November 28, 2001 10:12 PM
Have you ever had a Siberian girl pee on your
futon? Well I have. Well at least I think that's what it was.
I wrote some new poems this week. I'm not
completely sure what they are about. I
seem to create things without thinking. Is this wrong? My teachers seem to
think so. I am starting to get a weird
guilt complex that my work is not worthy of anything now because it was not
pre-planned. I never had that feeling before I started school. Its like a
parasite they injected in me. A time release cancer that feeds on my creative
thoughts, leaving me a quivering, dribbling, shell of a man.
Have you ever pooped your pants on purpose?
or for that matter on a porpoise?
apeshit
a planet gone to waste
weird aliens barf pink chain oil on each other
endless trails of wires catch fire,
dragging genetically altered eyeballs
like a tether ball.
a soundtrack plays checkers
in the back.
slow motion atmosphere,
prevailing winds.
ape shit
it has all gone total apeshit.
clouds of cords
a blue grey body
lying face down dead
on a naked moonlit beach.
clouds of cords
circle circuit
the tangled angle sky.
tunnel carvings recede
and melt distance of an eye.
Hiroshima burn victims jog clad
in human scar tissue
yellow leather
dog tread
shadow sheds
mark the horizons territory.
narrow
arrowed
corridors
house homes
for
the 4,
four,
fore skin
head beasts.
sewn forc-ed in my pervulusions
I am drawn stick figured
towards the piles
of white
dusk.
The Landlord and her moustached pervert came
over and inspected my place this week. Not sure what they are up to. My handy
work with the carpet went without detection. I was also able to hide Stinky. I
put him outside and told him not to come around for the next couple hours. He
understood.
As luck wouldn't have it, not only do I have
the Russian to deal with, I now have her sex crazed daughter on my doorstep!
I'm not sure what her name is, or if its human either. This new madness all
happened a couple days ago....
It was a day like most other days. I Was
typing away on my manual typewriter. Drinking some tea, and listening to music.
Stinky was curled up on his favourite chair next to the heater. I was feeling
alright. The words were flowing and outside the snow was snowing. Everything
was fine until I heard,
Tap,Tap,Tap...
Tap,Tap,Tap...
Who ever could that be?
10 minutes later.....
She had red hair. Red lips, and emerald green
staring eyes. She was wearing tight fitting clothing. Odd clothing. A leather
jacket, tight plaid pants.
Her fingernails tapped an out of time tune on
my table top. I wasn't sure if I liked it. I think it was in Russian. Her
fingernails. They were red as well. Flaked paint. Perhaps from sucking them.
For some odd reason I pictured her chewing on her fingernails while sitting on
a toilet. Not necessarily using the toilet, but just sitting on it with the lid
down. Ever meet one of those people?
Sitting there. Rubbing one hand on the side
of the green toilet searching for moisture like an eyeless cave fish searching
for light. Condensation droplets. Toilet bowl sweat. Gradually inserting moist
finger into left ear. Twisting it in. The other hand in the mouth being sucked
on. Teeth chipping off and ingesting microscopic flakes of carcinogenic nail
polish. Feeding the fire. Feeding the Russian sex intestine train. Nurturing
the unformed Siberian snow foetus...
After a few minutes passed, she decided it
would be a good idea to look inside my fridge. Now a normal person might find
this very odd, and perhaps rude. I however found it very interesting, and
stimulating. I told her to help herself. I had 4 beers in the fridge, and some
large carrots. She Chose a beer and a carrot.
She drank the beer in under a minute. She
made a point of staring at me while doing it. I was impressed. She then grabbed
another beer from the fridge and pounded that one even faster. I wondered if
this was some weird Russian custom.
I decided to keep typing. I typed words that
are not even words. Perhaps I was typing some strange frequency. Long sinewy
strands of undigested literature stained my paper. Typing out some strange
sexual frequency.
The carrot.
That poor old carrot.
Just sitting there on the
table.
I felt bad for it.
The words "Save meeeeeee, Save
meeeeeeeeeeeee" squeaked from its little vegetable mouth In an orangey
carrot kind of voice. (Hard to explain how a carrot sounds with words.)
I felt as though the carrot was my man hood
laying out on an operating table. And she was the drunk under- payed man hating
Siberian surgeon...
The carrot was sucked on. The carrot was deep
throated. The carrot is, the carrot is making little vegetable moaning
sounds!!! Must not get a boner! Must stop looking, must beat boner down with
hand, this is wrong....
CRUNCH!!!
To be continued next week.
H.S.
next week...what? Dang !
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