I Am The Victory!

 

So I get to Lebanon Ohio (Home of Paramounts Kings Island and not much else)

Stayed at the Hampton Inn (Nice place, They had HBO)

I get to the Court house at 8 a.m. the next day…

Waited around… wached people come in and out

wondering who the guy is that sued me.

(Yes, I’ve never met him before, nor do I know what he Looks like… Still don’t actually)

The Lawyer lady, caught traffic coming from Cincinnati

So she doesn’t get there till almost 9 (When the actual Trial Starts)

Stress Much? Yeah, I went through alot of cigerattes and got to know the security Cops at the metal detector pretty well…

Anyways,

The Guy apparently Dropped the suit, because he wasn’t there.

Instead the Wife is there and lots of legal mumbo jumbo I don’t even understand because she dropped her suit against me like a year ago…

anyways the Judge ends up taking the lawyers into his room, While the lawyer lady tells me to go through the Jury considerations

(So, I’m looking at all these files of paper, like what the hell and am I doing)

(Apparently I’m looking for highly conservative men with a college education and older women with children my Age, So I just checked yes or no on these little boxes the entire time)

And then They came out and the judge called the lady into His office (Layed the Smack Down)

And Then It was All Over…

Don’t ask me Specifically what Happened.

Crazy Finally Imploded I guess.

(i’m just glad I didn’t have to sit through a long boring Trial, trying to look sympathetic to a bunch of people I don’t know and would probably hate for various benign reasons, mostly boredom)

I’ve basically just been Drinking in Dayton Ohio for Three Days because I had a Free Hotel Room.

(Indoor Pool too)

Also I’ve discovered the most wonderful brand of Cig’s

Marshall McGearty Artisan Tobacco’s

They taste so Good…

Really, The Rose and The Earl

They Smell amazing, the smoke is so aromatic

(I’ve gotten alot of comments on them, and that alone is worth the extra price)

So Now I No Longer have to worry about Smoking and Kissing someone,

Because my Mouth Tastes like Roses Smell. Literally.

(which I suppose is kind of a weird reverse of senses)

Oh well

Life is Pretty Damn Good.

-The End-

 

Tongue, Spittle, Saliva, Sex?

 

 

hmm

I Went out to a bar tonight,

Had a pretty good time…

But I’m somewhat paranoid now,

I ended up making out with someone

And their Tongue tasted wrong…

Not horrible, just … off… strange… wrong.

I ended up, scurrying away to do two shots of Vodka, to wash my mouth out with…

But now, I’m worried about what my own tongue tastes like…

Because I’ve never actually bothered to think about It.

I just kind of took it for granted…

(Mouth Wash, Scrub the tongue with the brush for a few seconds after brushing)

But I smoke… so

What If my Tongue has a bizarre taste to it…

(I’ve kissed plently of smokers, and its just that lovely warm tobacco taste…)

(But who knows)

Anyway…

Drunk, 5:30…

Got invited on a date to the Knoxville Opera…

(Didn’t even know there was such a thing)

Met a bunch of people…

Surprisingly good night…

Except for … The Tongue…

So Yeah…

Its never caused any problems before… But paranioa about what my tongue tastes like

Is yet another reason to quite smoking, I guess…

Blah, Hows someone even supposed to know if their tongue, tastes weird…

(I didn’t mention it, now I feel like I Should of… “scrub!” maybe, or mention those Tongue scrapper things… I don’t know)

I’ve never actually been in that situation before…

Awkward.

(blah, no romance in tennessee I guess)

-thend-

This is the short story version of a comic I’m trying to sell right now.

(It would really speed up the process if I Could find a drawer to do the art)

(As most of the indie comic publishers only deal when the whole team has already gotten togethor, instead of linking a writer to an artist themselves.) (lazy bastards)

The comic version begins much different to this one…

(You have no idea how the mutilated rabbit skin man with the large knife, came to be the way he is)

So what was basically back story filler, to be interjected from time to time, somehow became the beginning, in its short story form.

I don’t really like this peice, but I have nothing else to post… so

Read it if you want, I would greatly appreciate suggestions…

(I’ll probably gutt it though, Make the Third Section which isn’t posted here the first section and rewrite everything else.)

blah…

1. The King of Nails

   “Please forgive me, then forget me. Please… me, please me.”

   The words slip through the air like a wool scarf gently wrapping its way around his throat. He wonders where the words came from, he tries to look around but his head wobbles and his eyes seam to drift apart and the world spins. He can’t feel his body at all and that’s when he realizes the words came from his own mouth. Why am I talking he thinks… and then clumsily reaches for another Cheeto. The plastic bag is covered in dried blood and nearly empty, it crunches vulgarly as his hand digs its way inside.

   He’s tall and lanky and his face is young. It’s a strange sort of face. The lips and eyebrows are feminine but his nose and chin are entirely masculine. A butt chin people called it, it was the chin of Moses and Charleston Hesston. He lies in a pool of his own blood; some dried the rest puddled and waiting to coalesce. Why am I bleeding he thinks, and then tears run down his face. He was a delicate boy as a child, the kind prone to crying over dead kittens in the street. The kind who generally are not meant for this world and are either slowly chipped away by it or in the end wind-up doing the chipping themselves. It’s been a week since Chaucer died. An overdose from the black tar heroin he left at the other boy’s house and forgot. The daydreams, gibberish and magic spells he had filled his life with, were in the end responsible for killing the only friend he had. And in other words, He was solely responsible for Chaucer’s death.

    Chaucer’s parents had called a dozen times each day since the body was found. He never answer the phone though. Just stared at the blinking number and took more pills till the sound wasn’t quite so horrible anymore. The voice mails kept piling and piling up. The number blinked 102 the last time he bothered to look. He’s been on a cocktail of DXM and codeine for a week now. Somehow he managed to climb his way to the top of a stairwell compartment sticking out like a cube at the top floor of a parking garage. That was over three days ago now. None of the cars coming in or out daily are capable of seeing him on his little square concrete island. He hears them and wonders about their lives. The magical one minute conversations of business men and clerks as they make their way to their cars. The blood has long since run over the side but no one really uses the stairwell here anyway.

        The night sky looms panoramic around him, all twinkling and haze. He thinks about the cough syrup running through his veins, has he bled that out too? Should he lap it up and keep the fugue alive and kicking? Dextromorphine-Hbr was first developed as a full body anesthetic for the Vietnam War, It worked wonderfully except for the fact it was also a potent hallucinogen at the levels needed for it to work. Now they put it in cough syrup. Ironically enough as these thoughts were stumbling their way through his mind; that’s when he happened to notice the giant white rabbit floating upside down in the air before him.

       Loose clots of dirt fell casually from the grassy hole upside down above the rabbit. He watched transfixed as the clumps of dirt landed on the rabbit’s plump belly and rolled down along its neck before continuing their fall to the concrete below. The rabbit’s fur was magnificent shining there in the night air. Shades of gray streaking through the white and it even had a cute little monocle in one eye. He stared in awe for what felt like a curious eternity but was probably only a couple of seconds. Then he reached up and offered it a Cheeto.

       “Run.” It said.

       That’s odd he thought, and then jokingly pondered if maybe the rabbit wanted to eat him. It did not. It was scarred of its giant rabbit mind. He didn’t notice this however, for in his drug and blood loss induced fugue, he was lucky he had noticed the rabbit at all. The upside down hole in the air above them suddenly shook violently. Dirt poured down around them. The sound that came echoing out pounded like needles through his body. Needles of hot metaphorical jizzim, that needless to say, stung his eyes like salt and lemonade. It sounded like Alice in Wonderland… agonized… mad, giving birth: all blood, tears and spit to the most dreadful of machinery. The rabbit flipped in the air, righting itself to the horizon of this world and bolted over him and down the side of the stairwell compartment. Its clawed feet skittering with a thud across the cement as its reached the ground. He watches dumbfounded as the rabbit leaps like a diver into the air and vanishes down another dirt hole that had somehow appeared in the cement floor below it.

       The sound grew louder and the dirt rained down around him like a flurry. Strange voices began fucking their way into his mind.

      “Gods are a disease” the voices say. Their language is a pummeling emotion of pleading and hating and yearning. He scrapes feebly at the his ears and the violation going on inside.

       “Yes, you’re not wrong. This conversation is Rape.” They say. Then rust and toasters and prosthetic metal faces pour out of the rabbit hole upon him. The rust and nails and evil house hold appliances gush like a flood quickly drowning him in their madness. Their force pushes him off the edge of the compartment and he hits his back with a sick popping sound on the cement floor below. His arms and legs stop responding as he’s slowly pushed across the floor towards the other rabbit-hole. A sacrilegious dilapidated waffle iron smackingly gumming his face the entire way.

       “We love you. We love you.” The voices say, penetrating him without remorse or a condom. He screams gibberish and meaningless syllables into the air.

      “ waffle cones!”

      Rusty things pour into his mouth and his voice becomes like a razor cutting its way out. A thousand pleas for help surge uselessly through his body and he shits and wets himself without noticing. The suffocating scent of metal engulfs him and a taste like muffled flowers chokes its way through his mouth. He hears just one thing before he blacks out.

     “There is only one Truth to Existence. With an infinite amount time and an infinite amount space… anything and everything Will Happen. I am the Chicken of the Future, the flying Pig of Now.”

      The words pound into him, crushing his mind and his will and his hope. He almost smiles as consciousness leaves him. The voices lick his soul to sleep and He tumbles down the rabbit-hole a limp paper doll, covered with rust and blood and nails and toasters and things which should not be but are. He vanishes like he was never here at all. Nothing left of him but blood stains and a bag Cheeto’s floating in the wind. The next day a random business man will answer his discarded phone and Chaucer’s mom will pour all her rage and hate into him. He will listen stunned and bewildered and for him, the smell of blood and rust that lingered in the air will never leave. He will never understand why.

  2   I am Become Death the Shatterer of Worlds

      Bizarre and meaningless words poke their way through his mind, stirring him to life again. The air surrounding him is warm and comforting, the sweet smell of flowers and meat gently tickling his taste buds. A dream, it had all been a dream. He opens his eyes. Pure unfiltered darkness gushes into his soul. He is blind with it, choking and gasping for escape he crawls skittish across the warm velvet ground. A choir of ill children suddenly bursts into song.

      “Kill ah saw— kill ah, kill ah saw awe awe! Kill ah saw kill ah kill ah awe.” Their voices are sweetly rancid. The burning scent of maple fucking hickory stretches across the room. All around him red eyes bloom like roses. A horizon of red eyes stretching into the heavens like stars, furling and blooming with dripping lusty tears. The tears are glowing red embers raining infinitely into the past and the future. They reveal in their sickly glow a billion atrocities, ghosts like phantoms of wrong flashing and disappearing only to reappear as something even worse. The room is like a world, taffeta and velvet deep as forest. The wind, black lace and frills gently enfolding hate and pain and the mournful faces of everyone and all. He screams but his voice doesn’t come from inside him, He hears his painful screeching from far off, miles away in the distance.

      The giant white rabbit lies steaming a few feet away from him. Its eyes are dead and black. Its once beautiful fur torn from it in great patches of skin and blood. It lays there completely bare, nothing but veins and muscle and sinew. The sight so vulgar, such an absolute heresy to beauty that tears gush violently out his eyes, large splattering gobs of salt and pain. Its cute little monocle lying shattered near his left hand.

     “What are you!” he screams, the sound echoing its way to him from far away.

     “I am the Ugly. The  Correction. The Never imaginable mystery of absolute stillness descends. The Home of Light a Rainstorm. I am words that would then go here. The Metal teeth like carousels. I am Love. I am Love. I am Love. Unrequited. I am the Ghost of Christmas Never, I am… The King of Nails.” The voice booms in a way of a million drums.

     “What do you want from me!” desperation and hopeless madness crunching and squawking from the far away voice that isn’t his own.

     “Sniffing lunar dust, injecting rust, All I want to do… Is Disco Machine Gun.” The voices laugh as millions of dying children.

     “I want to carry your heart. I want to carry your heart in my heart. Become mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. I think I would like that. Yes. I’m quite sure I would. I’ve always wanted a pet rabbit. So repeat after me, what you know in your head that you should be, are, and become.” The voice surrounds him like unrepentant seduction and naughty touches in places only gods can touch. His knees are weak and he’s horrified by the fact that he has an erection. The scent of steaming rabbit meat like a wonderful soupy carrion wafts into his mind and he vomits retching and coughing from all around him. He can hear the nails as they clink their way toward him. The clinking scratching of without hope and suddenly he’s saying the words that he knows he shouldn’t.

        “I am become Death, the Shatterer of Worlds.” He’s almost shocked as the voice is his own instead of some far away echo. What transpired next though, even he’s not quite sure of. It’s a memory that is rusted in his mind. Holes and dilapidated visions. The nails went in and ever since, no matter how hard he’s tried, he can’t get the nails out. The nails won’t come out. The only thing for certain is that the patches of fur from that great white rabbit were nailed into him. Covering him. Masking who he was and is. His face is the rabbits face now. The ears gray white and floppy. Even his fingers are patched with fur and ever so tiny nails. The rabbit smells like roses but the scent of rust corrupts it all.

      He is a man who looks like a mutilated horrifying cartoon bugs bunny. And for him the future is only rape, pills and torture. A decade, a century, an eternity, who can say how many years go by in a blur of dead worlds and the changeless view from his cage. He is kept like a pet, a servant and fuck toy. He watches with hollow eyes as The King of Nails descends absolute stillness upon world after world after world.

4. Kirby the Knife

    The King of Nails was true to its word to the boy. He was kept in a blackened cast iron cage deep in its heart. It was a room laced with red strands of velvet and taffeta, intricate and sacred beyond all knowledge. The cage was his entire existence, that and the malevolence that permeated everything. His only clue to the outside and what might be happening there where only emotions and vague feelings which pulsed throughout the room and translated themselves into an odd sort of understanding. The ugly was spreading, reaching out across worlds and universes. It was correcting the mistakes of gods and men alike. It was turning everything to stillness.

   There were guards that watched him daily. Renaissance dandies, punks and Wall Street brokers, they seamed to dress differently each day. Their faces were like a muddled mistake of human expression. He was never really sure if they were sentient beings. They treated him poorly enough, so he decided to hate them just the same, whether their actions were their own or not. Dolls of Disney princes and princesses littered the room, which they fucked brutally and with reckless abandon. They taunted him hourly with bizarre poetry and holy edicts of malediction.

    He grew to love the cage, it was beautiful, charred and with delicate features. He would sit there for hours his hand curled around one of the curved bars. His mind escaping from the torture and madness back to his childhood or some inner secret fantasy. He came to learn over those many long years, that while animals fornicated directly… with gods it was an entirely different matter. Tender violations and tortures and shame, were driven into him. It was penetration of a completely different sort. They were sacred rituals of domination and gentle cruelty, exploding orgasms of blood and something like semen which flooded the room daily. He had long ago forgotten what his name was or what his face looked like underneath the rabbits face nailed onto his own. His life was hollow and incomplete but he didn’t really remember anything else. His life before the fall down the rabbit hole was little more then a dream or a ghost that lingered at the edge of his perception. His life was a never ending dull hell.

   Then one day, the large door at the end of the room opened and the devil himself walked through. His eyes were swirling abstract beauty, like a Rorschach test. His face hidden behind a simple painted metal mask, a thousand shades of white and one long black smile. He wore a sharp cut tattered black suit with a blazing red dress shirt underneath. His feet clinked like china when he walked and the sound was delicate and stroking, it hummed into the boy’s bones with joy. Behind him an upside down top hat floated midair. A creature of swirling amorphous jelly or fire shaped like a tear drop with arms floated out of the hat. It had a black belt around what he supposed was its waste and a jester hat on top of its not quite head. Boxing gloves were stuck on the ends of its beefy amalgam-us arms and they twitched with a sense of anticipation.

    “Hello, my name is Mr. Happy.” The perpetually smiling masked man quipped.

    “And this fellow at my side, goes by Kobober.” The dandies and guards were completely still, mid-hump with the Disney dolls, staring in abject surprise. They had all been here an eternity and they had never once seen anyone else. They didn’t even know there was a door there. Mr. Happy took a few more steps in, his eyes exaggeratedly scanning the room. The guards and the boy watched him intently, a mixed expression of shock and glee buttered across their faces.

      “Now, good sirs, I’m only going to explain this so that you know what’s going on… and also because… I find it lacks affect if the victims are ignorant of its true charms.” Mr. Happy beamed with pride.

      “When I say the word ‘cut’, after this first time of course, a random limb or protrusion of form will be severed from each of your mongrel bodies. Except for you of course.” Mr. Happy stared right into the boy’s shame, causing him to flinch and cast his eyes to the ground.

       “Cut”

        The room was silent for only a fleeting second and then erupted into howls and yowling agony. Blood shot from severed limbs in gushing fountains of syrupy foaming red. The guards scrambled in pain along the ground, as Mr. Happy merely walked on.

       “Cut, Cut, Cut, Cut.”

       At the end of it, the guards were little more then silent abstract art. Heads rolled along the ground, bizarre vulgar expressions forever left to linger. The blood pooled thick and coated the room, Mr. Happy’s feet splashed with finality as he reached the cage. He stared right at the rabbit for what felt like an eternity and then suddenly cocked his head at an odd angle and thrust it violently forward, the metal clang reverberating like laughter as his face met the cage.

       “Hello, Little Bunny.” He peered at the boy.

       “Right now, a family of four sits at a dinner table eating. They are perfectly happy living out the ideal life. But very soon, milk will pour out of the father’s mouth. There on his face the smile of fates plan will become clear, it will creep from ear to ear. And six minutes from then, from now, that father will murder every one of them dead. And the oldest child, a girl named Cherrie, will be sent tumbling down times dreary well. She will be on her way to becoming the next bride for the King of Nails. The sacrament of his entry into the world you don’t remember.”

      “Why are you telling me all this?” asked the boy.

       “Because, little bunny, now that I’ve freed you I thought you might feel obliged to listen.”

     The cage door clinked open as if in response.

       “Oh, and little bunny, if you do manage to save her… Tell her she would have gotten hit by a bus, anyway.”

       “Why? How can I save her?” the thought of freedom or standing against the King of Nails had never even crossed the boys mind.

       “Hmmm, you’re completely right, you don’t even know who, or, what you are. You don’t even have a name. And after all, a hero’s only as good as his name.” Chirped Mr. Happy, his fingers delicately stroking the patterns on the open cage door.

        “How do you know I don’t have a name!? I have a name…” The feeling of how useless and pathetic he truly was saturated itself across the boys face.

       “Ha! Don’t worry… I’ll give you a name. How about… Kirby, Kirby the Knife.” Almost on cue a large serrated dagger fell from the Happy Man’s hand and sank hilt deep into the floor beside the boy. Its handle was crude leather and the steel of the blade black and coarse like sandpaper. When the boy reached to pull it from the floor, it came loose like the iron ground around it was little more then butter. A smile spread across rabbit boy’s lips.

         “Kirby… the Knife… I think I like that.” And with that the boy stepped out of the cage he had been in for over a thousand years.

          “Oh, one last thing… and… this is important so remember it well.” Again the happy man’s gaze bored directly through the boy causing him to flinch involuntarily. He felt as if the Happy Man knew all the terrible things done to him… and even worse the fact that he had grown to enjoy some of the degradation.

          “Life was a snow globe, little bunny, that God cracked into pieces many, because the fake snow tasted better than eating crayons.”

     And with that the Happy Man and his helper were gone. A cool breeze began blowing gently in from the large door at the end of the room. It was a sirens call compared to the suffocating heat of the cage. An impossible smile spreading across the boys lips he began to hum softly to himself. And so it was, that with music on his tongue, Kirby the Knife walked out of the heart of The King of Nails forever. If he had bothered to look back, he might have seen the carousels like metal teeth smiling at him from there in the darkness.

5. Santa Sangre Cherrie   

Hmmm

No

I’m not dead, I’ve just been rather busy.

Tore out my Closet and Rebuilt it (Lots of Shelves and two neato shoe racks)

Gutted the Garden, so thats ready for planting when it warms up alittle more…

Ummm

Oh and I’m getting sued for 180,000$ dollars this Monday!

It all starts way back when I was 18 and got in a minor car accident.

(Cracked my Front Lights, thats all) the car infront of me had no damage at all,

But apparently the force of my collision had driven them to bumping the car infront of them, so the lady who was driving that van sued me for… acouple hundred thousand, claiming that the car accident had caused all these serious medical conditions.

Well that went on for 3 years, but the case eventually went away, because she had already sued for workmans comp over these same medical condition a year before the accident even happened.

Thereby making her an evil greedy bitch. Case CLOSED.

Only now her husband is sueing me, because the damage I (Didn’t) Cause ruined their marriage or something like that, and any way he wasn’t getting any sex so that Deserves me paying him 180Grand.

Whelp, I get to go back to dayton and watch the trial all expenses paid….

so it should be interesting…

(I’m not to worried, about losing and going bankrupt)

 

Anyways, I’m drunk, and theres a story below which, was a comic script some of you’ve read, and currently I’m tinkering around to try and turn into a serial…

But I’m just not happy with it, so

Its on Xanga

(Where all stories, that can’t make money, go to die!)

Boy follows the white rabbit down the rabbit hole, the evil thing chasing the rabbit, catches both of them, tears apart the rabbit and nails its fur into the boy, turning him into a mutilated version of bugs bunny…

Boy is then kept as its pet.

Meanwhile, evil things conquers world after world.

His current conquest however, is being slowed down by a Tin Soldier, defending the last remaining town, and another God, The Saint of Nooses.

Also, the Devil has hijacked his bride to be (The Brides being, the sacrement that allows it passage onto the next world.

And Anyway, its basically a hopeless battle of three people against the endless horrors of the King of Nails, and the bitchy, vile people, of the town their trying to save from destruction.

Its not really working out for me though, because it works beautiful as a comic, but for some reason isn’t molding itself the way i’d like it to the more literary medium.

-thend-

Tiga, Is the Best DJ on the Planet. -Thend-

 

Delight me

        sodden

(Backward Forward)

Shine-y

Bearsskin

Shoes

(Trodden))))All rapping and knocking)))approve

Stunned

   MOuth

pOised

ButtOn pressed      )nOise

*but*

(my heart held tight

                 t)o(its)j(oy

 

How

Can he

                    pose the Air?

(rasing tilt()likedie——-

be ((tethered(dew (a puddles)Calm(((((((((

converse               the smell of

hay, Her hair is Mussed?!

And Hes Molted while tying strings!

whisper garden)@(picked) desire)

stirring) stretches of

         Change

With gashing + kiddo Yawn

(There was a Lady whose Name (was

(( Big Sound

That even gOd himself

did scarcely

 

 Bare.

 

(full moon?)

(a little hair?) (curly little black piggy-tail hair of gaudy god-Y moon bare)

(wtf)(Tila Tequila)

(The TV is as Evil as Take your Shoes off!)!@!#$$(*)U%

I Stood on Water.

 

 

                                                                                                       (But

                                                                                                        Traded it

                                                                                                         For a Chair.)

 

 

(Thend)

————

And Yes

I’m quite sure that Tila Tequila is the Apocalypse.

(This Post is dedicated to the Shows. Shot at Love with Tila Tequila (on MTV) and My (Big Fat) Red Neck Wedding (On CMT)

-The End-

p.s. she totally should have went with Danny.

So many Tiny Little Hands are Coming for You…

 

 I found these old notes on a story I was planning on writing but never did and I Found them amusing so maybe you will too.

 

(its just loose notes strung togethor, basically a skeleton of a story)

 

And since I really have nothing else to post, This will just have to do.

 

-The End-

 

 

———————————-

   A shadow loops slowly around and around.

A nightmare of pain, sadness and self-damning relief…

Playing over and over again, static in my mind.

My Mother hangs from an electric cord tied tight and strong onto a heavy old wood ceiling fan.

It screeches like dead fingernails racked slowly across some endless blackboard as it carries her in slow agonizing circles around the ceiling.

 

I am sixteen.

 

But in my dreams of that scene.

I am a little boy again.

 

I read her suicide note slowly… with the soft unmarred voice of my childhood.

 

Every word Invokes memories.

Some I shouldn’t even have.

 

“It’s Not death if you Refuse it…”

 

“Do toasters believe in God?”

 

“Do you?”

 

 

 “My cherished boy. Baptized and Anointed, from his very first breath in his loving mothers blood.”

 

I don’t remember my birth… does anyone?

But

I dream about it.

 

Years before I was born…

My mother was Stabbed 11 times

(I don’t know why or when.)

Only that the damage caused was supposed to render her unable to have children.

 

I was born anyway it seams. Impossibility be damned.

 

And in my Dreams of that night

(And it Always… always is at night)

The Nurses are Screaming

And the Doctor’s eyes are Wide and strained and empty.

Everyone is covered in blood.

And my mother holds me and sings

 

“You are my angel of fire, of blood.

         My special little Hollow eyed Knight”

 

    She would whisper that too me when I was younger as she danced around our small dirty Kitchen. Her eyes were always wild with a crazy smile upon her lips…. She would dance Palms up with Butcher knives Balanced blade down and embedded deep into her hands.

 

I would Hide in the closet.

 

“Her Children walk on velvet feet

And they make no sounds at all;

And in Gods eye’s… they nightly sit

To watch the darkness fall.

She dreams the beauty of mans atrocities

And lies in wait for you.

Whose lips are as still as hers?

Whose kiss as soft as fur?”

 

“Pain is never something that you should feel.

When it nocks Simply do not answer the door.

And its sister Fear…

She is a whore who only goes where she is invited.

Simply forget her name.

For they, are gifts to be Bestowed only upon others…

Fear.

Fear and

Pain.”

 

 

There is snow falling.

And the night glows softly under winter chimes.

Cherrie is crying into my lap.

My fist is clenched so hard at my side that blood trickles out and leaves dainty markings in the snow.

She’s looking up at me

Her eyes are so bright they feel like they could scald me.

I kiss her forehead…

She’s a girl with a broken jaw

That her own father gave to her.

 

My eyes are Filled with murder

And she is no longer there.

It is only me

A Baseball bat

And the shadows…

My God the shadows…

 

That was the first Time

I ever killed someone.

 

I was 12 years old.

 

 

“Looking down from the Cross…

           I wonder what you see…

                         My hallow eyed knight”

 

Cherrie.

Her smiling face.

Her grandmother makes the most wonderful brownies

There is a math test with a bright red A on the refrigerator.

She’s going to make it out of this cold rusty dying town.

I tell her that I’ll always be there if she needs me

And I will— always…

always

Protect her.

Forever

{Only forever?}

Forever

And ever…

 

 

I walk away as the Sun dies and the maw of Darkness slowly swallows her Grandmothers tiny… tiny home.

 

Cherrie…

 

“Oh my Love…

How wonderful is Death,

Death… and Her father sleep.”

 

Cherries Grandmother is crying and wailing and screaming.

But it’s all on mute.

I walk through a house Colored Gray that used to glow so much with warmth and love.

She Sleeps like an Angel

Cherrie…

The Bathroom is only red. Red… and the dullest of Grays.

There are Crosses cut beautifully into her wrists.

And there’s note

Eloquently pinned…

Only Three Words

 

“I’m Sorry”

 

And

 

“Rape.”

 

Only three Names…

 

“Jed.Carl.Sam.”

 

She’s kissed the back of the note in blood.

 

My mothers suicide note rings through my ears again.

 

“Silhouetted against the fall of ash, a beautiful being tall.

  She promises Death and absolution for all her stony Children.

  Can you Taste the Furious adjures of her voice?

  She waits for you, my love…

  Her groom.”

 

Everything is Fevered and Harsh.

Nothing is real.

There is no Color: only white, gray and black…

dancing together madly into chaos.

 

 

My mind slowly dies

Maybe my soul too

And everything fades to darkness.

 

God… You Bastard…

 

She was all softness, Innocence and … That Indescribable kind purity that should exist in every one of us… but doesn’t.

 

You Bastard…

 

Breathing

My breathing

Ragged

Strong.

 

Somewhere a light rises into my fevered dream.

There is Light

I am standing

And I am nothing but hate

There is a Pen in my hand

And then Suddenly There is a Pen in Sam’s neck

And then the pen is in Jed’s leg

and then his chest–

 

—again and again and again and again and again.

 

In Carl’s face there is only fear…

 

But soon it will be filled with pain as well

 

I can hear my mothers voice again…

 

 

 

 

“The kittens play no more,

   All The songbirds are weary,

      The Tulips have all folded up,

         And So many Little Tiny Hands are coming

            For you my dearie.

 

The Children are playing in the dead woods,

The Children are singing in the skeleton town,

They’re all tucked in tight and sleepy

In their burning beds—All a’fire.

Their ashen lips are whispering to you.

Kiss them goodnight, Kiss them goodnight…

my Pretty.”

 

 

“Goodnight- Goodnight my Dearie.”

 

“P.S.

Nuns have many arms

And they crawl like spiders

On the ceiling”

 

 

I dreamt

That Nightmare

Like a flip-book of my life

As the stout black Cadillac of social services

Ferried me from the Dying Rust-belt town of my birth to the small

New-England town of Patricksburg.

The hometown of my Last living relative.

My Great Aunt Scharlet.

 

The town was nothing like the place I had come from.

It was all quaint old world houses, cobble streets, Pine trees and pale blue skies.

 

My new home…

A large dark house looming at the outskirts of town.

Cold gray stones winded their way towards its dark wooden doors.

And my first steps through that maw echoed from every corner of the house like a death groan.

 

My Aunt however was not there to meet me and by the time I turned around the man who had brought me was gone. The sound of dropping my few Possessions at the entrance, thudded and resounded throughout the entire house like it was some endless cave.

 

I shouted to see if she was there and the resulting echo was warped and distorted… I would remember to never do that again.

 

My aunts kitchen was Elegant yet still rustic… She had lots of very large knives hung like trophies throughout it…

The entire place unnerved me.

I found her sitting in the living room. a cup of hot tea on the table beside her, steam dancing slowly through the dusty air.

She sat smiling, wide eyed and tight lipped… Starring at me from her chair.

 

I Introduced myself…

No response.

 

I thanked her for taking me in…

No response.

 

I asked if she was feeling ok…

No response.

 

I stood Silently starring back at her…

No response.

 

I walked up and waved my hand in her face…

No response.

 

Was every member of my Family… Insane?

 

I asked her where my Room was at…

No response.

 

I sat down with huff.

Great…

Great…

I go from an Insane Mother to a Comatose Great Aunt…

I want to lay down… but I don’t where my room is…

What a fucking wonderful life.

 

I picked up my bags and went to look for a guest room to claim as my own.

 

A Library…

A Sewing Room,

A Locked door,

A bathroom,

 

Bingo.

 

The guest room was small and comfy… It reminded me of my old room.

I threw my bags on the bed and began to unpack when there was a creek behind me. As I Turned I could hear her wheezing breath quicken in all to creepy anticipation.

 

She was standing a couple feet into the room right behind me.

Stooped and giving me that eerie unmoving smile again.

 

“Hi… Mrs. Scharlet…”

 

Silence, except for the rapid wheeze of her breathing.

 

“Is it ok if I take this room?”

 

Silence…

 

“Ok… well I think I’m just going to lay down for awhile… It’s been a very long drive.”

 

Still she just stood there smiling and freaking me the hell out.

 

Well at least now I know she’s not an invalid. Although I don’t know how comforting the thought of her being able to move actually is.

 

I gently… yet forceful lead her back out into the hallway and lock my door.

 

I woke up later to a Loud Bell ringing and echoing throughout the house. The sound warped eerily as it traveled.

I followed the Sound to the Kitchen.

My Aunt sat at the Dinner table. Food and dinner were set up and there was a tiny little dog eating out of its dog bowl in the corner.

 

“Oh… Thanks for cooking dinner Mrs. Scharlet.”

 

She responded with a dry crisp voice that almost sounded like a muffled cackle.

 

“Oh Dearie, Call me Auntie.”

 

I was a little shocked that she actually spoke as I sat down at the table.

 

she had already put food out on a plate for me.

 

“How about I just call you Aunt” I said smiling.

 

“ No No No… that won’t do, I must demand that you call me Auntie.”

She said with a deep unnerving undertone of seriousness.

 

I agreed.

 

She didn’t eat.

 

She only watched me watch her, as she watched me eat.

I ate quickly.

 

When I had finished, I thanked her for the lovely meal and scooted back my chair to leave.

 

She however suddenly cocked her head at an odd angle and spouted—

 

“See my Dog?”

 

I kind of looked at her for a moment before responding…

 

“ Yah… um, It’s a cute little dog”

 

She smiled wider and even more crazily.

 

“She’s a Vicious Attack dog… a Trained killer.”

 

I stared at her, a little thrown off…

 

“Well… I better watch out for her then”

 

The dog made a whimpering sound and scurried out of the room.

My aunt’s head returned to its not Cocked state and she cooed

 

“ Yes yes… she has such an unquenchable thirst for blood its amazing”

 

I quickly went back up to my room…

 

-thend-

 

/ I Don’t remember much about that story or where exactly it was Going… (Probably 3-4 years old)

 

I think it had started out as an Idea I had for a movie script, then I decided to turn it into a story… but Got Bored…

 

It had to do with a Burned down Orphanage…

 

and Spider Charcoal Nuns

 

And Little needle teethed Burned Orphan zombie vampire children.

 

(literally, they don’t have teeth, so they’ve jammed sewing needles through their jaws, to Eat with)

 

And it had an Evil Dead Ending, (Because everything must be Desmembered to Stop)

 

And there was a Goddess who he Had to Kill, living in the Church part of the Orphanage…

 

(She wore a White dress and out from under the dress scurried little demon babies with the umbilical cord still attached and I Think they drag him  under the dress screaming and into the darkness of the pit she came from)

 

Anyways, This is a very long post…

 

-The End-

Watched Tombstone This morning,

Reminded me why I like Westerns so Much.

I Prefer the Sergio Leone style

(Tombstone is more american, wholesome, John Wayne, John Ford)

(Although it does have a few classic Leone-ish shots)

(Especially when it came to Doc Holiday)

But I Don’t think that style of Western works considerably well in todays film market.

1 1/2 Minutes stretching to eternity for a Single Bullet to go Flying…

I Don’t know If I’m ever going to see that Again in Modern Film…

And maybe I shouldn’t (things have changed far to much)

But I just can’t shake Liking the whole feel of Sergio’s westerns.

And That Climactic Eternity before the Fire starts is part of that feel.

3-10 to Yuma failed. because it to perfectly re-used that John Ford style.

I Would like the Keep that Feel, of it Being a Western, but still be modern…

I Would Love to see a Leone-Woo hybrid. (And Don’t even Bring up The Quick and the Dead, Muddy Hodge-Podge is no Style at All)

Hmmm

Cormic McArthy’s Novel Blood Meridian (Or The evening Redness in the West)

Is in Production right now

(He’s the Novelist for “No Country for Old Men” and a Nobel prize winning Writer)

And Ridly Scott is Directing It.

So Needless to Say, I’m Excited…

I Hope its good.

The Book is Amazing.

(14 year old Tennessee born Kid winds up on the Texas Border Lands scalping indians for bounty money)

(But Its So much More then That)

Anyways

-The End-

No Glot, come Fliday.

Well / that will be all I do for awhile of the Word hoard (style)…

I’ve gotten more interested in old school:

EE Minimalism:

——-

Her bosom, lengths

 

                             Ex

                                              tend         

                                              ed

(Adam) vs. (Eve) Fruit

tremble s|slightly

                               ! dressed in hunger.

Transparent vein.

Hid | den

Shore

                               Of

White)  Ocean.))

Hard long smile

                                   shock

ing wire

 

throbbing beats               

         my-))

            -((chest((( clawed

Heart.

 

-thend-

————–

or

————-

I step .                                    |in the Dark.

I hit.

a Chair.                                 

There is a Dish breaking.

And Then

There Is Not.

Don’t.                                     |Worry.

I’m never.

Gonna Die.

On You.                                  |else where)))

))though

I’m not

((to sure.)                       |

 

}thend{

————–

Out of Context Conversations:

————-

“I Hope I’m not around when you Try It.”

“Dean” “Dean!” I cried.

“Bar.”

“Wheres the Nearest Bar?”

“Effeminate Car of Forklifts Jousting.”

“I Slump into my chair. Finished.”

-thend-

—————–

And Broken English:mars321

——————

Big Crying.

today is a good day      ths sunshine is cover wtih my body .        

 I saw many people walking on the road

when I recalled my memories     I have thought back many things,     Actually , I should have laid down my unhappy things.

I should have walked with confidence.  I mean , when I step every step on road. I shoule hold my mind without fear.

Last hoilday

a woam was called that she had got  the cancer.  she withdrawed all the money form her account.

she prepared to go a place where she wants to go in early years .

my tears drop down all my face. = =”¡@if  the god was  always not  made jokes to everyone who are miserable. Life still be storied eager

look out looc out

people still happy. dnd  luckly,  all of the dreams of her are become true.

-thend-

 

Anyways, those are the styles I’m going to be fooling with for the next Month.

Word Hoard is End.

-The End-

I Write Heated Gibberish.

 

———————————————————————

 

 

Like

 

Awake sleep Darkness asking Dawn

 

And sinks. Green Star, [Please]Close your Thunderbolts.

 

Glorious Bloodied White Vastness

 

Tell me if the Hands of Men Still.

 

Surrounded electric Glass, Chemical Fire, Collar without Sky

 

His Eyes are) Building            )Daybreak.

 

Shining with Luster

 

Like bleak swords of Sun decay

 

Devourers of Dying Lust, for Contact.

 

His Eyes are a bleeding font to harsh Sweetness

 

Lightening Echoes of Alone-

 

-Cement like Blackened Wire without Mystery.

 

Shouted Promises of Salty Goods

‘and

Smothered Flowers in your Mouth.

 

Idle ghostlyOrb-Syllables of both fear and Tenderness.

 

Incredulous and Unruly Lashes sustained only

 

By Air and Dreams.

 

An Arrow

 

A Thin Throb

 

Perpetually Breaking

 

Peirce.

 

Mouth of Feathers, Supple,

 

Flick of Tongue— Smashing Wound’s of Silent-Awe.

 

Tearing Holes in the Fabric of Could Be

 

His Eyes are) Building            )Daybreak.

 

 

 

 -thend-

 

 

 

 

 

 

In an Attic, in a House, in the Dead of Night

 

Legion Masturbate Kitten of Want.

 

Sealing nimbly the cocky Hat,

 

A walking Torture Chamber; in Shiny Shoes.

 

Circling overhead

 

Tremendous sultry Buzzard, Or Facsimile thereof

 

Consulted

 

shifty Characters

 

Of wait

 

In Battered Suitcases.

 

But

 

The Posters he Had on the Wall

 

are a Blur,

 

They read something Like

 

DO YOUR WORK

WORK

 

 MUSIC                       FUCK

FUCK

WORK.

 

Sucking from a Beautiful long Butt.

 

Fire. Ash. Fire.

 

It was Dusk.

 

And this I Did.

 

Damp Unsympathetic Talk mincing  Delirious

 

Turning to a Paradise

 

Of him

 

Ready to Do anything

 

(But Talk)

(Butt Talk)

 

Approximately animals, picking cloud Cotton,

 

Snow Capped, Sierras in the Seared

 

blue morning Air

 

Banging Interim covered with Black Lace,

 

Creamy Thigh, Eyes up, With Mild Wonder.

 

Slick; Damn Damn Damn! Rich thick Torment

 

Pale harmonic, Held ‘n Tight.

 

Thundering Trolley Loops

 

Up the Joyous Alley full of Promise.

 

Expression wrapped Filth and Dawn

 

Out the Window Pure Clear

 

But none-the-less

 

Quickly overrunning with steam.

 

Staggered Illicit jumping Cracked Love

 

Dipping Rickety to writhing Face.

 

Clasped hand Ecstasy and Speed as Ever,

 

Shuffled

 

Together Like a Deck of Dirty Cards.

 

 

Wholesale Warm anti-conversation.

 

Ended.

 

It Got Cold.

 

The Wind Howled.

 

Reality

 

Is Poured,

Served on the Rocks.

 

I’m in a Fucking Attic.

 

And Nameless

 

Is Drooling

 

On my Leg.

 

So

 

Take out a Marker

 

And

 

Write, a Love,

 

On his Hand

 

Before I Go.

 

 

 

(Legion Masturbate Kitten of Want.)

 

(Call Me)

 

-Thend-

 

 

 

I have come to the Decision that ‘Yah’

Is a Superior Word than ‘Yeah’

But only because it Sounds like

Your writing in a bad Dutch Accent.

 

Also

The Strawberry Cream pie I Bought.

Still hasn’t Thawed.

Even though the Box told Me it would be by Now.

 

Sara Lee

 

Your a Bitch.

 

-The End-

A lazy Sunday…

 

I Read a Book today.

And Two Magazines.

But mostly I’ve just been Reading This

“Small Pale Humans.”

Its very very Good.

(And Free)

(I Figured you Should Know, So you Know, don’t miss out on the Goodness and All)

-Thend-