Variations On Emotional Suicide, the new release from on the book to buy it today!

Saturday, May 16, 2015

beale street blues boy

what was it ‘bout
that sharecroppin’ boy
usin’ a  guitar as a toy?
bendin’ and stretchin’
each emotion drenched note,
singin like demons and angels
tryin’ ta crawl from his throat.
made women swoon
and grown ass men cry.
my oh my,
dem blues is so sly.
left the lonely cabin,
searching for stardom,
when he was a young teen.
had less than 3 dollars in his pocket
but he was determined
to become a king.
named his woman Lucille,
a soul mate he met
during a juke-joint fire.
she was his lifetime reminder
to never lose that desire
to inspire.
lemon and prune faced
while crooning them tunes,
made people do devious things.
some of them
tossing aside wedding rings.
yet he gave us his all,
we were enthralled
by the virtuoso
at every show.
he melded jazz, blues
and pain.
a volatile concoction
that may never
be seen again.
quick witted and wry,
alternately making you
wonder why
you were in the situation
you happened to be in.
so many have gleaned
from those stretched note riffs
set blissfully adrift
on four-four time
and an occasional glass of wine.
if memories are golden,
he has given us
the midas touch
for years to come.
the thrill is gone
but his legend
lives on.

follow wurdz on Twitter & Instagram @wurdzpoet @wurdzpix
~wurdz © 2015 all rights reserved

Friday, February 27, 2015

a vulcan state of mind

i am not spock.
the 23rd century…
the place?
the hearts and minds
of every trekkie
who ever dared
raise an eyebrow,
or attempt to paralyze
a buddy
with a neck pinch surprise.
the green-blooded hobgoblin
was calm and collected,
while making bones
and others
feel agitated and dissected
more times than expected…
oftentimes disrespected.
without a smirk
or a grin,
his logic would begin.
sentient strings
of subliminal sentences,
explaining  complicated instances,
yet meeting the consciousness
on an uncluttered plane
of uncompromised confidence.
blank stare…
but it made sense
to the pointy eared
purveyor of proficiency.
i am spock.
as whiffs of smoke
turned  to solemn cries
for understanding,
we were blessed
with a man
who embraced his destiny
and shared a revelation.
being split in two
was a reality and nightmare
causing a constant battle
of the flesh and mind.
the human race
would do well
to mimic an alien
who adapted
to life
in his living hell.
he survived
because his intelligence
dominated both sides
and forced them
to live together…
as one in peace.
he lived long and prospered.
if only the denizens of earth
could do the same.
raise the v
and boldly remember
his name.

follow wurdz on Twitter & Instagram @wurdzpoet @wurdzpix
~wurdz © 2015 all rights reserved

Monday, January 26, 2015

ivy clouds

from the cotton field
to wrigley field,
a tremendous hardship
that would ultimately yield
an icon.
stuffing  those bolls
into a sack
gave him the knack
for a sweet swing
that even made
the opposing team sing
his praises.
wiggling those fingers,
on the handle
of his bat,
was imitated
by every baseball
loving kid,
even though
they never knew
why he did.
a reflex,
a memory
that kept him humble
and aware.
the cubs will shine in ’69,
the cubs will come alive in ’65,
forever the optimist
but never crowned
a champion,
yet he played
with the heart
of a lion.
swatting  balls
over those
ivy covered walls,
“bingo-bango-bilko double play!”
that’s what the announcer
would say,
back in the day.
such a smooth stride,
a heavenly glide
to the bag,
ending with a laser beam
throw to first.
but all things end
and so did the sparkle
of his career.
he had to give up
the pastime
and the cheers,
which he held so dear.
from the negro league
to the majors,
he gave his all.
mr. cub proved
the doubters wrong,
with his gracefulness
in a game
played with
a little white ball.

follow wurdz on Twitter & Instagram @wurdzpoet @wurdzpix
~wurdz © 2015 all rights reserved

Tuesday, January 6, 2015

the man

can I get a witness?!
hyperbole for all to see,
dangling participles
to set staunch minds free,
his legend
into something cooler
than the other side
of the pillow.
like a guy smokin’
at a gas station,
his career blew up
and he politely
took us along for the ride.
he was hated on
and called a freak
because of that eye
yet few knew why
and still mocked him
on the sly.
corporate monsters
said the talk was lame,
they had no idea
he was the epitome
of this game
for four letter dominance
and reigning fame,
separating himself
from talking heads
that all sounded the same.
exuberance, eloquence
ain’t none of ‘em fresh like scott,
that boy was straight
outta the catchphrase shop.
a warrior,
who didn’t want to know
the terms of battle,
he fought with courage and dignity,
to the sounds of a timpani,
urging him onward
past pain and defeat.
the mork from ork
of the sports world
has taken a bow…
first and ten…
ya don’t lose to cancer,
you win.

follow wurdz on Twitter & Instagram @wurdzpoet @wurdzpix
~wurdz © 2015 all rights reserved

Friday, October 31, 2014


  Franklin studied his face, in the restroom mirror, and managed a quick smile. It was fake. He was checking to see if there was any spinach stuck in his teeth from the appetizer he just forced down.

  “Fucking spinach. I hate that shit,” he mumbled, while patting his hair and straightening his tie. “But you gotta get what the lady wants.”

  He was really feeling  Sandy. She was far better looking than he thought she’d be. The last blind date he survived was a total disaster. It was more of a social network hook up. It started with a few innocent tweets and likes and then they were sending direct messages at 2 a.m. There was one problem. She talked a big sex game, but the pictures weren’t of her. She used her roommate’s photos, to create a whole persona for herself. She kept the ruse up for three months! When they met for lunch, he stayed a while, cracked a few jokes and left. He actually sneaked out and left her with the bill.

 “Ugly wench. All she had to do was be truthful. Oh well. She’ll be wiser next time.”

  He made one final adjustment to his suit coat and turned to leave. He stopped and took one last look in the mirror.

  “This is your night, Franklin Summers,” he reassured himself.  “ Do it right! She wants you.”

  He walked out of the restroom and back into the crowded bistro. He let Sandy pick the place to eat and she nailed it. He was impressed by her attention to detail. That was something the fat cow, Cynthia, didn’t do. She was truly a pathetic loser. He made his way to the table and summoned all of his suave and debonair persona for the final battle.

  “What took you so long? I was beginning to think you cut out on me.”

  “Who, me? Never. That’s a cowards move. You don’t have to worry about me doin’ anything like that. I’d tell you the deal, like a real man.”

  Sandy laughed and took a sip of her water. Franklin watched her lips form around the rim of the glass and imagined her perfect mouth doing various other things.

  “Did you order yet? You were having some trouble deciding, before I left.”

  “Yup. Got my eyes on the T-bone. I was surprised they had it on the menu. This place is so quaint. That seems a bit harsh for the atmosphere.”

  “I’ve been coming here for a while. I found this place by accident. Just happened to be in the neighborhood on business and there it was. I love trying new things.”

  “Is that why you answered my message on Twitter?” Sandy leaned in for the answer. She was a tantalizing morsel and Franklin was going to enjoy every moment with her. He wanted to give her the 500 point answer but he figured she would be smart enough to guess the daily double towards the end. She was all any guy could want. But he wasn’t ready. He wanted to search for that ultimate playmate. Marriage would come. At the moment, he was all about the excitement.

 Franklin leaned back and let a fantastic tale rattle around in his brain.

  “When I saw your picture, all I could think of was you and me. I wanted to get to know you immediately, so we could get some plans together. You know, see where we could take things. Even though it’s only been a couple weeks, I feel like you’re a part of me…Like I’m inside of you.”

  Ahhh…bad boy. Is that in a good way or are you trying to flirt with me? I’m really vulnerable right now. My stomach is rumbling and my thoughts are like putty. You might make me think of the wrong things.”

  She licked the rim of her glass, sat it down and gave Franklin a seductive gaze. He gulped, sat up and tugged at his tie. She wasn’t the boring cow. She was ready and willing to get things going. He was grateful she was playing along and not pretending to be so naïve .

  “Um, are you really hungry? Cause if you’re not, I can pay the bill and we can get that steak at my place. I’ve got a couple of ribeyes that won’t take long to whip up. Shall we leave?”

  Sandy stood and moved away from her chair. She winked at Franklin, turned and seductively walked towards the door. That settled it. He pulled out his wallet, threw  $25 on the table for the horrible spinach dip and hastily followed his date.

  He caught up to her and offered his arm. She held on tight, as they walked out into the night and towards his car.

  It didn’t take long to reach his place. They joked and played a subdued version of grab ass along the way. Sandy looked around the apartment. It was sparsely furnished. Typical man’s styling but with less appeal than most. It was almost sad. There was nothing to make it stand out a say something about the person living there. It was cookie cutter yet it begged for definition.

  “Did you get the feeling we were being followed?” Franklin asked, from the kitchen. “ There was a car that kept popping up. Maybe I was seeing things.”

  “No, not really. Could you just get that steak going? I’m fucking starving.”

  That wasn’t a lady like answer. But Franklin didn’t give a damn. He’d fix the steaks, feed her, fuck her and get ghost. If she was a good lay, he might make her a regular. He took the steaks from the fridge and put them in the sink. He let some lukewarm water run across them.

The doorbell rang.

“Who the hell?...Would you mind getting that, Sandy? I’m getting the food ready. I think it might be my brother. Sometimes he drops by after he gets off work. He doesn’t like going straight home to his wife.”

  For the price of some spinach dip, he was going to screw like a champ.

  “Who is it?” He asked, over the running water.  “ Oh. How do you take your steak?”

  A dull pain shot through his neck and traveled up the back of his head. Franklin threw a hand up to shield himself from more agony. His legs felt wobbly, as he turned around. He slid down the front of the sink and tried to focus on his attacker. The room was spinning but he could make out the shapes of two people. One of them was holding a billy club. He heard it drop to the floor. The sting of a needle pierced his arm and coldness seemed to spread from the point of its contact. Focus. He had to focus. He tried to move, tried to open his mouth. Nothing. Whatever was coursing through his body made him as limp as a noodle.

  “Awww…don’t he look so cute, with his sexy self?”

  That voice…the shape. It was the cow. Cynthia.

  “Yeah, he is kinda cute,” Sandy whispered. “Can’t find many assholes who fit the cute bill today.”

  There was a black bag on the floor. Sandy stooped down and reached inside. She pulled out  a set of knives, spices and a hacksaw. Franklin couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. But he was screaming inside his head.


  Sandy held up a carving knife and then put it down. She smiled up at Cynthia and nodded her head. She picked up the hacksaw and turned to Franklin. There were tears of confusion and fear running down his face. His breathing was labored and snot bubbles formed in one of his nostrils. He was blinking slowly and a trickle of blood peeked across his lip. Sandy crawled over to the dazed, frightened man and licked his face.

  “Me and my sister like our steak…rare.”

With a lightening quick move, Sandy let the saw blade sink into Franklin’s soft thigh. She sawed with slow passionate movements. The motionless man watched as his blood oozed and spurted out. Like a surgeon, Sandy angled the blade and sliced off a nice sized piece of the muscle. Her sister jumped and squealed with joy, as she tossed the quivering flesh onto the floor.


  Sandy held the man’s arm out. She reared back with the saw and let it land in the elbow joint. She sliced and hacked the tissue, as bits and pieces of shirt and skin bathed the blade in crimson fluid. Cynthia snorted like a pig and grabbed a knife. She flung herself down, next to Franklin, and plunged the steel  into his chest. The deranged woman yanked the weapon out and thrust it into the uncut thigh. Blood sprayed onto her arms and face. She stopped momentarily, to lick the back of her arm, and then started to stab Franklin again.

  As the life drained from his body, Franklin tried to say he was sorry, like a real man would. But with each slice and stab of hell, he realized it wouldn’t matter. So he quietly, effortlessly sank into darkness.

follow wurdz on Twitter & Instagram @wurdzpoet @wurdzpix
~wurdz © 2014 all rights reserved

Friday, October 24, 2014


Stephan sniffed and rubbed the snot away from his nose, with a dirty shirt sleeve. He’d been wearing the same shirt for ten days. There was no need to count days anymore. But he did it to keep the frail thread of sanity he felt leaving.

He looked around the room. It used to be a pretty cool set up. He had all the toys a guy could want. Just a month before, he bought the 70” flat screen that he’d wanted since last year. He was going to get the guys over and make Sunday’s and Monday’s the getaway nights. There was nothing like some violent football collisions, to get the adrenaline going and discuss the past week’s adventures.

“Well fuck that to hell. Ain’t that right babe?”

He directed the question to his fiancée Kathy. She was handcuffed and chained to a chair, near the apartment door. Her face was pale and her eyes looked like she was a hundred or so miles away. Her breathing was rapid, pulse was weak and she had a fever.

“What are you talkin’ about?” she asked, almost in a whisper. “Fuck what?”

“Damn. Your memory is goin’ fast. They said that was one of the symptoms. Do you feel like you have a fever? I mean, you don’t look so hot.”

“Take these damn chains off me, Stephan. I’m not sick. I told you, I don’t have it. I ate that bad deer chili and it gave me some kinda food poisoning. Let me go.”

“You were just fine, last night. Now you got a fever and you look like shit. You stay chained up. I love you but I love me too.”

Kathy found the strength to spit at him. “You’re an asshole!”

“…And you’re contagious. I don’t want it to be this way. You saw what they said on the news. We have to be cautious. This thing has gotten out of hand. People are roaming the streets and turning. You don’t know who has it!”

The young woman let her head fall backwards and a long sigh escaped her lips.

“If I had known you were such a pig…damn.” She snapped her head forward and looked at Stephan. He was sitting across the room, on the floor, with his back against the sofa. They had pushed it next to the far wall to watch the door. The first two nights they were trouble free. But after that, there were attacks and attempts to break in almost each evening. People were panicking and there were no answers. Mass hysteria was setting in and there was a general lack of control, to say the least.


The loud knock made Kathy jump.

“Who the hell is it?!” Stephan demanded. He cocked the Glock he was babying and pointed it at the door. He had positioned Kathy near the entrance to see if she would draw out any stragglers in the building. They stayed in a four family unit but didn’t know what was going on in two of the other apartments. The Vega’s were dead. Manny shot himself and his wife on day five. They left a note on the door. Their bodies stank to high hell. Mr. Bachman was an old man in his 80’s. He cried for help for a few days and then went silent. He was surely done.


“Knock again and I will blow you the fuck away! Who is it?!”

Kathy shook her head and sobbed slightly.

“It’s one of them,” she said softly. “We should have checked the basement door. I told you they could get in that way.”

“Shut up,” Stephan snapped. “It really don’t matter. Nobody’s comin’ in here.”

“It could be someone who needs help. You can’t assume everyone is infected. We’re still okay. 
Maybe they’re just afraid like us.”

Stephan stood and walked towards his fiancée. He stood next to her and watched her. He pushed her head back, with the gun. She was breathing a little easier. He put the gun in his waist, reached into his pocket, pulled out surgical gloves and snapped them on. He felt her forehead. She was burning up.  For a moment, he wanted to cry. This isn’t how he envisioned the time before their marriage. He planned wild sex, trips to tropical islands and general debauchery before they settled into married life. The outbreak put all that on hold. Thanks to some stowaway from South America, the world was on the brink of extinction. The Night Plague, they labeled it. It was a malignant form of sleeping disease that cased the infected to mutate rapidly. In the first stage, sleeplessness, loss of nervous system control, skin atrophy, the onset of rabies, are just a few of the effects. It’s quite the nasty little bugger.

“Food poisoning, huh? You’re burnin’ up. You got scratched buy that guy, when we were raiding the store. I told you to be careful and you let your guard down!”

Kathy looked up at Stephan, with pleading eyes. “Sweetie, it’s not what you think. I’m a med student, remember? I’d lock myself in the bedroom if I thought I was contagious.”

Maybe she was right. Maybe he was starting to be just as insane as the people they saw roaming the streets. He was suddenly glad she’d talked him into the second floor apartment. She was almost a doctor. She had no reason to lie.

Stephan snapped off one glove and carefully used it to remove the other. He marched to the bathroom and flushed them down the toilet. He glanced in the mirror, before leaving. The scraggly beard looked crazy on him. Kathy mentioned he needed to take a razor, when they were in the store.  He scratched the light fur and moved back to the living room.

As he walked past the dining room table, he snatched up the keys to Kathy’s prison.

“Finally,” she said, watching him untangle the chains and click open the lock. “You’d think I was some malignant creature instead of your wife to be.”

“I’m sorry babe,” Stephan crooned, while pulling the chains from Kathy’s slender frame. “ I just had to make sure. You looked so fucked up.”

“I understand,” was all Kathy whispered in his ear as she lightly kissed his neck. Her hands caressed his neck and slid down his chest, as their tongues met in a passionate kiss. The fever wasn’t as bad but he was right. She felt like shit. She pulled the gun from his waist, pushed him back and shot him in the leg. One landed in his thigh while the other was a loud tear to the kneecap. Blood and skin flew across the hardwood floor as if someone had popped a balloon. Stephan screamed in pain, as he back peddled on the floor, using his good leg. She aimed higher and squeezed another into his shoulder. It knocked him into the sofa.


“You were gonna kill me! You had me at that fucking door like bait on a hook! A piece of meat! You never really loved me. You never cared. I was supposed to be your meal ticket to luxury. FUCK YOU!”

Stephan gingerly propped himself up, to ease the pain. Each move was excruciatingly difficult. He watched the blood pouring from his wounds and looked up at Kathy. The rapid breathing was back. She was twitching and her skin was visibly crawling. There was a light foam bubbling from the side of her mouth.

“You lying bitch.”

“Doesn’t matter. I get to see you die. You could have at least treated me with some dignity.”


“Who the hell is that?!” Stephan yelled through his pain.

Kathy eased over to the door and stood triumphantly.

“Last night, after another of your meaningless, empty attempts at sex, you fell asleep as usual. While you were snoring like a drunk, I took a trip down to Mr. Bachman’s apartment. He told me, a while back, there was a spare key under his doormat. He’s such a sweet guy. I used to go to the store for him all the time. He trusted me. I digress. I went into his apartment and low and behold, he was sitting in his chair, chewing on Cinnamon. You remember his cat, right? Well he noticed me, dropped the half eaten cat, popped up and came after me. He sniffed at me, snorted and went back to eating.”

Stephan moaned and squirmed in pain. Kathy opened one chain.


“Well I couldn’t let the man go hungry. I knew I was sick, when he didn’t attack me. I only had a few days of sanity left. So I promised him a decent meal…along with…myself.”

She popped another chain lose and then opened the deadbolt. She flung open the door. Mr. Bachman ambled in. He looked around the room, sniffing loudly. He released a spine tingling hiss that caused his mouth to open and expose rotting sharp teeth. He whipped his head towards Stephan and quickly lumbered and limped over to the injured man.


The filthy old man struggled with Stephan and  sank his powerful jaws into the soft bloody flesh of the wounded thigh. He tore a chunk out as the man screamed and tried to shove him away. Kathy dropped the gun as she coughed up bloody gray foam. Her eyes rolled back and she let out a primal scream. Her bones crackled and skin crawled and itched. She slowly walked over to her fiancée, fell onto her knees, and fought with him until she bit into his throat. The satisfied moans, chewing and slurping, slowly eased Stephan into a deep remorseful sleep. 

His last view was of the 70’ flat screen.

follow wurdz on Twitter & Instagram @wurdzpoet @wurdzpix
~wurdz © 2014 all rights reserved

Sunday, October 19, 2014

mr. pickles

"Danny, don't go in there."

The sound of Russell's voice was low and hesitant. He had heard the stories about the store in the old house and wanted to believe they were all made up. He wanted nothing more than to believe there was no old man, with half his face chewed off, waiting to devour bad kids. But his gut instinct was telling him something else.

"You're a chicken! BUCK-AAWK! There's nothin' to worry about. We'll go inside, look around and be out in no time. I'm tellin' ya, there's nothin' goin' on in that place."

Danny was the wise one. He always had the logical explanation. Even if it sounded like crap at first, it usually worked out the way he said. But this time the butterflies were flipping like trapeze artists.

"I don't know. It's dark, we're kinda far from home. Let's turn around. They say there's some kids that went in there and never came back."

Danny looked at his friend and shook his head slowly. "I never thought my best friend would turn out to be a wuss. "I'll go myself. Stay out here. You'll probably get ate by the damn dogs that roam the streets."

"Stop it, Danny! They say the kids got turned into...sausage. He eats people."

That was the one. That last phrase put Danny on the ground with laughter.

"No way! Are you serious??! Who are 'they' and how did they get the story? Look, there's nothing in the place. It's just and old house with a store in the basement. We're gonna prove everybody wrong."

Danny held out his hand for Russell to help him up. When he got to his feet, the boys ran up the path to the worn down house. It hadn't been painted in years. The sides were coated in dirt and decay. The front porch look like a smiling face with missing teeth. The wood was moldy and looked black, under the late evening sky. There was a heavy presence that seemed to hang over the property. Russell could feel it in his chest as they went around the side of the house.

"Can you feel that?"

Danny sighed as he answered. "Now what, chicken shit?"

"That feeling. It's bad. Let's go. Let's just tell the guys we went in. They won't know."

"No. We gotta get something. A piece of candy, a pop bottle. Something."

"I'm tellin' ya, they won't KNOW! Let's get it from Wal-Mart, Walgreens, any Wal but here!"

"You drunk. Let's go."

Danny found a small window. It was big enough for them to get inside, with a little bit of a struggle. The wind picked up and howled through the densely planted trees of the back yard Danny yanked on the window but it was locked. He looked around and found a rock. Russell shook his head violently while Danny nodded. The boy reared his arm back, as she friend covered his ears. The stone came down with a muffled crash. Reaching in carefully, Danny found the latch on the old window and raised it. A rush of air escaped and blew past the boys. There was a low growling voice that tickled their ears.

"What the fuck was THAT? Did you hear it?! It said, Welcome, foolish ones.' I know you heard it, Danny! Please say you did!"

"Stop smokin' that bad weed. It was the wind. C'mon, you're just a jumpy lame."
Danny peered into the dark basement. He had to admit, there was a foul smell that filled the air. He stuck his head in and tried to get a better look around. the store was there, just like they'd heard. He motioned for Russell to follow him, as he lent his slim body snake through the window and onto the floor. He landed with a sturdy thud. The floor felt soft beneath him. Before he got his balance, Russell was falling behind him. The boy fell forward and pushed Danny into a large display of bubble gum, candy and other sugary treats.

"Dammit! You're a clumsy ass!" He tried to whisper. "Look what you made me do!"

"You broke the window! Mr. Pickles heard us! I know he did!"

Danny looked at his scared partner, as they scurried to pick things up and replace them. "His name is what?"

"Mr. Pickles. He likes to eat people. Kids more than anything. He sells the pieces too."

"But why Mr. Pickles? That sounds lame as fuck. He smell like dill pickles or somethin'?" Danny let out a snicker, picked up a piece of candy and took it out of the wrapper. He was about to put it in his mouth, when it faded away in his hand. He looked at Russell. He looked at the empty wrapper in his hand. He tossed the paper and picked up another. He quickly opened it with the same result. It faded away, with a whiff of smoke.

Danny looked around the basement and took in the morbid sights. There were jars filled with bones, what looked like herbs and pieces of dried meat that hung from the ceiling. He walked further let his hand trail an old counter that was in the middle of the room. His hand hit a jar and he looked closely at the contents. At first it looked like eggs.  As he peered closer, they took the shape of cow eyes. They were old and slightly grayed.

"Fuck me," Danny said slow and low. "Why do they call this guy Mr. Pickles, again?" He waited for an answer as he saw another jar. It contained a flesh colored meat. He picked the huge container up, for a better look. He yelled and dropped it. A sea of sizzling liquid drenched the floor, along with hands and feet that had been stuffed in the jar.

"He likes to pickle the body parts. That makes them taste oh so sweet and juicy."

Russell's voice was different. It was low and coarse. It sounded like he was pretending.

"Stop it, Russell," he demanded while kicking at the severed limbs on the floor. "Let's get outta here."

When Danny turned towards his friend, he was looking at a huge figure. It was wearing a bloody white apron. He looked up slowly and saw the half mangled face. There was smoothness on one side, like it had been cut off in some sort of accident. The other side was angry, filled with filthy, razor sharp teeth that protruded from a ghastly mouth which oozed thick, black pus. A huge hand quickly snatched his throat and lifted him from the floor. Danny's legs swung as he tried to break free.

"Allow me to introduce myself," the figure said with a drastically changing voice. "Mr. Pickles is the name. You're going to be extra sweet meat. You'll replace what you've destroyed."

Danny gurgled and gasped. He looked at the window. Russell was still outside. He was screaming and bagging on the window but there was no sound. The pain around his throat was intense. He felt pressure around his eyes, his head felt light. He smelled his own excrement, as the unbearable pain made him shit.

Russell banged on the glass and finally stopped. He saw his friend's head snap to one side. Urine dripped from Danny's body and mixed with the blood that oozed from his ears nose and mouth. Mr. Pickles turned and looked at the boy. As he held the lifeless body, he raised his other hand and put a finger to his lips.


In a blur of motion, Russell watched Mr. Pickles tear his friend to fleshy shreds. The pieces plopped on the floor and twitched.

Another scream escaped Russell's throat as he got up and ran...and ran...and ran.

follow wurdz on Twitter & Instagram @wurdzpoet @wurdzpix
~wurdz © 2014 all rights reserved

Sunday, October 12, 2014

the old shack

It was a typical Friday evening.

Joshua had polished off a few beers at the local bar and was ready to head home. He looked at his surroundings and shook his head. The same people, the same conversations, the same disconnection and fake smiles. The routine was an established one that did its job. He stayed out of trouble.

"What cha got goin for the weekend, Josh?"
Martinez had run the bar since Josh had been a regular. He couldn't picture the place without the stout man and his walrus mustache. Every week, the same question. Every week, the same answer.

"Nothin'  much. Catch a movie-"

"...or two and just chill," Martinez helped Josh finish. "You need to get yourself outta that rut, man. You're too predictable."

Josh smiled.

"No, I'm serious, dude. These other bums in here are just that...bums. You got a decent job, got your head on straight. Why do you keep doin' this to yourself? Find a decent woman, settle down and live life."

Looking around the bar, Josh chuckled. "If this is living, a body would be better off dead." He pulled a crumpled up twenty from his pants pocket and tossed it on the bar. No change, same price. Routine.
The men exchanged half-hearted looks, as Josh stood to leave. His ass was numb, from sitting in one place for so long. He took one last look at the bar. There was a stunning woman he'd overlooked. There was no missing her. She stood out from the others like oil in water. She winked at him and licked her lips.

"Yeah, right," he thought to himself. "Guys like me, don't get women like that. Whatever." He nodded, gave her a crooked smirk and waved at Martinez.

"At least I got my head on straight...for whatever that's worth."

The skies looked gray and were painted with dark clouds that grew angrier as Josh walked to his car.


The voice behind him was soft yet demanding. He turned to see the woman from the bar. She was trotting towards him and then slowed to a sexy bounce.

"Want some company?" She asked, after posing in front of him, her hand seductively on a curvaceous hip.

She was fantastic. Thick pouty lips, curly hair, a figure that would make Aphrodite blush. There had to be a mistake. Either she was drunk out of her mind or maybe his luck was changing.
With hesitation, Josh looked away and then back at the woman. "How  far you goin'? I only live right down the street."

"I'm goin' anywhere you are, Josh."

"I didn't give you my name,” he noticed. “…and you are?"

"Oh! Kelly...Kelly Allen. And I overheard you talkin' to Martinez."

Screw it. She was sexy, he was bored, the evening was young and rain was on the way.

"Get in."

They drove along the road in silence. It was the same road that Josh used every weekend, when leaving the bar. There was nothing spectacular about it. Everything looked washed out and gray. Each detail seemed like a boring black and white Polaroid. The trees moved by in succession, like a bad cartoon loop. He glanced at his passenger. She knew he was watching her. She wore a thigh high black skirt with tattered leggings. Her grey sweater top hugged a pair of knockers that made Josh breathe deeper and swallow hard. She rubbed her thigh and moved her skirt up higher as she brought her hand towards her waist.

"Better keep your eyes on the road. I wanna make it to your place in one piece. You can devour me there, lover."

"What? What makes you think I wanna do that?"

"The lump in your pants. That's always a sure indicator. Or am I wrong?" Kelly let out a wicked laugh. "Good thing you got your head on straight."

Josh slammed on the brakes, causing the car to skid on the damp road. The clouds had gathered and the rain finally caught them. It pelted the car with hard droplets that sounded like hail.
Kelly laughed.

"Look. That old shack. Take me over there. It's raining. That's romantic," she snickered again. "You can do me in the shack while the rain makes us...wet."

The sound of Josh putting the car in park sliced through the pelting rain. He looked at her, long and hard. She was serious. His luck was changing. A beautiful woman was begging to have sex with him.

"Okay...okay. I, um...fuck it. Okay, let's go."

Putting the car back into gear, he drove the Boxster off the road and up towards the shack. He glanced around to make sure no one was lurking about. After all, he had a reputation to uphold. Even though he was a nerdish office guy, he had standards. If anyone saw him with this type of woman, talk would start. Talk was all he needed to destroy his peaceful existence.
They stopped on the side of the old place. Kelly was laughing and tried her hand at singing. She 
belted out a sure and strong verse, but was severely out of tune


"PLEASE! Hold it down."

Kelly looked at him with a serious cock of her head. "Really? There's nobody around. Outside of the raccoons and the invisible paparazzi, it's just you, me and that hard wood you're hiding. Come on!"

She opened the door and sprang from the car. The rain mingled with her curls and they slowly went limp on her head. She twirled and danced about in the falling water. Josh was getting irritated. He was beginning to think he'd made a mistake. But it was too late now. He had to go on with it. He got out of the coupe and followed her inside the shack.

Once they  were  inside the building, Kelly wrapped her arms around him, pulled his lips towards her and kissed him passionately. She moaned with delight, as she guided his hand onto her chest. This was truly different. Josh was used to being in control. The routine was off.

"What's the matter? You having second  thoughts? Don't tell me I made a move on you and now you're gonna act like a scared little chicken. Come a little. Have some fun! I see you every week in that bar. You sit, look at everybody, have a few beers and just leave. Your life needs some excitement! I sat there two hours waiting on you! I almost thought you weren't coming. But it's your routine. I made myself wait. Now it's time to break free!"

She was right. He was predictable. A sad case. He'd have to change.

"You're right."

He ran his fingers through her wet locks and kissed her on the forehead. He took her by the hand and led her to a dark doorway and  set of stairs that led to a musky basement. There was an oil lamp on a rickety table. He reached into his pocket, produced a lighter and lit the wick. A dull glow ached forth, through the dirty glass.

"How'd you know that was there?"

"Just dumb luck. Let's take a look down there, shall we?" Josh loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar and sighed.

Kelly peered down the dim staircase and took a step forward. She strained to get some indication of what was beyond the dark haze that altered her view.

The sound of buzzing trickled into her ears.

"Can you see anything?" Josh asked, while reaching behind the table. "It seems really dark."

" reeks. What's that smell? Like rotten meat."

"It is."

Kelly turned around as the machete crashed into her skull. Josh braced his foot on her torso and pulled it out. A crimson fountain blossomed from her forehead. The woman tried to talk but let forth only gurgles and coughs. Blood oozed from her ears, nose and mouth. Her eyes rolled back, as she tumbled down the stairs and landed with a squish.

The machete dangled at Josh's side. He picked up the lamp and walked down the stairs. The light landed on Kelly. Her body was still shaking, as she tried to reach out for mercy, her limp, weak arm shivering.

"Ssssshhh...hush. You'll be just fine in a moment. You don't wanna wake your friends. They'll be pissed."

Josh had to kick the mangled remains of other bodies out of his way, to position himself. He sat the lamp on one of the deteriorating steps and looked around. The carnage was at least a foot deep. . Maggots and blowflies swarmed on the corpses. Some had mouths agape, frozen in disbelief.

"Gotta be number...seventeen, eighteen, nineteen. Hot damn! You're lucky number twenty! Good thing I got my head on right."

He raised the huge blade and swung it down with a sticky crunch. He whistled The Camptown Ladies. With each whack, he thought about how boring life could be. The routine...the monotony.

follow wurdz on Twitter & Instagram @wurdzpoet @wurdzpix
~wurdz © 2014 all rights reserved

Thursday, September 25, 2014

50 years of what?

if you thought
the dream
was alive and well,
wake up.
the death knell tolls
to usher in
the living hell
which has engulfed
a nation in turmoil.
the land of the free,
still desires strange fruit
hanging from a tree.
brown skin,
dark skin,
it really doesn't matter
because the end result
is splattered brain matter
amidst the party and bullshit
of justifiable homicide.
they claim genocide
but that's a racist rant
which coincides
with the apathy
when it's time to convict
for the loss
of black souls.
...and the death knell tolls.
can you feel the pain,
the welling of tears,
the sordid fear
of terrified black children
as a police cruiser
pulls near?
are your eyes wide shut
as a mother cries
while her son dies
over and over
on a digital cloud
for an insatiable crowd?
two score and ten,
the blood lust
has returned again.
scarlet life
runs thick,
spilling into cesspools
filled with angry white sheets.
three k's a day
will help keep those
negroes at bay.
the media sends images
precise and subliminal
that make all the monkeys
look like criminals.
...and the death knell tolls.
bow your head and weep.
does God hear the screams
of his children
gathered like sheep
for the slaughter?
there is a movement
to make people of color
the guilty entity,
even if the truth
sings loud and clear.
does black flesh
not bleed,
does it not shed tears
and hope for the future?
maybe it's more appropriate
to don the facade
of a modern day slave
and watch
the invisible whips
reign once more.

Sunday, August 24, 2014

fear of a black planet or the real america?

What’s happening in Ferguson isn’t new.

If you’re black and living in this land of the free called America, you’ve been programmed to accept the madness. There is a fear that resonates through America. It's a manufactured fear that all black men should be watched closely. The problem isn't in the people. There's a deliberate glitch in the system. We are ALL brainwashed to react a certain way. The value of an African American life is no less than any other. Yet when viewed through the media lens, we don't mean shit.

What about MY fear as a black man? Will a fed up police officer, having a bad day, use me as target practice? Will other people, who embrace violence, lash out at me for being an undesirable color? The challenges of being Black in America are REAL. If you're not a rapper, athlete or actor with cash, your life is worthless. Those are the attributes necessary to survive and function in the post racial United States of America. If you come up lacking in any of these areas, you’re automatically labeled a thug. People want to see you eradicated for the vermin that you are. You’re an uneducated piece of crap that needs to be shipped back to Africa. The next time you hear that insanity, take the offer. Politely ask the idiot to fund your trip back! People are going to say and believe what they want. What’s the bottom line? Being black in America puts a target on your back.

There’s a resounding sadness that comes with viewing another incident like this. Each time it happens, the level of acceptance grows. Each time an African American body lies cold in the street, the disrespect of the individual begins immediately. No longer is there a time for grieving and asking of questions. There is the rush to guilt factor. Obviously there has to be some kind of crime committed because the person shot to death…was black.

No. I’m not going to write a glowing epitaph for Mike Brown. I’m not going to call him a hero, like so many are doing for Darren Wilson. What I will say is that none of us are perfect. I woke up hating my boss for lying to me. I didn’t pray, when I was supposed to. Instead of eating a balanced breakfast, I scarfed down half a bag of potato chips. Hell, I even had a few lurid thoughts about sex! Does that mean I need to be gunned down?

We have become so insecure and obsessed with race, right has become wrong and wrong has become the norm. We no longer see each other as equals, until proven different. If there’s black and white, there has to be a problem. Unfortunately, the aftermath is overwhelmingly death.

We will never be understood or respected, until the deliberate brainwashing of this nation is addressed! There will be more lies spread to discredit and insult the integrity of the African American race. People are afraid of what they don’t understand. The first instinct is to kill it. That means there will be no need to waste time trying to justify acceptance.

When attacked by an angry mob, John Merrick, aka The Elephant Man, cried out, “…I am not an animal! I am a man!” Have we come so far, as a so called nation, that we ignore the pleas of the downtrodden and shove their rights under the rug? Better yet, has that rug been replaced by bloody sheets? Are we going to see water cannons and dogs unleashed, as people simply ask to be treated with dignity?

A tad over 500 miles away from Ferguson, monuments stand in Birmingham’s Kelly Ingram Park, reminding of the fight for equality and understanding. The horror, brutality and racist acts, which where committed, happened 50 years ago.

To anyone oblivious to what took place, it might as well have been yesterday. For anyone who thought they were living in a post racial utopia, it’s time to wake up.

No. This is not new. Google "1960's riots" and you'll discover horrible, disturbing photos that could describe tensions today. Reality is a hard pill to swallow…especially when it’s being served with a glass full of bullshit.

Follow wurdz on Twitter & Instagram @wurdzpoet @wurdzpix
wurdz © 2014 all rights reserved