April 10, 2014 § 1 Comment

I bet she doesn’t ash on your floor.
I bet she loves you way more.
I bet her feet don’t even smell.
I bet she didn’t laugh when you fell.
I bet she can cook things you like.
I bet you go out together and hike.
I bet she doesn’t drink from the bottle.
I bet she’s gentle and subtil.
I bet she votes and volunteers.
I bet she looks good shedding tears.
I bet she has no scars on her face.
I bet she don’t cut herself when she shaves.
I bet she does tricks I can’t perform.
I bet she makes you feel home.
I bet she doesn’t get you mad like I did.
I bet you don’t play Nancy and Sid.
I bet I can still drive you instantly crazy.
I bet you know it in your heart so hazy.
I bet you see a little of me in her.
I bet I’m somehow a little hotter.

By Mehdi Drissi

By Mehdi Drissi



April 8, 2014 § Leave a comment

It’s too early to wake up. Too late to go to work, have breakfast, take a shower or any of the bullshit people do early. Still too early to wake up for me, after the night I had. Nights like these need at least twelve hours of sleep. It’s 1pm at the moment. Let’s see; I left the party at midnight, so I probably got to this apartment by that time, we waited for the blow for long enough to have a good fuck and empty a bottle and after we got the blow we fucked for longer so, I guess I must’ve got about… Fuck. Not enough, that’s what I got.

My boots are under the sink. I remember I kept them on the whole time I was shagging Harry on the couch. But Frank didn’t like the heels on his ass when he was doing me on the sink. I hope he took them off for me. I didn’t lose my bag, I slept on it. I learned to do that after a series of unfortunate penniless walks back home.

Boots, purse, panties, dress, no bra; fuck it. Jacket. Did I wear a jacket last night? No, I had Janis’ coat on but I guess I gave it back to her. I guess I’ll borrow something from Harry, or Frank. No, this is Harry’s flat. Frank said he lived with his girlfriend in Manhattan. Wait no, that’s Harry! Fuck it. Jacket.

I walk down the stairs like a duck. I never understand men’s obsession with anal. I never understand my permission for anal; it hurts like the devil and I don’t even cum. Men are weirdly selfish bastards. They reflect all their insecurities on us in order to make us seem like a psychotic bunch of bitches but, truth is that they love our pussies more than their dick. They would crawl the entire goddamn bridge just to fucking sniff them.

I light up a cigarette I caught in whoever’s jacket I’m sinking in. I realize I’m still on morphine and that’s gonna be a problem soon. No step is in the same line as the following or previous. I’m assuming I, or someone else, hopefully I, puked on my hair at some point last night. My breath smells like beer and vodka. That’s a horrible combination. I shouldn’t be mixing beer with vodka, beer with bourbon at least. I look at myself in a car and I’m devastated. My eyes don’t even look blue anymore. I need to get home as fast as possible.

I open the door and the first thing I see is a respectively big amount of cum on my coffee table. Tommy must’ve passed by last night. Tommy is this kid from Queens I fuck sometimes. He handles some of the best Dilaudid in town and he’s good at eating pussy. I don’t even know how he gets in my apartment but, he does, once a week. If I’m there, we shoot up, we shag, he cums and I sleep. If I’m not, he shoots up, he jerks off, he cums and he sleeps. Like it’s a necessity he developed; to cum in my apartment once every week. Very similar to the need Christians have for church every Sunday: the same thrill can be felt somewhere else where the action is more real but, this is a comforting habit. I don’t mind. I mind cleaning up sometimes after him. But this morning, the cum is actually moderately fresh. He must’ve missed me by thirty minutes or so. Tommy never visits at this hour, maybe he got some dope. I should give him a call later.

I rolled a joint by my minuscule disgusting bathroom mirror. Smoking in front of a mirror is a very psychedelic experience. But, only with drugs that are inhaled. Weed, crack, hash and meth. Especially crack. I love crack. Which reminds me, I need to phone Chad before tonight. He said he got some from California. I can’t remember when he said that, I hope he still has it.

I’m bothered by the grinding of my teeth and a murdering headache. What do I take for headaches? Was it codeine? No. Opium. It’s not opium. I don’t have opium. Yes, I have opium. Janis sold me some last night. It must still be in my purse. I’ll have that after a shower. No. Bath. I drown a cold bath, because I have no hot water. I watch the terrible goose bumps on my arms as I get in. Horrible. A cold bath in January. Horrible. Like I’m falling sober into a hole full sharpened knives and arrows. The morphine wore off. The weed is taking time. My head hurts. This shit is lame. I’m never buying east coast stuff again. The best weed I ever smoked was in Mexico. Those people know how to smoke. How to eat too. Spicy, hot, sweaty, crunchy food. That’s the stuff. They fuck that way too. I fucked a Mexican woman in there. No, I think she was Columbian. Whatever the fuck she’s from, she is tasty. She can move. I don’t remember her name, I remember her body though. She had thighs from heaven and an ass from hell. Beautiful face, too. Large eyes and sensual lips. I don’t remember her breasts, I was behind her a lot. That was a good fuck.

I’m not a lesbian and I don’t even think I’m bi but, I do appreciate fucking a good pussy. I love cock too. I just truly believe women fuck better. It’s not even personal, it’s a completely objective statement. Women fuck better, seen as their body offers more options than just sticking a hard limb in and out, in and out, in and out. You can take your time with a woman, watch her cum, watch her sweat. Have you ever watched a man fuck? I won’t go as far as insulting them, but, it’s not too much of a glorious sight.

Baby, are you dead?” Tommy. Fucking Tommy.

“-You wish.
-Never, baby. Never.
-What do you want, man? You’ve been here earlier.
-I have something for you.
-I’m tired, Tommy. Go jerk off.
-Not my dick, you horny slut. And I’ve heard that excuse before. I take it out right now, you won’t stand keeping your hands to your dirty self!
-Again, you wish.
-Baby, you keep getting thinner every time I see you. Are you eating anything?
-Yeah, your mom’s fat cunt. What do you want, man?
-You’re a fucking bitch, I’m trying to be nice to you!
-Well, stop. What do you want?
-I got dope, ok? I got real dope and I got plenty.
-You wankers always say that. I got dope too, daddy. It’s right here between my legs and you’re just trying to get in there.
-Like that would be too hard. You’re begging for it, cunt.
-Fuck off, Tommy! My head hurts.
-No, I’m serious, baby! I got three grams.
-That’s not too much to brag about, daddy.
-Shut up. Jesus, you bitch can be so fucking tiring! I got three grams of pure.
-Get the fuck out. Smack?
-Blue as your fucking eyes.
-Tommy, you’re kidding! Where the fuck did you get three grams?
-Paulo got shot, his little guys are spreading his shit all over!
-Who the fuck is Paulo?
-Never mind. You want some now, don’t you?”

by Emanuele Ferrari

by Emanuele Ferrari

He fucks me in the bath tub. I hate fucking before dope, but, he wanted to and, whoever has the shit makes the rules. It doesn’t take him too long to finish. This guy is a fucking animal. He just came on my table an hour ago and he’s going at it for real, right now. That’s one thing you can say about Tommy. He’s a broke ass junkie with the skinniest legs I ever saw but, he can fuck for a whole day. He’s not that spectacularly good at fucking but he can keep up. I appreciate that in a man. Just not today, not now. I’m tired now, I just wanna smoke the shit and chill the fuck out.

We shared a good pipe. He was right, this shit is magic. I travel instantly. We laughed like retards on the wet bathroom floor. I saw a cockroach dragging its corpse down the house. That seemed hilarious at the moment. We were both naked. I still had some of his cum on my boney thigh. He was spaced out. Tommy has been a junkie for too long, he can get high by just wanting to. There isn’t any more he can stuff into his system, it’s all there, he just has to wake it up and he’s high. He tries to say something but he’s laughing too much, he spits all over his face. I can’t even laugh, I’m way out. I can’t really face meth that much, I’m a lousy junkie for now.

I don’t know how I got in bed but, I’m there. I just came, I can feel it though, I don’t really recall the cumming. Too bad. I don’t know where the fuck Tommy is. I get up and visit my junkyard of a flat as if to discover it. Shit. It’s dark out. Wait a minute, Janis is in my bathroom. The door is open and she’s taking a dump. She’s totally naked. I didn’t just have sex with Janis.

“-Jan, what the fuck?
-I told you I don’t close the door, it’s fucking scary!
-No, what the fuck? What are you doing here?
-I don’t know man, the door was open and there was a naked bag of bones walking out. I needed to shit.
-Babe, I was tripping for real. He’s holding real stuff.
-Yeah, I assumed. Everyone’s holding since Paulo went down.
-That’s what he told me. Who the fuck is Paulo?
-Never mind. Anyway, I got me some too. Just the regular stuff but, it’s good.
-Give me a fucking break now.
-Bitch, I’m not offering. We should get this stuff on the streets!
-A fucking break, babe! My head hurts.
-Fucking break my cunt. We get rid of this stuff and we’re good to go for tonight.
-Jan, seriously, give me a break!”

She crawls to me, doesn’t even flush. Fucking farm girls. Disgusting bitch. I don’t know why I hang out with Janis. I hate her Alabama accent, I hate her fucking boots, I hate her smell, I hate her greasy hair. She makes me wanna puke. It’s strange how you can’t break up with your friends. You don’t even choose to be friends. You start up as not hating them, not minding their company. One day you wake up and you’re friends with a dumbass blonde cow smelling skank. There’s not much you can do about that. Not much you can do about anything.

She crawls to me, doesn’t even flush. She looks at me. I mean she literally stares into my face for a full minute. I can’t stand the weight of her voluptuous eyes, I can’t wait for her to speak. I was down with whatever, she just has to stop staring.

Finally, we end up playing tag at some college parties. We did well. We still had more to sell. I don’t know how Janis got all of this heroine but I didn’t give a fuck. It was selling. May Paulo rest in peace. Fucking Paulo. We shoot up some at a party and head out. Janis says we can sell what’s left in the streets for higher. I think that’s a bad idea, I just wanna go home and drink myself to sleep. My head hurts and I’m not high nor sober, I’m stuck in a transactional state. I have a bad feeling about this and I need a drink. A bottle. Something good. Bourbon.

Janis is dragging me to the Bronx and that’s fucked up. I keep telling her this is not gonna work out. You can’t argue with Janis. Bitch loves money and can’t get enough of it. She’ll spend it all in the next second on sloppy cocaine and pass the fuck out. Dumb skank. I don’t wanna be here but I don’t wanna back out. I could need Janis in a similar situation. I need Janis to owe me.

We’re not selling shit, we’re freezing. Janis is convinced we’ll get money. I’m frankly tired of talking to her at this point. I just park my ass on the sidewalk and roll. Janis is trying to make moves at passengers. They’re taking us for hookers. Janis gets a good price for both of us from a black guy, she’s tempted enough to come ask me. I can’t believe this bitch. She ended up selling a fair amount by dawn. I’m fucking tired, I just wanna go home. My head hurts.

My boredom turns to curiosity when a Cadillac rolls a window at us, slowing down but not stopping. They don’t want us in their streets. Our prices are fucking up whatever market they have going in here. Janis tells to them to fuck a goat. Fucking Janis. I’m trying to get her stoned ass home but the woman is outta control. She tasted too much green to quit it now. She just keeps yelling she’s gonna sell all. I’m vomiting all kinds of names I can come up with into her dumb face when the Cadillac parks. I know we’re fucked. Janis doesn’t know we’re fucked. She walks up to the car. The same guy who wants us out comes out with a big beautiful gun. Man, it was fucking gorgeous. I don’t know shit about guns but, that one looks fascinating. If I have to choose, I would choose to be shot by that exact gun.

I am indeed. The guy doesn’t say anything. He shoots Janis right in the head, me in the stomach. Fuck. It hurts so much I can barely realize it’s real. I’m shot in the stomach. It’s going to hurt a lot more before I die. Fuck. Fucking Janis. Fuck her, man. I can’t believe she got me shot. Fucking Janis. I’m hurt bad. I’m trying my hardest to pass out. I look at my stomach. I’m comprehending that I’m going to die in the sidewalk shot by a gangster because of a dumb bitch. I’m angry. I’m in so much pain. I’m dying. My head still hurts. Fucking Janis, man. Fucking Janis.

Inner Voice

February 16, 2014 § Leave a comment

“Internal monologue, also known as inner voice, internal speech, or verbal stream of consciousness is thinking in words. It also refers to the semi-constant internal monologue one has with oneself at a conscious or semi-conscious level.” – Not Wikipedia.

  Basically, when you’ve done so much Xanax that your thoughts are stuck in the elevator between your brain and mouth, they stay in there going up and down randomly waiting for the doors to open. They keep bumping into each other, because they all want to go out in the same time but, your tongue is just not hearing any of that shit; that’s inner voice.

I’ve discovered my inner voice is a very loud one these last days seen as my outer one is currently unavailable. I’m experiencing a hopefully temporary loss of speaking abilities. Google diagnoses it as a psychogenic dysphonia, which I will qualify as temporary in order not to jump off a cliff. My shrink diagnoses it as fucking nothing; because shrinks are cunts and they would never ever give you a clear diagnosis. The circumstances of this unfortunate fuckery will not be revealed due to their remarkably uninteresting nature. You would think something incredible should happen for a bitch to shut up but, really, no.

I’m going to need you to take the following metaphor as seriously as humanly possible. It’s 3am, you’re in bed at your parents’ house. They slept couple of hours ago and you assume they assumed you’re asleep. You’re watching very good porn starring Asa Akira and a moderately big cock. You’re not necessarily masturbating, you’re just enjoying it quite fairly. However, you need to pee. As you head to the bathroom, you make as little noise as you can, you turn on no light and you try to reduce the distance between the toilet and the piece of anatomy responsible for releasing your pee you dearly possess. However, there comes a part you gave no thought to until this moment: the flushing. The action of flushing symbolizes no danger in the morning, when everyone is up. It’s not heard, and even if it is, it’s not that bothering. Now though, it’s catastrophically threatening. It terrifies you. The sound of its start suppresses completely the safety your bed and Asa’s asshole were providing so well. Your world is shattering and you wish you had not put yourself in this whole situation for starters.

That illustrates perfectly my feeling towards my inner voice at the moment. When I could translate and filtrate my thoughts into words, my inner voice took little time of my daily concerns. Currently, it represents my main way to communicate since most of my communication do not leave my head. It’s scary to hear yourself so loudly, to discover your person so deeply. I get in touch with myself way more than I used to. I took the habit of burying my head into chit chat and dialogues to ignore myself in fear that I wouldn’t get my full appreciation. All I can do now is stare audibly at a mirror. The staring part valuates the filtering. The more I hear myself the more I wonder if what I’m hearing is really worth being written down for the person talking to me to acknowledge. The answer is rarely positive.

Therefor, I realize now that I am an objectively useless person to talk to, I’d say 65% of the time. I’m good at talking, I’m fun at talking. I do a lot of funny metaphors and cursing and inappropriate references, I articulate too much on words that don’t deserve it and interlocutors seem to enjoy that enough to buy me drinks, take me home, call me the day after. But importantly, deeply and seriously, I own very little to say. I own very little to write. Yet, I still do and don’t think I could ever stop.

Ghizlane Radi

Astronaut Syndrom

January 31, 2014 § 1 Comment

They sold my home for a pink cloud
An illusion too thin to ever be found
I hope someday to see mama proud
Die as she laughs fantastically loud

Just like the earth smiles through sunshines
I wheep through antic hopeless signs
I promised my man forever to be fine
But my ground grows too far to stay mine

Four walls and a scarred ceiling
Three steps and a dull feeling
Where shall we now be real in?
Can’t you see my skin peeling?

A million stardust from my feet’s shadow
I bet nothing exists this deeply hallow
Why is it Satan be so easy to follow?
Why is it Valium be this evident to swallow?


Ghizlane Radi


January 9, 2014 § 2 Comments

I found three line of white dust,
They lead me to my insides.
Said they were found to be again lost,
Said they freed of no tides.

I came across two lonely blue boys ;
Called me by my second name.
Said they were but forgotten noise,
Travelling down my corpse the same.

I met four creatures of smoke and summer ;
Their cunts knew more than the streets.
Said they knew no troubles or bummer,
Said they lived between our sheets.

I saw two shiny eyes on a woman blink,
I danced on them for a long night.
She said she must someday inspire my ink ;
It obeyed and now pours on her sight.

I discovered three drops of blood on my shoes ;
The demon forgot to lick them off.
Said they were awful lot confused
About the man they heard cough.

I took them to see the blue boys lost ;
They agreed on their gods and friends.
They sat down and watched my legs frost.
They held my hair and crossed my hands.

I warmed up on the sight of my dusty lines,
Made of miniature dots and tears.
They pushed me into the lit up signs
Where I reunited with my dears.

All the aphabetic disorders,
All the men in between borders,
The cynical thanks falling,
The pennies slowly rolling,
The doomed decorated souls,
The fool who gently howls,
The murdered dictators,
The precious traitors,
The perfect miserable,
The honored unacceptable,
The mothers of a million,
The untalented brilliant,
Never have I seen a similar animal ;
To the one inside your physical.

We walk on a broken boulevard,
We die and live of our sad art.
We drink and drink til forever,
We drink til we feel our liver .
Then we get drunk and we get drunk ;
We get drunk on our ship sunk.


Ghizlane Radi

This Isn’t a Poem

August 21, 2013 § 4 Comments

This isn’t a poem, my thoughts just agree with ink.
This isn’t a poem, I just feel the way I think.
Though my skin is thicker than the pain I bring,
I’ve been broken, played and thrown like a thing.
Would you find it possible to shut your demons in me?
They tear me up and burn me down, that horrifying army.
I drown in the devouring flesh of my pale arms.
I listen to the sound of the slaves time harms;
They howl like horny wolves on a lonely night,
They sweat like mirrors under the bitch’s sight.
This isn’t a poem, whisky just comes out of me through rhymes.
This isn’t a poem, my mind just can’t keep what it finds.

Ghizlane Radi

Words and Rhymes

August 13, 2013 § 1 Comment

 Untitled 8:

I speak words as empty as a ghost’s shadow in the air,
I watch them hide from ears, whispers lost in despair.
I see them roll away for they hold a darkness they can’t bare.
But when I try to leave, I feel their letters pull my hair.

They chase me, rape me, they’re me and I am none.
I exist. I’m dead. I am a void from which I can’t run.
What’s a pulse with no heart to undo what I’ve done?
Over, finished. All that’s needed is a hole to rest upon.

Like a bad trip, I see gods who hate me and whom I love.
Underneath their tears, I’m a sad creature of the above.
I’m eaten by their sight, it’s only them I am made of.
They take me off and let me fall, like a pretty silk glove.

A waste of blood, a meaningless corpse in disguise.
Each breath is the assassin of the beauty in my eyes.
I hide my face behind the romantic smoke of lies.
I hide my dead soul beneath the dirty sheets of rhymes.

Untitled 3:

I didn’t feel much but just what I felt was enough.
Never did I think I could be this weak and tough.
Couldn’t quite understand what was happening,
So I just enjoyed the state I was so deep in.
Provided by her touch was a euphoric danger.
Numb was my heart, yet I intensely held her.
In her arms, a wonderfully peaceful vertigo
I whispered and begged her never to let go.
The anarchy in our minds were constant torment,
We shut my brain off for the sake of a moment.
I wish we lived that brilliant instant forever
Of naughts filled with a passionate fever.
To hell with the tales of romances and happiness!
I spent an evening in paradise with my fucked up self.

Ghizlane Radi

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