Revised: ‘Sasquatch Goddess’

I’m at the last stage of revising my latest novel (first in English), which I intend to publish as an ebook on various online retailers. I also rearranged my poetry into three distinct books, which I’ll put together as ebooks and release in the future.

This time I’ve revised one of my favorite texts I’ve ever written, the poem ‘Sasquatch Goddess’. I thought about trying to expand it, but this was one of those cases in which I love the original so much that I can’t figure out how to improve it. It was better to just fix the punctuation, remove extraneous sentences and sharpen the remaining.

I recall how this poem came to be. I was unemployed at the time, so I could stay awake until early in the morning if needed. However, I also struggled with insomnia regardless. It was one and a half in the morning, and a thought came to my mind: “What if sasquatches are responsible for my insomnia, as they attempt to control my brain?”. To elaborate on that, I spent until six in the morning writing this poem.

The link is below.

Sasquatch Goddess

Fly on the Wall (Poetry)

Back in the 2000s I loved this soft rock band
That I learned about through an online forum.
The songwriter was a working-class fellow
Who wrote about failed relationships,
About how everything was disappointing,
About his hope to disappear in romance,
And about keeping his head above water,
Because he could barely afford to pay the rent.

Listening to his/their sad songs
Made me feel there were other people
Who felt as though they had no choice
About the person they were forced to be,
But still tried to make good things happen,
Although they feared nothing would come of it.
The songwriter was following a calling within
That would likely lead him to his doom
(If you had to swim, it was fine to drown).

As he shared every song on the forum,
I was awed by this guy’s enthusiasm,
Not to mention his unique talent,
And how hard he focused on creating stuff
So his little band could one day make it big.

This guy reminded me of myself
(I loved to believe I was talented,
Particularly if I didn’t have to prove it).
He shared similar feelings and thoughts,
Although we came from different backgrounds.
His world view was much more mature,
Which made his music seem realer
(I didn’t need to pay the rent,
So I didn’t know how it felt
To be one step away
From poverty).

I went through hard times, a bad relationship
(I wish I had never met you, M.;
You have to be a bitch to call your ex
And tell him that a new dick feels better,
As much as it takes a pathetic guy
With self-hate and abysmal self-esteem
To take your fucking calls),
And I had to leave most of my tastes aside,
While I feared what might become of me
(At least I don’t have to worry anymore;
My life has gone far beyond my control).

When I returned to being on my own
(As I should have always been),
I recalled that the aforementioned band
Existed at all, and I hadn’t dreamed it up
During one of my psychotic breaks
(I want to erase the memories of those years).
Yeah, their existence was proof for me
That I wasn’t crazy; I actually existed
In some sort of alternate dimension.

Although they had been selling albums online,
I was no longer able to find any trace of them
(They seemed to have been scrubbed
By someone who wanted them gone).
That online forum had disappeared.
I had formatted the drive that had the songs.

Sometimes, my mind replayed the echoes,
As well as what I could remember of the lyrics,
All the while I wondered where those guys were now,
Because I was pretty sure that their band was no more.

As I was cleaning my place, I found a CD
That contained, among forgotten stories,
All of their songs I had downloaded then.
After I listened to their tracks again,
I remembered why I was drawn to them,
How refreshing it was to hear such feelings,
Of someone who struggled in a similar way.

Now that I’m older, I hear them differently.
The guy talked about the pressure to create,
How every day felt wasted if he didn’t make
Part of a song, or worked on their lyrics.
In one of the last songs, the guy spoke about
Having gotten tired of playing with paper swords,
And that from then on he would seek security.

(When I was a child we caught a bird,
Then put it in a cage as a new pet;
It suffered a heart a attack and died.
It didn’t even take a whole day.
Sometimes I think of the newborns
That the bird probably needed to feed.)

As a lanky, pimply teen, I wrote like crazy.
I spent a few years writing a psychotic story
About colonial marines in deep space,
Which would have interested nobody
(Because it was a complete piece of shit).
When I read some of the pages, I was appalled
By the disordered, broken mind it revealed
(Those drafts embarrassed me so much
That I burned them after reading,
Then threw away my computer
And shot myself in the head).

Back then I was on the verge of hanging myself;
I wrote to stay afloat, to make it somewhere,
Although I already knew I’d never find my place.
Something I miss from those days is the fire
To write something meaningful each and everyday
(I wish I could spend the rest of my life
Just sitting at my desk, typing out thoughts
That are hidden inside me),
The feeling nothing matters except creating art;
For me every day without writing was wasted.

For many years I gave up my dreams for security.
I studied to become a programmer, worked as one
(Barely above minimum wage, and terrible hours).
I discovered that my broken mind wouldn’t tolerate
Nor be accepted in any private office’s culture
(I got a series of ‘You won’t work well in a team’,
Always by supervisors who weren’t technicians;
The bosses I worked with were fine with me.
All those supervisors were always women
Against a less than stellar example of a man,
And it’s hard to avoid seeing that pattern
In our society at large, not just in that industry).

Eventually I got too old to be exploited as a dev,
So I worked for a while as a freelance merc,
But most of the months I wasn’t getting paid,
Although I worked my ass off full time
(I never want to receive again calls at 1 AM
Because some crazed client wants a feature).

I enjoyed programming a version of DF
(‘Dwarf Fortress’, that old grail, a total mess),
But you need a whole team to make a game.

I spent years doing nothing but gaming,
Listening to music, reading, browsing the net,
And masturbating copiously,
Because I was sure I wouldn’t fit in anywhere.

I learned how to play guitar, played it in the woods,
But only writing stuff ever felt truly right
(Meanwhile, my parents paid for most things;
Maybe it was fair, after they raised me to be shit).

I now work in IT for a hospital,
Which is garbage, but it pays well
(I’ve learned to hate computers).
If I had stayed as a musician,
I’d probably be dead,
Or a poor alcoholic,
Or maybe in jail
(I’ve been busted twice,
Because I was under the influence
Of painkillers).

I always look forward to being unemployed.
Some people say that you have to work,
Because that ennobles you or something.
As far as I’m concerned, that’s slave mentality,
That’s like having to believe that pain is good
Because no pills get rid of your constant aches
(So you have to befriend them or else go insane).

I’d rather have some people supporting me,
Paying my bills and the roof over my head,
Even if most days I would only masturbate,
And occasionally produce some sort of text.

Writing struck me when I was young:
It felt so good to escape reality,
To tell stories that no one else could see.
It’s something I can do by myself, in silence
(Or talking to myself, acting out the dialogue).

I didn’t need anyone else to understand me,
Or to cheer me up, or to tell me what to write.
People were always involved in everything else,
And they kept me away from doing what I liked.
All I have to worry about is being lazy,
And when I am sick of it all, I’ll stop writing.

From 2012 to 2018, I tried my best in Spanish,
Writing serious stuff that might sell enough to eat.
I couldn’t even get along with the local writers;
I didn’t understand their reasons for writing,
And their brains worked differently from birth.

After I self-published two books and nobody cared,
That tainted all the effort I put into my stuff.
Writing had ceased to be fun like it used to.
I stopped writing for a while, the words were dry.
I grew angry, bitter, confused, depressed.
All of my efforts seemed pointless in retrospect.

When I was a child, I knew I wouldn’t get published,
But that didn’t stop me from doing what I wanted.
Now that I’m older, I realise just how much trouble
I’d have had to go through for them to publish me,
How many asses even normal people have to kiss.

When I was twenty one or so, I had given up
On what I cared about as a kid, to become an adult.
I would move to the capital, work at some job
(Live my life by rules invented by other people),
Get married to that girl, have a couple of kids,
Get verbally abused because I was insufficient
(I would be weak and take it, like my father),
Live in poverty and pay off all my debts.
I would soon forget all about what felt right,
As well as those weird dreams I had as a child.
I would forget that I never wanted to grow up
To just live the same old, boring routine,
And waste the rest of my life until I died.

When I was younger I thought that getting old
Would mean losing the motivation for living,
And that’s mostly true, but I can still feel
The same desire I had as a child to create
(In spite of having to work a shitty 8 to 3).
I enjoy the feeling of translating
Into words what is inside me.

Even now, as I write this at work (at 9 PM),
I’ve never managed to land a stable job,
And given how I was born, I never will
(In addition, the world has gone to shit).
That means likely never owning a house,
Never having a wife, nor a bunch of kids
(Those are rare daydreams, gene-driven;
I lack the instinct to socialize).
I have lost this game, so I can write for fun
(I suppose I could kill myself;
There’s always time for that down the line).

I’m thirty six years old these days,
And for the foreseeable future
(Until I turn thirty seven years old),
But mentally I’m eighteen or so,
And that’s unlikely to change:
When I was a child I felt much older,
When I was eighteen I felt my age,
And from then on I failed to progress,
But those who had a problem were others
(Like romantic partners I had to impress).

I’m a single man for life, as far as I care,
Because I’m not giving up my stuff,
Everything that truly matters to me
(Everyone else can eat shit).
I’ll keep writing until I die and rot away.
I’ll always be able to use it to escape reality.

My point is, I remember you, Tim,
And the songs you used to make.
I hope you didn’t die and shit.
I’m sure you got married, got kids,
And had to give up on your dreams
(Unless your dreams now involve
Being married and raising kids).

All’s well that ends well
As long as you are happy,
But I have the sneaking suspicion
That you aren’t, nor would I be;
Someone who hears the calling
Of the creative life can’t be happy
Unless he cuts himself to bleed.

Blood flows from the wound
(That will only close when you die)
And from the heart, which can tell
That it was the blood’s song
Which the artist heard,
A voice that said, ‘Now paint!’,
‘Now write!’, ‘Now compose!’
(I’m not sure what musicians hear;
I never felt like writing a song,
But I play other people’s songs).

It’s as though the artist
Was a young boy again
(Or girl, I guess; I have a dick),
And his mother, watching him sleep,
Sang him lullabies in her breast
(I imagine big, soft breasts,
Perennially full of milk).

(I daydream of a woman
Who would let me suck on hers
For the entire day if I wanted,
No questions asked.)

‘Fly on the Wall’ by Jon Ureña

Happiness Is a Warm Cat Girl (Poetry)

How would I tolerate these infernal workdays,
Having to walk back home when the moon is out,
If my precious housewife wasn’t here to welcome me?
I would get drunk on sake by my old lonesome,
But now I drink at home just for fun, with Manami,
The one person who knows how to make it right:
My cat girl, whom I love more than anything else.

As I hold the keys, Manami opens my apartment’s door
And looks at me while her tail sticks straight up.
Her face is so cute, with blue eyes that look like saucers,
And a nose that seems to be made of porcelain.
She smells so nice, like flowers and fresh rainwater.

Manami beams. “Welcome home, master!”
She leaps into my arms and hugs me tight.
I stroke her silky coat and caress her head,
While she rubs her soft face on mine and purrs.
“You’re such an adorable creature,” I say to her.
Manami loves me endlessly, like any good girl should.

She leads me by the hand into my tiny living room.
Her tail swishes side to side, wagging happily as we go.
I lie down on the sofa and put my head on her lap.
Manami pets my hair as I stare at the ceiling lights.

“Did you have a good day at work?” she asks gently.
Without Manami, I’d only have complaints,
But now I know what real happiness feels like.
My cat girl is my darling companion,
She comforts me from loneliness and pain.
Nothing remains of that tiresome world
Except this cramped place where we live together.

“It was exhausting as usual, and also boring.
Whatever wasn’t boring made me want to die.
But none of that matters now that I can rest
By feeling my precious girl’s fingers in my scalp.”

We talk softly like lovers do, our heads close,
Friends who can share their deepest secrets.
Our conversation is never boring or stale.
Manami helps me cope with everyday stress.
A ray of hope makes everything seem less bleak.
With my cat girl, life isn’t a chore anymore.

What better way to spend every night
Than cuddling with my beloved Manami
In bed, under warm blankets,
With no other sounds but ours?

When I wake up late at night to pee,
I see my favorite feline sleeping next to me,
Those big, beautiful eyes closed shut.
Her breath smells like warm milk.

Manami’s peaceful expression makes me smile.
No matter if she sleeps soundly or snores loudly,
Or whether she drools or pukes,
Still I keep holding her warm body against me.

There are more than enough reasons
Why I should love this beautiful creature.
When I pet Manami, I feel a little thrill
That makes me want to take care of her.
She purrs, licks my face, serves as a pillow,
Is warm and soothing and always there,
And whenever I remember her smiling face,
All I can think of is how much I adore her.

Sometimes she sings songs to help me relax,
Or she tells silly jokes to cheer me up.
Even though I’ve told her many things before,
She always listens attentively and nods her head.

“Master,” she says, “I want to go to the park.”
“I’ll take you there. We can play ball games,
Or chase each other around,
Or we can just sit together on a bench
And watch the world pass us by.”
“That sounds wonderful, master! Thank you!”

Our country’s brutal office culture
Has led to many public suicides,
But the economy needed to keep going,
And I couldn’t afford to take a pay cut.

For two decades, I had gone to work
And returned home too tired to live.
I hadn’t dated anyone since high school.
I still dreamed of those girls, who were so cool.
I missed singing at the karaoke, going out for drinks.
I had forgotten how being young used to feel.

One day, I decided to try online dating.
I only received messages that said stuff like,
“Your profile has been flagged as spam,
Please remove it immediately.”

Japan solved our troubles through technology.
Some genius managed to mix human and cat DNA.
It was a matter of breeding loving, loyal hybrids
Who would support the tired mass of workers.
They became a wild hit with both sexes,
And the government made it legal to marry them.

One thing I had never experienced before
Was having someone who really cared about me.
I am a withdrawn man, and I had lived alone
Since graduating college twenty years ago.
Nothing made any sense, my life felt meaningless,
But with my cat girl, I finally found real love.

In Manami’s presence, I can forget my woes;
I feel like my heart is wrapped in cotton wool.
She gives me hope when I’m down on my knees,
She comforts and supports me during bad times.
Dating humans is too hard, women too demanding;
I don’t want anybody but my cat girl housewife.

She never complains about our daily chores
(She does them eagerly, even cleans the dishes).
She cooks delicious meals (she loves canned tuna).
She’s very knowledgeable about manga and anime.
She knows all the best places to eat sushi.

She can predict the weather and earthquakes,
And tell me if the stock market will go up,
Or whether to bet on baseball, football, or sumo.
She also predicts the outcome of elections.

Every night we cuddle under the sheets.
Her purr vibrates throughout my body
As she rubs my back and shoulders gently.
She bites my neck, making me moan.
Sensing I’m excited, she licks me like mad,
And her barbed tongue prickles my skin.
My cat girl trembles as I fondle her ass
While her fluffy tail twitches in delight.

Manami runs her soft fur across my chest
As she kisses my torso on her way down.
My penis is standing straight up,
Aching for her mouth to wrap around it.
I’m not sure how to describe the feeling
Of my cat girl licking my dick.

As we embrace, our tongues dance intertwined.
Manami tastes like fish, and that’s okay.
She moans and writhes while I rub her pointy ears,
She’s wet and eager as I plunge into her hole.

Her vagina grips me tightly, sucks on it like a straw.
My balls churn with sperm, preparing to shoot.
With our bodies pressed close we reach an orgasm.
We shudder, groan, pant, twitch, shake, spasm.

“Oh, master! I can’t believe how hard I came!”
We lie exhausted, enjoying each other’s warmth,
Until Manami stretches and yawns gently.
“I am sleepy, master. Let us sleep now?”

I shake myself awake from a vivid dream
About being fucked by the president,
But Manami’s fur is tickling my belly button.
I stroke her head, caress her silky back.
When I roll over, she climbs onto my chest
To pull my earlobe between her teeth.

I pet my cat girl as she masturbates.
The sight of Manami fingering herself
Puts me in the mood to do it myself too.
My dick is rock hard and my cat girl is wet.

As I eat breakfast, she prepares me a bento box
So I will remember my beloved during my break.
I smile and say, “Thank you” to my beautiful girl.
She watches me bring the chopsticks to my mouth
While she strokes my hair with her warm paws.
Sometimes as I chew, she nibbles my earlobe.

She leaves me love notes in my bento box:
“Meow, meow – I love you!”
“I’m so glad you’re my owner!”
“I hope you miss me and buy me lots of treats!”
“Your eyes looked so sad yesterday,
I will give you some comforting petting tonight.”
“To my beloved who shares all his dreams with me.”

She’s my precious girl, the only one I want.
I waste so much time away from her.
I can barely wait to leave this rotten office
And return home to cuddle up with Manami.

As I eat the lunch she prepared lovingly,
I smile and send her messages with my phone.
“I’ll be back soon, my darling.”
“Thank you for making me happy.”
“My cat girl is the most wonderful creature.”
“I love you more than I could have imagined.”
“I’ll be thinking of you while I work today.”
“I wish you’d come to my office.”
“You could work here if you wanted.”
My cat girl has always been smarter than me.
She’s a talented programmer and researcher,
And I can’t even do basic math correctly.

Manami is my partner in crime, my sidekick.
On my days off, we play video games,
We watch the hottest anime of the season,
She scratches the walls of my apartment,
She listens to me cry,
We wrestle naked (she gets rough
And bites me, and I bite her back),
Sometimes she gets overstimulated
And runs around for no reason,
We take baths together,
We have the most loving sex.
I feel like I’m living a dream.

Manami is the only person in my world
Who doesn’t treat me like a nuisance.
I can’t imagine my life without my cat girl.
She’s the greatest joy in this lonely road.
If it wasn’t for her, I’d die in a ditch.
I would kill the entire human race.

“Manami,” I say, “we’re going drinking tonight!”
She’s thrilled. Her saucer eyes light up like UFOs.
We visit a bar somewhere in Roppongi.
Manami looks gorgeous, wearing a mini skirt
And a blouse that shows off her cleavage.
Her high heels are a real turn-on.
I can’t wait to check out her panties.

Once we’ve gotten tipsy enough,
I offer her to go to an all-you-can-eat buffet.
The sushi is good and the sashimi is great.
I point at the delicious fried shrimp,
But Manami has her mind on other things.
“Meow, meow – I want those chicken wings!”

Getting drunk on sake always arouses her.
My cat girl’s eyes get wide and glassy like a cat’s
As she loses control of her motor skills.
She scratches me with her claws until I bleed.

Cat girls are immortal; she will outlive me.
It saddens me to think that I’ll leave this world
To go somewhere far away from my beloved.
When I am gone, Manami will have no one,
And she’ll cry all night long in my absence.
I just hope she’ll find someone else to love.

One of these days, those scientists will discover
How we can finally make our cat girls pregnant,
And we will bring forth the most beautiful world,
One filled with a myriad of our furry kids.

‘Happiness Is a Warm Cat Girl’ by Jon Ureña

A Chaperone for Hybrids (Poetry)

They first abducted me in the woods,
Where I went to play the guitar in peace.
I suddenly felt something strange,
An electric shock that ran down my spine.
My heart was beating fast, my body trembled.
The sky sounded like a machine was drilling,
And lights flashed above me like lightning.

A shadow fell over me, making me freeze.
It was projected by an enormous black ship.
Then, a strange voice spoke from far away,
“You are going to help us with our research.”
I tried to run but it felt like a force field
Took hold of me and dragged me up.

When I woke up in their ship,
I first noticed the aliens’ eyes:
Large, oval, and protruding,
Bright blue with an intensity
Like no other color I had seen.
Their pupils are small black dots
That stared at me unblinkingly
With a dreadful curiosity.

Their skin is a pale greenish-blue
That remind me of the ocean.
They smell nice, fresh and clean,
Very different from my own scent,
But these freaks are hairless
Except for their eyebrows,
And wisps of white around their ears
Which resemble antennae.

They communicate through telepathy,
As I had already expected.
Their voices sound in my head
Like thunder or rolling waves.

They probably think we are primitive
Merely because we vocalize to speak.
This is only partially correct,
Because we also use body language
To express our thoughts and feelings.

The aliens are as stoic as they come:
They never smile nor frown,
Nor use their hands to gesture.
I doubt they feel joy or anger,
Or possibly even sadness.
It would explain why they didn’t have a clue
About why humankind came to be so fucked,
And it meant that we wouldn’t get along;
Most of our behaviors don’t make sense
Unless you think in terms of fun,
Or the primitive joy of destruction,
Or wanting to cum.

Due to the aliens’ telepathic nature,
They can share knowledge instantly,
Maybe while still maintaining privacy.
It took them long to figure out
That we can’t transmit our thoughts.
It might be hard to understand
How a complex society would succeed
When you can’t hear others in your mind.

As I lay down on an operating table,
They checked my vitals and drew my blood.
My heart rate increased,
My brain was buzzing like mad.
I started to sweat in the cool room.
The aliens explained that they would take
Some of my cells and analyze them
To find the DNA and check for mutations.

I had already read about abductions,
And I had wondered how I would react.
I wanted these far more intelligent beings
To consider me a fellow sentient creature,
If only to disuade them from butchering me,
So I didn’t curse, yell, cry, nor plead;
I just remained calm, polite and quiet.
They’d return me when they were done,
Or else they’d dissect me and put me in a jar.
In either case, I wouldn’t be able to do shit.

I hoped that they wouldn’t smell my fear.
I felt like they could take any part of me,
From my toes to my dick.
I feared that they might cut off my balls
For the sake of science.

I tried to get friendly with their leader,
Or at least the one who called the shots.
He answered me in perfect English
(But I only heard his voice in my head).
He said that he was a doctor
Who specialized in genetics and biology.
I asked him where they were from.

“We’re from the planet VX-742.”
“Well, that doesn’t mean much to me,
But nice to meet you, fellow people,
Because I hope you keep in mind
That I’m a person who would suffer pain,
Potentially harrowing amounts of it,
If you were to shove those sharp tools
Into any part of this fragile body.”
“Don’t be afraid. We won’t hurt you.”
I wiped the sweat off my forehead.
“Yes, you always say that kind of shit.
Are you guys going to kill me?”
“No, we just want to study you.”

I thought about cattle mutilations,
And the Guarapiranga Reservoir
(That man whose eyes, ears, tongue
And genitalia had been removed,
As well as the digestive organs,
With no signs of decomposition).
I wanted to bring up my abduction,
But I could tell that they wouldn’t care
(Or even worse, they wouldn’t understand).

“So, do you guys have FTL drives?”
I asked the aliens, with a smile.
They seemed surprised by my question,
They didn’t understand what it meant.
“I wanted to know about how fast
This cool spaceship of yours goes,” I said.
“You don’t have to worry about the speed,
Because we can go anywhere in space.”
I was excited about their discovery,
If only because humans might partake
(If we pass through the Great Filter).
They were confused by my agitation,
But they were kind enough to clarify.
“We don’t need to use fuel, our energy is infinite,
And we can just stop at the nearest star.”
“What? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”

I thought about all the work it took
To build something complex like a car,
Or a computer chip or an iPhone.
Hell, I wouldn’t know how to create a chair.
These people had become their own gods.

I felt so insignificant in front of them,
But the aliens remained calm as I asked,
“Alright, so do you have music, or books?”
“Music and reading are primitive things
Which we don’t use anymore,
We have more advanced technologies,
But we are in the process of cataloguing
All the artistic production of your race.”

As a guitar player, that hurt,
But if I told them to fuck off,
They would dissect me like a frog.
“Do you know any good musicians,
Or writers who are doing great stuff?”
“We know many artists, but we haven’t
Discovered anyone worth mentioning yet.”

I couldn’t think of anything else to ask,
And I suddenly wanted to remain silent,
So I lay back and let them examine me.
One of the aliens used a weird device
To scan my brain and nervous system.
A few of the aliens touched my skin:
They seemed to be studying the texture.

Another alien pulled out a scalpel,
And I knew for sure I was about to die,
But he cut open my shirt to see my chest.
He could just have asked me to unbutton it.
I wondered if they would reimburse the damage.

I had a feeling they were checking out my ass.
I hoped they wouldn’t discover my prostate.
They took pictures of every inch of me
With a floating eyeball that seemed sentient.

I could hear the aliens talking inside my head
(It sounded like a crowd of drunken fans).
“I’d say he is a healthy specimen,
Although his heart rate seems too high.
The muscles in his legs and arms look strong.
His nipples are erect; he’s aroused.
He has very large testicles,
And his penis is well-developed.”
(But I might have imagined this part.)

Another alien went inside my mouth
With a long probe that made me squirm.
They removed some tissue from my throat.
They also took samples of my hair.
I was getting sick and nauseous from seeing
Their bizarre alien faces so close to mine.

The aliens took samples of semen
Despite my shrivelled balls
(I was cold, and containing my fear).
They had conjured a fancy hallucination:
As I lay on a paradisiac beach in the sunset,
I was approached by a Hollywood actress,
Who intended to seduce me of all people.
She wore a red dress with short sleeves,
And her breasts looked so big and soft.
As she kissed me, her nipples were erect.
(I could tell that this wasn’t real,
But I wanted to believe in that world.)

After the mirage fondled me for a while,
I came into an artificial vagina
That a dispassionate alien was holding,
As if I were your average bull stud.

“You’re fertile, you have excellent sperm,”
An alien said, but I felt violated.
That alien added unnecessary info:
“Your ejaculate contains a lot of fructose,
Which makes it ideal for our hybridization.”

I likely became the proud father
Of a whole series of hybrid children
That hopefully won’t require child support.

One of the humans they had abducted,
An old, frail lady who would have fainted
Merely by checking out her face in the mirror,
As soon as she regained consciousness
She suffered a heart attack and died.

The aliens didn’t react with emotion;
It’s almost as if they don’t feel pain,
So they can barely understand it.
They must be inhuman beings
Besides being technically aliens.

I thought of all the humans I’ve known,
From the homeless to the billionaires;
All the politicians, journalists,
And even my teachers at school.
They are all people, not a bunch
Of soulless machines.

The aliens cut that old woman open calmly,
And took out what they thought was necessary.
They removed her skin with a laser cutter
Without mercy for her old flesh and bone.

I told them this abducting business is wrong,
That they shouldn’t be experimenting on us,
But they said they would do so anyway
Because there was too much data available
From our brains, and from our DNA,
To learn more about human biology,
And they wanted to study our race
So they could better understand how
Humans think, feel, and make decisions.

They seemed to have a lot of respect
For humankind, despite their crimes
(Both the aliens’ and ours, I guess).
I wondered if they would use this info
To decide whether or not to destroy us,
And I wasn’t too confident in the odds
(I would probably destroy us if I could).

Because I didn’t freak out like the others
(A woman in her thirties had peed herself,
And was hugging her knees while sobbing),
I felt a sense of camaraderie with the aliens.
“I hope you guys don’t get caught and killed
By some human group trying to capture you.”
“Don’t worry. We’re protected by a force field
That prevents us from being seen.”

I asked them about the Great Filter.
They had passed it many millennia ago.
“We exist in a universe where we could live forever,
And we are free to create whatever lifeforms
We want without worrying about extinction.”
“What? You mean you created other species?”
“Yes, we have gone through millions of forms
In order to find ones that were suitable.”
“You guys didn’t create human beings, right?”
“We wouldn’t create a primitive species.”

The aliens said I had the potential
To become one of their most trusted allies,
But only after undergoing training.
They needed my help to reach more humans,
So they offered me to work for them.

I asked how I would get paid,
But it seemed that money was a concept
That the aliens couldn’t understand
(Or they pretended they didn’t).
They said my payment would come in time,
When I helped them achieve their goals.

“What are your goals, exactly?” I asked.
They told me that humanity had been stagnant
For too long, we were like a shipwreck.
We had to move forward or else die.

As I pondered their ominous words,
The aliens enticed me with benefits:
They would provide food, water, shelter,
A place to sleep at night, and sex.
They insisted about the available sex.
If I wanted sex, I just had to say, “Please.”
I wouldn’t need to worry about loneliness.

Intrigued, I inquired about their whores,
Or alien prostitutes, the preferred term.
The poor girls were artificial hybrids
Made from human and some aliens’ DNA
(They clarified that it came from different aliens,
Another species they experimented on).
My abductors said that I wouldn’t need to pay,
They wouldn’t even ask for my ID.

I took one look at those hybrid prostitutes,
Who looked like beautiful human women
Except with bulging, compound insectoid eyes.
They were clever enough to know all the moves.
I felt sorry about their lot in life,
But their mouths and pussies did wonders.

After one of those sexual encounters ended
And I lay on an alien mattress with the hybrid,
I caressed her naked back and kissed her neck.
Her bulging eyes were freaky, but whatever;
I hated plenty of stuff about my own body.

“Are you happy being an alien prostitute?”
I wished to know, although I feared the answer.
“Yes. I’m always happy no matter what.”
I realized that she wasn’t exaggerating;
I couldn’t sense any apprehension towards me,
Nor about her life as a likely sexual slave.
She was proud of being the property
Of these aliens, and even stated so.
“They’re kind, they give us everything we want.”

It was easy to give someone what they wanted,
If they could only want what you wanted,
And if they didn’t care about anything
But getting laid, then everyone’s a winner.

“Are you able to experience any discomfort
Like anxiety, sadness, depression, or other ills
With which us humans constantly struggle?”
I asked, but I didn’t want to hear the answer.
“No, we don’t feel pain nor suffering.
We are forever young, we will never decay,
And if something damages us,
Our bodies can be repaired easily.
Besides, we’re too busy having sex
With as many people as we can find.”

I couldn’t decide if I should pity this hybrid;
My life was dependent on lessening pain.
But her body was warm and her skin soft.
I would leave those dilemmas for academics.

Despite the aliens’ generous offer,
I refused to live in their ship.
I am a human, goddamn it,
And these fuckers kidnapped me.
I had to witness how they experimented
On the other hapless people,
Around ten of them in the same room.
The aliens didn’t give a shit
If the humans cried in terror,
So I would stay here, in this world of mine
That contains mostly things I don’t like.

The aliens didn’t seem to understand
Why I was so reluctant to stay;
They thought I would be grateful
That they would have taken me away
From the horrors of human society,
But I told them I wasn’t a sadist,
And I didn’t want to see humans suffer.
The aliens’ expressions remained vacant.

After they returned me back home,
I was happy that they hadn’t murdered me,
So I casually welcomed meeting them again.
They promised that they would come back,
Because a chill human could help their goals
(They didn’t put it in those words).

Although I wanted to tell the whole world
About my disconcerting experience,
I would be another babbling loon
For the majority of this fucked up species.

I had been abducted with other folks,
But I never expected to come across
One of such sufferers in civilian clothes,
Until I talked with a friend of mine,
A dopehead who couldn’t find a job.
Although she had also been abducted,
She believed it had been a hallucination.

“Yeah man, I was totally wasted
When I saw a UFO land.
It was so bizarre and cool.
They had these big fucking eyes,
All bright blue and shit,
And I felt like I was flying!”

She didn’t believe me
Even when I showed her the scars
From the alien surgical tools,
So there was no point in telling others.

As they days passed, I grew jumpy;
I had nightmares about being abducted,
And I had developed something like PTSD.
These fucking aliens were fiends.
Kidnapping people is a violent act,
No matter how cool they acted about it.
They must have been malicious by default,
Or at the very least chaotic neutral.

They cared for us like we care for bears,
In the sense that we study them,
In some cases share cool moments
(Like enticing them with food to wave,
While recording it for YouTube),
A few freaks try to fuck them,
But otherwise we stay away,
Because bears can get homicidal
Against nearby human beings
Who were merely standing around
(Either because they feared for the cubs,
Or just because bears are angry maniacs).

But I did empathize with the wariness
That the aliens displayed about us:
I would have chosen to be a giraffe

I suspected that these aliens had abducted
Many people from different countries
For their scientific research,
And had kept many of them
As pets, or as slaves of any kind.

The aliens weren’t forthcoming
About the truth of these matters,
But whenever I was abducted again,
I asked the aliens to take care of them,
Of the other abducted people I mean,
So they wouldn’t die of hunger or thirst,
And to contact me if they needed help
(The alien fuckers, I mean),
As apparently I worked for them.

They have abducted me many times
Since that night they offered me sex.
They introduced me to hybrid people
Who look like beautiful humans,
Both men and women, some children,
But they had no clue how to behave
In what we consider a civilized society,
Because they grew up in alien ships
Or wherever the fuck they hide them.

Some of the hybrids are hot women,
Which makes this whole thing creepy,
Or I guess that’s what I should say
(Hard to know if the aliens were going
For a science project or a fetish).

Anyway, my job is to hang out
With these hybrid freaks
As their professional guide,
And teach them how to fit in
So they can infiltrate human society.
I’ve become an expert on the subject;
I’m a walking encyclopedia
On the matter of passing for normal.

Every day I woke up at dawn
To meet with a group of hybrids
That the aliens had beamed down.
I strolled with them around town,
And sometimes outside in nature.
I took them to stores, libraries,
Banks, schools, parks, hospitals,
As I tried to explain to them
The ins and outs of human culture.

I taught them how to buy groceries
Whether with cash or a credit card,
How to use the ATM machines,
How to socialize with humans,
How to dress and act in public
To avoid arousing suspicion,
How to go shopping for clothes,
How to read the menu in a restaurant,
What it means when someone asks,
“Do you want fries with your burger?”
(I’m not sure they understand
The concept of ‘fries’, but whatever),
How to make an appointment
At the doctor or dentist,
When and how to read a map,
What places they could go to
Without getting mugged,
How to drive cars and ride buses,
How to register to vote,
How to apply for a loan,
How to pay their taxes,
How to handle firearms,
Which women are the hottest,
How to deal with police officers
To avoid getting arrested
Or shot in the face,
Which groups of people to avoid,
And a myriad of other basic stuff.

They were growing
Into handsome people.
I would have been proud
If I wasn’t so creeped out.

I had been feeling guilty for a while
Because this was an attempt at infiltration,
Probably with some nefarious purpose,
And I was a traitor to humanity
Who gave up our race for some hybrid pussy.
I was just trying to save these experiments
From themselves and from the aliens.

Because the hybrids hadn’t been raised here,
They may never be able to survive on Earth.
I mean, you couldn’t teach those feral children
After they learned about manners from wolves.
I feared what would happen to these freaks
If the aliens considered their batch a failure.

I was trying to befriend some of the hybrids,
Treat them like regular folks instead of spies.
One hybrid was a cute brunette girl, twenty or so.
I think she’s from Spain, at least some of her DNA.

“What name did the aliens give you?” I asked.
She had trouble understanding the question.
“Human beings refer to each other by names,”
I clarified, “so what’s your name?”
The girl shrugged. “I don’t have one of those.”
“Why not? How would I refer to you in particular?”
“We don’t need identifiers. We’re all the same species.”

I stared at her for a moment and then asked,
“Are your alien overlords space communists?
You people aren’t a hive mind, you have to speak
Using that beautiful hybrid mouth of yours.”
The hybrids just laughed, although I was serious;
Space communism is a perilous matter.
Still, I was surprised that they had felt such joy.
I guess that the aliens left that human part in.

“We can speak through our mouths,”
Said one of the hybrid men, who looks Swedish,
“But also through telepathy, like our leaders.
We keep transmitting brain waves to each other.”
I tried to stay friendly to this bunch of weirdoes.
“I suppose that if I had to choose my fate,
I’d rather be a telepathic slave than a dumb animal.”

I didn’t know how to treat these hybrids.
They didn’t seem like bad guys,
But I can’t stand communists,
So I wanted to avoid getting beguiled by them
And particularly developing crushes on some,
No matter how cute or brunette they were.

“You have to choose a name for yourself,”
I said to the dangerously hot hybrid from Spain.
She thought for a while and then answered,
“My name is Liesl, like in ‘The Sound of Music’.”
I had no clue what she was talking about.

“Liesl, individuality is the greatest thing,
It differentiates us from other creatures,
So when you die, hopefully never,
People will be able to say, ‘that was Liesl,
And not just another nameless, hybrid freak’.
You have to resist your alien overlords.”
As she smiled at me, I felt a tingle in my balls.
I wish the two of us had been alone.

Liesl was so clueless and innocent, and hot,
That I couldn’t help but be attracted to her.
Her eyes are blue, her lips full and red
As if painted on a canvas of soft pink.
They are the most sensual lips.
Most nights, when I close my eyes,
I still see them in my mind.

The way she held herself, the way she moved,
Her voice, and especially the smell of her hair,
All made her seem like an angel, or a goddess.
Her hips swayed seductively as she walked.
I found myself staring at the nape of her neck
And also down at her fine ass.
I kept daydreaming about how it would feel
To kiss Liesl’s soft lips, and hold her in bed.

She was curious about everything,
She was always eager to listen to me.
I wished to teach her all about
The beauty of life, and the value of love.

I taught her how to play the guitar.
We practiced together some of my songs
As she sang along to the lyrics.
She had a natural talent for music.
Our voices harmonized perfectly
Although we were from different worlds,
Although our species didn’t match.
I could tell that she was a kindred soul
Who understood what I was trying to say.

I was a man in his twenties, damn it,
Who was abducted by aliens
Like a couple dozen times,
Who gave him a stable job
For the sole purpose of teaching these hybrids
How to pass for regular human beings,
And I wanted to see them succeed
If only because I was the one teaching them,
But I didn’t want Earth to end up conquered
By communists of any origin,
And the more I thought about my circumstances,
The more I believed that they must be commies,
Because they did this whole thing forcefully,
And they were mainly paying me in whores.

A few months later, the aliens informed me
That I was to enroll in college with some hybrids.
I thought they were high on their formaldehyde;
The college wouldn’t accept a high school dropout.
But turns out that the dean was a hybrid
From a successful previous generation,
And it wasn’t any effort to forge my documents.
That was a huge lesson that made me paranoid;
I started wondering which big shots were hybrids.
The government and the media were suspect.

I was living on campus, in a dormitory.
Liesl was attending classes too.
I tried to take all of her courses,
And I met her every morning at breakfast
In the dining hall, then again at lunch.
I figured it was time, as a fellow student,
To finally get entangled to my beloved hybrid.

I had a hard time focusing on studying,
Because the aliens didn’t need to sleep:
I always had to wake up at dawn,
Although they abducted me some nights.

I intended for Liesl and I to become a couple.
I would teach her all about making out,
As well as the most loving sex acts
(Part of my job as their chaperone),
But some other guy asked her out first.

He played basketball for the local team,
And was here on a sports scholarship.
I had never experienced such jealousy.
That bastard only wanted to fuck Liesl.
She didn’t know what she was getting into,
So I had to warn her to avoid men like him.

When I told her that she couldn’t go on dates
With random guys, she looked at me confused.
“I am supposed to learn about human society,
And I should prepare myself for matrimony.”
I gasped, then grasped her innocent hands.
“Liesl, you don’t even have a name,
You stole one from some old movie.
You are supposed to be handled with care
By someone who knows you are a freak,
Not an animal, not a normal person,
Just a beautiful, strange creature
That the aliens created for fun and profit.”

My heart was pounding, but I stopped talking.
I was afraid that Liesl would leave me.
I couldn’t bear to see her hurt or scared,
And she needed somebody to protect her.

She was shocked that I cared so much.
I was the first person she ever met
Who understood her needs,
And who was also friends with her pals.
She said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Gulliver,
But our leaders insisted that we mingled
With the locals who weren’t abducted.”

“Liesl, my last name isn’t Gulliver,
But I guess you may invent me one,
Because you are so cute and brunette.
Anyway, I swear I will teach you love,
As well as how to fuck like an animal,
And one day we’ll have a weird spawn
With possibly corrupted DNA.”

I tried to kiss Liesl, but she backed away.
I felt so dirty. I couldn’t resist my urges.
I was ashamed of my weakness and lust.
“Mr. Gulliver, we can’t do this,”
She whispered as if it were a secret.

I held her hand although mine trembled.
I could barely look into her doe eyes.
“You are too innocent for this world!
You don’t understand how humans are.
If you open yourself up to these beasts,
They will destroy your pure heart.
Haven’t I handled you with care?”

“You have, and I’m grateful to you,
But nothing can interfere with the plan.
My high IQ, along with intensive studying
And the careful guidance that you imparted,
Will allow me to become a journalist,
A scholar, a researcher, or a politician.
Some of us will become presidents.”

My heart dropped by the way she spoke.
I wanted to teach her everything good,
But it was a waste of fucking time:
Although her eyes were full of innocence,
Her mind was filled with alien thoughts.

I felt like I had been stabbed in the chest.
Why couldn’t I have a normal college love?
I wanted to be a good father to Liesl’s kids.
I would have done my duty to pass humanity
To my half-hybrid, half-human offspring.
I didn’t know if I was ready for that life,
But I knew that I would never betray her.

I never even met my hybrid children
That the aliens created from my stolen sperm.
I would have accepted my little freaks
Even if they turned out to have horse faces.

“I fell in love with you, Liesl,” I confessed,
“Are you able to understand what that is?”
Liesl looked down, and then she said,
“I don’t really get it, but I am happy
That you came to feel that way for me.”

I wanted to take her into my arms,
But I knew that I wouldn’t be allowed.
“You are always happy, Liesl,” I said bitterly,
“Those aliens designed you that way.
I still haven’t decided whether to pity you
Or envy you for being so clueless, or fear you,
Or rejoice for the future of my broken species.”

Liesl smiled, then she hugged me tightly.
“We are the same, Mr. Gulliver.
We carry the instructions of our ancient race.”
I cried into her hybrid neck.
“You have no clue what you’re talking about,
And my last name isn’t Gulliver.”

Liesl dated that basketball player,
Then dated some other guys,
Graduated with honors,
Got an analyst job at a think tank,
Eventually got married,
And raised a boy and a girl.

I kept in touch with her, at least at first.
I ended up loving the bottle instead.
I feel like shit, I hate the aliens,
But I admit that they did a good thing:
They saved us from a life of loneliness,
And a future of wretchedness and mayhem.

I keep seeing Liesl on TV, I can’t avoid her,
Because she became the president of the US.
She started a war with China over trade,
Although their president is also a hybrid
(They were playing some sort of 4D chess).

We used to fear a nuclear holocaust,
And the threat of World Wars,
And the lack of available pussy.
The aliens have solved all that.
Nobody ever learned about my role,
Nor about the hijacking of humankind.

I have to live with this sorrow and shame,
But I guess the future lies in the hands
Of those blissfully unaware of painful things
Like anxiety, sadness, depression, or rage,
As those were weeded out of their brains
By the people who learned to understand us
And made sure that we don’t end up extinct.

‘A Chaperone for Hybrids’ by Jon Ureña

I Wish I Were Wet (Poetry)

Even the greats have few stories to tell,
Which they keep telling over and over
Until their voices grow hoarse
And then die away.

There’s no point in writing a story,
At least as far as I’m concerned,
Unless you came up with a killer concept,
One that would make people interested
By hearing it explained in a sentence.

Such concepts are so hard to come by
That you should always carry a notebook
In case they pop up when you’re outside.
Don’t store the idea in your mind;
You don’t realize how much stuff you forget
Until you have gone through the notes
That you have hoarded for many years.

I have stockpiled plenty of crazy ideas,
But most of them are unworkable,
Whether because I don’t want to research
Or because I haven’t done enough living,
So they just sit on the shelf
Like old wine bottles collecting dust.

Seriously, write your ideas down.
You need an uncluttered mind
To get in the zone when writing.
Classify your notes,
Order them chronologically
According to their place in a story.
Above all, don’t lose them;
After several years of neglect,
They may be worth more than gold.

That story about the ghost woman
Who falls in love with a living one
Had been waiting in my notes for years,
Until I figured out how it should be told.
The same is the case for many poems,
Like the one about the immortal warrior,
Or that one about interdimensional travels.
I even rewrote one of my old stories,
Shortened it, made it wear another costume,
Because I couldn’t figure out what to write.

I can only work on the stuff I connect with,
That may make me excited, laugh or cry,
And there are few things that move me at all.
I fear that one day I’ll need to build a house
But I will have run out of stone and clay.
I will need to escape, to lose myself
By living through another person’s skin,
But my mind will have turned barren.

Writing takes so much time and energy,
And requires a peculiar state of mind.
It doesn’t work if I have to fake it.
I have to take advantage of every chance.

The other problem is working on a story
Only for my enthusiasm to fade away.
I can never tell when that will happen,
And some concepts fail during execution.

None of the therapists solved my troubles,
Which are physical and inborn anyway,
Etched into the brain like depression
(It involves the amygdala, hippocampus,
and the dorsomedial thalamus.
Structural and functional abnormalities
Are found in the brain of depressed people).

They give out drugs for such problems,
But none of those helped either
(I had the impression that they try stuff,
Using the clients as guinea pigs).
Those drugs mostly made me overeat,
Which only worsened my mood.

The only therapy that works for me
Is processing my troubles through writing,
But I start way more poems and stories
Than those I end up finishing:
Most of my attempts leave me dry,
So I abandon them midway through.

The prospect of losing my only solution
Is a source of constant dread.
For now I keep the shadows at bay
By living through other people’s dreams,
Writing down all their fears and hopes,
Whether or not anyone reads the result,
But it would be nice to get paid,
Although I’d still need to keep a job.

Many of the writers that I met in courses
Wrote for status or to meet other people.
I do it as a way to keep myself alive.
Although nothing has felt as meaningful,
I’ve gone years without writing,
Because I thought it was ridiculous
To write stories about people’s troubles
When I barely care about humans.

I’m a loner, a high-functioning recluse.
If I were strong enough and had the means,
I would move out to the countryside
Or somewhere where I could be alone.
I’d go weeks without talking to anyone.

All my characters are versions of myself;
They wear costumes to talk to each other,
And they worry about what bothers me.
I rarely write about societal issues,
Because I don’t feel like I belong to any,
And most people sound like morons
When they diagnose the ills of society.
I can only tell you about the world
Where I live, which is very small.

For years I’ve read many books on writing,
And I put the notes together in a manual.
Generating original, killer concepts is key,
For that, many authors proposed ways
To get your internal juices going:
Write down a list of stuff you want to see.
Take the building blocks of a story you dislike,
To rearrange them into something you’d like.
Pull apart what you enjoy of your favorite stories.
Freewrite a hundred questions
About your personal life or the world,
To see if those worries are reflected
In the stories you have come up with.
Write your impressions, visions, dreams.
Reflect upon your most satisfying experiences,
Whether fictional or from your own life.
Write about what excites your imagination.
Write five things you are passionate about.

Brainstorm about the things you hate,
Things you love,
Best things you’ve ever done,
Worst things you’ve ever done,
The people you’ve loved,
Your bucket list,
Your hobbies,
The things you know,
What you’d like to know,
Areas of expertise,
People you’ve hated.

Think of something you wouldn’t tell anyone.
Write about problems that resonate with your own.
Elaborate on experiences that made you cringe.
Recall your worst humiliation, pain, or sorrow.
Write about your worst fears.
Write about the turning points in your life.
Write about the darkest things in your soul.

How would you live differently if you started over?
Have you ever had to face up to your mistakes?
Have you ever had to admit failure?
Are you prepared to let go of all the people
Who have disappointed you, betrayed you,
Left you feeling like a fool for believing in them?
Can you imagine living without regrets,
Without harboring grudges and resentments?
Have you ever had to find a way to go on?
Do you think that you deserve to be happy?
Have you ever been wrecked by the knowledge
That you are inadequate, that you can’t fix things,
That your limitations are evident for everybody?
Are you willing to acknowledge
The extent to which you’re a fraud,
A phony who has no real talent for anything?
You may not be able to answer these questions,
But if you haven’t written about it yet,
Then now is the time to do so.

I’m going through the second revision
Of that novel I wrote about the ghost lady.
The scenes I wrote at the office are a mess;
I’ve averaged around 70 notes to fix,
And they’ll require a third revision.
For me, narrative is about immersion:
I need to disappear into the narrator’s skin,
Which means getting excited, angry, sad, horny.
Obviously I can’t do that shit at work
(Getting blue balled is one of my nightmares).
It’s better to reserve my narrative writing
For when I’m alone and isolated,
Or else I’ll damage the quality of my work.
Writing poems at the office is fine, though,
Even if those poems are articles in poem form,
Like this stuff you are reading now.

If I’m not careful, I’m going to turn into a bore.
My job requires plenty of social interaction;
I don’t have the patience or endurance for it,
So I need to write to get away from people.

My point is that I can’t come up with concepts,
Or at least I have been dry for a good while.
If I had the free time now to write a novel,
I wouldn’t know what to write about,
And that’s really troublesome.

Anyway, thank you for your attention.
Stay tuned for the next episode.

‘I Wish I Were Wet’ by Jon Ureña

Spider Commander Versus Dinosaur-Monkey (Poetry)

There’s a hairy spider trapped in my guts;
Many-eyed, pointy-legged, sharp-fanged.
It tugs on this or that tendon as it pleases.
Sometimes its legs are sticky and slimy,
Sometimes they’re dry and rough.
This little motherfucker decides where I go.

But from time to time it makes mistakes,
Like when it pulls too hard at my heartstrings
Or my mind, and leaves them all in shreds
So there’s nothing left to hold together,
Nothing to give meaning to anything else,
As I keep spinning around in a circle.

This therapist I talked to for a while
Didn’t believe that this nasty spider
Could possibly yield me pleasure,
But I have never felt as happy
As when I hunted down relentlessly
Whatever this bastard told me to.

As a child, a version of me I resent,
Because I was an annoying little shit
(I wish I could punch him in the face,
Or better yet, drown him in a bathtub),
I was autistically obsessed with dinos.
One of my first memories involves
Me lying in bed after an operation
(My genes fucked me in many ways).
Someone bought me a triceratops toy,
And I thought it was the coolest thing.

I wish I had to deal with ancient reptiles
(Although they were more like birds)
And their primitive, murderous ways,
Than with the unreliable, nasty apes
That kept saying pointless stuff to me
As I hoped for them to leave me be,
While I played alone in a dark corner
Of our anxiety-inducing apartment,
Pretending to know about dinosaurs.

Now I’d like to meet a dinosaur
Who knows what I want better than I do.
A velociraptor who doesn’t look at me like
‘Are you okay?’, but ‘Do you want to play?’,
An einiosaurus who asks me if I’m lonely,
So he can put his arm around me
And say things that make me blush.
All I retain is a shitty imagination
In an old, broken-down body,
And a rotten brain.

Just once, I’d love to see a dinosaur
Get run over and flattened by a car
If only so I could tell random people,
Who would think I had lost my mind.
Nowadays I know better than anyone
How useless all these dinosaurs are,
So I just kill them whenever possible
With my bare hands or available guns
(They keep coming back from the dead).

Back when I was a shitty kid,
I didn’t know what a spider was,
Just that I hated so much
How it crawled inside my skin
And made its nest under my scalp.

I would love to cut open my belly
And pull out my innards
To let those spiders crawl out,
Which may then crawl into my mouth
To chew on my greasy tongue
Until I choked on blood and bile.

I can’t wait to get rid of them.
They’ve turned my guts inside out,
And the only way to make it stop
Is to crush those fucking things
In between my fingers,
Then spit on the remains
Of the bodies of these arachnids
Whose existence makes me sick,
Who fuck with my head
Making me think and feel like shit.

I’m not a fucking spider,
Yet they insist on making me one
By trapping me inside my skin,
Where I’ll rot away from within.
I am still me, and I will always be,
Even if I don’t want to be anymore.

I can hear the spider’s laughter,
Hear it screaming,
As I lie in bed at night
Trying to sleep as my thoughts spin
Around in circles of nothingness.
The spider’s laughter and screams
Keep me awake for hours on end,
My eyes wide-open with fear.

I ache for some kind of release,
But my brain won’t shut off
As the arachnid twists and tumbles,
Spinning its webs across my mind.
There’s no way to escape
This monster in my head.

At least now I can picture it,
The monster that lurks inside me:
It’s a disgusting, hairy spider
That mainly cares about keeping
Its slimy legs wrapped around me
As it nibbles on my brain tissue.

I was born a dinosaur.
I was born a human,
But I want to be a dinosaur again.
Forget the stupid ape,
Let me go back in time
And become a dinosaur.
I’ll take all the risks.
I’ll grow big and strong.
I’ll have sex with any dino.
I’ll eat a thousand babies
If that’s what I must do.

When I was thirteen, and for a whole year,
I was obsessed with this poor, pretty girl
For who I was nothing but an ugly annoyance,
A relentless weirdo with nothing to offer,
Who couldn’t even understand himself
And who was controlled, robot-like,
By the primitive forces in his brain,
Which made him act and react wildly
To a world that seemed totally foreign,
Even though he knew perfectly well
That he didn’t belong in it.

I was very much into mangas,
As well as Crichton’s sci-fi books.
There hasn’t been anyone else like him.
I read his ‘Sphere’ like a hundred times.
I guess it wasn’t that good in retrospect,
But I desperately needed that escape
From my worthless life as a turd teen.

For a few years I drew so many comics
That I thought I would sell some one day,
But the cast was a mix of existing characters
From mangas, animes and video games.
I didn’t dare create my own stuff
In case people thought it was shit.
But I got to live through those guys,
They kept me from offing myself
(I wouldn’t be here if I had a gun).

I also wrote plenty of stuff, of course,
But my mother didn’t believe in privacy;
I had to learn a whole different language
To write down my painful thoughts.
That broken woman even complained
That she couldn’t understand English.

At times I thought writing was a waste,
That I should instead spend my time playing
The only kind of game that mattered:
The one where you get to hurt yourself.

My mother often berated me
About my lack of social skills.
It’s not my fault that I was born
With this nasty monster in me.
They’re the ones who fucked up.
I didn’t need them nor their love,
So I just kept doing what I was best at:
Being a shitty teenager with no friends
Who daydreamed about hanging himself.
I wanted to live in my own bedroom
To spend every day with the shutters down.

I don’t remember a single moment
Of happiness in my whole life.
I always felt like a stranger
In my own skin.

I can’t remember all the video games,
Many of which did count as obsessions,
Because they captured my whole brain
And made it impossible to think
Of anything else except how to win
(I was sick of losing at everything else).

When that bitch cheated and left,
I spent six months of real time
Managing my local football team.
I barely slept, I rarely took showers.
I video gamed my way through pain.
I have always hated football;
My old man had headed too many balls
And lost what remained of his IQ.

After I played a tennis video game,
I became curious about those fit girls.
That was all it took for the spider to tug.
I learned everything there was to learn
About female tennis players,
At least the beautiful, sexy ones,
Particularly those from Eastern Europe,
Because I wanted to fuck them all,
And it’s hard to find good Russian porno.
I’d rather watch an erotic ballet.

For a few years, from morning to night,
I was obsessed with a Californian harpist,
And whatever I lived through in this world,
I wondered what she would have thought.
I even wrote a whole novel about her;
I didn’t have the guts to call it fanfiction.

It took seeing her in person for me to realize
That I’m nothing but a stupid, broken man
Who holds on to the first available ledge,
Because I’m too much of a coward to fall.

I’m a loser who doesn’t know when to quit.
I only have two things to offer:
My self-loathing
And my inability to understand myself.

The harpist taught me a lot, though:
She made me look inside and see the truth.
I wish she hadn’t; I got a load of new data
That I still haven’t been able to use
To make my life better.

The only times I’m grateful to the spider
That commands this decaying frame,
Are when it orders me to lose myself
By living vicariously through fiction.

Once I feel the fire of a story burning,
I forget to eat, I can’t fall asleep.
I can pull off 7,000 words a day.
Only then this world makes sense.

Too bad that I was compelled to write
At times when I had to hold down jobs.
I lost a couple of them because of that,
Because I just couldn’t give a fuck.
In fact, I’d rather be unemployed
Than have to strangle my obsessions.

I can’t wait to cut off these damn legs
That keep hurting me and making me bleed,
Because I need a dose of pure obsession
Every once in a while to remain sane
(I don’t want to be a human anymore).

I was born a dinosaur.
I am a dino, I will die a dino.
Before I was a reptile,
I was a fucking monkey.
I’ll never go back to being a man,
But I could live like one again
If I owned the right tools
To get rid of my goddamn brain.

I have no idea how I managed
To stay alive all these years.

I suppose I’m somewhat obsessed
With the many varieties of VR sex,
But I need the pleasure of coming,
Or else I won’t feel anything at all
Except the cold grip of reality
As I stare up at the ceiling.

I started a novella a few weeks ago
About this writer who became homeless
And then ended up in the future.
Although I’ve tried returning to it,
I just can’t force myself to care.
I was so invested in it at the start,
But my interest disappeared.
The fickle spider tugged me away.
At the most I can hope that I’ll return
And finish it one of these days.

I intended to list a myriad of obsessions
That have kept me going until now,
But for all of these shitty thirty six years
I have relied on the spider’s decisions,
An alien force with its own agenda,
To escape from the meaningless pain.

Only when I’m alone in a silent room
I have been able to relax and feel free,
And forget about whatever bothers me.
Then, I let that spider out of its cage,
Let it crawl up and down my self
Until it has covered me with its sticky web,
Which will then pull me into a deep trance
Where I’ll dream of inhabiting a new body,
One free of my years-old problems,
Without obsessions,
So I won’t have to worry anymore
About being sick, or getting older,
Or growing up,
Or needing someone to take care of me,
Or wanting to die.

I’m well aware how that damn spider
Came to command my broken brain.
I was born with this autism thing,
High-functioning or otherwise.
It took meeting some others in person
For me to understand how annoying
Autistic people get when they go on
About their pathological obsessions,
But I always write whatever I want,
Because I need that to remain myself.

Even if I’m not able to understand
Why the world is such a painful place,
I don’t want to waste my limited time
On things I don’t give a shit about.
So when the spider comes to tell me:
“Stop whining and become more obsessed,”
I obey,
But I still think I should be allowed to whine.

My obsessions are my friends,
They help me to see the world
Without the interference of the bullshit
All the ape bastards crammed into my brain.

I’m sure I’ll die of some terminal disease
(Alzheimer’s and cancer run in my genes).
Otherwise I’ll hang myself or jump off a cliff.
Until then, I will need to write obsessively
About whatever this spider fucker focuses on.
I have never felt like this shitty life mattered
As when I lived through someone else’s skin.

Barely anybody reads my trash,
So if you happened to read this,
I would say “Sorry for annoying you,”
But I’d rather stay silent than lie.
The truth is that I wrote this crap
Because I needed to add meaning
To another pointless workday.

If you ever meet me in real life,
Don’t hit me over the head with a shovel
(I’ve had enough of being a monkey),
And please remember to feed the spider
That inhabits my skull.

You better stop reading my stuff.
I only have worry and misery to share,
And I need that little bit of company
Even if it means a like in my screen.
So stop bothering with this bullshit
And protect your valuable brain
From the endless stream of trash
I send down this shitty old pipe.

‘Spider Commander Versus Dinosaur-Monkey’ by Jon Ureña

A Caring Touch (Poetry)

My idea of heaven
Is to lounge in a dim room
While beautiful women
Do ASMR for me.

I dream of these ladies
Pampering me like a child.
With quiet voices
And likely soft hands,
From sweet whispers
To soothing sighs
And sensual moans,
All while I enjoy
Their tender touches
(Translated by my mind).

They stroke the length of my back,
They massage my shoulders,
They caress my scalp gently,
They place soft kisses on my neck,
They run their fingers over my face,
They lick my ear holes thoroughly.
As they bathe me in quiet warmth,
Every hair of mine stands straight up
All the way down to my hairy toes.

They whisper into my ears
About their carefree lives,
Or about how much they love me,
And how devoted they are to me.

Their mollifying voices
Ask me what I need:
A kiss on each eye?
A nibble on your earlobe?
A sweet lick up your cheeks?
A tongue up the nose?
A soft touch on your nipples?
A firm squeeze of your ass?
A little caress on your balls?

I want them to continue stroking me,
For hours and days and weeks.
I feel so good. I feel so safe.
Like the sound of rain on a roof,
It lulls me to rest,
It makes me want to cry.

Their silky hair tickles me
As it brushes against my skin.
The scent of their perfumes
Intoxicates me.
Their breaths warm my ears
As their wet tongues dig in
While their loving fingers
Fondle my dick.

Nursing me back to health,
Taking care of every scratch and cut.
Like a precious treasure
To be cherished in their arms,
The way a mother
Would take care of her son
If she was able to love,
I close my eyes and I dissolve.
Nothing matters anymore.

Lifting her skirt in a park
While a guy walks his dog.
Half-assed blowjobs on the toilet
When I really need to take a shit.
Working myself into an erection
When I just want to be left alone.
Passionless, stale missionary
While she thinks about her ex.
I would have traded all of it
For a woman touching me
Like she cares.

As she engulfs me in her embrace,
She runs her fingers through my hair
And whispers softly in my ear.
“Are you happy, little boy?”

I have finally died,
And I get to rest
With her soothing breasts
Wrapped around my face.

‘A Caring Touch’ by Jon Ureña

Three Trapped Souls (Poetry)

The artifact was created millennia ago,
Born of an ancient sorcerer’s experiments
With his dark, soul-sucking magic
He shaped it in a single night from clay
Into a black, polished sphere, two feet across.

The sorcerer believed that life was a curse;
He spent his days grief-stricken,
Lost in melancholy and crying spells.
He yearned to craft a mighty tool
That would grant joy by touching it.
Without enduring happiness, he thought,
The world would never know peace.

His heart felt heavy as he sat down
To fashion this wondrous thing,
A miracle created from his own despair.
But the spell with which to enchant it
Required a momentous sacrifice:
It needed to be powered by three souls
That had belonged to vestal girls,
And those poor, lost souls would be cursed
By being trapped inside the sphere’s core.

No one would miss the orphans he picked.
They were fresh, pure and unspoiled by sin.
He took them to his home, where he lived alone.
He fed them well and clothed them warmly.
He made them happy. They laughed and played.
He loved them with all his heart.

The sorcerer wrote, saddened, about a girl
Whose eyes had glowed like molten gold
As she looked up at him with love,
But the old man pushed a sharp dagger
Deep into each of their innocent hearts.
He had no choice but to make them pay
For their crime of living on Earth.
They cried out for help, but no one came.
Their cries echoed through time and space.

The sorcerer cut the hearts from their bodies,
And their blood spilled on his black sphere.
He thought that the sacrifice of a few lives
Justified the happiness of many more.
As long as anyone was touching his artifact,
They would never know sadness again.

The sorcerer retired to solitude for weeks.
“Oh, my dear girls…” The old man wept.
He remembered their gazes, so tender and kind.
He came to feel like an unforgivable monster,
And every day, his tired heart ached
As if a different monster were stabbing it.

When the artifact was complete,
It glowed like a black pearl in its sheath.
The sphere had sealed those young souls,
And its creator’s sadness faded away quick:
Those who touched the polished sphere
Found themselves in a strange mindspace
That made them feel warm and secure.
It gave them a feeling of being complete.

No matter what life they had led
Or how much or little they’d earned
Through their suffering, the artifact
Would grant anyone a momentary sense
Of perfect bliss and fulfillment.

But over time, the souls got worn down.
The sphere would one day require new ones.
Its creator wished to never kill again,
So he imbued the artifact with a spell
That would absorb lost souls as needed,
Which rendered the original sacrifices
Kind of unnecessary.

Long after the sorcerer died of old age,
His gift for all mankind seemed lost.
The artifact’s existence was forgotten
Until archaeologists unearthed his workshop.
Although the sorcerer had documented his work,
Historians believed he had made up a fanciful tale.

A prominent scholar opined, “The artifact
Was simply an excuse to take innocent lives.
The sorcerer was a sadist, a psychopath.”
“The sorcerer was a genius,” said another.
“I don’t care what you say.”
In any case, there were too many unknowns.
No one could prove that the sphere had existed.

However, the artifact did exist;
It had rolled somehow into a ravine.
The farmer who found it called the press,
Eager to divulge its secrets to the world.
“It’s true!” he shouted. “This thing is amazing!
I can’t believe this. I feel so good!
It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced before.
Oh, wow, I feel so calm and contented.”
The sphere glowed faintly, as if it knew
That someone was looking at it now.

For decades, the artifact rested
On a shelf at the museum of Rijdenhart.
People from everywhere came to marvel
At the artifact that granted happiness.

The polished sphere became a cultural icon.
Artists painted scenes of it in action.
Writers wrote books about it.
Poets sang songs of it.
Philosophers pondered its meaning.
Prophets ranted about it.
Rulers debated its use.

Some people tried to destroy the artifact.
Far more intended to steal it.
There was even a cult that believed it was holy.
The authorities knew it was a matter of time
Until they lost control of such a wonder,
So they hid it away where it wouldn’t be found.

Rumors circulated about its whereabouts.
People claimed to have seen it in foreign lands.
It was said to be in a vault in a bank in Switzerland.
It was rumored to be hidden in a cave in Tibet.
It was also said to be in a secret chamber in China.
Some believed it belonged now to a private collector.

In fact, the artifact is stored
In an inconspicuous warehouse
Where it sits in a box on a shelf.
Only scholars with special clearance
Can study the sphere or even look at it.
But they became familiar with the last souls
That the artifact had absorbed along its way.

One of the girls was murdered
When she was twelve years old.
Daphne was her name,
And her hair was the color of flames.

She loved to play the piano,
And she played it so well
That her father, a famous musician,
Hired a band to accompany her.

The crowd went wild
As her fingers flew across the keys.
Those notes were like fire,
So beautiful and pure.

When her parents entered their apartment
On that fateful day,
Daphne’s bedroom was bloodied and gory.
Her young body lay on the floor,
Dead from numerous stab wounds.

Her murderer had long fled.
No one had seen anything suspicious.
The murder weapon was never found.
It wasn’t long before the case was closed,
And no one learned her murderer’s identity
Except for Daphne herself.

One of the girls drowned
When she was thirteen years old.
Her name was Julia,
And she loved to swim in the sea.
She often dived deep underwater
To explore the wonders of the ocean floor.

But on that fateful day,
A storm suddenly blew up.
The wind howled and the rain poured down.
Although Julia tried to reach land,
The strong currents pulled her under.
Her pale arms reached for the sky
As the waves crashed over her head.

Her mother’s tears turned to ice
As she watched her daughter
Drown in the raging tide.
Minutes later she drowned as well
In those dark, cold depths.

A fisherman ended up finding Julia;
Her corpse had floated to the surface.
The body was bloated with water,
Her skin was grayish-white,
Her limbs were purple and swollen,
Her eyes stared blankly upward,
Her lips were blue and still.

One of the girls was trampled
When she was seven years old.
Her name was Eudocia.
She was the daughter of a soldier
Who fought for the Roman Empire.

In the streets of Alexandria,
On that fateful day,
A chariot hurtled down the street.
The horses were lathered and sweaty
As they galloped furiously.

The wheels clattered against the cobblestones,
But Eudocia was thinking about flowers.
The girl had always been fascinated by them.
“When I grow up, I’ll become a great artist,”
She had told her father recently.
“I want to paint pictures that are so lovely,
You’ll forget all about war.”
“What do you mean?” he had asked.
“I think I can make the world more peaceful.
Flowers can heal a broken heart.”
Eudocia replayed this dialogue in her mind
As she absentmindedly crossed the road.

The driver didn’t stop to help,
He just kept driving away
As the girl was dragged through the mud
And the wheels left bloody trails.

Her body was covered in bruises,
Her bones were crushed and broken.
Eudocia’s father wept,
Then took her body home
And hanged himself.

It took a team of parapsychologists
A large number of ouija board sessions
To figure out this information
I just told you.

One of the historians touched the sphere
Far more times than he was allowed.
He became obsessed with that sense of peace.
The day before his clearance was revoked,
The historian used the tip of a knife
To engrave on the sphere each girl’s name.

If you are sick and tired of this life,
Touch the artifact and know
That you will never suffer again.
Your troubles will disappear.
You will feel complete.

If only that cursed thing
Was available to buy,
You’d always know what to do
On a lonely day.

‘Three Trapped Souls’ by Jon Ureña

A Spider’s Song (Poetry)

Each day the spider gets bigger.
I feel the tips of its hairy legs
As it spins its web of death
Inside my head.

Why are you here?
What’s your name?
How old are you?
What do you think about?
Where do you live?
Do you have a job?
Do you have a family?
Do you have a girlfriend?
Have you had children?
Are you happy?

I wake up before sunrise
So I can travel to my office
And handle lots of invoices
And deal with idiotic clients.
Every day is the fucking same.
I want to scream out loud,
But no one would hear me.

“Don’t worry,” the voice says.
“You’ll get used to it.”
It eats away at my thoughts
As it crawls inside my brain.

I’m walking on autopilot
When three thugs stop me.
I don’t react how they’d prefer.
One of them grabs me by the throat,
And his fingers dig into my windpipe.
“Give us your wallet and cellphone.”

I don’t move, I don’t speak,
I don’t blink, I don’t breathe.
They grab my arms and legs
And drag me into an alleyway.
They say I had my chance;
They’ll take my shit themselves.

One punches me in the face,
Another kicks me in the stomach.
The third guy takes out a knife
And slices open my jacket.

The leader grabs my wallet,
And I drop my briefcase.
As it hits the ground with a thud,
I shove my thumb into his eye.

Seconds later I’m on the ground.
The knife is stuck in my chest.
I hear footsteps running away.
Blood pours out from my wound
And spills onto the pavement.
Pain pounds in my skull.
I feel my body growing cold.

I was minding my business,
Heading to work.
In the end, I am alone.
I never wanted to be born.

I’m an ant that’s been crushed,
A flower that never felt the sun,
A baby bird that fell out of its tree,
A worm that can’t get out of its hole.

“Hi, my name is Spider.
Your soul was on its way to hell,
But it got tangled in my webs.
Now you are trapped inside me.”

I’m stuck in a giant spider’s belly.
I feel a thousand hairy spiders
As they scurry inside my ribcage
And crawl all over my heart.

I had been waiting for revenge
To be born in me,
So I could show them all
That I’m not their slave.

I’m about the size of a house.
I have a black carapace,
An oversized abdomen,
Six eyes,
Eight hairy legs,
Two pairs of venomous fangs.

My brain is made of silk,
And my blood is thick and sticky.
I’ve grown to fill this space,
And I’ll keep growing until I’m done.

I kill everyone that hates me,
Anyone that wants my money,
That tries to steal from me,
That treats me like trash,
Who bullies me,
Who’s cruel to me,
That insults me,
That cheats,
Who thinks of me as weak,
Who thinks I’m ugly,
That thinks I’m dumb,
That laughs at me,
Who looks down on me,
Who makes fun of my clothes,
That makes fun of me,
That lies to me,
Who ignores me,
Who talks behind my back,
That doesn’t understand me,
That doesn’t love me.

My fangs are full of venom,
So I’ll poison everyone,
Everyone who’s evil,
Or anyone that lives.

I’ll suck up their juices
And chew on their bones.
I will have my revenge
For what they’ve done to me.
Every one of them will learn
That I don’t need anyone,
That I can survive without them,
That I’m not their slave.

‘A Spider’s Song’ by Jon Ureña

Sasquatch Goddess (Poetry)

I’ve gotten hit by a mind control fetish.
I’m kept awake at night by sasquatches,
Who make me sleep in,
Snort coke,
Hoard garbage,
Fondle dead things,
Suck people’s souls from their eyes,
Tell sad stories that make people weep,
And laugh at roadkill.
I never feel well.

I’m a sorcerer with the spirit
Of a fornicating vagina,
And also a minor god of utter madness,
The sole spawn of the pink-headed love frog.
A deity of high temperature,
The holiest of fucks.

I know of a goddess fit to worship,
A queen with whom you can eat and sleep.
She’s strong and tall,
Has two arms and four legs,
Tanned skin and golden hair,
Thick, matted white fur,
And eyes that sparkle with magic.

She stores her soul in a silver trunk,
She carries fire in her womb,
She came to this lonely world
In a pink egg.
It’s the one goddess to know:
Harelactal the Great Motherly Beast.

There’s also this other god named Pulsurin,
The Overwhelming Pull Of The Unwilling.
They say he’s one of the mightiest gods.
I don’t have a good feeling about this Pulsurin.

Harelactal was brought to this world
On the back of a lunar eclipse,
When she was a sasquatch at the zoo.
It was later claimed that she was birthed
By a copper man who dreamed about sea slugs,
And who was in love with the planet Uranus.
This is, however,
A common misconception.

Those mind-controlling sasquatches,
Coke-smoking monsters of the night,
As they prepare to conquer the Earth
They all worship the Great Mother,
Who will snatch the souls
Of those who refuse her call.

Harelactal takes people into the woods
And forces them to dig their own graves,
Then grants them eternal sleep.
Her victims decompose into pink little eggs,
Which will hatch and turn out to be
The brains of the beasts she birthed.

Her sasquatch brethren wage a cold war
Against former policeman David Paulides,
Because he’s slowly unveiling to the world
The sasquatches’ plan to destroy humanity.

The Great Motherly Beast will steal your soul.
She’s gonna snatch it for herself
So she may live forever
And do whatever she wishes.
She desires the entire world,
Harelactal the Great.

Those who deny her commandments
Will be fed to the Great Mother’s fetishes.
Harelactal will punish anyone who gets in her way,
But it’s okay, because she’s a goddess.

She moves through time
And she also moves through space.
She’ll crack your dreams,
Then suck off your head.

She brain-controls people
To keep them up at night,
So they can be dragged into a hidden compound
Of yet-unrevealed tassle-fuck stories.

Harelactal rules by terror.
She leads her human acolytes
To dine at her pool of blood,
Where the hunters and the prey
Live happily ever after.
She fucks them to death
Then feeds them to her pets,
And as a result of their heroism,
They’re permitted to fuck her in turn.

I was hit on by Harelactal.
She took me into the woods
And told me to dig my own grave.
When she put me down into the hole,
I didn’t think this goddess was nice,
But she will always take care of me.

Harelactal is my goddess,
And I love her to bits.
I’ve always wanted a big, furry queen.
Now I’m trapped in her divine prison,
I live in the world she created.

I once visited the temple where my Great Mother
Lived aeons ago in the form of a priestess.
The High Motherly Beast, Harelactal the Great,
Was worshipped as the Goddess of Time and Space,
Torsketerin the Four-Eyed,
She Who Keeps Things Locked Up In Her Ears,
And Needs Not Seek Orders From Anywhere
In the Forests Or In Other Places.

I won’t struggle against Harelactal the Great.
She is a goddess, I am her animal.
I serve her, I live for nothing else.
I am her slave, she’s my mistress.
I will speak only as she dictates.

I love Harelactal the Great,
She is my dearest friend.
She lives in my apartment,
Although my place is also haunted
By a hexenbiest.

Harelactal is one weird Mother.
She gives me large, blue pellets to eat.
She’s always staring at me
From inside my trash cans,
My kitchen cabinets,
The bathroom sink.
She leaves trails of noxious fumes
That smell of burning rubber and rotten meat.
She breathes fire out of her nostrils,
And she’s probably insane.

She controls me by pushing a button
On her pink wand.
When she pushes the second button,
Her transdimensional dungeon opens.
Trapped in its bowels, Harelactal’s pets
Crawl out from all kinds of dug holes.
They became her minions
For failing to worship her.

I know what Harelactal wants me to do,
But I never understand what’s going on.
I don’t know why she commands me.
I’m merely a writer, possibly a poet.
I do my best in my role as a minor god,
And a recovering kleptomaniac.

I adore this woman in her bizarre fashion,
And I wish that she’d slap me on the ass.
I want her to lock me up in her dungeon,
But she laughs at my fantasy.
I haven’t reached her level, never will.
At least I get to pet her minions.

I love caressing the fur of my goddess.
I’m a martyr to her whims.
I love the scent of her pussy.
I’m glad she made me her fuck slave.

On dark, godless highways, Harelactal
Has sacrificed many sinners to herself.
This goddess of the underworld
Loathes human beings.
She hurls feces at her enemies.

I adore the wickedness
Of my despicable queen.
Her hate fills me up with a double dose
Of indescribable supernatural lust.
We don’t have to share thoughts,
We understand each other perfectly.
Our union is fated and real.
The sex is sasquatchly ecstatic.

A toilet-shaped truth in her eye,
And a strand of sasquatchic lube
Ringing her hirsute anus,
The shape of which is obscene.
Smack my face,
Tickle my ass,
My beast of eternal lust.
I’m tired of living in this world.

As I wrote, I’m also a lesser god.
I’m a tinker, a seamstress.
I sew puppets for a living,
To make strangers weep.
My shrine is in my bedroom,
Where I turn dreams into trash
By weaving tragic stories
Of cracked spirits.

I handed Harelactal my latest manuscript,
And I’m thrilled that she’s reading it.
She did a great job herself when she penned
Her ‘Harelactal’s Story Of The Apocalypse’,
Which was never supposed to be published,
But will end up as a viral entity,
A fragment of the divine truth
We’ll all be forced to unveil.

The Great Motherly Beast is coming for you.
She will snatch your soul
And devour your mind.
Harelactal will feed you her milk
While she whispers sweet things.
After you suckle on her nipples,
She’ll fondle your genitals
And slap you in the face.

Hate me for loving a big,
White-furred sasquatch
That eats human brains.
May she live forever
And do whatever she wishes.
She’ll own the whole world.
Harelactal’s eggs will hatch
And feed on your souls.

‘Sasquatch Goddess’ by Jon Ureña