Tag: The Burnouts

  • Close Encounters of A Preposterous Kind

    Close Encounters of A Preposterous Kind

    2016-07-15-21-25-02“Okay, okay…sit down.” As Pumpkinhead sat down at a corner table in the coffee shop, Captain H threw his sandwich on the plastic tray and continued, “How do I communicate with the little green men?”

    “Little green men?”

    “Yeah.”

    “Hey dude, did Jezebel sell you some of that liquid acid? That’s to be taken in small doses, you know. I hope you didn’t slurp that down.”

    “Don’t be coy.”

    “Coy?” Pumpkinhead picked at his hash browns. “You sure you mean coy?”

    “Yeah I mean coy; you know like a wise-ass.” He took another bite of his sandwich.

    “A wise-ass is just a wise-ass. If you’re coy, then you’re a bashful, or a shy wise-ass.”

    “But you’re still a wise-ass!”

    “Only if you use that particular adjective in there, otherwise you’re just a demure person.”

    “Stupid?”

    “Huh?”

    “Stupid….a stupid person. Like, ‘that guy skipping across the street is acting a bit demurely’.”

    “Because he’s demure, he’s stupid?”

    “That’s what I’m thinking.”

    “Being demure has nothing to do with stupidity. Did we go to school in the same country?”

    “Demure means stupid.”

    “Demure means coy!”

    “Not all stupid people are necessarily wise-asses, Pumpkinhead! Like the jerk off skipping across the street, he’s just a stupid ass – not a wise-ass.”

    Pumpkinhead stared at him as he chewed his food, “How do you find your way home at night, anyway?”

    “Let’s get back to the little green people.”

    “Leprechauns? They’re not real.”

    “The Martians!”

    “Oh…the aliens.”

    “Yeah, whatever you wanna call them.”

    “Aliens. Yeah, now they’re real. I know because I’ve seen them.”

    “I know you have. That’s why I need to talk to you. You see, Muffin Man told me that Rad told him he was talking with Mahdakis, who told him that Floyd had just told him that he and Pumpkinhead, that’s you, had seen Squid. Is this true?”

    “I’m not sure what you just said. I got lost after Rad…But I have seen Squid recently, if that’s what this is about.”

    “That’s what this is about.”

    “Yeah, he said he’s not of this Earth anymore, dude.”

    Captain H grabbed Pumpkinhead’s wrist, “What does that mean? What did he mean by that? Not of this Earth? Is he a ghost? Is he gonna come after us and kill our families and rape our house pets?!”

    “Calm down dude, will ya? Get a hold of yourself man!”
    Captain H took a skeptical bite of his soggy hash brown, “What are they about, Pumpkinhead? Why are they here, and what do they have to do with us?”

    “Dude! Are you serious, man? The aliens brought us here millions of years ago; they dumped our ancestors off on this once desolate planet like bags of outgrown clothes.”

    “What are you saying?”

    “Dude, the first people who arrived here were criminals from outer space somewhere and no longer any good to their communities, and therefore were dumped off here with no feasible way to return; they were prisoners.”

    “What about Adam and Eve? Prisoners too?”

    “Oh come off it, will ya? For that mater, what about Santa Claus?”

    “Hey! Jesus Christ is my lord and savior, Pumpkinhead! Don’t speak ill of good people like him and Moses and so fourth.”

    “Well which is it? You’re talking about two different books now.”

    “Society as we know it starts with Jesus Christ, everyone knows that. We are his children; not some filthy, slimy Martian people’s. That’s why when Jesus was born, the calendar date starts on zero; we build from there. That is the origin of our existence.”

    “What about Adam and Eve, then, all those years ago?”

    “Okay, good point.”

    “Mm-hm,” Pumpkinhead took a sip of his ice coffee, “And what about all the other shit that happened before him?”

    “It wasn’t done properly; it doesn’t count because it didn’t work; it’s like we got a do-over when he was born.”

    “More like the Romans forced some shit on the world because they were paranoid about their own existence and survival.”

    “Hey! Don’t knock the Romans!”

    “Aren’t you like Indian, or Black, or something?”

    “A little of each; but I still respect the good book.”

    “You know that ‘good book’ is what drove the Europeans over here to slaughter the fuck out of your Cherokee ancestors, who by the way, put stock into the belief in alien life form.”

    “They did?”

    “Oh yeah, it’s well documented. And, that ‘good book’ is also what the Europeans thought entitled them to go to Africa and make slaves of your other ancestors, because the followers of that ‘good book’ believed that anyone else, or any other race of people who didn’t believe in it, were inferior and therefore, they should be conquered and converted. And if memory serves correct, back in those dark ages, most of that African continent had very different beliefs….and still does! So pardon my confusion about your love for Whitey and the ‘good book’.”

    Captain H gave consideration and said in a rather hushed tone, “Fuckin’ European scumbag bastards; I got to start reading more stuff.” Then, opening his arms as wide as possible, he focused an obsessed stare up towards the ceiling and, with veins bulging out of his neck and forehead, he yelled on the top of his lungs, “KILL ALL THE WHITE PEOPLE!”

    © 2013, 2014 Mark Rogers

    Front Cover for Benevolence & Betrayal (book 3)
    Benevolence & Betrayal
    (Book III)
    Front Cover for In Case You Were Too Stoned to remember cover
    In Case You Were Too Stoned
    (A Retrospective)

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

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  • Ride The Snake

    Waking to the fuzzy feel of the rapidly fraying silk sheets, her naked curvaceous body intertwined with his and, and more importantly, to the comforting knowledge that he was safe. Safe in her arms; cocooned within a calming sense of belonging, purpose, want, and need; the beat of his heart, once again accompanied with a melody. He was with his true love.

    But with all that, came the familiar air of uncertainty. The uncertainty of what she was thinking (and why), or scheming to do next (and when), and then, how long this euphoria would last. But it was his choice, and he knew the plausible consequences. He knew he’d forfeited all control the moment he stepped towards her; yet he stepped anyway. The serpent that was their twisted, masochistic passion for one another had reawakened itself and was cotton-mouthed; thirsty for new blood. And in its unyielding quest to quench the thirst, would lead them both down a long spiraling ride of emotional anguish and sexual nirvana, as only a serpent can be held accountable. (more…)

  • One Enchanted Evening (R.I.P.)

    One Enchanted Evening (R.I.P.)

     

    Father, hear my silent cries,

    Mother, read these naked eyes.

    My heart, it longs for a land that never dies;

    My mind, it longs to kiss remembrance good-bye.

     

    “Lie with me.”

    “Fly, be free.”

    Condemn myself in virginal honesty.

     

    Allow me truth, the meaning of life;

    To feel the warmth of a fluorescent knife.

    A land so rich with cerebral treasures,

    And filled with love beyond any measure.

    Lie with me.

     

    Maddened from lachrymal rains

    Rusting these mortality chains,

    I depart and rid my thirst for pain.

    I now leave and feast off the reaper’s vein.

     

    “Lie with me.”

    “Fly, be free.”

    Deliver my soul to endless tranquility.

     

    Arms of the gods, wide and receptive,

    Anticipate effects from the sedatives.

    My mind, body, heart and soul of debris

    Forever purged in eternity.

    Fly; be free.

     

    *****

     

    The castle lights are shining bright,

    The drawbridge door lets out a roar.

    I’ve one last chance to make the dance

    And take reward for freeing the sword.

     

    *****

     

    I’ve made it home,

    Safe and sound;

    Free from world

    And its endless rounds;

    Rounds of sadness,

                                  Rounds of gladness,

    Rounds of blindness,

                                          And Rounds of madness

    Rounds of diffusion,

                                  Rounds of illusion,

    Rounds of depression,

                                    And mass confusion

     

      —the bell has rung………your song is sung—-

    — light’s flash red………the silence grows deep—

    —you’ve found your bed………now go to sleep.

       ………and rest well integrity’s wayward child

    for soon you must return to these wretched shores

                                   of the lost……………..and of the wild.

     

    © 2001, 2012, 2017 Mark Rogers

    Scenic Photograph © Kien do

    Placid Animosity
    Placid Animosity (B.U.R.N.O.U.T.S. Poetry)

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  • Homo & The Marlboro Man

    “Dude, do you have to sit so Goddamn close?”

    “Sorry,” said Tony, scooting over towards the window.

    “And why the fuck aren’t you in the back, anyway?”

    Tony looked in the back seat at Floyd, Frank, and Snowy, who were already packed in like sardines. “I don’t know. I thought three in the front and three in the back was a much better fit.” –Bobble-bobble-bobble

    “It’d be fine if you weren’t one of the three up front!”

    “What the fuck’s your problem man?”

    “Oh man,” uttered Floyd, putting his forehead in the palm of his hand.

    (inhale) “Here we go.”

    “Huh…huh-huh.”

    Jason turned around to address the three in the back, “You wouldn’t be laughing if you were in my situation How would you feel if you were up here sitting next to a flaming queer?”

    “Say WHAT???”

    “Huh-huh-huh-huh. Not good.”

    “Who’s a flaming queer?”

    “You! You haven’t been able to keep your fuckin’ eyes off of me since we met. Winking at me and spewing derogatory remarks in my direction. What the fuck’s the deal with you? I don’t go that way.”

    “Neither do I, you narcissist fuckin’ nut-job!”

    “Nut? Job? An interesting choice of words. Not crazy, insane or wrong…but NUT! And job! You know why? Because you got my nuts on your brain!” (more…)

  • Hell Is For Children

    Hell Is For Children

    bacchanal-of-putti-by-nicolas-poussin

    Window of time — years ago —
     
    The birth-givers disrobed and produced babies to throw
    into the abyss where they would not grow.
     
    But grow they did, from seeds to weeds,
    into carnivorous men and goatish women
    longing for tall fires in deaths’ cold breath of life.

     ancientorgy

    Thirsting for sexual domination
    in the semblance of licentious obedience,
     
    Ball gags,         Whips,              Rubber sheets…
     
    Love in Chains
    Invigorating cruelty served up daily
    with their bread and wine,
    While upon the heavenly humiliation
    of invasive maneuvers they would dine.
     
    And the birth-givers, who no longer spoke
    in bombastic tongues,
    Could only watch with shameful amusement
    as the perverted night ate their young.

     

    Top Drawing – Bacchanal Of Putti by Nicolas Poussin

    Bottom Drawing – Unknown. Originally posted on Sassydog.net

    © 2012 Mark Rogers

    Placed Animosity front cover
    Placid Animosity
    (B.U.R.N.O.U.T.S. Poems)

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  • Another Piece Of Meat

    Tony and Mahdakis sat on the front porch stoop of Tony’s female-birth-giver’s new home, enjoying a cigarette as she and her new companion, Radcliffe, scurried about inside preparing the next course for Thanksgiving dinner. Mahdakis didn’t know that’s what they were doing in there. He thought dinner was over and that perhaps they were washing up or preparing dessert. After all, the six of them had already indulged in appetizers such as ricotta stuffed mushrooms, fried zucchini, marinated mozzarella balls, and antipasto salad. Thereafter, Mahdakis and Nicki were already stuffed and barely managed to get through what they assumed was the main course, baked eggplant lasagna with an asparagus feta salad, immediately followed by a mandatory helping of freshly sliced roast beef and a side of roasted garlic and rosemary potatoes. But this was the Italian way. Mahdakis and Nicki were of the white mutt nationality and knew not of such unabashed gluttony. They also had not grasped the concept of sampling only a bite or two of this and that instead of devouring everything in front of them as rapidly as possible.

    It was growing dark outside; the clocks had been turned back. Light from the television in the empty living room smacked enticingly up against the glass windows every once in a while, reminding those outside that there was a game on. Dallas was playing the Vikings. Nicki Tater and Tony’s brother, Pedro Ravioli, took a drive to get some more beer and some smokes. Pedro was clean-shaven with short black hair and was built like a Sneetch, but without the star on his round belly. “Quite a dinner ma’s rustling up in there, huh?” Tony Ravioli said. “You better have some more room in there.”

    “Oh man, I don’t know about that. Hey dude, what the hell happened last Saturday night? Why was Polly crying?”

    Tony shook his head in bewilderment. “Dude, I really don’t want to talk about it.”

    “I was right outside your bedroom door with Sally, about to come you know.”

    “You were; what about me?”

    “Dude, I was holding Sally up by her ankles and…..”

    “Spare me the visual, will ya? I think I saw anyway. She was upside down, wasn’t she?”

    “Yeah! You like that move?”

    “Not for me, no. But hey, if sucking on an ugly chick’s mound of meat is your thing, well then God bless. I mean, someone’s gotta do it, right? And it sure the hell ain’t gonna be me.”

    “I had to finish myself off, dude. Thanks a lot.”

    “I’m sorry. I………What? Where?……Where the fuck did you finish yourself off?!”

    “Well I don’t know exactly; it was dark. But I guess somewhere on the couch.”

    “The couch? You blew your fuckin’ load on my couch?”

    “Maybe it hit the carpet instead. Like I said, it was a little dark and I couldn’t see where it went.”

    “So that’s your thing? You just blow loads all over people’s houses whenever you feel like it?”

    “I had to! I heard that if you’re worked up that much and don’t let yourself come, you can get blue balls or something.”

    “That’s an old wives’ tale. Besides, this whole fiasco is your entire fault anyway.”

    “How is it my fault?”

    “Hey, you pulled me aside, after you and Sally finally arrived, and told me that Polly takes it in the ass.”

    “That’s what Sally said.”

    “Well guess what, she wasn’t taking it that night!”

    “You tried that move on the first date?”

    “I didn’t try anything, I did it! She gave me great head, so I flipped her over and shoved it in, thinking she was really going to dig this.”

    “Who digs that?”

    “Polly! That’s what you said! You said Polly likes getting fucked in the ass!”

    “She hates getting fucked in the ass; that’s what I said.”

    “No you fuckin’ didn’t, Mahdakis! You pulled me aside and said, ‘Psst; hey, Polly takes it up the ass.’”

    “Right, but I didn’t say she liked it! She can’t stand it, actually!”

    “That is some information I could have used!”

    “Hey!” The front door opened and a middle-aged man with glasses and a balding scalp stepped outside. “It’s getting a little loud out here don’t you think fellas?”

    “Sorry Radcliffe.”

    “Sorry.”

    “Your mother said she will be serving in about twenty minutes, okay? So be inside. Where’s your brother and Nicki?”

    “I don’t know; good question.”

    “Well let’s find them or your mother will have a fit.”

    Radcliffe went back inside to give the television its much-desired attention, as Tony put his cigarette butt out on the cement walkway and looked away from his friend. “Where the hell is Pedro and Nicki? We need to eat soon.”

    “That’s okay, man. I’m gonna pass on dessert. No offense but I’m not a sweets guy myself. Nicki said she was stuffed, too.”

    “Dessert? What the fuck’s the matter with you? My birth-giver slaved all day, you can’t leave now!”

    “Fine. What is for dessert anyway?”

    “Homemade tiramisu and fresh cannolis I think, but that isn’t the point! Skip dessert if you want, but we’re serving the main course now!”

    “Main course? What the fuck are you talking about? We just had pasta and beef!”

    “I’m talking about the turkey with fennel sausage stuffing!”

    “The what?”

    “And the fish! We haven’t had the turkey yet. You can’t leave, motherfucker!”

    “Fish?”

    “With homemade bruschetta!”

    “Jesus Christ. How am I supposed to eat all that?”

    “Just eat a little! She worked hard all day and last night!”

    “Fuck man.”

    Nicki and Pedro pulled up in the car as the door to the house opened once again and Radcliffe stepped out. “Oh okay, everyone’s here; just in time. Good, now we can eat.”

    “Awesome!” Pedro yelled, springing like a rocket out of the passenger’s seat. “That’s what I call timing.” As Pedro got to the porch he smiled at Mahdakis and said, “You coming in, or are you just gonna stay there looking stupid.”

    Mahdakis looked at Nicki, who was still in the driver’s seat, and mouthed the words, ‘There’s more food’.

    She stared helplessly back at him, wiping her nose then mouthing the words ‘Are you kidding?’

    He shook his head ‘no’ and took a step towards her car.

    “I have to get back home,” she finally said announced out the window. “This is my Mom’s car and she needs it back. Mahdakis, if you want a ride, come now!”

    Mahdakis felt six very disapproving eyes staring at him on the porch and could not look at any of them. He took another step towards the car and simply said, “Sorry, I have to split, too.” Then picking up his pace towards the car yelled back. “Thanks for everything. Tell your birth-giver that what I did eat was the best I’ve ever had. Awesome!” He jumped in the car as Nicki quickly put it in gear, “See you tomorrow!”

    Nicki made a U-turn at the end of the dead end road and sped out as if they had just robbed a bank. “Where to Mahdakis, my love?”

    “Anywhere…Southpoint. I don’t care; just get me away from all this food. These people are nuts!”

    “No shit man, how can people eat like that?”

    “And there were only six of us. What the hell?”

    “Crazy,” Nicki said sniffling and wiping her nose again.

    “So what the hell took you and Pedro so long?”

    “Oh, damnedest thing; I had to gobble on his cock awhile in exchange for a bag of coke and he couldn’t come. Ha-ha-ha…Ha-ha-ha-ha!”

    Mahdakis looked at her face. She was smiling, probably trying to instigate him. He wasn’t going to bite. Even Nicki had more scruples than to mess around on her boyfriend right under his nose with the brother of her former boyfriend, right under his nose. “Funny,” is all he said.

    “Ha-ha-ha….Ha-ha-ha-ha! Okay, Southpoint it is. Let’s see if Curly and Pumpkinhead are around since we’re driving right by.”

    “Cool.”

    The truth of the matter was, Nicki hadn’t been joking about the Pedro Ravioli thing, and as a matter of fact, had begun dating him behind Mahdakis’s back, so she would tell him two decades later……“Ha-ha-ha…Ha-ha-ha-ha!”

    © 2016 Mark Rogers

    Book Cover for Paradise in Purgatory
    Paradise In Purgatory (Book IV)

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  • F.A.G.G. Metal – Invasion Of The Penis Snatchers

    It was an enormous mansion lined with wall to wall cocaine users and big-haired, scantily clad sperm dumpsters; it was a party of no less than four-hundred people; the occasion was the long awaited release of the Open Fly debut album, ‘Rock Out with your Cock Out’, and anyone who could show up, did. Most everyone wanted a piece of the Open Fly action, and wanted to be around them because they were indeed, cool. Or so the trend-following record label wanted everyone to believe.

    For better or worse, the music scene had really taken shape. If any guy was going to make it in the music business at this point in time, he needed to possess, not only the pelvis and cheek bones of a nineteen-year-old girl, but the shaved legs as well; all stuffed inside tight genitalia-strangling spandex. Another major requirement for being considered relevant in the present music world was exposing a freshly waxed chest, with a full head of hair teased no less than ten inches above the skull, and if you wanted to make it really big, you wore hints of blush, eyeliner, and sometimes lipstick or colored lip-gloss and made puckering kissy faces at the big-titted sperm dumpsters in the audience while you played your guitar solo or bass fill. It didn’t hurt your image to grow your nails long and have them painted up in some effeminate manner either. And, of course, Open Fly lived to be flaming F.A.G.G.’s and were therefore the talk of the town, all the rave, the big cheese, the flavor of the day, in a fashionably gender confused world of what was regrettably now the biggest fad in music – Female-Aspirant Guy Groups; commonly known as F.A.G.G. Metal.

    Basically, the scene had shifted from angry restless rebellious youth of the streets fighting for or against a cause; sending a message of hate, love, and a desire for a better planet (accompanied usually with some very interesting and talent-packed songs), what was now, nothing more than a bunch of wealthy, testosterone ridden, beautifully groomed, long-haired, would-be-jock-otherwise, mama’s boys out for nothing more than to penetrate the prettiest and stupidest bitch they could find; And the bait? Nothing more than a nursery rhymed melody sung over a 1-4-5 progression played on a shiny electric guitar, and a line or two of white powder. It was the roaring gay eighties.

    Open Fly had just landed a minor contract with an up-and-coming record label. Their music was carefree, la-dee-da, drink-some-beer-and-fuck-some-chicks-in-fast-cars kind of music. It disgusted Mahdakis to no end that these types of bands were what was now being signed and granted small tours with even bigger, more well-known, la-dee-da, drink-some-beer-and-fuck-some-chicks-in-fast-cars kinds of bands. It spoke volumes for what was supposed to be his generation.

    But this was no longer his generation. He banished it – along with some of the respect he had for its followers, which were many of the good friends he still had. He was not about to shave his mustache or sell out at any cost, but nor was he taking any immediate opposing action to do anything against it either. Instead, he seemed content in doing nothing with his music for the meantime.

     

    Meanwhile… on the other side of town, in the rear parking lot of Barely Bagels, more stupidity was rearing its ugly head, as Frank, Carl, Dakota and Goiter prepared to attend the aforementioned F.A.G.G. Metal party…….

     

    “Anybody wanna get going?” Carl said, impatiently.

    “Why, you in a hurry for some F.A.G.G. action tonight? Ha-ha.”

    Carl punched Goiter on the shoulder. “Shut the fuck up.”

    “Ow!”

    “Well he’s got a point, I mean…..they could dress a little more masculine, don’t you think? What’s up with those hair-dos, anyway? Why do chicks dig that? Dakota? Do tell.”

    “Not all chicks dig it Floyd; me for one. I think they’re a bunch of poseur idiots. But if you must know, most of the other girls like it because it’s upbeat rock-n-roll that keeps things light and fluffy and doesn’t bring you down, or remind you of everything that’s wrong with your life…and the world.”

    “Huh-huh, you mean like Mahdakis’s shit.” Frank Slate shook his head. “Good cripes. I love the guy, don’t get me wrong, but Jesus Christ, stick a fork in me when the song’s over, will ya?”

    “I can never tell when his songs are over.”

    “Yeah,” Frank continued, “sometimes I think the whole concert is just one long-winded song. And I’ll be damned if I ever know what the fuck he’s talkin’ about.”

    “It’s called theater, dummy.” Dakota took a drag from her cigarette and blew it in his face. “But I guess a simpleton like you wouldn’t understand.”

    Frank grinned, knowing she was only teasing. “Huh-huh-huh, you’re a nasty lil’ cunt, ain’t cha?”

    “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Whoa,” Carl screamed at him, “Easy!”

    “I’m just kiddin’. Heck, I roadie for the guy, you know.”

    “So you’d think you’d know more about what’s going on with him than you do,” Floyd said.

    “Yeah, but I don’t.”

    “And therein lies the genius that is Frank Slate. Ha-ha-ha!” Goiter laughed all by himself.

    “So basically, F.A.G.G. metal is music that doesn’t burden your brain with any strenuous thinking,” Carl summed up.

    “And that’s why so many people like it, and the radio plays it all the time,” Dakota agreed. “It’s ear candy for simple people with limited artistic capacity…

    “Of which, there are many.”

    “…people who hate having to think, and can only handle simple melodies running through their head.” She took another drag and exhaled as Frank earnestly absorbed what she said. “I mean you might as well play nursery rhymes on the radio.”

    “The radio, I-I can’t even listen to it anymore, it’s so full of that F.A.G.G. Metal shit. Fuckin’ disgusting,” Carl hawked a big yellow loogy on the ground.

    “You know what Mahdakis says?” Frank asked, trying to remember the conversation.

    “This ought to be good.”

    “He says that the government’s in cahoots with all these big companies that buy up radio stations and play uh…..what does he call it…..Mind Numbing….yeah, mind numbing music that’s meant to keep the American population…us….ignorant and distracted from what’s really going on. He says, that uh…..that these…these same companies also buy up music rights from older deadbeat artists…”

    “Deadbeat?”

    “…and uh….what do they do….they uh….yeah, since they now have the royal rights…”

    “….Royal rights?”

    “They were knighted,” Dakota whispered sarcastically.

    “… they make the stations that they bought up, play these same songs over and over again, which makes them rich because the more people hear something, Mahdakis says, the more they want to hear it again because they know it’s safe and………they like uh….status quo, or whatever word he used; and that it will be the same for F.A.G.G. Metal years down the road, you know, because it’s a simple friendly kind of harmless music that brain-dead folks and their nice little children, although I think he said mindless children, will probably like years later. He says it’s all some sort of a…..a net to catch the most American fish at one time, or something like that, I think.”

    A long hush of abysmal silence followed as everyone stared at each other, wondering if Frank was done. Floyd shook his head and broke the silence. “I’m not sure what’s worse, Mahdakis and his conspiracy theories, or Frank explaining them.”

    Goiter laughed, “Makes it sound twice as insane as it already is.”

    “And trust me,” Carl lit up a smoke and said, “neither one of them needs any help sounding insane.”

    “Ha-ha!”

    Frank turned and walked towards the car. “Fuck it. I like the radio…and F.A.G.G. Metal.”

    “Me too, Frank,” Goiter said. “I’m right behind ya pal.”

    “Hey-hey-hey, none of that. Just ’cause we’re goin’ to a F.A.G.G. Metal party together doesn’t give you the right to fuck me in the ass.”

    “Then what exactly does?” Dakota asked.

    Carl rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Can we just please get the fuck out of here already?”

    “Yeah, alright,” Frank conceded, “let’s go meet up with our F.A.G.G. Metal friends and suck some F.A.G.G. dick all night long…..Mmm.”

    Floyd stared at Frank. “Jesus Christ, Frank. Sometimes I wonder if you even know what the hell you’re saying.”

    “Everyone hop in.” Frank got in his car and started it up. “C’mon, let’s go!”

    © 2013, 2014 Mark Rogers

    Front Cover for Benevolence & Betrayal (book 3)
    Benevolence & Betrayal
    (Book III)
    Front Cover for In Case You Were Too Stoned to remember cover
    In Case You Were Too Stoned
    (A Retrospective)

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

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  • Blue Morning, Blue Day

    Blue Morning, Blue Day

    pabst

    “God is an evil, demented, son of a bitch!”

    “Oh my.”

    “And I’ll tell you why Robin, you wanna know why?”

    “Of course I do; who wouldn’t?……..But I’m afraid to ask.”

    “I’ll ask.”

    “Okay Fred, go ahead. Ask.”

    “Fine. Howard, why, as you so gracefully put it, is God an evil, demented son of a Bitch?”

    “Because he gave me the smallest penis on the planet!”

    “Aaahhh, ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

    “Oh, come on, you have to be exaggerating.”

    “Robin….when I’m naked, it looks as though I have two belly buttons.”

    “I think God compensated for it though with that nose. Hee-hee-hee-hee!”

    “Yeah, go ahead and laugh jokeman, laugh away; Laugh while your wife is having sex with black men on the front lawn, in broad daylight.”

    “Hey, I didn’t write that joke! Fred handed that to me. Hee-hee-hee-hee! I wish I did, though. Hee-hee-hee-hee!”

    “I knew I didn’t want to ask.”

     The clock radio, sitting on the soiled shag-carpeted floor, blares out the syndicated morning radio show on WYSP. A listless right arm falls on top of it slamming the button down. The hand attached to the arm fumbles about and finds a half empty can of Pabst Blue Ribbon leaning against the radiator. Mahdakis takes a pungent gulp and opens his eyes, acknowledging the dawn of another hapless, miserable day on this wretched, grey planet.

    It is past eight o’clock on a Wednesday morning. The birth-givers and his younger brother, Pumpkinhead, have long gone to work…as most responsible adults have.

    Our hero stumbles downstairs groggily, and turns the TV on as he begins to fix breakfast, a vegetable omelet with an abundance of cheese; enough so to scorch the frying pan beyond color recognition. The cartoon, Inspector Gadget is on; he watches with mild curiosity as he seats himself at the lonely cedar kitchen table wondering if anyone ever thought of making a porno version of Gadget, “Go, go gadget penis!” But his happiness is quickly subsided, as he is once again smacked in the heart with reality, and reminded that for the first time in four years, he is with the absence of true love in his life. For whatever reason, he liked being in love and having a girlfriend. Was it insecurity, or just an overwhelming need to possess another person’s affections? It was good that Jezebel was out of his life. But now he had no one else to blame for his problems…and he hated that.

    Lying on the table, to the right of where he is eating, is a yellow note pad with writing on it. It is a song that he had started the day before yesterday. There are only four lines written on it:

     

    ‘Lovers may go but new ones will show

    As the faces change and the years go by.

    But I’m too weak to smile

    And I’m too strong to cry…’

     

    He gives pause as he considers adding another line. In the background he hears the desperate plea of a foiled bank robber being captured by Inspector Gadget, who had used his Gadget legs to extend up into the air another twenty feet, thus allowing him to walk over traffic. Mahdakis thinks for a moment how that would really come in handy…as long as everyone else didn’t have the same capability. Because then, you’d have the same problem with traffic congestion, but just twenty feet higher above the ground.

    The twenty-year-old peels a pen up off the floor. The pen is covered in some unidentifiable goo (most likely something Pumpkinhead spilled on it last night while making dinner for himself at one in the morning while stoned off his ass). Mahdakis adds six more lines to the would-be song:

     

    ‘As destiny pulls me away

    Towards a much more cloudy day

    And there’s nothing more to say…

     ..But to face the truth and realize

    That it’s time to break these emotional ties

    That keep me locked up behind cold eyes.’

     

    There.

    His work was done for the day. Still chewing his food, he gets up from the table, walks to the kitchen and dumps the plate into the sink. ‘Someone will clean this up, they always do. Every day I put dirty plates in here and the next day they’re gone.’ He turns off the TV and heads upstairs to rub one out and take a shower.

    It is almost ten o’clock by the time he is dressed.

    There.

    Two hours killed without too much thinking. But how to destroy the rest of the day? His birth-givers told him he’d best find a job soon…..‘or else’. He didn’t know what ‘or else’ meant, but it didn’t sound promising. He had come to appreciate the comforts of a real home (warmth, electricity, his own room, a toilet), and was in no hurry to return to the lifestyle of living under bridges, in friends’ cars, and in laundry mats as he had done with Carl and Floyd only a year ago. He walked to his upstairs bedroom window and stared outside, deep in thought, trying to remember the events of the night before……

     

    Photo: "I have got a crush on you," by Tor Alden
    
    Art: "The Burnouts" by Liz Aikler

    © 2016 Mark Rogers

    Book Cover for Paradise in Purgatory

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  • Roots

    Roots

    a tree in a field

    My tree stands alone
    In the midst of a
    Vast grassy field.
     
    Allow me to introduce to you,
    A place where time and reason
    Both must yield.
     
    I come here often
    In my mind
    When my heart is weak of feeling
    Towards mankind.
     
    It is my one and only
    True salvation.
    But, we are taught,
    A shameful destination.
     
    Vertigo!
     
    Ecstasy at a stand still.
    The stories this tree could tell.
     
    The dream is the same
    Time and time again…
    I emerge on to the scene
    Hypnotically focused upon my tree.
     
    The tree………………
     
    The root of all my evil.
    It awaits me;
    And as I draw near,
    In my state of slumber
    I can hear
    My girls’ voice
    Beckoning with fear.
     
    “I won’t be coming home dear.”
     
    I’d ask you to join me for a picnic ’neath my tree—
    Cool in the shade.
    But I know you are timid and frail
    And one must not be afraid.
     
    Color, creed and status
    Lay defenseless
    Here or anywhere
    Around the aura
    Of this wilderness cathedral.
     
    For the tree is my stage
    And each blade of grass, a spectator
    Filled with curious envy
     
    The sun is my spotlight
    Beaming down hard
    upon my every move.
     
    My subconscious directs
    And northeastern winds supply a subtle groove.
     
    Ahh, placid animosity.
     
    Peace and tranquility
    Stem from this tree.
    I must have some,
    I must take a leave…
     
    So I climb the tree
    And give it my all.
    And the rope around my neck
    Breaks my fall.
     
    And now I see
    And now I crawl
    Upon dirt floors
    ….in an ancient hall.

    © 1991, 2001, 2012, 2016 Mark Rogers

    Placed Animosity front cover
    Placid Animosity (B.U.R.N.O.U.T.S. Poems)

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  • The Silent Fright

     

    Puppets dance uniformly
    In boundaries of assigned squares
    Starvation and gluttony
    Rapidly grow into a common pair.

     

    Portrait couples,
    Afraid to catch an eye,
    Stir in quiet shame
    Of feeble attempts to rekindle
    Sparks……of a Duraflame.

     

    These are but a few dark truths,
    Which add to the sum of Silent Fright,
    And which swiftly fall from my heart
    Now that I have seen the end’s light.

     

    © 2001, 2012, 2016 Mark Rogers

    Placid Animosity

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  • Pumpkinhead’s Theory of Anti-Prosperity

    Pumpkinhead’s Theory of Anti-Prosperity

     

    Pumpkinhead spun around at the foot of the bed to face his older brother, Mahdakis, “So here’s how it works; every Friday at the end of the month, you go up to NYU.”

    “The one in New York?”

    “The same.”

    “But what if the last day of the month doesn’t fall on a Friday?”

    “It doesn’t matter. Just go on the last Friday of every month!”

    “How long are you going to be locked in this asylum?”

    “Not much longer so you’ll probably only be doing this one time. But you gotta unload the shit for me.”

    “Cool.”

    “You’ll go to the Rubin dorm or Rubin Hall; something like that. It’s on Fifth Ave. Ask for Black Tom. He knows to look out for you. He’s really cool and mellow.”

    “And black?”

    “And black. Now, he’s gonna sell you the shit. You’re going to buy a pound of bud. Make sure it’s good bud and not shake. Black Tom won’t jerk you around and he usually gets nice stuff, but just make sure.”

    “What if it’s not?”

    “Not bud? Then don’t buy.”

    “Alright. So far so good.”

    “You’ll need about twelve hundred dollars.”

    “Say what? Where the fuck am I going to get that kind of money?”

    “Jesus Christ! Calm the fuck down, man. Don’t you have a job or something?”

    “Yeah, I got a job, but my money’s pretty much tied up.”

    “Well un-fuckin’ tie it because you have to understand that while twelve-hundred may sound like a lot, you’ll be selling ounces at two-hundred dollars!”

    “So wait…..a pound, right?

    “Right.”

    “And there’s …uh….sixteen ounces in a pound?”

    “Last time I checked.”

    “So that’s thirty-two hundred dollars?”

    “Yeah man, like a two-thousand dollar profit if you don’t use any yourself. You have the capacity to make even more by selling it in small nickel and dime quantities.”

    “You must be rolling in the dough by now.”

    “Not really man, I got the car payments and the insurance…”

    “That’s it though. You got nothing else. Where’s all your money?”

    “It’s rough man because we spend twelve or fifteen hundred on a pound sometimes and then end up selling just about the same amount. We break even more times than not.”

    “That doesn’t even make sense. You should be making an extra two thousand or so off each deal.”

    “Right. But then we need to set aside twelve more for the next buy.”

    “So you should have two thousand in your hand.”

    “Black Tom and I smoke a lot of it.”

    “You smoke all your profits?”

    “Basically.”

    Mahdakis stood staring at his brother in disbelief, “What’s the matter with you, man? You were always so good with money.”

    “I am good with money. I’m just not good with pot.”

    “Jesus.”

    “Hey man, stop raggin’ on me dude. It pays for itself and the gas to get to and from places, man.”

    “So you and Black Tom smoke a half pound in a month? You smoke half your investment?”

    “Easily.”

    “What if you bought twice as much? Two pounds instead of one?”

    “What good would that do?”

    “Then you’d be able to have another pound and a half while still having the other half pound for recreation.”

    “How do you figure?”

    “Because it’s two pounds instead of one.”

    “But we smoke up half of it.”

    “Right.”

    “Half of two pounds is one pound. We’d be smoking an entire pound instead of just half.”

    “But you wouldn’t have to!”

    “Sure we would!”

    “Why?”

    “Because we smoke half. That’s how it goes!”

    “But don’t smoke half!”

    “But that’s what we do! You said so yourself. If we didn’t smoke half then we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now. All buying two pounds is gonna do is create more for us to smoke and generate more of a profit loss!”

    © 2013, 2014 Mark Rogers

    Front Cover for Benevolence & Betrayal (book 3)
    Benevolence & Betrayal
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    (A Retrospective)

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

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  • Yesterday = Today

     

    Slow and languid, the train of thought

    which still insists passion be bought

    under hazel skies children are taught

    to worship God………….so greedily sought.

    © 2001, 2012, 2016 Mark Rogers

    Placed Animosity front cover
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  • To Suck or Not To Suck

    Sham Rock walked up to Pumpkinhead and studied him only an inch away from his face, feeling Pumpkinhead’s face with his hands like a blind man reading brail, as if Pumpkinhead were an inanimate object or a painting being observed by an artist. “What’s the matter with you, Pumpkinhead? You look spaced out.”

    “Fuckin’ high on angel dust, bro. I’m buggin’.”

    “You gotta be careful messin’ around with that stuff. It’ll kill ya you know.”

    “Yeah man, I can dig it,” was all Pumpkinhead could say.

    “Where’s Nicki? Why didn’t she give you guys a ride?”

    “She threw us out of the car after Mahdakis over here called here a fat little cocksucker.”

    “What’s wrong with being a cocksucker?”

    “Huh?”

    “Nicki, I’m talking about. Why would she be upset with being called a cocksucker?” Sham Rock asked.

    “Yeah, what’s her problem anyway?” said Rizzo. “I love it when people call me a cocksucker. Especially when it’s a complete stranger driving by and I’m standing on the side of the road with a large group of friends……Or better yet, family members.”

    “Family members call you cocksucker?”

    “That’s not right.”

    “Oh it’s fine. They do it all the time! In fact, that’s how they address my birthday cards. ‘So, you’re one year older….Happy Birthday Cocksucker’.

    Ignoring Rizzo’s sarcasm, Dakota suggested, “Maybe it was because you called her a fat cocksucker.”

    “Girls don’t like being called fat,” said Kim.

    “Yeah…that’s a real sticking point.”

    “Cocksucker’s one thing,” Kim lectured on, “but to call a woman fat…well that’s just asking for a beating.”

    Ignoring them all, Sham Rock continued, “But being called a cocksucker only means that she’s useful and well liked.”

    “It’s derogatory, man.”

    “Derogatory shmogatory. Isn’t sucking someone’s dick a nice thing?”

    “Sure is,” Tony Ravioli said, bobbling his head. Bobble-bobble-bobble- “Why, you feel like being nice right about now?”

    “You’re a wise-ass too, Tony. You and Rizzo are made for each other.”

    “And it’s good for the environment,” Pumpkinhead said.

    “And fun for the whole family!”

    “That’s disgusting. What’s the matter with you anyway, Rizzo? And Sham, why the fuck are you asking this?”

    “Contemplating a career change?”

    “Shut the fuck up, Bobby. You too, Riz.” Sham Rock turned and studied Mahdakis. “And I don’t know what the hell you’re thinkin’ about over there, but I don’t like that grin on your face. Somethin’ tells me I should bust your head wide open right now.”

    “But then you’ll never know.”

    “Never know what?”

    “What I was thinking.”

    “Ah-ha! So you were thinking!”

    Mahdakis took a puff off his Tijuana Small cigar. “It happens.”

    “Sometimes.” –Bobble-bobble-bobble. Tony observed Mahdakis’ eyes squinting as he took the thin cigar out of his mouth. They had been together for too many years for Tony not to recognize that he was about to go into one of his lame, self-serving comedy routines. Tony also knew it a signal for him to step into sidekick mode.

    Mahdakis said, “Most likely, a long time ago, it was someone whose last name was cocksucker.”

    “Someone who lived in a small village…” -Bobble-bobble-bobble

    “Marseille, France, perhaps.”

    “…or just outside of…”

    “…where she was considered a…”

    “…or he…”

    “…or he was considered a cheat or a liar.”

    “Or someone who did the job only half way.”

    “Which then of course begs to ask the question, which came first, the cock or the cocksucker?”

    “The cock came first. The cock always comes first.”

    Dakota broke their routine and said solemnly, “I always thought it was because they tease you by giving you oral until you’re hard and then leave, never finishing you off, or letting you fuck them. And that’s why people hate cocksuckers.”

    “Oh.”

    “Well sure, then there’s that.”

    “Makes sense to me.”

    “Mm.”

    “Hey, what would life be like if we greeted each other like dogs?”

    “We probably wouldn’t French kiss that much.”

    “Do dogs give oral?”

    “Not to other dogs.”

    “So who do they give it to?”

    “People.”

    “People?”

    “Yeah, I seen that in a movie or two once,” said Frank.

    “Jesus, what a fuckin’ perv you are, man,” Polly laughed.

    “How could you have seen it once if you saw it in two different movies?”

    “Maybe it was the same scene.”

    “Doesn’t matter. He still would’ve seen it twice.”

    “What the fuck kind of movies are you renting, Frank?”

    “Regular kinds.”

    “Regular, my ass.”

    Shake-shake-shake, (Inhale-exhale) “I got shit loads of those kinds of movies, Frank….a lot of cool imports from Germany and whatnot.” (Inhale-exhale) “Grandmas and black dudes, dominate fat chicks with submissive oriental business men, hot teens in locker rooms, gay bikers on acid, famous athletes who worship feet while masturbating, big-titted blondes with horses, midgets who eat shit,” (inhale) “you name it. I’m watching one at home right now called Anal in the Antarctic. It’s about an Eskimo love triangle.” (exhale) “If you ever wanna borrow something, just let me know.”

    © 2016 Mark Rogers

    Book Cover for Paradise in Purgatory
    Paradise In Purgatory (Book IV)

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  • Taking It For Face Value

     

    Black Tom inhaled the joint and lazily looked over at Pock, the owner of a weathered crater face. “So why do they call you Pock? Is that a Texas kind of thing?”

    Mahdakis and Tony were silent, eyeballing one another trying to make the best of an uncomfortable moment.

    Pock spoke softly, “Nah man, it’s ’cuz a my face and whatnot.” Pock’s hand waved over his face suggestively as his eyes lowered to the ground. “You know?”

    “That’s just from bad acne at one point in time. You can cure that you know.”

    “Yea, how? Cut his head off?” Tony laughed.

    “That wouldn’t be much fun, now would it?” Black Tom got up and walked into the bathroom. When he returned, he was holding a jar in his right hand and was mixing its contents with a wooden spoon, held in his left. “What you need, is to dab just a little of this on your face every morning and at night just before bed. It’ll do miracles.” Black Tom knelt down in front of Pock and was about to poke his face with the pointy end of a feather.

    “Hey man, what duh fuck is dat, mane? Ya’ll gone fuckin’ bonkers er sumpin’? Don’t touch me wit dat crap.”

    “It’s okay,” Black Tom retreated politely, “it’s just a facial concoction that rejuvenates the skin by going deep into the pores and replenishing any facial blemishes back to their original state. You’ll be a better looking guy in no time, just trust me on this one. There’s nothing in here that you don’t ingest into your body anyway, or nothing that isn’t all natural.”

    “Wut duh fuck iz it, ’zactly?”

    “It’s two parts strained mud water, one-part chicken blood, with a drop of vanilla extract and a sprinkle of crushed lavender pedals; about a teaspoon or more.”

    “Say what?”

    “Just grab a handful or two of mud and put it in a colander, spaghetti strainer or whatever, and let the water strain out into a bowl or something; maybe do this overnight because it’s gonna take a long time.”

    “Okay. Where do I find sum ’dat chicken blood?”

    “Just a fresh chicken from the grocery store will do. You know, before you cook it, reserve the blood in a container of some sort, but don’t let it sit around for more than a week in the fridge, or it’s no good.”

    “Fresh chicken; got it.”

    “And the pedals you can purchase at any florist of course. But this is the important part.” Black Tom moved in towards Pock’s face, holding the feather like a pen. “You must apply just a little bit with the tip of an authentic ostrich feather, as the ostrich is rich in particular enzymes that disperse from the feather stem when mixed with the other proper ingredients.”

    “Enzymes, yeah…I heard ah doze.”

    “Then apply the ointment like this.” Black Tom began touching Pock’s face lightly with the tip of the feather, and drew what felt to Pock like, imaginary lines; one under his right eye and then one on his left cheek. “This will go into your skin’s pours directly and sit festering, adding essential vitamins and minerals to the under layers. That’s it. Don’t apply any more than that. The next time you do this however, apply the ointment in two different spots.”

    “Which ones?”

    “Wherever you like. Just mix it up and don’t go over the same area too often. Then when you’ve done that…” Black Tom turned the feather around and began brushing Pock’s entire face with the feather end, “…give yourself a quick brushing like so. When you give it a brush like this, you are brushing any excess of those vitamins and minerals that may have not gone into your skin and spread them over your face where they won’t do much, but what little they do, will heal, and not go to waste by dripping on the floor.”

    “Vitamins and Min’rals…those are good tings.”

    “Yes they are, and so are ostrich feathers. That is why it is very, very, very, important that you use an authentic ostrich feather, like so, and not a fake one or any other type of feather. Do you understand?”

    “Yeah…authentic.”

    “Right, and since they’re hard to find, I’ll give you this one. There’s a little place down in the village here where I can get more.”

    “Can you eat ’em too?”

    “The feathers?”

    “Ostrich. Do you eat ’em?”

    “Personally I don’t eat any meat at all unless it’s between a woman’s legs, and even then I’m known to be a bit stingy. But I’ve heard that it is quite a delicacy in other countries.”

    “Pussy?”

    “No, Ostrich.”

    © 2013, 2014 Mark Rogers

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    (A Retrospective)

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

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  • Ch-ch-ch-changes…..

     

    To deny change is not to grow,

    Or ever pass go,

    And never to know

    The answers to questions

    You long for today.

     

    Head of clay,

    You can say that today

    You don’t care to be aware

    As long as you  stay- – – –

     

     – – -the same

     

    remain- – – –

     

    vegetablized, minimized,

    – – -emotionally paralyzed.

     

    Frozen memories of a yesterday

    That you once knew

    Never to digest or recess

    Inside of you-

     

    There is unrest.

     

    You hate your life

    But you love yourself so.

    Soundly impossible,

    They’re one in the same bro.

     

    As the world changes,

    So must our causes and views.

    It is changing now—

    Turn on the news.

     

    I used to believe

    In justified homicide;

    A life for a life, an eye for an eye.

     

    But,

    Change soon found me

    With it’s merit and zest……

    ….. And now, jaded heart of failed test’s,

    I believe life eternal would be best.

     

    © 1990, 2001, 2012, 2016 Mark Rogers

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  • Remember Tomorrow

     

    “The only good thing about today is it’s still young and there’s still hope we will die before it’s over with.”

    “That’s the spirit. What do you have against waking up tomorrow, anyway?”

    “Tomorrow’s the reason I wanna get it over with today! Tomorrow we have to do this bullshit all over again!”

    “What makes you so sure?”

    “Because I am.”

    “Oh.”

    “Because tomorrow is the day we pay for our wasted yesterday.”

    “Which is actually today.”

    “Exactly!”

    “But it hasn’t been wasted.”

    “Not yet. But it will. And all we can pray for is that today–”

    “Or yesterday tomorrow.”

    “–stops right here before tomorrow settles in.”

    “The day after tomorrow, yesterday.”

    “Right.” (more…)