Neurotic Erotica - THINGS TO DO WITH A...A LETTER TO PENTHOUSE

Dear Penthouse,

Hi!

How are you?

I am fine, thanks for asking.

This is my third time writing you, my second time placing said letter into envelope and my first time actually putting it into the mailbox!

Email?

What's that?

Anyways, I am sitting here, at 8:08 pm on October 2nd, 2018, the laptop is in my lap and you know what is on my mind!

Playing a game of Hello Kitty Adventure Island!!

Yay!!

Sex?

Mama told me sex leads to all kinds of problems, like anal bleeding and warts, who needs that!!!

I imagine sex feels like rubbing your pee pee with sand paper and then throwing some vinegar on it.

My Uncle Clint, he lost his penis to sex.

He was just laying there minding his own business.

In a woman's bed that wasn't his wife.

Aunt Tilda storms in, breaking down the door and shoots old Uncle Clint in the penis, straight as a bird flies sober, like my mama says.

And the doc, old Doc Smith, just couldn't save it, Aunt Tilda used some buck shoot, done split the pee pee ten times to Sunday.

That's when I learned that a man's penis is very sacred to him cause old Uncle Clint just started crying and sobbing when Doc told him, WE CAN'T SAVE YOUR WILLY WHACKER!!!

So anyways, it ain't too bad being a virgin at 49.

Mama says I'd be a horrible daddy anyways.

Anyways, that's my letter, hope you like it,

Your friend in Jesus,

Hank

MISERY LOVES COMPANY - A POEM

MISERY LOVES COMPANY

A POEM

You don't know,
That feeling deep inside,
The one that makes you,
Cry without the tears.

And the seas were crying,
For life,
And the wind howled
For you,
To see the sun come rising up,
The misery of  life itself,
Coming up from the gallery.

And the sun sets on it all,
When the darkness comes a calling,
Will we see the light?

The howling of the misery,
Falling from the grace,
Tell the night to hold me,
To make it all seem right.

And the world keeps dancing on,
And on,
And on,
And my misery,
Keeps laughing in its face.
And when the morning sun is rising,
We'll be found,
Dancing in her grace.

Every day is a blessing,
A betterment of life,
Even when you're down,
You have to stand to see the sun,
A rising in the sky.

AND IN THAT END, WE HEARD THE SHOTS - A Poem

A new reality, there inside my mind, whispers in the wind, a new secondary life, swept among the rapids of society, tossed away, thrown away, giving up on, freedom is just a phase.

2029 - All human life is estranged.

"Where are we now?" cried the masses, one by one, trying to see out of the train.

There were no answers.

"We the people..."

We are machines, plowing through the dirt, the earth, to return to that earth, someday.

We all fear that day, constantly looking over our shoulders, marching to that end, step by step, the wind blowing into our face, slowing our ventures.

"March!" the guns pressed into our back.

There, into the Grace of God, we go, to line up against that wall, our shame, our blood, to be spilled on the ground, shot down as animals, to hear that last roar, the bullets ripping into our flesh, we are called dogs, we are called animals, but still we stand tall.

We feared that this day would come soon.

We were warned that it would come soon.

But we dared not listen, to fear, that end, to slip into the sweet waters and drown our fears, to be held by that river's embrace, no man could harm us, no man dared.

None of God's children could be slaves.

We were free.

We could not be sad here, in this place, a refuge from the cursed war, but here, we stood, against a hard, cutting wall, the soldiers, glaring, sneering, their rifles raised.

This was the end.

"Ready..."

The Sargent called out.

Some of us cried.

Some closed their eyes; to hope and pray, to wake from this nightmare.

Others held their heads high. 

"We shall meet again..." old men said, trying to calm the others.

"Aim..."

The end was close; near, our blood, oh God, save us from this fear.

"Soon!" a voice said, there, in our mind.

"Fire!"

And in that word, we heard the shots fired and then nothing...

LIFE AND TIMES OF A DRUNK - a bar hopper's tale

Notes - inside, that place, we see the world spinning, faster, faster, highly revolving through space,
TIME,
A smoke at the bar, 1987, drinking gin, with ice, cold, drunken ramblings with some bar wench.

Her name is Sally.

She's 42, lifeless eyes, dancer in her mind, working on an ulcer, diseases unheard of by the religious minds.

Two more rounds, we'll need em.

Jack is dying, born dying.

I'd call him.

"It's me, Ward..."

We stand, Sally and I, head to restroom, stall, I lift her skirt, drop her panties.

I feel her hands unzip my pants.

This is Heaven.

This is Hell.

I wake up, how'd I get home?

Sally's lying naked next to me.

Her deep red lipstick smeared over her face.

I stand, stumble, damn fucking hang over.

Make it to the bathroom, toilet is my friend, I pay it in kind by throwing up.

Out there, in the city, people are still asleep.

I very rarely sleep, Ive tried, to close my eyes, shutdown my mind.

Wait.

Who writes the tales??

Jack was dead, dying, trying to live, was he even born??

Fly on the wall.

Shit.

I had to be at work.

Or was I fired two days ago??

Glance at my phone, 12 unanswered emails, all from WORK, I click fuck it and head back into dreamless slumber.

I wake up to the smell of bacon.

Eggs.

Coffee??

Maybe I died and this is Heaven?

Sally is aglow, hung over, but aglow.

"Morning lover!" She smiles.

Grumble.

Bar time, I put on my coat.

"No breakfast?" She pouts.

I shrug. "I need gin..."

Solo drifting through dirty streets, wandering past daytime zombies and the nighttime wrecks heading to who knows where.

Another day.

I sip my first drink.

The fifth I down.

"Troubles?" The bar tender asks.

"Not a one..." I lie and down three more.

NATIONAL PRIDE AND THE BUILDING OF A DREAM SET ASIDE - Fiction?

A nation so divided even on the simpliest of simple ideas cannot stand for long.

Even this thought, those words, could be decreed as being traitous to that which is held holy, national pride.

National pride can be corrupted into hatred for those outside the defined box within that nation, to be placed in a defined enemy of the state because of the colors of your eyes.

Religion, its own dividing rod, can be used to hate, even when that religion is based on peace and love.

We, the people, divide ourselves based on point a, then, point b and on and on until we shatter into billions of shards, to cut, to bleed, those who come in our footstep, to further divide the future.l, into blight.

Instead of building a better future, we destroy it, wars, famine, disease, hatred.

Instead of building that path to a glorious future, we build walls, we shut our eyes and bathe in madness.

We create our own madness, letting our cups over run with it, killing in the name of Jesus, Amen!

We march.

Our children march.

And on and on, for that nation, which gave us our lives, we kill, we die, in hope that we are right.

No more death, we hope, that war to end all wars, but then, the next one comes, new ways to kill, each side thinking they are right, a national pride.

Is it wrong to have pride?

No, but how do we know which side, if either, is right?

My country is my country but there is so much more, out of our reaches, from our sight, we shall never see, unless we drop, some of that national pride.

Again, these words could be construed as traitous, to be executed by that mob who screams in national pride.

One world, one hope.

I know it is all a dream, a fantasy, but maybe someday, that dream could be realized.

Everything has worth - even a turd!

I walk the streets of a rich, artsy neighborhood.

Trust kids writing and painting, Ive moved up from my living under a tree days.

There's still homeless people, even though our President and his supporters say the job market is doing great.

I was homeless.

I had a job.

I was making 800 bucks.

Rent was 900.

So there I was, homeless.

I was still writing, drinking beer, as a way for sleep.

Everyone wonders why the homeless drink.

How else do you fall asleep when you're too scared to fall asleep?

I have a house now, a condo, but not because of anything our government has done or hasn't done.

I remember, everyone is 1 misstep from becoming a homeless reject.

People see you as trash when you are homeless.

No one is trash.

Everyone has worth.

Even a turd.

Everyone, even the rich, are one step away from being in that place, homeless.

To be screamed at, GET A JOB, even though you have one.

I wish people would remember, everyone has a worth.

A LATE NIGHT RAMBLING - A RANDOM POEM

A LATE NIGHT RAMBLING - A RANDOM POEM

Sitting on the corner,
A dirty street,
Lies burned into the TV screen
Called the evening news.
Five shot dead;
Sad smiling face,
Children of the street,
Homeless,
Sad smiling bright face,
News man shuffles his white sheets of paper,
Two more dead,
Tragic,
Heroic deeds by someone's sister,
Brother,
Who knows,
On to the weather,
Sunshine in rich,
The poor get rain,
It seemingly is the rage

I decide to erase my brain,
Start over,
Reboot the ignorance,
Watch the moon explode into space,
Rejection, that word sprayed across my face,
Communists smoking marijuana, 1983,
Before the senile oafs we call Senators made it such a craze.
Corporate rape,
Rage,
Eating eggs off buttered toast,
Now, don't give a shit,
1998,
It all changes,
Does it?
Fuck it,
There's a train,
A train for change?
No one knows,
Nor do they care,
It's the new craze,
Jump on board,
Jump in front of.
Beating of the drum,
In rhythm with the brain,
Thump,
Thump,
Drum,
Dump.
Dumb
The pump don't work,
Somebody stole the handle,
The key use to be under that rock,
But damn if they didn't take that too!

When it pisses,
We call it rain,
OH happy day,
The flowers say,
It finally begins to,
What the shit is this?

Hero in the streets,
An angry fix there,
Walter killed himself,
A day before he turned 25.
A rainy day indeed,
The sheets,
Bloody and torn,
Ripped,
Riped?
Blood clinging to the wall,
Should have hanged himself,
Mother is in denial,
Father does not weep,
Sister ran away from home.
Can't sleep,
Too damn many waves,
Trains,
Screaming through my brain.

Whispers in the night,
Weeps,
Tears,
Bottles poured into mouth,
Vomit out the pain.
Senses dulled,
Removed from any sense of reality,
Shame that next day!

Cast out the demons,
The preacher preaches,
Rotten peaches,
Smelling like dead babies in a steaming jungle,
Screams in erotica,
Cast out visions of orgasmic death scenes
On that TV,
Mother lies,
Father lies,
Whole families lie in wait,
A crystal blank face,
Drink to kill that pain
To feel nothing but a breeze of a fly's wings.
Insanity?
Better to be insane
Than right with the sane mob,
Killing all the differences.

Sing,
To herald the light,
To banish that darkness,
Outside,
Scream,
End scene.
FADE TO BLACK

THE HOMELESS GUIDE TO LIFE, THE UNIVERSE AND EVERYTHING IN BETWEEN - Chapter one

 THE HOMELESS GUIDE TO LIFE, THE UNIVERSE AND EVERYTHING IN BETWEEN

Video - Johnny Cash - Hurt

Dedicated to open fields and open beers, and a girl we shall call Martha!

Note to the dear reader(s) - Back in the summer of 2017, I, your dear author, spent a little over a month homeless.

I was pretty damn lucky, had some friends who let me crash at their place when I first lost my dearly departed parents' house to the big bad wolf (or state, matters who tells the story - a long story deserving its own book and movie starring Tom Cruise as me!!!)

The windows were the air, the floor was the soft grass(weeds) under a roof of a large tree's branches covering my head in a place I called Camp Bob.

It was a good place to lay down a tarp on the ground, to lie there and stare up into the night sky, watching the stars do their dance as I drank a few beers I had bought from the grocery store I worked at as a cashier.

Yes, my dead reader, I had a job, it paid enough for a life of beer, chicken and donuts.

Luckily, this was in the summer, little rain and very few fellow "campers" (besides myself, there was not a soul at the small park I called home).

I was a king in a land of tall weeds and deranged geese who guarded me from the bogey man who lurked at 3 in the morning, howling wildly and snarling at my guardians.

I started a journal, as I sat at the steel picnic tables scattered through the area.

And maybe someday, I will try to finish this "guide" to not just the homeless life, but my life in general.

In this section of my life, I learned that even as a homeless grocery store cashier, I wasn't even close to the lowest pits of Hell, there were others worse off than me; families with small children wandering the streets looking for shelter, a bit of food.

Folks who mere weeks ago had a home, a roof over their head, like me, who had just hit a huge bump in the road.

There are resources out there for folks but there are many folks in that situation I found myself in and not enough resources to go around.

Contrary to popular belief, the land of milk and honey just doesn't have enough honey let alone milk so there are long, almost to infinity waiting lists.

I bought some food for people, I was lucky I could do that; give a shirt out of my backpack so a person would have something to wear; even helped a man find work and get back to higher ground before the flood of despair drowned him.

I guess things happen for a reason; today I found myself at a higher level, but I will always remember, we are all just one step away from falling from our place, to land under a tree.

Enjoy!

A NOTE FROM AUGUST 2ND, 2017 as written in the original "Black Book"

Dear reader, my loyal friend, it is August 2nd, a lovely Wednesday.

I was going to make this a diary of sort; daily musings of my life's little adventure but I slacked a bit.

Someday, I'll settle into my chair and type from memory the thoughts.

The first three chapters of this thing called the Homeless Life are jotted down as they happened, life in camp, the darkness my friend, my pen that sword to keep me sane.

I may end up and fill in the pieces later; such as meeting Jesus who was on a quest to find and retrieve his stolen guitar.

It was stolen in Utah from his broken down van.

It made its way to a pawn shop in Billings, Montana

Jesus sold water to dumb tourists to get the money to buy a bus ticket to the bus terminal in Butte, Montana where I got to meet him and to become a character in my book, a figure in my memories!

~CHAPTER ONE~

Dear reader,

You may be asking yourself,

"How do I become homeless? It sounds fun, like camping, except no mountain streams and the beer is warm!"

And boy would you be correct!!!

I am currently homeless.

I have a job but find myself without a roof.

Who needs a roof?

Or a bed?

Or a toilet or shower?

The world; oh dear lovely world, is your toilet.

Or, if you shy, there are always public restrooms.

Public restrooms are a god send to the homeless.

You need to take a poop.

They can also double as a makeshift wash station.

The dollar store is also a homeless person's best friend.

Every thing is one dollar.

You can easily pan handle a few bucks.

Tell people your car broke down and you need a new kidney or your children will die over in Iraq.

No, you don't need to have kids.

Adopt some.

Welcome to the world of being homeless.

I went to the dollar store and bought a cheap tarp for ground cover.

I learned quickly that the ground is cold and hard.

Icky bugs crawl on the ground.

At some point in your first days outside, you'll hit a point where you'll collapse, right there on the ground.

(Added note by the author - my collapse point was three days.  72 hours of no sleep, going to work for 8 hours a day as a cashier, made me into a delusional poet.)

You'll wake up with a worm crawling out of your nose.

Then, my friends, you'll care.

Nothing says "I'm f*cking homeless!!" than laying there at 2:30 in the morning fearing the boogeyman is out to get you.

Don't worry, there's nothing to worry about except being raped, murdered and/or being eaten.

Piece o cake! 

INFORMED INSANITY - A POEM TO READ IN A CLOSET WHILE THE DEVIL STEALS YOUR BUILDING BLOCKS

INFORMED INSANITY - A POEM TO READ IN A CLOSET WHILE THE DEVIL STEALS YOUR BUILDING BLOCKS

Worm wood,
 Drifting distant minds,
Left to the corner, sleeping in a pile of leaves,
Whispering loves across the lines,
In rapture,
In sleaze,
Ease?
O to see,
That sea,
Across the line,
In a time,
Ripples in the cosmic lake.

Tome,
A word involved in a battle,
Witless mimes?
We could not see without our eyes,
To not hear the boisterous voices,
In a shaded room,
A nurse comes in,
Can she take my pulse?
Can she?
She can!

Oh madness,
That sadness in my mind,
To dream of insane,
To day, to week, to whatever the hell it is.

I wish to scream,
But no mouth do I have,
I wish to see,
But no eyes do I have

In time,
The distance decreases,
To a better,
More horrid place,
Random drawings,
On the desk,
Drawn in red,
Blood,
Shit,
Drool,
Whatever it is.

I was cursed,
Before I was birth,

Followers inside my brain,
Digging out the memories,
Too horrible to remember,
To know what is not known,
To see what should not be seen,
To say goodnight one last time,
In Heaven's name,
Cursing the stars,
The darkness,
To sleep,
To not wake,
Trying to wake up from this nightmare,
Is this a dream?
Or is this reality?

Never sure,
Where am I,
In reference to time and space.

Lights,
Darkness,
Break apart,
This is not living,
This is just existing,
Onward,
Downward,
Someone just threw me a shovel and said dig.

The voices in my head,
To scream,
To feel that pain,
To be released,
From this misery.

Darkness does cover my eyes,
To unsee,
To fall asleep,
Fresh misery,
A bullet,
Screaming through my brain,
To end this nightmare,
This life,
Not worth a nickel,
Not worth the price of a pin.

Broadway and Filth: A Poem

Broadway and Filth - A Poem in the middle of the night

Eyes wide shut,
Against the breaking haze
Of another brutal day.

We did not feel,
The pain,
Broken glass against our skin.

Broadway and Filth,
There was a time,
I could see the forest through the trees,
See the tears falling in the rain,
Today I feel,
Not a thing,
Not even from the slice,
From that blade,
Across my wrist,
Another day,
Wishful thinking of not waking up,
Again,
To arise to another day.
To live,
To breathe,
To see,
To feel,
Live,
Love,
Die,
The sighs,
In broken winds,
To see the breaking of the day,
Stuck here,
Inside my brain,
Thinking about this,
That,
When?
Where?
To see,
The end,
A beautiful thing,
In reality,
To kiss the burning flesh,
To preach that which you hate,
Feel,
Cut the skin,
To see if you still feel,
A midday nightmare,
Flashing on the TV screen,
That which is the mind.

The mind creeps away,
Wishing to see the world,
Insanity?
Bliss in the margins?
Do not open,
Do not shake,
Do not waste your breath on moralizing tales!

Reach out,
Scream into the night,
Rage,
Forget,
See not that which does not matter,
Live!

To return to the beginning of the end,
To sing in harmony,
To laugh,
To love,
To live,
To die,
To be that which gives all,
To be...

THE DEAD DO NOT DO - A POEM

An empty soul,
Standing on the corner,
Broadway and Fifth,
Somewhere,
Who cares where.

We are traveling down,
That thing called life,
Misery loves company,
Romance, love,
A mythical beast,
What and where it is,
No one knows.

Jim died last night,
Grasping at straws,
Holding on to shattered dreams,
Wondering where he went wrong.
Jesus laughed,
Fruit less in the trees,
Little past midnight,
A rainy eve indeed.

We all wept,
For it is the proper thing to do,
When hearing of a death,
But we weep for ourselves,
For they are without loss,
The living are with the pain,
To weep,
To cry,
For which the dead do not do.

I am fine, thanks for asking - a Journal Entry!

01/29/2018 ----

Dear diary,

How are you?

I'm still the same.

I keep wondering why I keep going; it would be just easier to lie down in the tall grass and just not wake up; stay in dream land.

Some people, it seems, have a natural tendency to keep going, cheerfully whistling as they walk down this thing called life, not a care in the world.

Me; I'm an angry hissing cat with a baseball bat, swinging at those who come within striking distant.

Apparently this is against the law but damn it, you see me with baseball bat, hissing at the world and swinging said bat, you should see the warning signs and back the hell away.

Some days, I don't even get out of bed, I throw the blanket over my head and lay there; the TV blaring some informercial as I play "Fuck you world; come back another day!"

**INSERT RANDOM VIDEO HERE FOR YOUR CONSIDERATION**

I don't really want to fuck the world; not that way, I think that would be painful, awfully painful.

But who knows, tomorrow will probably change; moods seem to have that way of working out; going fast forward happily and then stopping hard; reversing course and well, hello sadness my ole friend, how are you today?

"sad!"

I'm sitting, trying to write out the negative; throw some positive to the wall to see if it sticks; it kinda does.

Hello, how are you?

I am fine, thanks for asking.

Good night my dear friend; we will speak again tomorrow!

01/18/2018 – WHERE ARE YOU IN REFERENCE TO TIME AND SPACE – A RANDOM WRITE

Life; in shallow husks of amber tides, drifting over the memories of a different life, so far away but still close enough, to open old wounds thought healed.

As distance grows, memories fog, dreams are only images foggy in unclear waters casting off in falls over broken cliffs made of broken glass; her face still youthful as I grow old in the passage of time in the mirror.

I smash it hard with my fist; cut the flesh with the glass, blood drips down into the sink.

I think; it is time to write, something, anything, to the clouds, mishaps, to the darkness outside; I sit here, trying to think, to begin, the words trying to drift from my fingers; if only for a pen, I would put to paper, and set it aflame, but here I sit, typing, pecking at the keyboard, my mind a blazed with thoughts; Dot the Is and cross the Ts, poetry; madness at 3 AM, it comes at this time; distant thoughts; random thoughts; I should turn on the TV.

Where in time am I?

I had a doctor ask me that once; “Where are you, in reference to time and space?”

Seriously, I could not answer him; seriously.

I know the year; it’s 1812!

I kidded.

I hadn’t been born by then; 2948 was my official date of cloning but alas, that wasn’t the correct answer either; apparently I was in time; 2015, a October day, I believe, though it was not cold or the leaves had not begun to change so perhaps it was a different month.It wasn’t 1812.

It could have been May; the darling buds of May; the winds do shake them or so I was told; I was in high school, memorizing the passages of darling buds of May; henceforth a love done lost, to wishes and dreams unlived; is not that reality better to live, to breathe, to see, to feel that heart break then never to have loved before?

What light?

I was asked; “Where are you in reference to time and space?” by the school counselor when I was a young lad.

Apparently people in my life ask me that.

I think.

I ponder.

No answer will suffice; they will write he is lost to that embrace he received; that sweet kiss the first time, though, now, I think it was not sweet, but like slimy eggs; fried.

I was 10; that first kiss, she was 9.

Under a great pine; right out front in my yard, she took my hand, held it tight; we kissed.

Was she my first love?

I cannot say; a first kiss, yes, first love; I do not know.

Still I type; keys, fingers, memories, shorelines, follows, distant skies trance into my mind; I shall end with this line: Where are you in reference to time and space?

Good night!

Jack Kerouac: Where are you now? A retrospect of my life in words and music.

JACK KEROUAC: Where are you now? 

A Retrospect of my life in words and music

by

Dr. Andre Costello

The world begins to slowly move away from the body, traveling through space, time is a different matter.

The lady at the bar laughs and pours us another drink, in the name of humanity.

"War is not an option?"

A statement?

She didn't exactly know.

We stood up and she disappeared into the setting sun.

The sun, a blazing orb of yellows and reds, burned my skin but into the desert we went, my head held high and the body rejoiced in delightful agony of pain, running from the feet, up the spine and into the brain.

July 12th, 1993: Angie is dying, one minute at a time, as we all do.

She did it exceptionally well.

Hagus De Morus, trapped spirits on this world, overlooked a dreadful mass of humanity, the villains of the world; tax lawyers, used cars salesmen, angry youth trapped in globs of human waste trying to swim upstream like broken salmon.

"Here we should give up!" she once more appeared and said, smiling.

I had wanted to give up miles before, days in.

She wouldn't let me.

We did not see the setting sun, as the world ended behind us, one minute at a time.

Jack Kerouac, where are you now?

Trapped in some shitty after life, writing about the cause and effect of madness on the road with some long dead hooker who we never learn represents our mothers, our daughters, our sisters, our nieces, the long lost love inflection we met in high school but never had the balls to ask her out?

Are we the same way, different time? 

Did we see the setting sun against the dying of humanity, or are we just mad, insane, completely utterly, sitting on the street corner watching the dogs and fights and the fucks and the loves?

"Cigarette?" the executioner asks.

I shake my head no.

"Good, those things will kill you!" he says smiling through broken teeth, rotting flesh falling from his face, to gather on the ground.

I bought a ticket, someplace, any place, the madness of my mind, my eyes, seeing the world as a twisted mold of disease and war, the painted hookers of 7th Street disappearing from my view as the bus hit the highway.

Gary, the lover, the fighter, the writer, was dead, in the ground, killed by society, drug of choice, life, a killer, no one gets out alive.

I tried to find my way back to that "other life" where I was happy, floating above humanity in a balloon, sky high, now, here in the blood, the mud, shit of society, looked down upon by those high up, those not realizing that some day soon they too could be down here.

The highway kept moving forward, pulling us down the line, further apart from the lovers, closer to the edge, the cliff, would we go over in a blazing ball of fire.

TO BE CONTINUED...OR NOT!