The Cum Graveyard

Holy fuck stick! This piece makes me question if this is Gab’s reality or some dystopian future we will all soon face. I don’t know if I should feel frightened or turned on by the thought of a ghost load.

My wordpress skills need sharpening. I can’t seem to get the difference between reblog share and press. Visit Gab at the link below to read his post.

https://wp.me/p1iNPE-39H

Visit Gab

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Wake me up at beer thirty part 2

Before I continue the second part of wake me up at beer thirty, I want to tell you about the worst pitch for heroin use.

In my beer thirty post(part 1) I mentioned growing up in a German town. For a while, I also lived in North Texas.

I was renting a room at the house of a bartender I knew from a local bar I frequented. For the most part I was alone and Gary the bartender didn’t care if I smoked pot, drank excessively at odd times of the day, partied on white, or just had a bunch of random strangers at the house. Gary wasn’t really home that much.

He approached me one afternoon and said “hey J you like to smoke pot righ? Have you ever thought of trying heroin?”

I laughed at the absurdity of his delivery. He stood there in the shadow of silence. I walked into the kitchen thinking, I should probably consider moving.

Wake me up at beer thirty pt2

Jimmie nine fingers leaned against the picnic table, his elbow perched on his knee, palm to chin. He leered at the table to my right. A flock of geriatric drinkers sat conversing among themselves. Sherrie and I were ready to bounce when I noticed Jimmie had made his way over to the table. Embracing, hugging and laughing as he made his way around the table.

A man with a hat that seemed part fedora and part cowboy, grumbled from behind dirty sunglasses, “hey it’s Jimmie and he can’t even count to ten!”

A few minutes and some handshakes later Jimmie made his way over to a miniature Phyllis Diller looking geezer and he accidentally spilled her beer. It seemed coincidental.

She stood up as Jimmie wiped the table. He introduced us and mentioned that I worked at a local funeral home. The grey haired, jewel bespeckled woman turned her attention to me. She went on about how, “the funeral home must be busy with the population growth.”

Phyllis leaned closer and slurred, “I can’t believe the funeral home would let you work there with all those tattoos.” As she said that she took her boney, Crypt Keeper finger and ran it up and down my forearm.

“I wear a suit and tie,” I responded plainly.

I couldn’t figure out if she was just curious, bothered by my tattoos, being flirtatious or if someone had slipped LSD into my beer and I had somehow wandered into an episode of the Golden Girls.

“Do you know Roy?” German Mario asked.

“Roy?! You know Roy? He’s one of my homies,” I said. Me and Mario talked about our mutual friend.

“Yeah we call him Jew boy” Mario said as he smirked.

Roy was German, from New Jersey but his accent did make me think (before I got to know him) that he was an old Jewish guy from New York. Mario went on to say the same thing.

I thought about my friend Roy and the name Jew boy and I began to miss my ex. She used the slur to make a joke once and it became our own private joke. I started to feel sad. I looked at Sherrie and suggested we go to the next bar

To be continued

What the fuck does that really look good? Really? Really.

My wallet looks like it belongs to a bum. Holy fuck have things been…weird.

The job is going well. I just survived a baptism of fire. Ask me what being stuck in a well hung room full of smarmy sales fuck tards is like. Not happy about the pay but the job does provide me with a semi stress free work place and plenty of free time for writing.

I finished my first sci fi horror story. Now it’s time to see about publication. Shopping my work around has been a slow, brutal process. I don’t like it. But until things change, I guess it has to be done.

This week I should have a set of poems and pics available on Amazon. I think there are more platforms to publish on besides Amazon and…

Name a few if you know of any.

Keep writing. I love the stuff I’m reading here on WordPress.

Birthday Beats — Treacle Heart

To cut a long story short: I am still 25. Brighton. Breakfast. Hailstones. Sarcophagus. Skeletons. Sunshine. Cocktails. Rain. Arcade. Football. A horrible fishcake. Nightclub. Argument. Return to London alone. Bad song. Spiral. Overdose. Hypothermia. Footsteps. Men everywhere. I’m not safe. Blackout. Ambulance. Blackout. Hospital. Blackout. Confusion. Adrenaline. Fight or flight. Flight. Try to go outside […]

Birthday Beats — Treacle Heart

Legacy of Brutality

I’ve been reading Treacle for a little while now and what I admire the most is the jagged play with imagery. It’s hard to read this and not walk away bruised or cut.

Passover was fine this year, didn’t sleep or drink too much. For the first time in a long while I’m not depressed about having to go to work tomorrow. Didn’t write much. Went and saw Hellboy (it’s good). And now I’m just looking for the last beer in the fridge as I unwind the horseshit I’ve had to put up with the last few months. Happy easter all

Inert Velocity — The literati mafia

Transcription Beta (low confidence) “Hey you, Apologies for taking so long to return your call, I’ve been lost in America, MIA. I haven’t been able to think clearly, although maybe I’ve been thinking too clearly and that’s the problem, after all clarity is a matter of perspective. Thank goodness for humor, almost everything is funny… […]

Inert Velocity — The literati mafia

We got that loud Saturday Sunday,

I really like Mia’s work. The part about Dramamine makes me think of that song by the Sparks – Angst in my pants. I’m probably the worst about explaining the fine details of why I think a piece of art is good but Mia’s writing in this piece is something I would like to read more of.

Work has been going well, it looks like next week they are going to order me a more ergonomically efficient chair, which is like, the best ever because who wants to fuck up their spine while they’re hunched over slaving away as a typist. A typist!

Mia I hope this share does your work justice, if you think it looks funky in any way or you want me to change anything just send me a message.

Have a happy eastersss everyone

It’s called the American dream

Because you have to be asleep to believe it. That’s one of my favorite quotes from George Carlin.

Working for a local office, going on about 2 weeks, now. But I don’t seem to have much time to do more than watch tv and drink.

I stopped writing my short, sci fi/horror fiction for a minute. Writer’s constipation, again.

I can’t figure out how to maneuver the new “block” thingamajig that WordPress has going on. I wanted to insert a pic of this wicked nice beer coozie one of the Rons from my part time job gave me.

I have no poetry this week. sorry. So I’ll end with another great quote

“Time to make the donuts”