When we are with each other
There is a beauty in that being
And then there is nothing
You know what this guy in the bar
Said to me the other night?
“I’d fuck you in a minute Nancy Spungeon”
When we are with each other
There is a beauty in that being
And then there is nothing
You know what this guy in the bar
Said to me the other night?
“I’d fuck you in a minute Nancy Spungeon”
Boxers or Briefs
2013, 6″ x 4″, ink on paper
downloadable digital print available here
written by M.
LITTLE HANS FORGOT HIS MEDS
The CAREY BUS made the familiar right curve: the descent to the mouth of the Lincoln Tunnel. She turned to the left for the first glimpse of the glittering skyline. Vacant. Six-thirty Saturday morning lights out. Anti-climactic beauty. Still and gray.
“You cannot keep me a prisoner here. I want to go out for a COCKTAIL.”
“You are not under house arrest.
You are free to leave whenever you want to.”
“I know, but the cars, they stop
on the streets. It must be the yellow leather jacket. It attracts
“All we’ve got here is espresso and LITTLE DEBBIE
MUSHROOMS in clear glass mixing bowls, cheese cloth strung across
the top and sealed by a rubber band.
Odor of vinegar permeates the kitchen.
“What are they called again? The kind you grow for
health? You know. You drink the water. Everyone’s into it. You know that ANTI-CARCINOGEN thing?”
“Twenty-four hours of television then a trip to the
twenty-four hour pharmacy uptown for a disposable enema. Not the fleet kind with the nozzle, but the one with the bag. Here’s seven dollars. Take it.”
Yeah. It was a love story with the bad
boy protagonist dying in the end. Just like in the gangster movies.
We would sleep all afternoon, get up in the dark, make
coffee, sometimes food or not. One day he boiled potatoes and carrots. We sat in the floor with maps of the city and I refused to speak in his native language.
The words were stuck in my throat. I was choking because there was butter in the broth. Poison to a vegan.
My Host: “It is all so very painful this life. the
beauty of existence is in the sleeping. The room is hot. I will masturbate now.”
She ate his snot. He was wearing woman’s shoes. the DJ
spun a LED ZEPPELIN hit.
A black compact car pulled up to the hydrant on the west
side of Sixth and A. Middle-aged woman with too much hair and make-up oozed out of the passenger door. Think it may have been one of those wannabe LEXUS models. Definitely under twenty grand. Sensible. They were slumming in one of those new “affordable” restaurants. Hard to pinpoint the borough of origin.
The time is two-twenty. Last call is in a little over
an hour. To go out alone is desperate. The couch is so CUSHIONY.
“We’d made love on that couch. It was in May. How he agreed to stay downtown I do not know. Nothing was as good as mother’s apartment
in the suburbs and a five dollar bag of ditch weed. Yes he had taught me about the KIND BUD: the ultimate rarely attainable better than a wet dream.
Safe in MOMMY’s kitchen roasting HOMEGROWN in the toaster
oven. Jerking off to the kind bud.
“We’d smoked homegrown from September on. The buds
first, then maybe the leaves, but only when the town was completely dry. By November the taste of the ditch weed left the cotton mouth wishing it could wretch.”
“Had the most beautiful seven foot plants in the tomato garden, an adolescent fuck you to my parents. Smoked the bud, sold the leaf to be mixed with sensimilla, threw the rest away in December with parental
threat of police. Yeah, maybe a couple of kids had grow lights, but it seemed ages before YUPPIE hydroponics. back in the day of Columbian, Hawaiian, Acapulco Gold at FORTY BUCKS AN OUNCE.
I CALL THE AFTER MIDNIGHT HOTEL CLERK: “What color
underwear are you sporting this evening? are they boxers or briefs?” HE KNOWS ME. HE HANGS UP.
Cheeba pet. The fierce smell of solo pussy makes me feel
empty. The double futon is quite hard. I feel those slats: horizontal lines on my fleshy buttocks.
When the reek of two sticky vaginas permeates the room the air is thick and suffocating. When there is this kind of sweaty female ejaculation mixed with boy/jock sweat and no socks in tennis shoes the air is sweet.
“Your breath smells like athlete’s foot.”
I do not have the goddamn patience. Floating
in the cockroach stained bathtub. One hundred twenty degree tap
water clean. REMOVE THE EIGHT INCH BLONDE HAIR from the freckled
left leg. Pink disposable REMINGTON razor.
STOP YOUR MOTHER-FUCKIN PHONE CALLS! YOUR GAME OF PSYCHO-SABOTAGE
MERELY FLATTERS MY HORNY FRAGILE EGO. YOU DRINK MY DENIAL.
So if I called you at 6 a.m. on a Tuesday would you crawl
out of mommy’s bed and come downtown to make it with me? The ringleader poses with the whip in the right hand. I’ve got an appointment in New York’s most fashionable S/M HOUSE sometime in the afternoon.
“Marla oh Marla I miss the feel of your succulent
fleshy behind upon my stiff inch and a half denim clad ……. please stop laughing at my erection. Just LET ME, LET ME, LET ME KISS IT……”
No wait. Stop. There were only two pictures: one of the
virgin and one of the son. It was so hard to choose so I chose neither.
The monkey walks the tightrope. Seven minutes before six.
He slips and catches himself by the tail. What the monkey needs is somebody to clean the cage and to love that obsession more than its own death.
CULVER CITY PAUNCH
“I hate you. I hate. I hate. Itchy scalp. How can
anybody expect me to stay in this den of dysfunction? I’m going out now. I’m sitting my ass on a barstool in the nearest avenue a fish tank.
I saw him. On television early Saturday morning. He put
on a fresh sport coat and tie before hitting the Union Square Discotheque. It looked like 1985.
His hair so short and straight and the three piece suit
making me wet. Could sort of image his cock as the mirror image of his persona.
A DUANE READ PACKAGE: RAMSEES EXTRA LARGE OR LIFESTYLES REGULAR.
The near food poisoning. The eight a.m. abdominal cramping,
explosion from asshole gaseous.
Harassed him again the next night: further inquiries about
the underwear. He would not give me a straight answer but asked me if I was feeling okay. It didn’t matter. I knew the answer anyway:
I pay when I pick up thanks. Haunted by adolescent journals
of hitchhiking for a date. Handcuffed to a teenage lover to keep out of trouble.
The self-flagellation of gin soaked bong puke and captain crunch with vodka.
SURE-FIRE FORMULA TO INDUCE A SCHIZO-EFFECTIVE LIKE STATE:
MANY LINES + NO VODKA + NO SLEEP + MANY DAYS + ANONYMOUS SEX WITH THE MARRIED DOWNSTAIRS NEIGHBOR.
There was this meadow. A lush green field filled with
black-eyed susans. A gingerbread house abandoned. The country, blue and clean. We lay in the grasses lovemaking. Sixteen.
California compact car cliche upon cliche cliche cliche
cliche cliche cliche. fantasy of a smog-free daydream. Hollywood with the invisible infinity, the one seventy at the one oh one.
Anonymous occupant lights a cigarette in the tenement window. Early a.m. white snowball against the black fire escape.
RAZOR WIRE ON ROOF-TOP ROMANTIC.
There is nothing more than early afternoon abdominal cramps:
the side effects of last night’s overdose of self-medication. The baby rats under the floor boards want to drink my loose shits. I know this because the walls have told me.
SCRATCHY DECEMBER TAN LINE. SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA LONGS FOR THE
SEDUCTION OF A NEW YORK SNOWFLAKE.
The walls scream: TOUCH ME LOVE ME! I cannot bear this silence
for any moments longer than right at this moment. Telephone, stereo, television, Café Bustelo, two bottles of wine carefully averting the frozen junk puke of the sidewalk. How to navigate the south side of FOURTH STREET in five inch platforms.
Keyless on the threshold of the tenement twenty-seven
degrees. A telephone call to ease the pain of freezing then scalding bath water drunken solitary pleasure with orange stucco slippery bar of soap and dull blade.
HOW IS IT THAT HE HAS CHOSEN TO WAIT FOR MY ANONYMOUS
HOMECOMING AND WILL TELEPHONE INCESSANTLY LIKE A BABY? CANNOT EXERCISE THE SELF DISCIPLINE OF SOLITUDE: OPTING FOR SELF PITY INSTEAD.
The cockroaches refuse to converse with me in the daytime.
The hairy one dropping the eggs is hiding in the stove. I know it. saw her sneak inside the cast iron crack of door. Upset stomach. fear of leaving the apartment due to intestinal discomfort.
The walls again:”PIN ME DOWN GENTLY.” Take the
left index finger and begin from the sole of the foot gently up the backside of the right ankle, calf, buttocks, curvature of the lower back. Kiss me there but softly.
THESE OBSESSIONS LIKE GHOSTS OF AVENUE A: THEY HURT. THEY
HURT. THEY HURT.
The relentless repetition of phone calls. How can one
be responsible for another’s depression? What more is left to say after the final NO?
Another middle-aged woman. Frizzy pink hair reading “Naughty
Nurses” on the M14 as the snow flies
“Florida, there’s no reason to stay down there too long unless you have to… family or something.”
“Where? West Palm Beach? My sister-in-law’s got a condo.”
“Maw, I’ll go to work with you all day tomorrow if
there’s no school. I’ll read magazines and stay quiet under your secretary’s desk.”
The engines gonna blow. I know it is because I can feel all the pressure.
I AM LONELY HELP ME.
“If you are so lonely, put yourself in psycho-therapy
baby. Your pain is not my responsibility.”
Food poisoning. A mild dose of food poisoning. If it had
been the wine then there would have been VOMIT not diarrhea. Anyway the pain was lower than the stomach. Either the intestines or the kidneys. Must have been the beets.
COULD BE TRUE. THEY WERE COLD AND PICKLED.
XMAS IS THE MOST DESPERATE OF TIMES. I WOULD HAVE TO AGREE WITH YOU THERE.
Her hyperactivity began to grate on the nerves. The vacation was no vacation at all. The ears rang. The walls breathed in sultry whispers.
LOVE. LOVE ME. LOVE YOU. LOVE WAKE ME UP IN THE MORNING.
The walls made her come spastic kind of four times before coffee.
And the new house of fantasy is pure grandeur. Big, beautiful, coldly sexlessly erotic. We enter into a kinky age of hyper-responsibility. Nobody is making love for fun. Everybody is talking.
The bed was extra large for the size of the single room. The sex was professionally meaningless. The cash compensation was adequate. The trickle of semen did not stain the carpet.
I PAID THE RENT.
I LOVE YOU MONEY. I LOVE YOU FLESH.
I LOVE THE WAY I BREATHED THROUGH HIS COCK BREATHLESS AND HE DUMPED ME THE NEXT DAY.
There were poems written. Highway love poems. He would sit and stare at me working, refusing to look into my eyes. In three days we were together again and in three more he was gone. I sent him away because he was unsure.
Fear: he reaches for a cheese fry close to her left hand resting on the table. She pulls away in clarity. Fourteen years is too long to wait and then to touch a lover once more.
And there was not even a hint of alcohol that evening. And
no muscle relaxants either. Nothing. The rat was sleeping. I’m looking for a pair of scissors to trim my pubic hair. Do you have any? Now I never leave the house before three p.m. The streets are too scary.
THE STALKER LOVED HERE THE BEST HE KNEW HOW. HE BELIEVED IN HER FANTASIES OF SUBURBAN LIVING. TO HER IT WAS ALL JUST ANOTHER MOVIE: UNREAL.
I mean it’s a different kind of life waking up after a ten year coma. The wild twenty-somethings sport crew neck sweaters. They are drunk on AVE A screaming and smoking cigarette. And the non-smoking thirty-somethings are stock brokers in khaki trench coats. I see them desperate on RIVINGTON ST. early Sunday mornings desperate for a ten dollar bag.
MARLA SLEPT EVERY DAY A LOT. SIX A.M. UNTIL TWO P.M. A PATTERN WITH OR WITHOUT ALCOHOL. IT DID NOT CHANGE.
The joys of coming home: WANNA CUP A CAUFFEE? CAUL ME? GO WAULK THE DAWG!
GRAND CENTRAL STATION 1 A.M. BEFORE XMAS:
“Excuse me Miss, excuse me. Wait a minute, I’m not gonna mug you.”
“I know you’re not gonna mug me.”
(god, do i really look like a tourist)
“You see I’m just like that guy over there, (points to a cop) just without a uniform.”
“Yeah I know. I could tell.”
“How could you tell?”
“I just can.” (I have an extraordinary
sense of smell.)
“Hey, do you have a sister? she just walked by here ten minutes ago. Looked just like you. hey, you runnin’ away from home? where you goin’?”
TIRED.TIRED OF LIVING THE LIFE LIVING CIRCULARITY. THE CHARM OF LIFE IS IN THE LIVING. NO NEED TO STICK ONE’S TONGUE IN THE TOASTER.”
The cockroaches do a hairy dance, RATSO RIZZO. In the greasy kitchen, RATSO RIZZO. Around three cum-filled baby blue sponges RATSO
RIZZO. No longer subject to self-loathing guilt and self-pity RATSO RIZZO. You are an aberration RATSO RIZZO. You will die and the cowboy will be free.
PUSH THREE. MESSAGE ERASED. BEEP.
A WORLD THAT ONE NEEDS TO DISCOVER MAY NOT BE THE PLACE WHERE ONE MUST REMAIN.
I’m gonna chain smoke and I’m gonna pace and then one day I will not wake up again because I will be dead. Will you have cut your HIPPY hair by then?
Yeah, so MARTHA STEWART may have been a little tipsy that
night but who cares? the hostess sand and danced cheerful like. The large Tudor-style home was empty. Excess beds were made up happy-like for guests who never arrived. Beds with teeth. Beds on fire. Sentimental beds of death. I slept on the floor.
The cockroaches are after me. They’re hiding in the stove
now, hairy. The art just peered out of the big hole next to the heat pipe. Now, i know how it fell into the toilet like the squirrels who lived under my bed in the suburbs fifteen years before: DEAD ANIMALS I could not piss.
SQEEKA SQUEEKA SQUEEKA BANG! Bang we fucked the three
of us metal bed slammin’ against the wall with the tins of HORMEL chili empty bottles of JACK crystal no coke off-key bag-pipes piercing my eardrums MEMORIAL DAY memento nineteen eighty-four.
XMAS in the hometown: I felt his presence in the bar, and I spoke into my mug of cheap beer:
“I am sorry I split without saying goodbye. I had to save my life.”
The beer was still tight sexy and blonde though slightly ragged from all the METH. I nearly pissed myself when it replied:
“It’s okay bitch, I always knew you were a snob.”
A CERTAIN TYPE OF OBJECT CHOICE “Nice to see you again MARLA.”
“How are you JACK? take your time
getting ready. We won’t begin until you’re all dressed up. Don’t
forget to knock for the phone girl.”
HEARD THE STALKER POUNDING ON THE DOOR. I’D BEEN RELAXING IN THE DARKNESS. GOTTEN MYSELF OFF FOUR TIMES FIVE BREATHLESS. THE STALKER’S TIMING A PSYCHIC MINDFUCK.
Eighty-five degrees in this apartment making me crazy horny. Santa left me a silky black kimono under the tree and I put it on. Used to have one kinda like this, but I’d left it on the set of some guy’s private naughty secretary video I’d starred in. How could Santa have known?
The snow keeps falling. I unearth a half empty bottle of Oskar de la Renta in an old suitcase full of working girl clothes.
“Mommy loves her little Sissy. How pretty you look today my baby. Look at all these pretty frilly little panties. And what is this? Mommy Marla buys you pretty things doesn’t she baby? And what is that
big surprise down there you have for Mommy? Ooh look at how big and sticky my kinky little baby is…such a nasty big SISSY boy!”
AUDIBLE HALLUCINATIONS? ROLL OFF THE CUSHY VELVETEEN COUCH TO THE PEEPHOLE: HALFWAY DOWN THE STAIRS HIS DARK PROFILE FRAMED BY THE COLLAR OF A NAVY BLUE SKI JACKET. WHACK AWAY PHYSICALLY HEAVING.
Psychics and the telephone psychics turn the T.V. family into hamsters. I watch the Bundys and make a mental note of former Midwest love who’d put on a silly sheepish grin for me whenever I got naked.
From the back of her closet. Mom pulled out the yellowing lingerie box with the watercolor XMAS scene on the cover. She held up the aqua blue nighty. I’d chosen that size 22 polyester monstrosity for my size 8 Mom who generally had good fashion sense. I cried when I saw it for the first time since 1972.
The heat’s up again. XMAS lights twinkle in the windows
across FOURTH STREET. Kasha from Odessa an instant colon blow and cure for suburban holiday food glut. The death drive returns. AL BUNDY doing a number on the libido.
HE WALKED AWAY OUT OF FEAR FOR MY LIFESTYLE: I AM WILD AND FREE. I SAID:
“SO STAY AWAY. FIND YOURSELF A SUBMISSIVE
BROWN-HAIRED GIRL WHO WILL NOT CHASE YOU ACROSS MOONLIT FIELDS
BEGGING FOR LOVE, AFFECTION AND RAMPANT IRRESPONSIBLE FUCKING.”
Soaked in the east Village bathtub reading a Harold Robbins novel. A watery purge and sudsy cleansing of a suburban lack of sex drive. All I’d had to sink my teeth into was my pervasive feeling of death.
THE HOMETOWN: IT TAKES A KIND OF COURAGE
TO VENTURE BACK. AT LEAST THIS TIME THERE WAS NOTHING THERE.
The stalker had shown up at my Mom’s kitchen door as I was slamming the sizzling thirty pound turkey onto the table. Adorned for the day’s festivities and fishing for an invite, loser? His thirty-something adolescent haircut beamed lovingly at me. My heavily made-up face grabbed a leather jacket and sunglasses, took one cigarette for the three block walk of closure, making sure to pass by the police station…..
M : I love you too, but not the way you want me to. It's over.
TRANSLATION: I MISS YOUR BIG STRONG COCK, BUT I AM NO LONGER WILLING TO PUT UP WITH YOUR RIDICULOUS
AND DESPERATE PERSON.
STALKER : How's school?
TRANSLATION: ARE YOU FUCKING ANYBODY?
M: I have been quite successful.
TRANSLATION: KEEP YOUR LOSER ENERGY AWAY FROM ME ASSHOLE.
STALKER: Get to Hollywood much?
TRANSLATION: ARE YOU STILL WORKING
AS A PROSTITUTE?
M: "Only when I have reason to, you know like when my friends are playing in a band, whatever."
TRANSLATION: I’M FUCKING A MUSICIAN.
STALKER: Can I talk to you?
TRANSLATION: PLEASE LET ME WASTE SOME MORE OF YOUR TIME.
M: Perhaps one day, but not now. Please stop calling me… isn’t this your mother’s Honda over there?
TRANSLATION: FUCK OFF AND DIE, YOU ARE SUCH A LOSER YOU DON’T EVEN
HAVE YOUR OWN CAR.
Back in the East Village I am alone. I masturbate for twenty minutes. Again he’s at my door knocking at the exact moment that I’m feeling the weakest.
The stalker writes “I LOVE YOU” on the wrong floor of the tenement that is my temporary NYC home. The upstairs neighbors tease me. He writes it again next to my apartment door. The neighbors think it’s sweet, even though they believe me when I tell them that I may be in some kind of physical danger.
It is now so crazy hot in here. So hot that I never want to leave the comfort. The DJ on the heavy metal radio station is a living testament
to my new wave adolescence. Haunting how it all comes back with the voice.
“Now I’ve heard that Mommy’s little Sissy has been very naughty with the babysitter. The babysitter has told me that you were a dirty little girl at the playground with the other children today. Now Mommy has told you over and over that you are not allowed to get kinky with your playmates or with the pretty babysitter…You can only
do that with Mommy.”
HIS COMPACT CAR WAS A POWDER BLUE MOMMA BOY’S NOCTURNAL EMISSION. HE SET IT ON FIRE FOR THE INSURANCE MONEY THAN A MONTH LATER SCREAMED AT ME:
“I want my Accura back!”
WE WERE SITTING IN A CHILIS SOMEWHERE ON THE 10 BETWEEN L.A. AND PALM SPRINGS.
“I’m sorry to tell you this, but
the only reason I’m driving you to visit your father is so that
I can dump you there.”
Beaumont, California: Loud automatic fucking
punctuated by a 2 a.m. message from my dead psychic (when i felt
a tickle in my left ear I knew that I was receiving a astral message)
In the form of a whisper, the spirit reinforced what I already
“He is wasting your valuable time.
The next morning at check out time we’re
fighting violently: white trash kids screaming. the motel owner
rings the phone every three minutes past the hour of eleven.
“Yes, we’re leaving now. no. I did
not steal a purple dress from the closet.”
We finally get out and I make a super-8
movie of flowers frightened by the sunshine.
SO WHEN I TOLD HIM THAT I LOVED HIM I
WAS IN THE MIDST OF A MULTIPLE ORGASMIC MOMENT BEGGING FOR MERCY.
IF HE NEVER WANTED ME TO LEAVE, HE COULD HAVE JUST PUT A PILLOW
OVER MY HEAD AND KEPT ME IN HIS CLOSET…FOREVER.
I open the fridge. Rank smell of month old tuna permeates
the living room. I close the door and smoke up the room with menthol cigarettes.
I Hear the stalker:
“I’m cleaning my house. She will
like my new shoes I just bought from the Payless at the New Rochelle
Mall. She will think that I am so cool. I have changed. I swear
it. Now that I’ve cut my hair and look normal like I like to look
I am a living doll, that’s just what I am. Brave and courageous and true. My love will be a shining star and I will save her because I know the truth. maybe if I take her to an Adam Ant concert and she hears our song, she will know that i am the one.”
“My little Sissy girl has been very naughty. Mommy is very angry. She is going to have to pull down those satiny panties and give her little Sissy a firm bare bottomed spanking. Mommy loves her little drippy
cock Sissy. Tipping is not mandatory but is much appreciated.”
Somebody from the eighties is singing a song by Journey,
high pitched and off key. “Thank you for making us the #1 band in America!” Giggles and moans from the bushes, a short thick, pumping exhibitionist can’t come cause he had too much to drink. Somebody nearby is watching. Somebody else wakes up with a hangover in the back of a honey yellow BUICK RIVIERA in the parking lot of an old age home.
The cassette plays a LYDIA LUNCH anthem all night on auto reverse. Two cousins, both uncut, both delicious. Three friends, three showers, three bagels in the morning. who ordered onion! Yuk!
I’VE LOCKED MYSELF IN AND REFUSE TO LEAVE. THE AVENUE A STALKER WAITS FOR ME IN THE COFFEE SHOP LIMBO. A TWO AND A HALF YEAR SKIP IN THE RECORD. HE IS NOT THE FIRST ONE.
Bullshit. I’m feeling too lazy to have any appointments tonight. One at nine-thirty, the other at eleven and perhaps another at midnight. I return to these streets asking for nothing but peace. All of the faces have changed.
I HATE MILL VALLEY, CA. I HATE SCARSDALE, NY.
“What is it that Baby’s got under his big nightie? Ooh Baby you are very naughty indeed. You have Mr. Elephant wrapped around your PEE-PEE. You know honey that babies should not go around with rattles on their pee-pees. That is very kinky. And look at that! Mr. Elephant’s big nose is so drippy! he must be catching a cold! we better get him a tissue!”
TELEVISION AND PRESCRIPTION PAIN KILLERS HAVE BECOME MY GODS!
DEATH SELLS! POP IT!
Dear Stalker: You are not the “ONE.” “To quote a late great genius for a lost generation, “Broken hearts are for assholes.”
“Suck my cock.”
“Suck it I said!”
“I’ll never suck that big, ugly cock no matter how hard you beat me!”
Whack! he hits the soles of her feet with a black leather riding crop.
“Now tell me what you’ve done, Marla. What have you done to deserve this punishment?”
“I’m not gonna tell you!”
WHACK again on the soles of the feet.
“So what? So I told these mother fuckin’ cops to go fuck themselves! I’m movin’ my fuckin’ truck!”
“I’m movin’ my fuckin’ truck!”
“I’m movin’ my fuckin’ truck!”
“I’m movin’ my fuckin’ truck!”
The shower is flooding again. It’s always at five a.m. he’s got a bar of CASHMERE BOUQUET. Crouched in the corner pinned against the slippery blue tile in the anonymous communal washroom hunched over his loving tongue explosive cum and bubbles fill the nose dribble down the hard chin muscular arms steadying the legs buckling in the four by four cell.
I go to the nightclub with my friend the HOTEL CLERK and it is too scary and late to get into the tenement so he gives me a key to a room and…
I’M STAYING IN THE SAME FUCKING ROOM NEW WALLPAPER DOES NOT CAMOUFLAGE MEMORIES NINE MONTHS LATER AND TOO NEW TO HAVE THE SIGNATURE BLOOD SPURTS AT SYRINGE IN ARM’S LENGTH 8 A.M. THE FUCKING SCREAMIMG SCHIZOPHRENIC STOMPS UP AND DOWN THE HALLWAY SLAMMING DOORS IN A WAY I KNOW SO WELL:
“MR. GRIM MR GRIMM THE CATHOLICS ARE COMING.”
HOW DID HE KNOW I WAS BACK THERE?
The nightclub had changed. I’d heard there’d been a bust. Now it’s all a bit more low key- the bathroom lines are shorter. Bad music and too many people. Too many of the “little” people, you know, the ones who actually have to pay. Aah, but some, the glamorous old friends are still to be found in the way back VIP VIP rooms. The drug booths are gone. Middle class kids spit on the floor.
So, he’d stopped dealing, smoking crack and getting fucked up the ass. The male jerk-off videos he had once loved were now offensive to his straight, neo-Christian lifestyle. He gave off a heavy-duty white trash hetero sex vibe, and used it on the trannies.
CHILDREN SHOULD NEVER TRUST ADULTS WITH THE DETAILS OF THEIR HALLUCINATIONS.
Now that he’d been saved, he was learning to speak in complete sentences.i was impressed at what Jesus had done for him.
So she had him in the loft bed, six feet up in the air, votive candles illuminating the floor to ceiling windows, bouncing eerie light
upon his thick skin. He was so helpless: that’s what made it so difficult to shackle him to the unfinished pine bed posts. His eight inch cock stood at maddening attention as she tortured his inner thigh with her tongue. He was so beautifully tanned, tight and hairless. Her heart ached as he struggled to break free swallowing his cock she let him.
“YOU’RE GOING TO MAKE ME BACON AND EGGS IN THE MORNING, YES?”
“NO. A VERY DEFINITE NO. YOU TAKE ME TO BREAKFAST IN A COFFEE SHOP. THAT’S WHAT I LIKE. BESIDES, WE DON’T COOK MEAT IN THIS HOUSE.”
Detox, detox, detox. The program, the church, the mosque. Whatever it takes, it’s all the same. So, only a couple of those club will make it big. I salute their dreams.
The stalker continues to taunt me with his desperation: contrived and psychological. Wait for L.A. the inner child whispers. I do not know what this means.
The feet appear on the screen. Love me. Fuck me. I will choke you with love. I will watch you writhe in auto-erotic pleasure. My spiked heel leaves a perfectly round future scar at the base of your spine. Love bite.
I RIDE THE TRICYCLE. THE EEG TURNED UP NOTHING. THE LESSON: NEVER TRUST ADULTS WITH THE DETAILS OF YOUR HALLUCINATIONS.
I did not set out to hurt you. That was not my intention. It’s just that I have abandoned my fascination with self-medicated, chained to the momma would-be mental patients. I’ve worked hard at eluding the authorities for twenty years now. I am not willing to get busted for your pain.
“HURT ME. HURT ME SOME MORE. MAKE ME BEG YOU WOMAN, TO PROVE HOW WICKED YOU ARE. SOFT AND SEXY ON THE OUTSIDE WITH A COLD ICY INTERIOR.”
I LOVE LITTLE HANS
So, you’re so anti-cool? Then why did you fall in “love” with such a cool girl? To save her? Change her? Offer her a mundane kind of love? And to insist that this is the real love? Six months of excessive bimbo fucking becomes a bore. Hello quantity does not mean quality.
You are a bourgeois failure and I am painting my nails black to match your pubic hair. I do not smell you.
TULIPS ARE MY FAVORITE FLOWER. JUST GIVE ME A FORTY AND I’LL BE HAPPY.
I AM MY FATHER.
I am nervous now. I watched us fucking on the video. he looked so hot and I am lonely. all of my friends are sleeping.
Please come out and play. Can Johnny come out and pay today Mrs.. Finch? You will make us little sandwiches on those TV dinner plates
that I love so much. The big section is for the meat, one for the vegetable, one for the potato an the bubbling pie. I always stare at the gun rack under the antlers while I’m eating.
That deer was strung up with all its blood dripping into a garbage pail. Murderers.
I offered him a blow job to give me back my teenage pajamas. He just laughed and threw them at my head.
Handsome, faceless, Italian and full of blow. I nodded at the Catherine wheel but he chose the wooden plank instead. Five by ten foot seventy-five degree closet in the middle of winter. No light save for the showboat candle building up hot wax icing for his constricted gooey cock bound tight with cotton clothesline. balls blue and cold and dangerously sexy. I sit on him with hairless pussy sweating through PVC, his chest, one, two, three, drips back and forth from left to right testicle, he winces. Shaft hand tightening, groaning pleasure, filling the bag, patent leather boots compressing ribcage, heaving inner thighs tightening, buckling, breast bone cumming.
I AM NO LONGER ABLE TO EAT SMOKE OR MASTURBATE.
IT MUST BE THE LACK OF HUMAN CONTACT.
"No Daddy, I don't want to go there."
“Oh Marla, you are such a pretty little girl. Daddy loves his little girl. Now you know baby, this will hurt you more than it will hurt me. Stand up, Marla. Don’t be afraid. I am just going to secure your hands up here so you don’t try to get away. And now, raise you up to your tippy toes, such a beautiful ass for whipping baby. I’m going to give it to you good.”
The colonial home was sparsely furnished. Metal bunk beds masquerading as pirates waved goodbye as she fell into the pit of sharks and swimming gorillas, Gorillas never cry.
The crossed eyed neighbor always brought the bags. The room blue, purple and green from the thick gaseous heat. two tall boys, two boxes of the same brand of ghetto cigarettes, all night non-stop fucking to Funkadelic: the substance assuring no diversion of release: anti-pleasure.
A boho thrash dancing party under black lights. The boyfriend du jour comments: “Yeah a typical East Village freak show. Let’s go back to bed.”
I stared at the sun as I planted these seeds that nobody said would grow. Brilliant crimson blossoms till a madman pulled them out by the roots. now they will never grow again.
John kept Marla around to validate his kinkiness outside of the dungeon. The trust fund got a thrill cheating on the mousy school teacher wife. Marla kept John around because he was suburban and took her to restaurants when she has no cash.
The walls begin to move again. An act of transgressive expansion. The cockroaches remain in hiding. My dog Hans is a pedigree. Although he was a stray, his form and demeanor are quite perfect. i love him very much.
“CODEINE” the radiator shrieks. Another favorite club kid promoter in AA. But he was so much fun when he was high all all the time.
ALL OF THE FOOD IN THE REFRIGERATOR IS ROTTING. I DO NOT OPEN IT ANYMORE. I KNOW THAT YOU ARE IN MINNESOTA JERKING OFF TO MY MEMORY.
THE PIT OF THE CLAW FOOT TUB DEEP. ARCHED THE PELVIS HIGH UP TO THE MOUTH LEGS DANGLE OVER THE SIDE IN ORDER TO SUPPORT PROTRUDING PUSSY MOUND PENIS MOUTH MOUTH AND MOUTH DUEL SPASMS AND COLLAPSES INTO TEPID WATER GASPING.
He tortured her with rambling psychobabble vicious defense up against a wall of distance. she called a forty dollar taxi and then canceled it. She went back to the bedroom for more cathartic fucking.
Awoke cupping the breast hard tender sweaty, rambling morning phone call staring at turned up nose in the bottom of blue ceramic cup;
a black wavy festering pimple underside of the left chin on the couch here alone no swimming pool like in new California home, playing Misty For Me Baby.
KILLED TWO COCKROACHES IN THE BATHTUB.
TWO BABIES. READ MY LIPS. I GOT YOU OUT OF MY LIFE BY FUCKING
Blendr Profile: Steveo0o 24
2013, 33.5″ x 22.5″, oil on canvas
Includes local Los Angeles delivery
Shipping + handling charges applied for delivery to other locations
Email Margie for more info
On the apps
But not so
I want to get
So many options
So many men
So little time
(Dance Dance Dance)
margie schnibbe postcard from an original ink drawing (2002)
Yes I know how to make an excel spreadsheet. And yes I know how to make a budget and yes I know that I have a money problem. The problem is that I don’t have enough money to get through the rest of the year. I work my day job all the days that are available for me to work. I’ve cut back on most of what I can cut back on. I have not bought proper new clothes or shoes in over a year and most days I pack a lunch. I’ve suspended all travel plans. I rarely go to restaurants and I avoid dating and picking up the tab for the underemployed boy toys I usually like to hang out with. I’ve shredded my favorite credit card and have removed the rest from my wallet. I do not randomly stop at Home Depot to purchase miscellaneous fasteners, building supplies and outdoor plants. I stay away from Dick Blick Art Supply even though the shop is just two blocks away from my psychotherapist where I go every week. I make a conscious effort to avoid browsing amazon.com for books, electronics equipment and everything else. I don’t eat so much -mostly vegetables. I belong to a cheap gym and I drink cheap wine. I dye my own hair.
Perhaps I should have made different choices about relocating/expanding my studio. Perhaps I should have shared my five-year plan with the persons subsidizing the new studio and asked if we were on the same page. Obviously we were not, and now I’m kind of fucked until I can raise more cash. I know I made a bourgeois deal with the bourgeois devil. I’m feeling kind of trapped. I want to scream: Fuck the gentrification that forced to me to relocate! But of course I do understand that many other folks are facing much larger gentrification issues…especially many of my neighbors.
I am happy that I have been able to sustain the fantastic studio where I am currently located. If I were young and cute I would just fuck and suck for the extra needed cash as I had done when facing a similar crisis in the faraway past when I was young and cute. Of course I am still cute – just not so young anymore. So maybe now I just need to meet older (or younger) clients? Or maybe now I just need to sell more art?