hulk wasabi

Michael scooped porridge into his mouth with his eyes fixed on peter jackson’s bad taste on a grainy vhs and i thought doesn’t he have any emotions. The aliens scooped human brains out of the skull, vomited, and proceeded to consume the vomit too, while Michael accelerated his porridge intake as if it was a challenge. He was a military kid and I had seen him punch his sister in the arm once. Drugs and violence as topics amused him the most, talking about Hitler on meth made his eyes wide, his posture better and his cheeks rosy.

I guess he was a bit dumber and more aggressive than me but that still didn’t make me an actual saint. I’d slashed and cross-checked other kids in hockey games, listened to death metal since age nine and listened with fascination to my dad’s war story about a soldier boiling an enemy’s severed head to take the skull home as s souvenir. Since I was imaginative I knew I could make other guys accept me by telling exaggarated, gross and violent stories. I had learned early on that intoxicants, sex and violence were topics that connected men across class divisions.

My writing was so male-centric and it made sense when I looked at my video watching history: dark philosophy, hard science, psychopath and prostitute interviews, hockey fights, boxing. I thought I was androgynous but I was just skinny and neurotic.

to be a dying

time escape. unholy love. take me now. silent flames. decaying. my last trip. flashbacks of. booze and jazz.

why is my heart so blue. while the little girls are so happy.

we were boys. worshipped all. fighting games. conquered all. my last trip. to hospital. my dying boys. dying all.

why is my heart so blue. while the little girls are so happy.

to be a dying. to be a dying. dying.

Me and Michael were skimming on a snowy dimly lit road, new york city cops by the strokes blasting through the blown out speakers. We were heading for Red Dog’s place for some dank nug since we’d run out of shrooms and jäger. At the crossroads where I should had taken the road to the town I decided to take a detour of a smaller road without proper winter maintenance. I mentioned a local rally legend and accelerated towards the darkness. Michael said slow down bro but I didn’t listen. For some reason I thought of dave grohl’s interview where he drove stoned with his head through an open sunroof during his street cred building days.

We approached a 90 degree left turn, I sped up. Michael said we’re going too fast, I said I got this. I planned to use the hand break to lock the back wheels so I could drift sideways towards the corner and smoothly finish the turn when the tire studs gained grip on the snowy road. Since the road wasn’t plowed and we were going way too fast we sank sideways deep in the snow remaining in a steep angle with Michael lower on the passenger seat than me.

The engine came to halt but the Strokes was still rumbling through their cocaine anthems in the stereo. The song trying your luck was playing. It started to sound a bit grotesque so I turned it off. The car air conditioning still worked blowing warm air so we wouldn’t freeze in the cold as long as the stalled engine still had some warmth in it, or the battery worked.

I didn’t want to call my dad or the towing company because I wasn’t sober so I decided to call my friend’s brother Johnny because I knew his family had a big truck. He reluctantly agreed to help us out. Me and Michael waited in the tilted car, and Michael was bummed out and complained. I tried to keep the spirits high saying we gonna get to Red Dog’s no worries. Michael said he’s not even that interested in the dank nug anymore.

Time passed and the engine cooled down resulting in cooler air blowing at us. We started to worry that we were going to freeze to death and thought of calling a cab. That would have taken some time to arrive too. We decided to wait for Johnny. I put on my winter gloves and hugged myself to stay warm. Michael complained again and I said well there’s not much use in complaining right now. I turned the air conditioning off since the air was cold now. We stared into the darkness through the windshield grimly in complete silence. I thought how I didn’t want to go through the car fixing hassle with my dad. Sure I could handle this myself but he always steps in because he knows all the repairmen in town. There I was inside a pile of snow in a ditch because I was a helpless dumbass.

Just before the highest gear of despair would have kicked in, a pair of headlights appeared in the darkness. It had to be Johnny. Sure enough their big truck pulled up beside us, but Johnny wasn’t alone. He was with his dad who was at the church board and known around the town. Michael said fuck no it’s that guy but I said relax it’s chill I got this. Johnny’s dad said you got yourself pretty deep in there. There was no way to lighten the mood. It looked pretty bad.

He tied a rope to my car and started to pull it off the snow. The truck’s wheels spinned on the snowy road and the back of the truck moved sideways but my car didn’t move. He gave us a shovel and told us to clear snow from under my car. So I did while Michael gave me advice. Johnny looked a bit sad while looking at the ordeal from distance. His dad changed the angle a bit and tried pulling again. This time my car got loose from the snow and back on the road, but because there was no one in the car it started to roll uncontrollably towards the other side of the road. I figured that I could slow the car’s movement by holding on to the door because the window was down. A very silly idea because the car was heavy and the road snowy. Michael hollered the fuck you’re doing man. I held on to the car and slided sideways until I landed in the snow on the other side with the car. Johnny’s dad said that was kinda dangerous you could’ve gotten hurt. I though I had held my balance pretty well but was a bit embarrassed.

Johnny’s dad had to attach the rope to my car’s trailer hitch in the back, which it luckily had, to pull it out again. This time it was easier and finally my sad nissan stood still on even ground. The passenger side door was pretty busted. Michael could have gotten hurt if there had been a rock under the snow. Luckily the engine started running again and I thanked Johnny and his dad but the atmosphere was a bit sad and awkward. It felt like a lot of time had been wasted on that misfortune.

Oh hai. Hello. Hola. Aloha. Moi. Hej. Howdy. Yo. Ciao. Bonjour. Shalom. What’s up. Sup. Morning. Afternoon. Evening. Nice to see you. It’s great to see you. Good to see you. Long time no see. It’s been a while. Nice to meet you. Plesed to meet you. To whom it may concern. Lovely to meet you. Lovely to see you. Namaste. Wagwan. Ayubowan. Privet. Salam. Mingalaba. Konnichiwa. Sabaidee. Muraho. Annyeonghaseyo. Ka jambo. Manao ahoana. Ni hâo. Kia ora. Zdravstvuyte. Talofa. Habari. Kamusta. Mabuhay. Sawatdee. Merhaba. Xin chào. Mholo. Avuxeni. Bawo ni. Sawubona. Iwi selami newi. Kumusta. Nyob zoo. Ndewo. Mwaramutse. Sabaidi. Bongu. Ya’at’eeh. Thobela. Tashi delek.

How r u. How do you do. How have you been. How’s everything. How’s it going. How are things going. What’s going on. Hur mår du. Miten menee. Apa kabar. Hogy van. Kako ste. Si je. Li hòbô. Habari zako. Sut ydych chi. Ako sa máš. Kako ste. Kak dela. Como estás. Quid agis. Eotteohke jinaeseyo. Aap kaise hain. Pós eiste. Comment allez-vous. Iizyk. Alqutaxt. Kamusta ka. Kĩf halek. Vonts es. Kamisaraki. Kenken kabare. Via ged’s iana. Ulishani. Kaa haal ba. Nom. Olsem wanem. Kamusta gè nam. Mat an traoù. Håfa tanamao hao. Muli bwanji. Dohitsu. Mba’éichapa reiko. Sak pase. Pehea ’oe. U ri nawa. Nu ako. Kedụ. Quanuq itpich. Kui putna bettu. Umeze gute. Wena matimpi. Ngapi. Kumaha kabarna.

the new age of loneliness

it’s the new age of loneliness. thinking of what i have missed. i remember when we were young. riding bicycles, having fun.

i still think about you sometimes. i still think about you sometimes. i still think about you sometimes. then i forget it all again.

we were kings of the town. meeting people all around. then machines captured us. we lost friends. we lost touch.

i still think about you sometimes. i still think about you sometimes. i still think about you sometimes. then i forget it all again.

Portrait is pulled into the light by the lamp that is kept burning knowing that darkness and light are same to you. The position of the lamp changes the nature of the portrait portraying darkness and light. The more the lamp is repositioned the more the certainty flickers. The continuity of the flickering is a certain realization frozen in the portrait burning inside the lamp of time.

Unlimited power is semantics beyond logic and syntax beyond nature. Unlimited knowledge is repositioning beyond epistemology and absorbance beyond observance. Unbounded presence is ontology beyond cosmology and quantumness beyond relativity. Uncompromising love is the darkness beyond the flame and the light beyond gravity.

The portrait burns to reconnect to wholeness of nature, the smoke forms the consciousness to disconnect from sounds of the flames, the ash scatters over memories to nurture portrayals of wavelength absorption. Black reflects none of the spectrum back because it is alone and prone to weather. White reflects all of the spectrum back because it is lost and prone to navigation. Gray has sailed between white and black trading umbrellas for compasses for so long it has come to represent both wisdom and sorrow.

fire in the sky

cold as the wind so my feelings don’t spin. stream of the river ever-changing.

fire in the sky.

deep in the soil ancestors’ bones. towers of flesh behind pleasure domes.

fire in the sky.

life. is a spiral. death. is light. in depths. of the cosmos. silence. is might.

fire in the sky.

The lake was the shape of a dragon and shared between two municipalities, the stone boundary landmark being on a little uninhabited island in the middle. Motorboats weren’t allowed and you couldn’t build new property near the water anymore yet old buildings reaching the shore remained. Residents, most of them summer cottagers, were responsible of maintaining the roads, and trees hovered menacingly above power lines. The water wasn’t murky but it looked dark because the bottom was muddy. Fish weighing up to 15 pounds swam there because the lake was deep in the middle. A swan couple inhabited the lake during summertime, and a cuckoo hollered its distinctive calls in the spring. Sunrise was orange, sunset pink, daylight naked and the night velvety.

Write bitch write. Bitch you must write. Bitch did you write last night? Bitch are you free to write today, or is tomorrow better? Weekend bitch. Will you write or find more excuses not to write, bitch? Writing makes bitches think, thinking makes bitches come to conclusions. Bitches with opinions make bitches agree or disagree, bitches without opinions make bitches form opinions for them. Bitches poke their noses in other bitches business, bitches affiliate and reach a concensus with bitches to write rules and regulations for bitches to bitch about. Bitching as writing gives bitches more to write and bitch about no matter how much other bitches bitch about it, no matter how much have been written about bitches bitching, no matter where writing reaches bitches during whatever the bitches were up to for whatever reason. A bitching ass writer is nobody’s bitch, not the reader’s, not the critic’s, not the editor’s, not the publisher’s. A sensible bitch listens to advice like a good bitch, curates content like an unflappable bitch, appropriates the essential like a bad bitch. No basic bitch wants to mess with a coordinated coalition of bad bitches because basic bitches at heart desire convenience. Be a bad bitch for once and write. Be the bitch with chops, the bitch with voice, the bitch with something to say.

cathy

when the sun so easily, so easily is gone. our eyes keep still staring at the moon. when the night and darkness, the darkness comes by. a black blanket wraps around us both.

cathy it’s ok, it’s a movie that you see. don’t worry ’bout this day, there’s a morning in daybreak. oh, the stories that you make are real good. oh, the stories that you make are real good.

in this town hardly ever no one is around. we must keep our love stronger still. ride the wave of the feeling, of the feeling now. it’s all we have. we’re getting by somehow.

cathy it’s ok, it’s a movie that you see. don’t worry ’bout this day, there’s a morning in daybreak. oh, the stories that you make are real good. oh, the stories that you make are real good.

aloha. here’s my pseudocover of weezer’s buddy holly. it didn’t start out as a cover at all. buddy snuck in thru the back door.

aladdin, trainspotting, seinfeld (miller), flight of the concords (business time), fridge art, fashion week, espresso, cold gallery, helmet hair train blues, toilet rapper, toilet punk, toilet tuning, toilet cleaning, pissing on the street, mango juice and ipad, heroin and love, ugandi princess, philosophy meeting, clint eastwood’s monkey, subway sardines, drummer fatigue, Tommy hare string, police dog, kensington buzz and hood hostel, hoxton saoirse and pink meat, riot clockwork showdown, barefoot in sainsbury’s for mangos and samosas. beer with slovenian spandex. tallest teacher in china and triple-d’s. night shift metro engineer. Bulgarian twins. rough handshake, thick accent, caribbean accent, London eye, raining vodka and video. you married death, you must love an angel. world of fuck. ethiopian food. sike, carry on. trailer soul, folk circle, lost orange. topless scottsman get me blade. beer walk. cocaine tap water speculation. copacabana. jamaican bus driver. amy winehouse. weird twitter. iceberg slim movie. bowl bar and swedish groupie. sunshine jazz foam. mcdaddy wrong shoes. optimized engine built on beer. beethoven on white grand piano in a small east berlin apartment. decomposing väinämöinen. cotton mouth berliner. from laptop to ipad, from acoustic to electric. laundromat crooked nose. tweed jacket surveillance tag. a bar that disappeared. shoe fitting. bad haircut. buying hat off a prostitute’s customer.

johnny

johnny got real. it’s not cool anymore. he’s heard every story. he’s been around the block. look at him now. new serious vibe. mysterious frown has come alive.

johnny got real.

johnny tried to be all things you wanna be. he knows now what’s real and what’s just posing. he’d tell you now don’t read those magazines. you’ve got the power. wake up, you’re dreaming.

johnny got real.

Sunshine had thought that sleeping with 100 girls would be ideal. Now standing on the cottage terrace by the water with me he said the numbers don’t really matter. He fell asleep on the terrace because he had just returned from a Danish burning man spin-off he had attended just to observe but ended up sleeping with three girls on the first day. He participated in all activities except a workshop where they stuffed each others assholes with ketamine. In the festival you could sign up at a booth to either give or receive blowjobs. You could swim in a pond, two mermaids would catch you with a fishing net and make love to you. There was a guy who enjoyed watching people have sex while he inhaled nitrous oxide and masturbated. Sunshine started to think he should focus on himself more instead of girls. He stopped clubbing, exercised more and took long walks while listening to podcasts. Working long hours made him tired but he was looking forward to meeting a tight group of friends who had been gathering yearly for a decade.

Terence was a published nonfiction writer who had worked at microsoft. He had played bass in a cover band that played Say It Ain’t So by Weezer. His dad had been a fisherman and he’d had a sheep as a kid. Whenever they went to their cottage he started to wrestle with his brother. He was a fast thinker but his sister, who was a philosopher, was a slow thinker. Once he was going to attend a philosophy meeting but no one showed up. Four of us sharing a two bedroom apartment in Camden reminded him of Seinfeld. I guess he considered himself as Jerry and me as George since I had a copy of Tropic of Capricorn. That would leave Sunshine as Kramer and Marla Singer as Elaine. The scene where Elaine walked straight to the fridge to drink orange juice straight out the can would come to parallel our lives. Terence had grown psilocybin mushrooms and masturbated so much he thought he almost made his penis too insensitive. One day he slept with two girls separately and thought that one girl enjoyed the taste of the other girl on his lips. Sunshine listened to the story and moaned. Terence landed a finance tech job and got an apartment on primrose hill. Sunshine said Terence succeeds in getting laid every time.

When guys talked about girls, I thought no one loves girls harder than I do. There was secret knowledge girls shared only in presence of someone not the dream prince, not the gay best friend, but a secret third thing. There were things girls would not share even with each other because things could be used against them. My love was appreciation, respect, wonder, playfulness and burning desire. Deep understanding reached beyond what was said or felt, beyond soul vibration or quantum fluctuation. My heart was open but not too needy, available but not too easy, warm but not too foolish. Other guys had mothers, sisters, friends, acquaintances, collegues and neighbors too, but they were not chosen. Other guys talked about girls as either chosen or unattainable, either ordinary or mysterious, either just a friend or more than a friend, either present or absent. Secret third thing spoke in secret language that was not linear, oozed primordial electricity through the eyes, portrayed infinite oneness through the gestures. Secret third thing could never be thoroughly understood or found anywhere else, never be forgotten or replaced by anyone else.

cynical laugh’s not for you, honey

before we celebrate guilt must be dealt with or no one will follow you. i have learned to say what you want to hear and you know it’s true.

i’ll wait for you at your door and say: cynical laugh’s not for you, honey.

you’re a sweet little girl, nice personality. please don’t never ever change though possibilities. be free to sing a song. we’re here, i hear you right. i hear you right.

you like babies, i like little puppies, so why are we feeling down? take whatever you like, i’ll sell my motorbike, you can drive me home.

i’ll wait for you at your door and say: cynical laugh’s not for you, honey.

you’re a sweet little girl, nice personality. please don’t never ever change though possibilities. be free to sing a song. we’re here, i hear you right. you’re a sweet little girl.

They always look for someone slightly above their level to make sure their offspring won’t repeat their mistakes. They always desire someone others desire because how else could they know their true level. They always confuse kindness for weakness to make sure their offspring won’t turn against them. They always get mesmerized by puppy eyes to make sure there is potency in vaccination. They always lead you astray to bless planets of navigation. They always keep their back door open to immortalize strategies of Napoleon. They always make your weaknesses public to contemporize maximalist fiction. They always find your sensitive spot to allocate minerals for acupuncture. They always fall for dopamine oscillation to recategorize elevator music. They always think of laundry during sex to poeticize legislation. They always love sensibly to emotionalize conversation. They always love soulfully to existentialize silence. They always love wholeheartedly to photonize oneness into being. They are something aren’t they? They are everything.

Looking at the map for standard of living, how borders and numbers are unforgiving, how colors represent your refridgerator, how blindness adapts to eyes of dominator. Christmas Eve and a black garbage bag. Sister from a bigger city recovering from jet lag. Parents in secret have hunted and gathered. Objects and wrappings when thoughts should have mattered. Spruce needle scent competing with plastic. Music is peaceful and matter fantastic. Table has space for texture and flavor. Chairs are restrictions of human behavior. Middle class nordic ideal of freedom. Poverty should by now be in museum. Talk of the beggar on stairs of the subway. Talk of the climate and aerosol hairspray. What about me and my poor aspirations? Smaller than problems that disunite nations. What about animals and modest perfection? Intent of action the source of affection. What about spirits and how they have traveled? Before the dawn, before thoughts unraveled. What about kindness towards one another? Dying is lonely so why even bother. Vacuum is next to abundance of hurt. Nothing is safer than staying alert.

Enough rhyming now for I have started to resemble. Enough patterns now for I have started to approximate. Enough knowledge now for I have started to assume. Enough associations now for I have started to declassify. Enough limitations now for I have started to interpret. Enough generalizations now for I have started to hallucinate. Enough observations now for I have started to categorize. Enough repetition now for I have started to hypnotize. Enough awareness now for I have started to supervise.

as lonely as lars

he’s a kid from down my street. worn out sneakers in his feet. happy as a little kid can be. some bad people from next block. took his jeeps ’bout nine o’clock. we all know but we weren’t there to see. the boy’s just like me.

as lonely as lars. looking at the stars. asking god to give back his cars. as lonely as lars. looking at the stars. don’t take his cars. never ever again.

his new cars are not the same. different models, different names. they are not so cool ’cause they’re too clean. it makes him sick to think that dark. evil neighbors have his cars. it’s not easy not to become mean. they boy’s just like me.

as lonely as lars. looking at the stars. asking god to give back his cars. as lonely as lars. looking at the stars. don’t take his cars. never ever again.

You can’t always change the circumstances, but you can always change how you respond to them. You can observe how others achieve their goals and apply knowledge you gather. You can read Napoleon’s biography and understand value of information. You can read the Bible and understand why the right response is not always enough. You can read the classics to understand the power of narrative. You can tell stories to understand why you respond the way you do. You can create circumstances to understand if change is necessary. You can improve decision making by deciding which decisions have most impact. You can learn to love information by loving what information makes lovable. You can love without reward and reward without love. You can find love in unexpected places. You have flaws but they don’t define who you are. You are more than the sum of your attributes. You are a conduit of universal truths rather than just personal opinions.

It takes on the meaning of a thing spoken about before. It takes three minutes to boil an egg. It was the worst of times. It happens to the best of us. It doesn’t really matter in the end. It is the way it is. It raises a question about the nature of things. It is built on a solid foundation. It rains until the clouds pass.

(from disengagement to effervescence)

It wasn’t my fault. It isn’t really happening. It’s about time. It allows us to speak about personal things. It might be the only thing that gives us hope. It’s a proof of an underlying pattern. It explains so much with just a few words. It makes everything worthwhile. It’s real isn’t it. It’s everything there is. It makes you wonder. It is a fabric woven from textile fibres. It does the job. It really hits the spot. It is strong enough to carry the weight of an average sized man in a hammock.

(from superposition to desynchronization)

It fluctuates. It has never happened before. It has a mind of its own. It’s engineered based on your needs. It deserves to be observed objectively. It has been around since the beginning of time. It’s the end of the line. It’s the sparkle in your eyes. It doesn’t get any better than this. It’s an estimate based on velocity and trajectory. It is slowly evolving into something unpredictable. It refuses to be defined in terms of our common knowledge. It radiates energy of distant past turning phosphor into green glow. It surpasses the speed of light. It disappears. It just is.

bedroom baby

i hide a smile ’cause i wear a gloom. deep inside my soul there’s a hole for you. morrissey told a heavenly way to die. cross the street with me baby close your eyes.

lovers. lovers. forever.

your slender figure pure and soft. reminds me of something i saw in louvre. joy division told love will tear us apart. i’m already dead with my broken heart.

lovers. lovers. forever.

bedroom bedroom bedroom lovers. bedroom bedroom bedroom covers. bedroom bedroom bedroom baby.

your bed is my bed. my bed is your bed.

She enters the diner in a swift yet graceful fashion as if she was carrying the momentum of a busy day. She chooses a table by the window without much hesitation, sits on the beige wooden chair placing her purple shoulder bag on her lap. She glances through the window observing the maple trees in process of change from summer green to autumn yellow and red while the rush of the day turns into a peaceful oasis of the lunch break. She unzips her bag and pulls out a light blue notepad with spiral binding, a white university course book with perfect binding, a silver aluminum pencil case with japanese calligraphy, and arranges them neatly on the table.

(an entity does not experience time)

Everything before is a valley of butterflies; everything after is an observatory on a mountain top.

(existence is the time-being)

She places her bag on the floor by the chair and looks at her studying accessories in their function and variety, smiling gently as past struggles transform to an accomplishment, present stagnation transforms to progress as she starts a new chapter in her life. She takes a deep breath as she gathers her thought fragments while the entirety of her being approaches the next task at hand. She lifts the lid off her pencil case, picks one of the black and grey mechanical pencils with an eraser and places it on the table by the notebook. She opens her notebook browsing briefly through the pages in a seemingly accustomed manner until she reaches the notes of the introductory course which state the pages of the book she is about to study.

(the absolute present moment is realized)

It is quarter past noon on a tuesday. It’s a beautiful day. It will start raining in two hours. It gets dark around six o’clock. It gets colder this time of year. It’s a good idea to wear a warm sweater. It’s the right time for clothing stores to dress their fiberglass mannequins in warm sweaters. It’s one of those days. It’s still possible to complete tasks before bedtime.

Dressing in drag as a preteen felt like being the only one but less alone. Expression of beauty through the beauty of the dress was beauty threefold. Otherness was the middle way that made pride forgivable and shame manageable. Picking wild flowers for my mom reminded her of impermanence, me dressing in drag reminded her she was still a little girl. The power and freedom that rose from being a visual centerpiece was heightened by genuine joy of creative discovery. However, the dull edge of normalcy still lurked behind the corner. My friend got physically abused by his dad because of our drag shows so the girly era came to an end.

i wrote an essay in elementary about being the only boy among girls in family daycare and the teacher who was a priest’s wife made fun of me in front of the class.

My family ridiculed me for playing with dolls with my neighbor and for girly gestures I had picked from a Swedish disco singer.

In high school I was told to stop smiling so I did and started to talk in monotone voice to make sure I didn’t appear happy.

i went through every piece of clothing in the men’s section in every clothing store but never found anything that I really liked. The women’s section was full of colors, pleasant fabrics, delightful impracticality. Eventually I searched secondhand store unisex sections for clothes from another age that had been abandoned for their velvetness, large-collaredness or cashmere patternness. I wanted to be a clothing designer but my dad blamed that idea on the girly student advisor.

squeeze

hello. haven’t seen you some time. i know you are dumber than i. and you still wanna fight though I try to be nice tonight. i try.

i know you’re strong. you know I’m thin. my friends have gone. you know you win.

but if you wanted a hug, i’d squeeze you unconscious. if you wanted a hug, i’d squeeze you unconscious.

ok. so what you wanna hear now? hey wait. i think i’ll tell you this again. you’re cool, i’m a goon, and i wish i were like you, i swear. so there.

i know you’re strong, you know I’m thin. my friends have gone. you know you win.

but if you wanted a hug, i’d squeeze you unconscious. if you wanted a hug, i’d squeeze you unconscious.

”Why did you buy home electronics instead of a guitar?” I sang when it was my turn to improvise on the microphone. The all-male house party went through its familiar drunken progression from awkward closeness of sobriety to various stages of confused bravery culminating in hopes of at least one of the repulsive barbarians turning into an attractive woman. I found myself in the bathroom on my knees holding my best friend’s hand while he had his head in the toilet and vomited. I wondered if he was conscious enough to know I held his hand. Then he returned my squeeze with his own as if to say he accepted my love. The microphone that recorded everything was still going around the party. The host brought it to me and I took it without losing grip of my friend’s hand. I had nothing to say so I pointed the microphone to my friend who convulsed with his eyes closed.

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intermission

(instrumental)

Bisexuals are trying to kill me. You took too much man you took too much. This is bat country. There is nothing as helpless as a man on an ether binge. Just admiring the shape of your skull. One of god’s prototypes never considered for mass production. (Thompson) Drugs are categorized based on how much permanent damage they cause. You can get addicted to porn, video games or junk food too. Alcohol is pretty addictive considering it’s legal. Heroin is pretty consistent and makes you do stretches but the itch doesn’t go away. Heroin messes with ability to feel empathy. Heroin makes Lou the poet laureate rhyme life with wife. Heroin giveth and heroin taketh away. Early stage user glows with ethereal beauty. Economics professor has friends who use heroin recreationally. Functional heroin addicts exist. Opiates make you nauseous first. Long-term opioid use permanently alters brain’s pleasure system. All she thought about at work was nodding off on her couch. She overdosed four times, each time disappointed when she regained consciousness. They think cocaine is the ego boost drug but really it’s heroin. Cocaine effects last about 30 minutes so Lil Peep’s sixteen lines of blow and I’m fine carries credibility: who hasn’t partied for eight hours straight?

drugs

steve said we gotta do it. we gotta go out. we gotta score some dank. hustlers are never resting. never confessing why they want that stank.

driving around. wrong side of town. who got the loud. where they to be found. we want drugs. johnny got a twenty. jimmy’s got a ten. you’re my man. i’m gonna see you again. we want drugs.

bowling and rock and rolling. i’m a dope star. i want in the scene. fashion is priority. i got sororities wearing my design.

driving around. wrong side of town. who got the loud. where they to be found. we want drugs. johnny got a twenty. jimmy’s got a ten. you’re my man. i’m gonna see you again. we want drugs.

The Ongoing debate of Tiddies versus Butts. Are you a breastman or an assman? Americans are into breasts, the French into legs, Brazilians into butts. Rednecks are into milkers, intellectuals into gluteus maximus. The rump resists gravity more gracefully through time and can be shaped by exercise, while breasts blend into muscles and the muscles under breasts can feel out of place.

It’s not really about the parts themselves, it’s the hip to waist ratio, the arch of the back, the arms to breasts ratio. Is your backside Kim K or Minogue brand? Is it wide and commanding or round like an apple? Smalls breasts are chic while large breasts fall into armpits when you sleep. Variety of breast size is nonsensical evolution wise. Very small breasts can be a problem feeding wise. Hip shape signals ability to give birth. A luscious posterior means more nutrition for the fetus.

It’s legal to be topless in New York. It was considered normal to sunbathe topless on a regular beach in the Greek Islands in late 80’s and early 90’s. Being topless and writing on breasts can be a political act. Intentional mooning is considered offensive. Breasts and buttocks can be used as paint brushes on canvas to create visual art. The heart beats under the breasts, the root chakra lies near the buttocks. Breasts big enough resemble an ass, a bony ass can go dead on an aiplane. Breasts can grow asymmetrically, sometimes remaining asymmetrical. Sometimes extra calories go straight to your ass. Your genes and nutrition affect the firmness and shape of your tiddies and butt.

You can surgically extract fat from the waist and insert it in the hypodermis of the buttocks. You can alter the size and shape of breasts to suit a person’s preference. Large breasts can give you back pain. Big ass can make finding fitting jeans harder. Hypocrites (1915) was the first Hollywood film to portray full female nudity. The Hays Code in the 1930’s ended on-screen nudity for decades. Promises! Promises! (1963) brought nudity back on screen in shape of Jayne Mansfield. In 2024 OnlyFans reported 378 million registered fan accounts. Only 17% of users chat with creators. Hey. My eyes are up here. I’m a person, not a sum of my attributes.

I was catching butterflies at a furniture store when a car pulled up. A girl stepped out and took a squat piss right on the tarmac. I can still see her pale white ass glowing like a beacon in the night. I was riding my bicycle home from school while the girl next door was riding in front of me. We came to the final uphill part. She tilted her body to put more weight on the pedals. I observed her bluejean covered ass sway on the saddle thinking its shape and size from the current angle was enjoyable. My dad told me that when he was walking our dog on their street her mom had run in her night gown to scratch the dog. While she leaned over her breasts fell out from her gown.

I was on a Greek island in a beach chair by the water. A blond topless Danish woman waded around the clear salty water as the smell of toasted skin and sunscreen filled the air. Her disproportionately large breasts caught everyone’s attention and she liked it. I kept staring at her tits for two straight weeks in my sweaty beach chair. On a Bible Camp the girls were walking on a dock steamy after sauna towards the lake. I observed them through birch tree branches from a distance. My classmate’s big sister who was a group leader took a few running steps to catch up with others. Her breasts bounced joyfully barely contained by the elasticity of her bikini top. The sight got engraved in my mind and I used to replay it often. At a cottage party boys and girls went to sauna separately. My girlfriend said she had the best breasts of all the girls there. Just earlier her friend had come out to the terrace of the sauna topless and seen me looking at her direction. She made sure I got a good look at her. I thought it was a pretty even contest between them breast wise.

At a club with some art school people I was busting moves on the dance floor. A girl walked over to me smiling and joined the dance. After dancing we talked a while and decided to leave the club together. I wasn’t profoundly impressed by her but when I followed her up the stairs I got a good look at her ass and thought Ok I can work with this. At my place we started to fool around, got naked, and she layed on her stomach on my bed. She looked at me over her shoulder knowingly, her eyes asking if I liked what I saw. I thought sure I can be converted to an assman, there’s a lot to work with here. On another occasion she stood naked sideways in front of the mirror pulling her stomach in saying how strange she looked. She had practically no breasts and was skinny like a twig except for her big round voluptuous behind. It was like someone had combined parts of two completely different bodies. She told me someone had written the word succulent in her high school yearbook.

pixie do you believe me?

you are in the air. bouncing trampoline. can you reach the sky? or is it just a dream? there are shiny things. prettier than life. whisper them to me. i will try to find.

pixie, do you believe me? you cannot fight true love. remember you were seventeen. at home at the store front. hot topic store front.

what compares to you? i don’t have a clue. does unpolished jewel. need to reproduce? like a lullaby. you can make me cry. i think i’ll survive. with you on my mind.

pixie, do you believe me? you cannot fight true love. remember you were seventeen. at home at the store front. hot topic store front.

She told me both of her kids were pill babies. Meaning contraception had failed resulting in unplanned pregnancies. She said her daughter was a loser because she lived with her and couldn’t hold a job. Her daughter scared my bandmates in a bar once. She didn’t go specific about her son but the tone she mentioned him with resonated with disappointment. Her mom had been a cop working in pretty rough neighborhoods. At one point she had worked for fifteen years as the person who is hired to start a record store and keep it barely going until a sucker is found to work as the entrepreneur always going bankrupt. She launched a lot of those stores in different towns for the same company. That’s why she had a lot of albums. She had retired from being a dancer because of her leg. She had traveled with a fairly known rock and roll band as a dancer and a roadie, living with the fairly respected drummer who was an alcoholic and not the good kind.

Whenever I talked about an American artist or celebrity she said she knew him and he was an asshole. A colossal wrestler had cornered her friend in a bar, Jeff Tweedy of Wilco had been rude to her at venue when she tried to greet him, Jonathan Richman was heckled by an audience member and she said that was when the Boston Boy came out. Even her cats were assholes, each in their own way. Dave Grohl had made it because he had survived. I talked about Dan Zanes of Del Fuegos and she said he’s a billionaire. I looked him up online and it didn’t seem that way. I asked her if she had done cocaine back in the days and she said that was all they did back then. I nicknamed her Confetti because her stories were so fragmented and random.