Passing into His Mouth

The dense shadows of the poorly lit room dive into the vast creases of the man’s wrinkled skin as he lays confined to his bed. Only a thin strip of murky light is available to highlight his rumpled brows and clenched eyes, the tears that had hardened to form a crusty glue at the symphysis of his lash-less lids. The sheets, threadbare and irrevocably stained with a blotchy mixture of saliva, mucous, and vomit, infect the room with the sour odor of rotting milk. Unable to digest the rank stench of imminent death, the once ebullient plant on the windowsill curls inward and finally withers into a crispy heap of matter.

Stagnant particles of air laden with dust wander with listless desire into the faint beam of light, becoming visible just before disappearing into the shadow-world beyond or simply deciding to settle into the substantial creases of chaffed lips and agonized eyes. Shriveled skin cells, refined insect wings, pulverized bits of hair from both human and creature, specks of feces: suspended in air, riding the raspy flow of air into the brittle lungs of a dying man.

A hollow cough.

Eyelids peel open.

He chokes on his own saliva, bracing himself for another puddle of vomit on a carpet and bed sheet already burdened with enough filth. The dry retching ceases, but the heaving persists, congealing his heart into an object both frail and rigid, like once-flexible molten glass turned stiff, immobile, fragile. The air sacs of his lungs strain to absorb oxygen, but only succeed in crumbling under the weight of grime.

Hands grapple for life, unclipped nails digging into the threads of the mattress as his eyes widen to absorb the image of the last place he will ever inhabit. Sweat slides coolly and effortlessly down his brow and slinks beneath his eyelids. Suffocated by his lolling tongue and blinded by the stinging brine of sweat, he blinks furiously to focus on the approaching figure—an impossibly old being, decomposing to the bone. Its starry eyes remain intact, however, slicing through the shadows.

The figure’s rotting lips stretch kindly as the man’s body clenches one last time, leaving the toes splayed, the tongue curled toward the throat, the heart frozen, the eyes watching with awe as its mouth expands with the exploding force of the universe, taking him into soothing velvety shadows as he melts away.

Influened String of Thoughts

Whirly twirly, snow—or is it?—swept by unrelenting wind, swirling swirling—color?—engulfing and pulsating, emanating (color?), vanishing to that infinitesimal point in eternity—infinitiy—continuous, spiraling like the galaxy, with darkness growing, growing, growing…enveloping, deepening, swallowing the orbs of light, the UFOs, the crimson man with the skeletal grin, the dapper rabbit with the top hat, Spongebob, the twitchy swirls—I mean squirrels?—gangly mangled alien babies, Dora the Explorer, wandering sphinxes, limp horned unicorns, Michael Jackson, and…and…music—I am the walrus?—that is playing from the other dimension; all consumed by the universe, the darkness, the hole—black hole—that fails to be satiated and thirsts for me as it reaches its black hands for my disoriented body, spilling ink all over the psychedelic snow, ink which surges through the wildly dazzling colors radiating from water crystals in snow—ice—ice that captures light and strangles it to death, relinquished to the seeping ink, seeping nearer, nearer—I am the eggman?—distorting space and time, dematerializing matter, melting rock, splattering colored light, strobes of brilliance, arresting shadows—shadows that hint at the presence of leeches, spiders, snakes and vampires, faces hidden in the darkness, the glint of eyeballs, the purr of malice, the wink of sharp metal, the sepulchral demons burdened with gloom who are omnipresent, breathing thick fog onto the nape of my neck as the shivers course up and down my spine, up and down and up and down, an infinite cycle that refuses to surrender its grasp upon my muddled and lanky body; shiver shiver, shiver shiver—all which come complete with clacking teeth—clack clack clack clack crunch—and pain—the throb and tenderness of oral aches, the streaming, pooling blood from the shards of tooth that pierce and slice once pink and supple gum; inescapable, excruciating pain seizes mental faculties as silent screams, to no avail, attempt to penetrate the gelatinous air surrounding the looming, threatening Black and Cold before me, still spiraling its hands forward to greet the end of my existence as I spit out prickly jagged teeth that, upon indenting the crystalline snow with their weight, sprout legs and, bounding toward the obscure mass of undulating, somber night, explode like organic grenades into a spectrum of colors: cyans, crimsons, magentas, turquoises, oranges, and yellows, flashing with garish nuclear ferocity in the face—face?—of the Black and Cold, the heaving and surging semi-conscious energy-filled thing that is unmistakably swelling, rolling, rising and falling, beady ruby red almond spots originating to form acute night-slicing eyes, the lengthening of two extensions on either side to form tusks—long tusks, tusks of a walrus, arcing and jabbing towards me as I continue to shiver, shiver, shiver; clack, clack, clack; recoil, writhe, and thrash, untamed and unnatural as the snow bursts into color with every disturbance that my quivering body enacted upon it, colors mixing and melting together in air as exploding tooth grenades added to the spectacle, battling grave night with garish colored light—goo go g’joob!—but still spinning and spiraling, faster and faster, eternity visible in a single point of swimming incandescent light as white as it is colorful and colorful as it is white, eternity just ahead, reality dissipating, infinity arising, deepening, stretching, swallowing, and condensing into nothing.

Sundays

The grey light streams in
And jumps on your shut eyes
Pestering you to awaken
Even though you insist upon
Being unconscious for just
“another five minutes”
but the universe doesn’t care
it wants to
needs to
nudge you into the world
of the waking
and if you don’t agree
it will push
no
hurl
you into the conscious state
where the suffocating worries
of the mundane
await.

Sunday is the reality check of the week
The color grey,
The taste of ennui.
Wreaking of solitude,
possibilities lost.

It’s the leftover stew in the back of the fridge,
The topsy-turvy of a stomach that can bear no more stress.
Bitter and grainy
Like chewing on sand
The gagging sensation
Lingering
in the back of your throat.

Envy

I can’t get enough of the brown of your eyes,
Or the crooked perfection of your smile.
The overwhelming sanguine of your cheeks,
Or the devastating sweetness of your lies.

You are pixie dust to my tongue,
A hot towel ‘round my hands,
A lone fire in the night
Lapping idly at the walls.

You sicken me with your saccharine mouth,
burn my hands with your smoldering touch
Blind my eyes with your plastic smile,
And Gag me with your tongue

You are beautiful.
And I hate you
For being
More beautiful
Than me.

Ruined

your constant waves of tenderness have pulverized my stony exterior
into the finest bits of sand,
now clinging to your soaked skin,
and the strands of your never-tidied jet hair,
a lone grain coyly resting on that crease in your bottom lip
that I love to bite so often.

you see me staring
move your hand to rest it on my shoulder
nudge me closer
and I melt to the gentle command of your fingertips
their pressure dancing on my senses,
weakening my resolve
to be
One
instead of
Two.

You jerk.
You’ve ruined me.
And I can’t go on without your destruction.
Please
let's create friction together.
Ruin me for life.

Creation

Pupils dilate with the most sumptuous
greed devouring slivers of consciousness
that ache to catch the briefest glimpse of Time
unwinding in the slime of eyes sublime.

Entranced by atoms quivering as lips,
vibrating with the force of women’s hips
that rouse the Cosmos’s germinating seed,
creating hot friction with shiv’ring speed.

The Proton pulsating like the beating
Heart of the unborn, particles bleating
as Proton escapes the grasp of Neutron
for the raw desire of Electron,
Emitting conflagrated waves of light
Warping past existence, bending the Night.

I see Beauty in your eyes occurring;
beneath you, my helpless body,
Stirring.

Nihil

A bit from high school. I hate the poem--if you can even call it that--but I like the idea I had behind it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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Nothing.
Created from mere particles of dust,
disgusting putrid mud.
Are you really human?
Do you look at the man huddled in the corner of the street and say,
"He is I?"
No.
You are mesmerized, hypnotized, repulsed
by that mouth that froths with drivel,
that face covered in dust,
the dust you came from!
His eyes twitch and the pupils swell,
then diminish to black beady dots
finished with the gossamer glaze of madness.
Sweat slithers down his face to rest on his panting tongue.
No hope.
He rocks, rocks, rocks, back and forth, hugging his knees.
You've killed him.

Do you not see his maddened eyes in yours,
the insanity lurking beneath your lucid eyes?
Look into the mirror.
Are you even human?
How can you be sure?
When mouths move,
do you imagine the words that spew forth?
Have you created your existence?
Is this existence even real?
Perhaps you are nothing,
and the whispers in you ear,
the distant screams,
the stars in the heavens,
are nothing more than your deluded imagination.
You are the insane man rocking in the street corner.
You are absolutely nothing.

Color-By-Numbers: A Synesthete's Infatuation

I hate it when I first open my eyes in the morning,
the sun’s rays, a loud and abrasive 1
ruthlessly
scratching at my sensitive sleep-indulged pupils,
forcing me to slam my lids together, to
turn to the corner for the comfort of
6—
Velvety, Silent, Smoky,
full of Embrace
like the Densest Shadows

but then my lids part,
regretfully,
like your shining 2 lips often do,
and there you are,
the sun’s 1 illuminating your
Wild and Infernal hair,
the color of the most passionate
flaming 4, glistening with traces
of 7
and I see
your lids unfasten
to reveal the
1 of the sun
upon the
3 of your eyes,
Fresh and Breezy,
like the
Spray of the Sea
on a soiled face

I just stare,
Gazing into the perfection of
6
in the center of
3
as it shrinks away
from the resplendence of
1
on
4

3.14
Flawless,
Infinite,
You.

Caught In the Present Cycle

…Blazing sun. Thick pollution. The maddening laughter of mindless children. Cars whizzing by, certain of their destination. There’s a hurried start, a journey on autopilot, a disappointing destination. I glue myself to the nearest bench. More laughter-screams from the runts. Briny globs of sweat seep through my parted lips and onto the tip of my tongue. I have nowhere to go.

Just sitting and waiting. Not forcing the future, not pressing the past on my mind. Let’s just ride this wave of present time. It’s all now—just a little slice of the fourth-dimension at a time. What’s the rush? There is none.

I’ll know when to move from this bench. A car will pause its dashing from the past to the future for a taste of the present—for me. Or perhaps, a truck, a bus, a motorcycle. Something.

Something! Or perhaps someone? Anything. Anything will see my rotting Converse sneakers—When did my toe start poking through?—glued to the baking pavement, the stained—How did that sauce get there?—pinstriped shirt shielding my sallow—Wait, freckled?—skin from the baking sun. Anything will see my—my—

When? How? WHO? Who else on earth can withstand now-ness of now? When will I be thrust into the future, be immersed in the past? When will I know?

Know the origin of the gaping cavity in my shoe, the blotch of sauce that has discolored my shirt, the invasion of freckles that have procreated upon my once pure skin. To be propelled into the future, to discover the past—To know ME.

An approaching bus. My chance! Here comes the future, my opportunity to time travel. Just—just get on the bus. Get on…Get on…Get on!

…Blazing sun. Thick pollution. The maddening laughter of mindless children. Cars whizzing by, certain of their destination. There’s a hurried start, a journey on autopilot, a disappointing destination. I glue myself to the nearest bench. More laughter-screams from the runts. Briny globs of sweat seep through my parted lips and onto the tip of my tongue. I have nowhere to go…

Sarge & Jerri

A couple of corny, nerdy Voodoo Dolls that escaped torture. Clearly in love, in accordance with the laws of the Universe.

They go by the names of Sarge (left) and Jerri (right).

-Oh, Sarge.

Ragged Anne

Missing eye-button, unceremoniously ripped stitches, fluff pouring forth from my neck as my head lolls to the side. I know that my dress is stained with your acrid vomit, that you ripped off my delicate red locks with your crooked teeth. Yet here I lay, sagging on some neglected shelf like I did nothing for you. Like I am no longer your friend.

But I am! I’m just lying here. Waiting, waiting. Do you know what it’s like, to watch you pound into the room with flushed cheeks, moist eyes, clutching your hair in frustration as you allow gravity to yank you onto your scabbed knees? To be immobile, gazing helplessly with fixed eye as you pace back and forth in frustration, searching for the outlet, for that something that will make it all better? To see you pick up the glistening razor in the corner simply because it glimmers in the shadows, winking promiscuously so that you will choose him over me.

Him with his defined and unyielding shape, with that edge. An edge that tears at the stitches that hold you together, that liberates not fluff like mine, but that drippy, crimson goo which surges through upon the first neat slice and stains the sheets, the clothes, the soul. Oh, Sweetie, what I would do to endure the razor’s wrath for you! To have you, in all your convoluted agony, take the razor to me.

There you would be, writhing on the filmy floor, gathering dust upon your young body, dirt sticking to your salted wet face like glue. You would dig your nails into the wooden floor, thrusting splinters up your fingertips as your teeth grind in utter frustration. And you will see the multiple stitches in your arms—more than all of mine combined—and you’ll realize that you’ve had enough. Your eyes will focus on him, the glistener, as light dances upon his refulgent surface in all his malicious glory, and then you will see me, broken in the background, ready to leave the murky shadows for the sake of your poor arms, for fear that one day you will be irreparable.

And I will take every slash you lend to me, savor the sound of crisply ripping fabric, the feel of torn stitches. I will taste your tears as I soak them into my flesh, take your invigorated gashes with the utmost pleasure. Perhaps I will even bleed for you.

Finish the mutilation that you started as a child. Allow me to be your friend again. Allow me to bleed for you.

Square One

So this is the beginning.

I've always thought that the whole "blogging" phenomenon was a little silly, to be completely honest. But now that everyone is scooting on over to Twitter, I figured, "hey, why not?" It's summer and I feel the need to create, to compile my "work"--if you want to call it that--and slap it all up here on the big I (the Internet, duh). I mean, I probably can't write for shit, but this is more for me than for you, whoever you are. It's for my mind, yeah, but for my soul as well. I need something to motivate me into action, to get me excited about drawing, writing and discovering these characters in my mind that I yearn to understand.

So here, I'll play god: I'll create, destroy, and mold something better from the ashes. Sure, you'll see all the shit that comes from my mind--some of it truly fecal and deserving of a burial in the cess pool. But hey, maybe I'll come up with something worthwhile.

Just give me a generous slice of the fourth dimension.