Christmas Anew

Christmas
Should not be for
Gifts
Or anything of material value,
Especially money.

Christmas
Should be about
Forgiving.

Mistakes
Should be overlooked,
Grudges
Should be buried in the snow,
Hate
For our enemies and ourselves
Should be burned in the fireplace.

Our flaws
Should become
Our strengths,
Our lies Should be revealed,
The truth unleashed
For all to view
Who we truly are.

Everything
Should be turned upside down
And inside out.

Our thoughts
Should be natural.
If we have lost
A loved one,
Then we should mourn them,
Tears should drop
From our hearts
Down to their graves.

If someone is treating you
Like shit,
Don't hesitate,
Give them
A mountain of shit
Back.

No questions asked.

Do what comes natural,
Do what you feel,
Don’t believe
In the Christmas spirit,
Believe In yourself
And the loved ones that surround you.

If you have no presents,
Realize that
We have each other.
If you have no one,
Realize you have
Your dreams, your life.

Forget what you want,
Avoid stores
Like you would A tornado of fire and razor blades,
Avoid what Wal-Mart
Wants you to believe.

Start Christmas anew.

One that is all your own.

Apocalyptic Preparations

I am waiting
For the end.

Every moment
Is spent
Preparing myself
For the apocalypse.

I might
Have to murder
At any second
Just for
Another second
Of survival.

Morals and religion
Be gone.

I may
Have to leave
My family behind,
Unburied and lost,
Just to survive
On my own.

So long
To all of you.

As heartless and absurd
As it sounds
I am ready
To sacrifice,
I am ready
For the unthinkable.

I am even hoping
Our annihilation
Is much worse
Than predicted.

I want to see
Skinned bodies
Lying in green rivers.

I want to smell
The feces
Of desperate cannibals.

I want to feel
Chaos
All around
And in between
Miles and miles
Of vast emptiness.

Bleak and forgotten.

I want to hunt, fight,
And crawl
My way through a miserable
Existence.

I want this
Now.

I am tired of waiting,
Preparing.

I want to kill
The weak,
To steal
From children,
To protect
What I truly love and need,
To feel
Every comfort in life
Vanish.

I am ready.

I doubt you are.

A Small Favor

My grandpa told me
About him.

Mike
Was his name.
He was my grandma’s brother,
He died young, Buzzed,
Outside of a bar,
Face, hands, and stomach
Smashed into the streets.

My grandpa and Mike
And the rest of the brothers
Would drink and drink
And talk shit,
Especially about the newest addition to the family.

Mike would say,
“I don’t care
What you guys say,
Rudy is alright with me
And I like him.”

He really appreciated
Someone standing up for him
And that Is the only thing
I know about Mike.

It makes me wonder
What will be
My only memory…

Me
Puking in my hands
And wiping it off on my pants
Like it’s rain? Me
Talking about
Weird, sexual fantasies
Involving chopping off tits
And using them As dildoes?
Maybe,
Just maybe
It will be
The dreams I tell.

I have no say
In the matter.

My only memory is yours,
May you keep it alive.
It’s the only favor I can ask of
You.

The Rosary

She Was there. The pill freak Had vanished. The vacant look in her eyes Gone. Her soul Resuscitated. This new day Gave her hope, Her happiness Gave us all hope. Life, once again, Became a blessing. Repeated, Seemingly endless Suicidal thoughts Now cleansed, Replaced By a devotion, A care, A love For herself And all of those around her. Her new outlook on life Was branded on her skin, A rosary For eternal inspiration, A permanent mark of faith That will keep Her heart, Her fight Stronger than ever.

Central Coast Music Spotlight: Guardsmen Productions

You have to be a drunk to live in “the happiest place in America.” Because anywhere you go in SLO, there’s wine. Rivers of it. And with the almighty grape, comes terrible music. There is no escaping it. Even if you get blackout drunk, the music still makes your ears wish they had a rusty knife between them. That is until, you stumble upon one of the thousands of flyers around town with Guardsmen Productions stamped on it. They’re promoting a Punk show with Agent Orange or the Exploited. At last, your ears can rejoice. You put down the blade and say to your inebriated self, hallelujah! Thank god there’s actually an outlet for the battered, bored, and broken. But who’s responsible for all of this underground music in the middle of all this happiness?
Well, Lynt will tell you who. Since 2004, it’s been Chris Sandoval that has brought Punk acts here on up through to Santa Barbara. He’s not flying solo. He’s been assisted by Kristina Kelly from the beginning until just recently, who had to leave due to personal reasons. Now, Helen Lewis has come along to give a much needed helping hand. Together, they have poured their hearts into each and every show. It’s astonishing how much effort Chris, who also happens to be a 15 yr. veteran, and Helen, who’s studying to become a registered nurse, put in just to make a show go on. They dedicate months contacting the bands, booking them, the venue, marketing the show, passing out flyers, and making sure the band gets paid in full. If there’s no turn out because of you‘re too hungover, Chris has had to hit up his own bank account to give the bands the money they deserve. He’s committed toward guaranteeing more acts will come to the CC despite all of the obstacles.
It’s not right that he has to devote his own paychecks to the scene while you’re at home spilling wine on your cardigan. If it wasn’t for Guardsmen Productions, you would have had to drive hammered 4 hours to the nearest venue to see a decent show. Chris and Helen bring them here right to your backyard. You must be grateful for this act of generosity and chance to get this up close and intimate with your favorite Punk band. If any band, mainly Punk, Ska, or Metal, you’ve been worshiping since childhood has not been here before, email Chris and he will get them here. Guardsmen are more than open to suggestions. In fact, they encourage it. Lynt encourages you to get off your happy, bored ass and quit watching reruns of Oprah. Support Guardsmen Productions. Who knows wino, you may even be able to weasel a couple of glasses of vino out of it…

The Treat

Come here my children, gather around your dear ol’ granddad. I have a story to tell. Let me pack my pipe first. The smoke makes the story come alive. Don’t mind the red eyes children, just focus on the story. The horror.
Once, when I was as young as all of you, little fuckers, I would go on adventures. You know what that is? It’s not like any of your pathetic video games, where you can die a million times and still not have a scratch on you. No. I would go out there. In the world, where there are murderers, pedophiles, and rapists. Lunatics of the worst kind. I was right there. Playing.
I would travel all sorts of places. Places little children should never ever go. For hours, I would wander around cemeteries, abandon houses, and my favorite, train tracks.
Once, on the tracks, I came across a tunnel. It was dark in there. I felt as if there was no end to it, but I was brave. A fearless warrior. I was willing to travel where there is no end. Into the unknown. Fear grabbed my feet as soon as I stepped in. I moved slowly. Cautious with each step. Then, after the light became a speck, my eyes began to adjust and my fear began to dim. I kept walking. There was graffiti on the walls. Pictures of the devil stirring a cauldron of tiny dicks and watching all of those who dared entered. The smell of dead rats filled my nose. Broken bottles were everywhere. I was lucky not to cut my foot. So I thought I was lucky. I stomped on, until I heard grunts. They were loud and frightening. Unnatural. They shook the walls. They gave my soul goosebumps.
I stopped. Not knowing what to do. Should I turn back and run away? Or stay and be brave, like I said I was? Just then, the grunting stopped. I made my decision to be brave. I continued on. Off, deeper into the endless darkness, I began to hear footsteps. They drew closer. And closer. And closer.
I saw a black mass. A shadow growing. Hair sticking out of the darkness. A face. His face. The face of all that is evil moving into the dim light. Stalking me. Forever haunting my dreams. My first instinct was to run, through the walls if I had to. Fear held me there. I was his prisoner, paralyzed, and chained to the tracks.
All of my senses were heightened, especially my nose. His smell was inescapable. Piss and booze and dried sperm clung to his clothes, his skin. Our eyes met. He laughed. His teeth were hidden. His smile twisted and growing. He stuck out his tongue. I could tell he had a healthy diet of broken glass. His breath made me gag.
He grabbed me. His hands were scarred. Bloody. He laughed again. “Good morning lil’ boy,” he said, “I have a special treat for you.” He pointed with one of his hideous hands, deeper into the tunnel. “Go!” he yelled.
His laughter followed me. I could not outrun it, but I tried. Blind and filled with dread. My eyes were desperately grasping for the end. Then, my feet hit something heavy, something terrible. I tumbled, smacking hard against the tracks. Dust rose up around me. All crept into nothingness.
When I awoke, I could sense that I was not alone. A presence was there. I went closer to it, grabbing a stick to probe the dark. It hit rocks, empty bottles, dirt, flesh. I came in closer. A woman came into view. Her clothes were ripped. Her hair was covering her face. She was frozen. Lost in sleep. I poked her again, wanting to end her dreams. She didn’t wake up.
I kept poking. It was useless, so I moved her hair around to look for a face to see if she had one. Deeper and deeper I searched, listening for a heartbeat, a breath, anything. Silence.
I touched her hair with my hands. It was so soft. I had never felt anything so beautiful, so inviting. Was this my treat? I parted her hair. There was nothing there, but skin. Her face was missing. Sickness crept over me. Nothing felt right. The world was wrong.
I looked at her neck. It was twisted. Completely deformed. I jumped back, knowing where face, imaging what he was doing to her. With her body. Defiling all beauty.
My legs could not run fast enough. There was an end. I found it in more ways than one. Shit. Kids give your grandad a beer. This story is too much for me. My memories are terrifyingly real. I need another smoke too. Jeez. This is why I don’t mind if you kids stay in doors. Please stay stuck to your computers and wander mindlessly for hours in video games. I want you to view the world from a safe and distant place. I never want you kids to experience anything as horrifying as what I just shared with you.

I Would Eat Your Ashes

I love her.
All of her.

This is not
My first love,
Not the last,
But she is all that matters.

We share many memories
Together.
I cherish the embarrassing ones:
She once
Or twice
Farted
During the heat of passion.
I drooled on her
On multiple occasions,
But she always wiped it off and I
Always pretended not to hear.

We share many similarities
Together.
I embrace the tragic ones:
She was a foster kid,
Who’s parents choose drugs
Over their child.
I was fatherless,
Abused,
Scarred.

We both are cursed.

We share many differences
Together:
She likes terrible music,
Our sense of humor is way off,
The list could go on,
But our differences
Only complimented each other,
Perfectly.

We are meant to be
Together…
Forever?

Only time and decay will tell.

Time will also tell
Who dies
First
And if it’s her,
I will be there
When she’s cremated,
I will still be
By her side
When she’s reduced to ash.
I will even
Eat
Her ashes
To let her know
That I cannot
Go on without her.

Maybe then
She will believe
My love
For her.

Haunted Desires

Every night
is cast in a blood
mist.
Every night
I gaze out
and search
and search.

The church
across the street
invites my harvesting
eyes
in
and through the mist
I imagine something
there.

I sense its
presence.

A familiar voice
calling out from the haze,
inviting me with open arms
like an unfilled
grave.

I turn away
denying the very thought
of its existence.

This must be an illusion.

He should be dead.

A frightened soul
lost in another dimension,
trying to be heard,
felt.

Maybe that's me
reaching out to him,
an illusion
I want to believe
in.

Is he there?

Every night
I find myself
gazing
out into the bloody
mist
searching and searching
for him,
wondering
if his ghost will ever
come.

The Only Thing That Should Matter In Your Life

You seek approval
like a cactus searches for water.

Your roots
are sunk deep
in the shitty thoughts of people
who will criticize
your every decision,
degrade your dreams,
hate you
until you are dead.

Yet,
their opinion matters
to you.

You should be above this
negativity,
You should be beyond
free,
soaring,
a weightless spirit
seeking absolutely nothing,
experiencing all
your heart can offer.

Desperation

The toilet flushed,
She stepped out
And headed straight
Towards the kitchen.

Out of the corner
Of all our eyes,
We watched
As she pulled out a knife
And dug its sharpness
Deep
Into her skin.

My aunt
With a newborn baby,
Got to her first.
I jumped next,
Desperately trying to save
Her life.
We wrestled the knife
Away.

The baby yelling,
Exposed
To hell for the first time
In her cursed life.

The family stood in shock.

Blood dripped
On me
As I held her.
“I don’t
Want to
Live
Anymore…”
Was all she could say.

My eyes went blind,
My ears went deaf,
My body went numb,
Her blood still dripped.

She was gone,
Her mind
A cave of madness and misery.
Her suffering
Eternal.

There was no help.
Anywhere.

She needed more than pills
Or doctors,
She needed more,
But what?

And as she got sent
To the madhouse
Again,
A helpless wave of frustration
Possessed me.

What can
I do?
What can
We do?

We are all
Asking
For a miracle.

For the first time
In my life,
I prayed for it.

The Lost Gift

I kept thinking
I’m fucking
My dead baby’s
Soul.

I had its blood
On my fingers, dick
And mouth.

I have never been so turned on…

Scared shitless.
Also.

I felt so
Unprepared to be a father.
The time was not right.
I,
We
Didn’t feel right
Which is why
The baby had to be
Flushed away.

We could not bring a life
Into this pathetic
World,
But there will be more
opportunities.

There will be a chance
For me
To become a
Father.

I hope one day
I’m ready.
I hope one day
I can be mature enough
To handle
This wonderful
Gift.

The Will Of The Shitless Queens

Be weary
of a woman who never
shits.

The miracle of her freshness,
cleanliness
is an omen.

She is saving
every bit of excrement.
Years and years
piling up
in her soul.

The day she unleashes
you will say,
I love you
for the thousandth time,
only you'll truly mean it.

You will be
her slave.
You could kill for her,
bleed for her,
die for her.

She will smile,
rip out your heart
and shit on its remains.

The true smell of her love exposed,
suffocating you nostrils,
capturing
the last breath of life.

Her mission complete.