XIII. Through Television Eyes into Cosmic Fade

no longer dreaming of Atlantis and a waitress ass
like convicted cowards behind retinal bars
dreaming is becoming sodomy of the duped
mangled tubes of empty K-Y on motel nightstands
dreaming is becoming stolen Bibles of Gideons or New World Order
in fetal curled asylums of the same hotel rooms
nicotine tingeing of cigarette butts on tub-skirts
and crayons of makeup for failing marriages

no one fucks Lady Scaramouche anymore
watching bareback canoness being buried beside hookers
both spread eagle on parallel armed crosses
virgins buried abreast cadavers of strippers
refracted in colossal Prismatica left immaterial
like watching fragments of pay-per-view
in sodded humdrum under cosmic spotlight of stars
watching purgatoried hitchikers under raven wing of night time
pecking buxom worm from fast food trays
incubated heat lamp dynamo winking one eye down
the brainsick madman behind the counter
diffusing twisted ends of a pencil thin mustache
in a perma-grin love affair with teeny-bopper cashiers

watching thunderous guitars blur into talismanic wands of MTV
voodooistic reverbs and shaman riffs on Headbangers Ball
Cable God and his minions of puppeteering on strings
sublimating from frizzy faces of four feet speakers
from one eyed shrews of blue-toothed CD players
in sermons of Saint Anger from a carpet pulpit
watching Air Jordans hotfooted and wagging tongues
legends climbing into constellations of market share
where planetariums pay homage to existence
their pudgy circles orbiting godliness
in rings of of cosmic diamonds and rave
watching pitchers hit homeruns cuz the chicks dig the long ball
and tearing out ACLs with plastic sporks
of having overdosed them to bone brittle
flipping a hundred channels of narcoleptic stare
every fifteen minutes of meaningful drama poorly interupted
by twelve dancing rabbits with toilet paper

laughter-loving children who once were irresistable forces
now mummifying into immovable objects
giving birth to billions of remote controls for vision sake
growing old with eyes like cantaloupes and no brain behind them
watching waves run like wet dogs along beaches
their salty tails wagging into pools of skin-breakers
their starving hound nostrils in clumping sand and Cheetos
beside venerable white-haired lady and her Universal Lie
in a metal detector for reposing retirement
this human hope of prolonging man’s irrevocable torment
engaging with autistic dimensia of lover-hood
proposing to prophesied wives in Japanese Shangri-la
looking up like wanting coy from a pond of austere knees
shooting heart up through phiz of broken glass
and left wheezing in rejection on her lap

watching facades slip into alterior conscience
traveling into caves of ancient beastial divination
scrolling pages of holistic medicine or retardation
with shaking fingers and pang of hallucinogenic hangover
waiting for someone to answer in a room of deaf
awaiting slip of blade from gospel torreador
staring back with autistic eyes and imbroglio
weeping at the solace of their passing
furrowing into rabbit holes after that skinny bitch
her shrooms and mescaline breath always unattainable
lolling in spent lover sheets in sweating withdrawal
finding comforts in alleyways with someone else's daughter
in illusionary prom dresses and skinned up knees
like plastic dolls atop a wedding cake

why is Barbie killing the American woman?
making her up in two story and pink Corvette
and sending her off to vowing church with Ken


BIO:
Cochise is a poetry and prose writer from Charlotte, NC [Ric Flair country] who is currently attending the University of North Carolina. He used to live in Florida, where prose and poetry writers talk about geckos and smoke good weed. He hates posers and is a real sucker for brunettes. He is also the walking reincarnation of Aldous Huxley in this editor's opinion, so give him some mescaline and a notebook and watch that motherfucker fly!

Go here, motherfucker, and read some more of his work. And we might let the gimp out of the basement for some sunshine and water: myspace.com/silentgunslinger

I blame Capt. Yossarian

..............

The traffic lights seem to change the mood of the room with every switch they make, red a soft seductive light, yellow an almost too bright for what is going on in this bedroom light, and the green, oh the green was the I am clearly going to remember all of this in the morning light. The noises she was making were border-line frightening, I half expected the police department to be kicking down the door at any minute, mixing an array of streaming red laser lights to the yellow that was making me feel so guilty. Three fingers fully involved, a strange notion in the pit of my stomach, I could keep my thumb, palm knuckle deep in her now sopping wet pussy and touch her knee with my out stretched pinky. ‘I can do this, just keep your eye on the prize' I continued to encourage myself. I fondled her breast some as I began to slide my fourth and smallest finger inside her. 'Almost there' I thought as she started shaking, 'I hope she doesn't cum yet, I really do not want to have to do this again.' slowly I added some rhythmic movements, curling my fingers up, tickling her G-spot. With the quickest of upward thrusts, I managed to mix my thumb in and was mid-palm deep inside her. Wait, maybe I should explain how I got to this point...

A couple days ago I was enjoying a mid-afternoon smoke outside my apartment complex and this guy I know pulled-up in his lame-ass canary yellow Pontiac Fiero, with one of the not-so-hits of the 80's playing on his stereo. I could see the three high school girls holding back their laughter as they crossed to the opposite side of the street, once they reached a safe distance one of them yelled something that was muffled by the scratchy voice of Tiffany, or Debbie Gibson or Peter Gabriel, whoever sang that song "I think were alone now" but I can assure you that is was not a complement. Troy, not sure what his first name really is but I have called him Troy sense I met him, he doesn't seem to mind, maybe it’s his name. Troy turned off the engine and killed the horrid music.
"ahh, love that song, just love it. Don't you?" he asked. I shook my head and replied
"Umm, no man, reminds me of aerobics in eighth grade gym class." He just smiled as he rounded the front of his car. I thought about how cool it would be for him to do some 80's movie style slide across his hood, falling and landing in that puddle of oil and soda and God knows what.
"Oh man, where the fuck did you get that?" I was pointing to his wicked awesome belt buckle, Pabst Blue Ribbon, bout the size of a twelve ounce beer can, just as shinny and just as cool.
"oh, this thing!" he grabbed it with both hands moving it up and down like he was trying to catch the sun and blind me with it, "shit man, had this thing for years." I couldn't stop staring at it, knowing full well I was fixated on this odd mans crotch.
"I need to find a damn midget, where can I find a fuckin umpah lumpah?" I thought I said this under my breath but he responded with
"did you say midget?"
Oh shit here we go, some long speech about how they hate to be called that or something
"yeah man, I said, I need to find a midget."
"Hell dude, just go over to Rays this weekend, there is this group of five or six little people who party there every weekend man."
Rays yeah I know that place, it’s a gay bar on Mondays Tuesdays and Wednesdays I think, but Thursdays it’s all you can eat nachos and two dollar margaritas. "Right on" I said as I flicked my smoke out onto the street and walked away. I wondered why he didn't ask me why I needed to find a midget, and then reminded myself; this is California.

I climbed out of the pool, the water running off me cooled my feet as I walked across the hot concrete. I put my hat back on as I sat under the umbrella table, the only shaded spot out there. My friend had sent me a text that read, 'any planz 4 2nite' I hate what texting has done to language I thought as I sent back, 'ahyut, gonna grab some beers downtown' then lit the last smoke in my pack and moved my chair out into the sun, cracked open an ice cold Pabst and couldn’t help thinking about how awesome the day has been thus far.

Later that night at Ray's I meet Beth, nice girl, long dark hair, deep blue eyes, a huge head, and only bout four feet tall. After three Long Island ice teas she was dancing like she could bend at the knees. You need to know at this point, I am six feet three inches tall, she is three feet nine inches tall, yes, we looked awesome out there cutting a rug. She could suck my dick right there on the dance floor and people would think we were just slow dancing. but, with her sitting on the bar stool and me standing we could make-out just fine. She grabbed my cock after about two hours of flirting and told me to take her home and fuck her. I paid the tab, hailed a cab, and took her back to her place. I didn't want her to know where I lived. We staggered up the stairs to her apartment, well, I staggered she waddled. She put some music on and we crawled into her bed. With the bare bulbed lamp turned out I noticed the way the traffic lights on the corner lit up her bedroom, reached for my cell phone to try and get some video of this event but the battery was dead...

Last night I didn't just fuck a midget, I fist fucked a midget, and not just for the fun of it. Last night I fist fucked a midget for a tee-shirt, a tee-shirt I hope is worth all the nightmares I will awake to, all the memories of her biting my arm as I drove my cock in her ass. Her looking up at me and screaming "YES, YES, YES..." and me thinking how she looked like a puppet with my whole right hand inside her. One good thing if nothing else comes from this. My dick has never looked bigger than it did in her one knuckled stubby fingered hand! ...

Murphy Clamrod, lives in Fresno, CA. now, recently relocating from the New England Area where you park yr cawr, next to the bawr, where it isn't that fawr. He has a strange fascination with PBR and subscribes to Asshole of the Month Weekly. He also has "a face for radio" and hosts several Blogtalkradio shows about poetry, prose, and the like.

Slugs and Soft Drinks

Taken by surprise I fell into the hole. Squishy membranes succeed the rush of blood I waded through. Warhol watches porn to my left, witches chant in tongues in another corridor. The blood flow slows.

A demon asks, “are you Jack Dilaudid?”

I shake my head. He grasps my hand with slimy soft drink cup hands. Slugs snag on my bare feet that smell of grated cheese and feces. Into a room he pushes me, the demon that looked like my father. Red in the eyes but under no narcotics.

In this vicious room, televisions are everywhere. I sit on a swollen couch, swollen with the stink of death. Blood stains are evident wherever my eyes go. Ugly women are at my feet, begging for my sickly penis. The penis of a dying dog in an alleyway sullen and lonely and fading fast.

From a door in the distance I could not see, an old white man appeared. He walked infallibly confident. Like a porn star's horse erection. Slimy and with a Texas born man’s strut. I thought it was God. I thought I had been wrong my whole life. All the drugs and the breaking of hearts and the disappointment that has been my life would be shown, reel by reel, a single frame at a time, a billion frames of sin, debauchery. The things that make legends.

I stare at him. He stares back as if to read my mind. I tried to extinguish the guilt beneath my blackened eyelids. Prophets come into your life once. This was my prophet. It had no wings. No halo. No golden light to lift me up. It was a crusty old white motherfucker that was here for my salvation. What I’ve hated in life has become my savior in hiding. The end.

But Jack will be back soon. I never stay away for too long.







Jeff Sibley is one sic fucka

Cop Light

She got ran through by the Brit marines. They pulled her in with their Apollo physiques and documentary accents. She told me she felt ashamed. I told her “I am not a puritan and I can’t say if it was wrong what you did or what they did.” I said that so she didn’t think I was judging her, if she thought that, I think I would loose her. She told me it was wrong because “none of them loved her.” She said she was “a joke to them.” They were soulless I knew that much, they were begging chick mouths with out stomachs, bottomless pits of wanting and taking, never giving, pure psychopathic Id. She thought talking to me would patch up her souls hymen where her innocents was leaking out. She wants me to be a little boy, brother and a father, the clean male relationships. I thought of my black Tom cat. When the mother of his kitten died he let the kittens suckle on his empty nipples. I am an empty nipple that cant fill your stomach. All day I tie noses in my skull hanging every memory of human road kill, and floating bodies I fished out of the drink. Why would I help her get her dignity back just so she can loose it again down the road. It’s good its gone early. I should toughen her up. But she looks like a kid, I want to be soft and silly around kids. Her mom would fuck for drugs while she was in the bed. She made me think of my momma’s eyes swollen shut Vaseline tears covered the top of her blue black brown face, her cotton filled cheeks, she drank blood it dripped dried on the side. She couldn’t express here self her face was stretched to the limit. Cops took pictures, dad incoherently denied unrelated matters, Black Sabbath continued to played in the back ground. Cop lights danced off blinds, broken glass Moms face, I was glad she couldn't see me, I think she would have been embarrassed. I can’t stand embarrassing scenes in moves, I change the channel until there over. My dad was now in a cop car banging his head against the window his moth foamed with spit his unblinking eyes glared at me, the flexi glass looked like it was going to give. If his eyes had hands he would of squeezed my head until it popped like a zit. Then they all went away mom, dad, cops. It was me in the house alone. I watched a get smart marathon. No one came home, I didn’t go to school. I went to the library looked at photography books with tits in them, I turned the page and I saw a guy rolling in shit with his dick tied to his feet. People were standing all around him. I learned art is a shocking ritual. The deference between religious ritual and art is that religion summons old gods and demons, art makes new ones, fiction only moments before. Bums came to the library to sleep, masturbate and read weird shit like genealogy books. Maybe they are looking for their name next to someone, anyone, somewhere to go and say with hands out “its me!” Her hands were out I took one, and said “kid what ever you need I will try to do.” “I don’t know much about family but I will treat you like I think one should be, you can tell me when I am wrong.” She didn’t say anything she most likely though I was full of shit, but I think I meant it.

Read this mofo

Evidence 1.1: Cunt Death Terrorists (CDT) Instruction 'Manual': Cunt War & Weaponary

NOTE: Proceeding a police raid on a suspect CDT cell, the following document was found and bagged as evidence. Most was lost in the ensuing fire and explosion, but what remains is nonetheless presented here in public interest
There are Four main types of weaponry used by CDT’s:

Here the document terminates, the remainder burnt beyond recognition.


CDT’s are not suicide bombers and do not wish to come to any harm but to continue venerating the Cunt and blessing it daily. The longer the life, the longer the service. However, they are equipped to adopt a more militant intervention.
Interventions are normally carried out with minimum risk to the general public and those not directly involved. With corporations warnings are given before force, disrupting business but leaving staff unharmed.
In places-of-worship services are repeatedly disrupted with focus on those in authority such as Priests, Ministers etc. Foam Cunts can be placed over crosses and other relics. The Cunt Spritz (constituting menstrual blood and other collected vaginal discharges) can be sprayed or thrown at Church doors or notices. Placing spritz in Holy Water is particularly effective. Toxins can be released in their funded places of residence making them uninhabitable. Churchgoers can be subjected to Cunt Flyers attached to their windshields. Sunday Schools can be interrupted by CDT’s in Cunt Suits.
Jehovah’s Witnesses are a religion particularly suppressive of women and the Cunt, forbidding oral sex and masturbation. Here, a group of female CDT’s could invade a local Kingdom Hall, exposing their cunts (the more acrobatically inclined have greater potential here), spraying the Cunt Spritz (again, the spritz is a good method of direct confrontation) and offering copies of our specially-designed magazines ‘Cunt Tower’ (featuring a Cunt logo rather than a Watchtower) and ‘Cunt Awake’ dedicated to the grand awakening and return of the Great Mother-Cunt in all its glory.
The possibilities are endless and these are just some ideas and techniques we have utilized. Other interventions can be designed depending upon the socio/political/cultural/religious influences in your locality.

The Cunt Spritz
Aforementioned, and the most passive in contact.

The Cunt Mitt
A heavy-duty glove cunt-shaped at the palm. Effective at close combat and usually coated with Cunt Secretions.

The Revulva
A ‘pistol’ Vulva that can discharge gas (usually harmless and sedative), rubber pellets (usually causing bruising or other minor injury) or lethal ammunition designed for combat. Deadly ammunition is rarely used and usually for protection. However, if a CDT points his Revulva upwards and discharges a few rounds of live ammunition the seriousness of the event should be made known to all.

There is also the Revulva Taser based on the same design carrying a small electrical charge.

The Labia Decimator
An bomb labial in design. The timer is set by manipulating the labial ‘lips’ left and right. The device is armed by depressing the ‘clitoral’ nub located at the uppermost part of the Decimator. The charge can be live explosive, biological (a agent causing a Hermaphrodite change in males is being considered and developed) or the Cunt Spritz released by a small (relatively harmless charge) en-mass. An adhesive is usually added to the Cunt Spritz mixture to ensure it coats and adheres to people and objects. This is known as the Cunt Adhesive.
These (unintellgible) weapons(?) ----- worldwide ------------- sex - 'rites'(?) ---------
occult -------------------------------------------------------------------------

BIO:
Lucius Rofocale was raised by wolves in the wilderness. Though 'rescued' and indoctrinated as Homo-Sapien he remains very feral. Lucius is an Ordained Minister of the Church of Sub-Genius and posits than self-breeding Hermaphrodites are the next evolutionary step for the human race. You can talk to him at luciusrofocale@live.com and read him at myspace.com/luciusrofocale

Room #3 is Infested and Necra-Mantic

Keith Donnors is one of the maintenance guys at the Hot Camel Inn...located somewhere between the border of Vegas and California. He is a burly man.. Buddy Holly- Framed glasses..full "jeb" beard..short crew cut..obese, and twangs subtlety when he tawks..

It is now his 3rd year on the job and he has well adjusted to the position of Head Maintenance Technician at the hotel. The pay is lousy. The hours are long..but Keith has found that there are many perks to the job as well..The residents of the Inn sometimes leave their stash, or rubber sex toys lying about..in which case he quaintly slips them beneath his blue dingy coveralls..

Once a woman from El Paso left a small red suitcase in the corner of the walking closet in Room #12. When Keith opened it, he found 3 8-Balls of Cocaine and a series of obscure German pornography (depicting beastiality scenes with German Shepherds and young impressionable teenage girls, bound..gagged..bitten. One in particular caught his attention for its depiction of a fallen Persephone, portrayed by a young anonymous hazel haired starlet. In the scene, she is raped by a brooding Hades, leather bound..and a masculine shouldered Dog with spike collar who is aroused only at the sound of a bell hanging from the tower of Hades throne room..just before dawn. Cleverly enough, Keith observed..was the director's choice to name the masked actor playing Hades as Pavlov Dong.)
******************************
K E I T H

BIG LETTERS...big position..big stories about the short-term residents at the Hot Camel Inn..Why, just 4 years ago he was just another misfit redneck from Murfreesboro TN...run wild, on Benzo dreams across the High Plains...smoked Meth from a light bulb and had the bright idea to take off West..to live near the Hollywood sign and live one of those Bob Seger Nights.."with the diamonds and thrills..and those big city lights..and those HIGH rolling hills.."

"Yeah those High Rollers come in, fresh from Vegas with their willy nilly ways and them HIGH skirt, quarter-chasing bitches from the bus stops..from the HIGHways..from the desert towns. Yea, here they come fresh from Doomed cities and states of being. Every last God-forsaken one of ye'!"..
************************************

Tonight, Keith has stayed late again.. He opens the door for Room #3...A/C is full blast.and there on the bed, decomposing..is Lyla..24, blond, blood hair..clumped..knotted, a twisted scene for sure..with those big dead eyes..those faded pupils..that gnarled mouth, gray skin..crumpled hand, smeared lipstick, bruised cheeks, battered Rouge..like a rescued corpse from the swamps of Moulin..from the great great jowls of the night and the 'gatar..her dress tit high..her tits exposed, bluish cold...still, and the A/C running smooth as silk..smooth as her bloody hair..smooth as her thighs..smooth as her lips against his fingertips..and when he bends to kiss her cheeks, the swelling seems to heal..He's a savior, Resurectus Phelia..a vessel of living breath for the damned who trodded the desert..

"Looking for more sin..and so it shall come to pass. Behold, the light of the day fades fast..fades fast! Across these hills are a lost man's dreams...and the nightmare's just begun..So sit and I'll tell you a story! about the Devil and his son..."

*singing
*****************************

Every once in a while, he comes to check for "pest infestations".. without management or the residents being the wiser..He slips inside quietly while they sleep.."just to check on the shape of the room"..while the HIGH rollers sleep heavy..while the Desert Tramps, the Lot Lizards..The Dolls lay in waiting..still breathing..Two weeks ago, he found Lyla and a resident under the name Barry Hanowitz asleep..with the A/C full blast..He could see his breath..Barry’s breath.. faint..but Lyla was a steady force of mist..as if some collection of dead souls rest in that place deep at the back of her pretty little throat..
**************************

Room #3 is so much more than pre-paid, compact living quarters..Tonight, Room #3 is the louse, the white breathless insect that occupies Keith's thoughts..lying atop the covers..lying above the spilled babies of yesterday..weeks before..small infested still births..The louse and the semen fuse, turn to flaky chips of crustacean..infantile husks glisten against Lyla's skin in the moonlight..the black light..making her appear to have been sprinkled with the sand from the beaches of Nod..These specks are scattered across her half-naked body..in the cold folds of her arms..the beads of her eyelashes..crushed ever softly against the press of her lips and he tastes mass genocide deep in her mouth..while his tongue searches for the cove of the fallen souls inside her..
********************************

He pulls a pair of clamps..roach-clips..from his big red tool-box..full of hammers, screw-drivers, wrenches, Vaseline, 'rub that snatch down..greased and tight!' .before the real work begins..Her eyes stare only at the stained white drapes..Hole-ridden..barely hanging on to the pane..of the glass that keeps the outside air from whisking a last whisper to the clouds..Keith applies the clamps to her blue nipples..There is a lack of tension in the pull..as he tugs futility at the sagging remains of a two-week corpse..She is a rough terrain now..a rotten pear, riddled with decay..The A/C is running full blast to keep the smell bearable..He pulls at the clips..and the dead never moan loud enough..
***********************************

He pulls at her hair, while he slips the black and banana yellow panties from her sleek thighs..Barry watches on in the corner with that fixed 2 week stare..his mouth is open..his eyes are closed.."Even now, you can't watch? Fucking pussy!" Keith snickers..and removes the panties from Lyla's ankles. She looks to the curtains..Barry is dead..Barry is watching..Barry sees Keith from behind the glassy stare..from the outside looking in..from the inside looking out..

"K E i T H"

whispers in the room of necra-night..secrets in the Inn..and the door to Room # 3 is closed on Barry..is closing-in on Keith..and Lyla..looks to the curtains..

Keith snarls and throws a Bible at Barry.."Suck an egg you dead fucker! I'm trying to get my fuck on here! Shut the hell up!"
Barry's head slumps over upon impact of the Lord's word..Revelations upside the head. And so it was that the words rung out from Barry's dead lips, quotes from the End Book itself:

"and the Living one; and I was dead, and behold, I am alive for evermore, and I have the keys of death and of Hades"

to which Keith replied in quick fashion:

"Fear not the things which thou art about to suffer: behold, the devil is about to cast some of you into prison, that ye may be tried; and ye shall have tribulation ten days. Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee the crown of life."

And while the Outside Lord watched from Barry's fixed eyes..Keith buries his face in Lyla's dead womb and wrought the seeds of death..searches for those who are being tried beyond the decaying 'uteran world..only to find louse flakes and the stench of dried semen in abundance..Lyla's head slumps from her gaze..curtains, whispers to the window have fallen to the floor..and neither her vapid eyes nor Keith's writhing neck wrapped in dead woman thighs make notice of a strange visitor to Room #3..
**********************************

He crawls from a 1.6 mm space behind the nightstand..which has been jostled from position by the incessant knocking around of the bed during the lover's fray. The silent invader has six legs, antennae, prodders..feelers..hairs..has crawled through fecal matter and urine, fed from scraps in the corners lived in many televisions with thousands of brothers and sisters..Now, he has strayed from his crowded home beneath refrigerators and within bathroom sinks..He has found his way from the bungalows of Haiti to Hollywood..made his way within the folds of crates holding imported fish..Now he has found his way into Room #3..and Lyla's eyes cannot move away from him as he scurries around the edge of the nightstand.
********************************

The cockroach has stopped to observe the events of the 2nd week..within Room #3, Lyla's blank facade almost looks to smile at the creature..as Keith reaches at the other side of the bed for the Vaseline jar. "Gonna grease 'er good to-night. That pussy's 'bout dried up."

Keith dips three fingers into the jar and pulls out a glob of the sex paste..and holds the jelly to his nose for a quick check. " I can't remember if this stuff ever goes bad." Keith looks at Lyla.." Do you? Ha ha ha."

Keith applies the Vaseline to his member, and rubs the con[cock]tion slowly around the base.....applies adamant pressure to the tip as he strokes and leers at Lyla. "You like that don't you bitch?"

The cockroach has moved to the edge of the overlapping quilt on the bed as Keith searches for the insertion point..Lyla doesn't wince as he slides in..her head bounces up and down and almost clean from her shoulders as Keith's pace quickens and slows..his thrusts expand and disperse..the children the louse..the cockroach..They all watch on.

"And now for the goldmine!" Keith says, as he flips Lyla to her side and positions himself behind her. He sticks his greasy 3 fingers back into the jar resting on her pillow, and swipes them along her anal cavity.."Better safe than sorry."

He licks her ear as he inserts the same 3 fingers deeper, removing them to find no remains of a meal or soul inside. "I know there's something in there you quiet bitch!" he screams, and punches her in the back of the head before ramming his member inside her dead orifice. The children of the mattress have finally wept..The louse has leapt for the last time tonight..but the cockroach, watches from the foot of the bed now..The cockroach stares into Lyla's void mouth.
************************************

Keith has seen the doctors about problems with his urinary tract in the past. He attributes an acidic feeling in his urethra to the inhalation of boric acid while laying traps around the office and rooms of the hotel. The doctors have suggested that the prolonged exposure to boron may have caused adverse effects to his kidneys and possibly his reproductive organs including, but not limited to the urethra and sperm count..
**********************************

Keith has fallen asleep inside Lyla's rectal wall. The cockroach is at the entrance of the dead girl's mouth. He pauses while Keith breathes heavy into the night air..each rise and fall of his chest reverberates along Lyla's hips to the mattress..from the bed to nightstand..from the inside to the outside..past the glass..into the land of Nod and never again.
**********************************

The cockroach scurries into Lyla's open mouth. Upon entering, the prodders begin searching the decayed tissue at the roof and scuttles quietly down the top of her throat and into the alimentary tract. It cuts through the esophagi, with a rapid pace..and goes mad at the sudden visions induced by the floating blood at the bottom of the appendix. Blood pool images of screams and Barry lying motionless on the floor.

For a series of moments, the six-legged intruder is stricken with a human's view of bludgeoning fists, tight grips, hard smacks..a great white grin..the letters: K E I T H, on a woven patch.. All at once, there it is..how brutal men can be..seen through the eyes of an insect..seen from the blood and bruises of a quiet woman..seen from the inside looking out..
**********************************

It fights its way through the gambit of 2 week dead memories and finds the exit from the last still sphincter inside the small intestine. It stops and doesn't dare to look back.. Keith lies asleep..Lyla lies dead..The cockroach stands inside..It springs with a vengeful speed from the exit..and runs into the rectum where Keith's urethra lies limp and sated.

The cockroach almost grins at the sleeping worm with his one closed eye..before charging forward and into Keith's urethra.

Keith leaps up and out from Lyla..HIGH-pitched screams resound through the walls as he scratches furiously at his "pee-hole"

"What the fuck?! What the fuck?!"

The cockroach burrows deeper inside the 26mm space..an in to his means..and the blood begins to seep from Keith's urethra..as he screams..SCREAMS!..SCreams..Screams..screams..moan
s..scratches..kicks..goes slowly quiet..while the roach tears and travels deeper into man..
******************************
2 weeks later..Keith, Lyla, Barry..have not left the room. The A/C is on full blast. The smell is down..

The cockroach has finally died..from prolonged exposure to boric acid..inside Keith's urethra..




Frankie Metro claims to have never had a cockroach climb up into his penis.

1994 From Above

And there was that rich girl who slit her wrists
Because nobody understood. (not the psychiatrist father, nor the psychologist mother)
The twelve-year-old boy
Screaming!!!!!!!
(Restrained!)
Nurse yells!!!!!
"I NEED AN HIV TEST! HE SPIT ON ME!"
The quiet brown-haired girl cries. She SCREAMS; "THIS FUCKING PICTURE. FUCKING DRIVES ME NUTS!" (A poster of a woman playing tennis.)
Her parents visit regularly. They bring her poster of Kurt Cobain to cover the tennis player. They bring her the Care Bears sleeping bag that her Grandmother gave her for Christmas at age five.
That brown-haired girl wants her disc-man! She misses fucking Seven-Year-Bitch and In Utero!
She screams, "Daddy! I cannot see! These pills! I can't see!"
Her roommate is a trollop: sleeps with the lazy-eyed Puerto-Rican in the shower when the charge nurse is handing out meds. (She checks under the tongue, so that the children cannot fake taking their Haldol.)
THey all look out the window. The windows, Plexiglas and barred, but they can see the city below.
Saint Patrick's Day, Easter.
They watch the parades.
Staring down below at the world




Klonopin found a toilet by the graveyard. I don't know if she used it or not.