Untitled

This city is dead to me

It died, panting for air

And searching for love long ago in adolescent dreams

Its inhabitants are like zombies

Nothing will stop them from feeding on their own addictions

Vomiting whiskey flavored validation

Gnawing at the genitals of their most recent victims…

Within every shadow sits a child

Cowering in fear

At the tip of every shadow

Stands a victim

Masochistic suicide

With preluding daily devoted masturbation

It exorcises the mind

Keeps blood flowing…

My thoughts are limitless

But my words, limited to pen and paper

Or the tapping of letters on a keyboard

Going blind to the flickering screen of a monitor…

But this is my asylum

A Place of solemn sanctuary …

I find it slightly more amusing than pounding pavement

Even though my knees bleed from scraping by

Slowly..

Sluggishly through this afternoon cadence

And still I keep my distance

More so out of fear than hate

I’m dying, more from my own poisons than from the vile I’ve been ignorantly pointing my finger at…

I keep lapping at the blood of my wounds

Addicted to the taste

Becoming numb to the pain

Becoming one with the infection

Like making love to your murderer…

Its all animalistic in the end

Then again, we are all just mammals

Warm blooded and defected with weakness

At times cannibalistic

Eating away at ourselves

Jagged teeth tearing through epidermis and jerking away at Rubbermaid muscle tissue

Until there’s nothing left

Until we are just another victim..

Made either by our own hands

Or the murderous affairs of lovers in stagnant corners of basements..

 

 

Advertisements

Black Sheep

I look around and realize I’m surrounded by anomalies…  an orgy of uniforms and collected conformist in denial of their true form. I admire how they grope each other, stimulating a blood rushing erection of hypocrisy. Their voices loud and well heard, their protests bright and colorful…fuck the man!  They say. Fuck the man and his machine of oppression; they scream in between solid puffs of name brand cancer. Look how the skin of their fingers shrivels from the beading condensation of a beer can. I’ve watched them throw themselves into drunken trances congregating in social ranks, spewing judgment, finger painting their names in the blood of most recent back stabbings.

Antisocial you say? You are nothing but a character in a play, teetering on an axis summited by mainstream theology. Go ahead, take another swig of your cheap beer and burn the label black sheep upon your chest. It’s the joke that makes up your physic; it’s the skin that sags along your week and brittle bone structure. It’s the lie you fuck every night before falling asleep next to your one night stand and snuffed out cigarette butts that float in the monkey piss of semi empty forty bottles.

You see, I am that black sheep you so long to be, I’ve learned to take comfort in the icy shadows bouncing off the cold shoulder of society. I am that antisocial fuck lingering on the outskirts of the inside. I have no real interest in your thoughts, opinions and mortal day to day judgment. I stray from your hang out spots and avoid the hipsters in black sheep’s clothing that I’ve found you to be.

The Night Cries..

I step into the light, my weaknesses squirm to hide themselves,

They search for cubby holes etched within the tree of my soul..

I step back into the shadows, they suddenly rush at me, charge at me like a declaration of war..

Their serpent like bodies coil around my mind, around my neck, around my legs…

I am but a prisoner within a shell of a being..

I am but an infant within the shell of a man..

I am but a man within a shell of a world…

Is there no escape?

No release from these binding imps??

How they claw at my insides and scratch at my eyes..

Nothing of me is left pure; all is tainted with morsels of impotency..

Oh and how the night cries for me…

Oh how she weeps from the corner of her bed post..

Her tears paint  her vast breasts with an alignment of stars..

Her sobs softly kiss my exposed skin..

Am I the Only One??!?

I got out of bed this morning with the full intent to spend as much time working on my draft to the second installment of my short story series and so far I guess it’s gone pretty well, but I feel like I’ve ran into a brick wall suddenly. I know what I want to write and I can see the story played out in my mind’s eye, but for some reason, trying to get it on paper seems more like a trip to the dentist than an enjoyable day of writing. It gets me frustrated because my life is filled with things I have to do. I’m a father of four kids, I’m attending fulltime school, I’ve been searching for a job, so when I actually get to dedicate some time to writing I want to see progress, not a finished product, just progress. I want to feel like I made at least a dent in my work, that I moved the story along or got to a mile stone, so to speak.

I often find myself looking around at others, on the internet or in life and become envious. I do, I don’t mean it, it’s just the way I feel. I become envious of their lives, how some people can just sit and write all day, every day, It seems like they don’t have a care in the world, no bills, or money problems, no hungry mouths to feed or messes to clean, or jobs to work. They write novels in a couple months’ time, and all I can do is sit back and ask myself; how do they do this? How can they have all that time to write with no distractions? How do they not let life get in the way?

To be honest sometimes I get discouraged, like it makes me less of a writer because the amount of time I can dedicate to it in my own life. I mean like I said people are writing novels in the amount of time I’m writing a 3200 word short story with editing. Oh and trust me my stories need editing. I seem to be a hoarder of words; I pack my writing full of crap and then find it hard to let certain un-needed parts go. It’s one of the biggest things I struggle with besides staring at a blank word document for hours trying  to convey something decent to paper,

Is there anyone else out there that feels this way at times? Like they’re less of a writer or find it hard to give it the time it needs because the distractions in life that have to be dealt with?

I don’t know, I should get back to that draft, I just have to write, good or bad, it’s just the first draft right?

Shadows beneath the Street Lamp series, and some ranting..

I have been working eagerly on the second installment for the” Shadows beneath the Street Lamp” series and I’m really excited about the whole thing. My goal for these stories is to bring the readers to the dark corners of life. I want to grab them by the back of the heads and force them, so to speak, to look at the people and areas of life we tend to overlook or pass by. The black sheep, the crazies, the steaming piles of shit we drive or walk by on our way to work or school, that we seem to ignore the existence of. The people we tend to immediately judge as losers or nobodies, the mentally deranged. I want to bring to life the thoughts inside their heads, the battles they have within themselves, their addictions or obsessions.

My style of writing is very gritty, the best way I can describe it, is like watching a Quentin Tarantino flick, but in no way do I feel like I am as good as him. I’ve been looking around, reading other blogs and also work form other writers, searching for something interesting or inspirational  and I’ve noticed a lot of talk about what being a writer is. I have almost disagreed with every quote I’ve seen so far. I think a good number of people romanticize on the stereo types of what a writer is and strive to feel a part of those ideals. I want to clarify what a writer is for some people; a writer is a man, a woman, a mother, a father, a wife, a husband. A writer is me, it’s you, it’s the guy next door, the lady at the grocery store, the man struggling to pay his bills and take care of his family.  You don’t have to be anything or fall into certain guide lines to be a writer because writing itself is an anomaly. It’s an art that you should feel free while doing, not feeling like you have to be the bohemian asshole leaning out of some slummy apartment window smoking cigarettes and gulping at bottles of liquor.

All in all, I don’t want people who think of themselves as prestige writers to make the rules for other people. I don’t want to be told what I have to be passionate about or how to live my life; I just want to be me and nobody else. I want to write for me and nobody else, yes I want people to read my work and enjoy it but, I don’t give two fucks in a whores ass what sells and what doesn’t, if my work sells it does and it did because of the way I wrote it, and I wrote it because it was in my head.

Anyways, enough ranting from me, if you haven’t checked out the first installment : “Lullaby for a Lost Soul.” Please do, it’s free and I hope you will like it. Here is the link….

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/237411

Untitled..

From the altars of the wicked flows the blood of mankind…

Genetically created generational curses…

We bare the sins of our fathers and feed our hunger with the impurities of our mother’s bosoms

Lapping mouthfuls of human filth…

Let us kneel at the river of genocide slitting each other’s throats, let us kiss and bleed out into its current…

Let this cleanse us,

Dear lord let this cleanse us…

Let us caress our deformities…

Let us fondle and fuck our weaknesses to sleep…

We will embrace our normality; we will leave our ambitions to the decisions of a firing squad…

And so we will dance in a holocaust, digging the mass graves for the corpses of self-identity.

It Ends In Irony…

Sometimes it seems like I am a ghost

Just a vague being.. … a nameless face walking along the border of a black iron fence of a graveyard.

I look out to see the sun set… its light tinted with orange, bathing the tops of cold headstones..

Short summaries chiseled upon them..  a life time fit into a few words..

Your beginning..

Your highest accomplishments.. war hero, purple hearts, loving mothers, fathers, or just being born…

Then your end..

I walk through the endless rows of graves, the grass is thick like carpet and cushions the souls of my shoes..

I can’t help but feel a connection to the dead while reading the last words left to describe them to the world ….  Proof they were here and existed

I begin to create visions of who they were, what they looked like, how it felt to know them..

Suddenly I find myself making judgments of them, people I never knew… People from totally different generations..

I then came to the realization of the irony in death

You could go your whole life, not catching a single eye… being a nameless face.. Being a ghost…

And only when death takes you .. People realize you were there.. You existed… they paint a name on your face ..

Only when you become a ghost.. You become real to people… You finally become someone, for some reason, people want to connect to…