rollerfink

Lighter Today

2012-01-16T22:48:00.000+08:00

She's lighter today. Not floating, drowning. That hospital blue blanket is the ocean and her body is sand underneath, deep where it's dark, down where the fish are afraid to swim. Down where the monsters are. The medical doctors, the nutritionists, the psychiatrists, there seem to be a lot of them and they are not happy with her progress. The feeding tube is back in.

I brought her in here myself, physically carried her. She's a bird, I thought. I will throw her into the sky and she will flap her broken wings. She will fall and fly, fall and fly, and eventually she will be okay and she will fly off into the clouds and she will build a nest in some tree and she will do the other things that birds like to do.

It's not really about food, they say. She feels inadequate. She feels out of control. She is lonely. She is depressed.

She's my daughter, I say.

Has there been trauma in her life? Has she been molested? Are you physically abusive? Do you have unrealistic expectations of her? Has someone close to her died?

These are the questions they ask of me and I cry because I am her father.

There has been trauma, I say. Somebody close to her has died.

It is common, they say. But don't worry. Girls and boys recover from this. Adults do. People in their forties. In their eighties. With family support, with medical attention, with psychotherapy people recover. And some of them die.

There is a payphone downstairs, outside the hospital where people smoke. I see people on payphones and I wonder who they are because nobody uses payphones anymore. I'm calling my other daughter who is overseas and I'm letting her know that her sister is lighter today. I'm using a payphone now because I have left my own phone at the cemetery. I didn't just leave it. I was angry and I threw it against a headstone and it shattered all across the face. And then I left it there in the dirt because I do not want to explain to people why my phone is shattered all across the face.

What can I do?

There is a young doctor in the room now. Your daughter will not survive, she says.

The other doctors, the nurses, they are not happy with this young doctor. But I can see it in their faces. They do not disagree.

Fathers carry their daughters, I say. I will hold my breath and I will swim to the bottom of the ocean. I will retrieve each grain of her and I will build with her, a sandcastle like when she was seven. A princess out of sand. And the wind and the waves, they will not dare to knock her down.

Dead Reckoning

2012-01-11T23:08:00.000+08:00

That painting of yours ... the red bench in the woods ... it's hanging on the wall above our bed except I've painted over the bench with a bear and he's dead. There's blood streaming from his head because he's been shot and he's checking Facebook on his phone. He's alone. It's dark, no stars or moonlight tonight, deep within this acrylic and oil on canvas with ink. The bear is you, I think, and I'm the bench, replaced, or the bullet, depending on who you ask.

We met, back then in the diner. You knew my friend and I was drunk and you in that dress, you were so pretty, didn't you know it? You ran your hands through my hair, your nails across my scalp and I was a dog with a broken leg; you took me in.

And we fucked.

Your dad and I talked about football and Bukowski and he stocked his fridge with my kind of beer. Your mum said I was queer and giggled on account of I don't know why. She always hugged me tight when we said good-bye and then she died of cancer. At the funeral you read that poem I wrote and you cried in the car. We swam in the ocean.

And we were happy.

When you graduated I quit my job. A year in London and Paris and love and then we drank champagne and quit smoking weed because you got that job at the bank.

And we bought a house.

I slept at night, warm next to you and I dreamed I was the captain of a ship. You were a pelican and I asked you to guide me through the rocks. By dead reckoning how could you not say yes? We'd safely navigated channels just like this a hundred times before. Then, spying a fish you dived down deep into the sea.

And somehow you drowned in the thickness of it all.

Of course, now I see what you were telling me all those years ago with your brush and with your paint. A red bench in the woods, it's beautiful, how quaint. But it's not natural; it's out of place. It's me on my knee, green grass, at the beach, sunset.

But I didn't drag that bench into the woods.

We built it with our hands and our bodies and when people asked about it we smiled and we knew.

You are not a bear.

Trapped

2012-01-03T22:45:00.000+08:00

My hairdresser gets frustrated easily. I know this on account of she just told me. She's shaving the back of my neck with a straight edge. "It gets kind of crazy back there," I say, because I'm bad at small talk. She laughs and agrees and I say "well not that crazy" because now I'm embarrassed about how much hair I have on the back of my neck and she says "no, this is pretty crazy."

There's a boy waiting to get his hair cut and he's talking too loudly.

"Inside voice," my hairdresser yells at him.

"I like the tickley razor thing I want to look like a soldier I AM NOT A BELIEVER GOD IS AN ASSHOLE," the boy rants.

"He must have a disability," my hairdresser says.

"Where's his mum?" I ask, thinking my hairdresser probably wants to talk some more about how frustrated she is.

"She's out there drinking coffee, talking on the phone," my hairdresser says. "This is not a fucking babysitter service."

The boy kicks something and it makes a crashing sound.

Then the hairdresser at the next chair over says "no kicking" and my hairdresser says "Jesus" and the boy screams "I AM NOT A CATHOLIC" and now his mum is back and she says "it's just something that people do, like a tradition. They get baptised. Just because you get baptised doesn't mean you are a Catholic" and I realise I need to cough but I can't cough because there is a razor sliding up and down the back of my neck and then I do cough.

"Oh, I've nicked you," my hairdresser says.

I can feel blood on my neck.

"That's okay," I say, but it isn't. I'm in an old single file war tunnel and there are people in front of me and behind me. It's a school camp and I'm trapped. The tunnel is only as wide as my body and it's dark and I'm freaking the fuck out.

I'm on the Caterpillar at the Rotary Fair. The cover is on and it's loud in my ears and we're going too fast. I'm screaming for my mother but the man is giving me the thumbs up. He thinks I'm having fun.

I'm living with my girlfriend. There's a Monet print on the bedroom wall and we're watching Greys Anatomy. She's telling me about that time she turned her eyelids inside out and now she's telling me about the time she caught her teacher snorting coke at the yacht club and I say "oh yeah, you told me about that" and then I think ONE BILLION TIMES and I wonder, statistically, what are her chances of dying. Like cancer or drowning and I don't know how other people get out of these situations. My girlfriend is nice but seriously how cold can you make the air-conditioner go?

I look in the mirror and this is actually the worst haircut I've ever had. Even worse than that time my friend told me about the $3 haircuts at the beauty school. My hairdresser holds the hand mirror up for approval of the back cut. There's still blood on my neck and it's on my shirt. And I see back in the wall mirror that my hair is all, it's just, it makes me look like a fucking idiot.

"Looks great" I say but I'm thinking about how my socks are too tight and could I maybe undo my shoes here in the hairdresser and take off my socks and then the kid with the disability rips off his cape and runs out the door.

Dying is Not Like Sleeping

2011-11-30T18:45:00.001+08:00

I was in their bed watching the Greatest American Hero when I heard my mother's car pull into the garage. I turned the television off and deliberately spread my maths homework across the sheets. But she took longer than usual to come inside that night and when she did she was noticeably different. Nervous. Tired. Not crying, but sad and her voice was soft. She seemed younger somehow. "He's gone," she whispered.

We slept together and in the morning we ate our breakfast on the veranda. "Dying is not like sleeping," my mother said. "Nor is living so simple as being awake."

Ink

2011-11-26T14:00:00.001+08:00

"It's a Bukowski poem," she says, referring to the words etched across the skin of her arm. It's 1990 and I don't know about Bukowski or poetry or girls with ink yet. "Did it hurt?" I ask.

"It always hurts," she answers with her now familiar deadpan drawl. Looking back I can see the truth in that. It does always fucking hurt.

"I'm taking the fIREHOSE," she says. It's today now and she's leaving and she's taking the music and the books with her. Our memories. I want to beg her to stay but I can't even swallow my own spit.

"Okay?"

She's waiting for me to defend myself, to come up with any kind of halfway logical reason why she should stay.

It's two weeks earlier now and it's morning and I'm standing naked and half wet just out of the shower. I look at myself in the mirror.

"I'm disgusting," I say.

"I'm a terrible person."

"God."

And now it's today again, but later, and she's gone. It's quiet and I'm already lonely. I want to write about it because that's what we do. What I do, I guess. I write poetry. "Love poems," I think to myself and I laugh so long and hard that it turns into a cough and now I'm trying not to vomit.

"You shouldn't smoke so much," she says. This is about six months ago and I'm thinking "God damn it I won't quit smoking because what else do I have?" And then she kisses me halfway through a drag and I can't swallow so I share it with her; I let the smoke waft out of my nose and mouth as if my face was a just-fired gun and she draws it deep into her throat before passing it back to me.

It's today and I'm reading her Facebook page.

"He's an asshole."

"You deserve better."

"Good riddance."

"He's a fat piece of shit asshole fuck face garbage can."

I go back to 1990 and wonder what she sees in me. "I want to be a fighter pilot," I say. I'm drunk and I don't know how to talk to girls and obviously this is not how you do it because she is laughing and calling her friends over and now they're singing that song from Top Gun and I feel like shit because I'm going to be alone forever. But it's later and I'm still there with her and her friends and she says "you want to see something funny?"

And of course I do and so she slips her shoe off and peels her stocking down and right there on her ankle is another tattoo.

"Take me to bed or lose me forever"

It's 3a.m. now and I know I'm going to have to sleep at some point. But this has got to come out of me first. Words and cigarettes. That's what this has come to. But the only words on the screen are "I AM A FUCKING ASSHOLE" and they are in all caps and they are in 62 point font and I'm starting to realize that's about the sum of it.

I'm a fucking asshole.

It's six months later and she's here in our coffee shop. She's happy and she's with some guy and he seems nice enough and she's read the first draft of my novel. "It's great," she says and I know she means it because she always means it.

"But what does that say?" she asks, pointing to the ink scrawled across the back of my neck.

"It's a poem," I say. "I wrote it the night you left."

Our Eyes Will Never Change

2011-10-16T04:37:00.002+08:00

Drinking Doctor Pepper
in Joan Jett leather

Sweaty legs
ice cream line

Michigan
summertime
God damn
I want you

back

In 1986
holding hands
first kiss
lips
fingering your grandmother's crucifix on the wrong side of Mack
take me

back

Come on
let me touch you
hug you
slide my hands
inbetween you
like that night down Woodward in your daddy's car

We haven't gone too far

Sit with me
and reminisce
I miss days like this

Belle Isle

swimming

reading

singing

playing guitar under the stars

I don't care what happened in the snow
the things you did
I've let it go
the things I said
when we were cold
nothing can ever be the same
I know
but our eyes will never change

and the sun will shine again

Kiss/Love

2011-08-04T21:35:00.001+08:00

She's biting his lip a little bit, sucking it, and now her tongue is entwined with his. Hers is long and thick and strong like a python or a cock and it is bullying his to the side and to the top and to the bottom. There are only tongues in his mouth, chunks of flesh thrusting, thrashing, lashing, licking, teasing, tasting; no room for air or words. Just when others might rest their mouths or breathe or stretch their cheeks or clutch desperately for other parts of the body, she breaks her own jaw and swallows him whole. She is an animal, a stray dog eating raw sausages and she cannot be satiated. Her love, her lust is physical and ferocious; her lips are swollen and bleeding and yet she continues to indulge in him for seconds and for hours and they are both fully clothed and drenched with sweat and happiness. When the sun is gone they are finished and they are spent and with his last breath before sleep he will ask if they may kiss again tomorrow.

Byberry

2011-08-03T22:35:00.001+08:00

Charles is awake now, though it is dark in the room and in his mind. He is under the blanket and under his pillow and under the influence of the pills his mother powders with her fingers three times every day. The voices are back and he listens to them until the sun creeps through the slats of his blinds. He wants to sleep and to die and to be normal but the voices are chanting in unison and the only time they do that is when there is a warning.

Scramble

The
Spies
Are
Watching

Your Mind

Scramble

The

Spies

Are

Watching

Your Mind

Charles does not want to think about the spies but the daylight has revealed a familiar message on the walls. He is naked and soaked in urine and he knows what must be done.

It's twelve years ago now and Charles is staring blankly at Bärbel.

"You're fucking crazy in your fucking fucked up fucking head," she says.

There are words and pictures scrawled in feces on the bedroom walls. Charles moves to the window and carefully peels the curtains open just enough to look out without being seen.

"The walls are covered in shit," says Bärbel.

"It is a warning," he says.

"It's a psychotic episode," yells Bärbel. "You've lost your fucking mind."

"There it goes again," he says. "That Oldsmobile has been circling all morning."

"What are you talking about?"

"I don't know how you're doing it," says Charles.

"Doing what?" asks Bärbel.

"Signalling. Communicating," says Charles. "You've told them where I am."

It is five hours later and Charles has bashed Bärbel's head in with a baseball bat. He is dumping her body in the Delaware river and he is cold.

Charles now hears his mother's knock on the door. Tappa tappa tap. Tappa tappa tap.

He peeks through the blinds. An Oldsmobile.

Tappa tappa tap, he thinks. Tappa tappa tap.

"How would you like your eggs?" his mother asks.

"Scrambled," says Charles.

Teen Pregnancy Rate

2011-07-25T12:38:00.000+08:00

Guillaume Colletet Versus The Karate Sluts on the Moon (Space Future 1646)

2011-07-24T00:23:00.001+08:00

Hey, yo, my magnum opus multimedia extravaganza, Guillaume Colletet Versus The KarateSluts on the Moon (Space Future 1646), is up at Crispin Best's For Every Year project.

One Hour Before You Die

2011-06-30T22:40:00.003+08:00

Nono is a model of sorts. A model of socks. Her ankles are slender, not bony; athletic. Her feet wear the socks well: high arches, long toes, slightly narrow body. Nono is charismatic. She is busy and she is popular.

You is a photographer of sorts. A photographer of hands, of feet. He brings a unique aesthetic to his art; the angles, the juxtapositions, the light. He is not happy in his work or in his life, although it does not show in his body or in his manner. In fact, You is known by his friends and colleagues as Mr. Sunshine. You is a professional. He is busy and he is in love with Nono.

"I will take a photo of you," he says to Nono. "One hour before you die."

"I may well die today," says Nono. "Have you a decent camera in your trunk?"

"A new one," says You. "It is a half frame with automatic film advance. And it is very small. It hasn't left my person since it arrived."

You pulls the camera from the inside pocket of his coat. Nono thinks maybe it is a handheld movie camera. It appears to have a telephone dial attached to the front.

"It looks like a miniature time machine," she says.

"It's a Canon Dial 35," says You. My other cameras cannot keep up.

Nono kneels upon a zabuton. She snorts a line of cocaine from a hand mirror that rests on a table in front of her.

"This is Japan," she says. "This is 1964."

"This is Manhattan," You replies as he snaps pictures of Nono. "And these years of yours, they are days for me."

"I cannot sleep," says Nono, unaware that there is now blood smeared across the back of her hand and underneath her nose. "What time is it?"

"You are outside of time," says You.

"I am struggling to understand you," says Nono. "I am very high right now. I have a shoot. My car will be here at 4pm. It is written on my palm."

"You still have 59 minutes left," says You, as he lays his Canon Dial 35 down beside an empty bottle of whiskey. "We should make love."

Tomorrow is a Love Song

2011-06-23T17:23:00.001+08:00

"I'm right now," Mason says to his girlfriend Joey (although he calls her Lawrence on account of she says "Whoa!" a lot).

"Right now you're being a dick," Joey says. "A limp dick with scabs on it. And gross balls."

"Hey, this is me, you know, this is Mason. This is who Mason is. Mr. Right Fucking Now!"

"You're not listening to me," says Joey, looking down at a recently uncrumpled piece of paper.

"Come on, not the list again," says Mason. "If you want to cram bullet points down my earholes why don't you just load up your daddy's gun and blast me dead right here in the Pizza Hut."

"If I thought it would get you to listen I would, trust me. Look, I know you've heard all of these points a hundred and one million times but I'm going to keep reading them to you until they sink in. This is important stuff Mason, excuse me, Mr. Right Fucking Now. This isn't just about you, this is about us."

"Here, let me save you some time," says Mason. "I can summarize that whole sheet of paper into five key action points:

Mason needs to stop getting drunk all of the god damned time and vomiting on carpeted areas of the apartment and people
Mason needs to clean up his vomit within a reasonable time frame of vomiting because by morning the stench is unbearable and the carpet has been ruined
Mason needs to buy Lawrence some flowers once in a while and take her out to a nice restaurant and wear cologne but not Old Spice and seduce her instead of just mashing her tits around whenever he's horny
Mason needs to stop calling Lawrence's friends cunts because if he actually had a conversation with them he would realize they are really smart and funny and cool
Mason needs to completely change his personality to suit the whims of his dumb girlfriend who doesn't understand that he is always, and has always been, right now"

"Whoah!" says Joey.

"You know what Lawrence?" says Mason. "Tomorrow is a love song. And you're buying into that B.S. We, us, you and me, we are right here, inside of today. There is no tomorrow and I will never change for you."

"Whoah!" says Joey again.

"Right now," says Mason.

"That's bullshit," says Joey. "No tomorrow just means no consequences."

"No. No tomorrow means accepting and living what is now."

"Well accept and live this buddy," says Joey as she shoves a slice of pizza down Mason's pants.

"You know, you're not perfect either," says Mason as he fishes the pizza out and eats it.

Joey balls up her piece of paper and shoves it down Mason's throat.

"Eat shit," she says. "I'm going to stay at my folks' place tonight. And when I come back to the apartment tomorrow I want you to be gone."

Grown Man Holding a Teddy Bear

2011-06-22T21:38:00.000+08:00

There's a painting of a grown man holding a teddy bear. It's hanging in Trevor's local gallery.

"How is this art?" he asks his wife Sophie. "Some dumb asshole has just painted a picture of a grown man holding a teddy bear and some other dumb asshole has declared that it's art. It's bullshit. Oh, nine hundred dollar bullshit by the way."

"Look at his eyes," Sophie says. "Something has happened. In his life I mean. He's sad. And lonely. And angry. God, look at his face. He's angry."

"I'm fucking angry," says Trevor. "Some dick faced dickhead is going to make nine hundred dollars from that. Do you know how many hours I have to work to make nine hundred dollars?"

"About fifteen I guess."

"Yeah, well. It probably took him about five minutes to paint that shit," says Trevor.

"It's haunting. I think his wife has left him and she's taken the kids. Or they're dead. Look at his fists. His hair. Jesus, this is really affecting me."

"Yeah, it's affecting me too," says Trevor. "Makes me want to stab some bullshit artist in the face with a hammer."

Sophie is silent for a few moments. Her eyes are fixed on the painting. She's crying now.

"Here we go," says Trevor.

Sophie turns to her husband. Her hands are shaking.

"I know about her," she says. Her voice is not strong.

"Nothing's going on," says Trevor. "I swear to god."

"I'm not talking about that skank slut Julie, Trevor. I'm talking about the woman in that painting."

"All I see up there is a grown assed man and a teddy bear. Not a woman in sight."

"That's our daughter's teddy bear," Sophie says.

"Our daughter's what?"

"I'm leaving," Sophie says.

"Hold up," says Trevor. "Let me grab my coat."

"We Didn't Start the Fire" by Billy Joel

2011-06-21T14:43:00.003+08:00

Billy has called the Quilton customer support hotline. He has called this number before and he knows that you can circumnavigate the interactive voice response system by pressing "0".

Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: Good morning, may I have your first name please?

Billy: Billy Joel

Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: Thank you Mr. Joel, My name is Veronica. I notice that you gave me your last name in addition to your first name. Would you prefer that I call you Mr. Joel.

Billy: I'm not sure, Billy is kind of childish I suppose, but it may feel more like I am talking to a friend if you call me Billy. But Mr. Joel probably commands more respect. Can you please hold on a moment.

A moment passes.

Billy: I'm back. You can call me Billy.

Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: Thank you Billy. Can I have a contact number just in case we are disconnected during our call?

Billy: Yes. 0488-029-967

Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: Thank you Billy. May I ask why you are calling today?

Billy: It's regarding your Quilton Gold brand toilet paper.

Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: So just to confirm, you have a concern relating to the Gold line of toilet tissue.

Billy: Toilet paper.

Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: Yes, here at Quilton we refer to our products as toilet tissue. Our research shows that people, especially those within our key demographic, have a negative association with toilet paper. They tend to find it boorish or uncouth. Vulgar even.

Billy: It is what it is. Can I ask what your key demographic is?

Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: I am not permitted to be too specific but I will say that our products tend to appeal to the highly successful career woman.

Billy: I don't know how I feel about that. Is there some kind of user group? I feel like I would like to associate with some highly successful career women.

Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: There is a guest book on our web site at www.quilton.com.au. You can read other people's comments and add some of your own. It is moderated.

Billy: I'm not sure if that is really what I had in mind. I'll check it out though.

Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: So Billy, what can I do for you today?

Billy: Prior to purchasing the Quilton Gold toilet paper...

Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: Tissue

Billy: ... yes. I did a lot of research. I like to make informed decisions when making large purchases.

Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: Do you consider toilet tissue to be a major purchase?

Billy: Yes. I buy a lot of toilet paper at one time.

Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: Well, I like a man who knows his toilet tissue Billy.

Billy: Yes, well I read up on it on the Internet, chat rooms, message boards, etc and in Choice magazine and I looked at the information on the packaging and on each company's web site and I did a touch and smell test at the Supermarket and it was quite clear that Quilton Gold was the one for me.

Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: What did you like most about the Gold line?

Billy: It is everything a toilet paper should be really. Soft, smooth, durable. And the fragrance is appealing but not overpowering in any way.

Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: So it sounds like you have found the right toilet tissue for you Billy. What's worrying you about this purchase?

Billy: As soon as I started using the Quilton Gold I experienced a small amount of chafing. I applied various creams and balms and salves but over the weeks it has deteriorated to the point where it is very uncomfortable. I can't wear pants. I can't not wear pants. I can't walk or sit or sleep. It is really ruining my life.

Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: That sounds like a real problem Billy and I will do everything I can to resolve this for you today. Just to make sure I am hearing you correctly, are you saying that you believe the Gold line is causing your bottom to chafe?

Billy: Yes. There is chafing right around my anus and it spreads about a quarter of the way up each cheek. The skin is very irritated.

Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: Are you rough with the tissue Billy?

Billy: Excuse me?

Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: When you wipe, do you really dig in and scrub around? Do you apply a lot of pressure to the tissue and grind it all the way into your anus?

Billy: No, not really. I try to be quite gentle but I do keep going until I get all of the gunk out.

Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: Good, that sounds like you are an average wiper and I think we can rule out abrasive wiping technique as a cause of your problem.

Billy: It's quite red, too. And extremely itchy.

Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: I'm sure it is. You should try not to scratch, though. It will just make things worse. Have you introduced any other products to your buttock or anal areas in recent weeks? New brand of underpants, lubricating jelly, lotions, or anything similar?

Billy: No, not that I can think of. Oh, I did buy a new leather office chair for my computer.

Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: Do you generally wear pants at your computer? Stop me if I am being too personal Billy.

Billy: Yes, I usually wear pants. Sometimes I, well I feel like my bum is always covered while I am sitting in the chair.

Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: Are you allergic to anything Billy?

Billy: I am allergic to bee stings. My arms and legs swell up and I get itchy all over.

Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: Can you hold for a moment Billy? I'm just going to check our allergen database.

Billy: Okay

Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: Okay, thanks for holding Billy. We might be onto something here. There is nothing officially documented by our product design or science divisions but it looks like there have been three or four isolated incidences that sound a lot like your chafed bottom. And it says here that all of them have reported bee allergies. It could be a reaction to the fragrance.

Billy: I'm not sure how to feel about that. I did a lot of research. My garage is full of Quilton Gold. I can't even park my car in there.

Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: What kind of car is it Billy?

Billy: It's a Honda Odyssey. Minivan.

Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: That's a big car Billy. Do you have kids?

Billy: Oh, no. I just, you know. You can take the seats out and I buy in bulk a lot, so.

Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: Oh yes, of course.Well Billy, you have been very patient on the phone with me today. I'm going to consult with my manager about our little situation here and we'll find you a Quilton line that does not cause your bottom to chafe.

Billy: I look like a monkey.

Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: I'm sure that's not true Billy. We'll find the right tissue for you and I'll make sure you get every single roll replaced. We won't be satisfied until your bottom has been returned to its former glory.

Billy: That's very sweet of you Veronica. You are the nicest customer service person I have ever spoken to. Are you married?

Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: I'm not married Billy.

Billy: Do you think maybe you'd like to grab a coffee sometime?

Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: Billy I might just remind you that this call may be recorded for training purposes. On a side note, as soon as your new shipment of toilet paper is authorised I will call you personally to arrange a delivery time.

Billy: Yes, thank you Veronica.

Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: Okay Billy, it has been a pleasure talking with you today. Have I resolved the issue to your complete satisfaction?

Billy: Yes, thank you.

Quilton Customer Resolution Specialist: That's good to hear. Have a great morning Billy. I'll be speaking to you soon.

Billy: Good bye.

Nothing's Easy

2011-06-18T22:29:00.000+08:00

Elliot Gould's wife died died died did Judge Reinhold have a brother god rest her soul. The doctors the connectors there are connectors in my my what a brain you have that can not not not function keyboard keycard kitty kitty kitty kitty correcters. I am so lone lone the money to be alone forevery bodies there is blood inside things the things the fur my thoughts are back in side in my thinking finking fingers are bleeding and your terrible lick lick purr personality disorderly conductor. Cat a cat a tonic is sick a stick a knife a life is nothing is easy bake a baker on the highway in the microwave oven on without any fire your gun at me headcase briefly briefcase. Organise your papers news papers electrical fires with my life is in trouble and nobody no body can listen to list them how the things to order you can list them but it's not a pen is a penis a knife it is not right to write to left your life without a love a love the love of a left me when I was nine. I mine I might I have killed Elliot Gould is your cat my brother don't judge me please oh please are asking as king to list them with a pen and I cannot listen to the blood is on my shirt and I can yell a yell a yellow is the word the words a colour to stop the red they said to think of yellow and yellow and yellow and yellow it is yellow it is yellow it is working now I can what have I done.

Veganisms

2011-06-10T23:04:00.000+08:00

I am not a vegan on account of:

I like to eat meat
I am a terrible person

However, I have noticed that a lot of the people in my intersphere practice veganism. This post is for them. I am not trying to mock them. I am trying to support them and make them feel good about their life decisions.

I am handing them a cup of water at mile thirteen and hugging them as they collapse across the finish line.

So in honor of the vegans, here are my veganisms. Please feel free to enjoy them and share them amongst yourselves.

If You Live in an Apartment You are Going to Die

2011-06-09T21:46:00.000+08:00

He can see all of her teeth when she laughs. It's disgusting. Her name is Natalie and she is his girlfriend. He wonders if she is a monster.

He is not a perfect man, of course. His name is Craig and in his life he has fingered a goat. He has just now confessed this shame to Natalie and her response is laughter -- loud, uncontrollable laughter.

Craig's acknowledgement of wrongdoing has taken place in the shower. And now, all of a sudden, he feels vulnerable. He is not comfortable with his body and he strongly believes he is about to be swallowed whole by Natalie's ugly and gigantic fish mouth.

He has lost control of the situation and his bowels.

"You are a beast," he blurts out. "A cunt-mouthed cartilaginous rabbitfish."

Natalie doubles over in pain from all the laughing.

"You've shit yourself," she says, as soon as her voice can crack through her oxygen starved throat and mouth.

Craig's water-thinned faeces now seep between the tiles on the floor of the shower, inching slowly toward the drain. The surface has become slippery and both Craig and Natalie collapse in a heap of wet people.

Craig's leg is twisted under Natalie's torso and the bone has snapped in two places. His screams waft and twist high above the shower as they are sucked into the fan like an upside down tornado. Natalie's laughter continues to pour down upon Craig's now broken body and person.

Later that weekend, after the clean-up, after the hospital, Craig and Natalie attend an open house. Craig wears beige corduroy jeans and a well-fitted shirt. Natalie has cut the leg of his pants open so as to fit the cast. She wears a flowered summer dress.

"You look good in yellow," Craig says to Natalie.

"This is the house we will buy and live in," says Natalie. "We will have children and be happy here."

Craig feels warm and with a chuckle he says "let's check out the shower first."

Natalie laughs once more, but this time Craig can only see a reasonable amount of teeth. Her mouth is beautiful and he wonders if she is an angel.

Paradis, C'est les Autres

2011-05-12T08:45:00.000+08:00

There are others here
and you, dancing
Pas de chat
Pas de cheval
Pas de poisson

I am forsaken; I am nothing.

That stage was our bedroom

Those eyes, those feet, the sweat

The floorboards, unfinished, natural

A boombox, plugged into the power point that sometimes did not work

And the trains in the morning;

In the night

There was music though we had no need for it
We could bend to the deepest position; a grand-plié then

Pas de basque
Pas de valse
Pas de deux.

But one evening after the ballet I tore the lids from my eyes. How was I to sleep? Was I to miss your delicate face for even one second?

And now there are others here

and you, dancing up there in the light

I am a beast alone with a torch

Guiding the crowds to their seats

Nobody speaks.

I am in hell.

Fairies

2011-05-02T22:20:00.000+08:00

There are dust particles floating through the sunlight by the window in your room. You must know, these are not angels or fairies or any other grand imagining. What you see, on this Sunday morning, when it is just warm under a blanket in your grandmother's chair, as you stare and smile and dream of kisses and crosswords while I sleep in your bed, spent, are tiny balls of human skin, animal dander, other people's hair, insect remains, dirt, and bug shit. If only I could sleep forever.

When NATO Killed the Children

2011-05-01T09:06:00.000+08:00

What was Tony Danza doing
when NATO killed our children
with the bombs.
On our knees
over their bodies
we begged and we wept and we did not know their faces.
Our own children who had been born and nothing else.
The skin was gone and we prayed for their souls
and we cursed the planes and the pilots and the kings of the enemies.
But there was nothing of consequence that could be done
until the noon hour when we watched re-runs of Who's the Boss.
Without children, in the rubble, even this now was not the same.
We wondered if Tony Danza could have done more for Danny Pintauro's career.

The Love Song of Steve Sanders

2011-04-30T22:18:00.002+08:00

LET us go to the Peach Pit After Dark then, you and I,
When Steve Sanders' awesome but balding hair makes the girls rub up against his thighs
Like a rape victim etherised by GhB;
Let us go, through certain ethnic streets,
The smell of poor people retreats
After restless days at West Beverly High
And the Peach Pit diner with that douchebag Nat:
Streets that follow like a tedious episode about Andrea Zuckerman
Of insipid plot lines
To lead you to an overwhelming question …

Oh, do not ask, “Is Steve Sanders racist?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the show where black people dare not go
90210.

The teenage issues that are resolved within a three act story arc,
Oh shit remember that episode when Brenda pretended to be French within a three act story arc
And that time those two hot girls stole Steve's car,
But there were serious things too like drugs and fires and cults,
But that shit only ever happened to Kelly,
And the one cowboy kid who accidentally shot himself
He was no Steve Sanders, that's for sure,
Head blown off once about the house, that kid was boring.

And indeed there will be time
For other teen issues like abortion, alcoholism, and AIDS
Rubbing their backs upon the West Beverly crew
There will be time, there will be time
To sleep with Kelly and Valerie and Brenda and Gina and Clare;
But probably not Donna because she's saving herself for Ray Pruitt,
And time for the Peach Pitt After Dark with all those awesome bands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for Dylan to turn 33 while he's still in high school;
And time yet for an episode about Dylan's dad getting blown up,
And for Brandon to bone up,
Before the taking of Emily Valentine.

In the show where black people dare not go
90210.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “What's up with Steve's hair?” and, “No, really, what's up with Steve's hair?”
Time to push Donna down the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of Dylan's hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
Brandon's morning sports jacket, collar popped, goatee on the chin,
Mullet hair rich and modest, but asserted by pretty sweet sideburns—
[They will say: “But how the plot of this show is thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
To whack one out to thoughts of Kelly's mom, is that perverse?

For I have beaten off to the others already, beaten off to them all:—
Have beaten off in the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my jizz with coffee spoons;
I know nude pictures of Tiffany Amber-Thiesen that I will take to my tomb
Beneath the moon and stars I will place a baby in her womb.
Another hyphen I presume?

And I have known the guys already, known them all
The guys each one I went through a phase,
And when I formulated a mullet, I was Brandon,
When I was Dylan I pinned a girl wriggling on the wall,
Then who should I be?
To spit out all the douchebags of 90210?
And why should I be so annoyed by Joe E. Tata?

And I have known the mums and dads already, known them all—
Parents that are nice or drunk or blown up
[But in the lamplight, I could totally imagine doing Cindy Walsh!]
It is her permed hair
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then beat off?
And how should I imagine doing it to her?

Shall I say, I have watched every single god-damned episode
And watched the stink that rises from the plotlines
Of douchey men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of convertibles?

I shouldn't have been so into it I guess
but it beats the crap out of Melrose or Models, Inc.

And towards the end, like in season 9 or 10 or whatever, they should have ended that shit a little earlier, right?
I still watched cos of Donna and David,
But … WTF … with Noah and Janet ... malingerers,
Stretching out the story lines, nobody cared about Noah or Janet.
Should I, after after all those awesome seasons (and after my favourite Emily Valentine),
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and wanked, wept and called Steve Sanders an asshole,
Though I have seen Steve Sanders' head [grown slightly bald] blown up like a fart,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great art;
I have seen the moment of 90210's greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Noah and especially Janet hog the screen, and annoy,
And in short, I was bored.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the Brandons, the Donnas, the Brendas,
Among the important issues, like when Brenda took that call from a date-rape victim,
Would it have been worth while,
To have ended the show after eight seasons,
Or is it okay to have squeezed the show into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I guess I was pretty into Gina towards the end”
If one, beating it into a pillow with his hand,
Should say: “Tiffany Amber-Thiessen had awesome tits but Gina whatsername was still pretty fit.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the Davids and Steves and even the James fucking Eckhouses,
After the coke, after the alcohol, after we finally got rid of Andrea Zuckerman's boring ass—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:

Would it have been worth while,

To have ended the show after eight seasons,

Or is it okay to have squeezed the show into a ball

To roll it toward some overwhelming question,

To say: “I guess I was pretty into Gina towards the end”

If one, beating it into a pillow with his hand,

Should say: “Tiffany Amber-Thiessen had awesome tits but Gina whatsername was still pretty fit.”

No! I am not Brandon, nor was meant to be;
Am a bit like David I guess, one that will be a dick sometimes but generally pretty awesome
God I wish I was actually in that show, start a scene or two,
Advise Steve Sanders; no doubt, that he is a racist asshole bastard,
Deferential to the rest, glad to be just in the mix,
Social politics, love triangles, and domestic abuse (Ray Pruitt!);
West Beverly High was but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

But it never grew old … until about season nine I guess …
I still watch the re-runs and the DVDs sometimes.

Shall I perm my hair like Steve Sanders? Do I dare to ride a motorbike?
In my dreams I shall wear white flannel trousers, and work at the Beverly Hills Beach Club.
I have heard the Brenda and Kelly singing, each to each.

But I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them totally hot for old man Dylan
and dozens of other guys
hahaha oh shit I just remembered when Brandon hooked up with that racist girl. He should have passed her on to Steve Sanders.

We have lingered in the lockers of West Beverly
By school-girls dripping with venereal diseases
Till David and Donna got married, and Steve Sanders ended up with boring face Janet. hahaha ahah ahaha hah aha hahfuck you Steve!

There's Rain and There's Oil

2011-04-06T21:12:00.000+08:00

Hey Guys, this story is now featured in the first issue of Up ... check it out!

Sweatpants are sundresses and secret caresses. Yes, I've seen the bruises on the backs of your thighs. Everything now nothing, no loving no laughing; your words are cold and they are blood, the lies are clouding your eyes. Your skin is shedding and your teeth are thin. Your bones are bending from within. You have left tracks in the dirt.

Etched in your back, under your shirt with my hand and my nails, our names inside a line; it was a heart and we cried, drunk from the wine, abandoning everything and time. Now there's a blanket in the boot of our car; two empty glasses and your e-mails are written in French. The stench of the con, the truth of the trick. You are a brick in the water but I cannot let you go.

Our Eyes Were Our Hands

2011-04-01T22:27:00.000+08:00

Hey guys, this story is now featured in the first issue of Up. Check it out!

New Year's Eve, popping balloons; our fireworks. No light but the moths were shooting stars that night and the sprinklers were our impromptu sex toys. Then in 1987 I was in love with you, a boy, I was a boy. A little Puff the Magic Dragon in the back of your brother's Datsun 120-Y station wagon but we both knew it wasn't the drugs. We shared a sleeping bag at religion camp, so tight and we bathed naked in the stream and we could see our toes on the rocks; it was cold. The water was clear and when my sneakers melted by the fire you let me wear one of yours and we laughed. Our eyes were our hands and how long we held on I couldn't say but to this day I can draw your face from memory and I do.

Now when we meet at church or at work our hands are our eyes and we shake and we sweat. Things have changed but I will go back in time and you will go back in time and we will be the men we never became.

The Dangers of Inhaling Helium from Balloons

2011-03-31T21:10:00.000+08:00

My children eat their sandwiches and they adore me. I am a giant here and that's all I have so please don't tell them where the bees sleep.

When the boy is in bed and the girl is not crying I do sudoku puzzles and then I imagine bashing your skull in with a hammer while you touch my wife on her body. You have taken her and that is not okay but it has happened. Now you must be happy with what you have and by that I mean please just leave my children alone. I am a helium balloon floating above their sunny faces and scruffy hair and they are still clutching my string tight in their pudgy little hands.

But dinner time is coming and they will let me go because you are making hot dogs and nothing else and that is what they like. You will be their father and they will look at you with your t-shirt tucked into your jeans and when you say "in the flowers" they will know that I am nothing more than a colourless, odourless, tasteless, non-toxic, inert, monatomic asshole.

Girl in the Boys

2011-03-24T13:58:00.000+08:00

Hey, yo, my poem Girl in the Boys is now up at Let People Poems.

Situational Comedy

2011-03-10T07:55:00.000+08:00

Hey yo, my poetry series SITUATIONAL COMEDY is now up at DJ Berndt's PANGUR BAN PARTY.

A Million Birds and a Grizzly Bear

2011-02-09T22:26:00.002+08:00

A million birds and a grizzly bear. The birds are not magpies or doves, but something in-between. Flight unseen, nobody knows who they are. The grizzly bear? His name is Dave and he hasn't felt the same since he heard JJ Cale cantillate "Cocaine."

"I've never done wrong," he yells up at the birds, "along the way, in this life that I've led. I've never had fun, I've never been bad."

"You've eaten some people," the birds chirp back.

"I'm a grizzly bear," shouts Dave. "I'm programmed to attack. But I've never done the unexpected or veered off track."

"Ursus arctos horribilis," whisper the birds back to Dave. "We think you live up to your name."

"This normalness is driving me insane," grunts Dave to the birds. "I can't very well express myself to you with these words; I'm a bear. But I'm tired of all this truth with none of the dare. I want to down a fifth of scotch and finger a fish and watch pornographic movies online. I want to take something that isn't mine and alter the numbers on a speed limit sign. I want to get a tattoo of Jesus smoking crack on my back and hatch a virus that can infect a Mac. I need to go nutso ballutso just one time before I sign off and decay into the dirt. I'm inert, benign, like porridge that tastes just right."

"You're doing fine," hum the birds as they fly out of sight.

"Shit," says Dave to nobody as he stumbles back to the stream. "Winter's coming and I need to eat me some salmon."

SUPERCOMPUTER

2011-02-08T11:44:00.002+08:00

For Jordan Castro's Super Supercomputer Contest

A thirtysomething virgin robotics professor fuses himself to a computer to impress a girl in his class.

Director: John Badham
Writers: Doug Ellin, J.F. Lawton, and Seven Others
Stars: Matthew McConaughey, Commodore64, Mayim Bialik

Tagline: 10 print "I love you"; 20 goto 10

Your Dog is So Lonely

2011-01-31T13:54:00.002+08:00

There was a movie about McDonald's about the food and a man who ate a cheeseburger vomited so you should know that it is not good for you. Your floor is covered with trash and all that partially digested meat is sitting with bent legs in your stomach. It spits acid into your sphincter and you are going to die. You are so fat and greasy.

You are spending too many hours killing army people on your Xbox Three Hundred and Sixty Degrees and your dog is so lonely. Buy him a tennis ball and pat him on the head. Do something with your life. All your friends are boys and I think you are masturbating into your socks. Open the curtains it is so dark in here.

Are you a different person in the mirror? I don't like what I am seeing. Look at me I am talking to you. You need to wash your hair and I think you are drinking too much. I see the cans outside. You are not so sneaky as you think you are.

And your bean bag chair is leaking beans all over the place. Is this what makes you happy?

Good Night, Irene

2011-01-31T09:29:00.000+08:00

Oh, hey, my poem Good Night, Irene is now up at Ana C's New Wave Vomit.

Otherwise Known as Guido Johnson

2011-01-22T13:40:00.001+08:00

Oh hey yo my story "Otherwise Known as Guido Johnson" (1606) is now up at Crispin Best's For Every Year project.

Kissing Women in the Mouth

2011-01-14T22:58:00.001+08:00

He waits for her to open the door before backing out. All she can see is headlights. She waves, he's nice. Cute in the face but she's sad. Inside now, she cries and driving home he wonders why the prostitutes refuse to kiss him in the mouth. He offers them more money and they take it but the lips, a kiss, the intimacy cannot be paid for. He wonders if he should have asked her for a kiss. He hugged her and he shook her hand and it was awkward and embarrassing.

She is a woman who he has met recently in a normal social situation. She is attractive, not a prostitute and another day he calls her on the phone from work and they chat about things and laugh about their respective uniforms.

"I will take mine off when I get home," he says. "And I will sleep okay."

"Be truthful," she says. "About the little things. It means a lot to me."

He is honest now and he tells her that he does not sleep well in the night. He eats alone and he wears his uniform until it is time for bed. He is ashamed.

"I am happy about the things you tell me," she says. "In a way that transcends your particular circumstances. You are a good person and you deserve to sleep and sleep in your sheets and on your pillow."

"I am not a good person," he says. "I have paid girls for sex with my own money and I don't know how old they are."

She is surprised by his honesty and relieved. "I have given my boss a blow job in his car," she says. "He is not an attractive man."

"I will ask you a question," he says, "and you do not have to answer it. Have you kissed your boss before or after you have sucked his dick in his car?"

She laughs and she says that she has not kissed her boss before or after sucking his dick in the car. She can't imagine it.

"I think about kissing women in the night," he says. "You or prostitutes or any woman in the world. What it feels like, how it tastes to kiss a person in the mouth with clothes on or at the movies or under the covers or in the snow. And to wake up in the morning and to kiss them again. I don't know this kind of kiss and I crave it."

"I will kiss you," she says. "I will hold your hand and you will touch my face and we will kiss in the mouth and on the lips. You will know and you will understand and we will take off our uniforms and I will be a woman and you will be a man and nothing else. We will be together."

"I won't sleep tonight," he says and he doesn't.

In the morning it is Saturday and she waits for him in the park. It has been a long time and she is drinking coffee and he isn't going to come. She is happy now, later in years and in months. But she sometimes wonders about this man who was so honest and broken and ready to walk through the door to everything. She wants to know if this man is kissing a woman in his bed and sleeping at night. He is nice but all she can see are headlights as he backs out of the driveway in her mind.

Wide Open Road

2011-01-02T01:24:00.000+08:00

In her bed she stopped and said "it's a wide open road" and you knew just what she meant. It's a wonderful feeling, being over, in the beginning, the third instar of a fly. Sixteen days until you die and now you have come alive. Throw off the covers, punch her in the face. The window, the door, get the fuck out of this place. Get in your car or hop on a bus, go fast, stop, go, there's blood on your knuckles but you can't feel any pain. You didn't really punch her in the face but who she is or was or wasn't has been erased from your brain except it hasn't for the memories of vision, hearing, balance, taste, and smell remain. She's okay and it's okay to wink at your heart and high five your mind when you think about that first day on the train and that dress and her breasts and how she caught you peeking at her nipple.

But you are an excitable cell with action potential. Take off your shirt, turn right, there's nothing left in her of you. It doesn't matter who you're with or if you're not or if you read the paper. All paths have now converged at this critical point.

Yet nothing is critical or important or dependent on anything. Your phase velocity has been irrevocably altered and you are leaving the glass at a most peculiar and intoxicating angle. Good bye little boy, it is time to eat the frog and spit on the toad, for this is your wide open road.

We Have Done the Things that Whores and Painters Do

2010-12-13T23:40:00.002+08:00

Close your eyes; I'm alive in your dreams, back in Paris before the war. I am an artist and you are the whore in my painting. Just a whore though, not less, not yet. I have captured your secret on the canvas and you have taken me in ways that we will both surely remember and laugh about. My name for you is "Petits Four" and that is ironic now. I am a Jew.

For days and hours I was consumed by your incredible aesthetic symmetry, my brush refusing to perfect your delicate proportions. Then, gradually and carefully, I unveiled the turmoil and the lust that scratched at your skin from the inside. You were a beast and we were beasts together and you were naked and raw like nobody or nothing that had posed for me before. I painted quickly and honestly until you and I were finished.

Then, I could no longer hold your hand or look at you in your face. My eyes were infected, senses numbed. I took what I needed and left you in a splendid and chaotic heap. Now I am here, in your dreams, to tell you I am sorry.

And when my time is death I bid that you return to my dreams and apologize also. To be who we were, in Paris before the war, is all that I desire. Speak and I will forgive you for laying down, for whispering my name or shouting it in the ears of Le Bosch while you were doing unspeakable other things to their bodies. You were a whore and I was a painter. We have done the things that whores and painters do.

I Never Told You This But I Was Born on the Day You Died

2010-12-10T23:04:00.000+08:00

I see you, not with my eyes or in yours, but in words on the screen and floating by. These words that cannot be forgotten or contained in my mind tumble down the side of a mountain at even the slightest sound or movement. I am buried all the time and every day but I can feel you unearthing this rubble and tunnelling through the ice and snow. You do and will stand before me, always, not in Paris or a dress, but when it matters; your thoughts in mine.

Hi Daddy

2010-12-08T23:48:00.001+08:00

Hi daddy, remember me? You drowned when I was nine. I'm fine, though I don't sleep too well at night. Worming around, it's hot. My feet get tangled in the sheets and I don't think about you until eventually I do. Are you still in that box, in the dirt? I picked the shirt that you were buried in but I didn't go to the funeral. Mum said, well never mind why. I want to dig you up and look at you. Do you smell like the ground? I would like to hold your hand when I'm feeling down. Like now. Even if it is decomposing or completely bones I think it would help. Things aren't going exactly okay for me and I want to sit on your lap and smell your neck. My friend is really sick and there's this thing with this girl and I know I could be happy but I need to sleep. Will you let me go? I promise I'll be back by ten. Sorry, sometimes I pretend that you are here in my memories, all those years when I was alone.

I saw you in the pool by the way, that day, and all I can remember is that you had a moustache and your hair was matted down in a straight line from your belly button to the rim of your bathers. I can't even think what colour they were. Is that strange? Sometimes red, sometimes blue. I don't swim much myself. That's obvious I guess. My girlfriend's name is Huo, that's Chinese for fire. She says I should take all my clothes off and jump in the deep end. She doesn't understand. Or she does. Either way, she got a job in Hong Kong and she's going. She's leaving me and that's what happens isn't it? In the end.

Clowns

2010-11-30T22:49:00.000+08:00

An anagram is when a clown climbs out of the vagina of another clown. And then another clown climbs out of the vagina of the clown who is climbing out of the other clown's vagina. And then a third etc etc ad nauseam to infinity. It's confusing. I hate clowns. Just thinking about them like this makes me want to vomit in somebody's open mouth. And magic. What is wrong with people? If your job is being a clown or doing magic tricks then you are an asshole. An ass-hole with a hyphen. Sorry to be so blunt but what the fuck is wrong with you? Do something else. Get a job. Watch TV. Rob a bank. I don't care. And this never-ending circle of clowns birthing clowns, is this what my life has become? Do I read the same backwards as I do forwards?

I guess so. It's snowing now and it's weird because my thermostat is set at 80 degrees Fahrenheit. If you live somewhere where weather is measured in litres then you should know that 80 degrees Fahrenheit is hot. Even though it is freezing outside, literally to the point where the sky is cracking wide open and falling into great white mounds in my driveway, it remains uncomfortably warm in my house. I wear shorts and drink beer and shout BOO YA at my dog just like I do in the summertime but it isn't summertime and everybody knows it. All it takes is one look outside and it all comes crashing down. God's sleety jizz splattering against the windows, gutter sluts doing whore angels in the dirty snow; it's winter out there and I hate it.

But no matter, I will get in my car and drive to work tomorrow, sliding around on the icy roads and when I get there I'll tell Dave he's a cunt and I'll schedule a meeting to brainstorm ideas for next week's meeting and then I'll drive back home and eat dinner alone with the phone in my hand and I won't call my father or my children and I'll watch that show about the guys who say funny things and then I'll go to bed and record my innermost thoughts into a tape recorder that I hold in my hand above my head and I will accidentally drop it and it will land on my face and I will say something like "that's about right."

But the next morning, well maybe not the next or the one after that, but one morning I will listen to the previous night's recording and it will say "clowns are okay" and I will look into the mirror and I will say "clowns are okay" and that will be that. And people who do magic I guess.

Bieber Christ

2010-11-22T20:20:00.000+08:00

Our Bieber who art on a poster above my bed,

hallowed be thy hair.

Thy kingdom come

My hair will be done

at Supercuts as it is on your head.

Give us this day our daily four page spread in People magazine,

and forgive us our listening to Justin Timberlake before we knew about you,

as we forgive you for being Canadian,

lead us not into a bad haircut,

and deliver us from having to figure out any complex meaning in your songs.

For thine hair is the kingdom,

and the power, and the glory,

for ever and ever.

Amen.

Stuck in the Moment

2010-11-21T23:30:00.001+08:00

It's 1979 and Justin Bieber has just bombed the Masjid al-Haram, Islam's holy site at Mecca. Pakistani students are storming the local offices of Bieber's record company, Island Def Jam. They are burning it to the ground. I am in a reinforced safe room in the basement and I am okay. I'm writing with a pen on some paper and there's a girl and she is painting a picture of a man without a face. It's a protest piece. Something about facial recognition technology. She asks me what I'm writing and I tell her that it is a script for a TV show. It's the final episode of Welcome Back Kotter.

"What are you talking about?" she says. "Welcome Back Kotter came on before I was even born."

I tell her what I'm talking about. "It's the one where Horshack is dealing with being married and Freddy and Epstein have a fight."

"What year is this?" the girl asks. Then she says "look at your phone."

"My phone says it is 1979."

"Your iPhone?"

"Yep, 1979."

And now things are weird between us. And someone is pounding on the door. It's Bieber.

"Let me in," he says.

"Let him in," the girl says.

"Don't come in," I shout. "You'll fuck everything up."

"Can't stop me," Bieber says. "I'm a member of the United States 361st Psychological Operations Company."

"Shit," says the girl and then she sends me a text message. He thinks we're terrorists.

Terrorists.

TERRORISTS.

The word is in my brain. TERRORIST.

And things are changing. There are thoughts. Memories. TERRORISTS.

This isn't a record company. They think I'm a terrorist. The music is loud. It's hard to think. Why do I have my phone? Why is she texting me?

"It's in the painting," she says. "Tell me about the painting."

"It's not my painting."

"Look at your hands," she says. "Tell me about the painting."

My hands are splattered with blood.

"It's paint," she says. "Tell me about the painting."

I'm closing my eyes and I can see things inside of my mind. Words and diagrams. Calculations. Code. Hardware. Wires and lenses and plastic casings. I'm inventing facial recognition technology.

She's sticking a needle into my veins.

"I'm an artist now," I say.

"Once a terrorist," she says.

"But I sold it," I say. "To the FBI."

"Indeed," she says. "But what came next. Ibiza, of course. But what after that?"

"Art," I say.

"You don't think we would track someone like you? Tell me about the Usuli Twelver Shī‘ah clerics."

"I packed it in after Ibiza. I swear."

"Tell me about the Hojatoleslam wal-muslemin."

"I was studying," I say.

"Studying what?"

"Fiqh, kalam, Bieber, tafsir, philosophy, science, language, literature. Please turn the music off. I can't think straight."

"You were Hawza."

"No," I say. "They wouldn't allow it. I was just learning. About myself. About the world. People."

"Bombs," she says.

"Bieber," I reply. "BIEBER."

I'm awake now. Bed. Hospital. Pakistan. The nurses are laughing and there is a soldier.

"You told them everything," the soldier says. "You should never tell them everything. Now come with me. We're going to see Justin."

Stories from Second Grade

2010-10-24T21:28:00.000+08:00

ha aha hah aha h I just found these stories at my mum's house. I wrote these in grade 2. In 1978.

Dragon

Witch

If I Were a Ten Cent Piece

Shoes

The Entire Cast of Full House Flipping the Bird

2010-10-11T22:56:00.000+08:00

This is a community project. Please e-mail me pictures of the entire cast of Full House flipping the bird.

This is what I have so far:

Saget

Dave Coulier

Stamos
This one is real but I photoshopped his hand over to the other side as well because some douchebag had scribbled something over the picture. So if you have the real picture of the one bird hand and the one normal hand then send it in.

Mary-Kate Olsen

Avril Lavigne Wasn't in Full House But She Reminds Me of Kimmy Gibbler

Full House Cast Members Not Flipping the Bird
Please help me find pictures of the following cast members flipping the bird:

Candace Cameron (She is a good girl so this one will be hard)
Kimmy Gibbler
Jodie Sweetin (She was hooked on meth so come on she must have flipped the bird at some point)
That one chick who married Uncle Jesse
Ashley Olsen or another one of Mary-Kate

Come on team, let's band together and really make this happen.

Holes in You

2010-10-10T12:32:00.001+08:00

His words are drill bits, rotating, poking so many holes in you. The torque and axial force, spinning verbatim, breaking the skin, tearing through your muscles and veins and blood and organs and brains. Your bones are shattering and it hurts.

And when the words stop, the taste of titanium nitride lingers on his tongue, in your mouth and in your throat. You are affixed to a wall, a small picture of the wide open ocean. And battling the waves within the painting is a sinking boat in a storm. The sails are torn and the mast has snapped. Too far out, can't get back. Everyone on board will certainly drown.

But he'll stop drilling, God willing, and eventually take on other projects. The screws will loosen, over time, and you and your picture will drop to the ground to be found one day by the workman's brother: a silent man who talks with his hands and then you will finally understand the beauty of language.

About Girls About Women

2010-10-06T00:45:00.002+08:00

Known a few girls, been with some women. Don't understand them, guess that's a given but sometimes I catch a glimpse and it's real. The dancing chimps, the boys and the men doing the things over and again, they don't see it, they don't know, cold mornings pissing in the snow while the girls and the women inside of the house and inside of themselves are warm and thinking and not scared of that mouse but screaming out loud, not scheming or tricking but what has happened to Daryl Hannah's face? It was weird to begin with but now and holy cow this is how they do it. Just when the locks are tumbling into words from the mumbling the birds start chirping and the girls and the women are back under the covers calling their mothers, seducing their lovers and it's okay and it's good. But the girls and the women are like ancient trees in a Sicilian forest, Chestnut Trees of One Hundred Horses and all I can see is the wood. A table, a chair with pretty hair and maybe the boys and the men don't even care but I want to tie a rope to the branches and swing back and forth until I have counted all of the leaves above.

If it was me I'd never cut down a tree just to count the rings in its trunk. But the ramus supporting my rope will eventually crack and I'll be back in the snow with the rest of the boys and the rest of the men. Not trees any more, the girls and the women are springs, water from the mountains or jumping things. If only I could stretch them out and lay them flat, maybe they would recoil with me in the middle. But the riddle about girls, about women remains. And whether the sun shines or the heavens give rain, I'll always enjoy playing these games. I'm in love.

Got No Soul

2010-10-04T22:50:00.003+08:00

Got no soul, I'm a butterfly. Little girl's gonna catch me and watch me die. Ask her mum where I went:

"Not up to heaven because he wouldn't repent."

"What about hell where the bad folks are sent?"

"Just a ball of dust is all," she'll say, "now go back outside and play."

Little girl will look up at the sky to see if she can find another butterfly pretty as me.

Kid Can't Dance

2010-10-03T18:52:00.001+08:00

Okay, yeah he's alright. Kid can't dance and his pants are too tight but his eyes they shine like diamonds when he looks at her and he buys her flowers and opens the door, nothing like the guys she's been with before. Kinda weird I guess that chin beard and leather jacket and country shirts and jeans tucked into his boots and his hair all combed down to the side but the little things like letting her drive and choose the movie and I bet he goes downtown when they're getting groovy. And she's happy in her face and in her brain not just smiling to cover the pain but actually calm and comfortable and so happy deep down inside her guts and I'm telling you this as someone who used to think that slut was nuts. She's a different person now but the same, better like a cloud that dumped all its rain and he is the reason why she is no longer batshit insane.

She's in the present, now, wrapped up with a silk ribbon and a purple bow and I need to open the box. There's something in the future that I've seen in the past. I've got to tell her that this thing, this kid, it's not going to last. He'll change and it might be tomorrow or next year or in ten, I can't really say exactly when but one day he'll wake up and instead of fetching coffee he'll tuck back in and think "what the fuck am I lacking" and he'll realize that nothing is ever about him. He won't go with her to Ikea because he's sleeping in. He'll masturbate then put on that t-shirt she hates that says "I play to win."

She won't notice of course or she'll make excuses and when they're married he'll make jokes about whips and nooses and they'll have some kids and get divorced. Better that I tell her now I guess that this kid who she thinks is more will end up less. "Take a deep breathe," I'll say, "count up to three. There'll be someone else, someone better, just wait and see." Then one day I'll get down on one knee and tell her that someone is me. And I can dance.

Standard Disco Beat

2010-09-12T12:30:00.003+08:00

A team, led by Nick Neave of Northumbria University in England is filming 19 men aged 18-35 in a lab as they dance to a standard disco beat. One of these men, the one with the tapered jeans and oversized black and white checkered shirt, is Maximilian Müller formerly of Munich but now living in London Central with an Australian girl named Jazzberry.

What am I doing here, wonders Maximilian, who has recently begun thinking his thoughts in English. In this lab, dancing, in this cold city working with deceptive people and electronic machines that possess no physical feeling or sensation. In my life, what am I doing?

That night, while dining in a curry house on the Piccadilly end of London's Regent Street, Maximilian shares his thoughts with Jazzberry.

"You are doing fine," she says calmly. "You are happy with your life."

"I am happy with my life," repeats Maximilian.

"You are in love," says Jazzberry.

"I am in love," repeats Maximilian.

"And you are a good person," says Jazzberry

"I am a good German," says Maximilian. Then quickly, "no, that's wrong, isn't it?"

"You are a good person," says Jazzberry again.

"It isn't working," says Maximilian.

"Try it again."

"I can't think straight in this Gott-verlassen language. Why are we doing this?"

"In time, the questions will be answered," says Jazzberry. "For now, we must get on."

Maximilian closes his eyes. "Yes, we must get on," he says. "I am a good person."

"That's fine," says Jazzberry. "Enough for tonight."

The next morning, Maximilian wakes up, as he has every morning for the past six months or so, on the very edge of his king sized bed, ultra-soft 700 thread count sheets pushed down by his feet. He is naked. He lives on the 7th story of the Think Tower Bridge, in a serviced apartment, and there is a glass of freshly squeezed mango juice waiting for him on the bedside table. He can hear Jazzberry talking on the phone in the other room.

"Marvellous. Very talented. He's really coming along. Trust me. Oh, he's awake, I've got to go."

Jazzberry, also naked, now enters the bedroom and leans up against the the large glass window.

"I heard you just now," says Maximilian.

"Then I will kill you," says Jazzberry with a smile.

"You will kill me," repeats Maximilian.

Now forty years have passed. Maximilian is old and he is fat and there is a package on the ground outside his front door with his name on it. Maximilian falls to his knees and he cries. He slides his finger under the tape and a pain shoots up through his arm and into his elbow. His body is like this now. Inside the package is an electronic device. He turns it on and then off again within an instant. It is a film of young men dancing. He does not want to be reminded of this time in his life, of the things he has done since learning to contort his body to a standard disco beat.

The very next day, while riding the number 103 bus, Maximilian dies. Quietly and alone.

Sexy Christian Girl Praying on Her Knees to the Sky

2010-08-17T12:46:00.001+08:00

The sexy Christian girl praying on her knees to the sky wonders why jockeys vomit on the daily. She prays on it, out loud, and then turns to the young man who is kneeling beside her.

"It's disgusting," she says.

"Nothing is beautiful," Donnie replies. "Apart from God, obviously. And your gigantic tits."

"Donnie!" Shouts the sexy Christian girl who has just finished praying on her knees to the sky. "Stop it. You know I don't like it when you covet my body like that."

"Well, we all do it. You have to," says Donnie.

"It's gross."

"So is horse shit. But it's a part of the game. If you want to ride then you've got to stick your weight."

"Can't you just eat less?" asks the sexy Christian girl who is no longer praying on her knees to the sky.

"God made doughnuts, didn't he?" asks Donnie. "Why should I not partake in something so heavenly?"

"You don't have to eat the whole thing, though," says the sexy Christian girl who is still not praying on her knees to the sky. "You could just lick the sugar off the top."

"I've tried," says Donnie. "But once you get a taste..."

The sexy Christian girl returns to her knees, as if to pray to the sky once more.

Donnie unzips his pants and smiles. "This will help," he says. "I'm still a couple of ounces over my weight."

"Okay," says the sexy Christian girl who will soon be praying on her knees to the sky again. "But next time you better lick the doughnut."

Enith Brigitha

2010-08-16T19:26:00.000+08:00

My contribution to xTx's Zombie Summer ... (click Enith's tongue to go to the story)

14

2010-08-07T21:19:00.001+08:00

Coke for breakfast; cola in the kitchen and a little caine she'd stashed away, this day, another day, another one just the same. Whiskey will shape her words tonight and smoke will mellow her voice. Or harden it, not sure but you like the way it sounds; she's fourteen. She binges on the adulation then fingers her throat, purging until she's empty inside and she is.

Her words are worth a thousand pictures of her plaster-cast painted smiling face because each one is part of the puzzle; each word has its place and when you listen and not just listen but understand then you will know that it is raining on the other side of the house, it's cold even though you are sitting in a square of sunshine on the carpet staring at the blue blue sky out of the only window in the room. The dog is basking too and you're reading a book and it would be so easy for you to just stand up and open the back door and stick your hand out and feel the tears that slide down her cheeks at night but instead you turn the stereo up and adore the voice of a woman who is singing to you through a child's mouth.

Undercover Stuntman

2010-08-04T21:05:00.000+08:00

I'm an undercover stuntman. And a part-time grizzly bear.

I built a robot. And taught it how to "reach around."

I fought in the war "without a helmet."

I was a power ranger.

I was the stunt mustache for Burt Reynolds in Canonball Run Two.

I can tumble down the side of a mountain without breaking any bones.

I killed a ninja.

I wouldn't let let the doctors take my appendix out.

I drive a Mazarati that used to be leased to DMX's cousin.

I own a sandwich shop in conjunction with Matthew McConaughey.

I have an appropriate ballsack to penis ratio.

I slipped the maitre d' a twenty.

I capitalize appropriately.

My t-shirt fits snugly.

My pants are made from the finest Italian leather. Natural oils within the leather prevent chafing.

I am handsome.

I am the Great Dane of people.

So who are you to de-friend me on Facebook?

11/11

2010-08-01T20:07:00.000+08:00

Dear Taylor Swift,

Sometimes I dont know if things are real and they told me that I am a "head case" firstly the first part is that I am a head case and I think I have to tell you that. And secondly of all I want you to know that I didn't rape that girl in 1976.

After the concert you hugged me for seven seconds and you asked me if you could touch my hair which was sweet because usually people just touch it without asking and it makes me uncomfortable. But anyway, wow. I still can't believe you hugged me for seven seconds. I hope you don't mind but I spent most of those seven seconds pretending that you were a grizzly bear and I was all chewed up inside of your stomach. You were digesting me and all I could hear was your heart beating and gas rumbling through your colon. You fart, too, Taylor Swift and my daughter says that you're a slut. That's pretty harsh. I don't think you're a slut. I think you've probably been with a few guys. Done things with them. Ha ha I can just picture it. I'm still thinking of you as a grizzly bear I guess. But that doesn't make you a slut. I think sluts are more hardcore. Just doing guys all over the place. My daughter thinks that any girl who wears stockings is a slut.

I know you don't care what my daughter thinks but you should care what I think because I am a fan of yours. I listen to your music and I log on to your MySpace and I go to your concerts and you hug me.

What I am actually writing to you about, though, is 11/11. Those are my numbers. Everything. It's hard to explain but bad things can happen. If I don't, when I don't complete an 11/11 do you know that bad things happen? I don't want to freak you out because it is really just something private that I live with and people tell me that bad things won't happen but they do because I've tested it. People fall out of windows. For example every year on November 11 I have to write 11/11 eleven times on a piece of paper and at 11:11 on the clock I have to touch each one of my toes eleven times and each one of my fingers eleven times or somebody will definitely fall out of a window and even when I write or say 11/11 there are things I have to do it is very frustrating and this letter has already taken a very long time for me to write.

So I just want you to know and I need you to that you can't just play around with numbers like they don't mean anything to anyone. Why did you choose to release "Fearless" on November 11? My daughter says it is because 11/11 is just the same number twice and it is easy to remember and that it has nothing to do with people falling out of windows but you need to know that what you did, because of you a little girl who was only three years old fell out of a third story window of her apartment and she died and I know that it's my fault because I did not buy your CD until the following Thursday. But it is also your fault because you were the first 11 and I was the other 11 do you understand? There are always two parts and I am always the second part and the first part is the one that has to stop because once the first part is there I have to complete it and sometimes I can't do it in time because I was in the hospital and you can't buy CDs in the hospital. You are a nice person and pretty and such a beautiful voice but letting people fall out of windows is not being a good role model and now that I just found out that you have been nominated for the Country Music Association Entertainer of the Year and that award will be announced on November 11 I want you to please not win it even though I know you are going to win it or maybe you could just not show up that night okay? I will try my best to be ready to do my things but sometimes they don;t let us watch TV after 8PM so what can I do?

Oh, I better sign off now. I just dropped my nuts on the floor and I don't want the baby to eat them.

Your biggest fan,

Rick Morgan

11/11 11/11

11/11

11/11

11/11 11/11 11/11 11/11 11/11 11/11 11/11

I Watch People Die

2010-07-29T22:36:00.001+08:00

Her face is lovely. Freckles and eyes. That smile, warm like the tiles on the side of a pool in the summertime. I dangle my feet over the edge and watch her slip under the water. Her skin, so white it's green, soft and her hair is a jellyfish; the tentacles dancing in their pyjamas, laughing and jumping on the bed with no grown ups and the boys are downstairs watching TV. She crouches down on the bottom of the pool and I want her to stay there because she's happy and I want her to live forever, ever down there where everything is in slow motion, a dream. But now she's launching herself up through the water and her head is born again into the daylight and she's splashing me. Laughing but she's dying. I can hear it in her voice and see it in the goosebumps on her forearms. She's cold. The other girls in the pool, too. The boys. They're changing, the water now draining from their faces like blood. I won't tell her, though, what she doesn't want to know. I'll say something funny and pretend to fall into the pool. I'll cradle her like a bride over the threshold and we'll spin around and kiss. We'll share a lemonade and lay out in the sun with the radio on and we'll talk about a book that she read and when she sleeps I'll sneak away. I'll go and watch some other people die.

Snatch Match Dot Com

2010-07-23T15:26:00.002+08:00

So many of my friends are single and AWESOME and for one reason or another they are having a hard time snatching up the perfect mate. That's why I've invented SnatchMatch.com! It's a scientific-based, patent-pending calcularization machine that is guaranteed to help singles snatch up compatible (and AWESOME) partners before they are whisked away by some dude/lady who is NOT VERY AWESOME!

So if you are single and AWESOME then simply answer the questionnaire below and you will be connected with someone who is just as AWESOME as you! Or don't. But if you don't you will probably end up with someone like my friend Mitch (he's definitely NOT AWESOME! but he is my friend so don't say anything mean okay).

What's your favourite episode of Quantum Leap?
[FOR GUYS ONLY] Do you consider yourself more of an A.C. Slater, Zack, or Screech. Keep in mind that A.C. Slater allegedly raped that one girl. And Zack used steroids to pump up but that was back in the SBTB days. And Screech is a douchebag but he allegedly has a huge penis (okay, not allegedly; I've seen it and it is very big)?
[FOR WOMEN ONLY] If you were in a gang would it be "The Knuckle Sluts," "The Vadge Hammers," or the "The Sarah Jessica Parker is Attractives"?
[FOR RICKY SCHROEDER ONLY] What's Alfonso Ribeiro really like? He seems like an okay guy but you can never really tell with celebrities.
Who was the boss?
Delicious bananas with a slight tinge of green on the skin or gross bananas with disgusting brown spots on the skin?
Dudes who say "Bro" or bros who say "Dude" or both (Matthew McConaughey)?
Golden Girls or Gilmore Girls?
Sexual fantasy: something to do with onion rings or Michael Winslow doing helicopter noises?
Perfect date: dinner and a movie or dinner and a movie with Elliot Gould in it?
Julie Andrews showing her boobs in the movie "S.O.B." (essay question)
Sexier: Mel Gibson on a racist tirade or Robin Williams in the nude?
If you met Ian Ziering in real life would you pronounce his first name like Ion or would you just go ahead and say it like Ian even though you know he prefers it like Ion.
Does this questionnaire have too many references to TV shows from the 80s and 90s: yes, no, or Mayim Bialik?

That was easy wasn't it? Now sit back and relax while your results are calcularized. You will be snatchmatched to your perfect AWESOME mate in no time!

Putting Things in Other Things

2010-07-19T13:30:00.003+08:00

I suppose everyone puts things in other things to some degree but for me it's a compulsion. Not a sickness so much as a way to push through, to belong, to get on with all those people who walk and work and play and touch my life in random ways, completely unrestrained. I dread the mornings, that moment, the very second I'm awake when thoughts and dreams remain, not yet reconciled, scattered on the floor. "I'm in my room, in my bed, behind the door," I think to myself and then out loud I say "snakes eat mice" and it's that advice that allows me to sort my life into folders. Trapper Keepers for things to do, for feelings felt, for ways to start the day. "I'm okay" I say as I put my legs in underpants, feet in socks, then in sneakers, cereal in a bowl. Sandwich in a bag. Body in the car. Now I'm the buttons in a jar that I used to collect when I was two. The coins in a box, or found feathers that I stuffed in a pencil case, zipper closed to keep them in place.

But the containers are dropping, they're falling, now spilling, I'm spinning out of control. The mouse has escaped, or been set free by the snake, oh my snake is a girl. I know who she is, and I am the mouse. Still, I'm falling, not floating, closing in fast on the ground. I'm not in my car and my stomach is dry, no shoes and no pants, no time to ask why. I can see my house now down below, no roof and no walls, a sound I don't recognize. This is nice. The zipper is opening, the feathers have spread, the girl, she is my wife, waiting naked on our bed. Hovering just above, my thoughts are now clear, nothing in anything as far as I can see. She's saying something, my wife from the bed. "Put yourself in me," she whispers and I will. She's the only thing I want or need to fill. That night my dreams and all those random thoughts, they converge and intertwine, neat but not sorted into files. The next morning she rolls over and touches her fingers to my eyes. "Go back to sleep," she says and I do, for once knowing that everything is fine.

She Sits in the Corner

2010-07-16T13:36:00.000+08:00

She sits in the corner, with a notebook scribbling, reading, thinking, bleeding, and I wonder why she isn't beautiful when she writes. No lights tonight but the TV is on with the sound turned down and it's hot. She's not drunk but she's drinking wine and not eating the grilled cheese sandwich I made for her with tomatoes in it. I've eaten mine. She'll take her shirt off in a minute and I'll look at her breasts, dripping with sweat, and then I'll probably take the rubbish out and check on our daughter. She asked me once, our little girl, why you can't fill a net with water. I thought the answer was simple at the time, because of the holes in the net, and yet here I am, asking the same and now I think it has more to do with the water, the way it flows, the way it knows where it wants to go.

Now I'm in bed and it dawns on me, while she's out there, left hand tangled in oily hair, right hand clutching the pen too tight. Ever since the night we met she's been swirling around and through my net and when she sits in the corner with her notebook scribbling I can see it in her eyes. The anger and the fear, not hers but mine. She is beautiful, in fact, divine. I am the one who is ugly when she writes.

Quarter Past Nine

2010-07-13T18:32:00.000+08:00

At all times, in his briefcase, by his side, he carries with him secret thoughts of suicide. A certain sadness, a Rubik's cube, and a lunch box packed with food that he doesn't like. Words scrawled on a notepad that he can't remember or understand. He tries to read between the lines, "everything's fine" but it's raining now, not water from above but lies, he's soaking wet, not dead yet but drenched by her betrayal. It's hard to distinguish between the love and the pain, both so heavy, he switches the briefcase over to the other hand, fingers slipping in the rain. He wants to set it down, to sever the ties but instead his veins are calling his name in a voice that sounds like hers.

It isn't her, though, he knows that briefcase was a gift at birth. Oh, the days that have begun and ended with crying, the nights alone, the dreams of dying, pondering the difference between life and nothing. Walking the earth, under the dirt, buried while all those people float on by in their balloons. Just once, when he was a boy, when he was a man, he wanted one of them to reach down and take him by the hand. Lift him up and carry him along, teach him the words to their impossible song. They tried, some of them did, some of them ran, some of them hid. But there were friends and lovers and strangers, too, who laid out plans, who drew Venn diagrams, who scribbled pictures of sunny skies. And he was happy for days and weeks and months and years or maybe not happy but okay. But like kids in the park he keeps coming back to that slide, scorching hot from the sun, the one that burns the backs of his legs as he begs for his feet to land on the ground but somehow on the way down he always flips back around and lands upon his head. Then the briefcase tumbles behind and there it is, always is, and it opens his mind to those ever present thoughts of death.

Then on the train he overhears a kid with a giant face, a Muppet with messy blonde hair say that life isn't fair and suddenly it all makes sense. Everybody's going to die, it's just a matter of time. And now his watch says it's a quarter past nine.

Let The Children Sleep For Now

2010-06-26T12:40:00.000+08:00

Let the children sleep for now, may the darkness keep them warm. With the sun will rise the truth; their world will crack at dawn. No father now, their mother now weeping in her bed. Let the children sleep tonight, the devil's name unsaid. Star Wars sheets and pillows soft, these dreams cannot be torn. But the bastard of death he waits not long before he must be born. So let the children sleep for now, calm before the storm.

How's Your Wife?

2010-06-24T21:50:00.001+08:00

I know Larry from work but also because he went to high school with my wife. Sometimes he'll say "How's Sheryl?" or "How's your wife?" and I'll tell him something funny like "still slutty." Small talk from a small man as my wife would say. But this morning, well first off Larry went way around the back way through the copy room and he never goes that way because he drinks coffee in the morning and the coffee machine is right across from my cubicle but this morning I saw him double back that other way so that's strange for starters and then at lunch when I saw him in the cafeteria he started fumbling with his phone like he was willing it to ring but it didn't. Then when I say "hey Larry, how they swinging?" his face gets flush like I just asked him to squeeze my balls and he says "yeah" and I says "yeah, what?" and then that's when it happens.

"How's your wife?" he says but not normal like every other day it's all in slow motion like "how ...'s .... you....r....wi....fe?" and the corner of his mouth turns inside out then starts flicking up and down like some kinda weird tick and I can see panic in his eyes and he stumbles backward like I just socked him in the guts but I didn't even touch him.

Then all of a sudden there's no blood in my head. My hands and feet are tingling like how when you sit on them for too long and my stomach is warm, so warm like gross warm, and this is what people feel like when they get stabbed or more like when their throats get slit. Next thing I know I'm on the floor and Hector and Karen are touching my face and saying things but where's Larry? He's gone home they say, wasn't feeling well.

Then the end of the day comes around like it does every other day and I start back to thinking about what happened earlier in the morning and at lunch time and it hits me in the brain what my body somehow caught on to hours ago. And I always said I would never be mad at the other guy because I ain't married to him but the rage was coming and I was grabbing stuff like things that could maybe do some damage and Larry's fucking tick face was the only thing I could see through the mist of anger. Lucky he went home early I guess although a stapler was about the worst of it and that's the kind of thing that ends up on YouTube, some middle aged arsehole stapling some other middle aged arsehole in the neck or in the earhole or something.

Then I drive home yelling at some lady who didn't use her blinker and I call her a cunt and think about bashing her face in with a cricket bat and then when I pull up into the driveway I notice that the lights are off. Not one light on in the house and the dog is out back barking, high pitched like someone just ruined his life.

The only thing I can think to do is put my pyjamas on, crawl into bed, and watch a few episodes of the Gilmore Girls. Because that's what we always do on Monday nights.

I Read Books

2010-06-20T21:48:00.000+08:00

I read books all the time about things, about girls, about men. Death, and yes, about love. Destruction, redemption, the depths, the darkness, and the light inside. Hearts closed or open wide. Despicable things. Connections, actions, burning bridges, mending fences. Consequences. Conflicted thinking, floating, sinking. Righting wrong. Standing up, being strong, fighting on. But here I am in bed where I read about these things, about girls, about men, and here you are, sharing this bed where I read about death, and yes about love, but you are a person, not pages or ink and I'm starting to think I'm not prepared for this or for you. What should I say, what should I do?

I'll Kill a Bear

2010-06-19T20:06:00.000+08:00

There's nothing you can do, she said. Don't buy a suit or kill a bear. Don't paint me flowers or stroke my hair. Don't get all weepy, it's creepy and don't write a song about footprints in the sand. Just accept that you cannot understand. It's not about you. Don't buy a ticket. Don't save the whales. I don't need any more Alpha males in my life. Don't make a mix tape that's all Billy Ocean. Don't set sail across the sea to be with me and please do not buy a knife or a gun. Don't punch a wall or curse at the sun or book a romantic getaway to the south of France. Don't buy me sexy underpants or read me poems over the phone. Don't discuss any of this with my friends or with my mum and don't come around when I tell you I'm not home. Don't say sorry or ask me if I'm okay. Just leave me alone for today. I'll give you a call tomorrow.

Smaller

2010-06-18T11:39:00.002+08:00

She is smaller than him. Not child-like, but short. Slim. She stands on her toes and clutches his sleeves. She looks up at him, into his eyes. Her hair is tied back, her tiny face is bright, alive with wonder and love. It is hard not to think of a girl adoring her father but she is a woman. Fully a woman. And although he towers above her, he is not her father. Not anybody's father. She wants him to pick her up, to hold her tight, to carry her to the bedroom. She likes being smaller than him.

But he looks away, to the side, the TV is on. A game. Football. Cricket. She whispers, something she wouldn't dare say out loud. But he cannot hear her. "How was your day?" he asks.

She's growing now. Taller. The tenderness in her face fades. Her body stretches. It bends. She is a monkey. A gorilla. Her hands, her nails are sharp. A werewolf perhaps. She grabs him by the neck and forces his head around. She looks down, into his eyes again, deeper now. She can see inside of him and he is not a big man anymore. He is folding in two. The thing inside of him is eating his guts out and he is crying. He is shrinking. He is smaller than her. Fully a man still, but weak and sad. She does not like being bigger than him.

Now she packs her bags. She is leaving. Her reflection in the mirror whispers to her. "You will always be small," it says, "but you won't ever be smaller again."

How Nice it Must Be

2010-06-17T21:19:00.002+08:00

Mount Everest is littered with dead bodies. Climbers who succumbed to the elements. Crack faced porcelain dolls. One armed mannequins. That big ol' hill is a gigantic cryocompressor, freezing bodies and brains and people who, I am quite convinced, will one day thaw out and return to their everyday lives. Things for them will be different in the future. Better. Or not worse, at least. How could they be worse? They will wake up one day and ride the melting icecaps down to the bottom of the mountain. They will get into their cars. They will go home and ask their families what is happening on "Friends." Their families will hug them and tell them it is okay that their faces are kind of smashed up and that they only have one arm. They will be happy and loved and they will go to work and chat about how nice it is to be alive.

I envy that.

I'm frozen, too, wedged between rock shards, halfway up a particularly challenging alpine couloir. But I'm not ever going to thaw out. I don't want to. If anything I want to freeze harder. Feel less. Let the mountaineers climb over me. Let them shatter my head with their ice axes. Let them remark about how courageous I was to make it this far. How sad it is that I am dead. Let them come back for me on a future expedition, wrap my body in an Australian flag, say a prayer, and dump me into a mountain bowl on top of all those other climbers who don't want to thaw out.

Then let more bodies fall on top of me. My future the same as my present as my past. Concealed and frozen. Never really knowing how nice it must be to be alive.

blood on your face

2010-04-22T18:58:00.001+08:00

in your dress with the pockets. hands in your pockets. nothing in your pockets. there's blood on your face.

where are your shoes? my favourite shoes. you don't have any shoes. are those dried tears on your cheeks?

your mascara has run, why didn't you run? you tried to run. there's dirt in your hair.

your purse has gone. your necklace has gone. the darkness has gone. it's still in your mind.

come closer to me. get warmer with me. come home with me. i will make you some eggs.

your name is flower

2010-04-20T13:16:00.006+08:00

http://newwavevomit.com/newwavevomit.com/17th.html

colony collapse disorder

2010-04-20T12:43:00.000+08:00

my love for you is a thousand million bees. swarming bees dancing on the flowers, sperming honey into jars, and stinging children in their faces. buzzing bees that hum along to peter bjorn and john.

but the bees are dying. they wander off to god knows where. they get drunk and they die. they implode and explode and disintegrate into thin air. they spontaneously combust. entire colonies are collapsing in the bathrooms at work. they are having epileptic fits in front of the TV and their friends are putting spoons in their mouths but it doesn't seem to help. and the few bees that do survive are left riddled with disease, suffering from a tremendous and unexplainable pathogen load. and their feet stink.

the scientists don't understand. they don't know why the bees are disappearing. maybe all these cell phones are emitting radioactive bee waves. or maybe some crazy girl bees are lacing all the bee food with rat poison. theories. hillary clinton has heard about it, too. she wants to know what is going on but nobody can figure it out. all we know is the bees are dying and soon our entire ecosystem will crumble. you'd be surprised how useful bees are. we need them to pollinate all kinds of different foods like apples or almonds or beef strogonoff. it's called entomophily and without it we will all cease to exist.

maybe something can be done, but honestly, at this point, i think we should just start seeing other people.

menstruating robots with beards

2010-04-18T21:31:00.003+08:00

rani's father reads the wall street journal. on the toilet on the train, he retains all that business in his brain. currencies and stocks and thousand dollar shoes with silk lined socks.

but unlike the other wall street sluts and cocks, rani's dad gets rich when there's a decline in the value of his assets; makes his money shorting futures. maybe that's why he sews up rani's vagina when she's 12. and why he laughs at 14 when the blood seeps through her sutures.

rani doesn't understand, of course, why anyone would want her to be less. want her to wear her dead mother's dirty old dress. why her life like her hair is always a mess. but she goes on like any kid does. aware of the chaos and ignoring the buzz of the blow flies who lay maggots in her ears and in her eyes. avoiding her reflection is the only direction she knows. and so it goes.

until her sixteenth birthday when rani happens to meet her father's protégé. at a party for her there's no one rani's age except for the go-go dancer who's stripping in a cage. the protégé's name is dave. he talks to her about nanotechnology and she says "robots?" and he says "no, nanotechnology is the engineering of functional systems on a molecular scale. it's where the next boom will be. where the money will be made. your father disagrees of course. so does the journal."

dave's appearance is frozen in 1991. mustard color suit, hair in a fade, but rani likes what she sees and she wants him to be pleased so she tries to understand. "tiny robots?"

"kind of," says dave.

that night in bed rani fingers her stitches as she pretends to talk to dave on the phone. hello oh hi let me suck on your bone but the dream is shortlived when her father opens the door and laughs in her face. she's been put back into her place. her mind has been raped.

still, rani's a smart girl and determined to escape. she e-mails dave and they go on a date. they kiss and their love is intense and that nanotechnology starts to make sense. in the months to come when the stitches are gone dave starts talking about a bioengineering degree at the university of bonn. dave sits on the bed and combs rani's hair. rani looks at him in the mirror. she looks at herself.

"I don't want to go," she says.

but dave sets her free.

"go and come back and you will see. you and me will always be."

so at 18 rani's bags are packed. without telling her father she sneaks out the back.

in germany everything begins to click. she re-engineers human cells and implants them in robots. she's figured a way to give an android a dick. a robot a beard and periods and hair. testosterone and estrogen. now she can rest again because this ingenious use of nanotechnology has made her rich. robots having babies. baldies getting nanobots implanted under their scalps. the practical applications are almost infinite.

finally saved, she flies back to new york and is reunited with dave. he is proud of her. "how's my father?" asks rani.

"broke," says dave. he shorted nanotech.

i die in my dreams

2010-03-20T07:34:00.003+08:00

i cry in the shower sometimes, i die in my dreams. i want to ask my daughter what all of it means, but she's only three. now she's in her teens with skinny jeans and a boyfriend who cries in the shower and has wet dreams. god, let me go and come back clean, dennis lillee's fingers on my seams. i'm a ball in the air and life isn't fair and vivian richards will smack me for six. and out in the backyard of my brain i'll bounce for a while on the trampoline. i'm the king out here but where is my queen. i know, don't tell me again, i saw her face in my bed. mouth wide open like she just won the race to be dead. i stuffed it with jelly beans and poured chocolate sauce on her head. in shock i suppose and they came and took her away and i had to go to work that day. they told me to go back home and be with my girl. 12 years ago and i still cry in the shower sometimes. and die in my dreams.

methylamphetamine

2010-02-24T21:48:00.010+08:00

nigel reads a lot about girls his age. they don't wear bras. they are promiscuous and lascivious and they engage in sexual activity with men in the backs of vans or in the woods or in basements with rock and roll music blaring out of giant speakers. they have big hairy bushes and long straight hair and they wear miniskirts and knee high socks. nigel thinks about these girls and he imagines himself sitting with them on a couch and talking to them. in his mind he puts his hand on their legs and then he touches their vaginas and kisses them.

but in reality none of it is possible. nigel is in borstal training with 74 other boys. bigger boys who bugger him in the showers, beat him while he sleeps, and urinate on his face and in his trunk.

nigel is dead in the day and in the night; only alive in the pages of his favourite magazine. 1969. the girls and the politics and the music. 19 years old and 19 months to go.

but today there is a new boy settling in to the bunk above his. his name is otto and he talks about his kit, which is his clothes. and his hair. he tells stories about scooters and protests and making love to german and french girls and girls who are from liverpool. he has smuggled in a syringe and he fills it with a drug called methylamphetamine. he injects it into his veins and he puts his arms up behind his head and he says "everything is okay."

nigel does not know what it is like to think that "everything is okay." so in the middle of the night he rummages through otto's bag and pilfers the contraband drugs and their associated paraphernalia. he hides under his blankets and tries to remember how otto did it. he makes mistakes and spills the methylamphetamine. he pokes himself with the needle and he bleeds. he cries. loud sobs and other boys come and they laugh at him and tell him to be quiet. nigel screams obscenities at the boys and he tries to bite a hole in his own wrist. he wants it to be over but he cannot break the skin.

in the following days nigel's relationship with otto flourishes. they are friends now. otto tells him that his uncle is a teacher at the borstal and explains that he can get a steady supply of methylamphetamine. he shows nigel how to do it properly.

nigel likes the way the methylamphetamine makes him feel. he is strong and "everything is okay." he uses it everyday and he writes letters to his parents and to people in the government and to his favourite magazine. 1969. he tells people that there is an answer. he wants people to know that there is an answer.

nigel loses weight and he cannot sleep at night. he does not think about girls his age anymore. he thinks about methylamphetamine. he wants more. he asks otto if he can have more. otto tells nigel to relax. he tells nigel that he is giving up the methylamphetamine. he tells nigel that the drug is ruining his brain.

nigel then has what some may describe as a psychotic episode. he strangles otto until otto is dead. he kicks otto's head and face. the other boys circle around. some of them laugh. nigel does not understand. soon he is transferred to the men's prison where he suffers alone for 19 more years.

it is now 1988 and nigel waits for a bus. the bus takes him to liverpool where he gets a job in a donut van. he rents a room in a house. the room is advertised as a converted garage but actually it is just a regular garage without a car in it. he finds an old stack of magazines and one of them is his old favourite. 1969. he opens it to the letters page and sees the one that he wrote all those years ago. methylamphetamine is the answer, his old self declares. he crosses the words out with a red pen and over the top he writes:

"methylamphetamine is not the answer"

and then

"the answer = promiscuous and lascivious girls with big hairy bushes"

the next day while working in the donut van nigel meets a girl. she is a scouser with long straight hair. she is wearing a miniskirt and knee high boots. "everything is okay," says nigel to the girl.

33

2010-02-18T14:06:00.001+08:00

former chicago bulls all-star scottie pippen has a big nose and an elongated head. basketball fans and casual observers have long attributed these awkward looks to genetics or to random weird lookingness. however, most scientists, and especially any chemist worth his or her damn, know/s there is more to it than that. they can tell, simply by the shape of his face and head, that scottie pippen is one of the rarest human beings alive; he is a natural producer of lanthanum. it gestates in his blood. it is absorbed by his bones. it infiltrates every cell in his body. it causes minor mutations and slightly above normal physical abilities. but more importantly, the lanthanum that grows inside of scottie pippen is harvestable.

recognizing this fact, and wanting to capitalize on it, over a dozen american, european, and asian nations court scottie pippen. they want to draw his blood. cut his hair. scrape his skin. collect his stool. and bottle his semen. they want to use the lanthanum that flows within scottie pippen to manufacture hybrid car batteries and other green technologies. they want to pay scottie pippen a lot of money in exchange for his biological gift.

but scottie pippen does not need the money and he does not want to be viewed as a freak. his image is important to him. even though he is a bit ugly in the face people tend to like scottie pippen. he is a nice person. he has done things in basketball and in life that very few others have even dreamed about. he does not want to ruin that legacy.

but scottie pippen gets migraines. his bones ache. sometimes he feels depressed. doctors believe the elevated levels of lanthanum are responsible for these neurological, physical, and emotional complications. scottie pippen thinks maybe some of these government scientists could help him control the lanthanum and its detrimental health effects. he agrees to meet with drs. pölönen of finland and magnusson of sweden. from his basketball days he learned the critical art of negotiation. negotiating with two external parties is ideal. more and things get confusing. one and you lose the upperhand.

so it is 2008 and scottie pippen travels to finland and then on to sweden. he still doesn't want the general public to know about his condition, or to be aware of any deals that may or may not be made in the coming weeks. so scottie pippen concocts a cover story. he will come out of retirement to play a few basketball games for topo in the finnish league and one for sundsvall, a swedish team. the scandinavian fans go crazy for scottie pippen. espn magazine writes a story about the comeback and how scottie pippen is really doing it for the kids. and nobody suspects a thing.

the meetings go well. the scientists and the government officials are excited. they offer scottie pippen long term deals with excellent remuneration packages. the doctors draw diagrams of the human body on a white board. they tell scottie pippen that his health will improve.

after the meetings scottie pippen sits with a woman in the hotel bar. she is from hamburg. that's funny to him because he is from hamburg too, but he is from hamburg arkansas, not hamburg germany. they talk about it and other things and it comes out that they also share the exact same birthday. he is attracted to her even though she has a big nose and an elongated head. she does not know about his basketball past. she likes him. they spend the night talking and kissing and he touches her boobs a little bit but they don't want to rush things. he feels good. he feels really good. his migraines are gone. his bones have stopped aching. he does not want to crawl under the covers and die.

scottie pippen calls the swedes and he calls the finns and he tells them that the deal is off. they decline the invitation to scottie pippen's wedding and they reopen discussions with china.

faceman from the a-team reads the perfect strangers theme song

2010-02-17T12:55:00.001+08:00

car and a hose

2010-02-13T09:36:00.000+08:00

alcohol methadone, knocked on the door but nobody's home. high on the streets now not on life. it's cold. used to be somebody telling people things but he never owned a car. something about cars in his head well he found his father and little brother dead in the back of one when he was a kid. that's probably it but aside from that he was okay. went to work every day in a suit, he had a girlfriend. she was cute and they lived together in an apartment. it was small and there were mice in the walls but they were happy and they cooked sometimes dinner or breakfast and they rented videos from the shop downstairs. then she was gone and instead of a beer in front of the tv he had two, he had three. kept missing the train and the rent was too much on his own and he didn't like to iron his clothes. what happened after that? nobody knows but now he's here and he's getting off the junk but it's hard, it's hard. he's weak in the body and he doesn't have any shoes and he wants to see a movie and sleep with a girl in a bed. he wants a friend who's not schizophrenic or otherwise fucked in the head. he wants new clothes and a job and a wife and a kid but he knows that waiting for him at the end of the road inside of a garage there will be a car and a hose.

easter hat parade

2010-02-12T22:50:00.000+08:00

on the morning of my father's funeral there was an easter hat parade at my school. not my scene but the neighbour girl made a hat for me and my mum said i should go. go to the parade then come home. plenty of time before we headed out to the graveyard. it would be good for me and the girl would be disappointed if i did not wear her hat in the parade.

it wasn't a good hat. it looked like shaved pubic hair glued to a piece of cardboard with "ben's ester hat" scrawled across the front in crayon. i was embarrassed and i didn't want to wear it and when i got to school i guess the teacher had told all the kids about my dad because my friends were acting all weird and mrs stackfield hugged me and she cried. i put my headphones on.

when my dad came back from france he brought me a sony walkman. he always brought us presents when he came home from his trips. i only had one tape and it was unknown pleasures by joy division. actually it was my brother's tape but i stole it from him and i liked it so he said i could keep it.

then when that guy from joy division killed himself i hid in the garage and i yelled at my mum and i yelled at my dad and i yelled at my brother and i told them that i was going to hang myself because why did he kill himself. then my brother came in and he told me to stop fucking around because mum was upset and i told him that i was upset and then he said dad is dying.

i told him to cram it because i thought it was a trick because why would my dad die. he had a job and he was our dad and he brought us presents all the time because he liked to think about us and one time i heard my mum telling her friends that my dad was a genius. everybody liked my dad because he was funny like the time my friend chad from america said he didn't know his phone number and my dad said why don't you call your mum and ask and chad was mormon and dad told me all about how mormon kids are just like other kids except they believe in i forget what it is they believe in.

then my dad got sick and he really was dying because his eyes got messed up and he could see double and he couldn't kick the football with me any more. then he kept vomiting every morning and it didn't sound good because you could hear him in there retching all the time. he got skinny and the doctors said it was a brain tumour and then he died.

after that i listened to my joy division tape nonstop because it reminded me of him and also because it was still my only tape and also because i didn't want to talk to anyone. then after the hug mrs. stackfield told me to take my headphones off and she asked me about my hat. i told her jesus christ, no i did not make it and she said it was cute and not to say jesus christ and i said since my dad just died could i listen to my sony walkman and she said no and i figured that was about right because there aren't really any benefits to your dad dying as far as i can tell.

i thought i might toss the hat in the rubbish bin but then i saw the neighbour girl and she had a hat almost the same except hers said "lucy's easter hat" and that made me kind of mad even though she was a little girl because why could she spell easter right on her hat but on my hat she messed it up. she smiled at me and asked me if i liked my hat and i said it was cute and i told her i was going to wear it.

during the easter hat parade my hat was the worst one as predicted. everybody looked at me and i guess they were thinking about how terrible my hat was and that i must not have been able to make a nice hat because my dad died.

then i went home and we rode to the graveyard in a black car behind the hearse and it had leather seats. i looked out the back and there were a bunch of cars following us. they all had their lights on and we drove really slow. then at the funeral i couldn't believe how many people were there. i kept thinking wow this is a good turnout and i didn't cry. i felt kind of bad because you're supposed to cry at a funeral and i looked up at mum and she was crying and then the priest told her to pick up some sand and sprinkle it onto the coffin. she didn't sprinkle it though, she picked up the sand and chucked it really hard like she was mad at dad for dying which i guess she probably was. i wasn't mad at him. i thought about going back to the car to get my sony walkman but i decided i better not.

after the funeral we went back home because i guess we didn't have a wake or anything and there was a giant easter basket sitting on our doorstep. those big chocolate bunnies that i like and it was a really sunny day.

on thursdays i feed the ducks

2010-02-12T21:35:00.000+08:00

he comes into her life, and into her vagina, on a thursday. he is at the lake with a boy and they are laughing because their remote control boat has somehow capsized. just out of reach so the man rolls up his pants and wades into the murky water.

"careful," she yells. "the bottom is slippery."

the man pretends to fall and he laughs and he is okay. he grabs the boat and returns it to the boy. the boy shakes the water loose and tests the engine. another voyage is begun.

"hi," says the man and she chats with him and the young boy follows the boat around to the other side of the lake.

"on thursdays i feed the ducks," she says and he smiles and then another woman is there. the woman is pretty/ugly, short skirt and a tattoo that runs lengthways up her calf. "books are gay" it proclaims in a cursive font. the woman says something to the man and the man points to the boy and says "he's got some spanish left."

the woman rolls her eyes and heads off towards the boy.

"ex-wife," the man explains.

then something strange. the sky and grass and the wind and darkness and light and sandwiches and music and trousers. it is a spaceship and it doesn't land it just floats there and then they are inside and the aliens are people and they are all burt reynolds and sally field. sally field approaches, gently takes her hand, and escorts her into a room with walls of light. burt reynolds takes him to another room, also with walls of light.

"what's happening?" she asks.

"what's going on?" he asks.

"we won't hurt you," says sally field.

"it's okay," says burt reynolds.

then sally field and burt reynolds talk to their prisoners. separately, in their separate rooms.

"we are freshmen in college," they say. "and we are conducting an experiment for our psychology class."

"okay," she says

"college?" he asks.

"we have an offer for you. an opportunity. we are presenting this offer to each of you separately. you must answer our questions on your own. you must not consult with your friend."

"what's going on?" she asks.

"what's happening?" he asks.

"we are giving you a choice," says sally field. says burt reynolds. "choice one. we will give you each ten million dollars and we will set you free. you will never hear from us again."

"okay," she says.

"sounds good," he says.

"choice two. we will kill your friend. then we will set you free and you will never hear from us again."

"the first one," she says.

"number one," he says.

"but there are rules," says burt reynolds. says sally field. "you must answer on your own. if you both choose option one, then that's good. you will both get the ten million. we will spare both of your lives. if only one of you chooses option one, we will kill only that person. the other will get to go down the bouncy slide and walk out of here. without any money, of course."

"that doesn't sound good," she says.

"seems a bit harsh," he says.

"if you both choose option two, then we won't kill anybody. you will both live. we will set you free."

"seems confusing," she says.

"i don't get it," he says.

"it's simple," says sally field. says burt reynolds.

"no, i don't get it," she says.

"it seems confusing," he says. "option two. it's hard to follow."

sally field says "hold on." she leaves the room.

burt reynolds says "wait a minute." he joins sally field outside the rooms with walls of light.

"i told you," says burt reynolds.

"bullshit," says sally field. all you said was that you wanted an anal probe option in there instead of the killing.

"stupid humans," says burt reynolds. "what are we going to do?"

"fuck," says sally field. "i need an 80 on this assignment or i'm going to fail and i'm not going back to summer school again."

"what about the ducks?" says burt reynolds. "they'll get it."

"yeah, okay," says sally field. "fuck it." she points to a video screen that shows two ducks bobbing around in the lake. "grab those two."

now she's back on the ground, standing next to the lake again. he is next to her.

"that was weird," she says.

"totally," he says.

they talk about other things and they go back to her house and make love in her bed.

it's ten years later now and they are drunk on champagne. they talk about the day they met. "i would have chosen option one," he says. "what would you have done?"

"there weren't any ducks," she says. "you chose option two."

stay free taylor swift

2010-02-06T01:09:00.002+08:00

taylor swift is a STAR. a street transvestite action revolutionary who sluts her cock out for money. she saves up enough cash to rent a house on the lower east side of new york and she invites dozens of other queens to live in the house. she is their mother and she buys them food and clothes and she tells them they do not need to prostitute their bodies to survive because she will do it for them. she continues to slang her wang to protect her children and she is a pioneer and a leader and an activist and things are changing for the better.

now it is June 28, 1969, still night time but morning, and there are riots at the stonewall inn in greenwich village. taylor swift is there and she is confronted by the police and she sings:

"Because these things will change

Can you feel it now?

These walls that they put up to hold us back will fall down

This revolution, the time will come

For us to finally win

And we’ll sing hallelujah, well sing hallelujah

Tonight we stand, get off our knees

Fight for what we’ve worked for all these years

And the battle was long, it’s the fight of our lives

But we’ll stand up champions tonight"

upon hearing her inspirational words and commanding voice the village residents immediately organize into activist groups. their goal is to establish places for gays and lesbians to be open about their sexual orientation without fear of being arrested. taylor swift fights hard, even within these organizations themselves, for the inclusion of transvestite and drag queen agendas. gay rights organizations soon spring up across the country and around the world. all thanks to taylor swift.

now it is 1992 and people who are walking see a body floating in the hudson river. they point and they yell and they call the police. a passerby recognizes the body. it is taylor swift. she is dead and the police, they say it is a suicide. jumped from the west village piers.

the queens and the gays and her family do not believe it was a suicide. they honor taylor swift by carrying on her legacy and each year on the anniversary of her death they throw flowers and feathers into the river and they look to the sky and they say "stay free, taylor swift. stay free."

and the sky looks back down upon taylor swift's family, and it sings in a familiar voice:

"hallelujah

hallelujah"

Grand Requiem for Praying Equally for All to Untie the Knots of Unjust Suffering

2010-02-01T22:08:00.003+08:00

she lives in a room in a house with nothing; with nobody. terribly alone and she eats cereal three times a day and apples. she reads a lot with her face very close to the page. her glasses are cracked and her life is broken but she is okay because she has thích nhất hạnh. thích nhất hạnh is a buddhist monk and he is an author. she reads the things that thích nhất hạnh has written. she believes in them and she thinks about them and some of his books are in vietnamese. she lines the books up against the wall and she squats in the corner and meditates. she clears her mind of the bad things; she tunes out the sounds of the buses that keep her awake at night. she tells herself that her mind is the window in her room. it cannot close. she lets the birds fly in.

the next day she gets up off her mattress with a purpose. she will start her own school of youth for social services right here in her neighbourhood. she drinks some water.

she will talk to people and get them involved. together they will rebuild things. they will setup schools. they will build hospitals. they will find beds and tables and refrigerators for homeless people. they will rally against violence and war.

she doesn't have any apples. the milk is spoiled. she will have to talk to people tomorrow. today she will go to the library and ask if the new mindfulness bell is in. it probably isn't in yet. she will stay inside today. she's hungry and so she will read.

there is a biography of thích nhất hạnh. he is the dharmacharya now. he lives in the plum village monastery in the dordogne region in the south of france. he travels and he prays and he meditates and he is happy. he hosts retreats for famous actors and people who are not famous. she squats again in her corner and she chants. she prays for the wellbeing of the famous actors and the people who are not famous. she knows that everybody is connected; their happiness is important to her.

i ain't afraid of no ghost

2010-01-31T09:46:00.002+08:00

aw, i ain't no kid. i've lived a thing or two in all these years. i've seen some shit go down. sharks tearing through human flesh like it was pancakes. men doing things men are not supposed to do. wars. streets. children with no shoes or toes. babies birthing babies half the size of they own self. blue thunder starring roy scheider. shit. depravity. i'm just sayin' that's where i'm comin' from when i tell you this story. i'm not a soft man. i ain't afraid of no ghost.

but this was somethin' else. their faces. bear faces. just imagine heads bigger 'an that kid on dawson creeks. teeth with gaps wider than tori spelling's cleavage. ugly. and taller than a mexican on stilts. but looks like a human not like an animal. arms and hands and legs but the way they move wasn't like no humans i ever seen. not like in the movies neither. them aliens in the movies they move like robots or like girls on the rag and they running but these aliens, oh i shoulda warned you. this story about aliens.

i had a gun on account of i was huntin' back there in the woods. just me an that's why nobody can verify what i'm tellin' you but i was there and i seen it and that's gotta be good enough because i ain't got no reason. no gains to tell you what i'm tellin' you unless lookin' foolish gets you rich someways, which i guess it does but no matter.

so it was lights comin' down and no spaceships or close encounters or e.t. type bullshit. just lights bright and sharp enough to burn a vagina into a marine like a laser but all over everywhere. blinding but i kept my eyes open 'n i saw the beasts materialize outter the lights. came out growlin' too and i didn't wait for nothin' i just started shootin' my gun right at those man beasts 'cause i know when somebody means somethin' and they meant somethin' from jump street.

bullets didn't do nothin' or i'll tell you i mighta not even hit 'em 'cause half the time i can't even hit no deers and they kept disappearing into thin air and reappearing right somewhere else. if it was a movie it would be george clooney in a suit and a bear mask and i'd be played by jamie foxx or jason bateman or john stamos someone who's a nice guy but who could fight dirty if his misses is gettin' raped in the alley. oh yeah, those bear face aliens were wearing suits. how do you like that shit. suits like they gonna fit in and then bear faces right on the top of it. some dumb aliens. then one come right up to my face like he gonna eat it for lunch and he says "we like 'em fat" and i says "well you come to the right place brother 'cause they all fat round here."

an he says "no i mean p.h.a.t. phat" an i says "that don't make no sense" and he looks sad like he was trying and it wasn't good enough and we went on and gassed for an hour or so and he was okay. i says "why you come at me like a devil in church and i coulda killed you with my bare knuckles" and outta nowhere he breaks out a mr. kotter impersonation and then he says "whazzup" like them kids in that beer commercial a few years back. i says to him "what the fuck is wrong with you? we were having a good conversation about life and love and global warming and then you bring this shit" and then i say "why you even here?" and he says he heard that the greatest american hero got cancelled and he wants to talk to some folks to see if he can get it back on the air. what the fuck? right. so then i tell him that's been off the box since a long time and he goes batshit like he's really gonna do some damage but he doesn't actually touch nothing but the trees.

then i tell him about some of the other shows that he might like but he's seen 'em all and nothin' else matches up to the greatest american hero. then just like they came they go again and then on the news yesterday i seen that william katt has disappeared. so that's why i'm here, that's why i'm tellin' you this. they done went and kidnapped william katt. that's what i'm sayin' and that's what i believe to be true.

everybody lives in ohio

2010-01-30T23:12:00.001+08:00

my mother spontaneously combusted. she used to sit on the kitchen bench and listen to records or read books or chat to her girlfriends on the phone while she cooked dinner. she'd pop down to stir a pot and then slide right back up onto her perch. she wore boots and i sat on the floor beneath her, listening and drawing, imagining. waiting for my dinner. lamb. onions. potatoes.

her name was vivian.

that's all for now.

a deep navy blue woollen dress with a thick red collar and hem. electric frying pan. a man. her hair was long. straight.

wait.

my feet were dirty. i didn't wear shoes.

that's enough for today.

stockings are hanging off the cupboard door. dangling. something's wrong. i'm there. i'm a boy. his hands are ...

i'm not ready.

i know him. from the pictures in the album under the boxes in the shed. i think it's my dad. i don't remember. she didn't tell me. nobody would tell me.

it's too much.

there's blood. the pan is burning. the cupboards are on fire. she's ... he's punching her.

i can't.

there are flames on the ceiling. the phone is on the floor and i want to say something, somebody is screaming. screaming.

that's it. that's all. no. there's not any more.

her knees are burning. her legs. i can see her skin. melting. dripping. inside of her legs. actually inside. it's a bone. i can't look. she doesn't have a face. he's not on fire. he's wearing jeans. he's standing there. he's watching her. why isn't he burning. he won't look away. why aren't i burning?

i need to sleep now.

it smells like a train. i can't see any more. i don't know any more. i don't understand. i need to talk to someone. i need to find people who know. but everyone lives in ohio.

another song is playing

2010-01-29T15:43:00.000+08:00

inside a house, inside a room, inside your head there is a song playing. listen to the song, get on the floor. feel your way, past that shelf. out the door. don't open your eyes. there's somebody else, inside the house, inside the room, inside your head. quiet. wait. it's not too late. listen to the song, loud, now sing the song, no, stop. something's wrong. the music, it's gone. no more sound, no more edges, the room is round, floor on the ceiling, doors on the ground. you can feel the lies now open your eyes and see the half that you despise. deal with him now, cut off his face, fight dirty, below the waist, eat his brains, swallow them down and savour the taste. it's him. or you, don't let him win. be the hate, rise up tough, dominate, it's not enough. you're slipping, hold your feet. no. it's too late now, he's got you beat. there's nothing else to do. that half of you is dead. succumb to him. inside his head, inside his room, inside his house. another song is playing.

die in a hole

2010-01-28T09:20:00.001+08:00

i want you to go and die in a hole. i don't want you to scream or complain. i don't want it to be a hassle. i just want you to go away and die.

i will visit your hole after you die. i will walk around the edges of the hole and i will look down inside it. i will confirm that your lifeless body is rotting in the hole.

i will be careful not to lose my footing and fall into the hole. i do not want to land on top of you. i do not want your decomposing skin to get on my clothes and in my hair. it probably wouldn't smell good. my pants are dry clean only.

when your mother asks for you i will hang up the phone. when she calls again i will tell her that you are gone. she will cry and i will say "i don't know."

i will come home from work and talk to you and then i will remember that you have died in a hole. i won't talk to anybody.

i will sleep on your side of the bed. i can't sleep on your side of the bed. i will roll over and sleep on my side of the bed. i will look at your pillow and your head will not be smooshed up in it. i will think about that day in the snow and in the sunshine. you said it wasn't a snow man. it is just a big blob with a carrot in it. it's a snow blob with a penis. i will laugh about that day and then i will cry.

in the morning i will make too much oatmeal for breakfast. i will squeeze honey on the top in the shape of a heart and i will not eat it. i will leave it on the table and i won't be able to throw it away.

at work daryl will ask me where we were last night. i will think about slamming daryl's head into the printer. i will tell him that you are gone. i will tell him "i don't know." i will go back to my desk and i will look at that picture and think about that night at the christmas party. that was when you had short hair. i won't be able to get any work done.

i will get in my car and drive and i will say "e.t. phone home" and the car robot will dial our house phone. your voice will tell me that we are not home. i will park the car on the side of the road. i will look at trucks and cars and think maybe one of them will veer out of their lane and crash into me. i will think about dying.

i will come home and it will be dark. i will open the fridge door and leave it open and i will sit in the rectangle of light on the floor and eat cheese. i will wake up in the morning on the kitchen floor and the milk probably won't be any good.

i will get back in my car and i won't go to work. i will drive to the beach and think about that day. you got hit by that wave and you swallowed the water and you laughed so hard and you vomited in the beach. i tried to swish it around before anybody else could see. people don't want to swim in somebody else's vomit. you laughed again and we ate grapes because you always bring grapes to the beach.

i will take my suit off and i will swim in the beach in my underwear. my boxers have my name across the band at the top and i don't know where you got them. they are really comfortable. i will be lonely swimming in the beach. i will go under water and cry and when i come back up i will wish that you did not go away and die in a hole.

i will build a sandcastle and i will lay on top of it and i will dare the sun to burn me in my skin.

i will go back to your hole and i will look down inside of it and your body will be gone.

i'm old

2010-01-27T21:34:00.000+08:00

these college kids are tiny little people. babies with beer bongs and books and they lay out on the same patch of grass that we did enjoying the weather but their conversations are not as clever. smoking dope in their skinny jeans and miniskirts; ironic t's. they share notes and jokes and STDs. i step on them with my grown up feet and they laugh and dance to the beat of a song that i tried listening to. it's crap. that one kid looks like john cusack in say anything. i'm so old.

consumer behaviour

2010-01-27T20:26:00.001+08:00

i am a coke or a sixty inch lcd television. she is single, female, middle-class, age 18 to 49, and college educated. she doesn't want to buy me. girls drink fresca. they buy shampoo.

---

she parks her motorbike on the footpath.

"you can't park there," says some guy.

"up yours, slut" she says to the guy.

"i'm not a slut," says the guy. "how can i be a slut?"

she doesn't answer him. she goes into the shop.

she says to the shop girl "give me the hugest most gigantic cup of coke you have because i'm going to drink it down my gullet and then get another one. i am so fucking thirsty. please."

the shop girl gets the girl two of the hugest most gigantic cups of coke you could imagine. the girl drinks them both down her gullet. the shop girl smiles at the girl and says "shit."

the girl says "yeah" and then leaves the shop. she sees a 60 inch lcd television pull up next to her motorbike. it's 1080p and she likes it. she wants it. she wants to watch grey's anatomy and lost on it.

---

there she is again. leather pants, god. i'm going to die of a hard on. but girls don't care how big their televisions are. i should just forget about her.

a girl

2010-01-23T20:39:00.000+08:00

i'd like to know a girl in boots and a skirt and a shirt, hoop earrings and long brown hair. too much eyeliner we'd meet in a diner and eat. a hamburger or a reuben and a drink. a chocolate milkshake and she'd have something to tell me and it couldn't wait. a key, it's for me and why is she crying, she's happy. it's love. and that's the girl i'd like to know but it's okay if she doesn't wear boots.

she's got the hammer

2010-01-23T10:28:00.000+08:00

she has a two year contract on the sydney to L.A. and she likes it. flying there, flying back. she's young and it's fun. but a couple of weeks ago she had a dream about ashton kutcher and a lot of girls dream about ashton kutcher but this was a bad dream. in the dream he was flying first class and she was his flight attendant and he said to her "i can't tell if you're a woman or a girl" and she giggled and the next thing she new she was getting raped in the cockpit by ashton kutcher and the pilots were all dead with blood on their faces and one of them was bruce willis and the plane was spiraling out of control, down towards the ocean below. then suddenly this was all happening to her in a tv show and a couple was on the couch watching her get raped.

"oh no," said the girl on the couch. "it's okay," said the boy. "she's got the hammer."

then in the dream there was a hammer in her hand and she could hear the boy saying "hit him in the face with the hammer." she didn't want to hit ashton kutcher in the face with a hammer but he was raping her and the boy just kept saying "come on, hit him with the hammer."

so in the dream she hit ashton kutcher in the face with the hammer. his teeth exploded into a million tiny diamonds and they rolled up hill, out of the cockpit, into the main cabin. the passengers all piled into the aisleway and onto the floor and they were stuffing their pockets with ashton kutcher's diamond teeth. then ashton kutcher jumped out of the plane. he had a parachute.

so when she got the call from operations, she cried. they asked her to be first alternate for first class. that's a big deal. especially since she'd heard that dierdre was pregnant. first class. first alternate. but that also meant that the dream might be coming true.

"i'm not going to take it" she told her girlfriends. "i'll just stay back in economy."

"but first class is your dream," they said.

and it was so she took it and now here she is, sydney to L.A., and she's in first class and so is ashton kutcher.

she brings him a coke and he's nice and he's chatting to the woman next to him and then he glances up at her. "i can't tell if you're a woman or a girl," he says.

"i'm a woman," she says to ashton kutcher.

he smiles, his teeth gleaming, and he laughs.

then she hears that voice again. "hit him with the hammer."

she checks her hand for the hammer but it isn't there so she asks him if he wants another coke and he does.

after they land she sees ashton kutcher outside of the airport getting into a limousine. he sees her too and he nods and waves her over. "we're having a party," he says. "you should come." he hands her a card with an address on it. "no thanks," she says. "i've got plans."

arson

2010-01-20T13:29:00.000+08:00

whenever she meets a man she asks him a simple question. "if you were a criminal, what kind of criminal would you be?"

that's how she screens the freaks out.

"a bank robber" is what the boring ones say.

"an arsonist" one guy says. "i would burn things down to the ground. buildings. buildings with people in them. buildings with old people in them. i would burn all the old folks down to the ground."

"i'd be a rapist" another guy admits. "not the bad kind. not vicious or violent. i would date rape girls and they wouldn't even really know about it. i would poison them with ghb and then wait until they were asleep and then i would make love to them under their skirts and underpants. i would rape them."

"murderer" another guy says, a little bit too quickly. "with a knife and i would stab it into my wife's face and into her body." she didn't know he was married.

"i would speed in my car," one man says. "past the cops and i would just keep on going. faster and faster and they wouldn't catch me or if they did i would get out and run into the woods or into somebody's backyard."

these are all men she did not date.

"jay walker."

"i'd send e-mails to people and tell them about giant penises and ask them to send money and i would send thousands and thousands and thousands of e-mails and even if only a couple of hundred people sent me money it would be worth it."

"mugger."

"i'd punch people right in their nads or in their noses."

"vandal. i would throw bricks into windows and on top of toilets and bash televisions in with a baseball bat."

these men she did not date either.

"a thief. i'd steal fedex boxes from people's doorsteps and open them up like it was christmas day."

she went to dinner with that guy and a movie but things didn't work out. he smoked and there just wasn't any chemistry i guess.

"polygamist."

"trespasser."

"stalker."

no, no, no.

"tax cheat."

no.

"drug dealer."

no.

then finally, a man, a handsome man, says "a criminal? no, i wouldn't be a criminal." and she says, "just answer the question" and he says "okay, i guess i'd be a ...."

but she cuts him off and says "no, don't tell me. i don't want to know."

40 drops of laudanum

2010-01-17T21:50:00.004+08:00

the doctors, they say her diarrhea is fulminant. it occurs suddenly, without warning. it is intense and severe. explosive. and the smell. oh, that horrible smell. it's rancid. all things considered, this fulminant diarrhea is an ailment with which she would rather not be afflicted. it has no advantages, particularly of the social variety.

so on the evening of july 19, in the year 1837, as she is preparing for the dance of 1,000 gentlemen, her dressers wrap her asshole tight with cellophane. "what if it leaks?" they ask. "what if it leaks on HIM?"

"i will die of embarrassment," she tells them. "simply die."

then she prays. not to any god that you or i are likely to pray to; she prays to the lord of human excrement.

"do not forsake me, my lord, not on this evening. this one evening, my lord, i ask of you. seal my bottom shut."

then, as if in response to her prayers, a deep rumble reverberates through her stomach and colon.

"have i displeased thee, my lord? must you be vengeful on this very eve?"

and then splat. and rip and splat. the cellophane cannot contain the massive load of liquid shit. it's in her stockings, seeping through the fine silk netting. one of her dressers boldly attempts to stem the tide with her hands. the other vomits and runs.

she's in the bath now. clean again. a new dress has been fetched. her second choice, lovely but seen before. her bathers towel her off. she is cellophaned once more.

she arrives at the dance of 1,000 gentlemen, nervous, walking carefully. she dares not taste the shallot madelaines. 1,000 likely gentlemen do indeed fill the ballroom. twirling and smirking, their steps only outdone by their wit. handsome, all of them, but especially the one for whom she came. she waits.

half the night has slipped away and still she waits, vexing over 500 hundred would be suitors. her companions, the lady of redford and the lady of somerville, encourage her to dance. "practice," they say, "with an ordinary man." and well she might had she not the need to clench her buttocks so fully.

now he approaches, tall and of moustache. a pocket watch and a monocle. his conversation is joyous and clever. his dancing is in rhythm with her heart and not her heart. a part of her that is warm and throbbing. she has managed not to shit all over herself. she is happy.

then the evening comes to a close. the hall has emptied, partners have been chosen and not chosen and the laughter follows the crowd into the warm night air. he and her, flirting and he offers her a ride home in his carriage. she politely refuses, then with decorum dispensed, accepts.

in the carriage he holds her hand and inquires about the wellbeing of her father.

she loses control of her bowels.

again the cellophane does not hold. the carriage is filled with her fulminant feces. the stench is unbearable. he tries to outmaneuver the river of shit but he cannot escape his dreaded fate. it's on him. IT'S ON HIM.

she is horrified and she laughs. she cannot stop. she laughs and she laughs.

"can you not stop your laughter?" he says earnestly. "a terrible thing has happened."

"i cannot stop," she admits and then proceeds to laugh some more.

back at his house she is escorted to the bath. she is soaked and scrubbed. she is dressed in his sister's clothes.

she returns to find him playing the piano. he is playing it well.

"i must apologize," she says to him. "i have no control. it is a suffering that i shall know until the day i die."

"nonsense," he says. "there is a cure to be found. of that i am certain."

weeks and months pass before she sees him again. he has ridden the three miles to her house and he asks for her by name.

"these days without you i have been on a quest," he says. "and i have finally found a potion that will heal your rapid stooling."

"i have missed you so," she says, "and i do not want to doubt you. but housemaids and doctors have failed in this quest and i have come to accept it in my heart and in my colon. do not raise my hopes if there is no truth in your words."

"it is from the town," he says, "where they know about such ailments. it is laudanum and they say it is such that your bowels and your demeanor will be suitable for marriage."

"are you asking for my hand in marriage?"

"indeed i am," says the gentleman. "assuming this potion is good."

"let us begin immediately," she says.

at first she drinks but two drops with her tea in the morning and again two drops at night. within days her diarrhea is no more. her mind is clear and her pantaloons are clean. she is ecstatic.

the wedding is ordered and consummated and there is great passion between the two.

but slowly she increases her dosage. six drops then 10. he worries that it is too much. her mind is addled. she is confused and lazy. she does not dress until bed time and she dances without music. 15 drops now.

"i won't go back," she says. "i haven't shit in weeks."

"it's killing you," he says. "us."

15 drops becomes 30 and then 40. he threatens to deny her the potion entirely. she begs him. she will reduce her dose at least. he does not believe her. she says she will shit on his face.

and it is worse and worse. soon she is bedridden and catatonic. then she is dead.

he is distraught and he blames himself. he throws the empty bottles and the full ones out the window.

"ouch," says someone. it is her sister. the bottles have hit her on the head.

"oops," he says, out of the window. "sorry."

her sister has a lump on her head and she is attended to in the house. he apologizes. she talks to him and consoles him. she assures him that she is not with the shits. her stools are regular and firm.

not two months following the death of his first wife, the gentleman marries the sister. they are happy and they live on until they die.

Kania Rahadianti Purnomo Has 869 Friends on Facebook

2010-01-14T21:45:00.000+08:00

dear kania rahadianti purnomo,

you don't know me but i've seen your name floating about. here and there. i like it.

you probably already know this but kania is polish for "elliott gould."

and in hindi, rahadianti means "was not in"

and purnomo is italian for "diner (the movie)."

i wonder what you look like. you probably look like elliott gould. with big tits. that's cool. i like elliott gould. he was in one of my favourite movies. it's called "diner" and it's about a group of chums who love to eat pancakes. it's set in the eighties and elliott gould plays this character called steve guttenburg. it's so great, you should watch it. blockbuster probably has it. i don't know, maybe not. the blockbuster near me only has three of the seven police academy series. one, two, and seven. that's weird, right? i mean, if they were going to just have three, why not one, two, three. one is the best obviously but after that number three is probably second. it's called back in training.

anyway, sometimes when i can't sleep i google your name just because i like to see it and read it and last night i noticed you have a facebook account. it says you have 869 friends. whoah, that's a lot of friends. i only have 44. part of me thinks "really? 869?" but then another part of me is more like "yeah, good on you."

you are probably really nice. that's why you have so many friends. i'm nice too but i don't have that many friends. i don't really understand how that works. maybe you're more outgoing than me.

well, i better finish up. you probably have a lot of catching up to do with all your friends. i really just wanted to tell you that i like your name. it's nice.

best regards,

benjamin king

older now

2010-01-12T21:51:00.001+08:00

more than a friend back then i knew her in her bones and her face and her brains and her taste. music in the night and the occasional fight. drinking and thinking. sinking, skin burning on the vinyl beanbag. every morning talking and laughing. proust and eggs to untangle our legs. smoke in our lungs, not old and not young, just enjoying our time. was it a day or a month? a year? jumping and flying, diving and landing. around and back and back again. that's just how it was back then.

but she's older now. got some money, had some fame. drives a minivan with a name; the nimbus of the baptized god. a dog. kids in the back. fade to black.

it will never be the same.

karate abortion

2010-01-12T13:05:00.000+08:00

she has a bed in a room with windows and walls and in the bed is a boy who is fondling his balls. on the walls, a poster of dawson from dawson's creek. she gazes out the window at the girls in the street. they are dancing and playing and singing. no shoes on their feet.

but she's with him every hour of every night, every day of every week, every minute of every second, every box of every triangle, every freddie of every prinze. his name is pete.

"pete," she says. "peter."

"let's go again," he says.

"we need to talk," she says. her name is fiona, he calls her fee.

"oh fee, i agree," he says. "if by talk you mean fuck."

"i do," she says. "if by fuck you mean talk. and if by talk you mean oh hey guess what i'm pregnant."

"i don't believe in babies," says pete. "i don't believe they're real. like spaceships and jesus, jellyfish and lasers, grizzly bears, robots, 10% raises."

"i don't believe in you," says fee.

"i'm real," says pete. "real ready for you to come over here and sit on my penis."

"if you were dawson you'd help me here," says fee.

"if i was dawson i'd pay for an abortion and fuck your sister in the vagina."

"my sister's three," says fee. "she doesn't have a vagina yet."

"then i'd fuck your mum with my fingers and tongue."

"gross," says fee. "my mum is old. but really, what should i do?"

"how about i beat the tony out of your danza and move to tasmania and you can raise it by yourself."

"it's cold in tasmania," says fee.

"that's true i guess, so what can we do?".

nobody knows now, not even pete. she still has a bed in a room with windows and walls but in the bed there are pillows and dolls. on the walls, a calendar with a countdown to college. she climbs out the window and joins the girls in the street. they all dance and play and sing. no shoes on their feet.

a new line of women's underwear

2010-01-10T08:35:00.000+08:00

since the t-shirt line was so successful i've decided to launch a a new line of women's underwear. they will look just like regular women's underpants except they will have cute slogans on the front. like bumper stickers for the vadge. here is what they will say:

authorised personnel only
no dumping
danger high voltage
parking in rear
stop
slow down
if you can read this you are too close
radioactive materials
obey signals
open
caution
dead end
no trespassing
do not enter
no cameras
for rent
consume at own risk
burgers

1992

2010-01-09T23:46:00.002+08:00

7:50pm: a 12.37kg meteorite crashes into a parked chevrolet malibu in peekskill, new york.

7:53pm: robots explode out of the meteorite and rampage through the streets.

7:54pm: no, that didn't happen. the meteorite just crashed into the car and a lady came out of the house because she heard a loud bang.

7:55pm: the robots shoot the lady in the face with their deathrays of death and her head melts all over her sweater.

7:56pm: stop it. there aren't any robots. it's just a meteorite that comes flying out of the sky at 80 meters per second and it smashes into a car. that's it.

7:57pm: and then the robots climb into the car and...

7:58pm: no. the car is broken. a meteorite just crashed into the car. there is no way a robot could just climb in and drive away.

7:59pm: busted! you just admitted there were robots.

8:00pm: jesus christ. there are no robots. just transcribe the fucking incident for the fucking incident report.

8:01pm: the lady's head reconstitutes itself and rolls around. the lady isn't human. the headless body grabs the reanimated head and squishes it back on to her neck. she is alive.

8:03pm: you're a douchebag. we're going to have to type this whole thing up all over again.

8:04pm: the zombie nonhuman lady chases the robots. she is dumb and slow but as strong as a hardon in tight underpants.

8:05pm: i'm out of here.

8:06pm: the robots and the zombie nonhuman lady freeze. they hear something. it's a human. an incident transcriptionist. he's moving across the lawn.

8:07pm: [no entry]

8:08pm: oh my god, the robots and the nonhuman zombie lady team up. they are going nutso ballutso on the transcriptionist dude. oh, stop, please. so messy.

8:09pm: [no entry]

8:10pm: the robots and the zombie nonhuman lady are finished with the transcriptionist. a robot kicks his head into outer space. they spot another transcriptionist sitting across the street typing something. they go over to him and introduce themselves. turns out they are pretty cool. they tell the transcriptionist to quit his job.

8:11pm: the transcriptionist types FUCK YOU and FUCK YOUR JOB UP YOUR BALLS. the transcriptionist will now party with the robots and zombie nonhuman lady and never ever come back to this stupid job. it will be awesome.

50 words

2010-01-07T23:56:00.000+08:00

the fire and the wine and the words in the air, alone, together, a blanket and a chair. they're talking about their future. he is stroking her hair and her eyes are heavy and she's drifting off to sleep. he looks outside, dark but light. the snow looks pure tonight.

a story that does not contain all the song titles from LL COOL J's 1989 album "walking with a panther"

2010-01-05T21:10:00.002+08:00

i can't quite make it out. it's a woman. she's over there. she's bending over. she has a bag. what's in the bag? she's getting something out of the bag. it's hair. big clumps of hair. why does she have hair in her bag? there's no conceivable reason why she would have hair in her bag. now she's holding a prosthetic buttocks in her hand. she's putting it on. she's sliding the prosthetic buttocks down the back of her sweat pants. it's on. now she's stuffing the hair back into her bag. she's walking. she's coming over here. she's saying something.

"where you at?"

what does she mean where am i at? i'm right here, directly in front of her. why is she asking me where am i at? how can i answer that. i'm going to tell her that i'm right here in front of her face. i'm going to ask her why she has hair in her bag.

"you're supposed to be here an hour ago."

she's not talking to me. she has a phone. she's talking to someone on the phone. they were supposed to be here an hour ago.

"this is some bullshit."

she's hanging up the phone. she's looking at me. why does she have hair in her bag? i don't know why someone would walk around with a bag full of hair.

"excuse me, do you know what time it is?"

it's time for you to tell me what's in the bag. that's what i'm going to say. and why is it in there?

"oh never mind."

she is looking at her phone. she probably has a clock on her phone.

"my partner is supposed to be here."

i already know about her partner. i'm going to change the subject. oh, she's talking again.

"can you tell me where the ping-pong is?"

she's not going to tell me about the hair.

"oh, look, i'll follow them."

there are people and they have bags and they are wearing t-shirts that say ping-pong. she's following them. she yells something. she catches up. she recognizes someone. they are chatting now. she holds her bag up and slaps it. the other one nods.

for christ's sake. why on earth does she have hair in her bag?

the robots

2010-01-05T15:21:00.000+08:00

he tells her about centrifugal force. "it does not actually exist," he says.

"i'm spinning around you," she says. "i can feel it pushing me away."

"you are in a non-inertial coordinate system," he says. "your frame of reference is skewed."

"no," she says, "my grip is slipping, i can't hold on."

"then you don't have enough centripetal force," he says. "you need to lean in towards me."

"just press the button," she says. "i want to get off."

"i'll slow it down," he says. "i won't let you fall off."

"that's a dick move," she says. "just let me off."

"i'm going to make it go faster now," he says.

"then i'm letting go," she says.

"we're too high up," he says. "you'll hurt yourself."

"i'm going to throw my phone at you," she says. "i'm going to throw it right at your stupid head."

"don't forget to account for the coriolis," he says.

"don't forget to stop being such a gigantic nerd," she replies. "come on, just press the button."

"okay," he says. "on one condition."

"anything," she says. "except the robots."

"the robots," he says.

"i can't hold on," she says.

"the robots," he says again.

"okay, okay, anything," she says. "turn it off."

"say it," he says. "say the robots."

"ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh," she says. she is falling. it's a long way down. she is hurt. she's bleeding.

he tells her about gravity. "don't underestimate it," he says. "nine point eight metres per second squared is faster than it sounds."

it will take a trillion years for their love to cool off completely.

2010-01-03T09:06:00.000+08:00

they've been together for 4.6 billion years. their love is intense. so intense that nuclear reactions take place. they know, however, that everything will end in another five billion years or so. he will fuse helium. she will swell up. they will swallow the earth. their surface temperature will rise. it will fall. they will try to reclaim what they have now. ultimately, though, their love, their intrinsic brightness, will decline into nothingness.

one hundred and twenty seven billy joels

2010-01-01T20:10:00.000+08:00

billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel.

billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel. billy joel.

mr. topsy turvy

2010-01-01T12:13:00.001+08:00

his life is not a struggle. his marriage is good. his work is fulfilling and his boss is reasonable. he did not have to borrow money from his brother to pay for his daughter's abortion. he is successful. people like him. he is confidant and attractive. his friends ask him where he buys his shirts. he has friends. the membranes in his nostrils have not been worn thin by daily cocaine use. he has made good decisions. he did not have a heart attack when he was 29. he does not have to leave his shoes on the window sill because his feet smell okay. he wants to get out of bed. he does not hate his ugly face. he isn't fat. he is not going to die alone.

those are balls

2009-12-30T23:36:00.000+08:00

i'm on something. outer mind. out of my space. i've bene drunking again aha ha i'm on a planet and that's a girl "THOSE ARE BALLS" she is shouting at me i can hearitin my a space helomet and my oh no she is saying "CLOSE THE DOORS" not "THOSE ARE BALLS" but i am better going check my zipper aha ah just in case.

my balls are okay she cannot see them. i am ghoing overto her planet. he r plane it is called something and i am shouting "CAN YOU SEE MY BALLS" and ahah a i can;t stop believeing that she is saying "THOSE ARE BALLS" and she is really shouting. oh the space ship and the door is ajar. hah ahh a the door is not a jar. the door is open and my other spaceship people might explofe in their faces if i live the door open becuase space will kill you.

there is space between yhe girl and between me. she is on that planet and i am floating i am on something i am in space and she is on the ground. i already know that goirl. that;s my girlfriend. what is happening my face is falling off. ther;es too much spacea nd you can;y swim in space air to get to the girl.

i will floating down to the planet and thell the girl something. "STOP SHOUTING AT MY FACE" i am shouting at her face to tell her my head is somehwere. i;m not drunk i am just a bit drinking. and i xan;t tell what is happening, its her face. i know it is herface. oh it;s my girlfreind. there;s too much space. space has rocks in it.

that girl is still shoutng and the planet is going away in space. i can;ttell you what it is. the girl. haha ah a why did she say "THOSE ARE BALLS" that is so funny i'm going to tell everybody aboyt it at work tomorrnow. now she's gone.

similies are like metaphors

2009-12-30T22:59:00.000+08:00

we met and we danced and i taught you how to drive a car. the car is you. a 1989 hyundai excel with fucked up wiring. the fucked up wiring isn't you. this is a bad metaphor. let's flip it upside down and reverse it sideways. i am the dancing. i was bad. not a bad person. i don't know, i'm supposed to use metaphors. what it comes down to is you are really nice. i'm not very good with words. i mean i like you and when we are together it feels like something that feels really nice. fuck it. i'm just going to call you.

baby jesus killed my sister

2009-12-30T21:52:00.000+08:00

dear baby jesus, please don't kill my sister. she's eight and she plays the clarinet. you gave her cancer in her colon and now she doesn't have a butt. it isn't funny that she doesn't have a butt. she can't sit down and she has to poop out of her esophagus. sometimes she disconnects the tube and sprays shit everywhere on purpose. it's disgusting. i know you are busy doing magic tricks and curing leprechauns but do you get a break? if you get a break can you please make her stop spraying shit everywhere? and also don't kill her all the way? if you only have time for one then can you just don't kill her? she's a nice kid even though she doesn't have a butt. and the spraying shit thing. and sometimes she wants me to play stupid baby games with her and i'm pretty sure she stuck gum into my headphones and can you tell her no she can't borrow my nail polish all the time. you could make her nails fall off. if you don't kill her i mean. it wouldn't hurt that much and she'd get used to it. this is a prayer. thank you baby jesus. amen. p.s., i finally got my period (thanks).

i love you

2009-12-28T12:06:00.001+08:00

this is a typographical reproduction of a handwritten letter. it is a love letter. a poem. a story about love. a letter for you. you will never read this letter. if you are reading this letter, it is not for you. you don't know who i am. i wrote the letter with my left hand and i folded it in two. i put it in an envelope and addressed it to you. i don't know where you live. i kept the letter under my pillow for a week. i slept on the letter and i dreamed about you. i dreamed about the words that i had written and i dreamed that i taught french at a private school in outer space. what i mean to say is that most of my dreams were about you. or the letter. but some of them had nothing to do with you. they were just dreams.

that's healthy. my love for you is a level-headed love. thought out. passionate but not obsessive. spontaneous but not monkeys with upside down faces. the letter isn't crude. it's romantic and i mostly wear pants when i read it. i read it a lot. out loud. i know it off by heart. i recite it to myself. it's about flowers and sunshine and fields of corn. most of it is not about corn but there's one part where i imagine myself to be a farmer and the corn represents our love. but not when it gets harvested, sold to the supermarkets, and eaten by people we do not know.

this letter expresses feelings of which i could never speak. unless i wrote them down and read them out loud. which i guess i am doing to some degree but if i had not written the words down first i could never speak them to you. i used a thesaurus a couple of times.

we will be together my love. breakfast at a restaurant that overlooks the beach. the sausages do not represent my penis. i just like sausages and you are eating pancakes, which you have folded over into the shape of a vagina. i will be nervous and you will hold my hand. you will touch it to your lips and joke that it smells like bacon because i ate some of your bacon with my fingers.

we will walk home in the breeze and i'll be wearing a white shirt. we'll retire to the bedroom and i will find out if your thighs look like how i think they will look like when i think about them. your breasts too but it's probably better if we don't go there in this letter. this is a romantic letter.

and i assure you, we will be happy in our love.

except for the fact that this letter will never find it's way to you. you will never know my name. i will tear the letter up into a million pieces. i might burn it and toast marshmallows in the flames. sad marshmallows. but they will still taste pretty good.

to you, my love. for you and about you. this is my letter.

love,

this is the part where i dipped my finger in chocolate and pressed it to the page. it looked a bit like blood but if you smell it you can tell it is chocolate.