RED SPLOOGE by Doc Sigerson (Part 1)

RED SPLOOGE
by Doc Sigerson

Sunday morning, porn session in progress, and Sippy Cullen was never
more alive, his synapses percolating merrily along as he mouse-clicked
from image to image, pausing at certain almost familiar faces as if
there were a faint possibility that she and he could have met sometime
in Sippy’s mostly uneventful life, leading to an even more implausible
fantasy of an intimate encounter. Progressing from merely teasing his
prick to a full-fisted grasp, he fell into a rhythmic pumping. He
leaned back in the chair, his eyes closed, the pressure mounting, and
visualized first that zaftig middle-aged dyed-blonde woman at the 7-11
store where he buys his banana-flavored Slurpee each afternoon and who
often seemed interested in his small talk, then that Asian newsbabe on
Channel 6 with the flashy smile and infectious laugh and whose
signature cleavage was always sweetly center screen, and finally that
slim fresh-limbed blonde cheerleader on whom he suffered a forlorn
crush in high school. The urgency was burgeoning, building and
building, a potent pressure aching to burst free. He released into
his left hand. He took a long breath. He opened his eyes. His heart
stopped.

His surroundings were spattered and scumbled with a surfeit of fluid,
not just the modest amount of jizz contained easily within the palm of
one hand, not just a skosh of overflow, not just the scattershot of
erratic aim, but an inundation of King Kong proportions, and lest you
think I exaggerate, a Jackson Pollack pattern covered the computer
screen, random shots had scored the wall and speckled the ceiling,
larger drops had begun sliding or dripping downward, obeisant to
gravity, moving toward the growing puddles on the floor between and
around his feet. Only it wasn’t jizz. It wasn’t semen. It was
blood, dark red and thick and gloppy.

“...eee ...” he squeaked. And he sat there a long while trying
desperately to make his brain work harder, to think faster, to wrap
his mind around what just happened. Sippy Cullen decided finally that
the blood was real. He wiped clean his hands with the tissue he had
set out and then examined systematically his private parts,
ascertaining that there was no external injury or wound. His relief
lasted only a moment as he realized that no external problem could
only mean that an internal problem existed. He mulled over the
possibilities.

“Jiminy Christmas ... now what?” he muttered.

* * *

“Damn it, Sip,” I said, “I’m a poker player, not a doctor.” He had
found me laired up at Whisperin’ Lanes Bowling Center where, in the
cocktail lounge and card room, one is isolated from the din of the
alleys, the whoops and banter of bowlers, the clatter of colliding
pins, the jarring clunk and rolling schadenfreude of other people’s
balls in the gutter. We go way back, Sippy Cullen and I, back to our
early days, grade school, then high school where we both were involved
in sports. I ran cross-country and track, while Sippy was the team
manager for whatever sport was in season. I ‘m one of the few to know
that his legal name is Keith and perhaps the only soul to remember
that he acquired the nickname of Sippy because his family came from
Mississippi before relocating to the Northwest. He’d always been
weedy and scraggly, his mouth hung open in perpetual disbelief, his
eyeglasses in constant need of adjustment, and somewhere over the
unkind decades he had acquired a strange compulsion to unburden
himself to me.

“They tested me at the free clinic,” Sippy said after a prelimanary
explanation. “Told me no infection, probably a blood vessel that had
burst.”

“Ain’t that a kick in the pants? ” I said, “It’s called hemospermia.
So you had a little blood in the semen?” By the time a man gets to a
certain age he’s apt to have more than a nodding acquaintance with the
hazards and mishaps of the male plumbing.

“No, Doc,” he said, “it was a hell of a lot more than just a little!”

“Was it,” I asked, “like a little ketchup mixed in tartar sauce?”

“Jeez, Doc,” he said, “I said a lot. More like a murder on CSI:
Miami. Everything covered in blood.”


“A crime scene and you got caught redhanded!” I chortled.

“Doc, you a real A-hole sometime,” he sniffed. “gotta look for the
joke in everything. But dang it, why? What was I doing wrong?”

“Could happen to anyone,” I shrugged. “Even a brand new Goodyear can
have a blowout.”

“The clinic P.A. said it was common problem but dang if I ever hear of
it anywhere.”

“Well,” I said, “I’ve heard that about a lot of various conditions and
maybe it’s because guys are embarrassed to talk up their shortcomings.
And you have to remember, Sippy, those medical professionals only
come in contact with luckless souls afflicted with problems and
looking for help. Their view of the world is necessarily skewed.”

“There was one thing he didn’t tell me and I was too mushmouthed to
ask. And this is the real question. Do I stop for a while or can I
go back to ... you know ... normal activities?”

“I don’t know, Sippy,” I said, thinking for a moment. “There are two
possibilities, it seems. One, the injury will be aggravated every
time you ejaculate and there will always be a copious amount of blood
in your spew. If so, this will be your new normal.”

“Jiminy Christmas! I hope not!”

“The second possibility,” I continued, “the injury was a one-time only
affair and that by ejaculating you are actually flushing out your
system. Tell me, Sippy, was there any pain?”

“No, Doc,” he said, “nothing at all.”

“Well, you ought be able to take the little fella out and show him a
swell time. See how it goes and if you aggravate the injury, then
take a break for a few days and try again,” And I added. “You know,
it ‘s a damn fine thing you weren’t with some actual gal. She’d been
thoroughly freaked out.”

“Yeah,” he said slowly, “totally freaked out.”

* * *

Dog Meat for Sale in China

Tingle In The Netherlands

Tingle In The Netherlands' debut album 'Why Can't You Write Something Nice For A Change?' is now available as CD or download!


Read what one motherfucker said:

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Goo Bee - DJ at REHAB Bangkok

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Check it out here!

Prostitution in China - KTV Story (Part 5)

Her earnings increased exponentially and she now had enough money to move into her own apartment.

Though she could have afforded a decent one bedroom, she instead rented a suitable studio. That way she was able to send more money home to her family, save more for the future, and even give a little to her cousin for the baby.

With the amount she was making, she figured she only needed to work another two to five years. Then she planned to return to her hometown and start her own small business, probably a little shop or restaurant.

She also began to chat on QQ with a cousin of one of her old friends from high school, a boy only a couple years older than her, by the name of Huang Mo Zhe. Mo Zhe was working on his family’s farm, which was turning a respectable profit.

The more they talked, the more she envisioned returning to her village and marrying him, starting a family, and forgetting all about her current life.

***

Ying only worked nights, so most of her days were spent sleeping, watching Thai soap operas, and playing on QQ.

But mostly she went shopping, since for the first in her life she had disposable cash, and she liked to use it to buy all sorts of clothes, shoes, and make-up, especially the Korean style stuff her favorite K-Pop singers wore.

She and Di often met up in the afternoons or early evenings before work and would wander arm in arm around any number of different shopping malls in Guangzhou or Shenzhen, buying whatever they felt like, sitting next to each other in restaurants, playing on their cell phones, and talking about anything other than work.

Sometimes Ying went to the mall by herself, just to walk around and window shop or sit in a café, where she’d sip coffee and surf Weibo or QQ on her cellphone...

When shopping one balmy afternoon, Ying came across a sale for the newest iPhone.

Excitedly, she purchased it, and remembered the long hours she’d spent in that hot and sticky factory and those berating Cantonese shrieks that spewed from her old boss. Ying couldn’t help but wonder if maybe one of her old colleagues had assembled the phone she now held in her freshly manicured hands.

She rushed it back to her apartment, tore open its packaging, powered it on and began to fiddle with its features.

She’d been so ecstatic to see it in the store and to buy it, but as she played around with it and clutched its cool, shiny silver body, she didn’t really feel anything at all.


PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

PART FOUR

Prostitution in China - KTV Story (Part 4)

The man got up and Ying reluctantly followed him into a room at the end of the hallway. The room looked like a hotel suite. There was a queen sized bed, small bathroom, mirror on the ceiling and TV atop a small dresser.

Ying’s heart began to pound. Her boss then entered the room and produced a syringe and quickly stuck it into her arm, saying to her it’d prevent “any infections.”

The boss then left and the man undid his suit and undressed. Ying tried not to look at him and slid off her miniskirt, bra, and panties, and joined the man on the bed.

Her heart beat faster, and she lay flat on the bed, spread her legs, gritted her teeth and closed her eyes.

The weight of the man hovered over top of her and she smelled the stench of his strong, musty body odor and awful breath. Then she felt the prick of his warm, short and thin penis as it entered her. He only pushed into her a handful times before pulling out and ejaculating onto her stomach.

The man got up and hurriedly dressed and left the room without saying a word. She then got up herself, went into the bathroom and took an especially hot shower.

She’d been terrified at the start, but now, as she got dressed, she didn’t really feel anything. It had happened so fast that she’d gone kind of numb.

Though she didn’t have much emotion, she definitely knew she didn’t feel like seeing that man again, ever.

Fortunately for her, when she got back to the singing room, neither the man nor any of his colleagues were there.

***

Following the first night she’d slept with a customer, Ying no longer was mere scenery at the KTV. Every night she’d be whisked to the room down the hall, on occasion two or three times.

There the same routine would always take place. She’d get an injection (before the first customer), then would disrobe and have sex.

The men were usually in their 40’s, though sometimes 50’s and occasionally 30’s or late 20’s. Mostly the sex was missionary and fast.

Some used condoms. Some didn’t. Some paid for her to come back to their hotel rooms. Sometimes she’d even spend the night with them…

The sex to her was completely without feeling. It was simply an action, and she derived no pleasure at all from it- however convincing she eventually became at faking it…

Most of her customers were Chinese, but there were a few foreigners. She liked the Western ones most because they treated her kindest and tipped her handsomely, which the Asians never did. They never tipped at all.

She did refuse certain requests, though, mostly made by foreigners, especially for French kissing or those for non-standard sex. And she flat out refused to be with any dark-skinned foreign clientele. No matter how much they offered.


PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

Prostitution in China - KTV Story (Part 3)

Her first night on the job and next three weeks were pretty much the same. She’d doll herself up, slip on a skin tight, shiny silver one piece miniskirt and matching 10cm heels, and basically just sit there looking pretty for groups of businessmen who’d belt out song after song and down beer after beer.

Occasionally one of the men made small talk with her, but not too often. Mostly the men just talked business and got filthy drunk. By end of the night many would be passed out.

Ying wasn't making the money she thought but still was making far more than at the factory. Plus, all she had to do was sit there, look pretty and pour drinks. Other than having to breathe in copious amounts of second hand smoke, it wasn't too bad.

Finally though, after about a month on the job, a customer took a liking to her and spent most of the evening talking to her while his colleagues drank and sang Westlife songs in a mixture of Chinese and broken English.

The man was mid to late 40’s and elegantly dressed in an expensive looking, navy blue three piece suit. He appeared to be the laoban of the group.

Ying wasn't entirely pleased by the attention, though, because from the moment she first saw him, the man flat out disgusted her. He was terribly short and had a tiny head and receding hairline that crested at a peculiar angle and an ugly, pock-marked face with virtually no chin.

His teeth were rotted and crooked and he had horrible breath. Besides his looks there was an additional something, too, something intangible, that nauseated Ying.

He seemed oblivious or apathetic to her thinly disguised disdain, however, and was surprisingly candid as he spoke to her about his family, his daughter, and the stresses of his job. He didn't ask her any questions except for her age, and when she told him she was eighteen, he called for her boss.

Her boss, the same young man who’d hired her, came over to the man and whispered something into his ear. Money was then exchanged and her boss whispered to Ying that the man wished to spend some time alone with in her in an adjacent room.


PART ONE

PART TWO

Prostitution in China - KTV Story (Part 2)

The “Super Song Star” KTV was in an alley behind a non-descript block of stores near a busy shopping street in Guangzhou’s Panyu District.

Inside the narrow, grayish concrete building, most every room looked the same. A 50’ inch flat screen TV was mounted to the wall in the middle and there was a 17’ inch touch screen computer next to it for selecting songs.

A faux leather couch was parallel to the TV and another was perpendicular to it. A small coffee table for drinks, ashtrays, and cordless microphones sat in between the couches. All the rooms were dimly lit and always smelled strongly of cigarette smoke, even when nobody was smoking in them.

Framed posters for Chinese beer and mobile phones, featuring Jackie Chan and smiling, sleek young women adorned each room’s walls…

The shifty-eyed man who conducted the interview, a tallish, skinny fellow with a crew cut and tattoo on his neck, who wasn’t much older than them, offered the girls the job after only asking a few questions, which were: “Are you single? How old are you? Do you have kids? Can you work any evening of the week?”

Ying and Di accepted the job; quit the factory, and both moved in with Ying’s cousin, for the time being.


PART ONE

Prostitution in China - KTV Story (Part 1)

Rong Ying was the prettiest girl in Wanshan, a tiny, impoverished village, in a northern province of China.

Like so many girls in Wanshan, as soon as she turned eighteen she bought a third class train ticket to Guangdong Province, in the south of China, to search for work. Many from her village who’d gone down there had made enough to live well and also send money home to their families.

Upon arrival, Ying’s cousin, who’d gone south to Guangdong seven years prior, let Ying stay over at the cramped eighth floor one bedroom walk-up she shared with her husband, her husband’s mother, and the baby girl they didn’t have.

After a couple weeks of job hunting, Ying found work in a factory in Dongguan assembling iPhones. There she worked twelve hour shifts, with only two twenty minute breaks. All additional breaks, including toilet breaks, were timed to the second. Anyone on break too often or for too long was terminated.

Ying lived at the factory in a dorm room with five other girls. They slept in bunk beds wrapped in mosquito netting, washed their clothes by hand, and had an 11PM curfew every night of the week. At 11:30PM the factory shut off all the dorm rooms’ electricity until morning.

At the factory Ying met another pretty girl named Qwai Di. Di spoke of how her friend was working at a KTV (karaoke bar) and making ten times what the two of them made per month at the factory.

But what exactly did the work involve? Ying queried, as she and Di stabbed chopsticks into plates of spicy noodles during break.

Di said they’d provide company and drink with the KTV’s male customers, and every so often the men, usually businessmen in their 30’s and 40’s, would tip them extra for favors, Di said, hesitantly but not ashamedly.

Ying knew what this meant. She wasn’t completely naïve. She also wasn’t a virgin, having had sex with her high school boyfriend, which was part of the reason she’d left her hometown.

(The two of them had discussed marriage, but after they’d had sex, he’d quickly broken it off with her, saying that he couldn’t be with someone who’d have sex before marriage. Heartbroken, and having lost her precious commodity of virginity, she’d decided to go south for work.)

Looking down at the callouses and blisters blotting her once soft hands, and thinking of their floor boss, that fat little middle aged woman with the terrible acne who screamed in Cantonese at all the workers, especially the pretty girls, but mostly thinking of the money she could send to her family, Ying made a snap decision…

She decided to join Di on their day off and apply for a job at the KTV.

Shoplifting Bravado and Straight Kink with Cassandra Dallett

Ferine

He eats me whole
foot first

No fear of dirt
or blood

I live in deodorant commercials with whistling bars of soap
and romps through wheat fields in crisp white maxi pads

He doesn’t mind grit
Washes his hands in mud puddles

confesses
he likes to leave my smell on for days

Inhale it when the shower’s water hits him
makes him hard

He says,
Is that bad?

I imagine my worst homeless funk and think

about

a feral love
gamey and raw.

***

The Dress

was too small
it ripped up the slit in the back
a straight line up my ass crack.
Red and shiny
It was all that I coveted.

Could have been worn to a prom
if my boobs weren’t falling out.
My aunt hid it with my boosted bottles of booze
when the cops brought me home.
I stole it from Macy’s.

Wore it on New Years
it was nowhere near big enough
halfway through the drunken night
my ass was out.
Larger than life
as usual.
I sometimes stuffed too small shoes
let the back of my feet hang over
Stan Smiths.
In three colors
the only colors I wore
black, white and red.

A drug dealer friend paid for the limo
told us to a choose a restaurant.
We saved him money by stealing the drink
did lines in the bathroom
my boobs and ass peekabooing on both ends.
The red shiny material useless uncomfortable
ended up in the trash
and I wished I’d worn something my size.

a detrimental & detoxified december w/ Jason Neese (.2)

-i in the you form, am in the are, you're in the our,
or a meglamaniac
or god all over your face-

an orgy of information is exchanged
but nothing is scene.
every one backs away from you with cocktail trays in hand.

it's discouraging but you deal with it in a typical way that ends
with a 120,000 dollar a year salary but unfortunately,
everyone that dies around you
has a heaven to go to.

everything changes
for ten minutes,

if you could say things to yourself with a straight face and in an objective way it would come out like this,

you are a cunt like entity devoid of any real quest for satisfaction, the complete toxic event looming in the sky like guilt with five studded questions that ask themselves over and over as the negatively charged ion super splices into a seeded cloud of temperature passion for climate controlling your anger in cumulus pouts

this changes nothing, it just sits there in the air like 3000 years.

vonnegut slowly nietches our concerns into a long trail of slack eyed movement, rearranging our brautigan all over the back wall of plath’s vagina as it's dug out a pile of soul parts by the lost memory of sexton’s throaty voice like robots clocking back and forth inside the deconstructed molecules of whitman’s mad soul.
a star machine creeps out and palahnuik’s silky hate just melts your laugh track into a bending statue of truth so raw it’s hard to vomit, instead, you collect stats that turn your invisible into a venn diagram with most of you inside the middle parts.
it’s a fully detached uterus causing hysteria,

and we can name that tune in three notes, spin the wheel till our universal studio is a sparkling blur given to the ether in the form of a quiz question that must be answered in the form of a question which secretly sums up every single frown on this entire planet that isn't wrapped around a corpse's face which is still the imprint moment of release reflecting the last time any of us
REALLY
ate a cone of ice cream like it was the whole day.

In response to article: "What Will Obama Do About Marijuana?"

Originally published in "The Root" magazine:

by Steve Swimmer

Mr. POTUS and his V.P., smiling through the “drug war.”

Better to be aware of wide smiling Americans like “drug warrior” V.P. Biden. Who, as Sen. Joe Biden, was directly responsible for enacting Draconian drug laws, here, in our United States. He voted for extraordinarily harsh drug laws, lauded them for political gain and displays, at ever turn, his theatrically wide toothy smile about them.

Today, our Great Nation’s V. P. flashes that large plastic smile accentuating his political periods to convince you he is sincere. Of course, my fellow Americans and I recognize the old time Joe Biden as a complete phony who will “smile” on political cue.

And, to our great misfortune, our Great Nation’s President, Pres. Obama, is adopting the Biden “toothy grin” for much the same reasons.

Lately, with big toothy grin, the V.P., along with Pres. Obama, emphatically reinforced the Draco approach to drug control by boasting, in no uncertain terms: The United States will stay on the same favored course the “drug war” has always driven.

No matter, 40 years “drug war” of ruinous death and destruction. Or, for that matter, whatever peaceful solution many people here in America and across the World want. No, the intransigent; yet, all smiles, Obama / Biden will not consider, not even on a small scale, the “legalization” approach. Not those two; they just keep smiling, as the band plays on.

Thus, here is the inside line. Be warned and aware: wide smiling “drug warrior” Americans, almost always are telling you lies. When the U.S. Pres. and V.P. tell you, complete with big smiles, the “drug war” is just fine; believe me, it is time to tighten your helmet.

This is what Obama / Biden policy has in store for you. And, I can assure you it is no “smiling” matter.
As a “drug war” casualty, I know first hand all about United States government authoritarians, and their ability to kill, arrest and destroy without compunction.

Here are the facts of my personal encounter with the “drug war” Obama / Biden shoot first mentality. Judge for yourself: is this what you want for our Great Nation?

Fact one: My Son, Michael, is among the all too numerous "extra judicial" homicide deaths, here in the United States. He was gunned down by, quite literally now, hooded jack booted “drug” thugs with police badges. This is the ‘drug war” Pres. Obama and V.P. Biden whole heartedly support with their obnoxious on cue extra toothy grins.

While Michael stood naked by his own bed, the “drug” kill squad burst through his front door and riddled his bedroom with machine gun fire. Michael was shot 10 times and died a few hours later.
The “drug warrior” “shoot first ask no questions” authorities, lauded by a smiling Pres. Obama and V.P. Biden, all agreed killing my Son (who had no police record) was just, because an “unidentified informant” said: Michael had 368 tablets of ecstasy.

And, of course, the “drug” police “cover-up team” claimed there was the always just too convenient gun which was most certainly never fired; nor, for that matter, even produced. Here, in the United States, police notoriously “plant” guns on innocent victims they kill in order to cover-up their own murderous ways. Yet, President Obama and V.P. Biden keep on smiling.

By now all should know, regardless of our Leaders smiles: United States “drug” authoritarians, with little or no compunction, complete with impunity, shoot people to death often based on nothing more than “suspicion.” Is this what you want America? More "extra judicial" death? Well, go along with the all smiles Obama / Biden “drug war” and that is exactly what you will get.

I know, for an experienced unequivocal fact: Obama / Biden commanded “drug” authorities, at will, set up arrests, shoot people (along with their dogs), until dead; and, not one regular Citizen can do anything about it.

Fact two: I was arrested, and manufactured into a criminal in New Orleans for marijuana. United States’ “drug warriors” manipulated the entire matter and delivered the marijuana. I was to pay what I could, when I could and if I could. I had no where-with-all to accomplish the crime so the “drug warriors” provided all of that.

What I had was the "propensity" to do the crime; therefore, according to United States’ crafted law for political gain by the likes of the phony grinning Joe Biden; rather than obvious entrapment as in the rest of the World, all the United States’ “drug warriors” did was considered completely legal. I was forced to agree to a set prison sentence while, quite oddly, forced to tell the Judge I was not being coerced. In my case, there was no violence, no marijuana (other than the U.S. Government's), no guns, and no money.
　
Yet, at 50 years old, with no police record, I became a “manufactured criminal” in the “drug war. (side bar: a huge percentage of the prison population, here in the United States, is made of manufactured criminals, imprisoned by legal design to keep the Prison / Industrialist fat) while the taxpayers spent around a million dollars on my arrest, conviction and incarceration.

I mean, if you want the police state like the one Pres. Obama and V.P. Biden’s “drug war” has created here in our Great Nation, you ought to be prepared to pay for it. Considering the tax burden Americans unflinchingly pay for this high priced Obama / Biden “drug war,” small wonder the POTUS and his V.P. are all smiles: they are smiling all of the way to the bank.

Here, directly attributable to Obama / Biden drug politics, the U.S. imprisons 25% of the world's prisoners, more prisoners than anywhere else in the world, while United States population comprises 5% of the world's people. Per capita, The U.S. imprisons six times to twelve times the number of British, French, German, Canadian or the rest of the civilized world prisoners; and, the U.S. imprisons young Black males six times the number of their White counterparts.

Do you really think United States’ people are that bad?

Here is what we have to show for 40 years of “drug war”: 46 million of us have police records, with 2,500,000 Americans behind bars and 12 million plus more under post prison restrictions, it is small wonder there are so many jobs available for 12 million undocumented immigrants (who slip by with clean fingerprints and $40 worth of false identification) and no money left for much needed health care.

Despite our President and his V.P.’s toothy grins, trust me on this one: A huge number of U.S. prisoners should not be in prison. True, some people need to be incarcerated; unfortunately, due to smiling Pres. Obama and V.P. Biden’s leadership along with their “drug warriors,” U.S. prisons are full of non-violent prisoners serving outrageously long sentences.

Is this what my fellow Citizens want? More “manufactured criminals” filling more prisons? Follow the smiling ways of Pres. Obama and V.P. Biden; and, this is exactly what you will get.

Fact three: Absurdly extra wide smiling Pres. Obama and V.P. Biden along with their “drug warriors” will not tell you the truth about the “drug war.” They are in it to deep and have become the important part in generating money (and I mean, lots of money) for their authoritarian ilk and very importantly, the prison / industrial complex.

Pushing the “drug war” in the rest of the World enriches the same vested interest crowd all that much more. Meanwhile, this entire ugly crew is paying no mind to the death destruction and endless horror foist on regular people by the greedy quest for as many United States tax dollars as they can get.

True, the “drug warriors” force me to bow by implementing procedures like sanctioned murder of my Son, Federal imprisonment, character assassination and confiscation of property. Also true, today, I am completely cowed, jobless, afraid and powerless to resist. All smiles Pres. Obama and V.P. Biden commanding their gang of drug thugs have beaten me down as they have millions of other United States Citizens.

I know, for an experienced unequivocal fact: Overcast with theatrical grinning, Pres. Obama and V.P. Biden’s United States’ “drug warriors,” at will, can take or destroy any property they like, set up an arrest or shoot me, as they did my Son, Michael, and often do to other people (along with their dogs), until dead. And, not one regular United States’ Citizen will be able to do anything about it.

So, lastly, I ask the big question: In order to appease wide smiling Pres. Obama and V.P. Biden’s U.S. authorized “drug warrior” blood lust approach to “drug control”: Will all of American citizenry be forced to cower (complete with phony smiles), before Pres. Obama and V.P. Biden sanctioned gun toting, soon to be drone flying “drug warrior” kill squads as I must cower, here in this Great Nation?

Hey, if that is what you want: All you got to do is keep on smiling. I mean it sure works well for President Obama and his V.P.

a detrimental & detoxified december w/ Jason Neese (.1)

-The cocktail party and the group clot.-

Here they are!

he is a re-purposed southern baptist
a masturbated clot of asshole sitting squarely inside a self-confidence
put together by a flash pan.

she blows him every night as they renew their marriage. God is in her mouth.

over there a man masquerading as a robot
tours the room with his eyes trying to find his island.

circles form like teeth.



you enter the room like a blank statement, your face surprised like test results

everybody keeps looking
smiling,
looking,
smiling.

we all drink slowly, reclining on the couch, or holding walls up,
flamingo standing on one polished heel
pushing orange slices around with our tongues
as the inevitability of what this is, hit.
a waste
of fucking
time. but not real time. real time is reserved for those frozen in the open mouth scream
that doesn’t take place at this party.

the himmler of the group smiled
shooing away positive thoughts with his mustache

the receiver of the table pulled both cheeks apart as the tab is inserted.

the keeper quietly gets drunk, acting unaffected by the entire event.

the shifter shapes our game plan into a toilet bowl and shits

the helper, helps us fundamentally understand how we are going to fail through the sharp filter of august heat

the healer retires and leaves a note in the corner

he sets up a trust fund for our future,

the victim continues to end every three minutes with a sip of his drink.

we hurl around the universe in place and we smile.
whole countries of people die and we smile
the waiter forgets the twist of lime and we don’t smile.
we kill, we kill with disapproving looks tucked under our noses
and then we smile.

throughout the talk edgy comments are made
and then waved away and then re-justified with passive attacks
on the other’s knowledge of the topic,
which is then tossed up, volleyed back, debunked, reconstituted
and finally helped along its way to ruin sum other subset of the next generation.

everyone is pleased

that this will keep happening.

a million of these moments are happening right now.
a billion of these moments happened right then
a trillion of these moments will happen right soon
and we smiled.

I don’t know what I was then or am now, but the view
was wonderful.

And the clot of our group unraveled while we ordered more drinks.

walking through memory's places (Final Act) by: Jeremy Hight

I am now getting a glass of water. In my memory of 1976. The hall carpet is puke orange shag which is probably something from films that was deemed to fit. The walls are crooked and seem extremely high, this must be from being a boy of 6 ; the scale is off like the child’s drawings of purple sky, planes with wings at odd angles with the logic of faces in a fake Picasso portrait painting, of cars flat as crushed cardboard and cats and dogs seemingly made of wires and cute awkward smiling faces. This makes sense in an odd way. The bathroom as I pass is vivid and feels accurate. The kitchen as I turn a light on in this memory comes alive with earth tones and a sense of having left in the real world just minutes ago until I now reach for a glass and essentially violate the belly of a cloud. The cupboards have eroded away in these decades, the sad bastards not relevant enough, maybe not individuated, like those people in the background in iconic photos and crowds . A romantic notion is to imagine these people as somehow incidentally remembered, some passive sort of recall becoming extras in dreams at night. Who knows, probably not. The glass has little gold flowers on it as the water from some place holder of 35 years fills the glass.

walking through memory's places (Act 2) by: Jeremy Hight

A fierce santa ana wind is blowing so hard it is bowing in the window here in 1987 in my bedroom. The dry wind other years will send huge fires up and raging, some to burn to the ocean shore so far from here. My mother’s Multiple Sclerosis has sent her through the sad progression from walking to cane, to 3 prong cane , to walker, to wheelchair…soon it will be the humming electrical one she will ride around in until her body denies her even this. But in this memory and place she is asleep downstairs while the wind blows and will awaken to another day here in this world , this tissue paper thin world of many slivers of past and place. The stereo plays a Kraftwerk record, that one scratch soon to click and pop. The wall posters are Theda Bara and SST records. The bed by the wind has covers that change colors , I guess I can’t remember which ones to fit here so it flickers like some insane illuminated sign or a John woo film fight scene set to fabric. It is a melancholy room. The walls are a bit dirty and the closet is cluttered. The bright green of the artwork Cameron Jamie gave me when we were friends glows in recall amongst crushed books, magazines and old clothes still vivid now. The wind again bends the window, this time in the shape of a glass toenail. My brother’s room down the hall as I walk toward it moves from painted lines n the wall, rush records and a surfboard to the empty room and mattress on a floor, the dusty hall of spiders it became a decade later. The bathroom as I pass has bent wood for the floor, the shower is a glass so frosted in recall that it is near white. The sinks are aligned and waiting with a sad little floor dresser full of aging junk and beer cans. The window is a hole and the wind should blow through now as I move toward it but this synthetic place has no wind, only this illusion outside, outside the illusion inside that I still dream of, have nightmares of, hold onto for reasons I can never grasp. I walk down the stairs and front door is vivid and feels accurate while the hallway is half empty and half some stock image from a hundred horror films, the huge impossible banister pointing out to the windy night that forever exists and is long crushed into a past never to again be touched. This place I want to leave but in dreams I will always return.

walking through memory's places (Act 1) by: Jeremy Hight

It is 1992. There is an odd glow in the distance that changes colors in this memory. The air is cold even though it surely wasn’t , again some literal placemarker of the past in some electro-chemical confetti and the way it re-assembling (flawed) into memory, the way of old television sets of a time never to be seen again, of the color off and knobs for it, of horizontal , of vertical, of static and fuzz and fade.

This lawn is surely from a series of photographs that now sit in a bag behind old clothes in storage as much as this moment or all the years of these steps and spaces now forever undead with all the oblique great distances and closeness that memory entails. The cold seems more acute now and there a santa ana wind that was not there.
I did not know what was coming, those words from my father’s mouth in that water bed now forever a country and lone island at once. The television with the brown cable box above it will glow forever like
some ember more than integer in front of this long discarded bed.

The door and the hall lead past a living room now a carpet on nothing, another television I took soon after this world and place to San Francisco to later die in Grad School at Cal Arts painted, damaged, but with the grace of someone who has lived a long life and wears the years , a beauty we cannot possibly touch nor fully understand like my luminous souled grandmother we will both bury and celebrate in a few days from tonight. Her grace nearing 100 we cannot touch, only celebrate even as we mourn.

My father says now “It is on” as he did then. His words are clear even now as the back wall undulates and the window changes shape behind that tv in this forever and gone room at is forms and people and place . The L.A riots have begun. The distant glow was the city burning/ is the city burning. In south central unbeknownst to this space of memory my grandmother can see flames down the street. The images of unrest, of police brutality, of corruption and anger, they are a sort of oatmeal of motion on the tv now as I turn back in this past and walls vanish, , my mother turns and looks at me , her eyes now only of photographs and recall , my father soon will turn up the volume on that tv in this room now unfinished and vivid, breaking a bit in recall as time goes on. The bed undulates and the lamp light grows clear now in this place drawn from a million pieces , surely one of a thousand places like this to walk imperfectly as past. i will come here vividly and incompletely for the rest of my life in sleep.

A Conflicted Poem for My Knife

I want to whole-heartedly
give you
to someone else.

Hell, I don't even know
if it's you we're talking about
here.

I want you to become
a part of someone else.
I want you to twist up
their insides
when you break it off.

I want to always
look at you as something
better than sandpaper,
or hand-to-hand combat.

I want you
to always shimmer
when we go out
at night.

I want everyone to
know you're there.

I want no one to see
you loosen up
when we're under pressure.

I want you to stay
tight, together,
stable, unnerving.

I want to give you
to someone else,
so I can stop feeling so...
-i don't know-
compulsive about
this 1-way relationship we have.

I want you to be
your perfect self,
to hold you in place of a pen,
to hold you in a place
akin to the esophagus
of a putrid mammoth
before the bulk,
young & needy valentines
in corporeal envelopes.

I want to buy you a sheath,
to polish your skin
with japanese waterstone sets
& Shapton mineral oil.

I want to give you
to someone else,
so I can see the flash
of NO FEAR
reflecting from
the rodent's eyes.

I want to give you
to someone else,
so I can learn to finally
fear DEATH.

-photos & artwork via Meth Lab photo/art-correspondent:
Pantifesto's Porntastic Phunhouse-

"Not All Writers Write, But Some Do" by an Online Friend

"Not All Writers Write, But Some Do"

(for Clement and Rodney but not Cycic)

I.
A writer writes as often as a writer can, but he often neglects to do so because sometimes all there is to write about is the writerly struggle to figure out what exactly to write.

II.
When a writer neglects to write, he'll still consider himself a writer and arrogate to himself writerly qualities. Some of these qualities include (but are not restricted to) an inexplicable passion for bar fights and bus rides, as well as an obnoxious habit of yelling obscenities from a third story apartment window or hurling orange peels at a passing bag lady.

III.
A writer will promise to write sooner than later, then postpone all writing in order to masturbate. When he's done masturbating, he'll begin procrastinating. When he's done procrastinating, he'll begin to think about starting an outline, then put off writing it for a few months. Once he's ready to start thinking about writing his outline again, he'll push it to a later date and likely masturbate.

IV.
When a writer isn't writing, he's probably driving, or eating chips on the sofa. Either way, he isn't writing. He's sitting. But when he's writing, he's also sitting, which is why he often confuses writing with driving. When he reaches his destination after a long drive, he'll often fool himself into believing that he's actually gotten some writing done.

V.
When a writer isn't driving, he probably isn't writing. He may be thinking about writing, but he's easily distracted by the bag lady that passes by his apartment every day. He'll probably devise a plan to kill her, so that he can then write about it. But he'll quickly realize that another writer had written the same story and called it Crime and Punishment.

VI.
When a writer realizes that he simply can't bring himself to write, he'll do one of two things: emulate a prodigious, celebrated writer of the Western literary canon or jump from his third story window in despair, only to land on the bag lady who'll break his fall and be killed forthwith.

VII.
When a bag lady breaks the fall of a suicidal writer and dies forthwith, the writer will then be free to write about the experience without ever being suspected of ripping off Dostoyevsky. The experience is now authentically his, and all that's left for him to do is write about it.

VIII.
When it comes time for a writer to write about his authentic experience, he'll then struggle with form. He'll have trouble settling on a narrative technique and even switch back and forth between the first person point of view and third person omniscient, at which point he'll grow discouraged and give up writing---but only temporarily because he still views himself as a writer. Not just any writer, but the next Dostoyevsky.

IX.
When a writer considers himself the next Dostoyevsky and hasn't written more than three paragraphs of material, he's in for an unbearably tough time. This is the point that either makes or breaks a writer, and he is more defined by what he doesn't write than what he does write.

X.
When a writer is defined by what he doesn't write, he chooses to write only when he wants to, which is never. But he will perpetually think about writing and being perceived and lauded as a writer---a great writer in fact, who didn't have to lift a finger, or waste his breath, just pretend.

Three sisters lick your caramel-tipped Drumstick® by: Ryder Collins

Even if unseen, three sisters know they rule. Three sisters like to remain unseen because they are all titties. Three sisters have the biggest titties ever. We are talking ginormous nuclear warhead titties here.

Three sisters’ tittiess make everyone stop and stare. Everyone. Even Inanna before Gilgamesh. Even Cleopatra before the asp. Even Nero before the fiddle. Even Buddha before the lotus. Even Christ before the cross. Even Napoleon before Russia. Even Haile Selassie before the Battle of Anchem.

Even Van Gogh before the razor and Duchamp before the toilet. Even Sylvia Plath before the oven. Even JFK and Lee Harvey Oswald. Even the bullet that killed JFK and ricocheted. It ricocheted all sporadic because of the titties. The bullet stopped and stared for a full three seconds then zigzagged all over the fucking place to make up for the stoppingshort, for reals.

& after that is when the sisters decided to move to a small town. They didn’t want to be a part of or responsible or even somewhere near to the unnecessary deaths they saw coming. Malcolm X. Robert Kennedy. Martin Luther King. MOVE in Philadelphia. Those are just a small part of the list they keep hidden in their big big bras…

Three sisters moved Deep South because Deep South would incognito they thought. But they moved in to their three bedroom ranch house to find it was the same in the small town Deep South. The movers dropped boxes, broke lamps and cauldrons and bedframes because of the big big titties. Three sisters took their dogs for a walk and three sisters’ titties made everyone stop and stare. Even the mayor. Even sports players, even church wives, even bullychildren beating up the gays, even rabid squirrels, even wounded deer, even pursuing dogs, even scurrying palmettos.

Three sisters then disturbed College Bowls and baptisms, graduations and weddings and infidelities and births and deaths and homophobia. So, therefore, three sisters, even though three sisters liked fucking with the homophobias (because, really, they thought, who cares? and if they could find anyone who would love them beyond their hugeass titties they def wouldn’t care man or woman), three sisters tried even harder to remain unseen.

Even if unseen, they know they are a force. You do not fuck with three sisters.

YOU DO NOT FUCK WITH THREE SISTERS
YO.

Three sisters do not pull no Macbeth shit. Three sisters do not hurly-burly and three sisters do not pilotthumb and three sisters do not chestnut and three sisters do not hail and vanish and three sisters do not.

Three sisters have one computer and three sisters fight over Facebook. Three sisters have one computer and forecast the weather.

Three sisters set that weather shit up.

Three sisters go to the Kroger’s and the aisles clear for them. The foodstuffs they want fly into their grocery cart and the checkers always small talk them, Did you find everything you needed? How are you today? Going to the game?

Three sisters nod and bob like bobble heads.
The checker always scans their items and always does not know the veggies they buy, Is this a rutabaga?
Three sisters bobblehead.
Is this collard greens?
No, kale.
Is this cabbage?
No, blind-worm’s sting.

Is this cantaloupe?
No, it’s eye of newt.
What is this?
It’s your wang, if you don’t shut the fuck up.
That is the feisty sister, but they are all feisty so how can you tell the difference between them, especially when all you can see is their big big titties.

Centuries ago, three sisters gave up on saying my face is up here.
& it is white asparagus that is in the plastic bag that the checker now thinks is his wang.
& that is even funnier cos later after the three sisters leave he will not remember that he was all worried his wang was in a bag. So worried he starts thrusting his pelvis against the conveyor belt side.
One sister tskstks, one mews, & one is oblivious.
It is the mewing that makes the checker drop the plastic bag of asparagus and then three sisters titter big. Titter titter their titties are big big big yet they now move unseen through the small town because they have been practicing for centuries how to move unseen and they now use that moving unseen skill sometimes when they feel like it and they have been practicing for centuries spells to make them unseen and they have been alive for centuries so they should be able to do whatever they set their fucking minds to since they have set their minds against mortality and won so far it seems, and they move unseen down the cereal aisle and down the frozen foods and past the ladies in blue and orange who can only talk about past glories about sororities and now those ladies are in their forties and are unbelievably sad inside and only acknowledge their sadness when they hit that hidden caramel in a frozen ice cream drumstick

& then they do not know why they want to cry and so they try not to cry and they try not to cry too because that’ll mess up their Estee Lauder mascara even though everyone, even the big big titties sisters, even the three sisters, especially the sagacious three sisters, knows the only mascara you needs is the cheapass Maybelline pink tube, yo.

Three sisters never say yo.

Three sisters are not always unseen cos it is tiring this unseen thing so they allow themselves to be seen by the checkers & the people in the aisles who are crying inside and need to get out their way.

Those are the bitches that don’t get out the way cos all they can think of is that deepdeep thing inside that they cannot think about. Most other people get out three sisters’ way & do not see them at all. It is the sad stuck in the

caramelsororityheydaywhathaveIdonewithmylifebesidesprocreatedselfishcreatureswhohavenounderstandingofmysacrificeatallbutImustwearasmilebecausethatiswhatImustdo,

who see them and sometimes see beyond the big titties but they cannot acknowledge any of it cos if they acknowledged what the titties represented to them it would be all over, yo.

Peoples in the aisles get out their way because three sisters roll down the aisles singing, Move, get out the way, get out the way, BITCH, get out the way.

Three sisters like the hip hop.

Three sisters like musicals.

Three sisters like 80s New Wave.

One of three sisters even likes Morrissey.

Ludacris’ “Move, Bitch” is their spell because they have the magic and the big big titties and they are the force.

They are a force, yo.

Non-Nude Preteen Model

“Non-Nude Preteen Model”

He lived in a ground floor apartment, next to the playground. Through his blinds he liked to watch the children. Especially the little girls.

There was one girl in particular, must have been 10 or so. He didn't know her name so he gave her one. “Melody” he called her.

Melody always wore ballerina clothes. Tiara, tutu, all that. She'd carry a fairy wand and wave it around and dance and pirouette near the jungle gym.

Her movements dazzled him. So graceful and smooth. That slender frame. Those budding breasts.

He loved the way the sun would glint and sparkle off her golden hair. The way her pig tails rested on her shoulders.

She occupied his thoughts endlessly. Sure, he fantasized of her sexually, and would pleasure himself while watching her from behind his blinds. But his feelings were more than merely sexual. He genuinely longed for her romantically.

He'd picture the two of them slow dancing somewhere in the forest, Mozart in the background. Them having candlelit lobster dinners in posh restaurants. Walking through the streets of Paris. In a gondola in Venice. Them in a convertible, top down, cruising the Mediterranean coast.

The majority of his free time was spent on Melody, but he liked other young girls, too. Not only on the playground but also on various non-nude preteen model sites.

He enjoyed viewing the photos of scantily clad prepubescents in high heels, makeup, and thongs. Especially when they bent over. Pretty much every time he visited those sites he'd wind up masturbating.

After masturbating, he'd wash his hands in scalding water. Then he'd delete the photos and clear his browser's history. Sometimes he'd cry. Sometimes he'd pray to God. Sometimes he'd cut himself w/a razor blade, usually near his armpit.

Curiously, he never cried or cut himself w/Melody, though. Not even w/the photos he'd taken of her from between his blinds. She felt different.

However, shortly after the crash of Flight 150, his relationship w/Melody took a turn for the worst.

He began having unsettling visions, which'd usually occur while he surfed the Internet. In them, he'd be alone on a white sandy beach w/her. They stood naked, facing each other, on the shore, crystal clear blue water lapping at their feet.

He'd hear a soft sibilance and see a raging fire somewhere off in the distance. Ashes floating around them, he'd gently finger her bald vagina while she cried into her hands.

His erect penis would then grow, into a boa constrictor-like snake, and it'd wrap itself around Melody's neck and strangle her. As she gasped for air and slapped at it, he'd come to, out of breath, screaming and grabbing and punching at his crotch.

These visions disturbed him terribly. He hated them. To cope he cut himself more and in different places. Sometimes even the tip of his penis.

But it didn't help and the visions evolved into a series of night terrors, which all took place in his kitchen.

In every one, teeth unloosened in his mouth as bent Melody over, in front of the kitchen sink, which was running and producing a deafening hissing sound. The window behind the sink would burst into flames and he'd pull a plastic bag over Melody's head, yank her tights and flowery panties down to her feet and his snake-penis'd shove itself inside her and rape her, under her tutu, blood streaming down her legs.

He'd often awaken from these nightmares w/o clothes, in the kitchen, sweating, out of breath, holding his penis in one hand and a plastic bag in the other. A few times, upon awakening, he found he'd defecated on the kitchen floor.

The nightmares were so vivid and disturbing that he didn't want to sleep anymore and decided he wouldn't. So he went over to the rough part of town and purchased some meth from a guy in a hooded sweatshirt. Then he went back home and snorted it.

The drug kept him up for three days. During this time he called in sick to work, watched the 700 Club, cut himself and did all he could to erase his thoughts of Melody.

But it was no use. And the stuff in his visions and nightmares he started seeing all the time. He saw Melody in every room of his apartment. Appearing and disappearing. Sometimes nude. Sometimes w/a plastic bag over her head.

What's more, her left leg seemed to be deformed, and she'd often limp toward him before disappearing.

And he swore his penis really was a snake, and every time he went to urinate, he sat down to piss so he wouldn't have to look at it.

And that awful hissing sound soon began to replace the volume on his computer and TV. And it'd even bleed into his mind, drowning out his thoughts.

He worried what might happen, like really happen. That he might go outside to the playground and try something. Little by little, he realized he couldn't control himself. Eventually, however, God told him what to do.

Around midnight, he made a few holes in a plastic bag, pulled it over his head, painted a cross on his bedroom wall w/his own feces and mumbled a quick prayer to it. Then he prostrated and crawled on his elbows and knees into the kitchen, where he stumbled up to his feet and flung open the drawer under the sink and dug out a Ginsu knife he'd bought from an infomercial.

Fishing out his dick from his soiled sweatpants, he tugged its tip, elongated it and swung downwards w/the knife, hacking it off at the base.

Blood erupted from his crotch like a geyser. He threw his amputated appendage into the kitchen sink and saw it slither into the drain. He then flipped on the garbage disposal.

Then he collapsed to the floor and saw a flickering computer screen image of Melody hovering atop his kitchen counter. She was smiling, w/her arms reaching out. He smiled back and pushed the button.

"Prison Rape Story"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lethargic Labor Day Lessons w/ Misti-Rainwater Lites

Dunked

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hot Dog Bitch" by Newamba Flamingo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heart attack, aisle 9.

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