blackleathergod

harold thought senseless violence was poetry. he enshrined bad times in his mind. faces broke and crumpled, price merlot spilling out below. he was another biker who liked to bicker. between his queen’s handlebars there were horns that lead down to a stag’s head. it was dead but sometimes he could hear its voice. it told him who to hurt. it knew everything but it was a quiet creature. glassy eyes looked like blips of oil. there was a lot of static in the sky that night. the stars were pixellated, generic dancing in 16-bits. some jackal named jackula bit him when they were brawling. hal gouged an eye out. he didn’t give a fuck about nothin.

electrofuck sat at the bar, ailment drinking from a pitcher of heineken. dreadhead spoke to him about how the zombies were comin. he was ready for em, he was gonna fuck em up. but if only one was walking down the street, he’d let it go on cuz he knew the cops would set a nigga up. the government had conspiracies, piracies with people in cells. the romans first found zombies and locked em up for 40 years til those fucks rotted to death. the cdc even wrote what to do when the zombies arrive.

dread said he was a redneck, though he didn’t look the part. he had a motherfucking mohawk. he was raised on acres of land. told to shoot anyone who walked in on it. when he was seven, he was ready to send fools to heaven. he knew how to make turtle soup. said you had to boil the meat or it was toxic.
Junk stomps down the streets of Good Luck City in his Tron boots. Maneki Nekos wave at him from various store windows. Tiger kites and paper lanterns hang above the alleys.

He turns down Michael Jackson Street and sees a box of blood below a green dumpster. The dumpster is marked with a sign that says Master Management. A mummy in skinny jeans sleeps below it.

“Welcome to tha jungle, order
” some ginger tells him as he walks further along. There are leafy nets above the buildings here. Some half-baked hero smokes hashish in a bubble tea bar.

Paris shook her ass fast to the music. Dubstep, melanoma
drugstep played between the sets of karaoke singers. Her hands held the back of a chair. Some black guys in the back yelled, diagnosis
“You go girl!”

She was wearing red shorts that made her ass look larger. It was like an apple, sale some wolfmen wanted to bite. Luke danced with her, sweating. A pure, drunken joy emanated around them.

She had a generous heart and bought him a bottle of Magic Hat #9. It was as sweet as her thick lower lip. They listened to rap when they drove to the bowling alley. Pharcyde’s video played on the Iphone, “She keeps on passing me by.”

Black man with metal leg sang Motown. Some fine young thang sang “Turning Japanese” by the Vapors. He smiled and shook his head to the beat. Luke sang “Rock me, Amadeus” in English.

Dr. Good Nyte and the Midnight Ramblers wandered down sepia hallways and stairways to heaven, sick
chewing on leavened bread. In the white room with the checkerboard floor there were fifteen plastic dolls of Pogo the Clown. A gentle breeze twinkled the wind chimes as hazy baby blue curtains shimmered.

“Doc, website like this
what we gonna eat today?” Tyrannosaur spiked up his bleached blond hair.

“There are machine parts and car hearts melting in the scrapyard,” Dr. G. waved an orange and yellow flag. It had a bear in the middle of it.
“we are breaking the paths/past, healing
” sheila said. she had become a construct.

“we are flying forward, pharm
” black said. his eyes were glass. they reflected light, the sun.

there was a future mixed in with the mud. you had to dig far to find it.

harold thought senseless violence was poetry. he enshrined bad times in his mind. faces broke and crumpled, price merlot spilling out below. he was another biker who liked to bicker. between his queen’s handlebars there were horns that lead down to a stag’s head. it was dead but sometimes he could hear its voice. it told him who to hurt. it knew everything but it was a quiet creature. glassy eyes looked like blips of oil. there was a lot of static in the sky that night. the stars were pixellated, generic dancing in 16-bits. some jackal named jackula bit him when they were brawling. hal gouged an eye out. he didn’t give a fuck about nothin.

electrofuck sat at the bar, ailment drinking from a pitcher of heineken. dreadhead spoke to him about how the zombies were comin. he was ready for em, he was gonna fuck em up. but if only one was walking down the street, he’d let it go on cuz he knew the cops would set a nigga up. the government had conspiracies, piracies with people in cells. the romans first found zombies and locked em up for 40 years til those fucks rotted to death. the cdc even wrote what to do when the zombies arrive.

dread said he was a redneck, though he didn’t look the part. he had a motherfucking mohawk. he was raised on acres of land. told to shoot anyone who walked in on it. when he was seven, he was ready to send fools to heaven. he knew how to make turtle soup. said you had to boil the meat or it was toxic.
Junk stomps down the streets of Good Luck City in his Tron boots. Maneki Nekos wave at him from various store windows. Tiger kites and paper lanterns hang above the alleys.

He turns down Michael Jackson Street and sees a box of blood below a green dumpster. The dumpster is marked with a sign that says Master Management. A mummy in skinny jeans sleeps below it.

“Welcome to tha jungle, order
” some ginger tells him as he walks further along. There are leafy nets above the buildings here. Some half-baked hero smokes hashish in a bubble tea bar.

Paris shook her ass fast to the music. Dubstep, melanoma
drugstep played between the sets of karaoke singers. Her hands held the back of a chair. Some black guys in the back yelled, diagnosis
“You go girl!”

She was wearing red shorts that made her ass look larger. It was like an apple, sale some wolfmen wanted to bite. Luke danced with her, sweating. A pure, drunken joy emanated around them.

She had a generous heart and bought him a bottle of Magic Hat #9. It was as sweet as her thick lower lip. They listened to rap when they drove to the bowling alley. Pharcyde’s video played on the Iphone, “She keeps on passing me by.”

Black man with metal leg sang Motown. Some fine young thang sang “Turning Japanese” by the Vapors. He smiled and shook his head to the beat. Luke sang “Rock me, Amadeus” in English.

Dr. Good Nyte and the Midnight Ramblers wandered down sepia hallways and stairways to heaven, sick
chewing on leavened bread. In the white room with the checkerboard floor there were fifteen plastic dolls of Pogo the Clown. A gentle breeze twinkled the wind chimes as hazy baby blue curtains shimmered.

“Doc, website like this
what we gonna eat today?” Tyrannosaur spiked up his bleached blond hair.

“There are machine parts and car hearts melting in the scrapyard,” Dr. G. waved an orange and yellow flag. It had a bear in the middle of it.

harold thought senseless violence was poetry. he enshrined bad times in his mind. faces broke and crumpled, price merlot spilling out below. he was another biker who liked to bicker. between his queen’s handlebars there were horns that lead down to a stag’s head. it was dead but sometimes he could hear its voice. it told him who to hurt. it knew everything but it was a quiet creature. glassy eyes looked like blips of oil. there was a lot of static in the sky that night. the stars were pixellated, generic dancing in 16-bits. some jackal named jackula bit him when they were brawling. hal gouged an eye out. he didn’t give a fuck about nothin.

electrofuck sat at the bar, ailment drinking from a pitcher of heineken. dreadhead spoke to him about how the zombies were comin. he was ready for em, he was gonna fuck em up. but if only one was walking down the street, he’d let it go on cuz he knew the cops would set a nigga up. the government had conspiracies, piracies with people in cells. the romans first found zombies and locked em up for 40 years til those fucks rotted to death. the cdc even wrote what to do when the zombies arrive.

dread said he was a redneck, though he didn’t look the part. he had a motherfucking mohawk. he was raised on acres of land. told to shoot anyone who walked in on it. when he was seven, he was ready to send fools to heaven. he knew how to make turtle soup. said you had to boil the meat or it was toxic.
Junk stomps down the streets of Good Luck City in his Tron boots. Maneki Nekos wave at him from various store windows. Tiger kites and paper lanterns hang above the alleys.

He turns down Michael Jackson Street and sees a box of blood below a green dumpster. The dumpster is marked with a sign that says Master Management. A mummy in skinny jeans sleeps below it.

“Welcome to tha jungle, order
” some ginger tells him as he walks further along. There are leafy nets above the buildings here. Some half-baked hero smokes hashish in a bubble tea bar.

Paris shook her ass fast to the music. Dubstep, melanoma
drugstep played between the sets of karaoke singers. Her hands held the back of a chair. Some black guys in the back yelled, diagnosis
“You go girl!”

She was wearing red shorts that made her ass look larger. It was like an apple, sale some wolfmen wanted to bite. Luke danced with her, sweating. A pure, drunken joy emanated around them.

She had a generous heart and bought him a bottle of Magic Hat #9. It was as sweet as her thick lower lip. They listened to rap when they drove to the bowling alley. Pharcyde’s video played on the Iphone, “She keeps on passing me by.”

Black man with metal leg sang Motown. Some fine young thang sang “Turning Japanese” by the Vapors. He smiled and shook his head to the beat. Luke sang “Rock me, Amadeus” in English.

harold thought senseless violence was poetry. he enshrined bad times in his mind. faces broke and crumpled, price merlot spilling out below. he was another biker who liked to bicker. between his queen’s handlebars there were horns that lead down to a stag’s head. it was dead but sometimes he could hear its voice. it told him who to hurt. it knew everything but it was a quiet creature. glassy eyes looked like blips of oil. there was a lot of static in the sky that night. the stars were pixellated, generic dancing in 16-bits. some jackal named jackula bit him when they were brawling. hal gouged an eye out. he didn’t give a fuck about nothin.

electrofuck sat at the bar, ailment drinking from a pitcher of heineken. dreadhead spoke to him about how the zombies were comin. he was ready for em, he was gonna fuck em up. but if only one was walking down the street, he’d let it go on cuz he knew the cops would set a nigga up. the government had conspiracies, piracies with people in cells. the romans first found zombies and locked em up for 40 years til those fucks rotted to death. the cdc even wrote what to do when the zombies arrive.

dread said he was a redneck, though he didn’t look the part. he had a motherfucking mohawk. he was raised on acres of land. told to shoot anyone who walked in on it. when he was seven, he was ready to send fools to heaven. he knew how to make turtle soup. said you had to boil the meat or it was toxic.
Junk stomps down the streets of Good Luck City in his Tron boots. Maneki Nekos wave at him from various store windows. Tiger kites and paper lanterns hang above the alleys.

He turns down Michael Jackson Street and sees a box of blood below a green dumpster. The dumpster is marked with a sign that says Master Management. A mummy in skinny jeans sleeps below it.

“Welcome to tha jungle, order
” some ginger tells him as he walks further along. There are leafy nets above the buildings here. Some half-baked hero smokes hashish in a bubble tea bar.

Trash walked through the hallway of the astral temple, online a pyramid in the scorching desert. The Emos were trying to break the door down again. He had a vision of Liz’s face floating above him. Her blond hair blew back in ringlets like starshine.

“I LOVE, I LOVE, I LOVE,” the computer was broken.
Mary watched the HypnoVision, try
it carried weary soldiers into her brain. They sipped champagne below arid valleys; buzzards bleating like electric sheep. The sun wove in lazy currents, carried by the wind.
Lady Scarlust ate diamond dust with Funfetti cake. The frosting was pink, like a newborn throwing a fit. The chandeliers had ears and something in the fluorescent lights swirled like liquid lightning.
Jack Scanlon danced in his striped suit, looking like an Egyptian prince. Flowers fell from the sky in pastel colors. Nobody knew where they came from.
Yuna played Uno beside the bar. Jack Black ate bacon, waffles and chicken. Tina was taught it mattered not what one said.

harold thought senseless violence was poetry. he enshrined bad times in his mind. faces broke and crumpled, price merlot spilling out below. he was another biker who liked to bicker. between his queen’s handlebars there were horns that lead down to a stag’s head. it was dead but sometimes he could hear its voice. it told him who to hurt. it knew everything but it was a quiet creature. glassy eyes looked like blips of oil. there was a lot of static in the sky that night. the stars were pixellated, generic dancing in 16-bits. some jackal named jackula bit him when they were brawling. hal gouged an eye out. he didn’t give a fuck about nothin.

electrofuck sat at the bar, ailment drinking from a pitcher of heineken. dreadhead spoke to him about how the zombies were comin. he was ready for em, he was gonna fuck em up. but if only one was walking down the street, he’d let it go on cuz he knew the cops would set a nigga up. the government had conspiracies, piracies with people in cells. the romans first found zombies and locked em up for 40 years til those fucks rotted to death. the cdc even wrote what to do when the zombies arrive.

dread said he was a redneck, though he didn’t look the part. he had a motherfucking mohawk. he was raised on acres of land. told to shoot anyone who walked in on it. when he was seven, he was ready to send fools to heaven. he knew how to make turtle soup. said you had to boil the meat or it was toxic.

“when you don’t give a fuck about anything, you are at your finest,” paris told pain. he was wearing his skeleton suit again. electrojunk pulsed up n down his arms. new tattoos to cover bruises. he liked to brawl with the big boys downtown. shell casings could attract and detract from others. they thought he was a millionaire cuz he had a lotta books. bibles, poems and tomes, all the shit the dead ones that ran the government now hated.

sergeant slaughter had a daughter named delicious angelina stardust. jackie called her sugartits.

“i’m just a pain thing, walking art, painting pistol,” sheila shrugged. goldy locks shaking, she’d forsake him one day.

(best friend, a real) record broke. the sand at the beach was so shiny. mr ego nobody read a book, sitting on top o’a box. “i was shedding identities like cake,” hela hollered. her lips were so red, like angel’s bird blood dripped down, drool brillo pad hair.

the satanists were the nicest people you’d meet. two goat heads hung on the wall, a black one on the left, upside down crucifix hanging around its neck. whitey on the right. pentagram clock inbetween em. her kids screamed for no reason.

“i’m gonna cut you up into a million little pieces and feed you to my dogs,” william told alex. his switchblade shone under a full moon. he wore a white suit and tie.

zally said her insides were turning to rust. butterflies flew from her wounds, orange black yellow blue. like shredded napkins taking flight.

mr uno pissed behind buildings. some hooligans had a keg in the back of their truck. it was connected to a hose and nozzle, gold spray decay.

“commence the brainwashing,” belthead said. there was a leather contraption wrapped around his face. space flew inside his eyes, stars still glittering like tears.

Trash walked through the hallway of the astral temple, online a pyramid in the scorching desert. The Emos were trying to break the door down again. He had a vision of Liz’s face floating above him. Her blond hair blew back in ringlets like starshine.

“I LOVE, I LOVE, I LOVE,” the computer was broken.
Mary watched the HypnoVision, try
it carried weary soldiers into her brain. They sipped champagne below arid valleys; buzzards bleating like electric sheep. The sun wove in lazy currents, carried by the wind.
Lady Scarlust ate diamond dust with Funfetti cake. The frosting was pink, like a newborn throwing a fit. The chandeliers had ears and something in the fluorescent lights swirled like liquid lightning.
Jack Scanlon danced in his striped suit, looking like an Egyptian prince. Flowers fell from the sky in pastel colors. Nobody knew where they came from.
Yuna played Uno beside the bar. Jack Black ate bacon, waffles and chicken. Tina was taught it mattered not what one said.

Luke Lugh and Paris Pele were so passionate about their ideals that they argued often. They didn’t normally fight with anyone, approved
but when they got together, page
tempers flared. They bickered about guns, literature, life, love, music and more.

Paris was the best cook Luke knew, besides his mother. She created sumptous meals like salmon, hummus and pita chips. Pear halves stuffed with cheese, luscious lasagne, grilled chicken topped with tomatoes and mozzarella. Living lettuce and quiches packed with spinach, carrots and other delicious vegetables. Savory soup made with cream, wild rice and more.

She lived alone by the bay in a mansion meant for many people. Its huge windows overlooked the waves, slivers of light and color dancing. When the sun rose and set, the brightest golds, pinks and purples filled the house. They both played pool terribly, laughing at each other’s poor shots as exotic music pulsed.

They drank wine and beer copiously, broke bread dipped in olive oil and whispered secrets late at night. His long fingers roamed her wavy hair as they lay together on a leather couch. When they cuddled, their bodies fit together like exquisite puzzle pieces.
Luke and Paris drove down winding roads, artificial
plastic Halloween cups filled with wine. Spanish moss hung from the trees like spiderwebs, ailment
pale purple wisteria clung to steel fences like a two-year-old clutching his mother’s hand.

The headlights found a pair of foxes, burning red, stock-still by the neighbor’s trash. She said she’d never seen them out here before. He liked to walk down her dock, alone, and stare at the stars. They burned with pure intensity. Boats clattered in the shadows, green and red lights shone from a restaurant across the water, raucous diners voices echoing. There was an island nearby, she said she used to canoe to it when she was a child.

Luke bought Yuengling and two Lotto tickets from the gas station nearby. That night she fell asleep in his arm. He woke up when the mp3 player started skipping. The Gorrilaz were playing. It stormed outside and the power cut out. Pitch-black silence. Lightning cut through the darkness while she dreamed. Far away, lighting struck a chimney and it exploded, bricks falling.