Two Untitleds

Untitled #1

 

No one lives here.

You don’t live here, I don’t live here,

no one does. The house is empty.

There are no people inside,

including you and me.

I’m not in, you’re not in.

No one is in.

 

Down the street there are voices.

The voices come from people

who are talking. They are talking

about the empty house and about the fact

that no one is inside it. That I’m not in it

and that you’re not either. If the people keep talking

someone will tell them to stop talking

and accept the fact that the house

is empty and to go on about their lives,

empty as they must be.

Why would someone

talk about an empty house anyway.

People do things like that and get away with it.

People talk about stuff all the time,

including the emptiness of houses

and how empty houses are buildings

with no one in them.

 

One day the house will be destroyed

and no one will care.

 

 

Untitled #2

 
it takes a lot to remember your name,

it takes a lot to remember how the winter snows

fell that morning, the snowdrifts piling high near the doors,

and we were stuck inside but

it didn’t feel like being stuck,

the windows were there, we could look out,

there were snowdrifts that piled high up to the windows,

why did they pile so high,

why did the snowdrifts pile so high, but

we were inside and we could not get out,

we were cheerfully trapped

the snowdrifts trapped us in our own domain

and it was then we were happy,

we were happy then, time was ours

and we were happy with time

and it wasn’t mad at us,

time wasn’t mad with anyone

 

 

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Shoving November

Not sinking. Smelling like depraved cannibals for benefit of others’ depravity in nostrum packages. What to do to faces is mystery proven in time-space duress. Don’t test the heads of trapped goats. Attach wires where they will attach; leave the rest to commode dreamers.

Two molded pumpkins on the porch. He steps over them for weeks. They have disintegrated into pumpkin-carnage. He tracks molded fucking pumpkin inside the house and turns the brown carpet into pumpkin mold. He is a regular at certain places, he plays video poker and drinks 20-oz mugs until the cat scratch fever subsides. Some girls walk by with fat lashes but they don’t see him even though they know him. They don’t look at him and he wonders if they are suggesting they hate him or that to them he is a fucking creep. He has an invisible pumpkin living in his head. That must be the problem.

I am here so fucking keep that in mind. There’s some kid in the back flipping dough who looks like a young Chekov. Complete with beard and proletarian cap. He fucking has to know who Chekov is. But I’m no Anton motherfucking Chekov goddammit. So fucking keep that in mind.

The racing ended so he took some time off. He grabbed a couple girls, went to paradise. He didn’t know the girls, they smelled good when they kissed him, he grabbed them and sped off. It lasted two weeks then he came back and the girls left and he holed up alone for months until the ass-fucking press and the management and the ass-fucking lawyers and the mechanic minions showed up in his face, all their scratches visible until the day he’d start his engine.

She fucks

She fucks

And when she fucks

She fucks voracious

She claws ferocious

Her teeth bite ravenous

She craves his cock

Craves his lava cum

And when she fucks

It’s her fucking him

That drives her mad

That shoves his lust

Deep inside her

She rams his cock

Hard and violent

It’s when she fucks on top

That she fucks his frenzy

And when she cums

She makes the bed explode

And permeates the room

With the piercing sound of her explosive

Fucking

 

 

 

 

 

The Spurt Stopper

Something spurted. It was something in the kitchen. I went and looked. I heard spurting sounds. Spurt, spurt. Spurt, spurt, spurt. There was something spurting everywhere and it was happening in the kitchen. Like I said I went and looked.

‘Mary!’ I screamed. ‘Why are you spurting?!’ Mary was spurting all over the kitchen floor. The linoleum was a mess.

‘I’m sorry,’ she huffed, ‘I can’t stop it, it just keeps doing it, can you make it stop?’

‘I’m not very good at making things stop spurting,’ I said.

‘Well we have to do something, I can’t spurt like this much longer, I’m almost spurted out!’

‘Okay, let me make a phone call.’ I grabbed the phone and called my brother, who I knew could probably handle a spurt situation. He had experience in all kinds of spurting. ‘Georgie!’ I screamed into the phone, ‘there’s an emergency! Can you—’

‘Let me guess,’ Georgie said, ‘Mary’s spurting again.’

‘Yeah, and—wait, how did you know that?’

‘C’mon, Stevie, she calls me practically every day complaining about her spurting and all. It’s ‘I’m spurting this’ and ‘I’m spurting that’. You guys need spurt insurance or something.’

‘That isn’t funny, Georgie. Get over here and make her stop spurting!’

‘All right,’ sighed Georgie. He came over and made Mary stop spurting. ‘Now listen,’ he said. ‘Next time she starts up again don’t call me. I’m tired of wasting my time on spurt stoppage. You want somebody to help you, call them.’

‘Who?’ Mary and I asked in unison.

‘The Spurt Stopper. He’s in the directory so look him up.’ I did as Georgie said and looked in the directory. ‘S…Sp…Spu….Spurt Stopper! Here he is!’ Mary looked very excited; she was cleaning up her spurt mess. I bookmarked the page and watched Georgie as he made his way out. ‘Thanks, Georgie, you’ve been a real life saver.’

Georgie stopped in the doorway and turned around. ‘Don’t you mean Spurt Saver?’

I smiled wanly. ‘Yeah, Georgie, that’s what I mean.’

‘Good,’ Georgie said, and disappeared. I turned to Mary and helped her up.

‘Feel better now?’ I asked.

‘Oh much. The spurts this time were phenomenal. I still can’t get over it.’

‘Me either. I’m just glad Georgie came by.’

‘Me too.’

‘Well.’

‘Yes?’

‘Oh nothing. I was just thinking.’

‘Okay?’

‘Okay.’

Policy

I’m sorry, she said.

I’m sorry too, he said.

Okay then, she said.

Good, he said.

Then the TV went on and they watched without saying anything or making comments when a commercial appeared and seemed provocative or evocative or suggestive or festive or visually digestive. They just stationed themselves in extremely stationary positions on the green-and-white striped sofa which was positioned in such a place that they could watch TV optimally without having to rotate their heads even the slightest degree.

Just then the electricity went out and they were left without TV without light without anything but themselves but since it was completely dark they could not prove they were there unless they touched.

He reached to his left and touched what he perceived was her upper arm. It was cold and felt like skin.

She took the fingers that touched her into her own grasp and pulled him toward herself, causing her too to become angled. Now they were the shape of an inverted V. It was still dark and the TV still wasn’t on and they could only hear their own breathing.

Soon their eyes adjusted to the darkness. This in itself was the beginning of an end.

Heat Death of the Universe

Light rays coming, they are singing funeral dirges, they are no longer friends, nameless now, once with designations, each now a ray of light streaming in, in laser-like unison, calling themselves sunshine.

Waking, it is a simple act, eyes open, brain fading from low-wave activity to retaliation against stagnation. Sheets seeming to fly off, moving away in all directions, body exposed to all there is around and above, colder atmosphere intruding, no longer alone with warmth.

Now what.

Breakage

The microphone looks nothing like a microscopic telephone. I hold it in my hands while turning upside down a large

glass bottle and guzzling the golden-brown contents as the crowd in the cacophonous darkened space explodes into

shards of broken voices. This morning my dream is over, I’ll never dream again.

I take five oranges, I squeeze them into the shape of liquid and into a tumbler. I study the pulp, imagine that

each piece floating upward to the surface is one more remnant of my life, my own life, now a metropolis of

memories I prepare to drink. Nothing is as hard as nothingness itself. Try it.

Throw it against a wall and see what happens. Nothing, right? Just what you fucking thought.