Shit On Your Windshield

Currently jamming...

Lines get thinner, thicker, crooked; each one an intimate, painful crackling scream by the city, but humankind doesn’t feel it and wouldn’t recognize it until it shivered a bird fiercely enough causing it to shit on humankind’s car’s hood; and in better cases the windshield.

Those lines define relationships between us. It defines what is a friend, an associate, a confidante, the endlessly endearing acquaintance; a stranger, and a stalker.

Television is usually the last media on my mind, mind you I rarely watch it but the noise is priceless. I need noise, that’s why I keep a television. I have music, music instruments, headphones, things that are more dangerous when shattered, and things that purely go BOOM.

The neighbor-baby shrieked. It bellowed a handful’s more. One of the cars left the house, Neighbor Baby occasionally screeching now, but occasionally, harmoniously grunting. Silence settled for an impressive amount of time, even long enough for the missionary car to return home just in time for them to continue being a family – if they choose.

Potential Dismemberments

I never craved the taste of raw flesh until that Soilwork concert in Croatia. That entire summer I drowned my urges beneath my subconscious, but when she and I were out in that gigantic crowd; embracing the pulverizing energy on display I couldn’t help myself.

We danced, we grinded body-on-body, but when she turned to kiss me on the cheek goodnight I lunged for the back part of her neck, bit oh so delectably in and tore out her life. I gnawed on her beefy torso chunk, sucking down the bitter-tasting life-force while she slumped downward through my arms.

She stopped clawing at me once her head met my chest and her arms spiraled down my own like raindrops downside a windshield. For several minutes I stared at her lifeless body, and it no longer interested me. My attention could focus only on the jumping, breathing, heart-beating bodies that remained, which made my stomach churn; not because it hungered but rather because it was full, it was pleased.

I never looked into anyone else’s eyes in the crowd afterwards because I didn’t want to remember any potential dismemberments; I only wanted to taste them.

Accepting Success

Success is earned. Quite true, success is indeed earned; yet, strangely enough, success must also be accepted – accepted by the individual, by society; by anyone capable of thinking.

I could plant a Cerebral Palsy patient to witness air hockey, and even that twisted cat would find one reason or another to say about a contestant, “This dude sucks.”

Millions of novels have been written, and there are more unread novels in the world than there are price-tagged ones. And while they may follow the path of a dying breed, they also follow a survivor’s path.

There are people in the real world that love to turn a page; written word will never die, it’ll just get digitized while continuing homogenization, paving the way for continued newness; but we'll still be bored, mainly because Destiny hasn't presented itself and Fate hasn't killed us. But we still choose to walk that numbered middle trail; the one that stretches from six o' clock to twelve-thirty, nine-fifteen to three-fortyfive, and two names for every six. Some people are addicted to it.

Success has more than two names. Success always beats the clock.

Abused Industries

The coffee was bland enough for me to believe that no one has pissed in the pot yet; didn’t mean I was still disease-free. Keechy’s is a unique diner, but it’s centrally located in a city where progress had long since passed, and it has a bathroom where the sink is an extra urinal.

I popped a synaptic enhancer so I could make a call. It was cherry flavored this month. The appointment to see my bio-enhancement therapist was still on. I really didn’t need it but it’s required after every individual procedure. Even though the capabilities for engaging in bio-enhancement have been widely available for over a decade, people are still people and every one of them reacts differently.

Although, mostly everyone forgets that bio-enhancement began as an underground fetish movement in dank garages and rickety tool sheds all across the Northeast. But once Hollywood accepted it – yet another revolution was abused and sold for spare parts.