image stolen from calliopepoetryseries.com
I need two million dollars so I can fuckin retire. I can make a muse. I could fall in love with a fucking couch cushion. Find a way to think the couch cushion didn’t love me back. The couch cushion is fucking other guys. I’ll never find another couch cushion like her.
Any woman can be a muse. Just like any woman can be a fuck. Just project your self hatred and inadequacy on her. In my Ted Kazcynski dream cabin I could make an elk my muse. Why won’t this elk return my texts.
Every girl I half like is a muse. Because I drive her away with neediness. What I want is: cuddle on the couch. Have babies. Cook fuckin Betty Crocker pork chops. I want to love and care for someone. Women are appalled by this. So no matter where I start—we could be talking about someone who spends money to be near me—I’ll get hung up on her. Afraid she’ll never like me. Afraid I’ll never write again. What made her like me will go away. What will be left. Clark Kent, but ugly. Gray collar small dick office nebbish. My true self.
Try to remember the dead can’t hear your thoughts. Try to remember there’s no hell. If there is, you’re not going there for writing on even numbered lines in a notebook. Your mother won’t get in a car crash with her face on fire because you didn’t climb stairs properly. All people must suffer like this. They just don’t talk about it. Most able to put it aside. No one goes through the day having normal thoughts. No thoughts at all. Minds just blank drywall. Everyone grew up picturing swarming heaps of black crustaceans. Centipedes under the table waiting for the edge of a finger to brush them so they can latch on. Crawl up your arms. Armored mandibles strip your flesh down. Not to kill you. Just taking skin so your face looks burned forever. Unimaginable pain over every part of you forever. Everyone thinks this constantly. Or is it just you. Anyway good morning.
image stolen from volcanocafe.wordpress.com
I stole this title from some other writer she’s fucking now. She sent me one of his poems. I had to beg her. She does not want to discuss her love life. Afraid it will make me like her less. Well it did, but the poem didn’t make me jealous. That would have been a problem. He has another one called Dirty Mexican Twat, she said. Parenthetically: it’s not about me.
This one is about you. Continue reading
She came home in at four in the morning. Passed out with a desk lamp blaring straight in her eyes. She’d been out riding a motorcycle with a male model who tends bar at (REDACTED). If you could cheat you would too. What you’re mad about is you can’t. Continue reading
She’s still in the shower. I just learned Hepatitis C is not transmitted sexually. Per the Hepatitis C Association, which I may now have to join:
- Couples with one HCV positive partner had a 2.5 per cent transmission rate over 20 years of unprotected sex
- HCV is not found in semen or vaginal fluid
- Sexual transmission may be a factor among MSM (Men who have Sex with Men)
So you get Hep C if you fuck men. Your dick gets cut by his dry ass. His ass gets cut by your dry dick. But I fuck women. Therefore: call me sushi, I’m goin in raw. Continue reading
Once you make a rule– in this case, “Sunday morning is writing time–” once you make a rule, the opposite will happen. I took time to do other things. Sixteen minutes to whiten my teeth. Put on a Biore nose strip. Trim my body hair. Sixteen minutes. Enough to derail all meaningful thought for sixteen hours. I’ll never write again. All the other shit I’ve made this week: fucking garbage. Therefore I’ll never be famous. Never make the girls melt like the comedian who shared at AA last night. Now I have to google him like every woman in the room did. God dammit why wasn’t I a comedian. No one googles me but me. Although I do it enough to affect SEO.
Well they can’t do what I do, I think. Sit down at the keys to prove it. Watch the wizardly words flow out of my fingers. Crisply honed sentences. Metaphors that connect souls to truths they’ve thought their whole lives in unguarded corners of the mind but were just inchoate murmurs, until now… WATCH ME. WATCH ME, MOTHERFUCKERS–
Accept defeat. I’ll never write anything good again. What’s left of me. Half decent guitar player; about 60% funny. Enough to get a sideways glance from a fat elderly woman covered in roast beef purple cysts, maybe.
(Check out my book Hot Naked Tits.)
A four bedroom house in Hot Springs Montana is 99 thousand fucking dollars. Estimated mortgage: $382 a month. You get a separate detached cottage. The cottage alone, in this shithole fucking city I live in – this disgusting extension of Mexico but with additional loud helicopters and barking dogs and garbage taxes and women who’d rather be set on fire than smile at you– a cottage next to a stucco nest of murderous bike stealing cholos who grill cactuses and light off fireworks and gun Harleys 24 hours a day, as many of them in there as termites in one of those twelve foot mounds in Kenya– this shed costs seven hundred fifty fucking thousand dollars, plus property taxes to pay for schools with the literacy rate of the fucking Hills Have Eyes family; the mortgage after a hundred fifty fucking thousand dollars down is the entire pre-tax income of the median American household. Continue reading