Categories
Poems

Sudafed Beach

Sitting in a pitch-black attic for decades.

a perfect place

cough medicine and shame

yellow skin

fit in

to him

 

no one can relate

self-revelation forgotten

illumination faced

daily basis

lost temper

dissociate with the same anticipation

 

Dissociatives have never been so welcome.

Dali
Categories
Fiction Short Stories

Luck Meant Nothing

Tina was in a tattoo shop all fucked up and shit. The stench that emanated throughout that dirty old parlor resembled the odor of feces. The oxies were flowing through her and she was underwater. Tina felt those familiar sensations pulsing; the sharks were swimming through her bloodstream. Those tiny instances of pain were underlying. They were not physical.

How are yah?

In walked a salty and bloated obese lady with freckles, pseudo-polynesian and celtic shoulder designs who blurted out nonsense that Tina did not give a shit about.

blah blah blah.

Flubbery noises seeped through Tina’s mind. She was trapped under ice with frost chipped bones.

Fuck that bitch. Fuck that cunt.

Apparently she had not only thought those words.

What the fuck yah say?

The fat lady attempted to have an intimidating demeanor, leaning over the counter with her pudgy knuckles against the rotting wood. Tina gave her a blank stare from behind the front desk.

This is how yah treat your customers?

Tina was only concerned with treating her invisible wounds. An “under the table” employee, she was in actuality, the only worker present at the moment. All the artists had taken off to the dive bar down the street hours before.

Hello?

Holy shit, that bitch was still there.

Name?

The word was automatic.

Shannon, I came and talked to Marty yesterday.

Well he isn’t here, come back tomorrow.

That’s what that teenage tramp told me last week.

Shannon had pushed her luck. Tina was no longer dazing off as the fat woman’s words had a peculiar effect on her. She knew that the bitch was talking about her daughter.

The room was barren, except for the palpable air of Tina’s virulent thoughts. She did not perceive them as thoughts however, more like uncontrollable impulses. She grabbed the woman’s wire-like hair from behind the desk, and yanked the head connected. Her face smashed against wood.

Wait right here please.

Although those words were unnecessary, as the woman’s body had slumped to the floor. Tina returned from the back of the store after a couple of minutes with an unassuming cardboard box. Blood was oozing from the gash on the motionless woman’s forehead. The mess aggravated Tina even more so.

Tina pulled used needles from the box and went to work displaying her art for the first time in her life. It was beautiful.

After an hour of diligent work, the semi-conscious woman was covered in blood and black. The ink had been gone over multiple times and was buried deep in the pale skin. The designs she drew were as arbitrary as the poorly done tattoos on the woman’s shoulders, and yet it carried meaning.

Once Tina had finished her piece, she went out back for a smoke. Each drag ushered in a more coherent state of mind, and the reasoning began. She knew she had to clean up the mess and dispose of the tangled lump of flesh.

Tina was the kind of woman that adhered to blind faith. She worshipped the concept of luck- rabbit tail and all. It was a remedy to the kind of chaos experienced growing up with a lack of guardians.

A ruckus in the building. She did not pay attention. Keep on puffing. More and more she regretted the failure of her original, poorly conceived plan. Tina meant to infect the hefty woman with Hep, then dope her up and place a fake receipt to another ink shop in her purse.

The boys were back from the bar. Everything was over for Tina. They laughed.

You really out-did yourself on this one Tina.

I think I’ll have to turn you in for doing such a shitty ink job.

She ran out, insulted, she cried from the humiliation. Her aspirations for being an artist were crushed. Her daughter would be abandoned like she once was. And it all ended with lightning strikes and a rope in a motel closet.

Categories
Poems

Our Withering Stem

epidemic spreading throughout

perfectly capable young people,

drowning in misery disease widespread

this detriment hungers for quality

those afflicted hold no potential

an old friend slumped against something

in an alley she didn’t recognize anyone

knowing not why she’s there

no one could convince her otherwise

Image

Categories
Poems

Concrete Stained

Concrete Stained

Behind the pillar, a skinned dog once sat.
The blood is gone, and so is he.
Underneath the garbage piles is salvation for the lowest.
Passionate reflection of an alternate state of being.
Withdraw we will not.

Categories
Poems

Occupy Nothing

Occupy Nothing

We got drunk with homeless people

in tents outside city hall

in the frigid air last fall.

The movement fell apart,

and the city would rather tear up the pavement

around the half-abandoned administrative center

for an indefinite amount of time

than have the wrong people transparently living

out there in the middle of the city

for everyone to see.

At least now the vagrants and troublemakers are scattered

about so no one can pay attention once again.

Someone got shot there during fourth of July;

thousands of people were herded through the gates of hell,

“to celebrate fascism” as a nice old man commented to me

as I walked by, I didn’t know what to respond.

We left as soon as we got there because it was beyond suffocating.

There is a lack of understanding in everyone, and it is exhausting not being naive.

Philadelphia will remain static on the outside.