Tiny puddles of blood on my doorstep
A dead baby bird.
Everything that disgusts me in one small crushed grey shell
Lovingly, its eyes still closed.
Faint and motionless, teeming with ants, (god forbid) you spend your daily life ignored.
It’s because I’ve never felt as lonely as I do in a crowded room.
When something is soft and malleable, the universe doesn’t know what to do with it
Except to destroy what it can.
Everybody pretends they want to know but they don’t want to know
The things that make you tick, and cringe, and make your dick hard are not topics to explore.
Talk about pleasantries.
The new episode of [fill in the blank with example of mainstream media]
And that time something ironic happened to you.
My organs are a festering pool.
Spilling out wherever they see fit.
Moving into locations they aren’t supposed to know.
Eroding my esophagus into an acidic crimson glow
Until eventually my anxiety aggressively spills out like projectile vomit painting someone’s party dress.
What is someone to do when they feel their opinion no longer holds weight
And they are incapable of giving a shit?
Shallowness is depth, and depth is disgusting.
Currently I am in love with art and photography that shows people with obscured faces. Here’s a few of them I’ve found online.
Also, if you like this sort of thing, I happen to post quite a bit of similar content on my tumblr at: We Eat Our Own
Have you ever read a book and immediately felt bonded to it? When I first read The Catcher in the Rye I was the exact same age as Holden, and much of what he said seemed as if the words were taken directly out of my brain. So imagine my excitement when I found this at the bookstore the other day. A book that merges two of my ongoing interests. Now I just wish they’d make one of these for Seymour Glass or Kafka’s The Metamorphosis…
The sky, a golden glow of lavender as I gnaw on my knee
We are nothing more than bones and red meat.
I have this pain in my ear like an earwig is crawling its way to my brain slowly
Revenge for the time I watched some little shithead pull its legs out one by one.
All my life I’ve been hiding behind someone’s leg.
Crippled by my retarded speech.
As children, we are all fooled into thinking we are relevant.
A conveyor belt of nervous breakdowns impatiently parading down my spine.
Sometimes I just can’t bear to be awake.
Under an orange peel ceiling stretched across the bed
Summer evenings spent romanticizing my death
And when it happens the only thought I’ll have is
“I knew it would end like this,”
as I slip into that final moment of self-induced euphoria.
When I had pink eye as a child I fantasized about pulling out my eyeball,
scraping out the gravel from behind the socket
and then boiling it on the stove.
And that bedroom window you were so sure someone was staring into
the car that drove by a little too slow
The frailty of teenage war and sex, onscreen
Masturbating to an image of yourself in grainy solitude
Somewhere a girl is forcing her friend into a humiliating situation only because she is bored.
Choking on her own spit
Get on your knees to please me.
He even has the nerve to look bored.
Precognition was a state of bliss.
The difference between whether I want to fuck someone or be someone becomes muddled.
I clench my teeth like a bear trap
Death is slow and degrading.
The only thing I like about my life is that it will eventually end.
And he saw the dead rotting corpses rising through the cracks in the floor.
Tuning in to static to settle the mind.
I made instant rice. The sound of the bag bobbing up and down in the pot sounded like someone enthusiastically jerking off.
The last time I used a public restroom and had to listen to the girl two stalls down texting her friends while she took one shit after another.
These are the guidelines for your tiny little public confessionals.
People have sex with mice, they do.
And they write about it on the walls. Every last little detail and each scrape of the nails against their genitals.
I do not know if I want to know this and yet I do because these people have to document every reoccurring exploit.
Every father molesting his child with a fake vegetable oiled tan and furrowed brow -
Always looking directly into the camera and smiling.
Everything comes back to sex and what gets people off properly
And what leaves them wanting?
Those oh-so-difficult periods of stagnancy spent seeking out the family pet,
The younger sibling,
The work out gear, the noose, the plastic bags, produce and humiliation,
the whips, the pills, the sharp device,
Self-containment, swallowing, digesting.
The universal truth is:
Gang bangs are empowering.
Don’t swallow what you can’t fuck.
Food and shit are interchangeable.
When the party’s over, kill yourself in public.
Humanity is highly fecund in its depravity.
Bring on the shaking asses and tits! There are important questions that need to be answered!
“Can they fit SIX fists in there?”
“Is it longer than my arm?”
“What can she do with her puke?”
“Will they eat ALL bodily fluids without exception?” and, of course, “How will they eat them?”
And I am listening to the texting, and the shitting, and imagining her with the mouse at a frat party being egged on by all the flush-faced college dudes who are aching for a new vid to put online.
They’re tugging at themselves while she’s gagging.
They’re high-fiving their friends.
They’re making advance plans to bring the retard girl next weekend.
And this is the root of it all. The reason we’re all here.
Everyone wants to get off. And somehow birthdays are supposed to be sacred.
Poem read by Pat Wenzel
Videography by Jamie Robinson
There are eyes staring at me from behind the trees in my backyard
Swallowing their spit
Staring past the depths with which I have always seen
waiting since my childhood with baited breath as the years go by
But what sense is it to make a decision when
Everything you do is a means to the same end.
Two things happen when I am extremely stressed out. I want to sleep and masturbate. Sometimes at the same time.
A few times I have woke up in the middle of a masturbation dream only to find myself grinding my groin all over the mattress.
Life mimics art, I suppose.
The art is the FUCK.
Lies within twisted, mangled limbs
And the desperation of college girls,
Trying hard to get fucked when all they have to do is show up.
Fat girls everywhere pretending they’re Bettie Page
Mercifully forgetting that Bettie Page was skinny.
But everyone loves a dumb girl who will laugh at everything they say
Carelessly holding a long island in one hand
Fixing her hair with the other.
And the men watch the girl’s throat shift as she chokes down her drinks
Dreaming of a dick suck
& her contorting throat
Everything is sex.
But what’s more offensive, the violence or the sex?
I feel like my bones are melting.
Every imperfection unavoidably rearing its ugly head
The wretchedness just begging to be loved
When I would rather vomit directly in its face than hold its hand.
For some reason everything seems seedier in print.
And they’re approaching. Shouting – screaming, actually.
Coming in waves of twos and threes.
Where once they looked like writhing maggots, all mucus-y spit and squirming.
Strings of guts oozing out between their teeth
Clenching their jaws for the death blow.
And the stadium laughs at this pathetic lump of nothingness whimpering on the floor
Like a child that’s wet itself
And is acutely aware of the embarrassment.
I am alive when they start eating my intestines.
I HAVE NEVER BEEN HAPPIER.
Poem read by Jarod Dubz Oertel. Video courtesy of Jarod Dubz Oertel.