One Part Poet, Two Parts Viking

I've got the jitters again, like some kind of junkie. I shake in the wee hours of the night, as the sun slowly rises, seeking to murder vampires and chase away the nightmares. I can feel my fingers trembling, as if with an influx of adrenaline, like they would if I could lay them across your naked skin. My stomach flutters, full of too much coffee and not enough real nourishment. There is electricity in my nerves, racing here and there, without any clear goal, no concise pattern, no sign of start or end. My lips twitch themselves into a smile I've tried to repress, to hide, for fear that you'd find me out.

Sometimes, I can be such a child.

There is a youthful vigor in this, a relaxing reminder that the many winters I've survived have not aged me beyond my prime, beyond this place in life that is open to mistakes and adventures. Not many things grant me that these days. We're all getting older and, I suspect, we grow wearier in heart than in body. Our flesh and bones are young, powerful, and full of prospects. Our minds have been convinced that we're too old for this kind of tom-foolery, that the days of silly crushes and hapless flirting are too far behind us to reclaim. Our minds have been misled.

I should have figured this out some time ago, the connection between body and mind. The way that, when one finds the truth the other can be shown, made to follow. Life is equal parts mental and physical, and all things encompassed are divided as such. I find myself drawn to you, part physical, part otherwise, and I can convince the rest to follow.

You're arrival here has been timely, and an epiphany accompanied you that if I am to stand with bared chest to the storm, to the roiling, wrathful sea, and set out across these waves to find distant shores to plunder, to conquer, to unite, I must be whole. Perhaps, then, your coming is a gift from these gods I hold so dear.

There was something about the way the snow fell on you that entranced me. There is nothing inherently permanent about it, nothing to tie us together indefinately. And yet, the season seems to linger forever, the snow and the winter hold to the earth, unrelenting, undaunted by the inevitability of the warmth returning. It holds sway over all the world, an icy throne drawing its power from the threat of never departing. I find comfort in that kind of duality.

Only the heartiest and, perhaps, the most foolhardy, brave these days of little light and merciless cold. We hunt for prey, for glory, for the thrill and the chance that, should we meet a wanderer stronger than ourselves, more blessed by the gods, we will have the privilege to die honorably and be received.

Some nights, I pray that you will be my killing ground and that, when you continue on your path through this place, I will continue my journey far away from this world.

Yours,
-S.R.

Dating Blows

Have you ever played one of those dating simulators? Or Harvest Moon where you have to court one of the five girls in town (really, there are only five?) and get her to go out with you and, eventually, you get married? I think those are a great deal like real life relationships, in that I continuously fail at them. I mean, real life girls don't have a meter that fills up a little more or a specific type of gift you have to buy them to coerce them into going out to a specific date, but you get the idea pretty quickly that this whole interpersonal relationship thing takes quite a bit of work, a little finesse, and a lot of attention. These are things I find lacking in my set of skills.

There are other things that stop me from being good at it, like having an attractive personality. I am, and will always be, offensive. I'm offensive in my humor, in the things I say and think. That, to a lot of people, is hilarious. But you wouldn't take a guy like me to meet your parents. I'd make a joke at your dad about nailing his wife and, boom, he hates my guts. Which is great when you're a fifteen year old rebel. It sucks when you enter that part of your life (this part, actually) where you start looking to be serious and settle down. Maybe I'm not ready for that. Or maybe you're a bitch. Whatever.

The problem isn't that I'm too lacksadaisical about life. I'll tell you I'm fundamentally unable to be serious, but the truth is I can't act serious. It isn't fun, it's depressing. If you go about life being serious all the time, you'll end up with an ulcer, and colon cancer from squeezing your ass so tight all the time. I prefer the opposite method of taking nothing seriously. I understand that my attitude bothers some people, I just don't understand why. I don't empathize with it.

I take my work seriously, but I joke about it. I take my writing seriously, but I joke about it. I take my obsession with the physical seriously, but it is much easier to joke about being addicted to boning than it is to explain to someone that "physical" doesn't necessarily mean "I'm going to have sex with every girl ever." I guess that's off-putting.

Timing really fucks me up. See, there's that time at the beginning of a relationshipw when everything is care-free and everybody looses sleep over being happy, and they miss work because they want to go see their "boo" and it's all sunshine and rainbows flying out of your ass. I'm too intense for that. I jump right in up to my elbows and breeze past the boring novelty of it all. Let's get right into the routine. Then, when you've gotten to know each other, you become more serious and you start having plans. That's when I get all wacky and full of fun. My sense of humor rears its ugly head again and, as well as I've gotten to know someone, they've only gotten to know the bullshit I spew out to keep them hooked. They get to know me and they're like "You were right, you're kind of an asshole."

Told you so, honey bunny. You didn't want to listen.

What I mean to say is, I'm bad at dating. I'm pretty bad at choosing who to date as well. For a while I just figured I'd get over it. You know, stop putting on a show and be able to open up earlier on. Then we wouldn't have so much invested in each other by the time she decided to bounce. Or I decided she was fucking crazy and had to leave the state. Then I realized I'm not really putting on a show at all. I've just got some really bizarre personality quirks. And you thought this was going to be about women. Hah. I'm way too self-centered to talk about women.

How many of you reading this (seriously, does anyone read this? I didn't think so.) display different behavior around different people? Everyone does. I just go to extremes (because I'm "EXTREME!!!!") with that concept. I'm funny and charming and quick-witted a good portion of the time. Especially around groups of people. I'm like cocaine, all full of energy, talking fast and making your nose bleed. I'm quick with a joke, quick to tell you whatever you want to hear. I like to make you happy. If you don't mind making fun of everyone, including the white folk but primarily blacks, jews, women, the handicapped, people that are less "alpha-male" and more follower, and myself, then we'll get along fine. I like to turn my own self-depreciation into humor. It's a typical comedian behavor. Except I'm not doing stand-up. We're just having a conversation.

The problem is I have this need for gratification. If you're not laughing, eating it up, visibly in love with my performance, then the act goes sour and I'll do one of two things. I'll either come down from the high and hit this devastating low, wherein I'll suddenly fall silent and my mind will wander off to loathe me somewhere else. Or, I'll try harder, desperately in fact, to capture your attention as I had it before. Usually by saying more and more disgusting shit that will, most of the time, just make everyone around me feel awkward. Then I'll get snarky and laugh at their feeble sensibilities and think privately about how weak they are, all the while berating myself for being such a class-A piece of shit.

It really rocks being me, most of the time. The rest of the time, it can be kind of a drag.

With friends this formula is almost always successful. I'm engaging enough that I keep their attention and my opinions are usually withing the boundaries of what they find acceptable. The problem is, dating requires something deeper that I, frankly, don't have. I can't tell you about my feelings because I don't really have any. If I love you, I'll tell you I love you. If I'm sad, I'll tell you I'm sad. I don't know why any of these things occur, they just do. I greet most incoming emotions as a challenge. We sword fight, I win, they typically go away. Some of them hang around. Love is, as of right now, the reigning champ. Kicks my ass everytime. But that's alright, I like that feeling.

But like I said, there isn't much else to me. Sometimes I get into moods where I'm angry for no reason, or just down for no reason. I appreciate having you around, but you won't cheer me up. The battle has to rage and I have to put that fucker down like the dog it is, then I'll be alright again. Girls, for some reason, don't like that much. They assume there has to be a reason, and I have to know that reason. Why, is beyond me. If she's feeling down, I accept that she's feeling down. If she wants to talk about it, no problem. If she doesn't, hey, I can play X-box.

Someone told me I'm a sociopath. So, I guess that solves the problem.

Cool.

Yours,
-S.R.

The Love of Death

Drag me down, despite my superior air. Drag me down to your level, where even the maggots would not deign to go. Pull me from this high horse with hands that reek of earth and rot, fleshless hands that embody the cold nature of death. Your mouth is open, toothless, in some kind of silent scream, plea, or challenge. Perhaps your nose, if you had one, would be curled in a snarl and your eyes, were they not long withered, would be aglow with some fierce need.

Pull me away from the pettiness of my conceit, the prettiness of my words, and into the welcoming womb of the earth. Into the dark. Into the silence, that cavernous lack of anything familiar, anything alive. Embrace me there, in your own realm, where your power is at its greatest, where you are whole (if a thing like yourself can be whole). Devour me, if you will, because it has been much too long since I've felt anything like pain. Too long since I encountered something strong enough to hurt me. Lure me in with sweetness, and eat me.

Love, you've been far too long in coming.

Yours,
-S.R.

Zombie Jesus or Material Girl: Choose Your Own Adventure!

With Thanksgiving behind us, the holiday season has arrived and I couldn't be happier. I don't mean for this to be several pages of pouring out my heart about the joys of Christmas and family and the clean slate of a new year, because we all know that would be bullshit, and my momma didn't raise no liar. Don't get me wrong, I do like to see the cousins and my siblings all gathered together. We're mostly grown up now and scattered about, so its always good to have everyone in one place. The late nights of drinking and telling stories are never dull, and people seem to be a little bit cheerier around this time of year. But that isn't the real reason I enjoy the holidays.

No, the real reason I like this celebration of capitalism has very little to do with family and more to do with conflict. See, anytime there's a major conflict going on, especially somewhere on the internet, I get plenty of fodder for my ranting and raving. There is no better conflict for this than Christmas.

The argument about Christmas has many sides, some people rejecting the Christian adoption of what were essentially pagan traditions and bastardizing them by turning it into a celebration of Christ. Still others argue that Christmas has lost all semblence of its Christian roots and become purely a celebration of capitalism and mankind's materialist tendencies. Another group argues that all the holiday cheer and goodness to our fellow man is bullshit, that we're pretending to care because its tradition. The list goes on and on, but these are mostly the big ones. I'd like to address some of them.

First, I'd really like to talk about those pagan traditions the Christians took over. Mostly because of the people who claim that that's such a horrible thing. Why is that so bad? I mean, aside from the plagiarism (you're not likely to hear a typical Christ fellator admitting that many of their traditions came from people they conquered early on) what is the big deal? Alexander the Great did something similar, when he conquered people he would adapt some of their prominent customs as his own or, at the very least, allow them to continue them. In fact, a lot of conquering forces did much the same. Ghengis Khan was one, despite his brutal (read: awesome) battlefield reputation. It was the best way to keep the people under control without using violence. Would I like to see those pagans given credit, rather than the Christians taking creative rights on holidays? Sure. But I'm not getting all bent out of shape and throwing a fucking temper tantrum everytime someone talks about Jehova throwing lightning bolts like he's fucking Zeus. And maybe my stance on religion has something to do with it, but I'd like to think this idea of just letting it go has more to do with my ability to reason than anything.

The second thing I want to talk about is this whole capitalism versus Christianity thing. People take issue with the fact that Christmas is the biggest shopping season of the year, what with people spending enormous amounts of money on possessions. They'll point out that this is our need to own things at its worst, and how commercial this once holy celebration has become. Fuck that noise. First of all, the tradition of giving gifts is one of those things that dates back to about the same time Christmas started gaining its "holiday status" (as the gangsters would say). There's nothing wrong with exchanging gifts with your loved ones, right? The gifts were different and the traditions were slightly different, but so was society.

Think about it, back then we had more immediately physical things to worry about. Plague, for instance. People were less informed about the natural world and, thus, more prone to superstition which made them more prone to being devoutly religious. As we've grown over the centuries, our economies have changed, our knowledge of the world around us has expanded, and the things we worry about have become more personal and less physical. All in all, we're better informed and, therefore, less likely to practice our beliefs the way we did five hundred years ago. So, religious belief and the "traditional" family dynamic is more of a symbolic thing now. A great deal of people pay lip service to it out of tradition, and those people go through the motions of going to Mass or whatever their specific denomination demands. Other people don't bother.

Additionally, our families are bigger. Whereas a few hundred years ago we didn't live very long and many families had trouble growing in size, we have all kinds of great-grandparents and third cousins these days. Since our ability to communicate and travel is much more advanced than it was way back when, we feel somewhat obligated to exchange gifts with even the most distant (physically and relation-wise) family. And the neighbors. And our friends. And our Facebook friends. And our pets. And our friends' pets. Its reasonable to assume that we'll be spending more energy buying gifts now than we would have then. We can, because we don't have to worry about whether or not the neighbor is a witch. Or a Jew. Additionally, in a country like this one we have a much broader variety of products than we used to and, therefore, a bigger scope of interests. Your kids might like Ninja Turtles. Your sister likes Hannah Montana. Your cousin from Bermuda plays World of Warcraft for days on end.

What I'm saying is, simply because consumerism is at a high doesn't mean the spirit of the season, or whatever bullshit name you want to put on it, is lost. It means we're spending a lot of money, time, and energy to make sure it isn't lost. And those people fighting over gifts and getting pissed off about the lines? Those people are batshit crazy. Just ignore them.

The third group is partly right. Just like some of us pay lip service to our respective gods, some of us pretend to be in good spirits during the holidays. The rest of us just enjoy the spectacle. Whether its the lights, the food, the family gatherings, the drunken brawls, or whatever gets your rocks off, this is a unique time of year. Charities take advantage of people's happy feelings and ask for donations. It gets bigger from there. The point is, some people are shitty human beings and the rest of us enjoy this last vestige of joy before the onset of another (possibly endless) winter. Give it a fucking rest.

For me, nothing is better than a good old religion versus economics battle of minds. The problem is that most of the minds are locked down far too tight to be of any use in warfare. Poor, witless bastards won't even know they're casualties of something they barely understood until their unintelligible words suddenly fall silent, their heads having exploded from reading a complete sentence.

Happy Holidays,
-S.R.

Fuck and Run: Two Poems

Climax, Resolution

She arches,
Back, toes neck,
Sinews stretching toward the sky,
With fingers buried
In sweat-slick flesh.
Her nerves are lit
With fire,
Like snake venom crashing
In heady waves
Through her veins.

He shudders,
Tremors ripple down the length of him
Something between the onset
Of hypothermia
And the aftershock
Of an earthquake.

The silence,
An oppressive, wordless calm
Falls between them,
And by the time she opens her eyes,
He is gone.


As We Go Our Separate Ways

Just do me this favor:
Keep the little bits
Of me
That I have left behind
If only because I cannot bear
To part with you
Completely.

Slaughtering the Name

Sometimes I find it hard to relate to people. They tend to be people of all walks of life, those whom I find difficulty with, but most prominently they're the batshit crazy types that are drawn to Christ. Look, me and Jesus are cool. I don't have any particular problem with him and, as far as I'm aware, he's on good terms with me. Not speaking terms, necessarily, but we're not like, involved in a blood feud.

That said, this whole Messiah business is kind of a drag. I mean, if you're just out preaching the Gospel and performing miracles and then you get crucified, that's fine. You've lived the life of, like, everyone in the Middle East at the time. That's what they all did, right? Totally normal stuff. Then some honkeys start calling you their Savior and blah, blah. I mean, it really harshes one's mellow, does it not? Likewise, I think it's all sort of over-hyped. I mean, most of what you'll read about homeboy is metaphor and hyperbole. So, why take it so seriously?

Actually, I'm not even going to get into that. It's a ridiculous topic. What I actually want to talk about is a guy who calls himself John the Baptist the Second. He lives...somewhere. I'm not sure. He's got a website and some trucks and shit. I assume he lives near my place, since those trucks are always withing ten minutes of my house.

They're recognizable because he paints them with biblical verses and what I assume he thinks are clever sayings about whatever crock of shit he belives. They all have fingers pointing upward, calling upon passing motorists (the only people likely to see the trucks he leaves parked in one of five places for the duration of a business day) to embrace Jesus as their Lord...or don't.

That's what gets me about the guy. He's obviously shoving this shit down my throat. Hence, little phrases like "You just proved this sign works!" implying that, by noticing the pre-school level artisanship of his vehicle and the copyright infringment of a black (Satanic?) sprectral figure next to the words "Who U gonna call?", I have somehow fulfilled whatever it is he's getting at. Essentially, I think the man is some kind of attention whore. But more on that a little later. Point is, he's force-feeding me this poorly-spelled garbage and then backing off, saying it doesn't matter to him if he convinces me, he's just getting the word out to anyone that wants to hear it.

Hey, look, I don't go around spouting off about Ragnarok drawing nigh (it is) and telling people that everytime a thunderstorm interrupts their life Thor is angry with them (he is) and I don't expect that I'll ever feel the need to do those things. However, if I did want to foce-feed someone what I believe I'd have the common decency (not to mention the ballsack) to admit to it. Don't listen to us raging heathens bitch about how you throat fuck us with your silly books and regurgitated scripture and try to appease us by doing just that and disguising it as a friendly reminder that Jesus is "totes awesumez". Because, seriously, if the fact that he probably sits in that truck beating off everytime someone stops to look at it wasn't there, I'd totally kick the shit out of him. Literally, I would kick him so hard in the testicles that he'd shit part of a kidney.

Likewise, if you're preaching, which he is, why would you imply free will? I mean, I get that that's a new approach for the Crusaders, but it's ineffective. The entire drawing point of their faith has been, at least in my lifetime, the fact that you can throw up your hands and ask Jesus to take the wheel and decide the course of your life (or, if you're on a lengthy roadtrip, he can drive while you smoke a jay and catch some sleep in the backseat). They don't want free will, which is great since Big G rarely allows people to utilize theirs, at least in stories. He gives them specific orders and, when they inevitably choose to disobey him, he punishes them with ridiculous shit.

His website, which I visited out of sheer furstrated curiosity, has a distinct lack of anything useful. I thought that, by reading the page titled "My Experience" I'd get some insight into this guy, his beliefs, or the point in his life where he went from merely "beleiving in God (or not)" to "Trusting and Loving God". I was mistaken. Instead, it contains the same shit the rest of his pages contain, only paraphrased about sixty times. Essentially, the Return of Christ is near and we should all accept him (or don't, really it's totally cool if you want to, like, burn and be demon-raped for all eternity. No sweat off my balls!). Basically, from what I understand, he took time out of his busy and, from what he vaguely hints at, shitty, meaningless life every single day to just sit silently and think about God and, eventually, he came to know God and God spoke through him.

Try that for a second, regardless of what you believe. Sit in perfect silence and think about God. Any god, I don't care. Think about Cthulu if you will (not, as I recall, technically a god but He'll do). Think about something so vastly powerful that everything you can sense, anything you can't sense, anything that exists, has ever existed, or will ever exist, only adds up to an infantesimal fraction of its being. Think about the nature of something like that, the size of it, the absolute power it weilds. Think about what it's existence must be like, being the only one of its kind (or, if you prefer, one of a comparatively small group) and how it must feel. In order for a being that enormous to understand (and, effectively, create) human emotion it must feel some empathy for us, it must share some of our feelings. Think about the vast expanse of eternity, where this being exists at all times in all places simultaneously, knowing all things except what it would be like to have a companion, or a race of companions like itself.

If you're not fucking insane, you did it wrong. If you are insane, then congratulations John the Baptist the Third. Your web empire and Chevy truck await you.

The fact is, sitting and pondering anything for too long will drive you batshit. Think of a word. Balls, for instance. Now think about nothing but that word, what it means, how it sounds, where you first heard it, whatever. Think of nothing but the word 'balls' and shortly, often within less than a minute, that word loses all meaning. It becomes an nearly unintelligible jumble of symbols that make a sound. You, in fact, understand it less by simply pondering it. Stoner movies do that. David Spade did it with the word road in one of the five-billion movies where he and Chris Farley played the same two characters (that did happen more than once, right?). Your brain becomes overburdened with that same thought and, eventually, unravels. What I'm saying is, beleif and rational thought are different things. If you thought rationally about the Divine for lengthy periods of time the way Johnny Boy implies he did, you'd no longer have any use for thinking about it because God would be meaningless for you. Or, if you're the philosophical type, your fucking head would explode.

Belief takes the stance that some things cannot be explained. I have to concur on that point. Some things you won't ever find a rational reason for, regardless of how many math equations you come up with. It's a leap of faith, so to speak. You accept that you can't exactly understand something that is happening, or something that exists, but you beleive that it is or it does all the same. Rationally, you need facts and science and theories and shit. Combining the two would mean you could prove something to other people with tangible evidence, rather than speculation and story-telling.

John the Baptist the Second has not done that. What he has done is taken a life that was, most likely, boring and uneventful, and made himself the center of a small circle of people more lost than himself by convincing them (and likely himself) that he knows his God. He's made himself more interesting, perhaps more financially successful and he may have even helped some people. Ordinarily, I would applaud him, despite my issues with his methods. In this case, I can only pity the people who follow him and boil over with rage at what he's doing. The people he may have helped are too weak to help themselves, and are, in my opinion, too weak to continue breathing. His insights are lackluster, his words are poor repitiion of other, greater men's words, and he, himself, is somewhat enigmatic and secretive (his real name is nowhere to be found). He's assumed an alias based on a mostly fictional character. In my book, he's hardly better than a furry and that makes him vile.

I'm not saying his faith and devotion have no place in this world. I'm just saying that people who misrepresent themselves for personal benefit are worthless. I'm saying that, if you're going to beleive something stand up about it. I'm saying that if you want to help people, do it through charity and donation, do it through buying them a hot meal or helping them fix their car or staying up late listening to their problems. Don't fool them into giving themselves over to something they can't whole-heartedly accept by using vague language and improper grammar. Give the needy something tangible, something that represents how far they've come from the pathetic wretches they were.

And if you have to give them something as theoretical as "hope", do it with kindness and compassion, not with forced ritual and contrived bullshit.

Otherwise, stay the fuck off the road and keep your asinine theology to yourself.

Ominously Yours,
-S.R.

A Crying Shambles

So, I've got this heartbeat right? And I think there's a song somewhere in the rhythm, but I can't quite tell you the chords. I've forgotten how to sing and how to think and how to breathe. I don't remember how I laugh or how I cry or how to make a fist. I just do them when the time is right, I just go through the motions. There's no pattern, no flow, no reason for any of it. It's madness.

I learned to say your name by reading the stars as they spread out from your fingertips. I learned to see, with child-like wonder, by peeling back the film from my eyes and watching the way your muscles move beneath your skin, like the myriad streets of a city, the streams and woodland trails of unblemished earth. I learned to feel rage at the sight of your misfortune. I learned to feel mercy at the sight of you in tears.

I keep clouding my thoughts with whiskey and nicotine until one world transforms into the next, is beset by the next, and yields, orgasming, to the next. They've become a kind of circle, and the circle folds in upon itself and whatever gods there may be close their eyes and pray for forgiveness. I will not oblige.

I think that I could love you if the time was right. I think, actually, the time is always right for me. But timing was never my thing. I'm always two seconds too late with a comeback, ten minutes too early with an erection, and never quite as punctual as I'd like to be. Try as I might, I'm never there in time and you're always whisked away. I can see you, watching for me from the window of a passing train, wondering just why I can't put everything aside for once, just once, to see you off. Or to stop you from leaving altogether.

I'm not really sure what I was hoping to say. Apologies are always half-hearted at best, and my instincts are all telling me to run. Run somewhere, fucking anywhere, away from all of you. All of you with your smiles and your scents, your long, smooth legs and silky, cascading hair. I should just go, really. It's all too much. All the pretty eyes and the soft, alluring voices, the supple skin of breast and backside, the toes slender and painted. Every one of them different and every one of them the same. They all run together into a nightmare orgy of tender words that slip from this glib tongue and the lies it conceals.

I'm a bad man. I'm going to lie to you and I'm going to hurt you and god damn it, I'm going to give up. And you'll fall in love with me. They always do. It might be my smile, it might be the words, it might be my fingers, or my laughter, or my dick. You might have honest intentions, you might have no intentions at all, and you're going to fall for it anyway. I'm like a vortex of swirling, light-headed chaos. You'll hear one thing when I say another and I, just happy for the attention of a pretty little thing like you, will run with it. I don't mean to discard you, but it's going to happen.

I'm looking for a girl with some issues. A girl with a little fight in her. One that's just twisted enough to believe in me, and just ballsy enough to put me in my place. I'll tell her women aren't people and she'll tell me to pump her fucking gas and get on with it. That's what I want. Someone that, when it comes to blows, will leave me with some bruises to remember her by. Someone that understands that my nonchalance is bullshit and my confidence reeks of lies and booze and cigarettes. And she'll buy every word of it regardless. She isn't stupid, and she isn't naive, she just knows it's useless to call me out. I hardly even know when I'm making shit up. And she'll adore me, because I'm magnificent. God-like, really.

I think I've finally gone and lost it. All the letters just ran together, unfettered, untethered, they splashed upon the page of their own volition and melded into one giant, throbbing, thing. It just sits there, pulsing, growing, feeding on the blank space around it and sucking in light like a fat girl sucks the filling from a Twinkie. There's this horrible noise, something close to a gag and equally close to the sound of stepping in ankle-deep shit. Behind that, are blast beats. Just hammering along with nothing. It drowns out voices and vices and just bleeds out onto my fingers. Just died in your arms tonight....

Can you deal with this? I think of shit like this every day. Everything you've just read came without forethought, without a plan or a cohesive line of thought. I just poured it out of my skull like tea from a kettle and it took shape here. Could you even talk to someone like me? Can you imagine what I think about during sex? Or while driving? Or while I do anything, for that matter? If you think you can, drop me a line. I'm feeling lonesome. We can have coffee. I might buy you a pretzel.

I might make you a god.

Inevitably Yours,
-S.R.

Demons In My Semen

The gray space between my vices is made of viscous material that clings to me as I tread. It smells like motor oil and it tases like cotton candy. I suppose I'm a bisexual in that place, but I've always prefered ambiguous. I have decided that all of my sins are based on the female body, not out of some misogynistic desire to place blame on the Unholy Vagina, but out of a deep-seated need to watch them orgasm. Alright, I'm half-lying. I don't need to see anyone orgasm, I just enjoy it. And I relate everything, sins or otherwise, to the female body. What I'm saying is: I totally dig chicks.

Really, though, what else is there? There's a popular saying, "sex sells" and people from all walks of life, from all pseudo-intellectual industries and areas of scholastic pursuit will give you different reasons for why such is the case. Most of them have to do with the fact that human beings have, historically, been sexually repressed to the point of psychosis. Frankly, I think that's bullshit.

Human beings don't talk about sex in public forum because we don't need to. Not directly. Everything we do talk about revolves, albeit often vaguely, around sex. You don't expect to ask your neighbor what he thinks of the weather only to have him reply with "Good weather for outdoor fucking," because you already know that. You did it just this morning with that hot little number from the gas station. If you didn't manage to bag that, you were surely thinking about it.

I'm not excluding those of you in possession of yon Almighty Cooter. You think about it too. You discuss it. You go back and forth about whether it makes you a slut to give it up to that guy who tips you every morning with the thirty-six cents he has left over from his coffee, the one who makes casual conversation, maybe winks at you like you've shared some private joke. In reality, you've already made that decision. What your friends think matters about as much as a fart in a gas chamber (suck it, flatulent, vindictive Jews).

The point I'm getting at is that, despite claims to the contrary, all we actually dwell on is sex. Having a hard time meeting that deadline at work? Well, you'd better! Otherwise you won't get the promotion, won't be able to afford that new Lexus, won't be able to go out scamming for bar skanks with "loose morals". Do you have writer's block? Well, my friend, figure out where that story/poem/essay/clever blog about Obama using wordplay exlcusive to the size of his "Barack" is going. Otherwise you'll have no time to think of anything else and that guy with who tips you every morning? He'll decide your glassy, brainless stare is less the side-effects of not writing and more the side-effects of an overdose on Valium.

Speaking of writing, give me a story without any inherent conflict based upon sex. You can't, because that story doesn't exist. Anything, from The Scarlet Letter to a three-page story about one guy drinking himself to death in a bunker in Siberia while the temperature outside drops from murderous cold to ball-crushingly murderous cold, contains some hint, some little clue to all the debaucherous, fictional sex those characters wish they were having (or are actively trying to have/forget they had/deny they thought about/ deny they are currently participating in with your girlfriend while you write five thousand words of nonsense about how you only think with your meat stick). Regardless of the story's content, the presence of a romantic conflict or lack thereof, something will arise that is, when you boil it down, about something penetrating something.

I'm not even reaching here. I could reach. Do you want me to reach? A little reach-around? See? I did it right there. I took an abstract concept (that of wriggling a meaning out of something that clearly has no meaning) and turned it into gay sex. It wasn't even hard. Why? Because I was already thinking about two dudes fucking. I find it helps me break up the visions of every girl I meet in the throes of passion.

Everything. The stories that revolve around Norse gods (of which I'm beloved, I'm certain) are about sex. Let's reach for that one (because the obvious ones aren't any fun to me). Thor versus Jormungandr (our silly American computers are no match for badass names). Thor has a giant hammer which, as any feminist will shriek at the highest number of decibels they can manage, is a phallic symbol. It's a stand-in for a penis. The World Serpent is literally a colossal snake. He's a living, breathing symbol of man-meat. Ironically, despite being the bigger dick, Jormungandr is savagely beaten to death by the comparatively smaller God of Thunder. Of course, I could give a shit less if your dick is bigger, mine shoots lightning. These stories, of course, aren't exclusively sex, but as I said it's in everything. Also, that Midgard Serpent arises from the waves of the sea. Sounds suspiciously like the vagina of a woman with "loose morals" (likely Zeboim from the Dragonlance novels) if you ask me, which you did because you're here.

I suppose my point in all of this, is blame women. They're obviously the root of all evil. Otherwise they wouldn't fog up my mind while I'm trying to do everyday things like eat, read, drive, or watch those two guys from Freaks of Cock tag-team an obviously middle-aged woman who happens to wear ponytails and play with teddy bears (is it illegal to run a train on the mentally handicapped? No? Fair enough).

That isn't really my point, it was just an excuse to poke fun at women because they aren't people. Obviously you wouldn't blame the stock market crash on a toaster, you can't blame my infatuation with sex on a sex box.

Seriously, though, women are probably people. At least the ones that don't turn into snarling flesh-eaters after dark. Those ones just happen to be more fun to play with.

Now that I've gotten all of that out of my system, I feel inclined to be the slightest bit serious when I say that human beings, though sexually repressed in public (or, at least, in what the hipsters call "meatspace") are a fairly liberal bunch. Oh, sure, you'll meet the occasional girl who won't do anal, and the rare guy who despises fellatio in all it's clever formats, but for the most part we're alright with sex. I don't feel that we neglect talking about it (although, that's becoming less and less the case) because we're ashamed of what we enjoy. I feel like we keep it amongst ourselves because, if we didn't, we'd never get anything done aside from fucking. Talking about it turns us on, and if you think it makes you uncomfortable to talk about the way a girl will arch her back, knees slightly crooked, toes buried in the sheets, or the way a man will throw back his head like some kind of predator, jaw hanging open, his body in a suspended shudder at the point of climax, if that makes you uncomfortable, then you're probably some kind of robot. And if you are, fuck you. I hate robots.

For a comprehensive list of my fetishes, or any kind of list at all (I adore lists), feel free to keep in touch.

Irrevocably Your Problem,
-S.R.

By Way of Introduction

I had a taste of sweetness once. It spilled out, over my tongue, filled my throat, flooded my mouth, and left me gasping. I've tasted a thousand poisons since that night, trying to remember what it was I imbibed. I've curled toes, and endured shrieks, seen bodies writhing in ecstasy, and yet none of it compared. They were all ashen, vile, caustic to my senses. They weren't you, they were hardly even imposters.

I'd like to think that everyone is made for something. Or someone. Or both. That, for all our noble intent, we'll all just settle down and propogate wherever the gods see fit.Even those of us called off to war to die and go, gloriously, to those Golden Halls, have a purpose. If I thought that, my purpose would be to find you, and devour you.

I suppose it can't hurt to linger this way. Spectrally, haunting the periphery. I'm just there, barely held together, at the edge of your mind. I'm probably retched to the eyes, all half-congealed shapes and nauseating lines, but I assure you there's something wonderful about me. I'm a hopeless narcissist.

Keep that in mind, my self-serving nature, the next time I try to romance you (as I invariably will). I'll make you feel good about yourself only as an excuse to make myself feel good. A pick-up line is only as good as the orgasm it earns you.

There won't be much sense in any of this. Apologies ahead of time. Sometimes I'll rant and rave and tear out my hair about something, but most of the time you'll have this...meandering train of thought to deal with. I'll go from talking to you, like this, like we're two equals conversing on the train ride from Penn Station to Raleigh, and then I'll go off into something different and leave you on the platform in the rain, where all my jilted lovers go to die.

If you're reading this, I bid you welcome. I'm already fond of you, and by the time I finish this, sign my name, and sit back to page through my own thoughts like an archeologist wandering Tut's tomb, with wonder and trepidation, I'll be in love with you. Such is the nature of things like me. Don't look too deep. I'm not sure you'll find anything as savvy as metaphoric social commentary, and I doubt there's anything philosophical about this, it's just a mind spilling rubbish into the vast reaches of the internet.

Then again, go for it.

Some people, in the pursuit of their dreams, reach for the stars. They shoot for the sky. They do a number of things that invoke the idea that the world is vast, limitless with potential, and, despite the grandeur of their statements, relatively easy to surpass in favor of the glittering eternity of space and stars. I'm of the opinion that you get to a destination, not by stretching for something unimaginably huge, but through sheer power of will and the ability to be beaten to within an inch of your life. More simply put, you reach for a star and I reach for a scar. It's an interesting idea, that you can simply believe that gravity no longer has a hold on your and soar off into the stratosphere, in search of Peter Pan. Realistically, it's much mor difficult to find that second star to the right, being without real direction once you've flown that high, and morning is relative to the passage of time on a planet.

That's all just bullshit. My point is, I believe in experience, rather than wishful thinking. I enjoy a drink (or twelve hours of drinks, if the situation allows) and more than my fair share of debaucherous adventures. Those, I think, along with a hearty work ethic and an incredible ability to fool people into thinking I'm something other than a bastard, will take me where I need to go. If the gods so allow, I'd like that to be somewhere near the sea where I can write and drink and cause a scene without abundant property damage and incarceration. Preferably, I'd like to share that little piece of the world with those who mean the most to me. Likely, the kith and kin with the most resilient livers and wallets, and the longest arrest records.

Love everything that does not incite you to wrath. Annihilate everything that does. There is more pleasure to be had in the company of good friends, in the passionate throes of unanticipated sex, and the unabashed laughter of drunkeness than can be found anywhere else.

Before I get too lackadaisical, though, remember to go fuck yourself.

I go from waxing philosophic to asshole in less than half an inch. Welcome aboard.

Yours,
-S.R.

Sadomasochism

I want to take everything that makes you feel special and smash it. I want to make tatters of your life, tear down your banners, and leave you trembling. I want to leave scars on your forearms, on your thighs, on your hips. I want to see tears well up in your eyes, see you swallow them, straighten your back, and stand tall in the face of my rage. Then I want to beat the defiance out of you. I want to break bones and tear sinew, spill blood and shatter teeth. I want you cowering in a crumpled heap, too weak to move and too tired to try. I want to pull out your kidneys and toss them away, off in an alley, and then reach back in for something else vital.

When I'm done, I want only the trivial things to remain intact.

I'll burn your bridges for you, and fill the chasm with stakes. You can rebuild them, your bridges, but at the cost of your life. I'll topple your fortress, blast the the brick and mortar to dust, and ravage your skin with shrapnel. I want to hurt you.

I want to pin you down, strap you to a board, and hurl obscenities down your throat until you choke. I want to watch your face turn blue while the venom pours from my lips and into your body, fills your lungs like pneumonia, and strips the lining from your gut. Oh, I want to hurt you.

You've never done anything to me, have you? This is perfectly unreasonable. I'm intact, unimpaired. There's no retribution in this, no score to settle. But I want to rend your flesh and split your belly, to peer inside and see what you're made of, what lurks beneath the skin. I want to see if I can find your soul and pull it out. Then you'll be mine. I want you.

You've made your way inside me. I want to keep you there against your will. I want my body to be your body, my heart to be your heart, my brain to be your brain. I want to tease you, toy with you, destroy you as I see fit.

Neither one of us will survive this.

Atrociously Yours,
-S.R.

Epiphanies

Epiphany

Somewhere between
The poorly written lines
Of ill-fated songs
And redundant images
Of a woman
Dancing
On water,
I decided not to be a poet,
Because a poet's mind must wander
And mine is too often trapped
In one place or another.


Epiphany II

The again,
There is more than one way
To dance.