A Fine Line

Everybody fuck along

I already know this song

Too tired to shake this beat

Won’t even lift my feet


Cut a fine line to paradise

Only way to give me a rise

It’s a slow walk down to Hell

I’m in no rush, I know it well


Pallid faces swim past me

Can’t make a space to plead

Guess I’ll crawl under this hole

Let it chew and spit my soul.



Night Capsule

Lets go to the bar and take these capsules of night

Where we can drown placidly in its turbulent waters

Of our own design, our own desire

You are my oxygen to inhale

Fill my lungs with your ecstasy

This lust that touches every cavity

Lets watch the night ink away

Maybe hold hands when the Sun rises

Will you still be there when the morning comes?

Or where you just a dream held within the tides of night?

His Muse

Alphonse sat in the middle of the small square room, on a chair that looked like the skeleton of a new species of vertebrate. It mas made of wood, curving to the shape of his back, painted white, but already there were signs of wear; chips in the painting showed a dull gray underneath.

The rest of the room was empty. Four walls, ceiling and floor, all painted black. He was facing the door, also black. Above was a lone lightbulb, making a low buzzing sound as it shed its sickly, fried-egg yellow light over Alphonse’s head.

Of course he was wearing his brown tweed jacket, all buttoned up, with brown pants, it all had to match perfectly when she came in.

“My muse.”, he whispered to no one in particular. The door opened up with a creaking sound that made him grit his teeth. Upon the door frame, wearing a red dress that flowed like a waterfall of blood over her body, bald, with hazel eyes that kept Alphonse’s own watery-blue focused on them.

Gorgeous, gorgeous. My muse. Dried lips were licked; it almost hurt to feel how chapped they were. Alphonse didn’t care, she was here now. The muse sauntered lazily over into the room and stopped a few inches in front of him. In one fluid motion she bent forward until her nose barely touched his. Both pair of eyes had not strayed away from each other.

Every time your father fucked you, you wished it had been your sister instead.”

Yes, yes. He couldn’t help himself but grin sheepishly. “How much?”, he almost moaned. The muse simply smiled, showing pearly-white teeth.

“Five years less.”

She then opened her mouth, showing razor sharp knives and swallowed him before it all went dark.

Alphonse gasped while raising his head from the desk. Breathe, breathe.

“Jesus…”, a hoarse whisper, who said that? Oh…me.

The room was a mess, clothes strewn around, the bed unmade for days now, a few styrofoam containers with remains of food lay next to his chair. On the table he was sleeping he had a typewriter, the final page of his latest work was there. There had been an idea. Feeling groggy.  One by one, Alphonse placed his fingers over the typewriter’s keyboard, trying to ground himself. His head was still swimming in molasses; he noticed the syringe on the left of the typewriter. His muse, always his muse. Waste not. The keys began to pound.


The wound was clean, already the blood had dried. Maria looked at the palm of her hand where Carlos’s blade had cut her. She didn’t feel anything, not exactly. At the time she was high as a kite, and by the time she came down from her trip they had already bandaged her. She didn’t even need any stitches. Carlos was passed out, face down, on the ratty couch by the corner of their place. Sonuvabitch.

Maria stumbled over there, still woozy from her rush. Carlos was her fuck buddy. They weren’t dating or anything. Neither one had the emotional attachment, or the energy, for that. But it got cold in the empty derelict building they nested in, like the city rats that they were. Besides, he smelled good.


Her hand smacked the back of his shaved head hard, making it move sideways, then lay still. Carlos did not stir. Maria saw an empty syringe and a rubber band on the rotten floor boards next to the couch. She wanted to laugh at how stupid this whole mess was, but tears blinded her and she had to wipe them several times.


The ivory keys of the piano stared in silence at Francesco. He could not play for the life of him. Murmurs began to rise like a tide among the crowd. A lone spotlight shone down, bathing him under its harsh light; the stage was set for his confession. Lupanaro had been right all along: he could only perform after he got his fix. His chemical muse had been taken away, and left him a frightened ruin of a man. If only the sweat cascading from under his chin could drown him.