mr. ripmeoff n. pissonme

nothing is for real. what the hell does that mean, anyway? f'real. nothing is for real. there is no real. there is nothing but faith, and faith is never real. some goddamn motherfuckers stand out here like sore thumbs. they pull and push their hats back and forward and lick their lips and smile at the girls. some goddamn motherfuckers don't stand up and never realize how drunk they are. cowboys drinking mai tais and wearing their hats inside fellating each other in the corner stall with knees pressed into wet peanut shells. i ate a pig. i ate a turkey. i ate a cocker spaniel and it smiled at me from the silver platter as i picked slivers of grey from its ribs. faces of dead relatives swirled in my wine. olives on the fingers of the children. the ill tidings restrained behind teeth, gates witholding, pleasant sips of warm fluid snot for your throat meat for your bowels. did you hear the voices? in the night, what woke me, what did you hear? you so happy in my arms, slipping in and out, sleep, your brown eyes open to kiss mine. i can't tell you your thoughts, i smell them, feel inside you. but what? i can't tell you your thoughts. did you hear the voices? the thump and clack of doors and windows rattling and the steps in the hall? did you smell the fire, the wind blown smoke, the heat from the bed where the smolder never embers, the flame never fires? i best the beast and still she haunts me and destroys my security hides my sanctuary. i rise in paranoia and hellfire for my sins and my past. i am a trembled mouse, my wings are rags, awash in sweat crashing ocean waves on a pale, bloodless beach. faith is not real. nothing is real.