The Classic

 

 

Fuel my destiny with a BANG…
The injectables aren’t running the show, I swear.
A blue nipple in the cross-hairs…
and I literally mean BANG.
Aim for the steroid blue nipples
through all the ripples
and feathers.
Over the Striations.

And me without my M14.

One year, tripping my balls off, Arnold Schwarzenegger almost knocked me over as he was being rushed through the crowd toward the arena.  The words ‘lantern jawed wunderbrot’ flashed in my mind.  He was a head shorter than me and looked like Heat Mizer.

I thought, ‘You ain’t all that.’
Then I remembered who I was….
and within that
I still could have removed him and two of ‘his best’
from any star map.

He was less than an arm’s length from me.

I blew my fatal attraction fantasies into his stiffened hair as he swept by.  He smelled like baby toys.

Steroidal behavior clutch and stomp.  We’re all fully in control of ourselves here.  Clean and jerk.

Walking through the convention center, there are signs from sponsors: energy drinks, the military industrial complex.  The Marines and Gays are in heavy recruitment. Suck and blow steal the show.

Vanity thy name is CrossFit.  Orange people united.  Look at all these whores.
Ogle them
through shredded muscle and chipped bone
as they were meant to be fetishized,
consumed
with broken teeth and blistered eyes.

On the lookout for my favorite porn stars and YouTube meatheads.
Sweatpants and yoga pants and VPLs for every taste.
I got my hypodermic and duct tape in my backpack.
My nerves are dead, so I’m calm.

Flatline calm.
Lie detector stumping calm.

Getting a testosterone contact high.  Even the chicks have dicks here.
Steroids increase clit size.  FACT!

The mushrooms are surging… probably due to loading myself up on carbs and simple sugars. Trying to hang out, unobtrusive.  That’s easy. Dudes are rubbing bronzer on each other… not gay… seriously.

The CFD’s walking a bomb sniffing dog around. Good thing it can’t smell syringes.

Slipping into the restroom…
at…
the far end…
of the concourse.
Pentobarbital to cure
what ails me,
put you into
my photographic livery.

Baby baby.
I have my greatest offense yet at the ready.

They’ll find a buff husk crumpled in a stall.  Just my little secret.
Mmm mm mmmmmm.

Catching the number five, back down 5th I’m not thinking.
It’s more like pictures of where I’m going.

The bathhouse is going to be busy, always is with the cult of body worshippers filling this town’s gaping vacancies.
Emptying myself out further, I intend to assist in that effort.
I intend to wash myself
entirely clean.

I intend to take someone with.

I can wait in this humid envelope forever because I’m a reptile using dormancy and natural selection to dodge perception—
I match the leaves,
the wallpaper,
I’m blending into the crowd,
melting into your blind spots.
I’ve slowed my pulse and heart rate
to the brink.

It’s easy to get lost in this nowhere trying to be somewhere town during The Classic. I used to get lost here all the time. But, I’ve found my callings.

I croak a message into my storied hand.
I place my hand down my pants and grab my gun,
the message scarred onto my palm
from years of scratching, whispering, digging.
My finger traces the outline of the gun,
oil dripping from the barrel.
I taste it.

Yep… gun oil.

I lick the scars on my hand
like I’m tracing a treasure trail
on a map
with my tongue.

I like the way all of this tastes, the flavor of freedom: the bouquet of certitude.

Point and click— one click changes everything.
Easy as eins zwei drei.

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