You can probably figure it out by now but this blog is on a bit of a hiatus. It’s owing to my personal schedule and a bunch of other shit, as well as the fact that I hit a bit of a creative wall with these. It seems like people are “liking” the recent ones less and less so it makes sense to take a break for awhile until I can make them good again. Before I check out, I’m gonna go back and rework the ending to the last Mixtape. I haven’t been happy with that for awhile now.

My main site is http://www.milliondollarcuffs.com . There you can find the other writing projects I have done, including another long-form Tumblr piece and a free ebook, similar in style and tone to MoH.

I intend to come back to this at some point, but I’m going to start a new fiction project soon so if you wanna check that out and bide your time with other content, go to Million Dollar Cuffs.

Until then, thanks for all the support and positive feedback.


Battery Boy wakes up in the world tree.

I need to express this urgently so let’s just go ahead with it. Sit there and look straight forward. Now imagine a thin halo all around you but shifted vertical like you’re sitting on the rim of a sideways bottle, right where the cap would be secured. You’re balanced on this ring. You see in cones, like both eyeballs are combined into one flashlight, right. It makes you painfully aware of the balancing act you now have to do to stay focused on anything. On this hoop and with this fucked up vision, you’re looking out into the undulating, damningly lateral birthing of a quasar. Dangling there as if from a great height, you kick your legs freely. You don’t feel anything pulling at them to give the necessary and erotic sensation of adrenaline, but let’s pretend for a moment that it does because I need to illustrate this point on the quickness. The thighs are two columns of either dark matter or wavy hell eggs. In your peripherals you can see the image repeated in fractals you get the feeling have been transplanted there.

So this is what it’s like to be Battery Boy.

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It’s a story of you might.

Radio signals can travel further through space if they are sent by someone wearing chains and smoking cigarettes.

This one passes through untouched, unabsorbed, unfiltered for as long as it can. To receive it would require sensitive technology that might not exist based on simple necessity, but that doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be heard; to the flexing go the spoils.


You might be floating there with no sense of motion like a fulcrum on a sinking ship. Your body long ago lost sensation and you are simply a recording device for subjective awareness. You’re traveling through space and your eyes barely work. Or you might be half smashed on a meteor. You might be a head a wandering poltergeist possessed. All of these things tumblring through space, all of these things encased.

It’s not like the pictures you’ve seen.

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You don’t need to know any of this.

Mars is the fourth planet from the sun and it’s been dipped too long in a plume of chainlike vexations. It’s got alien storms now. Its orbit’s changed, its experiencing new everything. It’s become home to other peoples narratives.

To observe the horizon is to observe a cycle of grand recycling dervishes transplanted from another dimension.

It’s new.

This is the story of Mike Busy who lived in a barn and is also dead now.

The barn was originally green but had been painted over red with no planning. The red was chipping away and to behold it then was a good way to tell the rest of your week to go fuck itself.

Mike Busy who lived in the barn.

There’s a videocassette on the Martian surface that depicts exactly what happened. It’s wedged between two rocks.

In all likelihood it’s been damaged beyond repair, and the harsh Mars landscape has not been kind to it, but if you were to watch it here’s what you would see: the last moments of Mike Busy through the POV of some harasser.

The first scene goes like this:

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Bring your Bars To Market Part 2: Gamble The Stars

"Shake it off, we’re just getting started / Can we break for a moment of silence for the departed? / Can we take just a moment of violence to bash me? / So motherfuckers got something new to pound in the streets / You can die if you want it / Suicide / While others doing everything in their power to survive / But that’s another side of the spectrum, another horror story for the ones that collect them / But that’s the other side of the spectrum, another horror story for the ones that collect them"

It’s the static.

Lil Al Calypso wrapped his war calloused hands around my limpdick fingers and pulled me outta there. He had new scars and hurricaned clothes. Echoes of reluctant ecstasy faded all around me and reality flooded in. Bitch flood. Through the crowds, through the sweat, through the seething eyestalkings that condemned me for abandoning my post as king of the hopeless survivors. A tumultuous road. Sweat and cum and blood despite their good intentions, their best wishes, their most base desires, all inseparable. Centipedes fled my asshole and spores cascaded from every crevice. The king is dead. Long live subjective cruelty.

The moment we breached the main door frame he hurled me forward and my legs collapsed I fell to the wet, softened stone and surveyed my surroundings as I had been lead to do. He had immediately made a B-line away the moment he cast me aside, and I fixated on him. He was walking across the way to where we had left the government man. He had been there the whole time. Days comma weeks comma months. I felt dirty and weak; I crawled after him. One fingernail clipped off, nevermind. Another, then another, then another. Every part of my body was either working against me or abandoning me.
Hair like the nile, whatever that means.

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Bring your Bars To Market Part 1: Chains for Daddy

It’s greetings from the bottom of the world, and what up your parents are here too.

I don’t know how long I’ve been down here. People would trickle in, and there were three surges that brought hundreds and some were trampled to death. Maybe it’s been months. I don’t need to tell you the nature of the world or how everything I was ever told was a lie. I’ve told you that before. I told you how I got here, I told you how I got myself into the sticky situation, and this is the first time I’ve been able to collect my thoughts. This is as good a place as any to die.

I no longer fear death.

I fear the gamble afterward. Through scarves of molested time wrapped around me I have seen the futures of released souls. I talk like a king now by the way.

I oversaw the temple I had my eye on ever since I stepped food at the bottom of the world, gardened by flummoxing crucifixions ‘n shit. They told me orgies would happen in there, such orgies, like what-the-fuck wicked massacres. I was also informed that I couldn’t go back home, and even if I could I wouldn’t want to. I didn’t want to so it was all okay. I walked into the temple, something like an Aztec pyramid with the apex touching the cave ceiling, and kicked off my shoes.

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Watch Me Add

While the world’s villains gathered whatever they had learned to be antiheroes, the world’s fables were getting hungry like some #based headphones eating themselves.

Once upon a time, Jesper Sheppard was traversing the rugged Canadian wilderness in pursuit of his family, who despite his best efforts could not be gained upon. They had died weeks before and he, upon seeing their ethereal selves climb from their frayed, irradiated bodies by through the scope of his rifle, pursued. At a far distance, at first, but then discovered that even at a lunch buckling sprint he was unable to get any closer. He withdrew to a steady march as they lead him out into the thick of it.
He watched them from the rooftop of an adjacent house, glancing in through the window whenever he could while keeping a fatigued-and-toasted eye over his harried neighbourhood. Chains had burst out from walls all around, looped into strangling rings to snatch people by the necks and pull them through. Choked and half stolen. He never got a look at who was hiding in them; there was one for every man, woman, and child. He was the only one to know the story, but he chose not to, and that is a bible in itself.
His family was pulled tightly to the same wall, having gathered together as white clouds bunched overhead and grew solid. By the time he left, he had been laying beneath a sheet of unruled paper long enough to make him snowblind. Survival It’s And Values.

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Big Rude Jake (feat. Eyedea and Bizarre) - Fuck the Pariah’s Throat


Serengeti pink and Prussian blue
Rembrandt reds and amber honey golds
And Garden greens and deadly sharkskin grays
As the mob thickens, the mystery unfolds

Ever since I was a kid, I had a violent past / Whooped a nurse’s ass for touching my diaper rash / And I ain’t gonna work / I’m a lazy shit / That’s why I live in Warren / With a fat white bitch  / She’s 36 and keep a gun full of arsenal / Her son’s 13, and loves to listen to Marshall (Slim Shady!) / But I whoop his ass, and send him to school / And let him know, that taking drugs is cool / See I’m on some dumb shit / Don’t know right from wrong / All up in Murder Inc, trying to get Ja Rule on a song / And I used to be a virgin / Grown ass man / Until I took a trip up to Neverland / Mike gave me milk and cookies, showed me his room / Bent his ass over / I fucked him with a broom

And fresh killed flesh, and rhinestone studded ironies
Are crucified on every porch and post
And vestal whores on second story balconies
Cuttlefish and diesel go dancing up your nose

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Spinning Blocks


Wherein we discuss the Jupiter Troll, arguably the first infamous predator of a sarcastically defended Earth.

Long tin bones constructed from billions of smashed and frosted ribcages. The space along its back was wavy like leaking butane; trapezoids of dim, whiplike lasers snapped all around them.

It no longer shielded itself behind Jupiter. Its dances were arrogant flexes. An army summoned form the vast European oceans beneath smashed ice, all staring Earthward.

Millions of black silhouettes that spoke the common tongue of the universe.

They spoke radiation.

It sat on the precipice of the colonization; the night where all the stars were revealed to have earth-smashing creatures lurking behind them, their awakening somehow cued to occur in unison across billions of light years. Galactic octopi made of brilliant light and spread out like symbols.

We put it out of our minds the following day, but then most of us died all of sudden. I’m dead right now.

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Cradle of Filth (feat. Grieves and Atmosphere) - Mama’s Catapults in Violent Overture

Nights came trailing ghost concertos
Heartstrings a score of skeletal reaper bows
Playing torture chamber music allegretto
Conducting over throes trashed to crescendo
Skinless the dark shall scream
Hoarse Her symphonies

I feel like the last lit candle in the back of my mind / Both palms to the future, no slack in the line / But no qualms with it / I don’t flip a coin like the rest of them / Or fall into line and live life by the pendulum / Never would I sell my soul / Find the beauty in the little things you can’t control / And break the mould from it / Look / You can see tomorrow in my eyes / And expect nothing less, than a lesson in disguise / When the clouds clear / Heaven’s just a six-letter word, like crutch / Hanging on the syllables and verbs of trust / And this is why I walk where the road ends / And live in between that little space where the notes bend, like / This is all that ever made sense / My hopes, my flesh, my bones, my breath exposed / Holding onto truth like it’s slipping / And the cliff’s edge, is cuttin’ the rope / I think it’s time to let go

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