For those who recall 'the Blackness of Spring'

the book is finally for sale on Amazon.com -- if you happen to scroll down you'll find a picture of the cover and below that a couple of excerpts. It's about a boy who has some . . . emotional problems. Kind of a downer, but hopefully you wouldn't have expected anything less. Click here to go directly to the book on Amazon.com.

Go ahead, go buy one -- only 119 pages and 14$. It's a bargain for a book that'll make you think for a moment or two.

XI(5)

I call her the queen of the flies. Similar to the ants queen, who is a factory for thousands of eggs, Kathy, too, is a factory. Her body is bloated from being dead for days in the summer sun, and more so because her body is now pregnant with thousands upon thousands of maggots.

The adult flies escape from Kathys mouth, sunken eye sockets, nose, and various wounds about her body. At some places the skin is tight with bloating and has become transparent. A window to the thousands of tiny squirming children.
Kathy maybe dead, but her body is a factory of life. A safe haven for my pets to multiply.

VIII(3)

I burrow my fingers in the dirt. I can feel larger pebbles under the surface. My bottle of hand sanitizer tingles in my pocket. I burrow them deeper. The earth is cooler, somewhat moist. I can feel the dirt soaking into my skin, and my hand sanitizer tickles. My palms enter the soil. An ant scurries by my hands, seeking sustainance for his queen. My hands are cooler now, while the rest of my body burns under the midday summer sun. The tiny bottle itches terribly in my pocket. My mind is a little cooler with my hands submerged. The bottle scratches a hole into my leg. As my hands burrow, so does the hand sanitizer, tearing away the flesh, sending its message to my brain. My hands are now elbow deep. My leg is on fire.
I put the knife on the bed next to her arm. Her tears have stopped and her pupils have dialated. I pull the bottle out of my pocket and apply a nickel-size portion onto my palm. I rub my hands together vigorously. I pick the blade back up and Kat clenches her eyes shut.

Chapter X(7)

Snippets of photos, body parts, ideas. Everywhere is taken up by a small snippet of something. Everythings reflection refuses to look back. Understood, he said one day that we wont ever go into the ages of the ageless. Tomorrow we bond. Tomorrow the two at the top will fall to their demise and weep the tears their matrons before them wept. Tomorrow the two lustful sirens will fall in omen to the schism of body and mind.

Where desire takes over and the mouth does not deny it.

The man brought out his piece. He started snipping. A little here, a little there. In time hed molded his dream. Hed sculpted his Galatea. Hed sculpted his perfect woman. This bloody stump is now his perfect creation. The man loves it as he loves himself.
The man took his tool to the shed where all the children go. The man has no love anymore. The children all come here to die.
This is the shed they are kept in until Father releases them. This is where there is pain, torture, and this is where there is love and lust for tomorrow.

My children, I love you.

Chapter II(9)

I awaken with love in my heart and purity in my soul. My friends tell me Im a happy-go-lucky guy. My girlfriends tell me Im a demon in the sack. Todays flavor is Sophia. Shes a short one with dark hair and a horrendous underbite. Our dates are all the same. We eat dinner, then we see a movie. Sounds typical, right? Actually its quite the countervail. Our small talk consists of politics. Our drinks consist of fine Champagne, and after the meal we sip on Cabernet Sauvignon. Our movie choice depends on the mood and day. Tonight were skipping dinner, and were skipping the movie. Were going to my house to talk of times past.

Were going to go listen to music and talk about futures. Money. Jobs. Politics.

Upon arrival I step out of my car and walk around to take her hand and lead her to the door. Her right hand grasped by my left so that I can keep her protected and close. Her whimsical steps glide across the yard as if her feet didnt touch the ground.

I open the door and swing it open to invite her in. She walks and I follow in trace. Whenever a woman feels in control, she proves it with her acceptance of the role of master. Youd be surprised, they are actually quite cognizant creatures. They analyze everything and although may seem ditzy at times, their hamsters are still running their hardest, that little wheel is growing white-hot. Theyre burning with the taking-in of their surroundings and the contemplation of their next move. If you tell them not to look at you theyll know exactly why.

That is, unless youre a unique and random individual. Much like myself. Which is why, I think, women enjoy my company. A change in scenery to their everyday predictable dates, guys, drives, work, boss, God.

Sophia sits on the sofa and sets her purse down by her side.

Your day was typical. Hows my hair?

Lovely, Sophia. Absolutely gorgeous.

Thank you. I spent about half an hour making it look nice for you.

You know you dont need to go through that kind of trouble for me. Im not judgmental nor am I conceited enough to think that you must earn your time with me with doll-tools.

Its the journey I seek, not the destination.

I know. Do you want some coffee? Or a beer?

Id love a glass of wine. I shift my weight on my feet, I dont think I have any wine of her taste.

Ill be right back.

I walk around the couch to the kitchen, where I can keep my eye on her through an indoor window glaring into the living room. I rummage around in drawers trying to find a corkscrew and cut my right index finger on a drifting knife. Under the first drop is the corkscrew. I wipe off my finger.

Wielding the corkscrew I bring the bottle of wine to the dining room. Sophia is searching her purse for something. Probably a tissue, or a cell phone. Maybe she chipped a piece from her French manicure and wants to fix it. Maybe she feels her breath is unsatisfactory and desires a piece of gum. I scoff at that idea; gum before wine.

Shes putting more attention to herself and her purse right now than Id ever seen a person expel.

Cant she relax for a mere second and count down the ticks of the moment?

Cant she fucking behave?



I take that corkscrew and quietly walk up behind her. Holding the handle in my right hand, screwy point facing inboard, I bring my hand in an arch in front of my body, the point of the screw penetrating her temple. I feel pushing hard will just result in frustration, so I begin to twist. The red BullsEye corkscrew burrows deep inside her brain. Her screams pierce my ears and inside I feel a small tingle. A little rush. Ive freed her, Ive given her back to sanity and serenity.


I was this womans savior. I love her, as I love all my children.

Sophia is now the monster in her red Loch Ness. Not I. Sophia is freed as all monsters should be.

Chapter VI(2)

VOMIT AND SHIT. Her eyes will be with me forever. Vomit and Shit, I think to myself. The left one is Vomit, the right is Shit. The two children fighting for the throne. No, for the right to build a throne. To build the kingdom inside by constructing the desolation outside. Within her renderings, below her perception, and sidetracked around her reasoning. One murdered the other by constructing in excess of what is needed. By the grace of dissatisfaction in her surroundings and searching for more when more was too much.
By murdering the one theyd loved, they now journey eastward to wander the land of Nod. Their skeletal garden is only a memory.
Nod is my shoebox. An old Doc Martins box tinted in earth tones. An appropriate color scheme for they are the world these scattered pieces must wander for their personal perceptions of eternity.
The above is the Revelations to Michelle. The genesis to her hazel (and dripping red) children. Vomit and Shit, the newest denizens of this plane.

The bitch did nothing but watch. Kept everything in a tight fucking ball. It was about to explode; I could taste it in her sweat. Her tears leaked confusion and frustration. Her mind kept it burrowed and she refused to communicate. This girl was a goddamn mess inside.

The scratched lettering in the wall grows increasingly red until the last few words almost blend together with blood. My fingernails are split and worn by my latest entry.
The two bastardized rebels are stuck together by a toothpick. The exposed wood between them has a length of thread attached, which runs outside the shoebox and is attached to a rusty nail hammered into the wall.
The shoebox is positioned in the center of the room with almost a dozen thin lines emerging from the lid and outreached to their appropriate nails directly beneath their most defining etching. Each etching ends in blurred crimson letters; the final sacrifice I make for them. The pain I shed to purify them. My flowing blood to cleanse the infected.
They are pure, now. The elite chosen.

I am their Messiah. My name is Joshua Collins

the Blackness of Spring

The book is coming to it's final edits. It came out to only ~120 pages. I started writing a new book. If you want to know anything about any of it, comment, email, whatever you choose- me.

coverpage

Step Away from the Window -- Ch. 15

"Step away from the window, Richard." Mom yelled from the hall.
Wait, Mom's asleep. Dead asleep.
I'm not by the window.

Bodies. The still-birth told me I shouldn't ask anymore. So I don't, but only when the mucus dissolves on my tongue like a softgel. Delicious softgels. Sometimes you don't even need water to rinse it down. If you go to sleep you won't remember who you are. Don't do that, you'll miss me. And I'll miss you. Don't forget to wipe, that's what she said, and it doesn't pertain to what you think. She already knew. What don't you do? Do you want to know what happens next? Just wait, you'll find out, you always find out. No matter how hard I try to keep it from you, you always find out what happens next. No, not next next, I'm talking THE next. Like exit only with an N and not at all.

The splatter of brain and fesces is still heavy. I felt out of place in this room. Like I'm not really in it. Like there's still some door that I should enter before I'm really inside. Right now I'm on the outside. The outside of the inside that's not inside of me but inside this room however I'm not there. I should be dead, the air in this room is solid. My skull has driven further through it than it should have been able. Maybe I am. The dream continues. No. This is just a normal room. Normal. It's perfectly normal to have air feel stolen. The "I'm sorry" you mutter to yourself each time you inhale for taking another lungs' fill. You can't give it back. Not how it used to be. In its original condition. Wait, is it I or You. Who am I again? Who are you? We'll start over. You are you, I am outside the box. I'm looking in, watching this pathetic child during his fit of idiocy. Not at all unexpected. Why do you do this to yourself, Richard?
"I try not to. I just want to have a normal day." Richard said.
Wait a minute, Richard you're just You and I am me and since we have that covered why do we still have the pointer indicating the action?
"I don't know. I didn't know there was a pointer." Richard looked at the ground in search of something stable to stop the spinning.
So you step away from the windows blinding you with reality's illuminated image. The photon sensors are a little out of whack, but we can adjust that later. Connect connect connect the dots. A fun game. So you accept it. When the world begins to spin all your answers lie in the brim of confusion where reality decided to nudge its way back inside. Unfortunately for you there is no brim. Nevertheless, reality's venomous sting will course its way back into your veins in time. In time. In no time at all, though, you'll be split. With that you'll just have to wait to see what happens next.
What if I were to tell you to find yourself and you'll find the end, or perhaps there's no end at all.

Nad'dya

Well, i've been in afghanistan since June 2nd. Not like you give a fuck. I wrote a stupid fucking book you also don't give a fuck about. The next post will be an excerpt from it.

Back-Door

Your mind is translucent; a subliminal disgrace. I don't doubt a gelid heart, that is for certain. . . but it's frosty process plagues even that sprout at the tip of your stem as it is more cumbersome than your wretched soul.

The reality is a lack thereof. Observe while others witness your death. Does it depress you that although your dream continues their lie burns into their eyes? That was once you, standing around the anticipated, who believed so wholly that 'reality' took its affect. It's so silly that you ever believed in your"self".

Your Reflection Won't Even Look You In the Eyes

picture yourself outside the human race. as an inanimate surrounding, or bird, and picture yourself 100 feet off the ground. look down on all those people. the things they talk about, their 'music' about this 'love' they all seek, about money, about substances to destroy their minds. the human race is absurd. step outside of yourself for a second and sit back and marvel at the ridiculousness of us.

okay i'm going to put you on this chain and you can go to the door and scratch. you can't go out the door, and you can't come back, but you can scratch. when you get to the door, look back at those who sent you out. It's absurd, isn't it? doesn't quite make much sense.

Birthday Apparition

When I am born I will sit back with serenity. I will relax while everyone else worries. I will never go hungry, nor will I choke in thirst. When I am born it will be a tremendous deal, and everyone will take notice. I will not cry, I will face the world in silence. When I am born my family will cry at my funeral.

Art Gallery

As you may have noticed I haven't posted anything new up lately, for the past month I've been focusing more on my doodles. . . Take a look, and leave a fucking comment or two. Mirrored Excursus

Cosmopolite

Your wayworn face makes me sad, but your callow intentions bring me to refuse to vomit. Doff your shoes and take a seat in the warm waters of your incognizance and medicate yourself. Your fetid mind is a contagion; your rotting soul bares worms. Here you are, again. Surprised? Keep your eyes shut. You are alone in the closet once more, crying because you are afraid of that scream that wakes you up at nights when you're the only one at home; when your eyes are pierced with light that paroxysms from the curtains before the sun has risen. Refuse to utilize faith's placebo to contaminate spirituality's disease and then perhaps you'll have the balls to pull that damn trigger.

Malaise

Do you feel that haze when you wake up? That sluggishness? You're halfway to a coma. God's passing the ball to you in his court, you just can't catch it yet. Almost there. You see Jesus yet? He's the Doyen, now. God is dead. Good job JC on your #1 hit, the New Testement. Your fairy tales have helped boys and girls sleep for generations now. Well. . . Jesus, do you believe in death? Or is it as fairytale as your fucking prevarication.

Drip

Given a rusty fork, born with your disease. . . My passion is my weakness, but then my weakness becomes my passion; and my passion is a hatred for weakness and a disbelief in passion. There is salt in my eyes, the day has begun. Pain sets in and i ask myself "why" once more.

Subliminals of the Mesogenic

It's so easy, though. It's so easy. So easy. Easy. Though, I don't just dislike; I Hate. I hate you, and, I HATE your smile. Thank god that lipstick is bloodbased, or i'd be forced to pretty you up again. Hey? Wild. FUCK. Why won't you die.


(i thought this one was a little humorous)

Inevitable Futures

I don't think you quite comprehend the respects given to you. Therefore, you will be the delinquent. You will burn under the shadows and nobody will see you. You will read what i write, you black hearted siren, and your soul will bleed because of this.

Chimera

My eyes open and I look around. I see endless fields of grass with wood and flowers. To my right I see a tiny white bunny nibble on some clover. I think to myslef, "This place is beautiful." I take a nap for a while, and awaken to see everything scorched. Burned to the ground. All the trees are nothing but black skeletons ashing on the infinate number of corpses of those damned bunnies.

Brain Burrow Itch

There's blood on my fingers but none in my palms, [i will keep them submersed in your mind.] Don't scratch, reality will infect the wound and we wouldn't want that. [I want you to bleed me an ocean, you bloodless bitch.] Let's go to a candy store. What do you think? Anything to make me think you still care, to make me think anyone still cares [to make me stop the red syrup gumdrop before it hits the sugar coated highway of my forearm.] I love you and it still burns in my brain like murder.[Well, Juliette. I hope you've found your point.]

The Blackness of Spring

All the eyes are on me, all the voices speak, all the entities are awake. I don't ever want to look at you with these hating eyes again. Back away for fear of self-preservation. [You never were real.] You aren't free, i am. I am fluid yet i remain benign. Immerse yourself in me and i will diffuse your chains. I will free your soul from the shallow pool you drown it in. You make me ill. I will disconcert your mind until you are sane like me. Take your eyes back. . .they are ugly.

More Scribbles

day to day it's always the same.

"SetFree.JPG"---no real motive behind this one..

"Faith.JPG"---this will probably offend the devout..please spare me the hate-comments..

Abstract to Delusional

The first kiss; a blossoming of affection. All my fears have but withered away in the wake of your endless beauty. My One, you are no longer a number to me that holds ration; you have far surpassed the confines of my finite emotion. You are neither my beginning, nor are you my end, you are my entirety and without you my life would be as black as your soul.



-I got a comment saying i should attempt to write something in counterveil of what i feel, to better my skill as a writer. So i did just that. Although, i HAD to throw something in at the end, otherwise it wouldn't be me :)

My Love, Your Knell.

reminiscent of a 'once was.' prologue to a 'one day.' wingless, it overshadows my pain with a hatred i cannot describe. i pray only to find that death succombs to your wincing eye. [i hope to see you crucified on your cross of failures] i apologize for my apathy towards your last breath, and your disconsolate smile. this is the dream
of a failed 'today.' [if only you would wake up engulfed in your scream. please wake up.]

Scribbles

A picture I drew that I call, "Anger." (click picture to enlarge)

Another doodle.. I call this one, "Failure." (click picture to enlarge)

Aftermath of the Oblivious

Shifting, changing, hating, ovulating. Ingredients descended via life tantrically induced by meaningless rhythms and waves. Sinusoidal patterns indulged in an endless abyss of wonder, engulfed with prying eyes and "scientists" who predict, explain, and create life. "Life is meaningless, as are you, and God hates you for this." He says this with love in his heart and a tear in his eyes.

A Walk to Remember

I am a disgusting person. I disgust myself to the point of vomiting at times; I can't imagine myself being awake anymore. I don't think you could live vicariously through me, but if you could, I hope you'd kill yourself, too.

It Had No Title

Here I am. Face to face with him. My muzzle is pointed right at his hypothalamus. I don't think he'll do it. His eyes are so certain, though. So confident. I maintain my sight alignment as I trace a cross in the back of his neck. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end as he fantasises my death. His hand is steady as a rock, it's obviously been planned. I squeeze the trigger and the lights dim.


I tried to switch off from first person to second person and back and forth to try to confuse the reader. I also added a little foreshadowing to the conclusion (which may or may not come as a surprise) but with the gun tracing the figure in the back of the
neck and at then it shifts back to first person and says the hair on the back of the neck is standing as it fantasises the death of the other... the cross is supposed to invoke a certain uncertainty of the figure in question, good vs. evil i suppose, one figure makes the cross, one enjoys the idea of the other's death, and in the end it turns out to be one being, the same entity. . . it's kinda fun playing around with
writing, like painting a picture with words only you can add emotion, thought, history, future. . . so much more; you can truly take the reader's mind and warp it
if you word things just write to provoke a change in thought process... (i thought i'd make the title in third person just for shits and giggles.. hell i already have first and second, might as well include them all)

well, anyways, tell me what you think.. it's my first
time to experiment with something like that.

Hate Crime

Hate crimes in the barracks. A reflection of our failed lives.

Sunday

I feel the sickness returning. My poison to kill
my sanity. Opening my eyes with clarity allows the
blackness to tear through my soul like a shotgun
blast. I will not succumb to the emotional sobriety
we all strive to attain. It is a weakness. I will
not give in. I will fingerpaint my brain on on to
these pages for all to see. I will spread my disease.
I will take you over and when I have you I will
destroy you with your own hand. I will see you rot.
I wil see your loved ones laugh when you are dead.
You think they won't? You are ignorant. I bear the
mark; you are correct. . . only, I bear it in my palms.

Dear God,

My name is Muck. It rhymes with fuck, which
is what i hear my children yell before my eyes as they
die. Some go more quickly, though, and i cry because
I don't get to hear what their last word is. You can
learn a lot from a person by that last word, some
scream obscenities, some pray, some just scream out my
alias and close their eyes. Some of the less
interesting ones just break down and cry. They cry
because they don't want to leave my earth. Perhaps
inside they know heaven doesn't exist, either way, it
still brings a smile to my big ugly face to see them
go.
I created the heavens and the earth. There
is no hell. My children just refuse to believe this
world IS hell. There is a heaven though. Only I live
there. It's my observation tower where I watch all my
children cry at nights before they die. . .

Utopia

This is where I like to be; alone and suicidal.
Depressed thoughts running rampant through my
repressed mind. Not knowing where I'll be tomorrow.
I know where I'm supposed to be -- but where i WILL be
is up to the loaded peice i hold in my hand whose
barrel is inspecting my tongue. *click* The safety.
. . This is where I like to be.

Monkey Fucking a Football

I hate sobriety, I hate the sight of the world
with clear eyes. I hate the idea of it all with a
clear head. Clarity is God's iron maiden. I lay in
bed at nights and fantasize about razor blades and
ropes. The thoughts should terrify me, but instead
they give me a sense of hope that lulls me to sleep,
the thoughts are a reminder of the one thing I have
control over; my own death, an ability I will
exercise. I will show God. That will shove his
greatest failure right back in his face. I am now
happy. I have alcohol on the way. My life once again
hs direction, I now have ambitions for the future:
KILL myself. One vital organ at a time. Now only to
find some cigarettes.

what would people think when they hear that i'm a jesus freak

I WANT TO SEE GOD DIE. i want him to choke on his failures. i want his wrists to bleed out his black soul. i want to kill all his children, his "sheep," and when his black heart is broken, and he is crying his big ugly god tears, i will laugh. i will turn my rifle around, and i will die.

The first of an ongoing concatenation.

This is the first post. Be aware I would greatly appreciate any comments on anything I write. I do not write much, or often, and I only started about a week ago, but I think what I write is good (it accomplishes the vivid imagery I'd like it to) and I want the brutal truth from you, the critics.