Pursuing Sirens

poetroy


I am magnetized to sirens; like
Conquistadors of old; like
resigned mariners.

With sloth the soothsayer speaks;
with pride she predicts the gravity
of tomorrow's newsstands.

The crackled whispers in her coded
breath whisk me away with lust for
bloodshed.

I chase these auditory hallucinations
down streets I never knew so well;
pursuing with a wrath I have not known.

Spiraling Ecureuils flutter above
violent smoke piers, enticing gutless gluttony
with disastrous kitchen scents.

My fingertips sprint across dials; meters;
switches. Mildly stroking colorless, broken light.
Each negative stab a sirin to the sedated.

Black bags exit buildings in blue hands;
yellow strings to tie greedy paparazzi to pavement, observing
white charcoal shadow puppets written in white hands.

One winking eye raised; infested
fascination crushes ribs, crushes
infatuated spirits.
A soul tossed on jagged rocks,
devoured by deranged shark teeth.

In silent cardboard detention,
envying for pursuit of flesh,

I decay from within;

my breath shortens to ribbons.

Now I scour sunsoaked lanes, a
jaywalker's purgatory, for the
viscera of a different animal,
the distorted tangles of my own breed.

As I lag, certain horrors realize their potency;
the silence of the sirens is worse than their song,
a panic not in need of wax or chain prisons.

Never have I aged more wading

in the fountain of forsaken youth.

The Chair

I am tied to a wooden folding chair, being beaten in the face by some thug.
The Mafia.
But I don't mind.
I've never felt this good before, I say in between the sounds of fist sinking into bone.
The feelings.
I have to be honest, I tell my captors.
My entire life, I've never done anything important.
I was the middle child, ya know.
I didn't do well in school, I didn't do well with women.
I had trouble managing myself alone.
The thug socks my jaw.
The gang leader watches me get destroyed but he doesn't seem moved.
Dropped out of college, I continue.
Haven't kept many jobs.
Still can't make it with the ladies.
Here I am, I say.
Being beaten to death by the Mafia.
The thug punches me in the cheek.
I have to be honest.
I've never felt more important in my whole life.
The thug rubs his fist, like it's getting sore.
He lands a knuckle in my gut, where it's softer.
You guys make me feel needed, I choke out.
Thank you.
The gang leader looks up in disgust.
OK, untie him, he says.
I stand up, wobble and smile wide through a bleeding gumline.
Thank you, I say again.
The gang leader doesn't look happy.
He looks worried.
Like I'm gonna retaliate now.
Here's the money we owe you, he says.
He hands me a paper bag.
Don't count it, he says.
Same time next week? I ask.
Sure, he says.
But next time we're going to use duct tape.

whale watching

March 30

I was hungry for some crystal and I followed my shadow into the park, from whence I could smell the most delicious scents. They calmed my hunger, but still excited my senses. I tripped through bushes and puddles like a madman until I stumbled to a moss-covered bench. It was surrounded by trees on all sides, completely alien. I collapsed on the seat and instantly fell asleep.
I was awoken by an old man, dressed in a petticoat and poking me with a wooden cane.
"Let me tell you a story," he said looking through me in disapproval. I must have smelt like old cigarettes, ale and moldy paper bags. As I sat up, a single pigeon flew onto his shoulder.
"Once, I was on the vomit-covered shores of an old town and I lay on the beach naked. I ignored the smell and my surroundings. but I noticed the seagulls. They circled more and more above my head and so I decided to follow them. I tracked them two miles upon a beached whale, still breathing, with gusts awaiting death. The birds were patiently landing upon the beast, as they awaited the hungry opportunity to tear it apart."
I sat up. A pair of pigeons joined the one on the old man's back. They nuzzled up against him and cooed, but their yellow eyes watched me angrily.
"I sat and watched, deciding to witness this massive act of nature. As I observed more gulls gently descending on the depressed monster, I notice some had strings in their mouths, and I saw them tie them around barnacles and teeth."
I could hear my stomach rumble. More and more birds landed on the old man, until he looked like a walking aviary.
"I watched this miracle and I clapped my hands with glee. This startled the birds and they took off, carrying the whale with them and I watched in reverence until they disappeared behind the clouds and the wind."
The old man leaned down, the birds covering his body until just his nose stuck out from all the feathers.
"It was the only miracle I have ever witnessed, but I could not ask for more."
Then the old man clapped his hands and the birds took off with him in tangled talons. He wasn't very high before my sight of him was obscured by the trees.
I stood up and went in search to satisfy my hunger, again, but this time to gratify a new lust. A lust for something I could not explain.

april 23

punching bag dream

The pigeon-catcher stands in a clearing, sifting through feathers with his feet. He looks down all the time, except to glance up and change direction. The catcher finds no carcass, no blood, only feathers. But a shot is fired and a falling bird falls right into the pigeon-cather's open, waiting arms.

Crawling on hands and knees, our heroes soon discover the very ovary of decay, a batch of filth from which every sinister beast originates. Every ounce of sickness and disease pours forth from this vulva of the vile. Slobber and semen boil, hot as molten lead, bubbles up from the orifice and our heroes stand above it.
'Will you dive in?' asked the one.
'I must.' said the other. 'It is the last place on Earth to explore.'

Two men, suspicious of the other, are screwing the same woman. Her name is Roxanne and she has shit for brains. The birds know this and they cry.
The first to produce a ring shall be the winner. But while Roxanne essentially pisses on both her entertainers, she secretly harbors a frightening type of disease. This illness is capable of toppling the remainder of civilization, if it gets loose. So terrible is this version of death that is will grind your intestines to jelly, it will burst hemophiliac cysts over your skin and melt your spirit to mucus.
All three characters die, including Roxanne, but they manage to go to Heaven, a place of dog farts and vomiting rainbows.

Imagine a man standing in line, the register closed, the light turned off, the stored closed, but still he wants his cigarettes.

The street sweeper swerves his truck up onto the sidewalk and snatches me in his revolving brushes of sterility. He vowed to clean up the filth and so he did, so he did.

Perks

Our hero awakes with a bloody nose. He doesn't seem worried as he wipes away the crust with spit on his thumb.

He drinks coffee with seven canisters of creamer, easing into his day with a slight twitch. He puts on his work uniform, a pair of dark khaki pants and tucks his white button-up shirt beneath the belt. On the news is a story about a plane crash.

He drives to work in a 2005 Toyota Prius. It's a rental. His car is in the shop.

At work, he enters data into a computer for three hours and then takes a lunch break. He eats a pita bread sandwich and some baked Lays potato chips. He's not sure this is a healthy alternative to a McDonalds hamburger, but the packaging tells him it is, so he feels better. He takes a sip from a bottle of purified water and then swallows two Percocets.

The pills taste bitter and almost immediately start to dissolve on his tongue. His dealer told him these little white tabs will make his day so much easier. And our hero desperately wants an easy day. It is, after all, a Thursday. One day short from one day from freedom. The anticipation is almost too much to bear.

Our hero pauses to watch the sky, the clouds. He somehow doesn't feel connected to anything, anyone, but he can't explain why.

Back inside the building, our hero starts to feel the pills taking effect. He gets a little anxious as he moves in and out of the feeling, keeps asking, "Am I feeling it yet? Am I feeling it yet?"

Less than an hour later, his computer screen starts to fade in and out. He can't focus on the fluorescent buzz coming off every object in the room. His hands slip from the keyboard and rest on his lap. He's flying.

Our hero has never felt so good. This isn't like normal highs he's felt. His mind isn't affected at all. This isn't like Mary or Sally or anyone. He just wants to lie down and stare at the ceiling and think about the things that make him happy.

This reminds him of some artwork by a modern artist he really likes. Something about being trapped by society and conditioning and just lying back and taking it. No fighting back. The painting could be asking, "Am I feeling it yet?"

So our hero lies down and he begins to think, but nothing important or pleasant comes to mind. It should, but it doesn't make our hero disappointed.

A knock comes on his office door and a scrawny secretary wearing a miniskirt comes in. She looks down at our hero and says nothing, a puzzled expression on her face. She watches him smile incessantly, until he sits up, looks at her and says, "I'm going to throw up." He does so, promptly, all over himself and it pours down his khaki pants and rubs up against the secretary's high heels.

The feeling of euphoria leaves our hero. But the point is, it was there.

A Bar Scene

Two men of the same age find each other in conversation at a bar and learn that they both loathe life.
“My wife left me for my best friend, I was laid off and my mortgage was foreclosed. My children don’t call or write and I’m getting too old to start over.” Said the one. “I can find only one way out, either through a bottle or a gun.” He finished drinking his beer and waved for another.
“What a coincidence.” Said the other. “You have lost everything but I never had those to begin with.”
“Maybe you’re taking things too seriously,” the bartender interjected. “Many things are worth living for. You don’t have to drink yourself to death.” It was his way of saying, I think you’ve had enough.
“Any happiness in my life makes me feel guilty.” The first muttered. “Perhaps, then, starting right now, I refuse to laugh at anything ever again. I refuse to allow myself any pleasures until I pull through this.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” said the second man. “I will make a similar resolution, only I will laugh at everything.” He finished drinking and then turned to his companion and burst into high-pitched squealing. He pointed and he held his stomach and he fell off the stool onto his back.
The first man didn’t react at first, just listening to the man crawling on the floor, laughing. Then he abruptly stood up, bent over the laughing man and slowly beat the shit out of him. But it was no use. The laughing man was already free.

Inheritance

June 14, 2008

NOTE: I started this and never finished it. I actually like it better that way.

TV made me do this. Cops and robbers. Japanese cartoons. Even censored, those R movies persuaded me. Tipped me over the edge. That's why I'm here.

It's raining and later I will be swimming with pneumonia. This will only help my case. I'm sitting in the bushes blinking away raindrops and watching the upstairs window of my girlfriend's house. I should say, "ex."

The light flicks on, glows bright and I can see the flowers I gave her for Valentines day on her dresser. I'm waiting for the right moment and then I'll burst in and kill her and that bastard she's screwing. I'm waiting til they start kissing.

Video games made me do this. Stealing electronic images of cars and gunning down anyone who gets in my way. Big, red, pixel-blobs of blood. There ain't no halo over my head. I was taught this was OK.

I already know that I'll be tried as a minor because I'm 13 and this is the way things work in this town. Maybe I'll get some time in juvenile hall, maybe some community service. I'll get out soon enough and my ex and her new boyfriend will still be dead. I may be able to watch the history channel documentary, in which they'll ask the question, Why did this kid snap?

Who hasn't had some kind of impulse to kill before? Isn't this some sort of human nature? Every one thinks like this once in a while, why am I to blame for going through with it? Evolution made me do this.

I can already imagine the little bullet holes in her chest. Right through the heart she said she gave to me. Lying, stinking whore, you're gonna get yours. She'll be half-naked, because she never goes all the way.

As for that twat she replaced me with, some jock who's 15, I'll shoot him in the head so many times that they won't recognize his teeth.

I don't even know what kind of gun I have.