I’m inside the box again. That fucking box. Swear to Christ, Buddha, Mohamed, fucking Cthulhu, I’m sick of it, really, sick of it. Every time it feels like I gain momentum in something, anything, I do, sooner or later I fall into its depths. Four walls, roof, ceiling. No windows, doors, no exit of any kind. I pretty much have to force my way out of this place. Pure brute force. Each. Single. Piss. And. Blood. Time. Has anyone ever considered that it’s just, well, tiring? Like, jacked-off-to-a-five-hour-Jenna-Jameson-porn-marathon tiring. Yeah. That much. It’s a goddamn effort to raise my arms, but here I am, doing so. Why? Shit…what’s plan B? Up and die? Call it quits? Oh boy, I haven’t heard that one before, no sir. Haven’t considered just laying low, wait for the end to slowly inch its way towards me, touch my heart, grip it in its cold, murdering hand and just twist. Tick. Tock. Stop. Done. C’est fini. Ah…who am I kidding? I’m too much of a chickenshit to let it all end, and besides…there’s still a stupid, stubborn, even hopeful (God knows why) bit of me that will simply prop me up on my two and, for at least another moment, get me moving. Out of the box, back to doing whatever it is I was doing before.

Until I fall in again.


Once more unto the breach, ya freaks.



I wish I could make every inch of every vein, every artery, in your body slowly freeze solid as I whispered over your naked skin, all the little lies we tell to ourselves. How they pile up so high, our little mysteries, our very own miseries. From yesterday to yesteryear, and longer before our hair fell gray to the floor, we knew each other, or so we thought. Love…what a lifelong deception it is. Now our bodies are frail. Our skin, once taut with desire, sags with exhaustion and contempt. The only strength left is for an indifferent loathing, dreaming of better days, or worse fates for one another. I wish, I wish…and I can only do that, and nothing more, as I watch the leaves fall, with you by my side.

JPEG Attached

When he checked his cellphone’s inbox this morning, Johnson saw a file attached to a new message: a picture of him sleeping, dated from last night. The photo had been taken inside of his room. He looked peaceful, serene. Immediately below it a line of text, all written in uppercase: “I LOV THAT U DON’T MOVE WHEN I TOUCH UR FACE.” He lived alone.

Hair Down

Long ago, they say, there once was a fair maiden, whose shining black hair flowed from atop her crown past her soles below. Long it spread, far and wide, covering all the land; trees and rivers, mountains and valleys, every hovel of every village, every square of every city. Even their capital lay under its silk-smooth cover. Men, women, children and beasts were tangled in its supple touch. One by one they drifted into that sweet oblivion that is sleep. A scent of fresh flowers filled the air. Bliss, o bliss! Soon, the land was quiet under the endless mane. Now, she stands alone, amid a sea as black as a starless night; she combs it gently, slowly. A lover’s caress every night. Dreaming, yearning, of growing her hair just a little bit more. Just a bit more. A bit more. More. More. More.