A little more LATHER

Everyone has been reading the bullshit that this company is making itself. The Boss and shareholders see the profit. They drink cognac. I talk to users and try to get some information. This soap is a godsend is what I've been hearing. They can finally be clean without disability and its great for there kids and, the sick part, their infants. These people have been using the soap on the weakest skin possible. It won't take much longer until the cells dissolve and they look like that Treehouse of Horrors episode when then the end credits involve Dracula and they turn inside out. Enough of my past knowledge. The results are booming and it already out sold most brand products in the store. Well, other well known brands, the 3000 is a totally different ball game. It's off the shelves as soon as the back truck delivers it. People are stealing and hijacking these trucks to get more soap. It's like godliness meets a bad cocaine habit. Mothers and fathers too, not just the outlaws. The suburbanites and the bourgeois.

And then it happens, one day someone turns inside out and the media is on it like hot cakes. They actually show the teenager and his sister with only muscle and flesh hanging off them. The next day, another user, implodes his organs and dies on the spot in such a mess. Like a firecracker of flesh. Where people had hair there are only white spots left, dust, tissue, the skull has been scrubbed off completely, showing a subtle grey under the skull. One lady vomits in the streets and her entire lung has been regurgitated. People videotaping footage for YouTube until their body's break down themselves. It's chaos. Completely fucking chaos, and I see this myself. Nosferatu just wanders the halls cackling and there's a knock at my cell door, whilst I am writing my next review. The review saying that not only will the soap clean you but will literally become a Viagra for the male. This of course is bullshit, again. LabTech owns Facebook and YouTube. This footage will never be seen on these networking sites. Roman knows this. Everything will be erased once, when everything goes completely haywire and the corporation has fled to a remote island somewhere in the Malaysian seas. But that's just my foreshadowing. This is happening. It starts off with a little bit of dry skin, like you would get from a moisturizing soap and then piece by piece it all falls off. The cops are using it and so is the fire department. Three quarters of North America is using this. New York's finest in muscle tendon, trying to stop a simple bar of soap from overrunning the death toll in the city. The fire fighters too. Everyone you call 9-1-1 for is peeling apart slowly. There is no hope. Except this pod of course. This cell, this building.

And I'm still writing, and my words have become international. The soap is every where. The lather too thick. And riots over the soap still exist, some people are addicted to it they say, until the tendon turns into bone. Which is approximately 5-6 doses. Heroin doesn't exist anymore and there is no cure. People want more and more. LabTech isn't making any antidote and they don't plan to. Just one bar gets you started, and then the next and more and peoples life savings are going through the roof. Well, into the pockets of LabTech and its subsidiaries.

And I'm still writing.

Roman knocks on the pod door.

“Rise and shine, sunny boy,” Roman declares.

I wake up in a daze, did they drug me? Did I fall asleep?

My headache pounds and I feel like puking. There is a sink in the pod and I vomit into it. I feel much better now. The pod door slides open and I grab the tape recorder fast. I look on the bottom to make sure its the real McCoy. Its my Truth recorder.

"They`re on to me, I don`t know how much longer," Roman whispers as I hit record, “they don't know the precautions and they don't care about what is happening around them. If this goes live, how many people will be destroyed, worldwide.”

I sit on my bed, looking him in the eye and say “You’ve used it haven't you?”

Roman clears his throat and takes off his shirt, his back oozing with pustules and scratch marks and I can see his spine protruding out of his back.

“I can't stop using it, it's too addictive. The cells don't regenerate and it's what they are using that makes it so addictive. Stem cells from placentas they buy in bulk. Once the soap is on you, it attaches, and scrubs your skin. You know what we've been seeing is a small portion of what's really happening. They keep all the placentas in the basement,” Roman says peeling off skin from his back, “the soap becomes a part of you. Into your cells and pores and into your mind. It's the fountain of youth for a month and then, you know, the side effects.”

My tape ticks all this juicy information.

The pod door slides open and Nosferatu is standing the hissing.

“I need you for a moment mister Roman, it's of dire need.”

Roman looks at me with a face I have never seen on a middle aged man before. The look of darkness.

good morning

(what's your favorite Stephen King novel?) no pun on Scream.

He shook. He swallowed his pride for a moment before he picked up the phone. His hands trembled, his medication. Fuck, he thought, he must have forgotten to take it before he went to bed. That's exactly what it must have been. It just had to be. How many squares have I circled without genuine determination? His girls lied to him. They didn't stay up all night talking and laughing. They were playing video games instead of reading. Brad walked down to the fridge and decided to open a beer! Why not? A dose is a dose. Then why not stop there. The girls weren't home and Linda just fell into a light sleep. He could wake her up with a throb nestled on her thigh. He could predict that is what could happen but Linda was on and off with that sort of thing. When she was in the mood, she was REALLY in the mood. He contemplated on a third beer. Maybe a puff of the joint, Chad Collins, next door, rolled for him. Oh, Bradley, you shouldn't, his conscience told him. His last time drunk was when he gambled in Lake Tahoe, three-betting on young lovers and old degenerates. Mmm wings with beer would be fantastic at this point. He fumbled through the fridge but there was no hope. Fuck, I got to wake up at three am, in 20 minutes, to get the gear into the car and off to work. Hell, one more beer couldn't hurt. I'll be the only one opening the morning shift and no one will rush me much. The beer is cold and refreshing. I'm drunk. Linda is fast asleep. I shouldn't reckon with her. I get into my car, it's a cool spring morning. The car starts its guttural whine. It usually takes a minute or two to warm up. Any minute now, any second.

this is the life

Back to the basics

Sushi for a hangover is the best method to approach the situation. The screen tells me to pick what I must and go from there. New wave technology, at its finest, boggles my mind. Alien wavelengths. Untimed beings. The water arrives briefly and now my briefing makes sense.

The girl with the Platinum hair and the glasses. She tilts her glasses because she knows I'm watching. She is a master with chopsticks.

Next page. A conversation with myself in the washroom. I look in the mirror and wonder where I am again. This is the mission, get your head together. I've gone berserk. She poisoned me with her Platinum hair. The eye drops, the roofies. She's playing both sides. Double agent.

Better drink more water, shake this off. Then all the food arrives. I have to leave, leave without paying the 17.99 but I need crisp, fresh air.

I make myself dry heave in the snow. Trying to puke up as much venom as possible. All I can retch up is chunks of pink steak and rice.

The smell is awful. The poison must be absorbed in my system by now. No matter how much nausea, I seem light headed. A headache as dull as a noose. Serated like the end of a blade. Is this the end of zombie Shakespeare?

And then I wake up and it's another dream. The Platinum haired girl is laying next to me. The condom still squeezing my member. She leans over to face me and I give her a kiss. She gets up and gets dressed, takes the twenty dollar bill I left for her on the nightstand. I go back to bed and back to my dreamworlds. Back to a place where I am safe. Except for the plague of sanity that shatters through my unconscious mind.

The dream knows its conclusion. It starts with a direction. We can control it. The ending is already written, the rest is all foreshadowing.We see what we are in dreams. But at  the same time are dreams casts us into a realm of existential space.

We are numbers in space time. To survive. To over compensate. To dream is to survive. Unless your stuck in the attic. Listening to Neil Diamond on repeat and reading Playboy magazines. For their articles.

This is the life.

barbell

The wheat fields are harvested, down to the core. What's on is on? What's off is now? More questions than lancets. The heavens, they fall.

Hit the jump bar, swim up drinks, let it all go down, headache, they never stop talking. The language is foreplay. The words are for lust.

Nikola Tesla reborn. It's helpful for those who don't read the news. I haven't read in a while, must be a fool.

Cry so much. No life to live. These are those words when fed at most are indeed. Sit in a corner, talk to the dust. It speaks sirens, for those who can't hear.

The rich they cough from the cigarettes they inhale. Spit and drool all over the place. Hack phlegm and mucous membranes. The smell is terrible. Like shit and tobacco. The room is hung. I close my eyes, work my hands towards the sun. I close my eyes and wave my hands in the air. I open my eyes and nobodies there. It was my sensory perception, my new age ways. Where could I go, what can I be.

The fool he failed when he asked them what they prizes they were exchanging.

He thought it was underwear, when in fact it was cholera. Oops!

Better try again. The green book is passed and at the moment, in fact, what to do next is the way of a play. The situation is wonderful. The jesters stop time. On truth, it has passed, involving catering to the mass.

The people fill the room, stories too tall, fat to chew, embarking the embargo, what is that you may ask. I know neither, is it white or is it red. She's red and it's Italian.

The blood of Christ, to share with the woman who speak French in  my right ear.

Wondering her course of action, no smile on her face. She distresses over victory, whoever it may be. Understand La boheme.

She speaks the language. The victory of the world, together, water turned into wine.


There are times when you realize that no matter what happens, it is meant to live and love no matter what the night may bring.

flash 1

The man looks at the mirror

He seems himself - whatever self means

he needs a drink, but what will quench his thirst

milk, no
gin, yes
vermouth, yes
tasty mix = martini
three olives

there are many ways to find drink in this town
heathens!
don't close your eyes
man, the service sucks here

the drink has not been ordered
shall i wait for her to ask?
or should i get the attention of another's gaze?

tanqueray never fails or else the riddle makes no sense

the thirst, my god, the thirst
fiend for the medicine
Quinn at my doorstep

close one eye and look upon the world,
see what they see

hallucination memory
no click. pose. cut.

you're on the runway
and China has a cameo

what else can you say to that
except that you fall off the runway at the final step

tumble, down, fall, faceflat, above ground.
the crowd, it yelps, questioning if what has been even existed

no one knows because everyone's drunk and reminiscing parties,
Oh god no! I've stumbled into a hedonist group fest. I can't see.

Anything as I run. The faster I run, the louder the music gets,
until i piss myself

then I wake up in a field, looking at the stars, lying in pig shit

crying to myself.

vomit

The man vomited

He put his fingers down his throat 

and he threw up

It came out his nose, chunks of raw tuna

his esophagus was full of tin flavored fish

his ears inflamed by the sound of retching

all he needed was to puke

puke out all the evil, all the vanity, all the lies

he vomited once more before going back to bed

but he still felt the thumping of his heart and the buoyancy of his stomach

he felt shipwrecked, rocking back and forth in the Mediterranean

he was home though

safe and sound

just one more vomit

to let the cursed stay down

He ran to the bathroom

stains of red and pink on the floor

he ran and slipped on the stains

hit his head, didn't wake up for days

when he finally came to

he was covered in vomit, luckily he landed face down when he fell

or he'd be Hendrix, choking on his own puke

That night, awake and safe and no words of throwing up

the wind cried Mary

to the man who slipped on vomit and almost lost his life

fantacular

blaring boom box in my mind
get all freaky time and time
bust a move and jump a bit
take yo time, let's make it flip

what you got, show me bro
don't be spittin when it's time to go
the words of the vernacular
make a difference, make a fantacular

i'm making up words that i don't even know
like zeolid and khalib and layon and tweeze
they are the words of my children
how i pray for them on my knees

the kids grow up and daddy's left on the dancefloor
trying to pick up a girlfriend
she ain't having any
his game just got dunked

berate yourself in the mirror beyond dawn
you could have had her, it's cold out tonight
i should have offered her my coat
a mitten, a scarf

but no, my mind don't think
it doesn't create sparks
i bounce in a cabbie
take me to central park

no one around, i take a look at my watch
midnight on the dot, i'm supposed to meet my mark
he's on time with a hat on his head
he looks at me, then i see her, jogging around

it's the girl from the dancefloor
looking for me, no doubt
she told me that I forgot my cell phone as i left the bar
she came up to me and hugged me

making eye contact in the dark
another spark
i added my number so you can call me anytime
god bless to you all
and to all a good night

ear

piles of sorrow and virtuous joy
keep dreaming of summer in days that are cold
the father never mumbles
the mother always talks

speaking to some Belgian girl
makes me want to know more about the process
of being of loathing of lust
come gather round slowly, dust off the cloth

never wander past the forest gates
for the leopard man draws near
a weapon held my his rear
the gangster in the mirror
open doors and fix steak's sear
in the world of Paul revere
to dismiss the gallantly steered
the ship at mast, swab the deck, sincere

the locusts are up in the air
taking over the house, the farm, the fear
understand me dear, don't let them disappear
the clowns on the balcony ride clandestine waves
from chicken maize, over on yonder lays

keep from keeping
on and on to the from and the fuss
let go of the symptoms, forever discuss
why one goes one way the other drives Lear
the king in the castle, looks down upon years

what more to say in this untidy room
it's small and tiny and unkempt and clear
just like Fred's dear, hey there beer
curtains close, out come the tears

a curtsy, a bow, a hand shook and shake
this movie is over
the story is clear
the mis en scene speaks names
time to go to bed
sweet dreams
farewell
your night ends here

coffee x 3

We got five left.

Five. You know what that means right?

No I don't.

Well, 5 more cups of coffee until you begin to write again.

But I'm stock out of coffee.

Well pick your own. Pick it all and it shall be yours.

How do I know if it will work? It didn't work on Tommy or Sue. Yet Sarah nor Claudes.

Trust me on this, 5 cups of coffee will help you succeed.

I'm scared. Hold me.

Not now for the coffee hath brewed. Seeping through the purcalator. Down it's vessels and into the fresh pot. Stir in your milk. Your sugar. Your soy. Your sweet and low. Stir what you must. Bump elbows with the best. And on top goes thy lid.

They come to and fro, from lands only heathens shall know. Places never been before, on yonder, in the dusk. This dark bean masks a musk. Breath it all in, the aroma, the principle. For nothing matters more in this being of time. This shroud of temporality. This veil of space. That's what coffee here is about.

And forever on this day, no matter what head office plagues, on Christmas eve down by the bay, you'll get three coffees free in this domain.


Gg

omg

Oh Overman how I need your presence! Brothers, sisters! I speak to you from the valley below into your great minds and into the realm of all conscience. Fare well to those who have forgotten, now that the mind of Zarathustra has been adjourned into our psyches. We need this man for God is dead. He lays in a ditch somewhere in the Hollywood forest, enjoying his reverence in peace and quiet. The way of the people must ask themselves question on hope and desire, pain and frustration and unlimited epistemology. For I am a humble man, I speak to you from the underground, cursing the way I am. Why can't I be like Zarathustra? A man of all body, soul and spirit. The man that is Superman based. Oh Zarathustra, heed my prayers. For I am defenseless when it comes to the opposite sex. In love, I am futile. It hurts me to speak, for the words get tangled and my theories become meek. I walk along the incandescent road and I see the people in their homes, raising thy kin and distorting their future. Are these the men you sprach of Zarathustra? The embodiment of raising an heir, but I cannot. Not yet. The prowess of my feline speaks to my libido. It is wild no doubt. Oh Zarathustra! Why have you forsaken me! Why do you make believe when all I want is answers? Not questions but more answers. It is different for everywhere I go. The Brahmins and the Aztecs. The Greeks and the god forsaken Ottomans. When will they listen?

I ride my bike to love them more but I cannot reach the pedals yet. I am stuck in a world of the wanderer and his shadow and all too human. This bike cannot pedal itself and my legs have shrunken into tiny peaches, driving forth the ability to reach none other than a biased floor. In one night it could be over, or in one night it can start anew, I saw her beside me in the mirror, a woman at my side. The martini flowed down and I stared at her with my cursed eye. I cried and trembled inside and she just sat their, admiring her chips and dip, forever lost in the world of televisions and cell phones. These are damaging devices. Made by the ones in control. The Overmans and the Anti-Christs. The heathens and the virtuous. Act now and don't be a fool. Or just the idiot in the bathroom, speaking to himself in tongues while looking in the mirror. Having a conversation that will end up as vomit at the bottom of his shoe.

News flash to 3 martinis later. Hey baby wanna come back to my place. My ma ain't home and I have the most perfect idea for a card trick. Why don't we mess around like we used to? Bring a case of wine. I will love you. Lemme buy you a drink, you know it's cool. I don't see a ring on your hand so it must be fine.

Her 2nd drink. What's this asshole on? He can't shut up. Anything I say might make him think I like him. He's kind of cute. Nice smile. Big lips. Probably a knockout in the sack. I'm lonely too, it's not just men who feel the urge of bonding. Let's see where this goes.

Last martini. Sorry if I said something wrong. These gin baddy boys makes a man go cuckoo. Makes me tawk in tungues. If you need a place to talk more, we can grab a coffee. I need to sober up anyways. There's a Tim Horton Hears A Who down the street. Maybe grab a bite to eat. We can do whatever you want to. I need the fuel to make my fire bright.

Her 4th drink. Fuck, I'm supposed to be meeting my friend. But he's genuine and he can hear me think.

Let's go to Tim's and come back if you need to meet someone.

How the fuck did he know?

He scratches his cheek. I'll get you my phone number, just don't be a prick about it.

I won't. I'll call you in the morning. See if you got home safe and sound.

I leave with her number on a napkin. I wonder what she was thinking. If I made any sense at all or just speaking through headphones my senses have created. The inner ear of the undead. I walk in the snow and it's cold outside. I get home fast and I look at the napkin. Finally making napkins worth the weight of the world.

delivery

late at night i dream of waking
the words turn into pictures
the pictures become objects
the objects form dreams
then i wake up
and the dark man beside me
oh how he stones
locked up in a tiny room
with a tiny mirror
for hours upon end
up and down and more and more
when will he stop
his friends say no
they give him the go
for the more oh so more