lustgarten's profile

What a terrible quilt of a human being. Scattered designs placed randomly, stitched into this monstrosity of anything left within her human heart. The bigotry. The happenstance. The disgusting rage that boils the blood. Pricks my eyes with her visions of dread. Nothing but a bag full of disease and resent. She’s hated men since they began to breathe. It’s only now that I’m realizing the fucked up flaws that make this atrocious… being… move. Walking around with those old high heels from some l...

I accept pennies from thoughts all day. I type and chisel the grizzle that grows from the fat of my brain. Always a maelstrom of inventions. Day dreams, nightmares unforeseen peeking out of all corners like saliva drooling from mouth. It’s piece of joy within the remainder of day’s light and upon which I see all that is cured of disease. Including my own mind’s eye. I cure all sight and vision with these thoughts and feel no shame in revealing them here and now. Of course, what is it anyway? ...

The Witch It is the hour before sunrise and I am still awake yet exhausted from lying here so many months without sleep. The illusions of skeletons dance on the walls while my muscles tremble. Three months ago, I lost any hold of reality. Three months before that we were captured by a witch. A whole generation of children, captured. I am no longer afraid of fear. No darkness can capture the light of a candle I lit in my room. It is still before dawn and I haven’t seen the sun in six months. ...

I must always be aware that my job is trying to kill me. I know that it’s only a workout for my own personal freedom. What’s freedom if you don’t know imprisonment? What’s real freedom? Even I can not let go of certain constitutions that I’ve absorbed through osmosis. If sponges could walk they’d be human infants with eyes that express visions of things adults can never see. Can you imagine seeing a huge tree for the first time? Can you remember the first time you touched soft skin even if it...

Chapter 1 The Cotton Gin “My full apologies, Marie Laveau,” I say aloud as I stare into the pool of vomit that spread before my feet. My full apologies indeed. Bowled over in a hall of crypts outside the French Quarter with my friend Mr. Molly is a depraved experience. I lean on one hand and carry myself up so that I can better stare into the blue sky and gain some semblance of composure. “Jesus Christ, man. There’s too much carnage here. Too much fever.” Mr. Molly pats me on the back and hel...