Sex…Then Suicide

Do you want to know how fucked in the head I am?

I just had the most amazing sex of my life.

How amazing?

The type of sex that would make the devil and god mutually masturbate to…That amazing.

My new lover is a freak–even by SF standards. She has four and a half hard no’s, while I have a solid five, so I’m the prude of the relationship.

Her lip’s bleeding, and she’s walking with a limp; my frenulum is sprained, and my back looks like a Vietnamese Catwoman gave me a massage.

I have to go to the hardware store tomorrow to buy spackle and paint because the back of her head put a dent in two of the walls in her apartment—serves her right for saying I couldn’t be too rough.

Shit, she’s knocking on the door the door to see if I’m alright—I can only pretend like I’m taking a shit for so long.

Alright…so me being fucked in the head.

Her apartment is on the eleventh floor of a tenement surrounded by homeless people using shopping carts for barbeques, and gutterpunks shooting up. I think she said it’s two grand a month for her one bedroom “box”. Fucking crazy. SF, man—it’s nuts out here. “At least you have a living moat of homeless drug addicts to keep the hipsters at bay,” I told her. She laughed.

Fuck, she’s knocking again. “One moment, the chile rellenos fucked my stomach up,” I said. She laughed.

Fuck, where was I..Um…um..rambling…rambling…….OH, so she’s a freak. She likes pain and pleasure and hate and love and cuddling and scratching and biting and fear; she likes a lot of things most girls would consider nightmarish. She knows that I like to write; that I have an overactive imagination; that I’m a doll-hair away from being as freaky as she is, so she always asks me to create new dark scenes for us to reenact. I said that I’d break into a cemetery with her, find a grave of a person with an interesting name–maybe Malachi–and fuck her on top of it while she screamed their name.

How ugly.

She thinks it’s pretty, though.

“For real, B?” she just said.

Fuck, I need to backpedal to finish: me being fucked in the head.

After covering every square-micron of her room in our sex sweat, she pointed towards her open window, grabbed my dick like it was the handle of a little red wagon and pulled me across the room. “Fuck, it’s cold outside,” she said as her nipples rested on the windowsill of her eleventh story apartment.

“Fuck me, B,” she said then…and just said now through the door of her bathroom.

She said faster, so I did; she said harder, so I did—her moans blanketed the streets of SF in a coat of ethereal pleasure.

“Come inside me, B!” she screamed.

As I was about to cum, I looked out of the window, down at the sea of unfortunate souls living in this sad paradise, and Imagined jumping out of the window. I imagined my lover reaching out to me as my nude body falls to heaven. I imagine cumming at the exact moment I splat against the cold concrete of the city I used to love.

That’s how fucked in the head I am.

 

 

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Poetree….Or Maybe Just a Weed

                                                             I don’t know if I make any sense

         but I like digging in my couch to collect a few cents

             to buy some booze

                                            a black and mild or two

                                                                                    maybe a tiny bit a shrooms

                                                                                       and eighth of an eighth

                                                    Gobble them up

                                               upchuck my thoughts

                                                                                 wake up in a puddle of my past

            My third eye’s mascara is running

let me go to the little boy’s room to powder my nose

                                                     reapply my psychological make up

I need to find a pretty girl to love

                                                          and lust

                                                      and break up

                                                        my dreams

             Shattered thoughts

                                             I need a punctilious princess

                                                       to pick up my pieces

                                                                                           and forge a kintsugi mind

                                                                 to stare at

                                                            and be proud of

               and show off to her friends

             and add to the crystalized museum in her head

Maybe I don’t make any sense right now

                                  but my sixth sense is high off an eighth

                                      Smoke and music floats above me

                                        as I make ash angels on the floor of my garage

Maybe this doesn’t make sense

Maybe I’m rambling.

Maybe I’m in shambles

Maybe I need a revolver and a bullet

                                               to make a gamble

                             Middle finger on the hammer….pull it

                                                       Blow my brains onto an empty canvas.

                         Brain fragments

                            Blood spatter

Does it really matter?

How my loved ones feel?

                                             once I’m gone

I’ll leave a pretty note

                                      written in music notes

                 A sad song singing how I don’t feel like I belong

                                                                                     How I long for acceptance

                               but hate the person people see me as

I hate my past

I hate my wrath

                            I hate that the only thing that’s definite is math

Why do I feel this way?

Why do I feel like a stray?

                                         The runt of a mutt stuck in a muddy rut

What am I?

Who am I?

Where am I?

                     Does any of it matter?

     Am I just a random collection of matter?

I’m rambling again.

Take your pills, B.

Go to sleep, B.

Don’t worry, B.

Tomorrow will B the same.