2006-08-04 04:59:16 ET
He was writing the Great American Novel and failing miserably. It was all disconnected, every single paragraph a new story in and of itself. No cohesion. No planning. No story. No plot. Nothing.
His thoughts turned inward and out. Towards Cuba and electricity. Towards Hemmingway. He reached for the shotgun. And downstairs someone heard two blasts.
When they found him, he was sprawled on the floor, his head - a blossomed rose - and they could see that something had erupted forth from it. They followed the bloody tracks into the bathroom. It sat there, on the toilet, cigarette between its yellow, brown, and bitter teeth. A mere meter tall and banging away on the old mechanical typewriter. The elfin homunculus had broken free from his head and finished the novel.
2006-08-04 04:58:27 ET
There was fog. The sour Krauts walked naked upon the dead gray field, mustard gas bombs strapped to their chests with faded leather belts. Green tracer fire silently showered down like cold April snow in Chernobyl. It hit one of them, cutting him open, and revealing a tangled mess of parasitic worms that had taken refuge beneath his flesh. They were dying now, from exposure to the air. To the oxygen.
2006-08-04 04:58:10 ET
He was a stickler for details. Why was there a poison dart sticking out his neckhole? He put his hand up to the wound. "What the fu...?" He fell and his body erupted in convulsions, muscles repulsing themselves from the bone. Organs exploding. His eyes rolled back and he saw his brain, alight in neuromagnetic fire. And then everything went... pink.
|music and mustard gas.|
2006-07-31 22:15:03 ET
|I don't know what this is. I just wrote it.|
2006-07-27 19:55:06 ET
Jack didn't want to die. He lay on his back on the floor his head tilted to the wall mirror. He saw the hands of death approaching. The hands of finity, he thought. If only he could stop time. Or lengthen it. Anything to get away. It filled up the corner of his vision and slowly started filling everything in with a sort of three dimensional void filled with visual noise and then there was this loud whooshing sound that got louder and louder as it approached and a thought pushed its way into Jack's head and he realized - it's all about to change, isn't it? That's what death is. Sudden, irreversible change. Like birth. Like everything. And he was nothing. Just a speck in an infinite universe filled with infinite potential and infinite possibilities. And who was he to judge what was what? Death is as inevitable as birth. The only two things guaranteed in life. He suddenly felt somewhat content in this realization. He strained his head and looked at it. Strained his head, shut his eyes, and said "Please, God! I'll never masturbate again!"
And Jack lay there on the floor. Very much alive.
2006-07-27 17:45:28 ET
Like some dream you can't wake up from
but you know you're dreaming
when reason flitters about in a stormy wind
and the ground beneath your feet becomes a sea of delirium
and you're drowning in the clouds that once held you up high
the light mist heavy on your heart
holding you down
|More to come...|
2006-07-27 05:24:53 ET
He was an Ethiopian eye-socket whore. Shy, twelve, with velvet eye holes. Black as ebony, blind as a mole, they called him Mayonnaise Face since he got shot in the eye so damned often. And then, about a week ago, when he was getting tagged by some wealthy eastern-bloc businessman, he set off a half kilo of czech semtex that was strapped to the inside of his colon. After that no one called him Mayonnaise Face any more. They called him Boom Butt.
You could say he caused quite an uproar. News of the happening caused a bunch of Moroccan peg boys to rise up in armed revolt against their undilated masters. The uprising was soon put down, however, since the peg boys all suffered from the same physical disadvantage - bowleggedness. Post-revolution they were punished with mason jars. This, of course, they turned to their advantage by smuggling untold amounts of Afghan hashish in the ass-laden containers. Money from these operations was funneled into the Great Ass-Fucker Conspiracy which was also behind all the Mexican donkey shows.
One of the smuggler peg boys was named Tom Tom and, when he wasn't peddling his "dilated third eye" (as he liked to call it) he would make some extra cash by depositing and withdrawing various forbidden items at various portside ships. He'd just show up, grunt a bit, and offer to sell you his slightly soiled goods. Drugs weren't his only thing. He also dealt in various batteries. He says they got him "charged up". One time he even smuggled a living fetus for some girl with ovary depletion. It went straight from his ass to her uterus. That shows you the power of properly applied pressure and Vaseline.
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