Wednesday, January 20, 2010

"In The House Of A Departed God"


The very fact that the old wooden church was still standing, various vines still clutching the rafters in all manners of squeaking strangulation, was a testament to the power of a God that I had devoted my entire life to. The central cross inside the church was overturned by thick tangles of Brier, and Christ's face now rested in sloppy egg-ridden mud. It was here, upon these filthy pews, that we met every Sunday, ritualistically; to fuck.

We both walked back one evening, hand in hand, and finally, painstakingly, I explained why I loved her. She looked up at me with her uncomprehending, all-too-young, hazel eyes.

“I love you too Father Brenon.” She said in her simple voice, her severely cleft palate mangling her words, and obviously quite unsure of herself.

She smiled a toothless smile.

In the distance, I could swear I heard a demon cackle.


Tuesday, January 19, 2010

"A Cacophony of Distilled Whispers"

My memory is
a double agent

My heartstrings
are piano wire
and taunt
in two white knuckled hands

My drunken smile
is your shallow grave

Sunday, January 17, 2010

"The Green Man"

By around dusk most of the space-junkies and mobsters had all backed away from Filio’s Diner, gone back to their filthy hammocks and pill-whores on the lower decks of Sector 4 just as soon as Mr. Mosley’s face lost its usual air of drunken, childish patience and irons were swiftly drawn, cold cocked, and sweaty from hands ready and wanting for blood.

Fairy faggots. All of them, Mosley thought. Alien scum.

Mosley shot all three of em’ right in the face, right then, just for wasting his time, just for not being fucking human. Bloody rivers now carried their card game downstream and off the table’s edge onto the tiled floor. Red blood. Funny.

Mosley turned his Stetson and rolled his old-fashioned guns absently; the old barroom’s creaks giving away his foes position as good as any sonar.

Movement behind a metallic crate of Mod.47 mechanical vaginas…

Mosley spun, fanned a few shots for cover, then dove and chased the "Alien Scum" out the backdoor and out into the open dusty street, where Mosley gunned him down with a shot to what looked like his kneecap.

The tough green bastard just rolled back and with the burst from a concealed jetpack, sprang forward on his bad leg like nothing had even happed.The Green Man drew on Mosley, midair, blasting away with a sawed-off Triton SpreadShot ripped from his overcoat.

Mosley’s pistols were already on their target.

And firing.


“Lovecraft Like A Cancer Grows”

Robinson planted his seed firmly within the winter ice.

He rested for a day, pulled up his pants, and stepped back a few paces to admire his work.

The tendrils rose up almost immediately upon his movement, red pulsing feelers already rooted in thick permafrost.

They pulled their heads back like serpents and begin to seep into his body through his exposed hands, pushing back fingernails and pumping like cool morphine up his arms, deep into his circulatory system, headlong into his heart.

His eyes expanded like galaxies.

Robinson just sat back and enjoyed the ride.

Friday, January 15, 2010

"Ariel, I Want You To FUCKING Die"

It feels like the wind is closing in on me
changing me

(just another cleft)

Oh my sweet Miranda
This Tempest has come

(for both of us)

Sunday, January 10, 2010

Bucket news

Wanted to let y'all know that Bucket O' Guts Press is now accepting submissions for novella/novels.

Also, if you haven't checked out Ash Lomen's SWALLOWED BY THE HORIZON, here's the link.

Saturday, January 9, 2010

Put Your Hands Together!

“Why aren’t you clapping, my man?” It was the bartender with the soaring eagle tattoo. Jesus, he was big. He stabbed at my shoulder with a stalactite of a finger and filled my red plastic cup with more watered down Midwestern beer. I drank the whole thing in one gulp—gratefully.

“That’s our chief up there,” his words were like he was screaming without raising his voice. “When he’s singing, everybody claps. You dig?”

I did dig and I clapped ‘til it hurt.

The old chief finished his rendition of “She’s a Lady” and waddled off the stage. He was a frail invisible man, but in this crowd he had some serious clout. When he was out of sight I grabbed my coat and stood up to leave, but the bartender shoved me back onto the stool.

“No way. You ain’t leaving till we’ve all had our turn.” Demanded the bartender with the soaring eagle tattoo—ink so vivid, I swear the feathers were real—he points that same granite finger to a long line of his extended family leaning up against the wall, waiting to go on stage.

I nod my whole upper body like I got no neck, take another swig of skunk beer, and glance around the place.

Not an empty seat in the joint. Earlier, they’d force marched damn near every swingin’ dick in here and plopped us down in front of a satin covered stage. Grabbed me and a few others from the blackjack table. I was praying to win big, double down on aces and pull two face cards, but ended up just praying my skinny little ass would walk out alive.

All the couples huddled up close to the bar and each other; not quite sure how they got in this predicament. The tables down on the floor were occupied by a bus load of senior citizens. They gripped their fanny packs so hard that rheumatic knuckles threatened to pop out of the skin. Ludicrous prints on golf shirts and purple perm-jobs complemented the confused/frightened looks on their faces perfectly. Any minute I was sure one of them old timers would cease up, paw at their chest, and keel over dead.

Mascara filled tears trickled down ashy white cheeks. Husbands grimaced so hard they damn near swallowed their own lips. The braver men, probably still just boyfriends, twitched nervously while looking around for a possible escape route. There were fellas just as big as the one beside me blocking every exit.

Have some more beer, he says repeatedly. Much obliged, I repeat exhaustively.

I was trying my hardest not to cry, afraid tattoo guy would take it as an insult. Nobody dared move. Everyone just too eager to drink that beer and clap when told to.

One by one, those proud people sang their hearts out. The giant spotlight shown down on all the scars, ink and hard living wrinkles. This was their open mic night and we were forced to watch and listen. If it weren’t for the fear racing through me, or the skunk beer souring my stomach, it might have been something beautiful. With all the slot machines ringing in the back ground, and the flashing neon lights, it was almost like a Broadway show. Some of them may have sounded like cats in heat, but you had to appreciate the dedication. They knew every word by heart. Not a single hiccup.

There was atom-bomb tension in the air. I was sure any moment this was going to go from surreal to blood bath. They’d cut our throats and dance on our entrails. That’s just how things like this ended, right?

The last one to go was my new found friend, the bartender. The plywood stage bowed under his massive frame. Before grabbing the microphone, he tied up his long black hair in a ponytail. “This one’s dedicated to all my brothers and sisters who can’t join us tonight.” He said, with his eyes closed.

I knew the song as soon as the music started. It was from that movie with Kevin Costner and Ms. Houston herself. Not an easy one to pull off. With a voice so deep it sounded like it was coming from inside a dark cave, the bartender was sure to botch the high notes. But I was wrong. His performance was flawless. To this day, I’ve never heard such a range. As the song reached crescendo, our tears of fear were replaced by ones out of idolization. This man, whom I thought would be the death of all us patrons, won over the hearts of the biggest critics among us.

The song ended and our newfound hero took a long and well deserved bow. The entire place erupted in cheers. We all clapped until the meat of our palms blistered. No one wanted to stop clapping. Once the music was over, what would come next? Would they pull out razor-sharp hunting knives and make quick work of us?

Eventually we had to stop clapping.

When the room fell silent the bartender blew kisses to us all. “Thank you for coming to open mic night here at Soaring Eagle Casino,” He was all smiles, “Please make sure to stop at the gift shop on your way out.”

That was it. We were all free to go. I gathered up my things and headed for the door; stopping in at the gift shop to spend a small fortune on coffee mugs and refrigerator magnets. On the way home, I found a nice soft rock station and sang along with the songs. Who knows maybe next time I’ll get up and sing?

Friday, January 8, 2010

Dada Fart Yokes (A Song, To Be Sung In an Outrageous German Accent, To The Tune of "Camptown Races")

Dada Fart Yokes All Day Long

Dadaaaa Dadaaaa

Dada Fart Yokes Een Yewer Thong

All zee Da-da-dayyyyyy

Fartin' all zee nighhhtttt

Und fartin' all zee dayyyyyyy

Zee Jedi-Man schtuck in mein head zays

"Dada joost doon't payyyy!"