Lose It

John Waters is a creepy genius.

Hey ya know that Italian surreal horror film Cemetery Man?

And that new flick coming out called Dylan Dog: Dead of Night?

Well, they’re both based on the works of Italian comicker/author Tiziano Sclavi!

Bet you would’ve never made that connection.

I didn’t until two minutes ago.

… Twelve delve / In flesh / To tell / The blood beneath / To go to Hell. 
    Chk! Ch-K!  Ck-kd!
    Doesn’t bleed.  Bled it all out.  Ee-vap-orated.  Floating in the air amongst germs.  The wounds produce worms no blood its throughout the Texan At-Miss-Spear by now.  If I could jus— Chk!  A little to th— Chuk-kah!  Is it sharp eno-Ch-k Cha-k. C’mon c’m— Chk Chu-kchk gotta have something in th—Chk Ch-ak!  Nothing, rot, previous day’s work, organ, bone.
    Don’t.  Look.  At me, sinner.  Glance destroys law, paper destroys rock, your eyes cannot receive such purity.  Decree’s of the father.  Laws of a god (of.) A father.  Recognition: An insult.  He must pay can’t pay, money’s on the Kansas wind by now.  Cashed out a long time ago.  Should’ve saved some:  Jar it freeze it melt it freeze it— I miss winter.  Maria and I and snow angels.  Snow covers mud filth swept under the carpet.  I sweep.  I sweep now: Quick fast passed germs sweet snow release angels (snow angels sweet release).
    Gabriel lucid, hunched, stands with clean blade on Poena property: Back property (Fenced.)  His father (deceased) stumbles due to a rare virus known as Chained-To-Fucking-Shed making MMROWERMMOREEWWWOROWRERAHOHER…
    …And other nonsense, already cut his vocal chords why won’t he ever shut up just bleed: I/He command(s).  Another finger perhaps?  No I need to save those for special occasions. Though it might drip.  Just a little.  If at all.  Worth it.  Not worth it.  Move forth with.  Blade once bit.  Still hungry.  I’m hungr—Can’t eat until he drains: The tiniest drop—Q: Why? A: The story we all know:
    Thunder then He spoke thus:  Pretty much everyone who breaks tH(IS)e law deserves to be shot. Sinners, low-down pieces of untrustworthyselfishtainted shit.  That’s the problem with (man’s) society. Nobody respects anything.  Go on filthfully  living filthy lives of filthy filthiness muddy bastard faces descendants of more filthy bastards with their own muddy lives and faces.  Punishment, my son.  Rain fire hot enough to burn even the dirt from the earth. 
    “And make them drip / For every sunrise. /  I who is He / who is You / who is Me / hath spoken.”  (Book of Stuart 9:15-26)
    The senior Poena, that is, the young (G.) Poena’s presurposer— retorts each blow with apathy, dead: Yes, but not in despair.  Gabriel does not notice Sol’s hold upon the immaculate suburban lawn diminish, or the distant gunfire echo against the reverb of the plastic siding lining a quaint Poena household: His occipital lobe critically projecting moments conta-ining conta-ct between flesh and metal.  Sounds grow loud  CUKHK! and CH-KHK-CH-KA-CH-KUHKK KUHKK KUKHHHK…
    …Flesh not even the least bit moist.  Piercing tracing paper, no substance.  Translucence.  Epidermic tubes seen without focusing:  What’s the point then:  What’s (CH-KHK) the fucking (KHK CH-K) point (KRHKKH CHKHK)?  Because I can see Him speak engulfed in sacred Lazy Boy.  Lazinest Boynmirum, holy manger of the Father.  Tabernacle of the Eucharist/Budwieser/Euchwieser. The world below Him with laugh tracks and breaking news, His to judge.  Mine to judge, same blood, passed on genetically/philosopically/fatefully that used to be in the moaning, groaning, My-Own-King.  Transplant some of the Son to give him more life for me to destroy. Perhaps life will create life amongst the unlife.  O+ blood, the God type.  Oh positive  perspective, the God lie.
    The Holy Ghost whispers violent inside the Son, ignores the Father.  Gabriel, panting disenchanted, tosses the blade against the house.  Splatter drips through groves of plastic siding, backyard remaining silent except for breaths echoing off the fence surrounding suburban agriculture. (G.) Poena crosses legs, looking up at a decaying monument, and…
    Not the same, not at all.  Bad, bad, bad.  How long has it been?  Since the last one?  Three days maybe, seems longer than that, a fucking eternity.  Can’t even recall that one’s face.  Remember the words:  You-don’t-have-to-do-this, someone-help-me-please, fuck-stop-help, agh-gur-ghuagh, why-are-you-doing-this, you-need-help, Mom, why-the-fuck-are-you-aghuargh, let-me-go, let-me-live, let-me-live-and-go, oh-God-help-me. 
    I am God and I am helping you.  You can no longer hurt yourself or anyone else around y—Brown hair blue eyes pimples that’s it.  Pushed cocaine to lame-brains a-cross plains to 3rd and Main.  Short struggle, long death, how can I forget? Images of this calibur are the only thing left on average:  Skull split between nose and right eye brain leaking onto tile floor, arm charred to bone elbow and below, failed autopsy scattered into alleyway one eye open one eye closed, beauty sacrificed to send the message.  To forget such waste is sacrelidge, but I… (do) …Am no longer human and cannot let thoughts degrade memories of the Father’s work:  “So He spoke / the great Hand covering / the Son’s face: / ‘You are worthless / and of no self, / Mine to mold  / and of my wealth. / A thinking pawn / who is what I say, / does not think / besides work of the day.’ ” (Book of Stuart 4:6-17)
    Upon the wooden picnic bench a plastic plate held the finest of microavable french toast sticks that dispersed steam and aroma into reality.  The bench had been placed by the late (A.) Poena to give the bow of the house a rustic feel aestethically cherished in a better time.  A house stands amongst a lawless land, now rustic without trying too hard…
    …Day’s nights.

The mutt, its black fur short and spread every which way, continued to claw at the Girlfriend’s breasts.  In between wet puppy licks and scratching in the nook behind the canine’s ear, the Girlfriend tried to put the pain out of her head.  Pawing the two mounds of flesh, each long grated nail dug deeply without any pattern— The three layers of clothing prevented her from seeing if the beast drew blood but Goddamn; it felt like it.

In what seemed like ravenous panic, the dog continued to accidentally gore the Girlfriend’s cleavage, but she could care less: In fact, she was thankful for it.  The Boyfriend lie next to her facing the other way, pouting as usual.  Every night was the same these days, he would crawl into bed using the same technique to get into her pants:  A slow set of kisses to the nape leading down to her breasts, a finger here or there, an exhale into her ear, oh how it had worked before…  She wouldn’t even be able to resist half of that a year ago, but it seemed so… Uniform.  The kisses, fingers, exhales weren’t because he had loved her, it was just the only successful path to love her. 

But they were passed that tonight.  Because the poor dog stumbled into their apartment, starved and cold, looking for breathing, salty skin to lick.  A very weak, but successful savior.  How sweet it is, the Girlfriend thought, that this puppy loves me for being alive.

She turned to the hill of rising covers next of her:  “I wish dogs could talk.  They’re so sweet.”

“No you don’t.”  The Boyfriend said.

What a baby!  The Girlfriend thought.  All pissed off cause I won’t fuck him. 

“But—”

“If dogs could talk they’d just tell you they loved you all the time.”  The Boyfriend sighed and pulled another collection of comforter on top of him before closing his eyes once more to close off any exit on his skull.

The Girlfriend stared at the ceiling.  How could that be a bad thing? 

The mutt had fell asleep on her chest, warm from the small puddle of blood that had formed in between her tits.

You get home from work, feeling as if you’ve been stretched thin, and the door echoes behind you.  The house, impeccable, remains untouched. There’s no one home. 

Well,

You’re home.

A full day’s work, so many tasks completed.  You are so proud, in fact, you might even think you are the greatest person to walk the Earth.  You think of the bands and films you enjoy and scoff at the tastes of the mindless sea of fools!  My God, if they only knew!  Original thoughts, true complete unique opinions from the tangled bits of brain belonging to a certain unknown genius!  They should congratulate you, and if they don’t— You’ll shove your two cents right up their ass, the ignorant fucks!  So what to do?  What should the most important person in the whole wide world do in this situation?

As the Earth continues to revolve around you,

you post on Tumblr.