The Fag Catcher

I had an erection
because
he had an erection.

I sucked his cock.

I sucked every one of  them.

I loved cock.

I was
the gayest man
in my dreams.

I was also
a prisoner,
a brain washed slut
built for
sucking cock.

My owners were
serial killers.

They loved
the smell of
blood.

Not mine.

Hence,
why I was still
alive.

They just wanted
my mouth.

We went on like this,
they kept killing and killing
and I kept sucking and sucking,
but after awhile,
their murders
caught the attention
of the public.

In the madness,
they lost track
of their prized
cocksucker.

The chains of my mind
had somehow
dissolved
and I slipped away.

I phoned the police.

They followed me
to the house
of torture.

Inside,
my owners
were ready.

Death
was all they desired,
especially their own.

Officers ran in,
expecting the worse.

They got it.

As soon as they rammed
the door in,
they walked in on Joe
cutting off his own genitals
with a pair of scissors.

They stood motionless,
not knowing what to do,
as he stabbed away
at his neck and groin.

Before they could react,
he had put more holes
in him
than a dart board.

He was the beginning....

Next came the mother, Michele.

When they found her,
she had a gun to her head,
they tried to talk
her down.

That's when
she began to shoot
herself,
in the hand,
leg,
knee,
stomach,
heart.

One by one,
in each room of the house,
the family
dismembered
each other.

In the end,
there was nothing
worth saving.

The son, Obama,
however,
escaped.

He took me with him.

He wanted me,
my mouth.

I was his prisoner now.

His and his alone.

He led me out,
I could feel the gun
pressing
right in my asshole.

We stopped
at a river.

He proposed.

I said yes.

I, too, loved the smell
of blood.

I loved his cock
even more.

I was
the gayest man
in my dreams.

We'll Stuff Her

My aunt loves beer.

It's a rare sight,
like watching a deer eat
another deer,
to see her
without a beer in her hand.

My aunt loves death.

It's a rare conversation,
like hearing a midget talking about
dunking a basketball,
when she doesn't mention
death or dying.

She is going to die.

She tells us everyday.

She will release her bowels
and take one last breath
just like the rest of us,
except,
I don't think
it will be soon.

Seems as if
she will outlast us all.

But when
she finally does
collapse,
we will grant her
death wishes,
as promised.

She wants us to play
"Sleepwalk"
at her funeral.

Easy.

She wants us to cry
and remember
what a lunatic
she was.

Done.

She wants us to stuff
her corpse
and place a beer
in her hand.

hmmm ok?

A strange request,
but we'll comply
and prop her up
at her funeral party.

We'll celebrate
her life
with her blank staring corpse,
saying,
Cheers to you tia!

You will be deeply missed,
you crazy drunk warden!

Advice From the Deceased

She kept wanting me
to go
up there.

Over and over again,
we felt
his cold, vacant body.

He wasn't really there.

A family friend told me
to stay in my seat,
remember him
as he was
when he was alive.

I had to go.

My little sister kept dragging me.

I don't know why,
maybe she was fascinated
with death,
maybe she liked the feel
of cold flesh.

I was lost.

I was absolutely crushed.

Completely
broken
down.

I didn't want to see him
like that,
my brother,
laid out in a casket,
unsmiling,
dead.

I didn't want to.

I bet,
she doesn't even
remember.

I will never forget
for as long as I live
that we all
had to bury
such a sweet,
mischievous,
wonderful,
young
soul.

Now,
my sister's still
dragging me around.

So is everyone else.

They want me
to do this, that,
or the other.

I don't want
to do
any of it.

I'd rather
take a seat
and remember my brother,
and try to think
what he would do
in this situation.

He'd probably
tell everyone
to fuck off,
he'd probably
tell me
to stop being a pussy
and to do
what I feel
I need to do,
to get out there
and grab the world
by the balls
and not let go
till it bows to my will.

It will.

I will listen.

No more being lost,
no more fear,
no more sadness,
no more grief.

No more, no more.

Keeping the memory
of him
and his advice
hidden within
my every thought,
I'm going to set out
on the open road
and gain a lust for life
no one has achieved
since he left.

The world is fucked
for good.

Good.

It's about time I let it.

The Mourner's Tear

She's obese.

That's
putting it kindly.

Others would call her
monstrously overweight,
larger than life,
too fat for a trailer-size coffin.

When she walks
she creates
craters.

When she sits
she throws the earth
slightly
off its axis.

There's more.

She's unattractive.

Her hair is unkempt,
her teeth are rotted,
her voice,
her sight,
her smell,
all beyond hideous.

Nobody
wants to help
her.

They can't even look her
in the eyes.

As soon as she's gone,
they say the most vile things
anyone could ever say
to another human being.

They might as well
spit shit
in her face.

I feel sorry for her.

I imagine
what she goes through
everyday?

I force myself to take a walk in her shoes.

Facing myself
in the mirror
and I ask,
how do you feel?

I've finally discovered
just how cruel and bitter
the world can be.

There's no compassion
from a single person.

Why?

Has she thrown bleach in your mouth?

Has she ruined your precious popularity?

She has done nothing
besides
eat horribly unhealthy.

This is the treatment
she deserves?

Punishment
is coming to you all.

One day,
the bow of karma
will bend
and you will suffer
the same fate
as she has.

You will be obese.

Your eyelids will be fat.

Your hair will drip with lard.

You will suffer.

And you will die
from a massive heart attack
or better yet,
from choking
on a spork.

You must have thought
it was part
of your lunch.

And when you die,
the mortician
will have to
chop you up,
in order for you
to fit
in your trailer-size casket.

The mourners,
if there's any,
will have one last good laugh
at your gross face,
shedding only one tear
of joy,
before they bury
you
in frosting.

You final request
granted.

May you rest in chunks.

My Stench

There's no margin of error
for these pigs.

They are ruthless.

They are precise.

They can sniff out,
miles away,
the slightest criminal activity
with their huge snouts.

And they are
everywhere
and bored
and even worse,
they have guns
with itchy hooves.

They almost caught
my mom
once.

She claims
she doesn't remember.

The lights, the uniforms, the badges,
the pointy ears,
on the other hand,
come clear
to my mind.

Yes,
She had been drinking,

Yes,
her children were in the car.

Yes,
she probably swerved
a bit.

The pigs sniffed her out
as soon as she hit the road.

They were ready,
to take her away,
to take us away.

Just out of boredom.

One of them,
might have had
a heart
underneath all his pig fat
because
he let her
go.

It must have been
because
she had my baby sister
in her hands.

They oinked away
with their curly tails
tucked between
their tight asses.

We, somehow, made our escape.

I
should have learned
from this.

I didn't.

The pigs
sniffed me out
too.

They were not so nice.

I didn't have a baby
in my hands.

I had the stench of sin.

They took me away.

They oinked at me,
stripped me naked,
and looked in
my asshole
for food
or "contraband."

They kept me
a prisoner
in their pen.

I should have
never trusted them.

I should have ran.

I should have
stayed
unscented.

It's too bad,
I guess,
I only know how
to stink.