Drunk

Drunk
I am drunk with the scent of you
Still lingering in memory
The dust of years doing little
To diminish the atoms
Drunk from
The taste of you
From your peeling laughter
And the memories of when I was
With you
Drunk on your smiles
And drunk on those perfect clutching fingers
Yearning eyes
Bitten lips
Drunk from when
You were touching me
And when I was touching you
Drunk on the perfection
Of your hips and your moans when I was kissing them
Drunk when you laughed at what I had written
Drunk too from when you told me
I was your beautiful boy
Drunk in memory
of your eyes, your cheekbones
Your perfect symmetry
Drunk when I think of
Your former sadness and poverty
Which made you all the more glorious
And endearing
Drunk in my insecurities too
Drunk
Drunk
On memories
On reverie
Kissing and clutching
Sweating together
Your gasps better than any
Starlight eulogy
Drunk Drunk
The wickedness in your eyes
Irreplaceable

By: Daniel Smallegange

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

By: Daniel Smallegange

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.

By: Daniel Smallegange

Stumbling and Falling and Tripping over Our Heels

Stumbling and falling and tripping over our heels. Dust decorates us, saturates us, having its way with us, and impolitely, while also serving despite itself, to seep up all our multiform leaks. Stumbling and falling and propelled along by winds and the desire to be somewhere else, somewhere different, unhostile, and worthy of our sly remarks and wry grins. Wiping off wind born dust made mud with bare hands we devour it, alcohol content enough to prime us along and get the job done. Licking also our soiled and crusted lips, the taste of death and beauty intermingling with a twist of sour, a douse of trepidation. This, it is crunchy and provides a satisfying sensation upon the teeth.

Propelled ever onward, ever deeper, stumbling and mumbling, our vice the fuel and our lust the equal to any and all a contender, this side of the gutter, this side of the moon. Holes in trousers, pockets turned out, toes protrude from socks and shoes alike. Ribs running sore and a heart full of lust and hacking cough. Mirth and holes also to decorate and dress our pride, arrowed there and stinging still from the laughter of scrawny whores and fatter pimps. And enter with eyes large and smile wry the black of shadow and shade. A brushing off of dust, silt, mud and all forlorn as city walls embrace and cool. Now neatened smooth and dark and watered well, we slide like a snake and find our heart’s delight, a purse easily removed from some well off fool, half-heavy with coin. Grinning like a fool, a skip now added to our once driven step.

Arrived at the lowest ebb and flow, our street of choice and chosen destination. Mirth rising, bouncing off walls, sidestepping thieves and overstepping drunks, we have arrived. This side of the gutter, which is opened wide and taking the airs or airing out all of last night’s corruption an’ sin. Now pouring libation and accepting coin, our hole in the wall dodgy joint and bar of choice, where the booze is not so terribly watered down, the women come with warning labels and the men saturated with more than simply evil looks, where the rye whiskey hints of highest joy, but also tears of sorrow enough to flood the deepest of canals.

Booze and song and dance and fight. Carnal sins enough to confine us all to hell and heaven both. Merry and dervish and hints of knives and shouts and then fists and then cuts and glasses smashed and then laughter and walking-staggering, propelled ever homeward, bleeding and stumbling and mumbling, bouncing off of walls, seeking solace, somewhere dry at least, our hand in the hand of the female persuasion of the species, warm and fair and tightly clenched also about a lovely girlish waist.

By: Daniel Smallegange

Bring Out Your Dead

And so, ‘bring out your dead’ they cried, and came seeking and came finding those dead and those alive also, despite the seemingly specific nature of the advertising. Flushing the streets and those places of rest, salvation and ill-repute of those they deemed enemies of the entity, defilers and defiers of the grace of God, or just plain ruffian scum. Cries of ‘bring out your dead’ and the heavy tread of government issued boots caused howls of fear making friends with protest to ripple and sweep through the boroughs and dens of inequity. This followed also by a general crawling and a running and slithering away as the fearful and/or guilty sought solution and refuge, the sweet embrace of secure walls and locked doors. This while the likes of I, proud card carrying member of Ruffian Scum local 898, lay stone drunk in a pool of self manufactured spittle and brine, clinging to a whiskey tree and ashtray as one would two lovers of extreme and equal talent. Out of mind and blind with sleep, lost to the cries of ‘bring out your dead’ until the hard tread of government issued boots made introduction uncomfortably to my very personal ribs and spleen.

And so they caught me, bound me, raged me, dragged me. I, Union Goon Second Class and humble narrator! What ignominy, ruin, disgrace. Dragged free and away from the asylum of my whiskey tree. My cries of ‘I ent dead’ largely ignored, the source of mirth and much pleasure. Yes, caught, dragged, found and bound like a hare soon for the pot. And I said through lips daubed rouge: ‘But sirs and enemies, I en't dead so much as I know.’ They laughed and spit: ‘Soon to be corrected.’

Desolately drawn, kicked, prodded shoved through the streets, trailing an assortment of fluids, clear or red or green/yellow, thick, thin or viscous. Other’s poor fortune turns to my luck as captors trot off, in pursuit of others, lessen in number. Through the streets roped up like a like a sacrificial dishonoured lover, like a broken bird of prey, like fear and like sin caught in the open day light. ‘Bring out your dead’ more cries of, and the wagon piled three deep with corpses and dust in my eyes making tears of mud and choke. Just hoping to survive the day and welcome the embrace of night. And then we are fewer even and falling behind, isolated and struggle and ropes made looser and reaching and a razor from my boot finds my hand and I am on him, I bite him, I bite him hard, in the knee and in the groin bringing him down and upon the other, said razor between teeth now kissing his neck slowly all the way across and more rouge flowing. ‘Bring out your dead’ he shall cry no more.

Now further freed and it tastes like copper. The velocity of escape. Soon to rest and sleep in the warmth of mud... But first to seek the source of a new and uncompromised whiskey tree.

By: Daniel Smallegange

Daniel's Cult of Love, Acceptance and Mindless Obedience!

Join Today! Free Muffins.

Daniel's cult, uhhh, we mean not a cult at all, but family fun centre of joy and peace and blissful happiness, is a wonderful, clean and well established ‘brain adjustment' program that gently coaxes 'lost peoples' into the correct and Daniel-centric world view with pleasantly numbing shock therapy and wonderfully long and calmly repetitive films produced just for you the new cult member! You will learn through special brain massaging techniques how much fun mindless obedience to the whim of the leader can be.

And also, how to avert your eyes, and agree with everything the great leader thinks and/or does.

Oh, and the proper way of asking the great leader if he's lost weight as he is looking super spiffy these days.
Also you can learn about generally being complacent and complicit with all things Daniel! Yay!

Let's all bounce to support our leader, who is really a friend and not a leader silly, just a friend who you must always, always MINDLESSLY OBEY. With the added bonus of free muffins and occasionally a live penguin dipped in chocolate if you are extra spiffy and ‘Daniel lovin' you can't go wrong.

'Bring me your tired, weary, huddled, sad and dirty masses and let them have muffins. Come onto me and let there be bubbles added to water heated to a nice cozy temperature whereby three or four at a time can have a lovely soak. I shall unburden you of all your worry, cares and material possessions.'
~ From the book of Daniel, the Nifty

Daniel, or OUR GREAT LEADER, has a smashing compound nestled in a beautiful, clean, picturesque and desolate area unburdened by any roads or human settlements for miles around. It is located in a cozy, safe, happy place protected by an exterior ‘happy zone of protection’ so bad thoughts can't come in. This is comprised of a 'Peace and Joy' no frolicking mine field for member's protection and several 'Smile and Love' barriers made up of flowers and razor wire. Mainly razor wire. The compound itself is as monolithic as Daniel, our great leader, and has indoor plumbing (new), padded walls (beige), and, yes, ping-pong!

'Let me, Daniel, rinse your brain of unwanted mental lint. Let me coax the dandruff from your soul hair. Let me eat the pain away with bites of delicious cleansing consumptive pain pleasure, which taste better than Havarti even. Come unto me and I shall lick the world clean with the thrice cleaved tongue of wisdom, love and transforming, mind altering hypnotic, bright shiny light.'
~Daniel, Great Leader, Spiffy Dresser.

Have you been lost, adrift without hope or joy? Fighting with your loved ones? Frustrated at an empty and cold society? Come into the warm, come feel the slow dance of communal love and squishy togetherness. Come and be loved by Daniel and blindly follow his world views and deep empathy for all cheeses. Find your new family, which you will become exactly alike to and therefore close to. You will find acceptance and a belief system involving generosity and peace and the great feeling of having no worries or possessions in your name (they will be in Daniel's so you won't have to worry about them anymore). Also embrace an unquestioning obedience and servitude to the GREAT LEADER, who happens to be on the lookout for a new wife or three, if you play your cards right and are large. Note: The great leader likes his women really, really LARGE.

Though the GREAT LEADER has never been photographed due to security concerns and the fact that he believes photographs have the ability to steal sexual energy and can cause early onset male pattern baldness, we assure you he has very excellent and shiny white teeth with no chips or missing bits and hair of a flawless and wavy, if you will, bouncy nature.

Daniel, once a small town muffin baker, came to realize his importance one day in 1982 while eating his weight in uncooked muffin batter. Suddenly the mixing machine he was licking the inside of was touched by aliens from the future. It came to life spinning him around painfully for three consecutive hours before knocking him unconscious whereby he dreamed the aliens from the future came on to him, and blessed him and told him his mission which was to start a cult community of happy people who give him all their possessions and love him, and to completely isolate them from the world. Oh, and to bring forth an abundance of muffins.

'I saw the light. I saw how great I was. And the aliens from the future saw how great I was. I thought, I need to spread the word about how great I am to everyone, let's start a cult, I mean family. Let's have fun, let's bake muffins everyone!'
~ Daniel, Great Humble Leader

Are you looking for guidance? Are you looking for confidence and something to believe in and a family fun filled experience in dogmatism. Lose yourself in us. All you need to do is sign over all your possessions and worldly goods and you can join up too. There are NO, repeat, NO mind altering brainwashing drugs in the muffins. They are blueberry muffins. They will just make everything just neatorific and wonderful like man… Bliss… When the blueberries kick in after 5 to 25 minutes. Trust us, they are gooooooooooood muffins.
BLISS!

Glory of muffins to all!

By: Daniel Smallegange

The Path to Perdition, Hitchhiked

Hitchhiking our way down the well worn path to perdition. The antagonisms and the lack of a strong drink. Our conscience swarming and disturbing, like flies, like thick viscous smoke. Sordid and well stocked with smiles and fears, walking backwards, thumbs out. Grinning and bucketfuls of vice for companionship, we slither and hop, down and out along the rock strewn pathway to our own and specially anticipated hell.

Fellow travelers roaring past, dodging cans and bottles, wrath and mirth, we light a fire to one another’s heavy breathing and toke it up, hold it in and get the elate. Dancing and supplicating gods and demons both, if there is even a difference. Supplied with pantings and screamings and moans, groans, lust and death, supplied with anger and laughter we stop and rest at a nearby fetid place and revel in the pods of muck filled with all that’s sweet and all that’s black (these the toads sell, along side the swamp) filled with all that’s sweet and all that’s black, excepting also what’s light be also included for the price of one dream and a portion of our last crust of bread. And enter now the salving dreams which come thick and coiled as any pythonic embrace. Our arms also, clinging tight. This and the warmth of fire.

Stars so many jewels in the blackest night, perfect and cold and desolate and so very far. We scoff and sputter well into this night. The violence of truth. The intangibility of happiness and the shocking and terrible ability of our digressions/transgressions. They cling to one, stubborn, like a fine mist or disease incurable. They isolate, decorate, marks of torture or badges of honour all. The violence of truth clashing on our shields of mirth and irony. Dance my love, dance, long into the gentle night.

Laughter in the dark and a stranger's knife in broad daylight, cold against our throat, waking us. Robbed of our last scrapings of sustenance and a few coppers we are free. Our steps so much lighter as we move once more, free and well pleased and placed. Hitchhiking our way down the well worn path to perdition. Skipping and pausing and lapping it up. Grinning like wolves. This case, as in most, the journey so much better than the destination…

By: Daniel Smallegange