down in me

This piece of good fiction (prose, poetry, prose-poetry, meaningless boxes) is like good friction, like rivulets of tears, like knowing smiles, deceptively comforting.

I drank it, smoked it, then I felt like recording it (because I read it countless, and he said something about readings and because I had been recording readings because I am learning how to speak human.)

Has anyone noticed that I like repetition?

This is from the book I AM GOING TO CLONE MYSELF THEN KILL THE CLONE AND EAT IT. It - the reading - starts off well, but, like life, it is long and I stumble and wander and start to lose it towards the end.

More, more, I am never satisfied, give me more

Buy the book
Visit the scary man
Hear me drunk
Hear me spanish
Throw up lightning

I am too irresponsible and immature to care for a baby but I am too irresponsible and immature to not get knocked up and I am too irresponsible and immature to get an abortion. Long story short, I gave one of my babies up for adoption today. Go goo goo over her!

I know that Barry Graham, editor of Dogzplot, will care for her like I never could. She already has lovely siblings. I’m sure they will play in their giant backyard and they will all have rosy cheeks and Barry will love them and provide their heart’s desire and they will grow up coddled and comfortable and feel like everything is owed to them and they will probably resent Barry forever. Years from now, when she comes to find me, I’ll tell her how I never wanted her to begin with.

The man and the woman showered together and the woman felt naked and she tried to describe how the man felt but the man was not naked.

The man and the woman showered together and the woman hoped the man would ‘take her from behind’ but the man lathered himself with regular smelling soap.

The man and the woman showered together but the woman was really a girl and she was afraid of the man’s average sized penis.

The man and the woman showered together but the woman had been thinking about another man too much and her writing was no longer her own.

Also she had been reading a lot of books.

Also she had been thinking of making notes in the margins.

Also she had been thinking about lists.

Also she felt improbably unoriginal.

The man and the woman showered together in a large shower room in the largest house they’d yet been in. The man offered to shampoo the woman’s hair and put too much shampoo in it and brusquely ‘massaged’ it until it was tangled and it took the woman a long time to untangle it and she wanted to cry and tell the man what a metaphor for their relationship this was but she stayed quiet because she was afraid that he was ‘just not that into her’.

The man and the woman showered together and the woman grabbed the back of the man’s head and smashed his stupid face against the bloody tiles.

The man and the woman showered together and the man kissed the woman and they tasted her shampoo and they laughed and looked happy.

The man and the woman showered together and they were made clean.

The man and the woman showered together and the woman wanted to die.

The man and the woman showered together because they both smelled like marijuana instead of store brand shower gel.

The man and the woman showered together to save time.

And to be naked in close proximity.

And because they had seen it in movies.

And that the woman’s parents used to shower together.

And the woman showered with her sister until puberty when their mom made them stop.

And because cleanliness is something.

The man and the horse calcified a wrought-iron tree with a monkey wrench.

The man and the woman showered together because that was completely contrived.

The man and the woman showered together because the woman likes the sound of keystrokes.

And exacerbating pre-existing conditions.

And going along with the man’s stupid ideas.

And dropping the soap.

I put the dinars in your mouth and we go off down the boardwalk.

How can we justify each other’s nightmares if we’re both too proud to throw them out to watch them flail in the open water. I put more pesos in your mouth. Third-world hungry currency for your world-weary country throat. You never did like to travel but you sure went far. We exchanged time and excuses and a little side of care, but not too much.

My meter’s very regular unlike my period, but I’m not supposed to talk about that either.

My voice inside my head it sounds like an old hep cat, it sounds male, weathered and torn, a crappy photocopy, like a long ago tree rustle; sounds like a man reading out loud from a hidden book. It sounds like anything but.

I’m out of cash.

Do you think this American time telling machine accepts universal rebel currency?

I think I’m going to need a calling card.

I interviewed the illustrious Mr Sam Pink for Writers’ Bloc. Gonzo journalism at its finest, I’m certain you will concur.

>>

Ow stop that
Not like that
It’s hurting
So we stopped
One day
When we’re old
Honey remember when?
Honey will be
Dead but
His cocking dick
Knows what
It will tell all
The chicks
It’ll squabble
Over the feed
Peck their nipples
Bone sting
Bite sugar
Rock candy ‘til ill
I took two
The next day
I said
I’m going to
At least
Get high
Off my
Rapist boy
See you
Soon
She said
See you
In ICU
I took the
Biggest
Lollipop and
Left her
The gumball
22 issue
Number fives
And a
Pocket knife
Went to the
Nursery and
Said here
Take my
Baby girl
She’s sick
Sugar coma
Puking
All on me
Ow stop that
I bruise
Easy

I live in someone else’s house now. Every morning I do her dishes and empty her bins. I listen to her stereo at a very low volume so as not to disturb her. I look over her shoulder and it’s more tan than I recall thinking of its shade. Her shoulder’s fuzzy and down her arm the same. I look back further and catch strands of her hair in my periphery. It’s shiny black and messy and it makes me feel like sex. I wonder whether I should scrub her toilet. I like to be a welcome houseguest, one you wouldn’t mind inviting over again and making love to at least in your mind. I like to make love to houseguests and houseplants because everyone needs to be comforted once in a while. If I was her mother I would not chastise her for the dusty books on the floor in every part of the house - even if they make me sneeze. I’d ruffle her hair and give her loving looks. But I am not her mother no more than I am a mother. Mothers give this life so what’s so special about that? Ask someone who doesn’t exist. There are ladybugs crawling all over the coffee table as some sort of artistic statement / fortuitous omen. I briefly think about splattering them with one of the dusty hardcovers but I don’t because it’s not my house and I like to be a welcome houseguest that doesn’t murder the other inhabitants often if at all. I read The Art of Happiness. I know what happens when we die, you don’t have to tell me twice. As I said, I’m not her mother but if were, I would mother her clear off this mortal coil. Because mothers are caring and good like that and I like to be a good housemother to all my loving plants. Because without her I am homeless and sleeping on glass doors never really suited me.

Which basically dumps reports into sweet potatoes, and then we can use the benchmarks of the white light follow up flag to determine whether your face looks like an astral firecracker as seen through the periscope of an alien aircraft. And it’s not just us, we’re trying to create solutions that can be integrated for everyone, anything can be installed, I want to run my banana pieces, I want to run my golden pieces, you can define that fuck flow.

Wow, that’s incredible, very nice.

Because by the end of this year, we will have an incredible reach, rich virtual sugar cake in Dubai – we’ve got a team, we’ve got a team of plastic water bottles. The relationship has stabilised, the worker ants have mobilised. I mean, I haven’t met them, I haven’t met them but the orchid is in place and we are navigating the building into the seabed. It’s going to be great. It’s going to be after April, unofficially, we’ve been told. We’ve been told support is going to be mushy. We’ve been told, we’ve been told unofficially - you know the man-years, the man-years it’s going to take when I go to Thailand? I mean, I don’t know about you but I’m interested. We have new ideas. We have new ideas about the orchard, we’re ready to give you a demo of the orchard.

I would love that. I would love that. Monkeys are going to burst out of my ass mid-July. I know you’re going to do everything in your power, hire some people, be ready. Be ready on the technical side, be ready to lick my cocoa packet. And I mean that.

So I wrote this thing over here at this new place which is something very like what I never do and I am ashamed and I want you to know about it because of that whole disorder we talked about.

I would love it if you, in a wholly caring way, went there and stomped the argument full of holes and then laughed maniacally and maybe slapped it in the face medium hard and called it daddy’s little whore for a bit.

Independently wealthy benefactor to subsidise eccentric-reclusive writing lifestyle. Must have own publishing contacts, be willing to arrange the particulars of successfully marketing the works, and handle any and all paperwork / accounting / legal matters. Must also procure suitable accommodation in remote locales that is conducive to creativity, and other essential provisions, including but not limited to mind-altering substances and mood stabilisers. Awkward asexual longing or rescue fantasies / mothering complexes are welcome traits. Inquiries via email only.

I blew my nose on his plaid shirt sleeve. Left it all damp and green with mucus. It felt good. I’d achieved something amazing. He looked at me sideways. Said thank you. Said I love you, baby. I love you so much right now I want to give you something too. He unzipped his fly, dropped his Levi’s and boxers and wiped his ass on the hem of my tulip skirt. Aw, baby! I squealed. You’re like the sweetest boy ever, you know that? You really are. I love you, baby boy. He said I love YOU baby. We loved each other, really did. We loved each other ‘til the end of time forever and always more and infinity times a zillion. Plus more. I tugged on his cock giggled and blushed. He grew quick and half-lidded watched me hard. I love you baby. I love you MORE, baby. He picked his nose and smudged a big brownish green glob on my pink tee shirt over my left nipple. I continued to smile broadly and tug. I looked down at my breast. I love you. I love you. I love you. I licked his eyeball and he loved me forever and I squeezed his cock and he threw a left jab to my eye. I didn’t recoil and so the right hook caught my nose. I coughed and spat blood on his face. He held me upright with my face in both his hands. Said, aw look at you baby, you’re so fucking beautiful I want to eat you. Bloody smile. Not if I eat you first, baby.

Do you know what it’s like? It’s like playing Eskimo Bears with a person who doesn’t like hatchets. You know? Infuriating. You’re trying to offer them your backside and they’re pretending your face is minuscule.

I felt like playing with words this morning so I picked up Toxicity and Desiccant and Honey and we rode out into the open sore of my enemy’s boil-ridden pussy that bitch. I said, Toxicity you go first. We vacillated for a while unable to decide whether I should hang the hammer or the hook or dart upon the shore or what, you know? In the end we drove out to the lake and had a picnic. It was fun. You should totally come next time.

From within
From without
Many instances
Will be in doubt

From within, from without, many instances will be in doubt.

from within from without many instances will be in doubt

from within from without
many instances will be in doubt