. This is a first, but by the time my hands dry I have already forgotten.

'09

You Gotta Have a Gimmick

(Thanks, Andy)

A naked man with no arms is bashing his head against a brick wall. He weeps bitterly. His pregnant wife sits beside him. Holding a huge knife. She cuts open her pregnant belly and it is full of ravenous vampire bats. A dwarf in a Nixon mask walks in carrying a banner that says "kill your parents, kids!" The man with no arms' head explodes, covering the brick wall with his brains. The bats fly around the dwarf, swarming him and drinking his blood. The woman points at the wall, a look of sheer awe on her face. The brain splatter spells out "spicy chicken sandwich. Only $1."

An American Problem

Starving for a red hot hotdog, Timmy took his final Taco Bell paycheck to Dr.Hotdog's hotdog shack. He looked at the hotdog girl, with burning hotdog desire in his eyes and pain in his hotdogless stomach, and said "Gimme a hotdog." They were out of hotdogs.

Immortal Coil

...

before Hyem dreamed of Hitler,
and later terror clutched Berlin
I first divined with shotgun shells,
and sung to God in silenced hymns

I saw the reign of Charlemagne,
as spear point burst the Roman tide
and then the flood of Constantine
when our God was but a child


I have seen all these things
and so much more

but I have yet to see a single truth


...

Holy Waterboarding

...


I miss the plaid skirts and switchblades
I miss the misogyny and the blind faith

Confessionals like bathroom stalls
And rosaries used as garrotes

I miss my childhood


...

I Might Be An Alien, And Look Like a Seal, But Your Husbands Are My Baby-Daddies

Oh, I have slipped you, surly blondes of Earth!
Dodged Coach purses and Prada heels!
Then escaped to my ship, where I gave birth
to a litter of hybrid seals.

Hybrid, that is, between Seal-Martian-Me
and your husbands -- so tall and so buff!
No doubt in my mind of paternity;
and the last check y'all sent? Not enough!

So this letter's been sent to summon your guys
To a court in Seal Country on Mars
They won't pay? Let them know that they should if they're wise
Or I'll go after their golfclubs and cars!

"Rough Beasts, Hold Your Heads Up High (or, That’s Me In The Corner)"

...

her borrowed power

long gone


this angel’s wings have withered
like dead autumn leaves

be warned
this is no analogy

…this isn’t even poetry


(this is the copper taste of blood,
the chemical smell of cum)


This is the clockwork nature of love
...

“Of All The Daggers That Have Rusted In My Back, I Think I Like You The Best”

The rusted apparatus was surgically grafted to the gnarled hump in the old man’s back. He smiled a simple smile just as timeworn and burdensome as the junkmachine itself and said,

“I do this for God.”

“Why” I asked him.

He just reached back, pulled a lever, and started the machine.

Hypocrisy On Her Lips

...

everything I hate is
everything that will save me
in the end

and every time she gags
and I just
pinch her nose harder

reach down
pull out
and try to kiss her like a lover

I can taste my own hypocrisy on her lips



...

Her Testimony Against the Restraining Order (A Haiku)

Yes, I know he is

cryogenically frozen

But Walt Disney's Hawt!

Small Press author haiku

Buy something dammit!
Come on asstard, buy something!
Well fuck you too, pal!

Chia Dude (or, "Every Face Has a Tree")

If Every Tree Has a Face,

Does Every Face Have a Tree?

Dude, that's what I see

Lookin' back at me.


There's an oak sapling growin'

Out each of your eyes

The books say they grow

When a Chia-Dude cries


So Chia-Dude, Chill!

Stop bawling you wimp!

If you don't stop I'll send you

to that leather-bound gimp

(The two-foot-tall one who's really a chimp)

The chimp gimp who'll end up bein' your pimp!


So stop asking for tissues,

The tree's growin' tall

Make thy eyes dry

Or the chimp-gimp I'll call!

HOWLING BEARD (a bizarro love story)

(This story is dedicated to all those who are brave enough to wear a beard, real or otherwise.)

Despite having had a drink thrown in my face, I didn’t want to go home.

She’d already told me to go screw myself. Throwing the vodka tonic in my face was probably just a symbolic period at the end of that sentence. So even though she had started to ignore me, I stood my ground.

And my beard continued to grow.

The bar was alive with all of the activity that a college town can bring. A never-ending cacophony of annoying and pointless conversation created a din that pounded my eardrums. I took a sip of my Red Bull and vodka while enjoying the sprouting hairs that popped up through my face.

She got up from the table and started chatting it up with a frat boy who was at the bar chugging a beer. Oh well, I thought. Better him than me. I was far too proud to leave the bar even with her drink still dripping down my face, wetting the newborn beard hairs that slowly forced their way up out of my pores.

The frat boy at the bar also had a beard. I stared at it, concentrating on the shape, on the rough color that highlighted his jaw. A forceful jolt of adrenaline surged through my body. The growth of my beard got more intense. My hairs twitched like spider legs.

I kept my eyes glued to the guy’s face. His was the tenth beard I had seen that night and it was taking its toll on me. Being the self-confident guy I am, I wanted to wait it out and hope I didn’t make a scene like last time. Still, a huge part of me wanted to tear that beard from his face in a frenzy of gore and spittle.

As I watched the frat boy make the moves on my wife, I felt the spider legs push themselves out of my chin. More hairs sprouted out from under my ears and then my neck. Before I could take another sip of my drink, my entire chest was covered in sharp, black hairs that matched the beard that was growing on my face. I put my hand up in front of my eyes in order to block the sight of the frat boy’s beard but I knew it was too late.

I fell to the floor, my skin entirely covered in wolfish hair. With a quick jump, I made my way to the bathroom. Luckily everyone around me was substantially drunk and didn’t notice my appearance. I slammed myself into the handicapped stall of the bathroom.

What could I do? It was happening again and there I was, trapped in a filthy public restroom. I’d been here before, though. It was familiar. Shit and urine stains thrown around the floor and walls in some bodily attempt at modern art. I think I even saw some fresh semen stains.

I crossed my legs and stared out the window. Moonlight oozed in like wet hair. It struck my face and my beard hairs immediately responded by waving frantically like a cornfield caught in a tornado.

My body was in full-beard mode. Five inch fangs of green steel protruded from my gums. I trembled with anticipation, thinking ahead to the orgy of psycho-violence I would unleash once I left the bathroom. Frat boys would be slaughtered, their entrails strewn about the pool tables. The desperate young women that came to get laid by some drunken macho douche-bags would indeed get penetrated but only by my hairy fists as I opened and explored new orifices.
I was a monster. I knew that. I accepted it.

With my face in the toilet, I vomited out foot long strands of black hair along with the corn chowder I had for dinner. The toilet water became a shimmering swamp of apocalyptic goo. I looked closer and was entertained by the strands of hair that twisted themselves into marionettes. Three of them stood up and began acting out slapstick scene that seemed straight out of a silent movie. I moved my face closer and smelt the stench of corn and shampoo.

It scared me.

Though I desired violence, deep in my heart I didn’t really want to hurt those people out there. It seemed inevitable, though. The marionettes were putting on a show and that always meant one thing: there was going to be a shitload of bloodshed.

One of them looked up at me and motioned for me to get closer so I did. I put my ear real close and heard a whisper. It barely sounded human but I got the gist of it. They wanted me to go out there. They wanted me to preach the Gospel of the Beard.

The bathroom got brighter as more moonlight fell in through the windows. It hurt my eyes so I bathed them in the toilet water. The marionettes caressed my beard as I blew bubbles.

My entire body was tingling from the millions of hairs that were snaking in and out of my skin, tying themselves in knots and forming an almost infinite number of obscure patterns. I took my head out of the bowl and stood up.

The marionettes waved and walked over to my legs where they jumped and were taken into the mass of hair. I felt them travel to my crotch.

A tinge of adrenalin tweaked my upper body. I was ready. Closing my eyes, I opened the stall door and walked out of the bathroom with a howl.

The bar was empty.

I had expected it to be full of potential victims. There was to be a slaughter that would soak my full-body beard in alcohol-drenched gore. I would have ripped them to shreds simply because that’s what I knew I had to. But instead, the bar was empty.

Empty, that is, except for my wife.

She, too, was bearded. But unlike me, she was the one covered in blood and chunks of muscle tissue. Surrounding her was a jigsaw puzzle of coed body parts.

I slowly walked closer to her expecting the worst. Instead, my wife simply opened her mouth up wide. Her long blue metal teeth shined even in the dull light of the bar. I took this as an invitation and leaned in close, licking the saliva off of them.

“Sorry about before,” she said. She made a face that emphasized the cute wrinkles around her eyes.

“Don’t worry about it,” I replied, putting my hand on my wife’s beard. I let the hairs prick me like so many spider legs.

Then we stepped outside and lost ourselves in the moonlight.

John Darksword Pulp Theologian in "SUFFER THE CHILDREN"

(This was previously posted and ignored on Goodreads, hopefully, it will have a better home here.)

It was approaching one o’ clock and Mrs. Henderson knew from the stories that he was never late. She looked down at her watch once more and shivered a little. This man was not like other men. This man did not fear the dark around him, the uncertainty, the void, but embraced it, this man did not faint at the sight of blood, but fought on, wounded or otherwise. This was a powerful ally and a powerful enemy, the man who was never late. He walked into the Denny’s and the waitresses whispered among themselves. He was tall and broad, John Darksword, with a face both stern and handsome and hair black as the hearts of the men he called his enemies. Mrs. Henderson was frightened and excited, as most women were in his company tended but be, yet also she was relieved, for anyone could help her son, it was John Darksword.
“Elizabeth Henderson?” John Darksword asked the nervous, middle aged lady, who might once have been beautiful, but had been worn away by time and concern.
“Yes. You must be John Darksword.”
“I am,” said John Darksword, his voice gentle and yet possessed of unwavering confidence and authority.
“I was told you could help my son. I think he’s involved in a cult.”
Concern came over the tall, strong theologian’s features, concern but not fear.
“Why do you say that?”
“He’s into some strange things.”
John Darksword nodded, knowing that strange things could often be the province of the devil, but through his years of studying scripture and folklore knew as well that the devil was not involved as frequently as people would like to believe.
“I would like to see your son’s room,” the theologian said, “I need to check for satanic paraphernalia.”
Mrs. Henderson nodded. “Thank you,” she said.
“No problem,” replied John Darksword, “the community college has me on sabbatical.”
Mrs. Henderson paid for her Moons over my Hammy and they left together.
The Henderson’s house was an underwhelming 50’s ranch house painted eggshell white. John Darksword, man of the world that he was, found it quite dull, it reminded him that the locals were not used to the exotic and the supernatural. As he walked in, Mrs. Henderson’s beagle, Snoopy attempted to take a bite out of the tall, strong man’s black cloak, but John Darksword was fast from years of dueling and darted out of the way before the dark, imposing garment was torn.
“My goodness!” Mrs. Henderson cried, “may I take your cloak?”
“No thanks,” replied John Darksword who removed his cloak for no man.
Mrs. Henderson shrugged. “All right, Nathaniel’s room is this way.”
Mrs. Henderson’s suspicions were not unfounded, for when John Darksword entered, he found many things oft associated with worship of the Prince of Darkness. There were Black Sabbath, Gwar and Metallica posters, Dungeons and Dragons supplements, neglected unread textbooks and shoeboxes filled with Magic; the Gathering cards. When he finished looking through the evidence, his stern face lit up with epiphany.
“Where do kids around here go when they skip school to smoke pot and start mischief?”
Mrs. Henderson didn’t need to think long, as she was a clever woman in spite of her dull, peasant stock. “Usually the Watkins Place on Oak Street. It’s been abandoned for years.”
Without a word, John Darksword rushed out the door and onto Oak Street where he knew he would find the missing children who had been skipping school lately and staying out at all hours of the night. The rituals necessary would require much time and many different incantations at sunrise, sunset, midnight and noon, indeed at all hours of the day. It would only be a matter of time, but he knew the peril he would face would be great as the rituals had surely just been completed.
The Watkins place decayed ominously between other brightly lit houses whose occupants were surely at work or asleep. The perfect place to perform feats of dark magic. Dread almost pierced the theologian’s steely heart as he saw that a cloud of darkness hung overhead, a cloud of black magic. He drew his twin scimitars, enchanted in the names of Osiris and his foul brother, Set by an obscure Egyptian cult, as these weapons would be the best for defense against and the destruction of demonic entities. With a mighty Tae Kwon Do kick, John Darksword burst through the door and was met by the evil’s first line of defense.
The beast stood eight feet tall, reaching the house’s low ceiling. It had the head of a drooling warthog and the body of a great ape. In its mighty hands it held an enormous battle axe, which it brought down in hopes of putting an end to the mighty man of academia. But, John Darksword sidestepped the blow! With a deft slash, he sliced open the creature’s side! The monster bellowed and pain and backed off. Other men would have let the creature flee, but John Darksword was not other men. He leapt forward, scimitars at the ready and sliced with each blade. Blood and maggots spewed forth from the wounds and it roared again. What John Darksword didn’t know was that the demon was calling for help!
Goblins the size of young children with heads like bats and vicious little knives in their gnarled, deformed hands rushed into the entry way. Surely there must have been at least twenty. John Darksword backed off, sheathing his swords and drawing his twin forty four magnums and open firing. While these were surely creatures of darkness, the enchantment binding them into existence was nowhere near as strong as that which had conjured the demon. Excellent marksman that he was, the bat faced devils could not get nearly close enough to do him any harm. Effortlessly, one by one, he shot the monsters dead until few enough were left for him to dispatch with his swords. With a fervor that equaled that of the Arabian dervishes he spun his swords, taking heads and limbs as he advanced. Even the retreating demon was slain with little effort.
Suddenly , a cry pierced the air.
“FUCK! Dude, it sounds like someone’s shootin’ our fuckin’ demon!”
He followed the frightened yell and came to a room in the attic where four teenagers sat smoking reefer in a circle. At the center standing on a pentagram that had been carved into the floor was a hideous hooved monstrosity with great black batwings and a disfigured goatlike face. It’s massive, swollen member dragged against the ground.
“Stop!” cried John Darksword.
“You’re too late,” the devil cackled, “their souls are mine.”
“Not so!” John Darksword screamed defiantly.
“What do you mean?” asked a confused young man in a Marilyn Manson shirt.
“Kids, you’re not dealing with the devil at all. You’re looking at Baal, a perfectly innocuous Babylonian fertility god. This guy’s not going to give you any immortality in exchange for your soul.”
“You’re clever, John Darksword!” the goat god exclaimed, “but there is nothing you can do now.”
“These boys sold their souls to Satan who didn’t show up. If he had, he would have had their souls. That contract is void because you are not Satan. Go bug some Wiccans.”
“Damn you, John Darksword! I’ll get you for this!” the fertility god cried as he disappeared in a cloud of grain.
One of the boys, who had a more than passing resemblance to Elizabeth Henderson approached the wise and powerful swordsman.
“How did you know?” he asked.
“Well, Nathaniel, , your history textbook doesn’t have a chapter on Mesopotamia, so I figured this rascal would be up to his old tricks… and I was right. It’s all thanks to that goddamn No Child Left Behind!”
“Now that’s evil!” Nathaniel quipped. A good laugh was had by all.

The Burn Ward Arsonist (part 2 of 3)

2.

Brenda Tossle lit up a gutter-skinny joint and changed the tune to something a bit more appropriate. “Tonight’s the Night”, by Neil Young began to play as she sat back against the plush bed and pulled her white velvet robe tightly around her. By the time the joint was burned halfway down to her bony finger... she had gained the courage to stand... and even walk to the hotel room mirror. She dropped her robe.

She stared at herself in the mirror; it had been 11 years now since the accident and she still never failed to gasp.

What was left of her body after the crash was that of a brunette beauty, but what was left of her body wasn’t much. The left side of her torso had been almost completely burned away, the skin on her face sealed over her left eyeball, at some parts burned away so deep that her skull was visible. Her left arm ended in a bony appendage past her elbow and her amputated left leg was donned with a ornately carved cherrywood limb. Her genitals, with the exception of a small patch of skin obscured by regrown pubic hair, remained unmarred.

After some time there was a ring at the door. He was here.

There were no words spoken between Willy and Brenda… just soft kissies, pecking in sweet Morris code the true meaning of love.

Willy licked her wounds that night.

One man’s flaws...

Another man’s fetish....

It was Brenda Tossle's first time. Her cherrywood limb lay by the bedside, thrown off in the heat of passion.


-----------

~ Ash Lomen

Godzilhaiku

Japanese monster

thinks haikus suck donkey dick

"Burn, you fuckers, burn!"

Long Lost Ramones Lyrics #1: "I Wanna Wear a Bunny Suit" (to the tune of "I Want To Be Your Boyfriend")

Hey, little girl
I wanna wear a bunny suit

No little girl
I mean I wanna rabbit suit

Why you laughin' at me?

This rabbit suit is the key!

Why you laughin' at me?

I just gots to be me,

that's why I wear a bunny suit!

Praying Mantis of Atlantis

Part I: "Praying Mantis of Atlantis" (a jump rope song, sung by fourth graders at Northeast Elementary)


"Praying Mantis

of Atlantis

Everything you chant is

a can't-diss,

gotta-kiss,

ever-lovin' honey bliss.

In your space ship

you eat cool whip

mixed with prune dip

Yumm yumm good"


Part II: "Spoken Word Interlude" (performed by Tim Curry)


"You are the Queen

of all Atlantis

You are here to find your lost brother

in Kentucky.

He fled inland.

Can't you see that?

He fled inland.

Never wanting to be found..."


Part III: "Wild Cow", (sung by former Journey lead singer, Steve Perry)

"...He's a cow now

wild in the woods.

Yes, I said a wild cow now.

He has no earthly goods.

Dontcha know he's a cow now?

And he's lookin' for a wife.

But all he's found

through all his strife

is a rusty old

ginzu steak knife..."


Part IV: "Cows Haven't Hands" (sung by Neil Patrick Harris, to the tune of "Slipping" from Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog)


"....He'd use it to kill himself

spread some insurance wealth

but it's too rusty


It'd fall apart in his hands

So this is where things stand:

Our bull's still lusty


For a moo cow with udders hanging low to the ground

But cows don't have hands

So "How to grope titties?" will confound

Him, break him down he's

Tipping!, Frat Boys are tipping him down!"


Part V: "Bovine Insect" (a jump rope song, sung by fifth graders at Northeast Elementary)

"Bovine Insect

(God's choice elect)

do a gut-check:

No Slant Rhyme!"

“The Burn Ward Arsonist” part 1 of 3

1
--




The crusty old madam eyed up William Tenor skeptically, her webbed fingers absently twirling around a chewed up Bic fountain pen as she appraised him.

“You certainly look the type.” She finally admitted to him, her voice every bit as thin and raspy as he would have expected from such a creature.

Willy certainly couldn’t disagree with that, the “looking the type” bit… although he had to admit he wasn’t exactly sure what “type” of help this monstrously of a whorehouse frequently employed… he was relatively confident that his weaseley little red moustache and three-piece off-white pinstripe suite fit the bill quite nicely.

He followed the old madam around the back, past moldy water coolers and tacked up Giger prints and up to a door that read “Fetishists for Hire”.


…


Inside the sparse pink waiting room Willy cold already feel the cold pangs of anticipation, that, and his growing erection. The madam took no notice of him or his miniscule cock as she sat on one of the few imitation ivory barstools arranged in a nonsensical pattern about the odd little room. Willy sat too, waiting, his hands over his lap.

Finally, his name was called. And via a scum-ridden monitor, in a crowded room full of all sorts of other sorted “types” everything was explained.

“Fetishists for Hire” was set up to provide “service” to the hideously undesirable, but that service went far beyond mere sexual intercourse… hell, almost any starving hooker would suck off a pair of Siamese Twins for a crack rock (as the video [narrated by a tired sounding Billy Zane] put it)… but would that hooker ever truly worship them…. worship their deformities…no, only someone like Willy could do that.

Willy Tenor smiled, for he knew he had found a job in these difficult times.


...

LINCOLN'S ASSASSIN MY FACE

Abraham Lincoln woke up. He had had that dream again. The one where he is shot in the head by that squid with the giant breasts. One minute he’s looking at some slippery slimy cleavage, thinking about sticking his flesh-pistol in there and then the next minute BAM his brains are splattered all over a theatre balcony.

He was glad the dream was over. He got out of bed, making sure not to disturb his wife. She was a light sleeper. She was down to eighty pounds and blind. She was gradually turning into a mole. Lincoln was convinced that it was those goddamn confederates who were behind it. Was nothing sacred to them? It was his WIFE, goddamnit!

Lincoln walked to the corner of the room and looked down into his spittoon to make sure that his birthday cake was still there. It was. A soft and sugary rectangle covered in gooey phlegm provided by the Chinese prostitutes he hired. He’d eat it later.

He went downstairs, careful not to disturb his kittens who were busy playing poker. Those bastards were always gambling. And now they had taken up smoking pipes, too.

In the kitchen Lincoln made himself some breakfast: two hairy eggs and a glass of donkey milk. Shit, that stuff was good.

He was too busy chewing loudly so he didn’t hear me sneak up on him. I put the pistol to his head and then whispered, “This is for John, you bastard!” and then BAM-BAM-BAM. A bunch of presidential rice-krispie treats splattered across the kitchen.

His wife ran down the stairs but instead of attacking me, she ran outside and dug into the ground. She had a nice ass for a mole. I’d like to stick my flesh-pistol in there, I thought. Why not?

I walked up to her and said, “Sic semper tyrannis.”

She stuck her ass up out of the hole and said, “Where’s the beef?”

I stuck my manhood inside her, answering her question with a forceful thrust. God bless America.

In the Depths

Young girl, stay away from the big, brown river,

Young girl, stay away

For those that go down there, they go down forever

And bid the surface goodbye.

In the river, I threw lots of plastic

Candy bar wrappers and frisbees

And sometimes a ballcap would fly off my head

On days when it got very windy.

And the garbage there gathered and made a decision

Perhaps because I granted it written permission

And said it wasn't garbage

But a dragon.

In the presence of a priest and a notary.

So there's a tincan dragon with bottlecap eyes

And big canring arms

And he talks honeyed lies as he strangles ducks, geese and fishes

Saying "come here and I'll grant you three wishes."

And when you do

(And you probably will, no matter what I say)

I'll feel sorry for you

Since you'll slave your life away.

He'll make you his bride

And keep you down there

To iron his socks and his underwear,

Thanks to your foolish pride

Since you ventured outside

(And don't tell me you won't

Cause I know that you will

It's in your eyes I can tell)

And went to the big brown river

Where that dragon will keep you forever.

Stinky House (song, to be sung to the tune of "Jingle Bells")

Chorus

Stinky House
turds of mouse
pile up every day
Momma stays up every night
to sell a cyber-lay-ay

(repeat chorus)

Verse

Chatting on the 'net
with some guy from L.A.
Momma thinks that I don't know
she puts up pics for pay

But clicking of the keys
revealed the gruesome sight
I need clean clothes but mom's a ho
with airbrushed cellulite!

Chorus

Gynophobia

...

every second
is an hour

every hour
is a lifetime


the wet
warmth
of human flesh

was once a blanket

and now I shudder in the cold


pain is merely a distraction

I Remember Omens (edit)

...


when I
was just a little boy

the girls
across the street

would let
me burn them

if I cried


such compassion
such intimacy

(like funeral sex in a bed for one)


our sins now akin to shadows...

TENANT

I seek shelter in her pubis
A nuisance
Infestation
She fingers my carcass
Dry skin sprinkles down on a soiled mattress
Treat the infected area
With a cream-colored salve

Twice, daily

The vacuum hums a song of starting over
I’m swept into the trash
Next to rotten take-out
On top of all the pictures of us

The lid closes
I’m left alone
With my thoughts

And the soothing mew of jawless maggots

Safety Words and Broken Jaws (or A Dinner for One)

……………………………………



A fireplace
sets the mood

hot pokers
burning coals
and penance

my lips
swollen shut
say “I’m sorry”

as my words never could

wine and roses
a dinner for one





~

"She was his earth, his ground. He cast his seed to her again and again. And the creepers grew… nourished." [Jack Ketchum]

"I know you can't destroy me..." [J.R. Hayes]

Old Lover Haiku

I remember when
Chernobyl was just a spark
in wild blue eyes

Swamplands

Swampland
...

this street is an illusion
all old oak trees
and fat white niggers

the night air is unusually cold
I can see a whore off to my left
arms around her sagging chest
and shivering like a surrogate rapist
after a cold shower

I can’t help but wonder if her dick is bigger than mine

distractions
so many of them

Burroughs was right
This city is a
dead museum



-------------

Swampland II

...


this jungle is hot and wet
I’ll save you the analogy

purple leaves
browbeaten trees
rot
and mutant wildflowers

this jungle is not a jungle at all
this jungle is a swampland

and this swampland is my home

Postmortem Love Triangles (II)

I always knew, that deep down, I was a bit of a faggy pervert... but this level of "kink" freaked even me out. The strapping young lad had his dick firmly implanted (and fucking, mind you) 7' inches deep into my urethra. The pain was unbearable, and the pleasure was the same. The act was inhuman. Surreal almost. I thought of old Dali and I came blood.

Have you ever seen a snake consuming it's mate after the worn ordeal of fucking.

This was it.


In the morning I saw a note... a poem really, on the bedsheets:

Our lies pronounced in whisperd hisses
our hearts reduced to hardend stone

Our passions fanned through forked toungued kisses
now petrified to die alone

(She only wants you for your power)

~L



My fangs tasted my toungue.

Lomen...

I would have to think on this.


---------





For W.S.B.

Bad Little Pen

(old and new stuff, all new edits)


...


Pornography For The Soul

...


the dagger thrown, imbedded
the rush of tainted blood

being inside you feels like pulling a trigger...


...


Fresh Meat

...


joking casually about our true intentions

dickless atomatons
standing in line
for fresh meat

we must rise up

discard these
flacid attempts
at conformity

worship, my brothers
is not achieved
through submission

...

Postmortem Love Triangles

(new edit)
...


buried demons and a dry lakebed


you wear the scars and black leather
but I was the one to watch her die

I see the moon at night
and I think only of her

I see your face at night
and I think only of her

any semblance of love we might have once had
has now long rotted away
along with our happy home


at night we neither sleep nor make love

...

BUT SHE PLAYED HER LOVE SCENES WELL

High heels pitter patter
Across dull stained linoleum
Black streaks crisscross
Against pink blue paint splatter

The shoes come off
Pantyhose exposed to poison air
Stinky wiggling piggies
Beckon and dare

Dismembered beard hairs
Under the kitchen table
The radio on the fridge
Pumping sexy syrup

Her boots found my nose
Creating telepathic tattoos
Nostrils engulfed in flames
And frowns

She didn’t know how to lie
She didn’t know how to smile
She was just an olfactory arsonist
On a crime spree

A Soft Prelude To Dying Alone

...



scavengers undone
by the coming of winter

turning on each other out of habit

warmth fades along with sanity

and madness
is a drug


...

The Fourth in the First Cycle of my Short Films

Aktion IV- Falling Petals

[Fade into plain white room corner, no furnishings except for: two tall thin tables and a grandfather clock. The tables are covered with white cloths and stand near walls, nine feet out from corner. On each are black and white vertical striped pots filled with white carnations. Behind each table of flowers is a black drape hanging on the walls, about two feet above the top of flowers down to the floor. The grandfather clock is centered between the corner and the left table of flowers, from audience view. Lying slumped upon the floor, dead, are five bodies. Starting near the tables on either side, the bodies are positioned equal distances apart from each other in a right angle opposite to the room’s corner. The smallest body, preferably a small child, is to be the furthest point. They wear full black funereal shrouds, with painted death faces and white gloves. Standing between the corpse-point and the wall-point is a pierrot clown, arms out, palms forward, head down]

Pierrot Clown stands still, hold for ten seconds.

Start Adagio in G Minor by Albinoni, chiming of grandfather clock/plucking of strings.

PC slides into consciousness, surprise, looks around, shrugs, sees bodies, surprise, horror, shuns, sobs, falls to knees, looks around, sobs.

Slumps over, on floor.

Hold.

Stands up, slowly, head down. Lifts head, crying, alone, distraught.

Looks about, desperate. No one.

Slumps back, shoulders down. Sobs.

Glances up, idea, possibility of happiness. Walks to left pot of flowers, examines flowers, looks at bodies, examines flowers.

Pulls out one flower, walks to nearest body, corpse one, waves carnation in body’s face, places flower in costume, pulls back, waits.

C1 stands up slowly, arms out, lifts head, lifts arms to PC, walks to PC.

PC and C1 dance a requiem.

Eurythmics.

PC and C1 end dance in middle of floor, PC on right, C1 on left.

PC pulls carnation out of costume, gets down on knees, smiles, hands flower to C1.

C1 takes flowers, looks at flower, eats flower, drops stem between it and PC.

C1 slumps head, dead, walks slowly back to original space, arms out, somnambulist.

Falls back to ground in original position and moves no more.

PC stands up, shuns, throws hands to mouth, sobs, looks up, questions, falls to knees, sobs.

Glances up, idea, possibility of happiness. Stands up and walks to right pot of flowers, examines, looks at bodies, examines flowers.

Pulls out one flower, walks to nearest body, corpse two, waves carnation in body’s face, places flower in costume, pulls back, waits.

C2 stands up slowly, arms out, lifts head, lifts arms to PC, walks to PC.

PC and C2 dance a requiem.

Eurythmics.

PC and C2 end dance in middle of floor, PC on left, C2 on right.

PC pulls carnation out of costume, gets down on knees, smiles, hands flower to C2.

C2 takes flowers, looks at flower, eats flower, drops stem between it and PC.

C2 slumps head, dead, walks slowly back to original space, arms out, somnambulist.

Falls back to ground in original position and moves no more.

PC stands up, shuns, throws hands to mouth, sobs, looks up, questions, falls to knees, sobs.

Glances up, idea, possibility of happiness. Stands up and walks to left pot of flowers, examines, looks at bodies, examines flowers.

Pulls out one flower, walks to second body out, corpse three, waves carnation in body’s face, places flower in costume, pulls back, waits.

C3 stands up slowly, arms out, lifts head, lifts arms to PC, walks to PC.

PC and C3 dance a requiem.

Eurythmics.

PC and C3 end dance in middle of floor, PC on right, C3 on left.

PC pulls carnation out of costume, gets down on knees, smiles, hands flower to C3.

C3 takes flowers, looks at flower, eats flower, drops stem between it and PC.

C3 slumps head, dead, walks slowly back to original space, arms out, somnambulist.

Falls back to ground in original position and moves no more.

PC stands up, shuns, throws hands to mouth, sobs, looks up, questions, falls to knees, sobs.

Glances up, idea, possibility of happiness. Stands up and walks to right pot of flowers, examines, looks at bodies, examines flowers.

Pulls out one flower, walks to second body out, corpse four, waves carnation in body’s face, places flower in costume, pulls back, waits.

C4 stands up slowly, arms out, lifts head, lifts arms to PC, walks to PC.

PC and C4 dance a requiem.

Eurythmics.

PC and C4 end dance in middle of floor, PC on left, C4 on right.

PC pulls carnation out of costume, gets down on knees, smiles, hands flower to C4.

C4 takes flowers, looks at flower, eats flower, drops stem between it and PC.

C4 slumps head, dead, walks slowly back to original space, arms out, somnambulist.

Falls back to ground in original position and moves no more.

PC stands up, shuns, throws hands to mouth, sobs, looks up, questions, falls to knees, sobs.

Stands up, bitter, walks to left flower pot, grabs carnation, walks to center-point body, corpse five, waves flower in front of face and throws flower far behind him, determined.

Steps back, waits.

C5 stands up slowly, arms out, lifts head, lifts arms to PC, walks to PC.

PC takes C5 in arms and hugs, sits on floor, takes C5 in lap and pets head, talks to, presses to body and rocks.

Loving, desperate not to be alone.

From left, enter Death.

[Death is a slim, naked woman. On her head is a black masquerade mask, winged, with large black feathers rising from it above her light, curled loose hair. Her lips are black, her nipples black, her navel black, her pubic region black]

D walks to PC and C5, shakes head. Walks behind them, picks up flower PC threw, walks back to PC and C5.

Bends, attempts to pull C5 from PC.

PC squeezes C5 to him, refuses to let go, shakes head, hugs C5.

D rises up, full height, frightens PC.

PC pulls back, hands to mouth.

D reaches in and grabs C5, pulls to her.

PC holds out arms to C5, shakes head, desperate.

D and C5 ignore PC.

D squats, hands carnation to C5, C5 takes flower, looks at flower, eats flower, drops stem between it and D.

C5 slumps head, dead, walks slowly back to original space, arms out, somnambulist.

Falls back to ground in original position and moves no more.

PC shuns, sobs, shakes fists at D.

D looks at PC.

PC sobs.

D stands up, walks to PC, taps on head, pets head twice.

PC looks up, surprised.

D pulls PC to feet.

D and PC dance a requiem.

Eurythmics.

D and PC end dance in middle of floor, D on left, PC on right.

D walks to left pot of flowers, pulls one, returns to PC.

Hands PC flower.

PC takes it, unsure, looks from D to flower, to D to flower, to D to flower.

D smiles, nods, coaxes, urges ahead.

PC smiles, eats flower, smiles, looks around at bodies on floor, takes step towards, smiles, looks around at bodies on floor, opens arms wide, takes step back to D, thanks.

D smiles, takes PC’s head in both hands, kisses head, lets go.

PC’s head slumps down, PC falls to floor, dead.

D looks at him, smiles, dances.

Eurythmics.

Stops in center above PC, tilts head, spreads arms, looks at bodies on floor.

C1-5 all stand up, heads down, join hands in circle around D and PC, dance in circle around D and PC.

D raises arms around her head, smiles.

D thrusts arms out, C1-5 return, walking backwards heads down, to their places on the floor.

D smiles, lowers arms, walks to flowers left, pulls one out, sniffs it, smiles, walks from frame.

Hold.

[Fade to black]