“Nonfiction”
So this sociology shooter character got me wondering a little.. Just a little. If he could do it, who couldn’t?
As that commercial goes Not that you would, but you could…
I suggest they get some metal detectors in those fucking buildings. Just a friendly expensive suggestion to whoever writes the next budget for the relevant state governments. Gun legislation is neither hopeless nor pointless, but then again neither is it particularly suited to American psycho(patho)logy. In the state of CA(that sunny happy place ;{ ), you could buy a shotgun before you could purchase a pistol(back when I was around). Then again you can also go fight in a major war before you can vote but I’m too tired to play devil’s advocate.
My sincere apologies to whoever is suffering from any of the endless tragedies, but I don’t really care about you.(not right now at least)
I’m honest enough to admit it. Obviously if it hit me or someone close to me, I’d be concerned, but you are all TV to me, and that’s a dangerous place to be.
If I’m a beast for saying this, as I know well enough a mother (AND WHY NOT A FATHER!) of a victim would think, then I am no more a beast than the average. Are we a society of beasts with pretty manners? How to make friends and influence people… Just smile and make people feel good about themselves. Thank you, you sales genius.
I prefer talking to an actual whore than to these fucking people. And I sure as fuck will not act like I care when I don’t. I am a piece of shit either way, this way at least I don’t conceal it.
“Fiction”
The things that make us think also make us drink. Unfortunately so far I haven’t figured out a cure to that one. On the plus side I’m cleaning up other things.
An attempt at a really short story:
Sally wakes up to the sound of a loud car horn coming from somewhere out her window. Her thoughts are all over the place and she doesn’t pay attention. To be more precise, her thoughts are still not thoughts, seeing as they are located in that nether region of the soul that is hard to project coherently into words. She still mutters. “Fuck.” Instinctively her hand goes for the alarm, but the car horn does not comply. It simply refuses to comply, as if something else were controlling it. Well long story short bitch winds up dead. fin
Yeah, something ends up missing. Much like the author’s attempt to write while under the influence thoughts don’t make senssssssssseee. Then again some cats are trying to fit it all into six words or less. Godbless.More drunk than disgusted. People shouldn’t read drunken drivel, but they will anyway.
A silly lullaby in fifteen minutes high:
1.
–1828
An attempt at unedited serenity, my mind is the amenity that is in short supply I’m trying to do things that no one can reply to or for the type of shit that makes grown men mumble, silly suckers passing and then they fumble. The ball is on the court and life is but a game, a silly pawn in a silly pain. This type of thing makes me ponder on positions because on this board a square can cost a pretty penny or a nickle if you’re into paper, what a delicious caper, has people babylike, like a milkshaker.
I’m the type who speaks his mind until its time to tell the truth then the up goes the time and down goes the cool, unworried exterior. Its no longer fun and I’m drowning in the sun, the same that shines from above, the constant reminder of the one I love. You can counsel and you’d be right, and I listen and it’ll be alright, till the time comes for the final flight.
1834–
–1835
Tell me momma, tell me please if these things are killing me, the things I talk about are similar to what you suspect, but what is real is never exactly what you expect. The pain is in the little things and I understand, please remember this was never the fucking plan. I forget things I cherished and used to build a temple unto, my hand is out the sewer and still waving, but I’m not sure the time will come for my saving. You know the old fairy tale about necessity, when it comes you yell, and it ain’t like Sesame, street or not its no reality, children in their frailty are up for a sink or swim, some forget to breathe out the water, and that’s the shit I’m in.
1842 –
After about 15 minutes of incoherent sentences I give up at any further attempts. Fuck it.
la-lalala-lalalalaLA-BABA-BABA- all you …. ..
TOMMY SASHIN- OLDWriting now, and feeling tense. What I say it makes some sense.
Can I wean this craft into a trade? Make this thing work, and get paid
Can you tell me how its made?This thing of ours, this little game, where we play today and rule tomorrow,
This thing of ours, this little play, where we make men of clay that soon decay;
This thing of hours, of many hours, of countless countless hours.
Call it ruthless life, call it the struggle I’ll be out there with pick and shovel digging through the ripest vein of that golden strain of power, drawing closer to the final hour if you must.
Oooh, so is it that in God we trust?
I find myself beyond the pale white ghost of the sinner’s past, looking backwards almost aghast, but not always humbled, my thanks are always mumbled, though I wish to scream- Let me be!- you devilish fiend.
I need to know if and when it will end, but for now my thoughts are focused on a friend. The one that has been there since the beginning and will maybe make it to the end, the one we call on when in struggle, a fierce and righteous man of scruples, making all our fortunes into quadruples, needing nothing but the pooper-scoopers of the day to carry away the remains of the disarray.
The man sleeps on a bed of nails, daily scraping and disinfecting wounds; his mind is made up to be alone.
Daily fiending for a bone- the dog’s life,
Ruthless to the point of rabies.
Never thought of having babies,
Single minded pursuit of sanity,
never quite ruled by gravity,
making things be what they never could be,
simply slipping on the heavenly planes,
with ice skates sliding down the lanes,
looking down on the earth frozen in eternity,
heavenly bodies made for the infirmary
now become the background to this bizarre theater,
call him Tommy the investigator.
“Tommy, Tommy, help me please, please attempt to ‘change’ these,
these fools, these liars, these evil-doers or else our city will be in ruins.”
spoketh I.
Tommy grunts with a displeased demeanor, it seems as though he’s been iffed,
even worse now, he’s looking meaner.
“Is it me?,” I squeak and quiver.
No reply, just a shiver
down my spine, as Tommy gives that look of do or die.
“The city must be saved, its you or I.
You are weak and so it must be I,
but before I make these dreams come true,
you must bring me what is mine due.”
I comply and so return with with a gallon of whaler’s rum-the simplest means for getting the job done.
Once Tommy’s done he wipes his face,
the sweat rolls down the brows of grace,
now he’s ready, don’t call the judge or jury,
its a man’s world and this man is silly putty-
in the right hands, he’ll do his duty,
true to form, loyal to the end to his friends
in high places trading spaces and trading faces.
Tommy leaps out the frame of his hovel and
lands on streets where men and women grovel.
He’s there to show you what is possible, and what is necessary
a lepper in the land of milk and money making plans-obituary.
(to be continued, maybe)
