Gertrude

Brain fog, limp dick, half ate chicken breast in front of me.  Today is dreary.  I barely feel alive.  Can’t finish the rest of my chicken breast.  Gave away two loads of swimmers that could have been saved to shoot into someone else’s hot wife.  The emptiness and dullness of today is enough for self-mutilation. 

I Want to Run My Hand up Her Fish Net Covered Popliteal

The psyche is formed through assimilating physical compliments.  She was given less compliments than the other one.  Her soul was stronger.  The other one’s soul was abjectly unrousing to my platonic attraction of her.  Despite this, I feel more towards her.  Feel more, towards a vapid piece of flesh.  And the truly beautiful one: my

To Whom am I

Writing for the sufferer Weights for the social loser Mountains to climb for the madman Music for the emotionally sensitive Netflix, wives, and husbands for the soul robbed workers Alcohol for the man that has nothing Nothing for the recluse who wants nothing Whatever consoles is based out of who you are To whom suffers

The Stumbling Why of Writing Horse Shit

Sticking to the things that I like A like, meaning ease of effort and comfortability Vance Joy instead of obscure avant-garde jazz which expands my ear pallet Humorous poetry lines instead of rhythmic goodness A rhyme is too forced Too constricting Stifling self-expression This is why it’s reverential: Being able to express yourself in narrow

Arrogance and Entitlement: That Guy with Biceps the Size of Cantaloupes is the Same as Me

That body builder at Golds Gym with biceps the size of cantaloupes- that’s me.  Me, as an aggregate of all the things I do.  No one views me in that way.  I will never receive the reverential treatment that cantaloupe man does; this is because I have little to nothing to show for.  Nothing to

New Year’s Flakes

Looking in retrospect at my rejection: Was I too stupid, arrogant, a bad kisser? Were my lips too chap? Did she see my chub while walking out of the hotel lobby after making out? It could’ve been her. She could’ve been waiting for the comforting post-date-text; thinking I would reject her, she rejected me. It

Tin Can Lost on an Interstate

Thirteen hours in a stuffy tin can, packed full, leaving no crevasses available.  Leaving was an odd feeling- like finishing a book.  Feelings of nostalgia rushed in, making my past into something sentimental, old, and sad.  It’s a feeling of understanding you’ll never get that time back.  The good and bad memories will never be

Fear and Loathing During a Blizzard in Iowa

Snow flying into the wind shield of a Chevy S10 like the millennium falcon taking off at light speed.  They were lost on a gravel road in the barren landscape of Iowa.  It was a winter wasteland outside; drifts obscuring everything, but twenty-five feet of visibility.  Inside the S10 was a consoling interior that felt

Scared and Sad 167 pound Man Singing the Blues

Beat down like a pitiful dog. In retrospect I wasn’t as lonely when I stayed home alone, read, wrote, and played guitar. I go out and socialize with the less precarious and confident selves. They seem genuine, even when talking about The Game. For me it feels pretentious to say hi how are you. Dancing

It Can Happen to You

It can happen to anyone.  You can be lifting weights and the ventilation system could crush you.  You can be at Target and see a hot trashy slut.  You can be at Walmart and see a classy woman wearing a skirt who watches Ingmar Bergman films.  You can approach a woman who wants to fuck