Saturday, September 25, 2010

an excerpt from the prose novella [sic] Lectura

As a young boy, around the age of six, I had a profound curiosity with the infliction of pain onto others. I was quite fond of torturing and killing insects and other small creatures outside my parent's home-at the height of several mundane afternoons.

Nothing was safe if it happened to catch my fancy. Small, gray lizards. Brown-spotted toads. Field mice. Blue-racer snakes. Black ants. One day my father built a slide in the backyard; perhaps to curb this crude fascination.

"Just be careful on it son. Don't hurt yourself" he would often remind me; as I scurried out the back door with my younger brother in tow. He, of course, wanted only to be involved with whatever sense of play I happened to enjoy-and found himself holding the magnifying glass, survival knife or box of matches alongside me when the URGE had struck.

One Summer, there was a fresh batch of kittens belonging to one of the nine stray cats who had settled into their roles of furry vagrants around our six acre lawn. The mother had recently found her way into the busy strip of road in front of the house, and had been flattened by an oncoming car some weeks prior. She was a gray, long-haired, mangy loafer and my contempt for her during her stay knew no bounds. In passing (her long tail hanging from the edge of one of the marble flower pots around the house-swaying back and forth beneath the hot sun) I would hiss wildly as I yanked that antagonizing appendage-only to receive a reciprocal response and multiple, deeply embedded scratches along my hands and arms.

This hatred I felt for Daisy or Leela or whatever her name may have been..did not rot with her maggot-ridden corpse along the waste side. But was merely transferred to the litter of black, orange, gray and white dregs that sprang from her pink and bruised snatch. I recall..feeling utterly sick at the sight of them leaping through the Summer grass..wrestling..chasing large grasshoppers along the way. Whereas other small children (including my own six year old daughter) found merriment in the observance of their feline exploits; I saw only small, hairy targets for a deep-seeded angst that I could not (and for that matter cared not) to understand. But under the watchful eye of my mother, I kept this murderous intent at bay..until the right opportunity would present itself.

One such afternoon,
my brother Stewart and I had spent several hours running back and forth from the house to the gargantuan, yellow slide; kicking dust and laughing as young boys do on occasion. My mother had just began hanging clothes on the wire a few feet from it and all the while keeping us, her own litter, in constant peripheral view. When she had strung up the last pair of my father's coveralls, she turned to find the kittens licking at her varicose ankles.

"Ohhh. They're so sweet. Look at 'em boys. Aren't they just adorable?"

The sight of her interest infuriated my little heart.

"Yes momma."

"Poor little things. They're so dirty. Their momma isn't around to clean 'em off the little angels. It's a shame."

She reached down and rustled the spine of one of the runts with stripes on his belly. This distracted me to such a degree that I unwittingly, tripped over a large tobacco stick lying at the foot of the slide while Stewart chased me in a game of tag. I rolled to the ground-scraping my knee in the process..and seemingly my patience along with it, as it careened against a brick that had found its way into the lawn.

"OWWW." I moaned, as I stood with a fresh hole in my Levis-small trickles of blood staining the white frays of the rip.

"Are you okay son?"

"Yes momma. When can we eat lunch? I'm hungry."

"Well, I got some white beans and cornbread in the house I can make. Is that alright with you boys?"

"YES" we said in unison. But my particular taste exceeded the hunger for slow Southern cooking. Deep inside that 3"6 frail piece of matter and bone, blood and muscle..I wanted vengeance; for what deed I still cannot say or really fathom. But the world owed me something wet and pure. It owed me many small lives..all at once, and I was to be satisfied. No quarter given. No mercy shown.

"Well, lemme go put the rest of the clothes in the washer and I'll start the beans. I still got half a plate of that cornbread yawl didn't finish from the other day. So it shouldn't take too long to fix everything. You boys stay out here and play; and stay away from that road where I can see ya' back here. You don't wanna end up like that old momma cat do ya'?"

"No momma. We don't."

The screen shut and I could hear momma starting the dryer..hear the pots and pans banging in the bottom-right cupboard of a four burner stove.

"Hey Stewart. You wanna play a new game?"

"Sure. What is it?"

"Let's call it Conan or He-Man or Hercules. I'll go first and show ya' how to play."

I picked the tobacco stick up from the ground and handed it to him, his smaller shaky hands unsteady as ever could be.

"Hold this and don't move. You stand right there."

I sauntered over to the litter, who were still in an innocently-blind stage of development; letting any old/young pair of mits (tiny, callused, soft, evil) hold them for a few precious seconds..preoccupied only with the high grass that year and the ritualistic nibble on a stale slice of bread crust left for the cardinals and blue-jays that frequented the bathes. The silver bowl of community water was more or less a well where they would gather and lift their tiny tails to the sun and speak amongst one another, oblivious to the dangerous and approaching world around them.

"Here kitty kitty kitty. Dtttkk. Dtttkkk. Dtttkk. Here kitty kitty."

I squeezed their little backs as they wiggled to and fro in my palms; softly at first..and then a spontaneous, momentary iron grip-just to feel their insides roll around behind fur in my hands. I managed to round up five within the confines of my puny arms, while Stewart stood in position with a blank look and chubby splintered fingers. You could see the blood rise to the top of his Casper-white knuckles-both hands clutched around the end of the if he knew what I was going to do before I had any clue.

"What are you doing?" I said as I lay the kittens at his feet. "Give me that. Now take them" one tries to slip away, but the escape is thwarted by the inside of my foot "Gotcha! Now take them to the top of the slide and hold them there for a second. I'll tell you when to go."

"Go? What's this have to do with He-Man?"

"Just do it!"

Stewart reluctantly walked to the seven-step, iron ladder and began climbing to the top as I took my stance below. My brother and I were baseball fanatics. My father had instilled that much in our upbringing. Stewart and he liked the Atlanta Braves, Texas Rangers..and men like Nolan Ryan and Greg Maddox. I was a Mariners, Reds, and Oakland Athletics fan; idolizing the greats like Ken Griffey Jr. and Jose Canseco. Home-run hitters all the way; knocking that bandaged, 'white piece of shit outta the park..outta the sky, speed and trajectory aligned..outta sight, outta mind..gone..into

"You ready up there?" I asked, as Stewart (loyal and stern) waited with the first runt of the group. Puny. White. Ocean-blue eyes. Ears fuschia pink shade like a pussy should look; staring down the yellow railway at an ugly stick and none the wiser.

"Ready." he murmured.

"1....2....3, push her down!"

It slid at a slower pace than anticipated, its tail skidding along the hot yellow plastic. But still, with enough force that I was able to aptly gauge the distance in correlation with the width of the head and the length of the stick..

It rolled violently through the air..approximately four feet to my right and as its head turned my way, one Pacific-blue eye dangled from its socket while tears of blood gathered in the corner of the other.

"Next!" I screamed. "That was awesome!" Another came. This time a meaty, orange-fast pitch..
The lion has escaped the confines of the slaughter below, and lunges for Caligula's testicles!'

The crack of its fragile skull sounded like the smack of a bat against a stone in a carefree game of stick ball..the backyard with the neighbor kids. Even then, there is the temptation to knock it back in the pitcher's face and even at such a young age, I knew this..looking up at my younger brother (adopted) holding another gray victim scratching its way up the slide and away from the pit of brains and tears that awaited at the end of the slope.

to be continued...

Thursday, September 23, 2010

No More Sex With Fruit

It all started when I started dating this women whom I was crazy for. I had been in love with her since high school. From time to time she would want me to stick a banana in her before sex to get her in the mood. At first it was awkward. It eventually got to a point where I too was also having sex with fruit as a kind of foreplay. Don't judge me. I was head over heels for this woman and would do anything to make her happy. I never let her know in the beginning I was a little annoyed (and jealous) that a banana was penetraiting her wet vagina. Then I also never told her in the beginning how odd and freaky I felt the first time I stuck my penis into a orange. Although I did like her licking off the juice afterwards. I also never told her after countless times bring fruit into our bedroom that I started to like it. And that I sometime had sex with fruit while she was away at work. So that time you got upset that the last apple was missing, Jeffery really didn't come over to visit and ate it. I had sex with it.

Then one day she left me. That's when I grew into a deep depression. However that depression did not stop me from continuing to have sex with fruit. I was completely satisfied, even in my depressed state. If you cut the correct size hole into anything, it could be magical. When I ejaculated I of course would throw it away. But there was one time or two the sex was so amazing I kept it around for another go-round. Then came the day when I got over the evil women who had broke my heart. I started to hate everything about her. Which brought me to a point where my I started to doubt weather or not I should continue to enjoy having sex with fruit since she introduced me to it.

Around that time I was very confused on what I should do next I happened to see the evil wench. I happened to be on a different side of town and needed to run to the store for some fruit rollups (ironic I know) for my neice's lunch the next day. I strolled into the grocery store like nothing. I was just about to make a comment inside my head how ghetto the store was when I saw her. I had heard rumors that she had moved on and was seeing someone. But this time she was solo. I pretended I did not see her but it was too late. She spotted me. DAMN! I knew I should have gone to another checkout lane. I said hello and he had a forced short conversation. I could not help but notice THE FUCKING FRUIT SHE WAS BUYING! You fucking cunt, like I am not supposed to know what those bananas, apples, oranges were for?

I was pissed. I decided no more sex with fruit. That was the final straw. Fuck that bitch and her kinky sexual outlets.

That lasted all but a few days but then I began to get horney. NO! I couldn't do it. I toss all the fruit out my window. I WAS DONE! I had never paid for sex and wasn;t exactly sure how to go about doing that without getting caught so that was out of the question. I need stimulation! I needed something! Then as a spontanious desperate act I slammed my penis into the peanut butter. The soft sticky goo made me melt inside. What was this utopia of sexual pleasure that I had discovered? I did not know what was more pleasing. The sex with the peanut butter jar or having the dog lick it off afterwards.

So to my ex.... fuck you. I am over you and over sex with fruit. I have moved on myself. To a new avenue of pleasure. And it doesn't involve anything you ever taught me.

Thursday, September 16, 2010



It was, I knew, bordering on psychotic- folding the letter yet again and re-inserting it into its creamy envelope. OCD. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. This repeat activity, the reading and the re-reading had emptied the coffee pot. It would be a rare thing indeed to live a rich life without a bomb never having been dropped randomly through your post-box. This explosion had been anticipated, long awaited. Here it was, albeit somewhat overdue. Hot. A new brew of liquor strength emotion whose smell alone seduced the naughty past from slumber.
I watched the awful pleasure of it wake utterly regardless of my flat’s harsh light and gleaming surfaces. The blue film would have to be re-run before suitable arrangements could be made. A small phone call. A place to meet. Starbucks I thought- safe, neutral, other women with offspring in breeder’s buggies, machines hissing, mobile songs.
I was ten back then, one of absolutely identical twins besides the gender. My wanton sister never minded my almost hairless disproportionate dick. A thing that made me significantly sick. A tool she loved to fool around with, loved to lick and loved to stick inside her beautiful secret. We habitually did it ‘till the torrid afternoon we were first and last discovered. Lou’s chin was covered in my cum. I was finger fucking her from behind when the bedroom door was violently flung open and the air was blown apart with my name shouted louder than I’d ever heard it before ‘Zoo!’
They re-homed us separately. I never saw her after that- except in mirrors as I daily shaved or regularly dealt with whiteheads.
I tried homosexuality but it always hurt- apparently I have a gristly sphincter peculiarly resistant to stretching. Men quite happily sat on my large prick but I always felt some sense of ennui and the notion that something crucial was missing. A cock in my mouth was neither north or south to me. I stuck with it for years because on some subliminal level I recognised my growing addiction to the various flavours of body warm gissum. I actually had a boyfriend who memorialised my member in the best latex. Imagine that in my various effects post mortem. He inevitably went. I never could keep any of them. Well, in truth, I missed her. I missed my stolen sister. None of the gay interlopers knew there was a competitor, a very heavy hitter, hiding in my closets.

Eventually I tired of it. It. I’d known for years. The source of all my inner sorrow lay between my legs. A psychiatrist concurred- for the sake of my sanity it had to go. You know the process- lengthy and stuffed with drugs and self obsession, pre-op, depilation, boob-job, plastic-surgery, then the final coup-de-grace. In recovery I laughed- told the surgeon to feed it to his dog.
Funny. I suddenly had a painfully re-formed fanny I had to prod with a prosthetic to prevent it from closing, healing over. I had a button clitoris created from the meat of my bell-end. I remember when I was mended I saw myself in a full length mirror and it was not me who I saw but her- a perfect, kindly, sympathetic caricature of her. Lou, Zoo, two peas in the pod.
It didn’t strike me as being at all odd. In fact I felt awesome, transcendentally complete. Because we are identical twins we have the same size hands. Brilliant. Because we are identical twins we have the same size feet. Fucking fantastic.

Now, after all this time, she wants to meet me. Fuck a cunt. She doesn’t know. What if she wants a cunt fucking? I’ll take along the latex me, the virginal best of latex strapadictomes. Tubes of tingle linger lube. The transgender diaries. Photographs. Book a hotel room. Cream trouser suit. Nothing flash. Black hair slicked back. Minimal slap. Rather demure. Vintage Jean Muir.
She was there before me. Par for the course.
I should not have been astonished. Lou was in a cream trouser suit. Black hair slicked back. We mirrored each other as we kissed. Cheek. Cheek. No tongues.
You never fall in love so fast as when you fall in love with the perfect representation of yourself. Shit. This was it. I was ten again, pumping her pussy with my long lost cock. She was shouting don’t stop Zoo, Zoo don’t ever stop. I was delirious with pre-pubescent exposure to endorphins. Screwings. Doings.
Lou collected the low fat latte caramel grandes. I was plotting the route to the queen-sized bed, imagining my bendy model disappearing deep into her velvet secret purse- curse or no curse. Of course we had a lot to talk about, years to catch up with. It could fucking wait. It is so post coital, pillow whispers between incestuous sisters.
I had not felt such holistic quickening excitement for two decades.
Lou took my shaking hands quite firmly, almost disturbingly firmly. She told me then, straight out, cold, clinical- she’d followed my whole journey, was fascinated, incredibly well-informed, hideously researched as if it really mattered, which of course it did. Cunt.
Her journey is very different, opposite, travelling in fact totally the other way. She’d been in close contact with my former boyfriend, learned about the perfect latex artefact. She asked me for a loan of it to take to her brilliantly creative surgeon in Holland. He’s a wizard with inner thigh tissue. Her thinking was, if she was going to have one at all, she might as well have one like mine.
Of course I let her have it. I always had given her things. We were always close. She/he was my very close sister. It’s not been returned. No loss.
Where is he now? How? Why? Shit! I have absolutely no idea.
Like most long-term post-operative transgender creatures I am constantly battling phenomenal suicidal inclinations, looking in mirrors, popping pills, getting drunk, turning tricks and waiting for the belligerently straight postman to bring me a letter that will change my life like a nail bomb would a mother’s meeting in Starbucks.

Zoo Blessed.

Chris Madoch © 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED


Has a book due out in New York in Spring 2011- a collection of his most contentious poetry entitled ‘RUMOURS FROM THE BALCONY’ He is regularly published online by Tante Mieux and Paraphilia and is Editorial Director at Un Hauteur Bizarre. Elsewhere on the internet he is known as ‘THE QUEER MESSIAH’ and he has a large fanbase on Facebook at his page ‘CHRIS MADOCH ART’. Chris is in the 26th year of his relationship with the considerable fine artist Dan-Paul Flores. Prior to that he was married for 13 years and has 3 daughters and 9 grandchildren. He used to teach but now writes as much as possible between sharing a small business and managing an estate. He took his degree from Southampton University UK via Winchester College- majoring in Education and Theatre Arts.

Saturday, September 11, 2010

Untitled Transmission from South Korea

as we light a cigarrette coated in korean toothpaste i ask my korean PLP (platonic life partner) do you have anything to say to the meth lab

"I like the snap, crackle and pop"

and then she says "thank you Motorcycle Diaries for inspiring me to be a complete commie asshole once again, one more year of smoking toothpaste and traveling and I'll be a cool motherfucker."

Yup. That's what we do in South Korea to get high. I don't know if it really works. Why have we resorted to smoking toothpaste you ask? Earlier this week, a friend and I were sitting there discussing the danger and expense of obtaining weed here.....

He asks me "Do you have Korean or American toothpaste?" Fortunately I have some Korean toothpaste because the American kind won't work. I wasn't sure if I felt anything except the bottle of wine and the half pitcher of Hite. Maybe mix it with a little of the national beverage, Soju and you can achieve some crazy results. According to various online sources Soju can double as an industrial strength window cleaner and drinking three bottles is akin to a powerful hallucinogenic. One person said something like "you might not feel the first bottle but after the second two you might wake up on the sidewalk in a pile of blood and vomit, missing three teeth, people walking over you as if you are a pile of newspapers."

pantifesto teaches english in south korea. she obviously smokes toothpaste and dreams of weed.

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

Bark Like a Dog and Bite a Random Woman in the Ass

Miami Beach 2006

News of the attacks spread quickly

A man, Caucasian, 25-35, 5-8 to 5-10
running up behind random females in public places
pulling up their dresses or skirts
and biting them in the buttocks

Sometimes he’d bite hard enough to draw blood
but usually he’d just leave teeth marks
and a very upset woman

It took a while for the police to get seriously involved
because when these incidents first started being reported
responding officers and 911 operators would think it was a joke

(One leathery skinned cop
laughed off a woman’s biting claim and hung the phone up on her
so the lady showed up to the police station
stormed over to his desk
dropped her pants
and angrily took out her ass to show the teeth markings
[a plastic molding of the bite mark was later taken from her right buttcheek
in order to potentially identify the suspect via dental records])

Though the vast majority of these cases went unreported

Several women were too shocked by the incidents to speak up
as it isn’t easy talking to somebody
about how a random guy ran up behind you and chomped you in the ass

After receiving nearly a hundred such reports, however,
in only two months’ time
the police realized they had a serious problem on their hands
because a man running around
biting women in the buttocks
just isn’t good for tourism
or the city’s overall image

And once the media got a hold of the story
and amateur cell phone video of an attack surfaced on YouTube
the cops got serious about putting a stop to the menace
now colloquially called around town
“The Butt Biting Bandit”

Now, because the assailant would bark like a dog,
or make other animal-like sounds
before, during, and after these incidents
and would even run away on all fours
the police realized they were dealing
with an especially unstable and dangerous individual
so they set up an elaborate sting operation
involving the SWAT team to take him down

On a swelteringly hot and humid Friday evening
under a reddish sky,
illuminated by Saharan dust and a handful of stars,
an undercover female agent, attractive, mid 20s
clad in a tight, but not so tight it’d be difficult to lift,
hot pink one piece miniskirt
was planted in the area
that had the highest frequency of ass biting incidents

Several sets of cops in jogging suits
waited across the street in unmarked cars
with infrared binoculars
sipping 7-11 coffee
listening to sports radio
as they staked out the scene

And the SWAT team idled in a nearby house
watching “So You Think You Can Dance”
on an old clunky cathode ray tube TV with rabbit ears

The car cops, who all had comb-overs,
nearly identical scruffy moustaches,
and who all wore aviator sunglasses, even at night,
ate bear claws and ring dings
their sticky fingers hoisting up binocularized eyes
that paid special attention to the undercover female agent’s ass
as she stood by a mailbox, chattering on a cell phone,
occasionally bending over (purposely)
to fidget with her silver Gucci stiletto heel shoes

Sure enough
the butt biter appeared
dressed in black jeans,
black Miami Hurricanes t-shirt, and grey skull cap

He crept up slowly behind the undercover agent
tip toeing like the Grinch
then plunged to his knees
made a shrieking, turkey-type bird sound
clutched the hems of the agent’s skirt with his hands
and assumed a vampire contortion with his mouth

When suddenly
a hooded policeman perched up in a large palm tree nearby
threw a net down over the suspect
trapping him
as if he were a rabid animal

The female agent twirled around
pulled out a semi-automatic handgun from her purse

And with that
waves of crumb-faced cops in jogging suits
poured out of parked cars all over the street
and the SWAT team swarmed out of the nearby house
with laser-lit AK-47s aimed at the suspect

The suspect continued to make wailing, high-pitched bird sounds
and clawed, writhed, and flailed wild kicks at his captive netting

The first officers to arrive
beat him senseless with batons to subdue him
then they peeled the net off
handcuffed and shackled him
and flung him,
as he still made bird sounds,
though they were only whimpering bird sounds at this point,
headfirst into a paddy wagon

Later that night
the police searched the suspect’s apartment,
a studio flat atop a laundromat,
in Little Havana

Every inch of the grimy little place was plastered
with pictures of women’s butts
in various states of undress

Everywhere there were butts
on all the walls
all over the bathroom, refrigerator, stove, kitchen table,
on the toaster, even on the toilet
(and the toilet lid was duct taped shut,
and there was a kitty litter box next to it,
which apparently he’d been using)

And he had butt-shaped pillows crowning the soiled mattress in the corner
and covering the remainder of the mattress
was a tattered old beige sleeping bag
that had stitchings of butts all over it
which he’d probably knitted himself
as the cops discovered a sewing kit in his bathroom
by the basin of his mildew-ridden, bright purplish colored bathtub
that was filled with rubber duckies
with crudely rendered pentagrams painted all over them

The suspect’s butt-covered, loudly humming
and mechanically vibrating refrigerator
was packed with cans of dog food,
enema bags containing cheap vodka,
and 2 liter bottles of Diet Sprite

On the top shelf of the fridge
they found a butt-shaped birthday cake
with a tiny red toy tricycle made of shiny plastic
wedged front wheel first into the cake’s ass crease

And when one of the forensic guys
pulled the cake out of the refrigerator
he noticed
that one of the toy tricycle’s little back wheels was missing

funny animated gif