Tuesday, November 15, 2011

Sexy Lies

I'm only 18.

This is my first time.

I'm employed.

I've got a big fat car.

You remind me of my uncle.

I'm versatile.

It doesn't hurt.

You're soooo hot.

I'm on the pill.

I swing both ways.

I'm a woman.

I'm married.

I'm single.

I want a divorce.

So. What about you?

Sunday, October 30, 2011

Questions for New York

A city full of a million tiny deaths

little dead bird cuddling an empty tuna can behind a fire hydrant
a hundred poisoned roaches silently expiring inside the walls
Teenage mouse, quivering in the glue, brutalized in a Pepridge farm bread bag

there was a continent, once, that Columbus missed
undiscovered, quietly, it ceased to exist
and these days, I think we can say with some clarity, it never existed at all.

Girl in heels with curly hair
face like a painted sphinx, hailing a cab
What will you wear to your funeral?

Homeless guy
Wrapped in trashbags on the Bronx-bound 6
Got a dollar?

Saturday, September 25, 2010

Two short stories, preferably for children, but potentially also for mildly sentient vegetables:

1. It was a bright, clear, sunny Alaskan night. The birds were swimming in the frozen rivers and the dogs were chirping from the trees. But I, oh, I was eating dirt. Don't look at me like that; it was cold, and the only way I could keep warm was to fill myself with soil. I had hoped to grow a vegetable garden in my chest cavity, but nothing would take root because I didn't have good enough taste in music. All the seeds traveled to the cooler pots on the roofs of crafty old apartments. All I got was a sad little milkweed in cargo shorts and an ugly dandelion chick who kept confessing her love for the soft supple nature of my silt. Its a good thing I've forgotten about all of that a long time ago.

2. As she dismounted the Merry-Go-Round, swinging her legs over the horse's white vinyl face and leaping to the wooden planks below, her dress caught the wind and blew up over her knees. She quickly quelled the rebellion of her garments with her pale hammy fist and flashed a sloppy grin at her friends, but it was too late. Everyone had seen it. And from that day on, she was known as "Eletra, Queen of the Damned." She had no recourse but to murder the whole town, change her name, and move to Tunisia, where she quickly was impregnated by the bastard progeny of William S. Burrows (of which there are many). After birth, the children rapidly developed a fuzzy crown of seed pods, from which burst forth a thousand tiny white vegetable embryos, which contemplated seeding a sad little plant in the corner but decided to go to the really happening grape vine down on the Avenue instead.

Friday, March 5, 2010

I wish i had something to say but I don't really have the time to say it.

Sunday, February 28, 2010

There really is no point to this; which is part of the reason why there is no point to this. If i made a point to it, there might be a point to it, right?
Is there a point to this?=:
if you said, "yes," you are right. if you said, "that's a blue tit," you are also right. Now, i know what you are thinking. How can a bird have a point? Birds are hardly conical, and though their beak is sharp, it cannot really bear the burden of being the geometrical end point at which all other bird-lines (so to speak) come to union. Neither may you confidently ascribe a "point" to the bird in a metaphoric sense, because it's entirely unclear why they exist, and even if bird-kind has a function in the universe, it seems like chicken fill it far more aptly than the average "blue tit."

The answer, of course, is that "tits" have a point, being of course the nipple, and a "blue tit," by extension, must also have one, regardless to its place on the color spectrum.

This is a good example of having nothing to say but saying it anyways.

This is a good example of a human torso:
okay, you got me. there a lil'bit of arms there too. but that's not the point, is it?

what is the point?

let's write that in all caps.


Friday, August 28, 2009

Conversation Tips!

This is what I do when I don't have anything to say.

This is what I do when I do have something to say.

Monday, June 22, 2009

Hello empty void where the soul of the world used to be. Did you miss me? This is what I was doing while I was gone: practicing for the apocalypse
I've been thinking alot about you lately. Trying to come up with a pet name. Sure, "Gaping sore of cultural bankrupcy," or, "the exquisite light show of civilization's self-cannibilization," or, "humanity's progress towards finally achieiving a 24 hour ejaculation," all are quite poetic, but they lack charm. Darkly poetic. Like this:

Scary! So NO. We need something cute, charming, marketable. How about "the Sundance Festival." Sunshine! Dancing! I'm already gleeful. I could just imagine tickling a tiny little dancing sun, giggling with heluim fusion delight as it vomits candycorn. of course, until my tickling fingers instantly melt in the 5,000,000 degree solar corona!

Okay, maybe not. That name is under copy-write. Let's just call it Adam.

Perfect! That just sums it up right there. Apparently, the only way we can find meaning in our life now is to make an incredibly attractive, charmingly effeminate, Claire-Danes-dating-actor dress up in an Astronaut suit to beg some boring girl to forgive him for having aspergers. Okay, our collective sense of guilt gets a good massage (look! handicapped people being represented, and loved by hot chicks! of course, not physically disabled. that would never be picked up by Fox), sonambulists everywhere gave it two frozen arms up, but, there are some problems. THREE PROBLEMZ:

1. For one, nerds are no longer in need of your reparitive affections, straight women. As I'm sure you already know, they get laid with the frequency formerly reserved for NBA players, excpet, you WANT NBA players to shag everything, but nerds are supposed to be bumbling sexual morons, breaking into your windows in the middle of the night to confess his painfully honest feelings. NOT ANYMORE! The dot-com revolution has somewhat dishonestly convinced mainstream america that the 'nerd' is something desirable, or at least something resembling a nerd, in the way in which a python, having ingested a pig, resembles a pig. America has swung its junk onto the skinny boy with big glasses and a remarkably defined adam's apple, and so now former duesh-bros everywhere have put on pressed shirts and glasses and act the nerd, though their shit-eating grin usually gives them away.

THE POINT is, this man is totally bangable, despite whatever costume he breaks and enters my home with.
So that's crime number one. "NERDS" don't need your love, hot bland women of America. Go find a real nerd. To give you a clue, he doesn't want you to find him, unless you are a busty she-elf in bondage, and he smells like the canola oil he fuels his home-made car with.

2. Everyone is fucking sick of painfully awkward people. Even Michael Scott is a competent buisness manager now, and better dressed than my Dad. Zing!

3. NASA can't do anything of value and nobody cares about it. Most of us stopped caring about tiny traces of carbon on Mars when the icecaps started melting and the economy collapsed. And far-away Galaxies ceased to be a source of cosmic wonder with the advent of you-tube. Show me a extrasolar planet, and I'll destroy all your preconceptions about what cats can and can't do on camera.
SIDE POINT: Space is full of empty and cold, much like everything Rupert Murdoch has ever touched.

4. RAINMAN accomplished this far better.

5. No, this film is not Forrest Gump, which benifeted from the fact that the 20th century at least had some blood in it, and no, that does not count as reflexivity, and no, you don't deserve to cry.

Okay, okay, enough of that. Let's get serious.

MOoooOIVIes! Independent moOOOoooOVieS! So much fun, Yea! So quirky and original, yea! Cat party, yea!