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Medellín Beaucoup

Friday, June 26, 2009

tender love

I was walking peacefully when I saw you on the lawn. Your eyes were kind of vacant, your white dress was torn, but I didn’t notice that fact. You looked at me and said, “Fuck me.” Your legs were open and your plump inviting lips kept telling me, “Fuck me.” Asking me, “Why won’t you fuck me?”

I was but a child, a man-boy of fifteen and I hesitated before I took such a familiar pose as missionary with you.

Afterall, missionary, although underrated, is an excellent position for seeing your lover’s eyes and for feeling your lover’s sex. It is also the preferred position of perverted Uncles. They can silence family that way with a large rough hand over the tender lips & mouth, and at the same time let them see a loved one is doing this to them. Mostly by the eyes and nothing else, they are violating them, destroying their self esteem for years to come and telling them, “It’s ok. You’re beautiful.” Little does that small-pricked child molester know, their Niece will never feel this pretty again.

You took my cock in your hand and stroked it and repeated, “Fuck me!”

I did. Oh God I did! I was a machine built for loving you. This didn’t only feel perfect, it felt familiar, like we’d been here a thousand times yet each thrust was full of new life & each moan was a new tome of longing. Your moans turned to nothing after a few minutes. Your arms released my long hair. Your legs relaxed and you stopped kicking my ass & kidneys, like a cowgirl kicks her horse, but I kept going. The sky turned three colours during this time, orange, purple, & red. The orange was on top and had control of the other colours. The purple, thinking itself to be next in line for control, lay waiting in between, but noone paid any mind. The red was on bottom and started feeling the pressure of the other two colours and cried out, “You hurt me,” while tears ran down it’s red face. The other colours tried to plead with red, “But I’ve always been here baby,” said purple. “Are you kidding me? You like it like this. Me on top. You on bottom,” shouted the stern orange.

It had to have been about fifteen minutes before my mind snapped back into reality and away from the sunset. I was concentrating on my orgasm & your feigned slumber. Well at least I thought it was feigned. “I want you to cum on me. Please, cum on me?” I heard you say or I imagined you saying, but the voice was detached and far away.

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Moving Along

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

west_african_scarification

He moved across the field hiding from imaginary aircraft strafing his village. Since the General had secured this area he was in limited fear of reprisal from anything, except for the elements and the wild animals, who were explicitly protected from any harm, despite their disregard for his own safety and life. He took two quick shots at the sky just to let that vast expanse of blue know he meant business and that they would conquer it too, eventually. This display of imagination, poetic personification, and strict regard for the new laws showed not only his age but also his naivety towards a situation he was born into.

He was only eight-years old when he first met the General & ten when he first volunteered, although he wasn’t allowed to enlist until he was eleven and a half. The General was admired for many things, but mainly for his excellent navigation of enemy territory, swift and decisive victories, and for having the best moustache he had seen since before the war. It reminded him of his Father and how the bar of hair would tickle his cheek every morning when they embraced. His Father was not an intelligent man, nor was he creative, but he could handle an axe, had the rifle aim of a sniper and could knock down a cow with his left hook. That man didn’t deserve what happened to him, but he really should have watched his actions. He told the young boy, the day he was hacked to death by young boys with machetes, “I love, but you bring me down.” No one, not even a family member should go against the law. The law brings peace and food to the table. The fight must continue to preserve a way of life.

On his first patrol his unit was ambushed as they were crossing a river. As soon as half of them were across the slippery bridge of rocks an explosion rang his ears and blasted him to the ground. All he remembered was a lot of loud shooting and loud explosions near their position. After that he regained consciousness in a make-shift hospital in the field, but according to the briefing they had lost three men but taken more land.

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Reflection in a Mirror

Thursday, May 14, 2009

specs

“Why so melancholy, Kitten?” he asked, looking down at her head on the long wooden table.
She mumbled something that sounded like, “I don’t know” or “Everything.”

“Well drink something. You look gaunt.”
“Thanks.”
“What?”
“Thanks.”
“I thought you said, ‘Fangs.’”
“Fangs? Why would I say anything about fangs?”
“I don’t know.”

She lifted her head from the table, gave a scornful look & walked out into traffic admiring the cacophony of horns begging her to move along.

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Make Me Clean Again

Monday, February 23, 2009

Massacre de Malmedy

It was well before dawn when he woke. His brown hair was mussed and in his face from a restless night of sleep. The nightmares had returned. They were much worse than ever before. In the past he would feel elated after dreaming of death, evil spirits and a world of desolation because in it there was still a sense of victory, a sense of freshness and a sense of now. The ends of his hair, which hung down near his mouth were crusted with blood and vomit. He didn’t care enough, nor did he think it was smart, to use his water rations to wash his face and hair. Now was not the time; now was the time to get to the edge of the forest by “oh dark thirty” or more specifically 0400 hours.

As his faction had no precise or homogenous form of dress he was clothed completely in black, which was his personal choice as a uniform. He knelt down, took the first two fingers of his right hand and gently touched his forehead, chest, left shoulder, and then his right shoulder.

Glory be to the Father,
and to the Son,
and to the Holy Spirit.

He folded his hands together in prayer.

As it was in the beginning,
is now,
and ever shall be,
world without end.

His folded hands clutched the muzzle of his AK-47 which was adorned with a short chain of broken rosary beads and a black bloodied squirrel tail.

St. Michael the Archangel,
defend us in battle.
Be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the Devil.

The squirrel tail was a reminder of the time before he lived off the plants surrounding the small church house he now made his home.

May God rebuke him, we humbly pray,
and do thou,
O Prince of the heavenly hosts,

The rosary beads, although he had a long apostatized, still held some sense of power and ethereal belief for him.

by the power of God,
thrust into hell Satan,
and all the evil spirits,
who prowl about the world
seeking the ruin of souls.

He knew in his heart what this all meant and how it would give him the strength to leave men, women and children dead in his path. As the last word escaped his chapped, cracked lips, he was up and out the door, crossing God’s acre and leaving behind the spectres of that church he called home.

Amen.

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Leisurely Train Ride

Thursday, January 22, 2009

mylifetolive

He washed, by hand, each utensil and dish he used after he was finished eating. He knew where she was supposed to be so he went to meet her. An old man passed him a flyer for something, probably something political or maybe religious. Old men rarely flyer for parties or music, but this was New York City, one never knows when some old washed-up jazz musician would be selling his wares to inner-city travelers. The piece of semi-expensive card stock with a high-gloss finish was for a 15-minute film on Dianetics which was available for viewing, free of charge, at the Center of Scientology. He immediately folded the flyer in half and tore it in two. He had spent too much time in Hollywood to be fooled into anything that had the names Scientology, L. Ron Hubbard, Dianetics, engrams or Museum of Psychiatry attached to it.

When he was younger he found himself in trouble with the law and he was forced to go to a psychiatrist. Maybe it was a therapist, he didn’t even care enough then or now to know the difference. He would sit, or lay on the man’s couch and give him the answers he was looking for. The sessions were court-ordered, the therapist (or psychiatrist) was still being paid for his services, so his work was slightly above freezing. He would ask questions like, “When you move is there anyone you will miss?”

“No, not really. I’m out of place anyway. Well maybe my best friend, but I’m fine.”
“How does that make you feel? Moving away from him?” asked the psychiatrist.
“It’s fine,” was the response.
From his experience psychiatry was a joke. Maybe it also was an industry of both death and pain.

By the time we saw her he was freezing from waiting outside by the door to her apartment. He slammed his fist into the back of her head and she fell. He raped her, first anally and then vaginally, and left her there. He felt like his night’s work was done and walked off down the street to grab a quick bite.

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There He Goes

Friday, January 9, 2009

rally

He found his own movements jittery, like he was stuck in a silent film. He had no control over anything, the ways in which the film played or his movements. He shuffled into the kitchen to make the last scrap of food he had left. This was supposed to last him until three days from now, yet here he was using the last two pieces of bread (one a crust) to make some sort of cheese sandwich, today. The mix of sandwich spread, mustard and mayonnaise created a new condiment. This concoction was viscous and a mixture of yellow and off-white, with small green chunks in it. It resembled a sort of snot, cum, and medium consistency oatmeal formula. He muttered to himself and intermittently, lyrics to some song could be deciphered between his murmurs and whispers.

“It’s all over,
I thought we had thousands of years,
but why? Why am I shaking without you?
Our June overture,
Lead to lesser movements,
I’m shaking without you.”

Last night’s dream went something like this: He found himself jumping from a building and then he began to float which was interesting because he’d never floated before. He landed somewhere in the middle of a large crowd. The crowd was intently listening to a speaker. He could sometimes see himself from afar and sometimes was inside of himself looking out with a normal perspective, but since he was aware of this he felt like a voyeur on his own life. He noticed his own toothbrush moustache immediately. He fingered it gently and felt the way his whiskers did as they pleased after growing to a certain length. They became like some God-awful dog with limited training.

With the noise of the crowd, the speakers only words that rang through were “savior,” “duty,” and “liberty.” The message seemed clear enough though, “We are against them and your money will prove you are with us.”

He was then looking at himself from a window a few stories above the crowd. He saw a child and a small miniature gorilla standing next to each other. Each person began to turn into engine blocks as the child picked up the feces of the miniature gorilla. The engines resembled longtime dying friends in a dark forest with many eyes all made of Franklin Mint plates. He recalled how the Franklin Mint had once made this plate with starving, emaciated Third World children being fed sandwiches with ketchup, sand and a touch of mustard. This didn’t go over very well.

He watched the speaker as he spoke to a near-empty piazza. Empty, except for the dreamer, the engine blocks, the young child, and the miniature gorilla as the only listeners. He felt like he was inside of this building holding a gun, or maybe he was the gun. Either way, he lined up his shot and launched a bullet directly towards his own toothbrush moustache. Just before the bullet hit, his perspective changed and he was in his own body. He was jolted awake, be gone.

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Particles Act Like Waves

Thursday, January 8, 2009

bellamy_salute

The kitchen was of a timid shade of blue. Stacked on top of old newspapers sat his hot plate. In his dreams he often saw those newspapers burn a whole through the floor, falling clumsily on his nosey neighbor’s head while she was baking. Headlines would read “Woman Killed by the News.” That’s probably sensational enough to make it. Obama winning the presidency, the coming recession, the burst of the housing bubble, Anna Nicole Smith, Rupert Murdoch’s acquisition of the Wall Street Journal and those good ol’ boys dead in Fallujah. Outside of the newspapers, which despite their perfectly placed stack gave an air of disaster, everything else was neat and organized. He had exactly what he needed. One of everything as far as cookware. One fork, one knife, one spoon, one bowl, one plate, one cooking pot etc. One of everything placed neatly and perfectly on tarnished metal racks. His kitchen had all the necessities for a single man with tendencies for hallucinations and a predilection for hoarding newspapers and hurting strangers.

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The Times

Monday, December 22, 2008

watts-riots

It happened, by human standards, forever ago. Enough time for millions of lives to come and go. A fictionalized account of why we’re all bad, bad little boys and girls. Much like Herr Klaus watching and judging us in these postlapsarian times, they watch and judge with a promise of the greatest gift. Maybe we need to be rewarded on a constant basis for our own humanity. Once a year, twice a month, or at least with greater frequency than never in life, but only in death.

We struggle for our lives. The secret was and always has been we have life. It’s just what to do with it and how to keep it (or at least how to end it on our own terms) that is the problem.

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Tan in the Winter

Saturday, December 20, 2008

smooth_criminal_patent

They crept up from behind and hit the victim hard in the head. He went down like building 7. Inside of his head he wept.

“The foyer to the hotel was like something out of a country woman’s mind who lived in Miami, authentic in thought and instinct but false in execution. Dark wood panels, a country fireplace with stockings hung, but flanked by plants with palm fronds. It even had a menacing 12-point buck’s head hung carefully on one wall. The victim became fascinated with it. Its mouth was forever placed in a placid yet oxymoronic state of menace. His eyes, now of glass, gave the same stare seen, and often ignored, in the faces of experimenting teenagers and adult junkies alike. The look meant they were somewhere in reality and somewhere else at the same time. Those eyes meant they were alone in a world of pleasure and thinking no one else knew. His fur, though real, seemed as fake as the eyes. He could almost feel it with his tongue. The sensitivity of the victim’s gustatory organ remained fixated on the texture. It was rough and dead like straw but perfectly placed like a brand new haircut combed to the left.

Outside in the adjoining field of frosty green grass lay his guitar in four pieces. The bridge had been torn off in two parts in some egregious act of vandalism. The body, left with nothing to give it breath, was alone. The strings curled in a wild mess and were sharp from where the head had been ripped from the bridge. The victim collected the pieces and found a new Fender in a soft case in his hands instead. Things worked this way and made sense in his head full of tears.”

When the victim opened his eyes again he saw the man over him like some hulking, stupid, brute. His eyes looked glassed over and hungry for blood. The woman could barely control her infernal squealing. He thought he would not have to hear that sound again for at least 6 years. His training and time alone would have prepared him better for this, but he still would have allowed himself to be the victim. It could have been today, yesterday or next decade, the results would be the same. He was a martyr of ill consent. He consented to be the victim, but his aggressors thought they had the power although they were sick with it. They, drunk from the power he had bestowed on them, wanted to give themselves more. They were hungry, but the victim knew what he was doing. He just laid there and made it seem like he was too disoriented to express pain. He would give them power, but he WOULD NOT leave them sated. The couple ripped and clawed between his legs until they collected their chalice. They held his genitals in their greedy grasp and drank the blood from it. He hoped this would quench them, but he knew what was next. He didn’t make a sound as they cut off his head and gnawed on his spinal column. He knew the power given the usurpers was finite and he would always return. He existed outside of that body and would return from the dirt and walk from the trees to do this over and over again until they get it right. Maybe next time will be the last time.

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A Study on Familial Behaviour in Homo Sapiens

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

She nagged, she nagged, she nagged. She was nagging so much it made his eyes twitch with uncomfortable social pain and she wasn’t even his Mother. Even though he felt discomfort, he knew the girl was more uncomfortable than he. He was sure she didn’t want to sit next to her Mother, what with the way she was carrying on, but lucky for the young girl the Matriarch was too fat to even fit next to her. As he watched her occupy the seat made for two directly in front of her Mother, he could almost hear the girl’s eyes rolling and smell her inward teenage resentment. The girl couldn’t have been any older than fifteen and he wasn’t exactly sure what he was feeling when he looked at her. He did know he felt wrong though. He wasn’t really thinking any impure thoughts, in the Catholic sense, yet he still felt sinful. By now, it had become a habit to just go ahead and feel guilty about everything he did or felt.

After years of formal training in shame and self-punishment, these sorts of habits are hard to break. After years of being smacked by women in habits on various body parts with a ruler, it was ingrained into his psyche. His ass could still feel the burn from “the ruler incident” all those years ago. He wondered how many submissives Mother Superior had created. How many times had boys perfected the proper give-and-take of faked tears and non-response to prolong the punishment?

Once her Mother was settled and the lights dimmed, he moved to the seats in front of her. He took his notepad out of his jacket pocket and wrote, “Hi, does your Mother always bug out like this?” onto one of its pages.

He propped it open with a pen and passed it back to her through the separation of the two seats he occupied. She responded, “Yes, it’s sooo embarrassing.”

He tried to ignore the small cutesy heart she used to dot her ‘I.’ It made his stomach hurt, but she’s young. She’ll learn and plus he had no time for thinking, he had to react. He decided to just get it off his chest once and for all. He had known this certain fact for quite some time. The rest of the world had no clue, but everyone had always told him, “You’re wrong.”

“You’re delusional,” they would say, “There is no way to even know this. And even if there was and you can’t avoid it, as you say, why worry about it?”

He had already predicted her response, but he went ahead with it anyway. He wrote, “If I told you I knew the exact second the World was going to end would you take my word for it?”

His note pad returned through the cracks baring no response.

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