i posted at DRUNK. the poem is called BREAST MILK MAKES MY BEARD STICKY.

you will like it. or you will die.



[preface: if you turn this poem on its side it mirrors the sound wave of me saying the words ‘Sleeping Jaguar’]
Hello Jaguar Uprising.
I am sam pink, The Eyeless Spider.
This is me saying hello.
No this is me returning hello.
The Jaguar has invoked The Eyeless Spider.
Under penalty of Sleep, the Jaguar infracted.
I viewed your video at the library four days ago. Immediately I let all of my muscles slacken and I felt the slow moving currents of enemy gray blood. The Uprising.
I went to the bathroom and sat in a stall.
I did not blink. I looked at the floor. I said to myself, “it is not time to think anymore. The Jaguar is here. It is time to be an enemy.”
I whispered self-celebration.
I whispered many self-celebrations and eventually let the words blend to a hum, a hum that I sustained while rocking back and forth and touching my face.
I touched my chin and it was round smooth and made of bone and I touched my cheeks and the pore felt huge, they felt crowded, I touched my skull and paid extra attention to the fissures, I tested them they are hard and they are gray.
I hummed many self-celebrations and one and only one for the aggressor.
There is no uprising; there is only me. There is me and this me is molar. There is only me.
Molar contra Jaguar
Eyeless contra The Overseen.
Why did you dip your virgin hands into my germs?
Do you like to meet things that don’t want to meet you?
Did you dip them to clean yourselves?
Did you think it good for any mouth?
Did the Jaguar collapse into the water exhausted and half dead from weakness in the jungle?
The Jaguar then licks a body bent on self-infliction and the ambition to survive as its lowest self.
But I was still in the bathroom.
I sat there consumed by your challenge.
Consumed but not imbalanced.
And along the floor near the toilet, a skeleton legged spider stepped out and tackled a wandering beetle. It did so undaunted.
It tackled half killed and returned.
I am given my lessons.
But Jaguar, I speak them mine.
I left the bathroom and the library and I walked.
That is what I did Jaguar.
I walked.
No standing still, no diversion of person of product.
I walked to the woods. And beneath the bridge that connects towns, I sat in the dirt.
I have been walking Jaguar—
To excise everything unneeded and turn heavier within myself, no group
no uprising
no challenge
only the reforming of the softened self.
The gray blood formed coin sized flakes of ice. And moved to my groin. My dick is hard. I cannot fight any other way than with all immanent energies.
Jaguar, why do you divide blood and duty?
Come see my face each on his own. And I will close your eyes and you will meet The Sleep.
Molar contra Uprising.
One against The Same but Smaller.
Jaguar meets The Sleep.
While I walked, I was equipped by my god, me.
I found a pile of deer fur beneath the bridge, where the cold animal had gone to die—and within the fur: its skeleton all scattered and smeared with black meat.
Jaguar, there are no favors for the one against the group, only a perverse groping for control.
I will scratch my fingertips along the soft skin covering the veins in our neck. The Jaguar is many so The Jaguar is unstable.
A bag of marbles won’t roll.
And I won’t hate my work.
The group that hunts is scattered and feeble.
The match against the wind.
Jaguar against Selves.
The Sleep over The Tired.
The Match against The Wind.
The Jaguar contra The Eyeless Spider.
I brushed the hair off of each bone and took them home.
I boiled the bones in a large metallic pot, atop my stove.
I boiled them because of the blackened material.
When the black material boiled off the steam permeated my face.
I felt married to self-destruction.
I am the ‘is’ of your statement.
The Jaguar combs the burrs from my pubes off its ass and wipes its agonized face off with a fern leaf. The Jaguar’s mascara bleeds into its mouth and it vomits a smaller version of me and the smaller version coughs directly onto the ground and peels a segment, rolling The Jaguar up and setting it to Sleep.
The Sleep is now, Jaguar.
The bulb died when you used it.
The match is quieted by wind
Bones of the old, the bones of The Jaguar folding under the old tent of its skin. Skin. The Eyeless Spider leaves the skeleton.
I inhaled the steam of the black material and emptied the water into my sink. The steam floated out the gray window. I became intensely afraid and felt lost. My 3x3kitchen reduced me to hollow indecision and I stood blankly with the pot of steaming bones in my hands.
Spiders and beetles emerged from beneath the stove and beneath my fridge and beneath the sink. They watched me and taught me to be eyeless.
I will teach nothing and be nowhere beyond my control.
Contra You.
The Jaguar hunts with its neck forward?
But you learn nothing from me and I am gone.
When the spiders and beetles came, they taught.
They taught me to be happy in my apartment. They told me to love my taped-up and flimsy cardboard box apartment, buried in the ground under a cold stratum of dead leaves compressed by an afternoon of rain.
But I didn’t learn anything. I watched without thinking.
That’s how an enemy forms.
I am one minus infinite hugs.
I am glad to meet you.
Jaguar, you must have either over-judged or secretly despised your ability.
The pumping muscle in your chest is my eye skimming power from your veins and seeing all that is the barren skeleton of you—
You are the frown of a half-erect penis.
Jaguar, let me digress and tell you something about myself.
I was raised in a closet sealed off by a broken wooden door.
I was taught everything by the eyeless spider and a very dumb king.
The eyeless spider stood still for days unceasing, and the dumb king never stopped—he waved his shitty underwear around his head laughing.
Jaguar, I assure you that you are nowhere near sam pink because neither is he.
Eat the things that are weaker than you Jaguar—stay alive—
but I expect no critique or squirm for doing the same.
Jaguar, I am a mean face and green-lit infantile-violence.
You will connive, Jaguar.
And huddle around the same fire.
I will cut off your heads using the sharp ends of your smashed egos.
You are the leaning dead tree on the one undying.
You are on a leash, tied together with the long convolutions of your tirades.
You are at home with each other.
I was not ready to stay home; I was still afraid. I left and returned to the stream with the bones.
Jaguar, I threaded the clean verterbrae back together with a shoelace from my boot. And hung them on a tree branch. And night came. And I lay beneath the hanging bones. I didn’t sleep. I couldn’t stop looking at them. Bronzed by the moon that entered through the tree-cover.
Jaguar, you are looking into a lens and you are talking to me.
I am right here and I am never seen. I am standing still for days.
If I swallowed your eye you’d see—
The bone marrow of a very old tree
If I swallowed your eye you’d see—
The attic light, one bulb opening up along the wood floor where the lesbians are kissing and there is nothing angry around.
If I swallowed your eye you’d see—
A very old lion with gray around his face, who no longer even wants to kill to eat
If I swallowed your eye you’d see—
A moth banging against the floodlight because the moth is cold and your ideas likewise, Jaguar, have ripped and dissolute wings and no warm blood outside the group.
If I swallowed your eye you’d see—
Only what is mine.
I eat only what is mine.
I cannot fear the Jaguar Uprising because nothing rises in a group.
I cannot fear a group.
When the Jaguar assembles I stand in the woods and masturbate on a tree; I laugh and watch them assemble and I make a sword out of a chipped rock. I throw rocks and pull pieces of The Jaguar from within itself; The Jaguar jettisons members quickly through individual crises.
Listen to The Jaguar; it sleeps it sleeps.
Listen to The Jaguar underneath a blanket— warm within the confines of its group.
Listen to the dryness between the bone connections in the Jaguar; it sleeps it sleeps.
Should I unfold The Jaguar or let it die in sleep?
Should I step soundless to its sleeping frame and fasten a ziplock bag over each head?
I am feeling like a horny amoral god.
I have been walking again, Jaguar. I am walking.
And I won’t go home.
And I won’t put my hands in my pockets because they are itchy.
And my hands won’t hate their work.
I have been walking and listening. I have been walking to remember the sickened fight of the one-strong.
Jaguar, The Sleep. The Sleep.
You know.
I tell of The Sleep.
It should ring even to lazy ears.
No uprising can stay horizontal.
The Sleep.
The Sleep
The Sleep
The Sleep
It is.
The Sleep is.
Jaguar, you are tired.
Make your bed where I shaved the earth for you.
You don’t have to thank me.
I am taking what I can and then calling it mine.
I make big steps and you sleep The Sleep in the marks of my steps. Step-marks.
Jaguar, you are my step-mark kids.
My step-kids.
This is where I tep on your face.
Me+Jaguar=The Sleep.
I am walking and hitting the bones together and hearing the sound.
I am hearing the sound. I shake my neck and my body and the vertebrae on the shoelace necklace clack together. They are the tempo that you won’t hear unless I allow.
And I won’t hate my work.
And I will trace the lines around me in the woods.
And disrupt none.
And hate no work.
I hit the bones against each other and against the rocks and trees. I piss on the tree roots and also the leaves of the prettiest plants. I kiss the flowers with a lipsticked mouth.
Because, The Jaguar hunts.
Which is a form of finding.
I strike reactive violence that making no claims—minding both sides of itself so no seam betrays a split.
The Jaguar is seamed.
I am the eyeless spider.
On my back is my home.
My teeth are shiny but they are black.
They are thorns and they are very sick, but strong to it themselves. They are very very sleepless.
Jaguar, The Sleep.
The Sleep is very close.
I am walking to you, walking into wind that wants me away.
But I am without intention of any kind;
I am answering only what I ask in private.
Tonight I walked between two streetlights. I watched my shadow move and align itself perfectly beneath me.
Jaguar, I am the latest version of myself.
I will tap The Jaguar teeth with my bones and dance by myself.
The sounds will make me want to dance.
The Jaguar is a piece of silly putty with a faded reproduction of newsprint on it.
The newsprint is an old ‘Blondie’ cartoon.
In the cartoon, ‘Dagwood’ is pouring boiling water on his inner thigh and fingering his asshole.
The Jaguar’s self-determined destination:
Aborted by the astringent mouth of the eyeless spider.
Molar contra Uprising.
The Jaguar contra The Eyeless Spider
The Sleep
The Jaguar is hunting.
The Jaguar is video.
The Jaguar is video hunting.
You are a movie of however many scared-looking skeletons.
And I spit at things that look so scared.


My Tongue Is A Leaf and Space Is Worthless (Part I and Part II and Part III Part IV and Part V and Part VI)


If I could step outside myself spectrally,
like people do on television when they need to appraise their situation through detachment,
I would make out with myself then stab a hole in my throat and fuck the hole and cum out through my mouth.
But, I don’t know,
maybe that’s just me.


Nobody is my friend.
The first thing I do when I enter my room is lock the door.

Sometimes I don’t eat dinner because I am worried someone will kill me if I leave my room.

I have vertigo & my ears permanently ring.
I always feel like I’m going to pass out on the floor.
I am better than you at eating lunch and being nice.
But I won't defend myself ever.


Lately, whenever I am around a group of humans I worry that they will enact a series of events beyond my control that will end in my death. And feeling that way energizes me. But it is weird to always be readying myself to kill whoever tries to kill me. That’s seems like an unusual preoccupation.
I will admit it is not always fun.


I will piss on your birthday cake and piss on your face while you are sleeping and when you wake up I will pin you with my eyes and continue to piss until I am finished.
You will feel changed by it in some way.


Group sex and routine candle branding and I am the very very tip of your laugh.


Today I climbed the tree that stands over the view of the highway. And I watched cars.
I thought about pushing someone to the ground and looking at them.





Some time in the future, I haven’t yet determined the date, I plan on conquering all of civilization. I will accomplish this objective alone. But I will need the items listed below should any of the readers find themselves in the position to lend me one or more (also, in advance, none of what you do in order to help me accopmlish my goal will exonerate you from being conquered). I will need:

1. a flamethrower of Medium to Very Good Quality. this medium to very good flamethrower must emit green flames. There is no reason for the greenness of the flame, only my inclination.

2. gloves made of frozen tears, to protect me from the green flames of the medium to (hopefully) very good flamethrower. I wouldn’t want to burn the small hairs on my hands. there will be a lot of heat during the conquering.

3. I will also need a pair of exceptionally small gym shorts. The shorts should have like one of those painted plastic boxes on the left or right. I will write my full name in the painted plastic box. I need maximum comfort, maneuverability and style, because part of the plan involves a lot of killing and the killing involves both a lot of jumping and, yes, jumping while carrying a heavy flamethrower. All of which work towards the collision of your balls against your leg. Unless your shorts can hold your balls. It would be inexpedient to be killing people and have things going all good and shit and then your balls hit against your thigh and you think for a second, 'I'm good, I'm good' but then you can't move. i need to maximize my efficiency.

4. I need a few coloring books, a 96 pack of crayons (48 is fine but nothing less), and a picture of you so I don’t get lonely while I am coloring.

5. a few rolls of toilet paper to manufacture disposable diapers for night time. I say this because I presume that when civilization is dead I will forget that it is wrong to shit while I am sleeping. It will be nice to relearn that, but I also want to contain it. hence the paper towel diapers.

6. a perpetually regenerating piece of red licorice.

7. a lot of q-tips.

8. sixteen billion baby deer with whom i will begin a new civilization based on the common need to eat and be alone.

9. sixteen million straws to manufacture a snorkel-device that would allow me to sleep at the bottom of the Atlantic.

10. an English to Eyeless-Fish Dictionary so if an eyeless fish wakes me up I know what to say.

11. a one thousand page notebook, unlined. Having conquered and killed everyone, I intend to write a long description of the overcoming, and then interweave a tale about how a dog teaches me to love myself and my grandpa. then we all learn lessons from sports and maybe i will tie all those themes together. I will study those Matt Christopher books where people like save their relatives from cancer by hitting homeruns and scoring touchdowns at the right moment during their maturation.

The ‘Overcoming’/Last-book-ever-written will be called, “Hit a Homerun for Grandpa, Little Billy and Kiss Your Basketball Playing Dog on the Nose.” I will insert myself as a character. My character will be like a peripheral character from a late eighties/early nineties teen movie. The climax of the book is me unlocking a key moment in the protagonist’s life after tracking him down at the old baseball field one night.

I’ll say, “Dude you gotta get to the dance, Stacy’s waitin man and Elliot is looking to show you up at dancing.”

Then he'll smile and say, “Batter’s up.”

6. I have totally forgotten what this post was about and I don’t want to read it so I will try to sum it all up: “yes, fucking can give your Hemorrhoids.”



i will put two books out soon. don't worry everybody, they are self-published so you don't have to get mad and think "who would fucking publish this? i am better than he is". however, if you know a publisher that is currently on acid or really drunk or maybe is experiencing a psychotic episode, please alert them to my work so i can get published and be a superstar. one book is poetry, and kendra is doing it. it will be tangible. the only is a short book of prose, almost entirely new stuff. it will be a pdf file with a pretty cover and maybe a picture of kendra masturbating with a banana (i am serious). the prose book will be out soon. the poetry book whenever kendra decides. i encourage you in advance to print out the pdf and leave it somewhere after you read it. do the same with the poetry book. i want a little kid to find my writing and then kill him/herself. i want parents to blame me for the corrosion of society. it would be fun to be on the news or a talk show and have people yelling at me. also, if i am on the news, then people will finally find out that i have a lobster head, with two tentacle eyes. oh yeah, please write some blurbs in the comments section and i will use them. i already have blurbs from me, kendra, albert fish, jesus, god and my grandma. fuck you.



i fixed the songs with the help of brandon scott gorrell. go here for the lyrics.



i posted at DRUNK. the poem is called "i like shitting in my pants (and by pants i mean your mouth or ear or your goldfish tank or your grandma's lap".

it has been heavily blurbed as you will see when you read it.

lord byron even emailed me and was like "damn yo, that shit is fucking hype." then he did one those smiley-face things like this :)



robot melon.


i have some things published at DOGMATIKA.

you are an idiot.