She was straddling his chest

She was straddling his chest.  It was a wooden floor, unvarnished, splinters getting stuck in her black stockings which she kept pulling out.  They were both drunk.  She kept giggling and spilling to one side.
It was a wooden floor, unvarnished, splinters getting stuck in her black stockings which she kept pulling out.  They were both drunk.  She was straddling his chest.  A flash of lightning: a splash of blood on the ground by his lips.  Wads of semen between his legs.

It was a wooden floor, unvarnished, splinters getting stuck in her black stockings which she kept pulling out.  They were both drunk.  She was straddling his chest and spilling to one side, giggling.  He made a consistent, low moaning noise.  "Shhh," she said, and put a bloody finger over his lips.  She wiped the finger, smearing blood over his lips and face.

It was a wooden floor, unvarnished, splinters getting stuck in her black stockings which she kept pulling out.  She kept spilling to one side.  They were both drunk.  She was straddling his chest.  She started to slide his pants off.  "Please," him said, voice hoarse.  "Don't".  "Okay," she said, and then paused for a moment.  She grabbed a screwdriver that was clanking around the wooden floors and drove its point into the center of him's crotch.  It didn't fully puncture skin, at first, only a little bit, making a little indentation in his genitals which gushed blood over a soundtrack of shouts.

It was a wooden floor, unvarnished, splinters getting stuck in her black stockings which she kept pulling out.  They were both drunk.  She was straddling his chest.  She now had the screwdriver halfway in him's face, and it was stuck.  She kept pulling at it, trying to dislodge it as if from a carved pumpkin.  Him was screaming and burbling.  She enjoyed the audio track of agony too much.

It was a wooden floor, unvarnished, splinters getting stuck in her black stockings which she kept pulling out.  They were both drunk.  She was straddling his chest.  She pulled the screwdriver out and blood spattered her own face.  Yuck.  Lots of wailing and moaning noises now.  Holding the yellow handle with both hands, she drove the screwdriver into him's drunk, fucked up face another once or fifty more times.

*********

Two.

I get out of the shower and it takes me a little while before I see I have a missed call from Georgia.  My first response is to panic, and then to quickly run a list of names through my head of everyone I know with a Georgia area code.  I can't remember anyone, and then my stomach becomes an eternally-hardening ball of ice because I remember: Alice.

That one night.  That one night will haunt me for the rest of my life.  She seemed like such a kid, well she didn't, but it's hard to explain...I never thought she would get the cops involved.

A knock at the front door.  I stand up, finish the tumblr of bourbon which was sitting on top of my copy of The New Yorker, inside of which I had yesterday slipped a printed-out copy of my own short fiction, just 'cause.  In the mirror that I do coke off regularly I look at myself: light tan, short expensive haircut, features soft and hard in all the right places.  I grin wide at myself, knowing that if this is it, if the cops are at my door, at least I look damned handsome and wealthy before being slandered a pedophile or whatever.

Fearless of the frantic knocking now, I pull open the front door and Alice is swinging a sdfj-dffk----

**********

Deer Diary,

Killed more evil men today.  I need new power tools.  Okay, let's see, let's see...Check mark, I'm up to....Well, you know how many I'm up to.

The Relationship

We were at a point where pictures on tumblr seem profound. We were pretty smashed. George took the computer from me and exited out of the picture of Kurt Cobain. “Look,” he said, the vodka on his breath barely staining my own inebriated nostrils. “Don't you think it's time to stop idolizing this guy?” 

I slide away on the bed and pull the computer back from George. “Never,” I snarl, and ogle a photo of Kurt holding a can of Pepsi and a cigarette. “Your obsession disturbs me,” George says, and when I look in his eyes I can't tell if he's being serious so I say, “Yeah, well, so does yours,” apropos of nothing. 

George gets pissed and topples my bedside table. “What the fuck,” I say. “Look, I can't take this any more,” George says. He jabs an index finger at the computer screen. “It's me or him. Pick one.” 

I looked at the picture of Kurt standing in front of a theater marquee saying “Men can't save you any more,” and then I looked at George's fat, red face. “Him,” I said, and shrugged. George whined and groaned simultaneously and then he stood and rampaged around my house, breaking my Nirvana records until my threats to call the police made him sit in a corner and cry. I watched as George sobbed, motionless. I was kind of relieved. I walked back to the computer. On screen was Kurt with Christmas lights around his neck. I saved the photo to my desktop.

That's how 2012 began.

The Toilet

Dedicated, with a special FUCK YOU, to everyone who doubted me.

He's sitting on a toilet, waiting for any of the three people he's been texting to text him back. One of those people is his girlfriend and he dreads hearing another word from her. Another one of those people is a girl he went to high school with and he is trying to bone her and, even though she says she has a boyfriend, he's guessing she's lying and as he squeezes his buttocks together a farting noise is emitted, syncopated with his eager heart. The other person is his best friend and he doesn't really care about him.

Light flickers from yellow, to what he assumes is neutral, to pink, to what he assumes is neutral. His phone vibrates twice. He checks it. Neither message is his girlfriend. Just then he groans and his ass cheeks shake, then open, and he dumps mounds of backed up feces painfully into the toilet. He groans again, hears his cell vibrate, reaches for it, but shits all over the inside of the toilet bowl before he can read the message. When he does he sees it's the girl he went to high school with. Score.

Washing his hands, the lights are still flickering and dimming, changing colors, and he reaches into the back pocket of his jeans for a pillbox. With his other moist hand he scratches his cock, faintly fantasizing about the girl from highschool. He opens this pill box and removes six one-milligram pills of Klonopin. He holds the pills under the running water, bends over, and shoves them up his ass with two fingers. He reaches up to the second knuckle on both fingers when something sharp catches his fingers. It feels like his ass is biting him. He tries to pull his fingers out but he can't. His ass won't let go. Doubled over in the weird lights, he charges around the bathroom until he smashes headfirst into the toilet bowl. He goes limp. His head drops into the water.

When he regains consciousness he finds himself floating underwater. The heads of Barack Obama, Mitt Romney, Karl Marx, and a masked head of the Invisible Committee are all attached to strands of shit. The strands of shit are anchored to some filthy oceanic floor. Obama head throws itself at Marx head and particles of shit disperse through the water. Invisible Committee head sits back and does nothing until Marx head approaches on its shit strand, at which point Invisible Committee head barks and makes noises no one can understand. Romney head feebly goes for Obama head but Obama head bites Romney head's shit strand and Romney retreats. 

While this is all happening he is still floating in the water, thinking, “damn, I really just wanna fuck that girl from high school.”

debauchery at 3:00

tom's walking out of class when his teacher says "fuck you".  he turns around, startled, then tom does.  now facing his teacher's back, tom grabs his teacher's waist and starts fucking viciously.  exhausted, tom pulls out and cums all over his left hand.  he studies the cum, then wipes it on his teacher's face, smearing his teacher's glasses with goo.  "well?" tom asks.  "fuck you" his teacher says.  "again?" tom asks.

adjusting his pants, tom leaves his teacher's office to find me spinning a pencil in the hallway.  "oh, hello" tom says.  "i've decided the only way to transcend love and sex is to be a nihilist," i say.  "i only care about nihilism from now on."  "that's kind of cute," tom says.  "I know," i wail.

he struggles to keep his head propped up.  his eyes pulse with pain.  he smells like a literary orgasm.  he's just completed the masterpiece he's been willing into existence for three years.  it's as good as he's been saying it will be.  it's better.  i know because james tells me so on the internet.

"i hate them all" a man declares.  "if only it were that simple," a larger man rejoins.

the black kid told the white kid that the black kid's grandma had a bottle of pills.  the black kid said if he could fuck the white kid, the white kid could have the pills.  the black kid fucked the white kid.  a train came.  the white kid got on the train without the pills.  that's how it went. 

"and jesus christ in all his glory--" "i've never been to church." he spit and leered at her.

Nobody Likes Broken Vixen

Broken Vixen wakes up to his cell vibrating and answers it in a sweat.

"Hello?" Broken's heart is pumping fast, working it's way from second gear to third.

"Dude!" Broken's heart gets to third gear and keeps chugging because the voice on the other end of the phone belongs to Tommy Pickles.  Tommy is Broken's ex-best friend, only Tommy doesn't know that yet.  Broken presses the phone back into his ear.

"Dude!  I have all kinds of crazy shit for you to do today!"

Broken takes the phone from his ear, holds it in his hands.  He waits.  Nothing happens.  He presses the phone back into his ear.

"Hello?  Broken?  Broken?"

"I don't want to do crazy shit today," Broken says.  "I'm not broken anymore."

"What do you mean?  Of course you're Broken!  You're Broken Vixen!  Who else would you be?"

"No, I mean I'm not--"

"Broken, just calm down."

"Tommy listen--"

"No you listen, Broken.  I'm bored and I need you to entertain me.  Get ready.  I'm coming by."

Tommy clicks off.  Broken stares at the phone.  He sets the phone down, gets up, paces his house, goes into the bathroom.  He looks at himself in the mirror and splashes some water on his face.  He dries his face on a towel.  Then he stands in the center of his living room and waits for Tommy to arrive.

****

Tommy shows up grinning a disastrous smile packed with jagged teeth.  He aims the smile at the door knocker and knocks.  One, two, three, four.  He doesn't stop knocking until Broken answers the door.

"Broken!"  Tommy extends his arms for a hug, giving Broken a scenic view of Tommy's considerable girth packed into a lime green track suit.

"Hi Tommy," Broken says and weakly stands to one side, inviting Tommy in.  "What, no hug?" Tommy demands, but he marches into the house anyway.  Trailing behind Tommy are a baby stroller, a clown suit, and various whips and chains. 

"What, uh, is all this stuff," Broken asks nervously. 

"Oh," Tommy says, pointing his grin at Broken's face.  "It's all for you."  The grin doesn't stop devouring, it eats through flesh all the way to Broken's skull.  "Here's what we're gonna do.  You're gonna put on this clown suit and get in this stroller.  After that we're heading to Target and I'm going to film you."

"What about the whips?" Broken asks, eying the whips as Tommy begins pulling down Broken's pants. 

"Oh, you'll see," Tommy says with his hands on Broken's belt buckle.  "You'll see what about the whips."  The laugh bellowed by Tommy makes it sound like he's eating air.

Broken pushes Tommy's hands away from his belt buckle.  "Tommy, stop.  I told you.  I'm not broken anymore.  I'm making progress with my shrink and-- and-- I'm seeing this girl--"

"No you aren't," Tommy says.  "You're Broken.  Ask anybody in this town.  You think they don't know it?"  Tommy gestures towards the neighboring buildings in the gray fog of morning, and Broken knows that he's right.  "If you aren't Broken then who are you?  You're nobody!  Nobody even knows who you are."

Defeated, Broken begins to slump to the floor.  He knows Tommy's right.  He lets Tommy remove his pants.

Show Me Your Tats

“Show me your tats,” Dennis grins, and you forgot you had them for a second. You're drunk and when you stand up you feel the alcohol siphoning its way down your insides. You're definitely buzzed, but you still know this could be awkward and you want to make sure you get your physical position right, for showing Dennis your tats. You shift your weight on the barrel you're sitting on. A little bit over there, there's a campfire that some kids are dancing around. You wonder if any of them are high and realize dimly that they definitely are and this makes you sad for some reason.

“Dude,” Dennis says, and you're back with the living.

“Oh, right,” you say, your heart beginning to race, you knowing this was a bad idea. This was a really bad idea. You rock back and forth on the barrel, sort of tip it forward, then back again, feeling its weight beneath you. You're delaying the moment. Dennis is staring at you blankly with an empty beer cup in his hand. It's now or never, you think. You look over there at the kids dancing around the campfire, singing songs. “Fuck them,” you think, and you roll up the sleeve on your sweater, expecting the worst but no longer caring.

The word “murderer” has been jaggedly cut into your arm, creating vast open wounds that are now just bloody stitches, snarled fishing line, black and red. Dennis is staring at your arm. You feel yourself getting a hangover. Finally, after kneeling down to examine the wounds, Dennis stands up again.

He says, “far out,” and grins.

“Huh?” you ask, not really there.

“Far out,” Dennis says, and when you look back up the grin is still there.

“They're really rad,” Dennis continues. “Where'd you get them?”

“Hey!” Dennis yells.” “Krysta!” A thin, pretty girl is dancing around the campfire and when Dennis gets her attention she looks over and he says “Get over here” and she gets over here. You're frozen to your wooden-barrel seat, stuck now in a purgatory you wish you'd never let yourself enter.

“Check out this guy's tattoos,” Dennis says excitedly. “They're really sick.”

When Krysta bends down to examine my tattoos I notice how soft and white her skin is.

She stands up again, looks me in the eye, and then says, “Dude. Very ill,” deadpanning the words to make herself seem more hard. “Wicked tats,” Krysta continues. “Who did 'em?”

You stare at the empty beer cup in your hands.

patchouli stops making you nauseous when

patchouli stops making you nauseous and starts to feel like something safe after a while. you smelled it at college, walking down your dorm buildings hallways haunted by insane, wild cannibals, kids burning incense with the windows open to mask the smell of pot. you did that too, only you used a spray can of Lysol or sometimes Febreeze instead of incense, because you thought it seemed less suspicious. then when you had a mental collapse and finally dragged your body back home, you never smelled it again. and you were relieved.

you stopped smoking weed for two months before starting again. it was rough at first but you got used to it again over time. you started burning incense just for fun, not because you had to or there was any pressure put on you. sometimes it smelled nice, but sometimes it was too much. sometimes it reminded you of the past. but the more weed you smoked and the softer the past felt, the more you liked the smell of incense, made you feel like a hippie, made you feel like you belonged to something you liked and could agree with. and that's when the smell of patchouli doesn't smell that bad anymore.

shoutout to my favorite authors, man

matthew stokoe’s prose is like a first-person shooter; matthew stokoe’s pose is like a snuff film

vladimir nabokov’s prose is like a hedgemaze where you’re given a chainsaw on the first page

aMERICAN dream machine guy’s prose is a tumblr of bourbon

donna tartt writes the best nancy drew stories for adults

burroughs is the blood in your veins

didion is a steel knife so sharp it cuts if you touch it

dennis cooper is your subconscious or maybe just the world

lonely christopher is lonely

cormac mccarthy wrote a book about ponies

arthur rimbaud is you as a homosexual anarchist (hey that’s me!)

bret easton ellis fucks with the totality cuz he’s a masochist

I Don't Always Smoke Flower But If I Do It's Fine

i don't always smoke flower but if i do it's fine
this brain and this will and these lungs are mine
and i won't let any person or force external to me
alter what i do to my own brain chemistry

i don't always smoke flower but i do it's fine
they call it "god's flower" in some philosophies
i don't consider myself a philosopher,

nor a religious person

i like to get high

i don't always smoke flower but if i do it's fine
these hands and this skin and this blood is mine
and when i have the need to cut them up
some puffs of the stuff can save a lot of pain
and i don't care that the rhyme scheme is now messed up
because....

i don't always smoke flower but if i do it's fine
pigs say it's not, but they're guilty of crimes
my ex says it's not, but she's weird in the mind
i say it is, but i can't stop the crying
because i can't handle the black lodge

i don't always smoke flower but if i do it's fine
leave me alone, it helps with my anxiety
don't call be a pothead or try to rat on me
i guess this smoking weed business can get kind of heavy

"dennis freestyle"

i interact with so many cruel people on a daily basis that it has turned my heart as black as a blackhole, rim job, asshole, smashed hole, now it bleeds, now he weeps til i feed him more e then we step back up and we fuck again and again and again until we both are spent, and then do some crystal to go even harder, i got it from your sister it only cost 10 dollar, so i lose interest midway through and put the powders up my nose through a dollar-bill tube, and a long time ago we said fuck the lube, so just spread your cheeks and let's do this, dude.

poem cont'd.

harmony, like a song, right? / oh shit i'm losing my flow / 'least it was a fun night / aight, pick back up and march to the beat / march to the beat as you march in the streets / march in the streets til you collapse from the heat / then fire at the Heat, keep marching in the streets / pick up that sheet / bite some tabs / like they're your morning pills / wait 30 minutes for the come-up and loopty chills and thrills / the only thing that rhyme with those is "kills," but i'd rather be chill / or maybe spills / when your life spins beneath you like the training wheels of the trike you fell off / and you can't right the thing because it's crushing your guts soft / i just want to tell you about myself, tell you the truth / but that's the paradox of hip hop / it's a coded language that holds the truth aloof / askance, and you can see it at a glance / maybe if you really look / but that aint no promise to a dream, no bell hooks / i'd never be a writer of a famous etiquette book / even if that book were my ticket to fame / who am i kidding, i'd sell out, i have no shame

don't.

"don't leave me," i pleaded.

"why don't you come with me," she asked.

"because..." i paused.  "it's really hard to freebase in the car."