Monday, August 31, 2009

“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.

Saturday, August 29, 2009

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


Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Saturday, August 22, 2009

Her Testimony Against the Restraining Order (A Haiku)

Yes, I know he is

cryogenically frozen

But Walt Disney's Hawt!

Friday, August 21, 2009

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!

Monday, August 17, 2009

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.

Sunday, August 16, 2009

The Burn Ward Arsonist (part 2 of 3)


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

Saturday, August 8, 2009


Japanese monster

thinks haikus suck donkey dick

"Burn, you fuckers, burn!"