Presently

The drink's doing its magic
in my veins.
My head is spinning,
my fingers are numb,
memories are fading
and as for regrets,
right now,
surprisingly,
thankfully:
I have none.

But a deep part of me
wonders
wanders
thinks
doubts
should I embrace
my new-found
state
or should I
expel it
like an unwelcomed spirit
feeding on my soul?

Who cares?

There's another glass
in front of me,
it's time to drink to
all the things we should drink to:
Regrets,
hopes,
loss,
grief,
the future.

Always the future.
Never forget there is one,
no matter what it is,
it's waiting for you and me,
it is lying in wait,
its jaws open wide.

Ah, shit,
let's drink to a bright
future,
a happy
future,
an actual future.
Or, why the hell not,
let's just drink
because we
want to
need to.

Let me embrace my demons
and my angels,
let me dance
with the fairies
and the djinns
inhabiting my mind.

Let my soul
be carefree
and let it
dance forever.

Forever.

Drink

Come on my love,
my sweet and dearest friend,
let me pull you up a chair.
Sit by my side,
I beg you please,
just sit for a while.

Let's open that bottle
we've been saving for
a special day,
let's fill our glasses
and drink,
drink,
drink
until we forget
who
and
where
we are.

Let's drink to our friends,
the ones we have and love,
the ones we take for granted,
and,
of course,
always,
the ones
who have moved on
to the other side,
their numbers growing
with each passing day.
But let's also drink to
the friends we'll meet some day,
or perhaps in another life.
Most of all,
let's drink to us.

Our heads are full of
memories and what-ifs.
We need to drink to forget,
we have to drink
to live.
We need to drink
to be able to drink some more.
We'll drink until the bottles
are empty and
the glasses
have all been smashed
against the mirror.

We'll drink to forget what
we have lived through
and what we're living now.
We'll drink to forget tomorrow,
and might even end up
in a tangled mess
of sweaty limbs
and more regrets.

Most of all,
we need to drink
and hope that tomorrow
won't bring in that
ominous gray cloud.
But, should it come,
well, hell,
then I guess we'll
just have to drink
our tears.

Hope

but she took my hands in hers,
looked into my eyes,
and with a smile
breaking apart
the smooth skin of her
beautiful face
with which she'd seen
a thousand centuries,
countless
men and women
live and die in constant fear,
she told me:

'You and I are not
unlike the stars
shining above.
We serve our purpose
for as long as we can,
for longer than we ever
thought possible.
We help the sailors
lost on an ink-black sea
and the lost souls
wandering the deserts.
We provide light for the
lonely and the hopeless.
But like everything else,
eventually,
we fade out.'

I wanted to tell her
that I feared the sun
for those exact reasons,
that blue skies meant
the loss of hope.
I wanted to ask
about my friends,
gone to the other side,
smiling in my dreams
and telling me to hang on,
not to forget.

And I can't help wondering:
once I'm gone,
who will remember them?
Who will remember me?

But she let go of my hands
and slowly faded away
into the mist
of an autumn dawn.
All that was left was
The dew on the grass
and the cold in my bones.

She was gone too fast,
as were all the ghosts
that now haunt my dreams.
But I know that one day
we'll all be together again
and,
if we don't laugh,
well,
at least we'll smile.

One can only hope.

Rotting

Grabbing my cold keys and
stepping over the
remains of a cat,
teeth bared in an eternal grin,
I push open the door
and step into my world.

Slowly walking up the stairs
the effluvia of the
other tenants stab my nostrils.
It smells like loneliness.
It smells like sadness.
It smells like poverty.

Boiled cabbage or boiled rice
boiled leek or boiled carrots,
it's all tasteless and cheap
and will provide them with enough fuel
to drag themselves
to their rank bathrooms
and shit it all in the bowl,
wondering where they've gone wrong
and what they've ever done to deserve this.

It's easy to pity them,
it's important to pity them,
because it makes me forget my own
unavoidable condition;
my tear-stained present
and the inevitable
decay of my being.
It stops me from thinking about
how it'll all end:
In a glorious blaze
from my cigarette,
as I fall asleep on the couch?
Or will I merely have an aneurysm
while cooking my beans?
Will I lie on the floor for days,
unable to move or call for help,
slowly dying and already feeling
the rats nibbling at my toes?

Outside, a little girl screams,
out of joy from some game?
Out of joy from not being cramped
into a smelly, one-bedroom apartment,
watching some fuzzy cartoon
while pretending her
parents are not
drunkenly copulating on
the other side of the paper-thin wall?
Or out of pain,
for having yet again
fallen hands first
onto a discarded needle,
or a broken beer bottle?
Or perhaps she knows more than
the rest of us
and is aware of her doom
and that screaming,
while it won't help her none,
at least it'll make things better for a second,
just a split second,
because any second away from here
is golden bliss.

I lock the door behind me,
not sure why since my shit
is as shitty as their shit.
but it's mine and not theirs
and so they might still covet their
neighbors' crap.
I don't blame them,
pulling a caper,
no matter how low key,
will keep you busy for a bit.
Hell, I'd swipe their shit if
I could muster the will
to get off my fat ass.

The sky is forever gray,
always makes you think it's about to rain,
but the rain never comes.
You'd think it would wash away the scum
and the dirt from the streets,
but the gutters have been blocked
by so many used diapers,
broken appliances
and fetid garbage bags
that the rain would just turn
into a flood.

Then all the filth and
all the waste
and all the useless
hopeless people
would float to the top,
gasping for breath,
because even broken people
fight for their right to live.

If we're lucky,
we'll all drown and rot together,
feeding the fish
and the seagulls
and the crabs
while our world
slowly molds away deep under,
forgotten from the world,
unsmelled and unseen,
finally.

Bigger is Better

“I want to fuck every fold of her. I want to cum in the dark crevices of flesh that haven't seen light or felt air for years. I want my cum to bind those folds until she becomes a big, life-size, living, breathing, cum doll.

Don't judge me, dude. That's my trip. Yours might be to jack off to tied up Asians, or fuck someone doggy style while staring at yourself in the mirror. Or maybe you're just one of them simple guys who jizzes all over your keyboard every other day while surfing for side boob pics of celebrities. God forgive you get denied the pleasure of seeing a bit of whoever the media tell us we have to find hot these days.

Guys like you, you think you're normal 'cause you fantasize about supermodels and singers and actresses and, the magazines and the TV? They feed your addiction. Oh, don't fool yourself, boy: you're addicted as sure as the hipster is addicted to his nicotine or microbrew and as sure as your mama depended on Mr Daniels to make it through the day without murdering you. Yeah, I went there. Deal with it. Anyway, you walk around town, getting semis from the shampoo billboard and ice-cream posters and of course swimsuit models plastering the walls of your city and imagination. What you wouldn't give for an hour with one of them, huh? An hour? Sheeeit, three minutes would be all you needed. But, bubba: I've got some painful news for you... You ain't never gonna pull one of them bitches, because they're so far out of your league they could just as well be living on another planet. So you have to keep on pulling your sad little dick and dry your tears with the same crusty sock you use to wipe yourself clean after paying a little visit to Onan.

But, hey, I don't want to judge, really I don't. Because, in the end, it's about whatever rocks your, my, our boat, as long as no one gets hurt, right? Unless you're into S&M and it's consensual, in which case: go to it, go nuts. Hey: maybe your deep dark thoughts are all about raping little girls or little boys. That's obviously way, way illegal, but if it remains a dark fantasy, something that gets you hard in the dark of the night, or, shit, while you're typing away in your cubicle after your tuna sandwich lunch, then have fun.

So, yes, as I believe I was saying: I like them plus-size ladies. You probably don't, like I said, I'm sure you like the ones that look like androgynous heroin addicts, walking planks full of disdain, self-hate and what-have-you. The ones I like are full of self-hate, too, that is until I start to fuck them and then they're happy. Plus they don't have to pretend that it's a genetic thing or that they're 'big-boned,' they can eat whatever they want when they want, knowing I won't judge them. Sure, it can get a little pricey on dates, but if you know where the all-you-can eat places are, you're golden.

But please: don't call me a chubby chaser. I'm a tubby fucker. There is a difference, you know. I don't chase. First of all, because it wouldn't really be a competition, they'd pass out after ten feet anyway. Fatties don't run, son. No, I go out, notice the one I like, usually drinking a Diet soda, because she's trying to watch her weight next to her skinny friends who complacently and condescendingly keep telling her: 'Omahgod! You've lost soooo much weight!' but behind her back, they make fat jokes that usually revolve around the Kool-Aid ads. But so, my target smiles sheepishly and looks down at her drink, thinking that no one there would ever want her, so why bother making eye contact? Plus, don't make any mistake about it, she knows that the kind of dudes who'd fuck her, well, she definitely wouldn't want to fuck. That's the tragedy of plus-sized people: they know they're out of their depths when going to a bar or club, but they also know there's no way they'd fuck someone as big as them. First of all, because it could destroy their Ikea bed and secondly, because logistically it's a nightmare.

So, I see her, I walk to the table and, forgive me for stating the obvious, but I'm not a bad looking dude, as you can see. So, usually the 'classically hot' girls smile and ask me if I want to buy them drinks. I politely, but firmly, tell them no, I do not. Then I start talking to the lonely big girl. First, she's usually surprised, then she, as well as her friends, think it's some kind of pulling strategy: ignore the skinny ones so that the skinny ones want you more. Sad thing is: it usually works, because little Miss Anorexia got some deep-seated daddy issues and really wants to be loved and can't understand why I'd wanna go for her fat friend. Ha! Fuck you, you skinny bitch!

When I buy drinks for my lady and ask her if she wants to go to another table, everyone understands I'm actually into her. So, my girl blushes and accepts, still a bit confused, but also thinking one of two things: 'Oh, he must be one of them chubby chasers. Fine.' Or: 'Finally, someone appreciates me for my personality.'

Uhm, no.

I like the big girls, but I'm still an asshole and, at the end of the day, I'm still hunting for pussy. I'm no white knight, I'm just a horny dude. In other words: I'm just a dude.

Meanwhile, her friends all think I'm a freak or an asshole or whatever. But it'll end well for them. Thanks to me, they'll be able to slag off their friends who's talking with me, while drinking way more to convince themselves that they're super cute and totally doable. Then they'll go home with a tattooed jerk who plays bass in an indie rock band and who'll fuck them raw before disappearing forever from their lives; and they'll actually convince themselves that they'd had a good night and that they're definitely still hot, chlamydia be damned.

So... What the hell was I talking about? Yeah, so, yeah... The girl. We end up going to her place and she's super shy to get her clothes off, as if I might only realize at this point that she was not slim. But eventually, she disrobes, and so do I and then, well, a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell. Wink, wink, am I right?

Then, yeah, as I said before: I'm still an asshole, so I leave and never see them again. But I am convinced that they don't mind, because they got to fuck someone most people would say was out of their leagues. I also make sure they cum at least once, I'm not a total monster, thank you very much. So it's a win-win for everybody.

Now, before I let you be on your way, I want to say I only like the shy ones. Some of them are all about: 'That's who I am, fuck you if you don't like me!' or, you know, they're actually proud to be fat. Good for them, but why be proud of your body type? Whether you're ripped or bubbly, skinny or not, nothing to be proud of, I think. But anyway... Those girls are aggressive. Most of them used to be Goths, too, so they think they're cooler than the average. But they're not. They act tough, but they cry themselves to sleep to Morrissey every night. Most of them end up being dykes, that's cool. As I said: no judging here. I'm just saying I don't like the aggressive girls. I'm a hunter, not a prey. If they don't like that, let them fuck one another, is what I say.

Right, so that's my story. Now if you'll excuse me, it's 3 for 1 taco Friday at my local eatery and I've just bought a box of condom that begs to be used, so I'm gonna head out. Take care of yourself, and here: have a bagel. On me.”

The Night Before

The night before the earthquake was just like any other night. I mean, of course it was. Most of us don't live in a day-to-day fear that it's going to be our last day. And that's too bad. Sure, I know what you're thinking; you're thinking: 'Come on! We couldn't live like that, always afraid, always worried!' But to that I say: 'Aren't you afraid right now? Really? You have no worries? No family members going through a rough patch? No friends down on their luck? No unexplainable headaches or hot flashes or strange pains somewhere in your body? Do you actually feel immortal and invincible?' If you, do, well: good for you; but deep down I also call bullshit on your bullshit.

If you knew that today was your last day, wouldn't you do things differently? I know you'd skip work. Maybe you'd indulge yourself with a big meal, because who cares about saturated fat, carbs or whatever else is the baddie du jour? Wouldn't you hug your loved ones and finally tell them you loved them? Sure, you'd feel a bit sappy doing it and they'd make fun of you, but deep down they'd be having one of their best days and you'd know that sometimes sappiness ain't so bad, as long as it's the truth. But even then you'd feel guilty: thinking, wondering, why did you have to wait until the very last moment to tell them? Sure, you tell yourself they knew it all along, but they'd have liked to hear it from you nonetheless.

So, it was just like any other night. I arrived home from work and fixed myself a drink. Then my wife came back with our child after having picked him up from school. Pardon me if I don't share their names with you. This is all I have left: their memories and their names. I feel this should stay private. Anyway, as usual our kid ran to his bedroom to change into his pajamas, because he couldn't tolerate not wearing them when at home, and I never minded that, because he got that from me.

I was in my pajama bottoms and some old 90s Nick Cave concert t-shirt, drinking my Black Label while catching up on my Facebook posts.

God.

To think I spent so many hours reading whatever acquaintances wanted to share with me and sharing bullshit with whoever thought I was their friends, while I could have spent it talking to my kid, playing games with him, holding my wife's hand or just do nothing but sit and live and enjoy the non-bullshit. But, what can I say? I'm a child of my time and, although I've never given in to the Twitter bullshit or the Instagram fuck'a'doodle, I was an avid Facebook user. Not anymore. I mean, if you go silent for a while, but are still getting messages and texts and what-have-you, if you finally decide to tell your cyber friends what really happened, I have a feeling that seeing that little thumbs up icon light up time and time again would suck up what little faith in humanity I have left.

So, where was I? Yes. Facebooking, posting funny pics, liking pics of my hot half-naked female friends taken in places I'd never go, giggling, smiling, pretty much convincing myself that my life was just as it was supposed to be.

Meanwhile, my wife, the love of my life, the person I'd decided to spend my life with, the person to whom I had promised that I'd be a different kind of husband, well... she was cooking, without complaining. Here I was: my fat blobby ass in the comfy chair, typing with the hand that wasn't holding my booze and meanwhile she was in the kitchen, after a busier day than I'd had, cooking for me and our kid. How's that for equality? What freaks me out is how quickly I got used to it and totally took it for granted. What pisses me off is that I could have turned off my fucking laptop and walked the ten feet to our kitchen and kept her company, chatting and helping. But, no. Mr Important Guy had to share the ironic picture of a kitten.

The thing that makes me even sadder is that, had there not been that earthquake, I wouldn't be writing any of this and I'd still be doing what I just said I shouldn't have been doing. There's nothing like death to make you think about life. Isn't that totally fucked up?

So, after some time, I probably even thought: 'God, I'm hungry. When the fuck are we gonna eat?' But we eventually had dinner. And my wife, lemme tell you, she wasn't a 'defrost a Lean Cuisine' kinda person. She was a cook-from-scratch, 3-course-balanced-dinner kinda gal. That night we had a carrot salad for starter, then chicken with roasted potatoes and green beans and, finally, a fruit salad. It was delicious, I remember that much.

Probably because I know I'll never eat her food again.

We spoke about this and that. 'This and that' is all I can say, because I simply can't remember what we talked about. Probably about our day, about our kid's upcoming exams. Maybe about the shower that needed regrouting or that we had to buy new trash bags because the ones we had were just not good enough. Just idle bullshit talk, like everybody has, has had, and will always have.

But at this very moment, all I want is to be able to remember anything specific from that final family talk. Did one of us laugh? We weren't miserable, we'd had good times. Maybe that night was one of them. But I don't know, I just can't remember.

Then our kid and my loving wife did the dishes. Here's another irony: the devoted husband fucked off to watch the NFL, because that's what was expected of him and no one said anything because, hell: of course the man of the house deserves to watch some burly men in tight pants give one another concussions.

Our kid then went back to his room, to read, play video games, chat, download porn. Fuck if I know. As long as he was happy, so were we. My wife walked in with a big cup of camomile tea and snuggled next to me. I remember holding her in my arms, caressing her head like you automatically do when a faithful pet nuzzles up to you. I think I was happy. I think I was smiling. I like to think she was, too. But I can't be sure.

It started with a low rumble.

My first thought was that our kid was listening to some new kind of music that had an insane amount of bass. Kids will be kids. But then our knickknacks on our glass shelves started clink-clanking and our chandelier started swaying. My wife stood up, dropping her still-steaming cup of tea onto our beige carpet and I remember being annoyed at that, right before she half-screamed, half-whispered: 'Earthquake!' I was about to tell her not to panic when there was a loud crash and then: nothingness.

Now, I can see them picking up the pieces of our broken home, literally as well as figuratively. Tears streak down their faces. Other people are running around like panicked ants. There are flashing lights from fire trucks, glowing lights from gas fires, people in their slippers wandering the bumpy streets. I want to tell them all it'll be all right, they shouldn't worry so much. But, at the same time, I'm wondering where my goddamn bright shining light is. I'm not too worried, though. I can happily wait for it for as long as it takes. I'm in no hurry.

I just want to be able to look at my loved ones for as long as I can, but no matter how long it turns out to be, I know it won't be long enough.

Somehow

I've been climbing up

this mountain for a while now.

I throw pebbles and rocks

down,

hoping they'll find

whatever

is following me

and end the

presence of those fangs

trying to gnaw at me

The summit is still a long way off,

but I'm nothing if not

motivated.

I've decided I'll reach it and,

by God,

I will.

Somehow

I can hear them getting closer,

grunting and huffing.

I can imagine

them pawing at my back,

desperately

trying to catch hold of me

But I'm way ahead of them,

in every way.

I left a day earlier

and I am so much smarter,

or at least that's what

I tell myself

as I curl up into

a ball in my tent at night,

hoping to fall asleep

and find some warmth,

somehow.

My life is but a tired

metaphor,

but I carry on

and indeed do try

to keep calm,

but deep down I know

that the beasts

do not sleep at night,

the beasts

do not feel the cold

and,

one day soon,

any minute now,

they will be upon

me

and the last thing

I'll see will be the snow-capped

peak,

so close I could touch it.

But, as everything ends up being,

well,

it'll be over for good,

as I always

knew it would,

somehow.

All The Pills

All the pretty colorful pills

aligned in a row

on my coffee table,

next to my

almost-empty bottle of red.

The first is to take the edge off

this dreadful, horrible life

and the second is to make me forget

all the girls I shouldn't have met.

The third one will hopefully

take my mind off all the girls

I will never be with

while the fourth will wipe

all my debts clean.

The fifth one,

so blue and shiny,

will be for the jobs

I couldn't get

and the sixth one

will help me remember

I am better off without

most of my so-called friends.

It's already the seventh,

time to open a second bottle.

As the familiar

and comforting

sound of red

pours out into my empty glass,

I contemplate my little pals

waiting for me on the glass top.

So, yes, the seventh:

magnificent by name,

makes me a bit sad

for all the new films

and music I won't be

experiencing.

But the eight one tells me

to buck up and be a man,

because what good is

art in a life bereft of

hope?

The ninth

is to forget about

that one time I did

that thing

and the tenth

is just for me,

because now's the time,
the time or never,
for real,

to think about myself.

I take a break while I chug

some of that fine-ish red

and by the twelfth one

I am giggling

because this is such a fucking cliché.

And so the thirteenth one is because

I am a cliché

and the fourteenth one is because

I have a headache.

Number fifteen and sixteen

are just because I want to make it to twenty

and seventeen is because

I still have a headache.

Eighteen is to forget that time

I shat my pants

and nineteen is

to forget the backstabbings

and betrayals.

Nineteen was a big one for sure,

but number twenty

is the one the internet

told me would be the final

one

and so,

as I sit back and finish

my tall glass of wine,

waiting for this chapter

to draw to a close,

I hope that -for once-

I won't be let down.