Life Sux

This inquiry begins where thought ends—death. The worst of all possible things, although sometimes the end result of the worst of all possible things, like torture, or a life of rape, any sort of terrible existence. One doesn’t have to have any facts, or know any history to fear death and come to profound insights about it. I remember being very young, probably 9 or 10, and the throught of death would creep into my mind in the middle of the night as I lay patiently in my bed waiting for sleep to overtake me.  It would keep me up, my entire body would become taught with fear. I’d have to get up and search for something to distract me, the thing that worked best was the poster from 5^th grade graduation. Okay so now I realize I must have been older, probably 11 or 12, and in middle school rather than elementary. On the toilet under fluorescent lights I would examine all the faces and try to recall things about my classmates. With that rectangular sheet of laminated photo paper I could distract myself from death, and fill my head with idle thoughts. Upon leaving the bathroom I would concentrate to keep those thoughts cycling through my head, and fear would again well up in my frame when I could feel the thoughts coming back.  If these thoughts were a color, they would be black, and they would spread across my mind like viscous octopus ink, leaving everything grim and murky. One day my life is going to end, and its going to end in a way that is incomprehensible. Incomprehensible because its not like flipping a switch, because there is no darkness to comprehend. Its death, I don’t fucking know what its like, its unfathaomable, unthinkable, the worst of all possible things. It taints life, muddies the rich elixer that we drink in as human beings. Time time is bad too, little kid. I want to start over. Goodnight.

Brainbarf

This one began. This one began, and this other began, and then they entered one another’s proximity, and, like animals, appreciated the curious shape their species had taken. Two forms sat beside eachother.  She looked nice; small faced with a warm smile, clearly eastern European by his account, for he had a predilection for these types.  She admired him, in his stylish, lithe body--a fairly good form on which to hang the latest fashions.  Rough and little, tiny fart-sacs on golden wheat that lay still, barely touched by the light of the moon. No two people had met in circumstances like this before.  He felt it quicker than she, but it came eventually.  Just let it flow, let it come naturally, your mind can process something other than your own thoughts.  A story, something insightful, something revelatory. It lies in your life, a life that resonates with a few readers, I do hope. Hope and hope, say it, smoke it, do it all, let the words come and call.  Do you hear them?

No I don’t hear them, they died in your mind, spent like a flaccid penis after sex.  With alacrity you try, you search for a story that is your own, we all do, but yours is one unworthy to digest—even though it does come out like shit. Can you understand, am I transcribing my mind or just trying to? Indolent boy, you came to late, you never practiced and this is the best result you can muster. Like a weak fart from a dying old man trying to shit himself: teetering, tottering, almost there, and then comes a puff of pathetic air.  

Something Forgettable

Birds bark and bray through the silky air currents. They are not food, they are fodder for the imagination; they are the idyllic dream.  Three young boys of high school age sit silently on a bench and gawk at the hawk—an aberration in the London sky. Their minds soar, separate and converge chaotically like a pack of pigeons as they are penetrated by the regality of the hawk’s features. It’s so much nobler than them. They are just a troupe of boys wracked by their overpowering sexual urges and uncertainty. A lithe, leggy black girl walks by and they are grounded again.  Ribald comments are bandied as they chase after her in their anachronistic roller skates.  Such is the mind of a man, pilloried by its own biological demands—best suited for coasting and sexual boasting. 

Gina

Way good on the real side of things. Alone, I dance with your spirit in my kitchen. Your face and my face collide, to soften things we purse our lips and aim. No no no, you’ve misquoted, I said that I think I do not entirely on purpose love and desire to caress with my eyefingers your every cell. In a world full of evil humanlings, there is one God, he took a break and gifted me his insights. Warm and fragrant like bed sheets that are always occupied by your friends.  Fine lines cross her face like hair, actually it is her hair, so picturesque, or wait it is a picture, of reality, of which there is no such thing. Woman: lithe, her petite shapeliness and undiluted body, pure and sacred. Essenceless, she is, senseless is my love--based on pure sensesation. Idle fantasies: I get drunk on liquor and drink in her form from safety--clandestine peeks between bobbing heads (my eye fidgets).  You are art, I don’t need to represent you.

Mindless Drug Addicts

Three young punks throw open the front door after spending the last nine hours in the same room smoking meth and playing video games. Redolent of suburban decay, they walk to the edge of the street and around the corner, just out of view of their nosey neighbours, to await their ride. It’s their dealer; he seems louder and touchier than normal. The three punx glance anxiously at each other-- undoubtedly with similar thoughts on their mind.  The dealer knows that the tall one, with the long, dirty, purple hair, is hosting the other quiet ones in the hot topic hoodies while his oblivious parents are vacationing in Lake Tahoe.  The 4 of them perambulate Concord in the dealer’s torn and faded yellow wagon smoking more cranial candy.  As the four of them wind, without orientation, about the large grey suburban hopscotch, two of the dealer’s friends steal valuables from the house.  However, the nosey neighbors notice everything through their tacky lace curtains, and they phone the police.  Sirens are off, so the pock-faced robbers don’t notice anything, and are arrested quickly, (totally dumbstruck) without resistance.  High and doe-like, the three punks arrive back home, by way of the corner, to a band of cops questioning the elderly neighbors.  The boys are seized with anxiety, and their shoulders tense as two female officers with notepads approach them.  Their six obsidian eyeballs shimmer when they squint at the monstrous maternal peacekeepers in the mid-afternoon sun.  They seem interrogative, abrasive, and distrustful to the three demure teenagers’ addled minds.  Their parents are spoken to, and the quiet boys in hot topic hoodies are sent home.  After all is settled with the police, Purple spends a nervous night smoking the remaining meth and watching cooking shows in Spanish. His parents return home from their vacation 3 days later to find him thoroughly dead.  The parents spend the ensuing month struggling against a relentless deluge of grief, despair, regrets, lamentations and a miscellany of other unfiltered emotions that come pouring from deep within their own hearts.  Trembling with sadness, at the suggestion of their therapist, they clear his room.  Among the pile destined for the dump sits a number of inconspicuous school notebooks filled with drawings, poems and short stories of an unknown genius—one pilloried by drugs and the absurd. And so he passed silently through time, his written whispers too quiet for it's din. 

a smattering of honest feelings

most people are dead, lifeless, disingenuous freaks, devoid of all truth, totally faceless faces. their stares bounce of your chest like empty peanut shells and you flow to converge with your river of friends. friends that are real-talkers of unique character: embracers, dancers, effervescent romancers. they love you with violence, they share themselves in silent corners. they are a deluge of true feelings and the problems with cliche's. they hug your spirit, even though everything is dead, empty and vapid. we commiserate, my true friends and I.

Drifting into tomorrow.

dead alive not happy to survive slack attack the beer sphere with fast Pabst down my throat. Joke with fake, belligerent unfriends and pretend that time will persevere 'til the very end. Take down all their habits, watch them like a nervous rabbit. Fit in like a snake, slither and imitate. Crouch, duck, hide, abide by the voyeur's silent stride and watch the immaculate young bodies undress.