"Prison Rape Story"

Martin Bayer got busted selling LSD at a Grateful Dead show. After pleading no contest to two counts of felony possession of a controlled substance, with intent to distribute, he received a mandatory minimum sentence… 24 months confinement. No less than 12 to be served.

When he was transferred to CCA Penitentiary, there was no stereotypical movie type scene where everyone hooped and hollered and threw toilet paper at him as he entered.

In reality, it was far more methodical and routine than that. After being stripped, probed, and issued a dark blue jumpsuit and other prison clothes at intake, he was escorted casually, w/o any boisterous fanfare, to his cell, to begin life as inmate #528668.

His celly was far older, maybe 60, and Mexican American. A lifer. Had a couple teardrops tattooed on his face. After explaining the rules of the cell and the joint, his celly never spoke to him again. He'd just keep quiet, sitting in his bunk, reading.

Martin also kept quiet. Kept his head down. Didn't talk to anyone. He did all he could to avoid trouble, but trouble found him.

A group of Aryan Brotherhood members, three of them, kept on staring at him during meals. The staring soon escalated into them strolling by his table and stealing away his milk or fruit.

But Martin didn't say anything about it. Just kept his mouth shut and head down.

The food swiping continued, and the AB guys began to taunt him as they passed, lewdly commenting on his “long hair and eyelashes.” Still he didn't respond or even look at them.

The prison assigned him a job mopping the mess hall after meals. His second day on the job, he noticed the guard in charge of watching the cleanup crew abruptly disappear. Then the three AB guys burst in through a door near the kitchen.

They chased him into the corner of the room and tackled him to the floor. One of them stuffed a dirty pair of underwear into his mouth to muffle his screams. Then another of them punched him in the head repeatedly, subduing him.

The men propped him up to the wall and restrained him. His sweatpants and underwear were twisted down to his rubber sandals. One of the men stuck a shank to Martin’s neck and forced him to finger himself up the ass for a few seconds.

The shank remained to his throat and strong, tattooed hands clutched his hips from behind and Martin suddenly felt a horrific jolt of pain as a warm, thick, slippery object pushed into his anus. There was laughing and catcalling and the thick object thrust forcefully in and out of him for around a minute or two before shooting several spurts of hot liquid up inside him.

The other two men took their turns and as it happened Martin wept softly and worried about catching AIDS or some other disease. Then his feelings turned to vengeance and he wanted to violently kill his attackers, but soon enough, he himself just wanted to die.

Once the last one finished, the men pushed him to the floor. Before they left, he heard one of them whisper into his ear, w/hot breath, not to say anything to the hacks or his throat’d get slashed.

It took him a couple weeks in the infirmary to recover. He did his best not to think about what happened, but every so often it’d wake him from a dream.

While in the infirmary, he didn't answer any of the guards' questions re: his attack or even say a single word to them. He just kept totally silent and stared at the ceiling.

When he was released back into gen pop, he worried the men might attack him again. But they didn't. They left him alone, ignoring him entirely. Even during meals. Seems they'd focused their attentions on another “fish.”

He served the rest of his time quietly. Didn't talk to or look at anyone and spent most of his time studying the Bible, doing sit-ups, and cutting himself at night, after lights out, with a sharpened toothbrush.

After serving 12 months he got released w/good behavior.

Upon release, he craved female company. Though he didn’t think about women much inside, they were the only thing on his mind from the minute he got out.

He went after every girl he could, trying ex-girlfriends, the bar scene, Internet hook-ups, anything. But he simply didn't have game anymore. Every time he’d go out with a woman or even talk to one, he felt dead inside, like he was made of stone. He just didn’t know what to say or do around them.

He hadn’t masturbated since his rape but he did still have occasional sexual thoughts about women. So he decided to try to at least have some sex, thinking maybe that'd help. He found a hooker online and called her over to his apartment.

But when the hooker entered his apartment, something happened. Upon seeing her, a rage overtook him, and instead of paying her, he reached into his pocket and drew out a fist and began striking her in the face, again and again, punching her to the ground, beating her into unconsciousness.

As she lay bloodied and motionless on the floor, he suddenly noticed he had an erection. Adrenalin shot through his veins and he kicked her over, onto her stomach, pulled down his jeans, and hiked up her leopard skin print miniskirt and yanked down her black thong.

However, before he could stab himself into her, he noticed his erection had gone soft, and that the dead feeling had returned.

Frustrated, he kicked and stomped on her limp body for another minute or so. Then he pulled his jeans back up, sat down next to her, stole a cigarette from her purse and started to cry.

Lethargic Labor Day Lessons w/ Misti-Rainwater Lites

Dunked

Her panties had to match her dress because she was going to be dunked in a horse trough filled with water to prove to the congregation that she was a Jesus fan. The pink cotton panties were clean so she put those on. Then she slipped into a boxy pink dress that concealed her voluptuous ass and plump tits. No one would know she was sexy, they would only suspect. She didn't put on any makeup, just sunscreen.

"Well, today's the big day. I made you French toast and bacon," her husband said.
"Thank you. Coffee. I need coffee. Black coffee," she said. She took a few bites of toast, ignored the bacon, and drank three cups of hot black coffee.

In his truck her husband played his new Garth Brooks cd. She curled her toes inside her pink cowboy boots and looked out the window at mesquite trees, pumping jacks and abandoned rent houses, battered by the fierce stinging wind. The sky was Easter egg blue. There were no clouds. Buzzards snacked on a dead coyote on the side of the road. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Jesus would return someday. An angel would show up on a cloud, a big ass fluffy white cloud. The angel would blow a trumpet. The sky would open and Jesus and all the other angels would spill out, gleaming glorious, filling the air with song. Loud song. Happy song. Victorious song. Jesus won. Satan lost. Jesus fans soar up to Heaven en masse with their matching panties on. That day would come and there would be no more roadkill, no more coyote entrails steaming in the brutal whore sun, smearing buzzard beak. No more Bank of America. No more Chili's. No more Hollywood and New York City produced mediocrity and blatant idiocy. No more sequels. No more sold-out Justin Bieber and Lady GaGa concerts.

Cowboy church was packed. Nothing new there. Old men greeted them as they walked in the door. She faked a smile and grabbed a glazed donut from the bar. She ate the donut and wiped the sugar from her mouth with a napkin. There was sugar on her fingers. "I'm going to the bathroom," she told her husband. He sat down in a folding chair and she headed for the bathroom. A teenager with long black hair stood at the mirror applying magenta lipstick to her pouting lips. She wore a purple halter top, tight blue jeans and black cowboy boots. Jesus would approve.

She sat beside her husband with clean hands. There was too much sun, too much light, too many chattering, laughing people. She wished for a cave. Silence. Darkness. You either love someone or you don't. She did not love her husband. She did not love Jesus. She did not love herself. She did not love any of this but this was here, present, all over her face like so much egg. What was the solution. She did not know.

They sang the same songs they always sang. Love songs to Jesus. People hugged each other and shook hands. People asked her if she was nervous. A little bit. She was a little bit nervous in her boxy pink dress. The preacher was congenial, always smiling in his respectable starched shirt, Wranglers and polished cowboy boots. He asked them to turn in their Bibles to Mark 4. Parables. The words entered her ears but she did not hear them, did not feel them. Where was the poetry? What the fuck did it all mean? She did not know.

Then she was standing onstage with the preacher, Pastor Hank. He put an arm around her, told the congregation the good news. She had accepted Jesus into her heart. She was following through with baptism as was the custom. He spoke the words. His hands were on her. Then she was beneath the lukewarm water. She emerged to applause and AMEN and HALLELUJAH.

"Do you feel different?" the husband asked her on the drive home.
"I am new in Christ. I'm a new woman," she said.
"I never can tell if you're being sarcastic," he said.

She got naked and turned on the radio in the bedroom. Beethoven. This was something she could feel, hear, believe, know. She began painting the first wall. The walls of the bedroom had been piss yellow for too long. She was changing the piss yellow to sea foam green. Someday it would be spring again but first it would be fall and then winter. She felt better already, like a blooming flower of some kind. Not a rose, not a tulip. But some kind of flower. Blooming.

"Hot Dog Bitch" by Newamba Flamingo

When I was 15, my friend and I ran into this really hot girl on the street. My friend sort of knew her, but I didn't. A couple days later, he called and told me she wanted my phone number. So I gave it to him and he gave it to her.

The girl and I started talking. She lived down the street. Pretty soon we started seeing each other, going over to whomever's house was parent-free.

We'd listen to Cypress Hill, smoke weed out of her tiny glass pipe and then make out and fuck. She had amazing tits and gave the best handjobs and blowjobs ever.

I quickly fell in love w/her. She really was beautiful. Looked sort of like Angelina Jolie. Even though her teeth were kinda rotted from bulimia and she had a pacemaker because of some sort of heart defect, she was still so perfect to me.

However, I wasn't her only admirer. Found out later she'd been w/almost every guy in the greater Miami-Dade area. Same routine, too, smoking weed w/them and fucking.

I was hurt at this revelation. But I was still in love. So I called her and told her I loved her. Told her I wanted her to be my girlfriend. She turned me down, though, saying how she'd just gotten out of a relationship and only wanted to be friends right now.

We saw each other less and less after that. Then I started hearing other things about her. Bad things... Really bad things...

First, someone told me she had HIV, but I didn't believe it.

Then I heard that she'd been at some party and these crackheads she hung out w/ had tied her up in front of everyone, like 50 people, stripped her naked and poured maple syrup over her and licked it off her naked body.

They'd also fucked her with hot dogs, stuck two up her pussy at the same time, and she'd moaned and squirmed and apparently enjoyed the experience.

Shortly thereafter she became known around the city as the “Hot Dog Bitch.”

I'd laughed upon hearing the whole tale and joked about it w/friends. But underneath, behind my smile, it really burned me up, thinking of her on that table, at that party.

I couldn't bring myself to return her phone calls anymore or even say hello when I saw her in the neighborhood, and a little while later she moved to another part of Florida and I never saw or heard from her again.

Until 15 years later, when she found me on Facebook and wanted to be friends. In her request message, she said that through the fog of adolescence and drugs, she couldn't remember why we stopped talking but that she remembered really liking me.

I lied, and told her I couldn't remember why we stopped talking either. I accepted the request and every so often we chat online, usually about politics or traveling.

She's become quite an interesting person now. She lives far away, in the Pacific Northwest, deep in the forest, and has become a wine enthusiast, organic food grower, and vegetarian. She has lots of tattoos, reads tons of books, and is married with two young kids.

But, as much as she's grown and as long ago as those high school days were, whenever I see her profile pic, there’s really only one thing I think about.

The Chemist: Frankie Metro: Live in Oakland (July 8th, 2012 ZyFez 2- Club Paradisio)

*Surprisingly, no farm animals were harmed or mistreated during The Chemist's performance. However, the cameras did not stick around for the headlining band of the evening: Stabbing Westward.

*love letter, for the girl in the rift* by: yossarian hunter

can we just this once have it not be about you, just this goddamned once can it not be about you, can it not be about, can it not ,can it be about letting me sleep lengthwise just one goddamn time is that too much to ask it’s been four years & some change since I lost you in that maze…

there is one, I think she’s Marla’s daughter all grown. I have nothing to base this on, there is no science none of that matters with my little bubble girl at my side, whispering answers to questions I’ve yet to voice …

when finally I thought to, I asked her “is there anything I should be asking you” & I don’t know if she’s Marla’s daughter or just something that smells like you but I know she loves me, you can bank on that,I can tell by the way she kissed the air right next to my cheek as she floated over to perch in the place where my lap would normally be…

but there’s one named Bram there’s always Bram stay away Bram I saw what you did last night & she’s not mine but she could be for a minute & oh why’d you do that Bram why oh why oh why oh holymotherjesusfuck why the fuck did you do that?..

a finger that wasn’t a finger but some sort of needle shiny and a killer of shiny things a not for shooting drugs or sewing stars into flags needle but just perfect if perfect is the word it was just fucking perfect for sticking in my bubble girl’s lovely iridescent head & he killed her before she could speak of the things that needed asking that rotten goddamn vampire left her a giant deflated mess in my lap my misplaced lap where all she ever wanted was to sit & answer me questions I never thought to ask & I was already mad at him for the previous night’s episode in which he ate my geometry so I poked him in the chest snarling

”I saw what you did motherfucker, ain’t you got some off to fuck” & oddly enough he did yep he fucked right off I only wish he hadn’t turned out the lights before he did. it’s been damn near five years sleeping diagonal & I just wanted to get lengthwise for a night maybe two…

can we just once, just goddamned once, let this not be about you?..

I don't know what's worse- the copyrighted picture of an alligator's dick, or the face of the guy who ate it?

I don't know what's worse,
the copyrighted picture of
an alligator's dick, or the
face of the man who ate it,

or the sound of JOHN FOGERTY
defiling my wife's retarded
cross-eyed Buddha with an
Australian bush back-up band
& waaay too much emphasis
on the strings,

big outback jug tempo barbie dads
screaming like pariahs/pornaholics
caught in the snuff rack aisle,
discotheque in the exposed underbelly.

Heart attack, aisle 9.

New window.

Parasytic Handguide for Successful Employment

Don’t get complacent while working around power equipment. Practice and abide by all safety procedures. Ensure all proper guards are in place. Are you wearing your proper PPE? Have you verified that all of your buttons are buttoned, zippers zipped, that your hair is pulled back in a ponytail or tucked adequately up into your cap? Are you wearing your safety glasses, steel toe work shoes?

(see examples of job related disaster below)


I. A cold slab tickle drains the fat deposits of a motormouthed twin with no feet, no tongue, no hands to speak of; but lying safe in the humerus, below the clavicle of a forced habit. No one could really explain why a torso didn't accompany the arm, why an unborn twin wasn't described in the course outline for Basic Cadaver Anatomy @ Bastyr University, why the head had only half a smile- twisted and faded behind the cameo pink shield of the brachialis. But one student in the back of the class heard electric organs playing in his 3rd eye- when they sliced that fucker open.

II. Industrial ave maria bubbles pump from the vintage alpines in his chest. rapture, uncomplicated by context, circumcised of its gag reflex. pure as the calcified skin casket being spread to reveal its soft by sharp metal fingers. its developing vascular system, a mound of neon spider webs, old man frail but baby sweet. bulging like a bloated conscience - exposed for its gelatin - congealed electricity. a ball of unfinished organs frozen in a sudden death that redefines life. recognition creeps over the cyclops and he pats his right forearm as the camera pierces brown, pink, red then finally bone to a hand, no larger than his pinky nail, returning the hi five.

III. A story he’d heard at a party over the weekend. An Afghani goat herder, once a year would come down the mountain pass and sell his goats in a populated market square. The villagers called him, “The Pregnant Man” because he was so fat. When the Pregnant Man came down this time, American doctors were in the village helping the sick. They saw the bulge at his midsection and thought it was a cancerous tumor. Cutting it open, they found the remains of his stillborn twin brother inside of a pouch in the abdomen. Hair and nails and underdeveloped teeth.

***

Have you checked to make sure that you don’t have any remnants of your own twin sibling living inside of that arm that is being removed at this moment by these bumbling surgeons?

Now comes out the saw. Watch gently as they cut off your own arm. Look how easy it comes off. Like trimming the hedges out by the curb. It's gotta be done.

Pretend that it’s just Step One in a two part procedure.

Step Two, happens after the limb is lopped off and cauterized.

They pass the mangled arm like a hot potato to the nearest nurse who carries it out of the operating room and down the hall, chunks of viscera plopping on the floor like spaghetti with meat sauce. The surgeons keep an alligator as a pet in a room deep in the bowels of the hospital. They feed it severed limbs and sometimes people who have gotten too rowdy in the ER waiting area during an overcrowded holiday weekend.

Whistling, another nurse opens a tall grey cabinet, retrieves a robotic arm.

The surgeons wire the new arm into the central nervous system as if it’s as simple as hooking up a car stereo. A few simple connections.

Then, the wounded flesh between the new mechanical limb and the old torn flesh is wrapped in gauze and the patient is woken up and told very sternly, “Your new bionic arm must be looked after very closely. There is a chance for infection. No swimming in the pool and no trips to the beach for at least two weeks. Apply ample Neosporin. Change the bandages daily. No arm wrestling... That's now considered a federal offense for you.”

*written during SHARKWEEK by: Aurora Killpoet, Bud Smith & Frankie Metro.