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A Prayer

Dear God, stop fucking me.

In the name of the father and of the son and the holy spirit,

I whispered a prayer but of course you didn’t hear it.

I had your Roman Catholic bullshit shoved in my face

Until I rebelled and became a fucking disgrace.

But dammit, God, I still believe you’re there.

Maybe not with the iconic white beard and hair,

Standing in pearly gates on top of marble stairs.

But why when I talk to you do you give me blank stares?

I’m starting to question if there’s anyone up there.


Dear God, stop fucking me.

In the name of father and of the son and the holy spirit,

I said a short prayer but clearly you didn’t hear it.

You’ve taken everything away from me and left only myself to blame;

I’m sick and tired of your fucking sadistic games.

How much have I given to you with nothing in return?

How much do I give to others just to get burned?

Don’t you have mercy or are you really a self-righteous prick,

Just like all your worshipers that make me fucking sick?


Dear God, stop fucking me.

In the name of the father and of the son and the holy spirit,

I shouted a prayer and you still didn’t hear it.

What else could go wrong?

This unholy rape has continued far too long.

What do you want from me?

I’m rethinking my spirituality.

Thinking and wishing and praying just to be free.

But instead you insist on molesting me.


Dear God, stop fucking me.

In the name of el padre y su hijo y el pinche diablo,

Where the fuck did all my luck go?

Preacher always told me you didn’t practice karma.

But are you even following your own fucking dharma?

I’d apologize for whatever I did that brought these locusts upon me,

But why bother if you aren’t even listening?


Dear God. Stop. Fucking. Me.

I screamed out a prayer but you weren’t fucking there,



There was never an angel on my shoulder, just two demons

Covering me in their evil, filthy semen.

God, you’re a prick, you make me fucking sick, and I’m done fucking dealing with all your fucking shit.

Your dick’s throbbing in my rectum, will you ever fucking be done? I need to shit out all your blasphemous loads of god cum.

I thought you’d be there, I sent you my prayers, but clearly—clearly—you don’t fucking care.

There’s no fallen angels, just like there’s no end to this torment.

Just you in disguise, so now I lie still and dormant.

Goddammit God, can’t you fucking see?

You’re both of my demons!



Stop fucking me.



The only thought I could conjure through the never-ending pain. I’d love to tell you that this a postmortem epilogue, where I died and my soul is recounting the story of my bi-monthly agony. But that’s the thing, this happens every other month and I don’t know why nor do I have any idea how to prevent it. The scars are as real as my own mother but she claims it’s just a recurring nightmare.

So here’s a quick depiction of what happens: last month was March. That was an off-month, nothing happened. But in February, on the 21st, I had a nightmare from which my mother awoke me. I must have been screaming loud enough for her to hear. And in December, on the 16th, the same thing happened. But nothing in January. October/November? Same thing.

The “dream” I have each time is not something I can simply explain in words, but I’ll try. The scene-set is simple, a dark room where I’m held an inch or two off the ground by the two stakes protruding a decent distance from a shitty-looking wall. Essentially, I can’t move, I’m surrounded by empty darkness, I hear ominous sounds in the endless distance, there’s a faint light so that I can see about to the wall behind me and the same amount everywhere else, but it sucks to turn my head to look anywhere besides straight ahead, and looking straight ahead brings the creature. Now before I go on I need to mention that I have a fear of needles, being stabbed, stepping on a nail, etc. So this immediately sucks. But it’s worsened by the environment I’m in and by the fact that my torturers know how to puncture my body with these stakes so that I don’t bleed; they don’t break any blood vessels. It’s actually bullshit. So what happens when I look straight ahead? Well I get this rushing sensation as if I was flying forward. Except I don’t move an inch. It’s as if the entire darkness around me and my painful restriction rushes past until I’m face-to-face with the most terrifying being I can’t even begin to describe. I mean this thing is just fitting for the hell I’m in. It’s the karmatic response to if I were to sarcastically ask, “Could this get any worse?” when I find myself pinned in this torturous place.

The first few times this happened, my screaming upon facing the creature would alarm my mother enough for her to wake me up and essentially rescue me from whatever this demon had in store. After awhile, though, I expected his showing up, and was masochistically interested in what it wanted. I waited for the next time this “nightmare” occurred, and with determination I looked straight ahead. Of course I shat myself the second it came because, as if it had known I wasn’t afraid simply of its appearance, it was running at me this time, like a leopard bounding toward its prey. But I didn’t scream. Undeterred, it stuck me with another point, just so that it hurt like no other, but I didn’t bleed. My cry of agony was the alarm this time and my mother rescued me once again.

This went on a few times. Once I could stand the first stab, I’d get another; all the while the creature never breaking eye contact. It had been about a year since the first “nightmare” and I realized with dismay that I was impartial to the creature’s second stab. I lied in bed for about three hours dreading sleep for I knew I was getting a third one this time. Besides how many questions were flying through my head (mostly just variations of “why?”) my head was full of terror, knowing that for whatever reason I still hadn’t overcome my trypanophobia. Is that was this was all about? Some self-exploring journey for me to get over a fear I had since I stepped on a rusty nail in 2nd grade? That’s bullshit. What sort of extreme is this where I have to endure pure torture on a random date of every other month just to get over a small phobia? People had started questioning my scars and after I explained what happened to my mother she questioned why my bed sheets were never covered in blood. My antagonists were clever, whoever they were. The shoulder-holds were in the same spot every time. The stabs were always different. I wondered if there were others in that space. Sometimes I wouldn’t look straight ahead for as long as I could bear, simply looking around, trying to figure out where the fuck I was, what was I hearing? The entire situation was really fucked up.

Now it’s April 16th, and I haven’t been fucked with yet. I never knew when it would happen. Each month I knew it would was filled with day-after-day of unrest and anxiety, waiting for it to happen. The last time, the creature spoke to me. His voice was surprisingly friendly. Not in a sweet, let me help you, kind of way. More of a comrade, a brother, standing over you amidst a battle as you come-to after an explosion knocked you unconscious. I could tell something was off today, the rushing darkness was quickened, the creature had a different look in the depths of its eyes, his first stab was excessively aggressive, and, I bled. It was such a shock for both of us, the sight of dark-red viscosity seeping from beneath his point. His second stab came with a look of pity. It was slower, more careful, more antagonizing for me as I felt the rough steel slide against my flesh. I coughed and a tear welled out of my eye. Then the creature spoke. His calm, masculine but not burly voice almost half-spoke, half-whispered, “Scream.” At first I couldn’t believe what was going on. I must have had the stupidest look on my face, but for someone held just above the ground with four pieces of metal sticking out of him in the truest landscape of hell, I couldn’t give a shit what my face looked like. “What?”

“Scream. I told you to scream like you did the first time we met. Wake your mother up.”

He released his grip on the second stake. His eyes were full of pity but his expression gave nothing away.

“I do this to give you a chance to be rescued before the rest of them find you. The longer you are here, the worse things will get. You don’t belong here.”

A sound I had never heard here, let alone anywhere, began getting louder in the darkness. I began to sweat cold drips down my spine and as I shuddered, I began to bleed from where the creature’s first stab of the night had dried up. “Fuck.” The only thought I could conjure through the never-ending pain that I had almost grown used to.

“I’m trying to help you. Scream.”

The third point broke skin.


I sit here
Sifting through my void
Grasping onto ideas
That quickly slip away. Destroyed.
Never to be seen
My fist is to the desk
As my head is to pound.
Strung into words
Bounce off mind walls,
Collisions and impacts few and far between.
Sentences never seemed so daunting.
I guess I must be drained.
Reservoir of inspiration
Dried. Like a famine.
Nothing left for me
Less left for you.



An Ode to the Bicycle

I’m not a brave person.

I stayed on the trike for far too long.

My cowardice might be a curse and

it’s easily reversed by a hit from a bong.

There’s nothing better than being stoned

and riding my bicycle through the woods like Queen.

Even on my own I don’t feel alone

pedaling past hidden wildlife and topiary begging to be seen.

Truth is, I’m afraid as fuck every time I get on the seat.

And prepare to take off, but what if my feet

slip and fall and smash into the concrete?

Going downhill at ridiculous speeds

I feel so out of control but perfectly at peace.

Bikes are fucking cool.

God Eater

god eater

I have hunted my prey for eons—the game never changes. They always plead for mercy. Sometimes I kill them quicker, if their squirming amuses me. The persistent ones, the ones who claim my threats empty, the ones who stand against me proud, proclaiming their immortality, their divinity; those are the ones whose limbs are severed, whose skin I peel away and whose screams I relish. My body is satisfied when they sustain me; my soul is satisfied when I see the last of divine life flicker from their eyes, their widened eyes.

My maw, ancient,  gaping, drips at the thought of consuming the weak. My stomach is bottomless, an ever expanding pit longing for more. On darkened wings I soar through the vacuity of this eternal blackness, the void between worlds. It’s surprising how frail the dimensional walls are; how easily my clawed appendages shred the veil between my existence and theirs.

I take a step into benevolence—the brilliance of this city of gold, bathed in sun upon a sea of clouds is slightly overwhelming. I regain composure and continue the hunt. I leap towards the golden gate, and ascend its luminous poles. The prey does not notice my arrival, and rarely notices my approach till I am scraping their innards out from the depths of their bodies. At the top of the gate I perch, observing all from all perspectives. The sky is filled with the incantations of winged cherubim. My approach must be kept unannounced. They all must be stricken down.

Where I was, I am no longer. Where I will be, I won’t be there much longer. Slashing in and out of reality, I drag the cherubim into the void, puncture the chest with barbed tail, sucking out their essence and leaving them nothing more than hollow shells. In what seems like seconds the incantation of life dissolved into a psalm of absence. I descend back to the top of the clouds after the massacre. The hunt continues.

Prowling amongst the hordes of the dead, they watch me with keen eye. Yet, they lose disinterest quick, and go about whatever it is the mortal spirit occupies itself with in death. I care not for them, and they for me: their power, even amassed, will not fuel even the slightest of my hunger.

Up ahead is a brilliance unlike the city behind me: it shines with divine fire, and the radiance of the throne throws its illumination upon my ashen form. I am noticed; the seraphim, wreathed in flame, are stirred into a frenzy. Before they can even strike, I’ve already torn them asunder. The prey looks on in awe. I can feel his fear. But I also sense his arrogance.

You dare to enter the Kingdom of God and desolate its denizens? Abomination, cease your senseless violence or suffer eternally by my wrath.

I twitch slightly. My head turns to face the one called God; I wait for his move, as I hang my jaw low and salivate from God’s overwhelming power.

You cannot kill what has existed longer than yourself. I am above all. And you will rot in hell for all time.

This is my favorite part: where they believe they can kill me.

As he opens his mouth to speak I’m already behind him. I sink one clawed hand into the roof of his mouth; with another, I pierce through his holy tongue and lower jaw. I could have just held it like that, gaping open, but I love the sound of snapping bones and dislocating joints to not dislodge his jaw from his head. Now fully open, I look right into the depths of his eyes, watching the horror force them to dart around from side to side, vying to get away. But when I want something, it’s already mine.

I open my own mouth, an orifice of evident death. A serpent reeking of doom with jagged hooks where scales should be slithers out of mine and into his, writhing down his throat, tearing up all from within. He struggles; I laugh. Once all that was inside of him is nothing more than liquid, I spin him around and slash his abdomen. The sludge pours onto the throne, and he falls. I quickly lap up the remains, and as soon as it had started, it was finished, and I gone, off to hunt once more.

My negligence

blue eye

Hello everyone. It has been a long time, has it not?

My negligence has bred a stagnancy within me during the past few months, where I wrote nothing and felt empty inside.

Now, I stand here, reinvigorated, ready to rekindle the dying fire of the Horror Zealot.

I’ll begin making at the least weekly posts again on Sundays. There will possibly be more though.

Stay tuned, a real post is to follow.


Out of touch

Everything moves like a whirlwind around me.

My friends are enemies and the ones that mean most to me

set me in a hallway full of shit sent to frighten me.

Around a corner and a man, blood-faced, grabs hold of me.

And asks me about them.

I won’t tell him when he asks, “Where are they?”

I know this is all fake but if it’s a test of strength I won’t sell out anyone, most assuredly not them.

What catches me off guard is his next riddle, “Who are they?”

And in this moment of weakness, guard down, unprepared

I don’t know how to answer.

I shove him off and go on my way.

I could have lived a long time without hearing this freak say,

“I know you won’t know but what are they?”

I’ve always been told that right before death I would get a chance to reflect and ask for forgiveness but in the split second before I turned onto his accomplice’s knife I neither recognized that was my chance nor did it dawn on me that this wasn’t a test.

I can’t say how I got to this point.

I walked a few feet and ran onto his point.

Maybe I knew; sped up and ran to it open-armed gear-shifting holding the clutch.

I wouldn’t–didn’t even know I was that out of touch.

What’s A Matter? (A retort)

Part 1:

Full moons still don’t look full to me.

But sitting under the stars with your hand in mine while listening to toads croak and the neighbor’s dog whine underneath the incomplete moon but full moonshine

I think to myself, my past self,

“You were wrong.

You selfish, inconsiderate, prick.”

I hear you sputter out a “Huh?” and I guess I muttered that less under but over my breath.

Now, whether it’s your body next to mine, or the vibrant night shine, or our uncontrollable spiral toward death–I will never know completely–but I blurt out,

“Does this ‘full moon’ actually look full to you?

Because it doesn’t to me.”

Immediately I regret my choice to direct this question at you because I already know your answer and yet,

“No, honestly, it doesn’t.”

I was wrong.

Never more have I been more wrong, and about how much more you had, and were coming along.

That’s what’s more.

It took drastic measures. But all along, you saw the moon the same way as me.

So what made you gawk at this folly of a spectacle and turn me off and away from you?

Did you know all along?

Was this your plan?

I know it wasn’t, couldn’t, in no universe, but maybe

You are wiser than me.

But in reality,

There’s no comparison, I and you and you and me.

We share a completeness Past Me didn’t foresee.

A completeness lacked by Sister Moon, she

and I alone know each others fallacies.

Full moons still don’t look full to me.


Part 2:

Full moons still don’t look full to me.

But contrary to my previous self,

the me that threw you upon the shelf,

I see the beauty.

The beauty in the missing sliver of Sister Moon.

The imperfection that lets me know it all really is true.

The beauty in the brown spot polluting house left of two; soft eyes of blue.

The imperfection:

Full moons never fucking look full to me, nor to you.

I yearn for it to be complete but yet beneath my costume, I sadistically enjoy that it will never be.


I look back at myself and ask “What’s the matter with you? You forcibly grasp for the negative aspects and events. And cry about how nothing is right. When it’s your own damn fault everything’s how it is. Stop being so afraid. Stop running and settle down.” “It’s how it has to be-” “Fuck you.”


It took a landslide of events for Past Me,

younger, clueless, blind, inconsiderate, selfish me

to admit, embrace my cynicism, sadism, beatnik outlook.

To understand,

It took you for me to understand.

Understand myself, and yourself, and ourselves

To realize;

It took you. It took you to realize what I had taken from you

It took you. It took you to realize what I had taken from me

It took you. It took us for me to realize that

I can’t run, hide, push away, ignore, avoid or deny

that you’re my missing moon piece.

Full moons never look full to me.

But sitting under the stars with your hand in mine while listening to toads croak and the neighbor’s dog get let inside,

I let you inside.

And the “full moon” feels full to me.

In the Dark

In the dark, our true minds come out to play. What you see is what you get, and there’s nothing stopping the craziest shit from being created from your imagination.

In the dark, our true selves are shown in the absence of light. Our greatest fears come to piss on our parade and there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it.

In the dark, prayers hardly help, and happy thoughts fade into the unknown.

In the dark, the mind is lost just like your sanity.

In the dark, creatures lurk that you thought up.

In the dark, fear is known and terror is felt and horror is present as ever.

In the dark, there’s no escape unless you can find a torch.

In the dark, things that aren’t even there, are there and you can’t fucking tell me you didn’t just see that.

In the dark, goddamn it I just felt something on my leg.

In the dark, shit dude are you hearing that too?

In the dark, is a terrible place to try synthetic hallucinogens.

A walk down a nature path led me through some brush.

I stepped too close to a blackbirds nest and at me did he rush.

I ran, I fled, I waved my arms but nothing seemed to scare,

the nasty thing from swooping at me and shitting in my hair.

I took a roll down a steepish hill and at the bottom I came to rest.

To my dismay I looked around and found another nest.

Now two birds chased me as I ran to a twisted purple tree.

And this is where I sat and hid but birds they still found me.

My racing heart just wouldn’t calm, the demons they smelled fear.

I knew that when I stood back up they’d peck me in the rear.

So here I sat and forced myself to breathe more steadily.

And between the birds I had just become trapped into tranquility.

I looked across the field and meadow and further to the berm.

I slowed my breath and calmed myself but my captors they stood firm.

I began to think about all the things that suddenly came to mind.

And in these things a sort of peace was I to come to find.

Memories of past endures, reminisce of past events.

Future thoughts of what’s ahead: new sights, new sounds, new scents.

The angry birds’ taunts and songs became my ambiance.

Along with other natural sounds, a wolf crying like an ambulance.

These sounds along with the roars of the deer, the crickets all around,

I felt myself growing tired so I laid back on the ground.

The birds, ballsy fuckers, hopped to the earth and toward me did they prance.

No harm they wanted but instead, to my surprise, I saw them dance.

I watched this act of God at my feet, and then I began to think,

my fucking goodness these drugs haven’t worn off all week.


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