Tag: fiction

Bury My Balls and Burn My Body (Poetry)

On By Jon UreñaIn Arte, EscrituraLeave a comment

The sky has opened, the seas are raging,
The moon is shattered, the sun has died.
But here I am, and here I’ll stay,
Until the last of the fires fade away.

Tail of a crocodile, feet of a dragon,
Face of a demon, heart of a murderer.
Teeth sharp and jagged,
Night-eyes glowing green.
I’ve forgotten the taste of love.
My only pleasure’s in the kill.

Rex the Wrecker, oh, he’s the shit down the hatch.
The fiend of the tow truck and wrecking ball.
A legend in this town, a king without a crown.
He lived hard, fucked hard, died hard.
Left a trail of blood, tears, and cum.
“Fuck you all, I don’t wanna be buried.
Bury my balls, that’s all,
Then burn my body.”

Rex fucked a cactus, snorted gunpowder.
He tore himself a new hole just to piss off his mother.
Ripped a thousand girls’ cherries by accident,
Knocked them up like bowling pins.
The only one who ain’t furious with him is me,
‘Cause I’m the one who put him in the ground.
But I’m also the one who can’t wait to see
When he wakes up and comes back around.

You know who I am, what I’m made of.
I can make it rain diamonds or gold,
Or burn everything to the ground.
I’m the monster in the closet,
The beast in your bed.
I’m the devil in your head
Telling you to kill yourself.
No mercy, no pity, no love.
I’m a cold hard machine
With a heart of stone.

I’m where the garbage trucks roll,
The junkies shoot, the hookers stroll.
Where the blood spills, the sirens wail,
The neon burns, the rats crawl.
I’m the one who owns this shithole,
Every alley, every bar.
Every street corner, every gutter,
Every motel, every car.
You’re a visitor, a trespasser;
Don’t pretend that you belong.
Drinking, smoking, fighting, fucking;
I’ll be here after you’re gone.

Fear me, hate me.
Try to stop me if you dare.
You can’t kill me, you can’t hurt me.
Can’t even touch me anywhere.
I’m the alpha and the omega,
The beginning and the end.
There’s no such thing as God,
Unless you count me.

I’m the one who’ll bury your balls
And burn your body when you’re dead.
Until then, fuck you all, fuck this world.
I’ll have some fun before it ends.

Suno demo (not remotely final version):

Daniel (Poetry)

On By Jon UreñaIn Arte, EscrituraLeave a comment

She lives on the third floor.
Her key’s on a chain with a skull.
She threw her coat on a chair.
Cozy place full of stuff I’d never seen.

Leafy plants in pots, blooming flowers.
Records and books on the shelves.
Magazines, sketches, photos
Of people I don’t know
Who smile in her life.
A cat ran past my feet.

She moved here from Sweden three years ago.
Works at a library, sorts books.
Plays guitar in a band with her friends.
Likes to travel, but she’s scared of flying.
Parents still there, call her every week.
She said she loves them but she had to leave.

Smart, funny, pretty, foreign.
Unlike anyone I’d ever been with.
She knows her own mind, has her own plans.
She doesn’t need me for anything.

She put her hand on my thigh.
I ran my fingers through her hair.
Her lips were soft, her tongue sweet.
I played around with her tits.

Red bra, lace panties, socks with stripes.
She kissed me down my neck and chest.
Candles on the nightstand, dim light.
Smelled like flowers and clean sheets.

Her skin was smooth and warm,
Her breath hot and fast.
We made love on her bed
Like it meant something.

She held me afterwards,
Her arm around my chest.
I felt her heart beating.
“You can stay if you want, Daniel.”
Insects crawled on my skin.
I tossed her arm off me.
“Get the fuck away,
You trashy bitch.”

I fumbled for my clothes,
Did my belt on the stairs.
No sound followed me down
But her calling that name again.

The Greatest Song I Can’t Remember (Poetry)

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Yesterday I listened to the greatest song.
It sounds like bullshit, but it’s true.
So good, it made me cry.
So good, I wanted to die.

This tiny venue downtown,
Kind of place where the walls sweat
And the floors stick to your shoes.
Place was packed full of hipsters and weirdos
Drinking cheap beer, smoking shitty weed.
I was so high, I could hardly see.
I had walked in alone, feeling like shit,
Looking for a distraction, looking for a fix.

The lights dimmed, the crowd hushed.
Then three dudes walked onto the stage,
Dressed in black suits and ties.
They looked like gangsters from a movie.

I can’t remember what the hell they played.
I can’t remember a single word they sang.
I remember the feeling of being lifted,
Of being free and alive.

There’s a girl in every bar,
And a bar on every street.
There’s a song in every heart,
But mine’s stuck on repeat.

I was a kid, I had a dream.
I wanted to make music that mattered.
But life happened, shit happened.
I lost my way, lost my friends,
Lost my love, lost myself.
Now I just work and drink and fuck,
And write crap songs no one hears.
What’s the point? Who cares?
But last night, for a while,
I felt that old spark again.

This chick, tall and blonde, Nordic type,
She swayed to the music with her eyes closed,
She sang along to the words I didn’t know.
Those tits were out of this world.

I met her outside after the show.
A chick from Sweden who speaks English
With a cute accent and a wicked smile.
She asked me what I thought of the band.
I told her they were the best thing I’d ever heard.
She laughed, said she felt the same.

I drove her to a diner, got us burgers.
We looked at each other like it meant something.
She said my eyes are like the moon, cold and dead.
She asked me if I was okay, I said I was fine.
I asked if she wanted to fuck, she said not tonight.
I guess it was the worst date she’s had in a while.

I drove her back to her place.
She kissed me on the cheek, said thanks.
Said she wanted to see me again.
I went yeah, sure, why not.

So beautiful, it made me cry.
So powerful, it made me hard.
So amazing, it made me forget
Who I was, where I was, what I was.
I can’t hum a single note,
I can’t recall a single chord.
It’s gone like it never happened,
Like I dreamed it all.

Rex the Wrecker (Poetry)

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Driving my shitbox through the neon haze,
Looking for a place to drown my head.
Loud and grimy dive bar called “The Black Hole.”
I walk in like I belong: a rockabilly rebel,
A lone wolf in a thrift-store leather jacket,
White shirt, tight jeans, shit-kicking boots.

A mix of fuckups, sluts, and thugs
Smoking, sweating, spilling beer.
Band plays cover shit on a tiny stage,
Some punk-garage junk, I don’t care.
I see a girl with black hair and black lipstick,
Too much makeup, tits spilling out.
She’s leaning on the bar, drinking vodka shots.
I slide next to her, order a whiskey.
I tell her my name’s Eddie, I’m in sales,
Here on business, just passing through.

Music’s too loud to talk, so we dance.
She grinds on me, I grab her ass.
We sweat and kiss to the beat.
She tastes like ash and cheap perfume.
She asks me if I wanna fuck.
I say yeah, of course I do.

We stumble out, my car’s parked nearby.
I drive us to a motel on the edge of town.
Fumble with the key, the door’s sticky.
Bed smells like old sex and cigarettes.
I rip off her clothes, she pulls down my jeans.
I fuck her hard on that stained mattress.
Grunt and moan, claw and bite,
Reach the peak, come and die.

There’s a girl with an awesome ass
And a tight-fitting skirt,
Whose hips sway when she sways,
Whose tits sway when she sways.
Sometimes the front side of her is exposed
From underneath that shirt,
And if you were smart, you’d stop and stare
At her awesome ass and awesome tits.

I spot this girl at the bar, she’s a hot mess.
Black leather pants, red corset, fishnet top.
Tattoos on her arms, piercings on her face.
Hair’s bleached blonde, eyes are dead.
I tell her my name’s Eddie, I’m in sales,
And I’m just passing through this hell.
I buy her drinks, she gulps them fast.
Says she wants my dick inside her.

We fuck on the bed, we fuck on the floor.
She asks me if I have any coke.
I say I have some pills, she swallows them.
We fuck in the shower, water’s cold.

This brunette has a tattoo of a snake on her tit.
Her thick thighs shine in the bar’s light.
As we dance, she says a name I don’t retain.
I say mine’s Daniel, an architecture student.
I tell her I needed a break from school.
She says she needs a break from her boyfriend.

Bass thumping through my chest,
Sweat dripping down my face.
The girl’s a blur of hair and skin.
I kiss her neck, she bites my ear.
I take her to my car. Windows fog up fast.
Her legs are apart, ass high like a prize.

I’m a fucking wrecking ball
With a head full of holes.
I should’ve died years ago,
But I’m still kicking.
I need a bottle of whiskey,
A pack of smokes,
A dirty motel room,
And a night without dreams.

A girl with blue hair and a nose ring
Sits next to me, smiles, asks my name.
I’m Daniel the architect, I design buildings.
I design bridges, too, over troubled waters.
I tell her I love her style, her green eyes,
The way she licks her cherry-colored lips.

I’m Michael the traveler, I’ve seen the world.
I’m Joe the divorced man, looking for fun.
I’m whoever you want me to be, baby,
As long as you spread your legs.
I don’t give a shit about your name,
Or age or dreams or story.
You’re just another hole to fill
And leave sore and sorry.

I’ve got a dick, you got a cunt,
That’s how it works in this dump.
We’re all alone in the crowd.
I’m gonna drink ’til I drop.
I’m gonna fuck ’til I rot.

I get into a fight with some bikers
Outside the bar, over nothing.
Fists fly, blood spills, teeth break.
I get a black eye, a cut lip.

Call me Rex the Wrecker, I knock shit down.
I’m a tow-truck driver in a filthy town.
I got a leather jacket and a hungry eye,
And a pocket full of pills and lies.
I don’t have a dream, I have a bottle.
I don’t have a heart, I have a dick.
I like to drink and fight and fuck,
And then forget about it all.

I’ve got friends in low places.
I know who kills for fun.
I’m not afraid of anything,
‘Cause I’m already dead.
I don’t love you, I don’t like you,
I don’t even know your name.
I’m gonna pump you full of cum,
Then dump you like a waste.

Horns on my head, hell in my throat.
A tail that swings, claws that scratch.
A roar that can raise the dead.
An antediluvian wrecking beast
Rampaging through this worthless world,
Stomping on the dance floor until dawn.
Hey, triceratops boy,
Where are you heading to now?

Five Easy Pieces’ links to The Passenger/Stella Maris

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I’ve been on a binge of 70s movies lately. I wanted films from that era that provided the feeling of inhabiting the 1970s. One that ChatGPT recommended was Jack Nicholson’s 1970 movie Five Easy Pieces. I actually tried watching it years ago, but I didn’t connect with it enough, so I quit about a quarter of the way through. This time I felt differently.

It follows the character of Bobby Dupea, a former pianist prodigy who abandoned his family, who are a bunch of intellectuals and artists, to live as a drifter of sorts, never settling for long enough at a single place and among a single group of people. I got into this binge of 70s movies because I remain haunted by Cormac McCarthy’s last two novels, The Passenger and Stella Maris, both of which belong to the same story set in that era. And I was surprised to find out that Five Easy Pieces undoubtedly influenced McCarthy’s last two works.

McCarthy died about three years ago, so one might think that a movie from 1970 is a bit too distant to be considered a clear inspiration to his last two books. But The Passenger and Stella Maris were conceived, worked on, and majorly planned in the mid-to-late 70s, as well as early 80s. It pertained the real-life institutionalization of McCarthy’s love-of-his-life Augusta Britt, who ended up in some mental hospital somehow related to Stella Maris. As I kept watching Nicholson’s movie, the similarities became obvious.

Bobby Dupea, the movie’s protagonist, comes from a highly cultured/intellectual family. He’s a musical prodigy. His sister is a musician. His sister desperately wants him back. Bobby abandoned his privileged/intellectual origin. Bobby is angry, restless, alienated. He can’t tolerate the feeling that a life is settling into place. He moves from place to place. He has an almost pathological resistance to permanence.

Bobby Western, the protagonist of The Passenger, comes from an intellectually and scientifically exceptional family. He plays mandolin; deeply associated with music. His sister Alicia is a musician/intellectual. Alicia’s entire relationship with Bobby is haunted by his absence and her longing for him. Bobby has abandoned conventional society and spends his life moving around. He’s restless, melancholic, alienated. He’s made flight his mode of existence. He moves from place to place, ultimately leaving America. Bobby’s entire existence becomes a kind of permanent exile.

In the movie, Bobby’s explanation for his restlessness is that he can’t bear the moment when a new life starts to look like a settled life. He gets frightened when something begins acquiring the shape of a future. Bobby Western feels that he can’t become anyone because the world no longer provides a place in which such a becoming is possible. You see the family resemblance.

In the movie, Bobby’s sister is the person from his old life who still wants him back. She’s a musician, she understands him in ways no one else does, and she serves as the emotional bridge between Bobby and the world he rejected. Alicia fills a far more elaborate version of the same structural position. In the movie: sister waits, brother comes home, brother leaves again. In McCarthy’s story, it turns much darker: sister needs brother, brother fails to save her, sister dies, brother spends the rest of his life unable to return home.

Both Bobbys possess the capacity for civilized/intellectual life but refuse to inhabit it. I can imagine that McCarthy felt reflected in Nicholson’s character. Dupea can play Chopin beautifully, but he lives as an oil worker. He’s capable of being something “higher,” yet he’s miserable when he inhabits that world. Bobby Western is a physicist, mathematically gifted, musically inclined, yet he doesn’t belong to any of those worlds. He’s a diver, a smuggler, a mechanic, a gambler, a fisherman, a wanderer. Dupea runs away from society. Western runs away from civilization. Ultimately, McCarthy’s protagonist seems to run away from existence itself.

I asked ChatGPT if McCarthy had mentioned Five Easy Pieces at all. Not only he had: he mentioned the movie was one of his favorites. One of the references mentions it as his favorite. So that’s that.

I’m sure this won’t matter to anyone who doesn’t occupy my mental headspace, and who doesn’t retain an unhealthy attachment to Alicia Western and therefore to McCarthy’s last two novels. But I found it interesting enough to record nonetheless.

Songwriting Is for Idiots (Poetry)

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Lock the door, drop the boots,
Wash the shit off my hands.
The world can fuck off for a while:
I got a bottle and a guitar.

Songwriting’s for idiots, yeah, it is.
I should be fucking sleeping,
But here I am, an asshole with a drink,
Trying to make sense of shit.
Sit on the bed, grab the neck,
Play a few chords, slur some words.
No one here will give a shit
About my stories or my songs.

Start singing some nonsense rhymes
About trash and trucks and loneliness.
Maybe I’ll sing about how drunk I am,
How my fingers fumble on the frets.
Maybe throw in a dead dinosaur
And a girl with milk-white eyes.

Songwriting is for idiots,
But I like to sing.
No one here to hear me,
No one here to judge me.
Just me and my guitar,
And a bottle of gin.

I keep on playing and singing
‘Cause it makes me feel something,
Even if it’s just pain or anger or shame,
Or the ghost of a memory,
Or a face I can’t forget.

I sing about Lorenzo, my best friend,
Who’s dead and buried somewhere far away.
I sing about Claire, the love of my life,
Who left me without a word or a trace.

Songwriting is for idiots
Who dig up what they buried
Just to complain about the smell,
Who play the same four chords
Until this room is the hideout
And we’re all stupid kids again.

Songwriting is for idiots
Who can’t let go,
Who can’t move on,
Who are too scared to live
And too cowardly to die.

I used to be a boy.
Now I lift other people’s shit
Until my hands turn white.
I used to have a dino who listened
And a girl who sang.
Now I have four walls, a bottle,
And a toilet that won’t flush.

I’m just a fool with a guitar
And a bunch of half-assed songs
That no one will ever hear.
But I like to sing, so fuck it.
I like to sing, even if it’s dumb.
I like to sing, even if it hurts.

I wish I could leave William in this room
With the songs and the dead.
Let someone else wear the boots
And walk out that door.
But there’s no one else.
This is all I’ve got.

You Stay Eighteen (Poetry)

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I’m on the curb, bent over a split bag of trash,
When a knife goes into my ribs, or maybe my heart.
It’s another vision of you bleeding in the dirt,
Your red hair spread over mud and grass.

Your parents are dead.
You can’t see, you can’t read.
You don’t know where you’re going.
You strayed into the road,
Blind to a truck roaring down.

I drive back to my room soon after dawn.
I lock the door, sit on the edge of the bed.
I grab my guitar, but my hands are shaking.

I see you splayed on the road.
Body crumpled, bones snapped.
Blood mixing with rain.
Tire tracks across your torn dress.

I got a bottle of gin in the car,
And the heater’s busted.
City lights on the fogged glass.
They’re like stars, but colder.

You got into a stranger’s car.
He promised to take you somewhere safe.
He tied you up, he raped you.
He buried you alive.

I’ve buried a body in the woods
With my own hands and my own blood.
I know the smell of fresh-turned earth.
I know the silence when it is done.

I see a familiar splash of red in the blur.
A girl down the block is wearing a scarf
The color of your hair.

In a truck stop sink, I wash up as best I can.
I pull on cleaner clothes, spray deodorant.
I drive my shitbox to the worst bar I know,
And sit at a sticky table with a drink.

I remember the smell of your hair
When you leaned on my shoulder.
I remember the taste of your mouth
When we kissed on your porch.
I remember the warmth of your hand
When we walked in the park.
I remember the light in your voice
When you sang along to my songs.
Those are the things I have left of you,
The only things that keep me alive.

Your body slammed into a windshield.
Glass and blood sprayed the dark.

I wake up sweating, my chest seized up.
I check my phone: no new voicemails.
I wonder if anyone would care
If I didn’t wake up again.

I don’t know where you are.
I don’t know if you’re alive.
I don’t know anything.
I just see you dying
Every day,
Every night.

Your face, pale and rotting.
Your eyes, empty sockets.

I called my mother, told her I’m fine.
Her voice was slurred; she didn’t say much.
I hung up, turned my phone off.
I don’t want to talk to anyone.

The sound of you humming along
As I strummed my guitar
On a clear summer evening
When the world was young.

You stay eighteen.
I get older every day.

Mammalian Machine (Poetry)

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The city’s a mammal breathing in the dark,
A vast, pulsing, throbbing, sweating,
Bleeding, shitting, pissing, fucking,
Screaming, crying, laughing, dying beast
That doesn’t care about me or anyone,
That just is, and does, and will be.
We’re specks of dirt on its metal skin,
Drops of blood in its concrete veins.

You people, I see your traces every night:
You’re the ones who throw out half-eaten pizza,
Leftover Chinese, expired milk, moldy cheese.
You’re the ones who discard broken toys,
Torn clothes, worn-out shoes, cracked phones.
You’re the ones who dump dirty tissues,
Used condoms, bloody tampons, piss-stained sheets.
You’re the ones who leave photos of smiling faces,
Drawings of rainbows, love letters, suicide notes.

The truck’s another beast, made of metal and oil,
With a hungry mouth, a crushing throat,
And a roaring, smoking ass.
It roams the city at night, devouring its shit,
Turning it into mush, then spitting it out
Onto a stinking mountain of waste,
Where birds and rats and maggots feed.

I’m a beast too, a parasite on the beast,
A machine of flesh and blood and bone and nerve
That runs on garbage and music and memories,
That breaks down and heals and breaks down again.
My heart beats like the engines of a spaceship
Launching itself into space.

This guy I work with sold me his old shitbox
For a couple hundred bucks, said it runs fine.
Engine coughs, starter groans, heater’s a joke.
This piece of junk should’ve been scrapped.

I like to cruise through the veins
Of this mammalian machine
That runs on trash and pain.
The pizza joints, the strip clubs,
The ruins where junkies shoot up,
The alleys where whores sell their flesh.

The streets are covered in shit
Left by dogs and pigeons and drunks.
All the kids are scared and angry.
The adults are just old kids with jobs.

I used to think I was different.
I thought I had a purpose, a meaning.
But I’m just another piece of trash
Thrown out into the world
To fester and decay.
I try to keep my head down.
I try to make it through the day
Without killing someone or myself.

Every Goddamned Day (Poetry)

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I stand beneath the rust-stained shower
And scrub other people’s filth from myself.
Then I grab my guitar and sit on the dirty bed.
Lit by a bare bulb, I sing for you again:
For the girl with fire hair and milk eyes,
Who was blind but could see.

I sing the songs I wrote,
The ones that no one hears.
I think of the friends I lost,
I think of the love I killed.

I’m gonna get up.
Gonna get up, goddamnit.
Gonna get up, goddamnit,
And go to work.

I stink like a dead rat.
My back aches, my arms are bruised.
My hands are scarred and dirty.
I take my filthy work clothes off.

When I write songs, I’m a teenager again.
Our hideout is waiting up in the hills.
I just buried my best friend.
Your milk eyes pierce straight through me,
Waiting for me to confess.
I never saw you again.

I’m gonna get up.
Gonna get up, goddamnit.
Gonna get up, goddamnit,
And go to work.

This new kid thought I came with the truck.
When I pull the gloves off,
My hands are two white corpses.
They don’t belong to me anymore.

I work all night, then crawl back here.
I play music, eat, drink, sleep all day.
I’m trying to reduce the waking hours
During which you can visit me.

I’m gonna get up.
Gonna get up, goddamnit.
Gonna get up, goddamnit,
And go to work.

I dream of nothing,
Or maybe of everything.
I don’t know.
I don’t care.
I just sleep,
And wake up again,
To do it all over
Every goddamned day.

A Man of Trash (Poetry)

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The truck’s a hellbeast with a steel mouth
That swallows all the crap you toss.
The beast’s guts groan and growl.
It spews black smoke from its ass.
A machine that moves, eats, and shits,
What else could it be but alive?

I asked the driver, “You need help?”
He threw me a pair of gloves and said, “Go for it.”

I look like death, but I’m young, strong enough.
I can lift heavy, leaking bags,
And I’m not scared of shit, piss, or puke.
The loader has a bad knee,
And the driver’s a sick old drunk.
They need a body to keep the route going,
And I’m the only one dumb enough
To try.

We sped through the city, two hours before dawn,
Stopping in alleys and behind stores.
I rode in the truck’s warm cab,
Listening to the driver and the loader talk
About money they needed, bitches they’d had,
And all the reasons they hated their jobs.

When we reached the landfill, I stood by
As the sun rose over a mountain of filth.
The loader pulled a lever, the truck’s back lifted,
And a flood of trash poured out:
A stinking wave of rot, rust, and ruin.
It looked like a giant metal beast
Puking its guts onto a steaming shitpile,
Then roaring with its hydraulic arms.

I’m a runner, a lifter, a feeder, a cleaner.
My guitar rides behind the seat.
I jump in and out of the truck’s jaws,
And drag the trash into its throat.
It makes me sweat, stink, and bleed.
The crew calls me “new kid,” “dumbass,”
But they don’t give a fuck about me,
And I don’t give a fuck back.

There’s nothing like the smell
Of trash in the morning:
Fruit gone soft, meat gone green,
Diapers full of shit.

I’ve slept in worse places than a truck.
I’ve touched worse things than trash.
I’ve been hurt by worse things than a compactor.
I don’t complain. I don’t talk back.
I just keep working, keep feeding the beast,
And it keeps me alive.

I’m a garbage man, a trash collector,
A scavenger of the city’s waste.
I ride on the back step, clinging to the rails,
Feeling the wind and the rain on my face,
Seeing the streets before they wake,
Smelling the world in its rawest state.
I don’t care what you call me,
As long as you pay me.
I don’t care what you think of me,
As long as you leave me alone.

A coworker got me a lead on a filthy room,
And told me what bars to hit at night.
The room’s walls are peeling, the toilet’s clogged,
But the door locks from the inside.

I’m a tough guy in an ugly neighborhood.
The worst thing that could happen already has.
What more can the world do to me
Than what I’ve already done to myself.

I see people in their homes,
Asleep or awake, happy or sad.
I see dogs and cats,
Rats and birds,
That live on the margins of the world.
They don’t judge me, they don’t fear me.
They just do what they gotta do
To survive.