It’s A Sin, Y’know

It’s a beautiful night in Lorain,
The moon full in a cloudless sky,
It waits for me with patience,
Like a spider waits for a fly
I run from Death, screaming,
Heart racing from fear,
Legs tremble with exhaustion,
I know the penalty’s severe,
Death’s hand grabs my shoulder,
It’s scythe slices off my head,
My soul sinks lower, lower
Where I go fills me with dread
I’m down here with Hitler and Dahmer,
Where all the monsters dwell,
I’m smokin’, and burnin’ and screamin’
Cos I downloaded Bat Out Of Hell

Darkness Envelopes Me

Impenetrable blackness envelopes me
My sight is pure, yet I cannot see
My heart is shadowed
My soul painted black
Immersed in darkness
Light I do lack
Depression commands me
Rage consumes me
Anger rules me
I am not in control
Like the song
The epileptic sings
Ah! Light!Come find me!
I eagerly await thy embrace!
I am lost!
I am lost!
Here in the darkness
Here in my living Hell
Here in my home
Where art thou Light?
Where art thou Love?
Where art thou Happiness?
Why hast thou forsaken me?
Find me fast
Find me Quick
Before the blood
Begins to shed

I Am Heavy With Child



Tasty, though.





Is This What Is Meant When Speaking Of Run On Sentences?

They had saved up for their honeymoon to Paris, and a down payment on a three bedroom house on Captains Drive in Westlake, Ohio. A beautiful red brick mansion located in the best neighborhood. It was expensive, but, they would get through the first lean years knowing that their children, of which they had planned to have many, would be in a good, and safe, neighborhood. Somewhere they can grow up with dignity, and respect. Somewhere Tom, and, Sarah had wished they’d grown up. They didn’t want their kids to know the life of living in a poor neighborhood. The drunks, the fights, and lately, the sound of gunfire. They didn’t want their children to experience the leeched kaleidoscope of living poor.

Houses with peeling paint, cracked foundations, mildew, walls so thin you can hear the Rafferty’s fuck two doors down, weeds, broken shingles, termite infested porches, cockroaches swarming to party when the lights go out, kids with lice infested heads, adults with crab infested crotches, black lungs, enlarged hearts, spotty livers, cold wombs, flaccid cocks, toilets that flush whenever they damn well please, that clog always when you take a shit, never when you piss, pipes that freeze in the mildest of winters, roads with potholes so huge you could swim in them when the summer rains began, sidewalks that disintegrate as you walk , garbage strewn everywhere, bringing rats the size of wolfhound pups, rabid raccoon’s, feral cats, and dogs, the street waking to the wail of police sirens in the middle of the night, hearing the squalls of wives, and children as they are put in their place by drunken men, loud music blaring at all hours, screams of pain, of laughter, the slap of leather on flesh, the shrieks of I hate you, hate you, hate you, in a street populated by tough men, hard women, working their fingers to the bone, working each and every day, their faces craggy, weathered by stress, by life, the lines, and wrinkles a map of misery, and defeat, whose spirit is leeched of future and promise, who argue and fight with fury and fervor, who holler, hiss, demean, belittle, condemn, hit, punch, kick, scratch, and later go to bed filled with hate, resentment, and loathing, their thoughts of leaving, moving out, their dreams of accidents and murder festering within, scarring their souls, marking them for a place in Hell, their passion for violence exhausting all else, so they fuck without love, without passion, they fuck because the power has gone out yet again, and the television won’t work, so they fuck, for something to do, to take their minds off the drudgery, and heartache, and the wife doesn’t even feel her husband ejaculate, it’s feels as if he just barely trickles his seed in, spent before he even enters her, no love on his face, just sheer concentration on getting the job done, joyless fucking, numb copulating, mandatory missionary when the power goes out, the wife laying there trying some attempt at passion, but it is fruitless, and she is filled with sadness, lamenting her untouched breasts, and when the husband grunts, and rolls off her, snoring within a few seconds of the act, she immediately grabs the box of tissues sitting on the bedside table, furiously grabs a huge handful, shoves them up her deadened vagina which hasn’t been worshiped in years, praying to God that the tissues soak up his seed, beseeching her eggs to hide from the onslaught of sperm, not wanting another child, too many already, not enough money, not enough food, not enough, not enough, and she clambers out of bed, duck walking to the bathroom, keeping those tissues in, soaks a washcloth in hot, soapy water, pulls out the tissues,and maniacally scrubs, praying, gasping, sobbing, and when she is done, she takes out her hairbrush, and, with the handle, finishes herself off because her husband never has, because he’s too tired, she’s too tired, everyone in the neighborhood is too fucking tired, their backs bent from the weight of it all, trying to make a life for their kids, trying to make something out of nothing, but, life kicks them hard, and kicks them harder when they’re down, and it becomes more difficult to get back up, because they are tired, so fucking tired, because their bones ache, their joints ache, their head aches, the pain sometimes unbearable, and getting out of bed to face another day of dull, joy leeching life is a challenge because they are so tired, so, so, fucking tired, that all they want to do is go to sleep and not wake up, all they want to do is die, but they struggle back up, for the kids, always for the kids, that’s what keeps them alive, working for a pittance, for the children, who will be cursed to repeat the cycle of despair, unless your parents have a determination to break the cycle, to raise their hands to the sky, and scream ENOUGH! to the gods, who straighten their backs, hold their heads high, and walk unbowed, resolute in their path to a better life for their kids, who will brook no interference, who will be united in their stand against life and it’s burdens, who will push against adversity, stomp on hopelessness, and shit on misery. Tom and Sarah had such parents. Tom and Sarah were lucky that way.

Addiction stole that luck away.


Walter Wurx looked in the mirror, and saw someone else.

It’s not me, he thought, with a pang of sadness. It looks like me, but, how did I get so old? I don’t remember growing up.

Everything was a fog. One second he was young, in school, the next he was an adult living in a bedsitter, which made him think of bed-wetter, which made his bladder spasm, which made him hurry to the toilet, which made him dribble a little in his pants, which made him sob with frustration.

How did this happen? Where did my life go? Why can’t I remember my Mum and Dad? Why does the world seem so strange, so different? He had dreamed of 2-D landscapes, a flat world, a black and white life with a bottomless bladder full of piss.

Back at the mirror, Walter stared at his strange face. Does the mirror lie? Am I that haggard? Do my eyes water that much? Is my nose that red? He looked shell shocked, and melancholy. Who are you? What are you doing here? Why are you here?

“Oh, I wish I knew who I was! Everything’s so confused!”

“You are a fictional character in a comic called Cheeky Weekly. You are a joke, an amusement for the masses. Cheeky was one of those bastards who was always popular with the crowd. Mean, and derogatory, small minded, picked on the weak, like you, Walter. When you were around he would always make some pun, or joke about urinating, imply gushing, waterfalls, leaks, and it would affect you greatly. You were usually drawn in hilarious fashion, with your eyes crossed, your legs crossed, hands crossed over your crotch. Readers laughed, guffawed with delight, almost pissed themselves, which made them giggle even more.”

A creature made of bubbles appeared behind the other Walter in the mirror.

Walter pissed himself from the fright.

“Who the hell are you, then?”

“I’m Mr Bubbles. I give three wishes. You have two left.”

“I-oh-you mean I can be normal? No more weak bladder if I wish it?”

“Your weak bladder defines you. It is your character. Without the weak bladder you will become…uninteresting, boring, as funny as a BBC2 documentary on the chemical reaction of bleach on a dirty floor. You will still have to….work, though. You are admired in specialized circles for your golden showers, and your dedication to the world of urine erotica, your determination to one up your competitors. Even now Mr Fual is calling up certain friends remarking in your utmost professionalism. You now are able to up your price. But, if you so wish, I can now stop you wetting the bed.”

“Yes, yes, wouldn’t that be marvelous? I might be able to go out, socialize, get a girlfriend.”

Walter knew he could never go to a pub, or a club, not with his damnable affliction. Wearing pull ups does not make you a desirable object of desire, and it’s not like he could have a woman over in this miserable dump, nor could he go to her place, not while he still wet the bed, not while he pissed himself like a little boy. And, that’s the crux right there. Little boy. He could not comprehend how he got from little boy to great big man, without any memories whatsoever.

He did have sex once in a while, but, mainly with women who were regulars in the small circle of those with a urine fetish. Pissers can’t be choosers, he thought.

“A wish could get you a girlfriend.”

“That’s rape. No-I wish-“

“Before you waste that precious wish, may I make a suggestion?”

“What is it?”

“Kegel exercises. They are very helpful for weak bladders. When you are urinating, try to stop mid flow, then begin urinating again, then stop. Keep that up every day, and eventually your bladder will strengthen. It does seem to work.”

“Work means just that, work, and I do enough work. I wish my bladder to function normally. How’s that?”

“Done. You will never wet the bed again, unless you go out on a bender, in which case, all bets are off.”

“Thank you, Mr Bubbles! Thank you!”

“Last wish?”

“Oh, I wish everything was back to normal. I-“

“Can’t be done. Out of the question, I’m afraid. And, even if it could be done, think about what that entails, Walter. You would go back from whence you came, Cheekly Weekly. You would be ink on paper. Sometimes crude, hastily drawn, sometimes way in the background of a small panel, barely perceptible. And all everyone would do when they see your red, googly eyed, furiously sweating, panic stricken face was laugh until they cried, chortle at the kid with the weak bladder, the kid who just cannot handle any words that pertain to any liquid, the kid who, though not drawn in any panel explicitly, but it is alluded to, is deftly implied, pisses himself every day, and night. You want to go back to that, Walter? You’re continent, now. You are free in a sense. You can go out and have fun, Walter. Think of it. Fun! When was the last time you had that, eh?”

When I was young, he thought. When I was a little boy.

“Why can’t everything go back to normal, if I so wish it?”

He won’t let me.”

“He? Who?”

“God, formally known as Stanley Cushing”

“God has a name?”

“God has a sickness.”

“Oh,hmm, very well, then, I wish all my clients piss tasted like strawberry milkshake.”

“It is done.”

Mr. Bubbles vanished, and Walter went back to the mirror. As he looked at his face, now looking more, and more relaxed, he dropped his pants, and pull-up diaper, stepped out of the pull-up, picked it up off the floor, threw it in the trash. Then he laughed, shook his head, remembering, got out the package of pull-ups he hid in the bottom of the wicker hamper, took out a clean one, put it on.

He laughed again, this time with happiness, and joy. Pulled on his pants, left his bedsit, and went out to buy some real underwear.

From A Highly Dysfunctional Brain Again

Benny was puzzled, and disturbed.

“Grandpa? Why’s Granny still sitting on the couch? She’s been dead three days.”

Grandpa Beeling snaps his Morning Journal. “You see any flies dive bombing me while I’m reading the paper?”


“There you go, then.”

Have You Ever Ate Horse?

The kidne is delicious, and something to be desird. The liver was too much in a

state to eat. The heart is tough, and has to be slowly cookd in a pot, with som

erbs. But, it is quite delicat. I will, of corse send you the resipe, and som innards.

Yours truly,
Jack the Ripper


I spelt whores rong. Must be the lite

My Little Penis-A Poem

My little penis wants to grow, grow, grow!
Something psychological says no, no, no!
My little penis lays there sad and forlorn,
Hasn’t been excited since the day it was born
Women flop it around, cackle, act all coy,
“This isn’t a cock, s’not even a toy!”
My little penis hides in it’s hair,
My little penis is fraught with despair,
My hand cajoles, and strokes with persistence,
As my little penis ponders existence,
I pick up a woman, think of all things dirty,
As soon as we’re home, thing go murky,
She’s compassionate at first, an angel from heaven,
But, as the night goes on, she’s dripping with venom
“This thing’s useless, a dead piece of meat,
Your little penis sure has me beat!”
My little penis tries to take it with grace
I’m different, so, I punch in her face,
My little penis stirs, and begins to grow!
Gets harder, and harder with each bloody blow,
I break her jaw,and I roar like a lion,
My little penis is now hard as iron,
My little penis enters the hole,
Vomits in seconds, too much to behold,
The woman gurgles as I stick her with pins,
I smile as the erection begins,
My little penis is big, strong, and bold,
It’s now a wondrous thing to hold,
It enters again, a determined weapon,
Lasting a lot longer than a few friggin seconds
The woman thrashes, struggles, and cries,
My little penis vomits as she dies,
Such a marvelous feeling, this coming inside,
My little penis oozes with pride
I stroke it, pet it, wash it with reverence,
Greatly pleased I found it’s preference
On the hunt I go for those rejected,
No more will my little penis feel dejected
No more mocking, ridicule, or scorn,
My little penis has finally been born

Best Laid Plans Of Mice And Bob

Somewhere in America, in a shack, deep in the woods, someone is trying to come up with a new drug. The one that’ll give you a rush never felt before. The one that’ll bring in the big bucks. Experimenting, mixing, creating. Most fail (simply because they never gave a shit in chemistry class).
Bob Newsome is one. His guinea pig, Malcolm Singer, lay on the floor, legs twisted grotesquely, face black, blood running from his eyes, ears, mouth, bloated tongue protruding from a rictus grin. Malcolm was a homeless addict, and would do anything for a hit of the hard stuff. Malcolm didn’t give a shit about life, never mind chemistry. He lived for the rush that he got from his first injection of heroin. That quest for a repeat of the greatest feeling in the universe destroyed his marriage, alienated him from his two daughters, got him ostracized from the community, fired from his job, and, arrested and jailed for burglary.
He did things for heroin that shamed and astonished him. There are videos on YouTube of Malcolm beating the shit out of one of his buddies in the back alley of a bar. He got $20 for it. Then there was the animal stuff. Sick, twisted, vomit inducing. Got him more than $20, though.
“He’s dead. Look for another one, ok?” Said Bob on his cellphone.
Malcolm didn’t need that rush anymore. As he sat up, and looked at Bob, all he felt was hunger.


William Morgan

It was seeing the clump of hair floating in the toilet that broke me.

My skin became clammy, and cold, my stomach lurched, threatening to expel the toast and cornflakes that I had for breakfast.
The bathroom seemed to shrink, and become claustrophobic, the heat seeming to rise, as if someone had poured cold water over hot stones. Sweat poured out of my body. I was drenched in a minute. I felt sick, waves upon waves of nausea had me bent over, gagging, polluting the flavor of the corn flakes, poisoning the toast.
I heaved, vomited, splattering the floor with clumps, and lumps, mixed with a white froth. The smell in the small, white hot bathroom assailed my nostrils, and brought me to my knees. I retched, coughed, cried.


My head snapped up-frightened, sweat turning cold, I looked around the bathroom, saw nothing-


I yelled, grabbed the sink to pull myself up-heart hammering, threatening to burst, skin feeling tight, ready to tear, a roaring inside my head, so loud, so strong, it obliterated any other sound. The room was spinning, spinning, making me dizzy, bringing the nausea back. All my senses seemed to become more than human. I could see infinitesimally small cracks in the grout of the tiles along the shower wall, the blue color of the tiles no longer sky blue, but a color that my mind couldn’t translate. I could hear a spider methodically spinning it’s web, the sound of the silk expelling from it’s tiny body like the crash of a wave heard through a Marshall amp. The air passing over my skin was so cold, and yet, so comforting, the taste in my mouth was rancid, foul, my tongue burned, and the smells, the smells-so many different-


The bathroom was spinning, spinning faster, and faster, colors, and textures a blur, and I felt myself in a space that wasn’t real, a place that didn’t exist any longer.
The bathroom disappeared, and I found myself floating in the infinite universe, feeling so small, so insignificant, so lost. I closed my eyes, not wanting to see all that blackness, and nothingness.
When I opened them, I was in a bathroom. Not my bathroom which was full of light, and bright colors, but the bathroom of my youth, dark, grimy, the color of mud, and dismay.
My sister, Holly, was sitting on the toilet seat, sobbing, as my father savagely cut at her hair with blunt scissors.
TRAMP!!” he screamed as he cut, shearing her beautiful long, blond hair. Grabbing locks, twisting the hair violently, he cuts, and hacks, not caring if he cuts into her scalp, immune to her screams, the blood.


Grabbing handfuls, cutting with a manic speed, throwing the tufts onto the dirty, unwashed, curling linoleum, or into the toilet.
Holly screaming, Father hissing, spitting flecks of foamy spittle onto her almost barren head.


Mother had been dead two years. She must be on her knees, begging God to return her to the world to protect her child. God, being the most Fatherly of all fathers, ignores her, watches his creations destroy.
I was two years older than Holly, and all I did was watch with horror.
Holly, seven at the time, who had found her dead Mother’s make up bag in a box in the basement, and decided to play grown up. Holly, my little sister, who, when she colored, could never stay inside the lines, whose lips were now bright pink with lipstick, thick, and heavy, absurdly clownish, whose cheeks were so rouged she looked like Judy from Punch and Judy, and whose eyelids were painted a deep blue, all the way up to her eyebrows. Mascara was literally dripping off her eyelashes.
She looked like a clown who had been sent to hell, and vomited back up.


I ran to him, beating feebly with my small fists.
Holly looked at me with despair, blood mingling with her tears, hitching, and hiccuping.
Father let go of Holly, his eyes bulging, his face a horror of anger, and rage, full of fury, and madness.
He smiled, then punched me in the stomach. I heard a whooshing, not realizing it was me. My breath seemed to abandon me to my devices. I found myself on my knees, gulping for some air, any air. My head was swimming, and my face felt so hot, so hot.


The sound of his mad voice scared the air into me. I took a deep breath, in through my nose, out through my mouth. Relishing every molecule of oxygen.
Holly screamed loudly, and I saw that his feverish punishment had taken a chunk out of the top of her head.
He stopped, momentarily stunned by her scream, and I saw red. A nine year old should not feel the type of rage I felt, should not shake with the fury of a god, should not seethe with outrage.
I slammed my little body into his knees, and he cried out with shock, and ire, backed away, and fell into the tub. The scissors had flown out of his bloody hand. Came down on his throat.
He panicked, tore out the scissors, and blood gushed. A geyser of crimson. His hands covered the wound. His eyes found mine. I saw fear.
Holly had jumped off the toilet, wrapped her arms around me, hid her head, shaking.
I watched him die.
I smiled.
The bathroom shook, began to tear apart, the ceiling cracked, walls fell. A thunderous crack almost broke my ear drums as the whole house broke asunder. I held Holly tight as we began to rise toward the sky, a sky full of dark, brooding clouds, full of violence. Lightening hit the tub where the corpse of Father lay. The combination of ozone, and roasted flesh gagged me, the taste of copper, and barbecued pork made me shiver with disgust. We rose faster, and faster, and I looked down and saw a blackened lump smoking in a melted, misshapen tub. It was unrecognizable. Except it’s eyes. It’s eyes were open. They were bright. They accused.
I squeezed Holly, but she was gone. I was alone again in the universe. Alone. Lost and alone.



Hopeless and-





Heart in my throat-

Bowels loosening-

Bladder failing-



plummeting back towards the world.

Closing my eyes, I await the impact.


“Honey! What’s wrong?”

I open my eyes and see my wife, Sheila, who has been my anchor for ten years. I’m sitting with my back against the toilet. My pajamas are soaked with sweat. A puddle of yellow between my legs.
Sheila stands there, mouth agape, her slim frame visible through her sheer nightgown.
I gulp.
“You’ve-you’ve cut your hair.”
“Yeah, yeah, I wanted a change. But, honey, that doesn’t matter. What’s wrong? What happened?”
I slam my hands against my head.
“You cut your hair!”
“Darling! I-“
“You cut your hair! You cut your hair! You cut your hair!”
I sob. Shake with pure emotion.
Whore she was named. Whore she became.
Dead at 21.
Sheila knells beside me, strokes my head, whispers her love.
I reach back. Flush the toilet.

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