Quibble is Quibble

Mars was supposed to be a layover betwixt Kelt North and Earth. I didn't have much say in where I was going; I’d been on a 6 month bender, feeling in quite the docile state- like an overcooked tortellini- when the shuttle picked me up from Mahatma.

    I stepped off the shuttle sweating like a fucking dog’s tongue. It'd been a 4 day drug-free journey at lightspeed, in which demons and little gremlins were flying around in my head much resembling a tireless midnight bad trip in Copenhagen with hundreds of smuggled cigar-smoking Spyros circling in the air like ghetto gnats, guffawing and snapping wise-ass comments. I had 6 hours before the all-aboard was to be called. 6 hours to cop some good stuff.

    The stop was on the outskirts of Mars' first and largest city, LA2- full of runaways, fly-by-nighters, and cheap souls domiciled in the nowhere of everywhere. The land, naturally enough, inside the large bubble necessary for life to excel, looked much like Arizona. And the folks tending to the outskirt lands had a fearful and unopinionated look of drudge on their faces, as if they’d been fucked over too many times by the systematic repression of Earth.

In my edgy state, looking for a quick trip to downtown, I was hollering at the souls that this is LA2- you can do whatever the fuck you want! I’m not quite sure what I was getting at. Aside from the next score. Why shouldn’t I stay?

    Approaching people filling their vehicles up with fuel, it didn’t take long for me to catch a ride with a space-freight trucker, coming in from a mining expedition on Phobos (one of 2 of Mars’ moons). He was feeling like getting a hooker and copping some good stuff.

    I sunk into the cabin. It was dank. Pretty standard trucker man. You know, the kind with an edge. The trucker’s edge. The trucker’s atlas. Embodiment. Bodhisatva. Preach.

    “So what the hell you doing, mate,” the mate inquired. He was emanating a stench of garlic and beer. He had an Australian accent.

    “Ohhhhh. Hm. Well, yaknow- a prick on the ole turnpike know what I mean. ” Heaven knows I don’t know, nor do I have a job. Driving manual with a broken arm. Not literally. Beads of sweat, though the climate in the little Mars bubble was kept at a steady 23 degrees and humidity of 40%.

    What the fuck. What the fuck what. What the fuck I mean where the fuck is the fuckin’ titty fuckin’ bar.

    “So the answer is right in front of you, you think so mate?”

    “Sure, why not,” I answered unemphatically.

    I’d been brought up I suppose, in an environment very encouraging of the “just get up and go” mentality. I’d never given it second thought (though many space hippies have given it much thought, those from Mississippi and beyond). Yet here I stand. Hippie in my blood, I guess. Just get up and go.

    “Quibbled enough in your old life, decided you’d had enough, hey,” the driver said.

-excerpt from A Mildly Toxic Start

    “My life hasn’t been that difficult. But yeah, I’ve had enough.” Through introspective teeth I muttered this, with mild conviction. Better to pretend you have direction than to know you don’t.

    Enough is enough. Quibble is quibble. Prevaricated servitude.

-excerpt from A Mildly Toxic Start

Prearranged Disappointment

    17 or 18 years ago, I was wandering around Hackney Wick just after sunset. I was new to town, having just escaped a near-death experience with a voodoo priest in Berlin.

    I had left with a bit of a tingling for more, as if I’d been cheated out of some traditionally unpleasurable circumstance that of which I’ve always been fond of. (How close can you get to the flame before meta-instinct pulls you away?)

    There was a smoking gal in an alley off some side street that I decided to approach and swap paradigms with- who is it and where is it you seek pleasure from? What kinds of outcomes do you expect out of your daily rituals? Are you a participator or a spectator?

    She was having a difficult time following my accent so I turned around with my Budvar in hand and began to pray to the wall with barbed wire atop and shrubs poking through that I can someday learn a universal way of conveying my ideas and in turn get others to percolate theirs without inhibiting factors such as language, belief, region, archetype, sacred agendas, etc.

    I caught from my owl-eye that her cigarette was almost out and that she was completely and utterly confused and about to write me off as a bag-bum and jolly her way back inside. I spun around on one foot.

    “Do you live here? Or do you work here?”

    “I work here- I, er, both,” she responded with a bit of absence in her tone.

    “Sounds like a fortunate plight you’ve created for yourself.”

    “What do you do?”

    “Fine art,” I said all deadpan-like.

    “This is a photography studio. I have client arriving in maybe 10 minutes.” She was probably from Italy or Spain. I could tell she wasn’t your typical ‘what do you do’ type. She definitely had her way of living and could appreciate a creature like me and all the strange antics attached.

    “I’m a dabbler in photography myself. I like getting hands on and fucking the world with my lens.” She laughed at that. “Are there any vacancies in this building or in this neighbourhood that you’ve heard of?”

    “Uhm I think that there is one availability- uhm no that has been rented… What will you be doing in 2 or maybe 3 hours? That is when I will be finishing with this client and I am hoping to talk to you more… About possibly interning for me. I need some extra help.”

    “I may be able to help you, but not through putting the fucking lights how you want them, babe.” She frowned a bit. “I am interested in meeting with you in 2 or 3 hours though, and seeing further what you are all about and possibly collaborating with you.”

    “What kind of camera are you using?”

    “Yours, probably. I left mine in a Swedish girls backpack. She’s now in Budapest and never wants to speak to me again.”

    “Let me give you my card so that we may be in contact.”

    We said our goodbyes. I drained my Budvar and pissed half of it out next to a hobos tent on the other side of the wall that I had just been praying to moments ago.


    I was a bit shocked. The sort of terseness I’d spoken to Corinna with earlier seldom gets me anywhere. But I work alone anyways. I network as a hobby, not a profession. I breathe because I was told to.

    I’d wandered around for 2 or 3 hours speaking to ducks in the canal and pondering socio-anarcho ideologies in respect to penance and pissants and guilty compliance with poorly thought-out rebellions. I remember having a couple of breakthroughs but not feeling the need to record them, on grounds of Knowing too much. Bliss is ignorant passion.

    I found my way back to the alley in which Corinna and I had met and knocked on one of the towering metal doors attached to the building she had gestured living/working in. There sounded to be quite some ruckus being made inside- possibly somebody metal-working, or maybe Dstroying all of their bric-à-brac for some predisposed reason.

    The clamor paused when I gave a second round of knocking, this time with a little bit more gusto. The human that opened the door was not my smoking Italian or Spanish girl from earlier, but a masked monolith of a pale man scantily clad in chains and black leather.

    Fortunately he was a very nice man, and informed me that there was no such gal named Corinna that he was familiar with, and that he used this space to constrain and painfully tease much smaller-than-he middle to late aged ladies that, at this point in their lives, just ‘never could get enough’. He gave me his card and before he closed the door to resume his torture I asked where the nearest payphone was. He told me I could use his landline if I didn’t mind the noise.

    How fucking nice the BDSM community is.

    I stepped through a corridor into a large open layout room with high ceilings, chains clinging and boots thudding from the gargantuan walking in front of me, the blindfolded client hanging from the wrists in the center of it all, head dangling from her naked shoulders, as if she had one foot on the boat to cross the River Styx, ankles locked together and attached to a chain going to the floor, but was still breathing and perspiring lightly.

    He gestured around a corner to where the telephone was and as I turned the corner and picked it up, taking out the card Corinna had given me earlier, I heard a shrilling female voice cry, “No!” and I dialed the number.

    In between the sounds of lashed flesh and screams and the receiver emitting a ringback tone, I heard another noise that left my mouth agape as I turned to where the sound was coming from. It was a cellular phone ringing and there was a figure in the shadows.

    Corinna emerged, pointing her camera at me and snapping a few photos as I stood there incredulous. She let the camera hang from the strap around her neck and ended the still quietly ringing phone, putting it back into her bag. She approached me and put her finger on my lips indicating me to keep quiet.

    “Walk back outside. Be sure to wave to the man goodbye. I will guide you from there.”

    I nodded and turned and walked back into the main room. I made eye contact with the man as he was in the process of repositioning the limp lady to be hanging upside down. I waved and lipped a ‘Thank you’, and he responded with a smile and, taking a hand off one ankle, waved back.

    I exited the building and shut the tall door. I looked around and rolled a cigarette. As I lit it I heard a psst from above me and cranked my head up to see Corinna on the roof gesturing for me to walk down the alley a little farther. I followed the order as she walked parallel up-top.

    “Here,” she said, pointing to a dumpster beneath a series of pipes and ledges that led up to the roof.

    I climbed up without an issue (I’ve been scaling the sides of buildings since I was a cub).

    “Nice studio,” I told her, with suppressed superciliousness.

    “I have a few others as well.” She smiled devilishly. “Come with me. Step light.”

    We crept atop the rooftop like little cats in heat in the summer, hopping over little ledges staying in the dark and climbed down a little ladder that took us to another side of the building. There was a door held cracked open with a crowbar. As we walked through I could tell that the door had been brusquely introduced to the crowbar that was now holding it open.

    “Thank you for coming like you said you would,” she whispered as we stopped in the darkness of an inside room. “I waited until you knocked to open the door.”

    “You probably could have just asked for a key. He’s a very nice guy.”

    “That would destroy the purpose of my intentions,” she hissed.

    “Now might be a good time to fill me in on these intentions?”

    “Just follow me and do as I say.”

    We continued on as the sado-masicho noises grew louder. I really had no room to argue or intervene. When you’re met with precedentless circumstance, gotta roll with the punches till your mind catches up.

We stopped, and Corinna drew her camera and removed the lens, replacing it with a 200mm. She knelt to the ground at a corner and aimed the camera around the corner as if she was in Afghanistan. I, standing above her, peered around as well.

The subject was hanging by her ankles. Kronk (I never got his actual name- this is what we’ll call him for brevity’s sake) was lighting a small incense sized stick with an oversized chrome torch that looked like it was shaped to be Satan’s billygoat, or whatever that figure of symbolism is.

    He drew the burning stick closer to the woman’s ass and held it firmly there till the she began to oscillate wildly and shriek. I could hear Corinna’s shutter firing off. Kronk knelt to the ground and put his face next to the upside-down woman’s and whispered something to here, then smacked her a good one and stood back up, holding the torch to the stick again.

    Corinna rose before I could get out of her way. Her head went into my chin, causing me to bite my tongue and stumble back a few steps. I bumped into some shelving something fell to the ground with a loud but not too loud noise. Corinna grabbed me and pulled me into the next dark room. We waited for a few moments. The noises of anguish had ceased and we could hear approaching footsteps. She held her finger to my lips as she had done as I held the telephone earlier.

    I could feel my heart beating. Why? We hadn’t fucked up Kronk’s evening yet. We were only breaking and entering. He seemed like the kind of guy who’d be fine with what we were doing anyways. Or he’d tell us to leave. He wouldn’t mush our brains to mulch and drag us out for the dogs… or would he? Who knows.

    In the former case, it would change the entire outcome of what Corinna had in mind; the ‘watched’ would know. Everything would be ruined. It would be a superficial act. We had to NOT be found so we could remain flies on walls.

    And so my nervousness switched flow at that moment. Be sneaky and have your sacred agenda so you can see through your vision. Usually, at least. Who knows, it could have been wicked if he knew we were watching and carried on. Or he could’ve asked us to leave. Or he could’ve murdered us.

    The outcome is always impossible to ascertain. Always. But you must find your threshold of fight or flight, and when you’re flying, be ready to improvise.

    And when you least expect it, your assaillant naturally looks into the darkness and doesn’t see you, then returns to his beating of a chained up old lady.

    Kronk resumed the torture and we crept back to our post.

    “I want you to go to the corner on the far side of the room and turn on the hoover, but get out of sight before he sees you. Got it?”

    I hesitated. “Uhm. How-”

    “Just go! Just do it!” she hissed.

    Corinna had taken the sticks in the cockpit of my brain somehow. I wasn’t even thinking about fucking her- she caught me with my pants down with this crazy conception of hers: breaking into a BDSM master’s lair? Sneaking around taking photos of him at work, now trying to haunt him with mysterious noises and feigned poltergeist? I felt bad for Kronk- he’d been so hospitable and human to me. That is so rare to find. But I felt that I had no power or authority to make any suggestions, or to simply leave.

    I crept through the dark hallway back into the kitchen and along the wall opposite of where I presume Corinna is still standing. I notice the hoover is already plugged in around a corner, but is sitting out in plainsight. Go time.

    I unplugged the hoover. I crawled out like a rodent out of its hole at high noon. I pushed the on switch. I crawled back, still apparently unnoticed. I grabbed the plug and with a deep inhale thrusted it into the socket.

    The hoover came to life. I scampered back along the same route back to the other side of the room. I passed the kitchen and glanced down the hall. Corinna was gone. I heard a fierce roar come out of Kronk that echoed through the chamber like the bass of a choir, and made a B-line for the backdoor (maybe that’s where the expression comes from?).

    Before I could reach it however, Kronk’s heavy footsteps were approaching through the kitchen. I couldn’t make it out the door in time. I swiveled around and headed back down the hallway and out into the open chamber. The slave was still obediently dangling by her ankles, like a prisoner that hasn’t seen the light of day in 12 years and has accepted the terms and conditions of captivity.

    I dashed for the front door and found Corinna there waiting patiently.

    “What do you think? Are you finished?” I asked breathing because I was told to.

    “Almost. We have one more thing to do.”

    “Fuck,” I muttered under my breath.

    “Don’t be a fucking pussy, man,” she said with a crooked crazy eyed grin. “You need to go back on top of that roof. Come here.” She guided me back to the chamber. Kronk was steadily orbiting around slave woman, seemingly having forgotten about his search for a menace. She put one hand on my shoulder and with the other pointed to the subject and followed the chains up to the ceiling, where there were a couple of open skylights around where the chain was being held. “You need to cut that chain. There is boltcutters there that you can use.”

    “That doesn’t seem like a very nice thing to do,” I pondered, but didn’t have any choice.

    “Once you are up there and in position, look down to me and I will signal. Count to ten and then chop that fucker.”

    “You got it.” I went back through the kitchen and to through the backdoor, climbing up the ladder and along the roof until I reached the skylights. There was a pair of boltcutters staged like the forbidden fruit, but I didn’t see any talking snakes, then realized that role was assumed by Corinna.

    I looked down at her and she nodded her head. One, two, three - “Ahhhhhh,” screamed the slave after harsh whipping noise. Six, Seven - the cutters in place - nine ….

    I gave it all my might and the chain busted, as I got out of view of the skylight. This was followed by thud - like dropping an encyclopedia onto a wooden table.

    “Kranke verdammte Hündin blutsaugender Teufel,” Kronk relented, in a genuinely worried tone. “Slave! Slave! Wake up! You are to wake up now!” It sounded like there was a bit of a situation down there. Did I just kill someone? Did they deserve it? I sat down on the roof in a confused state, and rolled a cigarette. As I lit it, Corinna appeared over by the edge of the roof.

    “It was beautiful. Beautiful!” She said in triumph, zipping up her camera bag.

    “At a cost,” I said pensively, standing up to face her.

“Real emotion is best captured from the real life,” Corinna said. “The best directing is the kind that directs itself.” She then lowered her lids lecherously, and puckered her lips, raising them towards mine. I closed my eyes and ushered in the kiss.

And before our lips touched, my chest was met with a forceful double handed blow, separating my feet from the shingles, putting me in mid air, probably a 5 or 6 meter drop.

Fortunately for your humble narrator, I landed in a dumpster full of wet and stinky rubbish, breaking the fall. Unfortunately, I shattered my left wrist on the edge of the dumpster.

Looking up, Corinna’s pearly whites were shining down on me. “But sometimes the artist must assert some level of control.” She cackled and disappeared from my vision. Never saw her again.

I heard approaching sirens. With much difficulty I removed myself from my saviour dumpster. I whimpered off back to my squat and spent the rest of the night licking my wounds and smoking changa.


In my brazen youth I needed something like this to happen to me. Anybody who is anybody has needed at one time or another for somebody to push them off the edge. The only people that understand this are those who have gone there… Most stop or slow or do whatever it takes to stay clear as to not have to choose between Now and Later. HA! Thanks, Hunter! Thank, Corinna! RIP

A Foppish Death

The vial of mercury broke and water began it’s hasty escape from the 120 year old pipes it’d been trapped in since the remodel about 2 years ago.

The water knew not where to go or how to handle this freedom. Pressure blasted it out, gravity pulled it down, and it seemed the only thing to do was to begin saturating the fine shag carpet, the antique coffee table, the bananas et al in the fruit bowl, the tempurpedic mattress, and a previously-sleeping girl who experienced quite a wet awakening (not speaking of her third eye, which had never seen the light of day).

Tiff let out a screech of dismay.

It was the middle of the night. As any human living in a first world country instinctually knows to do, Tiff scanned the area for signs of fire, smoke, or any other impedance.

Seeing none, aside from the boisterous army of water raining down upon her sanctuary and sanity, Tiff reached for her iPhone as her first line of defense.


The screen was as black and lifeless as Michael Brown.

She chucked it through the glass of her 14th floor downtown window.

She watched in terror has her faux-fur and suede and flapper get-ups drooped with the weight of moist genocide. No more Saturday evenings for these garbs, or casual dry cleaning Sundays; no, the future of these foppish fools looked rather grim.

Tiff led a lavish life. She worked hard most days to portray herself in a hip and reputable fashion. Hair needs to stay kept, as well as physical stature and a proper propelling of life as a moderately successful caucasian woman. Mental stability had to be maintained as well, which was achieved through nightly masturbation and the occasional shallow hook up.

THIS, was not what she needed. The water level in her flat was now about an inch high. Water destroys life quicker than it creates it, as we’ve seen in the story of Noah’s Arc vs. Life As We Knew It.

And so it goes… Though Tiff wasn’t quite hip with Vonnegut quotes or ideology such as she was with hole-in-the-wall hangouts and up-and-coming bands.

Everything was destroyed, as far as she was concerned, and there was absolutely no way in hell that she could start over from scratch.

Tiff jumped, following suit of her now-surely-dead iPhone- crying tears like the fountain of water propagating from a fire sprinkler.


Billy Joe chuckled to himself as he turned the corner from the alley way onto the street side of the building. This was the fifth city he had hit.

He removed his coat and shook some excess water from it, still chuckling.

The first time he’d credit carded the door of a perfect stranger’s apartment and held a lighter to the unsuspecting vial of mercury that serves as sentry to the anxious fire-thwarting water behind it, was in New York 1 month prior. Billy Joe had grown sick of the city he was born and raised in, and decided to cause a little mischief. He took such a thrill from the event that an overbearing paranoia came attached. He hopped on a bus out of the city, and upon arriving in Kansas City MO to his cheap, runaway motel grew restless and decided he had to repeat the mischief.

The cops may have caught on, Billy Joe figured, if he’d repeated the deed multiple times in the same city. So after hitting New York, KC, Albuquerque, and Tempeh AZ, he had to fulfill the manifest destiny in Los Angeles.

Strutting down the sidewalk, heart still beating from the thrill and escape down the stairwell of the high-rise, Billy Joe was halted in his tracks- not by cops, not by a mugger- but by a 125 female body traveling at about 70 meters per second.


Tiff’s ostentatious lust for life and Billy Joe’s apprehension of it were perfectly portrayed by their ultimate fates: Tiff on top and Billy Joe- well, you know.

Stay vain, kids.

Rinse While Hot


It was a maniacal upbringing! I didn’t have anything to do with anything!

The wounds were fresh and cauterized and the wind never stopped moaning through tireless hippie years, staunch memories, munched-on dreams, thwacked sentiments, morale-less compounds, and loyal-less indemnities. My wit has only been sharpened by moist shitty rocks, all dangled by fishing twine from a dark ceiling. My hatred for humanity embellished by supercilious flowers and acid trips. Serenity reaches its place climbing up rocky ice crevasses. Mighty aesthetics reach dubious lengths via weeklong benders.

I stepped on my ex-cigarette and went, clear through the wetlands soaked with booze, the sandstorms glistening with cocaine and cigarette ash, biting my tongue seeing the ketchup fall, and finally reached the rocky oasis with palm trees burning like hair and boulevards spanning the earth’s surface, and the incandescent sunlight reflecting off the ground into my downturned head, on a long walk home during dawn, past the scientology museums, wooden tourists, and haphazard firefighters (indignant in their own right, because childhood stars play as them in their washed up TV actor days).

And I arrived home to my little Mexico and went belly-up in my bed for a hot week. Then life seeped back into me, and I walked to the water store, because I couldn’t take the tap, and my roommates syringes littered the livingroom, while the thought of my love fucking raspy beer boy runts plagued my unswept mind.

Renegaded charms marched on through my dreams, through the drudgery, through the muck, offsetting my apocalyptic visions like lipstick on a dead whore, serenading the course hearing hairs in my ears like an astonished ocean choir. Waking up each morning peppered by the comical sun doing what ‘ought’ to be done.

God is always on acid.

Harvesting all those empty promises was like learning to turn soil in the dust bowl.

50thousand pOOL TABLES FLIPPd AT 1ce

The scoremark laid down in its ‘mmock perched tween score 2 palm trees, thee earth its porch, wind scampering molecularly and calmly, whilst the men, salivating, drooling on thee big isle, generously poised in flesh, as the news hit: two to one; and the twolips groaned, as they knew the next outcrying outcome was to bee, as they’d scene, time and time ageen, the marveluss and unbraggish act - happens every 53 years or so - or minutes - brash… Wow! Novacaine stupor moorish qualm tackled by feesh like outdun warm welcum… Wow! And wen dellegations sin like larceration minus a cause, or because, sour or tart (either or) be nign or be NEIN…! because there are only so many ways to say yes… Though now the cause of the quake was 50thousand pool tables flipped at once. Wow! And red panda came crawling out its cubby hole volcano. Wow!

Chach Children


Twenty-score thousan man-made chach children began singing; harmonizing. The vibrations amplified by the chach house; a thousan-score million man-made windows bouncing an’ riveting its audience agape. Even the owls outside - perched coolly on the tree tops = listened in with incandescent chach reverence. And on the TV one-score of a hunnid bill viewers watched wondering what happens to their bodies when they die. Sound so beautiful it started making sentences, then soliloquies, then speeches, then - as it were - utter destruction. The world began deteriorating - the trees, the cars, the bridges, the youmans - all crumpled into disgruntled pixels. But the house stood strong. Resonating, glowing, killing, rebirthing - and the chach chillen sang on - their short existence dilating all collective-like. Wow.

I Got Distracted, then I Fell Asleep


    The current climate was hot. A dry heat. I saw this heat radiating off the desert sand. The thick silence, fierce, hot as hell; so goddamn quiet, it was comparable to a brazen wrench clamoring around in a redlining V8.

    No change in geography was in sight. The horizon, fisheyed, as if ballasted upside down with gravity pulling it up, lacking in promise as much as it was in fecundity, was poised contently in its unchallenged reign.

    I lay helplessly rocking on my backside, naked, no friend to help me, no foe to end my misery. All I could do was look up, look to my right, look to my left, and look down at my brown, arched abdomen, divided into rigid, bow-like sections.

    As I felt I’d already exhausted my day’s efforts of getting on my many feet, I decided to distract myself from my plight, thinking of pleasurable things - dry martinis, coitus with valiant interlopers, etc - and fell asleep.

    Day in day out day in day out.

My Wives' Wife Died in the Flame


Once I had several wives, who touched Earth’s lathe with their mighty tendrils as she spun, shaping the myths surrounding the atmosphere and everything Inside, ethereal nights being the basis to sepulchre perception. The Earth - my dome, my rock, my cabeza. I have learned from it and it from me.

The Deathly Struggle: ‘til Death do us part, the waking shudders, claws met with blood, shrilling and shaking, the infinite bliss turning its page unto finite pleasure; and I hold onto it still.

The now late wife (that of my still-carousing ex-wives) colluded with Stella; she wasn’t having it anymore. She felt she wanted to be on the other side of the lens- not the one shuddering in the middle with tongue in every orifice- but one of the aforementioned tendrils moistening and exploring the naive temple of powerless One, sweet marvel.

You want decadence? I’ll give you decadence! she cried out during one of their intra-marital copulations. The others paid little attention to their little slave, but Stella took her cue, and, removing her tongue from Lost One’s left ear, slipped away from the pile. She returned moments later with a small box containing several handcuffs, and began casually locking wrists until finally, all of my wives (save from Stella), were handcuffed together and the orgy had ceased.

I was in the next room over, getting some work done, the lesbian coitus as usual just background noise, and felt that the denouement had come too early; something wasn’t right. Figured they may have run out of champagne or misplaced a dildo or someone was having a bad trip.

I've seen plenty of curious things in my day. But opening up the door to my wives’ fuck lair, the trail of candles leading to the altar, six naked and tatted women handcuffed together locked to the mantle with dry hay at their feet, Stella and her soon-to-be-dead slave cackling maniacally, about to drop an open flame… some things are better left unseen.

I calmly walked towards the group. Stella, noticing my presence, stopped laughing. This isn't okay, Stella, I said, unlocking the one mantle cuff.

Yeah, Stella, one of the cuffed ladies chimed in, and as I freed one of her hands, head butted Stella, knocking her out cold, allowing gravity to also pull the lit torch down upon the hay.

Ah! I shrieked in the wake of sudden tumult, as the rogue wife professionally snagged the key from my surprised finger and pushed me aside. She freed another wife, who swiftly went to work keeping me out of the fray, while the rest of the chain gang managed to shuffle away from the rising flames, and Rogue 1 caught the slave by the wrist whilst making a break for it. Another head butt to slave and she was tossed like a log into the blaze. Her scant linen and black hair caught, right as a blunt object met the back of my head, and I was out.

As the days turned into weeks, the weeks into moths, and the moths into crispy nothingness, not much changed in my life. Stella was unanimously voted in as the new slave, meaning I had to divorce her and the others had to marry her.

It sounds fucked up. All of it. But art hurts, believe you me, and anything, no matter how equivocal or significant it seems at the time, becomes the next note or lyric in your song.



Here’s my backstory. I’ve been parading through time like a lobster on meth for about 34 years-  I’m 39- meaning there were only 5 years of my existence that I was stuck in docility. I don’t remember full details of this episode, only snippets- like that of my mother and father doing things that they truly believed would help me grow into a devoted prole- like wiping my ass and saying sorry and worshipping god.

I remember the moment I left- I suddenly decided that I hated my parents as well as police officers- sentiments I still hold today- and I up and left. Voyaged by boat to New York, becoming a street rat that had to learn how to use a knife. And I remained a street rat until deciding 10 years later that there’s more to life than sleeping with one eye open in abandoned tenements.

I cut my Mowgli-esque hair, shoplifted some decent threads, and started to strip away at my gutter trash dialect. I began nudging myself into the more “together” crowds, the “art” crowds, and like “night owls”, finding many of them to be just as much of miscreants as I. Most of them were from suburbs and had moved to the city to tickle their inner anarchist’s gooch. But apparently that’s most people that make any sort of impact here..

At some point around this time I switched over to a nocturnal schedule. I don’t know why. But I’m still on it. Aside from the occasional uppers-bender that keep me awake for a week (in which I will always remain inside while the sun is out), I sleep during the day and romp at night. I haven’t been outside of a structure during the day in over 20 years. Could have been those street rat days and the ensuing nervousness from being around circadian cyclo-squares that scarred me. But I love the night. It’s what I live for.

I do this out of fear of necessity, and everything that’s happened to me has been purely circumstantial. Love and hate, displacement, disconcertment, disillusionment… these are things that I’ve picked up along the way.
Everybody that I come across I love, though only in retrospect. As I truly hate everyone in the moment. But they make me who I am, and that is priceless.

It is the world that has shaped me. What do I do when I’m not inside? I quest many a drunken and sped out evening through the dark streets and alleys and neon lit tourist sects doing the only thing I know how to do: practice the self-discipline involved in punching the societal shark in its voraciously banal shnoz without drawing the heat or spilling identity beans.

On that note, that’s about all you need to know about me. That’s my bio. Peter Pyramid is my name. It's not the name that I was birthed with, but it's the name that g0d gave me [sic]. Don't worry about ever seeing my face, as you never will.

There's so little to fear in this world, if you know your unique way around the unpardoned bullshit flying at you at all times.

See my creations as pieces of me: my identity, my catharsis.