Chapter 1
PART 1
PART 1
I quit drinking on Halloween.
the morning after I let the predator
the morning after I let the predator
hand-me-down lady
with a barbed wire pussy
and dollar store costume fangs
sleep in my bed
with a barbed wire pussy
and dollar store costume fangs
sleep in my bed
and chew on my hair.
I hadn't touched
anything but the light switches
or the locks on the front door
ever since the moon was shot down
and the swamps thawed.
It had been several month period of quiet rituals;
bloodletting, peeling skin,
and obsessing
over the whereabouts of all the victims of my past
who now had targets on my bedroom window.
The hangman's orphans
and
Lovers Club exiles
took to suicide bombing
the suburbs and I simply
couldn't afford to lose anymore blood.
PART 2
It was
middle class
White girl black magic
mixed with an entire case
of her step dad's
skunked light beer that swooned me.
Her father had passed out, naked except for a ski mask,
in the living room
to the flicker of flat screen box television
looping the title menu of an
Out Door Gang Bangs DVD.
On the screen was a white middle aged lady
bruised and crying, while being tied with phone chords
to a picnic table in the rain
by a dozen or so fully erect younger men
of various races and muscular builds.
On the futon, her dad laid legs crossed, purple and numb
convulsing and wet through a night terror
with every lightbulb in the house on
but failing to lessen the darkness.
Vibrating metallica warfare.
Under the four satin Metallica flags
pinned by tooth paste
to the cracked ceiling of my halfway house bedroom
small talk led to violence.
The feral cat turf war
under the floorboards of the house
that'd had been terrorizing my nights for weeks
was exctionally violent that night.
well into the dawn, .
"I'm sick. Make me better...
Kiss me here."
she said, knotting her period panties behind my head,
blindfolding me gently enough for me to wonder
if my deathwish would at last be granted.
I bobbed for low grade vicodin
between her shapeless tits.
They reeked of saliva and the dirty
fingers of the survivors
of all my childhood blood brothers.
Garage made opiates quelled the
insomnia sweats and
reoccurring day dreams of suicide by cop.
The grape soda flavored body spray hardly masked
the stench of other men but somehow
aroused my appetite
for
the blood borne parasites
and daddy long leggers dreaming behind soft bones,
just beneath the flesh.
Her lisp
and the scar
she said was from
her daddy's letter opener
on her double chin
triggered
the pressure cooker bombs in my testicles
and the Piss Missile was launched,
clumsy and reckless.
I fell for it.
I was stuck and fixed on the lonesome death wish.
An anemic, half-hearted jerk job
and bite marks on my jugular
might pry open the cellar door.
I hadn't touched
anything but the light switches
or the locks on the front door
ever since the moon was shot down
and the swamps thawed.
It had been several month period of quiet rituals;
bloodletting, peeling skin,
and obsessing
over the whereabouts of all the victims of my past
who now had targets on my bedroom window.
The hangman's orphans
and
Lovers Club exiles
took to suicide bombing
the suburbs and I simply
couldn't afford to lose anymore blood.
PART 2
It was
middle class
White girl black magic
mixed with an entire case
of her step dad's
skunked light beer that swooned me.
Her father had passed out, naked except for a ski mask,
in the living room
to the flicker of flat screen box television
looping the title menu of an
Out Door Gang Bangs DVD.
On the screen was a white middle aged lady
bruised and crying, while being tied with phone chords
to a picnic table in the rain
by a dozen or so fully erect younger men
of various races and muscular builds.
On the futon, her dad laid legs crossed, purple and numb
convulsing and wet through a night terror
with every lightbulb in the house on
but failing to lessen the darkness.
Vibrating metallica warfare.
Under the four satin Metallica flags
pinned by tooth paste
to the cracked ceiling of my halfway house bedroom
small talk led to violence.
The feral cat turf war
under the floorboards of the house
that'd had been terrorizing my nights for weeks
was exctionally violent that night.
well into the dawn, .
"I'm sick. Make me better...
Kiss me here."
she said, knotting her period panties behind my head,
blindfolding me gently enough for me to wonder
if my deathwish would at last be granted.
I bobbed for low grade vicodin
between her shapeless tits.
They reeked of saliva and the dirty
fingers of the survivors
of all my childhood blood brothers.
Garage made opiates quelled the
insomnia sweats and
reoccurring day dreams of suicide by cop.
The grape soda flavored body spray hardly masked
the stench of other men but somehow
aroused my appetite
for
the blood borne parasites
and daddy long leggers dreaming behind soft bones,
just beneath the flesh.
Her lisp
and the scar
she said was from
her daddy's letter opener
on her double chin
triggered
the pressure cooker bombs in my testicles
and the Piss Missile was launched,
clumsy and reckless.
I fell for it.
I was stuck and fixed on the lonesome death wish.
An anemic, half-hearted jerk job
and bite marks on my jugular
might pry open the cellar door.
Thinking the blacks on my block
dont realize how much I care about them
And its fine with me if they believe in god
the cats- feed on my fingernails
because drugs are just
A trap
And none of them
Will ever love us back.
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