Tuesday, March 22, 2011


Is my mind really this rusted? Is my life really this dusted?

"I don't know if I am living, or if I'm supposed to be?!"

Cider combs his hair in front of the mirror and gets angry. So angry that his eyes well up with tears. He's got no patience for that, so he

Slaps himself silly.

Clenches his teeth.

Tenses up.

Cider heard some girls talking, and hears their echo inside somewhere.

  "The years just blend together. I can't tell if I cut my hair last month or two years ago. How confusing!"

Cider floats away in antigravity, sad about time. Crying about it. His tears float up into the void. He tries to whistle to distract himself, but sound is gone.☹

Brain in Ditch

Cider is playing Bingo and desperately trying to win.
They are playing frogger in the arcade, and Cider is getting pissed at his lousy reflexes and lack of dextrous fingers. 
He's got hooves. 
4 of them.
Bingo's frog makes it across the road, and Cider freaks. He smashes his hoof into the glass of the monitor, fucking it up pretty bad. 

  "Fuck man, what the fuck?!"

Bingo throws his body back and responds.
Cider gets up in his face,

He whinnies twice.

In walks hot pants half shirt red lips Trish and her posse of mongrel street kids. She gets near Cider and starts breathing and moving her tongue around in her mouth to make the sloppy sound of jelly gelling.
The rapid ticking inside Cider's body begins to slow as he hears this and smells Trish's womanly beach-babe odor.
The beast inside shrinks down to a pea size drop and recedes into Cider's peanut brain to hide until something else goes horribly wrong.
A look of shock remains on Bingo's face. Trish's mouth lays agape. Her hip is out, hand on top.

Sluuurrrrrrppppppp : goes CIder's brain. 

He reaches up to his ear and pulls a fly out. Trish grimaces.
"What's going on dad?


In the meantime, Cider's alternate reality cousin, Spider, is dancing in a cornfield, shaking his tail around. Carefree. A bullet hits him and he keeps dancing momentarily then falls to the ground, his body convulsing: still dancing. At this point, the earth sucks him in and he is swallowed by infinity.

Back in the arcade Cider's got a beer and Bingo is sad that his daughter has such little respect for him. Trish and co. are long gone.

"Bingo! I've got it!"

Bingo stares.

"Let's get a chicken and cook it and eat it"

"No no no no way…Shut the fuck up, man…you DUMB or somethin'?"
"BIngo makwoidk!"

drunk Cider.

"I can'tlkseihgl,k doilkh this!!!"

Cider's brain is in a ditch, so his eyes start welling up with tears.

Saturday, November 13, 2010


Cider plays games with his crotch.
Cider rushes to the hopsital. His clothes are bleeding, or it could possibly be his skin.
He's unsure of how to handle the situation.


He shouts loudly to his reflection. Alone. In his house. Staring into his mirror. For the hundredth time that day.

  "Ciiiiderrrrrrrrrr....have you been......drinkinginginging ing ng g g?"

Soft voice smoothes his mind and reverberates against his skull walls. Angel baby. In reality it is obnoxious. Cider shakes his head side to side and whinnies. He shows his teeth and his gums flare up and flap back and forth.

  "Trish, that bitch." he thinks. "I'll fuckin' slit that bitch!"

He imagines her tied down to a bed in Bingos garage amongst cans of paint and toxic chemicals. Cider licks his upper lip. It makes the sound of potato salad being stirred up. The kind with extra mayo. Gross.
He snaps out of it.
He shakes his head again.

Trish is a bitch, it's true, I know for a fact; but Cider is getting excited about it. He thinks of writing her a song. He combs his mane and smooths his eyebrows, still staring at himself in the mirror.

  "Mmmmmmmmm baby girl mmmmmmmmm Mamma Mamma smooth skinnnnnnnnnnnnn...."

Cider shakes his head again because he's thinking,

  "what the fuck am I thinking?!"

The phone rings and startles him so that he jumps nearly three feet in the air, and when he lands a lit candle falls off the glass table in front of his mirror, and his high pile carpet catches fire, and it's synthetic so it smells like a chemical explosion, and Cider inhales deep in hopes he might get high.
The phone still rings. He picks it up, stomping out the fire with his hoove, but keeping his nose real low to the ground to sniff the fumes.

Fucking Bingo.

  "Cider man, what's up? Trish told me you called earlier."

  "Finally" sniff sniff

Cider passes out. Bingo hangs up.

Monday, October 4, 2010


A baby is running through a mansion. He is blonde and blue eyed-- whisps of hair and chubby cheeks glowing with innocence.  His mother joins him in the hall to leave. She -- a small curly haired woman. A jew with fuscia lips and a skirt suit to match them. Her exasperation shows in her face: her frazzled hair, her hollow eyes. She is the overprotective type of mother.
I chase them down the dim hallway.

  "Don't take him away, lady, I'm gonna fuck him in the mouth"

The mother becomes more frantic, chasing her child as he runs amok, steeped in naive bliss.

  "I'm gonna fuck him in the mouth first. I'm gonna fuck his head. I'll split it open. I'll rip it off."

Mother starts yelling. She is not afraid; she is angry.

  "Blah blah blah" she yells.

Who knows what it all means. She swears. She acts like a tough New York bitch.

Another person comes. A girl -- nondescript, who tries to reason with the woman.
The child slows finally. He sits nicely. He's a doggy - a pitbull. He looks up at the girl. He has a bristly, stubbly beard and his tiny mouth, a cresent shape, opens to coo as the girl scratches his chin.
The man catches up with them, tearing down the hallway. A soap opera star. Studly.
He's got a look on his face. He sees the bearded dog baby and imagines inserting his cock into that tiny supple mouth cavern. To feel its smoothing in the field of prickly stubble.
A strange noise comes from the child suddenly. Somewhere between a coo and burp or a grunt. It is a putrid sound that could only come from the deepest bowels of the filthiest creature known to man.

Cider wakes up. His bed is wet. There is some chocolate on his nightstand. Half bitten. He eats the other half.

Monday, September 27, 2010

Death Day

There's dead in the air, and it blew through the window.
Cider stares at his television. It's not on.
Cider rolls to his side and stares some more.
Cider falls asleep after about 5 minutes.

His dream is a pearl that some idiot accidentally swallowed while at an oyster bar.
He dreams about rosy flesh soft flesh nice flesh  pretty flesh. A flesh rose he could hold in the palm of his hand if he had it. It is large though. Larger than he is, and it splits open and swallows  whole. Smells like pansies. Cheerful pansies.
Cider wakes up gargling, with pearly white drool spilling over his face onto his pillow.
He slurps it up.

  "...fucking bitch." Cider thinks as he gets up.

Maybe you don't know...Cider's dream is always the same; and he's sick of it. Too soft for a hard ass like him.

Cider can still smell pansies. He walks to the mirror and looks at himself. He starts contorting his body in strange ways, like maybe he's trying to dance around or something.

  "Hey now, hey now, don't dreeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaammmmmmm it's overrrrrrr..."

As he says 'dream' he neighs a little.
sux 2 b a horse!

Cider wants to go out.

  "I should go out tonight" Cider thinks.

It's Friday. Funday.
He must get psyched. He pours himself a double shot of Malibu and gets some ice out of the freezer. He chomps on it and slurps on it and puts it deep in his throat to melt down his larynx. He pours the Malibu over it and chokes a little, which makes him sort of gag and almost vomit. He swallows some more ice and calms down.
Cider starts to sing, but it sounds mostly like screechy horse whinnies. He turns on the radio and shitty dance music is playing, so he puts on a New Order cd and starts stomping around. He knows that he looks like an idiot. Good thing he doesn't care. Good thing he is in the comfort of his own home...NOT!
Cider has no blinds. He's too cheap to have them; that or he tore them down while he was drunk one time. I can't remember. Some people walk by and look in through his window and stare at him.
Some idiot jerk punks. They stare at him and laugh and throw rocks at his window. Cider hears this and freaks out. He stops, and rears up so his front hooves are on the window. He presses his face against the glass and mouths the words "fuck you"
The kids give him the finger and run off.

Cider suddenly doesn't much feel like going out anymore.
He spits on the floor.


  "I feel as if I am slowly dying" C thinks.

  "I feel as if I want to die" C also thinks.
           "as if I want to fly"

JK. That would probably be more boring than what I am experiencing right now!
Cider slaps himself on the face. He is looking in the mirror again. He tries to think of something interesting but can't. He slaps himself again.
It's 2:30 in the morning and Cider has had a lot of coke.      a cola.
Still Friday. Still every day of the week.
There is a burning sensation.
Cider turns the lights off in his living room where the mirror is. It turns a fog feeling grayish and there is light streaming in from the street lamp outside.
Cider starts dancing fiercely. Hip hop style. He shakes his hips and puts one hoof up in the air, rhythmically pumping his body.
He is fueled by anger. He is intense.
He stops after a few minutes and falls to the ground.
Cider wants to die.

Cider put on pants and a jacket, then thought, whatthehellamidoing?

The day Cider realized that clothing was unnecessary for a horse was a wonderful day.
He was standing in line at the grocery store, a good place for contemplating theses sorts of things. His left foot went numb, and he thought,

 "I will light this place on fire one day"

Then, Cider unbuttoned his pants and said aloud to all the people in line,
"The shit don't stop till' 'mah pants drop"

Everyone watched him as he snuck a sip from his flask. Not so sneaky.
Needless to say, Cider was banned from the store. He couldn't even afford all the groceries he'd wanted to buy. All he got was a bag of chips, and they told him never to come back.
The next day Cider's face hurt badly.

He called up Bingo.
  "I can't believe I've been wearing pants all this time"

Bingo promptly hung up the phone.

Sunday, September 26, 2010



Times are sad.
Times are good and able.
Times are new, are roman.
Where will I go?


"Oh Ciiiiiiiiiiiiiderrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr...I'm dreaming of the day we will be together and can be miserable together!"

I don't know who says this, but surely someone, somewhere is thinking-dreaming-wishing it.

Cider is laying on his bed asleep with the television and one bedside light both on. He drank a few beers. He was trying to be manly, I think. The phone rings.


  "gurlge gurgle gurgle"

  "Cider, wake up, man."

  "gurgle gurgle"

  "C'mon, Cider. I'm sick of this...it's only 9 o'clock, dude..."


  "This is bullshit, Cider!"

The guy hangs up. It was Bingo. What a strange thing. He never usually calls Cider, and neither does anybody else except telemarketers. Cider is still sleeping, but the movie on television ends and the commercials that come on are very very loud. He's startled. He realizes Bingo just called, so he dials his number.


It's a girl. She's young. It's Trish.

  "Ooooooooooooooh hi, I need to speak to your father."

  "Oh Ciiiiidddderrrrr! He's not here right now, actually. You just missed him."

She sounds extra loud and nice like she's playing some bitchy game. Cider doesn't like to fool around with that kind of crap.

  "Yeah...well....he just called me...just tell him I'm up."

  "Well...I can't tell him, cause he's not here."


Cider clicks the phone off. What a bitch.
Cider shuts his eyes again, and another movie comes on t.v.

It's in 3rd grade you start learning about compound sentences.