Drunk Secret Ghosts:

This is a never ending book that is only available on my website. Written exclusively on my phone.

Chapter 14:

Ghost handles the waist and pushes it in to his victim. Victim squirms like lemon juice. Secretes it all on the back of a coke snorter’s hand. Pretends like it’s relevant in the mainstream. Jumps back like a shrieked cat. Black furred… beef Wellington. Swerved around the road with street tires… screeches a necessary holt for the new arch bishop. Like the knight takes the pawn and fucks it. Caresses the minion and explodes semen… understandably. Bleeds to death thinking they were being saved. But the god in the sky had other plans that day. So we shuffle into a nice suit. Plays the card deck at the casino… bankrupts the catapult. And we all dine in with the oceanic makeover. Please pass me a tissue, good sir. I seemed to have a cold.

Chapter 13:

Bleed the walls down on a macabre. Deranged cut off heads of the stage crew. Now who will play the part? Are you inclusive to the fake suicidal attempts you’ve slashed on your wrists? Does the melons of tomorrow exasperate your new found… neutral yellow pocketbook - jet streamed on the inter web, jacks off on the mishap - chance of a life time, beckons back a barcode on said wrist. Time to conform! Go with the flow of the newest announced governmental supreme. Turns on the record player, lays down - a fat beat - that only ghosts truly know… bangs out the hypothesis overnight - with the bed bugs and all. I’m crawling all over the place like a sandstorm on the carpet of July. Fish frying in the microwave. Spent the last few dollars on a jack off food stamp. Debris kicks ya right in the face when you die and go across that imaginary line. The line that tethers you into oblivion - remarks the ghost moon. You’re fine, bitch. Just settle down - and sit in the back seat, you’ll be fine it’s just a little motion sickness.

Chapter 12:

Sentencing you to serious prison. The body talks the ghost out. He finds a way to eject the phantom without noticing too much. That’s good for him, the fucking witch doctor thrives. Barking at the rectified - rendezvous. Chills out in the backyard, smokes a joint pretending like it’s back in the day. Back when he was on the planetary earth system. I’m nah, calculated in your defense. So done with the - how you say… fake losers of the same virtual faced ass reality, that sits on the back of a king’s chair - made of gold, and microfiber couches. Don’t believe the hype. That’s my advice anyway…

Chapter 11:

Fucking fire hydrant gets in the way of a good chalk outline. Rest assured the fucking people don’t have a clue. I’m spent. Dollars from the ATM still ring in my ear. Good for nothing scoundrel. He - he doesn’t know a thing aside from partying on the moon eclipse. Drops the limousine ride offer in exchange for an eighth of weed. Figured why not. Like a limo lasts an hour… a pretty bag of some herb might last ya a week. He finalizes it right into the sugar cubes… swallowed by the mouth of an ostrich. Looney fucking people control the governmental tier… so let’s make sure they’re good characters… you see? Like a paper cut ash tray will somehow… suffice… right into the cracks of some annihilated refugee. And the sports teams congregate together in the form of a circle on the playing field of life. I just hope they get their shit back together for the fire drill… they won’t face mask up for shit so at least you know they’re not forceful. Tripping on land mines situated underground of rittenhouse square. That’s where my mask falls off… right into the arcade of some sort of, dark fucking person. Who has absolutely no relevance to the industry. So that’s where I’ll lay off… probably take a train trip down south or something.

Chapter 10:

I - think - it was a ghost, at least. The silhouette of a dead person… lays down anxiously on the sidewalk for good. Like his body was chastised into something grand… or relevant. The elephant mask parade stomped all over the fucking person… as if his lunacy did not exist - nay, like a fish with that lantern hanging from the forehead of the third eye. He weeps and laments for his, down low sincerity. I think the ultimate capsule of the prize is still waiting for us though. As if we’re stuck in a tree branch for the new millennium… but that task is so far reaching that we’d need at least a telescope to rope free. I’m trying desperately to reach you… but failing at the same time that I pick up the phone. It’s like you’re at work all day… and the paper servants come into play, and rough handles the paperwork on your iron desk of fortitude. Jinxed for life - so goes the kitty cat. He’s impoverished for the next idea. So what I proposed was this. Let’s take this dead body of a ghost and whisk him away into the sewers! And let’s let the rats decide his fate. The ghost body dwindles but ultimately gives up. And lets us dump that fucking soul right down in the gutter… hell, at least I know I’ll still be standing…

Chapter 9:

Tries but stumbles onto the repeat of some unfortunate refugee. Sent straight from Siberia. Drinks the edibles into his larva, systematic under god of some futuristic Lombard. So shut the fuck up, the guy, the guy - he says to me. I’m opening up my ovaries just for this knucklehead. Do you see and or comprehend? I’m fucking vacuous to your knowledge. It all breaks the stratosphere of an… inkling of common… gold status on your statues. So the fucking jackass understands that he’s an enigma of outer space. He’s just gone to heaven and back and fluctuates the counterpart. Waves a good hand into the stand of the stadium. I’m shivering in the cold of your wake. So pass the blunt of future endeavors. All molecules buzz in accordance with the choreographic of, fuck… contagious vibrations of the fucking atmosphere. I’m done being relished in your, that’s it - pig face. I’mma murder you! The pig counterfeit. He was so abundant. He was surely breaking the law and he goes - he goes - no. I don’t think so, moron! Takes his dick and rubs it against the first vagina. I can’t believe the soft core moaning of some destitute. Fucking bitch rapes the ticker tape. Sucks it back into mortality.

Chapter 8:

Hysterics, man. The cannonball torture victim. Right to the galleys… said the drunk secret ghost. He, he knew his fate long ago in the echo chamber. Like reverb strung throughout his whole dead body. Capsulate it with a magic number. Test of irony. Simmers back down into an enigma funk. Dirty rotten. Presses on the cheese plate. Rounds it off in a heaven knock off called hell. Breaks the quarterbacks heart every god damn time. Relaxing on a couch. Takes the edge off with a bong hit. Momentarily speaking of course. Like why bother to shine the sun into your eyes… when you’ve discovered the awakening cadaver. I don’t know either! Laments the poor man. He loves to situate himself onto a turkey plate. Starts a war any chance he can get. So back off the battlefield. And let’s drink some poison down our bodies and call it a good night.

Chapter 7:

The raging alcoholic. That dumped fucking phantom. Where the fuck is he and I’ll grab his neck? Swallowed like a swim of goldfish. You’ll never know reality again now that you’ve grown up. So far reaching the chemicals up in your brain. Dig em out, dig em out. I promise you’ll behave. I’m contingent upon your reality, because you’ve aged so well. Like a fine Hawaiian. I’m crushed into oblivion. Sucker free Sunday. The brawls go out at noon. Misbehaved cliches walking around stupendous ricocheted misaligned enigmas. Always dependent on his brain. Silenced into suicides. Like the karma perfects itself. Always like a jigsaw. With pictures on the right. And always that we all fall, with pitchers of a fight.

Chapter 6:

Ooh, the tailor of the inevitable. She strings together the patchwork of your hippie dress, with blotches of sunbathed iron on material… ditches it last minute for a pair of testicles. Dumps it on the side of the road next to a mile sign. Drives fast for the Hollywood effect. Wheels churn out of lock, crash test dummy falters in the wake of the scheme. Like why send your kids off to Disney land if they’re just gonna look at their phones. I’m completely circling around the asphalt play. The roundabout needs a good shoving. Bleeds off the top of their forehead… probably from their invisible third eye. Nails themself to a cross and says hey look I’m Jesus. He’s doing it all right in the head. Supporting a Trump hypothesis because his friends are. Going down the looney chute. Roughs up the neck of a pristine wannabe… where does he go when the swans are incessantly bitching. This was pure. Gold in a warehouse. Slaps the paycheck on the counter. You may now go home to your husband. You’ve been working the poles all day and you must be tired. The dancer resigns at the first sign of danger. She felt the vibes crept up on her neck for too goddamn long.

Chapter 5:

Okay, the guy simmers down… the drunk ghost needs a banger. I’m completely enveloped into your ovaries. Downright instigator. You overvalue the concepts that boil in the bread of your mind scape. Always jetting for some sort of new mentality. Always thinking what’s next is the end but always overcompensating the juggling of your credit card debt. I’m so simplified by the macabre of your make over. Doesn’t show around unless he’s the one in town kind of guy. Yeah I said it. I’m completely pissed off at the attitude of your algebraic formulation! You mindless scuffle. The gnat buzzed at the attached of the magnetic dumb.

Chapter 4:

I’m uncomfortable, he says… while exploding on the inter scene. Blows the coke, misfortune off the coffee table accidentally, by the window side of a cliche cafe coffee bar. Blows the airy dust onto the stage props, wonders how he’ll get there in the blizzard of the moment. Ditches his wand for a real usage, probabably a mustang convertible, switches it off into dispensary mode. Like he just re upped on a quarter last week but needs another fixed dose. Packs it into a bowl on the kitchen counter while mouthing off some machismo interface… uploads it directly on the internet for sick kicks. Does the gospel reach the interlude? The sexy school teacher demands. I’m uncomfortable, still… the old man complains. I’m propped up on a win, magician, type of… mind over matter. That son of a bitch! Always gets me in the mind, every time in the rubix cube. So it’s like counterculture saved the day. You pot head. You still have yet to breathe that noggin. So don’t get use to me you still self loathing son of a bitch. Always on the down frame of some alien face. I’m confused like a mix of chicken eggs. The yolk suns down my spine into some sort of yellowed epiphany. Don’t mind this asshole he’s just some confused fucking lunatic. Speaks from a machismo. Bravo, yeah, senior. Yeah, bravo.

Chapter 3:

Inside information. The bolts are loose… the madman is in. Drinking from his tonic. He wipes away the liquid mess from his mouth, wishing it were alcohol. A bottle of rum that is stained with the counter culture, inevitable irony. While the fucking dude whisks away his temperament… must find a way to recede into a hairline. He grows older into undeniable scrotums. I’m an alcoholic, yeah the ghost whines. He spins around on his office chair going off on God knows what. He prefers the liquid drink over a cough medicine any day. The bastard still drinks his fix but puts it on the stove top to boil like an ant. Imbibes the chemical reaction into a slow downed dream state. Masking his intuition into a catamite. The deep lair of a basketball court. Shines through the stadium. The crowd goes wild for nothing and then silence. Waiting for the masquerade to take part in the social revolution. Flips over the candy ash tray for a night time makeover. Can’t put down his phone type of addiction. Phosphates for the new age garden. Dips his penis in a muck pond. Celebrates giving birth to babies through the arachnid scrotum. On a time bomb with no single iota of stability. Cums over the airwaves - basking, no, no, no. He swears and drains out his testicles in it for the science aspect. For like smoking weed cures the fucking head ache. As if the skunk doesn’t just stuff your brain stale with Christmas stockings. Which by the way, are the same exact stockings of a widow… a cross dresser’s dream into a thrift shop promise. A mentality that cannot be replicated. For the love of an anthem that speaks to a brick walled television screen. Puff some weed and get back to me, you son of bitch.

Chapter 2:

The transgression of a pinpoint of matter in the universe. Do you think your interest in sports is some sort of a… misconception? Like the bully fucking fights the glassy eyed market… raging bull lunatic… like a conformist. You get the idea of some type of jackass. I’m in it to win it now, baby. I’m finally surfacing on the… how you say… inter web? Bleeds the nostrils down with coke usage. Shouldn’t be doing that, boy. Stand up and let’s get stimulated! You skinny rail of a cross dresser. Like the hungry come in wolves. Packs of cigarettes floating out of a Wawa cashier guy… cool guy, that doesn’t even ask for ID… because he’s cool. Yeah, yeah. Always one for a nut job. Explodes his semen on the neck of a mannequin. Double up! Round up! Let’s go around the campfire and everyone say one thing they’re thankful for. Oh okay you’re thankful the Eagles game turned into a calculus of a win. Wow so shoot the mainframe. Messenger locked on the grid of the football field.

Chapter 1:

Honestly man, the cakewalk of a lifetime is lost in the tobacco industry, where any marketing tactic can poke its head out onto the dire dead scene. Cop lights flash around in unison with the embodiment of some sort of a… hysteric counter cultural wasteland. You fucker think in terms of OCD. Well, everything must be rose tinted. In a relation to… pure integrity. He jacks off the inner slope… releases his karma on her face. A practical jokester with absolute no rhythm. This is the case almost every time. Surrounded by the… police force at beckon… while the army formulated by our president regime was a simple alcove. If you catch my… sincerely offered counterfeit dollar bill… while the homeless stretch out on million dollar lounge chairs on the Manhattan beach. Do you understand my sexual frustration? In the key of some sort of burglar, a Mexican restaurant ticket out of here. So let’s let it slide. Okay? Like just this once. I am imperative to the automotive nuisance that mishandles the tits job the plastic surgeon delegates on repeat. So it goes… the kid often wonders if he’s a pot head or a stoner, because there is a difference. He hopes the bong hits will ultimately create a cavernous success in his daily ritual lifestyle. Completely counter blessed to be some sort of celebrity… micro, on the web… down goes the link to some sort of normal hood. The stinky gaseous balls of a beige grin of wasted paint matter. Gobbles up anything to save a dying child. Come here now, slither on over to my dead body corpse. I am waiting for you with open legs.