Stories of Lives
Three Ugly Cunts digging around in full wallets to provide a pittance to beggars. So proud of themselves, grinning, as thought it were a test. the high is ruined by these Cunts, so disconnected that it is a story and not a life.
After The Rain
Integration
the drunken rejection so flaccid and shallow just the head? fight or fuck it’s where we’re at. such cultural exclusivity… Fight or Fuck.
Why I Hit You In The Face
Delta between loves, theta is its angles; Reciprocity is an Absolute Proof
Rage #4
i often wonder if i am too filed with rage in and out a pulsing energy i wonder sometimes where it comes from and all the answers elude me as though i were clever but they were more so heart pounding shattering and shaking earth quakes and volcanoes until it super novas judged without seeing … Read moreRage #4
My Huge Cock
it’s too big. the wrong size for such devilish delights; reserved for the undeserving. Humiliation at every turn for debasing desires, preserved for the undeserving.
The Nut House
The ride to the psycho ward took eternities. I napped. When I got there, I looked for cigarettes. No one had any cigarettes – it was late, everyone was in bed. I found the ashtrays in the smoking room. There were 4 half smoked butts. I pulled them out, smoked each one with long drags, … Read moreThe Nut House
Konnte Schlimmer Sein
great poetry, so was von gestern. heute gibt’s menu: eins oder zwei wenn eins, bekommst du wenn zwei, kommst du; in aus rein raus I used to write great poetry. ich sorgte mich um posterity. für was? Der Drücker ist gestorben; long live the printer. hier ist gestorben; ein Trauerfeir jeden Nacht zu oft draussen, … Read moreKonnte Schlimmer Sein
More Fear Than Passion
“You gotta write your way out.” “The only way out is through.” dear diary, shit’s gotten fucked up, i can’t remember if I was playing and forgot to say just kidding, but now i’m on pills for reals… i’m seeing 6 doctors and doing insane asylums like i’m on tour; the crazies are the only … Read moreMore Fear Than Passion
the Dying day
were it not for the crying – always at midnight – i might sleep soundly. but the grief at the dying day interrupts dreams, denies comfort, evacuates breath, for we do not know if the sun will rise tomorrow.
Trumpets and Whiners
Trumpets and whiners, not lacking in courage make themselves heard, loud – never clear; Upperclass and dropped glass, vodka litters a powdered floor; remember when: we rushed through Munich’s door? What choices I have made, since I was not able to choose… for Frank, I hold onto a pair of shoes: Pistol Pete’s green and … Read moreTrumpets and Whiners