Stuffed animals are filled with fluff.
Some like it hot,
but I prefer it rough.
There is nothing left to eat
but their stomach still churn
and the emergency shut off switch
that will keep them from being hungry anymore
is forever at arms length.
They've watched themselves waste away
trying to feed their swollen bellies on clothes,
hair, shoes, skin, rocks and fingernails.
All slid down their dry throats
and retched their putrid stomachs.
Instead of huddled together for warmth,
they seperate themselves,
hoping the isolation will allow the cold to take them away,
to freeze their hearts and brains.
To allow them to not be cold and hungry, but feel nothing.
Grasping a wet stick in his gnarled hands
one of them tilts his head back
and shoves it into his throat
like a sword swallower on a budget,
and he gags and wretches and dry heaves.
He bends over on his knees
the stick still in his esophagus,
and around the wet, grey bark expells acid,
pure stomach acid onto the ground and burning his teeth.
His body shives but his eyes show triumph.
Maybe they once had genders
maybe they once had ages
but now they have lost their individualites
and remain stinking and pale as the hungry,
the ones not good enough for death.
Eyelidless eyes stare and match into another
pair of sore conjuctivitis infected balls
Blinking but incapable of the solace of sleep,
as they impatiently wait for something,
anything to happen.
The entire world!
I own the entire fucking world!
Or at least I have stocks in it.
I bought my fair share of stocks in this god-forsaken rock,
shouldn't I have a say in how this place is run?
You're running the world into the ground, you fucking people!
I vote for a change in the board!
What do you mean I don't have enough stock
in the company to make decisions?
You destroy my wealth, my well-being and my life and you ask me to fucking wait!
I refuse to be a party in this!
I'm going to the brokerage when it opens in the morning
and selling my stocks
with the business end of a Remmington.
Po- Slang for "poor"
Try-Something you do when you're afraid you won't succeed.
Poetry makes no sense.
Jesus Christ. Do you always look like this?
I forced my eyes open. I felt like I was on an old roller coaster with a broken axle.
What the fuck is wrong with you?
I tried to focus but it made my eye muscles hurt. So I closed them again.
So I sat up. My stomach hurt.
I braced myself with my arms. My skin was burning.
It's almost four!
Why are you being so loud?
Because it's almost four!
I laid back down and put my chin to my chest so the tendons in my back could stretch out.
Did you hear me?
I heard you.
You know I'm not going to feel bad for you.
Could you go away then?
It's almost four!
I don't have to be up til seven.
Four in the afternoon four. Itll be dark in two hours four.
I squeezed my eye lids together and yanked the scratchy yellow blanket up past my shoulder.
Then why do I even have to bother getting up?
Because that's what people do. They get up and have lives.
That's really cool for people. But I'm not a people. I'm the biggest man in the world.
I'm still asleep.
What the fuck is wrong with you?
I'm still asleep.
My stomach wretches. Go get a bucket.
Go get a bu-. I roll onto my side and puke off of the mattress and onto the grey stubbly carpet.
What the fuck!
I think I'm okay now.
When the eggs all hatch
inside of our bellies
and begin to bore holes
we will bear it
not good enough
for a doctor to touch
When we give birth to the babies of flies
we will love them like our own.
not good enough
for better parents.
When our fly babies grow up
they will ask us why
they are so different than the other kids
We will tell them it's
because they are better
than the other kids.
When we die slowly and painfully
from sepsis when the holes
in our stomachs finally leak out
because we were too engrossed
in our fly babies
We will wonder if it was worth it.
After our funerals,
attended by our fly babies
and our parents
there will be hor d'eourves
with which our children
Our dads and our moms
will eat the food
crunchy with their eggs
because they are not good enough
to ignore free food
we will be reborn.
And leave holes in the stomachs of those who made us not good enough.
His face and the wall
attempt to operate in the same space
at the same time.
As his head reels back,
fragments of tooth are left
in a smatter.
Blood spittles from his mouth
When he tries to form words.
The world is crimsidescent
when he sees with his "third eye".
and he can't go around.
Robert was 13
when he walked to his family's refrigerator
and Systematically he tore off the drawings,
the report cards,
What are you doing, Robert?
I've got a big list on my fridge
of things I'm gonna buy
To pay taxes.
On the beach
waves collide with the shore,
coming from above
and slamming down
battering the sand.
As the ocean retreats back into itself
it claws the beach
and rips away its skin.
huddle together and through sheer mass,
and the pummeling sound of behemoths in disrest.
Tiny daggers drop from the riot,
denting the crust,
the sand is pierced
by the feet of a hundred stampeding tourists,
failing to outrun the bullets
of a junkie in a rage.
Died with a wife
at the end of his life
left a world that was rife
with the blade of a knife
And a soul filled with stife
And another word that sounds alike is fife.
The average police officer makes $55,000 dollars are year.
The average police officer makes 55,000 friends a year.
who will never back him up
when he needs them most.
jealous of each other,
who, ironically, only work well in huge groups.
The average police officer is yelled at
at least once a day.
The average police officer sits in a car,
waiting for his chance to be yelled at.
A good car,
made of steel,
with a bright light and a speaker for shouting,
And an air conditioner.
The average police officer has a gun for self protection,
and a baton for the offensive.
The average police officer wears black
The clock is hyperventilating.
If it dies, how will I wake up in the morning?
The clock is waking up screaming.
What kind of nightmares do clocks have?
Her arm careered
Her fingers twirled
Yanked, pulled, vellicated
went the voicebox
And into his gut, boiling over, bubbling with acid
That he overtalked
And she forced him to eat his words.
Any friend of yours
(We have nothing in common,
Not even you.
How is it that they know you
and I know you
but we know separate people?)
is a friend of mine.
She forces me to hang up
I think she's uncomfortable talking to me.
I know she's going to tell
her friends people like me
I'm not people
like I told her.
I'm a lot like the criers
The people in black
Self obsessed in their own self pity.
I'm a horrible mix
Of normal person
And complete social degenerate
To where I can't get along with either.
She's going to tell
All her buddies
who think she's such a great person
That she heard a person like me
She's going to tell them
She made me laugh.
She was telling me
How I felt.
“You feel like nothing matters”
She's the world's most depressing hypnotist.
“You feel like you're living shallowly”
She's a genius.
I couldn't help
But laugh at the silliness
Of it all.
One wall of a cold cement cell is missing
And all of the prisoners stare out into the open,
Into the searing light.
Into the tinge of air
Unperfumed with the sweat of sleep.
Overhead, the florescent light
So sickly fluttering,
The pale blue luminescence with not even a lie of heat,
The prisoners squint into the light of the world beyond their lonely cell.
Shoulder to shoulder
without room to move an arm to scratch an itch.
Noses that held the raw scent of ammonia
are teased with the prospect of being washed clean with the scents of animals
Their tense shoulders relax
and the cell releases a sigh
into the world.
A lung holding stale air
for way too long
finally gets to breathe.
A smile crescents their faces,
and with whole hearted contentment
The wall is rebuilt.
The single brick layer's back is dropped with sweat
of the sun bearing down.
The prisoners are smeared with prespiration
of sleeping too long with no ventilation.
Without a goodbye,
the world is gone
and the prisoners have already forgotten about it.
I was already late
When the time to leave the party
As my foot passed over the threshold
it landed on crumpled paper
and stuffing from the furniture
they tore open.
I looked around the empty room,
strewn of course
with broken glass
of cheap wine
One or two stragglers had staked a claim
to the last two chairs not completely maimed
in the struggle
of having a good time.
Their faces blank of personality,
that the real people
had long since left them
behind as well.
Pounding bass struggled to boom,
but rasped sadly
from the rattling broken speaker.
I ask one of the stragglers
about a black haired girl
who came up to my shoulder
and they both say she left with a guy.
A plain round clock
was hung on a close wall
it's plastic lens shattered
and the hands stopped
at ten minutes before I entered.
I jumped off a bridge
and broke my neck on contact
and didn't even get the chance to drown.
A huge centipede crawls across the floor
He is black
and his legs are orange.
He is enormous
And he rears back and attacks the feet of the passers-by
And they smile and reach down and pat him.
And he bites their hands.
Their hands swell up around the two deep punctures,
which are swollen up over, the only sign left being two tiny oozing wrinkles.
The purple hands are polka dotted with yellow and dying veins.
They admire the plethora of color that is now their hand.
From the pain they lust for more and more pain and more and more pain.
They rise from their overstuffed red sofas to the middle of the floor and trade blows.
A girl of twenty with black curly locks falls to the ground with a wet thud
and summons the centipede who bites her in the cheek, piercing the paper thin flesh.
He gets a strong hold on her face and drags her across the floor.
She giggles in delight!
The centipede rips her limb from limb and
She giggles in delight!
Another wet thud.
She had a puffy purple companion in a moment as the centipede drags to her a young man of twenty-one.
Their lips meet
and their saliva, thick and curdled mixes.
They giggle in delight!
As the centipede rips them limb from limb.
You look like you're losing weight!
The centipede is finding it.
He eats all but their skulls,
shining in a thin layer of blood,
picked clean of flesh
Locked in a sweet embrace of phantom lips
Until a pugilist twitches his leg in an awkward defensive maneuver and sends the girl's skull spinning across the floor
until it hits against a white wall with a crack
and it splits.
Party-goers begin to trip over the centipede.
And with every wet thud on the floor
another skull is left to be an obstacle for fluid movement.
The centipede has to coil up to be able to fit in the room.
And soon there is one pugilist left
And he scratches the centipede's shiny black metallic and spackled red back with a mangled mass of knuckle
and yellow poisoned veins.
The centipede rears back
But falls back on itself out of its own sheer weight
and its back snaps,
spraying the finalist with a mix of entrails of bug and human kind.
Caress my bottom,
and cling to me in the private,
sensible way only you know how to do.
When I cross my legs,
hold my thighs,
and press me to open back up to the world.
When I walk,
Walk with me,
and keep me from giving the world my dignity
to do with what they so cruelly will.
deliver me from the evil
of catching myself in your fly.