Modern Romance: Licking Peanut Butter off a Floozie at 3am.

      i had never really thought about it too much, it always seemed like that beast that no man ever wanted to face, the creature in your closet or the two headed bastard with sharp teeth under your bed as you slept when you were but a wee lad.. a scary, crazy, terrible dream of some sort. anyone who's ever been there, is damn well weary to ever go back, it's filled with a crazy lust and innumerable amounts of happiness. but along with that fast paced draw, comes a slowing decline of oneself and an ever gut wrenching feeling of despair and agony, the feeling of loneliness, sorrow, resentment, and never ending self loathing no matter the outcome. i poured myself a tall glass of scotch in a coffee mug and dedicated it to the writing of this piece. here now, for the first time, i'll speak on my thoughts of love (or lack there of).
      i was laying next to her, both of us sticky, the sheets drenched with sweat and body fluids, basking in that after hard-core, passionate love making. the sex scent hung heavy in the air, and she rolled on her side, i slid my cock between her ass cheeks and nuzzled it up close to her vagina, wrapped my arms around her and clung my hand onto her firm but gentle tit. like i had done to many broads before here, but for the first time it felt like home, and i knew i should be thinking of "love" and such, but all i could think about was how much i wanted to buy a fucking fan for this room. which then lead  me to the thought of "do i really love this girl?" the answer was clear and profound, i felt all the right emotions for love, and i knew that deep down, inside, under all my bullshit, i really did love her. but that thought led me to another thought... and as the thoughts kept going and adding up (she was drifting to sleep at this time) i realized that love is nothing more than our selfishness at it's full throttle. Wide open heart pumping blood at the maximum and our brains releasing all those right chemicals. Euphoria. Nirvana. Good Scotch and Fat Pussy. i had been tricked.
      At this point, my rambling may sound like some arrogant, smart-ass, dumb prick trying to justify his lack of love for other humans, or his lack of love for himself. it is true that i do hate myself, but i think everyone should hate themselves only in an effort to strive to be better people. if i ever become satisfied with my current personality, then i hope i step out of my apartment and get hit by an armenian doing 85mph in a residential area by his Mercedes and bleed to death on the hot asphalt. i  hope that my epitaph would read: "i can't get no.. da na na na.. Satisfaction." i mean only the best, and while it may seem harsh to many of you, it works for me (at least in my fucked up rationalizing head).
      so love for me seems like a very selfish thing. why do we love in the first place? you love somebody because they're willing to go all out for you? you love somebody  because the both of you have similar thoughts and interest, and you both challenge each other? you love somebody because the sex is fucking amazing to the point where you feel close to death? you love somebody because they are beautiful inside and out? you love somebody because they are there when you need them and are willing to go the extra mile to make you happy? you love somebody because they are just as fucked up as you and that makes you feel better? why do people even really love? i don't understand it. i see it as just a way to validate your own bullshit feelings and the comfort they bring is only a way for you to live with yourself and your shitty choices? who really knows? and what the fuck does this word love really mean? fuck websters dictionary definition. i want some real gritty down to earth definitions, not something that some asshole sitting in front of a desk that hasn't had a good woman in who knows how long came up with. it's all bridge under the water. or water under the bridge. same difference.
      slowly but surely we all mature, in some mad way or another. we mature and buy new furniture and throw out the old (or put it on the sidewalk for some other wandering young rapscallion to find and enjoy). we grow out of our old clothes and buy new "hipper" clothes. our taste change. maybe when you were 18 you enjoyed getting fucked slow and nice. but at 28 you really wish someone would just thrash you around and fuck you doggy-style as the reached over and choked you slowly? i know when i was younger all i cared about was licking a girls vagina. that was my thing. vagina's are such a beautiful creature. I want to lick you. i want to chew you. i want to finger you. i want to lick you. and i also want to fuck you early into the dawn and have a severe rash on the head of my penis from the constant back and forth motion that sends messages from the nerves in the head of my penis to my brain and make me feel like conquering california, the united states, the world, the galaxy, and most importantly....... YOU.
      it's simply ridiculous to think that we can somehow dedicate ourselves to another person for our whole lives. our taste change over time and what we dig today, we sure as hell won't dig tomorrow. unless you're one of those people who are constantly happy with their situation and never want to step up to the line and spit in the face of fear. if you are one of those people, than i despise you, and if you're the kind of self-loathing, self-defecating, thoughtful people, than i pity you, because happiness and personal well being will never be yours, and while you may excel at an art and be greater than any human before you, you'll always suffer... and suffrage makes for great art (van gogh, jackson pollock, charles bukowski, johnny cash, elliot smith, bob dylan, the list goes on)
      i wanted to really get down to the grits of it. i looked at my parents. i looked at my past lovers. i looked at everything i could and in the end i came up with the same results. it was all selfish bullshit. i loved those people because they did things for me. they prolonged my life. they made me feel great. they gave me things i had never experienced before. they pushed me to be a better person and learn new things. it was all ME in the end and that, oh my dear friends, that is the worst possible thing a person can dedicate themselves to. the thought of feeling happiness at another persons service makes me fucking gag. i don't want a girl to serve me, i don't want my family to help me. i want to endure the shit on my own, and bask in the ever beautiful glory of life on my own. i want to be fucking alone to deal with the good end of life and the extremely shitty end of life.i don't want to put anybody out, and i sure as fuck don't want to rely on anyone. people change their minds every second. maybe in the next 30 frames my girlfriend will call me and tell me she's met a young handsome intellectual type and leave me, or maybe she'll call me and tell me she's pregnant (i don't trust her in terms of birth control. but i'll leave that for another time.)
       in the end, love is like a shit stain on the mattress after being black out drunk and fucking someone who you will never fuck when sober, and sure as a bat in hell won't call when you're feeling lonely. it's great in the moment, but when given much thought, it smells like bullshit a mile away. i really wish i could just sit back and enjoy the ride, but my brain is working too goddamn fast and somehow my mouth can't keep up with the shit. the head is running a mile a minute but at times i can't seem to get it out. Stephen "Fucking" Hawking over here.
       As a closer, the shot in the heart, love seems selfish.this may be just a case in point, but i also think the word love has been abused. the ultimate love, the ultimate giving of oneself to another person involves giving your life for that other person to live. and frankly, at this point in humanity, i am damn well not ready to do so. so while i may whisper into whoevers' ear that i love them dearly, i do mean it. but at the same time, i can't believe it because i can't fully give myself to you. i do though, i do want to love you. i want to love you in the sentimental way. i want to love you fully. i want to give my heart, my lung, my liver, my fucking brain in order for you to keep living. i would give it all. a finger? no problem! a hand? no sweat! any body part you need is yours. i'd give it up in a heart beat. but the ultimate question in the end, that never really has a definitive answer is this:

"Would you be willing to do the same?"

if not.. then you don't love me and i don't love you. What we have is just a chemical reaction to each others comfort and validty, and that's a sad thing to base the next 70 years of your life on.

       so breath strong and breath hard little one.. because the breath you take into yourself, may fucking well not be the breath you take back... you can't trust any of these dirty bastards.. but you have to.. it's  slippery slope and a mountain of shit.... but someone has got to do something. if not me... than i hope it's you.

Kimono Dame II

      it had been a rushed couple of days. i hadn't showered, shaved, the hair on my no longer bald head was starting to grow into waves, which made my head itchy, which always made me look dumbfounded because i was constantly scratching my head and looking at the floor in frustration. Finally, i made some time and came home, kicked my shoes off and munched down a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios topping it with a large scoop of peanut butter. I was ready for my shower. i felt like i was 9 years old again.
     Refreshed from my spa and haircut, the top of my head felt like the bottom of a young teenage girls bum, it was such a nice feeling i sat reading and rubbing the top of my head. i though of Kurtz in Apocalypse Now, rubbing the top of his head as he read from his notes on the horror, not knowing just how far he'd gone. the room was stuffy, and even with all the windows open, it still felt like i couldn't breath properly, a cigarette was due. so i did.
     The pile of furniture was still out on the sidewalk,  i wasn't sure if anyone would pick it up, but it made for a nice place to sit and relax. i stretched out on the coffee table and lit up my smoke. my mind wandered, i wanted to build a fort with this furniture and pretend it was the central hub of the Allied Forces, all communication would be passed through our fortress, a distinct code, better than Morse Code, more complex than computer codes, but simpler than Java Code, i would be the only kid available to decipher them, and as i was shot and lay dying, i'd teach my apprentice how the code was based on shoe sizes.
     "Hey."
i pulled my forearm away from my eyes and looked up, it was her, the Kimono Dame.
"oh shit, hey... Are you stalking me woman? or am i just timing my smoke right?"
"weird huh, i know!... i'm gonna have a smoke with you." - she sat down on the other end of the coffee table with her back slightly towards me, my palms began sweating instantly. her fingers were long and limber, like her body, her skin was pale but not too far powdery white, i watched her pull a Malboro 100 out and eye me for a lite. i flicked the zippo once, no lite, i flicked it again and again, and it didn't seem to be working, finally when it did light up, it flickered high and the flame almost burnt her bangs off. She giggled then, and i smiled softly.
"almost caught your bangs there."
"close call!" *giggle*  - She reminded me of the mom in The Shining... What was her name again? Shelly Duvall, yeah... Her hair was very black and very thin, her bangs hanging over her pale forehead. i always had the hotts for Shelly Duvall, maybe thats why i eyed the Kimono Girl?
       We had brief small talk. i asked her how her day went and where she was from. As she rambled on about something that i was halfway listening to, i deduced that she was halfway crazy. i had met dames like her before,  we connect, our opinions and judgments run inline, it seems like it would end up being a night of great talk over a bottle of wine and maybe some nice making out. but it never reaches that point with these kind of women. there's a reason why they are alone, why they are single, and it's because they are  indecisive and petty. She had her gym clothes on but no sweat stains, which meant it was a recreational activity. her back was turned to me but her pupils were dilated, which is what happens when you're attracted to someone and you're talking about things that make you feel mushy inside. These dames were all the same, they wanted you to validate them but still let them feel independent and girlie. Their mistakes were not mistakes, but "accidents" and she was not held accountable for any of it.
She could not stand being alone.
      She was scared of her own thoughts. what a pity.

      Eventually her brother in law (sisters' husband) came by on his hipster bike and they both took off for a ride. she tried to talk me into going out with her, but i declined nicely and headed upstairs. she waved bye and flashed me a goofy kool-aide smile. she made me feel warm inside, but i also felt very defensive, the vibes coming off of her gave me the feeling of someone giving me a blowjob but sticking their finger in my ass. the blowjob felt great, and i dug it, but the finger up my ass made me feel uncomfortable and very tense, my palms were still sweaty as i walked over to the bar in my living room and poured a Whiskey and Ginger-Ale, my feet went up on the coffee table and i thought about her for a second, and then, i opened my laptop and wrote it all down.

Kimono Dame

i sat in the chair reading, the vinyl diamond backs criss crossing every which way. feet propped up on the desk, sucking at a warm beer. it would be my only beer of the night, i was cutting back, it had been a fast weekend and sunday rolled around, i wasn't feeling squirrelly today. i read on, it was a good book, i felt sucked in, i could almost place myself there. the book was that good. i decided to break, grab an unfiltered pall mall and shuffled down the stairs.

       it was a system, life was a system, a machine, one fed into the other and that fed into another. conveyor belts carrying you around the factory in circles, bright lights flickered, the tv's and women flickered, everything was suppose to be a distraction, so that when you finally  broke off of the circles, you were taken down that long hallway leading to an inhumane slaughter. killed like chickens, cows, and rhinos. this is how it went, for weeks you'd be on that one belt, leading you somewhere, and just like that, someone would throw a switch or push a button, and suddenly you were back on that last belt, the lights blindly you dumbly, and some never noticed, but i noticed, and i learned how to manipulate the belts, not follow along with them.

      this is what i was thinking about as i sat out on our sidewalk, littered with furniture. living in Glendale, the armenians ran this joint. they spent their earnings on fancy cars and expensive furniture, all the while holed up 10 of them in a one bedroom apartment paying $1200 rent. they would buy the furniture, and then, buy more furniture, and toss the good stuff out into the street. it was a cool night, the clouds covered half the sky, and the other half remained desolate and black, not a star in sight, the moon was taking a break, like it always did every few weeks, pitch dark out, street lamps giving off that strange yellow glow. 

     i watched a woman come out of the apartment complex across the street and i turned my  body towards her. she walked gracefully and softly, little feet pitter patting across the asphalt and concrete. she was taller than me, and slender, but she didn't walk dumbly or clumsy, she had a motion as if she were gliding. her hair was pulled up in a bun and her gray sweater gave off some decent outlines. i pictured her naked and wondered what she was doing coming out of that apartment complex. she saw me eying her and flashed a smile, my palms started getting sweaty, as they always do when people come near me. she was on me now, closer and closer, her walk became slower.

"they kick you out?" - she gave off a little giggle.

"just giving them time to play with themselves."

      i caught her sideways i knew, and she giggled again and kept walking to wherever it was she thought she was going. a few seconds to late i realized why she said they kicked me out, i was sitting on top of a pile of furniture, i had misunderstood her.

"fuck it"

and i went back inside my hole to finish reading my book.

a Love Poem

i burn deep into the night like honey bees
killers at the swarming honey sloppily dripping
from lovers lips
onto to the velvet pillow covers
and crust formation of those times
won't wash out
no matter how fucking hard we scrub
them out
we can love each other
without having to say we love each other
like keeping it inside.
is holding your shit in day
after day
week after
week
until it hardens
and you can feel your intestines collapse
and form to the waste
in your veins
in your esophagus
and in your brain.
they recite night after night each time in bed
after they fuck and suck each other dry until their
crusted lips flake away
and saliva runs dry
wet hair pasted to forehead strands flowing down
lustful back
drinking late into the night, closing down the bars
and passing it back and forth on the bed
sloppily walking
sloppily kicking moaning and talking
being completely
and utterly
sloppy.
but our brains are twisted every which way
that somehow seeing ourselves at our worse
is the most beautiful thing
and over those glasses and bottles
he rants about nothing
and she vacates her mind
and he drowns
willingly
in her eyes.
leaning over as his breath carries her across
and says,
"you have the sexiest fucking spleen. i want to fuck your spleen."
and she laughs
cause she gets it.
at the end of it, you've got
 to laugh
laugh at being serious
laugh at trying
laugh at this writting
and
laugh at putting meaning
into any of this

This is Your Job

this is your job they say,
arthritic finger pointed bony and obsolete
lingering in the general air
and you think to  yourself
"do i really have a choice?"
the sad truth is
you don't.
this is your job they say,
as the man wraps his fingers around suspenders
chomping endlessly on cigar
nicotine stained teeth and fine whiskey breath
it's all too sad
to bear.
some don't.
this is your job they say,
to grow up and make money
get a house
pop out some kids
marry a no good woman
a dead woman
and be a necrophiliac
to sustain yourself with drinks
to block out the fact that they've got you.
pay your taxes
buy it all on credit
eat the manufactured food
fuck the manufactured woman
wear the manufactured clothes
sewn by some poor fuck
who makes less than $8 a day
in some country south of here
snort the coke
sorted by the children
and smuggled here in someones ass
is this sad for you?
is this too much truth for you?
yes.
but truth nonetheless
i don't want to fill my house with new furniture
gourmet food
fine art
electronics
candy bars
or whores
distractions
it's all distractions to keep you
from realizing
that they are fucking you in the ass
every seconds hour and minute
you're alive
they're fucking you now
fucking me now
i just want to know
who's behind me
with the cock
wrapped in dollar bills.

Keep Hipsters out of Highland Park

Description:
This group does not condone violence, hatred, or acts of space violation against any race, ethnicity, or sexual orientation. 

This is merely an observation.

Ruining the neighborhood. Your bikes crowd the sidewalk, you invade the good bars, and in turn they raise their prices, and people who have lived here 20 years cannot get a decent drink anymore. The line at the taco truck is now twice as long, because you heard from some Occidental kid that they had the "wickedest pollo taco in Highland Park bro", and while we wait patiently for you to get the fuck out of the way, we have to listen to you and your emaciated girlfriend talk about your shitty taste in music and how not having a tv is a social statement about mass media. Yammering on about how awesome New York is and how Los Angeles doesn't even touch how "hip" the east coast is. Go back to New York, no one wants you here. Or better, move back to the Midwest where you came from, or better yet, i hope you choke on your own snide comments. 
You crowd the streets with your stupid midnight bike riding, and when a kid who's lived here his whole life pulls a gun on one of your guys, that should be telling you something, yes, please leave, don't come back, take your fixed gear bike and ride back to Silverlake, or, if you're over 28 and still have a neck beard, get a dog and try and have a kid with your 90lbs girlfriend and move to Eagle Rock, where you're more than welcome to take over the houses and drive prices up. 
Hipsters, i personally have nothing against you, actually, wait... yes i do, i fucking hate you kids. You destroy everything you find... restaurants, bars, parks, music, movie theaters and thrift stores. Critical mass takes over and the people who actually lived here, people who help setup the community, people who have roots in this small neighborhood are cheated. Cheated out of their money, cheated out of their good time, and cheated out of their neighborhood. 

Why?

Because you fucking hipsters are too lazy to find anything, so you latch onto whatever you can in order to be substantial.

That makes for an uncomfortable place to live, and we have every right to hate you. We lived here throughout the gang infested 90's, we live here now, and we will live here long after you're gone and move onto the next community to suck the soul out of

On the Wagon

he asked me to stop for seven
days
straight.
i was on the wagon now
being a responsible adult and friendly smile
waving elbow deep in dextrose.
the second day was the hardest to cope with
stomach burning and cravings
awful cravings
for a pint
i smoked ten cigarettes that day
which doesn't help the cause of being on the wagon
replacing one drug with another.
redundant
and
stupid.
to bury this baby
i drove to the market at 1:30am
to think about buying some non alcoholic beer
i needs suds in me
some goddamn carbonation.
car came to a halt and i sat
there
as
Tom Gabel
sang to me
and said
"you look like i need a drink."
i agreed
relentlessly..
i devised a plan
and drove home.
i set a beer bottle down on the coffee table
and laid there watching mindless television
lights flickering off ceiling and against
blind shuttered windows
i wrote her name
on a post it
and placed it over the bottle
and said to myself
that if i could stay away from her
that damn woman
if i could keep my damn brain straight
and keep moving forward
away from  her general direction
than i could stay away from this bottle
for as long as i want
the craving went away then
because i thought of all the
bad women
drunk driving
car accidents
being broke
father beating his children
mother manipulating her sons
90 hour work weeks
falling asleep at the wheel
exhaustion
insomnia
and all of the pathetic people
who inhabit this planet
put the itching into scratching
and i felt relief
i stood up and stretched
wiped the drool from my mouth
with a pass of my hand
said,
"i'm too fucking smart for this"
and put the bottle back in it's bed
and i put myself
back
in
my bed
to do it all over again
tomorrow.