Rotting Wildebeest

He fled through the streets, a rotting wildebeest, a disgrace of a creature standing empty and blank on the face of the earth staring upwards in horror and fascination like he had never experienced before. He was looking at what would one day soon be the beginnings of a new place. He was worried for the future, he was concerned with what may happen, what can happen. So many distinct possible failures. So many things to fear in the heat of the night, so many wrong vouchers to be cashed and stamped and signed with a book of appeals, and then he was in a field looking for the grass, the grass field, trying to feel where all the green had gone, he was trying to stand alone, but it was without assurance, so he strode on, found other ways of being and places of going, and as he thought about it, yes there was plenty of good reason to go on living, there was something pure and clean and unavoidable about it, a certain conformity with conservative leanings, helps us be clear that we're not falling into an abyss of non-existence.

As I sit here a mindless robot hoping for salvation, for some kind of truth ideal, for some kind of ultimate answer that is reasonably appealing, as I delve deeper into what might be and always has been, as I move through the dark shadows that play on my face like a vast conspiracy of the soul, like a hindered dragon biting from dark places, evil places, where flesh rots and soars spread like wild-fire across the torso and genitals, where pus shoots from every orifice every moment of your existence, and your skin crawls with bug-toothed worms under your skin. That's the ultimate fear at the end of that tunnel, a constricting, life-crippling belief, Pascal's Wager, but it doesn't work. By that logic one still wouldn't know which of the many damners to join.

HIV Bouquet

Gerard buys a lovely bouquet of flowers for his wife at the corner just after having paid a fifteen year old boy for the privilege of blowing him, some fifty bucks it cost him. He buys the wretched rotting red roses, and we jump out of that neighborhood like a flash. It’s overrated anyway, revitalization my ass.

And we head towards Gerard’s place to get trashed, today is tequila day. We’re going to get blasted, but he gets a flat tire and we have to stop by the side of the road where there isn’t anyone for miles, one of those back-country, middle-of-fucking-nowhere roads, and we’re pretty worried, and this guy with a rubber boogey man mask comes out with a fake retractable-blade knife, and he stabs Gerard in the arm. It takes me a moment to figure out that the red liquid is actually Gerard’s blood, not some fancy toy knife trick, and the boogey man is actually a deranged psychopath.

While he still has the knife in Gerard’s arm, Gerard screaming a deep penetrating scream that shakes my kidneys, I stomp the wackjob fucker in the chest, the knife slipping from his hand still stuck in Gerard. The breath knocked out of him, he starts to crawl back into the forest where he came from. I rip the knife out of Gerard, he screams like an infant that’s just been stepped on, and I plant that frightful red blade in the upper back, towards the right shoulder blade, of that monster. “THERE! Now you have AIDS, you goddamned little shit! My friend, there, he’s HIV positive, and now his blood is in you, so live with that you ridiculous piece of shit.” Gerard doesn’t really have AIDS, I just said that to freak the nut out, and it worked. He starts crying, bawling real little-girl-like, and it’s the absolute funniest thing I’ve ever seen.

Gerard walks up on us and he’s got a white strip of his shirt that he’s ripped off, using it as a bandage, and that thing is just soaked with his red bodily fluids. “Step aside, man, I’ll make sure this fuck gets what he deserves.” And I see now that Gerard is licking his lips like a glutton at Thanksgiving dinner, and he just stares wide-eyed and glamorous, and unbuckles his belt as the little sissy wannabe killer just cries and moans. Gerard walks up to the sissy, who’s still trying to crawl away from us very slowly, bit by bit, and he grabs the bastard by the knife in his back, holding him dead still. He twists the knife a little bit, Gerard can be a real sadistic fuck sometimes, then pulls it out; he takes the blade and slices the poor little prick’s pants open real quick, separating the cheeks and preparing for his first shot at a justified male rape. I turn away, I’ve never been good with these kinds of situations, which I end up in much more often than I should when I hang out with Gerard. I change the tire on the car, and wait with the sickly, distant screams wafting in the air. Gerard gets back to the car and we head back to my place to get drunk; he couldn’t explain being stabbed to his wife, not for the third time this year. She’d leave him for sure.

The Discarded

Blind toothless creatures from the underarms
      of cannibalistic cave-dwellers,
Breathing underwater fish-men blow each
      other and remain closed off,
Dim burning desires written about until
      they lose all concrete meaning,
Dogs barking from within my loins call out
      for howling inadequacies,
Digging diamond lizards use whip-like tongues
      for sadistic pleasures,
Creeps trying to legitimize their deceased
      ways and values,
Children with money and candies in their
      dreams,
And the return to the womb with all of the
      creature comforts,
Little girls playing with baby dolls and pink
      plastic castles,
Bringers of discontent,
Losers of life,
Fore-bearers of disrupted tranquility.
We fuck them for ignorance rules our sense,
And our senses rule our emptiness.

A voyage to lands unexplored, antipodes of the mind,
Looking forward to the death confrontation.
Is dissolving peacefully only a dream?

Evil

Damn plasticine children keep trying to drain me of my vital fluids.
There is a sickness diffusing through this place like none other.
Caught in the game without a mending heart.
Three-eyed operators and sure-thumbed money bags fuck me,
Without permission,
No escape from the blood bath.
Futility Resonates.

Trans-Dimensional Ecstasies

        There was the piercing, the scream from another dimension as the rift opened in her front living room, and creatures of unkonwn origin , unimaginable up to this point stared her in the eyes. A land of unspeakable beauty, trees taller than the tallest skyscraper, purple super-luminous skies, with dabs of orange and pink striking fantastic long streaks of paint across the horizon, and vast open fields, verdant and untainted by man-made destructive forces. Betty could feel the breeze coming through the rift, could smell the sweet air as it wafted through the living room in great transparent, oneiric waves. The height of all that is beauty in the natural world poured out of the rift and entered through Betty's feeble senses, she didn't know what to make of all of this, a hallucination perhaps, maybe too much tainted margarine on my morning toast. But she looked through and began to inch herself off the velvet draped couch towards her hi-fi speaker in the corner where the rift bent space around it, the edges hazy and indistinct, she couldn't get her eyes to focus on those edges, and there in the middle of all of this unclarity absolute beauty poured into that room like a fog or a layer of evaporating liquid nitrogen mist. "This can't be right." Betty approached the rift, looking oh so curiously into the eyes of a creature with thick mucusy skin and a mouth like a bunch of grapes - how did it eat with that thing? The eyes were large red ovals, and Betty couldn't help but think of a large insect, maybe a fly. The skin had a purplish hue, and the creature made staggering moaning sounds, the echo of a giant about to sneeze but never actually sneezing. And Betty inched closer, and she was only inches from the portal, and she reached to touch and as her hand entered the rift she could feel the cool, moist atmosphere of this unsettling utopia on her epidermis, and she pressed her hand onto the nose of this strange creature, skin like a thick custard, and quickly withdrew. A slimy residue was on her fingertips and suddenly Betty was on the floor, writhing and wriggling, feeling so fantastically aroused in her living room, wishing Peter or Roland was there so she could show them the beautiful world that had opened up, and starting to gently tongue the sticky end of her finger, feeling warm and flushed all over, and then the salty mucus that rubbed off the creature reminded her of Roland's semen, and she could feel herself moistening, and writhing and wriggling on the rug of her living room floor. This was absolute ecstasy, this was complete bliss; had that creature been like her once and become so perfect by entering the rift, is it possible? Betty had taken the mucusy hand and begun to move it down her body towards her pants which she proceeded to unbutton, and then moving her hand into her panties she began to make the creature's secretions and her own into One. An intense wave of euphoria. Lights and colors shone before her eyes like nothing she'd ever experienced before. There was beauty and brilliance of a million eons blasting through the synapses of her brain at a trillion miles a second, and all she could do was lay on the floor with her hand moving in circular motions in her pants while a thick wide-eyed grin spread across her enlightened mug. She was in another plane now, she was with another form of existence now, she was beyond good and evil, she was far from the problems of contrary extremist political parties and starving children of third world nations. She was existing as powerfully as one can exist, experiencing raw experience in its most unadulterated form, perceiving things that ordinarily go unperceived, and being all the more beautiful for it. And then she died in that world, her soul gave out and she could not feel anymore. She was a barren vessel plummeting back to earth at light speed, forced to return from the far reaches of the galaxy where transcendent inner-peace reigned. "Betty, Betty. It's Peter. Are you okay?" And somewhere out there Betty could feel her legs being pushed apart and a full formed male figure pushing himself into her, but she could only sense this from far away, she was not yet back on the planet, and the stimulation of such a perception mediated as if by a television screen, started to push her back into the far reaches of space. "Oh My GOD! The light, the light is so powerful." Betty heard what was once known as Peter experiencing where she had been hours earlier, or maybe minutes, time was now irrelevant because she experienced experience in its rawest form, and the thought "I hope this doesn't kill me," floated and rattled around somewhere around Betty, but she no longer hoped this with urgency because she knew death and life are just two sides of the same coin and either form of being is equally desirable, but it would be convenient to be able to pay the bills in the morning; and to tell others about what it's like to not have any filters on your senses.

Worm Play

        The two boys walked through the park like fevered sex perverts let loose in a soundproof brothel with no exits or windows. They walked in a state of hyper-inflated ecstasy, they took in the beatific visions of everything around them: the tourists, the trees, the grass, fields, insects, a carpet of fireflies that coated the dusk floor of the park. Dan danced a gentle dance among the trees looking for a way to properly focus himself to deal with the situation Pram had rapidly formed. The worm was being prodded with a stick, being burnt with a lighter, then it shriveled up in pain for several minutes of delayed torture and discomfort and they were suddenly sitting there looking at a dead worm, quite drunk, and quite ugly. Pram had poured beer out of his oversized Heineken beer onto the worm before and the thing had looked like it was getting drunk, it was big enough, nearly a foot long. And there was a primitive organism in pain.
        "Do you think it felt anything?"
        "Of course it did, it's fucking fire, that burns."
        "Yeah, but do you think that it really cares that it felt that, that it died?"
        "Worms don't care, they just squiggle around a lot, like a roboticized vacuum cleaner. Why should a vacuum feel anything? 'Don't make sense."
        We stared at the beast of a critter a bit longer and got sick and tired and forfeited and went on back to my place to get higher.

A Thought

There's a strong desire for freedom of thought, for escape from the confines of desperate claustrophobic boxes of pondering and contemplating. It is all so desperately important for at least a few of us to force our minds to their limits, it facilitates the stimulation of ideas of potentially unfathomable pricelessness, precious rare gems of thought so unique and exquisite that they can't help but be recognized for their intensely valuable nature.