Gotta warn you, this next bit of literary genius is not going to be like my normal posts on here. This is a step back into memory lane for me. I was sitting in a meeting with an old friend and we got on the subject of my past work….long story short I found my self curious whether or not I still had what it took to write as I used to, what now seems like ages ago. Turns out I cannot, but why waste all that time right? So here you go a dark, twisted little splurt  (feel free to not read this at all, it’s not comical). PS: these meetings and appointments can blow me with banana creme pie in their mouth, its keepng me from posting and Im tired of it….tho I do love banana creme pie.

internal strife:

Have you ever Run powdered vengeance thru your veins? wafting in the sweet romance of the shiny plug to life’s drain hole, you easily find your own peace. The iridescent pedals of God’s tears washing your face clean of all your carboned sin. On your knees as if crucified yourself, you flop back your head to gaze at the heavens..praying for soft angelic hands to caress your face. The ceiling begins to turn pinks and purples and res and then drips down like candle wax covering your soul in a hot projected subcutaneous tissue, outlining all your flaws with needle like precision. You bring the fluid to your lips to drink, only to find it emptied out in your pants leaving you soiled and crying in your soft bed of sand.

Outside view:

Theres a junkie outside staggering thru the heavy rain, aimlessly grasping at thin air and rocking himself like a pouting child. He slowly falls to the ground out of weakness, barely catching his decent with a shaking hand. Struggling to erect himself he gives up halfway and lets himself droop to a nigh prostrated, kneeled position…spreads out his arms like wings of lead and lets out a shattering scream of pain and loss. Slowly the arms draw in and start to swipe aways at clothes and skin as if trying to get the very flesh of his bones. the nails tear into his skin and unleashes a torrent of blood which would sicken those of highest constitution. The man brings the vital fluid closer to his face but drops to the dirt before he can reach his goal, another willing victim claimed.

13 Apr This entry was written by CatastroFUCK and published on April 13, 2011 at 12:00 PM. It’s filed under Story Time and tagged death grip, its electric, junkies galore, mass destruction, must be the drugs talking, ramblin man, walking dead. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.