Fireworks

Independence breeds pure stupidity
and drunkeness.

The smoke in the air
is billowing with anger.

The result
of this celebration,
is a man
kicking sand
into a child's face.

He inhales,
sand enters his lungs,
takes his last breath away.

The last glimpse of life
is the greatest sunset,
everlasting,
diminishing
before heavy eyelids.

His tragedy is marked
by explosions.

The signal
of death's arrival.

The last memories
of an unfulfilled life.

Cease Your Expectations

My ending
wasn't so bad.

A violent,
yet peaceful closure
for a cursed,
yet wonderful life.

The afterlife
is another story.

There's no happiness,
no sadness,
no laughter,
no anger,
no love,
no life,
nothing.

I'm just
a wandering soul,
drifting through
continuing lives,
watching
and waiting for an
eternal slumber
that might not ever come.

They
were all wrong.

I have long since
doubted
the presence of heaven,
of hell,
anywhere I can be held
as a prisoner
for an eternity.

Now
it's my reality.

Perhaps,
I'm contiuously searching
for a new life,
a new way back
to the living.

Perhaps,
I'll never make it.

My soul
will continue to drift
and search
until I meet the begginning
because
there is no end,
no eternal slumber,
and for all those years
I believed there was,
I wasted.

I should have lived in the moment,
instead of constantly worrying
about my future.

I should have,
I should have,
I should have...
forever
ceased my expectations.

Execution

The plan
was laid out
in a manner
of seconds.

There was no loopholes,
no escape.
It was perfect
through and through.

The perfect plot
for a murder.

I was going to kill him.
My hallucinatory mind
was set on it.

He was a dead man
trying
to mock the living.

His words,
his actions,
his presence
managed to irritate me
this much.

I felt,
in between
the toilet growing
and my skin melting,
the overwhelming urge
to strangle the life out of him
and bury him
in the woods.

He had to suffer.

He had to die.

I was his
executioner.

The Best Fucking Albums of 2011

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An Unmarked Grave

Forgiveness
Had its face bashed in
By a cold hammer.

But that was a long time ago.

Its been placed
On a cold gurney
Since then.
Only now they are hauling it off.

It’s finally
Taking its last trip
To the morgue.

No one stares,
No one mourns,
No one weeps,
No one cares,
They don’t have time to.

They have
Much better things to do
Like being stubborn,
Holding grudges,
Fixating their thoughts
On all that’s wrong,
Being selfish,
Being pissed off
For many years,
For reasons that always slip away.

No one bothered
with the funeral.

They threw it
in a shallow grave,
Face down.
Buried it,
And left
for the worms.

There’s no marker.

No need.

Everyone will just keep on living
Like they always have,
As if
Nothing has happened,
As if
Forgiveness
Never existed.

　

　

I am a Failure

Every time I drop acid
There seems to be
A woman about
With 4 or 5 men
Following behind.

On most of these trips,
I, unfortunately,
Am one of these idiots.

Combine these elements
And what you’re left with
Is a man
Confused and frustrated.

Just the way she planned.

When the hallucinations
Have gone away,
When my mind’s utterly exhausted,
A revelation
Appears
In a cold, black shadow
And settles in my wounded heart.

The only escape
From this torment
Is to avoid women
At all costs.

That’s exactly
What I’ve been
Trying to do
Since my last trip
And not once
Have I succeeded.

I am forever
Fucked.

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.