#junkiesdiealone

[maxmundan]

I must apologize I had no idea blowing my nose at the dinner table would make you want to plunge that fork deep into the soft flesh of my neck A suggestion, however if I may It might be considerably easier to get a good two-handed grip on that fork to cause the greatest possible bloodshed and tissue damage if you put down the fucking Bible first

Max Mundan, Rehab Stories: Stick a Fork in It

From my collection, Junkies Die Alone, which you can purchase by clicking HERE

[maxmundan]

Another Rainy Night

The raindrops pounding down on the old cement ceiling are keeping perfect time with my incessant pacing Back and forth Back and forth Wearing visible grooves into the hard wood floor while metallic pings from the water dripping into shallow steel buckets haphazardly placed around the apartment provide lyrical counterpo

New on Maxmundan.net, a piece from my first collection, Junkies Die Alone (2014, Thought Catalog Books), available from Amazon and iBooks. 

[maxmundan]

Intervention

As I slam the door to my apartment behind me and viciously throw the deadbolt into place shutting out the last trace of the unbearable annoyance of other human beings I see the flashing light blaring garishly from the answering machine It is my sister's voice telling me she knows my secret The blood freezes in my tort

From my first poetry collection, Junkies Die Alone (Thought Catalog Books, 2014) 

[maxmundan]

Bloody Gums

The sharp metallic tang is growing steadily stronger as I poke the throbbing molar with my tongue Each stab sends a white hot razor careening through my skull The pain is somehow comforting less vague less nebulous more focused than the fear Withdrawal is a devil faced phantom, slick and slippery, sliding out of reac,h

This is from my first book, Junkies Die Alone (Thought Catalog Books, 2014), available from Amazon and iTunes.

[maxmundan]

Death Trip '95

I will never be this beautiful again “I think I'm getting fat. Do I look fat to you? A little jowly, maybe? I swear it looks like my belly is sticking out. Like Marlon Brando. Do I look like Marlon Brando?” I will never be this beautiful again “Or maybe I'm too thin. Christ, I can't tell. I know I feel

Check out the brand new Max Mundan website with this piece from Junkies Die Alone (Thought Catalog Books, 2014) 

[maxmundan]

The Bitter Poetry of Public Restrooms

I sit here on this shit encrusted toilet seat, reading about glory holes and blow jobs, trying to decipher the gangsta hieroglyphs while I reach between my legs and draw up the stagnant water into my syringe. I hope you never discover that I stole so much money from you to buy this dope black tar heroin, sticky and str

This is a poem from my first collection, Junkies Die Alone (Thought Catalog Books, 2014) 

[maxmundan]

"It's been twelve minutes since my last shot," I say out loud, to no one in particular. I mean my last shot of heroin and cocaine, of course, not the last shot from the .45 in my hand. That last shot was three minutes ago, at that huge fucking rat down in the alley below. I'll shoot at it again, too, the next time it shows it's ugly mug. I'm gonna kill that stinkin' rat And there's nothin' you can do to stop me but that fact that it's been twelve minutes since my last shot of heroin and cocaine means that I don't have a lot of time to get ready for the next one. I've got to shoot up every fifteen minutes now or I'll start to come down And if I start to come down then I will have to begin taking a very serious look at what I'm doing with my life And sweet, suffering Jesus knows that I sure as hell don't want to do that. So it's time to measure the dose and I've got to do this carefully because I'm really fucked up and it would be so easy to make a mistake and my heart already feels like it's going to explode from my chest. So all it would take is just a little too much coke in the mix to pull the plug on my poor, overworked heart and I'd be lying dead on the roof of this building, Where nobody would find me for, at least, a couple of weeks and by then I'd be a stinking, rotting corpse that no one would be able to look at and That fucking rat would be fat and happy and if there is one thing on this earth that I am not going to allow to happen, it's to let that  fat, goddamn rat win.

Max Mundan, One Speedball Over the Line, Sweet Jesus

From my book Junkies Die Alone (Thought Catalog Books, 2014). Get your copy at Amazon by clicking HERE!

[maxmundan]

I sat at your feet; metaphorically, of course, only metaphorically; as I remember it, I sat on the couch, as you, with your strangely lilting voice, held my hand and walked me through; patiently; meticulously; the pitiless steps of the reverent ritual. You were so gentle as you wrapped the tourniquet around my bicep; laughed at the expression on my face pinched the crook of my arm to bruise and raise a vein. and as you slid the needle in and we watched the blood cloud the water inside, you apologized, profusely, for the infinitesimal pinprick that precedes the rapture. I swore to you, in that ghastly and gorgeous moment, this is how it would always be; that you would be there, by my side, every time, to guide me down the path of night. but like the other oaths that passed between us, this too, was a hopeful lie. The day came, as it was ever destined to do, that you were gone; selling yourself in the fashion required for you to get by; and the pull of oblivion proved stronger, by far, than either love or trust or art, so I took the syringe and taught myself not to need you anymore.

Max Mundan, Outgrowing My Mentor

From my book Junkies Die Alone (Thought Catalog Books, 2014). Get your copy at Amazon by clicking HERE!