local sacramento gothic: ode to el pinche cabrón

There’s a fuckin weirdo
who lives in Sac and you al­ways for­get he ex­ists un­til you see that ce­les­tial tat­too on his fore­head.

YU­U­UP bruh
he’s, like, try­ing to be some kind of scruff hip­ster now but the ink be­trays him.

When I first met him
he thought he was a Sailor Moon vil­lain.

Then
he got into the stalk­ing thing. With a friend. Dios mío, that wasn’t very fun at all.

In fact
he would be un­rec­og­niz­able from the last six times he did some stu­pid bull­shit around you were it not for that fuckin Space X per­ma­nent etched into his face and of course he’s ag­gres­sive­ly forc­ing a Rick Sanchez im­pres­sion on some poor strangers and you’d feel bad if they hadn’t giv­en you a pas­sive ag­gres­sive hard time for need­ing to get to the vend­ing ma­chine they re­fused to stand any­where but right in front of but no as this fuck burps di­rect­ly in these strangers faces you feel a sense of small town jus­tice and move to the oth­er side of the mall,

for once,

un­no­ticed by Galaxy Head Boy.
 
 

—mel­ony ppenosyne

Flom­mist Mel­ony Ppenosyne is a writer and weird artist type. In the last year alone, she’s trav­eled to Vir­ginia as a com­pet­ing poet, co-writ­ten a play on men­tal ill­ness that is present­ly be­ing pro­duced, and craft­ed a pub­lished es­say check­ing the priv­i­lege and scope of art gal­leries. Copy­right © 2017 Mel­ony Ppenosyne. Some ad­di­tion­al ma­te­r­i­al by M., V.M., and T. Pic­tured: Ed­vard Munch, Self-Por­trait in Hell (in b&w, cropped), 1903.

MOR D’ARTÍCULOS  MOR FLOMM !

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