There are Monsters

 

I.

Walking downstairs

I see Mother in the kitchen

six fingers on one hand

the sixth finger – Smoldering

She tosses letters-

bills, checks, postcards-

and sings "Crimson and Clover"

(over and over)

and all his frustrates me

so I decide to pass outside

On the front door

a word is etched

in cat’s blood-

Rubicon.

II.

Outside

the sky is full

to the point of cracking up

to the point of pouring down

and promises spoken

through thunder

are left unfulfilled

III.

I take a train

to another town

somewhere West

and as my neurosis

gets its footing

it stomps around

in my head

and makes April Fools

of my eyes.

IV.

Off to the side

I notice a rabbit

and look for a watch

wonder if she’s late

(for a very important date)

but see she’s torn in half

and doesn’t seem to mind

She asks me where I’m going

I say I’m going West

and mime the question

she says she’s going Waste

I nap then

and dream

I’m underwater

sitting at a desk

and voice in my ear says

It’s too bad this is the only way

we can bond

and when I wake up

the rabbit is gone.

V.

I call Mother

from a payphone

somewhere in the desert

she asks a question

and I reply with

Would you still love me

if I was?

She doesn’t answer

she sings "Sweet Dreams"

(are made of these)

and I hang up.

VI.

Everything is burnt

and dry

and empty

I meet a coyote

at dusk

and ask him

if he’ll be here

in the morning

he smiles

and trots away

and I watch him disappear

between the sand

and the stars.

VII.

I make it to the coast

and my cell phone rings

it’s Mother

she wants to know

if I’m coming home

I sigh

and say I’m too far gone

I’ve crossed the Rubicon

she sighs

and says she does still love me

but she sounds unsure

and I look at the sea

the tides

waxing and waning

seemingly empty

but, underneath…

-Brandon Massengill

 

 

 

 

The Man Behind the Curtain

Behind black lace draperies, he watches,

two young lovers crawl from shells of cloth

and writhe together, drunk and filled

with carnival desires

the wheel of Ferris

the wheel of Fate,

circles back around

until they both get off

and he smiles.

An eye peeks between two red sheets,

a sea of shapes, with hungry eyes,

staring at him with Dionysian lust,

expectantly waiting for liars

to take center stage

to bring down the house

and they'll applaud

with broken fingers

and laugh when

Ophelia enters the river,

and his expression is

unreadable in the darkness.

Through a sackcloth veil,

he watches the world,

a pile of images fragmented,

and layered

filled with scarecrows

seeking knowledge

but failing to grasp its shards

as they fall through strawed fingers

and the veil

hides his leer.

Through smoke and mirrors

and roses painted red

he watches Alice

stumble through an insane construct

giggling as she falters

and leaving nothing in his wake

save for a broad grin.

Wrapped in emerald velvet, he booms

PAY NO ATTENTION

trying to conceal truth

trying to present phantoms

that dance on embers

and scream in riddles

however, his lies are undone

by a small girl

and her broken friends.

-Brandon Massengill

 

 

 

Offering

Frost films over the frame

of the window in the kitchen

and there comes a knock

and when I open the door

there is an elfin girl

I knew when I was eight--

she wears a shawl of moonlight

draped on her shoulders.

I ask her what she wants

and when her mouth opens

a crow's wing slides out.

I hand her the bones

of a snowstorm

that killed my sister

back in '79.

The wing wags lazily

and she melts with the wind

but leaves me a raincoat.

-Brandon Massengill

Why I Hate September

You slammed the bedroom door

and it echoed for eight weeks

on through the burning September

and though I longed for sandpaper

and portable fans, all I could feel

was the fire in the air

and the ice in your glare.

 

You rolled over, leaving me

on the edge, I'm still there

on through the longest September

and the noise of placebo

has been replaced with

the neon good book

with screams of yellow

and your forced "hello".

 

You drove me in silence

but I wanted to talk to you

on through the brightest September

and when you walked out

of the library, your hand grazed

my shoulder very lightly,

something I think of nightly.

 

You never called me once,

and I dreamed you just might

on through the hazy September

drinking cheap clear poison

pulling myself inside-out

thinking of your imperfect face

and your lampshade with the black lace.

 

I miss that night in August,

the night I thought about

on through that lonely September

during my midnight walks.

But I saw you smile today,

and for once, I was sober.

I'm really glad that it's October.

 

-Brandon Massengill

Lillith III

 

Her hands are large and thin,

bones draped with indigo veins,

glazed with ashen skin.

 

A cigarette scissored between two fingers,

she lazily brings it to her lipstuck lips,

and her black talons that rip me apart

are tapping on the window

making sounds like rain.

 

Her eyes are the Plutonian sky,

cold

distant

infuriating.

 

I think of asking for a cigarette,

but remember I have my own,

so I ask for a light instead.

 

Her head slowly turns my way,

she blinks,

a camera shutter in slow motion,

and tells me the switch is by the sink.

 

I ask her if she thinks we’ll get cancer,

she says we’re both Leos,

and I wish her sunglasses would eclipse

her lifeless eyes,

and I wish I could get away with murder.

 

-Brandon Massengill

Death, on the Rocks

 

The bierhaus is dim

and neon acids gleam on the walls

and the man with cloth hands asks me

in German,

Welcher du besucht?

and the urge to drink death deeply

is overwhelming.

I want a cocktail of drain cleaner and knives,

arsenic with a splash of madness,

my undoing with dry ice,

I want it all,

but I can’t say it

in German.

Haus vodka

is what stumbles from my tongue in my

awkward Amercian accent.

The man frowns

and hands me a flute filled with red

and I look at him with confusion and he says

Cosmopolitan Nacht

in German.

I remove my last “Marlboro Röt”

from its cardboard coffin but the man says

Raume nicht

in German,

so I ignore him and stand,

content with killing myself with

disease, rather than drink

and throw my glass to the floor

which expresses exasperation

in any language.

 

-Brandon Massengill

 

Untitled

I fell through time today,

I didn’t know it could be paper-thin.

I’m not sure where the dusk went,

why I couldn’t watch the sky burn and char.

 

My dreams are red and silver lately,

with dripping shadows that scream

and perforate my days with nails and sad songs.

 

I used to be able to look at myself in a mirror without seeing my worst enemy.

I used to be able to do lots of things,

but my desperation has crippled me.

 

As minutes become ours,

each moment with you is a flawed gem,

precious

but useless too.

 

Why can’t you wake me up?

 

-Brandon Massengill

I'm sitting outside of Combs, smoking, trying to read, but somewhere between the page and my head the words are lost. The sun is in my eyes, and I want to move to a different bench, but I can't drudge up the motivation. Alex walks out of the building and sits on the bench next to mine.

            "How's it goin' man?" he asks. I give a non-committal shrug.

            "What's going on, dude?"

            "Not a damn thing," he answers, swinging his arms in wide arcs. "SOAR."

            I furrow a brow. "SOAR? What about it?"

            He motions to his arms and chest. "I ache all over, man." Oh. Sore.

            "Huh," is all I say in response, finishing my cigarette.

            "Michael and I worked out last night. Tell ya what, I feel like a puss goin' in there my first time. Motherfucker in there musta been seven feet tall, had arms like damn tree trunks."

            The book is still in my hands, the sun is still in my eyes and I still want to transfer to a different bench, but I mutter something about how bright it is today instead.

            "Got drunk last night," Alex mumbles. I nod. "Just got off the phone with Michael, he's only now getting' off work. Got called in last night 'round midnight, some teenage girl tried to kill herself, he had to drive her to Louisville."

            Rather than asking why Alex volunteers this information, I ask him why they took her all the way to Lousiville, rather than Lexington or even the hospital in town. Alex just shrugs, and I'm mildly concerned about the girl for a split second, but the feeling passes.

            We sit in silence for a moment, until (I guess) it makes Alex nervous, so he gets up, says he has to go meet Michael at the gym for another workout. I nod, give a weak wave, I finally get up to go to the bench in the shade, idly wonder who Michael is, light another cigarette, stare at the book for a few moments, but it's still useless.

            Frustrated, I throw the book in my bag, and I think about getting drunk, bodybuilding, suicidal teen girls, cigarettes, sweat, I think of all of this, the infuriating banality of it, but like trying to read (at the moment anyway), it's futile. I don't form any conclusions about life, about conversation, or about people. I just sit with my hands buried in my face for twenty minutes. Maybe longer.

****

            The sky is a creamy blue, the sun a burnt orange, but the lake at Cave Run doesn't reflect this; the water is too clear. Instead, I see pebbles on the bed of varying brown shades. I've heard of people fishing out here, but I can't picture it, the water is too still. Not even the light breeze breaks the surface tension. The breeze is warm and the term "Indian Summer" comes to mind.

            Thirty feet or so from the rocky shore, there is a monolithic concrete tower, the base descending below the surface of the lake. I'm not sure how deep below, and I'm not sure why it's there.

            I throw a large skull-shaped rock into the water and for a moment, I wonder if the lake will accept the rock, or if time will continue to stand still. The rock ends up sinking and I'm relieved by the barely audible plop. It's the first sound I've heard since I shut my car door, and for a long time I've been worried I'd gone deaf.

            After a few minutes the water's gone still again, its emptiness reflecting my own with sharp clarity, and this unnerves me. I walk away, tossing one final look over my shoulder, wondering if a sea monster will be hovering over me, about to strike, but in the end, there isn't anything.

 

"Bella Lugosi's dead," Brandon tells you. You look at him with a mixture of confusion and exacerbation.

"What are you talking about?" you blurt out, and already you've made a grave error in judgement: you're getting him started.

"It's the name of a Bauhaus song-"

'Who the hell is Bauhaus?' you're thinking.

"-it's pretty good. But I think it's made better in some mash-up, with She Wants Revenge and Joy Division. You know, they do a song on Donnie Darko?"

'Dear God, please don't sing, please don't, no...'

"'And love, love will tear us apart... again,'" he sings.

'Ugh, he even tried to sound like the band... wasn't as bad as his Dave Matthews kick,' you're thinking, suppressing a grin.

"Yeah, I saw it, I remember," you lie.

"So, I let Layni borrow Less Than Zero, I hope she gets it back to me before school starts," he tells you, switching conversation gears on a dime and with no warning- that is something he's exceptionally good at.

Except, damnit, he's back on Bret Easton Ellis, his new "hero". You hope he'll get out of this phase and soon, you've heard all about "BEE" about as much as you can stand for a lifetime.

Brandon's still rambling about how he's picked American Psycho back up, how great it is, satire on greed 'n' materialism, and he drones on and on...

"...and I think I'm going to do something crazy for my birthday," he finishes.

"Crazy? Like what?" you ask, mildly interested.

'Probably end up getting a haircut, or pretend to be a character from a book for the day, or- God forbid- mud wrestle at that birthday party he's going to... gross.'

"You'll see," he sings, flashing a devilish grin.

'Oh, how cute, he's trying to be mysterious. How unbecoming,' you're thinking.

"So, are you coming to the party at the Ruckers on Saturday?" he asks. "It'll be fun."

"Sure," you lie, "I'll be there."

"Awesome sauce," he says, flashing a broken smile.

******

"God fucking damn-it-to-hell fuckshit pussyfeathers!" Brandon grumbles from behind you. You sigh and slowly turn to face him. His face is contorted into a scowl.

'Oh boy, here we go,' you think.

"What's wrong?" you ask tonelessly.

"The fucking customer cunts at the fucking restaurant are fucking fuckers," he snarls.

'This just in: most customers anywhere usually are,' you're thinking.

"Sorry, dude," you tell him, trying to give a response, but not wanting to commit to listening to his rant.

"Guess what fucking happened at that shithole? You'll never guess. A party of twenty fucking people came in without calling ahead. The fucking dining only seats, like fifty, and I had people waiting at the door anyway, and a party of fifteen who I'd just fucking sat, and, and..." he finally runs out of breath and you try to get a word in before he gets started again.

"Well, it is-"

"That fucking bitch Glenda Corts came in," he interrupts, "the fucking icing on the damned cake. And of course Callie Kole was... well, she was Callie Kole, you know how she rolls." He snorts a laugh. "Rolls. Har. 'Cos she's probably fat-n-pregnant with fucking troll demons."

"Yeah," you half-heartedly agree. "Probably."

*****

"Ooh, damn this song for being so catchy," he says, turning up the radio, George Michael's "Faith" playing.

'Superhero gay,' you're thinking.

*****

Brandon's laying in bed, smoking a cigarette, reading a book by- guess who?- Bret Easton Ellis.

"Have you been in bed all day?" you ask.

"Dude, I've been so strung out lately, you have no idea. This is relaxing me. So don't fuck with my aura."

'Do you listen to yourself?' you're thinking.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to do anything with your 'aura'," you tell him. "You wanna come out with us later tonight? We're going to see a movie..."

"Milford or Maysville?" he asks.

'Does it matter?' you're thinking.

"Maysville, I think."

"Can't, got plans," he says, exhaling smoke in your face. You stifle a cough.

"What kind of plans?" you ask, kind of interested, but not really. He looks up at you.

"Just... plans... y'know?" he says.

You wonder if he really has plans or if he's just pretending to have plans. It's really hard to tell sometimes.


****

"Gotta joke for ya," Brandon chimes, coming from out of nowhere.

"Let's have it," you say.

"What are the two biggest lies?"

You sigh. "I'll pay you back, and I won't come in your mouth."

He frowns. "Yeah, how'd you know?"

"You've told me already," you mumble, rubbing your eyes. "This makes it the fourth time."

"For realsies?" he asks suspiciously.

"For realsies," you confirm.

"Huh," is all he says in return, walking away.

****


"So you're birthday's coming up," you mention.

"I'm aware of that," he says testily.

"Do you... want anything?"

"No. Don't you dare get me anything," he growls.

"You sure?"

"Well, on second thought," he says, going into a large list of gifts that are too expensive, don't exist, or are just absurd.

Typical Brandon.

--------- is on TV but I don't watch it
(rerun)
so I dash to my car and quickly pull out of the driveway
and I'm doing eighty on the highway with my check engine light flashing and the car smells

and after an hour  two weeks  three months my whole life I pull into an IHOP parking lot
walking to the door and the maitre d' witch with the shriveled arm looks at me with sourly

"Tainted Love" muzak playing

(why does IHOP have a maitre d')

and she tells me the restaurant is closed

"what do you mean you're closed

the sign says you're open twenty four hours"

"it was a corporate decision"

the absurdity causes me to break out in a fit of hysterical giggles

(FUCK!!!) I'm thinking

she tells me to keep "it" down and I knock a cup of toothpicks to the floor and

(tick-tock

(it's Thursday now)

I flee before   

 

driving down 32 with my brights on Belinda Carlisle blasting through my speakers but I don't know why

(ooh baby do you know that's worth)

and a cigarette is in my hand I'm slamming my fist on the steering wheel I hit a raccoon

(bump

but it's already dead

(bump)

and I pass a State Trooper but I think he's sleeping because I'm speeding and he doesn't pull me over even though

 

"----just bought a Queen's Greatest Hits CD" says Bruce tiredly after I call him

(tick-tock

(two oh clock)

and I tell him my mom has that CD and he hangs up so I bite my cell phone and throw

 

back at home now listening to the Smashing Pumpkins new album but I don't like it so I spit on the floor in disgust and stomp

(crunch)

hard         cracking       the      case

(fucking    (up             (end    (study

 

as I'm going to sleep I realize I'll be the big two zero in eight days but I'm not that excited because I still can't tell-------

Sunday. Sitting in a booth with Bruce. I'm glaring at the ice in my Diet Pepsi. I didn't ask for ice.
"You know anybody named Kenneth?" he asks me.
"No... Yeah. Kenny Kotteen. "
Bruce pauses before saying, "Well he doesn't count."
It takes all the energy I have to look up at him.
"Why not?"
"Because," Bruce says. He hesitates, fumbles with his iPod. "You think I look like Kenneth Kotteen?"
"No, not really," I tell him, thinking of what I said to make him think I did.
"Why not?"
"You just don't," I say to him, "exasperated".

            “I need a ranch.”

            The sentence- taken out of context- makes me send a half-amused but wary glance in Hannah’s direction. She looks at me expectantly and though I can only see her neck and head through the food window, I can tell she’s tapping her foot impatiently and this makes me nervous.

            “Then go to US Bank, I think they give out loans for buying land.” I say this “jokingly” and the effort to make campy humor degrades and exhausts me.

            “Just get me the salad, Brandon,” she sighs. I “begrudgingly” open my cooler- the light’s broken, I notice- and take a plate off the shelf, dropping a dressing cup on the tomatoes. I hand the plate to Hannah who inspects it quickly before looking at me and informing me that I have given her a bleu cheese.

            “No way,” I exclaim “indignantly”, picking up the dressing cup, opening it and tasting the suspicious substance. I grimace at the taste and Hannah crosses her arms.

            “A ranch, Brandon.” A short pause. “Please.” I shuffle back to my cooler, replacing the bleu cheese cup that I tasted and get another cup. I taste-test its contents and decide it is indeed a ranch. I give Hannah the ranch cup and she saunters off.

            I retreat back to my cooler and the fluorescent light above me flickers, giving me a headache. I pick up the book I’m reading (Less Than Zero? The Fountainhead? The Poky Little Puppy? Fuck if I know.) I flip open to where I stopped but Mariah yells “French! Vidalia! Eye-tie!” which takes me out of the narrative. I watch Mariah get drinks and wonder what an “eye-tie” is. I set a salad with French and a salad with Vidalia Onion on the food window. When Mariah comes back she looks at the plates, then at me.

            “Where the hell is my salad with Italian?”

 

            “Are you looking forward to going back to school?”

            Hannah and I are outside smoking. I watch her inhale on her cigarette and glance at her stomach where her unborn child is gestating.

            “I don’t know… Not really,” I lie.

            “Why not?” she asks, interested. I shrug.

            “I’m just… not.”

            What I don’t tell her is that I still have three weeks to trudge through.

            I don’t tell her I went to WalMart to buy school supplies- something I’ve never done.

            I don’t tell her I’ve been packed and ready to go for two weeks.

            “Huh. Well, maybe you’ll be ready when you actually have to leave.”

            “Maybe,” I tell her, taking a drag from my cigarette. I blow the smoke away from her and her unborn son. The wind carries it back in their direction.

 

            How I spent my spring semester: changing my major two weeks in, stop going to Literary Studies, taking off a week from my work-study to go to an orgy in Lexington, ignoring calls from my friends, ignoring calls from my father, eating lunch late in order to avoid the cashier I slept with, walking to BP at midnight to buy Diet Cokes, playing video games instead of doing the assigned readings, reading  The Perks of Being a Wallflower and The Rum Diary and American Psycho and all seven books of The Dark Tower, “entertaining” guests, swimming in the heated pool on campus, freebasing non-prescription cold medicine, drinking warm vodka, watching indie films on IFC, previewing songs on Amazon then downloading them, stumbling though a nervous breakdown, buying Xanax and Quaaludes from a junkie near CVS, going to Waffle House at three in the morning to start a novel (I wrote over one hundred pages in two weeks) and staying until ten, hotboxing in a professor’s car, going to a party comprised solely of homosexuals listening to the scariest industrial music I’ve heard, never missing an episode of Lost, skipping out on Her birthday party so I could go to a strip club, getting drunk while watching anime, breezing through my exams, packing up my effects, leaving a mess for my roommates, and not saying goodbye to anybody. I’ve still got seventeen days until I can go back.

 

            “Seating for four?”

            Tensions are coming to a head as I play maitre d’ on Saturday night. Callie Kole is about ready to get choked. I haven’t had a cigarette in three hours.

            “No,” the lady replies. “We’ve got a party of ten.” I stare at the woman blankly, waiting for a punch-line that doesn’t come.

            “What,” I say, phrasing it as a statement.

            “We’ve got a party of ten,” she repeats. My eyes sweep the full dining room in near-panic. I need a cigarette.

            “Oh,” is all I say.

            “How long do you think it’ll be?”

            “Um… like, awhile?” I guess.

            “That’s okay, we’ll wait.”

            “Well… yeah…” The phone rings while I’m trying to strategize a seating plan for the stupid bitch and her party of ten. I need a cigarette.

            “Phone’s ringin’, Brandon,” Callie Kole chimes sweetly.

            “Well, like, you’re closer…”

            “It’s not my job to answer the phone,” she sings cheerily. I move to answer the phone but Callie answers it and I grind my teeth.

            “Fireside, this is Callie.” A pause. She looks at me. I glower at her. “Hang on.” She sets the phone down. “You busy?” I glance over to the party of ten waiting at the door. I need a cigarette.

            “No.”

            “Then why am I doing your job?”

            ‘Cunt,’ I’m thinking.

            “Is it for me?” I sigh.

            “Yes.”

            “Then move.” I pick up phone while Callie works at the cash register, giving me a smug look.

            “Hello?” I ask.

            “Brandon?”

            “Lindsey?”

            “Have you tried to call me?”

            “Um… no… yeah… I don’t think so.”

            “My cell phone’s broken. I thought you’d tried to call me.”

            “How’d you get my work number?”

            “When people try to call me, all I hear is static.”

            “’Cause, like, I’m real busy.”

            “And when people try to call me, all is hear is like, Chinese.”

            She makes screeching nails-on-glass sounds that I guess is Chinese to her and it unnerves me a bit. I need a cigarette.

            “Listen, Lindsey, I’ve got stuff to do. I’ll have to call you later.”

            “But, Brandon, my cell phone’s bro-“

            I hang up the phone, grab ten menus, ten sets of rolled silverware, and scatter the party of ten throughout the dining room, much to their chagrin.

            The Dog Lady chooses that moment to emerge through the door, her jowells sinking below her chin and her massive, curdled gun hanging over the waist of her pants. Callie mouths “not it” to me and I smirk and place the Dog Lady at a table in Callie’s section. Callie glares at me. As the Dog Lady sit, I read a patch sewn on the seat of her pants: “Cum In & Get It!” I find this eerie and step outside to smoke. I fucking loathe Saturday nights.

Delusion  OR  Delirium's Requiem

 

i walk around and around and

i see monsters ripping my friends

look closer and i see the monsters are my friends

they rip themselves

sharp white teeth stained with red

they dont touch me

they only stare

stare and whisper

about me

they whisper awful things

but i cant hear them

their teeth                                                                                                    dont touch me

they run into the woods and leave me alone

alone and             b r o k e n

and leaking

their whispers stay

and ri p    m  e    a

                             p

                           a         r

                                                 t