Saturday, September 26, 2009


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.

Friday, September 25, 2009

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.

Thursday, September 24, 2009

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

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

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


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

This is not poetry...

This is not even fiction

Monday, September 21, 2009


Duck see Zen Rabbit.

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

See Zen Duck see zen.

Saturday, September 19, 2009

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)


Talk Like A Pirate Day, "Arrrrrr!

Shiver me timbers!"


-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)

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

"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...


Monday, September 14, 2009

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.

Sunday, September 13, 2009



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)

Thursday, September 10, 2009

Old Dirty Poems

"Heroes Identified By Dental Records"

Dead heroes
sleep between
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!

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

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.


Monday, September 7, 2009

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."

Sunday, September 6, 2009

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.

Friday, September 4, 2009

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


Thursday, September 3, 2009

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


Wednesday, September 2, 2009

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