I crush my face
against the studded ceiling
and thank God I finally got the acne scars
I always wanted for Christmas.
Yesterday I saw a dog
get hit by a car
spoiler alert
it was me,
I hit the dog.
These Caribbean rhythms
make me all tense
I'm afraid of
dying in the middle of a race riot
because then who would remember me?
spoiler alert
no one.
spoiler alert
I'll die when I'm fifty for no forseeable reason
spoiler alert
I'll continue breaking
Digital Millennium Copyright Laws
and spoiler alert
I'm afraid of falling any deeper in love
with girls
I'm afraid of falling in love with guys
I'm afraid of falling out my chair
and cracking my skull open on the ground.
I guess what I'm trying to say is
I really hope I never get fat.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 2:12 PM UTC
Hey, honey
who did you **** to get into this party?
The whole wide world
is watching the same skin flick,
******
tickled
and slick
with scummy scrangjjjjjj
scrangggjjjjjjjj
that's code for *****
in some ancient Indoasian
dialect
you only ever heard from Indiana Jones.
I slip and slide into
her *****
in my backyard
in the middle of my tenth birthday party
and it's warm,
it's warm and safe
and I like it here.
I like it everywhere.
Humidity is the closest thing
I have to a God
there's a forest of ***** hair
growing on the bathroom rug.
I'm sorry that you had to walk on it.
My little brother's
got eyes in the back of his head,
they blink and look around
and you have got to watch your back around him
because he's fast
as a ************
too.
Today I am concerned about
the price of oil
not because I drive
but because my fictional wife
stops putting out
the minute it hits four dollars.
You've got an awfully perdy mouth
for someone who just got hacked to pieces.
I'd like to frame your lips
if you'd let me,
that would be nice,
right above my fireplace,
on the mantle,
next to the ******* cutouts
I've been saving since I was seven.
Is it glue that's holding them together,
God I hope so
because everyone keeps touching it
whenever they come to visit.
Come.
To visit.
haha
I like to laugh,
laughter is medicine for the soul,
Chicken Soup
for the Pre-Teen's Soul
is really just full of
**** anecdotes
but the kids don't tell their parents that,
why do you think they sell so well?
I'm a *******
something
****
I've run out of ideas
at this point in time
it's getting awful hard
to continue my schoolwork
because
let's face it
one can only learn about
bonds
so many times
before the skin
from ones' face
starts to peel
off ones' skull
and slide into ones' hands
and fall onto ones'
***** carpet.
It stares up at you
accusingly,
no eyes,
and it speaks.
"What's the deal with airline food?"
you
me
we
say.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 2:05 PM UTC
Written in one shot.
Word association:
Father?
*******
Mystery?
***
Love?
Overrated.
My psychologist
once taught me how to steal cable.
It's one of those life lessons
that I carry with me, y'know?
Like how some people
keep fortune cookie fortunes
in their wallets
next to their IDs
and pictures of their kids.
You find those kinds of things
all over the place,
littered in gutters
and streetcorners all across
the globe,
but when you're downtrodden
knowing how to say
"Where is the nearest bathroom?"
in Japanese
isn't really worth ****
I'll start gaining weight
here pretty quick.
Fat Michael
is not a myth,
and I hate him.
"Write a poem?"
Christ,
I can't even
write my own name
anymore.
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 2:16 PM UTC
I hate dogs.
I hate cats.
I hate people who are like,
"Oh, I'm a dog person."
No you aren't.
Shut up.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 2:11 PM UTC
Twenty-five pigeons are doing **** rips in my living room.
In the middle of my living room
twenty-five pigeons
are doing **** rips
of **** that they bought
off my next door neighbor
who just happened to have some lying around.
There are twenty-five pigeons
doing **** rips in my living room,
and they will not stop watching
Battlestar Galactica.
The twenty-five pigeons
doing **** rips in my living room
ate all of my Cheese Nips,
and they drank the last
of the RC Cola I bought.
I try to get
the twenty-five pigeons
doing **** rips in my living room
to leave,
because I hate it when they do this,
but they just coo at me
and that shuts me up.
One of the twenty-five pigeons
doing **** rips
in my living room
accidentally knocks over
the ****
and spills bongwater
all over my ******* carpet.
The **** cracks.
They start flapping their wings really hard
and ******** everywhere,
because they're pigeons
and they're mad.
But then,
one of the twenty-five pigeons
produces some hash wax
from under his wings,
and now there's twenty-five pigeons
doing knife hits
of hash wax
over my stove,
and quite frankly
I'm ******
I run in
and start waving my arms
around,
and scream,
"Get the **** out of here,
who let you in anyway?"
And the head pigeon drops the knife on accident,
and they all fly out of my living room
and into the sky,
all really blazed,
leaving me here,
mad,
with a bunch of stains on my carpet.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 2:08 PM UTC
A week after her
dad
killed himself
in his bathtub,
she found his note
in an old
jewelry box.
All it said was,
“I always forget
there are 28 days
in February.”
I know exactly what he meant.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 1:12 AM UTC
The sky is dead today,
but it looks a whole lot prettier
when you pump it full of formaldehyde
and slap some lipstick on it.
Its hair has fallen out,
but they make wigs for a reason.
Though Christ was once
the world's most skilled coroner
the job has been left to the Children
of the city of God.
America is the last reservoir,
a stoic Indian
with a single tear
bleeding onto a deserted strip of highway.
We are the carbs we inhale.
We **** parasites,
choke down antibiotics
and anger our parents
for coming home fifteen minutes after curfew.
As mother earth lies
dying in a hospital bed,
(s)he listens to the sound of her
heart monitor,
looks at her dying flesh,
and says
"My God
how I've gotten old."
And us,
we,
the people,
all but cells
in this planet's ravaged body
reflect on what has changed.
Me?
The parking garage where
my friends and I
used to make believe
ain't gonna be around much longer.
The schools I visit
on weekends during the winter
feel shallow,
my victories easily won.
My nana lost the ability
to pick up the phone
and dial seven digits,
and the flutist
started drinking again.
I play the same seven songs
every Sunday,
and I try to believe that something
is out there,
and that there's a reason
for my eternal sense of boredom,
and yet I can't help but think I'm stuck.
My eyes are tired,
but her body is warm,
and the only time I find solace
is when I'm running my fingers across
her tattoo.
People change,
I changed,
hell,
Mother changed.
When I look at her high school photos,
I think,
"How did we go from Pangaea to
pieces?
We really let her go."
Yeah, it's our fault that Mom
isn't feeling well these days.
And we all feel real bad about that.
And we feel real bad about ourselves.
Up in the heavens,
the heart monitor spits out its last ding
and the line begins to flatten.
The sky ignites
and as this happens
we all come to the same realization.
Our victories are not hard-won.
We are not the sum of our parts.
All accomplishments are
only the result of circumstance.
We are nothing without our rifles.
We once had meaning,
but we gave it away
at lunch for a
Snack Pack.
All at once,
the continents collide.
The doctors in the sky
burst into Mom's room
and attempt to resuscitate her.
Earthquakes shatter our spines,
volcanoes erupt,
the world burns in a flash.
For a moment, she awakes.
"I love you,"
she says.
"Always remember that."
Then all is silent.
The hospital
shuts off,
all lightbulbs burst
all patients dead.
No life supported.
God smiles.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 2:10 PM UTC
jfeei4ieie9sdgjklgflzvj/
;lkjasasdfjl;kafew;lkkkkkkkkkja;wfiz
I don't like haikus.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 2:10 PM UTC
12:45
The sun has gone black,
the world is asleep.
In the family room,
the television clicks on by itself.
It illuminates my father,
half-naked,
covered in processed cheese dust.
The channel changes to Cinemax,
******** ***********
My mother walks in
without her glasses,
and for a moment
her screams of disgust
are indistinguishable
from the throes of passion
broadcast on the cheap
Acer dad bought at Costco.
Elsewhere,
in South America,
a volcano has erupted.
It sprays debris
and detritus
over a small village
with a long name.
Postmodern Vesuvians **** ash,
frozen not with fear
but rigor mortis.
The CNN report plays for three hours.
The world moves on.
Later,
a man explodes in a convenience store.
Guts rocket outward,
onto wine coolers
and travel packages of Chex,
and the clerk just shrugs.
If you go there today,
all that’s left is the smell of ammonia
and a dark stain on the ceiling.
At the same moment,
a toddler steps off a cliff,
spiraling into the abyss,
but never stops falling.
He’s been going for days,
months,
years.
He has kept his audience updated
through a Bluetooth that we tossed down after him.
He’s had windburn since he fell,
but the ointment we sent
hasn’t reached him yet.
His parents are now expecting.
He just yawns.
In my family room,
the woman on Cinemax is climaxing,
screaming,
pulling her hair out
while a greased-up middle aged
pizza deliveryman autoerotically asphyxiates
himself with a hair tie.
As she wails for the last time,
the TV screen shatters,
glass ejected,
blazing through the air
like Flight 93
seconds before impact.
Sparks salivate from the exposed wires,
then cackle down
into a signed black.
And as this happens,
the children on Exeter St
stop crying.
The alcohol in a small town liquor store in Wyoming
un-ferments,
and the world, for a moment,
ceases to turn.
But only for a blink.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 2:02 PM UTC