"The gasmask had set him back a few thousand, including the three foot prehensile trunk. I was never sure if the cost was because of the sensitivity of the equipment, or because it was the best bong/NO+ mask ever made...."

----------------------------

"When his mouth met her's, the tips of his digits running over her blood streaked, pale face and into her black ringlets, cotton of fingerless gloves scratching at her soft skin, he did nothing but touch their open mouths and hold it, letting the saliva and blood pool and mix between the two and they kissed, retreated, and kissed again. Yet when the hand migrated to his waist and then his belt and his fingers moved hasilty, arm jerking to free the clasp, he felt teeth bite through the unharmed corner of his lower lip, and he groaned."

----------------------------

"As Obi wiggled his nimble fingers again high above his head at the bottle of liquor far from his reach, hips wriggling at the effort, the crack of his ass showing clearly due to how well his jeans hugged the pinkish, bronze skin, Hinde's head slowly tilted sideways. As if we were trying to peek up the skirt of a girl not so very far away, though the angle made no difference when viewing the youth. A pair of white stenciled angel wings covered the shoulders of the shirt, and it made the innocence all the more appropriately enticing. The corner of his mouth twitched twice before he felt the mouth of the beer bottle touching his lips, Jack's fingers wrapped around his as he practically bottle fed his best friend. Words came out like molasses before the drink flooded past his purplish lips.

"Jesus that's fresh."
"Like a veal calf," Jackson responded, fingertips rubbing Hynde's fingernails as he used his free hand to sip at his own iced green tea, "but without the box.""

----------------------------

"I wonder if that's the reason we still fuck. Oh really, why I still let him fuck me. I wonder if I'm really so shallow that I still give head to my expimp because his abs are hotter than what the greeks chiseled into marble."

""shit.. SHIT get his arms! No his fucking.. HIS ARMS"

The sound forced it's way through a full mouth, through liquid and large amounts of tissue. Tissue that slapped against his chin, dripped down his neck, over his tshirt and splattered onto his jeans. Under the denim one could see the muscles taught, wirey, straining as now and then, his toes would touch the floor and dig into the wood, pushing him foward. An inch. Two inches. Nearly three, and they would lift him off the floor again.

"Now pull! PULL!"

His windpipe caved suddenly, rows and rows of pinching metal closing tight around his neck, squeezing. His head tossed as he screamed again, lunging harder now, trying to get from the tightness that made him wheeze and towards the screaming, writhing mass on the floor.

When they touched it's head, pulled it against their bodies, craddled it and whispered to it, he in turn yelled over the sounds, hands reaching, grasping in the direction of the bleeding body. His heart was a beat that matched the blood that flowed, spurting now and then at the neck. It all matched a tempo, a tattoo in his head.

harderfasterkillharderfasterkillharderfasterkillgetingetinharderfaste"

-helpmeup '08

'[she]feelslikehome' started so long ago as 'Le Rouge Sublet'. After over five years of constant evolution for the characters involved and the world around them, 'likehome' is finally finding it's way into stumbling into an actual publishable form of splatter punk meets social deconstruction.

Via an endless stream of short stories with a significant but blurred time line, '[she]feelslikehome' follows the lives of over thirty different people and entities in New York, and how they are dangerously and strangely intertwined through their opinions, additions, personal taboos, and how they let them loose onto one another. A book of victims and abusers, predators and prey, but none with a clear line of which they are or will always be.

In '[she]feelslikehome', morals are a word no one knows the definition to.


-----------------
note: i know barely to no spanish, especially written. therefore anything written by/out of Mito's mouth is in very rough translation until my translator is finished

'steal this writing' is more of my 'myspace' works, which is only called as such as it was from during the time i really only blogged on myspace. i learned my lesson to never do such a thing again, as it seems scenekids like my work, and i don't much like them. however some nice things did come about from it, and while it's mostly rants and screaming, there is some decent work. such as tumblemouth:

".. i stilt walk down highways
and bypass all the lanes
i only stop at clean white houses
and scream until it rains..."

and 'Whilst wild while girl', which is instead in the Stories for Scenekids section:

".. Whilst wild while girl
Of a tell-take farewell world
With spit saliva and froth running down your chin
Your madness leaves you lacking the point
Of all the inane rants you throw at the sun

Demanding of others
The need to be understood but never be clear
Hypocrite repeating everyone's shit words by tape recorder
And always skipping your own.. "

'emote' and 'sexual predator' could almost be one and the same, except i'm trying to keep just my sexual ramblings separate from my mood and sexual ramblings. so the difference [we assume] is simply that i talk about sleep deprivation or wanting food as well as fucking my brains out. or someone else's brains out.

'sexual predator' absolutely follows more closely my issues with sexual addiction, how i view love [or have viewed it in the past], obsession issues, and generally blathering about people that have let me into their clothes. Such as:

"Love to me is like cumming into your hand, squatting in a diseased and filthy bathroom naked and dripping with sweat and saliva and liquidated red cells, the recipient to far dead and gone below you to know you finally got it out of your system. Obviously somehow everything my parents and the TV taught me was lost somewhere in the translation.

Because that's love."

i warn you, if you're a feminist, do us both a favor and do not read my work. i don't treat women well in here [though often times no differently than they asked to be treated].

anything starting in 2007 with the inclusion of

fragments
slogans
entire pieces

a predominant amount of this will be from my journals, especially pushtyber and agooddog on livejournal.com

an archive of pre 2k7 madness that was held mainly to my various migratory journals. most likely the archive will begin sometime around 2002