I sometimes wonder if I will
have a bloody death
or if it will go as smooth
as a baby’s ass
midnight jazz
or a lullaby.
Will I go out into the great night
screaming
enraged
ashamed
or asleep?
The sad thing is
that in the end
it doesn’t even matter
but what does matter is
if there will be enough coffee at my funeral.
Will people enjoy the sandwiches?
And after they put me in the ground
or throw me into the sea
will it be loud
or will it be lonely?
Vickers was a fire-breathing ginger capable of mass-destruction
even in the unlikeliest of places and therefore had to be kept under
constant supervision lest he destroy your peace of mind, soul and your
five-year relationship while going to the fridge to get a beer.
I had spent the last half-hour trying to kill him with my mind.
It wasn’t working (one day) so I offered him a cigarette.
On our way out to the patio I checked my coat pocket
for the blade I had coated in ant poison that my good buddy
at the shelter assured me would work on gingers. It was still there but the
patio had too many witnesses so I attempted to lure him into the back alley
under the false pretense that there were hot naked women doing yoga and
handing out free bags of cocaine.
He looked suspicious. I would have to try again later when he wasn’t as sober.
This wasn’t the first time I had tried to kill a ginger. Actually this one, specifically,
I have been trying to kill for years. He was my best friend so there was plenty of opportunity
but I had been so clumsy in the past and now had hoped to rectify that and finally rid the world
of one less gleefully frothing maniac that for all I know could be the next Napoleon
and didn’t Hitler start off as an artist?
In the past I have pushed him off a balcony, down a flight of stairs, into an elevator shaft, off of the CN Tower and to no avail as each time he had been so drunk and his body so relaxed by booze that Vickers nimbly bounced off whatever surface he landed on just to come back and demand more beer.
There were also the times when I had laced his weed with all kinds of shit and enough of it that it should have caused permanent brain damage if not an immediate and painful death but it inexplicably did not and I can only conclude that his tolerance was too high having been built from years of self-abuse and personal neglect.
And long has it been since I had given up on switching his beverages for ones saturated with all kinds of toilet cleaners, rodent poisons, industrial chemicals and even stuff that I picked up on the black market that looked like it belonged on an episode of X-files and you could even hear whispering if you placed your ear close enough to it. It was just too bad that Sonny (a.k.a F-DUP) had gotten arrested trying to bring some high-grade shit in from Japan (that glowed, yes, glowed) because I am sure that would have taken care of it like nobody’s business.
I can even recall the one time the depraved libertine had discovered my stockpile of mixed death-toxins meant to be introduced into his system nightly by injection and had guzzled all of the jugs at once leaving a mess in the shed all because he was out of alcohol and low on cash. Vickers had seemed to have caught a mild buzz off of it but little else and most certainly not the death for which it was intended and to my chagrin it was at this time that I had begun to realize the extent of his ginger constitution was not going to allow for such solutions to work therefore I need to reassess, focus and expand my base of operations until the devilish red rogue no longer remained a threat to humanity.
I do not think that he entirely suspects me so I will have my day. I have labs down south, a training facility up north, a weapons factory to the west and a team on standby in the east. It’s going to happen, all a matter of timing and finesse. I am even considering going undercover as a ginger myself to gain more intel on their devious ways and possible weaknesses. Hell, If I need to I will even deploy sharks with frickin’ laser beams on their heads.
I am going to post this on his wall because they say that the best place to hide your intention is in plain sight. Yes, I have read Machiavelli. It’s working. Gingercide is near.
I will sack me a ginger yet and it will make for a fine day.
Yes, a fine day indeed.
I fell in love with my first cousin.
Yeah, I know.
But I’m not ashamed of it.
You should have met her
then you might understand.
My last night in Buenos Aires
we got drunk and I
put my hand on her knee.
That was it. I realized what I was
doing and removed it and
she never seemed to notice.
But I was mortified
for so long afterwards
not for what I felt but that I had almost
acted on it.
A year later she had gotten
accepted into medical school
and was leaving her boyfriend
to attend
a few cities away.
That did not sit well with him so
he went to her apartment
and shot her in the head
before turning the gun on himself.
My aunt had discovered the grisly scene
the next morning.
One of the last things my cousin had written
was a letter to me.
I have a safe beneath my bedroom desk.
It contains my birth certificate, passport
and other vital documents
along with copies of each book
I have written
and that letter
right here
at my feet.
I still have not read it.
Some things never truly die.
After all the beautiful woman have
fucked your soul
until there is nothing left.
After everywhere you go
all you see are the damned
-the expressionless eyes
hanging lifelessly over vacant grins
-the halfwit producers of the mounds
of consumer waste
piling up at the edges of the earth
for nothing.
After everything you touch
bleeds dry and shatters
leaving you to ruminate
as the days pass
like bottle after bottle
and cigarette after cigarette.
After the perpetual storm
raging inside of you
biting at the back of your mind
with the total abandonment
of a new lover
finally diminishes
into empty space.
After the last of the world’s natural resources
have been squandered for cash.
After the last tree standing has
unceremoniously fallen.
After the overwhelming media machine
has simply swiped sanity from all lands.
After the last virtuous girl
spreads her legs gladly
for any one of the countless, misguided devils
that run our planet.
After the after-party.
After all the wine has been drank.
After all the pills that allow the dead to dream
have been consumed.
After the last junkie has fallen asleep forever
and you are left willing to
shake the heavens
for some angel dust.
After everything
that has come to pass
passes…
Yes,
I will still be here
with this damn pen
trying to pound out a page.
Rest assured.
1) In the Cupboard
Johnny stood in his kitchen. There was a problem with that one little cupboard that would never open that had extremely unsettled Johnny to the point that there was no returning to his day. The problem: it had opened and there were things inside that had completely changed his perception of reality. Actually they more like obliterated it and then beat on it some more until there was nothing left but a mushy pulp. And then they ate it.
He decided to call his neighbour.
“Hi Spencer, it’s me, Johnny from number six. Listen, I just discovered this small cupboard beside the stove and was wondering if you would happen to have a similar cupboard. Or if you could come take a look.”
“What the fuck?”
“I know this sounds really odd. The reason I called you is because I always figured you were kind of into some strange shit.”
“What? Sexually?”
“No, I didn’t mean…”
“You coming on to me, Motherfucker?”
“Wait, now hold on…”
“You want me to come over and look into your small little cupboard beside the stove and I’m the one that’s into some weird shit?”
“You know what? Just forget it.”
“Nah, I’m just fucking with you. I’ll be right over.”
Ten minutes later Spencer was banging impatiently at the door. Johnny let him in. Spencer looked like he’d spent the last few days on a bender and living in a trashcan. Johnny led him to the kitchen as Spencer mumbled on about some bitch stealing his wallet and all of his Canadian Tire money.
Johnny bent down and opened the cupboard.
On the upper shelf stood a dozen little men with heads shaped like crap and big, black eyes that were too large for their flat faces. They were all dressed in similar rags. They looked like claymation figures, which made the whole scenario just that much absurd. But they stunk; sweat glistened off their leathery faces and arms and darkened the fronts of their grimy half-torn shirts. They moved, gestured and wandered about like normal albeit horribly disfigured little people. Overall they seemed real enough to scare the shit out of Spencer when he first opened it and the leader at the front started talking, saying exactly what he said now:
“Greetings! I am Gareth, keeper of the dead, and these are the legion of the dead. We have traveled far to spread the message of death to all living things all across the universe.”
Behind him the collection of unspeakably morbid creatures began thrusting their fists up in unison while shouting,
“Death to life! Death to life!”
Spencer stumbled back. “Shit, I am way too hung-over for this. I’m not sure what to make of it right now…or ever. What are they, rats?”
“They look pretty organized for rats…and rats don’t talk.”
“Sure they do. Rats talk to me all the fucking time.”
Johnny looked at Spencer wondering, ‘Jesus! What the Hell did I let into my apartment…again? Fuck it, why do I bother asking myself that anymore?’
The leader, Gareth, held up a tiny chest over his warped head and proclaimed:
“I have in this box every dead soul of everything that has ever lived throughout all of time and when I find the right place I will open it and all the dead will inherit the earth for the rest of eternity as it should be. Once this world has been cleansed of all foul life then will come the great nothing and only in nothingness can there be peace forever after.”
The group standing behind him agreed by shouting:
“We want nothing! Death to life!”
Further fist-pumping ensued.
“Christ! That doesn’t sound good!” Said Johnny.
“It’s a scam! Dead things don’t come back to life or talk. Fuck, I learned that in grade seven!”
“I don’t know, Man, what if he’s legit?”
“He’s too small to do anything that matters. Look at the size of that tiny box! Whatever.”
“What should I do then?”
“Well, do you have to feed them?”
“No. Um…I don’t think so. I mean, I’m pretty sure they’re dead.”
“Okay, don’t worry about it then!” Spencer slammed the cupboard door and shrugged. “Just forget about it.”
They were still chanting inside.
Johnny sighed and scratched his head. “That’s pretty much how you deal with everything, isn’t it?”
“Hey! It’s gotten me this far.” Spencer replied. The little that Johnny actually did know about Spencer was that he was thirty-seven and had no job, no car and no bank account. What he did have was a massive drinking problem and a recent string of unplanned pregnancies from the girls who all worked at the McDonald’s down the street.
“What? You don’t owe them anything. They’re lucky you don’t make them pay rent. Come on, let’s go grab a drink.”
“It’s noon, Man.”
“We better hurry then! You’re buying!”
2) Out of the Cupboard
Johnny had met Carmella while out for drinks with Spencer trying to forget about what, he just wasn’t sure anymore. That was two days ago. Fucking Mescal. Now she was lying across him half-naked talking about who-the-fuck-cared as Johnny was just starting to sober up.
“I’ve had a lot of guys fuck me around before so I’m really self-conscious about the whole relationship thing. I know we have this thing going on so before we go any further I want to clear the air between us and get a full understanding of what our expectations are.”
“Sure.”
“We need to be completely honest with each other, no holds barred. I don’t want anything hidden or any lies or any false pretenses lingering over us. I want us to be able to read each other’s mind and finish each other’s sentences. That’s the kind of relationship I’m looking for and once we can get past that then you will find me a very giving and accepting person.”
“Sounds good. Let’s fuck.”
Hours into early morning Carmella was awoken by a stirring on the night table beside her. She opened her eyes and could see enough of the shapes moving about to alarm her into turning on the night table to find a strange gray hamster dressed in rags blinking up at her.
“Greetings!” It said, “I am Gareth, keeper of the dead, and these are the legion of the dead. We have traveled far to spread the message of death to all living things all across the universe.”
There was around a dozen other hamsters all pumping their fists in the air and shouting: “Death to life! Death to life!”
Carmella was startled enough from her slumber to start screaming Spencer’s name while tugging at the blankets.
“What the fuck?”
“The hamsters are hungry!”
“Fuck! I forgot about them.”
“You neglected your pets?”
“No! They were already dead.”
“You killed your hamsters?!”
“No…Wow! This is going nowhere really fast.”
“I’m getting out of here. You know, I really thought you were a stand-up guy but now I can plainly see that you can’t even handle taking care of animals much less another person. Don’t call me…ever!”
“They’re not…I mean…sure, whatever. Try not to fuck a fence post on your way out.”
Johnny sat up on the bed and rubbed his eyes. Gareth stood there, still with the tiny box in his tiny hands, gazing up at Spencer with a puzzled expression.
“What?!” Gareth barked defiantly.
“That’s it.” Johnny shook his finger at the whole lot as he tried to figure out what to do. “I know. I’m going to flush you fuckers down the toilet.”
Johnny arose from the bed and began looking around the room for something he could pick them up with while thinking about the last crazy couple of days, Carmella and the apartment.
No wonder rent was so low.
Gareth interrupted him by saying, “Well then, I suppose this is as good a place as any.”
“For what?” Johnny looked back and realized what was about to happen. “No, no , NO!” Johnny shouted. “Don’t do that!”
Gareth was kneeling with the box before him. He simply shrugged in response, leaned over…
and opened it.
Fly
Come on then, let’s have it
you’re here for a reason
aren’t you?
or did you just show up
expecting something
hoping for the best
going through the minimal motions
to meet the minimal requirements
and I have met you
everywhere I’ve been
In fact
you are most that I’ve met
and unfortunately
this fire
that makes me crazy
I cannot give to you
I would not give to you
you’re just going to have to come
and fucking take it
and even then
you wouldn’t know what to do with it
-this constant burn
this bottomless surge of
every waking moment
this blatant inability to grasp
that I cannot fly.