W H I T E F U Z Z

The narrator discovered Pamela’s diary:

After deciding that life, ultimately, is meaningless Pamela has decided to remove herself from it (life) indefinitely- as in: S-U-I-C-I-D-E (!). 
  A list of possible options best suiting her personal aesthetics regarding death was made; the list:

1. hanging (need to google how to make that rope knot)
2. cutting wrists
3. overdose on pills
4. car exhaust
5. blow my brains out (need to find gun) 
6. jump off something
7. something electrical in the bath

Pamela spent the better part of a week googling all of her 7 possible options of removal and was unable to make a decision as to which would be the best. In her diary she wrote:
   googled all sortsa dif stuff about how to kill myself but none of them really seem to be that cool! ugh this stresses me out so much i guess i wont do it.

-O.Y. [xi] 

DEAD DEAD DEAD

Destroy yourselves, you who are desperate. The world lives off your rotting flesh.

I figured since this tumblr is dead I would post something that is reminiscent of death. Putting this text type bullshit on tumblr pretty much fucking guarantees that it will be dead before it even lives. Anyway, death is truth. I imagine there are those who will find that the void must come from pulsing light as the strong must come from the weak and the greater from the lesser. This is no acid-fueled circumlocution; it is that zenith of experience that in subsequence delineates the creeping Tartarus. I wrote this in less than thirty minutes on the fourth floor of the Humanities building at the command of a man; he commanded that I write to him of the greatest thing to ever happen to me in my life. May only those souls who linger halfway in death (truth) and who seek out their own kind (this tumblr), in my words, find life, light, and illusion. Also, this is what happened. This is reality. So fuck you kids. Verbatim:

Title

            I have had an incredibly easy existence. My father and mother were raised in Ohio and lived in a trailer park that I do not remember. My father’s work eventually led him to financial success, and I was raised in affluence and needless luxury in a lame suburb named Oak Mountain. Thus, my perspective of good and bad was mangled because I had experienced little to no real misfortune in my short life.

            The “greatest thing” to ever occur in my lifetime was the forging of a friendship whose breadth and profundity has not been repeated so far.

            To escape the daily terror of existence, I emerged myself into the online realm of X-box Live and specifically the game Halo 2. In this imitation of reality, I met a person who changed my life. The significance of the circumstances under which this relationship was created cannot be understated. Since there was no way for me or him to see each other and interact with the various bodily and facial gesticulations which form such a significant portion of human interface, our interactions were merely of the voice. It was sublime. It was like we were two souls in union. We knew each other only through what we believed and thought. We were bonded by something different and stronger than love or brotherhood. With him I shared my biggest laughs and greatest ecstasies because our union was so true. We shared all, and one soul sought out the other in this electrical phenomenal world.

            I read something once where God’s sibling created a parallel universe. The protagonist was devastated when the deity erased the world. The protagonist, having briefly spoken to his parallel self, burst into tears exclaiming, “He was the only one who truly understood me!” This is how I feel about my companion who was only a voice to me. Our relationship was not diluted by the distractions of the real world. I knew his soul, and going about various daily tasks his voice would speak to me. Before or after this person, I have never known another’s soul.

            In those tentative years of adolescence, the knowledge of true human connection was my solace. I know that in the infinity beyond death he will be there.

Video

Crawl inside yourself

& breathe a little life inside

of your lungs, pink and puny.

—

When you whisper in

my ear it turns me on;

so I roll over towards

you and invade your

body with my own.

—

Inside of the treehouse

there is a stained carpet

littered with the debris

of childhood and hot

humid summers. 

—

At times I feel absolutely

certain that I would be 

better off completely on

my own- that is, until I

see a picture of you. My

knees buckle under the

weight of all that hypo-

thetical and unused eja-

culate floating around

inside engorged testes. 

—

You like that? Ungh. You

like that, don’t you? Don’t

you? Ungh. Yeah. Take it,

take all of it. Ungh. Yeah. 

Ungh. Oh. Ungh. That feel

good? Ungh. Oh yeah. Ungh.

I’m about to come. Ungh.

Yeah. Ungh. Going to fill you.

Ungh. *kerping* All done.

-O.Y.

Gang of 9

i.

Long time ago mama said:
 Boy, you git yer head on straight an love thLord with alyer heart
And ever since she said that, I’ve been trying.

      But to no avail.

ii.

my  fingers are woven into your hair
tugging yanking pulling
your mouth is agape in distended pain
   and from your belly you scream—

my  fingers curl into claws and your red
  slimy head I push down into the floor;

‘Please be quiet, I’m reading a sermon
   from the Mr. J. Osteen.’

iii.

The Magpie sings in the morning,
i find its tune to be
irksome.

iv.

this shadow is a pillar which sprouts up
from the ground and becomes a fig tree
and from a branch i pluck a fruit and
sink my double row of fangs into the skin
and break all my teeth on something hard
inside.

v.

a group of them, dark figures, purple stained teeth
dripping,
huddled around a girl, naked and sprawled, legs open,
defiled,
someone with a video camera, one swollen red socket,
busted lip, busted nose, broken fingers,
perfect 90degree angles,
cackling figures, cackling dark figures, cackling dark figures
with purple stained teeth, huddled around this sprawled 
girl, crying, trying to crawl away, cackling dark figures with
purple stained teeth stand huddled around a broken fingered
and defiled girl and the open eye lids peeled all the way back
gazing upward into the huddle of cackling dark figures with purple
stained teeth, each holding their cocks in their hands
with pan flutes in their mouths, and

vi.

Looking at myself at age 4 in a red wagon downwards on a hill the vibrations rattle my baby teeth rattle rolling closer to me I’m whooping in excitement because I am going fast and I have the whole street to myself and leisure.

vii.

Slithering shadow serpent lispy hiss teal scales soft as feathers and one thick hand extending from the mouth holding outward towards Sky So Blue, So Blue a canteen filled with ether.

viii.

Your entire hand is down your throat and inside of your stomach feeling around in the hot bubbling pit of your guts for your last shreds of dignity.

ix. 

Freefalling from superheights through the whole entire sky like a dart or torpedo downwards gravity has me by the ankle gripping hard all of the air rushing inside my throat and my lungs just exploded. 

Photo

SARX.

I have nursed at the healing cactus and sniffed

The sibylline vapors at Cumae,

And have fondled the essence

Of dogs’ twilight ululations,

Lusting for the infinite.

Looked for that mighty ghost

Who’s said to lurk among the stars,

Cosmic arbiter Who

Emerged from metaphysical wastes to

Call us from this salty marble’s

Natal crust.

Faith rent, soul spent,

I come to see that He is me.

Exiled in these sunblind sands of absurdity,

As vultures circle hope and reason,

And lucidity founders in metaphor,

Towards that end from which the flesh revolts,

A lonesome gent, I gently float.

Bizarre intellect with which He’s cursed me,

Cannot sort these myriad memories

Into but a pile of broken imagery

Signifying nothing.

Having barely sipped the mortal cup,

I spit out ashes.

Watch me dance!

KM

Veelaj

She is wearing a mustard yellow sari.

Gold bracelet halo around her forearm, it moves as she covers her mouth with the tail corner of her headscarf when speaking.

Geese, ducks, hens and chicks wander around the ground, grubbing, scratching the dirt and jerking their necks. Goats and cows tied with hairy, fraying lengths of rope to trees scattered throughout the compound.

Daughter-in-laws stand behind her bamboo chair, as she sits and hesitates to look me in the face. She answers questions through a third party, the translator. He is wearing a second halo: a fine ring of sunlight reflected in the sweat encircling his bald head. It seems he is taking liberties with his interpretations of query and response.

Brick walls surround the house, mud walls are the house. A second brick structure is empty except for breaths of smoke meandering out a doorway that has no door, and is impossible to see inside. The translator tells us it is full of potatoes.

New sheet metal roofs, thanks to better business in recent years. The monsoons would destroy the old palm leaf tops, so they are thankful. Bamboo is plentiful: a bamboo shed houses several hundred bamboo rods, cores, each covered in a thin column of cow shit, rolled and flattened around the wood, no more than an inch thick.

The family sells rolls of cow shit to the neighbors, fuel for cooking fires.

my skin coarse leather and my voice is a gutteral growl

My stomach is swollen from years of excess drinking (put that bottle down!)

     and now, in my sunset years- I am an angry man. (ain’t gonna be able to be nice, never)

I am a man of malice and agony, directed towards only one person. (i am the caricaturization of every mean old man you’ve heard anecdotes about)

My self. (it’s true- not even my own lonesome self considers me a friend)

The veins in my legs are varicose and after a long
night with a liter of double-strength bourbon, (if it don’t burn, it don’t work)

when my eyes cross themselves and the whole world
becomes foggy, these veins spell out my biggest (acrostics from the inner-self)

regrets.

Infidelity
Excess
Self-Defeat
Selfish
Miserable
Jealous
Bitter
A liar

to name a few.

‘Tis true, I am an angry and god fearing man. (fearful of god in the sense that i’m terrified of the prospect of heaven being a dry-county, so to speak)
I have sired three children, none of which give a rat’s ass

about their mean old man.

In the post the other day, my oldest wrote to me (the first bit of personal mail in years)
Dear Dad,

Are you still drinking? I was listening to talk radio the other day and they said people in their 70s who live alone should take up writing. Maybe you should take up writing, too. Stop smoking, Dad. I love you.

So I’ve taken the advice of my eldest, I am writing. (your prose is choppy, could use revision)