and then, maybe, write about it
he could count the major events
in his life on a
mangled hand’s fingers
But this was one of them. The day she took him
So that’s what girlfriends are for.
But he didn’t like the church
didn’t like the songs
didn’t like the preacher and the preaching
the man spoke of hell. But he
shit about hell. No baby, hell’s not a place
where you go,
it’s a place where you stay. Namely, a body
and a mind that has no
no drive towards improvement
no desire to get out and connect with the world
no love to share
no stories to tell or disposition to listen
no reasons to live or carry on
In other words, me, motherfucker. I am hell.
He broke up with
his girlfriend the next day. Her crying didn’t
Some daughters love their fathers
a bit too much
and their mothers not enough
This father was a cop,
the type that deals with the nasty cases
and he often came home drunk.
Alcohol did help, he said
and drank some more on the couch
and sometimes drank until he passed out
she was thirteen, his daughter
and would constantly nag
him with questions
about work. He didn’t wanna talk about work,
about the gruesome details of
it and all that, but edgy teenagers will be
and he kept drinking and eventually
passed out on his side
She was excited
took his gun from the holster
and started studying it with passion
turning it on all sides, smelling it,
holding it close
to the face
the bullet got her lower jaw
it was a bloody mess
and she was in pain and gagging on blood
and shards of bone and teeth
to call for help right now
would be wrong.
The whole world would accuse daddy
and he had no fault. And mommy would
reopen the case and
have no problem gaining custody of her
Fuck! This was bad!
This was so bad!
And it was getting worse,
she felt it. Felt close to fainting. Father was still
on the couch. Passed out drunk.
She had to take matters into
her own hands. Shambled
into the kitchen
and grabbed the cutting board from
and dipped a finger in her bloody mouth
and wrote with it on the cutting board
(with a single ‘N’)
She went outside holding the cutting board
and knocked on
the neighbor’s door.
but that handle was made for his hand
hand – handle
handle – hand
the fingers would close
around it to never let go
It had to have flesh around it
at all times
But the blade…
the blade was still naked. He couldn’t let
the blade naked
It wasn’t fair
“So that’s why you stabbed your
mommy then?” the psychiatrist asked him.
“Yes,” he said.
“The knife is more important
to you than mommy?”
“The knife listens. Mommy doesn’t.”
This girl smoked 14 cigarettes in
a span of one and a half hours
“Yeah, but they’re slim,” she says
“But they’re still fourteen.”
“Yeah, but so am I,” she says.
“But… you look at least eighteen…”
“I know. Smoking helps, doesn’t it?”
“Say, you wanna go to sum’ club right now?”
“Oh, sorry but, it’s Saturday and… You know, there’s
church tomorrow morning. I’ve to be up.
How about you come with me though? And
Lit another cigarette.
Originally posted on Horror Sleaze Trash:
the thing before the thing before the thing because it’s nice to be young because it’s nice to be in your early to mid twenties and it’s nice to do the thing after you’ve done the thing the thing that comes after you’ve done the thing is always the…
When you see someone for long
get used to them
and then you start noticing
patterns in their behavior
he was their
weird guy in his late thirties
always wearing dark suits, a bit oversized
He sat at his desk and watched the
and the students
Why does he always do that?
they eventually asked.
Why does he always tap his foot when
talking to some girl
but never when he talks to boys?
He would appoint a female student to present her
homework or some
and stand her up
and while she spoke he would stare at her
and tap his foot
and the tapping would begin light
and would grow in intensity
went his foot
as the girls talked
“I heard he’s divorced,” said one of the students.
“Yep,” said another. “He is. Has a kid as well.”
“I heard he’s also got a brother in prison
for rape or some shit.”
and a few weeks later
they were talking about books
related to prison life
and someone said, “You know how
prisoners jack off in full view of guards and
the female prison nurses without getting caught?”
nobody asked how but he went to
say it anyway and he said “They wrap a
string around their penis
and tie the other end to the big
toe of one foot.
All beneath the pants. Nothing shown.
And when the female is close
and move that foot and the string does
He was older than me
by a good eight years
he felt worthy to give me life
It’s my personal rule. Never turn away
from a tale. Listen to anything
and everyone when they’re willing to share.
Following the advice is another
but listening to it I shall.
And I did
and he told me
“Never overdose on solitude, my boy. Never
overdose on solitude.
You might think it’s cool and all
to play the lone wolf character
and all that
but a time will come when you will
regret this deeply, oh so, so deeply.
You will regret it to suicide and beyond.
And the regret will set in gradually
with old age.
It always does.
When I was like you, in my twenties, I hated
the world and loved
with myself. It’s all I did
for so many years.
And look at me now…”
“You don’t look too bad,” I told him.
His smile was sad. “My boy, I’m ‘bout to
hang myself tonight, after this beer,
in my lonely room, with a power cord I fixed
to the ceiling. My most productive deed
in the past two years.”
I raised my beer. “Cheers.”
He didn’t hang himself that night.
Just got very drunk and
passed out on his dirty bed. It wasn’t
the first time he threatened to do it.
I knew he wouldn’t do it.
As long as I listen to his stories
he won’t do it
And I always listen.
Not too many horizons
when you live in a small home
with small windows
and thick blinders
and only face the smoky ceiling
as you sit sprawled on the bed,
bottle in hand, more empty than full,
cigarette between fingers, more ashes
Work starts only the day after tomorrow
so there is nothing to do now
just like there won’t be much to do then
He’s not alone in this,
this young man
He thinks now of past lovers
and it’s like God delivers a gift all of a sudden
There’s a knock on the door
about to vomit
and finds his way to the door
It’s been… What, a year already?
The woman holds a child in her arms
and tells him it’s his.
The same whore who ran away with the little
money he had about a year ago,
just after they’ve done it and got wasted on the
same bed he rose from.
Thank you, God
It’s, you know, just what the
hell I needed.
The day she realized she hated her
brother was the day she went into his
until then she loved him,
everyone loved him
He was the family’s artist, the prodigy
and he was damn good
and had some career ahead of him
“A rare talent,” the
And sure the teachers were right
but they didn’t know about the
prodigy’s secret stash of
lewd drawings featuring his little
sister and even his mother
they were skillfully laid across A4
pages divided in panels and some
even had speech bubbles and
what was written in those speech bubbles
made her burst out of the cursed room
and run into hers screaming
“Sick fuck sick fuck sick fuck fuck!”
The family dinner was never the
nothing was the same
And why she kept the secret,
she didn’t know
Sadly enough there are philosophers in this world
who have no questions to answer and
nothing to theorize about
All the thought provoking practices
have apparently been consumed, have
been done into extinction, devoured and
digested and shat
It is over
Humanity has no mysteries left
for the mysteries have no humanity
and are therefore heartless and soulless
and a waste of time
There is nothing left to discover
The world is a big play but all the
characters and all the scenes and all the
settings and the interactions have been
discovered as to ultimately rob us of the
sense of journey
Now it’s like we just exist here
Perhaps to worship those who existed
before us and discovered all things for us
To stand in their shadow and bask
in the knowing that we will never create a
new poem or a new novel anymore than we
will design a never before seen color
Only that which I have never seen before
might qualify as new, and only to me, for
the concept of new can never be universal
And the more new things I see, the less
new things I see
and the less value they bear
Old people will agree to this
And the rest, they will grow old one day
When the senses will wear out and the
ear will know that music is made
out by the same
and the eye will know that
all the colors are the same colors
Ultimately the mind will understand that
all ideas are the same idea told
and heard differently
and passed along differently
And the idea says that happiness
starts with being and ends
or perhaps this is only how I think of it
or how you hear it
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