Sunday, May 15, 2011

My Belly is Swollen With Diamonds

My belly is swollen with diamonds
Why you force feed me baby?
Like some future piece of veal
Feed me with gold too an' riches
It don't taste good
These pearls
They get lodged in my throat
I want kisses not this
You feel my stomach and kiss it,
But it's the treasures you adore
Not the vessel
You near my lips only to
Pry more them open
Shoving in platinum
Murmuring and licking my ear
And then trying to force in
Emeralds and lapis lazuli
My brain aches with lies also
Your beauty too, which renders me
Powerless
Your beauty which enables you access
Into all my far recesses
Opens my mouth and heart into which you gleeful
Force in more riches
My belly though
Grows swollen baby
Distended and I
Hurt

Saturday, May 14, 2011

Beginning to Revenge Thriller by Daniel Smallegange

Slowly ooze down the wall. Balance. Re-balance. Ooze. Our heartbeat is slow and following the most eccentric of scores. We can hear it in our head throbbing and we can feel it in our wrists and still we ooze down the wall. Should have hit the floor by now. Where is the floor gone off to? Should have hit… Other sounds, ugly sounds.

Weapons firing, bullets whizzing slow-like through the air, hitting glass, wood, Gus the bartender. Falling begins to quicken, see Gus clutching his throat where he’s hit, blood spurts from his clutching hands, matching our pulse beat. The two other patrons of the bar scramble out as fast as they can in slow motion.

Snap.

Hitting the floor now, like a wife abuser, meaning hard and mean. Don’t even know who the fuck these assholes are as drink rains down around us, whiskey, some of Gus’s blood too. Whiskey from the bottle smashed against the wall. Bottle that just missed our head by inches. We lick it off our face and snap the fuck out of it, out of our ooze, out of our intoxicated haze, out of the grey and into the red. Pulling the Sig Sauer and rolling as another bottle roars toward our head. Quick not quick enough, hits us hard in the shoulder, but doesn’t break, which is something. The pain is good. Clarity. Gus finally stops holding his neck and slumps over. Poor fucking Gus. More bullets. Asshole Number One has a Gloc and he’s burning through that clip. And Asshole Number Two, the fucking jerk bottle thrower’s, finally got wise and pulled out his shotgun. Diving under a table in this seedy, sketchy dive bar as he unloads a barrel annihilating the stag’s head hanging on the wall. Glad Gus ain’t around to see it. He loved that stag’s head. Sliding under the table, on the grease and gunk which has collected over the years, squeezing the trigger four times. First time trying out the Sig. It feels good, solid, nice grip. Firing four times, trying to concentrate to aim, not think of the gunk on the floor we’re sliding through, blowing Asshole Number One’s ankles all fucking over the place. Bones and blood make mist. He goes down screaming all high pitched and horrified and I take a breath and stop, slow aim and put one more hole in his forehead. And he stops screaming too.

Asshole Number Two starts talking, shouting. Doesn’t anyone believe in peace and quiet anymore. He’s swearing and calling on Jesus and someone named Kenny, presumably Asshole Number One. We shout at one another a bit.

'Hey Asshole Number Two! What the fuck?’

‘Fuck you man! Kenny, hey Kenny.’

Maneuvering under and around the knocked over tables and chairs I am a snake. I let him talk and talk. He’s got the shakes and pointing his gun all over the joint. I show him a little bit of me and he pulls the trigger, blowing the shit out of the foozeball table. He needs to re-load and so I crawl and dive and navigate the maze, love now the floor sludge that makes me so silent. Snaking through the jumble. I wait until he’s pointing that barrel the wrong way and stand up.

‘Kenny’s fucking dead you jerk.’

Asshole Number Two spins around, and freezes seeing as I’ve got the Sig on him. He doesn’t do anything too stupid. Yet.

‘Screw you man. Fucking Kenny.’

‘He was screaming like a little girl. It was embarrassing.’

‘So you killed him.’

‘You started it. Now throw down that shotgun, slowly.’

Asshole Two thinks about. He looks from my outstretched Sig down to his own gun, maybe trying to figure how many rounds I’ve got left. Eyes go there and back, back and forth.

‘Who sent you?’

‘You don’t even know?’

‘Lots of people and me we don’t get along, so tell me? Who?’

‘I can’t. You know I can’t.’

‘I know nothing of the kind. The only thing I know is you’re an asshole.’

‘Quit calling me that.’

Asshole Number Two does something stupid. Asshole Number Two get’s two in the temple, spins once and goes down.

‘Asshole.’

Sirens. Always sirens. Never any peace and/or quiet.
Gathering my coat. Grab a couple bottles of the good stuff from behind the bar before I leave. The kind that no one could ever afford. Aged and old and bottles thick with dust. Say goodbye to Gus with a swig. He would have liked that.

Time to leave and find out who the fuck wants me dead… this time.