The Misfit Notes
Notes from The Misfit Words
By:
Spencer Gray
Ω
PROLOGUE
This body of work is in no twofold order.
A series of notes, prose, poems and dialogue.
Rabid foam from the mouth of the electric dog.
Roman à clef!
Inside the bell jar!
The inhuman condition of meat and wire.
The human pit bull speaks and spits.
The bio-junkyard that comprises us all.
This is me starting over.
I threw my years of linear bullshit notebooks away.
If I hadn’t, nothing could ever be original again.
I am a strong believer that definition is just another word for reinvention. To be yourself even if people hate you for it.
When I was young I had no sense of myself. I was a product of the fear and humiliation I suffered. Fear of my abusive, sexual deviant criminal I called dad. The humiliation of teachers telling me I’d be digging ditches for a living. And the very real terror of my fellow students. Most of them were absolute horrors. I was threatened and beaten up for liking things like literature and art. For being intellectual instead of religious. (Funny how religious people will throw you a beating for not believing exactly what they do) I was labeled a Satanist etc.
They made me hate myself all the time.
As stupid at it seems now, I wanted to talk like them, dress like them, walk with the ease of knowing that I wasn’t going to get my ass kicked after school.
Then came Nick.
He walked into the video store I worked at one day and saw how awkward I was and that I had a busted lip. He started talking to me. Really talking to me. He gave me his card and invited me to come to his gym free of charge. He worked with me every day, defining my body and teaching me to fight. I quickly went from being a victim to somebody people didn’t fuck with. I found out quick that I was not only good at boxing and martial arts, but I loved physical combat. I applied it to my creative process and philosophy about life. A fight never lies to you. Combat will always kick you the real deal. A fight is the great reference point, the all-knowing perspective giver.
So, I would say what motivates me is to stand up for people, encourage people to learn and think, to strike down stereotypes, to have at least shouted at injustice and bullies. I don’t care if it’s a tribe being kicked off their land so people can get rich or a kid at school who gets pounded or made fun of everyday because they’re gay or simply different. I have flown my middle finger in the face of assholes and convention my whole life. I don’t see it changing.
Live large and keep punching,
Spencer Gray
~1~
Sewer City
Sewer City
The ghetto bird’s lights sweep the streets
Sewer City
The poem is the hooker on the stroll
Sewer City
Whisky dreams and carnal screams
Sewer City
Artificial breasts, spurious tan, assumed soul
Sewer City
The transsexual wants five dollars.
Sewer City
The demons sling pussy and crack
Sewer City
The schools are empty, the jails are full
Sewer City
The haiku is a stripper on meth
Sewer City
The children worship The Vacuous
Sewer City
Reach in your pocket for a dollar
Only feel your leg
Sewer City
Religion is the shovel digging for silver
Sewer City
Make your profit off terminal guilt
Sewer City
Crucified in the back of a taxi
Sewer City
On your way to vomit in a seedy motel
On your way to the soup kitchen
Sewer City
Feline Whip
Candlelight delineates your human feline eyes.
No need for disguise.
You let me tie you down while he’s gone.
You’re seeking exposé and revelation,
I’ve brought you high and low to that occasion.
Until now your world’s been so vanilla,
Welcome to my impious pleasure villa.
Going beyond what you thought were your boundaries
Until now unknown.
Let me cradle the soul
You’ve never shown.
Describe, present, outline, sketch, depict the truth!
Be who you really are!
This is your brand new god.
I grab your hair tight.
Just like a braided whip.
Lick the blood from my hands, wear my horny crown.
Cry a little happy tear, as I make you go down.
I give you what you beheld in a fantasy,
Now pain so good is your reality.
Delightful how words printed on paperback
Translate to henna, runes and grinding hips.
The coppery taste of blood and a hint of violence
Upon your sultry lips.
Arch your back, meow and lick your wounds.
Crawl back for more human pussy cat.
Here’s blood and milk, take a little dip.
A black paradise you’ve found
At the crack of my hand and whip.
Whisper the secret fetishes you’ve never told him.
You’ll find no judgment here, come closer my dear.
Just me deep inside your warm, wet darkness.
You’re losing control, as I take everything you ever wanted
From your delicate hole.
Every word, wolf and lamb torn asunder.
I grab your hips, flip you over and we descend
Deep, deep below and under.
Now fall to your knees upon the rose of your delicate flower’s shame.
I can’t love you, but I can guide you into the flame.
Your calling is deicide
Drink my wine.
Let’s break bread.’
Alcoholic Anonymous Fucking Nothing Man
The appetites we abjure find us as fate.
The apparitions are humans.
The humans are apparitions.
In a circle sad and eccentric
We share the coven’s bliss.
Psychedelic Spook-O-Rama:
The Baphomet idol fuck of amber warmth.
It plays out the evil screaming dead!
Bela Lugosi’s hostages
For the lost neon soul.
Celebrate the murdered hooker.
She is floating past.
Your dead heart is locked in the trunk.
The ravaged faces parade.
Ambushing the flesh market.
I eviscerate and vivisect myself,
Realizing I am fucking last!
I’m on a sanity fast!
My outlook is lurid and stricken.
Some unbearable chagrin.
Grief and sorrow strung out.
Napalm heart skewered
Like a shrunken head!
Pasts and legacies cling
To this imploring cult.
Exceeding all freedom of choice!
I am an acolyte!
Myself! Myself! Yes me!
Obscene and sullen quiet.
A lugubrious soul in a sea of gloomy dumbfounds.
The words scratched in The Big Book
Worm off the pages.
The wisdom rattles from hungry mouths.
Work the fucking program.
Work the sacred steps.
Sometimes they number 13.
The appetites we abjure find us as fate.
Could I be less alive, I need a drink.
The Kissing's Flower
Nothing pains like blank, stark white paper.
Writer’s block!
I’d rather write than fuck you empty shopper girl!
Here’s more cash!
Carnal fruits that are carnage.
Dark, fresh, flesh.
Your delicate pussy does not interest me, girl.
The words! The words! They won’t come,
What makes you think I will?
Type Type Type!
I miss typewriters and my grandfather,
I miss the ribbon that stains your fingers.
You fucks.
Your words aren’t real.
You didn’t suffer or work for them!
Child! Self proclaimed internet writer!
Where are your pages?
Why don’t they have blood on them?
Don’t call yourself a writer.
It belittles us both.
Work!
Suffer bitch!
Break your god damn knuckles man!
Fight!
The flower of flesh and blood.
The mermaid in a manhole.
A philosophy narrow as a virgin’s spidery legs.
Make it holy in the virgin’s mouth!
Perfect as teeming bees.
I set my eyes to greet others.
All fake.
I am a fraud when I smile at you.
That shit ain’t real.
Don’t know you Texting Hipster Guy.
Don’t want to.
DIE.
Draconic Formulaes of Hermetic Rituals.
Fragile as antique jelly bowls.
One harsh outburst might shatter us.
The old gather and creep in here.
Outside the moon leers, mocks.
A stone Madonna.
A healing sea.
Round the circle we go!
New words twist old words into leather.
We share our thoughts and guts.
Reading each other’s entrails like tea leaves!
We give birth repeatedly to our shattered lives!
By:
Spencer Gray
Ω
PROLOGUE
This body of work is in no twofold order.
A series of notes, prose, poems and dialogue.
Rabid foam from the mouth of the electric dog.
Roman à clef!
Inside the bell jar!
The inhuman condition of meat and wire.
The human pit bull speaks and spits.
The bio-junkyard that comprises us all.
This is me starting over.
I threw my years of linear bullshit notebooks away.
If I hadn’t, nothing could ever be original again.
I am a strong believer that definition is just another word for reinvention. To be yourself even if people hate you for it.
When I was young I had no sense of myself. I was a product of the fear and humiliation I suffered. Fear of my abusive, sexual deviant criminal I called dad. The humiliation of teachers telling me I’d be digging ditches for a living. And the very real terror of my fellow students. Most of them were absolute horrors. I was threatened and beaten up for liking things like literature and art. For being intellectual instead of religious. (Funny how religious people will throw you a beating for not believing exactly what they do) I was labeled a Satanist etc.
They made me hate myself all the time.
As stupid at it seems now, I wanted to talk like them, dress like them, walk with the ease of knowing that I wasn’t going to get my ass kicked after school.
Then came Nick.
He walked into the video store I worked at one day and saw how awkward I was and that I had a busted lip. He started talking to me. Really talking to me. He gave me his card and invited me to come to his gym free of charge. He worked with me every day, defining my body and teaching me to fight. I quickly went from being a victim to somebody people didn’t fuck with. I found out quick that I was not only good at boxing and martial arts, but I loved physical combat. I applied it to my creative process and philosophy about life. A fight never lies to you. Combat will always kick you the real deal. A fight is the great reference point, the all-knowing perspective giver.
So, I would say what motivates me is to stand up for people, encourage people to learn and think, to strike down stereotypes, to have at least shouted at injustice and bullies. I don’t care if it’s a tribe being kicked off their land so people can get rich or a kid at school who gets pounded or made fun of everyday because they’re gay or simply different. I have flown my middle finger in the face of assholes and convention my whole life. I don’t see it changing.
Live large and keep punching,
Spencer Gray
~1~
Sewer City
Sewer City
The ghetto bird’s lights sweep the streets
Sewer City
The poem is the hooker on the stroll
Sewer City
Whisky dreams and carnal screams
Sewer City
Artificial breasts, spurious tan, assumed soul
Sewer City
The transsexual wants five dollars.
Sewer City
The demons sling pussy and crack
Sewer City
The schools are empty, the jails are full
Sewer City
The haiku is a stripper on meth
Sewer City
The children worship The Vacuous
Sewer City
Reach in your pocket for a dollar
Only feel your leg
Sewer City
Religion is the shovel digging for silver
Sewer City
Make your profit off terminal guilt
Sewer City
Crucified in the back of a taxi
Sewer City
On your way to vomit in a seedy motel
On your way to the soup kitchen
Sewer City
Feline Whip
Candlelight delineates your human feline eyes.
No need for disguise.
You let me tie you down while he’s gone.
You’re seeking exposé and revelation,
I’ve brought you high and low to that occasion.
Until now your world’s been so vanilla,
Welcome to my impious pleasure villa.
Going beyond what you thought were your boundaries
Until now unknown.
Let me cradle the soul
You’ve never shown.
Describe, present, outline, sketch, depict the truth!
Be who you really are!
This is your brand new god.
I grab your hair tight.
Just like a braided whip.
Lick the blood from my hands, wear my horny crown.
Cry a little happy tear, as I make you go down.
I give you what you beheld in a fantasy,
Now pain so good is your reality.
Delightful how words printed on paperback
Translate to henna, runes and grinding hips.
The coppery taste of blood and a hint of violence
Upon your sultry lips.
Arch your back, meow and lick your wounds.
Crawl back for more human pussy cat.
Here’s blood and milk, take a little dip.
A black paradise you’ve found
At the crack of my hand and whip.
Whisper the secret fetishes you’ve never told him.
You’ll find no judgment here, come closer my dear.
Just me deep inside your warm, wet darkness.
You’re losing control, as I take everything you ever wanted
From your delicate hole.
Every word, wolf and lamb torn asunder.
I grab your hips, flip you over and we descend
Deep, deep below and under.
Now fall to your knees upon the rose of your delicate flower’s shame.
I can’t love you, but I can guide you into the flame.
Your calling is deicide
Drink my wine.
Let’s break bread.’
Alcoholic Anonymous Fucking Nothing Man
The appetites we abjure find us as fate.
The apparitions are humans.
The humans are apparitions.
In a circle sad and eccentric
We share the coven’s bliss.
Psychedelic Spook-O-Rama:
The Baphomet idol fuck of amber warmth.
It plays out the evil screaming dead!
Bela Lugosi’s hostages
For the lost neon soul.
Celebrate the murdered hooker.
She is floating past.
Your dead heart is locked in the trunk.
The ravaged faces parade.
Ambushing the flesh market.
I eviscerate and vivisect myself,
Realizing I am fucking last!
I’m on a sanity fast!
My outlook is lurid and stricken.
Some unbearable chagrin.
Grief and sorrow strung out.
Napalm heart skewered
Like a shrunken head!
Pasts and legacies cling
To this imploring cult.
Exceeding all freedom of choice!
I am an acolyte!
Myself! Myself! Yes me!
Obscene and sullen quiet.
A lugubrious soul in a sea of gloomy dumbfounds.
The words scratched in The Big Book
Worm off the pages.
The wisdom rattles from hungry mouths.
Work the fucking program.
Work the sacred steps.
Sometimes they number 13.
The appetites we abjure find us as fate.
Could I be less alive, I need a drink.
The Kissing's Flower
Nothing pains like blank, stark white paper.
Writer’s block!
I’d rather write than fuck you empty shopper girl!
Here’s more cash!
Carnal fruits that are carnage.
Dark, fresh, flesh.
Your delicate pussy does not interest me, girl.
The words! The words! They won’t come,
What makes you think I will?
Type Type Type!
I miss typewriters and my grandfather,
I miss the ribbon that stains your fingers.
You fucks.
Your words aren’t real.
You didn’t suffer or work for them!
Child! Self proclaimed internet writer!
Where are your pages?
Why don’t they have blood on them?
Don’t call yourself a writer.
It belittles us both.
Work!
Suffer bitch!
Break your god damn knuckles man!
Fight!
The flower of flesh and blood.
The mermaid in a manhole.
A philosophy narrow as a virgin’s spidery legs.
Make it holy in the virgin’s mouth!
Perfect as teeming bees.
I set my eyes to greet others.
All fake.
I am a fraud when I smile at you.
That shit ain’t real.
Don’t know you Texting Hipster Guy.
Don’t want to.
DIE.
Draconic Formulaes of Hermetic Rituals.
Fragile as antique jelly bowls.
One harsh outburst might shatter us.
The old gather and creep in here.
Outside the moon leers, mocks.
A stone Madonna.
A healing sea.
Round the circle we go!
New words twist old words into leather.
We share our thoughts and guts.
Reading each other’s entrails like tea leaves!
We give birth repeatedly to our shattered lives!
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