Sunday, December 1, 2013


Throwing all these sticks and stones
Lining all my paths with bones
In my heart I’ve killed at least a thousand 
For getting in the way of isolation

Sweeping up my memories
I run across some stinging bees
But under the rug they go
I can hear them ebb and flow

The tide just keeps flowing in
This might be the bitter end
The tale is ‘bout to stretch and bend
Beyond my house of blood and skin

Still you’re the one that’s left alive
The queen of my humming hive
But where there once was honey
Lies nothing but dark and cold

-Allen Masterson

11 Haiku

Haiku #1

A universe is
ripping us apart, drowning
me in entropy


emerging fractals
along waking eyes from
patterns on paper

Haiku #3

An ancient tree feels
the predator's breath as
a feeble limb creeks

Haiku #4

a sun grazer dies
as electricity arcs
between two lovers

Haiku #5

tripping golden spiders
spin silk cocoon tomb wombs of
kaleidoscope dreams

Haiku #6

a serpent ignites
imagination in Eve
enticing her love

Haiku #7

dew slowly swells on
an unkempt grave this morning
but by noon, it's gone

Haiku #8

structured crystals fall
wantonly from a midnight
black succubi sky

Haiku #9

corporate corpses
in a dim lit den of thieves
clap for a collapse

Haiku #10

salty libidos
desire connection with a
marshmallow sex pot

Haiku #11

from the corner of
my eye I see the world wait
for me to fall down

©2013 Allen Masterson

Tuesday, April 9, 2013

The Scout Master

The Scout Master
(A Short Story)
Allen Masterson

A prison dormitory is obviously filled with all manner of deviants; murderers, rapists, robbers, thieves, and of course, child molesters. When it comes to the prison caste system, child molesters are at the very bottom, to put it mildly. They are considered less than human amongst peers that are primarily looked upon from the outside world as scum to begin with. Child molesters actually raise the self-esteem of all other convicts; even the despicable serial rapist can look down on the molester with a feeling of superiority in a prison dichotomy.

I had found myself in a prison rumored to have a high percentage of sex offenders. This prison was affectionately referred to as “The Farm” because it was once a labor camp that raised and slaughtered farm animals. I thought that the old style brick buildings and the concentration camp atmosphere deserved a more suiting name like “The Slaughterhouse”, but I’m sure the state of Indiana wanted to paint a picture in the mind’s of a convict’s family of rolling green fields and a soft touch of Mother Nature’s rehabilitative hand. Nothing could be further from the truth.

The Farm was rumored to have upwards of thirty to forty percent sex offenders. The joke among non-sex offenders was that you couldn’t throw a packet of Top Ramen without hitting a child molester upside the head; such was the density of sex offenders in any given dormitory.

Dormitories usually housed about one-hundred-forty convicts divided into “cubes” consisting of both bunk beds and single beds. To get a single bed was the luck of the draw, and I was shit out of luck. I shared a bunk with a dim-witted white trash guy that liked to rock himself to sleep like a muscle bound baby with autism and a severe meth addiction. The worst thing about having a top bunk was I could see most everything going on in the dorm, and everyone in the dorm could see me perched and on display. It took months for me to get used to the constant barrage of crazed stares and probing eyes.

Having a few sex offenders in one’s cube was pretty much a given, but the oddities of child molesters varied. A habitual drunk driver, or child support dodger, could often be mistaken for a child molester at first encounter. The state of Indiana had come up with a way of protecting child molesters by giving them fake documents showing convictions for drunk driving. When a molester was confronted and asked what he was in for, he could pull out said documents to prove he didn’t compulsively diddle little kids as past time, but liked to get wasted and drive a vehicle like any relatively normal red blooded American. A really resourceful molester would even get into the role of drunk driver and act indignant about the disproportionate punishment for a few drunk driving convictions. The cunning of a deviant can be boundless in a prison environment.

This brings me to the subject of Roger, a child molester of mythic proportions. Of all the molesters I ran across in my over three years of incarceration, Roger was by far one that stands heads above all others in my memory (even though he was a little fifty-five year old butter ball of about five-foot-four in height).

Roger had a head full of short, poorly cropped, white hair and a waddle quality to his gate that would have been endearingly comical if not for the fact that he was a notorious sexual predator. He was for the most part quiet, but if one were to engage him in small talk, he had a tone in his voice similar to a very young child of around eight years of age. It was evident to most that Roger was simple in the mental department. He had a single bunk almost directly across from me, so in the six months I resided in this particular dorm, I saw Roger the majority of my waking life.

Roger was one of the first inmates to engage me upon my arrival to the dorm. I was green as a convict, but had already done six months in a county jail awaiting sentencing for a robbery charge involving a pharmacy, and my penchant for Xanax that transcended social norms such as a doctor’s prescription and the traditional exchange of money for product. I had already been briefed by seasoned cons in the county jail on what to expect if I were unlucky enough to be sent to The Farm. Ironically, a robbery conviction could be worn almost like a badge of honor among inmates, and was nothing to be ashamed of within the walls of prison. I made sure everyone in ear shot knew what I was convicted of right away so as not to be labeled a possible sex offender. I’m a clean cut white guy with no tattoos, so I fit the initial description of a child molester. Roger was actually the first to ask what I was in for.

“Robbery. I robbed a pharmacy for pills. I was pretty messed out of my mind on Xanax, and can hardly remember even doing it, man.” I responded. Which was the truth. It had all been like a foggy nightmare that seemed to have no end.

“What are you in for?” I asked, but I already knew the drunk driving scenario, so I wasn’t surprised with his response.

“Drunk driving…. I got four drunk driving tickets,” he said with his eyes darting quickly to the ground. I didn’t probe any further, but I did hear a soft chuckle a few bunks away.

I looked up to find the source and a younger black guy was grinning at me and softly said, “Fuckin’ chomo.”

The term, “chomo” is common slang for child molester in prison. It is more phonetically pleasing than “chester” or “baby raper”, but no less derogatory.

“I’m no chomo! Here… I have my paperwork to prove I’m a drunken driver.” Roger emphatically stated while a quiver crept into his voice.

“That’s okay, man. I don’t need to see anybody’s paperwork.”

I didn’t need to get into a debate about whether or not someone was a chomo in the first few minutes of my arrival. I quickly turned to unpacking my few items and grabbed a book to keep me occupied until chow time. But as I opened the first page of a worn out paperback of “The Winter of Our Discontent” by John Steinbeck, I heard “Psssst” from the direction of the young black gentlemen a few bunks over. I looked his way and he whispered, “He’s the scout master, “ and grinned a Cheshire grin of knowing something evil that he would be fill me in on in due time; which of course, we had plenty of….

About a week passed relatively uneventful. The acclimation process in a new prison environment can be painstaking at best, but after being cooped up in a county jail not knowing my fate for over six months, my spirits were higher than they had been in more than a year. I no longer wished for death to pay me a visit in my sleep, and I began exercising regularly which helped to keep melancholy at bay.

I had some money on my books for commissary. A prison commissary consists of mostly junk food and toiletries the state doesn’t provide. Most of these luxuries, if one were lucky enough to have money, are used in bartering, or gambling. I rarely bartered, and never gambled. I had seen too many bad situations go down in the county jail already to know to keep dealings with other convicts down to a minimum, but there were always a plethora of beggars asking for things on commissary day, which happened once a week.

On this particular commissary day, I somewhat splurged and had plenty of Top Ramen and Little Debbie to fill the emptiness of boredom. The big problem with getting commissary is having to tote all the goodies through the entire dormitory in a clear plastic bag. The predator/victim relationship is more pronounced on these days, and debts are skirted, and conflicts erupt sporadically throughout the day, and well into the evening hours.

As I unloaded my groceries into my property box, the young black fellow a few bunks down gave me the “pssst” again. I knew he hadn’t gone to get any commissary and probably thought I was green enough that he could score something off me relatively easy.

I looked over knowingly, but he seemed to already have anticipated my irritation because he held up his hands and proclaimed, “It’s all good my man. I’ll make you a deal. You toss me a shot of coffee and a soup, and I’ll give you the full lowdown on that little roly-poly child molestin’ motherfucker across from you.”

Roger was still at the commissary building and may not be back for a while. I had already figured he was a molester, but I had heard a few comments that could use some qualifying so I went ahead and made the deal.

The youngster called himself C Murder (I didn’t inquire how he got his nickname). C Murder came over to claim his end of the bargain and proceeded to posture himself for the tale of the Scout Master.

“Look here, man, you ever see that little fat retarded motherfucker at the urinal pissing?”

Now that he mentioned it, I hadn’t.

“That’s because he doesn’t have a dick, man. He chopped it off with a pair of scissors!”

I looked at him incredulously, but he reiterated, and went on with the rest of his story.

“Word has it, this cat was all over the news. He molested five little kids on a cubs scout camping trip. When his ass got caught, he begged the judge not to send him to prison, but castrate him. That’s right
his crazy ass would have rather had his dick taken off than to go to prison!

“Well, of course the judge told him no and that the state didn’t do shit like that. So, this retarded motherfucker takes a pair of scissors and chops his own dick off hoping he gets out of it. They couldn’t put the thing back on! His chomo ass has to pee sitting down like a girl. He gets up at four in the morning to take a shower, even. Sometimes, when he’s nappin’, he’ll just piss all over hisself! It’s crazy shit, man! Crazy shit!”

I started feeling pretty queasy, but I vaguely remembered hearing about a guy self castrating himself to try and get out of going to prison for molestation, but it was still difficult to process.

“How much time did he get?”

“He got ten years do five, but he only has a couple left if he gets his GED, but he’s still in the first level classes because he’s a retard, man.”

“So that’s why you called him the scout master…. Jesus, that’s some brutal shit.”

“Hell yeah, it is. Goofy bastard chops his own willy off and still gets time. That drunk driving trick is played out by those chomos. All a dude has to do is call home and have somebody look up a guy’s name on the internet to find out what he’s in for. The state’s just tryin’ to cover their asses because so many chomos were getting beat up. The thing is, there’s so many of those sick mothafuckas in here, that it’s pointless to beat one up. Another one will just tell, and you’ll lose time. But everybody still tries to make it hell on them, though. Especially Roger. You’ll see…”

Six months later, I was transferred to an honor dorm for keeping my nose clean. In the six months I shared a cube with the Scout Master I witnessed several confrontations involving him and usually a newcomer that couldn’t help but to call him out on his sick crimes against children. None of these confrontations resulted in anything physical. Roger would usually pick up a coffee cup and draw back stating, “I’ll hit you! I’ll do it!” loud enough for one of the corrections officers strolling the dormitory to hear. The antagonist would usually break into laughter and call Roger any number of molester references.
I kept communication with Roger to a minimum, but occasionally I would stroll through the cube and ask how he was fairing. Most times he would be perched up on his cot like a child concentrating heavily on third grade math with his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth like he was doing a monumental task with a number two pencil. He would look up at me briefly and say, “I’m just doing my math! I’m getting better!” But to me it looked like he may as well have been working on string theory. I secretly hoped he would never get his GED so he would have to do every bit of his mild prison sentence.

Any time I would feel the slightest bit of sympathy for Roger, I would imagine his victims going through life completely ruined for any kind of healthy human interaction past a certain degree of intimacy. I imagined those child’s parents paying for countless hours of therapy to try and insure their child wouldn’t turn around and victimize the child of someone else, which was a statistical reality.

Convicts would occasionally urinate in Roger’s property box, or spray shaving cream in his shoes in the middle of the night. Roger took these acts in stride and seemed to have the memory of a lap dog, or alley cat, because his response was always scripted and rote. “Who did this? I’m gonna tell the CO!” he would yell, red faced at no specific person. It seemed that his whole life consisted of eating, drinking coffee, doing simple math, and trying not to piss his pants (which he failed at almost as much as he failed to get his math problems right). The saddest thing was, Roger’s acts of molestation were not the worst, not even close. There were several monsters in my dorm alone whose horrific acts pushed the boundaries of a rational human being’s ability to conceive them.

It seemed I was being shown a world behind the curtain. A world society tries to keep out of site. Human dirt swept under a rug. As the days piled up, I became more and more callus. My view of humanity as a whole changed dramatically during my incarceration. Upon my release, I looked at every white clean cut male over thirty as a potential child molester.

I’ve been free for seven years now. I no longer look at the world like I did when I was locked up. But I do tell the story of the Scout Master from time to time to give some of my friends a good example of the depravity I experienced in prison. Most are shocked, but seem to like my prison anecdotes and encourage me to tell more. I guess it takes a lot these days to shock your average person. The real damage is done with daily doses of eye contact with the madness of what humans can potentially be. No animal on this planet can wreak as much havoc as a little, fat, simple old man in a cub scout uniform.

Roger is probably out there strolling around with his dark complicated secret buried in his defective brain, but I’d like to think he’s dead. I imagine that one of the many violent youngsters in our dormitory that had murder in his eyes ran across Roger on the street one fine Summer day and waited for the opportune time to pounce. I see predator eating predator, and it helps me deal with being a part of a race of creatures whose level of perversion and cruelty cannot be quantified. And maybe, just maybe, two negatives can equal a positive…. for the sake of us all.

March Madness

“Can I help you?” the attractive thirty-something woman behind the Walgreens counter asked, routinely.

“Give me whatever benzodiazepines you have,” I stated, as naturally as if I were asking the time.

“I’m sorry, but you need a prescription for those,” I could tell she was starting to figure out that this was no ordinary transaction. I placed my hands in my pockets in such a way to insinuate that I had something in them that would be relevant to any decision she would be making in the very near future concerning this particular customer.

“I don’t have a prescription; get them for me anyway.” Now she knew the score, but was still processing the oddity of my calm demeanor. I raised the pockets of my leather jacket suggestively. She responded by heading to the shelves and choosing a rather large bottle of Valium, but as I picked it up off the counter, I realized the bottle was nearly empty.

“This bottle is almost empty, do you have anything else?” I was in no hurry and I could tell she knew I wasn’t in a panicked state.

“I have another milligram, if you’d like. I’ll be right back.” for the first time, fear began to creep into her voice.

“Alright, but don’t do anything stupid.” I replied. My tone had changed to a threatening one as I raised my hands in my jacket once again to put emphasis on an inferred threat. I had nothing inside my jacket, mind you, it was completely empty, but I’m sure the ease of which I had carried out the robbery up to that point had made it appear to the clerk that I had something backing me up and allowing my relatively calm demeanor.

She came back within seconds with two large bottles that seemed completely full. I grabbed all three, smiled widely, and with a wink said, “Thank you. Have a nice day!”

I exited the pharmacy without even a glance over my shoulder, hopped in my car with the engine still running in the alleyway behind the building, and drove off into oblivion.

-Allen Masterson

©2013 Jerry Allen Masteron

Monday, April 8, 2013

49th Day

On the 49th day, I dropped through a
crown of ether to embrace deformity
and the discomfort of abuse.
With a twisted leg of human bondage
my Summer never set

Roaches chased my dreams away in a
ghetto apartment filled with smoke
and sounds of pseudo seances inspired
by LSD and painful innocence
conjuring unfamiliar spirits to play with

Racial slurs imprinted upon my neural pathways
giving birth to fear and hate that took decades
to shake because time in a prison reinforced the
walls that divided me from the whole of humanity

The frequency of Om found my eye as silence blossomed
in the midst of madness to stave off hungry ghosts that haunted
cold hallways of societal abominations that may never seek
answers to nothing but the gratification of the their Self

But even in my arrogance I know the hungriest ghost
will find its way on that 49th day, and share my world of
beautiful horrors and follow the path to this page of manifestation
to share the same breath of the One’s transmigration

-Allen Masterson

©2013 Jerry Allen Masterson

The Saltwater Curse of Florida

I touched the world

with SSRI numbed

death trips to dull the

ache of her auburn memory

while suicide attempts

disguised themselves as

recreation with enemies

I followed a blonde whore

of Babylon to a shore of

sin and threw stolen Xanax footballs

across ocean waves of teeth

and blacked out the sodomy

because it was just too damned much

Overdosed in a hospital and

drank charcoal shots from paper

cups while a cop stood in a doorway to hell

and a doctor ignored me because he

said he had other patients that wanted to live

and had better insurance coverage

Cut a sleeved sonofabitch with a

butcher knife because he vowed to

put me under with nunchuks swinging in

moonlit absurdity while blood splashed on

my jacket and drool flowed down his screams

as I ran away from the saltwater curse of Florida

-Allen Masterson

©2013 Jerry Allen Masterson

Saturday, March 30, 2013

Order Out of Chaos

Order Out of Chaos

Images of a pain filled sky accent
the faded taste of midnight's company as
memories of purity mock my house of sin

Mistakes magnify the shame of loss
and pull me under sheets of perdition
where time sluggishly tics infinite regret

Nowhere to go but deeper in the black water
No one to tell but the cold universe of self
as an audience responds with desolate laughter

I struggle against a web of imperfections to
shake loose the dew of my dawn and stave off
a desire to exhale forever and give way to entropy

But my thirst can never be fully quenched
with a demanding reflection of humanity
staring back at me with a scientific methodology

But the comfort of chaos is always around the corner
where she awaits in dreams promising a hazel shelter
and an auburn blanket of delusion and perpetual longing

-allen masterson

©2013 JerryAllenMasterson

Wednesday, March 6, 2013

A Butcher Knife and Pasted Wings

The knife in my chest was self inflicted.

Before the last beat of my heart I told you
there would never be another.

Shortly after my death, my corpse was caged;
kept away from eyes of disappointment, and left to ponder
the quandaries of cruelty, wallow in the past
just to escape the madness of the present.

I dreamed of you and the mechanized purgatory
that paid the bills, but cost us our identities.
Some nights, when violence filled the air, I imagined
your taste to trade one hell for another, isolation for quiet sorrow.

While you were dancing with robots,
I conversed with maniacs about the fall
of Rome and the con of the ever-shrinking
Little Debbie snack cake.

While you were pulling the wings off another factory fly,
I watched rapists walk out the door with sickness in their eyes
and minds scorching the Earth with flames of violence and sex.

The days of my death have long passed, but you still visit me
through the veil of sleep to remind me there will never be another like you
to pull my wings off and coax me over a cliff.

So now you’re the farthest you’ve ever been;
I’ve lost your smell, and your laugh is fading.
One night soon, I will make my escape with new wings grown.
I will break my promise to you, and breathe deep from the life of Mystery.

-allen masterson

Sunday, March 3, 2013

Seeking the Zombie Cure

Fractal geometry surrounds melting fear as a program falters due to excessive ego output. Gaskets spring leaks, hydraulics of emotions buckle under the stress of heartbreak and third eye calcification. Delivery of dimethyltryptamine has ebbed to the point of disconnection as our host lay dying in an inescapable nightmare of physical reality; doomed to daily doses of bullshit and monotony. Punch clocks and baffle gates log the moments of misery as hollow eyes seek company in machine reflections rippling on crystal waters washing up on shores of decay. A cure must be sought; an altered state, a back door ingestion purchased from a dealer in the alleyway...

-allen masterson

Wednesday, February 20, 2013

The Elephant from India

Wednesday, February 13, 2013