(Author’s note – Sorry for the delay.)
Reggie was playing PS4 when Jackson opened the garage door. He looked ridiculous in his full black sweat suit and face paint, and Reggie couldn’t avoid making a jab at him.
“Did you pull off the heist, hamburglar?”
“Uh-huh. We got a plan now man, we are going to help Ethan and find out what happened to Maggie. Ms. Halverson might know something, and giant Todd too.”
“Pretty sure my mom’s new boyfriend and his pig friends will do that, but I suppose you guys have an equal chance of solving the case. That dumb motherfucker wants to vote for Trump. At least, I think. He seems like a republican, right?”
“Yea, yea, how was dinner man? That had to be awkward.”
Apricot n’ copper sea glass lampshade
with enough light to hint at the mellow buzz
Left by the barrels of red wine, the
Wood wrung onto a group of Maenad’s
Dark hair, the men getting drunk off the aroma.
In a town like Deercliff there are no secrets. In the days following the assault of Maggie Nice, Sheriff Boyer made it her job to cultivate this small-town share-all mindset. She did not have to do very much before she was swimming in a proverbial sea of (mis)information.
Todd waved the police car in. Officers Bishop and Parker got out, both rushing to the passed out Maggie. An ambulance was only seconds behind, and the paramedics quickly took command, leaving the two cops to pacing the scene rapidly. Bishop made a slight gagging sound and sat down on the curb while Parker sent in a call to dispatch. Todd quickly walked inside, tapping Kate gently on the shoulder and pointing her towards the responders on the scene. He headed back to the dishwashing station as the officers entered the diner. Tyler, The Creator’s baritone voice barked out the words, “rape a pregnant bitch” and Todd smacked the speaker system, a small yelp leaving his lips. He hadn’t realized he was crying until looking at the blurry lights on his iPod as he shut it off. From the front of the house he heard Bishop say his name, and Kate’s high-pitched response.
It was the incestual bleating of banjos and the girls with daddy’s disappointment on their breath that brought me to this town – I wish I was born after pop-punk so my pseudo-sadomasochism meant something – do I self-deprecate myself? I self-deprecate myself – wanting to be useful, I made myself into a hammer and hid amongst the rust at the back of the shed – with a river for a cock I freeze each winter and let Spring’s breasts tame me into a child again – my kind are rotting, after years of salt water and blood – I only drink to wash out the taste of Pompeii – while the cool kids learned how to make it I just begged for forgiveness – something about jazz makes me wish I could just scream about how cold I am – If I died tonight my death rattle would sound like train cars locking, a yawp to blow the house down – The wind of my eyes sets fire to all the pine beetles, whose sour pincers have embedded in my tattoos – All burnt up, I stumbled into a community garden and spread myself over your mother’s artichokes –
This one’s for you, you spat out brat,
The result of Big Bank’s lovers feud with pop culture
Oh, misguided child of the ivy leagues,
Post-modern hyper-capitalist cool cat,
This one’s for you.
My gifted succubus, straight from hell
Her hands red, flow over my head
splice skull, into infinite thought well
augured toxic fate, straight from hell
she flew on black wings and said
don’t you have a story to tell?
You came in on a puff of insomnia
fever dream, You are my fever
sweats, eyes rolling
Locked away in a mythical trailer
amongst high Cascadia’s foggiest morning,
I’m a sucker for an entrance,
red sequin dress torn stockings holy grail,
“I’m not usually so baroque &
do you still have those pictures of Me &
I know you do.” Continue reading
I think I got drunk and tried to recreate Midsummers Night’s Dream by the Bard as a younger man.
Enter, stage left,
A procession of gnomes
Miniscule green legs bound in woven leaves,
Bare chests rattling,
Grasping desperately for air
As they chant
“What won’t you do,
what won’t you do,
Yes, yes, you,
Tell us, tell us,
What won’t you do?”
The following story is direct kin of another short story to be found on this site, Wickedly Wild
“What would you do you do when your stalker moves on?
For me, I turned to porn. Just conventional stuff. You know, some lady, probably 28, playing some 18-year-old strumpet, sucking dick so hard her slobber is dripping down onto her tits, the camera. Those undercarriage shots, ya know. just a man’s asshole and balls and veiny porn-staple cock, and drool. Its gotta be fake drool. A mouth full of lube to deal with the ferocious acting. That kinda thing. I really liked it when the guy would go down of the chick. The starlet. I ain’t a feminist, not by a long shot, and see this is why. Going down on a chick ain’t giving her power, I ain’t a pussy Muslim turning to Mecca to pray. I’m showing her how I got power over her, ya know. I’m a good person because I eat pussy. That’s all society demands of me to be better than your average red-meat tom brady run-ada-mills. “
“What the fuck you telling her about porn for, she asked how you got here.”