Boat Ride on the Chesapeake with my Father, then my Stepfather and then a Friend
It's the razors edge,
neither here nor there.
When the sky and the water become one (in color,)
the old memories intertwine with the new moment.
Nothing is remember, nothing is captured.
I swim every time I'm out,
to remember,
to be in that moment.
To live.
It doesn't exist.
It's neither here nor there.
It doesn't exist.
It's not there.
Before I do it, I don't want to do it. After I do it, I forget.
It's neither here nor there.
It's Gone.
And I see things now and they rake up these; distant, twisted, distorted memories.
I don't know, I can't see them.
It's Déjà vu.
It's a confused reality.
It's dizzying.
And I just interact with the moment at hand, maybe I forget the past for a minute.
Then I post the memory in my head,
the new one,
over top the similar old one.
----
On and Looking at the Lookout Tower
Where my foot has stepped there is no trace.
And from the sea this is joyous relief.
My disappearance
To disappear...from the ground.
And water drifts us further and further away to the forgotten.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Saturday, March 28, 2009
warning first draft
work in progress, missing words, bad grammar and tense, working out the kinks as I go, good luck, and comment fixes etc. cheers! this is a knda psychological twisted porno, i really love the genre of horror porn, glad to see it's rise in popularity. always wanted to write something like it, so this is just a lewd catcher in the rye. ciao
MY FIRST TASTE OF DUBBAH-YA DUBBAH-YA TWO
MY FIRST TASTE OF DUBBAH-YA DUBBAH-YA TWO, 1
da Troof Productions LLC, All Rights Reserved 2009
Watching myself type to a friend the other night, "A tongue in the ass or a good ole fashion dick lashing will always quiet them. Like a pacifier." Again I was over simplifying things. A lot of people talk too much, it's not that bad. Is it? We all get that way sometimes. But the girl in question is a good girl and I hope he holds on to her. Lords knows I can't seem to hold on to any them skirmy little eels.
I spent some time in Manila a few years back, a wonderful city. A financially diverse place with veins of wealth and object povery intertwined and running rampant all through it's geography. And after taking it in full force the nightlife was calling, and I was halfheartedly and with coaxing going to answer the call. And five minutes in I was determined to get myself an old travelling memory. Perhaps Asia was the remedy for a 18 month long girl-less rut. I had been depressed over a long drawn out pathetic excuse for a 5 year relationship and when it finally kicked the bucket I was left with the jizz mop.
The Phillipines like it's neighbor Thailand and maybe a lot of the Asia countries I will never visit have major flesh trade industries. Add a splash of real poverty and the rich anglo was gonna go far with an average wallet full of cash, something that might cost thousands in the states was gonna go down for maybe a hundred bucks. That is if it didn't get lifted on the way. The L.A. Cafe, was described as a classic rock n roller bar. The Bar Girls or Pimpless Hookers that made up most of the occupants of the bar did not really become apparent until after a few drinks. I really didn't care, other than the immediate revelation that this was where all the hot girls in the city had been hiding. Some many in one place, strange. During the day I had not really seen many beauties, not like San Francisco or New York where you fall in love every corner, trip, fall, detour, etc. After many 6 or 7 drinks and fooling around with the high school girls, this older girl caught my atttention. Real domineering, kinda territorial towards the other girls. The loudest girl at the bar, totally my type, not really. But she was on fire, mouthy, gregarious, a real firecracker. She was an aging hooker around 27 in a young fledgling metropolis. Where the top girls there were 18 (let's say). I found out you had to be fast in the bars to get them too. Guys snatched them up early. Guys you would peg as your Pastor or Mechanic back home were all business in Asia, they knew the score. They vanished spontaneously before your eyes. I had come to drink I kept telling myself, not to buy tail. They sure were nice, with every glance you got a converstion. A lot nicer than my breath should've allowed. I was whiskey soaked and fully smoked and on the road for months. Not a girl in America would even touch me in this state, or any state for that matter. But here my ego evaded and denied the truth with hypnotic style, It was the Spike Channel for real, A Real Loser's Paradise. Welcome to Asia white boy, your first G-Rated sex carnival ride, in the Queue all those failing to meet the height requirement. Thailand on the otherhand served it up under age and numbered. Organized like Dave's Quality Meats. And these anal nitz's kept a stopwatch and a birth certificate in hand. Cause if they had an age limit it was definitely measured by the second. They know what they have, and a full blown skin trade operation it is, a frickin Walmart experience for the most gluttonous American and European shoppers. Pick-pocketing pretty pussies, with their Grandma's taking care of all the introductions. Imagine the old biblical golden calf, the big gold idol it gets nuked. Fractures and imploded into trillions of little pieces, these pieces up close are actually paper money and it's landed all over us and right in our little grubby pockets. And now we have power of the idol, we have it to wield over ourselves, Skin Trade. Sweet Sweetness.
On our way out, we pass up Valium, Oxycoton, Viagra, whatever etc. Quickly weeding our way through the street vendors like newlyweds, dodging their long skinny tobacco colored arms, leaving the church, and getting into the car, it should had cans tied to the back, no one would even notice, then the arm wiggling through the windows of the little taxi, packets of pills, condoms, cigarettes, like somekind of evolved room service. Makiti City Por Favor! We zoom off into the heavy night, sweaty, tropical, lost and alone to the 5 star. She's excited, she's got her Johnny come lately, Sally's children will eat tomorrow. And she is going down down down.
She can't wait to get fucked, she must really liked her job, wow these bar girls, topshelf...I guess, pimpless system in Manila works out, hell Hindi works in India, why not? It really makes things more relaxed, like you earned it or something and I guess you did, it just kinda got transmuted into cash, cash changes hands, you dance the false dance, hug and put em in a cab at pumpkin time. A means that has now found an end, a rearend. TV Pimps always made me nervous. Took the glory out of the world's oldest profession, blood suckers, I hope Ann Rynd is right you'll never achieve real happiness you parasites, strong and scary as you are...
She plops down on the bed, after a drawn out and quite embarrassing entry down at the lobby, shit. And what does she do but pull out her glass pipe...It's the kind of act that makes you lose your breath, slapped by the rich pageantry and infinite possibilities of LIFE. At this point the talking has become exponetial larger...the begging...the ordering about...at this point...I am wishing Viva La Viagra. The glass pipe, it looked more like a straw, I really did not know what she was planning to do with it, so I retreated to the Lu for sanctuary. She is whincing and whining for it like a meth'd pig falling down a low grade greasy chute. And I am as limp as a seedling, cowering in the W.C...Christ. She's in the 5 Star bed, the witness is atesting to the softness of her skin, which is another subject unto itself...so soft, wow. Like ripened tobacco leaves jagged and sucking, draining the light from August's golden hour, a beautiful yellow Manila minute, that time when every place for a moment squints to become Egyptian.
I finally came out of hiding with blood flushed loins to join in on this irrational equation, and quiet the meth head whore for a minute. A minute or so of silence...priceless at this point...my peformance lackluster but it's long gone and here in the writing my future grows darker, but my past will ferment into subtle complexity. Celebrated with friends. We'll bid up these 18th century Lafites, measure their shoulders and laugh without judgement. I gazed upon the scene and shit, if she didn't scare the blood from my loins and the condom now just an old half empty trash bag being dragged through the rainy city dangling from the belt of an aimless vagrant. Yelling and commanding and in the midst of cussing and shouting, like some inescapable bar fart we began, glorious silence for a moment, satiated little baby pounding around on her fleshy pacifier. Her bouncing breasts looked poorly enhanced, so soft though, her skin made up for everything, my mind started to wander. But like a pingpong ball sent wet from a patpong bar window the silence broke, the trashbag ripped open, old cans rattled in the street over the stripes of the crosswalk. The vagrant muttered loudly and started at me again, methhead whores terrible for the manhood. Atleast the witness was asleep, I had accomplished something, in a string of long days and more to come he needed his rest. The muttering bitch gripped with frustration and rage ripped the condom off, and my eyes rolled back into my head.
It was like some witchdoctors pocket pussy, poison frogs duct taped back to back around me, a vicous viscous flow, I came back to myself, she stopped yelling about my seeming virginity. My lack of prowess, my lack of anything really, there was only her. She was such a larger personallity in bed. A leader, angry and blood thirsty, did she have the sickness, I guess at that point I really did not care. She was sure I didn't based on my ineptness. The softness was too much, nothing like it, anonymous, inescapable, random perfection. Slow oozing sap fom the bark. My mind wandered. My lack of sexual knowledge, she had rendered me a child in her eyes, not even knowing it, I wondered if this was my first taste of dubbah-ya dubbah-ya two. Some many soldiers were here I wonder if they felt this, amazing tropical truth, were they better off knowing it? Did it make it harder to come back the white picket fence, the mechanical schedule sex, the job the routine, the lead lined refridgerator, the VFW?
She moaned and I pumped, rhythmlessness, my mind further drifting, I was fulfilling my duty I could breathe again, she was quiet and panting. Her color so perfect. I stared at the yellowed glass pipe on the table, with an inner patina like scorched lead paint, a house fire, a torched house in the blank blocks of Detroit city, M&Ms city now. She hadn't offered anything up but her body as if it was the least valuable of all her possessions. What else was in that silly doggy purse of hers, could I reach it? Dirty fuckin gutted stuffed animal doggy purse. Seriously, treasure in that thing...doubtful...but to her worth more than herself, more than this body.
da Troof Productions LLC, All Rights Reserved 2009
Watching myself type to a friend the other night, "A tongue in the ass or a good ole fashion dick lashing will always quiet them. Like a pacifier." Again I was over simplifying things. A lot of people talk too much, it's not that bad. Is it? We all get that way sometimes. But the girl in question is a good girl and I hope he holds on to her. Lords knows I can't seem to hold on to any them skirmy little eels.
I spent some time in Manila a few years back, a wonderful city. A financially diverse place with veins of wealth and object povery intertwined and running rampant all through it's geography. And after taking it in full force the nightlife was calling, and I was halfheartedly and with coaxing going to answer the call. And five minutes in I was determined to get myself an old travelling memory. Perhaps Asia was the remedy for a 18 month long girl-less rut. I had been depressed over a long drawn out pathetic excuse for a 5 year relationship and when it finally kicked the bucket I was left with the jizz mop.
The Phillipines like it's neighbor Thailand and maybe a lot of the Asia countries I will never visit have major flesh trade industries. Add a splash of real poverty and the rich anglo was gonna go far with an average wallet full of cash, something that might cost thousands in the states was gonna go down for maybe a hundred bucks. That is if it didn't get lifted on the way. The L.A. Cafe, was described as a classic rock n roller bar. The Bar Girls or Pimpless Hookers that made up most of the occupants of the bar did not really become apparent until after a few drinks. I really didn't care, other than the immediate revelation that this was where all the hot girls in the city had been hiding. Some many in one place, strange. During the day I had not really seen many beauties, not like San Francisco or New York where you fall in love every corner, trip, fall, detour, etc. After many 6 or 7 drinks and fooling around with the high school girls, this older girl caught my atttention. Real domineering, kinda territorial towards the other girls. The loudest girl at the bar, totally my type, not really. But she was on fire, mouthy, gregarious, a real firecracker. She was an aging hooker around 27 in a young fledgling metropolis. Where the top girls there were 18 (let's say). I found out you had to be fast in the bars to get them too. Guys snatched them up early. Guys you would peg as your Pastor or Mechanic back home were all business in Asia, they knew the score. They vanished spontaneously before your eyes. I had come to drink I kept telling myself, not to buy tail. They sure were nice, with every glance you got a converstion. A lot nicer than my breath should've allowed. I was whiskey soaked and fully smoked and on the road for months. Not a girl in America would even touch me in this state, or any state for that matter. But here my ego evaded and denied the truth with hypnotic style, It was the Spike Channel for real, A Real Loser's Paradise. Welcome to Asia white boy, your first G-Rated sex carnival ride, in the Queue all those failing to meet the height requirement. Thailand on the otherhand served it up under age and numbered. Organized like Dave's Quality Meats. And these anal nitz's kept a stopwatch and a birth certificate in hand. Cause if they had an age limit it was definitely measured by the second. They know what they have, and a full blown skin trade operation it is, a frickin Walmart experience for the most gluttonous American and European shoppers. Pick-pocketing pretty pussies, with their Grandma's taking care of all the introductions. Imagine the old biblical golden calf, the big gold idol it gets nuked. Fractures and imploded into trillions of little pieces, these pieces up close are actually paper money and it's landed all over us and right in our little grubby pockets. And now we have power of the idol, we have it to wield over ourselves, Skin Trade. Sweet Sweetness.
On our way out, we pass up Valium, Oxycoton, Viagra, whatever etc. Quickly weeding our way through the street vendors like newlyweds, dodging their long skinny tobacco colored arms, leaving the church, and getting into the car, it should had cans tied to the back, no one would even notice, then the arm wiggling through the windows of the little taxi, packets of pills, condoms, cigarettes, like somekind of evolved room service. Makiti City Por Favor! We zoom off into the heavy night, sweaty, tropical, lost and alone to the 5 star. She's excited, she's got her Johnny come lately, Sally's children will eat tomorrow. And she is going down down down.
She can't wait to get fucked, she must really liked her job, wow these bar girls, topshelf...I guess, pimpless system in Manila works out, hell Hindi works in India, why not? It really makes things more relaxed, like you earned it or something and I guess you did, it just kinda got transmuted into cash, cash changes hands, you dance the false dance, hug and put em in a cab at pumpkin time. A means that has now found an end, a rearend. TV Pimps always made me nervous. Took the glory out of the world's oldest profession, blood suckers, I hope Ann Rynd is right you'll never achieve real happiness you parasites, strong and scary as you are...
She plops down on the bed, after a drawn out and quite embarrassing entry down at the lobby, shit. And what does she do but pull out her glass pipe...It's the kind of act that makes you lose your breath, slapped by the rich pageantry and infinite possibilities of LIFE. At this point the talking has become exponetial larger...the begging...the ordering about...at this point...I am wishing Viva La Viagra. The glass pipe, it looked more like a straw, I really did not know what she was planning to do with it, so I retreated to the Lu for sanctuary. She is whincing and whining for it like a meth'd pig falling down a low grade greasy chute. And I am as limp as a seedling, cowering in the W.C...Christ. She's in the 5 Star bed, the witness is atesting to the softness of her skin, which is another subject unto itself...so soft, wow. Like ripened tobacco leaves jagged and sucking, draining the light from August's golden hour, a beautiful yellow Manila minute, that time when every place for a moment squints to become Egyptian.
I finally came out of hiding with blood flushed loins to join in on this irrational equation, and quiet the meth head whore for a minute. A minute or so of silence...priceless at this point...my peformance lackluster but it's long gone and here in the writing my future grows darker, but my past will ferment into subtle complexity. Celebrated with friends. We'll bid up these 18th century Lafites, measure their shoulders and laugh without judgement. I gazed upon the scene and shit, if she didn't scare the blood from my loins and the condom now just an old half empty trash bag being dragged through the rainy city dangling from the belt of an aimless vagrant. Yelling and commanding and in the midst of cussing and shouting, like some inescapable bar fart we began, glorious silence for a moment, satiated little baby pounding around on her fleshy pacifier. Her bouncing breasts looked poorly enhanced, so soft though, her skin made up for everything, my mind started to wander. But like a pingpong ball sent wet from a patpong bar window the silence broke, the trashbag ripped open, old cans rattled in the street over the stripes of the crosswalk. The vagrant muttered loudly and started at me again, methhead whores terrible for the manhood. Atleast the witness was asleep, I had accomplished something, in a string of long days and more to come he needed his rest. The muttering bitch gripped with frustration and rage ripped the condom off, and my eyes rolled back into my head.
It was like some witchdoctors pocket pussy, poison frogs duct taped back to back around me, a vicous viscous flow, I came back to myself, she stopped yelling about my seeming virginity. My lack of prowess, my lack of anything really, there was only her. She was such a larger personallity in bed. A leader, angry and blood thirsty, did she have the sickness, I guess at that point I really did not care. She was sure I didn't based on my ineptness. The softness was too much, nothing like it, anonymous, inescapable, random perfection. Slow oozing sap fom the bark. My mind wandered. My lack of sexual knowledge, she had rendered me a child in her eyes, not even knowing it, I wondered if this was my first taste of dubbah-ya dubbah-ya two. Some many soldiers were here I wonder if they felt this, amazing tropical truth, were they better off knowing it? Did it make it harder to come back the white picket fence, the mechanical schedule sex, the job the routine, the lead lined refridgerator, the VFW?
She moaned and I pumped, rhythmlessness, my mind further drifting, I was fulfilling my duty I could breathe again, she was quiet and panting. Her color so perfect. I stared at the yellowed glass pipe on the table, with an inner patina like scorched lead paint, a house fire, a torched house in the blank blocks of Detroit city, M&Ms city now. She hadn't offered anything up but her body as if it was the least valuable of all her possessions. What else was in that silly doggy purse of hers, could I reach it? Dirty fuckin gutted stuffed animal doggy purse. Seriously, treasure in that thing...doubtful...but to her worth more than herself, more than this body.
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