Thursday, July 15, 2010


My favorite part, after the lives have ended, is putting away my puppets. Each one appears glad to have participated, and each one gratefully winks at me as I wipe specks of blood off of their cotton skin. It's their encouragement that makes it the be-all end-all career that it is. To put this in a very seductive way: I get to just kill people for myself. And I get to bring puppets. Why are the puppets there? Because they're the only thing I can justify having with me other than the tools of the trade when murdering. I get to kill the tall football fans with black jungles on their bitch-tit infested chests. I kill the small shit head kids who want to watch movies like Shrek the Third. I get to kill grandmas and uncles and nieces, oh my! But I don't take their lives per say, no, that feels too much like rape (Something I will never do, because it doesn't feel good. Trust me, I know. I have been raped). Instead, I make them give their lives to me I'm their guest. I'm made to feel at home. They insist that I destroy them. Sometimes, I get the compulsion to do it from not wanting to hurt their feelings.
How does this phenomenon continue to happen? To me no less! Well, I think it is best explained by something my (now deceased) best friend once told me about myself. "Charlie" he said, "I don't know what it is. There's just something about the way you impress yourselves on the parents of your friends. You are that one-in-a-million guy that always gets away with a million dollar first impression. They love you from the first word that exits your mouth in their doorway, to the ingenious way you leave without the slightest acknowledgement of their presence. You have a power."
And yes, it would seem so.
I'm not even a murderer. I'm just a guest, who comes over. I entertain with puppets. We drink a few glasses of wine. They begin to play with my puppets. I give such a good first impression, that they want to give me the most valuable thing they own, their soul. They attempt to give it to me. I refuse, because I am a polite person (I am going mad). They will not have this. They take the puppets, put them on their hands. They scream and scream. Oh how I cringe. They torture me until I am obligated to humor their most urgent desire. I dig in slow with the first stab, so hesitant to cleave flesh. They pull it further into them, smiling. They say "There, I told you! I would never lie, now would I?" and I sweat. It gets good. It becomes my only function. They enjoy the torture, the blood, the death.
And at the end, when everything is back in its bag sleeping and clean, I walk into their kitchen and eat every single thing, because I am a VERY hungry man.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010


Nervous newly-weds on their night out.
Medicines will wring anxiety to drought.
They slip under crisp, new covers.
Murderers come and kill them.
They kill newly-weds on purpose.
They slip in and kill some lovers.
Victims leave and are dead.
They get dead, on mistake.
They must be jealous.
Young folks are dead and passed.
They must be very crazy people.
Youths are no longer cuddling.
They must pull murders, often.
Youngs are without previous mortality.
Murders are caused because of a sterling silver knife.
Mad folks come and find a young folk and stop their life.
These murderous pals come and murder because they wish they could marry.
Instead, murders are asunder to which there is surprised and then they bury.
Malcolm, Dina, Shane, Qualler, and Belle are among the passed and deceased.
The folks who have committed their murder are in big trouble, in jail, not released.
Murderers like Rowel and Filder are not supposed to chop folks up like they did in real life.
They are not supposed to be bad and kill young people having sex on their honeymoon.

Hunting Knife

My son's head was scooped up and placed onto my lap. I could feel my pulse up against where his nose pressed into my leg. There was the feeling of warm liquid pooling around my zipper area. Don't tell anyone, but there was a possibility of that being any liquid- maybe even all. Yeah, after a while, it registered. My son is passed away and decapitated. At the very moment all of the warm liquid was only obvious blood, I twitched. No doubt this is devastating. This was no time to be sitting down. Of course I was paralyzed, somewhat. "The moment I stand up, I will get vengeance." I wish I had done that.

What they were doing was ridiculous. Slapping folks in the back of their necks and whacking peoples heads and hips all over the road. We could barely keep up. What was the use? We were here, pressure-washing human mold from below us. I'll bet they consider us to be cleaning up after ourselves. They're awful. I don't think they're monsters, though. They just need to get their shit together. What I hate the most is the sneer they have to make because of how the nerves in their arms connect to their lips. Their shoulders are either really high up like monkeys-in-a-barrel or low, like a librarian with lockjaw. I know. The glasses just stab me. Ah, metaphorically, I mean. Nay, mentally: it's disturbing.

Son's dead. Right. I am paralyzed. Sweat rolls down my nose, and I can't do a thing. It bothered me so much, I would have loved to just pick up my pressure-washing kit and just blow that tuft of skin from off of my face. "Someone please lift me up, and scrape me into the pavement." I wish I had said that. If I had said it when I thought it, I would have had some help. They're still deplorable.

After a third of these things left, I was finally able to move. Well, I was able to move a few parts of myself. Every slight move I made, though, was followed by an energetic, jerking motion. I probably wasn't so ready, yet. I wish I had known that. What I did next was somewhat of a compensation for these tinier moves I was making. Basically, I lunged my self forward. My son's head had already been slipping lower, beyond my knees. This just caused it to finally roll under my bench. Fuck it. I wasn't planning on keeping it.

The End.