September 24

Fancy With Clam Chowder


No point recreating anything lost.

The girl from the picture. The Island is hers again. She’s older. Can she unpack the stories from her time spent packed? “I don’t eat lobster, because it’s expensive, and after you eat it whaddo ya have?” Disgust, and a mate whose perfume reminds your neighbor of loving being lost, with no one who knew where she was, feeling for the first time what she knew she could feel her whole life. The Island was mine for a while. I never unpacked.

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September 19



Leon arrived at the doctor’s and described his depression and anxiety in detail. He was presented with a handful of bullets.
“Take one a day,” the doctor had told him.
“So what do I do? Swallow them?” Leon asked.
The doctor laughed, and patted him on the back.

September 13

Whores of the rusty mailbox


For quite a while now, I do not dare to open my own mailbox. I’m getting a little bit worried about the tiny, hot houswives who are dwelling inside of it. They might be smaller than four inches, yet they behave like militant amazons only waiting for the post box to be opened, and then, they can have what they think they deserve: me.

They’ve been living in that goddamn box for about one and a half month now. At first, I was hoping that if I would continue on ignoring them, they will shortly change their minds and move to an other mailbox, maybe the one which is owned by that dirty old hag living on the third floor. That broken down bitch is sure to teach them a lesson they will never forget! Or maybe -I thought to myself- if they don’t bother moving out I will let them starve to death andlet them eat the tiny little corpses of each other. But things were just not turning out the way I wanted them to.

They are banging on the metal door of the postal box now, and they are offering their tiny, hot bodies to every single male passing by, let it be the hormone troubled teenager from the fist floor or the hard-working family man from the sixth, who is leaving to his office every morning in a rush.

I’ve alredy tried to clog the tin box with every bit of waste paper I could find in the staircase, but that didn’t seem to work too well either. I wanted to suffocate the little whores, but they easily tore all the flyers and the newspapers apart and made themselves sexy paper underwares and comfortable nests from the material. They now can rub their tiny bodies more comfortable all day, layng in luscious positions, offering their questionable erotic services further to the residents of the flat, who are getting angrier and more impatient day by day.

To be honest, this situation has started to get out of control pretty badly by now. At first it was just the sniffy, sometimes even murderous stares of the neighbours passing me by in the staircase that made me think that the tiny harem dwelling in my post box is starting to annoy the members of the residential community.  However, the last time I took the elavator to my apartment, a neighbour of mine told me, that if the liliputian whores will not leave her husband alone, she will have to call the cops on me. She claims that one of the post box prostitutes (a little, hot MILF) regularly tried to win her husband’s attention by showing him her little, round asscheeks, and whispering dirty things while he was passing by my mailbox. The man, of course, is declining all the charges pulled against him. He sais that no other minor slut can get him excited except his only wife. But the lingering glances addressed toward the tin letterbox have betrayed him already.

I had to find the fastest, most effective solution to get rid of these dirty little parasites, and I couldn’t see any other way then sending them to Hell with the help of some poison. So about two weeks ago I went on to the internet to order some penis enlarging capsules made from the mixture of herbal extracts and illegal dopping substances. The little tablets have arrived in a thick envelope, wrapped in bubble foil. I went to the post office to pick them up myself and when I got home, I smashed the capsules with a spoon and mixed the powdered drug with some tap water and rosé wine. I loaded a squirt gun that I’ve bought in a neighbourhood toy store and sprinkled the dirty little drabs with the smelly pink alcoholic tinkture. The slutty little moms were bathing in the rain of alcohol and drugs with their pointy tongues sticking out, lustfully moaning, hungry for pleasure. But surprisingly, things didn’t really work out the way i wanted them to.

The slutty little MILFs are now banging on the door of the mailbox riding fully grown, erected dicks thanks to the side effects of the penis enlargement pill cocktail. The cocks sometimes stick their shiny, purple heads out through the holes of the mailbox and they usually whisper dubious deals in  the ears of the passerby. They are trying to get someone to open the door, and set them and their mistresses at large, so they can roam the hallways of the flat free and rape the assholes of the uncareful residents.

-Psst! Hey! Hey, Dude! Come ’ere I’ve got a great deal for ya! How would you like your schlong to be four inches longer and a lot more thicker in only six days? Pretty sweet, huh!? You only have to let me out of ’ere! Hey! Hey, Dude, don’t leve me ’ere! Didn’t you know that even the setting sun can have strength? You will be amazed with the results, I tell ya!

When they are not in an erect state (which is a quite rare occasion actually) they are trying to lure people near the mailbox with other shady offerings.

-Oi! Oi, Mate! Did ya know, that you’re the one-thousandth fortunate visitor who set foot on this stair? Come ’ere and open this goddamn mailbox to claim your prize, a brand new, shiny testicle ironing kit!

Last time one of the neighbours almost fell for a dirty trick of one these tricky little motherfuckers, and it was only a matter of a few seconds that he did not break the door of my post box open with a crowbar. Those cheeky bastards told him that if he would break the box open he would win a three week luxury trip to yugoslavia. Inside, the fuckin’ little whores and their foul servants were only waiting for the right time to escape from their tinbox prison cell, and rape all the possible orifices of that poor, naive bastard. Fortunately, at the moment I was on my way home from the store. Just in time to tear the heavy metal tool out of the excited neoghbour’s hands before he could set the unholy beasts of the mailbox free. The ice cold piece of metal got hit him on the back of his skull, fell clinking on the ground with the dull thud of the lifeless body.

I am now afraid to set my foot in the staircase. I can hear the lustful moaning mixed with the horrible death rattle leaking through the tiny cracks of the door and I can feel the upcoming anarchy building up in my entrails. I can hear thundering footsteps in the staircase, and I am sure, this time they are coming for me. What else would be the cause of this frantic commotion outside? They are coming to get me, they are going to hunt me down, they want to hurt me. They are hungry for my life, my blood. They are going to drain my putrid body fluids into a jar and put them on the shelf of the pantry, next to the rotten pear compote and the moldy raspberry jams of grandma, and I am going to stay there till the end of time.

I can only hope that the police will discover my cold body on the floor of the hall before these filthy unrightous little whores find me. I’m afraid there is no such thing on earth that might be sacred in their eyes.

August 30

Applaud Urself


You must not know ’bout me, cause I’m not supposed to be staying in your guest bedroom. I knew your mom was trouble when she walked in that time I was cleaning in my pajamas with all the doors open. Pretty hurts, but I know you göt 2b beach trippin’. Your mail’s here; if you’re ready, come and get it la la la la…

I’m happy, free, confused, and lonely at the same time, because I can eat anything in your fridge but all you have is fat free yogurt and hot dogs. I went to the barbecue place outside your nearest grocery store again, and I got hot sauce in my bag instead of mild this time.

I woke up like this, in your guest bedroom under a crappy inspirational poster in a frame that’s bowing so much I’m afraid it’s going to snap and fall on me one night. Some nights I stay up smoking your weed. From your roof, a shooting star I see, a vision of ecstasy.

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August 23

Helpz Lotion


They paid me in lotion.

I thought about climbing out the window, just like I had climbed in the night before. Grandma doesn’t know I’m staying there, and she can’t, because it would be an awkward conversation. The window, which is covered by the vines of a kiwi tree, faces East. Long blue curtains conver the mud on the wall from previous entries. It’s an easy climb, but the sharp vines are shredding my skin. I would have done it, but it would have made too much noise, and besides, I needed my laundry. Or did I? Perhaps I could leave in my pajamas and return an hour later after the editor was gone. I had to take a phone call at 9. One way or another, the editor would know I was there.


“You look nice today!” said my boss, “are you going to an event?” No I just look like this today. These are the clothes I didn’t put in the laundry. They were stuffed in the back of the roll I hide under the bed, from Grandma. Grandma comes on Wednesdays, and sometimes other days. Yesterday she picked grapes, and I heard a rat scurry across the roof over the kitchen, where I saw the Perseids.


I tried to lie, but the editor is too keen. He’s a favorite in the narcissist’s collection. We all collect the same. So off I went, without brushing my teeth, but fortunately I had a brush and paste in my pack from the night I prepared to go camping with a stranger from Japan. Once again I brushed my teeth in the bathroom next door to work, an occurrence so common it’s become a resting place. 


There was no driving the New Yorker today. The phone call was short, and he seemed more frazzled than me. So I replied to another gig and printed ink for two hours.


I don’t eat chips, but they wanted my favorite kind, so I picked Jalapeno. It was a good choice. The band from 2002 really likes jalapeno chips and fruit loop vapor. I downloaded their song and pressed play 12 times. Tomorrow they play it themselves.


My card was declined when I purchased the chips. But I can’t use the New Yorker’s 200 or the landlord’s 200. I hope I get paid soon. Who knows when the New Yorker will pay me. Maybe I should spend more hours printing and blow off this gig.


Maybe this gig will thank me with a cash bonus.

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August 21

The Shot Nazi


The Nazi staggered toward me, clutching at his gut. He’d taken at least six bullets, a few to the gut, two in the chest, one in his right shoulder. He bled profusely. I had a hard time believing he was still able to walk, even if wearily.

He came right up to me and grabbed my lapels for support.

“Tell me… something… would you?” he squeaked out breathily.

“What do you want to know?” I asked, not sure what else to do.

“Do you think… my uniform… is ruined?” he said weakly, then started to wheeze with laughter, collapsing onto the asphalt, which was still not completely dry.

“Well, it is now, you idiot!” I chided.

“I’m fucking with you!” He laughed and laughed at his own stupid joke until he started to cough up blood. Then he coughed up something that looked like a hermit crab and fell motionless.

I still have the hermit crab-looking thing.

July 7

Sucker, the Sun Run and I Sit


My skin didn’t crawl exactly (as the sky crystallized, solidified, and crucified itself to the outside of the Earth Defense Ovular Laser Wall), but rather, I would say, slid. I tried to pull it tight and regain some sense of composure, but there it slid and slid right down into the grass. Cold down there (if you look, if you can see so fine in this small air we’ve been given, you’ll see the puffiest fluff of a nervous system still intact and communicating with the skin, much like, cut off from her holy light, we moon mad men communicate with the Blue Mother.)

I would do other than sit bleeding in my seat, but I think we, and by we I mean me and you and all of your babies and dogs, are A-Triple F U Fucked. They wouldn’t turn on the EDO Laser Wall unless the sun had turned tail and run back in its black fox hole when the bombs began to go off at the galactic rim. I’ve seen it. Not lately, but I’ve seen it. And I don’t have thick enough skin anymore to resist.

June 29

Escape the bedroom


I woke up with a tiger prowling sideways in my belly. Surrounding bees laughed and went about their whorish business. A trumpet sounded, loudly, then with raspberry inaccuracy as if it had been snapped like a bean, boiled like a bad idea in a teabag.

Two children madly colored insane dictation given them by an eclipsed game of hangman. An old alter boy sought communion wine at the hands of puppets, rung through patchwork dish towels. An angel brought a napkin to the dinner table, wiping tears, and telling jokes. The smallest child laughed, to distract random weeping.
A small mechanical man sat telling the occupants if they could drink,and if so, what, when, and how much.He doubled as a candle.

The grandfather clock, the overseer of the entire affair, spoke only once. Only time can tell.

June 27

Don’t Forget Your Passport



Today began like any other, well…except for the survey crew in my room.
The conch shell on the nightstand chimed. It was my mother calling from, what used to be our den. She was informing me that, if I wanted to eat breakfast with her, I needed to come now before the border closed. Oh, and I needed to grab my passport if I was planning a stop in the bathroom.
“It seems that the neighbors to our north have annexed the south side of our bungalow“, she said
“Huh,??“, I replied, confused. “wait, we have no neighbors“, I continued. “We live on an island”.
She apologized. What she meant to say, was the neighboring island, some thirty miles to the east.
So I rolled off the bunk, donned my armor and grabbed a kitbag. With passport in hand, I sauntered into the kitchen. The lackey at the turnstile checked my papers as I sat down at the table. “Anything else I should know??”, I grumbled.
“Dad morphed last night”, Mom replied, matter-of-factly.
“Finally!!” I shouted. “I’m so tired of mopping up slug pus!” For that, I earned a withering, but sympathetic look from Mom.
Scarfing down my Bag-O-Meal, I happened to glance up at the Captain, who had just emerged from the wheelhouse of his ship that he plowed into the leeward side of the house only a moment ago.
He shouted “Eight bells!!”, then declared a mutiny and scrambled over the rail and into the den.
“Oh my gosh!! Eight bells already?? I’ve gotta go!!” I declared.
As I shimmied down the pole to the waiting dingy, Mom shouted “Don’t forget your passport!!”

May 13



Summer stands on the corner of Union Avenue. He’s an Asian this year, homosexual and proud.

For the time of year, the days and nights are particularly cool. I think perhaps that he is waiting for a friend. He watches a turbulent relationship leaving apartment B. They are going to the shops. They’re too engrossed in each other’s problems to be aware of his eyes all over them. They need new batteries for their radio, it’s a priority, written at the top of pocketed lines of paper:

3 AA batteries

milk (3 pts.)

1 doz. eggs


1 cranberry bushel

It’s a very long list. They’ll probably be out all afternoon. Perhaps she’ll make a phone call plea to her mother. I am watching all this from the bedroom window.

They disappear around the corner. The neighbor’s cat sits on my wall. It’s a vantage point from which she makes calculations. I’m not sure of the exact nature of these. Apparently they involve food, comfort and the relationship between darkness and distances. Summer chucks a leaf at her. It misses.

My current sexual neutrality comes through from the other room and joins me at the window. She is full of words.

“That movie you wanted to see is on in a few minutes. Do you still want to go out for a drink tonight? I’m pretty tired, could do with an early night. You’re quiet today. I see old Summer’s out there again. Looks like he’s off up Alta Vista road. Do you want more coffee?”

She leaves and I glance around the room. This morning’s jerk is curled up and asleep in my unmade bed. Her fact-and-fantasy body seems incongruous, even slightly pathetic, when set against the proper world.

“It’s on the counter, hun. I’ve not put any sugar in. The movie’s starting. Are you coming in?”

What this place needs is a real woman’s touch. She’d see that the windows didn’t distract me so easily. She’d do something about the days and nights. She’d not make coffee that tasted like dirty carpet. Sometimes when I lie in bed I hear her footsteps outside, It’s late and she’s hurrying along on her way home. Other nights she’s someone else and is too far away to be heard.

Perhaps I’ll ask her out for a meal. Perhaps we’ll be drunk at a party and I’ll fuck her as a formality before finding out that she’s a typist or a student or a trainee something. Perhaps she’ll suddenly say “Hey you comma how’ve you been question mark I didn’t know that you still lived around here exclamation point” and we’ll both be pleased to see each other after so long, and I never expected it would turn out to be her.

“Can we have 3 AA batteries, please?”

Simultaneously, Summer reaches the top of Alta Vista road. I stir in one teaspoonful of sugar and go in to watch the movie. She’s sitting on a bus somewhere, vaguely wondering what I’m going to look like and when. The cat is having problems with a particularly awkward calculation and decides to sleep on it.

Mid-afternoon pulls up in his car and opens the door for Summer to get in: “Where the hell have you been?”