Hubert’s blue
Hubert drank after his shit job. He sat on his fuking chair staring at the TV and drinking. He didn’t feel like writing, didn’t feel like painting, didn’t feel like listening to music.
He used to enjoy all those things. He started to wonder what was wrong with himself. He packed some shitty weed and took a bong hit. His only friend, his cat, ‘keekars’ sat on his lap, purring a strange sound. He thought about beating off his cock. Even that didn’t seem like fun anymore. He flipped through the boring channels on the TV; he looked at all the books that surrounded him, all the movies, then stared at his cat again, who was stretched out on his legs, purring still.
“my names Hubert” he reminded himself, staring at the oblivious cat.
He put the TV to a channel of blue. Nothing but a blue screen in front of him. He enjoyed the silence. He pet his cat and tried not to think. His bones ached from lack of sleep and work everyday. His mind felt somewhat retarded, and he didn’t care about much anymore.
“my names Hubert” he said again, to his cat.
The cat just grinned at him with squinty eyes.
“oh my gawd, what’s wrong with me, what’s happening to me, am I dieing?” Hubert suddenly said, staring at the blue TV.
The cat started biting his hands.
Hubert stared blankly at the Keekars, not flinching a muscle.
Hubert heard a car drive by out on the road. He pushed keekars off his lap and peeked out his window blinds, paranoid.
A car slowly drove by. A bmw with tinted windows. Hubert’s eyes grew wide, wondering who they were. He couldn’t see any faces in the car, but he just knew that they were watching him. They had to be, why else would they be driving by his place late at night, all slowly? A camera flash went off from the bmw, and the car quickly flipped a u-turn, and drove off in the other direction.
“son of a bitch, I knew it, they are gonna get me keekars, I see them all the time, in the shadows, watching, observing me, why! Fukin why!?”
“meow” was keekars response.
Hubert got his coat on, put his best knife in his pocket, and went out into the cold air.
He went over near the horses and the donkeys behind a fence in a field.
He hid behind some bushes and waited for the mysterious car to drive by again. Minutes went by, hours went by. The horses and donkeys made strange noises, staring at him. For a while Hubert began to think that even the animals were part of the conspiracy against him. He watched. He waited. No car came. He got fed up. He walked back to his shithole apartment and started wondering what keekars was doing.
Hubert opened his dungy apartment to the smell of a fresh keekars turd. Keekars was on his unmade bed, taking a nap.
“ah, the life of a cat” Hubert said aloud.
Hubert lay in bed. He mixed another drink, but his body had grown to old to handle the poison it use to be able to take. Even alcohol had betrayed him. There was a weird twitch in his gut. It had been going on all day. He lifted his shirt and stared at his twitching skin, just to make sure it wasn’t all in his head. He saw his skin twitching again, as if there was something under it. He lay for a while and wondered if maybe he had some kind of worm living inside his body. It sure was possible. Hubert had read up on strange parasites and growing creatures, and creepy virus’s that infest ones body if u don’t wash enough, or shake the wrong persons hand.
“my names Hubert” he said again to himself.
He thought of all the microscopic bed bugs infesting his pillows and bed sheets, living off his flaking skin. It made him more worried. Hubert knew he should sleep. He stared at Keekars and envied his sleeping smiling whisker face.
Hubert got up and went and stared at the blue screen for another hour trying not to think about the worms and bed bugs and all the people out to get him.
That’s when he heard a car slowly drive by again outside his window. He opened the blinds and saw the bmw slowly driving by again.
“son of a fuk!” Hubert screamed, pulling his blinds all the way open.
“here I am! what do u want with me! what!” he screamed, punching his hand through the glass window.
A quick camera flash from the backseat of the car went off. The vehicle turned around again, and sped off.
Hubert slumped to the carpet, his stomach twitching more and more.
“what the fuk is wrong with me, I can’t understand the world around me anymore, I just want to sleep, gawd let me sleep a full night” he begged to no one.
Keekars came up to him and squirted some sort of weird green funk from his anal all over Hubert’s face.
Hubert began to cry.
“not u keekars, not u,” Hubert passed out.
an albino in the back of a tinted window bmw was on his cell phone speaking to an old rich lady with wrinkled skin. She had horrible brown eyes and only a few teeth left. Her sick scaly hand clutching the phone.
“did u get the pictures? Was he there?” she asked the albino.
“take a left down this alley” the albino told the pot-bellied driver.
“yes mam, we got him alright, we spotted him twice.”
“so the bastard is still alive?” she questioned, laughing a sickly laugh to herself, as she pet the head of keekars mother.
Hubert woke up and turned it on jellygun tv.
Jellygun TV
“hey wiggle wart, what u doing ?”
“playing with my nut sack”
“why u doing that wiggle wart?”
“cause I got melted chocolate raisins on it.”
“hey wiggle wart, what’s 2 plus 2?”
“14”
“correct wiggle wart”
a brief chuckle comes from one man in the crowd,
he covers his mouth, looking around worried.
“Hey wiggle wart?”
“yeah?”
“why don’t u take that blue piece of paper over there and give your eyeballs paper cuts”
“nah, I’m playing with my nut sack right now”
“hey wiggle wart, u ever heard that Beatles song, paper back writer?…”
wiggle wart stops playing with his nut sack
and stares at the person asking questions and says..
“I told you no questions about the beatles! I said that didn’t I!” he brings out a gun and places it on the glass table, his fingers covered in chocolate raisins and smelly ball sweat.
A beak for a nose, in grown toe nails on his forehead. eyebrows made of carrots.
“yes, I’m sorry wiggle wart, lets put the gun away”
“no, let it stay right there, and no more questions about the beatles!”
“ok wiggle wart, sure, no problem man.”
“that’s right !” wiggle wart says,
going back to rubbing his chocolate covered raisin ball sack.
“eh wiggle wart, how did your mommy die?”
wiggle wart gets a serious look on his frog lips and goose eyes.
“ she died in labor while having me.”
“Really?”
“yeah, I don’t lie”
“how did your dad die wiggle wart?”
“umm, he died on a trip to the moon,
he was an astronaut, the ship exploded half way there.”
laughter comes pouring out of the audience!
“dammit, I said no laughing!” wiggle wart demands..
pointing his shit covered finger at them.
“ok, no more laughing,” the question asker Chuckles, shuffling its question cards. shushing the audience.
“hey wiggle wart, why you so gosh darn stupid and ugly, and why are you such a gimp of society, and why do you think you have received so much attention from the media?”
Wiggle wart shifts his nut sack around adding more melted raisin chocolate and says..
“boy Mr. , that’s a long question, like a long tall sally”
A man in the audience covers his mouth, trying his hardest not to laugh at wiggle wart.
But then it happens. The man bursts out with laughter, it spews from his big gaping mouth and echoes through the entire studio, like a hurricane!
“That’s fukin it!” wiggle wart stands up, walks out into the audience with his gun, and point blank shoots the man in the temple, blood sprays all over the people sitting next to the man who couldn’t stop laughing.
Wiggle wart walks back on stage, sets his glass gun on the table, a gun on the glass table, depending which channel u get..knuck knuck..
“next question?” he says, going back to playing with his nut sack.
The thing asking questions now tries to hide its nervousness, the audience is scared and uncomfortable, yet quiet in anticipation.
“hey wiggle wart, ever heard the one about two grown men sitting in a bar, and an apple with legs comes walking up and asks for a whiskey cider?”
“can’t say that I have”
“me neither”
“what kind of fukin joke was that! Not even a punch line!” wiggle wart demands!
“is it true wiggle wart
that u were a serial killer on the planet Doper in another life?”
“yes”
“would u care to expand on that?”
“no” wiggle wart says, flinging a chunk of brown mush off his middle finger at the thing asking questions. It connects nicely to the things nose. A lady in the audience covers her mouth, trying not to laugh, she knows what will happen if she laughs.
“hey wiggle wart, u fuking inbred reject of all stupidity, is it true that sometimes you listen to the ‘Cure’s’ song –‘pictures of you,’ and then cry like a lil girl?”
“who told you that?”
“I’m asking the questions here fukface”
“no comment” wiggle wart strokes his nut sack, smiling at the crowd.
“what’s 4 plus four wiggle wart?”
“32”
that same lady in the audience covers her mouth again, trying her hardest not to laugh, her eyes are almost popping out of her head, trying to hold it in. but its to late. She bursts out in laughter!
wiggle wart stands up, grabs his gun, walks out into the crowd, with the cameras rolling, the lights flashing down, punches her in her lip, sending her flying off her seat, he shoves his gun in her ear and blows her brains all over her husband sitting next to her.
Wiggle wart walks back on stage,
flicking some brown shit at her almost crying widow husband.
“next question?” wiggle wart sets his gun down on the glass table. the glass gun.
Mary poppins.
The thing asking questions straightens its tie.
“how is the world going to end wiggle wart u scum of the earth?” the questioner asks, as it begins humming lucy in the sky with diamonds.
“what’s that u are humming there!” wiggle wart demands
“answer the question! Answer the question wiggle wart!”
“what’s that u were humming! I fukin told u!”
“ok, im sorry wiggle wart, next question, do u think the beatles white album was made by aliens from your home planet?”
wiggle wart can’t believe his ears! He stops playing with his nut sack.
Reaches for his gun. The question asker punches wiggle warts odd face.
Wiggle wart falls backwards.
“blackbird singing in the dead of night! George Harrison is dead! and his new album is coming out soon, and he’s dead! What the fuk do u think of that wiggle wart! Will u go out and buy his album!”
wiggle wart regains some of his senses, grabs his gun again, but a barbwire cage comes falling down from the stage set, and now he is like a caged animal, he always was a caged animal. He’s trapped, they had trip mines of electric currency rigged to the entire thing!
“eh wiggle wart! Why u so fukin ugly and stupid! And another thing, why is yoko still alive! And did you think sergeant peppers was really an answer to the bomb u planted on your fathers space ship!, turn the music on boys!” the question thing yells.
Speakers pump out “number 9 ! number 9! Number 9!”
The audience bursts out in laughter!
As the song echoes through wiggle warts ears, trapped in his cage.
He points the gun to his own beak, his fingers covered in chocolate raisin shit,!
“I told u people no laughing and no beatles! No! no!”
wiggle wart blows his brains all over his cage,
his head explodes like a smashed watermelon.
The theme music cuts off the beatles, the credits roll, the questions asker stands and bows to the audience. They cheer! They roar like mad beasts starving!
“until next week people, and remember you are only as stupid as you look, or maybe you are stupider than that! Ha! An apple with legs in a bar!”
the audience roars! Claps! Stands up!
The question thing takes another bow, its teeth glittering in the lights. The credits roll.
“and don’t forget people, next week we will have wiggle warts child on!
Hubert the gimp boy! Don’t miss that folks! And goodnight from up here above all you stupid fuks! Goodnite America, god bless!”
the question thing, blows a huge kiss to the audience as they roar! And cheer!
The TV goes blue.
Keekars is on Hubert’s lap. A car. a bmw with tinted windows is driving by outside with a pot bellied driver and an albino in the backseat. The albino has a camera and a cell phone.
“what do u think that blue screen is all about in there?”
the pot-bellied driver asks the albino.
“shut your mouth.”
The albino looks up at the glowing blue room where Hubert sits, half passed out. Staring at the blue screen.
He dials the old crazy lady in her mansion. Her wheel chair creeks. She pets the head of keekars mom, and answers her phone.
The albino begins to speak. “We saw him, he was watching wiggle wart on jellygun tv mam.”
“ha, figures all that loser would be doing was watching that show.”
“mam,” the albino says, you paid to co produce it, it had made u millions of dollars.”
“I know that u fumbling white eyed freak of nature, now tell me when the next phase of the plan can begin? I want that drunken lump of blue TV watching shit up here on the 23’d floor before the week is out. He’s gonna be the next contestant on jellygun TV. it’ll be even better than all the revenues wiggle wart brought us in, not to mention media frenzy and more lawsuits.
The albino lights a smoke, pops an ambien…
“not long mam, we’ll get him soon, maybe tomorrow in the afternoon, when he always ventures out all hungover to pet the horses across the road. maybe we will nab him then.
“just do it quick, and don’t be seen, that’s what I pay you for you buffoon!” the old wrinkled lady slams the phone down.
“fukin bitch, drive up here and take a left on this dirt road driver.” The albino demands.
Hubert slowly dresses for his job. His head hurts. He barley slept. All his socks are dirty, shirts and pants wrinkled. His hair is white and long, black hair coming from his face in wild directions. Hubert eats some vitamins, feeds Mr. keekars, and eats some st johns wort, almost choking on it as he searched for his keys. He is already ten minutes late for his shit job and stoned with another bad hangover. He wishes he could just sit and gather his thoughts for a brief moment and maybe watch some jellygun TV, but time does not permit certain luxuries for very long. He drives to work, and notices the bmw tailing him the entire way. The pot he had smoked gets him more paranoid. He wonders what they want with him. The beatles our playing on his tape deck. He thinks of Mr. wiggle warts fate. He’d rather die then be on TV.
Hubert gets out of his car in the parking lot, the heat of another sunny day shines down on his squinting eyes. The bmw pulls up to him, a tinted window in the backseat goes down and a flash goes off. It speeds away.
Hubert walks into work.
Beautiful child
Melvin and Gloria sat on separate chairs staring at a boring TV in a small no bedroom apartment..
Gloria was pregnant. It was getting near her time to burst.
“Why are you such a fucking loser?” Gloria said, out of the blue, staring over at Melvin.
Melvin was painting a picture, deep in thought, splattering red paint onto the canvas, almost happy.
“Don’t start, just don’t” Melvin shivered, sucking on his whiskey through a straw.
“Well, why can’t you answer me? I’m about to have your child, and all I see is a worthless blob working a shit job with no future, you make me sick” Gloria spit.
“Bitch! I said don’t start!”
“Why? What you gonna do? You gonna hit me? you gonna sock me in the stomach and kill are child! Well, come on then tuff man, do it, do it, hit me in my fucking stomach, see if I care!” the crazy bitch yelled, standing up, drunk, and sticking her gut child in Melvin’s face.
“you stupid crazy bitch, I told you not to drink so much while you are pregnant, no more booze for you tonight!” Melvin said, dropping his painting to the ground.
He walked toward the fridge and grabbed the third bottle of wine Gloria had tapped into.
He took it out of the fridge and walked towards the toilet to pour it out.
Gloria ran after him screaming.
“don’t you dare flush that you son of a bitch cock sucker fuker mother fuk!”
She clawed at his back.
he knocked her off him with a quick shove, her fragile thin body with child in stomach fell backwards in a drama filled scream.
“no more drinking for you tonight you stupid fuking crazy bitch! You aint gonna kill my child.” Melvin said, dumping the wine down the toilet.
Gloria stood up, weeping, anger filled. She ran at Melvin again and began hitting him in the face, scratching at his eyes, kicking his shins, screaming that she hates him.
Melvin melted into the bathroom floor as she continued to assault him. Blood fell from his cut forehead, she dug her nails into his scalp. She kicked and pulled hair. She spat and hit till she grew tired, out of breath. Melvin just sat there taking it all. His face was now covered in blood. He had a half crooked smile on his face as she stumbled away, and fell onto their bed weeping.
“is that all you got left bitch?” Melvin asked, sitting on the bathroom floor covered in his own blood.
“I fuking hate you, why wont you ever fight back you fukhead!” Gloria yelled, her face buried in a pillow of tears.
Melvin licked a trickle of blood from his lip and answered…
“because I love you, and my mother raised me to never hit females.” Melvin said.
Gloria suddenly jumped from the bed and ran into the other room.
Melvin heard the room’s door lock.
“hahahahahahahahaha! What you gonna do now! I have your whiskey in here! And i'm going to drink it all!” the crazy bitch Gloria yelled.
Melvin grabbed the door handle and began pulling spastically.
“open this fukin door you dumb fukin satanic whore!”
He began punching the door with both his fists.
“yummy, yummy, this whiskey tastes so good, i’m going to drink it all!” she screamed.
“fuk! Fuk! Fukin crazy fukin whore slut!” Melvin screamed.
He found a hammer under his bed, and began smashing the door in.
“ you have driven me to the brinks of insanity you crazy bitch! Ive tried to be nice! Ive tried to help you, us, our child. Now I’m going to fukin kill you! give me my whiskey back you fuking slut!”
Melvin pounded the hammer into the locked door, as Gloria gulped his whiskey down.
He finally broke in and found Gloria weeping on the floor, holding her bloated stomach in a fetal position.
“what the fuk” Melvin said.
“please don’t hurt me, please don’t hurt me and our baby” she weeped.
Melvin grabbed his almost empty bottle of whiskey from her clutching hand, and took a good slug off it.
He began petting her head, crying to himself. He couldn’t understand how things had gone so wrong between him and Gloria.
“I just don’t understand, I try and I try so hard, and all I get is this.”
Gloria was soon snoring. He lifted her drunken lifeless body back to the bed and set her down very carefully. He put his ear to her hot booze filled pregnant tummy, and listened.
He heard shuffling and kicking.
’Beautiful child’
he thought to himself, as tears poured down his face. He lit up a joint and laid next to the snoring Gloria with one hand still on her stomach. He ate a couple ambiens in order to get some sleep and stared up at the dark fan spinning round and round. The blood on his face became dry. He began to rub her swollen pussy as she slept. He thought about fuking her as she slept. But Melvin wasn’t quite that sick. He went in his bathroom and began tugging at his cock, staring in the mirror, with tears falling on his hairy nipples. He tugged and tugged, till he finally came. He collapsed on the bathroom floor as the ambiens took over his drunken depressed body.
He woke up to Gloria screaming. His head shot up from the bathroom floor in a hung over panic.
“what’s wrong , what’s wrong!” he screamed, running to Gloria’s side..
“the baby, the fukin baby, its coming!” she yelled.
“fuk” he muttered. He ran to the fridge in search of a beer to calm his nerves, he found one. And guzzled the entire thing , then puked all over the stained carpet as Gloria screamed…
“its coming, the fukin baby you idiot! It’s coming!”
Melvin gathered his thoughts after puking, and tried to lift her off the bed.
“don’t touch me you bastard!”
“honey, honey, I have to take you to the hospital, now come on honey, don’t fight me.”
“fuk u!” she screamed.
Melvin walked around his small apartment in a panic. He tried to lift her again.
“don’t touch me you bastard! I can’t move. I have to have this child right now. oh gawd it hurts!” the crazy bitch yelled, puke spraying out of her mouth.
Melvin opened her legs, as her vaginal lips began to breathe wider and wider.
“oh Jesus!” he screamed.
He tried to move her again. So he could take her to the hospital.
“don’t touch me you bastard!” she screamed.
Her pussy lips began to grow and grow.
“breath honey, just breath!” Melvin yelled.
“my gawd, give me something for the pain you fuking asshole, my gawd, its killing me!”
Melvin went to a hidden desk drawer and pulled out a needle, a chunk of tin foil with melted Mexican heroin tar on it, and began scraping the foil, as a furry head began to slowly creep out of Gloria’s cunt lips.
He scraped rapidly, filling a spoon with the left over juices of an addiction never forgotten. He squirted some water in the spoon, and began stirring it up, shaking, freaking out, while Gloria screamed on the bed. He finally got a good mixture after a few minutes, and sucked up the shit from the cotton, shaking uncontrolbly, the used needle from months gone by was ready.
“hurry up you fuking fool! This is killing me!” Gloria screamed.
He wrapped his belt around her skinny arm, slapping her arm. Her virgin vein grew larger. He found his mark and shoved the needle in as they stared at each other intently.
He wasn’t even sure if he had hit her vein. He was never even sure if he hit his own.
After about ten seconds Gloria stopped screaming. She had a blank expression of ecstasy on her swollen eyes.
“breathe! Breathe! push!” Melvin yelled.
She just smiled now. A small furry head shoved its way closer and closer out of her cunt into this so-called life.
Melvin grabbed its head with his hands. It suddenly plopped out and stared at Melvin. “my gawd” Melvin puked.
It had the face of a cat, but half its body was goat like and human, it had claws and long fang teeth, the tail of a pig. A true mutant creation.
“my gawd” Melvin said again, holding it in his arms.
He spread its wet furry pussy slimed legs and noticed it had a penis.
‘beautiful baby’ he cried.
The creature sliced Melvin’s jugular with its claws, and scurried under the bed for safety.
Gloria woke up hours later and found Melvin dead on the floor. Blood pouring from his neck.
The creature came out from under the bed and made a strange animal noise, like a baby calf being slaughtered slowly.
Gloria wept, lit a smoke, the bed sheets were full of blood. An umbilical cord half chewed off hung from her rotten stomach.
The newborn crawled up in the sheets with Gloria and snuggled up to her ripe nipple in search of a meal.
She was frozen, the room reeked of death and life-with a slight glint of a smile on her dry lips. mother and child embraced. The fan continued to spin high above this scene.
Writers write
violence, perversity & death
Mr. Yukio mishima they say
was obsessed with all that
he performed ceremonial suicide on himself
did you know Norman mailer stabbed his wife?
kurt vonnegut likes to write about aliens
that take one to the planet tralfamador
don delillo’s characters are often obsessive
chaotic and bewildering
pynchon studied physics at princeton universtry
before transferring to the English department
samuel beckett use to hang out with james joyce
did you know ‘Ulysses’
was rejected 87 times before publication?
one critic
said
franz kafka’s works were
‘an infinity of frustration’
a purest form of contemporary alienation
marcel proust was born
to exceptional wealth
is it true EE Cummings parents
supported him till his death?
Bukowski was
an acne ridden skum bag rapist
with warts on his eyelids
who wrote stories that made me laugh
ah, yes, the beauty of the written word..
ah yes, the only libraries that matter…
in ones mind
jean paul Sartre
and his ideas
dominating France for 30 years?
Albert camus
was he the corner store
of
alienated fiction?
truman capote liked to suck cock
In new york high society
Hp lovecraft
critics
see his vision as banal nature
imagined worlds…
suicidal mythologies
in
verbosity
banana yoshimoto
bores me
at times
ken kessey
and Robert stone
riding on magic bus’s
cormac mccarthy and his child of gods
ive read them all
it never stops
reading is the only true escape
anthony burgess
hated his famous book/movie
clockworks
william golding
is primarily concerned
with good
and evil
steinbeck
& salinger
arguing about what’s for supper
henry fukin james
dust in bookstore
daisy millers
Joseph conrads
dieing words
“the horror, the horror!”
hearts of darkness
Edith Wharton & Silvia plath drinking tea
on a summer day
anton chekhov
the elvis of lit
writing about
abandoned dreams
& accepting situations
George Bernard shaw had little interest in
human emotion
or psychology
thomas hardy wasn’t considered a poet till his death
jack London was a drunk
killed himself
oh and Mr. Sherwood Anderson
who influenced so many
with winesburg ohio
Stephan crane
didn’t quite ware
the red badge of courage
but knut hamsun
before he was a nazi sympathizer
wrote
hunger
in 1890
oh what beauty!
what pure starvation
was that book
Hermann hesse
portrays all spiritual
at times
alone at night
wb yeats and his stern face
he called to overthrow
conventional form
and sensibility
that few do these days
influenced by blakes insanity…
the books! The dam fukin books! At work!
Vorticism, dadaism, surrealism,
William carlos Williams
hung with pound and joyce
on full moons
virgina woolfe
was the daughter
of a distinguished Victorian
man of letters
dh Lawrence
had severe problems
with frieda
Gertrude stein
and paris 1920’s
Influential poet
under Hemmingway’s guard
a woman drove Fitzgerald to drinking
But I never saw what was so great
about the great Gatsby
Hunter s Thompson would tell me im wrong
henry miller
Was born in Brooklyn
he was attacked for his sexual
Misogyny
& of course
thomas wolfe
who influenced jack keroak, among others..
what’s Faulkner smoking these days?
im tired
It’s too much
too many writers
jean coctue is telling me to get some sleep
eat ambiens, drink bloody Marys,
lay down, relax-
my time is not wasted at work
sometimes I read
other times work
sleep now..
Shit job 77
Some old fart came up to the register
With a handful of paperback westerns
“hi, how are you doing today?” my robotic voice asked again
I say that to all the customers
This old fart was a no response type person
In a strange way, I get offended when
It’s a no response type person
I mean at least mumble, or grumble, or cough,
Look into my eyes for a brief moment and sneeze,
Anything, just don’t ignore me, like im a worthless low paid
Bookstore worker
And even if I am, fuk you. too
I bagged his westerns up, ran his credit card,
“have a great night sir,” I tried again
got to give second chances
not even a grunt from the old timer
as he walked out the doors
fuck it, maybe he has seen or known something I don’t
maybe he has killed men
maybe he’s an alien zombie
maybe a war veteran
maybe he’s a serial killer
maybe he just shit his grown up diapers
there are infinite possibilities
that I shouldn’t be concerned with
that’s my problem, I think too much,
I get all stoned and think too much
I went back to reading a gossip mag on the register
And another person came up
A stupid college girl
Who looks like the last twelve zillion college girls
I have seen come up to the fukin register!
“hi how are you doing today?” I spat.
She said “fine”
We had eye contact
Smiles
But I still didn’t feel any better
As she shuffled her perfect ass in
Trendy
jeans out the door
To her perfect car
To call her boyfriend
On her perfect cell phone
To see where the perfect couple should eat tonight
With there perfect credit cards
I snapped out of it
And read more
Till the next person I wanted to kill
Came up to me to buy books
I would never read
In a zillion life times
Thank someone I had some beam waiting at home
Staring at the clock
“excuse me sir,” this lil rejected retard with red hair and a sports shirt on,
says to me,
“do u have dances with wolves?”
“fukin Blake crap, shit reading list, no we don’t” I mumble…
going back to my gossip mag
then some lady comes up and plops all these clearance books down
on the fukin counter, half of them spilling down on the floor.
“hi, how you doing today?” I ask.
She gives me no response
While I madly ring up her shit romance novels
And wonder how ugly her kids are
Generation genes
Alcoholic parents give birth to a little crying baby boy alcoholic. Alcoholic boy grows up wondering why he feels different and really shy, till one day when he is a wee lad he gets drunk, and he talks he talks he has so much to say, he lets it all out no longer nervous, he drinks, he drinks, he talks he talks.. then vomits and vomits but never forgets that first experience with alcohol because he was born an alcoholic. he never forgets how good it made him feel, or how sick it got him. Alcoholic boy is always thin and small from his parent’s strange boozer genes, kids pick on him, and he gets in many fights growing up. Alcoholic boy grows up more and starts sneaking more and more booze to try and make himself less shy and more normal. A calling is born he thinks if he could just sober up enough to feel it instead of drown it. But alcoholic boy stands tuff with a fistful of dreams he lets nobody see just yet.
Leaving again
this state
This expression of metaphysical
Drunkenness
Only comes from brief moments
In time never captured
But its here for now
& I have nothing to say
& I have memories
of my Mr. roper smile
with blood dribbling down my happy arm
waking you, the couch guest,
waking you, my disappeared friend
to meet another day
last I heard u were in Houston
my friend gone
they always leave in a hurry
and never talk much afterwards
like ghosts in dreams
only left with scars
& curiosity
Media clones
something sickens me about this culture today
the way so-called stars are produced
like eminem, like britney spears,
like marilan manson, like boy bands,
like Harrison ford
I see absolutely no talent at all in any of these people
In anything I see on the TV
Eminem is a wigger, pure and simple
A complete disgrace to artists everywhere
He can’t play an instrument,
He couldn’t paint a picture to save his life
But the media shoves this shit down young American idiots throats
And they gobble it up like robots with no taste
Foaming at the lips for the next inbred superstar
“ew I here justin Timberlake made a solo album,
eww gosh, let me go spend my minimum wage on that
he’s a real fukin genius,”
all im saying..
is get me the barf bucket,
and destroy my eyes, my tv, my gossip reading bored mind.
American culture will never wake up
Just as American government wont
Turkey Smurkey
I sit alone here on Thanksgiving Day with a bottle of Seagram’s, some vodka, and some decent tasting bloody Mary mix. 7 up. Three days off of the nightmare workplace. I could have gone and been sociable and eaten with people I don’t really know. But what’s the point? So I can sit there and pretend i'm happy, comfortable? pretend I care about the futile conversations and lame jokes told? Plus, what if they didn’t have any booze?
Oh, I guess they would of, after all, my father was going.
I saw a little sign someone had posted at work the other day, which said, ‘death is not the worst thing in life, the worst thing is what dies inside of us while we are still alive’ or something like that.
“How fuking retarded,” I thought to myself, every time I read it.
I mean in a sense it made sense. But not really.
Here’s what my lil quote would have bin=
‘If nothing inside of us ever died while we were alive, then what the fuk would we ever learn in life?’
I try not be negative about life and all it’s hardships. But sometimes it’s hard. Maybe I have some strange neurological dysfunction in my brain after the doctors cut it open- that hasn’t been discovered yet.
I don’t like to use the word manic-depressive. Cause after all, everyone seems to think they are these days- one way or another. Sometimes there can be NO classification for ones own daily torment. I wonder what Kafka would say? No I don’t.
Sylvia plath stuck her head in an oven and turned the gas on high while her two children slept downstairs.
I spent my morning smoking pot and eating flexerils, while trying to finish a book on Tourette’s syndrome. It was quite a fascinating book of another human beings daily torture. I like reading books about people with bigger problems than mine. Books on retarded people, books on schizophrenics, books on sexual perverts and serial killers. I like memoirs about madness and decay. I think I read these because it actually makes me realize I don’t have it so bad. Plus, the books, they are very interesting.
I haven’t eaten all day, unless you count the booze, nicotine, pot and pills.
I have never tried to glorify drug abuse. In fact addiction is a weakness that I cannot seem to stop. I have tried many times, but with out it, I become bored, restless, more insecure, panic ridden, sleepless. Self-medication for a disease without definition.
Here’s another quote I read today that I thought made sense at the time I read it.
It’s a Rastafarian guy sitting at a bar talking to a guy with tourette’s syndrome-and the Rastafarian guy says..
“In your country, women have too much freedom. They go from man to man. It should not be this way. Come to my country. I will introduce you to young women. They will go with you no matter where you travel. They will cling to you like a tick. An African woman will stay by the man’s side. They know he is head of the household, whether he is a drunk or a ganja smoker, it does not matter.”
I suppose I related to the quote because every time I have been in love with a woman, it ends in disaster. Usually by them dumping me and moving right on to a new man. I get more and more withdrawn. Reclusive. Anti social. It becomes hard to give ones trust out after quite a few of these experiences. Yeah, I know what you’re all saying.. move on.. get over it..! well, maybe I don’t want to, maybe I cant at this point in my life. maybe i’m stuck chained to a rail road track with a train coming, and the key to my own chains just in my back pocket, yet my arms are not long enough to reach it. maybe I am just now learning to be alone again, which isn’t a bad thing. Not everyone needs someone else to cling onto. Most of the time I am quite content with my cat, my booze, my writings and paintings. Zyprexa and st john’s wart. Pot, occasional hard drug binges. Occasional email from a friend…to know I am not completely alone in my world of lonerness.
One doesn’t need all the inertwangled spazzyness of dealing with another loony, even if the lunatic is having sex with you. It gets way too complicated with another significant other, unless the two of you are completely on each other’s level, even cosmic, which may happen at first. But soon, one becomes bored with the other, the sex stops, the degrading jobs eat one away inside-or a fight happens, and grudges are held deep inside that can never be forgotten. Human beings are very strange creatures I think. The things we do and say while under the influence. Hhmm.. I’m getting hungry. Maybe I should have gone to the thanksgiving dinner with people I don’t know. What’s the worst that could have happened? Oh, shit, never mind, plenty!
A few weeks ago I knocked my father down. I have never done that in 32 years. I use to just say…”yes sir, no sir” I was drunk when it happened. He was probably drunk. We are both perpetually drunkards. It was all over a spilt bottle of wine. I’m not a violent person by nature. But sometimes violence is called for. I don’t really remember ‘attacking’ him, as my mother puts it. it’s basically another drunken black out with clips that pop up in dreams on occasion. I do remember knocking him to the ground and the look of fright on his face. But he grabbed my shoulders first. I don’t like to be touched. my glimmering drunken pissed off eyes, and newly dyed white hair . Maybe it made him finally realize that i’m a 32-year-old man with dreams of his own, not a twelve-year-old boy anymore. I thought I just pushed him down. But one of my sisters called from California and told me that mother had said I began punching him in the face when he tried to get up, as I yelled.-“stay down!”
Maybe I did. Or maybe my mother just made up shit to tell my sisters to make it seem like I was more out of control then I was. either way, I felt awful about the entire episode.
I went out that same night and almost killed myself on a cocaine binge with a bunch of murdering convicts who stayed in shady cockroach motels.
the old man forgave me after a few days, and soon I will move from above the garage and get my own place, and hopefully some sort of social life? other then my own writings and underground writer boards and sites.
or at least maybe a few one night stands to boost the confidence.
Today is turkey day, and I sit alone with my booze, my bong, my weird thoughts about human existence and relationships. Sometimes I wish I had tourette’s syndrome, so I would have some sort of excuse for my daily mental breakdowns. I think I’ll eat another flexeril, maybe a few ambiens, something to numb me more. Maybe finish the book i’m reading and start another. My mind thinks of all the family conversations going around the dinner tables on this day of turkey. All the stuffing, and cooked carrots, mashed potatoes, sausages, corn, yams, green beans. egos and stupidity.
“son, pass the salt”
maybe I will take a nap, and dream of all this gravy, and white yummy turkey, with people clanking glasses in toasts! Passing plates of well deserved feasts and grins and smiles. I shouldn’t be so anti social. That way I wouldn’t be starving at this moment. But hunger brings on other things. Food is over rated.
A few days ago- the old man said-
“so it’s decided, you are coming with us to our friends house on thanksgiving day Nicholas”
“I never said that” I told him.
“but I said it was decided!” he yelled at me.
I thought about saying something else to him, maybe telling him to go fuk himself.
But I was trained. I knew the best thing to do was walk away without a word, even if the chip on my shoulder demanded I finish him off. And my fists clenched with so many years of frustration. I really hope everyone stuffs his or her bellies! On this holiday thanksgiving alone. I’d have it no other way.
I sit alone here on Thanksgiving Day with a bottle of Seagram’s, some vodka, and some decent tasting bloody Mary mix. 7 up. Three days off of the nightmare workplace.
My bong just spilt and it’s time to paint something other then this.
I open my tourette’s book, and a guy with this sad disease is getting married, every time the preacher says something that spose to be worth something. The groom yells..
“fuk u cock sucker! Asshole! fukshit! Cunt beitch!”
the wedding guests look around at each other worried and I can only imagine his parents sitting there after the feast.
Pass the gravy, I say to no one but my sleeping cat.
In a cloud of THC smoke-
Anyways, these ingrown toenails on each large toe may have to be amputated. Each day at work it is pain to take steps. With my shoes too tight, the blood soaking on big toe sock. and yes I have groomed them in 32 years. So don’t tell me I cant cut my own toenails correctly. Chop em off. What do I need em for anyway?
I never had them before.
