Touch the Eye socket With Your Mouse

The new Dogzplot is online. You probably already knew this. You were asleep on the couch cradling a blanket and a pillow, but suddenly your bones began to grow. Your skin got all drunk for attention. Don’t fill yourself up on fear; it was just the flesh that controls your soul telling you Dogzplot has a new issue of flash fiction online.

I have a piece in it called ‘Eye Socket‘.
If I were to compare it to a Nirvana song I would say this is my attempt at ‘About a Girl’, but not the clean one on ‘Bleach’. This is one of those bootlegs versions found on the CDs behind the counter at a CD Warehouse in 1995 where the audio is only in one speaker and you hear someone saying “Fuck this show. I’ve seen better. You got whippets?” in between songs.

Also on this gut punching issue of Dogzplot is a masterful piece by xTx. Nate East and Ben Spivey are merciless as well. Top notch stuff let me tell you.

Spiders

Spiders need lighting too. Can I just make this very clear? How much of a dick-hole species are we to think spiders don’t care about the mood of a room. A glass enclosure simply will not do. You drop two spiders in there and they will just stare at each while their hairs tell each other knock knock jokes.

To create a good mood for spider love, or spider fucking depending on your upbringing (mine was Uncle Charles), it’s best to make the spiders think they are about to die. I drop rocks in their cage at even points in the hour and play the soundtrack to The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly on speakers that surround their glass walled world.

Fear makes spiders horny. You will not find this knowledge on Wikipedia; this knowledge comes only from me. Let me be your Moses, and just trust me when I say every species wants to lay some sex when death is on a steady pace on the horizon.

Have you ever seen the way a two spiders will caress each others legs? Those legs will dance their away up around the other spider’s neck. It’s tender, but it kind of looks like they are chocking each other. Truthfully I’m not sure. I never finished college.

Have you ever heard the sound a spider makes when it cums? It’s high pitched, a kind of a screech with an attempt to build some words. I think the noise is fangs breaking through. One day I want to see some fog on the glass and less arachnid blood.

I have talents but none to go on a resume.

Many Voices In a Small Frame

I have been working on the upcoming chapbook.

It will be out in December.

Don’t quote me yet but I’m thinking fifty copies total will be made. Maybe more, but tonight fifty feels quite right.

It will look very nice. Not first date nice, more like fifth date nice: still dressed up, but truth has been put on the table.

There will be a release party for the chapbook. It will be a release party for a few releases in the same night from many great writers. Details are coming. If you live in Atlanta I would recommend getting the night off, maybe the rest of the week. Your ears will be pleasured that night. There will be a guarantee at the door backing up the promise.

Here is a video preview.

Stay sexy internet.

DON’T MOVE, DIRTBAG!

I’ve seen two people argue about the Nightmare on Elm St. films. Truthfully I’ve seen a lot of people argue about those films, but only once
have I ever seen the debate on which is the best one end in a meeting of tight tendons and flexed muscles connecting to bones portraying bones.

I walked to the restroom, well in my mind I floated but I’m sure to an observant eye at the bar I stomped and jerked as if I had muppet skulls for shoes (Vodka. Lots of Vodka). But there they were blocking a passage way, two adults close enough for their tongues to touch yelling about Freddy Krueger films.

They began to push causing shoulders to act like unfinished walls preparing for the curved punches that soon came, sponsored by PBR. I watched, swaying without grabbing for a place to put my weight, thinking I want to get into a fight over the Police Academy films.

I don’t want this fight to happen right now.
Not even next month.
I got a lot going on and if I get really hurt it’s going to topple plans I have.
Please don’t topple my shit.

Here’s how I want this fight to happen. We’re both going to be old and living in a home for people of our age of accepting fade. We can’t tell anyone; those nurses will always try and separate us and the floor manager will get us moved to different buildings. They’re just doing their job, don’t give them looks of anger. We’re just doing our job too.

It’s going to happen in the lounge of pudding walls constructed of old scotch tape. Suddenly I will jump from my wheel chair with a knife. “Hallelujah! I have been praying for you,” an old lady in the corner will sing, her wig a tower of babel. I’ve been saving up strength. Nobody will see it coming.

“Don’t you dare think it,” I’ll yell as I careen over a table.

“Number 4,” will puke from your mouth covered in a musty saliva as you pull out your own knife. You call the knife The Guttenburg. That’s clever and I applaud you for your remaining wit for but still the world must be put into order.

“The second one established the jokes to be carried on and ripped off for the rest of the films!”
My hand will marry the knife.

“David Spade. Skateboarding!”
Your lungs will open up.

Our knives will tap our bodies and we’ll make a noise like Motor Mouth Jones.

I Smell Like Success

Right now I am wearing a shirt with a decor of a bright inked ET on it.
That alien is smoking a big J. He ain’t got shit to do. He’s got a beer too.
I have worn this shirt for three days. The reasons are clear and need not be discussed.

I am working on a project combing words and images with my friend Jeff Wooten.
His work has shown its face here before.
Jeff is a rad dude. Think of who you know that is rad. Jeff is way more rad.

This project will end as a chapbook that will be a feast for the eyes and the ears.
The chapbook is going to be called CONGRATULATIONS! THERE IS NO LAST PLACE IF EVERYONE IS DEAD.

Part of me hopes this chapbook will be better than this reading, but I don’t think its humanly possible.

Mail Lady, You Be Okay.

I love good mail days.

I smile. I flip through pages and compare the smells. One is very fresh. The ink still pulses and grinds the paper with the passing air, but in another the ink is well rested, full into the groove of the pages; but I still fear what it holds. I pray all are sleeping dragons I can drink with.

I hope to make a nice announcement come Monday within these white walls.

Try Again, Try Again

Two days ago the spiked doom arsenal began its symphony at 5am. A wall smacked, a bush gifted, and countless doors hit by the thunderous strength of a paperboy. Yesterday the paperboy threw with less strength, less gust, and no force. This changes nothing for how I feel about that fucker of a seed.

His eyes of diamonds should have never been uncovered and when I hear his laugh while I survey the damage all I can think is were not giving enough profos and dick bags away in schools.

Today I tried to get the boy fired, it seemed like the right thing to do; you know for the neighborhood, for the babies, for the cats with three legs, and the good of the economy.

“He killed your dog?” The officer’s brow collapsed letting some old wrinkles bite his eyebrows. His sunglasses reflected my own glasses back to me. My own face told me to keep it up.

“Yes,” I said. Keep a straight face, but not too straight my reflection harked to me.

“How did he kill your dog?”

“Do I even need to explain?”

The cop opened his note pad. “I guess not. What was the name of that paperboy again?”

I never saw the cop again. My assumption was the kid weaseled his way around the stares and threats of justice from the cop. That kid will be some kind of king one day.

Four hours after the cop left my doorstep a furious pounding engulfed my door. It was my neighbor Gloria, her hair was the shape of her wrinkles; or her wrinkles were the shape of her hair. I can’t remember which.

“What happened to my dog?” She squealed, almost howling like that dog did when it hunted squirrels.

I rested my hand over her shoulder, a move of comfort. My fingers said trust me as they passed strength through her growing hump. “For the neighborhood your dog made a sacrifice.”

“I don’t…” Her voice slithered.

“I don’t either.”

“Can you help me get this newspaper out of her mouth,” she asked.

“I don’t think that is gonna come out.” My hands pulsed more strength her way. “Trust me.”

Carve the Horesman Into My Toast

Every night Jesus goes to sleep. Fetal position with both hands under the pillow.
Sheep dance letting the eyes drop, and Jesus ponders.
His face melts to a pose and He whispers to the soul of the blackness, “I’m gonna eat you.”

The sun rises and Jesus’ hair is a trap his mouth falls prey to. Every time.
With eyes still shut He yells to the darkness of the day, “Sun, you big fuck. Your end is near and God won’t save you.”

This Fire Will Only Breed More Fire

The new issue of Thirst for Fire is on the internet newsstands.

Get it while it’s hot; while this internet thing is still moving, shaking, screaming, and fucking.

My story ‘It Will All Burn‘ is in it. It’s one of my favorite stories I have ever written. I wrote it hoping one journal would eat it up, a gulp and smile kind of deal, but they were not fans. It was meant to wade in the gas lake that is Thirst For Fire and I thank Taylor Durden for being all mad cool.

I am just now sitting down to the glow of the screen to read the whole issue and I feel drunk on it.
I am dizzy.
I am delighted.
I am ready to feel the veins in my fist after I discard from these pants.

This issue includes sharply thrown blades by Mel Bosworth, Jim Parks, Ben Spivey, Black Conrad and so many more.

Let’s all go read it together and not worry about that wolf at the door. The bastard is scratching. I think he may soon form words. When he does let’s all turn into poison.

Words by Me Read by Another

Mel Bosworth looks like me, but not the now me. This is good news for Mel because I let myself go with some kind of Midwestern pride of celebratory beer and battered everything that was half dead.

Mel was mega-kick-ass enough to include my words in his online reading series.

Go.
Watch.
Tell your friends.
Put his url in your Christmas cards.
When people ask you what your fortune cookie says inform them it said ‘Go watch The Mel Bosworth Reading Series’.