Punk Monk Press/Magazine

Fuck Machine   I am invisible. Until the lights go down and the Jack meets the Coke (over ice, of course) a few times. Then clink! Suddenly he sees me. All shiny and nude (even when I am not). And it is perfect. For an hour or two (on a good/rare night). Then in the morning, he is gone again. Or I am. And does it even matter which one of us disappeared. We are each dissolved back into the reality of our own mundanity. Until further escape is desired/required. And somewhere as the sun goes down again, a telephone sounds its sirened call, that will (no doubt) lead to another inevitable clink!       Happy [Hateful] Anniversary – June 5, 2012   The number 5 resonates from inside its markered circle. A silly sentimental scrawl splayed beneath it to [rein]force a remembrance I now wish I could forget as I sit here shredding any and all evidence of that fateless day.   Riiiii...

    am i a person or a place? i am a place, mostly. a dumpsite. to you. i mean i would let you run your dirty hands all over my body then allow you to dump things on me. sometimes they are pink, pink plastic. or white substances. pink and white make a good combination, don't you think? strawberry milk. strawberry meeeeeeeeok in the dark     on the roof     on the ground.     why would you just throw it     (me)     there?   first strawberry milk, next intangible words like 'i would like to marry you someday' and 'you are special'.     why am i special? is it because i only operate in the darkness? is it because i touched you (better than she did)? i couldn't touch them even though they were naked and dancing and fucking an inch from my nose. i have never been good at swallowing. you want me to swallow? you didn't, you let me spit it out. but i didn't want to. it was ni...