Month: January 2011

truck stop

I was at a truck stop in the middle of the night waiting for something to explode. A thin woman of ill repute eyeballed me. Her eye was wretched, like the hairless ass of an old street bitch who’d seen too many litters pass through her. While waiting in witless contemplation, I was compelled to approach a handsome gentleman seated at a booth and accompanied by several comely young ladies. I proceeded to strangle him. All he did was turn his handsome face into a bulldog face and bark. His last few hoarse croaks were sickly. I’d say they bubbled. I was then inside a glorious mansion adorned in wild flowers without and arches everywhere within. I sat down on the nearest upturned arch and waited witlessly again until a door opened and someone descended the stairs. She sat beside me on the arch. We proceeded to talk about memes we could create and the miracle of salvia. It would be our religion. A question was asked and when I took too long to respond she said “agaeve absent, screw this” and disappeared.

I read somewhere (alright so it was an episode of Batman because I did not read books until I was in my twenties, and even then) that people can’t read in dreams because dreaming and reading are functions from different hemispheres of the brain. There are limitations even in dreams; you’re a real bastard, universe.

Are you able to quiet your mind?

truck stop

I was at a truck stop in the middle of the night waiting for something to explode. A thin woman of ill repute eyeballed me. Her eye was wretched, like the hairless ass of an old street bitch who’d seen too many litters pass through her. While waiting in witless contemplation, I was compelled to approach a handsome gentleman seated at a booth and accompanied by several comely young ladies. I proceeded to strangle him. All he did was turn his handsome face into a bulldog face and bark. His last few hoarse croaks were sickly. I’d say they bubbled. I was then inside a glorious mansion adorned in wild flowers without and arches everywhere within. I sat down on the nearest upturned arch and waited witlessly again until a door opened and someone descended the stairs. She sat beside me on the arch. We proceeded to talk about memes we could create and the miracle of salvia. It would be our religion. A question was asked and when I took too long to respond she said “agaeve absent, screw this” and disappeared.

I read somewhere (alright so it was an episode of Batman because I did not read books until I was in my twenties, and even then) that people can’t read in dreams because dreaming and reading are functions from different hemispheres of the brain. There are limitations even in dreams; you’re a real bastard, universe.

Are you able to quiet your mind?

torbellino asked: Seriously love your writing. Any advice for young aspiring writers?

Read a metric fuckton of books. Read the news. Read the good stuff and the bad stuff so you can ID the bad stuff and throw it out on its ass. Better yet, lock it up and chain it in the attic because the bad stuff might just be useful someday. Grow balls and show your writing to people. Preferably, people who care to read your writing, and have balls. If you get nothing but sugar and no one gives you the business then there’s some shenanigans of the ball-lacking variety. If it doesn’t seem constructive then throw that out on its ass, too.

Then go out. If you’re a social type go be in a crowd and listen to them and tell them stories. Go do rowdy things and mellow things, in the order you see fit. Or both at the same time if you get my meaning. Keep your peepers peeled at all times, ALL TIMES. Watch everyone and everything and talk to every goddamn person. Especially the mean looking ones. Don’t ignore the nice looking ones, either. And if you’re creepy you should probably avoid kids. Unless you have kids, then that might be alright. If this isn’t you, this whole people business, then still go out, and still WATCH EVERYTHING. Use every sense at all times because you’re not a photographer and you’ve got to cover bases. Farms are pretty but they smell like a cow’s tookus, sound like a Merry Melodies performance, feel like no one thing, and taste sort of like stale water, sometimes.

And finally, when you make it and revel in the glorious fruits of your labor, when all the world’s adoration is upon you and you are content with that which you have created, don’t forget old Vic. I’ll be kicking cans in alleys and WATCHING EVERYTHING, dealing with the barrage of stories that must all be written. When you see me sitting there, come on over and give me some advice. Tell me, tell us all in fact, what you have learned about yourself, your writing, and the world.

torbellino asked: Seriously love your writing. Any advice for young aspiring writers?

Read a metric fuckton of books. Read the news. Read the good stuff and the bad stuff so you can ID the bad stuff and throw it out on its ass. Better yet, lock it up and chain it in the attic because the bad stuff might just be useful someday. Grow balls and show your writing to people. Preferably, people who care to read your writing, and have balls. If you get nothing but sugar and no one gives you the business then there’s some shenanigans of the ball-lacking variety. If it doesn’t seem constructive then throw that out on its ass, too.

Then go out. If you’re a social type go be in a crowd and listen to them and tell them stories. Go do rowdy things and mellow things, in the order you see fit. Or both at the same time if you get my meaning. Keep your peepers peeled at all times, ALL TIMES. Watch everyone and everything and talk to every goddamn person. Especially the mean looking ones. Don’t ignore the nice looking ones, either. And if you’re creepy you should probably avoid kids. Unless you have kids, then that might be alright. If this isn’t you, this whole people business, then still go out, and still WATCH EVERYTHING. Use every sense at all times because you’re not a photographer and you’ve got to cover bases. Farms are pretty but they smell like a cow’s tookus, sound like a Merry Melodies performance, feel like no one thing, and taste sort of like stale water, sometimes.

And finally, when you make it and revel in the glorious fruits of your labor, when all the world’s adoration is upon you and you are content with that which you have created, don’t forget old Vic. I’ll be kicking cans in alleys and WATCHING EVERYTHING, dealing with the barrage of stories that must all be written. When you see me sitting there, come on over and give me some advice. Tell me, tell us all in fact, what you have learned about yourself, your writing, and the world.

fingers

I want that rather than
hold me
or rub me
or stroke me
or caress me
you would curl them around my elbow
and squeeze
and hold my arm as we walk by the shops
seeing things that would be nice to have
but are unnecessary
unextraordinary
unable to grip me
or dig into me.

So much
from such dainty things.

fingers

I want that rather than
hold me
or rub me
or stroke me
or caress me
you would curl them around my elbow
and squeeze
and hold my arm as we walk by the shops
seeing things that would be nice to have
but are unnecessary
unextraordinary
unable to grip me
or dig into me.

So much
from such dainty things.