I’m really glad that you enjoy my blog. Did you know that I write other stuff?

HLHPattison 

is my real-life blog, where I write about actual stuff that’s going on in my life, as I follow my dream to become a financially independent author. I plan to make it more my “about me” blog, whereas this one will be more for fictional poetry & prose.

The Young Offenders 

is a graphic novel I wrote a few years ago. It’s the story of some weird kids with strange powers, who are trying to protect a disenfranchised ghetto. 

Booger Island 

is one of my notoriously silly side-projects. It’s full of promotions for a fake TV show. 

I’m also pushing my new book, like mad!

I recently self-published my first novel online, and it’s available all over the internet. I need people to buy it, I need people to read it, and I need people to review it. That’s how the ball keeps rolling. 

And that’s where you can find me, online, these days!

Oh, and I also started a page for my author-identity at Facebook. So you can “like” me, if you like! 

I was going to be her “something special”, her cake left out in the rain, infested with angry little wasps. There’s the hardened shell of the icing, it’s light pink and crisp, but the cake beneath it is soggy with water, and when the wasp tunnels out from within, breaking through that thick icing crust, it’s like the most grotesque birth sequence you can imagine. The pink of the icing is the pink of her cunt. The wasp crawling out is a nightmare of insect-fetishistique and hate. 

The sugary-sweet icing snaps like the shell of an egg, and, leg by leg, the wasp struggles its way out, pulls itself through the little opening in the surface of the cake. The wasp’s body is caked with bits of soft-dough, and it seems confused; unhappy. 

The pink body of the icing on the cake gives way, and the little bit of angry wrapped in yellow and black, crawls its way free.

It reminds you of something, Freudian and ugly and personal. 

I was going to be something for her.

We’re going out to save the world. Or to end it. “I don’t think I’m reading this map right,” I warn her.

She’s made-up to look like one of those high-IQ porn-starlets; thick eyeshadow, ready to run. Her smile is gaudy, and overly suggestive. She makes teenage boys uncomfortable. She makes me want to get behind the wheel of a car and just drive.

We’re burning. We’re burning so fucking bright. 

She grabs for my weapon like it’s a sexually suggestive motion. Again with that smile that makes her look like a soft, willing place I could spend a nice twenty minutes within. She licks her lips and I shoot the car through a four-way stop without looking. To my left and right I hear the sweet sound of metal crushing in on itself, but my momentum is unrestrained. 

Her seatbelt hugs her to seat looking for all the world like cheap bondage gear. Everything look like a prop for a sequence about sexual gratification, placed in proximity to her. Hell, even I look like something you could almost imagine holding hands with, when she smiles and squirms like that in the passenger’s seat of my car. 

“Have you seen those places?” she asks me, waving at a church as we slide by. “I don’t care what kind of sick shit I get up into in my life; that god-character has to be the biggest whore there is.”

She licks her lips, leans over me, and spits blood at the centre line of the road. 

Cabby-wack. Shaddylack. Touby Shaloobanwhack.

I walk around making nonsense sounds to myself. I say “beep” very quietly whenever I run something over our de-security-device at work. When I do something quickly or smoothly I got “choooo” real soft, because that’s sound it would make if I were a huge space-ship, moving around very quickly or smoothly.

Eep eep epp. I say, almost worriedly. That’s from Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas, when he’s on adrenochrome.

She was so beautiful, I took her hand in mine and whispered those words she’d so long longed to hear: “Shut up, stupid.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ve kinda gotten bored of talking anyway.”

“I wish I could believe that this time,” I said, which was one of my most popular catch-phrases. I had a few thousand T-shirts with that emblazoned across the front, in cardboard boxes in the garage. We used them as grease-rags and cum-rags and occasionally even clothing. 

Yeah, she was beautiful, for an ugly girl. She had a face that made me think of dead batteries and a body that moved like sand in a sock. She made me want to fuck, she made me want to masturbate, she made me want to see my cock sawn off and thrown out the window of a very fast flying jet plane. She made me want to go back to secondary school and curse out my calculus mentor for instructing me on cunnilingism instead of mathematics. 

“That might just be a metaphor, but you know what I mean.”

That was another of my witty rejoinders, that we plastered across bumper-stickers and billboards.

I was in love with her. Because I fucking hated myself, and she was the best way for me to express it. 

She was in love with me, because she hated fucking herself. It was a similar situation, but slightly differently shaped and sized, like getting your porn on wide-screen instead of that crappy aspect-ratio, with the bumpy pan-and-scan when you want to see the full scene. 

Well, we called it love. I’m not sure what the police and media referred to it as, but the townspeople certainly drove us out of the city with flaming torches and bad words.

Nothing’s going to help you, when we come for you.

She breaks my heart with a word, and that word is “bullet”. 

Her word is a bullet, her voice is pure kinetic pressure, bursting through my chest and leaving me limping and bleeding with a hole through the centre of me that the world is falling through.

The world is falling through me and she’s got smoke drifting from her lips.
Her mouth’s the smoking gun.
My body’s the portrait of a suicide.

She highjacks my depressions and my emotional lows. She cuts me up like she’s trying to edit me out of her prose, like I’m a dangling participle she’s going to trim. She steals my subtexts and replaces them with submissive missives. You know the kind I’m talking about; those letters you get from me where I’d do anything you’d put in lettering, just to have you write my way.

 She smiles, and I try to smile back, but really just flicker like lightning in a bottle.

I struggle so hard, against the tide, and against time. I struggle like there’s her hands still wrapped about my neck, her unhealthy philosophies wrapped around my life, warping my life, her perversions boring me hour after hour…

But you know how it is. You get to go out, see other things, be other people. You skin your lovers alive and wear them out as whole new personalities and you meet other people and it just goes on and on until you’ve replaced your blood and organs so many times you might as well just be a collection of random bits.

Not a person, just a collection of random bits of body stolen from lovers. 

She sticks her tongue in my mouth, and I use it to sing songs written for a voice that’s not mine. I’m so sick of my own voice anyway. I’d love to just be muzzled, gift-wrapped, tucked away, put somewhere where I couldn’t harm or pour my heart out to anybody anymore. 

I’d love to be held, held back held down. I’d love to be used for something greater than all these bad plans I’m currently planning out. 

I bring home beautiful women because I like to have an audience when I’m going to do what I want to do, to you. I want you looking at me, and knowing that they’re looking at you, as my skin reaches out to connect with yours.

You spit blood in my face, and you laugh when you hurt me. There’s nothing that I don’t love about you. Not even him. Not even any of it. I love you like a nail loves a hammer, like an inanimate object loves the sun. I love you like something alive and twitching in a barrel of acid, trapped sightless and dying. 

She puts her hands to me, and I just want it to all slip away. You sit somewhere else, seemingly so far away, just happy to see us discovering… what? Each other? Little patches of sadism and pleasure? 

You don’t seem like the type to quantify. You don’t seem like the type to say much at all, with something to suck on and somebody to put you down on your knees. Your eyes go all quiet and peaceful, and something else takes over the room for a bit.

Too much smoke, too much chaos. I can’t see her, coming in through the window. I can’t see her, breaking in, breaking through, breaking little hearts with a little hammer in each hand. 

She looks me over, she packs me bombs for lunch. She fills up my stomach with empty-minded hatreds. I tell her I’m hungry, so she fills my mouth with broken glass, and she fills my belly up with knives.

Baby’s got a name written on her arm; she wrote it there herself, with half a broken magic-marker, and half a broken razor-blade. She bleeds black ink into a pool on the floor.

I’d love to be her lover, but I find her heart a little overcrowded. She’d love to teach me a lesson, but I forget everything that isn’t ground into my skin. Mostly I just remember how she loves to smoke cigarettes; there’s a trail of scars swimming up my spine, so she can find her way up to my mind, and back down again. 

MY ROBOT HEART NEEDS YOUR LOVE TO BEAT.

I take all your kindness. I take:

• those nice things you said
• your warm touches
• those letters you sent me
• all the physical affection I can get my hands on

And I condense them down into slim coin forms, and I stick those coins in the slot in my back, so they can tumble down in my heart, and keep me moving a little while longer.

I tell her, “I like to dance for you. I’d dance even I was alone in the room, but it’s better this way.” And it is. I don’t just dance for myself, I dance to have a human experience. I dance to express something with all the other living beings in the universe, especially the ones I understand the clearest; my own damned species. 

I like being close, being wanted, being encouraged. 

I don’t need it. I don’t need any of this trouble, I don’t need any of you cunts, I could go it alone and just be that. Just be a madman, off in the hills, shitting the dirt and screaming at the stars in the sky. 

But I’d rather be doing this. I’d rather be stuffed full of affection and acceptance, than sitting alone somewhere, feeling like a fucking prat. 

My robot heart surges to life with the power of a billion bolts of purple lightning! My robot heart eats babies and craps nuclear waste. My robot heart keeps me alive and makes the perfect lover. My eyes glow and my muscles ripple attractively. I bite my lower lip and smile a little. Ladies take notice.

MY ROBOT HEART BEATS TO LOVE, AND BEATS TO DESTROY. 

She’s a girl dreaming of lizards, of lizard-assassins that creep up the walls and crawl down the streets, lizard-assassins with atomic-ray-guns and anti-matter-duplicate-minds that can think in X-Ray vision. 

She’s got drugs that let me see into the Blue Zone, where everything’s blue and sounds like a long line of humming down a hollow & empty pipe. She’s got the drugs that’ll let me grow as big as the sky and twice as azure from the outside. She lets me see whatever I want to know is outside of myself, and she lets me keep it that way.

“Stop telling secrets,” the voices warn me, the voices hidden in the toaster in the fridge, the listening devices that’ve started talking back, “or people will understand how to make the magic happen for themselves.” 

It’s an intonation read forwards in the forebrain, its the thing that lets these evil bastards lay their eggs inside your heads, implanting thoughts that’ll hatch into little nasty fuckers that attach themselves to your heart and soul and all those other imaginary traits that mean so much to you.

Nothing means anything at all, not when you get up close and see how truly monstrous it is. I wait for you to open up, so I can pour it all down your throat.

She dreams, and when she dreams, the little lizards come crawling out of her ears, and they come out hungry, and ready to kill. 

She drips madness out out pores. You could get high from licking her, and I do.

She puts the knife to the neck, and pushes. Reality buckles, the skin of reality gives way, and begins to bleed.

My father is a poor boy living in a trailer in the middle of nowhere in one of those little shit towns I’d never be caught dead in again. 

He was a boy from the suburbs of Vancouver Island, once upon a time, but that wasn’t good enough for him. So he went out, and he became a rockabilly. He played slide guitar, and he drove a beat-up pickup covered in pictures of his blues icons. 

A bunch of stuff happened in my father’s life, but he told me one story about how he used to play at the Smiling Buddha Cabaret, and how there used to be this little trio of little punk kids that’d follow his band around when they were in town,  and that these little punk kids would hang off their words, and buy them drinks, and generally make my dad and his fools feel like real rock stars.

Some fifteen years later, my pa’s reading an interview with Kurt Cobain in some music magazine, and Cobain is listing his influences, and along with a bunch of other bands, he mentions that he was really jazzed by “some old rockabilly guy who used to play at the Smilin’ Buddha Cabaret”. 

I like to listen to Nirvana now, and imagine some fifteen-year-old Cobain getting drunk with my pa, this drunken rockabilly shitstorm from Canada. 

Maybe it’s true, maybe it’s not. I’m sure a bunch of crazy rockabilly guys used to play at the Smilin’ Buddha. But the dates line up, and you know what, fuck it - I just like the mythology. Maybe it says something about me that I’m willing to buy into some crap that my dad told me.

But it’s an entertaining idea to me, and it always strikes me when I’m listening to Nirvana.

I remember a girl making fun of me one time, for listening to loud Nirvana on my headphones and having bleach-blond hair. I felt like such a cliché for a moment, which is stupid. Most of my embarrassments are stupid in retrospect; some humiliate me like a lightning bolt up the ass.

I had to deal with a crazy street person recently. He was saying offensive religious garbage in my store, and sort of trying to pick fights, so I asked him to go, and walked him out onto the street. He called me “un-American”, (which is inaccurate in that I am North American and accurate in that I am Canadian), and implied that I was homosexual due to my painted fingernails. 

I had to struggle to not get involved. He was coherant enough that it made you want to argue with him, to try to set him straight. But there’s no point to it.

I see the same situation all the time on-line. People getting drawn into conflicts with the mentally-ill, with the mentally-deficient. You know where I see that a lot? On the internet. In youtube comments, on blogs, even sometimes on facebook, I see rationally-minded individuals butting heads with insane people who know how to type.

I don’t want to be one of those people. I don’t want to waste my time (and yours) arguing out meaningless pseudo-facts with strangers I don’t have any respect for. So, I’m trying, when I get letters that spew ignorance and small-minded pettiness at me in my in-box, to just ignore that shit. Of course I get some crazy, offensive letters from idiots. The world is full of them. 

What I have to not do, is lower myself to the level of their conversation. Of course you’re wrong. You’re wrong. But I don’t have to tell you that. You’re crazy. Your life is the proof of your own miserable mind.

If I was going to have arguments with crazy people, I’d be saying things like this:

• Christianity and Catholicism are not the only two real religions.

• There are no anarchist groups active in Vancouver; the riots were staged by drunken middle-class sports enthusiasts who were primarily young men from the outlying towns, the majority of whom were hard-core hockey fans. 

• People who don’t live in my city should not be telling me how or why my city’s riot took place. I live here. I saw it happen. I know these people. I deal with them every day. 

• The devil is not real.

• Non-Caucasian people are exactly the same as Caucasian people. 

• I don’t care what Spawn comics your dad owned.

• Why are you expending the energy to judge me, if you won’t take the time to get to know me first? What is there to gain in making enemies with somebody you don’t even understand? 

Anyway. You can piece this shit together for yourself. I don’t want to get involved.

I don’t want to talk to crazy people, self-righteous jocks, the mentally lazy, condescending twats… I don’t want to waste my time.

I know a lot of really nice, cool, smart people. And I’d rather spend my time talking with them. Flirting with them. Ranting with them. Playing on the swings with them, or pulling them behind the bushes to make out a little. 

Yep. Anger can be fun, but misdirected anger is a waste. I’m not going to spend my life arguing with people who don’t even like me. You can just go piss up a rope, and I’ll go back to building my perfect world out of the ashes of a billion faded dreams.