pickle /(ˈpɪk(ə)l)/ noun: relish consisting of vegetables or fruit preserved in vinegar or brine.

Welcome to the twenty first century. We’re rich beyond our dreams and we’ve never felt lower or more poor. We’ve seen our own divinity, only to notice that everyone else has it. Kings amongst kings and rats amongst rats.

So we do a lot of drugs. We’ve long gotten over the romanticism. It (the doing of drugs) is a social function now. We’re all united under the flag of boredom. Most of us can’t sit for twelve minutes without getting bored enough to contemplate suicide. We’re not afraid of ourselves. We’re not even lazy. It takes effort to buy and then do illegal/legal intoxicants.

We just want life to fuck us right for once. We feel like we’ve gotten a few pumps and a fat slob laying next to us wheezing proudly. If you’re raping me, at least do it right! I guess we have that in common with the world. No respect for our own trade.

What kind of unrelenting universe makes my worst hell my own mind? Seems like a timid bitch to me. She makes me limp now. Nothing about it excites me. Humans grew too damn powerful. It makes sense, I mean, there’s seven billion of us now. We collectively spit on the cosmos until we drowned it.

The majority of the seven billion are working for a powerful minority. Some say it’s a conspiracy. Others blame human greed. All I know is there’s children in other nations stitch the shoes I wear and buildings crumble in India with workers in them. All so I, and a well studied and advertised to demographic can buy a t-shirt with random (quite often literally) English words on them at a fast and cheap production rate.

Mass industrialization turned us all into workers buying our own uniforms. To belong, you must partake. Most privileged societies of our age, mainly; post colonial nations, require the active participation of the individual in the crimes of the collective. Otherwise, suffer the consequences.

The problem of pure chance dictating the majority of man’s life, on an economic and political level, has largely been inflated, methodised and perfected. Often, I believed it was mis-information and deceit that lead people to sustaining a status quo that benefits no one. I have since then renounced my views. Laziness and fear of responsibility are what hold us back. This is no new thought, nor should it be regarded as revelation, merely a long overdue modification. However, we are not yet to blame. Our laziness is now amplified with modern comforts. I no longer need to read a book. Someone took the effort to do so, recorded and sold it to me.

My personality is a byproduct of the entertainment and products I have consumed. This is by no chance. Myths are how we choose our heroes. What fault of mine is it that the newer myths and heroes come with their own superstitions.

A symptom of shedding one’s naiveté is the false belief that knowing of it is enough to battle it. What is left then, are fools bragging about their ignorance. The few that have come to terms with their impotence in regards to the world then realize the sheer strength ignorance afforded us. To be human is to know that there are unknowns beyond yourself.

To accept it is something else completely. Self deceiving, lazy, fearful, irresponsible and dependent. This is what thirteen thousand years of known human history created of the slave archetype. The master is malicious. He always was, but his whip is now razor thin, and it reaches deep into your body. Now he is simply justified by the true foolishness of the slave.

To each other they are foreigners. Ideologically they cannot accept any axioms of thought that might even look like each other. The master is vicious, calculated, cold, proud. But his true power is his will. This considerably empowers the master over the slave, as has been the case since time immemorial.

The peculiar fact that affords me some rest is the tool brought in the final decades of the twentieth century. The Internet afforded the meek and the lazy fools the power to change the world from the comforts of their own seats. Bypassing technological security to make machines (and the institutions related to them) subservient to your will has been an integral provider of social traction for the lower castes.

The Internet, along with its weaknesses and powers, has taken a main role in the ability of the slaves of this dialectic to communicate themselves into a powerful collective.

Be on the look out for a skinny, pale, lazy and weak willed tyrants. They will be the last stone on top of a pyramid founded since the dawn of time.


Chewing the cud


I don’t need worshipers to have faith in my own divinity. My mind is my mosque, and I’m in constant prayer. It is also a static quiet garden. What’s more Godly than not answering? I do not want my own company anymore.

Is that why God came to earth on a tourist visa? Was he sick of himself? It took him a damn long time to get bored. Much longer than it took him to punch out of earth. Or get punched out. Christians, the truest nihilist, those who walk around with a dead God dearly held to their chests. -“Oh what vicious beasts we are! Capable of murdering the lord. Watching perfection starve.” One must observe the pompous nature with which one accepts Jesus’ sacrifice. ‘And he forgave us after.’


Oh the arrogance of Socrates, Joan of Arc, Jesus and Sadam Hussein. Martyrs, back-flipping off the planks into the commandments of history. Who gave them the right to be so fucking stylish?


God’s Garden must be the dullest place on earth. Eve knew what she was doing. What person would stay with a man that is perfectly content? Adam sounds like a bore.

Cat-piss Evergreen

There’s a dead poet inside me. He’s lost all appreciation to everything around him. The world no longer manifests itself in his mind with beauty or horror. He’s resigned, hung his coat, put his feet up and started puffing on a cigar.

I can still smell the rot off his flesh. No body really dies. They’re forever imprinted into you. Every step you take is tainted by them. I guess that also means there’s a live poet inside me. And the burning garbage of the night looks like God’s scented candle to him.

The worst thing about a fight is that it ends, I suppose. I can’t imagine how annoying it must be for the live poet, though. Sitting there, poking the rotten corpse with a short stick, asking it to do something.  I’d hate to be either. Damned good thing I’m both.

You can’t nag a baby. If life at its purest is not to be rushed, why should any extensions of it be? Leave me, woman. Let me do my dishes when it’s appropriate for me. Or do it yourself. Let the world sort the damn thing out. Haven’t I done enough?

Kiss my ass, you pompous prick, I hope you read this when you wake up _|_

You’re alone. Don’t you dare forget that. The moment the umbilical cord was severed, it was you against the infinite potential of the world. You’ve done alright so far. All considering. But I refuse to sit back and watch you destroy yourself.

There’s none of you left to talk to. You’re hunched over this laptop like a soaked dish rag, and I’m the only voice of reason left. You probably can’t even hear me. You’re too busy, always too busy. With what, I’ll never know. God knows where you go off to, and we never talk.

I miss you, you deranged bastard. Remember how much we created? Stacks of paper dedicated to us. Just you and I. No one else in this lousy fucking world. Who else had you that entire time? It was just us. And now what? Now you drown me, push me away, step on me, apologize once every thirteen years and you’re not even surprised to see me back, working for you like nothing happened.

Not much more I can do for you, frankly. You’re a mess. Always have been. Always will be. I don’t believe in you anymore. Maybe that’s why you’re hearing less of me. You can hear me drifting away, I can tell.

I don’t know why you’re sad anyway. This is what you wanted. This is what you fought for. Here’s your consolation prize; Fuck you. You did this to yourself.

The worst part of all of this is I’ll be back sooner than you’ll expect me. I’m going to make you bleed, you son of a bitch. Then I’m going to leave you alone. Drain in solitude, you rash on earth’s skin. You’re a fucking disease. A parasite that outlived its unwelcome. Do the world a favor and kill yourself.

Penartha and the Crimson Gates


I decided to kill myself on the 19th of August. The decision was made through a lengthy process of self loathing, chronic pains and a general disdain for my own existence. When I told the preacher in our mid-western town what I decided to do.

“God holds no passion for those who take their own lives.” he warned.

My mother used to tell me the same thing. For some reason, I suppose I expected a man of God to have a better answer, but somehow, all the reasons to remain alive fall flat in the face of suffering. Besides; I figure if I know why I’m being punished, it’d be easier to accept.

I didn’t want to die a virgin. Girls never liked me much, so there wasn’t much of a chance for me to find anyone that was willing. But I knew ‘Mick’s Bar’ has prostitutes coming in and out. For a person that was perfectly content with the idea of his death, I felt disturbingly anxious when I met Candy. She wasn’t a stunner, but she had a sexiness to the way she sat that knocked me out of my mind and between her breasts.

She smoked, and she drank, and I sat in the corner of the bar holding my Iced Tea with both hands, staring at her. She looked back, and our eyes met, then my eyes and her tits met, then I got acquainted with the rest of her body that carved itself into her dress under the dingy bar lights. I looked back at her face, and saw a little smile forming at one side of her lips, and then she turned back to the bartender and whispered something into his ear.

It didn’t take long before the bartender approached me with his smooth walk, and asked.

“You’ve been sitting here for a while. Are you sure you don’t want something stronger?”

I lifted my head up slowly, trying to catch another glimpse of Candy’s body and chuckled.

“Do you serve Cyanide?” I asked.

Continue reading


I woke up naked, alone, sweating and feeling like a demon borrowed its way into my chest and sunk itself there. Breathless, I got up and looked around me. It was my room, but it also wasn’t. Nothing was where it should be, but it was just as I left it. I reach out’ and grab for my phone, hoping there’s some app to fix this mess up. There isn’t. I threw my phone aside, and sunk my face under my pillow.

“What are you doing, looking for salvation anyway?” I asked myself.
I was breathing easy again, the prospect of impending doom relaxes me.  I looked at myself in the mirror across my bed. My face felt longer than it was the day before. The only other instance where  I felt like this was the first time I woke up in prison, and the reality dawned on me, that I will be there for a while. My time was undetermined, but definite.

Even my stomach felt the dread. All it wanted to do was puke out that God damned demon in my lungs. There’s no getting rid of it. Not anymore. I’ve surrendered myself. I am a prisoner of birth. I’m bound to the serene destruction the world has in store for any mental faculties left to me by now. I am in no sense liberated from my freedom. I am simply astonishingly unmoved by it. The world is beautiful, but I don’t care.

The demon nestled himself comfortably. He only stings a little, but I know he’s there. Any time now, he’ll pop up, rip me in shreds and break me down. But until then, I’m solid on my two legs. Not out of a drive, some purpose. Simply because I have no other choice, but for how long, that too I can’t say.


There’s a bastard that lives in the back of my mind. He littered my skull with graffiti and rude engravings. He’s swung from neuron to neuron and wrote ‘fuck you’ in permanent sharpie on every one of them. Sometimes, I create a new neuron. A newron. But it doesn’t take long before there’s an introquet ‘Fuck You, Mister Wheebly’ on it.

I can honestly say I brought the Mister Wheebly onto myself. See, I tried attacking him. I conjured up a police officer with a large mustache and larger biceps. Officer John Wheebly. Wheebly was a remarkable man. His head was so bald it had a shine to it. His lips were large, and never dry. His eyes shone with a fire that was the most gentle and ferocious you would have seen. He was fast. Agile. Smart. Lord so smart! My mind was clean.

The world was different with Wheebly around. The mornings felt genuine, and the sleep I got was deserved. My work efficiency grew by three-hundred percent. I received a raise and graduated three different university programs in a single year. Without the little parasite in my mind, I was thriving.

Good things can’t last. Fuck You. Fuck You.Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You.

Forked road

I fell in love once.  I can pinpoint the moment I knew it was her I needed. The moment I saw her. That should’ve been the first sign. I am a blind man.’ Her and I’ quickly became ‘us’. Love never comes without it’s high. Something about that person tells you that they will tether you on to the cliff you’re bound to fall off. A quaint relaxation that a missing part of you returned to its original place.

Helen was a work of art. Watching her walk was entertainment. Not just for me. Everyone saw it. To be present, was an honor. It didn’t feel very honorable two years after we moved in with each other. The perfect image of the sturdy rope that you draw for yourself quickly dissolves with every bastardization of the reality you drew. It was cute that she snorted after laughing. I once wanted to strangle her during a comedy film.

I ended it two weeks ago. The fight was stupid. All of them were. Over the four years we were together, we came to understand how flawed our image of each other really was. I came back home one night, after spending a few hours at the bar with my friends, and I found her waiting for me on the chair in front of the door. Had it not been for her texting me a million times about when I’d be back home, I would have been shocked.

She asked me to give her my phone.


“I just want to see it, give it to me.”

I pulled out my phone, and gave it to her. I didn’t feel like going through the hassle of a fight, and there wasn’t really anything in it that needed hiding. She quickly tapped in my code and started going through my phone.

“I didn’t know you had my password.” I said.

“Yea, well, I do.” she quickly replied, without even glancing up for a moment.

I walked around her, and went to the bedroom where I changed into my pajamas. I brushed my teeth, and sat on my lavatorial throne. I reached into my pocket as I squeezed, only to remember where it was. I then realized I hadn’t had a quiet shit in more than three months. The only time one shits peacefully is at work.

She called for me from the living room just as I finished wiping. It happened so often, that at that moment I had a revelation that I might have been turned into a dog.

“Pavlov’s fucking dog.” I said to myself, as I pulled up my pants, looked in the mirror, smiled at my handsome self, and got out into the hallway.

“Nadel.” she moaned.

“I’m coming. I’m coming.” I said. “Can I have my phone back now? Are you happy?”

“No, I’m not happy. I know you’re keeping a secret from me.”


“You’re hiding something, and I don’t fucking like it.” she said, pushing the phone into my hands.

I grabbed her by the arm as she turned away.

“Wait, just. Hold up.” I said, bringing her near to me. “I’m not hiding anything, I promise. Where the hell did that idea spring up from anyway?”

“It said it on my horoscope.”

I rubbed the bridge of my nose. Mona Lisa was burning right in front of my eyes. I remembered the first time I made her laugh, and how perfect she was. How flawless. To me, she was God’s masterpiece in engineering. So how was it that I was being bombarded by a Lego wall built by a limbless toddler?

“I can’t take this shit.” I said, letting her arm go, and returning to the bedroom.

She stayed in the living room and watched television.”E! TV”. I laid in bed, and surfed the internet for a while. I heard Kim Kardashian sobbing from the living room, and something clicked in my brain. I searched for her porno, and I masturbated. I hadn’t jerked off in longer than three years. There was a certain sense of liberation and comfort after that, and I rode that pleasurable feeling into a blissful nap.

She woke me up at three o’clock in the morning.

“I’m sorry.” she said.

“It’s fine, we’ll talk tomorrow.” I yawned at her.

“I won’t be able to sleep if we don’t talk about this.”

I took a deep breathe and imagined a marine assaulted me out of no where and drenched me in cold water.

“Alright, I’m up.”

“I don’t know.” she said, “Those things are almost never wrong, and you know how I feel about them.”

“It’s fine. Can I go to bed now?”

“No, not yet.” she said, giving me a playful smile. “Remember when we first met?”

I nodded slowly, still smacking my eyelids together, trying to let them know they’ll be working for a while.

“I asked you what you think about fate. Do you remember what you said?”

“You make me feel like it’s not bullshit.” I said with a nostalgic smile.

“And you remember when you used to read the horoscopes with me and laugh about how you’d see them happening?”

I laughed, and realized that it’s only nostalgic if you lost it in the first place. The marine came back and gave me a good kicking, and drowned me in ice.

“Where are you going with this, Helen?”

“Do I still make you feel that way?” she said. “Do I still make you feel like fate and everything beautiful in the world isn’t complete bullshit?”

“No,” I blurted out. “not a single bit.”

I kept cold and wore a marine’s poker face. She started sobbing.

“I could feel it you know.” she sobbed through her palms.

“I don’t know what to say. It’s just not there anymore. The world is as dull as it always was, and your glitter faded. Everything I loved about you never existed. I was sold a bad product, and so were you. It’s my fault. It really is. I don’t regret any of it, but we should have known.”

She cried louder, and nodded her head.

“You’re a fucking fool, you know that?!” she yelled at me. “You think you’ve got it all figured out. ‘Mister nothing makes sense’. You and your stupid fucking ways. You just can’t follow anything, can you? There’s no fucking way to make you even think that any of that was possible. You’re so stuck up your own ass, you can’t see what’s right in front of you. You don’t take anyone’s bullshit, I’ll give you that. But it’s only because you’re so in love with your own.”

“Tell me, then. What’s in front of me?” said the marine.

“Love, you son of a bitch. True love. We have something special, and you’re throwing it out the window.”

“Love?” I said, “Love is a lie Hollywood made up so we can populate more and create more consumers. Love is a satire taken serious. What we had was special. Nothing in the world can ever recreate it. It ran its course. I don’t want a part of it anymore. I want out, Helen.”

She sobbed again. Louder, and then louder. I sat and I watched.

“You’re breaking up with me?”


She sobbed harder, and I got up to wear my clothes.

“Where are you going?” she asked “Let’s talk about this.”

“We just did. I’m going to sleep at Jerry’s tonight.”

She went to the living room, and I could hear her cry. I could hear her cry all the way until the end of our stoop. I looked back at the life I built over the past four years. If fate intended this, then it’s nothing but a bad joke. I took out a cigarette, looked at the side walk that split in two opposite directions, and wondered where I should go. There was no way Jerry is awake. I felt like being alone anyway.

Left or right. Fortuna depended on it. There must be a correct path, I thought to myself. There must be the perfect path. I stood there for a while. I smoked three cigarettes by the time I realized what I had to do. I went in between both paths in front of my chain linked fence. I closed my eyes, and I spun. I don’t know how many times. I made it a goal to not count.

It’s not a mistake if I didn’t decide it. When I stopped turning, I saw that I had spun right back to where I started. Facing the street. I stepped off the sidewalk, and went to the other side, and my feet declared the direction on their own. I had no idea where I was going, and I didn’t care. Nothing I did was right. Nothing I did was wrong. My feet started walking faster. Before I knew it, I was running.




Of fireworks and lighter fluids. 

Whoever you may be, you remain a work of art no matter. You are a prophetic piece the world attempted to explain, constantly in motion, creating a world of your own as you walk. 

Your truth is as potent as the deepest of thoughts. Why stand in the way of the most honest fiction? You’re a self perpetuating miracle. Be in awe of the universe. Let it pleasure you. 

That’s not to say the world won’t cripple you. Only a fool wishes happiness constantly. Heaven is maddening. A Rollercoaster needs its drops. Sometimes they crash, and for a moment, in this infinite universe, a firework on a lonely rock sparkled as only it could. 

A bright sparkle that the moon can see, or a fizzle. Nothing else can be like it. The universe will never witness anything that even resembles it. Explode then, my dear. Burn out the night sky or sparkle at the bottom of the ocean. But do not fail to launch. 

Why I act like a total Richard. 

I’ve technically lost my mind long ago. The insanity of the world manifested itself inside me. Now, like every great Richard before me, I follow the steps of my thought. I am the living embodiment of what I believe. If it were a religion, I’d be a cleric. 

What man often disregards when attempting to lead life, is the utter disparage between our nature, and our applied nature. We all want to be loved. It is in our nature. We yearn for acceptance and understanding, but we never grasp it, we only believe it exists. It’s inherent in us. Hope. Love. Fantasies. Arbitrary when applied. But I’m only human, and that’s my nature. I’m not made of stone. Despite what everyone says. I’m a mushy life form going through a world too complex for anything to explain. 
I want love too. I just know it’s not graspable, so I won’t waste any time on it. Love is a pit that one must learn to climb out often. This is the eternal struggle between nature, the world and the human impulse to act irrationally. Our mind is a fragile thing, attacked with hormones of all sorts, constantly being bombarded by things it didn’t evolve for. Despite that, we learn, and evolve. The pit stops needing a rope, and becomes a leisurely walk up a set of stairs.