Writing @ Starbucks

Sometimes it’s important to shut your fucking mouth, like in public places where your faces are busy misplacing the pastries you’ve paid for while the air escapes your veiny throat and what’s more heinous is the fact that you’re draped with the same shit that killed your uncle James, kid, and you don’t even savor it, you favor it gone in a second like you came with a mission to slay shit, to eat more food than a buffet filled with different stages of diabetic patients, my patience is thin and the more you linger the more anxious I am to flip the one finger on my hand capable of distinguishing me as foe or friend, you annoy me to no end, you’ve destroyed my trail of thoughts and that is my last strand of straw, you’ve ended all my plans to stay calm, I’m erupting from the skull like my cranium’s gone, you pathetic scu – oh, he’s leaving. Ah, back to writing.

Navigating Your Sea

This dark room
became endless
the moment we closed our eyes

every kiss you
leave on my skin
is like a drop of melting ice

every taste of
yours I get
reinforce my
ease, comfort,
the force
comes after
like a storm
or fire
like a whisper
comes in forms
of moans and
fun and anger
collapse, adjourned
for moments
while our bodies
conform to
desire, your form
is contorted
and I resort
to your thighs
like I’m holding
the ropes to a sail
and we’re floating the highs
and lows like a boat
and you’re steering us
straight for disaster
to thunder and lightning
drowning our bodies
in bubbles and tides high
currents deep enough to
lose our footing so we slide
into each other, like floods
we are consumed in the water
in the motions and moves
of two lovers, it’s beautiful
war as our bodies compete
for a truce
as our speed tops
and your jaw drops
and your eyes roll
and your moans stop
and the pitch of your voice
peaks and my hips
seek one final
lone thrust

comes from feeding
your lust.


Art by This Guy

A 13,000 words big dick

I’m writing this book and goddamn I actually love it. I can’t stop thinking about it. The words are shit and the pacing feels like an episode of The Walking Dead (fucking BORING) but hell once I gut it and sprinkle some glitter on it it’s going to read like a damn orgasm.

I’ve never been obsessed with my own work (which is probably big red flag #1) and it feels very conceited and blind. I feel biased towards it and have big dreams for the outcome. The kind of dreams society was supposed to have stomped out of me at this age, but yet there they are, bubbled up from my skull.

I’m about 13,000 words into it and I think I want it to be short. So even the millennial reader can pry their eyes away from an endless stream of GIFs to read the best story of their lives. I’m thinking 30,000 to 50,000 words. A fucking Novella, which sounds like novel and nutella mixed so YES.

Writing about how I feel about what I’m writing is some twisted Inception mental masturbation inside of a masturbation stuff, but alas. I’m like those rappers who talk about how big their dicks are but never yank the damn thing out. My dick’s about 13,000 words big right now, but the more time I spend with it the bigger it’s gonna get.



Sam, here is my vow:

I’ll love you tomorrow more than I do now. I’ll raise up our kids and I’ll adopt a few cows, you farm loving freak, if compassion is sound than your soul is muziek, that’s Dutch and rhymes better than music, you’ll learn one day and then we’ll both speak in a secret little language unknown by the publiek, haha, I’ll stop now, keep English on the sheet, not that you understand poetry, but you know me, I can’t help but be overly lovey dovey and I’m supposed to be, that’s a husband’s job, yours is in the ovaries (just kidding!), this is my closing piece, the final paragraph keeps it short and sweet, but I’m going to turn it up like I’m about to peak, here it is:

Enter, enter.

Isn’t she a spitting image of perfection? You can hear it, catch it, like prisms in the sunny air and when the sun sets we’ll be married, damn I can’t wait to be married, rings upon each others’ fingers, promising each other years and songs of memories will bring us tears and smiles and laughs and paragraphs of laws will bind us then but until then I’ll bind your hand with all five fingers, that’s the plan, intertwined like a web, like the lace on your wedding dress, like my place in your shade in the face of whatever comes our way, give me just a few more Mays and then one day we’ll be bound in matrimony*.

*Matrimony should be pronounced like matrimonaaaay

1st drafts

Give me a shot. Of espresso, I mean, not a bullet, just the bean, just a cup of drugs to keep me in the scene, to keep my writing mean and dirty, filth on a white page is worthy of a screen: the pale white of your computer light will scream my words until your eyes are sore and wide and you begin to dream of more in life, I will inspire your entire worth tonight, with promises I never keep these sentences will sound like war and strife, an aura of gore and knives and the dot on every “I” is a pointed spike, that’s what I’ve got in store, alright? A poem written in the shortest time.

That was bad.

Let me try again, every sentence spliced to reinvent, my intention is to right these rends, to at least attempt, to appease and mend and treat my ends with periods or at least an “and”… blegh.

I’m not on it today.

I haven’t written one for her for some time. For the girl in my life. For the only source of worth… I’ve used that word so instead I’ll say the dirt to my earth, I want to be the worm in her soil, hahaha, make her squirm and ache and be her birthday cake, blow my candle like I’m burning late, like the starry night is hers to take, like our hearts and lives are yearning fate, like…

ah fuck it. I’ll write tomorrow.

Update On Training

I’ve found new ways to kill myself. Five miles in 50 minutes and to really kick myself in the balls I did 10-15 burpees at each stoplight. No break. I don’t care what your standards are because for me it feels like my ribs have splintered off and are stabbing me in the heart. Hell.

But then a shower and recovery burgers and I begin to feel like there’s a thousand endorphins sucking my dick. I’m eating protein bars the way I used to breathe air. Tearing through calories like Goku. I feel ready for the Spartan Run, even if I’m not.


Writing when your body is exhausted feels right. I was really on one today, wrote a lengthy piece for the Crusade. Prompt was Popcorn. If you’re training your attention stamina the way I’m training my physical stamina go on, read it for a great workout.

That’s it. Updated.