The whore of Second Street was good when you needed her and bad when you didn’t. The whore of Second Street didn’t cost too much, but somehow it always seemed like you’d spend all your money on her. She didn’t do much, lay there and take it I guess. She also didn’t say much whenever you came to visit, but then again what is there really to say? The whore of Second Street became everything though she was nothing. The whore is but a whore the wise men outside the door would say. That is what she is and nothing more. The whore of Second Street lived just up the block from a bar called the Bullfrog. Her customers would stumble as they walked down the block. You could follow the trails of piss straight to her door if you didn’t already know where to go. The whore of Second Street didn’t ask much, just take your shoes off please and leave them by the door. Just because she is a whore doesn’t mean she don’t have class. All the men would stand in the hall with their money in hand for their turn with the whore of Second Street. Hours and days it didn’t matter she was always open in more ways than one. The whore of Second Street has no cloths she sees no point in spending money on things with such little use. The whore of Second Street was smarter than we all knew. She lived in an apartment without a view. Go to the top of the stairs and wait your turn. Directions we all followed. Directions we all knew. The whore of Second Street may not have been elegant, but she knew how to use you. Anything you want can be bought for a price and everything was in demand. It wasn’t long before the whore of Second Street raised a small fortune made of stacks of one’s, five’s, ten’s, or whatever her clients could get their hand on. The whore of Second Street let us use her body and it was all part of her plan. The whore of Second Street just somehow knew it was time, and one day she was gone. Her customers all wait her return. The whore of Second Street is worshiped as if she was a god. They pay her rent even though the apartment is never used except for mass. The whore of Second Street was all there was and now she is gone. The whore is but a whore the dumb men say as they pass each other in the hall. That is what she is and everything more.
I can feel them the pins and needles of the world stabbing me from every side, every inch digging into my skin. It is as though I didn’t matter and we all know that I don’t. Nothing really matters yet we can’t leave it alone. Constantly pushing for more for less. We want everything even if there is nothing left to give. My mind regurgitates every thought I have heard. Churning out word after word as if I say it again this time it will matter. Writing is for the weak, simple-minded fucks who think they are better because they are. They aren’t scared to play God because they are Gods across a desperate landscapes. Every thought an action chosen because they choose it. Your life and mine is nothing but a back drop to a thought unfinished, a glimpse into a world not yet written.
“I’m pretty sure I have a brain tumor.”
“Oh and how is that?”
“My brain hurts in unusual places, but it’s all the same places.
“Places?” she asks skeptical
“Maybe I’ve got more than one?”
“American obesity at it’s finest,” I crack the closer we get. “You wait for it,” he says back. “This here is the greatest club in the city. I.D.’s boys lets see’em,” the bouncer stretches out his hand. We each put our licences in the palm of his hand. I’m skeptical of all of this. “Trust me,” my buddy Steven says nudging me. “This place is worth it.” “You bet your sweet ass it is boys. Welcome to the Big and Nasty. Don’t forget to come up for air,” the door swings open.
“Were you abused as a child?”
“As a matter of fact I was.”
“That explains a lot then.”
“Really does it explain a lot? I’d love for you to explain how being struck repeatedly as a child explains so much about me.”
“Are we fucking or what?”
“You got the money?”
This is how it all ends
Feels good to finally get these little pieces out somewhere. I have a lot of false starts as I’m sure a lot of us do… Brain tumor is an actual conversation I had with my wife… The Big and Nasty was actually based on a cheese burger at some fast food chain. Though the story wouldn’t have had too much to do with this. The idea was to write a story about some fellas going to a plus sized strip club. Besides the overall idea not having a plot it didn’t go beyond an intro. The plan was for one character to be a dick about the whole thing, another to be obsessed with the place, and a third discovering himself. I guess it kind of had a plot….
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Break Over-Welcome to Hell
Why did I even come here? It surely wasn’t for the great fucking scenery that’s for sure. I really can’t answer the question I am faced with every morning I look out the window of my house. This town is a dying community of people still trying to hold on to a time that was better than this. And I am here to say that there is no such thing. I think it is easier for this town to not believe in reality. Too just spread the lies as each generation keeps dropping out. The town is broke, hell the whole region is, we carry a city on our backs, and float in shit waiting to hear how the state government will fuck us over again. This town is caught between fucked and truly fucked. What’s left of the jobs not sent to China are actually being run by people who aren’t even from this area. The people with all the money, the rich, are all from other parts of America, and they don’t stay long after realizing just how decrepit this town has become. The rest of America is under the impression that when you live in New York you live in the city with all the bright lights and all of the future at your feet. When in truth the city is only five hours away, but it feels more like it is on the other side of the world. Jamestown is worlds apart from what other people think of New York and some days it feels light years away from where I am anymore. Why am I here? Why is anyone here? I pick at a scab on my hand and it starts to bleed. It starts to bleed a little bit and then it begins to bleed a little bit more and then a little bit more. The blood dripping, flowing down my finger and finding its way into the palm of my hand. The scab was once a blister that I tore. The blister is from the last time I played drums. It had been a while since I played drums and the calluses that once proved I was good at something have long disappeared. Why did I move here? Better yet why did she move us here? That’s right she wanted to come here it was all her choice after I told her what my mom said. It was her suggestion that we come and then she was gone. She threw me aside like a piece of rotten meat. Why did I move here? Why did I move anywhere? The cigarette I have been smoking is slowly making its way to my fingers and I know I should put it out, but I just stare at it. I can feel the warmth of the fire burning within the cigarette, proof that I can at least feel something. The drug store bandage that once covered the scab I just can’t stop picking lies on the dirty floor next to last night’s attempt to forget just what is wrong with me. My floor is littered with dirty cloths and trash, I realize yet again I have let myself go. Tomorrow classes start back up at the local community college and I must return to further prove nothing is really wrong. If there is one thing I hate it is that fucking school. Why did I move back here? So I could complete college after dropping out of the last one due to a lack of interest. Now the only way I can make it through a single class is to numb myself into a coma. At least the drugs are good for something. The blood is nearly dry in the palm of my hand and I begin to pick at the trail of dried blood. The blood falls off my skin like little red snowflakes. It’s four a.m. and I have my first class in less than six hours. I move myself from the chair in the dining room to my bed that I moved into the living room. My pillow smells like months of sweat and there are white mucus trails all over it. I flip my pillow over to the other side and realize I’ve already done that before. The breaks over and now I must return to hell. Tomorrow will be the same as the last.
This is a special Broken Up Thoughts this week. Posting two days earlier because I have an even more special post for Wednesday. Not going to give away what it is, but it is pretty cool and very something different. I hope you check it out. Ambrose 11/6/17
The thunderous stomping of God’s feet surrounds me
Consumes my, my mortal soul
Broken down by treacherous, Broken down by the sin
Her cries ring out across the walls of the tomb
Condemn for believing any of this could be true
Listen for the sound, the sounds of thunder
Breaking away icebergs on the plains
Shifting from one place to the next
Unmovable force from inside my head
Working out the reasons that none of this makes sense
Looking for a reason that I feel like shit
Consumed by all your selfish needs
“Vulgarity is nothing more than the mind telling the truth.”
Wiping your ass with the pages of the bible
Isn’t okay even for an atheist
A broken soul who has lost control
Judas may have had a point but still turned out wrong
Miss information can breed dirty rats
Cunts filled with sickness and death
Vulgar, I’m blatantly aware of my condemnation
“Windows 8 ran into some problems. It realized it was Windows 8. Would you like to send a report, so we can make Windows better?”
“Don’t see how this could help any. It seems the “better” you get the worst you get.”
Bit of religious randomness with a shitty Windows joke. Why not? I’m scratching my brain to think of something to say…. Have you picked up your copy of A Lie yet? It’s waiting with your name on it… In the mean time take care and good luck….