half a bottle o…

simianpistolwhip — Fri, 09 Mar 2012 00:16:56 +0000

half a bottle of wine down the hatch and he was feeling damn good,
but there was still half a bottle of that bull’s blood that needed to be consumed.
and he smelled like cigarette smoke
and felt just as wispy,
his brown eyes were often gazing off into
the distance of nonexistence,
his jeans were tight and his penis sat comfortably in
his calvin klien underwear,
his black watch displayed the time but he
was never really interested in time,
because his mind was always off meandering the cold city streets.
and he loved that sort of melancholy two step shuffle,
music entered one ear, and then the other but just a little softer,
because he was pretty damn sure he was probably going deaf in one of them.
he didn’t really care.

all around the earth was crying,
the rain was falling,
the hearts were breaking,
the sex was ending and nobody even came.

the wine was ending..
and he thought that was the worst part.

wino? everything was better with booze,
and cigarettes, and easy girls
that would later be heartbroken and angry with him
because he didn’t really care.

but the sex was always good
and he cares about that.

so he was always running away from life,
afraid to fully embrace,
would rather rush off to his death bed.
his plans waylaid by death herself,
and he’d take death to bed;
charm her and booze her
fuck her raw for a few hours
make empty promises,
and leave in the morning.

he had to study,
and he had to work,
and he had to live,
and he had to love.
but that was all bullshit.

and he just wanted to be left alone.
“fuck it all”
he would say,
“fuck you writers,
and fuck you artists,
and fuck you whores,
and fuck you bastards.”

and then he finished his wine.

iron is hot wea…

simianpistolwhip — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 05:58:07 +0000

iron is hot
weather is sticky.
khaki pants pressed against
cloth and metal.
fragrance spread,
and sun is smiling outside.

to keep the people quiet,
he takes his modern marvels
and plugs them into his ears.

harder than it seems,
and he leaves.
wind caresses his face,
smooth after shave.

stomach aches,
brain completely pizzled,
ecdysiast runs through his mind,
cold and metal pole sticking
straight up into the dark mists
of his cloudy thoughts.

skin tingles,
horripilation,
his mind’s eye sees her frame,
a silhouette against his thoughts.
his mind’s hands take hold
silk and velvet,
skin white as fresh milk
skin sweet as fresh honey.

short hair dances
from the kisses of wind
of his mind’s whispers.

hard to live
with the pieces he has had
to live without.

simianpistolwhip — Mon, 26 Dec 2011 06:32:23 +0000

glass table with a bottle of pills, two red plastic cups, a broken bowl, and christmas lights reflecting off of the surface like stars. vodka drips off the table onto a tan carpet; ceiling fan rickety rackety; people trapped in glowing box jibber jabber till their jaws fall off; floor to ceiling windows and a view of brown trees and brown houses and street lights that glimmer like a smoker’s smile. a candle lit in the bathroom, it flickers and illuminates a picture of sinatra above the toilet; shower curtain extended across a pole like an ecdysiast. christmas around the corner but he’s suffering an identity crisis; a negro in a white suit, or a white suit in a negro, could never really tell. door slams and two bodies move from the apartment to a well lit hall. altered state of mind; dancing and clawing at wallpaper; random buttons on the elevator; pretty girls but not thinking of romance; hug and feel the curves, indy raceway, gran turismo, flesh on flesh, and that’s all it is, and her lips look good. she’ll turn you into a pig and ride you across town if you aren’t careful. across town a gathering; boys and girls inebriated; eight ball goes into corner pocket; sand across a shuffle board; shuffle to wooden patio; cigarette shuffles between teeth; promotheus and his gift from the gods; plume of gray floats to the heavens. god isn’t satisfied, those burnt offerings are a testament of the old; give of the flesh, and she looks good enough to do so, cain couldn’t be jealous.
take me out to dinner, she says.
crazy enough to do so.
twenty digits intertwined; twenty digits explored; twenty digits exchanged.
in bed; time enough to see her again in the morning.

simianpistolwhip — Fri, 07 Oct 2011 02:55:12 +0000

elation!
you remember that feeling?
when our eyes locked and
worlds fell apart
and came back together as one?

well,
it’s gone now,
ain’t ever gonna come back.

can’t say i miss it.

no, wait,
that’s a lie.
i really do.

simianpistolwhip — Fri, 20 May 2011 05:54:45 +0000

ears are still ringing.
can anyone tell me where to get that fixed?

whats that?

the doctors office.
the bed?
you mean my bed?
with the sheets, on the floor, by the large window.
facing allegheny general hospital?
tall, ominous, tall and ominous. is that right?
i’m not really sure i know what you mean…

but, hold on. i can’t really hear you.
ears are ringing and i need medicine.
and, oh wait…. the helicopter is coming to land.
blades twirl, whirl,
twirl and whirl. thats right, i said-

that doesn’t make any sense.
what am i doing?
sitting and writing, a jar of strawberry jam is sitting on my table,
opened. and i probably wont ever put it away.
why?
oh,
well,
because i dont really feel like it.

who am i with?
im with, the..
no one really, myself and my messy apartment.
the cap to a bottle of korean sake drops to the floor and rolls across the kitchen
the dirty tiles.

no, i guess not. more like dirty laminate.

is that so?
are you sure?

simianpistolwhip — Thu, 19 May 2011 04:12:13 +0000

it was a thursday evening, a tepid kind of evening, laden with murky clouds that hung low to the meandering streets of pittsburgh and blocked out the pale regalia of a moon with a man’s face. he sauntered off the bus, both hands in pockets, with a sly smile on his sharp edged face and an unlit cigarette drooping from his lips. his brain was laying out possible outcomes of the night’s events by flashing words to his mind’s eye; exciting, erotic, electric.
he was amused at the organic alliteration that was running through his mind and, smiling, grabbed a girl from the street to ask for a light, though he fiddled with a purple lighter with his long fingers in his pocket. he winked his thanks, she smiled back and clumped off into the night. she was wearing a tight skirt and her long legs ended in a pair of pumps that she seemingly had trouble walking in.
but she still looked good.
he inhaled, exhaled, and contemplated the effluvium of grey that danced from his lips and out into the warm night air. it covered the lights and the sounds of the southside like a blanket, he thought its movements similar to that of an ecdysiast though he’s never seen one.

down the street there was an old building that used to be a movie theater. a hexagon cut in half stood tall above a similar shaped box office, it proudly displayed its name in static bold red letters. its doors were glass, covered with stickers from bands that had performed there, there must of been hundreds.
they were bands that he has never heard of and, judging by their stickers, deemed unfit for his ears.
the inside of the venue had been gutted and remodeled to fit the grimy aesthetic of a bar and sound stage. there were bottles of cheap liquors and refrigerators of cheap booze where the expensive candies and expensive sodas used to be, there was an open floor and a stage littered with stereo knick knacks where the rows of cushioned seats and large screen used to be, and as he went up a rickety flight of wooden stairs to the upper level he placed, in his mind, where the projectionist would spend hours at a time reading playboy magazines and waiting to change the movie reel.
a glamorous life.
there, he encountered a friend of his. a lithe and young friend, with pale skin and hair dyed green, with breasts that were pushed up and displayed from atop her dress, with eyes that had seen the worst of life even though she was much younger than he. they hugged, she kissed his cheek with her tender lips, and introduced him to her boyfriend, equally as handsome. he shook his hand, firm and confident, and applied the usual salve of considerate greetings and jokes, as was his usual fair.
his greeting was cut short when the music started. two men on the stage surrounded by turntables, laptops, and countless boards covered with knobs and buttons. all of which were interconnected with myriad black and thick wires running to and fro and out of things and into other things. his mind saw everything as words, electronic words of rhythm being transmitted from the knobs and laptops and turntables, through the throng of black wires, and finally out of large speakers and amps and subwoofers. he thought that even everyone’s hearts were emitting the same rhythm, all synced together, words flowing out of everywhere, ba-bump ba-bump booom, low and heavy, organic and beautiful.
ba-bump ba-bump booom, it oozed all along the floor and climbed through everyone, implanting itself in their ears. they felt it enter and stick to their insides, and like a thief it took control of their hands and arms, their legs and feet, their hips and groins, and it started to move them, slow and fast, erratic and rhythmic.
everyone became as one, a beast dancing in the dark and only the flashing lasers and strobe lights illuminated its many faces.
he walked down from the upper level, bumping into girls with low cut shirts and skirts that might as well have been nonexistent. he would have excused himself politely if he hadn’t noticed their smiles and their eyes filled with sex. they touched him as they passed, arms, chest, face, and continued up the stairs.
he figured them drunk, or high, or probably both, as were most of the venue’s patrons.
the ravers, the druggies, the young girls with hula hoops swaying their hips so seductively, the two men on stage, his friends on the upper level, everyone in an altered state of mind. in this way, he thought, everyone can be part of everyone else, a shared experience, a common goal; exciting, erotic, electric.
he headed to the bar.

one seven and seven, light brown in color, rushed down his throat, a waterfall. another followed, and another, and two more after that. they were delicious, sweet and light but packing the certain punch that only whisky can afford. and he was feeling it now, the bass in him eating away at his soul, making his fingers shake, making his heart palpitate. he felt the lives of those around him, standing in circles and enjoying intoxicated discourse. he phased in out of a few of them, discussed politics, music, even god.
god, all knowing and all seeing, ubique in nature but never seen nor heard save for the various visions and manifestations of burning bushes and lightning that would change the course of mankind forever.
that is, if you believe all of it. which he did, a god fearing man though hardly religious. he took delight in conversations about godly things, about the heavens, about devils and demons, about the seven deadly sins of which lust was his most often indulged.
green is for lust. he thought of his friend with the green hair.
green is for envy, green is for lush valleys full of life.
did he lust after her? did he envy her? did she represent the bosom of nature and life?
the color splashed across his mind’s palette, and it drew pictures of beautiful forested scenery. tree dotted landscapes, the eyelashes of an endless horizon. a valley, a hill, birds drifting above in the sky with wings stretched, a sun hanging lifeless as if on a string, a light bulb, switched on by the hands of god.

when he digressed this line of thought he was on the dance floor, next to a girl with short blond hair that was put into pigtails. tight jeans with a camo print, fitting nice and framing her rear. a shirt with the sleeves cut off, and a deep v-neck cut into it to show her breasts to whomever wanted to appreciate them. she was talking to him, eyes blue and clear and wild. she also had pale skin, fair germanic skin. she was standing close to him, talking, yelling, into his ear about the drugs she had taken that night.
she was dancing, but didn’t seem to be a part of the beast that had formed on the floor. a sort of awkward desperation filled her every move and set her apart from the rest. it was a curious and attractive, almost raw.
he considered her as she looked at him with those wild eyes that begged him to join her.
he excused himself.
and then he left.

outside the tepid air turned cool and chilled his bones. his lips embraced a cigarette, and again grabbed a girl and asked for a light.
much obliged, he would say, and saunter off into the night.
at least she looked good.

simianpistolwhip — Fri, 29 Apr 2011 03:29:32 +0000

ima nigger dancing around in white clothes.
i sing and appreciate the world around me,
enclosed in white walls.

ima negro who lost his own self.
i can act and i can act
enclosed in white walls.

ima black man in the 21st century.
i can sex and freak but still just a nigger
enclosed in white walls.

nigger moon shines pale and regal.
palatial empathy from the black depths,
enclosed in the white walls of god.

ima nigger and you aint none better.
pseudo intellectual to impress the girls,
enveloped in beautiful white skin.

i can sing and i can dance
i can run and i can jump
i can fuck and i can love
and ima nigger enclosed.

simianpistolwhip — Sun, 06 Mar 2011 06:07:40 +0000

Im tired. Im dead tired.
Im sitting here with a school friend named Grace and Im supposed to be writing a research paper.
But I dont really feel like it all.
Because Im tired. There is some brandy here that ive been sipping on.
im trying to listen to grace,
and miles davis.
something about men losing their niche in life.
leaving their families and society, roaming around.
like a rolling stone.

i want to set up family franchises.
wander the streets, copulate,
make a few offspring.

and leave.

shes making popcorn now. shes in her sweats and black cardigan. she has a new life in her that is growing so her tummy is getting bigger. its kind of cute to see her walking around with one hand on her back and the other on her stomach. its the classic image of a pregnant woman.
she smiles pearly whites as she offers me candies.
i take the bag and i hear popcorn in the microwave.
pop pop
p-p-pop. kernels explode and then are coated with butter and salt,
eat it up and it goes down the throat.
but she looks so intent on getting her work done.

i should probably do that too.
she says she wont finish tonight until she has 7 pages
and here i am with barely two, and im writing on my wordpress page and contemplating eating these candies

she pours the popcorn in a big bowl and puts something else in the microwave.
grace moves so graciously.
must come with the name.

burnt popcorn.
brandy.
and sweethearts (they are like sweetarts, just with in a heart shape. im assuming theyre from valentines day, which was last month. are these old? cant be too old, its only been 20 days. (they are old))

the popcorn tastes good. the sweethearts do not.
the brandy tastes good, and im pretty sure grace tastes good as well but ill never know.
just sit here and not do my work, observe the world around me because thats what i do best.

and she thinks im doing work. i must be on a roll.

jokes on you sister.
im sitting here being a creep and admiring your work ethic.
can i have some of that?
a cup full maybe?
take it home and make a cake with it?

hold on.
this brandy is real smooth.
thanks mom for making me an alcoholic.
bought this bottle thursday and its halfway done.

but in my defense its a strangely shaped bottle.
i better get to work.
grace is looking so hardcore studious
i do too, but im not actually doing anything.

simianpistolwhip — Fri, 14 Jan 2011 02:37:06 +0000

i.
it became so quiet
that the silence became
explosions in the night sky
all the way up and far off

those buildings were raising their hands
high to the gods in the cosmos,
praying.
the rain fell precious,
gave the gods wings.

silence gave way to
pitter patter pitter patter pitter patter
lightening came and went
thunder rattled and tore asunder
serenity.

darkness came and swallowed everything,
even the precious moments i was sharing
with the glimmering twilight in the
cool rain.
i felt cold on my skin as it sauntered
swung, danced,
down the back of my neck.

those buildings, numerous and proud,
with many eyes that burn electric fire.
rain and cold dark muffle their
mechanical cries.

the silence flew away
on wings of wet darkness.

pitter patter.

vi.

too much
is to be written about
a thing i know nothing of.

too late
have i realized that
i share this thing with no one.

much too late.
much too late
to reconcile.

simianpistolwhip — Sun, 05 Dec 2010 05:56:47 +0000

the mirror is dirty.

no matter how hard i try to clean it, the dirt just wont come off. reflection is wicked and helpless, i sense a bitter cold on the other side of that glass and when the sands of time are blown away by that freezing wind it smashes against my face violently. it scratches, it tears, it claws at my tender skin without relent and with fiery passion.
that man on the other side of this processed sand; a long time wanderer wrapped up in himself to keep warm and secure. he is so far away from me but he is so close, standing mere inches away from my own face. his brown eyes glaring into mine with that look of proud contempt, but he is just as lost as i am, he knows it. it bleeds from his eyes, seeps from his pores, a sort of hopelessness that is rooted deep within his core of existence, but his eyes say he is too weak to admit it.
a lost boy in the harsh winter of time, in that dirty mirror, looking back at me. his back straight, his head held up high, a sly grin on his face, a master of hiding his emotions, a master of disguising his true self to be more marketable to whomever desires him at any moment. he is strong on the outside, he is witty on the outside, he is quick on the outside, but his heart is weeping a thousand tears.

no matter how hard i try, how long i scrub scrub scrub, the mirror stays dirty, stained, warped. that lost boy on the other side, with his unanswered calls for help, amidst that cold and harsh and endless bitter winter of time, will always be there. no mirror is ever clean enough, and no mirror ever will be.