grimbol

SEX WITH ALIENS

2011-09-11T17:28:00.001-07:00

(a 50 word short story published in 50 to 1)

The alien is just a big heart that has a vagina.

“Have you ever met a Bantolian?” it asks.

“No,” I say.

“They’re just big tongues. They’re really sexy.”

Whenever the alien and I have sex, it brings up another alien race. I think it likes seeing me get jealous.

UFO

2011-08-05T10:56:00.000-07:00

(published at bizarro central)

The UFO was spotted in Poultney, Vermont by a group of college kids. It was black, the shape of a slice of pie and the size of a school bus. They stood under it and jumped up and down and tried to show the aliens they were welcome, that earthlings were kind and peaceful, that they would greet alternative forms of life with open arms. The alien craft didn’t respond. It just floated there.

Eventually something extended from of the bottom of the ship.

“What is it?” one of the students asked.

“I think it’s an antenna of some sort.”

“I think it looks sort of like a cock,” one of the girls noticed.

“What?”

“You know, like a cock and balls.”

They looked back at the ship. It was undeniable. Out of the black metal of the alien vessel hung an enormous, fleshy cock and balls.

“What should we do?”

“Should we touch it?”

“This is fucking awkward.”

“This is fucking gross.”

“It smells weird.”

“Nudity’s cool and all, but, like, there’s a time and a place for things…”

“I think we should go.”

The group of teenagers wandered back to campus, leaving the aliens alone, floating in the cold night air over Poultney.

Inside the ship were two beings. Their bodies were like angry light and they fizzled amongst the machinery. Their race had evolved out of bodies long ago. They only had spirits. After millennia of dedicated research, they had invented the interplanetary cock and balls. It was to be the universes most advanced form of communication.

“What do we do now?” one of the aliens asked. “The humans didn’t like our invention.”

“Forget them,” the other said. “Let’s go to a planet where our genius is appreciated.”

MY BANK STATEMENT

2011-03-01T15:40:00.000-08:00

(Published in Mad Swirl)

When your woman doesn’t seem to remember
All the bad jokes you told the night before,
When you’re not embarrassed to pay for your gas
With a hand full of nickels,
When you overdraw from your bank on purpose
And then you have to borrow money to pay for the fees,
When you’re glad that all your CDs are scratched,
When you try to sleep through the day,
But cant, because your neighbor is mowing his lawn,
When being tired
Is the sweetest way to feel when you are awake,
When you get homesick
But not for home or anywhere else,
Because just barely moving
Makes you feel
Like you’re already there.

4 POEM$

2011-02-27T23:18:00.000-08:00

(posted on Alternative REEl)

YOUR SOUL IS FILTHY

I’ve never liked perfumes
I like feet to smell like feet
And armpits to smell like armpits
And pussy to smell like pussy
(and I like my cock to smell like pussy as well)

I feel the same way about my soul
I want my soul
To smell like a soul
To feel like a soul

to have all the bruises
all the stretch marks
all the untamed hair
a soul should have.

I want it
to spend too much money at the strip clubs
to watch rocky movies when it should be sleeping
to go the distance
to have the eye of the tiger
to crave
to feel nostalgic
to grieve for
everything
even the things it hasn’t experienced yet

________________________________________

TOILET PAPER

Toilet paper is more helpful than poetry

But I prefer poetry.

When you finish a book of poems

you can put it on your book shelf,

problem is

most the crap I read

is so bad

it should be flushed down the toilet

And I seem to be out of toilet paper

________________________________________

FOR LEWIS

He bought us margaritas
And we all cheered.

I had known this savage for a long time
He was kind of a sissy.
He always had this
Soft
tender
scraped-knee of a soul

he talked like an old woman.
Even as he fed us these margaritas
He made us feel like
we were being given milk and cookies
by somebody’s grandma.

(you know what I mean
Double stuffed, mint
Oreo cookies,
The type of thing that I avoid
Cause they’ll make the man-tits
Grow a cup size)

He loved cookies
He was a big fatty

And gentle and
Looked like
he could get his ass kicked by anything

Except the ocean.
He was a fisherman.
He’d go out
Into that big old ocean
fish
And then
He’d come back, pay rent, hit the bars
And buy us all margaritas

He’d get drunk and sentimental
Start talking about my mom
And his grandmother(who raised him)
And about how they were both dead

And he’d get sad

He was always sad as a kid too
And like all sad kids
He was bullied a lot.
I got into my first fight over him
(And luckily it was my last one
Cause I got my ass kicked)

Lewis died a few years ago.
A drug overdose.
He was living in North Carolina.

I didn’t like that he had left our home
and started fishing somewhere else.
It made me homesick for him
(funny
how people like me
think the ocean belongs
To the land it breaks against.
My friend, Lewis, was a fisherman
And I’m sure he knew better than that)

________________________________________

BUKOWSKI VS KEROUAC

I tried to set up at battle
Between
Bukowski and Kerouac,
But they
Just ended up getting drunk
And passing out.

Neither of them were easy to deal with
Even in their sleep

Kerouac
Made a lot of noise
He talked in his sleep
He rambled on
About Buddha
And the void

Then
He started pretending to play the saxophone,
Which actually looked more like
He was trying to suck his own dick

Bukowski slept next to him
He snored, farted, woke up
Puked, took a bath, started drinking
Took another bath
Drank some more
Then wrote a few poems
kept drinking
so on...

when he was done
He shoved the poetry
In Kerouac’s mouth
To muffle
The crazed gibberish
He kept mumbling

There was no waking Kerouac
He
Was stuck
And drowning
In his own wet dream.
poor bastard…

I guess
Bukowski won
By default

TRYING TO BLEED THROUGH THE RIGHT WOUND

2010-11-01T19:55:00.000-07:00

(published at madswirl.com)

The hung-over colors of a sunset
The neutered smile I give my boss
my reflection
wants to reach out and slap the shit out of me
and tell me to stop fondling my own man boobs

but I’m tired.
there is so much to do

All those jobs to quit
All those dollar tacos to devour
All those beer cans to be redeemed

Because I’m the type of man who refuses
to do things the way they are supposed to be done

I don’t wait for winter
I make snow angels in cigarette ash, and
In the foam of the ocean, and
In the pubic hair of a crazy woman
in wrinkles of my last dollar.
This is how I live

Look at me!
Look at this manly body!

I’m fat as hell
There's diet soda in my veins
bacon egg and cheese beating in my heart
and my brain is stuck in a 7-11 parking lot
with wet pavement as deep as an ocean and
late night lights blistering and popping and oozing

And the sky looks as soft as cement
And as gentle as a scorpions ass
I stand under it in nothing but my underwear,
cursing at the gods,
saying thank you
for taking me where I did not Want to go

TUMBLE WEED SEX DRIVE

2010-10-25T01:07:00.000-07:00

(Published In Lit Chaos)

When I was young

Anything could

Get me off

Smoking a cigarette

I had found on the ground

Was a party to me

And staying up

until four

in the morning

To watch star trek

Was living in the

fast lane

I’ve jerked off

to some strange shit.

I used to jerk off

to my biology text book.

When I was done

I would to lie in bed

for hours

Hungover with guilt,

feeling like a cannibal

And to this day

I still can’t tell

Whether sex

is supposed to make us

Remember

that we are just animals

Or help us forget,

All I know

is those damn diagrams

of the human body

made me feel lonely

Way before

I knew what loneliness was.

so, here’s to science.

i just want to say

Thank you,

You were the first

Cold hearted woman

i have ever known

SLEEPING IN (published in 50 to 1)

2010-10-14T13:23:00.000-07:00

She comes home from work and finds me in bed.
“Wake up!” she yells.
I hiss like I’m an animal that has been cornered. She laughs, then makes me breakfast. I pretend like we’re married, like I’m her hard working husband, when in actuality I’m being treated like a child.

THE FIFTH GOSPEL

2010-03-26T12:55:00.000-07:00

(published in spilled coffee and in mad swirl)

editor's note(from mad swirl): Aha! Here is a mad, rambling statement of faith I can underline with a grand, "Amen!" I go to that church, too. I don't see anything holy about assholes, either. - mh

I believe in lying in bed with my boots on.
I believe in airplanes and turbulence and
Hornets nests and neurotic old women,

I believe in making to-do lists
And then
Not
Doing anything on
The list

Or:
If I really want to feel productive
I make a list
filled with things
That I have already done.

Example of a to-do list
by Justin Grimbol:
Sleep in
Wake up
Jerk off
Fight with woman
Eat breakfast
Check email
Take piss
Write poem

I like poems.
They’re short.

most poetry isn’t very good though---
you got guys like Ginsberg talking about
how holy their assholes are.

I like ass. I love ass.
I got
A cramp
in my neck
from staring at
So
Much
Ass.
But
That
Doesn’t mean
There needs to be something holy about it
Ass is good enough as it is.

Sure
Some are better than others.
Some

Are impossible to not get a little religious about.
Some stay in your heart
Like a stun gun
Like a blizzard
Only it’s warm
It’s the inventor, the mad scientist
of all warm things.

I believe in warm things
I believe in sweating
I believe
That people only smell good when they smell bad,
I believe in lukewarm pizza

I always believe it’s going to be a warm winter
Until the first snow fall,
Then I hide in my room
Terrified.
I put my hands under my woman’s breasts and pretend they’re mittens.
the weather channel says we should be expecting 16 inches of snow.
It’s going to be a long winter.

When I was a kid
I felt warm in the snow.
Hell,
I felt a lot of thing back then
That I don’t feel now.
When I was a kid
I actually believed that if you beat a video game
That you’d be rewarded with money
That it would come pouring out of the Nintendo
like it was a slot machine.
Why else would they make the games so difficult?
Why would people play these ridiculous games
Unless there was some kind of reward at the end?

I believe in that kind of passion
I believe in how your thumbs hurt
when you played Nintendo for too long.
This poem was written with those same thumbs
I believe in thumbs and chaffed legs
And stretch marks and pregnancy scares
And running out of gas
And all the scratch off tickets that are buried
Under the front seat of my car.
I believe in all those things that make you ask
Was it worth it? And then you shrug your shoulders
Because even if it’s not worth anything
You’re going to keep at it anyway.
You just can’t help yourself.

2009-12-12T06:42:00.000-08:00

AN AMERICAN PICNIC

published in MAD SWIRL (madswirl.com)

We sat on the porch of my fathers house
and watched the storm roll in.
At first it was just a flash in the distance
Then
The wind picked up
It began to rain
The thunder became louder.
And I sat there and I drank my diet Pepsi
And she smoked her joint.
A bolt of lightning lit up the
The front lawn and we both jumped back
we got scared,
we wanted to hide
but by the time we had decided
to retreat back into the house
the storm already passed
leaving us with nothing but the softening rain.

From inside the house
we could hear my step mother calling for my father.
She had rheumatoid arthritis
and she had a hard time getting up from the couch.
it didn’t take much to make this woman feel helpless.
She kept calling for my father
Asking him if the car windows were rolled up.
we could almost hear him ignoring her.
if he was actually asleep he would have been snoring.
It was almost like we could hear him
But really all that could be heard was my step mother's yelling
and the fading sound of distant thunder coming from the passing storm

- justin grimbol
(added 12.12.09)

2009-11-17T16:01:00.000-08:00

SHE HAD A BEAUTIFUL BUDDHIST BODY
published in Spilled Coffee

"i'm buddhist!" she screamed,
and then she looked at me and she roled her eyes
i
didn't seem enlightened to her,
because i
was so drunk and pussy hungry.

"i love buddha!"
she screamed.

and the rest of the hamptons
and all those sexy rich women that had
been marinated in yoga
and
soy milk
hovered
like a cluster of fairries
singing rich
sweet
songs to each other.

one of those fairries took a shit
and that shit
landed on my shoulder
and it sat there
looking very
mindful.
(maybe it is a buddhist too,
i thought.)

"i go to yoga three times a week!"
the woman screamed.
"look at you.
you are fat and smell like booze."

i looked down at myself.
my shirt was stained with beer
and my gut looked
like a baby
was in there
lying on a sofa
wearing sweat pants
eating a pint of ice cream
and watching porn
on a wide
flat screen tv

this woman
and the fairy shit on my shoulder
had definitely figured something out.
they both seemed
to be living a life much better
than mine.
still, i didn't want to be like them.
not one inch of me wanted what they had.
as far as i was concerned
being enlightened made you an asshole
and i preferred my fat ass to walk home
as drunk and confused and tired as ever.

2009-11-01T12:25:00.000-08:00

When We Talk About Love

published in THE PARK BENCH MASSACRE

How’s living in the city? they ask
And, like all hip young new Yorkers,
He tells them
It’s great.
It’s always great. I love it
And he brags about his job and his woman

But that is not real love
When you really love something
You don’t brag
You say
she’s driving me crazy
She’s a god damn nag!
You say
I cant take anymore.
Those are the words of love.

When you love something
You act stuck
You say
This town is a trap
Nothing ever happens here
You say

God damn
this thing never works.
Because we love machines.
Its seems warped but its true.
But only realy love machines
when they malfunction
That’s what gives them life.
We don’t say
Oh, I love that thing
It works like a dream
Because that is not real love.
Instead we say
That car,Sure,
It’s a piece of shit,
But
I’ve
been driving it
for the past ten years
And
it hasn’t given out on me yet.
That is real love.

2009-10-26T11:59:00.001-07:00

this is an interview to help advertise my new book, DRINKING UNTIL MORNING wich will be published by BLACK COFFEE PRESS in july 2010. the art work above is by jason gorcoff. it was inspired by the novel.

What is your writing process?
I try to write at least two thousand words a day.

What is the last great thing you read?
A Feast of Snakes by Harry Crews.

How did your novel Drinking Until Morning come about?
I had just finished a pornographic novel called ROLL OVER, and I was tired of writing about sex, so i decided to write about a period of time when I wasn't having sex. God, i was lonely. I was living with my aunt. The affects of my mother’s death felt very ripe and very sore. I was horny but having horrible luck with women. My heart was a pile of gray ash.
While writing this I hoped to find some humor in this experience. As the novel developed I was pleased with how candidly I was able to write about this time period. The story was sadder than I expected it to be but it was also very funny. And though I had started it to try and avoid writing about sex, it ended up being a very erotic novel as well. I just can’t help myself.

Kryptonite was Superman’s greatest weakness, his Achilles heel. What would you say is your greatest weakness as a writer? How do you work to overcome it?
I read too much Bukowski. But fuck it, right? I’ll gnaw on that piece of kryptonite like it was the last pare of tits in the world. Hell, when it comes to literature, sometimes it feels like this might be the case.
When I was young all I wanted to do was write like Bukowski. To this day I still prefer to write gritty first person narratives. Only I have realized that I am less like Bukowski and more like a mixture of Chris Farley and Rosanne. There is a little Bukowski in there too, just not that much. It has been a humbling process to learn how to write honestly about myself. But as long I keep writing honestly I don’t feel I have to worry about being too influenced by old Bukowski or any other writer.

What are you working on right now?
I am working on a book of poems called HIS COCK IS MONEY. Then there is a book of college stories called ADULT CAMP, based on the column I wrote for my college paper, back when I was a student. It’s a beast. When I am done I hope it will read like a real morbid version of a national lampoons movie. I am also working on a western series.

Do you have a favorite place to write, read or just plain chill? Describe it.
I like to drive. I can drive for days only stopping to drink and shit and fill up on gas. I only drive back roads. I liked driving by small remote towns late at night, seeing a light on in a house and wondering why that person was still awake.
I wish I could read or write while driving.

What is the best song to accompany love making?
When I was in college I lived in the dorms. The walls were thin and noise traveled easily. When I was having sex I would turn on the radio and play classical music really loud to try and cover up the noise. I like listing to classical while having sex. It makes my dick feel like a genius. Like it is capable of figuring out the origins of the universe. I’m a cheap son of bitch though, and all I owned was a cheap clock radio I had bought at a thrift store. It wasn’t very loud, and people could still hear screaming and moaning and slapping noises. The classical music just made it creepier. My friend Bailey described it as the “type of music serial killers listen to.” She said “it sounds like your torturing someone in there.”

What would you name yourself if you were a pirate?
I think I would have to insist that my shipmates call me Mr. Grimbol. The female crew members would like this. When I took them to my chamber they would be able to pretend that they are not pirates but instead students and that I am their teacher. “Arr, you haven’t done ye homework now I must paddle ye bottom with me ruler. Arrr.” And then I would turn on the some Chopin.

What is your favorite curse word?
Poon-tang. Wait, that’s just my favorite word. My favorite curse word would be...yeah, I would have to say its poon-tang as well.

What question should I have asked?
Pubic hair?
Yes.

What’s your favorite band right now?
Lil Wayne and Birdman.

Why did you decide on the route you have taken as a writer and how has this worked out for you?
I love to write about myself. I mean I really, really love it. But I also get very jealous of writers that do write more purely fictionally work like Larry McMurtry. It seems like fun to have an entire world full of charters in your head, going ape shit, trying to get onto the page. In interviews McMurtry frequently talks about feeling attached to certain characters. I want to experience this. So, to explore this I have started writing a western. Writing these little fuckers has been a fun. Its campy. But I like that.

What’s been the big influence on your work?
My friend Gorcoff. He is the least pretentious man I have ever known. A few years back we drove through the Rockies together. We were both impressed by how large and jagged and unforgiving the mountains looked. I kept writing these long overly abstract poems. They were awful. Then I heard Gorcoff compare it to a video game we used to play when we were little. “This is like Death Mountain from Zelda,” he said, “Gannon lives up there. We got to go and save the princess bro.” Jesus, I thought, It’s true. It reminded me of Death Mountain too. This mans a better poet than I could ever be. (He’s doesn’t write poetry though. He paints. If you want to check out some art work based on my writing check out his blog at jgorcoff.blogspot.com)

If you could speak to a whole room full of high school kids what would you say?
I would give them nothing but bad advice. It’s the bad advice that leads to the best memories. I’d tell them to go out and smoke weed and grow side burns and make sure to give your parents plenty of hell. Don’t fall in love with the one girl for too long. Tenderize that heart. Get it stepped on at least a dozen times a year.

Who are your favorite writers and why?
Bukowski. Larry McMurtry. John Fante and Dan Fante. Cormac McCarthy. And an old Chinese poet named Tao Chien. They write simple prose. Except for Cormac, they are all funny as hell. Much of what they write about is sad. It can be so sad that it is crushing. But sadness, if written well, can be very exciting. I get excited when I read these guys. Sometimes I get so excited that I start punching the air or my pillow and I start grunting and screaming “yeah! Mother-fucker, yeah!!!” It’s like watching the last scene in Karate Kid. When I was little I would watch this movie I would get so hyped up that I would spend the rest of the day running around trying to karate fight everything. Then in college, before going out drinking, my friend Bailey and I, would watch Karate Kid, but just the last fifteen minutes, and it would get us all hyped up and then we would go out and try to get laid. It was best. Most time I didn’t get laid and I would just get too drunk and act crazy. But that was best too. And that’s how exciting reading these guys can be for me. I feel that same kind of excitement deep in my guts. Ahh…best….

Who was the first person you told when you learned Black Coffee Press wanted to publish you?
My girlfriend Heather. We had to turn the classical music up real loud that day.

2009-10-26T11:43:00.000-07:00

BOOKS AND COWBOYS

published in ALLIGATOR STEW

I read the first 40 pages of many bad books.
come into my room and see these books
Lying around my bed
discarded
like dirty tissues

I cant stand these books
Just like I cant stand women
Who
try so hard
To look fashionable
And
sophisticated.
They do not realize
how hard
i got to concentrate
how much imagination
it takes
to strip away all that
clothing
and imagine them
wearing
nothing
but
a pair
of cowboy boots
and eating a greasy slice
of pizza

2009-10-26T11:42:00.001-07:00

A LETTER TO MY FATHER

published in THE 6th SUN ISSUE 2

Dear father/reverend/mentor/$...
I have left new York city.
It is a den of binge drinking
And sadness

I will now be going somewhere quaint
like Vermont

I will be having intercourse
In a bathroom
In some random rest stop.
My girlfriend thinks doing that kinda thing
Is fun.
Don’t judge me.

I
Love
You,

justin

2009-10-26T11:31:00.000-07:00

MOTHER GOOSE

a poem about my grandmother

published in GLOOM CUPBOARD ISSUE 104

If my heart stops
Leave it alone!
She said

And she kept removing the oxygen mask
like it was the cob webs she had gathered
from a bad hip, from going blind
from being lonely
while
living
in federal housing
and
after an hour of this
she finally died

her minister visited
and he
tried to console her daughter.
she is with your god and your father now
he said
her daughter laughed
I think that
she would rather be left alone she said.
she knew he was just trying to be kind
but death has its own brand of kindness
the type that makes everything else seem ridiculous
and filled with sad comedy
and
With that
she got up
Grabbed her walker
Then left the hospital

ARTICLE FROM THE RACINE OBITUARIES

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

Hedwig 'Hedy' Grimbol Hedwig “Hedy” Grimbol, 88, passed away at Wheaton Franciscan Healthcare/All Saints on Wednesday, Dec. 17, 2008, with her daughter, Jackie, and sister-in-law, Marce, at her side.
Hedy was born in Denmark on May 8, 1920, to the late Einar and Othilia (nee: Mortensen) Hjortness. She lived most of her life in Racine. She was united in marriage to Leonard E. Grimbol in Racine on Aug. 1, 1942. She was the secretary at St. Luke's Episcopal Church for 23 years retiring in 1985.
She is survived by her daughter, Jackie Grimbol; son, Rev. William (Patricia) Grimbol; one grandson, Justin Grimbol; three sisters, Karen (Marv) Welfel, Marion (Dick) Hazelton and Betty (Jack) Nelson; three sisters-in-law, Marce, Effie and Mary Hjortness; nieces, nephews, cousins other relatives and friends. She was preceded in death by her husband, Leonard, on April 1, 2000, and three brothers.
A Memorial Service will be held at the Wilson Funeral Home, 1212 Lathrop Ave., on Sunday, Dec. 28, 2008, at 3 p.m. with her son, Rev. William R. Grimbol, officiating. Friends may meet with the family at the funeral home from 1:30 p.m until the time of service.
Wilson Funeral Home1212 Lathrop Ave., Racine (262) 634-3361

2009-10-26T11:30:00.000-07:00

ADULTS AND CANDY

published in A COMMON THREAD

everyone seems scared silly.
its either adulthood or peter pan.
both seem awkward.
endurance and forgiveness
and sleep
seem like the only talents worth pursuing.

i miss spin the bottle.
it seems so senseless
that it is not played
as frequently as scrabble,
that we decided it was an
immature form of courting.
i don’t think it is juvenile at all.
shits just direct.

oh, who am i kidding.
i am in such a serious relationship right now.
i’m even monogamous in my dreams.
i could be dreaming I was on a space ship
with a thousands
of sexy aliens
who need me to help them
repopulate their planet
and i would have to turn them down
’sorry,’ I would say
‘but
i am in a really serious relationship
right now---thanks though.’

love. monogamy.
sometimes i get drunk and
try to convince my girl to go to vegas with me
and get married.
scary thing is
that i think i almost have her convinced.
either i need to stop drinking or get married.
scared. scared silly. mainly just silly though.

2009-10-26T11:23:00.000-07:00

HOLLYWOOD

published in GLOOM CUPBOARD ISSUE 54

if i get made into a movie
make it into a low budget piece of schlock,
put all legitimate talent in the toilet,
let the slop-show glow and
echo through the theater.
if there is any genius in this film
i want it to be accidentaland brief
—so the birds do not see me flying.

2009-10-26T11:14:00.000-07:00

THE FUNERAL SMELLS LIKE PUSSY

published in DRAWN AND QUARTERLY ISSUE 7

I spent two summers working at a camp in Bridgehampton. Stone-cold rich women would give us their children while they went to their tennis lessons. The first year I worked there the kids loved me. At any point in the day I could be found carrying two or three of them on my back, looking like an elephant at the circus. They loved me. I was big and hairy. I didn’t have to do much to get them laughing. All I had to do was make a noise and move around and they would start laughing hysterically. It was easy. They would use me as a fleshy jungle gym for the morning, then run home and tell their parents how wonderful I was. Intern, they would tip me generously on the last day of camp.
The second year working at the camp did not go as smoothly. I yelled a lot and made children cry. I was tired all the time. I got in the habit of sneaking off, taking long naps in the bathroom. One day I got caught in the bathroom by one of the older campers. The kid didn’t recognize me.
“Help! Help!” he yelled. “There’s a homeless man in the bathroom.”
I stumbled out and found my boss, told him I was sick and needed to go home early. He told me I had scared one of our campers badly; that I should have just asked to go home in the first place---instead of sleeping in the bathroom. I apologized a second time, then left.
Before going home I went to the ocean. I didn’t want to go home early and explain to people that I could no longer hack it at a job that was normally occupied by lazy teenage girls.
So I lounged at the beach…and it was torture. Rich women were easier to deal with when they were wearing polo shirts and heading off to play tennis. It was easier to disregard them as stiff, nerdy, sexless things. At the beach though, they were practically naked. You could tell there was a pussy in between those long legs. It wasn’t covered by much. You could see it pulsate steadily, like the brain of a monster. I swear it thumped---a secret whorish little drum beat. It wasn’t just the heat. I could hear it. I could hear it. Yes, the beach was torture. I sat and I stared, feeling heavy, perverted and tired. If only they responded to me the way their children had. If only they would crawl on me, then I could yell at them and make them cry. It would be heaven. Instead I just sat there feeling like I was at a fucking strip club, only I couldn’t get a lap dance for twenty bucks. Again, it was torture.
I got home at twelve thirty, like I normally did. There was a note for me on the kitchen counter. It was from my girlfriend, Alyssa, telling me to find her in the basement. She said if I didn’t then she was going to move back with her mother in New York. I cried a little. I punched the refrigerator…
“You whore!” I yelled. “You are fucking relentless!”
When I cried, I whaled, like some forest creature protecting its young. I was destroyed. Mush. Strange thing was that my dick was still hard. Ever since the beach it had been there, as persistent as the sunset, as war, as the holidays.
Once I pulled myself together I went down stares to hunt her down. I would put it in her. Then I would tell her how hurtful she had been. I would tell her that she was evil for being so insensitive, for constantly cheating on me and leaving me when I was trying to grieve my mother, who only died a month earlier….
I eventually found her in the storage room. There wasn’t much being stored there, just a couch, a bed and a picture of some cows grazing with the sunset behind them. It looked more like a normal room, only it was dusty and felt dead. Alyssa was on the bed lying on her stomach with legs together and her arms against her side. She had a thick Greek body and greasy black hair. Her eyes were big, paranoid, sultry.
“I want you to do what you want to me,” she said. “I’m just going to lie here like this and you are going to do what you want to me.”
“I can do anything?”
“Anything.”
I took off my pants and approached her. I put my cock in her mouth. I put it deep in there. She didn’t gag. Alyssa was not the type of woman who would gag. I kept it in there. Her saliva dripped down my balls and then down my legs. She stuck her butt up a little. She wanted me to go there next. So I slobbered on it, licked it good and thorough, then I stabbed it in there. It hurt her. She groaned awkwardly and bit down on the sheets.
“I should stop,” I said.
“No,” she said. “Don’t.”
“I want to stop.”
“Don’t.”
“Its boring,” I said.
“Don’t you want to tell your friends that you came in my ass hole?”
“I could do that anyway,” I told her.
“Come on!” she begged.
I started pumping faster. She screamed at first and then bit down on the sheets again. Finally I came two hard shots in her and then I collapsed, burying my face in her dirty hair. I kept my dick in her ass hole while it slowly deflated.
“How was work?” she asked.
I laughed a little.
“I can’t believe my boyfriend is a fucking professional camp councilor.”
“I know,” I said. “It’s torture.”
There were crickets in the basement. We could hear a few and I saw one sneak across the room. It was very aware of death. It knew that we could climb off each other and kill him at any moment.

2009-10-26T11:12:00.000-07:00

Low Tide by Justin Grimbol

Low Tide
A razor clam cuts my finger. Blood drips down my wet hand. It stings badly but my girlfriend calls me a pussy before I get a chance to complain.‘You are so mean!’I tell her.'Why don’t you go write about it in one of your poems?' She says.

a fifty word short story published in 50 to 1.

PIANO MUSIC

published in Green Mountain Colleges literary journal THE REVERIE

Look at that. Look at that.
Those two are fucked; they
have a fucken piano on
their head---smashed. they
got a knife in the leg, and a sword
in the arm. All sorts of bruises:
that's what they have; a brick in
the fucking gut...yes, they got a brick
deep in their gut. That lady doesn't
have a leg, and that guys missing
an arm. They don't care. they don't care.
They love each other very much and
sometimes they fuck.
They fuck like crazy maniacs.
they fuck like maniac mechanics.
they fuck like a tool box.
they fuck like nail gun; and come.
Oh man, they come so hard entire
body parts fall off. Oh man, they
come so hard entire piano's
break over their head.

poems

2008-07-15T22:37:00.000-07:00

A WATER GUN WITH REAL BULLETS HIDDEN IN ITS CHAMBER

i eat the wet shit of the mermaids,
toss three beers in,
laugh at the hangover gods,
then toss in some more.

my mother died looking like a beached whale
and i feel like the same animal
as i wake-up with my body
gutted, packed with the bad news
of the beer i drank the night before.

and the mermaids swim by
and tell me they are tender and merciful
but they never wipe my bottom.

MY SHORTEST POEM

i am explosive

both

with ideas

and ass