</Humanicus Dumbassicus>

I fucked up. I know I did.

Seven-thirty in the morning and my day’s already shit.

Pointless fucking people. Pointless fucking life.

Broken fucking toaster.

I can’t remember who it was that told me
never to put a smart phone in that thing.

Apparently they weren’t important.

God, I really fucked up.

It wasn’t even really curiosity. 

Because, well, I can’t remember who it was that told me
never to take strong hallucinogenics while in a bad mood.

Apparently they weren’t important.

Broken fucking ribs. Broken fucking house.

Burning fucking skin.

this is amazing…hair pulling up at the roots amazing. but better.

Haha, I’m glad you think so. I definitely need to lengthen it.

My head is a wildfire; my thoughts are dead grass.
My lips are heavy hammers; my tongue is brittle glass.

I know you hear your eyes scream when you don’t know what to say;
your silence is the flame that melts my soul away.

His filth is a smile of soot and grime and bile, 
manifesting on the surface of my skin
as pustules, busted and gushing
not blood, but hushed fusses,
plush cusses, and mountains of
abandoned and conveniently crushed crutches.

His breath reeks
of sex
with no baths
for three weeks.

His eyes are a concoction of
narcissism and quandary;
heart and thorn;
touch and flux;
shit and roses;
they speak with the soft rain
of Death.

And I’m a Mormon.

A hollow click precedes a roaring monotone echo
stretching toward us from the bottom of the canyon.

A beam of sound bleeds colors
like whorls of mucous and tar into curtains of mercury
artfully drawn over a murky lake of drunken eyes
bored with mediocrity.

I can’t stop laughing, because everyone else
standing around me on the edge of the cliff
keeps whispering about how much they know,
while through trembling tears and giddily sporadic sobs,
I’m still screaming at the top of my lungs
about how selfish they are to keep it to themselves.

Uneven sleeping
patterns suffocate mountains
with synthetic snow.

They call me “Love”.
They call me “Dearest”.
They hold me to the image of
a fleshless skull beating
craters into the concrete floor,
and they smile
and call me “Unique”.

Somewhere down the chain, however,
the links start to
rust and crack and swirl as hollow cyclones
of red dust into the void of unwary eyes
unfamiliar with the entrenching vibrations
of unduly rage;

into the death-trap of inexperienced
hearts indifferent to
the opportunity to embrace insanity
when the absurdity
of the change from steel to stone
is introduced with
grey blasé impercipience.

And I could easily do
without all the amenities,
because no one stays for long,
and rarely is there ever anyone here
besides me.

I’m not surprised by how quickly
I am falling.
Not at this point.

In fact, I’m pretty certain I’ll
never be surprised by anything.
Not anymore.

Every plea that survived the jump
from high mind to lowly tongue was forced
belly-down through a mouth
dumb from screaming, to circle
half-dead and profusely bleeding
into the abyssal depths of ears
deafened by the dichotomy between
morality and simple mortal pleasure.

There were books that lined the cave,
and blood that soaked their pages.

There was a beautiful carpet under my feet,
and teeth that lined the edges
to keep it from blowing away
into the dark beyond the doorway.

I’m not frightened by the strangeness of this place,
and I’m not comforted by its familiarity either.

I’m not terrified of the evil that resides here,
and I’m not in awe of the virtue either.

Maybe I’m so scared
because now I am aware
that this hellish place
is meant to be my home.

Dear Purple Dolphin Grandma,

      I think there’s a monotheist in my back yard, and he’s pestering the children quite a bit. I’d like to get that red potato launcher you made when you were ten to shoo him off. These pests are very persistent, as you know.

     On a drastically different note, how is the salt beach on your porch fairing these days?

                               Always confused,
                                      Barry

P.S. Please remember me soon. I’m tired of playing hide & seek in the dark by myself.

I know,
I’m not here
for very long
nor do I visit often.

But there’s food
in the fridge

and a cat
on the entrance mat.

Make yourself at home,
and please don’t touch
any of my foam fruits.

They’re for the funeral.

Chloroform color farms bleed skeins of
antimatter into the gristle-strewn,
barricaded streets teeming with
every half-assed notion of hope
that keeps our ignorance strong.

The real world is something
rarely even dreamt about
by the diseased children
lying limp on the sidewalks,
holding stuffed plushies
full of diamond earrings
and bottles of cloudy aquarium water
and fist-sized clumps of old, grey hair;

whereas all we can think about
is our own misery as we 
bury sarcasm in sugar
and pickle the neatly trimmed
paper smiles hanging from our lips.

So
fucking
godly.

I cringe, but not noticeably.
To these dead ears, even the word “cure”
sounds like an obtrusively odious obscenity.

Subtly torn flesh oozes
glib phrases concerning
unstable mental health and
questionable faith in selfish gods and
possibly relevant forgotten childhood memories.

I’m not exactly attentive,
but I guess neither are they.

This ring is going to make me a small fortune.

I smile,
innocently,
nervously,
as they drone on about
the terrible choices I’ve made in life.

I swear there’s another one of me running around here.
Somewhere.
Maybe next to the puddle of mud-colored spit
soaking into my bare foot.
Somewhere around here.

In the dark.

I’m going to find him—me—whatever!
Goddamn, semantics, asshole.
I’m going to murder him and bathe in the bile
from his rotten, worthless lungs.

I’m going to hunt that bastard down,
and he’s going to look at me and calmly state,
“I thought I told you to stop doing cocaine.”

Then I’m going to smile real big—
people love it when I smile real big—
and I’m going to reply, frantic with excitement:
“Yeah, and I told you to stop talking to me.”

I should really start planning ahead more often.
Then maybe shit like this wouldn’t happen.