growth

i had spent eons peering at the flower, time was abundant for me, the flower, in its luminiscent blue glow, under a lamp, without sleep i watched it grow wither, and die.for days afterward i walked rain soaked streets in befuddlement. what was my fascination with this? i clutched the jar of rotted flowers to my chest in reverie, at once observed by a young lady.
"what have you got there?
she emerged from an enclave that sold slices of pizza.i looked at her, then back at the flower.
"its a dead flower
"may i see it?
later that night, i peered speculatively at the masterpiece i had created. nearly at a ninety degree angle, bent over a chair, hung the young girls body.i had sliced her gut open and withdrawn her bowels, intestines, liver and kidneys, which hung quivering and now cool, from the open gash. for triangular flaps of skin hung over the sides of the chair, resembling the petals of a flower only i knew to exist.i ran needles attatched to tin wire through the organs and the skin, attatching them to the ceiling, to support them, so they would not sag, but rather reach out with a lithe pertnacity. i opened my windows to welcome insects, and covered the wound with a jar of maggots. watching the woman rot, fascinated me as the flower had, and i kept a pictoral record of her advancement. the most intriguing aspect of the procedure was, by far, that she remained alive for four days post operative, on which she was sustained by a watering broth fed to her which she accepted willingly, and intravenious shots of morphine every two hours. as her impending death assumed character, the organs and skin which were not damaged but rather just hanging mid air, began to quiver and paroxy, the very site of which cause in me to flourish a degree of wonder and elation, unequivocal even with a shot of morphine. i lowered a cigarette to her lips with a piece of twine, which her lips teased, before she passed on.
for days afterwards, visible black worms fell from the sky, copulating with white worms that slithered from holes in the soil and concrete,which would crawl into a persons rectum while they slept, and fed on the lining in the bowels, causing the victim to shit blood and finally shit out their bowels in one final diarhetic explosion and afterwards death.after three days of this, the worms disappeared with fumigating, which caused dozens of people lung damage.
glowering in obsession, i filled my room with cacti and other plantlife, lining my windowpanes and counters.i would inject morphine, set a blue light upon them and glare at their progression.
i dreampt about what it would feel like to shove a gourd shaped cactus up my ass.as for disposing of the body, i chopped it into minute fragments, and threw away a piece at a time intermingled with the rest of my garbage. an addiction for killing was in its insipient phase. i set about getting my next victim, a 14 year old homeless girl hopelessly lost in huffing butane in her cardboard box home. i lured her to my apartment with promises of crack and morphine and watched her smoke as i prepared a powerful shot of the drug for her, which would no doubt knock her out.she shot up, and minutes later, was passed out.i layed her flat on the seat of a chair so her arms fell off the sides outstreched her body in a giant X shape.i suspended her arms by fastening them to wire hanging from the ceiling, and cut an X shape over her stomach, peeling back the flaps of skin. her body jerked.i removed the bowels and organs, letting them hang from the gaping aesthetic flower shaped aperture in her gut. deciding to try something new, i filled her wound with a few handfuls of mud, and positioned three moderatly sized sunflower in it, so they protuded from the wound. filling her mouth with mud, i put in a white rose.thus she maintained for three days, alive under constant morphine influence, and all four flowers remained erect, the roots of the sunflowers even wrapping around the coils of intestine still resting inside of her. she died, the flowers rotted, and i disposed of her in the same way as i did the last.
after a shot of morphine, i found myself peering down at one of the lovliest guts i had ever seen.i took my scalpel and began to cut it open, sliding my fingers into the bowels and letting them hang over the side in between two flaps of skin.i felt warmth trickling down my legs and thought i had pissed myself, and bending over to look, saw it was blood. i had foolishly, disemboweled myself anathesthized by the morphine.i fell over, and the darkness closed in like
ink clouding over clear water.

 

drift

i had drifted away
from friends and family
my parents spoke only of trivial things
household chores, errands, in dull and slow voices
when i spoke to them
i got one word answers
and dour glances
my friends had changed
they were excitable and happy
singing and dancing for hours on end
with me
sitting in the only patch of darkness in the room
my lover
concealed his true self under a false relationship
to hide his sexual orientation from his family
i didnt see him much anymore
but i loved him, intensely
day after day
i would stack products on shelves
with glassy eyes
there in body
but in spirit
traversing ice cold black skies
bits of ice collecting in my
bleak shade
i drifted along as noticed
and alone
as a single dead leaf
miles away from shore
swaying on the gentle surf
and when night fell
on the final day
of my withered life
i spend the whole night
watching a skiff
rocking back and forth
abandoned and tied to a dock
when morning came
i lay in the skiff
and cut the line
drifting into nothing
for eternity

 

tv

from nightmarish dreams, drunken and debauched he had awoken to his final day off, a day of rest drinking and feast, to a dark and cluttered room, onto which he set his frame, to a hardened couch of respite, and clicked on the television, after cracking open the first but not last beer, of the night.its going hard and fast he thought, something i cant replete or submerge, something i cannot dilute, or repulse. after the first sip, his drunk was caught, from the previous night, like an eye socket on a fly fishing line, and ripped from the socket, tossed into vision and incongressable madness.after the first sip, he sighed, deeply and long, and opened his eyes to see the television, which had been switched off, to actually be on, but with seemingly painted images on the surface of the screen, flittering before his eyes.and what did he see? through the eyes of another, a man tottering forward, through the cluttered streets, ambling forth, drunken, through his eyes, forward and downcast, clutching in his hands a broom handle sharpened crudely into a spear, glancing down at it intermittantly, all the while moving forward, and fascinated he was at this spectacle that seemed to paint the television screen that at the time was switched off.he lights the first cigarette of the day and closes his eyes for a brief interlude loosing himself in the tottering flourish of drunken madness, spinning forthwidth and back again with only a few seconds to laugh at his own humiliation, himself an audience to his own abasement.he takes a deep drag and opens his eyes, opens his eyes.to the television, to see the man moving forward, clutching the spear in bloodshot hands and moving forward down the street passing shocked pedestrians, homeless, nameless street grotesques.finally the man on the television makes the connexion with two eyes on the street, and with inhuman stregth, takes the spear and drives it into a passing womans forhead colapsing her skull like a melon.she shrieks like some subhuman entity being ground in the g ears of a fruitless machination of industry and colapses to the earth, violently thrashing about, the character on the television quivers and the watcher of the television remains transfixed at the queerness of his theatre.the images seem to be painted onto the front of the screen as opposed to flashing within it.the watcher looks at his hands, at his beer, then up at the magnifiscent sky! then down to his bloodied spear sitting at his feet! then to his victim, laying by his side, mangled and bloodied. staring at his blood coated hands his face contorts, and he stumbles forward down the street for several blocks, then into the consierges hands, and handcuffed, taken to the local precinct.

 

joke

i had seen the janitor running to the toilet holding his asscheeks shut during the day but didnt think hed come to me to corroborate on a counterattack on the office prankster, runy.runy had poisoned the janitors diet coke with laxative. diet coke, what bullshit, the guy was 200 pounds, and used the shit to wash down the package of peanut butter cookies he demolished each night while listening to early seventies rock on his headphones. he would brag to me about broads obsessed with him, and shit, i believed the jerk, women go for stupid guys who they can manipulate into cutesy histrionic relationships.
"i want to give him some laxative
"thats no good
runy was about 300 pounds himself and never ate in public, but was rumored to have eaten 5 pounds of steak in one ravenous sitting.
"take this knife, suprise him, and stab him in the balls with it. its fake knife, the blade retracts into the handle upon contact
i demonstrated by stabbing myself in the chest.
"here, you give it a try
he stabbed himself in the chest and the blade dove into the handle. it was a real blade, but the knife was a prank, it had been given to me by a friend in the police academy that had been confiscated. but it wasnt just a trick knife, it was a dirty trick knife. on the handle was a cache then when clicked, shut off the retraction method and it became a true solid knife, capable of stabbing someone to death.i too wanted to play a prank on runy, and the janitor, by flipping the cache before he played the prank, and then lying to any police involved about any involvement in the crime.i had been the victim of countless pranks by runy, not really pranks even, more of assaults, at one time even having a bucket of vomit fall on my head from the top of a door, supplimented by his roaring hideous masculine laughter that sounded like a toy motorcycle speeding across a linoleum floor.i flipped the cache and handed him the knife
"go get him kid
i snickered to myself, and the janitor snickered to the both of us. he snuc k up on runy and tapped him on the shoulder
"RUNY!
he yells, and runy spins around afraid, the janitor plunging the knife deep into runys fat buried genitals. blood sprays into the janitors face,onto which spreads a look of incredulous horror, runy howls in the first effeminate sound ive heard him make colapsing screaming to the ground. he lunges at the janitor and the two role around violently, untill restrained by coworkers.
"KURT GAVE ME THE KNIFE
"no i didnt, hes lying, hes crazy, he just stabbed that guy in the balls, he went postal
the cops drag him off, and i smile warmly to myself, my reflection in the computer screen.
later that night, at home, i receive a knock at the door.answering the door, i find my old friend, from the police academy, standing there. "hello kurt, good to see you again. im the detective on the case of what happened at your workplace today. im glad you made good use of the gift that i gave you."

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