Saturday, December 26, 2009

There is Midnight in Your Eyes

There is midnight
In your eyes
It catches my thoughts
Like an insect caught
In amber
Like a seal set deep
In wax
Casting a net so wide
The only possible escape
Involves blindness
Eyes abundant with midnight
All conquering beauty
Heartbreaking design
Which leaves nothing behind
But windswept trails
Of longing laced with dust
Eyes spilling moonlight
Trailing laughter and memories
Such passion and bliss
Corrosive and catching
Silver fire
They imprison my heart
These dauntless orbs
Like a tyrant
Like a thief you steal
All my desire
And embrace my need
Like water does flame
The hiss of your razorblade kiss
Is missed
Desultory signals
Fire flowers at midnight
Hidden in the periphery
Of your waning, forbidden eyes
Dripping dense
Haunting and ever present
The moonlight
In your eyes

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

Dream for Someone to Analyze

Dream.

I am in a battle, on a battlefield in a forested area somewhere in Eastern Europe. I am in combat gear, along with a group of other soldiers. I have an assault weapon, grenades. Suddenly, we are attacked and pinned down. We all scramble for cover. Bullets ricochet around me, and I know I have to move, to run, to seek better shelter. I am scared, start shooting, provide cover for my mates to move, and then run for it. I almost get hit by several bullets as they spray all around me, but manage to find shelter. We lay down some serious fire, and advance. I run through the brush and up a slope on the flank. In this new position I can see that the enemy are starting to retreat. They are completely open to my attack, about five of them. I rake them with gunfire, seriously lay into them, but it is as if I am firing blanks. None of them are hit. I can't believe this as they should all be dead. I fire another and another burst at them. They are completely unprotected, should all be dead, but are untouched. I can't believe this. They start returning fire, and I dive down. Bullets are hitting all around me, but I am safe. I throw down my now useless weapon in disgust, and look for a grenade on one of my belts, but have trouble finding one.

Now I am a third person, another member of my squad looking at me, watching as I am pinned down. He (I) can see my helmet is sticking up a little over the ridge. He shouts and tries to warn me to get lower, to get down, but I can't hear, am too interested in tracking down one of the illusive grenades I know I have on me. He (I) see the leader of the opposition across the way, an older man, with a cigar and a shaved head with white beard. He (I) can see he sees my protruding helmet. He (I) sees him take aim with a really long sniper rifle, screams 'Get down!'.

This time I hear it, turn and look at him, but it's too late. I hear a shot and a crack. My helmet is hit, and I fall back. I know I am hit, but wonder if the round hit just my helmet, or if it hit my head. I feel no pain. I wonder if I am dying. I feel wet coming down my cheek, and wonder if maybe it's just a nick, then a chunk of something falls down my face. I realize I am fucked.

Wake up gasping.

The End.

They say if you dream you die you die. Well, I better watch out for myself today!

Friday, November 27, 2009

Malbec and the Boy Racer Over Drinks Talk Toronto Tales (rated R)

Tequila. We revel. What we do is revel as the sun sets over the desert scene. Time moves on and the moon visits and the bottles drain away. Someone comes and collects the drunk on the sand pile, takes him home, bloodied but singing some Spanish song and all is right with the world.

'The pursuit of pointless pride, that is what this year is about.' ~ Whisky downed.

'The pursuit of… Yes sir, Bob, yes, sir.' ~ slurred.

'And we're back and we’re gonna fuck like the proverbial phoenix' ~ Tequila shot, salt, lemon wedge. 'Me an' the Boy Racer, yar.'

'Like a fuck phoenix?' ~ Wine and beer and drag of Lucky.

'Yes Bob, like a fucking fucked up fuck phoenix. Don't you no listen?' ~Whisky sipped, tequila shot, salt, lemon wedge.

Glasses chink, Felix coughs dryly, and examines his fingernails.

'If my friend, no one wanted to sleep with you last year, what makes you think you can sleep with anyone this year?'

'It's not that no one wanted to sleep with me last year Felix, you pretty, vexatious man, it's that no one did sleep with me. There's a difference. There is a total difference in logic, see?'

'Yeah Felix. He logiced you good, the Racer hath wit.'

They slap hands together Malbec and the Boy. I wink and Felix rolls his eyes. Much cheers, laughter, salutation and someone almost falls over, only to correct himself and pop a pill down his throat.

'C'est bien. Encore un fois!' ~ Malbec grinning, raises his glass and another toast and another one of us all but falls over, saved in the end by the outstretched and large hand of the Boy Racer.

'…And where the fuck did you learn French. I didn't know you knew French.'

'I know all things... my friends, all!'

'Felix, he's fucking French! Jesus, what do you think his accent is? What you think Malbec is? It's a fucking French name.'

'Alright Bob, calm down. I thought it was Russian or Canadian or something, you smiley faced, evil bastard fuck.'

'You know it. I am so yes, and undisputed.'



Moving off for a slash and a pick me up bump. Looking into the mirror see I look sunburned and tired, so, so tired. Our smile is mean looking. No matter how hard we try our smile comes out evil, unpleasant. There is no helping it, but to do another bump and back enter the fray.

In mid story, as told by Malbec with notes from the Boy Racer, as I stumble, as I attempt to be seated and then as finally I am so.

'Baobab in Toronto. You remember Baobab, Felix? Tall fucker, stringy hair, played guitar real good?'

'Bob's back. Hey, Bob, you remember Bao yes? Hey, careful there Bob. Okay, Bob. Okay, get your white ass in there.'

'He says it is fucking cold there and he's never going back.'

'Where?'

'Toronto.'

'Who the fuck cares about Toronto?'

'No, listen, there's a story?'

'About Baobab? That guy owes me money.'

'Would ya shut up Bob, and let them tell the story.'

'Fine Felix, fine. Wine. I want some fucking wine.'

'There was an incident.'

'In Toronto, Canada, where it's fucking freezing cold and ice all over and fucking snow piled over your heads, yeah, we get it, get to the bleeding point please and thank you, and' ~ leaning back, shouting ~ 'Another Caesar, Marianna please!'

'He had this hot piece of Canadian real estate to visit.'

'Who?'

'Shut up Bob. Here drink this.' ~ pouring some wine into a tumbler with ice.

'Ice? Okay, okie, tell the tale. I am … all fucking ears boys.'

'Bob. Fuck, someone prop Bob up. Jesus.'



'So, Baobab, who is always a ladies man, and he has this hot number up north, I mean, to die for hot, and so goes for a visit. She meets him at the airport. There's a limo, her tongue in his ear the whole way, everything is frigging awesome.'

'So?'

'Well, he is back at her condo, they are engaged, err, in coitus, in errr, mid thrust, when her husband comes barging in, who is this fucking massive Russian gangster type, scarier than the devil himself.'

'Scarier than God on motherfucking judgment day.'

'Would you quit interrupting? Anyways, Bao, terrified for his life, and it's the dead of winter by the way, like with snow and ice all over the place.'

'So, naked, he hoists himself out a window and falls like ten feet. He lands onto the ground, which is ice…'

'…And he's all slick and wet down there with her, uhhhm…'

'…Her vaginal juices Malbec. Don't be crude…'

'But I didn't… Anyways, her vaginal juices. So, when he falls onto the ice his cock spot welds, spot freezes, himself to the ground.'

'Baobao is frozen by his fucking cock to the ice and can't get up.'

'He is spread eagled on the ice, naked, and on his toes and bent double with his head down, trying like a bastard to blow warm air down there, to try and thaw his fucking penis free.'

'Then he hears the fucking Russian at the widow, shouting down at him waving a gun, shouting who the fuck knows what in Russian, but he's furious.'

'So he does what he has got to do.'

'He rips himself free leaving a good portion of foreskin froze to the ice.'

We are falling over with the laughter, and ohs and awes.

'No way. You made this up.'

'And he gets up and sees there's been this couple watching him all along, watching this naked guy stuck to the ice.'

'He turns and says to them.'

'No. What does he say?'

'He says, all calm and cool and holding his bleeding dick in his hand: "What you fucking looking at, ain't you ever seen a self circumcision assholes?"

'No way. You lie,'

'Ask him when you see him. God's honest truth. Fuck, he'll even show you. He's half circumcised now, swear it.

'Bullshit.'

'So then what happened?'

'I dunno, he steals the motherfucker laughed at him's clothes and fucking books it.'
..............

This is from chapter 4 of my manuscript 'Lost in the Maelstrom', copyright Daniel Smallegange 2009, all rights reserved.
Next: Mexican Holiday... If anyone is interested in hearing more ,that is.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

With Great Beard Power Comes Great Responsibility



It all began with itches, but then again, what noble deed or heroic adventure doesn't? Itches and the rasping sound of fingernails scratching, endlessly scratching. To be more precise, or even exactly precise, these itches were occurring upon a decidedly itchy face. Thus, and after a week of itches, the bearded warrior was born. This due to a catastrophic failure of routine, mainly a failure actually, to shave. Born he was, of misery, tears, and scratchiness (mostly scratchiness), born into an unforgiving and hostile world, with eyes of steel, ready to use his wits, his fists, and his newfound beard power to crush all defiers, all resistance, all comers. A new bearded secret identity was launched, along with a new bearded struggle for world domination and several plots whose final goal involved the chaffing of the faces of cute girls with elegant necks and cute bums. A new kind of hero was born, but not a goody two-shoes, pansy, moral type, do-gooder, no! More of a hero concerned with general viciness, spiciness and moral decay... A hero with a beard!

And how they all fell like pawns before another pawn coming at them diagonally, fell before the beard of doom. Daniel was also felled, but that was because he slipped. He got back up though and used his beard power combined with his most awesome weapon, the turtleneck sweater, to savagely charm a city into submission. Well, not the entire city, more like a confused little old lady who thought Ghandi was a really awesome race car driver from Detroit. But still! And then there was an intrepid flight from a couple of cougars on a 90s indy dance floor that would instil terror in the most stalwart heart! And also the daringly couth week in the forest bonding with gophers, where lesser people, beardless people, or perhaps more sane people, had to retreat inside and into the cozy warmth, but not Daniel! Such adventures should be recorded in song!

'With great beard power comes great responsibility'. We've all heard this. It is a universal truth. Yet the bearded warrior Daniel Car Crash overcame this irksome responsibility by holding onto the receipt and then returning the responsibility part. It was exchanged for a most excellent canned ham.

Of course with every beard comes trouble... And our hero fell scratching into that, fell beard first. Trouble, as always, in the form of a dame... a bearded lady named Jane.

But that, dear friends, is another story...

Saturday, November 14, 2009

Flushed With Past Fixation

Flushed with past fixation
On the physical
No wonder I don't sleep at night
No wonder my dreams are plagued
With wisps of love and lust
And the retreating body of her perfection
Fears fermenting
Fomenting tears and self anger
Reticence
Languor, loss and
Lack of love
Fixation on more than
The physical
Those things you said meant more
Than all your beauty
The perfection of your touch
Sent ripples all along my frame
Burned my consciousness with flame
Flushed with past fixation
Of your sexual proclivity
Of your keening, purring desire
The gratification you freely spent
Cost more than all the wars of Rome
That smile and wayward glance
Mischief in the twinkling
Worth more than
Water to a dying man
Lying awake
Flushed with past fixation
On the physical
On your kiss
So perfect
No wonder I can't sleep at night
No wonder I lie awake
Toss and turn
And can't sleep at night

Saturday, October 31, 2009

hAPPY hALLOWEEN!



'War is hell son. Now, someone get me a martini!'



Chilling with the invisible man, when all of the sudden!...





aHHHHHHHeeeeeeeeeeeeeeAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! Vampire attack!!

Thursday, October 29, 2009

The Great Scotch Tasting and Then ze Pints!



My fearless friends and I embark on a safety first, get the night rolling, pint before heading to the oh so posh and snazzy Yorkville for a Macallan Whiskey tasting event.



We learned all about Scotland and nifty whiskey making, and sampled some 10-18 year old single malts which certainly got the room a buzz. Or perhaps just your humble narrator buzzed.







My favourite little fact was finding out that the alcohol that evaporates in a sealed bottle over the years is reffered to as 'the angel's share.' How cute is that. And as an added bonus I received this genuine evil magic crystal ball to thwart my enemies and/or to strike them down with all my vengeance!



(Joking, 'tis an ice ball they made in case you like fancy monstrous ice balls in your booze.)

And then onwards to more adventure and many pints and fierce debates and heavy laughs along with way too many smokes on a patio nearby, where we met some lovely fellow tasters who joined our table of mayhem! We plotted evil world domination plots long into the night! Soon the invasion will begin!

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Killer Cat Attack




DEM FISHIES IS OUTA LIFE!
(A scribble I did while waiting for the guitars to get sorted yesterday at rehearsal)

Monday, October 12, 2009

The Great Unscented gets Scented Car Crash Experimento Supremo

Not since being a teenager have I ever wore any kind of scent at all. I remember being thirteen and plastering it on with abandon, no doubt to such a degree as anyone approaching too close would be blinded or suffer similar reactions to mustard gas attacks of WWI. Ahh, youth.

And so, it just never became my thing. Especially after those first several casualties. I have avoided cologne and visiting their graves ever since. But, I always wondered what could have been. I mean, a life in tandem with cologne was permanently lost. What would fate have put in store for me if only... Well, the demons must be faced, and questions answered!

Therefore, having obtained a bottle of the new Calvin Klein 'Free' I have endeavoured to set out to prove whether no scent or scent will win out, or basically, if anyone will notice or comment. Of course, I won't be drenching myself in it, like that poor, misdirected thirteen year old that caused so much untold tragedy in the past. Lessons have been learned.

What will the result be: positive or negative, indifferent? Oh, let the marvellous adventure begin.



Day one:
Having the day off, there is not much chance of meetings and confrontations. But this is a good day for me to get used to this new scented world order. Though I like the scent, it is hard for me to get used to it. This goes for my cats also. However, am I walking about the apartment with a certain higher degree of swagger? Answer: No, I am not an idiot.

A brief foray into the exterior world led me to the beer store to return empties. Did the gruff and tumble, rather hung-over and unpleasantly motivated beer store employee notice my new scent you ask? Answer: No. And thank ze Gods, as if he had really liked it, and liked me, I dread to think of the result as he was rather large and of a generally frightening nature. In short, he had the cold, dead eyes of a killer.

After this, a trip to the grocery store where the lovely and cute and young check-out lady might have sniffed the air, and did smile. Though I think they get electric shocks if they don't smile at everyone now a days, so I guess this doesn't
really count.

Day two:
Hmmm, I am starting to get used to being scented. It is not so bad. And for today a trip to China town and Kensington market. Hopefully I won't be run down by the mobs of people who will now want to sleep with me since I am a tactically cologned up Car Crash!

First stop Library: And from the librarian?... Nothing.
Chinatown: Chinese medicine lady who sells me my green tea: Smiles, but nothing. I say 'Xie, xie' anyways, as I rock.
Kensington Market: Burly cheese store guys: Nothing. (Thankfully.)
Cute bakery girl: Nothing. (Unfortunately.)
Sushi people: Nada zipo.

Of course, I didn't really expect people to say anything. Except maybe the librarian, who I sort of chat with. However, while was I was walking, I went through the University of Toronto and managed to get three smiles from three very cute girls. This might be because I was myself looking very cute in my turtleneck sweater, however. And being outside you couldn't really smell me. Therefore, scientifically, the three girl smiles cannot be allowed to count. Why I didn't talk to any of these beautiful creatures, or fake an injury for their attention, is driving me to distraction right now though. Oh, but I have yummy sushi, so, who cares. And I smell good.



Day three:
The gang: Four friends come over for drinks, music, conversation and of course, the cock fights. (Just kidding about the cock fights. Poor misunderstood roosters!). Friend one likes the scent, but finds it too sweet. He informs me it suits me though as I am generally not sweet enough. His partner, however, gives his nod of approval during a passionate declaration that Kylie puts on a way better show than Madge. And my other friends are also non-violent and reasonably keen. But this is a small part of the night. We end up at Clinton's for some super retro 60s dancing and romancing. While I do manage to tell a girl she is beautiful and she responds that I am beautiful, she is subsequently whisked away by the fates and three friends and I never see her again.



Here ends the great experiment. In short, I like it, and things pretty much happened in the expected manner.
Car Crash out!

Advice when applying cologne: Don't spray it in your eyes.

Friday, September 18, 2009

We Are Artists

We are artists of love
We are the architects of our own
Irresistible end
Our hearts lined with scars
Our eyes filled with battles
Fingernails bitten to the quick
From worry and want and wasted thought
From all the long campaigns waged
All the dreams engaged
Razor light passion and hand grenade kiss
We are the carriers of heavy duty armament dreams
Our calling card is want
We are
Slips of moaned desire drifting along the breeze
Be wary of our
Dark and dangerous lips and curves
Lust bitten tongues seeking slow salvation
Hard love and warm touch
We architects of desire
And tragedy and hope and need
Our hearts heavy lined with scars
Our eyes filled with memory
Tragedy and tiny shards of bliss, also
We, the artists of love
Shall desecrate the earth
With our pursuit of you

Friday, September 4, 2009

Tender Reminiscences of an Aging Sociopath

Remember when we were self
Motivated
And we were self
Confident and
Sweetly vicious with victory
Remember when we were new to the world
Oh so prim and pretty
Young and full of fight
Free and talking war against
Whoever lost the coin toss
Talking revolution and talking of unlatching
All the pens from which the people stare
The self made prisons where they
Sit and sulk and feed the machine
As long as they get their three square talk show gruel
Remember how easy they were
To sabotage
To infiltrate
To destroy
Remember when you and I
Would talk long into the night about
Truth and beauty and love and
The vibrations of murder
It seems only yesterday
So sweetly yesterday
When I threw that bomb into the supermarket
Just to wake them up
But it didn't wake them up
They just all stared
They just all died
Remember those sweet sultry times
Freedom through violence
Death as an aperitif
When we were killers
We two lovers

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

A Letter Sent

So, I am really a bit drunk.
I feel like someone stabbed me in the the guts and the knife is you.
And it is twisting.
And I just want you.
Give me five days, and I will be over you. I swear. But tonight, I am
Sad about you.
I really liked you.
I so really fell for you.
Please forgive me for writing and being sad.
Tonight is the night I get over it.
I'm so lame.
I can't help but write....
I am so lame.
I know you have your things to push me away.
Tomorrow, I will be stronger.
Tomorrow, I will be strong.
I hate being weak.
Sorry, to bother you.
I will be better tomorrow.
I am actually strong, and amazing, and funny and charming, and
Good.
I just liked you.
The knife is you.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

New Fiction from Chapter 9: Falter

Dawn is a strange and alien event.

Outside and standing in a bathrobe and nearly nothing else. It's blue satin and Felix's and I miss him, staring off into the wastes and watching the winds at play, stirring up trouble, among other things. Something Felix was best at. Feeling now both elated and crushed, alive and dead, awake and entombed, feeling free though we walk fettered in heavy-thick-dark chains. They go well with the bathrobe and I look handsome in the dawn light. Cutting it against the grain and smoking on a cigarette.

Hard blinking and Corvina is there and an embrace and I am lighting her a cigarette now. She looks good too in the dawning light. She is brunette, petite, and quite charming with her long eye lashes and short bob-type haircut, elegant with those sharp, squared bangs framing her pale, freckled face. Her lips are magnificent, as is the steel in her eyes and the curve of her frame.

We have not slept in three days. The steel in her eyes is beginning to rust.

She comes up and we embrace and kind of cling to one another as the winds pick up and whip around us and dust flies away, everything flies away from us, moving along those winds that are cool in the morning, not yet hot enough to do anything but cool us and whip us, though they do scare us into the shelter of the house.

'Worry not about gods, or they will worry about you, and that, if history is accurate, can only mean bad things.'

'Bobby, you shouldn't say things about God, or Gods, or anything. It makes me worry for you.'

'Not to worry. It's just talk. I told you, I killed all them gods already in my travels, in my dreams, like David with a sling.'

'And I am telling you, you shouldn't blaspheme so, Bobby.'

'No, no, I shouldn't. But I do. It pleases me. A man after all needs enemies. How else would he know he exists?'

'Ha, you need enemies. Try every waiter and bartender in the state.'

Another fleeting embrace, this one awkward.

'Hey, I tip well.'

'Sure, then you puke on their shoes.'

'That only happened once...'

Time moving fast like the spectre of death approaching, and time's got better things to do, places to be. A few days passed with the lovely and beautiful Corvina, though her love and her patience is eroding. It's those damned desert winds.

We are on the outskirts, out of the city, at a friend's place, Pascal's, who lives most of the time in Montreal, being some political guru or some such nonsense. But he is alright, for a Canadian.

Boozing and laughter, but our time is limited. We are not of kind or kindred, but alien. And she is wilting and she is burning, and so soon must she leave or else. We need and seek and wish only, to set her free, let her be, let her live.

This is no world, and no place for living.

Sunday, August 9, 2009

The Scorpion

There is a scorpion dwelling
In the inner sanctum
The inner reaches
Of my heart
Curled up and crouched
Protector and defiler
Waiting
Silent and deadly
The scorpion
Both messenger and message
Beauty and vengeance
Violence and peace
Ever cold the scorpion
At home in the fiery centre
Waiting immobile to catch
You, the thief of hearts
You, the transgressor of
Mind and body and soul
The infiltrator come
To taste my heart
To taste the vision
Granted from the scorpion's sting
In the inner sanctum
The inner reaches
Of my heart

Friday, July 24, 2009

Oh, the little things called Gods...

Worry not about gods,
Or they will worry about you,
And that,
If history is accurate,
Can only mean...
Bad things.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

A Frenzy Activity (love is born)

A frenzy activity
Interior ablaze
All fast and rough and tidal
All hot and bubbling
Troubling and trials and retribution
All pure and all dirty
Frenzied flickerings and conclusions sought
Sloughed off
Advance, retreat, relaunch
Firing of pistons and explosive mechanism device armed
While outer shell is cold and expressionless
Exterior exhibiting
No hints of the inferno of thought
Chemical release
The mind's eye roving
Tearing, dancing
At the storm's centre a whirl
of controversy, lust, learning, passion, heat
Outside calm
Eyes focused inward
As the sun sheds flower petal warmth
A hand falls loosely
Sand and pebbles
crumbling and leak
from an extended, opening hand
As sand and pebbles
Slowly drop
Gently to the ground
Love is born

Monday, June 15, 2009

Dancing

Dancing with my arms
Tight about myself
Surrounded by strangers
Staring down and the crushing weight
Of stars and heavens and gravity pressing
Dancing lost and waiting
Waiting for you
You who hide with quiet smiles
In the peripherals and just
Out of reach
I've seen you in my dreams
Where movement is free and unchained
From fear and doubt and loss and love
I've seen you in the corners
An angel or a demon
Beauty personified
Stoking my hunger
Pure and corrupt
You keeping to the background always
Shy and at a loss for words
Despite your multiform charms
My words are lost
In the cacophony of the dance
My hope is lost
When you slip away
Your last lingering look
Breaks me in three
Falling under the weight of love
Worse now than gravity
But rising always rising
To continue the slow, sad dance
St. Vitus is a dance partner
Too
Broken and weighed down
A grin on our dark face
Limping we still dance
With arms tight about ourself
Looking furtively in the corners
for love lighting up a cigarette.

Sunday, June 7, 2009

Intro to Part 8: A fucked Up Spree

A fucked up spree. More fucked up than most. We dance and sing and cry and run and laugh with the water streaming down our face 'til we run out of tears, and then keep going dry eyed, just for the fucking hell of it. We tell people along the way how we would cry if only we could, but are fresh out, a little short of wet and long on dry. And then fall blissfully into even dryer martinis.

Running along, stumbling along, mumbling along, grinning, grinding, groping, sighing. Salutary and salubrious, us warriors of night, decked out in skulls and war paint, us fighters for what cause we can and will no longer recall. We used to have a cause, but it's slipped our minds, along with our sense of perception, along with our sense of self, space and time, sense of proportion also. Along with hope. Hope is gone too, abandoned since we entered through them gates, as the sign Dante mentioned did advise. But we fight on as it's the only way we know how. And also we revel. Revel in fear and joy and lust and love and run, run, run, always running, to get away from the pain and the consequence, bitter foes alarmingly speedy in their pursuit.

We fight pitched running battles in the streets of our minds, knee deep in blood and bile and mucous. Love and war and fear and lust, a mixed bag of those we love and those we hate. Chemically enveloped by occupation forces, by invading armies, our souls, slowly changing, adapting to new environs, transforming, growing thick hides, club-like tails, scales and segments, antennae and mandibles dripping with venoms.

Last few days of little sleep and hardly a moment to take a breath between rounds in the ring, highs and lows and moments of cold unfeeling. And oh, the bruises are beginning to show, cracks along our exoskeletons too, damage to our carapace. We begin to seep and leak, leaving trails wherever we go and slow. Armour too heavy anyways, time to slough it off and run once more, with speed, for they near, those that hunt us. Hot breaths now at our backs, we must run and we must hide.

Hanging by the finger tips on the last rung the ladder. Hanging also out in the bottom of wells, becoming acquainted with molluscs and snails and cephalopoda. Multi-tentacled horrors multi-tasking, manacled to the walls. Slime and ooze and the muck of former living things between our fingers and toes. Scraping at the walls with fingernails until they crack and break. Getting over it. Making friends with the denizens who embrace the lower floors, bottom feeders in hell. Getting over it and playing some poker with them tentacled, carp-faced things. We use bits of our bodies for currency in our wagers. I grow fat on fish eggs and calamari.

Evil and retching and coming at you from all sides, the pleasure and the pain intensifying and the dreams and the truth something lost and far away. So very far away.

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

A bit from chapter 2: Holiday

On the floor, a tangle of legs and blankets. The fire is dead and it is cold the exterior, but inside and underneath warm with the accompaniment of tender embrace, soft caress.

She stretches, smiles, purrs, pets and preens.

'I am the definition of well fucked.'

'Okay, I think I can die now. I have completed the highest possible of achievement.'

She shoves me playfully, pulls the blanket away and gives me the wry once over.

'You are fucking white as snow Bobbie.'

'Hmmm, but my mind is so dirty. It will have to balance it out.'

We kiss right through her smile. Neither of us is ready to disengage. We lay silent. I stare at the walls, the ceiling, anything and everything as she sleeps a bit, or rests anyways, head on my shoulder, eyes closed and occasionally squeezing me about the waist in a way that is the definition of good. The feeling of peacefulness is an odd and foreign thing. It is difficult to deal with.

We talk then a bit on unimportant, casual and varied themes. I heroically brave the out-of-blanket elements to prepare coffee. On my return with two cups of black she shifts, stretches, hands clasped above and behind her head, revealing perfect small breasts that require a momentary pause in locomotion. We sip strong brew naked.
When asked she states languidly she has no idea the history and significance of her surname. Nor does she care. She stares indifferently when I mention the Stuart kings, and also the wonderful irony of her wearing orange the night before. She nods and kisses me, basically to shut me up.

Strong, dark beautiful, the liquid gold thief.

Her face is pale, freckled ivory, her eyes light grey in the morning light. They are nearly always difficult to read, and tainted or painted with hints of her own irony, mischief or wry conspiracy. Leaning back and against the bundled up blanket as I stir the fire to life, stretching elegant limbs and sipping coffee.

'I love white roses. Did you know that?'

'That fits.'

'Yes darling. I know all about the Stuarts. My father would not shut up about it,' she states as she leans forward to light a long cigarette, fitted in that longer cigarette holder, the kind that only the drag queens use anymore.

Fire is good, warmth encroaches. And the coffee is reasonable. She is almost better than anything possible, anything I could ever want or desire. Almost. There are the dreams and also, the poisons.

'Call me Jaco. Everyone else does now.'

'I like Pamela, thanks.'

'Suit yourself Bobbie. Suit your ghostly bitch assed self.'

Pamela talks about Montelbann next, her ex lover and financial assister, and how she burned his thousand dollar suits after she caught him cheating with a younger woman. This gets us off and laughing.

'He just kept saying, "why the suits? You know I loved my suits."'

We laugh. She looks so good when she laughs.

'And then begging me not to leave him, begging me to stay.'

I start on breakfast. Eggs and toast and orange juice and Canadian bacon. She eats like a champion. The next three days are warm in physical and emotional zones. More of gossip and details of our lifes both toxic and comical.

'Such adventures.'

'Mad life.'

'To us.'

'To us.'

Wine and cheer. Cigarettes and beer. A game of chess. She routs me with no hint of mercy or remorse. We discuss my research and the terrible dependence, and also the freedom and experience it provides. The horrors too. And the pleasures. We talk about the nature of need and my beginnings in fear.

‘All my trips are bad. It’s okay, I kind of don’t mind them that way.’

But we don't dwell on it. She reads the journals. We discuss symbolism of certain things in them. We grow weary quickly of this, however. We laugh and make fun of me to great, grinning howls of exuberance. There is much worship at the temple of her body. Her talents are endless. And I can't keep avoiding the touch of her skin on my hands and lips. To add to my already crippling desire Pamela very seldom is clothed. Walking around the place freely naked she is majestic and we frequently fall together and explore new ways and old ways into one another's pleasure. And it is very good.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

The End for Pedro and the Japanese Cowboy

It is not long before they are found again. This town is too small and the hunters, who have cast a wide net, too committed. Soon Reiki and Pedro are hauling ass and breathing hard; pursued from many angles and avenues they run. Wisps of smoke and shadow flit in the distance driving them onwards, wayward. Twice they have weapons trained on them and twice Pedro thinks they are dead men, but each time their pursuers fail to open fire.

Running through the twists and turnings of the maze-like, labyrinthine streets and alleys. One moment they are alone with the night, getting by through moonlight and sense of touch, only one another's panting breath for company and rushing towards freedom, the next is blurred with movement, all too quick and deadly. A rush of sound. Movement almost too quick to see. The silent shadows are lunging, embracing. The flash of steel and flex of flesh hard as stone driving it towards an enemy, driving steel to cut into flesh, eyes filled to bursting with murder behind this, forcing the way.

With sinister efficiency Reiki has taken out two more assassins as they've leapt from concealment, one disembowelled with a short jerking forward thrust, the other's throat cut with a no-look backstroke. They die without a word. Pedro, less subtle and less silent, more a brawler, more a smasher, likewise has shed blood, breaking the pool cue first across a Yakuza snarl, and then impaling his co-attacker with the shaft. The first is then brained with the less subtle and quite rapid approach of a frying pan before he can recover, a frying pan which happened to be laying next to the cooking fire of some transient. A third attacker runs screaming having been doused with said transient's cooking pot or laundry boil. And suddenly they have an angry transient, just woken, on their hands, none too pleased.

The homeless man moves to protest. However on seeing Pedro with a bloody frying pan and Reiki with sword dripping he does reconsider. He looks to his empty bottle of homebrew tequila and decides it must be another mirage or bad dream, and either/or he is calling it a day. He crawls deeper into the shadows of his refuge of scavenged cardboard and goes back to the sleep of the damned, a sleep which is much safer than the current reality.

The hunters, like wolves with a taste of prey in their teeth, keep coming though, sniffing them out, finding, driving towards their quarry. Pedro wants to go down and into the sewers when a broken grate is stumbled upon, but Reiki is leading them up instead of down, up a fire escape to be precise. And so up they haul tired bodies, rung after rung, until a rooftop is reached. Here they rest a bit, hoping against hope they will be safe. However, the building below is soon occupied by the enemy, the hope of having eluded and escaped evaporating as they witness this. Revealed instead is the certainty that they have been found and that they are truly surrounded.

Catching breath Pedro takes stock of the situation, realizes now that Reiki has not escaped the last confrontation unscathed. In the moonlight on the roof black blood on Reiki's lips, black blood soaking through his dark shirt.

'Reiki, you're hurt.'

'Yes, I was not fast enough.'

'In the dark before I couldn't see.'

'Pedro you must flee. I will stay and fight.'

'But you'll die.'

'I'll die anyways. Now go.'

'No Reiki. Besides, there's no where to flee anyways.'

Reiki coughs up some more blood. He leans on Pedro and asks for a drag of that cigarette, leaving lifeblood on the tip after he painfully inhales. As he takes up the cigarette he has dropped the doll Pedro has carved him. They watch it fall the several stories down to the road below.

The two wait. The wait is not long. Yakuza with guns holstered, kicking down a door. And the leader with the missing eye in the background. They have swords drawn as they approach. Reiki smiles wearily and waves a hand at them, beckoning, unwavering, eager. Three attack Reiki at once and do not break his defence. They attack him a second time and again cannot penetrate his quick steel as Pedro is grabbed up, shuffled against a wall, a gun in his ribs.

They do not yet realize the extent of Reiki's wounds, but he is leaving bloody footprints as they dance back and forth. Blood, fists, the ringing of steel, and two go down of the three in sudden, jerking fountains of blood. The third is knocked down by a Reiki fist and on his back scuttling away. He kills another charging madly with a sickle as Pedro is slipping loose from his handler's inattentive grip, elbowing him low in the groin and throwing him to the ground, kicking hard the hand with the gun, kicking hard the face that protests.

Pedro turns in time to see Reiki the Japanese cowboy take two more men out before a gunshot rings out and everything stops. Pedro watches as the Stetson hat flies off and sees the small hole in Reiki's forehead. He sees Reiki falter a few steps and then sees Reiki fall. But just prior and with his last energy he is tossing the blade, his father's father's blade, his birth right and his death sentence.
Pedro catches the sword as Reiki dies. In his grip the sword is shaking, held across his body as he turns now, turns to face them. He is surrounded and the man with the scar calmly points his small, elegant gun at him. The blade trembles in Pedro's grip, like is doesn't belong, like it wants to escape.

'This sword is not for you. Give it to me and I will spare your life.'

'Fuck you asshole. This is Reiki's goddamned sword.'

'Reiki's dead. And so soon you.'

Pedro screams, charges to the attack. The leader signals his men to hold, dodges the clumsy, inexperienced swing with ease, solidly connects with his fists three times to the throat, ribs and side, knocking Pedro gasping, sprawling to the ground, disarming him in the process. The blade and sheath are retrieved by an underling and the Yakuza leader with the 'X' for an eye approaches. His men pull Pedro roughly up from his knees and hold him. Struggle is not an option. Nor is fear. They stare eye to eye.

'You are brave, if unskilled, showed heart and honour in defending something you know nothing about. For that I will spare your life. For that I will only take your eye.'

Monday, May 4, 2009

Spring Bash at the Car Crash



A little to do at mine in celebration of that super sexiest of seasons: Spring. And the lovely people from Carlsberg even threw in a few beers and some cool blag for the event. Got to love them Danes, and theys sure makes fine beers. Speaking of, the Danes are actually making it again as an import, which is reason for great rejoicing as Molson or someone used to make it here and it was a little meh.

So,.... the night started off a little oddly with an uninvited but cute crasher.

This baby raccoon was found by Jen and Corey (hat below)upon arrival and was a little woozy/hurt and scared to death. Poor duder. The lovely Pam and neighbours ended up rescuing him and taking him to an animal shelter. So best wishes mister raccoon. Just don't end up growing up and coming back and living in my roof or we ain't friends no more! Then the fun, with the music and drinks and people smoking, but me not smoking (I was good) and death defying acts of brain bending dialogue, and of course the seduction of innocents. And of course, love, war, laughter, and I think we somehow saved the world at some point. But things get a little blurry towards the end.










Much fun and then a walk to the pub for last call.

Monday, April 27, 2009

A Lost Cause

Reflections and lost glimpses
Caught in eyes
Haunted by you
The elegant destroyer
You the
Changeling and defier
Of all my grace
Of all my want
All my hope and
That ever pressing desire
You gone, yet
Ever present
Caught in the cross-hairs of
Memory
Eyes green with flecks of brown
Your resolute stance
Fists bunched and shoulders tight
When you were passionate
About some doomed cause or other
And everywhere still
Traces of you
Lingering
Like sweat
A lost cause
The fierce unrelenting force
Of your beauty
Burned into the background
Of my eyes
That implacable smile
My self-same telling one
Sitting alone and in the sun
And wondering where it all went wrong
As the wind blows and the leaves grow
Indifferent to me and
Glorious

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

On Dealing with Zombies from the Society for Evil, Debauchery and Kitten Appreciation

'So, I was dating this girl, but she had a one track mind. Like, all she could think about was 'Brains, brains...... BRAINS.' At first I thought I wasn't smart enough. But then I realized she was a zombie.'

Does this remind you of you? Don't feel self conscious friend. We've all been there. Everyone in a secret evil society bent on world domination at one point or another tries to develop some terrible serum that will raise the dead or convert the living into unstoppable, if smelly, killing machines to further a ~ you guessed it ~ quest for world domination. That or you happen to go on a blind date with one. Either way, when they turn on you things can get a little tricky. So, that's why, here at the Society for Evil, Debauchery and Kitten Appreciation, we've developed a helpful little list of helpful hints in order to help you help yourself out on that annoying day when you've been over-run by pesky plagues of brain hungry undead zombie killers.

Oh, and before you get all self righteous and mightier than thou and bleat on and on in an annoyingly whiny voice about how 'blah, blah, blah, it's morally wrong to raise the dead' and 'blah, blah, this is what happens when you play with God's immaculate creation' and 'you should have built a proper containment facility', well, you can just take a naked flying leap ass first in the general direction of an oversized meat grinder that has not even been disinfected in nary a week and get off our cases already please and thank you very much!

It is vital to not get caught up in any blame games when it comes to the 'Grrrr, grrr, brains, brains' clique (especially if you are to blame). Just keep reminding everyone of that and get out there and kill some zombies already.

Therefore and with much ado The Society for Evil, Debauchery and Kitten Appreciation Presents:

The Helpful Hints Guide at Helping People Help Themselves Get the Zombies Fucking off 'Em and Out of Their Back Gardens at Least Anyways.

1) First of all deal with the people blaming you for unleashing hell on earth into an otherwise normal shopping mall, suburb or whatever. This can be done easily enough by locking them in a room with some new acquaintances. Namely the zombies. That will shut them up in a hurry! You are happy, zombies are happy, everyone wins.

2) What to do when you meet a zombie?
Pretend to make friends with it by offering a drawing of a brain as a nice present. Then when it's licking the paper or otherwise admiring it smash its fucking brains in with a shovel. Note: It is important you do not eat the zombie's brains in one of those 'Huh, how do you like it, eh? Not so much when I do it to you, eh, asshole zombie?' moments as you will likely get infected and become a zombie yourself. That happened to Roger last Thursday. He will be missed. But it was fun smashing his skull in with a shovel. And good exercise!

3) Also, if you are on a date and the person keeps lamenting a lack of brains on the menu and orders and extra raw steak and keeps admiring the size of your brain-pan you might be in zombie country. If they ask if they can 'give you a quick brain massage from behind in the lavatory or perhaps you're car' you may indeed want to call it an early night and head home or indeed, out of state. Especially if their arm falls off before the entree arrives, or their eyes begin to run down their face during coffee.

4) What to do when a loved one gets bitten by a zombie?
Get a shovel and smash their fucking brains in and find someone else. You didn't like them that much anyways, let's be honest. And with the world overrun by zombies any remaining humans you now meet will be much more attractive. Just don't let them know you're to blame and they'll likely be happy to do their duty and help you repopulate the earth.

5) What to do when your doubles partner turns up all zombied out?
Smash their fucking brain with your tennis racquet. Actually, this goes for all zombies you come across in most situations. You don't necessarily need to use a tennis racquet however, just whatever's on hand. Preferably something sharp and heavy to smash their brainstems. In fact, you can get away with doing this to normal people who you find annoying and/or have attractive partners as well. Just ask them to go for a nice walk, just the two of you, and later tell their husband/wife, 'oh, yeah, them zombies got (insert name here). Nasty business. Can I perhaps comfort you at all? How about a nice bath pour deux'. Just make sure you clean any of their loved one's blood off of you and wipe that smile away before you present the 'awful news'.

6) What to do when zombies are wrecking your garden?
A zombie scarecrow was recently tried out, but didn't really have much of an impact. The zombies just tried to make friends with it and were happy to have another person to groan to. However, the zombies themselves do do a wonderful job at scaring away crows and raccoons and such. Positives in everything, right. But, if you really don't like the undead hanging out and decomposing on and around your vegetable patch or prize winning Gardenias then we suggest sending the person you least like in your group out to lure them away. This can be done by waiting for them to fall asleep and then shoving them out the door. If they're quick enough they'll lead the zombies a merry chase away and then everyone's happy. Just make sure you lock the door after you shove them out.

7) When would be a good time to visit my mother's grave during a zombie epidemic?
DO NOT visit any graves or graveyards during a zombie epidemic.

8) How do I protect myself when having sex with a zombie?
Don't have sex with a zombie you sick, sick, sick bastard! God, you make us so sick! You sick sicko!

Sincerely,
The evil MGMT.
x

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

The Other Day

I almost fainted the other day when
When you said when
When you stared at me softly and whispered
When can I leave you babe?
When can you face the day
I walk and walk away?
I thought then that other day
How your beauty is so magnified
When you tenderly push
Push me away
The other day when you asked
When can you face the night
Without me?
I started shaking a little
That other day
You, naked and pale, in the sunshine
Your beauty a torch raging
Set to burn me alive
I struggled the other day
Your prepossessing all
And your grey eyes
Matching the clouds
The other day
Gentle and sad when you looked at me
I started to shiver
When
When you took away all the heat
From your smile
And you said
Today is the day my love
That I go away
In day and in night
You will dream another
I started sweating the other day
When you said
Goodbye
And forever walked away

Thursday, April 9, 2009

Pedro and Arkady's Night Out

Another place, another adventure. This time a minor scuffle after Pedro, pretty fucked up Pedro on peyote, the secret weapon in question, hits on the acquaintances of some rather unfriendly biker types at a pool bar. They are unceremoniously roughed up and thrown out of the joint and thrown into an alley after taking a few punches for good measure. Fortunately a new place, the next place, one of them hidden, unnamed and likely illegal places, is located in the same said alley, just down a little ways. They slowly rise and dust themselves off. Pedro pukes in a garbage bin. They walk if off, shake it off, and are soon in good shape, spirits and style, discuss the play 'Doctor Faustus' as they perambulate, inhaling on sweet tasting carcinogens. They amble on past an Asian dude with a pool cue backed up against a wall. He is using it to fend off a group of four drunk and angry men who've got him cornered, some of whom carry broken bottles in tight fist grips. They keep urging him to set it down, that pool cue, set it down and fight them all like a man. Against the four of them he wisely chooses to disregard this advice. Pedro and Arkady slow and muse it over. Wiser heads prevail.

'Not our fight Arkady.

'No. 'Sides, I'm a lover not a fighter… a drinker, not a die-er. Besides again, the bar's just up there.'

They leave the Asian to his fate. He does seem to be holding them at bay for the time being. Soon they've arrived at a monstrous and scarred and seemingly sealed industrial metal door. After getting the once over from an equally monstrous, scarred and very surly doorman they are ushered shoved down a stairs to a girl who takes a rather extensive, but not unexpected, door fee.

They are on the dance floor. And they are still up for it and lapping it up, if slightly more sloppily. Evidence in this on the newly acquired beer stains on shirt fronts and sweaty necks/chests. Pedro is kung fu fighting. He is mentally smashing some imagined sycophants while Arkady is seducing them with those pretty lowered eyes of his. Come hither gestures and then pulling away. They dance more than drink and exude sensual vice and glee. Seclusion with a man. Seclusion with a woman. More cocaine. Arkady is laughing, laughing, laughing!

More new friends. Soon to be enemies. Many shots of whiskey. 'In solidarity for before' Arkady also pukes. Angry people in their faces, in the clouds. Rain and tears. Humidity. Horizons of trouble dawning along with the soon to be sun outside.

Runny noses must be caught. They lead them everywhere, those two ruffians Pedro and Arkady. Coke and uppers and pills they don't even know what the fuck are, but had been laying around and 'must be sure to do something' and 'better to use them soon afore they go bad'. And 'we gots to do something to countervene and counteract the goddamned peyote which was a not good idea you crazy Pedro bastard.'

Pedro falling into a wall, smiling the bliss out. The run and howl, the smile and slump, arm in arm in arm and do not even know, nor care, who the other set of arms is, the one groping so nice like.

Another place; the final place.

Like rats from a sinking ship they slip, along with many others forced from the dance floor at the night's end, or at least the bar's close, oozing along with a pretty young one each, with mascara and lipstick all smeared, clothes ruffled, the hunched shuffle-stoop and crabwalk, arms interlinked, leading the way to new adventure so late, or rather early, in the day. An after hours booze can of the dodgier type. A loud and rough and tumble joint. Punk rock. Cigarettes in an illegal smoking backroom. And shots of jagermeister. And buxom ladies in belly shirts, prostitutes and conmen and villainy all over the place, oozing out of the walls. Perfect.

'No one here gets out alive.' ~ shouted through the throng and laughter. Somewhat scary and deranged laughter from Pedro, which makes people give the man, the stumbling man, much space.

Poker game in a corner in this basement with windows painted black and velvet curtains. Cans of Mexican lager and cigarettes. Arkady winning and cheating at poker, winning too many hands in a row while Pedro entertains the lasses, but with no money to pay for things to sustain them they are soon slinking off to bed. Arkady being asked to leave the table, but with enough winnings for a few more drinks. Now tired and drinking anyways, smoking anyways, edgy, restless, and propped against the bar.

'I'm not saying he won't screw you over, but at least he'll do it to your face. I can respect that. Not like most of these assholes in this bar. Cunts all 'round.'

'Hey, Arkady, shut the fuck up, these cunted assholes can hear us.'

'You know dude. I love you. I am pretty fucked up already.'

'I am… in agreement, you... Cossack.'

Several individuals have gathered around the two. They look scary, but then everyone in an illegal after-hours boozecan at eight in the morning tends to look scary. Suddenly they are unceremoniously grabbed and dragged to the entrance where a little man in a fedora awaits. Strange yet familiar, he is, but unplaceable as it is all rather a blur. They are dragged out at his behest, and knocked into a few walls on the way. Arkady is kicked several times in the ribs before they are hauled out and into the bright, blinding, unforgiving and pain inducing light.

Thursday, April 2, 2009

Touch

Touch
You have to come close and
Touch
Let your fingers lightly dance
On my neck and on my chest
Your breasts pressed against me
As we recline your hand in mine
Interlaced
Your face full of repressed
Love and laughter
Your perfect curling toes
Against the small of my back
I need your
Touch
Drape your hair around my face and chest
A fortification in which we hide
While you kiss me
And stick out
The tip of your tongue
My hands on your lovely waist
Touch your lips so red and fine
Place your hip bones against mine
Debate my fate
Come close as we are one
Eyes filled with wonder meet
Let our legs all intertwine
I want your shoulder to kiss
Your arching back
Your stomach, your elegant neck
Your thighs
Dance your breath along my spine
Touch me, take me, navigate me
With your sense of desire and need and pride
Your hand in mine
Touch me, touch
I need your
Touch
Fingernails raking on my back
Your heart in full attack
Bathe me in the light
Of your music song laughter
Of that tender knowing grin
Touch me with your bright eyes
As I taste your tender skin
Let your mind run into me
Set my thoughts free
Touch me, bathe me, cleanse me
I need your
Touch babe
In the heat of our desire
Ice melting against fire
Sing your pretty siren song
And I'll come willingly
To your arms
I just need your
Touch

Monday, March 23, 2009

Trinkos and Sabo in the Trailer Park of Doom! ( a part of chapter 6)

After they have been roughly searched to the squat little hippy's satisfaction he beckons them further in with a churlish nod towards the back. He is a creature at odds in appearance with long, greasy hair, large lamb chop sideburns, and an even larger and protruding gut. At odds in that his eyes are cold, cruel. Also the large caliber revolver tucked in his frayed and stretched elastic waistband fails rather to generate the serenity and love attitude of the peace sign on his faded and dirty t-shirt. His smile is scary and full of holes.

Inside is rather more spacious than imagined, most of the seats having been removed. The hippy nonchalantly guides them past some broken school desks, a cracked chalk board with multiplication tables on it, some shelving units filled with clothes and tools and bric-a-brac leaning against the sides, Sabo dragging the suitcase in a demonstration of acting skills Stanislavski would have approved. They are led past a kitchen type area with shelves and hotplates, into the back area separated by a curtain of rough cut fabric.

This is jerked aside brusquely by the little lamb-chopped hippy. Trinkos keeps nervously eyeballing the big handgun protruding from that overly stretched waistline. He impatiently holds the curtain open, shakes it, and they are ushered in though an emitted cloud of rolling grey smoke, paling progressively. Two of the bus's original two seater seats remain in place, with two others unfastened and turned around, propped up on crates facing them. A small linoleum covered kitchen table inhabits the space in between. Seated are three, a very bulky and large Native American, a very slim and tall Asian woman, and a very small statured black fellow in cornrows.

They pass around a rather large joint.

'Gentleman. We have been waiting for you. Care for a puff of the peace joint before we begin?'

The little guy offers the joint, which Sabo declines.

'Smoky.'

'Be seated anyways. Please. I am called Manaba Billy and these here are my associates.'

'Associated with getting fucked up, anyways, eh Manaba?'

This sends the little Asian lady into hysterics, which denigrates into a fit of coughing as she has trouble exhaling the potent smoke.

'Shut the fuck up Shorty.'

They slide in, our intrepid heroes do, Trinkos adjusting himself with some embarrassment and discomfort. The leader, Manaba Billy, is displeased. He pulls on the long braids on each side of his head in consternation, crosses them over his chest. Shorty has indeed shut the fuck up. Manaba Billy glares at him anyways, and he straightens up. There is an awkward silence.

'Hey, you like got all the races here. Like that Disney ride in Orlando.'

'Shut up Sabo. Jesus.' ~ Trinkos.

'So, you guys wishing to sample this dope or what? I am a busy man. Don't got all day here.'

The joint is thrust Trinkos's way and he takes a haul. He coughs, passes it to Sabo who declines.

'Potent stuff.'

'You got the money in that bag there?'

'You have the quantity we talked about?'

Manaba Billy nods in the direction of what was once the bus's toilet, now apparently the drug storage locker. A cheap padlock is on the door. The joint is passed back and forth and the smoke wafts and curls, unwilling to leave just yet. Everyone is at least on the way to getting as high as hell, even Sabo.

'Where do you grow then? Seems to me that you can't grow so good, or much in a swamp.'

'It wasn't always so wet.'

'Stupid fucking global warming.'

'Yeah, stupid white people's god!'

Manaba Billy takes another massive inhalation. He silences his cohorts with a raised hand.

'Let's not get into the blame game. We don't grow it here anyways, to answer your question mister curious question man. This is where we live. What if some assholes like you guys came and then sold us out?'

'I guess that would suck.'

'Yeah that would suck. You think we're stupid?'

'We are getting rather ridiculously, insanely, massively high.' Trinkos states languidly, passing the joint off. 'Everyone lay off the aggression.'

'Damn Trinkos man.'

'Would you like a beer? It mellows the buzz.'

Outside in the distance Trinkos sees some of the sketchier park dwellers walking with hubcaps, a familiar bumper. A moment later another two roll along some tires. Familiar tires.

'I wonder if our car is okay.'

'It's fine. Don't be worried about that. But I do have some other, kind of bad news for you guys.'

'Oh yeah, what's that?'

'Show them Shorty.'

Shorty gets up and opens the 'drug storage closet', which is decidedly empty of drugs. Manaba Billy's laughter is lacking in mirth, tinny, metallic. The little Asian and Shorty don't laugh. They are staring hard to see what these fools gawking in front of them are going to do.

Trinkos smiles inanely and Sabo shifts and looks around and shakes his head.

'What's so funny Bill?'

'Well, the joke is we are still going to keep your money mister curious question.' ~ Deadpan from the Asian. 'How the fuck you like that?'

'For serious?'

'Shit, now everyone calm…'

The little Asian lady is suddenly pointing a sawed off shotgun which has materialized out of nowhere at the two. Lambchops, with some effort, pulls out his hand cannon, Manaba Billy a twenty-two.

'Yes, for serious. Now give us no trouble and you might not die slow.'

Sabo and Trinkos exchange a glance. Things are not good.

'Man, you trailer gypos are cold'

'Yeah man, cold as yesterday's potatoes.'

'No hard feelings. It's the economic downturn. It makes everyone more business motivated. You see? Now hand over the case and don't do anything stupid.'

The fat ass joint continues to burn in an ashtray shaped like Rita Hayworth on the table. The bus is thick with intoxicating, hazy, lazy, smoke.

'We understand that, eh Trinkos. Business is business'

Trinkos nods. 'We can relate.'

'Even so, we are gonna have to kill you now. Sorry, but business has been slow, and well, business is business. On the bright side you don't have to dig your own grave. Swamp takes care of that.'

'So I guess you can thank global warming,' says the Asian, and Shorty grins.

'Now hand over the case'

'Better give them the suitcase Sabo.'

'Catch asshole.'

The suitcase flies through the air and through the smoke, flies open, obscuring, distracting, as Trinkos and Sabo are reaching into their nether regions, pulling out what had been so uncomfortable, namely, socks. Heavy socks, stuffed with rolls of pennies it turns out. Mean weapons in close quarters. Trinkos is a little slower, a little behind the rapid quick Brazilian who slams his fist of cloth covered metal into Lambchop's forehead on a downswing, also clubbing away that gun in the same motion. By the time Trinkos has pulled his sock of nickels out Sabo has crunched another blow into Shorty sending him down hard to the ground, as Manaba Billy bats the suitcase out of the air, fails to grasp it, loses his gun. Trinkos diving now underneath the table as the woman fires the sawed-off, getting thrown back into the wall by the force of the blast, taking out the emergency exit, herself out for the count from the impact.

'Trinkos, come on! Fuck it man. Run now before we die! I am not getting buried into no fucking swamp!'

Sabo scrambling in the haze and smoke, pulling Trinkos up . Trinkos grabbing the suitcase and they are diving out the back, the bus's emergency exit, as the twenty-two pops several times and glass explodes around them.

'Run!'

Running out the door and to the car, only quickly discovering the car has already been half dismantled and keeping on running now and to the left after and down and into the swamp, avoiding pools of water and hiding under logs as men run past, then up and back and into a deepening mist, soaked and scared and half deaf from the proximity to the gunfire. Back in the direction of the trailer park Manaba Billy is screaming and others, and an occasional gun firing can be heard.

to be continued...

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

The Music of the Night

Listen to the music
Of the night
Slow and sad
Let it rake you
Let it take you
Let it roam with you
And cradle you
Across Elysian fields
Pure and soft
Fragrant and rich
Let your tears go
As the winds go
Along with the music
Of the night
Let your dreams go
As the moon goes
And close your tender, love scarred, pretty eyes
Seek peace for once instead of war
Release and forget about
Tomorrow
Listen to the drumbeat
Of your pulsing heart
Listen to the silence
To the whispering thoughts and voices
Be they gods above, demons and djinns
Or the slippery wet tongue of Mother Earth
Be still and
Listen to the music
Slow and sad
Run naked with the moon
Across Elysian fields
Take your thoughts away
Keep your fears at bay
Listen to the music
Slow and sad
Of the rain
In the night

Thursday, January 29, 2009

Vodka Tasting Poshness Followed by Kensington Foosball Death Match




Being the brazen adventurer you all know and love, I embarked on a night out last night with my intrepid friend Greg. The night began on a streetcar named, not 'Desire', but 'Flooded' with icky snow and rivers of water in the aisle as it was snowing like nobody's business out. Heroically we braved the streetcar perils and arrived at the posh 'members only' Spoke Club on King Street with brave hearts, hungry minds and thick with thirst. The place was quite gorgeous really, speaks of being the home of the literary and business elite and is pretty nifty. I found it populated by rich people showing off hot arm candy, nice suits and just how wonderful they were by being members of such a nice swank 'members only' affair. And then there was us classy dudes, shown above, who were specially invited to get some free vodka down our parched hearts and burgeoning souls... Err, yeah. Hehehe, sure.
And so a free martini (Ketle One; shaken not stirred) which was damn good to be honest, followed by the official tasting and some history and learning from the lovely Ketle One lady (see below) who taught me that all vodkas ain't the same, that all vodkas ain't made from pertatoes, and coincidentally that Ketle One vodka is the bestest ever booze onza planet.






Admittedly it was really smooth, and not as harsh as the others. Hey, it is Dutch though. And this Dutch boy was sold at that. So, we tested (Kettle One, Grey Goose, and Absolut) and scented and swished vodkas and got a little buzzed and I wanted to smoke, but didn't smoke as I just bloody well quit smoking. Ahhh, memories!



This was pretty fun, then another martini. Being a wine and pints man, I didn't really know about Martinis. So the second one I tried dirty and it was the last time I do that. It was like drinking pickled pickle brine. UGH. Bammo though. Hit me good. Like a good night out with a dominatrix. Mean and dirty and GREAT. Oh, but I've said too much.
Anyways, having survived and having no offers by the many beautiful women wandering the beautiful Spoke establishment(they have specialized micro implants that sense wealth) we opted for the fine and filthy shores of lovely Kensington and a serious Foosball tournament of death at The Last Temptation, one of the great haunts of Toronto, if the right bartender is in playing the right music.




Epic battles. Monumental goals. Horrible own goals. Dexterity and wisdom and finely honed talent. Drama. War. And victory! Praise and adulation, wreaths and glory for the conquering hero. Carson vanquished and paying for the pitchers as a result.






Sweet night.

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

The Building

The building's collapse
Was foreseeable
So stop the mourning
The crying and gnashing of teeth
For all you've lost you the forlorn
Show some grit and fight instead
Collapse can in truth
Be for the best
Especially and if and when
Foundations had begun to
Crumble
So finish the job
And do it clean an' quick
Burn and smash
Knock it all down good
So that even the ashes be further reduced
By hammer strokes and howling winds scatter
Survey and see the damage done
Eradication of the old
So you might build anew
Towers of splendor
Structures sound secure
And this time be sure to
Pretty up the cornerstone with etchings
That defy and praise the gods
Pretty up thy banners too
That they be ready to flutter proud
Then drive them posts down an' deep
Hammer hard and cruelly pound
Let them bite bedrock
Let them bind things well
And stone and steel be beckoned
Only then can you rise
Only then can you climb
To heights
Bringing forth a new place
Where you might shine and
Be safe
Somewhere far from harm
And the cold dark nights

Wednesday, January 7, 2009

Part 4: Malbec and The Boy Racer (intro)

Drinks.

The place is rather eccentric, much like us group of four who gather here bi-weekly in weather fair or foul, during time of peace or during war, in times of pestilence even we remain, especially as we come here to be polluted and most certainly toxified. Tiki bar which seen better days we come to on schedule, at least when there is nothing better to do in our eventful, sorrowful, gleeful and most trepidatious lives.

The place is covered in dilapidation and dust and far too much bamboo. Walls are encrusted with fake vines and real vines. You can tell them apart as the ones that are real are all dead. Palms too in various degrees of failure, stuffed parrots and other tropical birds, a fake python and other notable snakes of merit look cheap and plastic. There is even a guerilla suit stuffed and mounted with a cigar sticking out its mouth. We thought the stuffed and fading lioness, which was once a real lioness, was too depressing and so Angie, the place's owner, he took her away. We sometimes still drink to her though, the old girl. Fake stalks of too bright green bamboo live with live ones not looking as hale, also palms and other things tropical cling to life amidst constructed rock ledges and waterfalls and pools.

Walls are built from greyed out and time stained bamboo back here in the patio area. There are groupings of giant goldfish and the like in aquariums filled with dirty water which have seen better days. They blink lazily and forgetfully as they swim on through the dim, eyes rotating on differing axles, mouths endlessly opening and closing. There is even a small shark and a turtle in the bigger aquariums. They do not seem to overly hate their lives here at the Tropical Jungle Tiki Bar and Grille, but seemed resolved to their lot and unafraid.

The turtle, Ricky, stares out sleepily from the murk of his tank, then clambers onto a shelf where he watches us imbibe and blinks slowly those glassy black eyes. He eats some carrot bits methodically and seems wise enough to judge that we are the lesser intelligent species. He winks and cranes a long neck, settles down and in for a snooze.

The place is almost always deserted except for a few locals who are generally of the lowest kind of scum and villainy known to humanity, which suits us to the core. Oh, and us. Eccentric us; four rogues of happenstance friendship and wild element.

Our table is usually made up of four as that is all that tend to fit. There is yours true, of sparkling eye and happy heart, whom you are acquainted with, sitting hunched slightly, sipping from a narrow straw and grinning, bending and unbending long legs under the table and my bad and cranky knees, tossing and flipping back and forth my pack of Luckies. Felix across in shorts and too large flip-flops which keep falling off, ill-shaven and dirty blonde bearded, Hawaiian shirt hung open with a tank top under with a tank on it, with them Egyptian symbol tattoos of his and pirate earrings, whom you've also met at least the peripheral of. His smile you are never sure of what to make as he chews a wedge of lemon and winces good, slams down a shot glass. Malbec and the Boy Racer are alright too. One dances like a gypsy, the other waltzes like a god. They are two-fucking-pees-in-a-pod. The latter one tall, lanky, his hands massive and well manicured, calm as right before the storm which be Malbec, the former, and his mate o' mates, tiny, bunched, hard wired and swift, fiery and short tempered, oh-so quick to flush with love or rage. The Boy Racer is tall and oddly made, somewhat peculiar, saggy skinned and pale, with large square and white front teeth, larger square glasses too so he might see the better. His smile though is generous and kind, mostly less you offend him highly in which case them massive hands would come in to play. Malbec is the shorter and thicker and seedier and greedier, but brainy and bright and full of mirth and glee. He shall abscond with your woman unless you are very careful or politely ask him not to. That is if your woman is into incredibly short swarthy types. He claims to have killed a man in a knife fight, but not a one of us believe him.