a free ride inside my diseased mind.

Archive for the month “January, 2012”

at least we tried

at least we tried

wake up hard
cold to touch
and even colder to lunch
is this shit
freezing for a living
and missing lunch
so you
curl up
in semen soaked bags of rags.
another crotch
on the belt
and boil
some water
for the spilt guilt
of emptiness.
at least we tried…




the scratching of a pencil late at night
under a hot white
chicken light lamp.
the post marked envelope
with dry tastey paste.
lip sweat,
this life is spooled out of a dental
floss box marked
in detergent is

ape shit


a planet gone to waste
weird aliens barf pink chain oil on each other
endless trails of wires catch fire,
dragging genetically altered eyeballs
like a soiled leather tether ball.
a soundtrack plays in the back.
slow motion atmosphere
and prevailing winds.
ape shit
it has all gone total ape shit.

cold lethargia

cold lethargia

the jog will help me keep sane.

my cold is blood.
its summer but i am cold.
its that lethargia cool
everything i touch pulls on the veins
stretching them
a human piano.
a fly buzzing by yer head
is enough reason to kill.
every key
i touch
presses the wrong key
writing some other persons story.

the house i share is full of crumbs
little flakes of dried up vegetable leafs
on the scorned linoleum
black marks created from dropped knives
and black boot wearing.

bacteria form elaborate colonies
in the cuts
torn plastic skin.
the roommate is a parasite
excreting a strange smell
it smells like gossipers and rumours,
it smells like masturbation and loneliness
its, not mine.

it thieves my food
drinking my refrigerated liquids
and eating away at my mind.

far far away…

far far away…

the gateway puffy snack;
weird eating habits
at even odder hours
in attempt
to cheat the food,space/time
mastering the skills of lethargy
like a retarded hill billy.

one dreadful day
he went too far
while watching
of that perverted
grey elephants
thus becoming;
addicted to far far.

you became so advanced
you even stopped
wearing pants
you ate the mysterious multicoloured
eastern wagon wheels of life
and then you became mad
what else did you expect?
you bit into the very core of laziness
stared face to face with insanity
you saw
the sweat pant clad
and became one
a nutritionally void
hot dog

part 3 (Transferengenic: a true story about a fake paramedic)


I met her outside where things are cooler. Most people don’t even go out side any more. If they do its seldom by choice.

She was dressed unlike all the rest. Cool magenta. Black fishnets. Ice-cube blue lipstick. She smoked strange elongated cigarettes, and she drank like a fish. I couldn’t blame her though, cuz she was a goddamn fish!  Most of her looked human, aside from the gills, ughh those sexy flappers. (They double as extra sexual organs.) Or perhaps tripled.

We met standing on cold wet cement. Outside the cafe. A cafe on this world has a different meaning. Its more like a one stop swill hole, drug swap and sex stop. Cafes are strategically placed all over the great cities.  They seem to mate and populate. You can meet any one, or thing in these sick pits. I met her. She was hooked on some drug called Aculade.  It’s usually shot with a hypo. I could see the needle holes in her arm. They had a bright neon blue hue. Most people don’t give these creatures the time of day. Shit, It didn’t stop me, I am usually attracted to fucked up people, or in this case a fish.  We started talking about the differences and similarities of our planets. We shared a smoke. She was charming, intelligent, a tragedy. I am usually a germ freak, but I shared a smoke with her.  I could tell that small gesture meant a great deal to her. Perhaps made her feel clean, or at least cleaner.

I was starting to get pretty wasted on the language juice and was having a hell of a time understanding her speech. It was different than the standard language on this part of the planet, more direct, honest. It seemed as though her language was built to get to the  point with out being an asshole about it. An honest language, perhaps lies cant come from that alphabet.

alone on a stone

lowered lower
than the lowest low
on a lawn mowing mowers
i go.
a fragment of dirt
hitchhiking across time.
garbage bags of memories
surround me
reminding me of my enemy.
a searchlight is nice
when used looking for lice.
an echo plays echo
with a young boy
with freckles…
well lets just say
i spend most of the day
getting dirty
in the evening.
small things arouse the mind
most of the time.
kramming and krunking
its constantly dumping.
strange ditties in the cities.

alone on a stone
counting beans in my jeans.
touch it with a stick
try and make yourself sick.
perhaps you should go to the market
and buy a new carpet.
this one is getting old
and smells like toad mould.

wasted sundays
and even filthier mondays.
tongue depressers
pills and pain
for the brain.
alone on a stone
just me
this soul
that i

watch your language, it might run away with your brain!

Where to start with this old smock cocker. Well at the beginning I guess. I might make this a 3 parter perhaps. Its late at night,eyes bleeding, figured I should write something in case some lonely weirdo out there was looking forward to it.

I’ll have to warn you, I might not even use complete words or sentences, and spell checking might be a tall order. I’m drinking water out of a salad bowl because I’m too lazy to clean a cup. A definite indication of my lethargia.

To save us all time I think I will write portions of this story in point form. Well I actually probably wasted more time stating that fact. I should have just started writing it in point form and not said anything. I can’t concentrate. I owe 1800 dollars of back rent by Sunday.

Need to go milk something.

I have the word “Raped Ape”churning around in my head.  I picture a poor purple assed baboon running around the jungle, holding its asshole, screaming in the dark. I always get weird words stuck in my brain. It just spins them around like a laundry machine. A broken laundry machine with an uneven load trying to rinse the filth out of my brain tissues. Wobbling all lopsided. Big cocks eating socks. Blue cocks with chalk in their mouths playing hopscotch on the sidewalks. Hot day burns their bellies. Smells like roasting bacon. People licking each others lips and rubbing each others tits because they are sick.

For a whole year I had the word Serta Sealy roaming around in my head. For what foul reason would that serve? It was too be replaced by non other than Sklar Pepplar. What are these words? There are so many words out there that become household names, but what do they mean? How sinister mightn’t they be? They kind of have a ring to them but not really. Like Chef Boyordee. Some pudgy pasta eating pervert with ketchup sauce all over his cock. Ha! You know what replaced Sklar Pepplar? Calamari! Of all things! and to think I was vegan at the time. Bastards should pay rent in my head.


3 dinks

3 dinks is one of my more serious paintings. It was an emotional roller coaster every step of the way. As you can tell I had a hard time getting the hands right. Practice, practice, practice! Eventually after hours of toiling I got them just right! I have a little mantra that i made up, its kinda catchy, goes like this. “Practice makes you perfect.” HaHa, gosh isn’t that just the truth though.

I couldn’t afford a live model for this painting so I decided to just paint my own dink. I must admit I exaggerated a little bit ladies.

3 dinks captures the human spirit, taking the viewer on a virtual under water sea adventure. 3 dinks will go down in the anals of art history for years to cum.



I found this poor bastard rotting away in my kitchen in the middle of summer. I was living in a desert at the time. He had a couple chunks cut out of his decomposing stomach. A swarm of juice thirsty vampire fruit flies were upon him.  Deaths stagnate breath was in the air.

I decided to paint him in his final hours. He kept pleading me to just eat him already, and let him die a somewhat dignified death. I ignored his plea. I said, “I will not eat you, you will make me sick, instead I will paint you, and you will live on in my art as a hero, forever!” He however didn’t think that was a very good idea. He spent his last moments calling me a selfish asshole, and swatting the fruit flies away with his spindly pear arms.

Some nights when I go to bed I can still hear his little raspy pear voice. “Eaaaaaaaaaaaat meeeeeee!”

I know one thing for sure, that pear sure had a pair! He did actually, huge pear balls. They were the only thing he didn’t mind me painting. In fact he said quit clearly in plain pear speak”Paint my goddamn pear balls!” It actually got really weird. Out of respect for Mr.Pear I will not go into further detail.

Who knows maybe that’s how I will  go out.

Or you.


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