Worthless Drunk

Dearest You,

I know that you are trying to say something to me but with your lips wrapped so tightly around his cock, it’s hard to distinguish one sound from another, let alone make out the words. I want to grab you by your tiny larynx and whisper into your ear so many things but you are always so busy, busy with his cock. Remember when we were friends? No? Me either.

1…2…3…you and all your colloquial language, how am I to decipher these things? Just be quiet and listen to me: I knew of you since the beginning, auburn stranger, onyx porcelain skin, sharing lifelines. Do you feel so very special inside of your tarmac box? Your only aspirations were conceptualized by me; raven familiar, intoxicated warrior, octopode eggplant Oya. You don’t realize, but you need me to understand these good times.

I’ll tell you a story.

Once upon a time, my hair smelled of angel’s puke and I was happy living inside of a train to nowhere with a gun in my holster. This gun would sing to me at night while rubbing its long barrel against my backside until…ah, who cares.

Watching you. Watching you. I don’t think you ever expected me here, now. I was scoping you while you were scoping the spot. Just die already, I hate this piece–it’s forced. I’m off to drink PBR, eat leftover pad thai and listen to Biggie.

Psychic Wide Hurt Open Spaces

She had this dream that she shared with him because she wanted to share everything with him and he confided in her that he had the same dream as well. She was pleased and not very surprised because they were always on the same level of consciousness, so much that she considered the two of them to be an intricate arrangement of crossing paths and laths or a partially ordered set of two elements containing supremum and infimum, respectively.

As they shared this mutual dream of expansive redundancy and never-ending nothingness, they began to expand upon it, contributing their personal variations of details and the dream grew, it grew so large that they could barely contain it and would spend hours outside in the purple moonlight with this alternate reality, sharpening it’s edges until they blurred, building tiny soldiers and insects, imagining a family together and creating vibrant abscondence for their firearms out of opium poppies.

Her perspective of this dream was so special, so idealized, so entirely them that it became heaven to her and she could almost die. Little did she know he was recycling this world they had created together and using it to entice others. She did not know, hadn’t the slightest inkling but still, it hurt her. Tiny daggers in her side as lesser women with better bodies strutted around the garden SHE had created in their cheap stripper heels. Dagger in her side, dagger in her side. To her, everything was so perfect so she could never understand why she began to wake up with her side bleeding. Dagger in her side, daggers inside.

Some Guy Gave Me Cheeseburgers

Twins are creepy, Alice thought to herself as she kicked a pile of gold glitter absentmindedly. It was everywhere on Hollywood Blvd that day: big metallic chunks of celebration that had been strewn about recklessly; a glimmering manifestation of the vapidness that surrounded her. The glitter, much like her problems, seemed to have no end in sight.

She despised being a carbon, so why did she choose to live here of all places? This was something that she often pondered. She hated the way her sister looked at her all the time, with eyes so much like her own. Being filled with self-hatred, she didn’t necessarily want to stare into a mirror all of the time. Her memories stepped outside and wandered off without her, dragging her by a psychic leash, back to that time at the tea-party when her sister made an herbal-infused spectacle of herself, dancing atop the table to reveal she hadn’t any knickers under her dress before pissing into everyone’s teacups with perfect aim and precision.

Day turned into night and the night turned cold and she found herself still on Hollywood Blvd, staring into the store windows at The Hollywood & Highland center. She thought that she saw her sister inside the GAP. “What the fuck is she doing in there after hours?” she said aloud softly. She couldn’t take it. There seemed to be no escaping her. She turned on her heels and started running. She ran all the way home to their shared apartment on Sunset and Santa Monica. She bolted inside and collapsed panting on the couch. Her sister was sitting there watching some mindless television show in her underwear.

“Why are you panting?” the sister asked without averting her eyes from the television screen.

“I thought I saw you in the GAP.”

“Well you didn’t. I’m sitting right here obviously. I don’t like their clothes anyway.”

“Isn’t it enough that we shared a womb? Why do you have to be everywhere I am.”

“Fuck you, asshole. I’m hungry.”

She contemplated making her sister some spaghetti with glass in it before getting up to go into the bathroom, but decided against it. Once inside, she calmly took off her pantyhose and fashioned them into a noose that hung from the shower curtain rod. As she slowly stepped into the tub, the door opened and her sister appeared instantly on the toilet seat; cotton panties around her ankles, a Camel cigarette dangling from her lips.

“Not high enough, idiot.” the sister remarked through a cloud of smoke.

Alice climbed onto the edge of the bathtub and put her head in anyway. Her sister didn’t even blink. As Alice tightened the hose she noticed there wasn’t even a flicker of concern inside of her sister’s cold blue eyes. She stepped off.

And they stared at each other with the same eyes for all of eternity.

Virginia 1997 to Berlin 2012

My Dearest Therianthrope,

I am writing this to you from on the road. It is my impression that the Zionists are everywhere. I visited a time machine earlier today and even though our edges were moving further out, my recollections of you were vivid as ever. Neon hues of you so vibrant I could taste them. Later on, I went inside a plastic death box and peered into the pits of hell, which were really more tide pools of hell than anything. All of that murky water reflecting the moonlight in such a way that the sea anemones shone purple. I felt sorry for them with no fingers inside to guide them. Then I closed the lid.

Remember you and I that one summer when my hair was that sandy brown colour and your race had become completely undefinable? We were so powerful then. I was reliving all those moments earlier while staring into a long mirror. I’m not sure if it was one of those trick ones but for the first time ever, I really liked what I saw. I briefly agonized over the possibility of it being a trick mirror before deciding it didn’t matter–perception is reality, as they say.

All of my love forever,
Memphis

Unequally Yoked: Murderer and Victim

Death is so intimate, they both agreed.

She stood before her vanity, brushing her hair in her long white nightgown, the way she did everynight, with the lights off and the window open just a crack. She looked so pure at night, with no makeup on, when through darkness you couldn’t see that she had crudely carved the name “Ellegua” into her right arm, with no harsh sunlight around to illuminate the horror stories the mangled flesh on her neck told. Stories of vampires and werewolves who had taken from her until they could take no more.

She pretended to not hear his big feet crunching the dead hedera helix as they stalked up the the side of the building. She pretended not to see him in her peripheral vision when he glared at her with big cowrie shell eyes. She took a deep breath and closed hers.

She couldn’t pretend not to feel it as he plunged his large blade inside her body, over and over again, twisting and turning, ripping her soft flesh apart. She couldn’t bear to keep her eyes closed any longer so she opened them widely and frantically looked into his though they bore no reflection.

In this moment, she experienced a closeness she had never felt before and would never feel again.

She knew this is what she always wanted, what she had always asked for, what they had planned together since childhood, but as the blood gurgled out of her mouth in dark crimson rivers, she couldn’t help but feel cheated; he would live to do this again and again with countless others. She had this once to do it only with him.

“Now you are truly mine forever, my dear Oshun.” He whispered softly into her ear, before kissing her deeply and closing her lifeless face with his fists, tiny shards of her crooked teeth flying everywhere

7 for Magic and Sex with the Antichrist

Though she is a woman, she is not a witch, she is a wizard. There is a difference.

Witches are evil for one (1). Especially the white ones. Everyone knows that.

The word ‘wizard’ is commonly associated with the male gender but this is only because wizards are stronger. It is rare for a woman to be a wizard, but not impossible.

The reason wizards are stronger is because they base their craft on science, alchemy, fact. A witch bases hocus-pocus spells on herbalist emotion, impulse, intuition.

Not only is she a wizard, she is also a male chauvinist. Still rare but not impossible.

What is behind door #8?

Any savant or sonarman can tell you that 8 is 2 cubed, the natural octal-number preceding 9, the infinity integer. Only a prophetic wizard can tell you that 8 is the final order of the prelapsarian Christ-child before he devours himself whole and turns into 9 (the serpent’s tail): 99 (rebirth): 999 (666): 9999 (the Antichrist).

They have been one and the same all along, don’t you see?

Everything is significant. Everything has meaning. Every tiny little moment of existence is magic. Everything is mathematics.

Life is movement composed of millions of complex codes. Codes that can be broken down into minuscule fragments. Every fragment contains a tiny little code of its own; waiting to be dissected, analysed, understood.

There is nothing that cannot be traced back to a number.

This particular moment in time is brought to you by the number 7. Not in a mystical way, but in a logical way.

If you can begin to understand the patterns, you can comprehend the codes that create life (beyond basic procreation). Knowledge of the codes will give you the power to have sex with the Antichrist (yes, it takes power).

Once you have sex with the Antichrist there is literally NOTHING you cannot do.
One of the many capabilities of the great empowered-antifeminist-female-wizard is to write blog posts via blackberry while walking home from metro stations in the freezing cold at midnight (were she a witch she would just get on her broom and fly).

This is the real secret. You don’t have to watch it in jest.

“Boo”

Though they had went to elementary school together, it wasn’t until the 6^th grade that she noticed Elijah James. He was a short, cherubic-looking half-black kid, with blue eyes and a tangled mess of golden curls atop his round head.

She was so much taller than all the boys, and too thin in some places, yet somehow not thin enough because she already wore her BONGO jeans in a women’s size while all the other girls still got theirs in the kiddie department.

He played football and always listened to Tupac and Dr. Dre on his walkman during her favourite class; Language Arts. She went to raves, worshiped Axl Rose and Kurt Cobain, and pretended like she didn’t know every word to every song on Snoop Doggy Dogg’s ‘Doggystyle’ album.

He had a cheerleader girlfriend named Amber, the most popular girl in their grade, a tiny blond bird-like creature who bought new clothes at Nordstrom every single weekend.

The only reason she had begun to take notice of Elijah James in the 6^th grade was because that was when he began to torment her every day. “Jolly Brown Giant” he called her. He would gather his buddies around to marvel at her chest, which had not yet sprouted even those little bud-like prepubescent titties that other girls had in the 3^rd grade. They would point while chanting loudly, “Flat as a board! Flat as a board!”.

Once he rummaged through her desk, found and passed around the love poems she had written for Daniel, an angry Mexican foster-child. At lunchtime, a furious Daniel walked up to her, called her an ugly bitch and punched her in the chest–hard–in front of everyone. She looked deeply into his tiny black eyes while fighting back tears and said nothing, a wave of humiliation washing over her.

That very same day Daniel walked her home from school and they smoked pot out of an apple behind the bushes and he let her give him a clumsy hand job, a first for the both of them, and they never spoke again.

Fast forward to 1997 and Elijah The Tormentor is somehow at her 16^th birthday party. Only, no-one is really there for her, they are all there for the 6 kegs of beer that her 4 Puerto Rican roommates (all brothers) got to celebrate the occasion of having any excuse to drink beer.

They haven’t seen each other since one month into the 7^th grade—when she dropped out of junior high to finish college. They are drunk and marveling at the mutual attraction that has been born out of the lethal combination of puberty and alcohol.

She is out of the closet about rapping now, so they freestyle together in the living room (TERRIBLY), before falling into a drunken kiss. As their teenage tongues intertwine she remembers all of the terrible things he ever did to her and she begins to feel the need to exact her revenge. She grabs him by the hand and whispers softly, “Let’s go to my room.”

Barely 16, and very much still a virgin, for the first time in her life she wants to fuck.

He has a condom in his wallet and she doesn’t know what to do so she just lays there while he fumbles with it, sticks it inside.

It doesn’t hurt like she thought it would when he pops her cherry, it’s more like a lot of resistance as he goes in-out, in-out. in-out. She is immediately disappointed and can’t believe that this is what sex is, what everyone makes such a big fuss about.

“Is that it?” she accidentally mumbles audibly.

“What?”

“I mean, are you almost done?”

“A few more minutes.”

It is pitch black and his night-vision is NOT on fire so he doesn’t see her when she rolls her eyes. He cums.

“I think you should leave now.” she says.

“Okay.” he heads for the door.

She intercepts.

“Out the window, I don’t want anyone to see you.”

He looks taken aback but swings one leg over the ledge anyway. He looks back at her with wide pupils, the moonlight bouncing off of his pale blue eyes.

“Oh shit, that’s a really far jump!”

She pushes him and laughs hysterically when he falls flat on his ass and scrambles as the Riqueño’s pit bull, Sativa, starts chasing him around the yard.

She leans her shirtless torso out of the window, her a-cup breasts still too small to dangle, points and starts yelling, “Flat as a board! Flat as a board!”

Human Capital – Deservancy & Becoming Worthy

Her ability to be pathetic is no longer what it was.

3³ = 3 × 3 × 3

Love is Amorphous, Love is a Shapeshifter

After traveling through many a galaxy and taking on a variety of forms, including therianthrope, he once again became all she needed. Him as her divine sustenance was his final transmogrification. “Life always happens on a Monday…” he belted out as he descended from the sky. It was just one of the many made up songs that he sang to her every time he reappeared out of thin air, always while falling out of the sky like money.

In his most recent form he had somehow reduced the amount of oxyhemoglobin in his skin and when their pale palms touched again for the first time in centuries, she grew languid while he waxed and waned. He glimmered like a hologram, his hope inside her. Oh, how she longed to possess the same abilities to metamorphose, so that she might become any and everything he ever wanted. She would do that for him.

He whispered lyrical incantations softly into her bloodied eardrums—sacred combinations of comedy/tragedy/pleasure/pain that had been handed down to him by those who came before him. Throughout time he had been many men; to her, and to others. His entire existence was a dance, with feet that moved wildly to the beat of every drummer. Rhythmic throes and gyrations meant to mesmerize the entire audience (population) but still, she managed to always feel alone in these clustered crowds, with a spotlight around her heart, his hope hard in her trembling tattooed hands.

In the beginning it was always them, and in the end, it will be them again. Lost and penniless, in trains and across oceans, stopping only briefly to glance at Austria, Greenland, Madagascar. They will be one and the same; beautiful imperfect beings, with his legions of followers trailing loudly behind them. So loud but she wont hear a sound. She wont hear a sound because her heartbeat will be in her face and because his love is fucking deafening. His love is lightning quick and deliberate, with sharp, powerful blows that will rain across her entire life until it swells shut, trapping him inside forever—so black and blue and tender.