this is the perfect place to get jumped

Month: March, 2013

from the vault, videos


iPod image dump #11

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poems, untitled

I’ve got to start giving up. Submit myself to the absence of talent and creativity, curl up on the carpet, let my drool form a warm puddle under my cheek, wake up, eat a donut, pick my nose, fade away underneath the blanket, have a dream about chains and gimps in orange jump suits, metallic prison buffets, and the warden’s keys are scrambled with my eggs. I got to learn to shut the fuck up and die. Do a shit covered backflip on center stage, my shoulders are weeping, so I shouldn’t fuck.

Whispering into her ear, when she wanders drunkenly into my room ass and tits dragging on the floor, all the best fat are splinter pillows now…from behind, pulling hair behind ear: you don’t belong here . my cigar stained mini teeth tell ghost stories at the sewage plant, like the time we tried to put Maine Coon his refrigerator pajamas but there wasn’t a word in out language to describe the scenario so instead we sold stale baskets of tie dyed shrimp out of the trunk of my Hyundai…We were trying to turn tricks to get to the amusement park, but all the buses were wet, so I kissed my lucky bone and snorted a tube of toothpaste.

Shitting in a bag strapped to my ass while she pours water into my lap from a green jug, I admire your lipstick, it looks good on your face. panties stink like mozzarella cheese nuggets. Sweating last night’s hooker whiskey at work, scrubbing my face with grain alcohol so my pores resemble a cave…I have never seen her so happy, dimples form on her cheek bones her smile is so wide, pool of cum in her belly button, when I was strapped nigga…

My right leg is chained to my left arm, and my upper back resembles a brick wall, tatted up by Pablo and his son, the old man with the glasses, silently serving a quick thirty before he moves out to Philly to converse with the prostitute who will glide her nipples up and down my brick wall, they harden along with me, and call me a dog dude, talk about boners if you’re scared to meet me then let’s do it in public, it don’t have to be dark outside, though Pablo prefers to take the old man with glasses that way.

Cute dog, you would make an excellent hole. Crutches in the corner, in case I get hungry. A man with no arms or legs fucks my pal, Mitch, with a bone-saw. I’m the ill type of street goon, high on ass, to spill my entrails on a pulpit of cheddar cheese, hoping he’ll cut my check along with a new pair of slacks. I do not want to talk to her again, but she gets in my face, forces me to buy food with her siamese cat, and I become drunk with rage. Don’t you see that I wish to be left alone? Don’t try to tripe me, dude, I know you have eaten past the rib cage. Read a book, it tastes better than my world famous kitty litter. Tremendously small face.

My grind is ridiculous. My nose is the shape of a walnut, I carve your cheek so it hangs like the nose of a proboscis monkey, the patch of hung skin will stick up nicely, expect a sexy scar. My glasses fall off my crooked horn nose into a toilet bowl elixir of pubes, eyelashes and ketamine. She’s a chunk. She’s a dump. Take a chunk from my dump chunk  and snag a dump, take a beating, are you crying? Why are you crying? Stop crying? Fuuuuuuuck! Dayuuuummmmmm!

Curl up and fuck on the carpet, the dwelling is composed of decomposed rabbit’s hide, a room full of wet books, squeeze a pin sized drop of pizza grease from the hole in my chest. In a bucket accumulate them-in a freezer freeze them for use later this week in a frying pan to deep fry Putty’s wonderfully, naturally occurring curls.


It was a warm day, so Vivian left the pet shop door open to allow some cool breeze inside. As I walked past the entrance I stood on tippy toes so I could see her better when saying hi. I couldn’t see her anyway because she was laying on the floor behind the counter.

An anxious audience was awaiting for me to speak at the helm of a coach bus, but I played an abrasive song on the bus speakers and walked out of the front door instead.

Sergio was shaping patties of ground beef and laying them in the hot broiler with bare hands.  I knelt next to the open oven door to smell them on his recommendation and felt flecks of hot grease land on my face. Dennis was wearing glasses that I had never seen him wear before. He looked good. Sergio served the patties crisp on the outside, cold on the inside and wrapped in palm leaves. On of their friends stood chewing his patty over the trash can. Most of the patties were trashed.

I stood with my brother on a step ladder beside a multicolored wall composed of bell peppers and nets of hay. We reached inside the nooks of the wall and pulled out monochrome tin cans, which were filled with notes written in crayon by my five-year-old father to his neighbors, informing them how to become better Christians. Yuck.

Everyone in attendance at the holiday party plays a really confusing game they claim is reminiscent of bingo. Each team has a page with straight, crisscrossing lines, and when a number is called we write a letter at the end of the line. My sexy partner sits on my lap while we play, but my confusion over the rules makes me irritable. Somehow we win the game when we spell the word ‘congrats’, and the prize is a white v-neck replete with Oreo creme filling. I finally smile when my sexy partner pulls the shirt on, and I dunk an Oreo cookie down her shirt, dragging it up her torso, flicking her nipple with a mound of icing. Her tits look amazing and I think I deserve it. She already loathes me because my attitude sucked during the game, and now she is appalled and humiliated. My Dad stomps around the party, drinking three different flavors of Listerine and loudly comparing them in a bizarre, single man parade. I am on all fours begging my partner to reconsider my personality in a pathetic display, and my dad is on all fours scooping Oreo cream from beneath the room’s only armchair, where my fat uncle is snoozing.