a short piece, topiccal

You ever get hit with such a bout of nostalgia it makes you light headed? Im not talking about revisiting Yu-Gi-Oh for the thirty time or singing Disney songs till your thought gets sore or drawing parallels between Harry Potter characters and political pundits or getting off to weird porn based around whatever intellectual property you ended up sexuallizing later on in life (or even the ones that you kinkshame yourself for getting off too) or even the shows and movies you make younger generations watch (with or without a critical eye) so you can vicariously relive the magic of those childhood fantasies. No. I’m talking about the nostalgia that comes up opout of you like repressed trauma. Some obscura for the depths of your memories so far back that they’ve not only become an element of your psyche but they turn out to be so fundamentally ingrained into you that they’ve somehow formed an imperfect piece to the puzzle of your mind. For me, that’s Card Captor Sakura.

Sure, that’s an excessively grandiose way of thinking, but hey, sometimes a show from your childhood shows up on netflix and you gotta grapple with the wave of “Oh god that thing” that threatens to drown the next few days in utter self-indulgence.

Stare into the monolith and the monolith stares back into you.
Rotting away what was once a promising mind, and now
In the battle field for every John, Jane, and Jeanybody’s creations to war
With the feeble spirits that make you up.


That’s still disgustingly excessive.
The world is burning.

Yesterday was the largest civil rights protest in the history of the world. In the capital of every state and in eighteen other countries. And I spent it watching anime and wirefu cinema. Too broke to buy supplies, wakin up at 7 pm and too much of a pussy to drive out so close to the curfew, and too white to do more than wallow in the rage and fear that’s slowly enlarging the tumors of my depression. And everybody loves to hear a white male het passing loser bitch about his feelings, right? (/s). Gotta monetize these shitty feelings somehow.

That’s the classic transmutation, isnt? Turn your pain into beauty, Art, expression merchandise any and every kind of profitable media, right cuz that lends some kind of purpose to it doesnt it? Makes it all somehow seem worth it through the validation of another’s dollar. But what if you cant make art? What if you cant find the magic circle to translate that anguish into something more than that more than. Civil service? Duty? Community?

And the pigs are stomping around.
Hoof prints on the neck of protesters, the true law of the land trampled into rags.
What happened to the good ole fascist punching america? Is it so hard to believe the badge obscures a perverted swastika?

There’s a world outside while you fester alive, great raging flames, the kids force the picket line while you lie awake worrying at night. They’re worrying too, they bare bruises broken bones the blood soaked roots of revolution tanglin in their minds and you watch clips online of their tragedy, enraged you find chambers to scream in yet at best you scrawl slogans on sidewalks in rock chalk cuz you’re too broke to even get the dollar store shit. Scribble BLM on your plague mask in sharpie so you’re mildly huffin at the grocery store gettin looks for your effort but no one really talks to you. No one ever really talks to you.

We cant resurrect people. We can bring back the selves we once were, once wanted to be, want to be.

Bloodshot eyes just another hour or so. Gettin tired of magical princesses then move on to Yu-Gi-Oh learn about friendship and deus ex pecto or shuffle on thru to Beetle Borgs anything to get that wrought iron monkey breathing down your neck to take half a break and let the sun come up it doesnt make any difference everything’s the same and constantly changing how many do we have left how many are there to get going and what’s there across the sky weeping again and none of it matters really you get the few inches you fought for for all of it to slide back in feet there’s something so evil brewing and that’s gotta be stopped so you burn burn burn like fireworks across the stark raving mad words by white guys whallowin in their eggshell world cuz that’s safe and relatable but you cant keep that going you cant sustain a suspect world already decades dead instead try to find dawn the new horizons for all of us to brave. Wounds get filled with scar tissue./ You’re sneezing out metaphoric bandages that only seem to help yourself. What can be done when everything is suspect?

The rumble ups beneath the street,
The shifting bones ground into powder to thicken the concrete.
We can always build new courthouses.

Room 22

Why go outside? With so much to fear, with so much horror finely ingrained into the everything outside, why slip from shield you've erected, the wall's so painstakingly fortified? Music for one. Drugs are another. I suppose there are more reasons, better reasons, but they're all as wish-washy and what really does any of that mean, ig you can keep trying since there's nothing better to really do before you're dead. Sex, love, ok choices to exist for, but soon the science will reach the impossible dreams and you'll be able to print hookers from an 3D escort site; you'll download coke straight from the screen and directly into your nostrils. Until then you'll have to be content with the shitty world you've been dealt. So you file away your fear in the emotional/metaphysical file cabinet, in the drawer with the lock, where you keep the kinks you refuse to talk about and the memories you like to pretend are dreams. What is it you fear? People? The Unknown? or the Darkness that you will never escape? Outside there are the endless possibilities of fear, and inside there is the unending fretting that fetters you to what you find soothing, what you found to hush the voices and keep the Darkness from finding you.

Room 22: Triple Set

There was Pike Matton who was in somesortof band with somekind of sound to them. He played guitar, of course -- what the fuck else would he play? The strings were plucked strummed slammed ripped by his prying, frenzied fingers that traced up and down the neck like wringing out a chicken neck. It was dirty. Nasty. Their first track had a tan tshirt feel to it. He had an air about him, one that said a lot, said he wasnt into you unless you drank cheap beer and were a Dragonfly fan. The kind of guy I wanted to fuck but he’d rather beat the living shit out of me for even thinking of getting between the sheets with him, in all honesty that turned me on more than anything that the guy couldve provided in the bed room. There was a half-empty bottle of local shit they call beer that he kicked mid-solo out into the audience -- it hit the lip of the bar and shattered into oblivion spreading it contents all over bystanders who wooooed at the display.  The guy next to me pissed his pants: Im not too sure of the cause, couldve been the bottle and he just happened to be the biggest pussy in all the city or it might be the fact that I threatened to slice off his nuts if he so much thought about washing away all that I had been building up in him since dinner three hours ago -- either way it didnt matter I got what I wanted: a piss soaked stud who’d shit in my hat if I wanted; we rushed back to the special guest bathroom and I fucked him in the stall while he cried, disgraced by the state that he’s in. His weeping sounded like a Sun O))) cover of a Chelsea Wolfe cover of a Black Sabbath song that was being played from a tape found in a dead half-mexican runaway from the Valley who’d been on Peyote as the song jostled girlish in the soon-to-cadaver-mule’s bowels during his death thralls. Oh yeah and whatever fucking band Matton was in was playing some shitty neo-Punk song or whatever the fuck it’s called. I came and went back to band; I never saw the guy again. What was I talking about? O yeah, Matton -- he was hot, literally, Dave Grohl couldnt sweat like this fucker. I wonder what his underwear smells like. About around having that thought or just before it or just before the set was over, I completely lost all interest in him sexually. He was dried meat, now, left out in the sun and coated in flies, wasp, dead fairies. The band was okay, I’d hear better, still ok tho, but for a free show it wasnt half bad. With the last song Pike switched guitar for mic. Half the place cleared, which still makes no fucking sense to me. Whatever. Besides, what I came for was the drummer. He was a coworker of a friend and I at least had a shot with him -- true he was straight and taken but I’ve sweet talked married men into my bed before so why the hell should he be difficult? Plus he had an ass built for my cock: round, fat yet small enough to pack in the trunk of my car. That man had a tight hole, let me tell you. We talked, two weeks later Im fucking him at some party were they’re playing this bands’ cds and as I coat whatever-the-fuck-this-guy’s-name-is’s face with my load the very same song that Im listening to right now live is playing through the thin walls and it occurs to me that the only thing that me and this guy who’s now sucking my dick both in the past’s future and the current past, the latter of course in my mind, have in common is this band. I remember there was this cute couple of fags on the couch Harry got for this place a few years back: one of them kept rubbing the other’s back lovingly and it was distracting as hell -- I just kept staring. . . . . So. . .um, yeah, the band, yeah the band played about six songs I think, I dont know, in all honesty I dont give a flying fuck about this band's history, what it is or what it was or even their songs really, they’re something like a punk grunge garage band that made like chicken clucks with the vocalist jumping around during the song, which we all walked in on. There’s too much shit in the system to tell what’s going on. People I went with: if you’re reading this Im not really sorry, about, like any of that night. Also Im not paying you back. And dude, what’s your face, guy I fucked, the one who smoked a bowl with the Volta, yeah you, um sorry I guess? if you’re reading this, which you’re not, but yeah, like, I’d fuck your guitarist and I’d fuck you again if yer up for it, so I guess...call me? sure yeah, call me if you wanna hook up again. Whatever.

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: The Last Day (44) "The Stadium"

know what it is that you dont know. and know you'll know it. -- Run, stand still, run again, go nowhere go everywhere all places are the same, since all places are places. -- 'You'll change, it's inevitable.' I know. 'How you ending it?' -- From a Review: It's shit, no one survives (spoilers), or....or maybe they do? Fuck if I know, it's shit, that's all you need to know. -- I guess, we'll never know.: from another. -- 'So, how?' -- with Silence, I think.

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 43 "Secret Observations on the Goat-Girl"

Scribble all the thoughts you have in a journal -- Where did all the people go? -- otherwise it'll all be lost -- 80-90 percent chance Jamie's dead. Deadsies. -- sadly, no one can read the thoughts written out -- El. doesnt mourn anything, atleast today. Today shes out shopping in Rococo, the Pecan Flavored City. -- on the wall you painted -- So many come to Rococo, few rarely leave, and if they do, they always come back. -- behind your hole-in-the-head corpse -- I have, and always will be worthless. -- No amount of New Wave beats will shake the shadow from your root. Yer fucked, accept it, move on, deal. -- She's looking for a gift, this was the best place to look for it. There's so much to find in the dark corner's of Rococian stores. Antique malls that smell of old dissipating cologne and dead grandparents. She took a big whiff when she walked in. It gave her the slightest head rush. -- 'Oh it's beautiful! Beautiful!' -- Nothing says happy birthday like a dead 70-y/o's jewelry hocked by her great-grandkids. -- Jesus. Jesus. ...Jesus...... -- Up stairs, 'This place has an up-stairs?', 'I know, right!', it's cozy. Mostly furniture, an old couch, bunch of chairs, a quite nice poker table. There was a window laced with spider web cracks. It over looked the street. El. took a look (nothing in the attic-up-stairs appealed to her shopping list). There was hobo down there, or a man who just looked like a hobo (you can never tell here), sitting on the curb drinking....something. He had a huge puff of hair coated in dirt, grim, sweat, filth; a leather shirt that was baggy, his pants were dark with stain. He was looking across the street as he drank, staring at the park. His hands were callus, or so she thought. They seem like why should be. I wonder what his face looks like, she thought. She wanted him to turn around, too look up at her, and smile. She wanted to see his round face, to see those sharp eyes hidden in the hollows of his head, that broad flat nose, that toothy smile. She wanted nothing more to catch a glance at the man's beautiful face. 'Ooo! El look! They have some old books,' called Mel. El ignored her. She rushed down stairs, 'I'll be right back,' 'K!,' and out the door. But the man was gone. Gone. 

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 24 "The Assignation"

Self-Titles always confuse things. -- 'Just keep your clothes on,' -- HP5 is on. It's just there. -- he said, Jamie obliged, of course. Nice place, he thought. The Man, the New One, the Suit, spent more money on his clothes than his place, Jamie noted. The apartment was huge. It looked like the apartment set from American Psycho. -- the Antechoice . . . yet, it is everything. It is all that is and was and will and wont and knowledge power art scheme death sex money, it's everything. . . .the forever pipe that feeds up the goulash of being-alive in the ultimate non-life simulacra. -- Jamie keeps his hands behind his back, holding one in the other. He's recently discovered the comfort it could bring, to hold yourself. He couldnt sit down. -- There are two possible explanations for the twitch, both of them unlikely. -- We exist in the machine, we are the machine, we are the matrices of the machine, the cogs the bolts the construction the power. -- It feels like an October morning. Everything's blue. I suspect there'll be cartoons on the tv in the other room. -- 'You can sit down,' the Suit said. 'Im fine.' -- The story was slow to day -- They go to a cabin to fuck --  It's hot. It's cold. It's much too. -- Jamie is locked in a cage. Something buzzes in his ass. He's been there....hours? Atleast. This guy (should)(better) pay well. The cheeks are sore. -- They were not the same red as they had been from so far away. But still...drawn in. -- Jamie's world stops churning in his head, he throws up. From somewhere beyond the room he hears people talking. The Suit's brought some guys over. -- Their color was no different than the polka-dots of chick-pox. But their thorns were still sharp. -- They come in, do the do, and leave, treating him like shit. He loves it. He's hard even after they leave him, still worked up in the dungeon. He can leave at any point they say. Are they going to kill me? he rubs his arm, scratches his head, there's a twitch in his eye. He's still hard. Still ready. Come-on....,do it. -- Or loneliness. Or sadness. Or loss. Or perceived loss. -- The Suit comes down, 'Finish yourself off.' 'What? no more?' Jamie speaks too loudly. The place echoes. 'Finish yourself off.' The Suit is sitting in a chair. Jamie makes a move toward him, 'I could-' 'DID I FUCKING TELL YOU TO TOUCH ME? I SAID FINISH YOURSELF OFF.' Jamie pouted, hiding his apprehension behind his cutes. -- Or lingering. Or gripping cope. Or an idea that consumes you like a disease like dis-ease like misease. -- Jamie wraps a hand around his shaft, and he regrets it. Like holding dog shit in your hands with a plastic bag in the way, he thinks. He runs his tongue on the bottom of his teeth, exposing them in a frown. They feel funny. 'Move.' Jamie did not. 'Move,' the Suit hissed. Jamie started to move his hand up and down. He covered his mouth with his other hand. It smells like his own ass. -- (Link) (Links) (Unlike) (Link). -- I dissolve in coffee, stir -- After a bit: '..some lube...' creeps out of his nausea curved lips. 'Spit on it.' 'I'd rather-' 'Spit. On it.' Jamie did. It only made things worse. -- there's the fuzz of movement, the blur -- From where he sits the Suit spits, trying to help a slut out. It landed on Jamie's face. -- Stewart wakes up alone. The bed, two sizes too big, is still warm where he had left his lover. Smacking his lips, he finds a tab bit of mango flavored lube hidden in the back, tucked between the gum and the check. What if someone ate that stuff, like as an actually snack? he thought. The room's too bright. The blinds are down, but the curtains are none existent. The sun seems eager to ruin Stewart's sleep. What is today? He looks at his phone (no messages): Tuesday. Hm. Stewart listens, waiting for something. He looks around the room, little is disturbed. Where is he? His phone dings. Cecil: Be there in an hour. 'O yeah,' Stewart says aloud. He hops in the shower, taking extra care. The hot water doesnt wake up his bones, but the coffee does. As he stands next to the counter sipping: Guess he's gone, he thinks. He gets the house ready for Cecile. -- (graveyard?) (park?) (underpass?); black dress -- Jamie's cum spurts on the floor and then the nausea hits him. The Suit stands up. Standing over Jamie, the Suit swirls his big toe around in the still-hot pool. Lifting the foot: 'Clean it off.' Jamie does. The Suit pisses of Jamie and ties him up. Close pins, electric shock, some light ball torture: it's all so typical. The Suit shits on Jamie and cums in the latter's face. Guess we're done. -- Censorship. Synchronize. -- There's no real point to this, any of this, Cecile says. Stewart hates watching movies with him sober. Where's Jamie? he thinks. -- Jamie clamors onto a bus, the directional map, explaining its course, looks like Arabic to him. -- Cecile's in tight khakis. And a shirt that's nice and normal fitting, but the tightness of the pants gave it the appearance of being too big. Stewart suppresses the urge to sign aloud. What are we even watching. Where the hell is Jamie? -- Such dreadful boredom. They can tell you dont give a shit, they can tell you have no idea what you're fucking doing. -- No one will be able to fix my horniness my hunger because it extends from somewhere outside by cock but still with me. Sex isnt what I want. Sex is just something I feel like I understand. -- At least he's cute, Stewart thinks. He puts a hand on Cecile's thigh. Bu this mind is on Jamie and his mind is on the other, and knowing Cecile, he was probably thinking about anything other than Stewart. Cecile's only here for Jamie. Why am I here? Stewart thinks. Seriously. Seriously, what are they watching? Doesnt matter, all that matters is Cecile hates it and Stewart couldnt give a damn. They stare at the screen, the hand unmoving and the only contact. It sat there. -- like slowly unstuck syrup. -- Coming down on a vacant bus really fucks with ya. -- All day walkin' like there was nothing flashing behind --  They're making out to fill up the ennui. -- Am I pretty now? -- Cecile's pants are fucking terrible. The texture of khakis are detestable. -- Am I a writer now? -- Seriously, am I writer now? -- (Cut this Gertrude Stein shit), -- Stewart's got Cecile's cock in his mouth (he's still watching the movie. Stewart didnt care. He just wanted Jamie to come in, and to get pissed off. Fuck that little prick, Leaving me here with this fucker.) -- Look all Im saying is -- 'Are you getting off at some point?' -- The fucking khakis go flying across the room. 'My phone was in those.' O, for the love of fucking Ra, thought Stewart. His thighs are hairless, Stewart notices. I guess that's....nice. -- The bus rattled. 'You sit next to a window, you better look out it melancholic,' rang in Jamie's ear. I miss him, he mumbled. 'What? What'd you say?' The woman in the seat across from his. Eyes wide: 'What?' 'Oh, I thought you had said something.' She looked familiar. -- Checking out cute boys in -- 'Where the fuck is Jamie?' Stewart was pissed, pissed the fuck off. Cecile's lips were sealed, his eyes were unfocused. Practically comatose. He was a terrible lover. 'Shouldn't we up to your room, or something. . . ' he'd said, but Jamie wanted to stay, stay right there, where Jamie could walk in and see. See him slam up and down into the fucktoy he'd shown so much interest in all those times before, at Felicie's party, at Mark's party, at that fucking god awful orgy, all those times and he wasn't even here. Stewart was there, and he hated this prick. Why couldnt Jamie be? -- She looked like his mother, he thought. There was a stirring in his gut. From -- a small town where one probably shouldnt check out the cute boys. -- something. Jamie needed something....to do? eat? fuck? -- crushing, crushing all around, -- Cecile's cock was alright. It was slightly thicker at the top, which Stewart enjoyed. The former's hands ran along his open thighs. The latter's face grew redder and redder. The movie was still on. -- Jamie wanted to say something to her. He stared out the window trying to think of what exactly. He wanted to say something worth saying, something that should be said. Not small talk or idle chatter bullshit. Something she'd remember.-- this place has no place, this place is far from every place, this place this. -- was nothing. Nothing. She was nothing nothing nothing, but this one kept thinking of her. 'e couldn't stop thinking about her. -- There must be something. -- I cant cum under this conditions, Stewart thought. The wider-at-the-top pole up his ass began to feel uncomfortable. He flopped off. 'Im done.' 'What?' 'I said Im done.' 'What the fuck, Im so close.' 'Then finish yourself off,' he shouted from the kitchen, looking in the fridge.' 'At lest suck me off.' 'Dont fucking beg, its disgusting.' 'Oh for fuck's sake.' Cecile stormed about and stomped. A hissy fit? Just because I wont get you off? What a fucking baby. -- On one hand: they're something I always try to hit up, and I enjoy them, to a degree. On the other: -- She got off. He stayed on. Where am I? he thought. -- No Day 15 -- Asses are nice up here. -- Stewart had stopped putting up a fight, he just let it happen. The sad thing is: it felt great. Hella lot better than before. He still screamed tho. The intent unclear. -- They must put something in the water. -- Fuck this story. It's going nowhere. 'Oh come-on, it's doing fine.' Like hell. 'Yer always so critical.' Says you. Can we just fuck already? 'No.' Come-on. 'No, not in the mood. Finish the story and then maybe.' I hate writing this thing. I've fucked it to the point of no return. No one reads this anymore. 'So?'.....Good point. I guess I'll finish it. 'You need to.' Yeah. 'You've almost made it through the book. Plus, think of all you could gain from this!' Nothing. 'Nothing?' -- Nothing. That's what he felt like. Like apart of the chair, apart of the bus. There werent stops for him to get off, just stops from others to pile on or take away. Jamie felt as mechanical as the bus. -- Cum is good for the skin apparently. He never put much weight into that supposed fact. -- When taking a shit becomes homicidal childbirth. -- It felt terrible, not the sex that felt great (now). It felt terrible that Stewart was now enjoying it. Im disgusting, he thought, as eight spurts shot in his load. -- Im fucked, Im gone, I cant even cry, everything's crushing down, I can feel it in my chest -- He finally got off, but he still had absolutely no idea where he was. So he walked. Just, walked. Aimless. -- 'You like that, huh.' 'Shut the fuck up.' 'What the fuck did you just say!?' 'I said fuck me again.' -- and a face and hair and a cock, obviously. -- It was a surprise, but Stewart went along. How the dildo stayed in, he wasnt too sure. I guess he's upset about the no-show too, Stewart thought. The bed was nice, Stewart loves his bed. No matter what. He must be squeezing hard to keep it in, Stewart let out a massive scream as Cecile violently thrust into him. I'll run out of lube at this rate. He still had cum in his hair. -- Yellow. -- He hardly ever used his toys anymore, he's been spoiled by the real thing for too long. -- He kept making eye contact with me. -- Half way thru sex the boy realize that that's what was being done to him. -- Which each passing glance of the lance, -- Sitting at the edge, high up on the second floor, looking down. -- 'So what happens to Jamie?' He shows up in a post few days after this one. 'Then what? That one ended about the same way.' I dont know. 'Kill him. That'll be a nice change of pace.' Maybe. 'Corpse-fucked?' Look I dont know. 'Well you have to know. You wrote it.' -- The urge is so tempting. -- I looked up the definition of Assignation; never knew it. And it's changed everything. I feel like I should have saved it for the end of this, that might have made things more interesting, but what's done's done. I mean, the fact that I did around the mid-way point, and debating whether to continue this at all, mid-way-ish thru, after fucking up the schedule and accidentally lying to my readers saying this shit would be out Tuesday(?) and it's dropping now, instead. Im sorry? No, not really. Look, here's what matters: Im going to finish this, going to see this all the way through, unlike so many other things. This thing has nothing to do with any of yall or anyone, the fact that it's being read is almost unimportant. This is for me, this is mine, this just to fuel my perfection, to glorify myself, once again. So. Deal with it.

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 42 "Blue-Bearded Lover"

Death is cum, cumming is death. -- Fuck love: Loving the Fuck. It's hard to get by with love, at least movie love, so true love, the real love. It's really hard to move with the love around the neck. -- Any plans tonight? -- Who's Judith and who's Bluebeard? -- No. -- You're Judith, and Im Bluebeard. -- Good. -- Who's the third guy? -- Alcohol is love, Candy is love, Cigarettes are love -- He's not in the equation. -- Medication is love, over-medication is love, over-dose is love, -- The collar's too tight, I can barely breathe. -- Driving is love, car crashes are love, ozone death is love, green house gases are clingy obsessive love, global warming is love, the consummation of the earth's surface by the over-surfacing water is love. -- Is that my problem? -- Nuclear way is love, H-Bomb is love, World War I II III IV is love. -- Dont you just love the heart shaped lock? It's so dear.