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tranquillisimo in nine parts

awakening deep after dark in my pile of garbage, dirty clothes, cigarette butts, empty alcohol bottles, all sundries miscellaneous garbage in my parents room that i cant clean up, just cant clean it up, i stare at it with wide blank drooling eyesockets and tell myself to clean it up but the voices in my head are stronger, telling me how worthless i am, telling me how no one will ever love me, or even speak kind words towards me, no one will ever want to be my friend, share a few syllables with me, a few grunts with me before i pass out into my medicinal nightmare haze, my firestorm of rancid pathetic dreams of swallowing needles and razorblades and wiping blood off of my ass at work so i can limp back to the yogurt fridge fending off the derisions of other workers for leaving for five minutes just to empty my bowels. i stare at the garbage cluttering my basement room, my tomb, my tiny grave of a home and i dream, i dream wild dreams that explode over the earths horizon like rejected suns begging for cooling moons, and peer at glistening razorblades on the floor buried in cigarette ash and think and dream to myself, why not just slice out my eyeball? why not just swallow a razor? why not just slice my nose straight up the center like a yellow highway line, why not slice open the underside of the head of my cock right below the blossoming head, why not fill the seams of my toes with razorblades and walk around at work all night bleeding into my dirty sweaty diseased socks from my stinking blistered broken shiny feet, why not kill myself, why not kill you, and why not kill your children. certainly someone could make this life more endurable for me. i lost it before i gained it, life, love, acceptance and wonder, children are promised something early in their life, and this promise determines the rest of their lives. misery? joy? mediocrity? what have you promised your children? have you promised them heaven? have you promised them love? have you promised them marriage and family? what lie have you forcefed your children to believe so they will be obscenely happy at devouring bottles of strained bananas? what lie chokes them at night and slowly grows into a seething python to strangle them when they have to forefend against life for themselves? what have you promised these ears that have heard nothing but your words and have eaten nothing but what you have purchased? what lie have you given them, so that they may suffer at your feet, for the greater part of a century, while watching the rest of the world suffer as well, on an empty cold flickering television that would never wrap its cords around the poor wretch to strangle it let alone to hug it. i pile my worldly belongings into a torn plastic bag and dart out the door for work after taking my effexor and having a cup of tea. i begin to think of what i might listen to at work once i arrive, bored already on my walk, i grow angry at work, and then think, what the fuck i might be doing, if i wasnt at work. images of torn flesh, razors, and empty towers of booze bespackle my mind like raindrops on a dusty sidewalk.

i need a cigarette. why?

part 2

my first hour at work consists of paying for my prune juice, i cant shit unless i drink it, and pushing a powerjack, an object that lifts heavy palettes of goods up so the man doesnt have to pull it, which breaks down every five seconds and only restarts if the handle is lifted to a 78 degree angle on the trajectory and lifted vigorously up and down while pulling, beeping the horn and tap dancing badly. i am already eying the cheap wine collecting dust on the shelves as i tear open the plastic around the ice cream with my bare hands and fling it voraciously into the cooler and onto the shelves. i cant use a razor to cut the plastic off the six packs of ice cream because whenever i see a razorblade i hear a voice telling me to cut my throat with it, slice my asshole with it, swallow it, or cut open my arm with it. its a voice i can feel like an earthquake that only effects me and sometimes the medication helps but most of the time it doesnt and i am left wincing and clutching my eyeballs like shooter marbles in front of a bunch of confused republicans slicing lettuce. i wish someone could reach into my skull and pull out the voice like a crawdad with blades on its tongs, and give it to me to put under my pillow like baby teeth. where is the tooth fairy, when were 21 years old, drunk, broke, and rapaciously deteriorating in the maw of a mental flaw that the fattest of books couldnt possibly detain and retain. i am simply a lost soul, chewing myself to the surface. it takes me two hours to finish the ice cream, and i move onto the ice.

part 3

i am an alcoholic, a violent alcoholic and would be a serial killer if the state didnt threaten me with jail if i didnt take my medications. my father is an alcoholic too, and he never talks to anyone but my mother. sometimes if hes drunk, and its dark out, hell talk to me. but only for awhile. i take a cartful of ice out of the cooler and load it into the fridge. little do i know that the ice im loading into the fridge is a special order for the metroparks that have decided to fuck our grocery over by changing the specifics of their order about twelve times. want to see some fucking abstraction? talk to a grocer, fuck the stockbrokers. were threatened with homelessness, stockbrokers are threatened with gambling away large sums of money that could easily be house within banks as supplicatory funds. i load the ice and listen to harlan ellison and crispin glover wailing away about boots and clowns and daddy was so mean. how thankful i am, like a renegade indian at a thanksgiving day banquet that i can listen to my walkman at work. i make it my special plan to load the palettes correctly into the freezer once ive loaded the ice. i compare this procedure in my mind to going down on a woman whom i am delirious over. while walking down an aisle after procuring a glass of water i notice a pamphlet sitting on a bench, upside down, a star, like the church of satan. i notice a phone number at the bottom of it. i know this is a girl i met at the store awhile ago.

we peered into each others eyes through peepholes in a rack of flowers and she said hi to me but i was too terrified to answer and she went inside which i followed to get the powerjack but i knew i couldnt talk to her i got the jack and pulled it fastly out of the back room my eyes plastered to her life like flies on a scabpaper and she began calling out to me but i could do nothing but cover my eyes and dart out the door and as she left i can remember walking along a crack in the parking lot as if it were a tightrope my arms outstretched her gaze on my back like radioactive sunbeams i close my eyes feeling the tears bleeding already and glance surreptitiously over my shoulder just one more time to see her miming planting a seed in the cracks of the parking lot as i had done when i had seen her just one other time before and now no more

i need a cigarette, why?

i toss the bags of ice off the palette onto the floor crushing their bulk before i load them into the fridge. moments later, in my frenzy of loss and being assassinated by my memories like piranhas the job is completed and for a moment i ruminate over how meaningless sex is to me, and how meaningless it always has been, and how i have always claimed it was the reason, that i needed someone to be with me always, someone to touch my dirty parts, and clean my filthy soul. raised catholic, raised to hate, raised to drink, raised to hate, myself.

part 4

when will it stop when can i stop when will it stop when can i stop drinking when can i stop breathing when can i stop listening to these sounds when can i stop dragging these stones when can i stop chewing these splintered bones when can i stop hearing these voices shrieking in my ears to EAT EAT EAT A RAZORBLADE YOU RETARDED DANCING FAGGOT HAVE A BEER IF YOU WONT WORTHLESS over and over when will it stop when i can i plummet through icy breezes to cold concrete floors to dry up this blood soaked pain ocean wincing schizophrenic voice faces and howling mawls i cant tell the difference between the voices in my head and in my sheets. howling winds shake me like a splintering leaf. i feel no pain. i dont understand. i move onto the yogurt, my mind recoils from the task, draws away, reversing and interchanging the cups of yogurt to make sure it doesnt go out of date amongst howling supervisors with nothing but cruel banalities to whip my emotions with like a waxed bullwhip to make sure to do the yogurt right. working with a football coach, i find unease in his teaching methods but hes not angry and sexual like the other failed high school football players i work with- he guides me without insult. i am doing better on the yogurt, and the feel of the cool cups of yogurt combined with the taste of cigarette smoke and the warmth of my black lambskin jacket, make the night go by easier, with poes spoken prose in my scabby ears.

part 5- poor me

endlessly he shrieks screams cavorts ejaculates locutes jarring howls from within a ceaseless pond of human lard jiggling around his bowls eons of stored shit from a life fettered away with junk food bad jokes and grocery store shelves howling like a wino like a hyena like a wino hyena trying to swallow a broken bottle full of electric prongs howling if the slightest gesture each breath the very act of feeling air upon his skin were agony, howling his never ending cacophony of rasping jarring sing alongs to bad pop culture music and oldies


does this mean that he soon will give up the struggle? lifes fruitless meaningless abandon quarreling with surrounding buffoons in order to prove once and for all that IM NUMBER ONE

and nobody touches my on my pedestal of self worship and self masturbation jerking off with his voice and filling the silence like blood tinged urine diarrhea belly puke filling a rusty can bent on the side of a road

singing only the songs that make him feel like a god

hoyYOUO IF LOVESS ME STRANGES LIFE DYING LOVEWLACE SOUNDS of a whale with forty tincans nailed to its body thrashing violently in a tin room to prove its alive before its death nothing but self worship howling grotesque pincers in my ears sings nothing but what he wants to hear thinking himself some sort of god in his own weak silentscape life

howls like an elephant buried up to its neck in the sand with his seething bulk shifting and crashing like sailors bodies in the hull of a storm weathered craft


each breath each blink each sound each thought each movement each sight must be such sheer agony to this creature that he must bellow in agony every minute of the night at my shelf listening to his disturbing death rattles


to prove once and for all that hes number 1 and everyone else just lines up behind him never taking a risk in his weak life never searching for anything, but just finding, finding his own shit coagulating under his fat ass as he collates the goldfish in a mosiac pleasing to his oblivious children he continues his howls, the agony of the grocer, the aria of the grocer told by everyone around him so often how useless he is that he begins to believe he is some sort of patriarch of some hierarchy, some family, some pyramid of friends that worships the dried shitstains in his underwear as much as he does, its when weve really hit the bottom of our rusty used toiletpaper bloodied tampons bloodied scum condoms floating in the ocean nipped at by aids polluted catfish and cancerous stingrays, that we really begin to sing loudly, and sing badly, and we never stop howling like squealing pigs being skinned before death and separation of the vocal chords, loudly, badly, never stopping, to prove to all the ears around once and for all, that my life has been uselessly spent, my life has been meaningless, and ive suffered for zeus knows how many decades, so someone could spend a few dollars out of their paycheck on some piece of shiny garbage i tossed on a shelf, and when the echoes of his bellows soundlessly disperse like blood spilled into trickling water, no silence will ever greet those who had to hear those malicious chords of vile pungent agony, music that smells like the refuse producing organs of a herd of camels inflicted with leprosy galloping in downpouring rains of human sweat and goat urine and sheep semen.

sleep well one more night before once again you begin to shout, so you may feel the reverberations of your meaningless agony slapping the balled heads of your imagined oppressors like tin whips

part 6 sex

as my herpes simplex progressed to peanut sized open sores on my penis i began to wear a jock strap stuffed with roadsalt i had collected on the highway. this was solely to punish myself for getting herpes in the first place. i would limp throughout work with bowl legs as if i had just taken an 18 inch kielbasa up the ass for five hours strait with my asshole pinched as tight as i could make it. hearing voices when i went to the bathroom telling me to rub the urinal cake all over my penis i would often submit weeping and whimpering as i did so, scrubbing my herpes with the bright blue ammonia disk and peering with one crooked eye at my reflection in the smudged mirror facing me. this irritated my sores and made them appear glistening like tiny fish eyes sprouting on my cock. black crust circumscribed the pustules. my cock hung half flaccid half erect between my chaffed thighs as i limped from shelf to shelf stocking goods and cursing to myself at all the rotten writers living and all the filth alive who wasted their golden lives, if their body was simply a putty icon hopping along spaces in a meaningless childs board game. i cursed hollywood for all the bad movies. i cursed dennis cooper for brainwashing a new generation of writers into thinking they might be the next great avant garde writer if they mimicked his half assed style. i cursed stephen king for writing stories that appealed to the mediocre mob. i cursed tolstoy for being immortal. i cursed my coworkers for looking at my sweating pinched angry face. i cursed time for going to slowly. i was a hornets nest of anger and frenzy and at any moment i felt i might go bezerk and start flinging jars of pickles at gigantic advertisements for paper towels and the newest lemon tasting beer or just the most enthusiastic glowing face i saw. blood trickled down my leg and i had the runs. i went to the john and shit out a maelstrom of broken glass, peanut shells, and splintered sparrow bones (i was so poor i was reduced to turning birdhouses into sparrow traps, and cooking the sparrows over campfires made from gas purchased at the nearest gas station) i wiped the blood and the shit off my asshole staring at the brown ochre and maroon stained tissue each time. each time it was different, unlike andy worhols soup cans. i felt like i had accomplished something as my asshole sprayed blood, shit and undigestables into the bowl for the next 8 or nine minutes. art is nothing. fame is everything. all is lies. kill the famous. write the most twisted horrific atrocities you can imagine. i stood up after wiping and faced the mirror. i heard voices in my head instructing me to eat the urinal cake and while i was chewing to have sex with the aperture in the urinal into which the piss was drained. i was too exhausted to argue and i immediately began to eat the urinal cake. i took off my jock strap and watched roadsalt bespackle the floor. i inserted my diseased blistered cock into the hole in the downward arch of the urinal and found that it fit perfectly. i began in awkward thrusts to fuck the hole into which hundreds of sundry men pissed into daily. my tongue lolled out and my eyes rolled backwards. i thrust a fist into my ass and found a penny. thinking that at any moment someone could come in and find me i came into the tiny alveoli and found that diarrhea had drooled all down my legs mixed with blood and bits of dark brown scum. i found that one of my coworkers had been watching me with a horrified expression during the whole episode. with shitty legs stained pants i limped the rest of the day languidly attaching cans to shelves. no one talked to me.

part seven the razor sculpting noodle headed imp

when did i notice him? after some recovery of inculcated booze, after some death march through the slums towards a bottle of wine in a dimly lit enclave populate with melting skulls, after some reverie of wit shrieking random vagary at reflective walls and smashing sculptures built during more quiet drunks? i noticed him, a creature with a pink soft white sliver for a head shaped at a vaginal lip sardine ululating against the air and making its rail thin body twitch shudder and at times leap into the air to click its heels. i would notice the creature as i bent down to collate some stack of goods, it would burst bezerk from a small room doors clattering and dive onto the floor of the grocery dancing wildly some salt sewing dance of rage in fury and clatter, no one noticed it but me, no heads turned, no eyes turned, nobody glanced at him or noticed him as he pulled razorblades out of his torso and fashioned them into strange razorblade dolls with paper clips, needles, fasteners, and a glue that its noodle skull secreted directly onto its blades which attached to one another, he would set on the ground that would crawl around the floor of the store, slicing up the walls, and coming towards me. terrified i would stomp them, but they would continue coming as the creature would lift carts of goods into the air with one finger and swing them around, not a single object falling from it, before it began sprinting around the room. its presence irked me to the superlative, as my working speed slowed and i could do nothing but watch the noodle quivering atop its toothpick neck.


eliciting strange looks from my coworkers. noticing after taking a shit that one of the little razor dolls was in the toilet and clamoring towards my exposed asshole for some opportunity to slice its way into my warm intestines and toss and turn in a mock interrupted human sleep. i quickly stomped the creature into refuse with my boot, and walking home each day, i noticed a new bum sliced to death by some unknown tool spawn by a frenzied violent mind, a body no one could possibly perceive because of its sheer violence towards time, speed, and the five senses, in the most absurd of profanities, creating its laughable beasts that twitched and twittered throughout the streets crawling onto whatever warm immobile pile of meat it saw and carving its way in, carving its way down, carving through the guts, through the heart, through the muscles, then clicking and sputtering down the road seeking a still warm body of roadkill, a sleeping bum or the leg of someone upright at a busstop. one morning, i had found a man walking pigeon toed up the street shrieking nonsense and tearing at his groin. a razorblade creature had fastened itself to the man, to his genitals, and was still driving itself in. it had crawled up a homeless whores asshole, slithered through her bowels and up her esophagus where it cunningly attached itself to the penis inserted into her mouth and began to claw, claw away. i rushed away terrified, clutching my bags of groceries and my pepper spray.


one day while stacking yogurts of any sundry varieties, i blinked my eyes and found myself upon awakening, in an endless garden of fluctuating flesh crimson roses, undulating in their own sexual manipulation of one another. the sky was a deep maroon that hovered over the horizon like a tidal wave of blood-ink that refused to collapse. i walked forward and felt crackling and bursts of warm fluid at my ankles as i stomped forward over the flesh roses that writhed to escape my gait. i couldnt stand still, so i walked onward in this abyss of inconceivable butchery, stomping upon the tiny red creatures with the sky bleeding in the overhang. after two hours, my eyes blinked once more and i found myself in an impenetrable darkness, if i had been beheaded in some drunken stupor, i could not hear, breathe, smell, see, taste, or perform any function of the head, yet i somehow stumbled on and could feel the dull beating of the angry rose colored appendages slapping my ankles. i stumbled forward awhile, then plummeted into their mass, and felt them crawling and wheedling into my torso, like the angry roots of a tree, longing to wrap their mass around a human heart.

when i awoke

i found that i had been day dreaming, a dream that had encompassed my entire being and dissolved the apparent reality before me. from then on, as i clocked out and went home from work, i would take my risperdal and fall into an artificial sleep, where i would dream, the entire night, that i was at the grocery store, stocking cans. my dream was far different than the reality of my workplace, as in my dream i could do what i pleased, each night, and each night when i returned home from work i would find in my dreams, exactly placed as when i had left work. these dreams were interactive, as i could do what i pleased in them. often in these dreams i would ravenously attack shelves and leave the contents on the floor and my coworkers would stare at me helplessly as i did so, then deleted my presence from the arena. other times i would set garbage cans on fire, which quite often, lead to the immolation of the entire store, suffocating in fire. eventually i learned of the power and pertinacity of these dreams, and began to butcher each night, in each dream, the same coworker i had to tolerate each original night, as he howled over the sounds emanating from my earphones, drowning them out, and drowning out the sounds of my thoughts, so the only palpable sound was this mans bellowing, like a rampaging elephant trodding and flopping over its bulk, howling like the sun, howling like a dead god begging for a sip of water, howling like a hurricane full of blenders full of broken glass and dog teeth. for eight hours i dreamt i was at work, as i slept, and when waking, at work was i, although rested, but i could not tell that i had been sleeping. the line between these dreams and the reality of the workplace became blurred one night, as i had arrived at work carrying my sundry items to keep me occupied throughout the night, my mind floating as the fluff from dandelions floats upon summer wisps of air current, i clocked in and made my way to the yogurt shelves. i began to stock each flavor, rotating the dates so the yogurt in the back wouldnt expire. this is when i became fascinated with the slogan printed on the boxes of the yogurt that read, quite simply, plain brown against a navy blue background

"we are alive"

each time my eyes transversed this statement they became fascinated and fixed upon it and would read it over and over again until i heard...


jabby had been stocking the paper. he was a sixty year old alcoholic that often went beserk with lust and would chase female coworkers around the store, or lust for alcohol and would clock out early downing bottles of booze straight from the shelves as he exited the store. like me, he couldnt drive. a chronic alcoholic since he was intelligent enough to lift a bottle to his lips. and hes been far too intelligent far too long to feel any sort of guilt about his behavior. guilt is for virgins, who have peered at daddys porno mags. do whatever you feel like doing, however you want to do it. guilt is purchased like a stock by wealthy politicians and sold to self hating citizens dazed by the flickering hypnosis on their television sets. guilt is a counterproductive drug that causes a LOW instead of a HIGH and is SOLD to anyone STUPID enough to BUY it from its DEALERS. only complete fools and virgins feel guilt, and they feel guilt because it was nailed to their asscheeks before they were old enough to fight back.

tonight, jabby wasnt feeling too jabby, as i could tell by his grotesque frown that resembled a blood moon reaching furtively towards the earth. his pocket bulged slightly which i misinterpreted as a renegade erection, an erection, something as foreign as a monkey wrench missing a couple pieces, when one is on the clock. i had been disrupted from my fantasy when i heard a sharp explosion which my mind immediately told me was a fluorescent lightbulb falling to the ground. being curious, i went to the location of the noise, and found jobby, splattered with brains, blood, bits of skull, bits of scalp with grey hair attached, irregular hunks of nose and ear cartilage, and jabby laying at jobbys quivering knees in an everspreading gloss of sanguinity. in complete solitude, jabby had taken the bulge out of his pocket, put it to his head, and spilled it all over jobbys quivering emaciated carcass. the paramedics had been called and i awoke. i got dressed for work, and walked to the store, clocking in, my bag full of my necessities. as i arrived, the howling character i had spoken of so vehemently before, jubby, had taken an interest in me and my dandruff and began barking at me like a rabid dog the instant i walked in the door.


howling and following me, bellowing insults like a trombone comingled with an elephants tusk, sexual derisions about anal sex with men, cottage cheese cunts, child molesters picking up five year olds in spray painted cadallacs and how he would blow my head off if i ever decided to molest his... hideously obese children who did nothing but shriek nonsense at the top of their lungs and dance vigorously around plastic wading pools causing their bulk to quiver with the weak exercise and jiggling giggles, would not leash his torrential downpour of close minded closet fag hatred, squeezing the asses of any who walked by him, who were a hundred pounds lighter than he, i could tell he was hungry, and i could tell for sure, by the sheer vulgarity and cruelty of his actions, that this was a dream, and i could do anything i wanted in this dream, and wake up the next day clear and whitewashed for a day of work, silent behind my head phones, diligently ignoring this beast, with scowls and the howling of my inner voices, instructing me to insert toothpicks into the urethra of my penis, to pound q-tips into my eardrums with the balls of my hands, to slice gashes in between my toes as deep as vaginas so my toes could wiggle like fingers once they healed, to grab the next person who talked to me by the scalp and bash their head against the floor until blood ejaculated out of their ears, these voices of course, being so much more pleasant, than jubbys shrieking of pop culture lyrics. knowing this to be a dream, i smile to myself warmly, dreaming within this dream, like poe might have done in his opium dream days, of what i could do to this creature in this dream, to appease the voice, the soul in my head that howled behind my eardrums, atrocities sickening enough to gag an ethiopian peon, at all hours of the day. andy worhols soup cans.

he screams in my ears, with working place characters aligned all around me, and i dive at him like a flying squirrel, a single razor blade in my hand. i slice his eyes open which pop like tiny tightly bound water balloons in one single swipe across his face. i slice his face vertically starting at his chin splitting his hypocritical god-talking lips into a cross and slicing the skin open across his nose that peels back revealing mosaics of bubbling fat under the skin of his face. the fat dribbles down out of the wounds like thousands of maggot sized tape worms seeking a spot of shade from an exposed infected dogs asshole. i slice his chin off, exposing the white and yellow bone, i slice each ear off with swift pertacity, and toss them over my shoulder, one latching at attaching to poor jibbys forehead. i slice his forehead, i slice his cheeks down to the rictus of teeth behind them, i slice and cut wildly his face until it is gone, until his head is a shrieking read skull, hacked and splintered into shreds, before a cacophony of hands restrains me and i find myself...


sits on a hospital bed with a jar of fluid over his head. his wife holds his immobile hand. bubbles flow upward into the jar at burst on the surface. cords are attached to his nostrils and throat. everyone once and awhile, his jaw jerks open and his deformed rictus of teeth quivers, if in a futile effort to speak, or maybe shriek. no more singing, no more bellowing, no more howling from this blue collar genius. silent, and blurred, shaking and vibrating, a fleshy machine, without any other purpose than to live, plugged into a plaster wall, his catatonic wife, clutching his hand, in between clutching fast food super burgers, with special sauce...

... in the electric chair... an upside down bowl upon my head... each minute or so, another sheer agony explosion of electricity and agony... i cant seem to die... but i can manage to laugh... louder after each infusion of electricity to my scalp... i can manage to laugh, louder, and louder, and more phonetic and expressive, and violently, laugh, because after all, its just a dream, im only dreaming now...

arent I?

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