October 2011: The incest helped pass the colder nights

by maddrunkgenius

‘I’ve often said, if I ever make it to prison…’

I’m just sick and tired of drinking my own bodily fluids all the time.

Oh what marvelous delight in exertion! For there is no exhaustion in what one takes pleasure. There’s no thwarting the ends of a process enjoyed.
I am in love with life! Conscious brain, why must you disappear each night or every other?
I dream more brilliance awake than sleeping. My eyes behold more ineffable than my mind’s eye might imagine.
(Except of course when I hang out with that fun guy Sy.)

I’d love to blame it on the alcohol but I just had the usual six shots over four hours.

ANGRY ANGRY ANGRY AT WORK THINGS CONTINUING TO BE POSTED ON MY OWN WALL
RABBLE RABBLE

For me it’s an act of worship. But I’ve always been a heretic, regardless of what I call religion.

I love going to Catholic church. Little boys walk into the restroom, see me pissing & just suck me off without me even needing ask. It’s so refreshing.

  • All the free wine & bald butthole you can handle!

——I am & remain terribly sad at I don’t know what, but I do know what, and I only forget What when chasing flesh, feeling radiating, smelly heat, or/and performing for the integral joy of others. Which is increasingly rare. And trending yet more scarce.
——I’ve found Charles Bukowski (late) & love him. And realize he’s been my unwitting aspiration, for some time.
——I’ll sleep on the floor tonite, attacking a book & bottle of wine while they attack me.
——I’ve presentations to give tomorrow, I hope hungover.

I don’t want a world where I can’t tell everyone I know how drunk I am, or text every pretty girl I’ve met how horny I am, or absolutely nobody how empty my bed is while I’m on the other couch.
Theres no new wave that could thrill me so.
Thank god we don’t live in that world.

I’ve no idea about today/tomorrow. Nor has anyone, I suppose.

  • He: There will be sandals worn
  • And children born. And misery. But some pleasantry, too.

Hell is other people. But so is heaven.
Purgatory is to be alone in a crowd, and limbo is a cold bed.

  •  ‘I can think of worse ways to go,’ she said, kissing him, ‘than drowning in my own vomit.’

There’s this photo of her 
Sitting at a restaurant with a mouthful of food
Beige sweater & puffed up cheeks
In front of a faux rock wall. 

She has this angry look in her eye
Because she hates photos of herself
But she’s happy
Really happy
And she’s more angry I caught her happy
Than actually mad. 

I had flown down to see her
She picked me up at the nearest airport
Two hours away
An hour & a half later
She pulled off the highway onto farm to market
And stopped behind some trees. 

I ate her pussy as she sat
Legs dangling through the car roof
Eyes on the stars. 

‘Dont close your eyes,’
I said before I started
‘Remember this.’

We fucked in the backseat
Twice or three times
While she moaned to wake the dead
Our heat fogging everything
We tried to screw outside
And laughed because I couldn’t get the right angle
With both of us standing

We rode the rest of the way home,
Talking
Discussing important stupid things
The conversation never lulled

At her house we fucked all night
We passed out, woke up to pleasure
Her mouth on my balls
My fingers in her pussy
Sometimes we’d end up screwing & cumming
Others just sweet aroused sighs before sleep again
Dreams again

Hours of this until we were so goddamned thirsty & hungry
We couldn’t hardly move
We showered
Touched and kissed each other in the shower
Got out to get dressed
Undressed, fucked, showered again, left
Found some place to eat. 

I think it was a Japanese restaurant
Not very good but good because it was a lot 
And greasy. 

At the end, I was done & she was nearly finished
I snapped her photo then
I took it and sent it to her
But I think she got rid of it. 

I think I’ll get rid of my copy, too.

But sometimes the bull gets the matador.

Anything that puts me out of my mind is worthwhile & lovely.

I dont know how I can rot before I’m dead. Necrotizing fasciitis, maybe. Or maybe I’m already dead. I’m underwhelmed if this is he’ll. I’m disappointed if it’s heaven. But, it’s Odessa, so if it’s purgatory I find the idea redundant.

 My belly is growing
It’s getting nice and full. 
The skin stretches
I can feel it tighten when I breathe in. 

It’s funny. 
My ribs still poke out
My hips jut out, sharp. 
But halfway between my nipples & cock
There’s this band of sad flesh
That stays cold in the morning
When everything else warms up. 

It stops just at the spine
I still have muscle there
But the band slings low 
At the belly button. 
I can finger it now.
To the knuckle. 

I still see my dick
Of course. 
But I’ve added 20 pounds in less than two years. 
And it’s grown faster of late
Than it did before.

I wonder why
I wonder 

If at age 30
Will I still have a pecker?
Or only in theory?

“Relationships are like baseball: If you ain’t cheatin, you ain’t tryin.”

These days won’t last much longer
The ones warm enough to still sleep outside
The night won’t get that cold
But the morning may be cold. 
Or cool, just. 

I miss my futon
The borrowed one I left outside
Since this time 
Last year. 

The wind blew soft and warm
First the breeze, light and cool
Then the heavy hot AC exhaust
Mixing and falling on my face and arms. 
I could recline all day on my futon. 

It made Sundays so great 
For reading books
And drinking wine
And scribbling things
And such. 

They said to bring it in
Since it was a fire hazard. 
Now my apartment has a fire hazard.
I hope my futon catches on fire
I hope it burns something down
Spontaneously.

I wake up on the floor on Sunday mornings.
But I’ve got nowhere to go. 
Except some other part of the apartment. 
What’s the use?

(Selah.)

There’s this photo
Of the two of us
In bed
Naked
Post frolic, or prefrolic
(As tho there’s a difference)

And in it, this photo,
I’m lying on my back
From the bed, looking up at her
Who I think it taking the photo
Her long arm is in the photo
She must be holding the phone
In this photo

My eyes are on her
Hers are on the camera
And she’s smiling, white-teethed
Blue eyed
Tan-skinned
Tits out, pink nipples showing
Perfect

Already I can tell, 10 years hence,
I’ll look back on it
Stare at it
Wonder how in the hell it happened
How I tricked-fooled her into it

Now I don’t care
I just enjoy it.
She makes me happy
She matches my enthusiasm for life.
That photo is us, the one I’ll reference

I looked up at her
She looked at herself
But we’re both in the picture.

In 10 years, I’ll have a pot belly
Or be dead
But now I don’t look so bad
In that photo.

I’m drinking alone tonite. Which I suppose is always true, but this time there’s no people around, either.

I have nothing but spite in my heart.

I can’t remember
The last time
I wrote anything
Worth a damn.

Is it the work?
Or the alcohol?
Or the lack of books?

Or was there never anything

Written well at all?I think
I’ll figure it out later
After work
And a few drinks
And maybe a little reading
If there’s time.

Something with freckles.
Something dark haired with bright eyes.
The sun is throwing up again, and the moon, once full, has mostly disgorged.
You know, the stars aren’t so shy out West, but that’s just because they prefer to be bright fish in a dim pond.
They knew King David was going to die when they gave him a virgin girl to keep him warm at night, and she was still a virgin in the morning.
Note to self: Going to a party as cirrhosis is a lot more funny to you than to them. Also, no one appreciates the joke, even you start punching people in the liver.
  • A virgin is only worthwhile if she may be seduced to turn sex-mad.

I love you and you love me, she said. Why isn’t that enough?

  •  Because life is a complicated but temporary drudgery.
  • He:  I love you, you love me…didn’t Barney sing that?
  • We weren’t a happy family, but the incest helped pass the colder nights.