8 Followers

We wander, we waver, we explore. Our followers, ever present, ever complacent are the only constant factor in our journey. A parabola we are, a baseball lazily tossed into the sky with the potential to contuse the countenance of a 9 year old child. We leave you 8 amazed. As we stealthily and expediently sprint down an alley in the backwards and ruffian-laden district of Scars, miles and miles from greeting your smily faces, you still turn up. Your pack, you squadron of open minds and eyes, you peek around the corner, you sniffed and followed our tracks. You are a disappointment.

In a world of such chaos as this, constancy is ludicrous. How the hell are there still 8 of you? We have tried to lose your track. We have attempted to shake you off like obstinate beads of water on our thighs, like the clenched jaw of a dachshund hound firmly and unrelentingly fastened to our crotches. You remain.

Perhaps the number is not truly as it appears. Perhaps the figure is dormant upright, not slumbering on its side. That is the only coherent explanation for such a ridiculous phenomenon as this.

Leave. Go. I demand this of you. Gain more velocity, anything. Change. This number cannot stand and it will not stand. If you have no agency in this, I will take it upon myself to implement said removal. I am the exterminator of Scarsdalean citizens in disguise. I must do this. For my sanity. For my lunacy. Go.

Wrong directions: the commodified, the humanized, the severed thing.

“It takes a long time, but god dies too, but not before he sticks it to you.” I thought as I looked down at my deformed testicles hanging limply next to the new stab wound covering much of my lower body. I raged last night, bar hopping, cow hopping, girl flopping, trying to forget my existence, as it is so easy to do these days.

Earlier that day I walked down the street, which is next to my house, which is desolate, and a car followed me. A blue car, with a woman dressed up in a black dress and a man in a light blue dress-shirt, crept behind me. In that moment I jumped to the future in my mind, which is where things are supposed to matter, and I followed the three of us down the street, in the car, to a motel, room 306, where we would meet a group of men and play chess before having an orgy. I followed us there in my mind, but the man, in the car, in reality, stuck his head out and said “Do you know how to get to Robsham?” And to this I replied with directions, carefully describing the route he was to take, carefully guiding a video of the future in his mind. And as I stood there, making gestures with my hands to get my point across, I realized I was the direction-giver. That’s a lie. I didn’t realize it then, but rather directly after I gave the directions and their car crept off, and I was left with the pitter patter of my footsteps. I was the direction-giver and nothing more or less. The man took all spheres of my person, except for my internal map, as my hands danced in the air, and the couple listened intently, eagerly. No ‘Hello’ or ‘Goodbye’ is meant for a man such as I, at least not in that moment, when I should stand giving directions, stripped of my name (which means nothing), history, life, and personality. And I wonder, now, if man has always commodified—nay, demystified— himself.

So, as I lay on the ground now, writing this at the end of that street, by my house, my domicile, and I ponder the second, screeching car that came, and the angry man, with wrong directions from some other guy, I wonder why he asked my name. I wonder why he took his time approaching, absorbing my fear before plunging his knife into me. Perhaps the commodified life is better, if for no other reason than the apathy associated with the object, and consequently, the objectified. The first man used me and then tossed me to the side. The second man, with wrong directions, looked into my eyes and recognized a human, and sought to conquer that human.

I don’t wish to give you, reader, my name, because I wish to escape from humanized sentiment, and avoid commodified apathy. Perhaps this is why I lay still, dying, more, or less than human.

Invisible

The room is painted beige green and has four chairs, one occupied, no windows. The sound of the sea still manages to rage in, and a silent boy with a bored expression begins to write.


I’m sitting here! With hooves and golden wings, flying on kites, then sinking into oceans. I am your tortured soul, and you are my enraptured muse, now listen! Listen, until you can’t anymore. Whoa, here’s the scoop: Today, I’ll ascend. I’ll ascend, because I saw a boy yelling at a girl, and then they held hands and kissed. My claws are sunken. Here, I’ll ascend, because I heard two professors chattering in the snow, because my mom is getting a divorce I foresaw, because my brother went to the loony bin and came out a quiet man, because the Africans call me cousin, but I don’t pick up the phone.

What do I mean? I mean I am witness and inheritor of the promised land of temporal development, the linear land, and I deny my birthright. I refuse, with rudeness, to kiss and make up, or even to kiss at all. I won’t be fooled by marriage’s happy occasion, or the reformed man’s wise words. No! Now listen, dears. Listen to my quiet, needlessly enraged words, because in a moment I’ll be a cliché going against the norm, standing upright and nonchalant as I listen to you.

My words make no sense? Maybe, just maybe (nothing additional), you, with your degree, job, or family, just don’t get it. Fuck! I’ve got hooves and golden wings and you can’t see youth’s prize possession. Enlighten yourself when you stand across from me on the train, or sit next to me in class, while always wearing your Nike, Burberry, North face disguise. Just do it. I am listening, reader, I promise.

Library Management

We that control the library are masters of puppetry. Careful needles sew the threads of control into the workers. Careful planning sews our fingers into their backs. Planning sheet beckoning for our pen, dulled eyes waiting for our direction, eager looks hoping for our produce. We that control the library control the information. Come and learn, dig your plot to greatness.

Library goer

We that walk the library aisles sliver through the stacks, assaulting les livres with our eyes, searching for safety. There, in the land of words and in the graveyard of life, we find deliverance. And we peek at the librarians and we gaze upon the staff. But it is all for naught, for we will never say a word. And when they close the library we will hide on the tops of the shelves and watch them leave... then pounce.

Library Weekend

We that close the library on the weekend are somewhat of a sad lot. A strand of human being that quivers in the shadows and shields its pale skin from the phosphorescence of big buildings by means of sheets of thick, yellow paper.

Motels r' us

‘Do laundry. All of the laundry piled on the chair and nip tonight in the bud.’ I thought as I lay on the bed with fumbling sporadic thoughts slipping through my head. Meanwhile, she undressed and her clay skin seemed to shine in the darkness. Beautiful pale skin dispelling myths which I pondered for so long as we had coffee today, as we ate Rigatoni, as we laughed and our eyes loved. Across the street from Bill’s Used Car lot, next door to Disorder News Station, in a hotel with flickering lights and rat crumbs in the corners. Only one more sock to go before our beloved clay model was prepared, with salt and vinegar, and tomato sauce. Delicious. Ding, she is ready.

O with ever slow speed she creeps towards me with a distant look in her eyes. This mustn’t be her first time. First time here, or first time being cooked and prepared for me? Who knows? Oh, right, she does. Crawling onto my belly, which is held in, for optimal appeal, you see. I think she may be ready to die. Ready to destroy herself, just as I am. Naked on the bed, I am ready to fuse with my mate, cast off my Identity as Chip the Virgin lad, the whole, the individual. I am salted and lathered with sauce as I prepare to become two, experienced, the adult male with his identity as a normal adult male completed. This town needs me to be Chip the Virgin lad no more. Everyone can sense great turmoil hidden deep in my crotch regions, ever turgid, ever conspicuous. Yes, oh yes, she is ready for me to destroy her. Murder this nameless prostitute in a philosophical way. Steal her body, pierce that soft region and rob her of her fluids. I’ll do it, on this hard mattress with too little blanket covering.

I grab her and throw her off of me. The meat is scared and passive now, ready to be stabbed with my phallus. You can almost see eagerness in those downcast eyes of hers. Perhaps we’re all masochists.

Lucipher's Pen

Unwieldy, Impossibly vast. This inkan catana slaughters unfathomable phantoms.

Shit

I sleep in filth. I somnambulate through shit. Pitiful, pitiful piles. Little logs of dirt. Specks, frankly. I sweep them aside: "ah, psh what is this crud, what is this crud? Ah, it's nothing, do a quick brush and lay your body to rest."
NEWS FLASH
Hello, I am your housemate and I am communicating via E-mail to inform you all that the specks of black logishness on the kitchen counter are not just debris--they are mice turds.
"Interesting, interesting" I eat my breakfast, I eat my lunch and I eat my dinner. I read a book for a while in my itchy bed and go get a graham cracker. Wait a minut---
As I gaze down at my Star Wars sheets and carefully consider the impossibly black, thin little logs that adorn Obi Wan's torso, Luke Skywalker's saber, I think to myself that this is mice shit.
I sleep in filth. I somnambulate through shit.

Misty-fied, like Pokemon

One side screams praise and the other tyranny. The blasted country has a spinal cord filled with puss and snow. A snow screen in between classes hides my misty-fied face. Misty, like Pokémon. Chuckling with my hereditary laughing sickness. Chuckling as the snow licks my lips. Pitter-patter, walking, walking, walking down the long and terrible path, while all around me coughing fills the air. They’re sick. The students of this fine institute cough! as they trod with sickness. Meanwhile, my head is bent; my back arches up sudden-like and bellowing white-noises the coughs. The beautiful assembly of noise outside Carney, inside Boston College, envelops me.

Snicker, snicker. I accidently trip someone, but I pretend that just for a second I am a mad man, tripping the diseased students, who are full of hope, but who must temporarily endure a skip of fate, a sick day. The weather tells us this, and the weather tells us that. Who controls the weather? How is it telling us things? Well whether or not we believe it, I don’t control the weather today. I am just a man. But the Scarsdalean Kings will visit this town, and then, oh yes then, they shall control the weather. Upon their arrival my face will unveil and shuffling along, we will laugh with our hereditary disease. Upon their arrival we’ll have tea. Maybe green tea? No. Black tea. Our tongues will become turgid with tea, inflating them to near bursting points. Then we’ll laugh at my evil deeds, pretending, just for a second, that I am a mad man, poisoning them as they laugh.

I wanna be Scarsdalean. Let me join the movement.

Oh hi. (Guest Post #3)

Nark. Swim. A heavily guarded position is required and attired. A Swimming Nark. A Nark swims. What is a Nark? Well apparently it swims. I call this thing swimming in front of me Nark. How did it get to this point? I am placed in a water and I meet Nark? My chest navigated. I have very small amount of chest hair and the hairs are all wirey, especially the hairs surrounding my nipples. Nark bites into chest. Onomatopoeia “ouch” not seldom used when with Nark. Oh wait this is a Shark. I get it now.

Gas, time, and LSD

It was 2010, and my family sat together. I can almost remember it like it was yesterday. Christmas and its cool carols chirping under jazz rifts outside our cozy New Orleans home while a slight breeze slips through the house. We were all sitting around the table having the yearly Christmas feast, when my mother stood up. “Josh will get the house when I die.” She said. Not surprising. My mother was obsessed with death, though the doctors tried to convince her she was perfectly healthy and in rather good shape. We ignored her and continued eating.

The next year presented trouble though. She developed cancer, and whispered whenever she spoke, fearing death now. If whispering could save us… That house would never be the same. Holding three bathrooms and housing piles of unremarkable trashy books, I used to think it was probably best that my brother got the craphole. He was the screw up, and when he ran out of money for the mortgage, he could sell the shitty books inside for food or make an indoor flame (for insurance purposes only, I assure you). My brother and I were not fond of each other.

Today, long after the passing of my dear mother, my failed pursuits in happiness and business, and my sister’s wedding to a homeless guy, the house stands in disrepair. But, please understand, the house stands in disrepair only in yesteryear’s standards of comfort and well being. In our present day, life is fleeting and gangsters own the streets. Robbery is banal, death unremarkable, old age a nuisance.

Our markets collapsed long ago (my failed pursuits are not purely owed to my faults), after an innovative company decided to build a phone capable of transuniversal communication with three cup holders, and motor neuron connector to free hands of the extreme pain associated with transuniversal communication. Markets couldn’t handle the new influx of companies trying to make accessories for the phone and a bomber scared everyone into believing that the phone would cause the end of the world. People withdrew stocks and sold their possessions to the aliens answering transuniversal lines. Even today, I maintain that the phones were a good idea, but just not practical.

Well, my home sits in the middle of one among many chaotic clusters, in which Bolivians (most of the world is owned by Bolivia) terrorize the general population, while constantly taking LSD. Can you blame them with this economy? Maybe. I live here now with my brother, Josh, my sister, Sart, and my niece, Maldor. Everyone changed their names, except for Josh. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Things aren’t terrible here. We live only to survive, but we pass the time with games and puns. Everything becomes acceptable after a while, you see. Masturbation is something you do in corners between puns. Josh doesn’t participate in games or like puns (having developed a God complex after letting us stay with him in his moth ridden house) so he just exists most of the time. More for us, I guess. We’re bound to run out of wordplay one day.

We would say something to Josh about his pretention, but it is easier to let demons live, so that angels can admire themselves by comparison. We also can’t leave, because the thugs who roam the streets at all times, hardly ever let roamers live. They believe them to be fire dragons, you see. We leave only to get food, and sometimes use of the transuniversal cell phone (Too fun). Sart and Maldor were planning a trip for food a few weeks ago and then things changed for me. Time's looped noose wrapped around my throat.

They wanted to leave, but Josh forbade it, disregarding their imminent demise without food. The two protested and then Josh wished death upon them if they left the house. This was of course ludicrous to hear, and we all had a hearty laugh at his expense. How silly, how utterly barbaric of him! To assert that words could breathe life into the wheels of fate, and men could become gods in speech. Needless to say, the two left the house. No sooner than they left did Josh and I begin to bicker. He was moody and would insult me for moving too loudly, and staring at the thugs outside. I would point out his inferiority and weaknesses in the past. Our brains boiled and steamed gushy secret thoughts into the air, clogging the house up. Time. Eventually, gases go from high areas of concentration to low ones.

One day he came into the kitchen, where I usually sit sharpening knives, and began to point out how psycho my behavior was. In the family, it is a well known secret that once in my mid 30’s I sought hospitalization in a mental institute. You can see then that his words were low blows, but mine were unfounded and thus many times worse. “At least I’m not impotent!”I shouted. The words came to me from nowhere, and in that void I grabbed a tool for success in this argument. But what man would say that winning means hurting the ones you love?

Josh’s eyes squeezed out tears slowly, and he stood deathly still with his mouth agape and his arms rigid. The room was mostly silent, although I do recall a moth’s wings flapping. I stood up, thinking I would embrace him and apologize for my transgression. He ran towards me, pushing me upon arrival, sending me stumbling backwards, into the stove. A struggle entailed. Me pushing him trying to get at his neck, he kicking me and punching my face. The battle progressed into the living room, where there are three windows out which the gangsters can be monitored. We were loud and grunting beings, as we fought with dear anger carrying our striking arms. Finally, I had him. I was positioned in a terribly good position with one arm below him and the other gripping his shoulder. Picking him up quickly, with limited malnourished strength, I threw him with magically realistic force out the window, with a great crash giving my mind awareness of the event. Then it was just me. Now, there I was, standing on the first floor, as my brother lay silent on the ground outside. The horrific picture of the glass is burning into me, melting into my soul.

The gangsters outside had been watching from neighboring porches, and they all gave distant hallucinogen soaked stares to my brother down below. Then I rushed to the window and saw his body begin to move, as he crawled toward the apartment we own, (50 meters behind our house). His arm nearly separated from his body, legs with no heart, he was my broken dollman, searching for safety from the thugs and me. I didn’t help, I didn’t say anything. I was frozen. And then the laughter came. One by one, each of the thugs let out a giddy laugh at my brother, who moaned from the pain and maybe the loneliness of being forsaken. My mouth now stood agape as I watched them laugh at Josh, as I watched our butterfly with a broken wing, flap ever slowly to solitude. Crawling, falling, crawling, moaning.

The thugs then noticed me and their faces greeted mine with a smile, as they called out “Ay! Nice one cholo! Hahahaha!” More laughter, more praise, by the captors outside. They were proud of me. And now the most deplorable thoughts crept into my mind. ‘Shouldn’t I be happy for the praise?’ ‘Which emotion should I show?’ ‘How much of each?’ Of course there was no ‘What should I do?’ Then, one such giddy thug raised his gun and shot at my brother, hitting him in the ankle. He wails out in pain. Another laughs and shoots at his torso. The moan is not human. Another. The sound of blood flowing. Another. Another. Another, until my brother is no more. Then one gave me a thumbs up, and I took a seat on the couch and listened to them praise my actions in between jumbled comments about the shapes they saw in the wind. My brother transformed for both the thugs and I. He turned into my "late" brother and their bleeding pile of leaves.

A week later Sart and Maldor returned. Apparently because my sister married a homeless man, she decided to visit with him and they met some nice people while away. Sart noticed the blood in the drive way toward the backhouse. Deluding herself, she asked about the cat or rodent which must have been murdered there. Only an internal lie can make eyes dart and fly like hers. Maldor, my niece, was quiet. My niece, my beautiful niece, thank you for that. But in reply to Sart’s questions and leadings, I answered with quick, hastened honesty, honesty never known before. My story came and went so fast and ended with a slowing ‘And so you see…it’s my fault.’ She then looked at me with apathetic eyes. She looked at me and then began to cry. My niece then followed suit. And thinking about this, I realized I must cry. I killed him so should I be less upset or more? They must know i’ve been sitting with the “pain” for days now. I know: I’ll cry louder than both. My roars oscillated, rushing through the house, blaring one moment and calming to the sound of moth wings, only to repeat again and again. My endless farce. The two just looked at me. I won the competition. My analysis told me I should be the most hurt, and then, in that moment, I was. Words, sounds, thoughts, so deceitful and conniving, that even the inventors of the transuniversal phone seem good in comparison to me. Now what will our silences be without our demon drifting from the angelic? Now who was I, but a falcon opportunistically striking at prey to show the other falcons that I was, indeed, a falcon? I’ve never been anyone. Now they mourn my brother as he becomes no one. I sit on the couch, only hearing the echoes of the thuggish applause, and the moth wings drowning out the butterfly’s wings. These are my thoughts as I wander the world, using transuniversal telephones to ask for help, hoping the thugs, the aliens, or some being will end this existence in such a laughable way as they deigned to give my dear brother. Telephones, LSD, thugs. The noose tightens, but no one kicks the chair. PV = nRT.

The Divine Tic Tac Toe

The Divine
Tic tac toe
We sear
X's
in our skin
and scream
"O!"
And lose our lives.

Slitting the Throat of A Country

He glides, unaided fellow. His frumpled wings flock from a frail figure. Formerly capable of lifting multiple 45 lb. weights in a bench-pressing format, he now lifts leaves of paper. One at a time. One flip per 2 minute time span. Slowly, he reads. He gazes and absorbs, theoretically. He licks his wings, straightens them out and winces from the harsh, rushing air. Gulping breaths, he steals from us. He wants to go home. This man is a thief. With finesse, his butterfly knife flicks open and splits the seams of topographical destiny. Mountain? Cares not. It's all he knows. He has learned nothing else. Gasping for breath and choked of dreams, the dry sod whimpers. He laughs.

Peeping in on Destiny

On a block of Peoria street in Greendale, MA, there is a house. In this house lives a boy, and in the boy's room there are mountains of toys, scattered recklessly over the floor. GI JOE, Superman, tanks, guns, you name it. The collection is amazing. Buried among those toys, there is the boy and his two friends S. and G. If you climb the tree outside this house, you can stare at the three kids for hours, and they will never turn their backs to see you. The three are all incredibly busy with incredibly important duties.

After dinner, for playtime, the three solemnly return to their affairs. Today, like all other days, S. and G. are playing Destiny—the game of age and chance— as the boy plays with his Spiderman and Superman dolls. The boy plays loudly and the devil frequently tosses disappointed glances back at the boy, as if his sound waves have disrupted everything, as if his noise has proven a betrayal. God's eyes never leave the board. His head stays tilted, eyelids open wide, hands pressing into his lap. Today, God and Satan are playing for age 12.

The boy takes a break from business to play with his pals, but the two opponents merely mutter unintelligible gabber at him, in order to speed up this annoying break. Bored and a bit annoyed, the boy begins to describe a girl at school who throws wood chips at him. Speaking a bit too loudly, he lets his arm reach for the ceiling as emotion erupts from his fluctuating voice. “ AND THEN SHE JUST RUNS AWAY!” God and Satan exchange knowing looks, and the rooms falls silent. This happens frequently. An air of knowing blows off of the two opponents and into the boy's face. A slight smirk spreads itself over S.'s face, and God looks down, as if into hell, hoping to avoid an explanation. “What? WHAT?!” Exaggerating a scoff, the boy returns to his original play area, while keeping his eyes fixed on Destiny, knowing it must be the culprit responsible for the assaults at school.

An hour goes by and the only sounds uttered in the room are those of Spiderman's mimicked screams, as a truck repeatedly rolls over him. G. and S. get up and begin to stretch in a ridiculous manner. Bending knees, raising legs into the air, pulling skin on their cheeks. “Why do you need to stretch!?” The boy screams. The opponents shrug unknowingly and the boy begins to chuck his toys at them. One after another they fly, beautifully soaring and landing hard against God and Satan's cheeks. S. and G. retreat behind a wall of stuffed toys, and the boy goes wild. He begins to hold his belly and echo a bellowing laugh at them. Tears soon flow, and in moments he is on the floor. The sight of two rulers fleeing is apparently too much to bear. At the sight of the boy laughing S. is initially outraged, but upon seeing God chuckling, Satan lets loose a gigantic laugh! God laughs harder more, and the boy slowly calms, seeing a disgusting laughing competition unravel before him.

The room becomes noise. The house shakes in terror under the blows of such laughter, and in moments the three sway with the resonating room. All the while, Satan and God are looking severely at their board game. Standing there swaying, thinking about the atrocity of never being able to play, the nauseating silences, the knowing glances, and the relentless boredom, the boy begins to inch nearer to the game. Slowly, the laughter moves the boy back and forth, as he crawls with anger and hot tears in his eyes. With only a few feet more Satan notices the boy and his trajectory, and taps God. Together the two cease to laugh and move to block the boy's way, but they are too late. Grasping hold of the game, the boy holds Destiny above his head, and releases. And the game comes tumbling down, and the duo stood shaking terrified, and eternity began with the loss of one being, now drifting without a beacon, with a broken soul and no destiny. The “ands” ceased to be, and staring from a tree looking in before reality ended, I was happy to know that God and Satan were kids.

$3.95

The sweetest fry
To absorb the eye:
Not sky high,
In Dog resides.
Heaped atop a snowy plate,
Swimming in oily perspirate.
Flakes of paprika form its nest
Ever-tightening my caress.
Squeezing, clenching, wrenching life
Inward attempt at preventing strife.
Carelessly I grab my knife,
Sever head beloved wife.
Out of pores, oil seeping,
Seconds after, commence the weeping.
Plate licked clean; no flake left
Grab my chest; gasp for breath
Crumpled mass, end of bar.
Suffocated, former star.
Where go now? All hope lost.
Will regain, any cost.

My life as a quiet villain

Around the corner there are two thugs with baggy pants and unconcealed weapons. This street is my home. I hide behind this wall for hours, listening to their lingo, their deluded plans for greatness. This is my academic pursuit.

For the last week i've seen this kid, this seemingly nice kid. In my experience the nice kids eventually do something stupid to get themselves killed.

After a few hours of listening in, I head back to my house. I live with my mom in comfortable suburbia, where the lawns are world class and the coke habits run rampant. In my room I take my mom's blow dryer and shoot the ceiling several times. “Did you just look at me! What now naughty tile?!” Of course I expect no reply to my vicious rhetorical questioning, but I can't help but feel as if these whispered words deserve the inanimate's whimpering in reply. Well, I'm sure you can see, I'm a bit of a hot-shot. Yep! I'm a quiet hot-shot, and yes, this is my life as a quiet villain. A decapitator of shampoo bottles, a stuffed animal's dealer. The hoodlums on the block may terrorize the real, but my reign is more expansive. I dominate the inanimate, take man's products as my bitch. I stand on a mountain outside of mountains, and prove, just like a scientist, that the world is my domain. This is my life. There non-lives are mine! All is subsidiary to my life.

Bow down, juice container! Kneel, stack of books! That's right, I thought you would. My actions need no action. Just as the terrorist terrorizes with the threat of his existence more so than his bomb's existence, my words claim my right. Yes, my words place me on my thrown and allow me to accept my crown. Because my words can do this, I assure you I could be the only one qualified for my position as thug, terrorist, king, God. Bend. Please do bend, objects of the world.