Archive | February, 2015

Mother Fucker

23 Feb

movie-time-machine-01

mother fucker

I have decided, sweet lady, that time is a mother fucker
and having decided this, brave toasted angel, I’ve made
preparations to take the bastard out
things might get messy
so if you are inclined w/ a weak stomach

I beg of you to wait here for me this will only take a minute
and if I am successful it will not even take that for once
I have appropriately carcassed this beast there will be no
such things as minutes, or hours, or even springtime
afternoons–ok maybe

there will still be springtime afternoons, as well there
should be (forgive me, I get carried away) but you will
no longer have to measure yr enjoyment in such things

against the paper yardstick of this mouthy fuck-like
mortality in which we’ve so elegant-lessly been sleeved so
weep not lover (oh how yr beauty feeds me like a sandwich)

we will all be saved by 3 o’clock, I mean soon

 

 

 

(from my book I Was Going To Use That, Farfalla Press)

 

Brian Cox and Anthony Weiner Walk Into a Bar

22 Feb

cox

Brian Cox and Anthony Weiner Walk Into a Bar

 

Part 1:

 

Brian Cox and Anthony Weiner walk into a bar. The man checking i.d.’s at the door is clean-shaven and thorough, though Weiner appears agitated at being submitted to such a process and mumbles something like “Cox, what’s this guy doing? Doesn’t he know who I am?”

 

The doorman says nothing, he just scratches his nuts. Which is saying something, maybe. And then being that he’s done verifying their legal ages he lets them in.

 

“When I’m elected again the first thing I’m going to do is make it against the law to i.d. anyone who looks over 40 and wants a drink.” Weiner says as they sit down at the bar.

 

“Good luck with that.” says Cox

 

“Thanks.” Weiner says, fiddling with the buttons on his cell phone. “That broad makes me want to take a picture of my crotch and send it to her. I just need her phone number. But I want to play it cool. How good are you at guessing phone numbers?”

 

“For Bourne’s sake Wiener, put that goddamn thing away.” Cox says, grabbing the cell phone out of Weiner’s hand. “I’ll keep this with me until we go home. You know you’ll never get elected again if you don’t stop texting young women pictures of your junk.”

 

“Says you.” says Weiner. “The general constituency has the attention span of a dead turtle. I’ll be Governor of some goddamn thing by this time next year. Cock shots or not!”

 

“Please don’t say ‘cock’,” Cox says “in that context.”

 

“Sorry pal.” Weiner apologizes. “You know me, I’m just all worked up. Say, let’s get her over here. We need some more drinks.”

 

“You need to pull your head out of your ass and stop jerking off to Avril Lavigne records, that’s what you need to do.” Cox says.

 

“Never!” Weiner screams, which draws the bartender’s attention long enough for him to hold up two fingers and shout “Two more, please!”

 

The bartender nods her head and begins to pour.

 

“I bet her phone number’s got a 2 in it somewhere.” Weiner says while taking a mental picture of his own penis and handing it to the bartender with his eyes.

 

“Knock it off. You’re gonna get us kicked out of here.”

 

“Lighten up. We’re rich white dude’s who also happen to be famous and this is AMERICA! We’re not getting kicked out of shit.”

 

“You looking for America?” the bartender chimes in as she walks over and slides Cox and Weiner their drinks “I just saw her a few minutes ago, sitting back at one of those tables over there.”

 

Brian Cox and Anthony Weiner both look in the direction indicated by the bartender and shit…it’s true. There’s America. Sitting alone at a small table in the corner. Reading a magazine article about something that almost seems obvious. Methodically fingering a half empty cocktail glass. Legs crossed like two disagreeing squirrels.

 

“What’s she drinking?” Weiner asks.

 

“A McRib Martini.” the bartender answers. “Mangled, not stirred.”

 

“I’ll be right back.”

 

Before Cox can stop him Weiner’s on his feet, across the bar, and sliding into an empty chair beside America.

 

“You’re not invited.” America says without looking up.

 

“Then for fuck’s sake, invite me.” Weiner suggests.

 

“What do I look like, Italy? Piss off.”

 

Weiner was expecting a different response maybe, but having received what he’s been given decides it best not to drag things out and excuses himself with a quick “Ok then, thanks for your time, and I hope as always that I can count on your vote.”

 

Upon returning to Cox and the bar Weiner mumbles “America fucking hates me.” before ordering a half dozen Rum and Cokes.

 

“How could you not already know that?” Cox says, while pondering the fact that the eyeglasses the he’d set before him earlier now seem to have transformed themselves into a $36,000 purse.

 

Noticing the handbag, Weiner inquires “Where’d that come from? Is Oprah here?”

 

Oprah wasn’t there. And neither was the bar. The two phalically last-named characters now found themselves sitting at a 1950’s ice cream parlor…their alcoholic drinks replaced by butter nut sundays, all whored up with whip cream and cotton candy colored sprinkles.

 

“Dickshits!” Cox harruphs. “The Universe knows I can’t handle dairy. How the bloody hell am I supposed to get drunk on this?”

 

Weiner isn’t listening. He’s too busy drawing a not-to-scale picture of his crotch.

 

“What the hell are you going to do with that?” Cox asks.

 

“They don’t have cell phones in the 1950’s so when the waitress walks by I’m going to slip this bad boy into her apron pocket.”

 

“Maniac. You’re like a serial killer with that shit. It must stop.”

 

“It’s how I flirt!”

 

 

Part 2

 

Far above the ice cream shop the sun is caught cashing the latest check it’s received from Coppertone…kick back money from the corporate suntan lotion machine.

 

“I’ve been framed!” screams the Sun, even though it hasn’t….as a sky full of Cloud Cops descend upon the situation and fluff the big star away.

 

“Now what do we do?” asks the Money. “With the sun gone and stuff what are we supposed to do with all this lotion? We can’t sell protecting lotion when the thing that it’s made to protect people from is off rotting in jail.”

 

“We’ll bring the Moon in on this.” Brian Cox tells Weiner, although he’s no longer Brian Cox. He’s a sentient Space Lizard hired by The Corporations Of Earth to keep profits rolling.

 

“Moon Tan Lotion will most definitely be a tougher sell.” Weiner says, even though he’s no longer Weiner, having been almost unnoticeably replaced by a 5 ft Pez Dispenser with a face shaped like a jerked off horse. “In order to create demand the general public will have to be given a reason to fear it. As it stands right now on beams just aren’t all that dangerous.”

 

“Well that’s just something that’ll have to be worked out.” the talking Lizard says (pause). “If this thing’s going to work the Moon’s going to have to kill someone.”

 

“Lots of someones. says the Pez Dispenser.

 

“Agreed. The Moon will have to turn itself into a goddamn serial killer.”

 

“I’ll do it!” says the Moon, who up until a few seconds ago had been a Pez Dispenser.

 

“Than it’s done.” the Lizard who’s no longer a Lizard says. It’s no longer a Lizard because it’s now the current Body Count assigned to the Moon’s flash forward/rampant streak of murder and inedible doom, and as Coghlin’s Law # 137 clearly states: Don’t go getting’ greedy, cocker. One cannot be two things at the same time.

 

“Wait. I watched Cocktails the other day again, and I don’t recall that law actually being cited in the film.” The Moon says (as it wipes the entrails of what had until very recently been the entire population of a small village off the edge of its Coppertone sponsored Cheese Grater of Shredded Doom).

 

“That’s because it’s not in the movie. It’s in the novelization of the movie. Based off the screenplay’s almost unrecognizable 129th draft.” says The Body Count. Have you read it?”

 

“Of course I’ve read it.” says the Moon.

 

“Bullshit. You haven’t read it.”

 

“Fuck you! You haven’t touched me in months! How the hell do you know what I haven’t read?!”

 

Frustrated, the Moon flips its bloody cheese grater up into the air and then catches it behind its back and before the entire move can be completed the Body Count’s gone, its absence causing the sort of ripple through time that turns the sky into an old episode of The Six Million Dollar Man, one in which the Moon finds itself sitting behind a desk dressed in a top and bottom matching 1970’s jumpsuit trying to figure out what the fuck’s going on.

 

“Where did she go?” the Moon asks a robotic version of Bigfoot that sounds like Andre the Giant.

 

“Where do you think she went? You just killed your own Body Count.” Bigfoot says.

 

“Seriously?”

 

“Well, no. Not literally. But she no longer loves you anymore, so she’s gone.”

 

“My Body Count doesn’t love me?”

 

“It doesn’t want anything to do with you.” Bigfoot says.

 

“Shut up!” the Moon screams, its track suit only half zipped, exposing its various craters and wild poofs of chest hair. “I can’t go on without her! What do I do?! And what the fuck’s going on with this track suit?! This is so not fair!”

 

Bigfoot walks over and pats the Moon on the back in slow motion, which in Six Million Dollar Man terms means he’s patting him on the back really fast.

 

“Look, you’re making me feel horrible right now and I wasn’t going to tell you this but…your Body Count’s moved on.”

 

“What’s that mean?” the Moon asks. Tears shaped like old footprints are now walking down the side of its face.

 

“Your Body Count’s in love with someone else. She’s living with some guy in Cincinnati. They have sex a couple times a week. Inside a little house or something. It’s sort of gross and goes on forever and he’s got a huge penis and you probably don’t want to hear any more it if, it might make you sad.”

 

The Moon can’t believe what it’s hearing. Its true love shacked up with some prick in Cincinnati? How could this be true?

 

“Coughlin’s Law #12 ½: The only thing that remains constant is that constant don’t exist.” Bigfoot says.

 

That did it.

 

“Stop making up Coughlin’s Laws! You hideous Care Bear! I’ll murder you!”

 

And that’s what the Moon did. It murdered Bigfoot, and just like that a new Body Count was forged. But it just wasn’t the same. The Moon didn’t have the same feelings about this one and the new Body Count was even less fond of the Moon than its previous Body Count had been. Their relationship , if it was that, didn’t last long. She left the Moon a couple months later for a traveling dog salesman with orange hair…if that even makes sense.

 

The Moon was inconsolable. It bought a couple of cats and moved into Jupiter’s basement and spent the next four years drinking cheap whiskey, experiencing brief flashes of previous lives, and ignoring its own weiner. Also, the Moon watched a lot of movies, every one of them at one point or another featuring the sharply honed acting skills of the Brian Cox.

 

Part 3: One Thousand or Two Years in the Future

 

“Daddy, I don’t get it.” the small boy said to his father, “How can the Moon watch movies for 4 years if Brian Cox is in every one of the? I mean, wouldn’t he run out of?”

 

“Brian Cox has been in a lot of movies, son. Almost as many movies as there used to be stars in the sky.” the Father who’s been telling this goddamn story assured his son. “I mean, it’s pretty much impossible to run out of Brian Cox movies.”

 

His son sat there with a perplexed look upon his face as if he’d just shit his force field Chinos.

 

“More movies than Nicolas Cage’s been in? the boy asked.

 

His father damn near slapped him.

 

“Are you being serious? the Father said, “You know Nicolas Cage isn’t real. HE’s just a fucked up Boogey Man the Sky Masters made up to scare kids into hatin’ Elvis and eating their McVegetable and shit like that.”

 

“Oh yeah,” the boy said. “I forgot.”

 

Stupid kids.

 

“That’s alright.” the Father said. “It’s gettin’ late now. Go unplug your mother goodnight and get yourself off to bed.”

 

“Ok.” the kid said. “Goodnight father.”

 

The father stood there for a second staring up at the sky where everything besides Fox News said the Moon used to be and felt like he was forgetting something.

 

“Maybe I was Brian Cox in a past life.” he thought to himself, but man, he was way off, so out loud he just said:

 

“Goodnight.”

 

 

 

(written for the Rob Bomb/F Bomb reading, Mercury Café Denver CO)

Muzak Wasn’t Playing In The Elevator

19 Feb

elevator-1992-doors

muzak wasn’t playing in the elevator
the elevator was moving up and down the shaft
like music–the shaft accepting such affections libidinously
the passengers were oblivious and so thusly un-annoyed

a glass of milk becomes a reluctant voyeur at bedside
the peanut butter stifling a strong moan as it lubricantlessly
enters the jelly, the two sandwich spreads rolling ass-naked
on top a king-sized heaven shaped predictably

like warm wheat toast–the bread shutters softly,
and the eating begins–would you like some soda Nosferatu?
for she is much too beautiful for me to be scared of you tonight

love has given me ears tuned like 1st row orchestra tickets
every stumble is like a ballet, I mean every serenade
is elevated from its birthplace as a sneeze

 

 

 

(from my book I Was Going To Use That, Farfalla Press)

14 Things I Learned While Watching: The Lake House

16 Feb

the-lake-house-movie-poster-2006-1020371403

14 Things I Learned While Watching: The Lake House

  1. The Plot: An architect (Keanu Reeves) living in the year 2004 falls in love with a doctor (Sandra Bullock) from the future (2006) with the help of a magic mailbox (played by Andy Serkis).
  1. Andy Serkis is great as The Mailbox. You wouldn’t think a mailbox could pull off more convincing facial expression than a human being. But it can, if that mailbox is a mailbox, and that human being is Keanu Reeves.
  1. The Mailbox in The Lake House is owned by Skynet. That’s how it’s capable of transporting mail through time from one year to another. The U.S. postal service salvaged the metal leftovers of the first Terminator from The Terminator, and then using the metal bits that had previously been used to make Arnold Swarzenager’s man-rack, they made a mailbox. And then they sold it to Keanu Reeves father, and shortly after that the mailbox found itself nailed to a post in front of the lake house.
  1. The world of The Lake House is a world in which we’re expected to believe that it’s possible for a lady to fall in love by reading a bunch of letters written by Keanu Reeves. Which is fucked. This movie was released in 2006, the same year Sandra Bullock’s character lives in. She could’ve warned Keanu to warn the movie studio or something. She could’ve sent a letter back to 2004 that said “Dear Warner Brothers, I’ve seen the future and it’s horrible! If you want this movie to be anywhere near relatable you’ve got to either ditch Keanu or change the magic powers of the mailbox. I don’t know what pisses me off most, Keanu’s letters or his toneless goddamn voice over reading of them. If we keep Keanu, we can’t have my character falling in love with his fucking letters. It won’t work. Forget it. Can we turn the mailbox into some sort of time barrier breaking two way mirror? That way at least I’d know straight up how cute he was. Or maybe he can send me DVD movies of himself doing sit ups. That could work too……”
  1. Fuck the out of control ocean liner version of Speed 2. The Lake House is the real sequel to Speed . You can’t tell by watching the version of the film that was actually shot, but there’s probably a first draft around somewhere that has all the really cool Speed 1 characters and mythology still intact, but then the studio probably pulled a Prometheus and hired Damon Lindelof to do a final rewrite in which he yanked all the stuff related to Speed right the hell out. The original screenplay for The Lake House was probably filled with xenomorphs named after Dennis Hopper, close ups of out of control speedometers, and lots of busses. Lindelof would’ve replaced that shit with a stray dog, blueprints, and an unnecessary sub-plot about Keanu’s shitty relationship with his dad.
  1. Keanu’s jeans in this movie are blue in order to best represent his feelings. It helps the audience to understand his emotional status when he makes that face that he makes, because when he makes the face while he’s wearing blue jeans you get the sense that he’s sad about something, but when he makes the face in other things, say brown slacks, it looks like he’s just remembered that he really wants a big pretzel but he can’t remember how to get to the mall.
  1. It’s romantic. They take walks together even though they’re 2 years apart. They eat at the same table in restaurants even though they can’t see each other. They jerk off in the same corner of the lake house while pretending they’re not 2 years away from each other. They pretend that they’re standing in the same room, at the same time, jerking off together when in reality 2004 Sandra Bullock doesn’t give a shit about what 2004 Keanu’s doing, she’s just a doctor doing her doctor duties and he’s just another guy in 2004 jerking off. (note: 2 years after the jerking, Keanu looks at his watch when the right time comes and he smiles. Mumbles ‘You like that, don’t you doc.’, high fives his own Budweiser, and then goes back to staring at the goddamn lake.)
  1. Back of DVD box describes this movie as ‘a love that transcends time’, like 2 years is such an impossible time span for love to exist through. This goddamn DVD box. It reads suspiciously as if it’d been written by Helen.
  1. But which Helen? The Helen from 2004 who appeared madly in love with me, or the Helen from 2006, a creature gorged ornery by extended monogamy and caged rent payments and had already started taking long trips back to New York without me, where she’d bring Ryan Adams concert shirts back for me and I could already feel the leaving, that we were through…..
  1. For a long stretch of the movie Keanu can’t win. He plants a goddamn tree for Sandra Bullock beside the hospital because she told him she liked hospitals but missed trees and then 2 years later she’s already kissing another man underneath it.
  1. Sandra Bullock=high maintenance. They agree to meet in the future at a nice restaurant and Keanu Reeves stands her up because he’s dead and Sandra Bullock still gets pissed off
  1. Fuck Jane Austen. The only thing more ruffling than listening to somebody talk about how much they love Jane Austen is listening to Sandra Bullock talking to Keanu about how much she loves Jane Austen.
  1. 2002. 2004. Different years, same regime. They’re both living it out inside that first or second term of the Bush Administration. You’d think Bullock would at some point warn him, you know, “oh heads up Keanu, that dumb bought-out prick we thought had no chance of being reelected will be reelected. No, not that dumb bought-out prick. The other prick. No, he’s not running. He’s just one of the masks you starred with in Point Break. No, that guy’s not even a politician, that’s your dentist. What do you mean you “don’t really know politics?”?! Who did you vote for, you mono-toned bass-playing piece of shit?! Who did you vote for?!”
  1. “Buttons aren’t toys.”. (Wait, that’s not The Lake House. That’s something I learned while watching The Hitchhiker’s Guide……)

The Assassination of Helen’s 29th Year by the Coward Birthday Time

8 Feb

the-assassination-of-jesse-james

The Assassination of Helen’s 29th Year by the Coward Birthday Time

 

Her 29th year lived in a 2 bedroom apartment on Pine St

next to a medium-height plastic fence behind which

paced a white haired neighbor, his head bobbing curiously

like the aperture of an un-convicted serial-shed-killer, back and

forth across the horizon of false lumber

 

as if dancing to granulated sounds put forth by

the li-cit-ri-cus chit-chatting of clock-ticked squirrels and

young stovepipe-shaped sidekicks dressed in stylish hats

 

Her 29th year was in possession of the most beautiful features

that included a magnanimous rack, which she was cautious about

exposing lest the entire world be melted completely into some sort

of ridiculous safe-cracking-type trance

 

When she walked into a room:

 

clocks moaned

partially read magazines exploded

unhealed bullet holes healed

busted televisions blinked rapidly

‘Martha’s good eatin’’ came out to dance

 

Her 29th year regretted neither its overall internal greatness

nor its hot-assed exterior casings

and on April 4th in the year 2008

It was 30 years old

 

 

 

(written for Helen, when we were still together, one year before the aftermath began)

I Feel Mr. Bad For Mr. Big

8 Feb

Paul Natkin Archive

I Feel Mr. Bad For Mr. Big

 

Mr. Big sold its song

‘To Be With You’

to Wendy’s

 

and then Wendy’s

changed the lyrics

to be about hamburgers

 

and that made me sad

 

because I don’t eat hamburgers anymore

 

that song has moved

beyond something

I can relate to

 

‘to’ or ‘too’?

‘be’ or ‘bee?

you or you?

 

Motley Crue recently turned

‘Home Sweet Home’ into a lousy

Property Insurance Company

commercial

 

and that made me sad too

 

because I don’t own any property

and am thus incapable

of becoming nostalgic

over the peace of mind

that must come

from knowing that if your goddamn house

burns down

you’re both melodically

and financially

covered

 

Tommy Lee running for his drum kit

after just having played the piano

is now paced to the beat

of flexible monthly premium rates

 

I don’t understand

 

 

Where did Diet Vanilla Pepsi go?

 

Where the hell’s its goddamn

hair metal band theme song?

 

why am I always getting

so goddamn beat down

about things like this?

 

the world contains billions of people

with insurance

and burned down houses

 

who are still in love

with their high school

cheeseburgers

 

and probably prefer

the brand new commercialized versions

to the originals

 

because hell,

 

we’re all just one

lousy tour of Japan away

from becoming a fast food commercial

 

so it’s easier, maybe

believing that

 

if something you care about

burns down

you can easily replace it

 

affordably priced

hamburgers

need love too

Cocktopus Lives!

3 Feb

Left-Shark-And-Right-Shark-With-Katy-Perry-665x385

Cocktopus Lives!

 

The first time The Creature came for you, you were laying on the couch thinking about Starbuck from Battlestar Galactica, your dick sticking out of your checker patterned pajama shorts, beating off in the dark; not the Dirk Benedict version of the popular Sci Fi character, the more recent one who recently went topless in the also most-recent version of Riddick, and though everything sounds recent when it’s said like this everything is except for the actual act of the beating off.

The first time The Creature came for you, that was months ago. But you remember. It was September, the time of the month in which the moon outside protrudes like a vast yellow asshole but you’re inside, aren’t you, jerking off to the femininely updated version of Starbuck and after a good five minutes of that you become disoriented, because that’s what you do—and your mind wanders—and before you can do anything about it Starbuck isn’t just blowing you, she’s also drinking coffee from a cardboard cup with the word Starbucks printed on its side, and you find this distracting and ask her to get rid of it and because this is your fantasy she doesn’t belittle you, she agrees to lose the coffee but she doesn’t just sit it down on the floor like you were thinking she would, she reaches behind her and hands it to Dirk Benedict and you’re all “Where the hell’d he come from?” before lady Starbuck suggests you shut the Frak up and cups your fantasy balls and you decide to just go with it.

You muddle through.

But before you can finish you hear sounds like worn burlap tearing and if the way your heart broke permanently when she’d said she was leaving had been a smell that’s what it smelled like now and though the room’s dark and your mind’s blurred and your arm’s tired and the parade of blood smokes cigarettes in your penis pacing back and forth, you’re suddenly gorged with the sensation that you’re not alone, because you’re not.

Something is looming on the other side of your feet at the foot of the couch and before you can put your own dick down or grab a headlamp or stand up and run screaming for help it’s upon you. Your eyes are no longer relevant because it’s dark but you don’t need eyes to know that the space between you and your own safety has been obliterated. There’s the weight pinning your legs down and the smell that smells like her leaving and the sound of claws jangling keys like they’ve just opened their own knife store and The Creature is giggling. Its breath has mass.

Quote: What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger (End Quote:) and it hits that you’ll never be stronger because this lump-fucked monster’s going to end you and as the thing in the dark grabs your arm and half a dozen sharp things break skin your penis falls out of your hand and you scream like a butchered Theremin and as fast as the goddamn nightmare seemed to pop out of nowhere a fucking eternity ago it just as quickly pops back out again and you find yourself shaking and at half mast and alone.

You go to work the next day and during the September Birthdays Potluck you tell several people eating cake what’s happened. You leave out the part where you were masturbating, of course, but everything else you blurt out, you tell them the rest and they don’t believe you, maybe because you didn’t bring a dish to pass, so you show them the long gashes on your upper arm and they either blame Obamacare or suggest that you cut yourself shaving.

You’re embarrassed that some of them have guessed correctly that you do indeed on special occasions shave your arms so you drop it and spend the rest of the potluck not laughing at jokes about new filing systems while pretending to eat their goddamn cake.

The days that follow curve into nights shaped like haunted zoos.

The second time The Creature came for you, you were locked securely in a bathroom stall at Target masturbating above a recently cleaned toilet seat. You’d only gone in to pee but you were bored and the place was empty and some days there’s just something about boobs in red shirts so you entered the stall like a crumbling society’s modern day version of Don Juan or Don Quixote and went to work. When the reality of what you’re doing arrives you push it back because sure jerking off in an empty Target bathroom may be a tad bit desperate and pathetic and perhaps even creepy, but at least its Target, that is to say at least you’re not jerking off in an empty public bathroom at Walmart or something like that–because that would really be hitting bottom. The fact that this is Target and not Walmart means that you haven’t lost all hope completely. You haven’t hit bottom yet. There’s still plenty of down space in which for you to fall.

And while you’re thinking this The Creature comes at you, breaking through the locked door of the stall like a crazed peeping tom version of the Kool-Aid man and you get a good look at it this time; several feet tall, somewhat humanoid in shape but with ears covering around 75% of it facial area and an enormous mouth crammed with multiple rows of shark teeth where its belly button should be–its body somehow covered with thick fur and reptile-like scales at the same time. It’s got octopus tentacles instead of ass cheeks and an Infinity sign for a dick. And for some evolutionary reason the goddamn thing’s bright orange and in a repeat performance of your first encounter with the thing you scream, drop your penis, and The Creature scratches you on the arm and runs off.

The fact that the creature has attacked you twice now while you were masturbating and retreated back into its own Hellworld at the precise moment that you cease masturbating does not occur to you yet. It’s not until the third encounter that you start to put it together that these attacks are for some reason connected with the self stimulation of your dick.

You’re in the shower and testy because the world is cruel and you haven’t had sex with a woman since she left over a year ago and you haven’t successfully pleasured yourself in awhile because The Creature keeps interrupting—and it’s here that you begin to put it together, nebulously at best because a couple seconds after thinking this you start thinking about a woman’s downhill skiing competition you once watched on TV and then you’re off again, alone in the shower with her name tattooed on your left arm jerking off.

Time moves in quick uneasily definable pieces and before Lindsey Vonn hits the Corduroy you hear the sounds of something tearing the piss across your kitchen and your first thought is ‘Who let John Goodman in?’ but then you perk up and realize John Goodman doesn’t know you and even if he did there’s nobody around to open the door for him and that’s when you get it, that The Creature’s returned to murder you while you masturbate and as you listen to the sounds of something horrible hobbling down your hallway it pops like someone’s just hit you upside the head with Colombo and you get it, as the enormous orange shape of the goddamn thing shoulder rapes your bathroom doorframe. The Creature only shows up when you’re jerking off—and it always leaves when you stop touching yourself—so just before the fucking nightmare rips the heart out of your sliding glass shower door you stop touching yourself, and just like that the beast stops where its feet are, breathing heavily. It doesn’t immediately retreat like it usually does, but it doesn’t advance either. It just sort of stands there, staring, with a face full of ears, as if waiting to see what you’ll do.

Maybe it’s the hot water or the fact that everything has always felt hopeless or your current proximity to soap; whatever it is you don’t completely crumble this time and to the voraciously confused outsider it may even appear like you’re standing your ground.

As The Creature abides there grunting like a sentimental Scooby Doo attempting to mount and bone hump an outstandingly pissed off pterodactyl you take it upon yourself to test things. After scanning the shower you quickly rope around your right fist a somewhat formidably sized piece of luffa, the closest thing you can find to a weapon, and with your left hand you enunciate, fingers extending, until the middle one which you still use occasionally to symbolize your desire for specific members of the human race to go-fuck-themselves and the one next to it that once wore the ring tentatively brush against your somewhat hard shaft.

Upon witnessing this the huffing beast flies into a rage! Claws rise. Its belly button leveled mouth howls, and before you can yank your hand away the shower door’s been pulled from its own track and hurled against the toilet where it lies leaked into a thousand pieces. You break hand contact with your penis as the door breaks and The Creature stands, set to pause once again, with its upper body leaned into the shower and it hits you like bad porn that you are only, as you stand there, the mere width of one or perhaps two cracked out hookers away from a horribly clunky death.

You also realize that with the monster sort of crouching like it is with its mouth located at a freaky belly button type level, that this puts its entire ocean’s worth of sharp teeth dangerously at the same level as your own penis. And then it also occurs to you that perhaps this is not just a weird coincidence. And then you just stand there for a while hands spread wide and locked as far away from your own wiener as you can get them, with The Creature breathing hot puss against the side of your face as if, I don’t know, daring you to wank off.

But you don’t wank, so eventually The Creature fucks off again, leaving you now at least with a silver bulletproof defense on how to avoid being devoured by the goddamn thing in the future. It’s simple. Just: don’t masturbate. I mean, who needs it? She’s been gone for at least a year. You should be over that by now. You shouldn’t be moping around beating off to new Wendy’s commercials or terrible feel good movies like The Blind Side. You hate value meal chili almost as much as you hate Sandra Bullock. You’re better than that. You’re a grown man now. You shouldn’t be touching yourself all the time like an eight year old boy in 1979 recently exposed to the existence of The Dukes Of Hazzard’s Catherine Bach. You should be out dating. Find a nice lady to settle down with. Not only will you not be alone anymore, you won’t need to touch your own penis as such. You can do sex stuff with your new lady. Yes, you’ve convinced yourself that there’ll never be a new lady, but surely you’ve come to realize by now that being alone sucks. Surely your post-being-left-by-her fear of intimacy has been trumped by your fear of being torn to pieces by a Creature whose specific attack formation puts its enormous mouth full of teeth at the exact same level of your cock.

On the bright side, maybe this beast is doing you a favor, that is to say you’re stubborn and a horrible self-starter and if you continue on in the manner in which you’ve chosen to continue you’ll end up fulfilling the Donnie Darko prophesy which states that everyone dies alone. So, maybe this is the proverbial kick in the front of the pants that’s needed. You’ve been presented with a choice. You can either face your fears of becoming involved in another relationship and become involved in another relationship, thus dodging the tangent bunny, or you can remain alone while living a hollow, ejaculation-less life and go mad.

So what’s it going to be?

Several Months Later

You are the worst adult date person ever. You’re introverted and useless and your pick up lines sound like late night TV ads for incontinence, because you were never good at this sort of thing or you’re heart just isn’t in it; who knows? What is known is that you’re still hung up on things probably so  you’ve given up on finding someone and you haven’t seen The Creature since that one night long ago in your bathroom because that was the last time you’ve touched your own dick. What’s also known is that, as hopelessly predicted because of all this, you’ve grown abundantly insane.

And in the time between then and now you’ve also learned The Creature’s real name, and you whisper it now, while standing disrobed outside on a borrowed balcony; after having decided to end it at the ending because that’s where endings belong if they belong anywhere and it seems fitting after all because its endings that drove you here in the first place, for The Creature feeds exclusively on the lonely and the doomishly depressed and its name isn’t Creature, it’s Cocktopus—and you call it by name now as you stand there beneath the moon which is still an asshole, yanking your penis for the final last time while thinking about this one moment that died long ago when she was on top of you and you were on acid and the  walls smelled like a motel room because you were fucking in an old motel. As her hair melts into guitar strings, and then a Lee Majors song that he once sang to the Bionic Woman on The Six Million Dollar Man, and then back into hair again you hear the Cocktopus scream, and then it’s standing right in front of you smiling like a sick fuck who’s just won a cursed bet, and then you say something so profound and goddamn sad that I can’t believe I can’t remember it, I really should’ve written it down at the time.

Oh well.

Rain purples. Doves cry. And then Cocktopus rips your fucking head off, and you bleed all over the balcony, as Love returns home humming Prince tunes after a long evening spent dildo shopping and the moon shits goodnight for the crowd….

 

(written for the Fbomb, Mercury Café/Denver CO)