a free ride inside my diseased mind.

paper cuts

paper cuts

cum shots and circus freaks.

who the hell was zorba the greek?

drunk in daytime

mid week

i have dropped off the face of worth

fell 200 hundred stories

without a single paper cut.

set up a tent in my living room

getting prepared for the  collapse

life would be better if we all lived in huts.

trying to sell art is like

giving a rock a blood transfusion

messy business

a thousand words all competing for real estate in my head

a thousand sounds from ideas dying

and left for dead

rotting and farting

their last gasps

of fruition

in my overripe


jizz shots hang like icicle cave stalactites

glowing phosphorescent

in the mildew nights.


The Heavy Metal Janitor Journals (part 3)

illustration by Daniel Lombardi (click image to see Dans art on FaceBook.)

“The Heavy Metal Janitor Journals.”

10:31 am  (in the work van) winter 1998

(cell phone ringing  bzzzzzt, bzzzzzzt, bzzzzzzzzt….)

After minutes of mumbling, swearing, and scheming, Bad Cat hesitantly answered the cell phone with a mouth full of half chewed do-nut. Bad Cat perpetually and  purposely spoke very quietly on the phone just to piss of *Penis Fart.  He and Bad Cat had the weirdest work  relationship I have ever encountered. They were prone to fighting like cats and dogs (pardon the pun) during their phone calls, and personal interactions.  Penis Fart would either call back after calming down, attempting to some extent to be civil, or he would just not call for a couple days as some kind of sick pre-pubescent silent treatment. This action was borderline homo-erotic for lack of better words, I really dont know what you would call it. Perhaps it fulfilled him with some kind of weird Masochistic fetish.

Penis fart would never lower himself to saying “Hello, Hi, or How are you doing?” when he called. Instead it was  “Where are you!” in his nasally,whiny, and condescendingly suspicious voice. One of Bad Cats little tricks would be to hold the phone a couple feet away from  his mouth and say, ” Sorry, I cant hear you, can you speak up?

After a few minute of this game,  Penis Fart would grow tiresome and very annoyed of Bad Cats trickery. Penis Fart had already purchased two new phones in the last 8 months for Bad Cat, rightfully thinking something was wrong with the old ones. He couldn’t prove that Bad Cat was playing this trick, but I am pretty sure he had a good Idea of what was going on. Bad Cat forbade me to ever answer that phone. If I absolutely had to answer it, like say in an emergency,  I had to make sure I spoke very softly to keep up Bad Cats tormentitive little game. Bad Cat had kept this folly up for over a year now, and having it discovered by Penis would be akin to loosing ground in a trench war. Well at least in his feline mind it would.

*that was Bad Cats nickname for our boss, remind me to explain why later….

hand over the hang over

hand over the hang over

haunted by memories  of  jobs i didn’t even have

walking in circles mumbling mad sentences

that make little to know sense

voices in my head barking out weird orders:

“carve a flute out of a frozen carrot with a steak knife.”

“eat copious amounts of turmeric.”

“rub lipstick on your dick!”

some sort of short circuiting freak

synaptix snapping

smells like welding sparks

electric halos of unbirthed after thought

half baked ideas floating in buoyant amniotic sex fluid.

my spleen is trying to nickle and dime my liver.

meconium fed rabbits flossing their  teeth with frozen cheese grease

placenta gravy bubbling  in a brothel of glue

giant globs of brain slop inching its way down a wooden ladder

an over ripe brain flap

rotting in the noon


what have eye done?

wasted hours

trying to create

an undoneing machine

metallic springs, bolts, and horse guts spill on the floor

tape it all back in the hole

remember the words the tour guide once said:

“never eat a banana around a raped ape!”

get in trouble from your wife

because you forgot to buy grapes.




eYe part 5

eYe part 4

EYE part 3

EYE part 2


Heres the deal, for years I have been trying to write about my life, in a comic book format, however I kept getting in the way. I this, I that, it was getting to narci…

ssistic, without really trying to be. So ART the bastard god that he is, transformed me one day into EYE. a weird blue rectangular creature with one large Eye Ball, and a life time supply of sexual emotional blue balls, ha. Eye replaced the I. I only know myself to write about. My life is depressing and odd enough that it provides unyielding mounds of perpetual content. My life is my best and truest ART. … Also drawing a blue rectangle with a googly eye is much easier than say actually learning how to draw. That minor little detail always got in my way. So sit back and enjoy watching EYEs miserable life unfold in front of your, I’s.


a tent that was once loved
my profile picture banishes me to pity and self loathing
a crucified disciple
cast into deep thought and self doubt
plummeting to the bowels of extinguished distinguishment
forced to watch re-runs of fun while drinking cans of carbonated memories
just part of the job requirements
ART sprinkles me with just enough happy moments to regret breathing

feeding on the rhine of excitement and overdue library books with snot on the pages
crusted mucoid jewels of past lives
we can burn plastic lawn chairs
and roast veggie wieners on them
accumulate mass amounts of keno tickets and use them as loin clothes
dance naked in the plastic metallic fire

while gouging our metallic tooth fillings out
and using them as radio transmitters to the forged frog gods
great pools of inner sanctum
frothing with filth and metabolic residue
consume vast amounts of testicular cancer
bought in cargo stock at walmart
stop me if im making sense
keeping up with the jonzes

trade yer broken dildo in for credit on a sex bike
we could go to an island
i have car
find beach, no bears or big kittty cats’
fuck like a mongloid with diaper rash
eat forbidden potatoes
search 4 a church with no ghod……….


laying in a layer of hell




everything is great if you cant relate

painting feels lonelier than any other activity i could imagine or not imagine.

doing crunches until eye vomit up omelete juice.

living on dryer lint has lost its charm

thinking of selling my left arm

need an I.V. hooked up 2 my balls just to drain the demon semon.

stuck on sex

living in pink wingo wango land

growing fur all over my right hand.

time is not a friend.

Its an enemy

an anemone

from the


painting in bed

cuz im 2 sick and lonely 2 move.

selling my horrible existence for a cheap ride…

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