poetry/prose by Calvero.
you’re welcome for the shit-war paint i will slap onto your face. and, in case you were wondering, i will be accepting advanced thank yous in the form of muffin baskets, barnes and noble gift cards and microsoft points. (straight fuckin’ through the loneliness)


I’m gonna do you
a favor.

I’m gonna smear shit
on my hand,

    alllllllll fuckin’ over
    my hand,

in which case I will proceed
in slapping you
across your face
with my shit-covered
hand.

And the shit I smack
onto your face
will be the greatest thing
that ever happened
to you.

It will feel like
a spiritual raise.

A spiritual raise
made outta shit
slapped across your face.

And the fresh shit
slapped across your face
will be the war paint
you will wear
in the much needed
and long overdue process
of you
finally un-murdering
yourself
after, unknowingly,
having spent your whole life
silently murdering
your most beautiful impulses,
    slaughtering them
    like spiritual calves,
in order to fit in
with groups of mass peoples.

The shit-war paint
will intimidate and scare
every person
you meet.

It will silently
scream war cries like,
    Hi-YI-YI-YI-YI-YI,
            howwwww-AH-heyyy-EEEEEEEEEEEE!
because you will be
at war.

At war
with the world.

At war
with your murdered
self.

People
will walk past you
on the streets
and have thoughts like,
    What… the… fuck?

Does that dude really have
shit-war paint
on his face?

I better leave him
alone…

If he’s crazy enough
to wear shit-war paint
on his face
who knows what other
kinda crazy shit
he’s capable of…

And the world    will
leave you alone
because it will be scared
of you,

because it will not understand
you
and your shit-war painted
face.

It will not understand
your war.

And the shit-war painted
induced loneliness
will hurt
at first
but,
    ultimately,
it will be the best thing
that ever happened
to you.

Because the only way
to begin the long,
overdue process
of learning how
to un-murder yourself
is through
loneliness.

Not over it.
Not under it.
Not around it.

Through it.

Straight
fuckin’
through
the loneliness.

And so you’ll do
all the lonely things
that lonely people do
while in the process of going
straight
fuckin’
through
the loneliness.

You’ll count
the empty jugs of wine
all around you
in the voice of The Count
from Sesame Street
inside your head…

Vun!!!
    Vun empty jug
    of vine!
        AH-AH-AH!
Two!!!
    TWOOOOOOOO empty jugs
    of vine!
        AH-AH-AHHH!

You will begin watching
weird-ass fetish porn
in order to spice up
your masturbating
as you feel Her
combing her hair
2,000 light years away
from you.

You will sit in McDonald’s
all alone
for a six hour period
of time and,
    around the fourth hour
    or so
    of sitting in McDonald’s
    all alone,
you’ll begin swinging
an imaginary trident
at some hipster-looking guy’s head
as he eats his McDonald’s
salad.
You’ll make
    WHOOSH! noises
each time the trident
swings by his face
always coming up just centimeters short
of smashing off
the hipster-looking guy’s
nose.

    This dude has no idea
how close he just came
to having his nose
smashed right off his face
by a fuckin’ trident,
    you’ll say to yourself.
He doesn’t even know.
    He doesn’t… even… know!
    
And then, one day,
    after having done
all these lonely,
           lonely,
                 lonely things,
you’ll wake up and be all like,

    No shit…

        I’m through…

and you will be
on the other side
of the loneliness.

And you’ll roll outta bed
and finally look at your warrior-self
in the mirror,
    you
    with your shit-war paint
    still smeared all across
    your face,
        dried up and crusted
        and gross
        and slowly eating itself
        into your skin,
            making itself a physical part
            of you,
and you’ll think
in a really gruff and macho
tone of voice,
    I’m just glad
    s/he’s on our side…

You will finally be
on your own
side.

Your own side

and not
theirs.

You will have
finally
un-murdered
your true self.

From here on out
you will progressively regress
into a childlike state
of living
where you do things
simply because you enjoy
doing them
and where you don’t worry about
what other people think
about you
when you do these things.

You will do these things
simply because doing them
makes you happy
and because you are a lonely adult
with shit-war paint
on your face
that the world doesn’t understand,
    or wanna understand,
and
    so
        you might as well do
whatever it is
that makes you happy.

You will understand
that in order to fit in
with large masses of people
you need to degrade yourself
into a lower, generic
form of yourself.
That you need to think on
the same level
that the group does.
    Talk about the same
    stupid shit
    that they do.
That you have to surrender
your free mind
to a group way of thinking
because,
    if you think too far
    outside of the group
    too often,
then you will remove yourself
from the group.

The shit-war paint
will grow hands and undress you
from the cleaned-up
citizen
you murdered yourself
into being
and allow you to finally
run around bare-ass naked
like the little kid
you used to be.

You will see the world
through the unbiased,
truth-seeking eyes
of a child.

You will hear the silence
that comes along
with having gone
straight
fuckin’
through
the loneliness
and, because of this silence,
you will hear the violence
rioting in the streets
of your heart.

    (They have violence
rioting in the streets
of their hearts
too
but they’re incapable
of hearing it
because they’re too busy watching/
talking about Teen Mom
and 16 & Pregnant
and Duck Dynasty
and The Super Bowl
in order to hear it.)

You will be
an individual.

You will be
“you.”

And “you”
is who you need
to be.

“You”
and not “everyone
else.”

It’s no wonder
I feel so alone
all the time.

I’ve been looking at
these murdered faces
for wayyyyy too long now
 
and some days
I don’t know whether to hike up
my skinny jeans
and go on
or to just throw myself in front of a speeding bus
because these people
with murdered faces
are not my people

and the older I get
the more I only prove
to myself
that there’s nothing here
    for me
on this planet,

    nothing but this one, exact, same
universal person
I’m supposed to love

but can’t

and who I don’t
wanna.

And I’m just
so tired
of it…

…I’m so tired of looking at
all of these murdered faces
without shit war paint
on them.

I’m so tired
of feeling alone
because the rest of the world
is so terrorized
by the idea
of being alone.


© Calvero 2014

Dee Dee was a cat


A doctor and a technician and a kennel worker stood over her.

I was a kennel worker too but I didn’t stand over her. I stood around five feet away from her. A safe distance away from her. My face felt like cold, surgical steel. The air was navy blue. It was very still for navy blue air.

Moving through the stillness of the air, the doctor stuck the needle into one of the veins in her back right leg. She didn’t move at all when the needle entered her. Her eyes were open and they stared straight forward.

The doctor began pushing a liquid that looked link pink lemonade into her. But the liquid wasn’t pink lemonade. The liquid was something else. Something totally different from pink lemonade.

She still didn’t move.

The doctor pushed all of the pink lemonade-looking liquid into her body. Then the doctor’s and the technician’s mouths began moving but I didn’t want their mouths to be moving and I found myself wanting to hurt them the more their mouths moved even though no sound was coming outta their mouths. Then everyone’s mouths stopped moving when the doctor took the needle outta her leg.

She still didn’t move when the needle left her.

The navy blue air didn’t move at all either.

Her eyes were open but her face was somewhere far away. Then she coughed twice. Her cough was really wet and came from another century. But not a century from the future. A century that had already passed. A century that was making a reappearance here in the 21st century.

All of a sudden I heard the doctor say something along the lines of, “Yeah… that’s normal…” in regards to her coughing twice. And then, “But you know she’s gone though, right?”

The technician said, “Yeah…” but the lonely word she spoke sounded like it was asleep and dreaming.

The kennel worker didn’t speak at all though. Her mouth never moved. I always liked her and thought she was cool but right there, in that moment, I liked her more than ever and thought she was cooler than ever and all simply because of how little her mouth moved during the whole process.

I left the room and went into the bathroom and cried for a few minutes. When I got out, people looked at me and I could tell from the way they looked at me that they knew I had been crying but I didn’t care.

For the next hour I was at the clinic I was kinda quiet and just kept to myself. I swept floors and changed garbage’s and helped with an x-ray or two but I did all of those things very quietly and made very little eye contact with anyone.

After work, I stopped at a gas station to buy a drink and fill up my car.

I went to where they kept the refrigerated beverages to grab a Lo-Carb Monster Energy Drink but the first thing I saw was pink lemonade. Seeing the pink lemonade made me feel really sad but I pretended it didn’t make me really sad even though it definitely did.

I grabbed my energy drink and walked up to the counter. The guy behind the register had the skin color of vanilla ice cream and I wanted to lean over the counter and softly press my forehead into his and then listen to him purr but I didn’t. I didn’t do that because I knew he wouldn’t have purred.

As I paid for the drink, the guy working behind the register stared at me funny. Like he didn’t trust me. Like he thought I was some delinquent just because I had a lip ring and a shaved head and a beard and tattoos. Like he was waiting for me to rob him or something.

I didn’t rob him.

I just paid for my drink and gas and filled up my car and drove home.

When I got home, two outta my three cats got up to greet me and say “Welcome home.”

I picked up the one who didn’t get up to greet me and kissed her in-between her eyes.

She began purring.

Her purr came in loud and clear from the 21st century.


© Calvero 2014

Could not be more bonered up to see Brody Dalle play live in Brooklyn in May.

Sometimes I imagine cramming my entire arm into my throat, reaching all the way down into the depths of my guts, and grabbing onto everything that terrorizes me. Then I pull it all outta my body and proceed to fold each individual thing that terrorizes me into a paper airplane-type-thingy which I throw far, far away from me, smiling to myself as it catches onto the wind, greatly distancing itself from its former home, and never to be seen/felt/heard from ever again.

Today, immediately after folding up an empty box of canned cat food, I imagined a big pair of hands manifesting from outta nowhere and proceeding to fold me up in the same manner which I had folded up the empty box of canned cat food, compacting me, making me smaller, and, consequently, each fold progressively lessening the intense pain/pressure I always have in the left side of my chest/armpit. And then, after the big pair of hands have finished folding me up, they just place me in the recycling bag with all of the other recyclables. And I wait there with them, the recyclables. Free of pain. Free of human responsibilities/feelings. Not happy, not scared. Just patiently waiting to be killed so I can start over.

Beautiful.

Her smile looks like a black cat with a canary in its mouth.

irlisdead:

eirlthenovel:

to download, click the book cover or here



Rad….

irlisdead:

eirlthenovel:

to download, click the book cover or here

Rad….

curvypervyme:

calveropoetry:


Fucking
your vagina
felt like fucking
a flower.

I’m not
even sure
what that means
exactly…

I just think
it means
that fucking
your vagina
felt really
pretty.

“Pretty”
is a lame
and shitty way
to describe
how fucking
your vagina felt
but it’s all
I can come up
with…

Fucking
your vagina

Lol

Writing is the abusive boyfriend we all keep going back to.

The Damned - New Rose

Someone needs to buy me a goblet-sized, adult sippy cup so this way I can finally drink my wine without mass amounts of cat hair in it.

Thank you in advance. I love you long time.


University of Hell Press is having a contest on their Facebook page where after they reach 666 likes there will be a drawing and the winner will receive a University of Hell Press super, awesome bundle package full of UHell Press books as well as books and CD’s which have influenced their authors. Here are the prizes I contributed to the contest…
666 Contest - Tease #5 - Calvero



Calvero, author of someday i’m going to marry Katy Perry and the forthcoming i want love so great it makes nicholas sparks creams in his pants shares his two contributions to the University of Hell Press 666 Contest:
Richard Brautigan’s Trout Fishing In America, The Pill versus the Springhill Mine Disaster, and In Watermelon Sugar. An edition of three books (two novels, one collection of poetry) all for the price of one. My initial reaction after reading this book, or books, was something like intrigued confusion. Kinda like a little boy accidentally seeing a female’s naked breast for the first time. You didn’t understand it but it excited you and really made you wanna understand it because it was new and like nothing you had ever seen before. So I read through the collection again. And after having read through it a second time, it changed how I wanted to write forever. Brautigan was pure imagination layered with humor. He approached writing from angles that most writers, like myself, never even knew existed. He played with his words. He beautifully molded them together even though the words didn’t fit together. But still, somehow, he made them fit together which was what truly made him a genius. Every time I go into a bookstore and I begin blindly perusing books to buy, I feel like I’m hearing the same written voice over and over and over despite all of the books being written by different authors. I feel like most writers spend their entire careers trying to conform into this single literary voice that the world expects/wants from authors. And I hate that. And that’s why I love Brautigan. Pure originality. Pure voice. His books are like something written on another planet and then translated into English. And they’re good. They’re just so, so good.
Green Day’s Dookie. This album introduced me to punk? Yes. Cliché? Yes. But I couldn’t care less. To this date, Green Day has been one of the most, if not the most important discovery of my life. It was my gateway to a scene of music which laid the foundation for the person I’ve become today. Not to mention everything the band and their music have taught me. And for me it all began with Dookie. Almost 20 years after I personally discovered the album, and four Green Day tattoos later, I still listen to it on a regular rotation. Aggressive, fast-paced and catchy as fuck, it always delivers. I also like the fact that someday I will be a 90-year-old man forcing my grandkids to listen to this album called Dookie while screaming at them, “Now this is what real music is!”

Like University of Hell Press HERE.

University of Hell Press is having a contest on their Facebook page where after they reach 666 likes there will be a drawing and the winner will receive a University of Hell Press super, awesome bundle package full of UHell Press books as well as books and CD’s which have influenced their authors. Here are the prizes I contributed to the contest…

666 Contest - Tease #5 - Calvero

Calvero, author of someday i’m going to marry Katy Perry and the forthcoming i want love so great it makes nicholas sparks creams in his pants shares his two contributions to the University of Hell Press 666 Contest:


Richard Brautigan’s Trout Fishing In America, The Pill versus the Springhill Mine Disaster, and In Watermelon Sugar. An edition of three books (two novels, one collection of poetry) all for the price of one. My initial reaction after reading this book, or books, was something like intrigued confusion. Kinda like a little boy accidentally seeing a female’s naked breast for the first time. You didn’t understand it but it excited you and really made you wanna understand it because it was new and like nothing you had ever seen before. So I read through the collection again. And after having read through it a second time, it changed how I wanted to write forever. Brautigan was pure imagination layered with humor. He approached writing from angles that most writers, like myself, never even knew existed. He played with his words. He beautifully molded them together even though the words didn’t fit together. But still, somehow, he made them fit together which was what truly made him a genius. Every time I go into a bookstore and I begin blindly perusing books to buy, I feel like I’m hearing the same written voice over and over and over despite all of the books being written by different authors. I feel like most writers spend their entire careers trying to conform into this single literary voice that the world expects/wants from authors. And I hate that. And that’s why I love Brautigan. Pure originality. Pure voice. His books are like something written on another planet and then translated into English. And they’re good. They’re just so, so good.


Green Day’s Dookie. This album introduced me to punk? Yes. Cliché? Yes. But I couldn’t care less. To this date, Green Day has been one of the most, if not the most important discovery of my life. It was my gateway to a scene of music which laid the foundation for the person I’ve become today. Not to mention everything the band and their music have taught me. And for me it all began with Dookie. Almost 20 years after I personally discovered the album, and four Green Day tattoos later, I still listen to it on a regular rotation. Aggressive, fast-paced and catchy as fuck, it always delivers. I also like the fact that someday I will be a 90-year-old man forcing my grandkids to listen to this album called Dookie while screaming at them, “Now this is what real music is!”

Like University of Hell Press HERE.