hauntedbyhorribles

this is what happens when you are friends with me:

"Sometimes I dream of Sasha, and it always begins nicely, we're making out in a bed of soft fluffy puppies while midgets hurl the most delicious candies in the world at us and God keeps tickling us (and let me tell you, when God tickles you it's fucking awesome) and everything is pastel and a chorus of beautiful people sings hymns about our superiority to all of them combined and there is some sort of milkshake faucet that reads your mind so you always get exactly what you want, but then for no reason at all everything changes and our skin turns to asphalt and the intense, all-encompassing pain begins and of course our genitals get chopped right off and our blood sprays everywhere and catches on fire and millions of bugs start chewing on our feet and it rains barbed wire and these fat ogre things start jumping up and down on top of us and Satan starts showing us pictures of our family and friends all cut up and molested by these creepy bat-human-cyborg thingies and being really unsympathetic about the whole ordeal, which is probably what hurts the most, y'know?

email me you twit."

Jachým Topol, City Sister Silver:

Shards, they have the time of those days in them too, it was she, my dark star, who took me by the hand and stood me in this room. In outer space. There's a mirror. She turns me toward it, I'm in it alone, just my face. That woman left me in it. At the bottom of solitude. At the bottom of a solitude more deep and awful than I ever imagined. Until I felt the chill that blows from the stars, I knew nothing about life. Perhaps the noose of my path had at last drawn tight and this was the despair of the trap. No, her hand turned over the mirror, and written on the back was: 'Only dogs have a destiny.' I read on:

an old piece, in honor of recent activities:

THE IDEAL STUDENT

I shall be 15 minutes late each day a paper is due, for my spleen leaks out my bellybutton when I think about bibliographies. If you maintain eye contact with me for longer than 4 seconds, I will begin to spasm and hurl my belongings toward the doorway, myself to follow. This applies to everyone, instructor included. Refrain from saying the words “of course,” they cause me to slouch horribly and mutter into my armpits. Never manipulate numbers or engage in maths of any sort, nor science of any type; I will murder you where you stand. If you mention the derivation of any word, be prepared to suffer humiliating insults in the language said word derives from. My doctor requires I gargle dry white wine every 10 minutes; a note can be provided upon request. I will not stand idle chatter during pauses in the academic dialogue; they are distracting and ruin the harmony of learning. My life-sized stuffed gorilla requires a seat for his personal use, as does my bumbling henchman/doppelganger. I will only acknowledge notes written with white chalk on a green or black chalkboard. No overhead projectors, no dry erase boards with those blasted squeaky markers, no easel with paper, and absolutely no ridiculous fucking colored chalk! If the instructor is not wearing a tie, I refuse to raise my hand before speaking. If he is bald, I will laugh so loudly at his jokes that they will no longer be funny. Any reference to God or any sort of faith and/or personal spiritual belief of that variety will be met with cacophonous raspberry sounds courtesy of my henchman/doppelganger. I sincerely hope we all have an enlightening academic experience of the highest quality.

DINBLEGERRY #SIX:
I want to
fly like an ego
(ego, ego)
into the future......

William Smith looked down at his dish of broiled chicken, potatoes, and green beans, assumed a confident air, removed a handgun from the holster at his side, and fired seven shots into the plate before him. Satisfied, he lifted his fork to his mouth, chewed the first bite, and pronounced the meal “delicious.”

Subsequent mouthfuls proved equally satisfying. Licking the last scraps from the plastic plate, William exhaled, leaned back, content, stomach full, vague gnawing satiated, relaxed happiness dribbling from his lips, sleeve wiping face, bulging eyes retreating to their bags. Picking his teeth with his knife, he looked across the table at Gary, who didn’t seem to care.

A lit candle, short and stubby with a faint vanilla scent, wavered between them. The white wine in both their cups wasn’t chilled quite enough; William had run into traffic returning home, and in any event the waxed paper containers ruined any aesthetic effect. They finished the bottle regardless.

“If I could only cease to speak in clichés,” William thought, “I might then be truly happy (though language is really just a series of clichés congealed into custom). I should probably engage in some retail therapy.”

Three hours later, William shot Gary with his last bullet during a commercial break in the nightly news (a car commercial featuring celebrity voiceover and orgasmic mountain scenery). The TV anchor smiled and nodded.

“Or perhaps I’ll just masturbate.”

let it be known that never have i ever at any time enjoyed clam chowder, nor do i have any plans to enjoy clam chowder in the future. the idea that i might be a person who enjoys clam chowder is false; i am not such a person. clam chowder simply holds no appeal for me, nor does consumption of any species known to emerge from the aqueous areas of this planet.

primary document

Dep: Providence 1.42PM (there hasn't been a whole lot of looting)
given that the pure new england air
has grimed my window such
that it's like a Monet out there,
or all the Monets, whizzing
and maybe he put some gray buildings
in there, we don't really know

in here its fifty-five (on the other hand, it was fucking freezing)
i'm leaning on a sack of clean unfolded laundry
listening to white noise (the band)
on my incredible Portable Oudio Device.
someone apparently put out a cigarette
on a wad of discarded gum
placed directly in the center
of the no smoking sign.

i lightly probed my academic future today
(someone on TV said something about going underground)
envisioned life under the tutelage of
polite old women who think radical thoughts
i could recommend a nice tea just down the street
and we'd watch a film about rape

Personal Space Suits, i'll make millions
retire before even having a career (i guess we'd better start digging)
make a beautiful film, docudrama
about a single sea turtle, with
stunning cinematography and
absolute disregard for all other sea turtles
save my lovely chosen one.

i know i'm not very interesting
but like i said, the grime restricts all
focus to the grime itself,
outside is all smudge blur impossible horizon
and the train's got this tilt to it
that won't let me think let alone...

fuck.

well.. what have i got...
the fountain of dirt,
higher test scores guaranteed,
long straight hair right in front of me,
smells like cinnamon and orange peels
(re: that smell--direct thievery,
  junior high, young adult section, either
R.L. Stein or Christopher Pike
now come to live [fr yr entrtnmnt] Thank You very much)
----my whole life in those brackets--
----not alone on this one,------------
----can't forget how to think,--------
---------we never learned how------

BOstoN!?!
i'm crawling up your leg, to the thorax
r.w. emerson on a frisbee keeps pace, shouting
"This disc is merely one circle upon which
I ride beside you; I lived one all around you.
Trace the circumference and begin building
your own." No thanks, I nod, I am hungry
but I just ate lunch with my mother.

 

DINGLEBERRY NUMBER THREE:
I want to sit next to her on the train and hold her hand and whisper in her ear "my ancestors tried as hard as they could to annihilate your ancestors. you shouldn't even be here right now."

DINGLEBERRY NUMBER FOUR:
i can only think in the dark. all my thoughts run away as soon as i turn the lights on.

DINGLEBERRY NUMBER FIVE:
if i could only... laminate... my entire body. think of it--my durability would increase threefold!

a boy and a girl
lying on their backs
in the middle of the room
barechested, both.
they stare through
the creaking ceiling,
inhale, exhale
fingers lightly touching.

how did we get here?
years of tortured passion,
or a week?
did you take off my shirt
or did I do it myself?
you've got an ant on your arm
don't move, i'll get that eyelash
pop that zit, scratch my back.

a smile blocks the entrance
to the most mysterious of holes

I want you
to be
for me
what I can only see in dreams
that is--a lie
constructed in my mind
at night, forever.