Petite Thing

There’s a pattern that my mind has recognized: petite girls develop insecurity through their less than perfect sexuality, as a result they use deceptive tactics on desperate men to validate their sexuality. They ask you out, knowing you’ll come crawling—broken spine and contorted just to get to them. Ask them into your world (say, to

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

Served With a Side of Ego

You get yourself sold back to you today.  The lost generation: selling you shit is made easy when you’re pummeled by confusion, narcissism, and soul-homelessness.  Experience is obsolete in this world; being something is the current ideal to strive for.  Being for the sake of the disgusting self that believes it’s better than all the

Ron and a Hospice Chaplain

Life was straight forward to him.  If he knew what a paradigm was, his life would be marked by pleasure.  His hedonism wasn’t the least bit glorious; there were no jaunts, no benders, no adventures.  The life of Ron was a long-drawn-out ride.  Today, like any, he ordered pizza for delivery.  Despite his unstructured day,

Accentuated Flesh

Accentuated Flesh The well-shaped pieces of meat, on their way somewhere. They wiggle and strut along, not wanting to be fucked, but wanting to want to be fucked. There’s an ego to them, It stifles and consumes me. Somedays I give them my power. Other days I put my head down, and look at my

Serendipitous Breakfast Club at Walmart

Why is it all so peculiar? Why can’t I have a normal life, where I savagely hunt squirrels to bring back to my wife, who will then concoct squirrel-jumbo for me? Pretty much, I want to be a crude animal who has no thoughts at all. I guess working forty hours a week, watching shitty

To All Writers

I think I’m done writing. The truth is starting to unveil itself to me: it’s a clever sham that has me believing that I’m doing something. I am doing nothing. I am an indolent-inertia mass of shit. The effort it takes, is at best moderate. The courage it takes is none. It is a frivolity

An Anthology of Two

Woman in a Man’s Body Muscles, pumps, scrutinizing one’s body in the mirror.  All are signs of being a pussy.  What is the being of a pussy ontologically?  Having a pussy and valuing it.  To be gifted something, and to be that which is gifted to you, is the epitome of being.  Well, muscles aren’t

Ignorant to Ignorance

It’s night. A little while ago I was in the restroom, and thought I heard a noise; my instinct was someone or something was there. The artificially created world took control of my brain and contradicted my instincts. It’s the wind, the AC, the washer, something that is easily discernable. Anything, like say, something undetectable