Sunday, February 25, 2018

Friday, February 23, 2018


2: LVV
3. JM
8. RED VELVET YEAST 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50
10. PIECEMEAL: Denouement 

PIECEMEAL: Denouement

i'm not playing these stupid fucking games anymore. your

stupid fucking games. your fucking stupid games. the games where

you fuck stupid. the games where you're a stupid fuck. piss on

the niceties. shit on the compliance. it's your will to impress

me, not the other way around. doesn't sound nice coming from a

mouth other than yours, huh? too bad, fuckface. years of this

play-acting and posturing has made me fucking sick. even on this

site, should i hold back? cause that's what i've done, and what

has it gotten us? suppose it served you well. enough pathetic

lumberjacks to prop up your pig-grade body into a position that

belies its disgusting outer and inner reality. i'll not suffer

mediocrities anymore. you're not cute or quirky. you're not a

bad bitch. you're not a princess. you're not a master. you're

not a da-da. you and those you've almost mockingly deemed

"worthy" are an Ouroboros of Shit. you can't prove me wrong.

you've let the world down. Play Parties? what is this, fucking

kindergarten? you don't know more than me. you don't know what

i've done or what i will do. you cannot fucking handle the true

potential of your surface interests. it's a goddamn costume ball

to you. Trick or Treat, cocksucker? your flesh is bloated. your

meat is sour. your brain is jelly. get another tattoo. shave the

sides of your head and dye the remainder till it's candy. you

don't know what this is all about. you never fucking will, and

you know it, so you suppress those of us who know the history,

the right spots, the right nerves, and turn what was pure into

a stagnant fashion week for the fashionably weak. according to

you i gotta be a therapist/ comedian/ philosopher /social

commentator/warrior poet/poet laureate/rock star / movie star /

workaholic /emotionally available but not too available /

accessibly weird but not weird weird / mindful of my appearance

but not into my looks / well read but not pretentious / a knower

of everything about you except everything about you /a fixxer of

everything who will stop trying to fix everything / confidant

but humble / humble but confidant / unpredictable but reliable /

reliable but unpredictable / worship you like a god while

fucking you like a pig. according to me, all you gotta do is be







yeah, i used to work in porn. a small time company that got

raided by the feds for producing illegal materials. there was

always something sketchy about that place, but a job's a job and

i like looking at pretty people with broken spirits and sour

hearts. there was one time when i got there early and one of the

starlets had also arrived early. it was a semi-heavy BDSM set up

for the day. we talked casually while she prepped herself. girl

took care of herself, not like a lot of the other performers,

who would booze it up, party all night, show up late looking

wrecked (sleepless night wrecked, not fucked-like-a-nasty-pig

wrecked), which meant that the shoot would get delayed cause

they'd have to spend more time in the make-up chair to get them

looking decent. i never had the guts to tell them that the

audience for what we're producing, the neo-raincoater crowd,

would prefer it if the performers were a little more rough

around the edges, a little grimier, but the lame-brained artfag

director had delusions of eloquence. maybe not a delusion, but a

calculated persona designed to mask the more severe elements of

his enterprise, which we discovered included real rape, snuff,

and child pornography. none of us ever witnessed the production

of those materials, he had a whole other crew for that side of

the business. don't believe the bullshit you saw in 8MM, this

guy wasn't some laconic Bond villain. his mask of sanity never

slipped from the razor-boned cattle skull of his true form.

anyway, the actress and I had become friendly. she would leave

and go on to some mild notoriety in more "prestige" pictures

within this genre, which would then lead to some minor

appearances in low-budget but creatively admirable horror

movies, even becoming a respectable recording artist and a

published author. this is what we bonded over most of all; our

mutual creative aspirations. we discussed our work outside of

"work", our influences, our favorite films and albums. it was

still a long time before anyone would show up. we discussed

everything but fucking, which seemed to relieve her, as all she

was ever asked about pertained exclusively to cunts and cocks.

that's not to say she was bothered by the questions, or would

angrily refuse to answer them, she'd just become exhausted by

it. the conversation then reached the peak;

"you wanna see what i found on XXXXXX's computer?"


she leads me to his office, which is unlocked. the computer is

on. he uses a type of browsing program of which neither one of

us ever heard. sort of like TOR: the browser that masks your IP

address, enabling the user to explore further beyond the surface

web, hitting those mystery sites that dwell like a lodger of the

mind. she opens it up, looks through the bookmarks, finds this

website that has his phone # on it. the page is called "Deep Web

Macumba"; an early example of a streaming porn service. on this

page there are hundreds of videos, live feeds, audio clips, of

graphic violence and depraved sex. the difference between what

we produce and what we found here? none of this looked or felt

even remotely "staged". let's face it, porn films are bullshit.

yeah, the organ is bracing the orifice, but the scenarios and

reactions are all very well rehearsed, the climaxes

choreographed. it's not about "reality", it's about getting off,

and most of us get off on fiction, not autobiography. fiction

strokes our ego, puts our desires right in front of us. you'll

never fuck these people, and you'll never fuck this good, but

you can dream it, and we can produce that dream in semi-flesh

and beam it to your cerebellum's den of iniquity on a cathode

ray of cum. the performers are the avatars for who you want to

fuck and how you want to fuck. what we saw on Deep Web Macumba

wasn't a "performance". these were sincere reactions to the acts

upon the bodies, and they were all some gradient of pure terror.

of all the clips we witnessed, one stood out the most to us; two

young girls, probably underage. wall dirt and floor grime caked

on their underfed sweating skins. hair long and matted, clumping

in certain spots. they sat across from each other at a wooden

table, strapped to chairs. their heads lolled around in a druggy

stupor. a figure comes in. gender inconclusive. the figure wears

a brown rubber smock with matching gloves and a gimp mask unlike

any i have seen before. it zipped up vertically from the base of

the neck. over the mask was ornate headgear, an old time dental

brace. from the back of the apron, the figure produced a large

machete. the figure placed the knife, handle facing the figure,

between the girls. The figure then spun the knife around,

waiting for it to stop. this motion was repeated until the

desired result was achieved; the end of the knife pointing

toward one of the girls. camera cuts. next scene. the girls are

positioned on all fours, ass to ass. the figure returns, holding

the large knife. the figure stands facing the camera, between

the girls. the figure holds up the knife, rotating the wrist

until the blade is over the girl it landed on in the previous

scene. the figure begins to push the handle against the other

girl's asshole. she makes intense gasps and hocking coughs as

the handle is pushed up her rectum. the blade is between the

other girl's cunt and ass, resting on the taint. a muffled voice

from behind the camera says "BUCK'. that must have been their

cue. the girls push their backsides into each other until the

knife is swallowed by them, sawing the cavities. i wonder to

myself if these girls had their colons mic'd up, cause i think i

can hear their insides being gashed and pulpled by the knife.

chunky, muddy blood falls between them onto the bed. the camera

catches their faces; eroded nerve fatality in the teenage

visages, which when inspected closer might actually be pre

teenage visages. after a while, the cracked sound of the cutting

falls into a mushy pounding. the girls eventually pass out (or

die), falling onto the bed, their asses connected in the air,

glued together with gore. the camera lingers around this girl-

flesh pyramid before cutting to the next scene, where the figure

has returned to hack up what's left of these girls, the camera

never wincing from the butcher-shop banality of this final act.

she doesn't believe what we watched is real. "It seemed too

scripted, to plotted out. good FX though." i admire her

cynicism, and concede that yeah, it must have been a fraud, or

some horror film project ala Guinea Pig, the Japanese series of

mock-snuff films that, while effective, still could only exist

in the realm of art. what we saw was no doubt a "production";

moody lighting, multiple camera angles, a slasher villain, sound

design, stylized photography. but the reactions of the girls,

the way the blood and guts fell, it just seemed too real to not

be real. that didn't look scripted to me.

we closed out, left everything as we found it, and still had

some time to spare before the rest of the crew got there. i

attempted to ruminate on what i just saw while still sneaking

peaks at her. she definitely has that special something i

continue to look for in adult film stars. not just being hot,

but making you hot. not just making you wanna jerk off, making

you want to fuck. Devin Lane makes me want to jerk off. Jenna

Haze makes me want to jerk off with a side of making me want to

fuck. Belladonna makes me want to fuck. get what i'm saying?


There isn’t any such thing as fiction or non-fiction. There is

the truth about what has happened or the truth about what we



A spider with legs both the length and girth of bamboo

stalks crawls up my wall. I run out to find something to trap

it, but my date has already started pushing it out of the room.

The spider has morphed into a sea pig. It emits slurping noises

that make me gag.

A butcher shop case nursery of living lobster/fish

hybrids, each with the head of different animal. I take the one

with the head of a cat because it’s the ugliest and most

undesirable and therefore most interesting to me. it must have

been smaller than I had first anticipated, because when I went

around the corner to pick it up, they handed me a brown bag,

which held in it a Styrofoam cup with some orange oil dripping

from under its cover. Part of a cat’s matted tail peeked out and

swayed gently.

Cops pinch a pair of teenage girls who emerge from woods with

little mounds of coke caking their nostrils. The cops open fire

on their massive bag of coke. It explodes all over the ground

and turns my car snow white. It becomes mashed into the ground,

sodden and packed tight over the dirt. It comes off my car

pretty easily.

Empty city late at night. A woman, shapely and in her

mid-30s. drunk, but in a fashion that creates a serpentine gait

in her movements rather than the over-pronounced toppling of

girls 10-15 years her junior. We find ourselves in an abandoned

subway, trading cryptic sexual innuendos. My contact lens

itches. I leave her to find a bathroom. I pick out the lens. Its

tracked with black dirt. I turn away from it for a second, never

noticing its transformation into a large roach.

Shopping spree in a comic book shop. Purposely searching

for the most sexually upsetting titles on the rack. I find one

about pop star Rihanna being put through an escalating series of

rape-based humiliation.

nursing home abuse. lungs steamed by bus station fumes.

tenement lesions. pink flowers of attic insulation. jaded

appetites. garters long as a windpipe. the validity of this

smear. dead forever by these hands. paying for what i've never


they always say it was just a joke when they are too ignorant to

hurt. they always blame a mouth that ran when you smell

children's blood. you wrote a "dear john", i forged a suicide

note.  pinched with hysterics at the lie of your rape and the

nerved fortitude of your phony shame.

sensation replicant. pewter skin caught in a zippered graze. i

submit to the angst once greeted with insult when presented by

the rest of you. a mouthful of burnt hair. muddy inks. belly

length tendril. group home home yellow. medicine bottle

candelabra. a cutter's curtain jerk. cleaned in a bank of

polished rot. a knife handle with a wrench for a spine and

calcified bushes where the wool cracks the corner lid.

attraction is an endgame. disgust was the first reason.

breastfed from anthills. web of singed inner mouth. silken

rectum like a cave diver's line. every version of myself looks

back at who came before and wants to be thrown from a bridge.

the new avant garde is blunt force trauma that will stun us

mute. age is the fail-safe when the past finds you a maggot, so

you don't need to know why you're hated since then.

the distress of witnessing hearts joyful to be run through by

the stringed wires of those who lack their savor. inhaled so

hard the pipes vacuumed melted rubber before any hairs could be

singed. drawn to identical laps. maybe soon mock-ups will be

drawn. though socket interests will never match the wagging

saliva their scrapers flush out. if the inside of our bellies

could crawl, no termination debates would be held.

not blackened, just caramelized. one with the kettle ventricles

of a  boiled heart. worming voids expand in width and height.

multisyllabic vortexes hitched until they're a screed. if you

still can't believe they will be taken from you, it would do

little harm to mirror their ends. a serial number on a

headstone. driven mad in pursuit of a fault. cadavers recalled

cause they found a worm in their food. 

breathing from asshole. from a light in the blankets.  a

nightmare well paced. chalked busts balanced on accordions of

legal pads. loathed with a whisper. play-acting what will become

right down to the lobbed nerves. spines piled like diced

millipedes the air slurped dry.

increasingly humbled by the futility of catharsis. flooded in

the moment. who cares if it's an old pain? laid with the

density. abruptions are traced in mute. drained unconscious.

scald tender hollows. tonsils like a speed bag. student of

humility sloshing in creamed venom. sips piss from a shoehorn.

tamped ash purple from the blood. bubbles of gold mud lifting

the tripe.seer of the first puke. clamped down to witness the

heal. cries almond butter the disinfectant leaked.

rattling off bores to proceed as to prolong. yellow bird skulls

melt in the air of my heads. half a day in an hour waiting for

influence to arrive. brain of cream wrung like a sponge. owning

up to the perversity laid out by superiors who today would be

cut down by proud victimhood. their secret loathing colors

rooms  not even a look to avert from the faults of your

existence. every sense wracked with awe at your putrescence.

if you knew this mouth would sooner orbit wounds, i doubt the

allure would be remanded.

your throat is a power tool geyser. linoleum clitoris

hisses when it breaks. your face is a semen blistered cunt. pink

froth caps a menstrual inferno. penciled bowls of anal moss.

intrauterine scabs flaking into piss. snotty blood fills a

crayoned womb. a fetus swirls inside every kidney stone.

incubated cherubs with greasy hemorrhoid wings and massive

genital warts where dimples would have been.

Walk into emergency room. Place backpack on the floor,

against a desk. Open it up. A thawed-out frozen toddler. Moves a

little. Touches the top of head. Caves in. turns green before my

eyes. Drops to the floor, disintegrating. Try to remember if I

checked the backpack for anything that trace the hospital to me.

neon veins. A cluster of ulcers. As if the fat had grown a

stomach of its own. knits embroidered SARs masks from old

sweaters. Hocks puréed lard. Too polite to not swallow it back

down. Legs rendered inert from lack of circulation due to

prolonged inactivity. Behavioral stasis. Skinny and purple.

Bone, meat, skin fused into crooked near-hollow stalks. Switches

oxygen tanks with a cylinder of cleaning solvents. When out of

breath, the wheezing sounds like a laugh track warped from

generation of tape dub. Fingers twitch as if flicking an

invisible bell. 

Steps on syringe.

Cuts foot.

Slips on blood.

Clips back of head on edge of counter.

Laughs cause both ends are wet.

Straddling abscess like a vibrating egg. Pubic hair lances

the boil. Cunt-muscles clench, draining the growth. Pus shoots

up into cunt, like bukkake concentrated into one white shot.

Platinum sludge hardens in birth canal, solidifying blockage.

i squeezed some blackheads and what came out were

segmented eyes, almost completely veined and sinking into

burgundy stalks. each iris was the color of a different shade of

human skin that i had never seen before and my own sockets were

packed tight with flour that had attracted millipedes that

became the roof of my mouth. they tucked on instinct when my

tongue would flick, dropping and rolling down my throat only to

become lodged half-way until being thrown up in yellow clouds

that rained stomach acid they couldn't help but absorb.

i cut out the letters that make up your name each time

they came up on the pages of your diary. using a pair of

tweezers i found on the floor of your closet i placed the paper

squares beneath each toe and fingernail. i cupped whatever was

left and dropped it like confetti into your bathroom sink, which

i filled with witch hazel and petroleum jelly. with both swollen

hands i churned the contents until i had a blue pink sludge. i

curved my dense palms to scoop out the gelatinous grime,

smearing it over the circumference of my body. i hope it hardens

by the time you get home.

Nudging carcass. 11pm caffeine. Visions cirrhotic. Feels

like cold indigestion? Hyper-sobriety. Clarity bender. Saliva

diet. Ache under cheekbone. Smiles I know are not for me. what

did I ever learn? Something halts purge. Sputter silently. Urge

to break my own hand becomes increasingly pronounced within.

Psychic bruise. Aim. 

Apartment. 2 married couples sleeping in main area. Young

wife is taken into huge bedroom/space by older husband. Abused.

Kills husband. Turns space into independent salon where she cuts

the hair of children who belong to a gang that wear homemade

Halloween costumes all year round. The other couple sits down

their child to watch a home movie they made. They just

transferred it to 3D. child watches alone. The film is a younger

version of the father, naked with long bars of metal struck into

his skin, screaming that he’s going to kill the child. Laughs

while apartment dwellers are burned by fire, all of them

pointing at the child.
Marrow pallets churned by drill-stemmed thumb nails where

the hayseed rectum forks before the corn-yellow skulls of teeth

that bricked the miscarriage rag callously rendered human by the

gas it carried to term.

Every pore gaped to be fitted for a laser pointer. Gargling

molten pencil lead. Beauty marks where the eyes, mouth, ears,

nose, and hair would be. Violent twitching. Tabbing out throat

songs. All document. Thrown on back burner. Pushed farther into

back burner. Soon there is soot. Just soot. Soot becoming

smolder. Smolder creeping into nostrils to crop-dust the varying

insides, sewing rare cancers.


It’s been so long since I’ve seen you, xxxxxx. Too long. A

lot’s been happening. My mom’s doing better. She says hello. I

know you two have never met, but I talk about you so much that

she feels like she knows you… I think she pretends you’re her

daughter in law. Heh… kinda tacky I know, but her and my

girlfriend have never gotten along. That’s been the other thing…

the relationship has steadily been getting worse. She gets

jealous of you… the way I talk about you…. She says “ohh good,

more about xxxxxx” all sarcastic and shit… and the day I just

lost it and said “well maybe if you were more like xxxxxx I

wouldn’t talk about her all the time. Maybe if you were funny

and nice and warm and not such an unrelenting cunt from hell I

wouldn’t have to throw this consistently wonderful person back

in your pinched face.” But it’s the truth… I hate her because

she isn’t you. She doesn’t have your heart. She doesn’t have

your passion or understanding or sense of wonder. She’s mean-

spirited, casually cruel, and yeah, she’s started to let herself

go. When I met her, I saw a lot of you in her. I knew I would

never be able to get you, and I didn’t want to be another one of

these slobbering mongoloids who is barely deserving of sharing

an area code with you, let alone privy to the pleasure of your

bewitching affection, so I went with her, because while rough

around the edges, there was maybe a chance that she could

blossom into something special later on, and the possibility

that I could be on the ground floor for the arrival of the next

wave of splendor filled my heart with promise. But sure enough,

like the others I thought could be substitutes for you, she

turned on me, stopped caring about her appearance, her health,

her behavior… how can I be expected to care about someone who is

too viciously self involved to even notice what a fuck-up they

are?  Every woman I meet is either, boring, awful, or spoken

for…. But they all have one thing in common; they aren’t you,

xxxxxx. Our fleeting moments passing glances across the street,

or running into each other at a record store, where I steal a

glance at your perfect smile as you skirt your soft fingers

across the top of the LPs, those small moments are imbued with

such emotional density that it gives me all the reason I need

not to swan dive off a bridge into heavy oncoming traffic. I get

more relaxation, joy, and clarity out of you saying “hello!” to

me than I’ve ever obtained from the sum –total of all my

relationship experiences with women. I realize that better

people than me have said some variation of all of this to you

before, xxxxxx. People who are more beautiful than me. more

articulate. More interesting. More successful. People who can

physically, emotionally, and intellectually keep up with what

you are offering in those departments. And even they have failed

to keep you to themselves, so I have no hope that I can be any

less catastrophic of a disappointment than them with regards to

you giving me a shot at being loved by you. i’m probably no

better than all the sub-mental cretins who reduce your all-

encompassing beauty to mere pornographic musings on all the vile

shit they claim they would do to you if given an opportunity. I

know the truth, though… they’d curl up like potato bugs if you

ever gave them a fraction of the time of day. Please don’t think

me crude, but I can’t even masturbate with you in mind, because

my imagination is far too limited to process a visual of the act

that could do one iota of justice to the real thing. You hear

all these mealy mouthed sadsacks talking about Heaven… well

excuse me, but Heaven is a clogged sewage mane beneath the

grounds of a mental institution for diarhetic psychopaths

compared to the possibility of an evening with you, xxxxxx, let

alone a lifetime. You might not realize it, but you have given

me so much more than any god or country could ever concoct even

in their most opiate-equating of lies. Everything self

proclaimed good people put so much effort in pretending to be,

you actually are… without even trying, xxxxxx. Everyday the

cancer that is human existence gets harder and harder for me to

ignore, but thanks to you xxxxxx, it’s slightly bearable to

endure. I would say I love you, but the feeling is so strong

that putting it in such banal terms is not only colossally

redundant, but ill-fitting. This is beyond love. Beyond

obsession. Beyond worship. Beyond devotion. Beyond subjugation.

This is fucking Possession. we exist almost absolutely within

the other. Neither one of us needs a personality anymore. you

erase me. and I you. and We each let the other one fill in our

blanks. That’s where we’re at now. Without touching. Without

talking. Without thinking. We pass through the confusion with

all the splendid randomness of a birthed universe, reclaiming

discovery from disorder so it can once again become unpoisoned

by the nature-raping of mankind. xxxxxx … you’ll never leave me.