Fat fucker has taken the rest of the week off so I don’t have to hear his vocalized ‘guitar noises’, belches, bleats etc. Everyone has made nice with him again… even those targets he stabbed far worse than me. I am the last holdout. I can be unforgiving, merciless, once the code is violated. You’d think I was Sicilian or something. You will not break the code and emerge unscathed. I will plant a pellet of destruction in your megacolon set to detonate when you’re acting cute. You think you’re going to be ok. Well, YOU AREN’T. You never were cute. Your ex-wife should have cut your wang off literally, not just metaphorically. Before you bred her out, that is. This is my bile for today. Wishing you ill while you’re home preparing for your dumb daughter’s visit. And the grandbabies… the grandbabies… THE MOTHERFUCKING GRANDBABIES! When they’re old enough to figure you out, they’ll dump you too. Make sure to eat all your feelings before they arrive so you can act like you’re on a diet while they’re around. You stupid shit. You retarded cock. May you be devoured by your own cellulitis. Nom nom nom. Blaaaarrrfff.
Backslid and smoked two cigarettes last night. Generally, I’ve been sticking to my programme. The nicotine lozenges are harsh on my stomach, but I’m using them anyway. I seem to have lost my vape rig. Despite trying not to use it, it was nice to have for those moments that find me fiending. I wish I didn’t feel like such a fiend, but I am what I am. The fangs of the past haven’t released. The fist of the future is plunging. Deeper. Like punching into a bucket full of pudding. What kind of an asshole… doesn’t know that Allah, Jehovah, Yahweh and God are the same thing?
Your average American.
What kind of a fucktard… doesn’t understand that the Quran was part of the original biblical canon?
If there was one brain cell present to set off a spark we’d all be in trouble. Only YOU can STOP neural firing. But He told me… think on beautiful things, be not moved by the grotesque or inspired by the untoward. Let your heart and mind be occupied with love and forgiveness. Let not hatred be your sun, let not lust be your moon. Trample wanton desire with a righteous foot. That’s what He said. He whispered into my deaf ear while I was sleeping last night. I dreamed of an abattoir with my family name over the gated entrance. The walls screamed the smell of failed roses… the hired guns on the roof trained us, so I mumble my petitions behind a liver spotted hand. Do you believe in love? I ask the corpse I call my brother. He unlocks his empty eyes, points, clicks and says without missing a beat, ‘Tupac was a ballet dancer.’
Now, it all makes sense.
I don’t want to rot here, unhealed… unmentionable…
My gash has screamed itself gulch dry
It spits air… ain’t no blood left…
‘You must stop willing, desiring, hating…’ His voice threatens to unseat my tentative sanity.
‘Spread yourself open to the limitless light’, He coughed into the darkest pocket of my brain.
And the pocket ruptured atomic illuminating the clogged corners.
The sheer force of angelic radiation emitted from my busted skull scatters my pretty vermin, shattering their reference points (me) and shredding any safety nets. I didn’t need them anyway. Fighter planes and cop copters stutter in the strobe of disintegrating hadrons. I blow you a kiss through the flames, over the bloodied plains… watching… fully aware of the guns trained on the knives in my back. Sharp shooters can split ’em right down the middle. We can’t save each other from ourselves let alone the rest of the animals. Give me a microphone with a cord long enough to wrap around my neck and a tall enough soapbox to jump off of. This will be my one and only acceptance speech, worthy of an Academy Award. I am the megaphone of the frayed, the mouthpiece of the played, watch me swing, baby. See my bling sparkling on my blue fingers, on my vein-popped neck.
‘The choker that lives up to its name.’
Squeezing the trache…
Squeezing the trache…
Wired by sound.
The belligerent bull-head takes another pass at the infected majority with its gore crusted horns. These humanimals- didn’t they used to know what was good for them? Then the joke is revealed: it turns out the bull was really two D list actors in a cheesy costume. Did we ever know? Who can wipe our eyes and set us on a corrective path? Quick… pick a guy in banker garb. Are we even equipped to receive truth? Will we know it when we see it? I have my doubts. I have my donuts. I’ll suck off the actor in the baker’s outfit for a crueler cruller I’m not proud. I could never be with what I’ve both done and not done. I wouldn’t know truth or justice if I saw them with their pants off.
Please pass me the Kool Aid.
Nom nom nom, cheeky bastard.
I love sitting with my weedheads in the back of the bus. My boys with the face tats and designer track suits. This one has a script name inked across his backhand. Well manicured nails. I wish I could enjoy it but I’m too disappointed in myself… I must have the death groove again today… I bought a pack of cigarettes.
I’ve been doing so well.
Just want to let myself down because I tend to get cocky if I’m too disciplined.
I get a little full of myself if I’m too together.
My shambolic heart. My disordered mind.
Dude smells like the best skunk bud ever- I may be getting a contact bizuzzz. That loose track suit cannot cover the glory of that azz. Holy crap! My jaw just hit the scum mitred floor of the bus. Weed dude gave way to booze dude. He’s sippin’ more Olde English 800 from a bag. He’s not trying to disguise it either. No shame in his game. Olde English 800: The Official Beverage of the Hilltop.
The black goo is here, too… my life has become an endless cycle of mopping it up. Scraping it off. It’s collecting in unexpected places, it’s up to my ankles. It dries like cement. It’s infinite.
Too bad it cannot be used as an energy source.
Or can it?
Hey! I can be the first to patent a black goo converter. Then some megacorporation can buy me off… I can sell on out… and then they’ll stash it in some vault to collect dust— another plentiful resource. Black goo and white dust. A high class combo. Sign me up; cover me in it. Make me up like a musty powdered cruller. Talk about delicacies!
Nom nom nom, goddamned idiot.
Poke me scope.
It’s all going to be Chinese… with any quote unquote luck at all. Or is that quote end quote.
Blow me, sue me, kill me… I deserve it, I’m a college graduate.
I need to call this friend who, according to a social media post, is lost and confused. I guess I’m ready for my dose of despair and nihilism today because I obviously haven’t generated enough of my own here in this space.
Smoke a bowl and chug some water and here I go. A friend in need and all…
Sent to voicemail.
He texted that he’d call me tomorrow as I was leaving him a message.
This fat heifer in line in front of me at the Greek restaurant I get salads from is telling the woman behind the counter she’s allergic to lettuce. This bitch is unreal. Most of their entrees are salads.
Why you gonna go to a salad place if you’re allergic to lettuce?
What… are you allergic to water? Because that’s what lettuce is, mostly. They piled the gyro meat in that bowl for her. And tomatoes.
From behind she had the shape of a latex glove packed to bursting with cheese curds. Lettuce. Fux sake! She wasn’t allergic to tacky clothing or fake nails, that’s for sure.
A mixed race couple (he looks latino and she’s black) are with their baby who sits slumbering in her stroller— the sum will be greater than the parts of this equation. They’re taking multiple selfies in front of the new Vets Memorial building, a few straight ahead shots, a few kissy facing a few looking at each other (that’s got to be tricky). I watch them from them from the back of the bus; they truly look in Love, relaxed and at ease with their roles as young parents, both appearing to be early twenties, if that. Though, it’s hard to tell with blacks and Latinos. When I see couples like this, I say a little prayer for them. I want people to be better parents. I want the children to be nurtured carefully, mindfully. This is the antinatalist in me… feeling like most people shouldn’t marry or breed… that, when I see people looking this way, I’m encouraged that not everyone is a walking, breathing mistake passing on their hideous foibles (magnified ad infinitum) through genetic glitches made flesh.
I look for the silver linings and the shining examples wherever I can find them.
The heart of the romantic breeds the cynic, after all.
I am a romantic. No use denying it.
I have made myself a beast to protect this soft heart. Sometimes the beast takes over. Nowadays only when provoked.
I get feral.