Drained, Crying on Primetime.

She buzzes like the window unit cooling the stagnant air circulating through your empty motel room. Heart pumps dust out of clogged black vessels. She chooses your myths, your trysts, your treated concern; mesmerizing, econosizing, ever-trying. Slip to the floor in front of the unmade bed with bottle in hand, tears flowing for want of some beauty, you clutch the clicker and stare into those eyes of static. Reading into it like a voodoo master tripped out on Bone of Chicken, lip-read mantras slowly engulf the room. The lone rose droops slightly from the vase balanced precariously upon Gideon's Bible. A blue bird breaks its neck across the only window in the room, a muted tick not unlike the sound the remote makes as you frantically press the worn buttons. Don't make me medicate you, she pleads. It's a sad, sad thing to see a wastrel lunge towards the void: a sad, sad thing to hear the soul eke out the last of its lifeblood. You notice strands of hair obstructing your view. Taking a pull of the bottle makes this problematic obstruction seem like a simple drop of ink upon a manuscript burnt long ago; some sort of literary love long unrequited. Wrapped in a terry cloth "dress" you sashay across the square room smashing fast food refuse underfoot, you peruse the perceived diamond rings flashing before your spare, alcoholic eyes. The rose nods once more to the lady of static. Going unnoticed, this gesture of sympathetic desperation leaves you unchanged. No one will treat you with kindness as long as you have a say in it. It's not a matter of degree, for it is as deep as a well. It is a matter of choice. For this self denial leaves tracts so deep they're impassable. Treatment for disease like this seems impossible. Another drink, another smoke, another shovelful of dirt. Roses have said, that television leaves you blue. Don't sink too deep into the carpet for desperation lies waiting there for you.

Mainlining on Primetime

On the eve of another day of dread, the television stares out across a living room teeming with telltale signs of recidivism. Broadcasting a 4am melody of dream states without hope, a lone media imbiber sees what his television truly is. Firecracker. Thought taker, tear maker. A burgeoning sense that all is lost from this world of media injections and drug increase. A life spent with blaring moving images cast upon a hallucinogenic surreality etched out in shadows of saturated crimson blue hues. It bleeds out like crushed roadkill that isn't too much more than something that has twitched it's last twitch. Creationistic ooze jumbles his leprous psyche and a baby boy with lulling milky eyes erupts from the body of the set; a fibrous weed twitching, holding explosives spelling an end to recurring episodes. Starlight, star bright, so full in flight when slaughtered tonight. Ecstatic departure imminent the suburban waste of flesh lifts to the soles of his feet for the first time in days. Cheetos, Ritz cracker crumbs, gummy worms rain down from the yellowed front of his t-shirt. A sickening grimace erupts from the brown leather La-Z-Boi as it releases its grip of the ballooned torso. Montel Jesse Springer screams out to the man: SELF IMPROVEMENT IS POSSIBLE AND YOU WILL NEVER SEE IT COMING WITHOUT IMPROBABLE SENTIENCE OF LOSS! Redneck marriage counselor parades across glittering stage to applause of slack jawed voyeurs eating foot longs laden with insane nutrient overload. So far the weather is partly-sunny-sky'ed and gusts are in excess of 40 miles per hour and the NASDAQ keeps tanking your plans to trade in your supple breasts for the longing unfulfillable. Slowly, ever so slowly, a Keebler elf free falls from the screen and eases down onto the carpet vomiting blood full of cookies. Lifting its cute tiny head and looking straight into the man's eyes there is a spark of glee. A crackle begins. A wick ignites, flaring out sulfurous gas that bubbles into the nostrils of the now proud, now standing man. The living rooms sways around the man as he Hulk Hogans off his yellowed undershirt, screaming, spraying spittle across the wreckage of his household. He's living out the last moments of his life. He's sublimely entertained as the ghoul of network television detonates, leaving a blackened, high fructose crag of carbon amidst a gridded neighborhood. Ice creamed neighbors wander into their yards. Noticing a scuff on his BMW, the neighbor across the street fetches his buffing towel as ground zero fizzles out in front of various indifferently glazed citizens.

Chimp Learns Sign Language.

Wearing pumps like a flamingo steadily hitting the lower end of a bucket of mud, she swaggers into a debutante ball for no one but her self-made stuffed animals tethered to the six foot feather boa lazily swinging from her neck like a pendulum. Threadbare stockings keep her bloated thighs from spilling down upon the dance floor as she does a mechanical tango across the sheen of tiles to keep her image up. She's tense. She's intensely aware of no one but herself. He's staying away intentionally and she doesn't know it. Flipping a lazy hand into the air, a gesture she thinks is a nonchalant wave to a lover, she eyes him across the haze of her drug overdosages. Creation was a myth. It's written all over her face. Everything can and will be undone. These days of opulence and pleasure have taken their toll. She pops another prescription and toils around the inside of his viewing area squirming lugubriously. Tears of graceful junk slowly roll down her cheeks; she's spinning fast for freedom from this world. He walks up to her, finally, with a terse smirk upon his face; those judgemental eyes finally scanning the image that she has stubbornly become. He looks her in her jaded, stupefied eyes while refreshing his breath and says, "Are you experience?" She looks at his feet while golden flair of earrings jangle with the abrupt adjustment of her head. She answers, "I am Crank Styles of the Rich and Anonymous."

Having Had Enough of it All.

Obesity reaches toward the sky and King Bitch slams a XXX Gatorade while caressing a "Lil Baby Bangarang" mini sweater slowly riding up his front side. Hair is all the rage from his belly button and it smells like rotten cheese and the mountain King Bitch stands upon emanates some sort of tired lull of sexual vibrations all inside himself. It hasn't gotten to him yet but the ideas are mounting and he's sleeping so late these days he can't tell if morning wood even exists anymore. If it weren't for massive sedation he'd be out on his ass for something like what seems like a long time; probably seven seconds. Being what he is, an over ripe toy of destiny, there is nothing to do but swing out over the Canyon of Joylessness. Swing until there is nothing but stars in his eyes; saunter about the seedier sides of life with the creamier characters of the city. Needless oblivion pours down his throat as pores do their vomiting of sweat down his increasingly creased brow. No more Yesman. No more Baby Tee'd, cryogenically frozen grandma's from the twentieth century. No more Kept Off Drugs Teens done with euphoria. No more Kooky Bongos rumbling Mr. Roger's Theme Song for the Ages. No more mistaken flake of Raiden electrocution section. No more. Just no more.

A Stunted Greek Tragedy.

No one remembers the little brother of the haughty Minotaur. Poor, possessed Pasiphaë, his mother, couldn't resist that sexy nautical beast thrown upon the shores by the curly, brazen Poseidon. Even after giving birth to her bull headed son Pasiphaë still lusted after the bull. To the chagrin of the cuckolded Minos, upon opening the backdoor of the honky tonk bar he owns (Maze 'O Drunk) he beheld the sight of his lovely wife gettin' ragdolled upside a dumpster by a gift from the God of Sea. Raged out, for this was the second time his love had forsaken him, Minos flipped Pasiphaë the bird and splattered the used grease he had meant to dispose of upside the bulls head; this action of course causing the entire scene to get so much more sensual with meat laden lube. And so the Minotard was concieved. Unlike his older, perhaps keener brother, the Minotard was not confined to a maze. He was, instead banished to the rec room with a 120 color set of Crayolas. He's been in a time out for eternity. And it doesn't seem like any of the other whiney lil babies in the rec room are going to slay him any time soon, as his elder brother was slain so long ago within his maze. No no no...for one, the Minotard wieghs 3500 lbs. For another, he's been rolling around on the Care Bears throw rug situated in front of the Barney viewing area lolling his tongue for 81 years. He has peanut butter caked on the nape of his horns and no wetnap can get the fudge off his mane. His binkie must be replaced every thirteen hours due to grinding jaws and all the other children fling Lucky Charms into his tail. The last time his father visited he mauled the hall moniter and copulated with the school mascot. His grandfather apparently killed 230,000 people in a tsunami a few years ago and he won't be coming to visit any time soon. While his ear medication is administered the Minotard flares his nostrils and swings his mighty horns. While eating his Gerber Carrots he usually attempts to stack his ABC blocks way too high. His lincoln log cabins are never structurally sound. Lest ye be skeptical of of the Minotard's mythical abilities, just take a gander into his diaper to view the shitblast he leaves daily. Please treat him gently when taking him from the playroom, he is very sensitive to light and liable to charge into anything he sees as a threat; a school bus, for example.

Don't Let the Dread Bugs Bite!

"Nothing prepares you for full departure from reality." He laughed when he originally heard this. A plaintiff few chuckles that fell out of his mouth as he poured three "Sugar Crystal Rock" packages into his "Caffeinated Beverage." The teeming life behind the eyes of the feeble, broken man who had said this to him slowly warped itself inward. Obviously a mess of tangled wire and debunked software, the invalid liquefied into the pavement and slid down a sewer drain. A single blue flower grew up from the ground and he looked up just in time to catch a red eyed squirrel scream into the ears of an old woman wringing her hands like soaked rags. I'm going to disregard these things, he thought. But it couldn't be done. An asthmatic child skipped across his line of vision with a chilly green afghan trailing his heels while auras of psychotropic detail swirled around the blood trails left in the boy's wake. He was truly losing it. The sky finally crashed in dripping acidic industrial runoff down upon the scene before him. A dam imploded inward and the doused town he grew up in flowed down to the lower banks of his past where picnics were ruined day by day. Lifting his hand to his face in grief he is terrified to realize his entire face fits into the crook of his palm. With his fingers wrapped entirely around his scalp, tears flowing through the oversized gaps in his fist, he slowly descends into a pit of quicksand while the car he lost his virginity in soars through the sky above, swirling in a cyclone. The windows explode as the viscous thickness of quicksand pours into his cup of coffee. It's not that he is completely disappointed, but it just seems as though his meager existence could've been left behind with just a little normalcy.