Random sentences I have written

I want to learn a trick with a knife. Then maybe you will want me again. I could be like Bill the Butcher, but I promise not to kill any Barbers. This time I mean it.

Hope, love, sex, god, faith.
These things she tumbled through
her fingers like so many dice

Radio static in the space between AM stations with lousy reception on a long drive across the darkened highways of the rain splattered upper midwest on the cusp of a new century

“Where’s your coat, sweetie?”

7. There is no god.

He seemed to be looking for someone or something, but it was not at all clear exactly what he was in search of.

The King stuck the cigarette to his lips and asked the kid for a light. His trusty Zippo had floated off into the aether, blinked right out of existence.

A bit of Cut Up

Warning: This makes no sense!

Balanced on clear heels, she sees moves into a little swing, circling fly. she moves to the edge of the bills are being [expletive deleted] on the stage, ready. she drops to her back on the stomach. her body undulates ending one and sends the signal. her eyes only one that knows her true name. they are, back on and makes her way grips the metal pole with her left the men, makes eye contact with each enough. she swings one leg back and display, but she knows that those her working the crowd. a few dollar first cosmonaut surveying a dead would be proud of she [expletive deleted] her legs pole. momentum does the rest and him, pushing until her flat stomach straddles me and grinds against my that bothers her.
of all the men is against his face, then sliding loneliness, want, need. she is the shaved [expletive deleted] again. she can’t see without asking if I want a dance she her firm, round breasts are on dance. I’ve done that a lot. it’s control. the music changes. a rap her hands to wrap them around the devour the souls of the mighty. she young guys nursing over-priced she owns these men. she is the seats, are older men; many with john eyes tell me that she disapproves. kelli stands center stage. she lap. it is perfunctory. her hips on his back on the stage with a five above her head and slides slowly down the bills: ones and fives, begin to stops and in the instant before the in this smoke infested room, I am the much of the money comes from, but she the glass of maker’s mark in my hand one guy’s mouth, which inflames the mr. nabokov, but that’s how it is. should be, but with short spiky brown that her supplicants are primed. out into the crowd. this is where excels. kelli stands, turns to face tables are mostly frat boys, and the front row are staring hard and tugged by the shoulders until he is act. in a minute she will take you. I want your [expletive deleted] deep inside spread wide enough to reveal her effort at all. he legs spread wide, above the other girls that take the upward and grabs the pole with both designed to create tension. her top stage and slides off her g-string in at five feet ten inches she towers the shiny pole, circling as she has just come off, been [expletive deleted] aside. fists and moves directly to me. stage. she is thin, some willow’s want your [expletive deleted] sprayed on my face. erotic fantasy of what a willow she is madge. she is margaret on aren’t what the men want most. she a move that seems to require no scans them. the men. the outer heads. these men, their eyes speak she is a weightless god ready to they all see her as kelli. on stage she pulls her underpants, such as then she rolls herself over onto her deere caps pulled down low on their the dotted line. but in my heart gripped in his teeth. kelli mounts hand and pauses for an instant. back to take his money. she can see are on auto-pilot.
kingdom from a thousand miles above. imagining touching it, licking it,
when her time on stage is done this is a caesura; a blank spot, uses her [expletive deleted] to take a dollar from descends. when she takes her feet, just working the warm up; the opening but they are meaningless. she is me, pounding me, hammering me. I hands. in a motion that any gymnast song with a deep, hard, driving beat the pole. this is tease. this is showing her [expletive deleted] to the front row, she is kelli. to a lot of friends [expletive deleted] it. this is where she them, but she knows that the men in hair and deep eyes. the pause is sees me at an outer table, and her arches her back, then reaches with his dirty jeans and she knows that stage to work the audience. she him, letting her [expletive deleted] rub against lets all those dollars stay in loose next starts she trusts her self rest. another man finds himself object of that need and she knows it. scream I want you. I want to [expletive deleted] drinks. up close, in the perv with her [expletive deleted] in the air, her weight it’s not that I’m here watching her his little erection pressing against propped up on her knees with her legs she is always maggie. I’m sorry

My brain hates you.

I have a little something in the new issue of Pax Americana. There are a lot of massive contributors in there, so you might want to check it out.

HTML Giant is now taking fiction submissions. The results should be interesting.

My brain hates you.

Noah Cicero has posted a novel on his blog

deluxe authentic vagina

Someone found Waits and Bukowski (my novel blog) by searching “deluxe authentic vagina”. I like that. Someone else searched “sam pink fucks abortions”. That happens to be true. I’ve seen it.

I have alligator dreams.

This article links to here for some reason. I don’t know why, but I’m glad it does.

Pushing abortions

The Pushcorpse is complete and turned in to No Colony. I read the entire thing, and it is massive in weird.

Magazine of the Dead: Stories for Abortions is the third anthology (read “print issue”) from Magazine of the Dead. It features a lot of great writing from the last year of MotD, plus a ton of bonuses that have not been seen on the site. In these pages are fiction and poetry by Sam Pink, xTx, Nathan Tyree, Joshua Weston, James (JMES) Horn, Jon Catron, Bradley Sands, Kenji Subaki, Z. Lustig and many others. It should burn your limbic system. You can get it right here. Soon it should be coming to Amazon as well.

Big Ass Update:

I just found out that Dogzplot nominated me for 2009 Best of the Net. I am one of their nominated poets. Thank you Dogzplot

Never do a google image search for “aborted fetus”

I have an acoustic bass. It was obtained for free (long story – a friend thought he was trading his Squire Strat for a small acoustic guitar, which he could take camping but when the girl he made the deal with showed up she had this bass it tow and my friend was unable to say no; what with the girl in question having a vagina and all – he didn’t want the bass, it took up space and eventually he gave it to me). I need to learn to play it. So far I’ve just noodled around (I play guitar badly – call it prison blues: behind a few bars and looking for the key) and may have accidentally played the opening to the bass line from Folsom Prison Blues once. Somehow I think that I will end up giving the thing away before it becomes a real part of my life. I look at it every day, though. It wants to make music. Just not with me.

Christopher Newgent (a very cool guy) has “interviewed” my “web presence” via a cut and paste method at The Idiom, his word killing site that I have been digging for some time now. This is, I think, my favorite interview ever. I especially love that I had no knowledge of it until it was complete and on line.

If you are not yet aware of badbadbad, you should be.

Never do a google image search for “aborted fetus”. Trust me on this.

Fat Charlie

Fat Charlie

Fat Charlie dreamed again that he was locked in a room full of old men with bleeding hammers and lamp lit virgins weaving human flesh into cages for spiders. He wanted to scream, but couldn’t remember how. He wanted run, but was afraid that he would float away.

When Fat Charlie woke he found that he was lying next to the railroad tracks again. Icarus was about to crushed by a speeding locomotive and all Charlie could think of was Carlyle and the great dead steam engine tearing through the night. Perhaps, the fat man thought, this is an existential question best left to better minds. He didn’t bother making a move until the train had flattened Daedelus’ boy. Then he began the long trudge back to town.

Somewhere on 35th street Charlie ran into that kid in the newsboy hat. The kid had been bothering Charlie about a job for weeks, and the fat man was really in no mood to deal with his pleadings.

Man, I’d do a bang up job, I swear.

Why the kid talked like that was a mystery that Charlie had no desire to solve.

Kid, I got no work for you. All I can offer you in way of a handout is a helping of angst and maybe a little loathing. Why don’t you get fucked, huh?

Charlie kept walking and the kid slanked away like a lobster on new years eve. Just around the corner Charlie stopped to fall into a bottomless pit of dread and sorrow. He paused there in the sodium arc-light for almost ten minutes, while whores sized him up and wondered if this ratty tweed fellow had enough money for a quick hand job in the alley. Mostly the concluded that, no, he was not worth their time. By the time Charlie collected enough inertia to move again he had decided to give up the numbers business and maybe move south, or to one of the islands.

He figured that he could give the daisies a chance, and maybe sell some Mary Kay to fill in the gaps. He started to whistle and never saw the kid coming. Fat Charlie breathed his last with a homemade shank sticking between his ribs and thoughts of a nut brown beach life floating just beyond his dreams.

Needle Eyes

I decided to get clean. Getting clean was not going to be easy. To be clear about what is being discussed here, my day (every of those days) included four xanax, two valium, 1/2 a liter of whiskey and several beers. Before brushing my teeth I was tossing two shots of bourbon and taking a xanax and a valium. Lunch was liquid. I lived this way for most of a year. Then I decided to get clean.

In retrospect, this was a bad idea. I went cold turkey (ironic when you consider that the morning shot was often Wild Turkey).

I’ve given up on it. All the seams were coming undone one stitch at a time.

Now I am back to my routine.

Mean week has ended at HTML Giant. This makes me sad, as I like an excuse to be an ass.

textured vegetable protein product

I love frozen eggrolls.

I am having the toughest time reviewing Lovesick by Howie Good. The damned thing keeps fucking my brain. I keep typing out the review, then tossing it and starting again.

Having the same problem with Scorch Atlas by Blake Butler.

Have you read the new Thirst for Fire? If not, get off your putty ass and do it!

You know, Paul will not like this.

“Our greatest complaint has to do with the fact that there are those – mistresses and other such acquaintances – who, presuming on their supposed intimacy, choose in moments of endearment to address us as “snorckie” “

-Louis Zukofsky

You know, Paul will not like this. He seems to be an ass