Necrophilia - A Love Story

Usually she bought nickelbags of weed
that freckle-faced girl
maybe 18 at most
lived 'round the corner
from his ground floor apt

had no idea how she found him
but he couldn't take his mind off her
those wavy dirty blond curls
sweet smell of her shampoo
way the bottom tips of her asscheeks
peeked outta her hot pants

infatuated
though he wasn't in love
never thought he knew
what love was

gradually he moved up
from spots of weed
to big bags of black tar heroin
but he held onto his favorite customer

one muggy afternoon
she came by
hair in pigtails
noticed a different shade in his drawer
got real curious

first he played it off
didn't want her involved
perhaps due to their decade (or more) age difference
he felt protective
but she insisted
so he sold her the first bag of a new batch
showed her how to shoot it up
offered her a free needle and his couch

flame met spoon
syringe punctured skin
blood mixed with syrupy contents
from the burnt spoon's mouth
her eyeballs rolled white
eyelids clamped shut
she melted silently into the couch
motionless

he figured she'd passed out
plucked the needle from her arm
went back to playing Xbox

'bout a half hour later
she still lay like a rock
was turning kinda blue

he poked at her idle thighs a couple times
nothing
then seized her arms and shook her
no response
felt at her neck
no pulse
panic overtook him
his heart raced
he ran around the room
grabbed a beer, threw it over her
still nothing

he sat back down to the couch
buried his face in his hands and broke into tears
thought he'd go to jail
get assraped by white supremacists
he remembered all the episodes of “Oz” he'd watched

he was scared shitless

so he decided to bring her body to the canal later that night
figured it'd get eaten pretty quick by 'gators

picking her up in his arms
he brought her to his bedroom
and laid her on the bed
didn't want any other customer who might come by to see her

later that night
after smoking weed and drinking all day
he went back to his bedroom to fetch her
was about to chuck her into his duffel bag
and drag her to the canal
but, as he gazed at her,
lying so peacefully
in a Jesus Christ pose
he just couldn't do it
he couldn't let such a thing of beauty
be ripped apart by 'gators

lying down next to her
he ran his hand around
on her bare midriff
which was only lukewarm
slowly he inched up further
caressing her perky young tits
which jiggled at his touch

instantly he sprouted an erection
and twisted down his sweatpants/boxers
and pulled off her hot pants and pink frilly panties
peering in wonder at her barely hairy purplish cunt

he hovered above her like an apparition
spread her legs, angled himself between them
then stuck his cock up inside her

she felt kind of cold
but much better than his hand

he took a few strokes
her tightness caused him to cum quick
he pulled out and lay back
blacked out soon after

when he awoke the next morning
to the air conditioner's clunky hum
something stunk
like the worst stink he'd ever smelled
like 20X worse than a skunk
it was her

a surge of vomit tapped at the back of his throat
he was about to stuff her slightly bloated body
into his duffel bag
but still couldn't do it

her angelic face
her legs spread eagle
the magic of her nearly bald cunt
mesmerized him

so he kept her for a few more days
masking the smell as best he could

late at night he cuddled with her
told her his secrets
kissed her frigid tongue
poured hot olive oil in her pussy to warm it up
and fucked her every morning and night
until skin started to peel off her bones

finally, he knew he had to let her go
so he stuffed her into that duffel bag
and brought her on down to the bowels of Sarasota
to the 'gators

they made quick work of her
chomping up every bit of that soft little body
like a National Geographic special

and as he stood at the edge of the canal
watching them devour her
his eyes got watery
and for the very first time
he thought he knew
what love was

Down On The Tarmac by: A. Razor

The sunset was beautiful, dropping down behind the clouds and fog bank just out past the Farallones as I watched from that part of the California coast line I had come to know so well in my lifetime. The thought that I was never going to see it again was hard to digest right then. I was torn inside over my plans to leave this place and never return, if I could help it. The main reason this was so discomforting, was because I was the only person that knew what my true intention would be when I boarded the plane the following morning. I had decided it would be the only way I stood a chance in making it out of here and getting a head start on what was quickly becoming an imploding existence. I had to make my move now, or face the consequences of a lifetime of crime. It had come to this, as I always knew it might, and now that I was faced with the prospect of leaving my homeland and never returning, living the rest of my life as an expatriate fugitive, I was finding it difficult to embrace this fate without an amplified internal pain and anguish.

It was the eve of the first day of July, in 2004; the last of June had been too severe inside my head and I was trying to keep moving through it as best I could. I had been trying to do damage control on my life since early in the morning on March 22, when I had been arrested in Marin County for a multitude of offenses and was released on bail the next day. I had been trying to mount a defense to the charges, which could bring about a possible three strikes conviction, and continue to make enough money to keep my life and my business moving forward. I had retained a renowned Attorney-at-Law to help with my defense, but even his prognostics were that I would do 10 years before parole would be allowed on a 20-year sentence. It was a difficult outcome to accept. I had done it to myself. I had been sloppy and distracted on the night in question. I got caught slipping, as they say. I had made the selling of contraband, first and foremost the products of the Cannabis plant, but along the way every other mind-altering substance imaginable, my number one achievement in life. I had started slow, as a kid in San Bernardino, CA, and worked my way up, on my terms, taking every opportunity that felt right, by my guidelines, until it had taken me all over the world and been about the only thing I had to show for a whole lifetime. It was a lifetime that seemed about to be over, either in a last stand, on a lonely prison yard or, if I could pull off one last escape and vanish, into another existence. Anyway it was sliced, life, as I had known it, was over. I could go no further as myself, except to certain death. Ten years in prison meant a commitment to put in the work necessary to make it there. I had been in before for briefer periods and I knew what would be required of me. I would either be killed for the slightest mistake, or I would have to kill and assure that my stay was permanent to survive. I was going to walk away from my life and who I was and the world I knew just to be able to survive without going to prison. It was steep consequences, but I had cheated death and life in prison for a long time; my path had become finite, I was certain this was the end of the road. Fleeing now and living life on the run forever was my only chance, my last chance, at any hope for any kind of freedom. I knew it was a slim chance, which was why it had to be executed with the utmost discipline possible.

I drove back to my humble compound on the sea cliff above Drake’s Bay, north of the Golden Gate, to begin my last preparations without tipping off anyone as to my intentions. I had made plans to go to Las Vegas for the 4th of July weekend, where I would meet with an old associate who had obtained a new identity and a fake Canadian passport that would get me passage anywhere I needed to go. I planned on driving from Vegas down through Arizona and into Mexico with the paperwork and flying out of Mexico to Amsterdam, where I had some cash reserves and the opportunity to slip into a new ID and even deeper into obscurity.

None of it would matter if I did not make it to the airport in the morning and slip onto the plane for Vegas undetected and without raising the suspicions of my friends, family and colleagues as well. No one could know so there would be no chance of any information being given to any questions that authorities might ask that would help them trace my movements. I would not only be skipping out on the indictment of charges, but a substantial bail amount that had no real collateral. I knew that taking flight would lead to bounty hunters that would want to collect the quarter-million as well as the State automatically filing conspiracy charges on top of the current indictment. This would also interest the Feds, who had previously had me in their grasp, and enable them to launch a RICO investigation that they could easily make stick in my absence. Once I was on the plane to Vegas I was violating every agreement with the court and the bail bondsmen. There was no going back, as I would be an international fugitive the moment the plane taxied. The only thing in my favor was that I would be the first to know, the only one to know, at least, until I failed to appear in court that Tuesday in the space age courthouse of Marin County designed by Frank Lloyd Wright.

I had come to hate that building and all it symbolized to me. It was haunting my nightmares along with all the ghosts of friends and enemies who had not escaped the fate that had set upon me. I was tormented those last few days up until now and I had given to remedy the torment in my usual, familiar fashion. A mixture of weed wrapped in tobacco leaf, cognac, cocaine, heroin to steady my nerves. I chewed family size bottles of Tums every couple of days. I couldn’t sleep well, and waking anxiety was too much, so I needed to go from one state of intoxication to the next to keep up the front that I was doing what I had to do to get by. I downplayed as much as possible, if I was too uncomfortable I went for the next thing that would work. Needless to say, packing was difficult under those circumstances.

Candi had been staying at my place on Venice Beach, CA when I had been pinched by the Sheriff with a trunk full of drugs and a loaded weapon back in March. She had come back to Marin County and helped coordinate the bail with my friends and spent time with me while I was going to court appearances and talking to lawyers. I think she sensed something was a bit awkward about my sudden plan to go to Vegas for the weekend right before a court date, but I was not the most stable person to judge, mostly by design, to begin with. She was going along with helping me pack and agreed to drive me to the airport. I figured she was getting a car out of it and she would probably get something out of my business associates, so it wouldn’t be all bad for her. I reasoned it all out as best I could and was clumsily trying to decide what I would take for the trip to Vegas. I had some very excellent MDMA that I would want to do with the girls that were picking me up at McCarran Airport. They were going to have coke and hop at the room they had reserved at the MGM Grand, but I didn’t want to be without at any point, so I was bringing an eight-ball of blow and 3 grams of tar to make sure I always had something and never had to wait on anything. The idea of waiting or going without was unacceptable to me: I had seen this happen to many others and the results were never positive.

I had been making my own hashish for some time and recently had been using a technique called “bubble bag” using cold water, ice and several layers of mesh screens that produce a high quality hash that was more akin to chunks of compressed kif. This was like the champagne of cannabis products and I wanted to take the last two grams of my best batch with me to smoke in Mexico, after I crossed the border. It was some sentimental consolation prize I had sold myself on. I hid the MDMA and the hash in the bag I was going to check. I picked out some clothes and packed them as well. I picked out what I would wear to the airport, making sure the shorts had cargo pockets that I could fit a half ounce of weed in. I knew all I had to do was stay in line and be patient as it moved along so as to not attract attention and I could carry the coke, heroin and weed on my person. The hype kit I would hide in a metal sunglasses case that I would put through the x-ray with my cell phone, belt buckle, change, pen, lighter and keys all right next to it. The hype kit was just a couple of cotton swabs, bent spoon and 2 syringes. Laid on its side it would not look any different than wire rimmed sunglasses. I proceeded to spend most of the night in a bathrobe and thick socks, listening to music, taking showers after sex with Candi, looking at pictures of loved ones and then watching porn on the big screen. I had a couple of anxiety attacks while dwelling on the idea that my ex-wife might see me in Vegas, which was a complete delusion, but I still had to make heroin-heavy speed balls each time to combat the anxiety. I couldn’t let Candi know there was anything too out of the ordinary. It was like Moses trying to pretend to be Mohammed at a Jesus party.

At 5:30 am, Candi and I got into the shower the last time and by 6:00 am I was packed into the car with her and ready to go. We drove out of town and along the edge of the placid lagoon while it was still dark, with the slight aurora of dawn’s first trickle above the mountains silhouette. I was trying to keep my concentration as best I could as I drove up the winding mountain road. The drive was hard to do and I couldn’t climax getting road head as we drove over the mountain. “It’s just the drugs, baby, it’s not you.” I told her. At the 7-11 on the other side, before we got on the freeway, I let her take the wheel and I conceded to the passenger seat. One last stop in the gas station bathroom at Tam Junction, before the freeway entrance was upon me, to get one last fix in Marin County. I had to so I could stay calm on the ride to the airport. I had one full syringe for my airport arrival. I would not be able to fix again until I got onto the Southwest jet plane headed for Las Vegas at 9:15 am. As we drove over the bridge I suppressed every emotion I was feeling and just sat motionless. I looked out the passenger window at the San Francisco Bay one last time as we drove over the Richmond Bridge. The sun was just coming up and the currents in the water were like deep slashes into obsidian flesh; they moved and undulated like some mating of psychedelic snakes rolling through a pool of oil. It was sadly beautiful. I had to not feel it at all; I had to act as if I would be back Monday. I would be in Vegas by noon if everything went as planned. Then, hopefully, I would be in Mexico by Monday night, never to return again, forever and ever.

The car was getting close to the Oakland International Airport terminal, so I pulled out my last syringe. The Southwest Terminal was the last one on the right. I knew, from experience, that if she pulled past the Terminal, there was an area just to the right that she could pull over and I could fix real quick, then bounce out of the car and into the line for baggage check. The line was out the door. It was very crowded with people this morning. There was a huge amount of security as well. The terror alert was high that weekend. I was locked into what I was doing, no turning back now. I kissed Candi good-bye without giving away that something was different from all the airport turnarounds she had previously dropped me off on. I rushed over to the line with the bags and was grateful the sun was up high enough to warrant sunglasses. The line snaked around and was full of impatient and cranky people. It was a good cover for me, at least, or so I hoped. I made it through and then checked the bags and received my gate number. I recognized it as one of the farthest gates on the concourse. I proceeded over to the security check line to gain access to the concourse and all of the gates for boarding. As I approached the x-ray scan I placed all my metal items into the plastic bin and waited to be instructed to slide it into the machine. I then slowly walked through the metal detectors and was waived on. I picked up my bin as it came down the rolling wheels and put all my effects back together. It had been such an excruciatingly long period of time since I even considered going into the bathroom to do a shot. I looked at the clock and knew that my plane was boarding. I would have to do my next shot at altitude on the way to Las Vegas in the tiny mile high lavatory. I was planning on that anyway.

I walked a brisk pace to the gate where my plane was boarding and presented my boarding pass. The girl looked at me for a brief moment and then went to scan the bar code on the boarding pass. As she did so, I looked down into the gangway that led onto the jet and I could see the inside of the plane through the portal that I would soon be walking into for my final escape. I turned back to the girl who had just scanned the pass and I began to notice a change in her demeanor as she looked up at me with an instantly quixotic look and then looked down as she scanned it again. On the second scan I noticed that the beep was significantly different than the other beeps coming from other scanners around us. I looked into the changing expression on her face and was about to ask her what was wrong went I noticed that she began to slowly shrink away as everything began to go into slow motion. I could feel adrenaline hit my bloodstream. Time was moving in fractions of seconds. I was assessing the moment, I had to not panic, but I could feel a surge of blood and clarity. The next fraction I realized that this was not anger at her inability, but that my perception had picked up something behind me. The next moment I realized her reaction confirmed it. I instinctively spun on my heel to confront whatever was closing in behind me. The butt of an M-16A4 caught me in the chest as I made the turn into it. The slow motion almost stopped completely as everything went dim. The shock of pain and the sudden loss of air was so intense, I did not notice that I had crumpled onto the carpet until a moment later when I could finally take my first gasp for air. The shooting pain in my right wrist and both ankles was evidence that I was being stood on with boots. I could not move, anyway. I was done in and was like a rag doll in the hands that grabbed at me as commands were yelled at me. I could not make out the words. I was limp, unable to move anything. I could see the spiral grooves of the muzzle closest to my head. They disappeared up into the barrel that elongated into a man in desert fatigues and a black beret. “Don’t you fucking move a finger!” was what he seemed to say. I just laid there staring up at him as manacles were being ratcheted to my wrists and ankles. It finally hit me. I was caught. It was over, but how? I was reeling in my head. This could not be real. How did they know? Then I remembered the girl moments before. The boarding pass wouldn’t scan. They had made me from a distance somehow. Then the thought hit me just as the Homeland Security officer told me I had violated the Patriot Act and that I was a “detainee” of the U.S. Military.

I was hoisted up in the chains and forced to march in the chains back down the long concourse I had just come down to get to the final departure point. I began to realize I was in the kind of trouble you never get out of. It was game over, no escape, no more hope. I was done in at last. They paraded me past all the 4th of July passengers who moved out of the way of my military entourage and I met the judgment in their stare with a beaten look that just seemed to draw more contempt. I saw parents draw their children closer; I saw the fear in the children’s eyes as they clutched at their parents’ bodies. I looked back up at the faces of the parents and adults. They would have easily started their Independence Day weekend with a lynching right there in the airport. I was trying to march, overwhelmed inside with a building shame that was beginning to drown out the physical pain. I thought of what a failure I had been as a parent up until then. These children all had eyes like my own children had. I felt the emotions of my own inequities hit me with a landslide. I was captured in an airport in a way that I would not or could not escape. I had failed every lie I told to get that far. I was not going to make it, so it all became a lie in that moment. Every promise I had ever made to anyone, even to myself, was undone and made into a lie. I was unable to cope with the feeling, but I could not let them see me cry, not now, not like this. I had to keep something for myself to hold onto. I was losing everything. I had lost; I was lost.

Lady Gaga's Donkey Punch

Lady Gaga had finished a three hour set at Madison Square Garden and was kicking back with her entourage at The Boom Boom Room, of one of New York City’s most exclusive clubs.

Near her sat a group of Wall Street, hedge fund types. That sort of greed driven, slicked back hair asshole wasn’t usually her type, but there was this one guy amongst them who instantly caught her eye.

He looked like a younger, more handsome version of Gordon Gecko from the 1980’s flick “Wall Street,” with the same haircut, Armani suit (though of a more recent fashion), and overall air of arrogance about him, but for some reason, perhaps the copious amount of alcohol she'd consumed, she couldn’t look away from him.

Pretty soon, Lady Gaga was dancing with her friends, mostly women and homosexuals, and before she knew it, they were engaged in a full blown conga line, which began to snare up the entirety of the club's patrons.

As they danced through the club, Lady Gaga noticed that in back of her, holding her hips, was the hedge fund asshole she’d been eyeing earlier.

“Hey there!” He shouted into her ear, over Britney Spear’s “I Wanna Go,” which was thumping from the club’s sound system.

At first Gaga ignored him, playing coy.

“Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?!” He shouted into her ear again, as the conga line passed by the bar.

Being famous meant everything to Lady Gaga; hell, she’d even titled her record “The Fame,” and this Wall Street asshole not knowing who she was pissed her off even more than the mere fact that he was a Wall Street asshole.

Incensed, she broke out of the conga line, spun around, and got in his face.

“You don’t who I am?” She angrily screamed over the music, when, ironically enough, the DJ started playing her song “Judas.”

“Nope, sorry. But you look familiar.” He replied, stone-faced.

“I’m Lady Gaga!” She screamed, even more pissed off.

“Wait, the singer?” He replied, with a smile. “That’s where I know you from. Of course I’ve heard of you… Sorry, though, other than when I’m at a club, I don’t listen pop. I’m into mostly classical, Chopin, Bach, that sort of thing.”

Suddenly Lady Gaga felt like a bitch for getting so upset. She was actually intrigued to meet a man with refined taste and kind of optimistically thought that maybe he wasn’t just another player jerk trying to nail her so he could brag to his friends about how “he fucked Lady Gaga.”



“It’s okay. I’m sorry for snapping at you…” Lady Gaga said, blushing slightly.

“No worries. How about I buy you a drink and we reconcile, ‘Lady Gaga’?” The stranger asked, his smile widening, revealing perfectly aligned, sparkly white teeth that glistened under the club’s flashing lights.

“Mmm… Okay, but call me ‘Steph.’” She replied, becoming increasingly enraptured by his devilishly good looks.

They ducked around and cut through the conga line, went up to the bar, and downed what turned out to be an endless array of shots. Gaga didn’t remember much after that, other than her and the stranger dancing for a while, and next thing she could recall, they were drunkenly falling into his plush, luxury hotel room at the Waldorf Astoria.

Entering the room, he flicked on the TV to the Golf Channel, which upset Gaga, but before she had a chance to protest, he grabbed her by the arms and stuck his tongue down her throat, aggressively kissing her.

They French-kissed for a few minutes, and then the stranger tore off her high-riding black leather miniskirt and rainbow colored feathery halter top. Gaga unhooked and let loose the black lace bra she’d been wearing underneath and the stranger ripped down her matching black thong and threw it across the room.



The stranger again took her by the arms and tossed her to the large, king sized bed. He disrobed out of his Armani suit in almost military-like precision, slipped off his navy blue boxer briefs and dove onto the bed.

Grabbing Gaga for a third time by the arms, he flipped her over, and she instantly rose up to all fours, knowing what was coming.

And like an earthquake, it hit her. The stranger viciously injected his hard, well-endowed cock, not into her vagina as she expected, but straight into her anal orifice with no lubrication whatsoever (and no condom, either).

Gaga screamed out in a mixture of pain and pleasure as he entered her. Furiously beginning to ram his cock up her ass as hard as he could, he pushed her head down into the pillows to muffle her screams, which had become louder and louder.

After only a couple minutes she could feel his pre-cum seeping into her anus. She was about to tell him to pull out, not wanting him to cum inside her, when… it happened. Just as she was turning her head around to yell at him, she saw his arm cock back, and before she could even formulate words, she felt a blunt force strike the back of her head.

She’d been donkey punched. Donkey punched so hard the trauma had almost instantly knocked her unconscious, and right before she blacked out, she felt the stranger's cum squirting wildly up into her rectal passageway.

She awoke the next morning to the sight of the hedge fund asshole sitting on the edge of the bed, in a white bathrobe, eating breakfast from a room service tray and watching the Golf Channel.

She groggily stumbled up off the bed, with both her head and anus writhing in a stinging pain, and she noticed that the stranger just ignored her, not saying a word or even looking at her.

Spotting her Gucci handbag nearby, she rifled through it, and pulled out her mace.

First, though, she went into the bathroom to piss, washed up her ass a bit (which was bleeding slightly and dripping semen) and immediately upon coming out, sprayed the hedge fund asshole down with the mace, and proceeded to rip the thin plasma TV off the wall and bashed him over the head with it a couple times.

His body went limp and she’d thought she’d killed him, but she could hear him still breathing and saw him occasionally twitching a bit, so she decided to up the ante, and unsheathed the large black dildo she always carried in her handbag.

Gaga hiked up the stranger’s bathrobe over his backside and forcibly shoved the dildo up into his ass. Doing so awakened him, and he began to cry and mumble. After a couple minutes of sodomizing him, Gaga reached back and punched him in the back of his already bloodied head, delivering a cathartic, retaliatory donkey punch in revenge for the donkey punch she’d received from him the night before.

The stranger then started convulsing, like he was having an epileptic fit, and white foam and pinkish vomit chunk type projectiles shot from his mouth, landing all over the white carpet. A couple seconds later his body went totally motionless. Gaga stepped back, waited a second, and approached him cautiously, put her hand to his neck, and could feel no pulse.

All of a sudden, her rage over being donkey punched wore off, and it dawned on her what'd happened, what she’d done.

She felt terribly guilty, her eyes welling up with tears, and she wished she’d just sprayed him with mace or got a bodyguard to kick his ass. But, somehow, perhaps due to her Mediterranean blood, she quickly came to terms with it.

The fucking bastard got what he deserved, she thought. How many other women had he done this to? What type of STD might I have caught off him? she thought, as she felt his semen still seeping from her asshole.

Fuck this piece of shit, she told herself.

Then, a fitting idea came to her head about how to cover up the scene and further humiliate him; she’d make the whole thing appear like a repressed gay suicide.

So she went back to the bathroom, washed the blood from her hands, got dressed, and went around the room, wiping off everything she’d touched, erasing any fingerprint evidence, and she pulled out a Cher CD from her handbag, stuffed it in the room's Bose system, and cranked up "If I Could Turn Back Time" to an ear-splitting volume and set it on constant loop.

Breaking into hysterical laughter, she dragged the stranger’s naked, bloody, lifeless body to the balcony, stood him up, and shoved him over the railing.

The last thing she saw of him was his backside, with the big black dildo still sticking out of his pale, hairy ass, as he soared down to the pavement, his arms and legs outstretched in the wind like the letter X…

Benoit Arnaud Duval is a psycho child molestor and is not associated with The Meth Lab in any way

We hate him and hope he fucking dies.

What are the signs that a Crystal Meth lab may be present?

The following, often in combination with each other, may indicate the presence of a Crystal Meth lab:

Curtains always drawn, windows covered with aluminum foil or "blacked" on private residences, garages, sheds, or other structures

Evidence of chemical waste or dumping

Excessive amounts of trash, particularly chemical, coffee filters or pieces of cloth that are stained red, and duct tape rolls

Extensive security measures or attempts to ensure privacy (no trespassing or beware of dog signs, fences, large trees or shrubs)

Frequent visitors, particularly at unusual times

Secretive or unfriendly occupants

Unusual odors (ether, ammonia, acetone, or other chemicals)

Meth Lab Radio Show (featuring Willie Nelson from Glasgow)

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Take me out to the ballgame

Attorney John Palmer

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Signed:
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Legal Consultant on Mortgage Equity and Financial network.



(Pics by Pieter Hugo)

an excerpt from The Professional Donor (a working novel)

It's been three days since we last saw Finch, and everyone's got their theories. When he told me he thought he was having a heart-attack, I'll admit, I was somewhat skeptical. He hunched over the table balancing his head between his arms; complained of dizzyness and chest pains. All the while, his cigar teetered between his fingers when he wasn't puffing furiously at the filter.

"Do you want me to call the ambulance, man?"

"Nah. Not really. I'd like to just die to be honest with you. But I want this pain to stop first."

Last night, I dreamed he had come back to the house and in my REM-induced imagination, I conjured up a fictitious conversation in the living room between Finch and Ian.

"Where's my orange lighter?! It was on the dining room table when I left."

"I don't know man. I haven't touched it."

Ian was obviously nervous-pacing back and forth through the intersecting hallway in avoidance of confrontation. The lighter was safe in my pocket.

"Bullshit you fucking thief! I know you got sticky fingers! Empty your pockets right now!"

Although I awoke to no such conversation having transpired, I knew it could easily veer in that direction had Finch come home during my nap. But that was Finch; desperately clinging to every facet of his menial existence. The smaller things have so much precedence. A lighter. A JW Little King Cigar. A bowl of spice. A bottle of Sierra Mist. Everything that meant something was trivial and clamped between his swollen mits; while "the bigger picture", as some call it, eluded him and his otherwise apathetic disposition.

I started thinking about his laissez faire attitude towards his impending demise, and how he clung to the pain and I wondered if maybe he hadn't mentioned his death wish to one of the nurses on duty upon admission and she hadn't in turn, referred his "case" to an inhouse social worker who asked Finch:

"Are you being serious when you say you want to die?"

And he had answered yes, immediately granting her the authority to place him under a seventy-two hour suicide watch in the psych ward upstairs.

Yes. Finch has a tendency to focus on the less important aspects of his life and thus negates the presence of more pressing matters at hand. Then again, this is all merely speculation-bordering on a classic case of self-projection and we, the tenants of the house, have other theories as well.

We are learning to pay close attention to detail; finding pleasure in making it up as we go along simultaneously. Ian is busy flushing anything worth saying down the toilet or barking at the empty walls of his tiny room once the lights are out. We still haven't spoken, save for our coordinating the phone call to 911 a few nights earlier. Benny seems to think it may have had something to do with Finch's spice intake.

"He buys that shit off of some guy he works with and there's no telling what they spray on there. I tell ya, acetone may be the least of his worries."

Benny had heard some of Finch's conversation with the paramedics. As it turns out, Finch had a history of cardiac distress and a stint placed in his heart around six years ago.

"You smoke that shit and it makes your heart beat real fast and there ya' go. Not to mention all those cigars he smokes, the nonstop walking with his job, the heat! Just asking for problems with all that if you ask me."

Finally, Mrs. Just disspells the rumors on collection day; informing us all that Finch did indeed have a heart-attack, and that he was recuperating accordingly in the county hospital.

"He fine. Finch is fine. I speak to him a couple of days ago." she explained, as she taped the eviction notice on his door. "He is two weeks behind now. And now he is eh...not whowking. So I don't know what to do. All the time, he is here and nevwah says hewhoah when he sees me. You know? He is here slamming the doors and spraying bug spway everywhaire. We are not kids and there are no bugs. Maybe Finch have lice or something. I don't know. But there are no bugs. So...eh, Finch must go. I have nice married couple, like you and Lisa, who need the womb."

Mrs. Just was still justifying her decision as I trailed off for the bathroom. To my unamazement, sitting on the back of the toilet, was another dirty spoon.

A few more days passed and then Sunday, there he was in his old seat at the ceremonial round-table. Sulking. Alone. There were multiple puncture holes in his left arm; where the i.v.'s had once been attached...where his blood had been checked. The exact points of insertion glistened, fresh scabs beneath the ray of an L.E.D. flashlight dangling from the wire over his head. The fly paper swung in the breeze and so far, had mostly been successful at capturing debris from the trees in the yard. Very few insects were attracted to the scent. Finch had bought the roll some time ago.

"They (paramedics) didn't believe I was having a heart-attack. They thought I was having some kind of drug reaction or some shit. 'Kept asking me if I was sure I wanted to go to the hospital." An empty vial of X-Pressions "potpourri", a glass pipe and a rusty nail (THE RUSTY NAIL!) sat in front of him. I got the impression he had been sitting there for a few hours before I happened along. His head wobbled back and forth on his shoulders. He spoke uncharacteristically slow...

"Say do any of you guys happen to have an orange lighter?"

'You guys?' I thought, just before turning to my right and finding Ian's silhouette lonesome. Sullen...in a chair next to the neighboring fence.

"No. I haven't..." A train rumbled along the tracks of the boxed-in night; making his reply indiscernable.

"What about you Anton?"

"No. I ain't touched it man. I got this one, that I bought in Albuquerque last night. Still has the sticker on it."

"I had one sitting on the table with my smokes when they took me. The cigars were in my room when I got back, But no lighter."

"Hmmm. That's weird. How'd your cigars get in the room? Who put them there? Were some of them missing?"

"No. I had everything but the orange lighter."

"Who would just take a lighter man? That's just weird."

"Ah, who cares? Just forget it."

"Shit man. I was curious. Lisa and I have had some things come up missing lately."

An awkward black silence seized us, as I looked up between the branches and past the gutter of the house. The moon looked like the tip of a bright yellow finger, pushing...no pointing its way through a black ironed sheet; which had collected dust mites or stars. Finch lit one of the three JW's he had left in the pack.

"It's sposed to get up to around 108 degrees by the end of the week."

"Oh yeah?" I replied.

"Yeah. 'Gonna be a hot one for a while I suppose. Fucking sucks. I 'gotta get some things together, talk to some people. I guess I 'gotta find a new place to live by the end of the week...talk to the title people 'bout my car and go back to the hospital at some point."

"Did they set you up with another appointment?" I asked.

"Well, I have to go back and see the damned doctor so I guess that's an appointment. It's whatever. I'll either have to go back for that or another heart-attack one. Whichever comes first, I guess."

I felt as if he were searching for some source of empathy; digging amongst darkness and relative strangers.

"Doc said I have 80% blockage in one of the valves. Don't remember which one. But, it's just a matter of time before round two."

"They 'gonna do surgery?"

Finch shrugged, which made his head rock slightly. "I doubt it. I got no insurance. I tell you, I think they gave me some kind of radical drug treatment," he squeezed his arm in the light, "that turns fat cells into piss or something. I lost ten pounds while I was in there. I was pissing like thirty liters a day and I wasn't drinking nothing you know? So, I wonder..."

The ember began to falter on his cigar-due to his inconsistent drags throughout the conversation. Finch picked up a red lighter and re-lit the little king. "Yeah. You need to eat healthy, workout, and quit smoking." He pointed to the roll-up in my hand. "I mean, you can look at me as an example if you want." he chuckled. "Quit now, while you still got the chance." He stubbed the cigar on the edge of the table. His head dropped. He closed his eyes and didn't speak again.

Ian's shadow was looking in his direction. He had been listening intently the entire time. Even though it was hypocritical, today, it seems like some of the most sincere and mindful advice I ever received. I still smoke however...

2 poems and a collab from Norrin Radd

Pour me a Bowl

back into form i storm
alarmed and clutching a forward
rewards are for the moralless drones
clones of a thief quilted
warm as a mid summers lightning bolt
i felt like 5000
smoking hash in the hallways of hostels in and along the border
storm waters brought on feelings of gathered conscience
smash hammer dagger mouthed class clowns wandering
we scaled the skyscrapers with great repoire
speaking of stocks intermittently
laughing as brashly as if colorado hadn't changed my world
dark storm clouds rolling on the lush green fields
fuel simply described as human motor oil
spoiled feelings on the lightning bugs underneath the moon
the stars
cars came rushing by as conversations pursued
consumed thoughts of blank delocation
as more is perceived
less is controlled by dablooms.
swooned by the swaying of starscapes my scalp was tingled by the news
the blues seemed the only thing appropriate in the smokey dimly lit pool room,the water glistened blue
this brings me back to her eyes,the beautiful ohio mornings that smelt like nag champa and cold rain
those mornings that let me compose this for you
when the world was in fractiles
and my muse in the next room.
the reason I still do this
so it will bring me closer to whom I believe I am
manifesting a way to see clearer
and recreate those days anew

visegoth

she moves like a manta ray
swaying
crossing
making the days parade like
centuries.
her eyes are a time stretch
clutching mornings in honest retrospect
clutch word introspect
the gages are built from a cleptomaniac
stark
staggered
buildings melting realms
her scalp
smelt
of
felt
I breathe lush yellow fields for health classes
Classless.
I sat in a Denver rat trap
guarded by evil spirts and bad ju-juu,as if drugs were scarce.
Rare was it for I to smile.
Dull eyes
witch.
glisten.
The visegoth resides in valhalla

Caught up in a long nap... (an FM NR COLLAB)

in a pair of green shades,
sat a rip van winkler
wondering if happy years
were something one
would find in its sleep...
or a muscle tension, hyperactive disorder
out of bounds, rust stained and carpet munched

it felt like three junes and two suns
when he woke up to the sound of
5 guns blasting holes
in the accused.

tied to a post,
forced to make with it
and mate with the conceptualized
foreskin
of a dickless ape...

I think it was burgundy shades
the presentation was full of thoughts of escape.
lay lady lay,
lay across these big brass bergades.
stray alley cat lengths of strength
her mildness
atrocious
spell bound ways of persuading
were less then hazing
more than a cascading wall of denial.
IN his life he struggled
in my life we mugged them
switch those around and have an answer.
cancer
we coughed that up.
trackers
they followed us up.
abrupt standard address tags that hold information vital
as sonar paths rumble
her eyes keep me star spangled and
bannon.


meanwhile,
imbibed with the ressurection
of a slaven dream,
the salutations commence
and burned are the tatters of a dress
burned are the ropes that tied wrists
burned are the hours we or he can sleep

"we'll look for more shooting glances
in the night sky."

i'll hear her whisper...

"Adieu."

alors qu'elle se mourait

Nous portons cette couronne de droit

you can catch the Raddest here: https://www.facebook.com/dr.galaxy

Demons ripping apart inside

Demons tearing apart
inside of head
As if it
were a
loaf of
bread

Wine dripping from lips
Poetry dead

Bird
Spirals
hits
window
sky
falls
down
shatters

Pages torn from book
Empty words

in absence
when everything is lost
they realize the paradise
was within
in there heart pounding
the people they loved
the people they screwed over
while they had everything
millions of dollars
still an empty can
head hits the wall
throwing up in misery

What lies behind the beauty
Open door
Realize the emptiness
When away from
Distraction
Eyes fixate
Angels will appear
When one becomes blind
Tear out your eyes
For your sight to have meaning

Smiles dripping
From fe(a)ces

People drown upon the misery
Demons drown upon the glory

Homo-sapiens unaware
Of their demonic nature
They go to church
Pray
Then, the cycle restarts

Angels within
but their choice
Vegas
The city
of

flame
rises higher

clouds wait

people kill

with a change of context
an alternate perception
a realization of what morality is
the story, the poem
will hold a different ending

For now
the bottle breaks
dripping red

demons ripping apart head
cluster headaches

sun fades
and starts to set
moon is half full
stars absent of light

millions trapped inside head
banging against the walls
of the mind

sky fell
shattered like glass

No longer blue
world’s colors drained
Like water flushed from
Toilet and into the sewer

Full of diseases,
Contaminated

the river filled with shit

Why is the blood of the winged splattered?
species no longer high

Passed out unconscious
Woke up to little light

Demons screaming
still tearing inside




Sina is friends with transvestite ninjas.

FAIL

On Snorting and Smoking Crystal Meth

I’d been smoking large amounts of marijuana for three or four years and sporadically taking acid, mushrooms, pills, and heavily drinking, too, on occasion. Soon enough, I was introduced through a friend to cocaine, and became a regular user of the drug, often going on multiple day binges.

A couple months after beginning to use cocaine, I came across the drug “crystal meth” for the first time, discovering it at my friend’s townhouse, which functioned as our hub of drug activity. This new substance, “the meth” as it was being colloquially referred to, was rocky and powdery, like cocaine, but a more yellowish crystal white, as opposed to the snowy hue of the yay-yo we’d been buying.

I either purchased or was given, I can’t recall, a small sack of meth, which I’d previously never even heard of. My friend said it was stronger than coke, so I was instantly intrigued. And being in the midst of a coke binge at this point, too, I was seeking some additional enjoyment.

Following my receipt of the meth baggie, I set out a few lines on a small vanity mirror for my friend and me, and we got down to business.

Having snorted a good deal of cocaine and every so often crushing up and snorting pills, I was accustomed to ingesting drugs nasally. However, upon first snorting meth, my nasal passage burned in a way it never had w/prior drugs. I could have sworn my nose was going to bleed after taking that first line, but fortunately it didn’t.

The drug coursed into my body, and I felt a heavy head rush, more intense and producing a higher degree of euphoria than I was accustomed to w/coke. I stumbled back and had to lay down on my friend’s waterbed for a few minutes to compose myself.

Afterwards, I got up, suddenly feeling energized, and took bong hits of pot w/whoever was at the townhouse, played video games, and argued about everything unimportant for hours.

At some point, I realized I had to go back home, exited the townhouse, and got into my car. Driving back to my house was kind of scary. Every other automobile on the road seemed like a cop to me and I drove very slowly and carefully, so as not to arouse suspicion.

Upon arriving home I somehow was able to sleep for about 45 minutes before I awoke to a friend banging on my door. We were supposed to go on a camping trip together. When I groggily pulled open the door he said he thought I was dead and that he’d been knocking for 10 minutes.

We then hit the road, to the campsite, somewhere in the Everglades. On the way there we smoked a pipe of high potency weed, a “kind bud” known as “AK-47,” and I almost lost control of the vehicle on the highway, as I temporarily forgot what I was doing, and nearly hit a mile marker sign. Luckily my friend was alert enough to grab the wheel, probably averting a fatal crash.

Once at the campsite, I don’t remember much of what happened, other than getting there, selling a lot of weed and some coke and hooking up w/a group of girls. My friend who I’d come w/and another close friend of mine who was there disappeared w/some girls they’d met and I set off w/three girls and a Cuban dude, who I think was gay.

The girls, the probably gay Cuban, and me smoked a lot of pot and snorted a bunch of coke in a girls bathroom. Later that day, the probably gay dude and I snorted most of the remaining meth I had. I can’t remember offering it to the girls or if they were smart enough to refuse it.

I don’t remember the meth hitting me as hard, snorting it the second time, but I do remember us, the probably gay Cuban and me, smoking the last bit of meth from a small glass pipe and that really, really fucking us up.

I think it was around nighttime that we smoked it. I recall it tasting very harsh and chemically. Not long after, I started having very vivid audiovisual hallucinations, stronger and unlike those from acid, causing me to see and hear some things I’ll likely never forget.

Out in the mangrove thickets lining the campsite, I started hearing all sorts of hissing/meowing cat sounds and what sounded like people talking in African languages w/all those clicking vowels, which led me to believe painted-face African tribesmen were out there w/spears, stabbing feral cats to death or maybe snatching up and strangling the flailing animals, then sinking decayed, mangled teeth into them and devouring the cats alive, blood splattering everywhere, like some shit from a zombie movie.

Inside a campfire we were sitting around, I saw a couple cop cars, sirens blaring, crashing into each other, over and over, exploding into mushroom clouds.

I also saw my hairy gorilla of a next door neighbor, from when I was 8 or so, who, while smoking PCP, got into a fistfight w/his wife and was dragged out of his house by the police, barefoot, wearing just his pajamas. His penis was fully erect, pitching a tent under his pajamas, and he looked over at me and yelled something in a language I couldn’t understand as they stuffed him into a paddy wagon.

For some reason I kept seeing that gorilla man, all hairy, in his pajamas, penis fully erect, struggling w/the police and being dragged in the direction of the exploding cop cars.

The hallucinatory images of the erected penis hairy gorilla man on PCP and exploding cop cars and horrific sounds of the African tribesmen brutally slaughtering and eating those feral cats alive were really starting to fuck w/my constitution, and as I stared at the fire, this one older dude sitting nearby, maybe a park ranger, seemed to notice me tripping out. We made eye contact a couple times, and I thought he’d say something to me, but he didn’t. Maybe he didn’t really notice me and it was purely delusional paranoia. Perhaps he didn’t really exist.

That night, I slept w/one of the girls in her sleeping bag. I don’t remember if we had sexual relations or not. I do remember her getting up out of the sleeping bag every 20 minutes or so to crouch down in the bushes nearby to piss and me being absolutely terrified the painted-face African tribesmen w/spears might jump down from a tree to kill or eat her.

I also had more weird visions, such as that girl in the sleeping bag w/me’s long dark curly hair looking like medusa snakes and that really freaking me out, too, and me not being able to actually sleep the whole time.

Thinking back on it, that girl and I probably didn’t have sexual relations that night.

The next morning, that girl and I snorted some coke again in the bathroom. Then afterwards I got into an argument w/her about something I can’t remember. I remember cursing her and some random people out and leaving the campsite. Upon telling her I was leaving, she looked at me like I was crazy, and pleaded w/me not to go, but I left anyway.

Driving home was a blur, but somehow I got back to my neighborhood. Next thing I knew I was trying to walk home but couldn’t recall exactly where I lived, so I went to a friend’s house.

He wasn’t home, maybe he was also on the camping trip, I don’t know, but I needed a place to stay and so I tried to break into his house. Unfortunately, I was unable to pry open any of his windows or kick in his door.

Instead I stayed in his backyard for two days.

Those next two days, spent in an old treehouse, I didn’t eat, and drank my own urine. My skin grew severe rashes, which I scratched to the point of drawing blood, and I pulled hair from my head and carved my ex-girlfriend’s name into my arm w/a switchblade, as I thought doing so would save me from her appearing at any moment, in a wedding dress, ready shoot me w/a sawed off shotgun.

After finally passing out, I woke up to a call from a body shop, saying my car was brought to them, totaled, and that it would cost $5000 to repair.

I haven’t touched meth since and probably won’t anytime soon. Especially, too, since I've heard that shit can really run up the dental bills.

Former Teen Star Justin Bieber Arrested for Smoking Crack, Attacking Handicapped Nun, Public Nudity, and Sexual Indecency

Unassociated Press- Tues June 8, 2032 12:37pm ET

Los Angeles, California- Former teen pop superstar Justin Bieber was arrested yesterday afternoon on Vine Street in Hollywood after allegedly parachuting naked from a flying car while smoking crack, using nunchucks to attack several innocent bystanders, and performing a sex act on himself in public.

Horrified onlookers report seeing Bieber, 38, who’s recently become morbidly obese and has tattoos from rival violent Mexican street gangs all over his face, parachute down from the sky, smoking a crack pipe, and babbling in gibberish.

He is purported to have then pulled out a pair of nunchucks from his parachute pack, flung the nunchucks around, and used them to viciously strike at random pedestrians.

According to eyewitness Jethro Smothers, a tourist from Alabama, “Most people were able to get away from him, because he was too darn slow and couldn’t twirl them nunchucks too good, but he did manage to wack a couple folks upside the head, ‘specially them Japanese tourists who was taking pictures of him.”

The worst recipient of Bieber’s alleged nunchuck rampage was a 65 year old wheelchair-bound nun from Guatemala, who was taking part in a food drive for former Facebook employees when Bieber is said to have coolly moonwalked up behind her, dumped her from her wheelchair, and stuck her in the buttocks several times.

Recalled one teary eyed witness who spoke on the condition of anonymity, “She didn’t even see him coming. After he threw her to the ground, he just kept hitting her in the rear, over and over. No one knew what to do. A priest nearby was saying something about him probably being possessed by the devil and tried yelling Psalms from his Kindle Reader Bible at him. But that didn’t work. I swear I saw Justin Bieber flash vampire fangs at the priest and the priest ran away pulling out his own hair and screaming.”

After savagely beating the nun, Bieber is said to have ripped off her habit and put it on his own head.

Witnesses say that at this point his mouth was moving at a different speed than his gibberish speech, like a 1970’s Kung Fu movie.

He was then chased by an angry mob into a local supermarket, where he is reported to have jumped up onto a checkout counter, defecated explosive diarrhea at a bag boy, and anally penetrated himself with the nunchucks while singing his 2010 hit “Baby.”
Shortly thereafter he was apprehended by sheriff’s deputies, arrested, and booked into LA County Jail.

This isn’t Bieber’s first brush with the law. Just last year he was given probation and community service after being convicted of breaking into a Las Vegas Llama farm, spray painting the Llamas with pentagrams, and sodomizing one of the animals. Bieber has steadfastly denied spray painting the pentagrams.

Four years ago he was found innocent of carjacking a large truck full of live chickens and letting the chickens loose on I-95 near West Palm Beach, Florida during rush hour.

Bieber’s career took a nosedive in 2013 when he underwent sex change surgery and attempted to perform under the moniker “Diva Justina,” a faux Latina, Brazilian type persona with a penchant for sequined leotards, tightrope walking, and spontaneous outbursts of tap dancing.

Bieber later had a reverse sex change operation and is reported to have blown the entirety of his earnings on purchasing Michael Jackson’s cryogenically frozen penis and having it attached to his own body.

Following his reverse sex change operation, Bieber has been spotted all around the globe, for a time as a Hare Krishna in airports throughout the Midwest, briefly hosting a late night psychic hotline infomercial in New Zealand, and often appearing at mass trampoline jumping demonstrations both for and against the Quebec sovereignty movement.

Most recently he has been performing in Las Vegas as an occasional opening act to the Insane Clown Posse.



(Bieber during a recent performance in Las Vegas. UAP)

Bieber is currently being held on $250,000 bond and could face up to five years in prison if convicted on all counts. He also faces additional charges for violating his probation. His next court date is set for Friday.

Once Upon a Time by Luis Rivas

Once Upon a Time

we were born wrapped in barbed wire
with pain so barbarous and ordinary that its memory
has been repressed by all guilty participants

only to be adequately replaced with brilliant, original
and new pain; the bum on the corner of laguna ave
and echo park that covers himself up to his head

to dull the cold nights, to block the blinding light of pain
or as drunken guatemalans are murdered for holding knives
off union and 6th (while americans, the less-colorful

kind, are honored as patriots for carrying rifles)
and as i pass by, my car’s rack and pinion needing
repairing and/or replacing, and as i try to remember

if i have enough money on my debit card to buy
cat food, wondering if the vons is still open
while my brothers think seriously on joining

the military, or if i will be able to find parking on
sunset blvd, beautiful, tall girls having taken all the spaces
coming from far off places like wisconsin, michigan

alabama; and myself, finding it hard on deciding
to be upset or not about this, each method of coping valid
it has been said, and there is proof, that once

upon a time i used to write about drinking wild
turkey, sex, loading and unloading fedex trailers and a
fashionable, romantic and poetic embrace of apathy

now, as i speak to you and as you hear me
staring at my lips, weighing out the value and
judging the content, i do not mention my father

and the dry, grey doctors manipulative maltreatment
of his back pain, leg pain, sleeplessness, anxiety
prescribing him the newest and most-expensive

most-addictive, higher-profit-margin narcotics
and you will not know that his company is moving to
mexico for a higher-profit-margin wage trade-of

the irony being that the company is leaving
the united states and its underpaid mexican workforce
for a cheaper-still, underpaid foreign mexican workforce

and as you question the art or lack thereof
believing the lie that words are spoken, that poetry
is found in books, on pages, in history, in magazines

on websites; that it’s spoken, sung, said, read, mouthed
recited, regurgitated; i look onto you and the
disillusionment in your eyes is profound and beautiful

Luis Rivas will be a guest on The Mandala of Infinite Prose and Philosophy
w/ Frankie Metro on June 8th, 2011. You can catch that here: www.blogtalkradio.com/frankie-metro

and while you're there, be sure to check out the show: I can't curse but I can read a f u c k i n poem, hosted by yr faithful editors Newamba Flamingo and Frankie Metro.

Fine Minds Fucked Here for a Quarter

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2 poems from Eden

the preacher

with words like fists
landing blow after blow as he
yanked up her skirt

when he came
he would curse
then call on God

dismount
and call her

Eve

homework

is what he called it
the older boy who took her
to the back of the bus
tall dark and ugly
he schooled her that day
before (her) first
period

Eden Joshua is a NY native and has performed her poetry in such places as The Bowery Poetry Theatre, Nuyorican Poets Cafe, The Afrikan Poetry Theatre and Brooklyn Moon Cafe among others. She currently resides in East TN and is working on her first book of poetry.

you can find her here: http://www.facebook.com/edenjoshua

Vampire Palestinian Fetuses Sold on eBay, BBC Reports

Sandstorms cutting with electrical breeze
Totally parabolic
icy bones mocking a pale face, making
head covered prophesies and disco circumcisions
Totally Asymmetric
Stars shine through to a blind sky on desert cold nights
With 40 Bedouins tracking jackal footprints in the pomelo bush
Wiping their noses in citrus scents, waxing psychedelically
Their dry cactus skin
Cracking red from subliminal coma burn
Scimitar slip:
And there are sheep thieves on the getaway
Heading to border crossing, Shalom Junction
Flashpoint.
Electric fence: Call the guard
A million homos over the sandstone, socialized networking
IDF bomb drops on dried river beds
Calm
abandoned camp sites, hollowed out car shells
bullet-ridden mosque hiding in the Golan
Riding in the Golan
Druze side of the road
Relics of 67, Syrian tank penetrated armor, rocket drop return to Gaza
pocket full of falafel by the Wailing Wall
Breaking blues
Vampire Palestinian fetuses in apple jars, sold on eBay, BBC reports
Morphed monikers, shotgun funerals
Suicidal soliloquy.
Bastard child at the open air market hawking dates by kilo
His telekinetic eyes broadcasting hymnal SMS:
“I got a sperm bottle waiting for you.
I am a knife with serrated edges calling afternoon prayers.
I am a camel dick: smoke hash out of me…
I got ten Ukrainians drinking vodka in a caravan.
Every time you piss.
You solve the equation.
Just a little more.”