Punk Monk Press/Magazine

There is bad blood in the genealogy of my Grandfather’s line on my Mother’s side, full of strange perversions and sexual proclivities that are not smiled upon in polite society. Things that make a normal man cringe, especially if that man happens to be me. I have to face the fact that such blood runs in my veins. I’ve detoxified on celery and carrot juice until the cows come home, but that kind of shit runs deep, and sewer sludge isn’t that easy to flush clean. There is toxic blood in the genealogy of my Grandfather’s line on my Father’s side, full of wine and liquor, full of ego and ink that spills on the page with each drink down the drain. The type of genes that cause the liver to fill up like a bloated whale, and can lead to nausea that takes the cake, and then vomits it up on occasions when the nights go too long, running into the mornings, once a year or so. All this crazy blood swirls like a genetic s

I sit embedded in these gardens; an enclosed island that sits like a septic scab on the city's pale, malnourished skin. Again they offer a home and shelter from another avoided shift, that once again grants that time which I have no desire to fill. Another blank face passes by, their words far too affluent for my ignorant ears to comprehend; a voice educated but lacking basic knowledge. I subject my nerves to this torture, till they retreat from want of respite. Through wilted roses, this afternoon sinks heavier by the minute. Yet more eyes stare through ash covered thorns, arms threaded with silver needles. I convince them I'm busy in minor thoughts, till I feel the breeze of their passing. That slow dissipating moment between myself and the dried, brittle grass now eases somewhat, returning that clarity once more. I breathe out confusion along with my smoke, and I refuse the chance of escape once more which even after this haze, sti

that they told me they loved me, always in the dark, always with my clothes off. How could I have known then who I would become, how many men it would take until I understood it was better if I closed my eyes, until I knew what the moon meant   when it was hiding behind a cloud, or when it was full and heavy, lighting the interior of the car just enough that they could not speak. --April Salzano