Not Yet Human, Only a Stripper’s Pole

Are you one of those people who puts “virgin” on the line when the Check-In form at the Doctor’s office asks for your sex? Maybe you’ve had sex or maybe you haven’t. The question is: was it good? You could tell the doctor a lie, but he could just twist the family jewels into a knot until he exorcises a truthful confession. After that, he gets to juggle my testicles while he laughs maniacally towards the heavens like a schizophrenic clown. This isn’t what I imagined foreplay to be like, let alone sex. Hell, me grinding on some girl at a party is like Michael J. Fox playing with an Etch-A-Sketch. He’s toyed with my weapon for a whole minute and the edges of my machete have yet to dull, still remaining sharp as ever. Once Blue Cross Blue Shield covers my embarrassing visit to the Doctor, he’ll elegantly tell me to “Get fucked” and go slay some dragons with my sharpened sword until the blade dulls. He tells me not to come back until there’s blood.

Lovemaking is said to be one of the most beautiful things in the world. I may be biased with my lack of experience, but it could be much more beautiful if our reproductive organs were more attractive. Watching yourself bump uglies is like watching the ugliest couple in school make out until their faces are coated in thick slobber. I could get the same effect if I let an army of banana slugs charge into my boxers.

My resume isn’t particularly impressive, although my current position as a pole for women to dance up on remains as promising as ever. It would be nicer if bystanders didn’t throw coins, dollar bills, and phone numbers at her while I mastered the art of standing stiffly as she swings around my limbs like monkey bars. I’d like to think I do a really good job, however most gigs last no longer than the amount of time the doctor likes to play foosball with my junk. I can’t wait to be promoted to full time human being.

Don’t fear, gentlemen. Soon enough we’ll all earn our promotion.

Free My Heart From The Cold

I am a recipient of abhorrence and hatred.

The chaos of it all coats me while I’m naked.

This wicked flare leaves my beating heart cold

While my soul is burning and is something to behold.

A monstrosity steals my soul as my body freezes,

Around my heart a sheet of ice tightly squeezes.

Our love was warm until this very day,

I want to feel this pain before I fade away.

My heart will bleed even when the beat is slow,

My burning soul goes about the world without its halo.

A tear melts from the crevice of your frozen colored eye,

You lay me down a final time where I will die.

You kissed me one last time just to show your Love

Before I’m gone and ascend into the sky above.

My eyes are sealed and my life is deafened,

You’re even more beautiful when I first look down from Heaven.

One day we’ll reunite in Paradise and then we’ll dine,

Before you go cold, I will bring the sun up and let it shine.

Our love still goes strong, let this be a sign

To show the world that you are still mine.

I’m A Failure

However, this doesn’t mean that I’m not successful. Society pressures you into succeeding, yet for some people they don’t even provide the proper tools to do so. If I was successful in every single area I’d be the biggest asshole the planet ever knew (debatable). In which case, I’m proud to admit and acknowledge that I have repeatedly failed in many different areas of life. Many people don’t seem to accept failure; those are the kinds of people who are wasting their time striving for perfection, like an anorexic who starves herself in order to become a toothpick. They think they live in some kind of world where failures even in the most trivial of forms are frowned upon by society. I wouldn’t have learned shit if I never failed. No wonder that society is polluted with idiots; they don’t know what it’s like to fail nor have they learned anything.

Most would say I’m not ambitious. I will kindly disagree and say I’m pretty ambitious if I’m willing to fail first and succeed later. That just makes success that much more meaningful to me. I’ve built my confidence up over the years by embracing my failures because it only means that there is more to learn about the world and myself. If I’m destined to fail for the rest of my life, then I’m really going to learn a lot about myself. I want to see who I really am 5 years, 10 years, 20 years, 50 years from now.

I’m definitely looking forward to a new batch of failures so I can become the best human that I can possibly be.  Customers where I work seem to feel good about themselves when they yell at me for doing something wrong.  In actuality, their shithead comments are helping me become a better person.

Stop Looking At Me

Mona Lisa will not stop staring at me.  It’s either the woman in the painting itself or the ghost of Leonardo da Vinci that makes those eyes follow your every movement.  Collectively, perhaps, they’re studying my body in hopes of rearranging my internal organs so they can use my plentiful blood for paint.  You’re dead and the woman in the painting is forever dried and locked within the frame.  However, I’m already troubled that your image has made its way to the cover of magazines, DVD covers, and an assortment of parodies to add to this insufferable horror.

Yes, Leonardo, you were a genius and still are a genius.  Mona Lisa thrives off of your everlasting popularity, which still gives her that fresh, unnerving stare that never seems to fade over time.  I can feel my eyeballs attempting to sink into my head, breaking the sockets so that they have a little more wiggle room to drown themselves in a pool of nerves and brain fluid.  To hell with the occipital lobe, I don’t want to see you anymore and I want you to leave my house.

My mother insists that you stay because you’re so often celebrated and no house is complete without some variation.  My blood boils at the notion of your presence haunting homes and museums at an international level.  Most people would get arrested these days if they just glared at others all day like you do.

What’s with that stupid smirk?  Do you want to say something?  Are you feeling squirrely?  Are you about to let out a tortuous scream that shatters testicles worldwide?  Just get this horror over with.

Bring The Violence

Many readers and friends alike have gathered that some of the things I write are particularly violent, sometimes downright gruesome.  Naturally, this has created a scare where some believe I need to be institutionalized, although I’m actually pretty psyched to see that many have voiced positive reception of my work.

I thought that this would be a good time to address violence in the media, something that I’m quite passionate about.  No, I’m not passionate about violence, more so, I’m passionate about the cultural response to violence.  I suppose it intrigues me more because I frequently listen to music and watch movies that are labeled as violent.  Ever since Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold caused ruckus and moral panic worldwide, violence in the media has skyrocketed to the top of the list of things that must be repeatedly scolded.

Of course, I am a complete opponent to the claim that violent entertainment has anything to do with real-life violence.  It’s an excellent scapegoat that many people love to employ if fingers are pointed towards them for blame.  It’s something that people want to control, kind of like how some people who don’t support gay rights purposely try to make it so couples of the same sex cannot marry.

Quite often, music and television are the usual suspects if any sort of violent tragedy has occurred.  I think it’s interesting that literature, sports, and the country’s most populated religions are never questioned.  If you’re saying that murder in a movie or violent lyrics in a song can inspire somebody to commit violence, what about seeing an image of Jesus Christ on the cross?  Is this not a violent image?  What about sports where children are repeatedly encouraged by their parents to “Kill them” or “Hit them” during friendly competition?

The violence in some of my writings are not there to shock anybody.  The fact is, like some PG-13 movies fail to acknowledge, that when you’re shot with a bullet, you’re gonna bleed.  I’m not expecting 8 gallons of gore to spit out of their wounds, but I enjoy and respect realism.  I hate it when artists have to censor their work just so others will not be offended.  This is what I try to do out of respect for other artists and spectators of art.  I’m not going to censor the violence or any other “offensive” detail for the few people who either cannot stomach it or feel like it is unnecessary.

The best advice I can offer is this: If you’re offended, do not proceed to read and do not cause a scene just because it is not to your liking.  Move on out of respect for the writer if the content does not suit your beliefs or tastes.  Using the gay rights example again, it’s just like how you shouldn’t go out of your way to ensure people who do not share similar beliefs to follow your code.  You may not support gay rights, but then why are you bothering those who share love for one another?  Why are you trying so hard to make sure they adhere to your traditional Christian views on marriage?  The best strategy is to ignore it and move on and read something else.

As a writer, I demand the ability to write how I see things fit, and I would expect nothing but the same from anybody else.  Don’t censor yourself out of fear that a few people out in the world will be upset.  Let them worry about their own art.

The Angel’s Noose

Our world is polluted with a chaos that fills my lungs.  Eventually, they are over-saturated and need to be deflated.  I’m almost in need of a large snake to constrict and embezzle every last breath of love and hatred.  The final seconds have arrived, but are slowly ticking away.

The blackened sky emits a blinding glow as a halo descends from the heavens.  An equally brightened rope helps the halo dangle closer to the Earth.  I want to grab it, however it’s taking a sweet, leisurely stroll to the surface.  It has finally reached my hands, but my fingers permeate through its ghostliness.

The angelic ring of light wraps itself around my neck, and the piloting angel from the heavens tugs on the rope, tightening the noose.  My soon to be lifeless body is lifted from the surface and pulled towards the black sky.  Spectators watch as I ascend to the heavens on this holy noose.  I’ve gone as high as I can where the holy dead rest.  I will live amongst them until I’ve earned my halo.  With my own ring, I can dangle it from the new kingdom and strangle another being, bringing them to this paradise.

This is not the end of life.  This is a new beginning, and it’s quite beautiful.