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.

Lost Within the Kingdom of Fools

He knew he was wrong,
but he cut her
wide open.

He wanted to get
inside her,
smell her,
feel her,
see her true self,
bare and fully
exposed.

No longer
hidden
behind makeup,
perfume,
or clothes.

Her ugly secrets,
unearthed
from her soft flesh.

Just what he wanted.

Or was it?

With his sensitive soul,
weakened heart,
judging eyes,
and unfiltered mouth,
he was
unprepared.

He didn't want to cut
and gouge
so deep,
but curiosity drove him
inside her.

The point of absolutely
no
return.

Now...

He is forever
sown within her flesh,
forever reaching out
for a false freedom
he once held
so dearly.

All is lost
for the king of fools.

He has only
himself to blame.

Article On Appetite Local Hip Hop Producer

Let’s face it, the music industry today sucks piss. It’s nothing, but a decaying factory pumping out one polished turd after another. Our generation is partly to blame. We don’t want to pay for music anymore and we’ve grown accustomed to the awful sounds that flood the radio. We may even, at times, like the manure the record companies are pouring down our ears. However, those seeking authentic music shouldn’t completely lose faith. There is hope. Local talent, Appetite, is committed toward eradicating soulless pop music and producing authentic Hip Hop with a message. He is our savior.

Raised in the slums of Shoalin, Josh Mangiardi aka Appetite was encouraged by his mother to be creative. Growing up in a hippie household gave him an abundance of freedom, but not an abundance of money. He’s had to struggle and deal with frustrations on a day to day basis, which is why Punk music was so appealing to him as a youth. He related to The Misfits and Dead Kennedys’ Jello Biafra. The fuck you, I don’t give a fuck about what you think attitude is permanently cemented in his mind. He carries his rebellious mentality everywhere he goes. He brought it with him when his family moved to the west coast. Between the waves and the dunes and the angst, he discovered Hip Hop. Real Hip Hop. Cypress Hill to be exact and with a few hits from the bong, a soon to be psychedelic Hip Hop producer was spawned.

At the age of sixteen, his “step brother” Picasso, from Living Legends, showed him how to program a simple beat on a drum machine and after that he said, “the rest of my life was over.” He didn’t party. He didn’t have a normal social life. He was utterly committed to be the best. He locked himself in his room and taught himself everything there was to know about producing. Eleven years later, he is still after it. No queef sucking boss or unpaid bills or anything the “system” throws at him, can stop him from producing. He stated, “Nothing is more interesting to me than making music.” He can transcend above all the negativity, even above his own ego.

His hard work and devotion has paid off. His beats are an “elevation of the traditional style of Hip Hop.” The illest I’ve heard in too fucking long. Probably because he samples rare psychedelic prog rock records from the 70s. He chops them up, slows them down, and arranges them to perfection. What he creates is a dark and moody and strange and funky Hip Hop track that incorporates vocal samples and different time signatures. It’s fucking madness. They are obscure, intricate, complex underground gems that any artist like Elzhi or Immortal Technique would love to get their hands on. If only…

He has worked with various artists such as Army of Pharaohs, medafORACLE, and local act Public Defendaz. He refuses to work with the flavor of the month. He only wants to work with artists that have “their own message, style, and sound.” Straight raw, grimey, underground Hip Hop acts. He doesn’t care if you like his style or not. He maintains his punk attitude. He doesn’t make music for the ignorant masses. He makes music for himself. He will keep making it for true b-boys and b-girls until the mortician takes his final measurements. In the meantime, be sure to turn off your radios, scrape all of that nasty shit out of your ears, and regain your appetite for authentic music.

Listen to his mixtape “In My Mind’s Eye” @ http://hulkshare.com/qng2jdv5ptfj

Artists can contact Appetite @ g.vergoglini@gmail.com

He's the Last Person You Should Call

I sat there in the car
Looking at the dead
Sleeping beneath the earth,
Hidden away
From the burdens of life.

I wished I was at peace
With them, but
I could not get away,
I was right there
With the suffering,
With the lost,
And then,
He spoke, as usual, too much,
He told me about his friend, Antman,
About the days before his suicide.

Ant was down in his own hell,
Drowning himself in alcohol,
Trying to fend off the flames of madness,
But there was no escaping,
So he decided to face his worst fears,
Head on.

He grabbed a shovel
And stumbled to the graveyard
To dig up his son.

He had to hold him
In his arms
Once more.

He thought
It might ease
His own suffering.

He never got to find out,
The cops showed up
When his shovel hit the coffin
And took him away.

Upon release, he hit the bottle,
Hard,
But it was useless,
The flames soared.

He gave up.

He found a tree
Instead,
He also had a rope,
Which he made into a noose.
The gateway to his son
Was open…

He spoke, again,
Antman made one last call to me.
I don’t know why,
Maybe for help,
Maybe to say goodbye,
I will never know,
I let the phone grow silent.

It’s unbelievable
He can still live with himself.

He was never there
for him
or his friends,
or his family,
Especially for the person
We visited on that cold day
And when you need him most,
He will not be there
For you.

The Fantasy Drifter

There he goes
drifting off
wandering
into his own twisted thoughts.

There he goes
hiding
trying to get lost
in oblivion.

There he goes
planning
planting the seeds
of his own demise.

There he stays
sewn
inside his own
demented mind.

There he knows
no escape,
but he'll pretend
as if his footsteps
were imprinted
somewhere else,
anywhere else,
besides where his mind
wills him
to go.

There he goes,
again,
the fantasy drifter.

The Degenerate Hero Blues

I woke up to a pissed bed.
I got up half-soaked and stubbed my toe,
I think it’s broken.
I began to put on my underwear, shirt, pants, and socks,
I realized they all had bleach stains.
I left them on and went to the kitchen,
Poured myself a bowl of cereal,
A roach fell out of the box.
I picked it out and poured some milk,
It was sour.
I threw it all away including my clothes and went take my morning shit,
When I was done the toilet didn’t flush.
Then, I heard the phone ring,
So I left my bowels and answered,
It was my boss,
Don’t bother coming in to work today,
He said,
We caught you masterbating on the job.
We’ll mail you your final check.
He hung up before I could yell
FUCK YOU!
I went back to try and fix the toilet,
When I heard the phone ring again.
Hello?
It was my girlfriend.
It’s over,
She said.
She’s running off with my cousin
And yes,
He’s got a bigger cock.
I threw the phone against the wall and went back to the bathroom.
A few minutes later
A small victory occurred,
The toilet flushed,
The shit was gone,
Out of my sight
Just like my breakfast, my clothes, my woman,
And my job.
I celebrated,
Cracked open a beer,
Put on some Turbonegro
And waited for more bad luck
To creep toward my door.

I Will Become the Worm

My belly is full
of shit,
still I keep on piling
more and more
fast food,
liquor,
and other shit
on top of the shit
suffocating my belly.

My tits have grown,
they want to drag themselves
on the floor
with my feet.
My waist line has exploded,
no clothes dare
to try and stretch themselves
around it.
My belly button has vanished,
there's nothing left,
but a black hole
sinking
deeper into my core.

I wish I was there too,
hiding myself away
from the ever growing ugliness,
away from everything,
eating my own lint
and belly hair,
turning into a pathetic pale worm
that loses itself in a perfectly new flesh cave.

My new home.

That would be nice
and easy
and pleasant
and most importantly
simple,
the only way
life should be live.

One day
I will have such peace.

Everyone of you will.

I will become the worm.

The Blasphemous Pussy

There's a church across the street
and every sunday
damned souls come to pray
for their sins
and during the week
AA meetings are held,
those helpless drunks need to pray
for their sobriety.

My eyes
peering through the blinds
watch them come,
watch them go,
completely bored
and saved.

My mouth
opening for a moment,
says they are all fucked,
says they need a wake up call.

Here he comes...

He's big, black, hairy,
and nutless.
He roams the streets
without a care
and makes cars stop
and wait.
He glares, they honk,
he takes his time, licks his ass
until he's goddamn good and ready to cross the street.

He strolls through the lawn
and shits on the cross.
After, he blocks the entrance to the church
and waits
for someone to open the door.

Once he slivers inside,
piss blasts out of his furry cock
and onto the pews.

They kick him out.
They kick him out again and again.
He's a reject of the greatest proportion
and doesn't care.

That's why
there will always be a bowl of cat food
on my front porch
for you,
my good friend.