Sunday, August 31, 2014

I WISH YOU WERE HERE WITH ME

I wish you were here with me.
I could use you right about now.
Use the ass off you.
We’d talk and fuck and perv, think up shit,
patiently show you how to bind male genitals,
female genitals as you add your own stylistic embellishments.
Bound open pussy… the aesthetics are undeniable.
Put on a sprig of mistletoe & you’d make a pretty great
Xmas card,
wide open hole of desire,
the pink and the black.
The red cord pulls your lips apart,
pulls your ass cheeks apart,
strains open the everything of everything right apart
as you tease me in a language of underwater groans:
“Doncha just luv the power of submission, darlin…”
yes baby…
I could use some of your switched on pervin’ right about now.
In this particular now I’d live in your perfect asshole,
your waterfall cum gush onto my swollen balls you’ve beaten and sucked and bitten.
And your big brain makes sure you
don’t get on my nerves
cuz you pull out some book
and read to me,
make me giggle like a girl and make me remember I am very very old.
Side of my face laid on your shaved cunt
your motherly mothering hand strokes my neck
and I murmur about the scent of your cum glistening inside your soft thighs.
You read to me about Horace and his aged slattern whores,
his huge big heart for loving pussy and loving
whores and the sound of desperately holding off daylight.
And your hot snob ass casually tosses off lines about Schopenhauer.
You amuse me with a mockery of his romance-as-bio-imperative shtick.
You put on a serious face and you put on an academicky voice,
insist you remain unconvinced by his thesis.
Best of all,
you stop and turn right at me in bed and ask with all sincerity:
“If he’s right, then why do women become hornier and hotter and sexier and such a better fuck and such a better cocksucker and ass fucker and cum so much harder and more three dimensionally when they become older and it’s got nothing at all to do with being bated by romance into otherwise unwanted babymaking?”
I reply to you: “I guess he was wrong.”
And you laugh a hard-on laugh, an aching begging, come serve my snatch custom built hard-on with your name on it laugh.
I wish you were here with me
cuz I just woke up 3 in the afternoon
overlooking the filthy black river.
It’s still monsoon season,
thunderheads butting above,
fighting it out over the Gulf….
Naked people on rooftops drenching
as lovers strangle one another in a deafening rain.





Wednesday, August 27, 2014

FOR WE ARE ROAD MEN...

I’m still in mourning over the fascists' abduction of my Suzi and remain unsure. I’ve been a Suzuki freak a long time. Dogman lays a gentle hand between my shoulder blades.
“Climb on, Jame-O. She needs you as much as you need her. She’s a good little girl.”
“But a 600?” I wince, plagued with the irrational prejudice nothing less than a fully tuned 1000cc inline four will do.
“It's time,” he comforts as Spike and Fil stop what they’re doing and lower their heads. Dogman’s squinting eyes squint even further. “Never forget,” he reminds me. “It’s the rider. Not the ride.” He pauses long enough for those words to take hold, to grab some hard traction then continues. A wild revving anthem of four banger glory slowly wells up behind his voice, as if from a great distance. Dogman recounts the ancient Thompsonian wisdom.
“We are not track men.
We are not café posing cocksuckers.
We are not dealer devoted douchebags.
We are not digital dogfuckers who don’t know a piston from a pisspot.
We do not buy what we will fabricate.
We do not accessorize with anodized, carbon fibered girly gewgaws and race boy stickers.
For we are road men.
Our glorious mission, and we will always choose to accept it, shall forever remain true and stout.
We are gridlock breaking serpents of beauty.
We are bumper busting wraiths of freedom.
Wherever we go we will smite the tin cage cretins, the air-conditioned infidels, the Audi adoring impotents, the Mercedes mincing credit strangled SUV sycophants.
For we are road men.
We will abuse bicycle lanes and pedal pushing poofters.
We will jump curbs and concrete pilons.
We will enrage and outrun the armed minions of taxpaying torturers.
We will shatter the sleeping nights of leafy lawyered sidestreets, our howls sequentially setting off overly sensitive car alarms and terrifying their hideously indulged offspring.
We are the seven headed beast our scarlet mistress will finally ride into town and claim her rightful throne.
For we are road men...”

Tuesday, August 12, 2014

FALLEN ALCOHOLIC RE-INTERVIEWS SOBRIETY HATING FORMER ADDICT

Recovering alcoholic Glen Bolden has fallen off the wagon and decides to re-interview former addict Basil Papademos, who has not fallen off the wagon but regrets it often. They're again sitting in an idyllic Chiang Mai tea garden.

RECORDING BEGINS...

Describe your desk

It's a fucking desk. They're all about the same. My shit's strewn all over it. TV blaring in the background, cigarette going, much banging of head on keyboard. You know the drill.

What do your fans mean to you?

My fans? My only "fans" as far as I can tell are some smart and sometimes very fucked up women over 40 who are going nuts with a million kinds of frustration in some partially straight jacketed situation. I'm a jerkoff toy to a lot of them. They don't want to go out and fuck random guys and screw up their carefully assembled life but they want the odd cyber wank. The fact they get it through reading my crap says something about certain women. That they're readers, I suppose.
But I've always been a sucker for smart women. I'd never suck a dumb chick's pussy, at least not with any fervor. And the older they get, they add some nice venom to their well-read brains and throw in a little yoga and it's a whole other kind of very hot fucking heat.

Do you think older women are hotter than younger women?

Young women? Are you kidding, man? They look good an all but sexually retarded. Couldn't suck the foam off a beer. Even the pros. They rely too much on their looks. Most guys are bedsprings with zero imagination. They're not going to seriously perv some hot chick's fine ass. They get polite with the really good looking girls, don't handle her like a valuable slut, use her up. They're happy if she just lies there and takes it and then they get to brag to their bonehead pals they fucked the hot chick. Meanwhile, she's learned nothing. Fakes an O and goes back to shopping or whatever the fuck.

So you wouldn't fuck young women?

I used to but I'm impatient now. They don't know shit about perving. The coyness can be very irritating, the feigned diffidence, it's a neurosis. You get older, you wanna be with someone who knows what they need, what they want, has some filthy ideas of her own, gets off on getting off, the whole mind/body trip, doesn't require a lot of instruction. A woman who knows how to perv or is an extremely quick learner...

A quick learner?

Yeah... actually, truth is any woman will go with the perv thing if you lead the way. They're bored outa their minds for the most part and want somebody, any-fucking-body to use up their heat, just DO something with it. Amazing the shit you hear. A woman telling me a guy 'asked' her if it's okay to fuck her. They're in some naked and private situation and the guy asks. Jeezus fuck. The insincerity is brutal. I'd wanna kill the idiot. Someone I know said she was at a club, sunning naked by the pool and a character comes over all smarmy and asks: 'So, what do you like to do?' She told him: 'Do what you want to do. Don't worry, I'll get mine.' The guy crawled away.

So older women have more to offer?

A woman hits forty, turns into a ghost, most guys don't see her any more. Stupid, right? They fall for all the magazine brain conditioning. Meanwhile, that's when women get the hottest. But men are morons. She might think, 'Holy fuck, I've done like no perving in my life. It's all been sticky emotional crap that didn't get me seriously laid.' And so they look around but they're picky. They want the guy to not be a jackoff or the wrong sort of asshole but he's gotta be enough of an asshole to fuck them like he means it, do shit to them, with them, spend some goddamn time on their needs. Women get older, they get more demanding. Why wouldn't they? Having to be so fucking nice all those years. Anybody would go nuts.

They want quality you mean?

They keep saying they want to get fucked for real, the whole 3D deal. Passion, they used to call it, compulsion, pussy fever, that kind of shit. They get sick of stroking some guy's ego. Older women stop saying 'oh that's okay' when the guy blows his load too quick or fucks like a wind-up toy. They get pissed off. Get demanding the guy take them for a ride, not just give him a blow job, he licks her pussy for a couple minutes, a standard-issue fuck and then he's off to watch the game. They want the whole four or five hour deal, drown in the fucking thing. But really, who the fuck knows what anybody wants. Anyway, that's what it appears to be to me, empirically speaking.

Do you remember the first story you ever wrote?

Yes, it was shit. I made up some crap about my mother having an affair and my old man found it and went nuts. He didn't really get the idea of fictional context, the fucking moron.

What is the greatest joy of writing for you?

There is none. Joy is for greeting cards. You want to end up crazy, poor and alone, become a writer. Although... you might get a lot of pussy in the meantime.

Women like writers?

I guess it depends if the guy's any good or if he writes stuff women read. If you're writing some Tom Clancy type military thriller, I wouldn't expect the smart hot babes to come knocking.

Who are your favorite authors?

That's a stupid question. Let's say writers who move the language forward, writers with brilliant ideas. Writers who aren't market-driven hacks nobody will remember. Writers who aren't literary genre geek. Except for people like Bruce Chatwin, I guess. 

What inspires you to get out of bed each day?

I hate waking up. Makes me feel suicidal. So writing is kind of a motive to shake off the dreads, the awful feeling when you look in the mirror and think: 'Fuck, you again.' Writing is largely about disappointment. If you don't like being disappointed, don't be a writer. I see a lot of people call themselves writers and bitch about access, distribution, developing a following - never anything about what the fuck they're writing or why.
The problem isn't writing. Anybody can churn out yards of crap nowadays and many do. It's writing well and writing well is never easy. Language is like smoke, beautiful but difficult to grasp and manipulate. Writing is generally not a happy pursuit. You spend most of your time questioning your own motives, worth, intelligence, wit and so on.

What are you reading now?

Juvenal, the Roman wiseguy. Funny how he bitches about the same things as everyone does now; how stupid the mob is, that kind of stuff. I'm also reading Flannery O'Connor for comfort and I tried reading Hunger Games and got about 3 pages in. Goddamn, it's depressing the kind of one dimensional shit people read. Holy fuck. Makes you really despise people, to think so many of them read this brainless ripoff shite. It's language abuse. That Hunger crap is Logan's Run. Like those Jack Reacher novels at the top of the pops. Pure illiterate garbage. Grade 3 comprehension required. No subtext, nothing going on. Just some idiot playing out Death Wish 2 over and over. But the great unwashed, the mass herd of jackoffs out there, the fucking public, they've never even heard of Charles Bronson and Death Wish - and that was a pretty shitty movie. Now it'd be considered high art by these bozos. Un-fucking-believable.

When you're not writing, how do you spend your time?

Banging my head against the wall. How else? How does anyone spend their time? Being in love with themselves? Forming opinions nobody cares to hear? 

You sound angry.

Angry? No, not at all. That would make no difference. It's this being sober thing. Can be really fuckin dull. I loved getting high. The consequences can suck but it did have many good points.

What is your writing process?

I don't know. Who the fuck knows? What difference does it make? If it's any good then I guess it matters. If the writing is shit, then nobody wants to know. But nowadays, your average repressed psycho in the street wouldn't know what's good or bad or shit, not a clue. Everyone's been trained to make Like or Not Like choices immediately. Nobody's going to ruminate on anything. Ambivalence is not a great consumer trait so it's eliminated. If you hesitate, all you'll hear is, "Next."

Uh, okay. You sound angry to me but anyway... Do you remember the first story you ever read, and the impact it had on you?

Princess and the Pea when I was like 5 or something. And something about a lonely clown who couldn't find a circus that would have him. I already told you this and why even ask? Does it really matter? 

I don't know.

Do you care?

Not really.

Then why ask?

It's on the list of questions but okay, sure, I see what you mean. Here's another repeat question. What's the story behind the novel you're working on, How To Fuck Your Psychiatrist?

It's a lot of pervy fucking between a junkie bike riding over the hill asshole and a couple women and one other junkie bike riding over the hill asshole. One of the women is a shrink who's given up on giving a fuck about ethics. Then there's her crazy secretary who makes it a mission to get perved. And finally, the main guy's super hot psycho bipolar filthy as fuck girlfriend.  There's tons of drugs, perved fucking and fucking around, bikes, clubs and hopefully enough subtext to keep the smart girls reading.

Did you ever consciously decide to become a writer?

A writer? Fuck, I don't know if I'm a writer. I've had two books published but every halfwit and his rabid dog is published nowadays. So I don't even know what a writer is. Maybe it's a label that should be restricted only to those who make money writing or spend more than a certain number of hours a week writing. Shit, I don't know... Problem is quality is meaningless now. Who's going to know if anything's good? I guess it's a default thing. You become a 'writer' when you can't do anything else useful. I should have been a pilot or dog catcher or something. Well, you know, the ol' woulda coulda shoulda...

So anything else uplifting to add?

Yeah. Things are good. Not perfect but pretty good. I miss getting high. Too bad good drugs are so goddamn addictive. Doesn't seem fair, really, but what can you do.

God, I need a drink. Where's the waiter?

What about AA?

Screw AA. Where's that bloody useless waiter?

RECORDING ENDS...










Tuesday, August 5, 2014

FASCISM, FACE-FUCKING & THE GLOBAL 'O'

The trouble with fascist rule, aside from everything else, is it is so uncool.
Like all forms of imposed large scale social order, it creates a kind of mass retardation. Very wealthy middle aged men in their toy soldier get-ups are going to tell you what's what.
How brutally uncool is that?

One of the most gruesome byproducts of recent events is watching the capital's fashion gimps, hip resto creeps and various other branding parasites try to remain diffident and louche while armed tools of the paternalistic ruling class send some frowning comb-over creep to go on TV and make a public announcement along the lines of...

Fuck you and your fucking elections! Fuck what you want. This is how it's gonna be, you noisy assholes, so shut the fuck up - especially you hicks from the sticks. Who the fuck said you could have a say in anything? Shove your votes up your sodomistic butt holes and shut the fuck up. Did I already say that? Good. Maybe it'll sink into your thick peasant skulls. (Long pause while glaring into lens) Now would be a good time to bow and scrape and knock head and affirm your lowly bullshit status, you credit pumped imbeciles.

In case you're not sure, that is when you can be certain it's not so groovy to be a blithely apolitical strolling fashionista, a boutique bozo, a clothes horse cocksuckerino.
Speaking of which...

Whatever happened to Vice Magazine's hipper-than-branded-hosebags gleaming new SE Asian office they were gonna open with much gay apparel? I hear a launch party was planned but they couldn't find enough arm bands. Y'know, the kind with a carefully shared visual space of various corp logos. Heineken, Mercedes, D&G, Durex, Potatohead Vodka, yada yada.

I'm talkin like those branding whore cardboard backdrops covered with sponsors' highly recognizable sigils, those things you see at made-up news events. The fake wall of consumerist identity images behind the blabbermouth telling the media recordists why everybody should get face-fucked by their 25% APR gold card. They're the same backdrops used at manufactured red carpet made-for-TV award show hype-a-thons where tux and gown douchebags pull and suck branded erection statuettes. C'mon, you know what I'm talking about. There's a good chance you've got their cum stain logo dripping down your face right now. The sunglasses you're wearing. Right? Gotcha.

Even the vast Whoring Industrial Complex which forms the backbone of this city - even that sea of human fluidic charm is suffering beneath the veneer of public morality. Herds of professional dick drainers go unplugged, loiter in the lanes and bars of approved whoring zones, their mouths empty as soapy sex tubs remain unsplashed, fishbowl bars no longer teem with armies of haggling holiday ejaculators slapping their leaking erections against smudged glass. It's grim. The eternal line of eternally blind and vomiting hard-ons are being serviced elsewhere these days. 

Wait a second...
Imagine if people had to function while in a continual state of orgasm.
Imagine how corporate board meetings would go. How shopping would happen. Or driving. Could you drive while in the unending throes of a screaming 'O'? What about dinner and a movie with a blind date as both of you gasp and heave while trying to make appropriate small talk? How would it work - everyone stuck in a singular ecstasy loop, left to writhe and grind and flop around, eyes rolled back. Geez, imagine the dampness. 

Yes, one endless global orgasm. Even war would be tough or trying to manage a pension fund, groins continually contracting - like those very stupid porn sites where women have giant club-like Hitachi vibrators taped to their crotch and then left tied up some place for days.
Imagine. Those grim faced middle aged men in uniform would be caught forever in their moment of 'release', faces wracked with the sweet agony of a 'completion' which never truly completes.
Jeezus. Imagine the soundtrack...
The unrequited lips of love...

Sunday, July 27, 2014

End Of The World...

When we grind our fuck at the edge of everything and my head's a chemical blaze,
all our thrash and pound and we laugh in one another's mouths real close
while I've got you by the ass at the corner of the long dining room table,
yank up your pussy and you hiss and slither and spit in my face,
steam rises off our snaking black road,
your strong cunt sucks hard, hardening my hard cock,
swallows me whole,
your rough barefoot heels jam into my nipples,
knees split wide with your epic yoga spread,
my fistful of your dripping hair
pull and turn your neck exposed
as you quake and tremble and gouge my eye, 
my throat,
your pussy gushes all down my balls,
tells me unfucked-with truths,
makes me shoot onto your lips as I snarl and holler holy hell,
swear filthy oaths I will spend my life avenging you.

yes baby... we ain't never comin' back from here...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qgcy-V6YIuI
enter me, my love...

Sunday, July 13, 2014

WRITING FOR MY DEAD

My important readers are dead, the ones I write for most. It kind of stands to reason. The older you get the more dead people you end up knowing. I write for the ones who can't speak for themselves, the ones I don't want to forget. So I do what I can to keep them alive and not forget the details of who they were when alive.

I'd like to say they show up in dreams but they don't. They show up between the lines, sly and backhanded. I see them when I go over stuff a few days after I've written it.

Sometimes I'll notice the way a line is phrased, a piece of dialog and I can see one of my dead sticking in their 2 cents, levering in a few words to remind me of a time back when they were alive, talking about christ knows what, an experience we had together, laughed about.

Dead girlfriends are tough. They can be vindictive, never happy with the way I recount our way of being together, how we talked, how we moved, how we got intimate. I get accused of mixing them up with another woman from another time, told I'm completely full of shit.

I vacillate but finally admit yeah, okay, I do whore up the story a bit to add some extra flavor, combine ways and means of fucking and relating and finding definition in how we took each other on.

Old addict pals aren't as intolerant but just as picky. They handle it differently. Fewer accusations and don't outright call me a liar. It's more a simple shake of the head, as if to say: "That's not how it was and you know it."

The dead are not easy taskmasters. At the beginning of my novel Mount Royal, there's a dedication to a couple dead friends and that's not just whimsy, not only sentiment. I really did write the book for them and it was their approval I sought. Living readers are good, they mean something, sure, but it's the dead who keep me writing and keep me living.



Friday, July 11, 2014

IF 40 IS THE NEW 30, THEN 20 IS THE NEW 10

A friend told me she noticed a recent surge in media reports about a sharply rising demand for intelligent women who are over 40. We all know the mainstream media are the last ones to discover anything important and like all good ideas, having an appreciation for mature women has always been valuable among evolved individuals, those with their wits about them.

So, yeah, no surprise this theme has been recirculated yet again by the bored and boring editors of the world’s infotainment sewers. As a result we end up with the Great Army of the Unlaid, as Lenny Bruce aptly described them, seeing a badly watered-down version of the idea appear on the covers of magazines like GQ, Cosmo, Vice, etc.

“Do we have a new love affair with mature women?”

“How To Score A Hot Older GF!”

“Hang onto your hats, gents! The mature woman is back!”

A pair of fashionable young knuckleheads I know complained these stories indicate their problem, not the solution. They want to meet smart, hip, experienced, hot women over 40 who do all the dirty stuff young women don’t have a clue about. But the studly young fellers don’t know how to make the initial grade.

Sure, the neo-metro boys want to go to bed with these hot older women but both try to underscore their sincerity by insisting they’d like to have a sharp ‘n’ pervy older woman as a girlfriend. (Who wouldn’t?) I guess they both earned high marks in gender sensitivity training.

But imagine, late 20′s dudes whinging women old enough to be their mothers won’t take them seriously for anything other than a few rolls in the sack. It’s beyond bathos.

Well, you can’t blame the women. Someone under 30 might be fun to fool around with once in a while but few have anything to say you’ll want to hear. They’re not much more than arm and/or bed candy. They might have hot bodies and cute faces but the older women I know have one main issue with younger guys: Very enthusiastic but generally have zero idea about how to raise the heat to levels evolved women past 40 require to remain interested.

It’s the same with younger women. They look good and can be a laugh but they’re a oppressively passive, often tediously stupid and naive – just like the boys. You have to tell them how to do everything and the pre, during and post coital conversation is brutal, 2D all the way. In other words, if 40 is the new 30, 20 is the new 10.

I know it may not seem fair but as the old expression goes, youth and enthusiasm are no match for age and treachery. Or maybe age and honesty, the point when you don’t much care what the other person wants and figure they’ll ask for what they want or just initiate it. You take from one another what you want and that in itself is gratifying.

And if they don’t receive the kind of fucking they want, well, that’s their problem. Live and learn. Anyway, it’s not as if someone under 30 will have any idea what they want, so don’t sweat it and just use them to get yourself off. They can consume it as a learning experience.

Truth is, there’s something liberating about being used and even somewhat abused by someone who knows what they want from your body and how to get it and they’re not much interested in whether it pleases you. What’s pleasing is being objectified on an ad hoc basis, valued in a strictly sexual sense within a specific context. Try explaining that to the young doofi.

It’s not submission. It’s more about the opportunity to let go of neurosis or worrying about what your partner wants. If they’re smart and unequivocal, they’ll take what they want and that can be a very hot thing.

But how to explain this concept to a pair of young hardons who want things to remain uncomplicated? You can’t tell them it’s simple yet complex, one of those sizzling conundrums you can truly savor, and there is, thankfully, no formula or method or technique. You each allow yourself the freedom to be used and valued.

Okay, no point in getting wordy about it.

I tell the youngsters it’s chemistry. Go with the chemistry. If you see a certain look in her eye and feel something burning inside your head and your soul (assuming you have one), take a chance and see what happens. Nothing stokes desire like being genuinely and madly desired, creating a timeless moment where nothing else matters or exists.

Maybe what prevents getting to this state is the usual pedestrian fear of rejection, everyone wanting guarantees of success when risk and anticipation are a big part of the turn on. So it’s again down to your ego crabbing, But how can I make sure She/He likes me? Boo fuckin hoo, junior.

Show some balls, roll the dice. Oh, and two important tips I almost forgot to mention to the young studsters:

Read more books and hang out at gay bars.

The first tip was met with usual sighs of resignation: “Yeah yeah.” But the second tip caught them off guard.

“Gay bars?”

“Yeah, smart hot older women often hang out at gay bars because they are sick of being hit on by losers, young and old, at hetero bars. They dig talking with good looking, smart, well mannered, funny, stylish men who aren’t instantly drooling on them. It also helps if you are genuinely bisexual and relatively perved, like you don’t get all squeamish when she pulls out a quality strap-on and wants to fuck you really well. In case you haven’t heard, this is also old news. Many evolved women have long used this as a kind of litmus test on the worthiness of spending their time and energy on a guy. And it’s not at all like getting fucked by another man. Women do it very differently.”

The poor young hetero bastards gave me blank, worried looks and huddled over their beers. Well, I guess it is better if they stick to their young female peers, junior haus fraus sewing their wild oats or whatever it is middle class youth do for kicks. In fact, yeah, better if they never find out and instead coast through a relatively vanilla life with a little bit of youthful ‘craziness’, eventually trading in their burning and inexplicable compulsions for a solid, asset-based pension.
.