Thursday, April 30, 2009


He never should have pissed me off, but he did.

My stupid brother Marty was always being a bully, beating me up, breaking my toys and spitting on me when my mom wasn’t looking.

I hated his guts and swore that one day when I was big enough I was going to go ballistic on his ass. And that day came one afternoon when my mom had vanished for a while, like she sometimes did. Marty knew where mom hid her extra cash in her bedroom and decided to cop some of it for take-out Chinese food, since there was nothing in the house to eat but a few stale croutons. Marty called and had the food delivered but when the food came, smelling all good and yummy, he wouldn’t let me have any. When I tried to grab a Chinese chicken wing, he punched me in the eye and I went slamming into the wall with vision blurred and head spinning.

By the time I was seeing straight again, Marty was pretty much done eating and started throwing slimy chicken bones at me, laughing like the demon prick he was.

My head still hurt, my stomach was empty and I guess that’s why I did what I did.

I charged the table, faster than he expected and snatched up one of those wooden chop stick things. I meant to stab him in the eye with it, but he turned his head at the last second and the stick plunged into his ear instead.

Marty got this surprised look on his face and then fell off his chair with a loud thump. He never made a sound.

I looked down, still holding the chop stick in my hand. It was covered with blood and something that looked meat, all drippy gooey and juicy.

I sniffed the stuff and thought it smelled pretty good, so I stuck the tip of my tongue on there for a little taste.

That ear meat was freaking delicious! So good, in fact, that I sucked that chop stick clean and then went and stabbed Marty in his other ear as hard as I could, just to get some more of that yummy ear meat. I even dipped it in some left over soy sauce and it was even better!

Marty never should have fucked with me so much, but now I’m kinda glad he did. I’m eyeing his eyeballs now and wondering if they’ll taste like warm stuffed mushrooms.

Tuesday, April 28, 2009


Jack was born pink and healthy, with two legs and six arms. His mother was a religious nut who refused to get his extra arms removed because she thought God must have wanted him to be a freak.

All of his arms were perfectly formed, though without shoulders they could only be bent at the elbows and wrists. His mom had to sew all his clothes herself until Jack was big enough to learn to sew himself. Then he did it twice as fast.

Little Jack had a hard time in school. All the kids teased him, calling him Octo-Jack, and even the teachers treated him like he was a monster, saying that he should just drop out and join the circus.

He couldn’t understand why no one could see his extra arms as a blessing. He could do his homework, draw a picture, scratch his nose, talk on the telephone and give his dog a bath all at the same time.

Once he became a teenager, it was very difficult for Octo-Jack to get a date. Until the day a friend of his mom’s made her daughter go out with him. Good thing for Jack, the girl was a slut and, after a few beers, gave him a piece the very first night. The next day, it was all over the school. All the girls suddenly wanted to be Jack’s girlfriend. He was forever after known as the best lover east of the
Mississippi, and to this day is the orgy king.

Jack prevailed against all the odds. He graduated school at the top of his class and now he’s the drummer in my band. Man, you should hear him pound those skins. He wails them like no other. We’re gonna be huge rock stars and it’s all thanks to my good friend Octo-Jack.

Monday, April 27, 2009

A Toast to Perdition

(old, old poem)

Father forgive me, for I have stood akimbo beneath the falling sky

The son as my witness, the spirit in synapse,
I am the serpent with a dove in his gut

Blasphemy by any other name would surely be just as beautiful

~ Ash Lomen

Saturday, April 25, 2009

Verona Revisited

She knew he was trouble. He was, after all a rogue elephant. He didn't march to the beat of the same drums as the other elephants, no sir. He wore greasy black hair, a greasy black leather jacket and he rode on a greasy black Harley in the blackest, greasiest parts of town. He was everything she had dreamed of, the kind of elephant that had no remorse crushin' clowns and stomping ringmasters into the dirt. He was the kind of elephant every chick wanted to be her ever-lovin' elephantfriend. With his swollen elephanthood he had made her his woman and when you're a rogue elephant's woman, there's no turnin' back.

But her daddy didn't approve. Too much man, too much elephant. He put on his favorite pith helmet and monocle and loaded up his favorite elephant gun and waited for the elephant that had taken his little girl away from him. He caught them in the throes of passion and to show her the price for disobeying his wishes, he shot the punk then and there. But it ain't wise to shoot an elephant when he's on top of your daughter. Elephant/girl sex is an intricate balancing act that took a lot of concentration and no small knowledge of anatomy to execute. When the elephant went down, he tumbled onto his lady, crushing her to death. Her daddy was full of grief and adopted a gorilla to replace his daughter, a gorilla that grew up knowing that her father accepted all of her choices. Funny this is he was right about the elephant all the time: he'd been in it for the money.

Friday, April 24, 2009

Scheiße Höschen

Had tits you could swan dive off of, she did
Drank and belched like a man, she did

Wanted to teach her how to love, I did
Instead, taught me how to say shit panties, she did

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

Inside (edit) now Redworks


we shed our clothes as dutiful lycanthropes
and roll
into bed

fucking and clawing
our skins shed
like past sins

hearts exposed
and beating



Tuesday, April 21, 2009


Now I know you have heard of a cat clock but have you ever heard of a clock cat? They do exist—at least one does because I knew her quite well back where I used to live. Her name was Scooby Boo Bop and she was pretty and pink with gray spots on her paws. Scooby Boo Bop had a happy life living with the old lady who took care of her. But then the old lady died and Scooby Boo Bop was left alone to fend for herself.

She had to learn to sing and dance on the streets for her supper and usually spent the nights sleeping in dumpsters and hiding from nasty dogs

One day a man came. He seemed nice, fed her tuna fish and scratched her neck but when she wasn’t looking he snatched her up. She fought as best as she could but since she had no claws, poor Scooby Boo Bop was doomed!

The man took his new prize back to the laboratory in his basement and he put Scooby Boo Bop in a cage and stuck a needle in her neck. Scooby Boo Bop yowled in agony and rage but then fell fast asleep.

When she awoke, she found out that her whole insides had been replaced with a Mickey Mouse clock! On one side was the face, with Mickey pointing out the time and on her other side were the wind-up keys.

She knew her guts made up the gears of the clock—she could feel something twitch every time she ticked.

The man thought it would be great to have a living alarm clock. At first he wanted to put a clock in a dog but decided that waking up to barking wouldn’t be the most pleasant thing in the world. A cat’s meow would be a much nicer sound to hear in the morning, even more so than a rooster! So, he put his plan into action and all that was required was that the owner of the clock would have to keep the cat in the bedroom with them. Otherwise, the cat could roam anywhere and not be within earshot at wake up time.

What he didn’t count on though, was that the cat might not take too kindly to being turned into an alarm clock. And, once meowing in the morning, would not stand still to be shut off.

The man had to get out of bed and chase Scooby Boo Bop all over the bedroom for half an hour before he was finally able to capture her and stop the meowing alarm.

His wife was particularly annoyed by this rude awakening and as soon as the man went to take his shower, she grabbed Scooby Boo Bop and threw her out the window. It turns out that time doesn’t literally fly but it does indeed land on its feet.

The man lived the rest of his life in shame, as a failed inventor, and Scooby Boo Bop ran away to join the F.B.I., finding a job at Quantico as a timing device used to teach new recruits about bombs. It’s a dangerous job but Scooby Boo Bop loves it and can now afford to buy all the tuna her little ticking heart desires.

Monday, April 20, 2009

Social Disease

The jar remains unopened. I know what’s inside it, and what’s inside it is only mayonnaise, but nothing is scarier than this jar. I stare at it. It stares at me. It has no eyes but I am certain that it stares. It has no mouth, but I know it is laughing. All I can hear around me is the absence of music, the quiet of the suspicious laughter space. I will wake up, then I will go to sleep and see it again and I know it will remain unopened.

It was an endearing spectacle when the little boy next door decided to commit his beloved goldfish to the Earth. He proudly, solemnly went out to the front yard with his prayer book and his shoebox. I gave him five dollars for the dead fish, which he eagerly accepted. I fried it up and it filled with relief and satisfaction as I ate it.
“That’s the nature of love,” I said to the fish.

I went to the videostore and rented Fantasia. I don’t know what possessed me to ask the clerk. “are you any realer than this? I need something less real than you are.” He didn’t know what to say, as he had clearly dismissed me as some nut. I waited at the Wendy’s next door until he got out and then I followed him home and watched with a pair of binoculars while he sat up awake all night.

At my favorite bar, I ran into Kitty Genovese and Superman. “One of you has to be dead,” I told them and moderated the debate until one of them came out looking more selfish. I’m not usually like this.

Last night I grabbed the jar and opened it. Inside was no mayonnaise, but instead an emptier, scarier jar.

As I tie this noose made of pay stubs, phone bills and love poems, I give you this warning: you should never fuck a philosopher unprotected .There is something to fill every hole.

"Just Another Hole In The Sky"

Elephants fell form the sky.

Pachyderm guts splattered neck deep, trapping all of Lucky City’s motorists, mouths agape, in their shiny, stylishly painted, coffins of cars. Those not lucky enough to have an elephant fall directly upon their vehicle died choking, spewing, and crushed to death in a think stew of metal, human corpses and the splattered innards of African Elephants. I survived only by rolling out my convertible and running into a small but sturdy porn shop.

When I finally returned outside to the scene of the chaos… it was raining mice.

Ever since that day I’ve been praying, though I wouldn't exactly say I’m all that religious.


('07 or '08... I think)

April 20th ...a holy day ( :

"That Sacred Flame"


The inhalation at first,
tastes just like stagnant water

But waves,
in time,
they crack

And water,
as always,
it bubbles mad

And soon it burns,
that sacred flame,

That old familiar fire

My own personal Eucharist


Sunday, April 19, 2009

Bucket 'O' Guts

I'm starting me own venture. Would love to see some stuff from the talent in these parts.

Friday, April 17, 2009


Rusted organs
Jutting out
Like Christmas tree flesh
Decorated in deep red
Moldy gangrene
Sharp shivering lungs
Bladders encrusted yellow
Iron girl ghost
Surviving with the help of
Vaginal pop tarts
Lots and lots of smiling

Thursday, April 16, 2009

The Old Saloon

"The Old Saloon"

the old saloon stank
of seeping cunts
and washed-out gunslingers
bad whisky
and some old chinamen
passing off dogmeat
as bacon

a muddled
sense of rot
permeated the entire establishment

all ubiquitous
with meaning
and metaphor...

(a poor fool like myself could never hope to understand)


The Man Who Knows Just What Is Going Down: A Poem

The Man Who Knows Just What Is Going Down


He is twitching



Grinding enamel almost down to fangs

As he observes the passing nocturnal things

And listens for the plot,

Each fragment of alien thought

Is not beyond his sight,

So his eyes don’t blink all night

Uncomfortable until the breaking dawn

Is the man who knows just what is going down.


The children in their children masks

Are calling him to task

For never wanting to play

When he walks through the park each day.

He smells their breath

Peanut butter




Stinking, toadlike, greedy and unwashed

Seeking the chance to suckle blood and milk

If he is fool enough to stop and talk

And they know just as he does why he has to run,

It’s a coward that knows just what is going down.


The shatterers

The hiders of small things

The trippers


Rolex stoppers

Can hide behind the protons of each atom of hydrogen

And jump out when they’re needed most.

They wave at him while pissing battery acid into his oatmeal.

They say “don’t you tell, man, don’t you tell

We gotta make sure that things don’t work too well.

If you treasure your alarm clock, Xanax, Gameboy

You’d better not,

Cause all the badass motherfuckers who run this town

Don’t care if you know just what is going down!”


The president is made of dogfood

Banana peels

Motor Oil

And Commodore 64 motherboards.

He points, as he shrieks

(You know he only points and shrieks):

“The earth is declaring war on all of you

Especially the man who knows just what is going down.”


Trembling under a churchpew

Rolling around in his filth

He shrieks (like the president shrieks):

“Christ has come and come and come and gone

I know cause I know just what is going down.”


"You know where I come from?" says each hotdog on the cart
"I'm made of glue and cum and angel farts
I'm harvested in China by Commie hot dog farmers
Who work for Oprah and the Dalai Lama
Combined with mustard, we gave people AIDS
And we're growing legs to march on Heaven's gates
You think that's bad? Well, shit like this abounds!
You should know, you know what's going down."


The purpose of names and faces fade

In the paranoid Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade,

Specifics of who was shot and who survived

All seem to be sloppily contrived.

There are no different items on the news

And there’s plastique in everybody’s shoes.

The bloodflood is here,

We float to see and drown

He warned us

He knew just what was going down.

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Spurs on Hemlock

Driven by a rawhide vertebrate, when a stranger walks in
A saloon thick with the stench of creosote and sin
He’s gauged them all before a tumbleweed does a
360 on spilled blood of the not quick enough…
Check the man in the back who’s asleep, awake with
The brim of his dust covered hat pulled down all the way to the neckline
And an empty bottle of fill-in-the-blank spinning like a propeller
On the rough surface of a table that’s seen more than one man’s dreams
Soaked into its skin and then dried again
There’s a saga wedged deeply into each fold of skin that makes up the
Stranger’s thumbprint and you can almost make out a dreadful melody
Carried on the quicksilver thread that sends bullets stitching through
A room full of fleshy, empty canvas
The smoke from the barrels rises to the timber-framed ceiling

And the tumbleweed tumbles on…

Tuesday, April 14, 2009


If you see Andersen Prunty on the side of the road, don’t stop.

I made that mistake. That’s how I got the black eye. And the bloody nose. And the missing testicles. If I could invent a time machine, I would use to go back and kill myself before I made the mistake of helping Andersen change his tire.

There he was on the side of the road, his beard blowing in the wind. He looked like some old wizard or one of the guys from ZZ Top. Being the nice guy I am, I pulled over and offered to help. It was pretty surprising that he didn’t know how to change a tire. I mean, what guy doesn’t know how to do that? Little did I know it was just a ploy to lur good Samaritans.

So I offered to help and Andersen nods his head really fast, so fast that his beard actually whacked me in the face, leaving hair-burns on my cheek. I ignored it and just went on with changing the tire. He stood over me, watching as if he had no idea as to what I was doing. He kept asking me questions.

“What’re you doing? Does that hurt the tire? Does the hurt the car? Is the car gonna bleed? What’s that black stuff on your fingers? Are you a vegetarian? Have you ever seen that show Life Goes On?”

I tried answering the best I could but it was becoming so goddamn annoying. I quickly finished helping and then I walked back to my car. He jogged after me. He didn’t run, didn’t walk, he actually jogged. When he caught up with me, he stopped and put his hands on his knees to catch his breath. He had only jogged about fifteen feet but there he was hyperventilating as if he had just finished a marathon.

“You okay?” I asked.

He panted. “Yeah, just give me a second.”

“I really gotta go.”

“Just give me a second, will ya? I’m dyin’ here.”

So I waited for about ten minutes for Andersen Prunty to catch his breath. Once he did, he put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Thanks a lot, boss. You’re battleaxe.”

“No problem.” I took a step away.

“You have to stay, man,” he said, grabbing my shirt.

“Dude, what the hell’s your problem?” I said.

That’s when he took his shirt off, just pulled it off like it was made of tissue paper. It was like he was Hulk Hogan during his heyday in the 1980s. I was almost expecting Andersen to tell me to always remember to take my vitamins and say my prayers. But he did not such thing.

Instead, he took off his pants. He just ripped them off like male strippers do. Andersen was standing right in front of me in only his underwear that had the words “Entrance in Back” written on the crotch in bold purple letters.

“I gotta go,” I said, trying to inch my way closer to my car but he wouldn’t have any of it. The guy grabbed both my arms and took me to the ground. I spent the next forty five minutes wrestling around with him. He was sweaty as hell and his armpits smelt like apple pie which wasn’t totally unpleasant.

In between deep breaths he said, “I love you. I really never wanted to hurt you.”

Sure, the guy sounded sincere but I was hurt like hell and he was holding my detached balls in his fist.

“Shit, man, my balls, man, you got my balls,” I said, trying to appeal to his manliness. You gotta respect another man’s balls or else you’ve got chaos.

“Balls? I thought these were gumdrops,” Andersen said. Then he threw them into the woods. He got off of me and went back to his car and drove away. I watched as his taillights got dimmer and dimmer.

It took me a while but I found out where the fucker lived. In fact I found out more information than I had expected. Remember that whole “Satanic Panic” back in the ‘80s where parents were worried about heavy metal music, Dungeons & Dragons, and other evil things that were corrupting their children? It turns out that Andersen Prunty was behind all of that. He had been both a Satanist and a Christian Crusader. One day he’d be showing a thirteen-year old boy how to draw pentagrams on a school notebook and then the next day he’d be given lectures on how pretending they’re a wizard is the most satanic thing a child can do.

Shit, I thought. This man’s more dangerous than I expected.

But what the hell, I decided to drive to his house anyway. I didn’t have any balls left but I made up for it in pure dedication to my goal. What was my goal?

To eat that son of a bitch.

And I did. I ate him up like I was a starving child. You know what he tasted like? He tasted like panic and like pentagrams. He tasted like machismo and like car grease. He tasted like beard hair smothered in olive oil.

He tasted like awesomeness.

With each swallow, I felt myself getting more and more awesome. It almost made losing my balls worth it. I knew that the next time I went to a party, everyone would turn their heads to look at me because I was just that awesome. They’d probably say things like:

“Dude, look at him. He’s so awesome. It’s as if he ate Andersen Prunty.”

“Yeah, he must have had his two bowls of Prunty this morning!”

But even with that awesomeness, I’m still a eunuch, destined to be ostracized for lack of balls. And so that’s why I had to eat Andersen Prunty.

Any questions?

Monday, April 13, 2009

By request of the Kraken King

by Ash Lomen


Her hipshot said
what her words never could

A single-action sonnet...

And my head snapped back
almost as if the very chains she broke
were now wrapped around my neck


(now go and write something REALLY gross ( :

Saturday, April 11, 2009

Bonedust In The Wind

Horseflesh and tumbleweed tea
cold iron drawn
in colder knuckles

The sounds of the silenced never quite the same
as the sounds of silence itself

We open bottles of firewarter and bloodburbon
we dance like dying snakes in the dust
all to the lawless deathfarts
of the hanging

This is the frontier
(This is home)


Friday, April 10, 2009

SPACE RAPE! (part one)

Gobs of milky space-cum splattered the hood of his car, causing Paul Minisink to swerve into a tree. With an ear-crushing crash, the automobile scrunched like an accordion. In great pain, Paul pulled himself out of the wreckage and onto the grass a few feet away from the tree. His tongue wiggled a tooth that had become loose from the impact.

Paul thought that car might explode. That would be just great, he thought. A fiery ending to thousand-dollar investment: a blue 1989 Chevy Cavalier that, despite its age, was in great shape. But whatever, it was totaled anyway. Good thing he had reached his destination. He looked at the large road sign which read: Welcome to Pink Meat, New Jersey, Established 1788.

He looked up at the sky and winced, imagining more liquid scum would come falling down to finish the job. It had been a long time since Outer Space declared a rape-vendetta against him. It would not rest until it blew its load all over Paul and drowned him in the thick globs of space-sperm.

(to be continued..)


Bullets are the skeleton key to a deadbolted door, however
We've convinced ourselves through a blind mantra of what if's and
How 'bout's…
That once the door swings open, misery will be left outside, shivering
On a welcome mat stained with the crimson red of the
Too damn close, too damn many times
And return to your shabby confines and…
Wait for the inevitable
The unavoidable


I was thrilled when the shapely blonde sat next to me at the bar. My drink was ruined when her head exploded and I knew it was going to be a long night.

The bartender didn't charge me for the next round.

Another shapely blonde sat next to me a few nights later, but this time I covered my drink beforehand.

Thursday, April 9, 2009

The Man with Penis Breath

This is the Binaca spray of the man with penis breath. There are no breath freshening liquids, just sperm and fungus.

Things freshen with breath freshening liquids. He likes it when things freshen…Sperm, you swallow sperm, you spit out sperm, and breath does not freshen.

Why do you have such a strange dispenser of breath spray?

I am the man with penis breath, people are always cumming and cumming, and I am always sad.

But why do you have such a strange dispenser of breath spray?

I am always sad…



I unhinge my mind like the jaws of a snake, if only to make myself a better writer. My head hurts a bit afterwards, but I'll live.

At first I just see a budding flower grow from my keyboard, but upon expansion the strangebloom unfolds itself to be some sort of... creature. Five petals, starfish-tan, two branching out into tiny feet (or hands), one petal unfolding into a rope-like tail of knotted bone, one unfolding normally into tan flowerflesh, and the final petal sporting a plate-like dinaosaurhead, complete with obscene warts.

I can no longer tell if this is fiction.

I reach for my keyboard but the creature takes a bite at me with a set of iridescent fangs. I can feel upon impact that this is no dry-bite. The fictoxion tactfully avoids any possible cephalic carnage and instead , knowing my weakness, simply fools my cells and boils my heart in my chest.

Ash Lomen 09

Wednesday, April 8, 2009


Went to a carnival
Visions of Technicolor back alleys
Strewn with dog guts and gasoline
I never won a prize before

This is a terrible day to be alive
Got no money to spend
No women to buy
And no pills

I check again
Make sure the door is locked

Time and space drip
From the moldy faucet
I wash my face
And burn my eyes with yellow soap

Lines of mildew
Like green cocaine
She snorted
Next to a red septic tank

There are peacocks in the walls
Telling me to shit in the bathtub

Betrayed by a crispy and burnt bible
Words from a whore whispered
Smothered in champagne
I check again
Make sure the door is locked

There’s a peepshow down the street
Crusty birdcalls and syringes
Coalescing into syrupy payment
For services rendered

Smoke, eat, sleep
And wake up
I always have that dream
That smells like a perfumed cunt

There are pancakes in the walls
Telling me to shit the bed

Check-out time
Eleven A.M
Burnt sunshine drilling a hole
In a drunken skull

Pack the bag
With teeth, hair,
And obscene thoughts

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Fuck Cars...


When the plane first crashed, debris went flying in every direction. Pilotless chunks of shrapnel cut through well-manicured stalks of corn and passengers alike. All around us explosions rocked the earth and silenced screams indiscriminately.

I watched disembodied as my beautiful wife walked through burning stalks of fire. I noticed that a piece of our plane's wing had imbedded itself deep within her upper skull… and as she staggered forward like a zombie and fell, I realized in horror that very moment before she died was the first time I had ever truly been in love with her.

Sunday, April 5, 2009

Old Horror Diddy...

"The Disappearing Man"
By Ash Lomen

Self-inflicted surgery had become a favorite pastime, cutting off parts of myself to watch the slow decay of severed flesh. Deep cuts healing like pursed lips marked my body’s every inch. But I wanted more…

I started slowly, at first just removing small hunks of myself with a sharpened spoon, but in time I grew braver and moved on to my toes, ears, and a good part of my facial skin. By the time I decided to remove my left leg with an old penknife I had truly begin looking like a monster.
Decay seemed oddly appropriate when I gazed at my visage in the shattered bathroom mirror, and I supposed I could have psychoanalyzed my condition endlessly… surly this was something far deeper than the shallow cuts of my leather-clad brethren.

But instead of playing the shrink, I preferred to play the surgeon.

And so I cut on...

I never touched my fingers (for obvious reasons), or my cock (carnal thoughts were never failing despite my bizarre interests), so prostitutes, and only the strongest willed among their profession, were my frequent and only company. The best of them could even manage to feign pity… I liked that.

I spent my last days on this earth with my favorite whore, Marissa. I hung from ceiling chains, both legs removed as she licked at my flailing stumps. Infection had set in and I wanted to make the most of my dying hours.

In a final homage to the hobby that had taken my life, I paid Marissa to sever my head with a dull meat cleaver.

I died with a smile on my face.


Saturday, April 4, 2009

The Guitar Anti-Hero

His voice resembled the shivering sacrifice onstage. He broke hauntingly unclean and back again into his native German, all the better to intone the devil in shades of mock falsetto. At times he even sharpened his tone and emoted a plea of piercing sincerity so keen and shifting that foolish onlookers might have sworn he was a once a Christian, at least until any notion of his religious overtones were quickly dispelled by a series of sewer-barks in Grindcore Gibberish.

His guitar never missed a moment to parody.

Friday, April 3, 2009


In the desert, flat on my back, the night sky is a canopy of stars. But not really a canopy. That is too cliché. Is it an ocean? Almost, but it is really more like a soup. But not soup in a bowl. Soup on a tray, vast, huge, flat like me and desert ground. The ground and the sky trap me between, making a me-meat sandwich that the invisible giant could eat if it was hungry.

But I am the hungry one and I could use some tasty black soup with spicy silver stars.

I reach up and, with a finger, swirl the soup around, stir it up, make the stars spin and twirl. The soup is warm, but not hot. Perfect drinking temperature. If only I had a cup. Then I could drink the sky, drink it all down and not save any for later, just the way Vincent did. He saw the stars and the moon just as I see it now, with his magic sky eyes.

I catch a star on the end of my fingertip and pop it into my mouth where it tingles my tongue with its sharp bur shape, and then I crunch it between my teeth, flashing spearmint sparks in the dark.

I ate a bit of the moon once too. It tasted like dead leaves.

Thursday, April 2, 2009


I was supposed to go to work today but instead I bought a gun.
I’ve been using it to scratch the side of my nose and push the buttons on the remote control. I press the grip against my forehead and cheeks, enjoying the cool metal against my hot skin. I even managed to pop the cap off my beer bottle with it.
I’m wondering what else I can do with this gun. Plant a flower in the muzzle? Hammer nails into the wall and hang a pretty picture? Use the sight as a crude letter opener?
Yeah, my hand and this nice shiny gun seem to be welded together now. I don’t know what I’m gonna do if I need to wipe my ass…
I can’t think of too many more things to do with this here gun. I guess I could go outside and try to shoot a hole in the sun, pretend it’s the boss’ face. Or maybe I should just go to work after all.