The Death Rattle

Settle in to that death suit, the one with straight black pant legs and a starched lapels. Lean back in your coffin and let the dirt weevils work their tiny toothed magic. They will gnaw tunnels in your bones, yodel in your nose holes and listen to the echoes, chew on your hair like tobacco and spit it in your eye sockets. In short you will be an amusement park for the parasites. They will use you up and then move on to the next fresh corpse. In this way they are like people and death will be much like life… .

Throwbacks

The greasy haired throwbacks with sleeves of blue and green come knuckle scraping into the downtown. On donkeys of manufactured steel that gurgle and spit the blackest of breath they come roaring into yesterday--lances bent and Viagra spent. I cover my ears as the amplitude of their rolling carnival cracks the glass of Red Bull and vodka in the hand of the fair porno maiden. They sneer and spit, the rebels that understand only the old heave ho, the rebels that have nothing to rebel against but their own stupidity. The world must be a beautiful place if you see it in one dimension, wind cutting through what’s left of the hair, eyes fixed on the yellow lines, the mind a pickled remnant of something that apes once used to build great tree dwelling civilizations.

The Lurkers

The lurkers, the shirkers, and the down right dastardly nestle in the creases at the murky bottom. I want to drain the oil drums, pour them out onto the hot pavement, watch them fry up into vapors and mix with the black car exhaust hovering over our city. I picture them then floating, choking, sucking in their mistakes as they head straight for outer space and that jagged red star code named Alpha.

the Virgin Festival

I went to the Virgin Festival on Saturday at Pimlico in Baltimore. The Red Hot Chili Peppers, the Who, the Killers…you get the point. The music was great but by the end of the day I was growing tired and one too many people bumped into me and didn’t say excuse me or sorry. When the Chili Peppers were playing some kid smashed into my back and almost knocked me down. I grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around before he could run past me. I said, “You fucking little cocksucker. Who the fuck do you think you are? You rammed into my back and then kept on going. You say excuse me or sorry.” He stood there with a blank look on his face. He was too drunk, rude and dumb to know he should have said “sorry” and walked away. He stood there and my fists tightened. I wanted so badly to punch him in the face but I knew it would only get me arrested. What is wrong with people? Why the fuck can’t they say excuse me or sorry or acknowledge in some way that they’ve bumped into you? Ugh, people are so self-centered, such gluttons and foolish uncaring jackasses. I am sad to report that in upwards of 75% of the people at the concert were rude idiots. This isn’t an age related issue either older people were just as rude. Yeah, I still had a good time anyway but I’ll remember every single one of those people when I take over the world with the death ray I’ve been working on. Really, it’s almost done? Have you been rude lately?

Scraped

The bug eyed beasts with scaly intentions keep swimming through my midnight. Upon rising (at dawn’s earliest light) my ears echo with liquid not of bodily origin. I shiver-- they have broken through—against my driest wishes. My intentions are to sharpen my prized spatula (yes the one I wear in a holster on my hip) and scrape them and their slime from the insides of my head. This will require surgery of the type performed on ones self which of course would be a medical first and a good excuse to garner sympathy from attractive females. Whilst I recover I will allow select female recruits to spoon feed me beer and chapters of Hunter S. Thompson novels. In the end I will grow stronger and be better schooled in Gonzo journalism. Everyone has to have a plan right? Good, I’m glad you understand because you might be one of the beasts that gets scraped…

I was driving to work yesterday and up ahead I saw a car parked crookedly—half of the vehicle on the sidewalk, half of the vehicle on the road. In front of the car I noticed a guy standing up against a trash can. I wondered what the fuck he was doing so close to a trash can. As I drew closer I noticed he was glancing over his shoulder as if he were worried someone would see him. As I drew still closer still I realized the source of his concern. His dick was hanging over the side of the trash can. He was pissing. He wobbled and then fell back onto the hood of his car, piss flying everywhere. Now, this wasn’t on a country road but in town on the way into the city just passed a busy intersection. I hope this guy got arrested because there is no way in Hell he should have been driving at seven o’clock in the morning or any time for that matter.